Movatterモバイル変換

If Burke Denby had not been given all the frosted cakes and toy shotgunshe wanted at the age of ten, it might not have been so difficult toconvince him at the age of twenty that he did not want to marry HelenBarnet.

Mabel, the beautiful and adored wife of John Denby, had died when Burkewas four years old; and since that time, life, for Burke, had beenvictory unseasoned with defeat. A succession of "anything-for-peace"rulers of the nursery, and a father who could not bring himself to bethe cause of the slightest shadow on the face of one who was thebreathing image of his lost wife, had all contributed to thesevictories.

Nor had even school-days brought the usual wholesome discipline anddemocratic leveling; for a pocketful of money and a naturally generousdisposition made a combination not to be lightly overlooked by boys andgirls ever alert for "fun"; and an influential father and the scarcityof desirable positions[Pg 2] made another combination not to be lightlyoverlooked by impecunious teachers anxious to hold their "jobs." It waseasy to ignore minor faults, especially as the lad had really abrilliant mind, and (when not crossed) a most amiable disposition.

Between the boy and his father all during the years of childhood andyouth, the relationship was very beautiful—so beautiful that the entiretown saw it and expressed its approval: in public by nods and admiringadjectives; in private by frequent admonitions to wayward sons andthoughtless fathers to follow the pattern so gloriously set for them.

Of all this John Denby saw nothing; nor would he have given it a thoughtif he had seen it. John Denby gave little thought to anything, after hiswife died, except to business and his boy, Burke. Business, under hisskillful management and carefully selected assistants, soon almost ranitself. There was left then only the boy, Burke.

From the first they were comrades, even when comradeship meant theporing over a Mother Goose story-book, or mastering the intricacies of agame of tiddledywinks. Later, together, they explored the world ofmusic, literature, science, and art, spending the long summer playtimes,still together, traveling in both well-known and little-known lands.

Toward everything fine and beautiful and luxurious the boy turned as aflower turns toward the light, which pleased the man greatly. And as theboy had but to express a wish to have it instantly find an[Pg 3] echo in hisfather's heart, it is not strange, perhaps, that John Denby did notrealize that, notwithstanding all his "training," self-control andself-sacrifice were unknown words to his son.

One word always, however, was held before the boy from the veryfirst—mother; yet it was not as a word, either, but as a livingpresence. Always he was taught that she was with them, a bright,beauteous, gracious being, loving, tender, perfect. Whatever they sawwas seen through her eyes. Whatever they did was done as with her.Stories of her beauty, charm, and goodness filled many an hour ofintimate talk. She was the one flawless woman born into the world—sosaid Burke's father to his son.

Burke was nearly twenty-one, and half through college, when he saw HelenBarnet. She was sitting in the big west window in the library, with theafternoon sun turning her wonderful hair to gold. In her arms she held asleeping two-year-old boy. With the marvelous light on her face, and thecrimson velvet draperies behind her, she looked not unlike a picturedMadonna. It was not, indeed, until a very lifelike red swept to theroots of the girl's hair that the young man, staring at her from thedoorway, realized that she was not, in truth, a masterpiece on anold-time wall, but a very much alive, very much embarrassed young womanin his father's library.

With a blush that rivaled hers, and an incoherent apology, he backedhastily from the room. He went then in search of his father. He hadreturned from[Pg 4] college an hour before to find his father's youngestsister, Eunice, and her family, guests in the house. But thisstranger—this bewilderingly beautiful girl—

"In the library? Girl? Nonsense! You're dreaming, Burke. There's no onehere but your aunt."

"Ho!" John Denby gave a gesture as if tossing a trivial something aside."You're dreaming again, Burke. The nursemaid, probably. Your auntbrought one with her. But, see here, son. I was looking for you. Comeinto my room. I wanted to know—" And he plunged into a subject farremoved from nursemaids and their charges.

Burke, however, was not to be so lightly diverted. True, he remained forten minutes at his father's side, and he listened dutifully to what hisfather said; but the day was not an hour older before he had sought andfound the girl he had seen in the library.

She was not in the library now. She was on the wide veranda, swingingthe cherubic boy in the hammock. To Burke she looked even morebewitching than she had before. As a pictured saint, hung about[Pg 5] withthe aloofness of the intangible and the unreal, she had been beautifuland alluring enough; but now, as a breathing, moving creature treadinghis own familiar veranda and touching with her white hands his owncommon hammock, she was bewilderingly enthralling.

Combating again an almost overwhelming desire to stand in awed worship,he advanced hastily, speaking with a diffidence and an incoherenceutterly foreign to his usual blithe boyishness.

"Oh, I'm so glad! And—and I want you to forgive me for—for staring atyou so rudely. You see, I was so surprised to—to see you therelike—like a picture, and— You will forgive me—er— I don't know yourname."

"Barnet—Helen Barnet." She blushed prettily; then she laughed, throwinghim a mischievous glance. "Oh, yes, I'll forgive you; but—I don't knowyour name, either."

To hide the inexplicable emotion that seemed suddenly to be swellingwithin him, the young man laughed lightly.

"Of course—when I'm not away!" His eyes challenged her, and she met thesally with a gurgle of laughter.

She sighed—and at the sigh an unreasoning wrath against an unknownsomething rose within him.

"There's nothing to tell," she murmured. "I'm just here—a nurse toMaster Paul and his brother." Denby's wrath became reasoning anddefinite. It was directed against the world in general, and his aunt inparticular, that they should permit for one instant this gloriouscreature to sacrifice her charm and sweetness on the altar of menialservices to a couple of unappreciative infants.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he breathed, plainly aglow[Pg 7] at the intimatenearness of this heart-to-heart talk. "But I'm glad—you'rehere!"

Once more, before he turned reluctantly away, he gazed straight into herblue eyes—and the game was on.

It was a pretty game. The young man was hard hit, and it was his firstwound from Cupid's dart. Heretofore in his curriculum girls had not beenincluded; and the closeness of his association with his father had notbeen conducive to incipient love affairs. Perhaps, for these reasons, hewas all the more ardent a wooer. Certainly an ardent wooer he was. Therewas no gainsaying that—though the boy himself, at first, did notrecognize it as wooing at all.

He was so sorry for her—doomed to slave all day for those two rascallysmall boys. He could not keep her out of his mind. As he tramped thehills the next morning the very blue of the sky and the softness of theair against his cheek became a pain to him—she was tied to a stuffynursery. His own freedom of will and movement became a source of actualvexation—she was bound to a "do this" and a "do that" all day. Hewondered then, suddenly, if he could not in some way help. He sought heras soon as possible.

"Come, I want you to go to walk with me. I want to show you the viewfrom Pike's Hill," he urged.

Again the wild-rose flush came and went—and again Burke Denby steppednearer.[Pg 8]

At the look of longing that leaped to her face, the thwarted youth feltagain the fierce wrath he had known the first day of their meeting.

"Then, by Jove, you shall!" he vowed. "Don't they ever give you any timeto yourself?"

To Burke Denby it was a wonderful and a brand-new experience. Never hadthe sky been so blue, the air so soft, the woods so enchantinglybeautiful. And he was so glad that they were thus—for her. She wasenjoying it so much, and he was so glad that he could give thishappiness to her! Enthusiastically he pointed out here a bird and therea flower; carefully he helped her over every stick and stone;determinedly he set himself to making her forget her dreary daily tasks.And when she lifted her wondering[Pg 9] eyes to his face, or placed herhalf-reluctant fingers in his extended hand, how he thrilled and tingledthrough his whole being—he had not supposed that unselfish service to afellow-being could bring to one such a warm sense of gratification.

At the top of the hill they sat down to rest, before them the wonderfulpanorama of grandeur—the green valley, the silvery river, thefar-reaching mauve and purple mountains.

The young man scarcely heard the words, else he would have frownedunconsciously at the "real pretty." He was looking at her lovely,glorified face.

"Shucks! I forgot. What a nuisance! Oh, I say, you know, I don't thinkyou ought to be doing—such work. Do you—forgive me, but do youreally—have to?"

She had turned her face half away, but he thought he could see tears inher eyes.

"Are you—all alone, then? Haven't you any—people?" His voice had grownvery tender.[Pg 10]

"No—no one. Father died, then mother. There was no one else—to care;and no—money."

He spoke awkwardly, with obvious restraint. He wanted suddenly to takeher in his arms—to soothe and comfort her as one would a child. But shewas not a child, and it would not do, of course. But she looked soforlorn, so appealing, so sweet, so absolutely dear—

"Come, come, this will never do!" he exclaimed blithely. "Here Iam—making you talk of your work and your troubles, when I took you uphere with the express intention of making you forget them. Suppose we gothrough this little path here. There's a dandy spring of cold waterfarther on. And—and forgive me, please. I won't make you—talk anymore."

And he would not, indeed, he vowed to himself. She was no child. She wasa young woman grown, and a very beautiful one, at that. He could notconsole her with a kiss and a caress, and a bonbon, of course. But hecould give her a bit of playtime, now and then—and he would, too. Hewould see to it that, for the rest of her stay under his father's roof,she should not want for the companionship of some one who—who "cared."He would be her kind and thoughtful good friend. Indeed, he would!

Burke Denby began the very next morning to be a friend to Miss Barnet.Accepting as irrevocable[Pg 11] the fact that she could not be separated fromher work, he made no plans that did not include Masters Paul and PercyAllen.

"I'm going to take your sons for a drive this morning, if you don'tmind," he said briskly to his aunt at the breakfast table.

"Mind? Of course I don't, you dear boy," answered the pleased mother,fondly. "You're the one that will mind—as you'll discover, I fear,when you find yourself with a couple of mischievous small boys on yourhands!"

"Oh—Helen? That's all right, then. You'll do nicely with her," smiledMrs. Allen, as she rose from the table. "If you'll excuse me, I'll goand see that the boys are made ready for their treat."

Burke Denby took the boys for a drive almost every day after that. Hediscovered that Miss Barnet greatly enjoyed driving. There were picnics,too, in the cool green of the woods, on two or three fine days. MissBarnet also liked picnics. Still pursuant of his plan to give theforlorn little nursemaid "one good time in her life," Burke Denbycontrived to be with her not a little in between drives and picnics.Ostensibly he was putting up swings, building toy houses, playing ballwith Masters Paul and Percy Allen; but in reality he was trying to put alittle "interest" into Miss Helen Barnet's daily task. He was so sorryfor her! It was such a shame that so[Pg 12] gloriously beautiful a girl shouldbe doomed to a slavery like that! He was so glad that for a time hemight bring some brightness into her life!

"And do you see how perfectly devoted Burke is to Paul and Percy?" criedMrs. Allen, one day, to her brother. "I had no idea the dear boy was sofond of children!"

John Denby spoke vaguely, yet with a shade of irritation. Fond as he wasof his sister and of his small nephews, he was finding it difficult toaccustom himself to the revolutionary changes in his daily routine thattheir presence made necessary. He was learning to absent himself moreand more from the house.

For a week, therefore, unchallenged, and cheerfully intent on hisbenevolent mission, Burke Denby continued his drives and picnics andball-playing with Masters Paul and Percy Allen; then, very suddenly,four little words from the lips of Helen Barnet changed for him theearth and the sky above.

"Nothing. I was thinking—that is, I had forgotten—I—" He rose to hisfeet abruptly, and crossed the room. At the window, for a full minute,he stood motionless, looking out at the falling rain. When he turnedback into the room there was a new[Pg 13] expression on his face. With a quickglance at the children playing on the rug before the fireplace, hecrossed straight to the plainly surprised young woman and droppedhimself in a chair at her side.

With a boyish laugh Burke Denby drew his chair nearer. His face wasalight with the confident happiness of one who has never known rebuff.

"You are surprised—and so was I, a minute ago. You see, it came to meall in a flash—what it would be to live—without you." His voice grewtender. "Helen, you will stay, and be my wife?"

"Oh, no, no—I mustn't, I can't! Why, of course I can't, Mr. Denby,"fluttered the girl, in a panic of startled embarrassment. "I'm sureyou—you don't want me to."

"But I do. Listen!" He threw another quick glance at the absorbedchildren as he reached out and took possession of her hand. "It all cameto me, back there at the window—the dreariness, the emptinessof—everything, withoutyou. And I saw then what you've been to meevery day this past week. How I've watched for you and waited for you,and how everything I did and said and had was just—something for you.And I knew then that I—I loved you. You see, I—I never loved any onebefore,"—the boyish red swept to his forehead as he laughedwhimsically,—"and so I—I didn't recognize the[Pg 14] symptoms!" With thelightness of his words he was plainly trying to hide the shake in hisvoice. "Helen, you—will?"

"If you don't, then won't you let memake you care?" he begged. "Yousaid you had no one now to care—at all; and I care so much! Won't youlet—"

With a low cry Helen Barnet pulled away her hand and sprang to her feet.She was down on the rug with the children, very flushed of face, whenMrs. Allen appeared in the library doorway.

"Oh, here you are!" Mrs. Allen frowned and spoke a bit impatiently."I've been hunting everywhere for you. I supposed you were in thenursery. Won't you put the boys into fresh suits? I have friends callingsoon, and I want the children brought to the drawing-room when I ring,and left till I call you again."

With a still more painful flush on her face Helen Barnet swept theblocks into her apron, rose to her feet, and hurried the children fromthe room. She did not once glance at the young man standing by thewindow.

Mrs. Allen tossed her nephew a smile and a shrug which might have beentranslated into "You see[Pg 15] what we have to endure—so tiresome!" as she,too, disappeared.

Burke Denby did not smile. He did frown, however. He felt vaguelyirritated and abused. He wished his aunt would not be so "bossy" anddisagreeable. He wished Helen would not act so cringingly submissive. Asif she— But then, it would be different right away, of course, as soonas he had made known the fact that she was to be his wife. Everythingwould be different. For that matter, Helen herself would be different.Not only would she hold her head erect and take her proper place, butshe would not—well, there were various little ways and expressionswhich she would drop, of course. And how beautiful she was! How sweet!How dear! And how she had suffered in her loneliness! How he would loveto make for her a future all gloriously happy and tender with hisstrong, encircling arms!

It was a pleasant picture. Burke Denby's heart quite swelled within himas he turned to leave the room.

Upstairs, the girl, the cause of it all, hurried with palpitatingnervousness through the task of clothing two active little bodies infresh garments. That her thoughts were not with her fingers was evident;but not until the summoning bell from the drawing-room gave her a fewminutes' respite from duty did she have an opportunity really to think.Even then she could not think lucidly or connectedly. Always[Pg 16] before hereyes was Burke Denby's face, ardent, pleading, confident. And heexpected— Before she saw him again she must be ready, she knew, withher answer. But howcould she answer?

Helen Barnet was lonely, heartsick, and frightened—a combination thatcould hardly aid in the making of a wise, unprejudiced decision,especially when one was very much in love. And Helen Barnet knew thatshe was that.

Less than two years before, Helen Barnet had been the petted daughter ofa village storekeeper in a small Vermont town. Then, like the proverbialthunderbolt, had come death and financial disaster, throwing her on herown resources. And not until she had attempted to utilize thoseresources for her support, had she found how frail they were.

Though the Barnets had not been wealthy, the village store had beenprofitable; and Helen (the only child) had been almost as greatlyoverindulged as was Burke Denby himself. Being a very pretty girl, shehad become the village belle before she donned long dresses. Having beenshielded from work and responsibility, and always carefully guarded fromeverything unpleasant, she was poorly equipped for a struggle of anysort, even aside from the fact that there was, apparently, nothing thatshe could do well enough to be paid for doing it. In the past twentymonths she had obtained six positions—and had abandoned five of them:two because of incompetency, two because of lack of[Pg 17] necessary strength,one because her beauty was plainly making the situation intolerable. Forthree months now she had been nurse to Masters Paul and Percy Allen. Sheliked Mrs. Allen, and she liked the children. But the care, theconfinement, the never-ending task of dancing attendance upon the whimsand tempers of two active little boys, was proving to be not a littleirksome to young blood unused to the restraints of self-sacrifice. Then,suddenly, there had come the visit to the Denby homestead, and theadvent into her life of Burke Denby; and now here, quite within herreach, if she could believe her eyes and ears, was this dazzling,unbelievable thing—Burke Denby's love.

Helen Barnet knew all about love. Had she not lisped its praises in odesto the moon in her high-school days? It had to do with flowers and musicand angels. On the old porch back home—what was it that long-haired boyused to read to her? Oh, Tennyson. That was it.

And now it had come toher—love. Not that it was exactly unexpected:she had been waiting for her lover since she had put up her hair, ofcourse. But to have him come like this—and such a lover! So rich—andhe was such a grand, handsome young man, too! And she loved him. Sheloved him dearly. If only she dared say "yes"! No more poverty, no moreloneliness, no more slaving at the beck and call of some hated employer.Oh, if she only dared!

For one delirious moment Helen Barnet almost[Pg 18] thought she did—dare.Then, bitterly, the thought of his position—and hers—rolled in uponher. Whatever else the last two wretched years had done for her, it hadleft her no illusions. She had no doubts as to her reception, as BurkeDenby's wife, at the hands of Burke Denby's friends and relatives. Andagain, whatever the last two years had done for her, they had not robbedher of her pride. And the Barnets, away back in the little Vermont town,had been very proud. To Helen Barnet now, therefore, the picture ofherself as Burke Denby's wife, flouted and frowned upon by Burke Denby'sfriends, was intolerable. Frightened and heartsick, she determined tobeat a hasty retreat. It simply could not be. That was all. Very likely,anyway, Burke Denby had not been more than half in earnest himself.

The bell rang then again from the drawing-room, and Helen went down toget the children. In the hall she met Burke Denby; but she only shookher head in answer to his low "Helen, when may I see you?" and hurriedby without a word, her face averted.

Three times again within the next twenty-four hours she pursued the sametactics, only to be brought up sharply at last against a peremptory"Helen, you shall let me talk to you a minute! Why do you persist inhiding behind those two rascally infants all the time, when you knowthat you have only to say the word, and you are as free as the air?"

She threw a hurried look about her. He had drawn her into the curtainedbay window of the upper hallway, as she was passing on to the nursery.

"Helen, look at me. You can't look me straight in the eye and say youdon't—care!"

"Oh, yes, I can. I—I—" The telltale color flooded her face. With achoking little breath she turned her head quite away.

"You do—you do! And you shall marry me!" breathed the youth, his lipsalmost brushing the soft hair against her ear.

"No, no, Mr. Denby, I can't—I—can't!" With a supreme effort shewrenched herself free and fled down the hall.

If Helen Barnet thought this settled the matter, she ill-judged thenature of the man with whom she had to deal. Unlimited frosted cakes andshotguns had not taught Burke Denby to accept no for ananswer—especially for an answer to something he had so set his heartupon as he had this winning of Helen Barnet for his wife.[Pg 20]

Burke Denby did not know anything about love. He had never sung odes tothe moon, or read Tennyson to pretty girls on secluded verandas. He hadnot been looking for love to meet him around the bend of the nextstreet. Love had come now as an Event, capitalized. Love was Life, andLife was Heaven—if it might be passed with Helen Barnet at his side.Without her it would be— But Burke ignored the alternative. It was notworth considering, anyway, for of course she would be at his side.

She loved him; he was sure of that. This fancied obstacle in the waythat loomed so large in her eyes, he did not fear in the least. Hereally rather liked it. It added zest and excitement, and would make hisfinal triumph all the more heart-warming and satisfying. He had only toconvince Helen, of course, and the mere convincing would not be withoutits joy and compensation.

It was with really pleasurable excitement, therefore, that Burke Denbylaid his plans and carried them to the triumphant finish of a carefullyarranged tête-à-tête in the library, when he knew that they would haveat least half an hour to themselves.

"There, I've got you now, you little wild thing!" he cried, closing thelibrary door, and standing determinedly with his back to it, as she madea frightened move to go, at finding herself alone with him.

"No, you can't go. I've had altogether too much[Pg 21] trouble getting youhere, and getting those blessed youngsters safely away with their mammafor a bit of a drive with my dad."

"I did." He was regarding her with half-quizzical, wholly fond eyes."And I had you summoned to the library—but I was careful not to say whowanted you. Oh, Helen, Helen, how can you seek to avoid me like this,when you know how I love you!" There was only tenderness now in hisvoice and manner. He had taken both her hands in his.

His voice was whimsically light again. Very plainly Mr. Burke Denby wasnot appreciating the seriousness of the occasion.

"Hard?Hard? Then if it's hard, it means youdo love me. As if I'dgive you up now! Helen, why do you torture me like this? Dearest,whenwill you marry me?"

"You aren't—promised to any one else?" For the first time a shadow ofuneasy doubt crossed his face.

Her eyes, frightened and pleading, searched his face. There was a tensemoment of indecision. Then in a tragic burst it came.

"Maybe you think I'd—marry you, and be your wife, and have all yourfolks look down on me!"

With a quick cry he caught her to himself again, and laid a reprovingfinger on her lips.

"Hush! Don't you let me hear you say that again—those horrid words! Youare you,yourself, the dearest, sweetest little woman that was evermade, and I love you, and I'm going to marry you. Look down on you,indeed! I'd like to see them try it!"

"Hush!" He almost shook her in his wrath. "I[Pg 23] tell you, you areyou—and that's all I want to know. And that's all anybody will wantto know. I'm not in love with your ancestors, or with your relatives, oryour friends. I don't love you because you are, or are not, anurse-girl, or a school-teacher, or a butterfly of fashion. I even don'tlove you because your eyes are blue, or because your wonderful hair islike the softest of spun gold. It's just because you are you,sweetheart; and you,just you, are the whole wide world to me!"

"He will love you because I love you. Dad is my good chum—he's alwaysbeen that. What I love, he'll love. You'll see."

"I'm sure he will. Why, dad is the other half of myself. Always, all theway up, dad has been like that. And everything I've wanted, he's alwayslet me have."

"Want you!" With his impulsive lips on hers she had her answer, andthere Burke Denby found his.[Pg 24]

CHAPTER II

AN ONLY SON

Proud, and blissfully happy in his victory, Burke went to his father;and to his father (so far as the latter himself was concerned) hecarried a bombshell.

For two reasons John Denby had failed to see what was taking place inhis own home. First, because it would never have occurred to him thathis son could fall in love with a nursemaid; secondly, because he hadsystematically absented himself from the house during the most of hissister's visit, preferring to take his sister away with him for drivesand walks rather than to stay in the noisy confusion of toys and babiesthat his home had become. Because of all this, therefore, he was totallyunprepared for what his son was bringing to him.

"Well, my boy, it's good to see you! Where have you been keepingyourself all these two weeks?"

The conscious color that crept to the boy's forehead should have beenilluminating. But it was not.

"Yes, yes, very likely, very likely," frowned the man. "But, of course,with so many around— But soon we'll be by ourselves again. Not butwhat[Pg 25] I'm enjoying your aunt's visit, of course," he added hastily. "Buthere are two weeks of your vacation gone, and I've scarcely seen you aminute."

"Yes; and that's one thing I wanted to talk about—college," plunged inthe boy. "I've decided I don't want to finish my course, dad. I'd rathergo into business right away."

"Hm-m, well," he hesitated. "While I should hate not to see yougraduated, yet—it's not so bad an idea, after all. I'd be glad to haveyou here for good that much earlier, son. But why this suddenright-about-face? I thought you were particularly keen for that degree."

"Married!" To John Denby it seemed suddenly that a paralyzing chillclutched his heart and made it skip a beat. This possible futuremarriage of his son, breaking into their close companionship, was thedreaded shadow that loomed ever ahead. "Nonsense, boy! Time enough tothink of that when you've found the girl."

"You have—what?" he demanded. "You don't mean that you've— Who isshe?"[Pg 26]

"Helen. Why, dad, you seem surprised," laughed the boy. "Haven't younoticed—suspected?"

"Well, no I haven't," retorted the man grimly. "Why should I? I neverheard of the young lady before. What is this—some college tomfoolery? Imight have known, I suppose, what would happen."

"Here! There's no one here but your aunt and—" He stopped, and halfstarted from his chair. "You don't—you can't mean—your aunt'snursemaid!"

Angry as he was, the man was conscious of the hurt the words gave him.But he held his ground.

"I mean that I supposed my son would show some consideration as to thewoman he chose for his wife."

"Father!" The boyish face set into stern lines. The boyish figure drewitself erect with a majesty that would have been absurd had it not beenso palpably serious. "I can't stand much of this sort of thing, evenfrom you. Miss Barnet is everything that is good and true and lovely.She is in every way worthy—more than worthy. Besides, she is the womanI love—the woman I have asked to be my wife. Please remember that whenyou speak of her."[Pg 27]

John Denby laughed lightly. Sharp words had very evidently been on theend of his tongue, when, with a sudden change of countenance, he relaxedin his chair, and said:—

"Well done, Burke. Your sentiments do you credit, I'm sure. But aren'twe getting a little melodramatic? I feel as if I were on the stage of asecond-rate theater! However, I stand corrected; and we'll speak veryrespectfully of the lady hereafter. I have no doubt she is very good andvery lovely, as you say; but"—his mouth hardened a little—"I muststill insist that she is no fit wife for my son."

"I suppose you mean—because she has to work for her living," flashedthe boy. "But that—excuse me—seems to me plain snobbishness. And Imust say again I didn't think it of you, dad. I supposed—"

"Come, come, this has gone far enough," interrupted the distraught,sorely tried father of an idolized son. "You're only a boy. You don'tknow your own mind. You'll fancy yourself in love a dozen times yetbefore the time comes for you to marry."

"I shall be next month. And Ido know my own mind. You'll see, father,when I'm married."

"But you're not going to be married at present. And you're never goingto marry this nursemaid."

There was a tense moment of silence. Father and son faced each other,angry resentment in their eyes. Then, with a sharp ejaculation, JohnDenby got to his feet and strode to the window. When he turned a minutelater and came back, the angry resentment was gone. His mouth was stern,but his eyes were pleading. He came straight to his son and put bothhands on his shoulders.

"Burke, listen to me," he begged. "I'm doing this for two reasons.First, to save you from yourself. You've known this girl scarcely twoweeks—hardly an adequate preparation for a lifetime of living together.And just here comes in the second reason. However good and lovely shemay be, she couldn't possibly qualify for that long lifetime together,Burke. Simply because she works for her living has nothing to do withit. She has not the tastes or the training that should belong to yourwife—thatmust belong to your wife if she is to make you happy, ifshe is to take the place of—your mother. And that is the place yourwife will take, of course, Burke."

Again there was a moment's silence. Again the stern lines deepenedaround the man's lips. Then very quietly there came the words:—

"Burke, if you marry this girl, you will choose between her and me. Itseems to me that I ought not to need to tell you that you cannot bringher here. She shall never occupy your mother's chair as the mistress ofthis house."

If Burke had not been so blind with passion he would have seen and feltthe anguish that leaped to his father's eyes. But he did not stop to seeor to feel. He snapped out the words, jerked himself free, and left theroom.

This did not "settle it," however. There were more words—words commonto stern parents and amorous youths and maidens since time immemorial. Afather, appalled at the catastrophe that threatened, not only hischerished companionship with his only son, but, in his opinion, therevered sanctity of his wife's memory, wrapped himself in forbiddingdignity. An impetuous lover, torn between the old love of years and thenew, quite different one of weeks, alternately stormed and pleaded. Ayoung girl, undisciplined, very much in love, and smarting with hurtpride and resentment, blew hot and cold in a manner that tended to driveevery one concerned[Pg 30] to distraction. As soon as possible a shocked,distressed Sister Eunice packed her trunks and betook herself and heroffending household away.

In time, then, a compromise was effected. Burke should leave collegeimmediately and go into the Works with his father, serving a shortapprenticeship from the bottom up, as had been planned for him, that hemight be the master of the business, in deed as well as in name, when heshould some day take his father's place. Meanwhile, for one year, he wasnot to see or to communicate with Helen Barnet. If at the end of theyear, he was still convinced that his only hope of happiness lay inmarriage to this girl, all opposition would be withdrawn and he mightmarry when he pleased—though even then he must not expect to bring hisbride to the old home. They must set up an establishment for themselves.

"We should prefer that,—under the circumstances," had been the promptand somewhat haughty rejoinder, much to the father's discomfiture.

Grieved and dismayed as he was at the airy indifference with which hisson appeared to face a fatherless future, John Denby was yet pinning hisfaith on that year of waiting. Given twelve months with the boy quite tohimself, free from the hateful spell of this designing young woman, andthere could be no question of the result—in John Denby's mind. In allconfidence, therefore, and with every sense alert to make this year asperfect as a year could be, John Denby set himself to the task beforehim.[Pg 31]

It was just here, however, that for John Denby the ghosts walked—ghostsof innumerable toy pistols and frosted cakes. Burke Denby, accustomedall his life to having what he wanted, and having itwhen he wantedit, moped the first week, sulked the second, covertly rebelled thethird, and ran away the last day of the fourth, leaving behind him thecustomary note, which, in this case, read:—

John Denby read the letter once, twice; then he pulled the telephonetoward him and gave a few crisp orders to James Brett, his generalmanager. His voice was steady and—to the man at the other end of thewire—ominously emotionless. When he had finished talking five minuteslater, certain words had been uttered that would materially change theimmediate[Pg 32] future of a certain willful youth just then setting out onhis honeymoon.

There would be, for Burke Denby, no "Reddington apartment." There wouldalso be no several-other-things; for there would be no "allowance" afterthe current month. There would be only the "wages," and the things thewages could buy.

There was no disputing the fact that John Denby was very angry. But hewas also sorely distressed and grieved. Added to his indignation thathis son should have so flouted him was his anguish of heart that the olddays of ideal companionship were now gone forever. There was, too, hisvery real fear for the future happiness of his boy, bound in marriage toa woman he believed would prove to be a most uncongenial mate. Butovertopping all, just now, was his wrath at the flippant assurance ofhis son's note, and the very evident confidence in a final forgivenessthat the note showed. It was this that caused the giving of those stern,momentous orders over the telephone—John Denby himself had beensomewhat in the habit of having his own way!

The harassed father did not sleep much that night. Until far into themorning hours he sat before the fireless grate in his library, thinking.He looked old, worn, and wholly miserable. In his hand, and often underhis gaze, was the miniature of a beautiful woman—his wife.[Pg 33]

CHAPTER III

HONEYMOON DAYS

It was on a cool, cloudy day in early September that Mr. and Mrs. BurkeDenby arrived at Dalton from their wedding trip.

With characteristic inclination to avoid anything unpleasant, the younghusband had neglected to tell his wife that they were not to live in theDenby Mansion. He had argued with himself that she would find it outsoon enough, anyway, and that there was no reason why he should spoiltheir wedding trip with disagreeable topics of conversation. Burkealways liked to put off disagreeable things till the last.

Helen was aware, it is true, that Burke's father was much displeased atthe marriage; but that this displeasure had gone so far as to result inbanishment from the home, she did not know. She had been planning,indeed, just how she would win her father-in-law over—just how sweetand lovely and daughterly she would be, as a member of the Denbyhousehold; and so sure was she of victory that already she counted thebattle half won.

In the old days of her happy girlhood, Helen Barnet had taken as amatter of course the succumbing of everything and everybody to her charmand beauty. And although this feeling had, perforce, been in abeyancefor some eighteen months, it had been very[Pg 34] rapidly coming back to herduring the past two weeks, under the devoted homage of her young husbandand the admiring eyes of numberless strangers along their honeymoon way.

It was a complete and disagreeable surprise to her now, therefore, whenBurke said to her, a trifle nervously, as they were nearing Dalton:—

"We'll have to go to a hotel, of course, Helen, for a few days, till weget the apartment ready. But 'twon't be for long, dear."

"But you'll like it, dear. You just wait and see." The man spoke withdetermined cheeriness.

"But I can't like it better than your old home, Burke. Iknow whatthat is, and I'd much rather go there."

"Yes, yes, but—" Young Denby paused to wet his dry lips. "Er—you know,dear, dad wasn't exactly—er—pleased with the marriage, anyway, and—"

"That's just it," broke in the bride eagerly. "That's one reason Iwanted to go there—to show him, you know. Why, Burke, I'd got it allplanned out lovely, how nice I was going to be to him—get his paper andslippers, and kiss him good-morning, and—"[Pg 35]

"Holy smoke! Kiss—" Just in time the fastidious son of a still morefastidious father pulled himself up; but to a more discerning bride, hisface would already have finished his sentence. "Er—but—well, anyhow,dear," he stammered, "that's very kind of you, of course; but you seeit's useless even to think of it. He—he has forbidden us to go there."

At the angry sharpness of the man's voice Helen stopped abruptly. For amoment she gazed at her husband with reproachful eyes. Then her chinbegan to quiver, her breath to come in choking little gasps, and the bigtears to roll down her face.

"Oh, great Scott! Helen, dearest, don't,please!" begged the dismayedand distracted young husband, promptly capitulating at the awful sightof tears of which he was the despicable cause. "Darling, don't!"

"But you never sp-poke like that to me b-before," choked the wife of afortnight.

"I know. I was a brute—so I was! But, sweetheart,please stop," hepleaded desperately. "See, we're just pulling into Dalton. You don'twant them to see you crying—a bride!"

Mrs. Burke Denby drew in her breath convulsively,[Pg 36] and lifted a hurriedhand to brush the tears from her eyes. The next moment she smiled,tremulously, but adorably. She looked very lovely as she stepped fromthe car a little later; and Burke Denby's heart swelled with love andpride as he watched her. If underneath the love and pride there was avague something not so pleasant, the man told himself it was only anatural regret at having said anything to cast the slightest shadow onthe home-coming of this dear girl whom he had asked to share his life.Whatever this vague something was, anyway, Burke resolutely put itbehind him, and devoted himself all the more ardently to the comfort ofhis young wife.

In spite of himself, Burke could not help looking for his father's faceat the station. Never before had he come home (when not with hisfather), and not been welcomed by that father's eager smile andoutstretched hand. He missed them both now. Otherwise he was relieved tosee few people he knew, as he stepped to the platform, though he fullyrealized, from the sly winks and covert glances, that every one knew whohe was, and who also was the lady at his side.

With only an occasional perfunctory greeting, and no introductions,therefore, the somewhat embarrassed and irritated bridegroom hurried hisbride into a public carriage, and gave the order to drive to the HancockHotel.

All the way there he talked very fast and very tenderly of the new homethat was soon to be theirs.[Pg 37]

"'Twill be only for a little—the hotel, dear," he plunged in at once."And you won't mind it, for a little, while we're planning, will you,darling? I'm going to rent one of the Reddington apartments. Youremember them—on Reddington Avenue; white stone with dandy littlebalconies between the big bay windows. They were just being finishedwhen you were here. They're brand-new, you see. And we'll be so happy,there, dearie,—just us two!"

"Us two! But, Burke, there'll be three. There'll have to be the hiredgirl, too, you know," fluttered the new wife, in quick panic. "Surelyyou aren't going to make me do without a hired girl!"

"Oh, no—no, indeed," asserted the man, all the more hurriedly, becausehe never had thought of a "hired girl," and because he was ratherfearfully wondering how much his father paid for the maids, anyway.There would have to be one, of course; but he wondered if his allowancewould cover it, with all the rest. Still, hecould smoke a cigar ortwo less a day, he supposed, if it came to a pinch, and—but Helen wasspeaking.

"Dear, dear, but you did give me a turn, Burke! You see, there'll justhave to be a hired girl—that is, if you want anything to eat, sir," shelaughed, showing all her dimples. (And Burke loved her dimples!) "Ican't cook a little bit. I never did at home, you know, and I shouldhate it, I'm sure. It's so messy—sticky dough and dishes, and allthat!" Again she laughed and showed all her dimples,[Pg 38] looking soaltogether bewitching that Burke almost—but not quite—stole a kiss. Hedecided, too, on the spot, that he would rather never smoke anothercigar than to subject this adorable little thing at his side to any taskthat had to do with the hated "messy dough and sticky dishes." Indeed hewould!

Something of this must have shown in his face, for the little bridebeamed anew, and the remainder of the drive was a blissfully happy duetof fascinating plans regarding this new little nest of a home.

All this was at four o'clock. At eight o'clock Burke Denby came intotheir room at the hotel with a white face and tense lips.

"Well, Helen, we're in for it," he flung out, dropping himself into thenearest chair.

"How perfectly horrid! Just as if it wasn't mean enough for him not tolet us live there, without—"

"Helen!" Burke Denby pulled himself up in his chair. "See here, dear, Ishan't let even you say things like that about dad. Now, for heaven'ssake,[Pg 39] don't let us quarrel about it," he pleaded impatiently, as he sawthe dreaded quivering coming to the pouting lips opposite.

"Helen, dearest, don't cry, please don't! Crying won't help; and I tellyou it's serious business—this is."

"But are you sure—do you know it's true?" faltered the young wife, toothoroughly frightened now to be angry. "Did you see—your father?"

"Oh, yes, he does," returned Burke, with grim emphasis. "He knowseverything. They say at the Works that he knows what father's going tohave for breakfast before the cook does."

"He's the head manager of the Denby Iron Works and father's right-handman. He came here to-night to see me—by dad's orders, I suspect."

"I'm afraid he is. He says I've made my bed and now I must lie in it.He's cut off my allowance entirely. He's raised my wages—a little, andhe says it's up to me now to make good—with my wages."

There was a minute's silence. The man's eyes were gloomily fixed on theopposite wall. His whole attitude spelled disillusion and despair. Thewoman's eyes, questioning, fearful, were fixed on the man.[Pg 40]

Plainly some new, hidden force was at work within Helen Denby's heart.Scorn and anger had left her countenance. Grief and dismay had come intheir place.

"Burke,why has your father objected so to—to me?" she asked at last,timidly.

Abstractedly, as if scarcely conscious of what he was saying, the manshrugged:—

"Oh, the usual thing. He said you weren't suited to me; you wouldn'tmake me happy."

The wife recoiled visibly. She gave a piteous little cry. It was toolow, apparently, to reach her husband's ears. At all events, he did notturn. For fully half a minute she watched him, and in her shrinking eyeswas mirrored each eloquent detail of his appearance, the lassitude, thegloom, the hopelessness. Then, suddenly, to her whole self there came anelectric change. As if throwing off bonds that held her she flung outher arms and sprang toward him.

"Burke, it isn't true, it isn't true," she flamed. "I'm going to makeyou happy! You just wait and see. And we'll show him. We'll show him wecan do it! He told you to make good; and you must, Burke! I won't havehim and everybody else saying I dragged you down. I won't!I won't!Iwon't!"

Burke Denby's first response was to wince involuntarily at the shrillcrescendo of his wife's voice. His next was to shrug his shouldersirritably as the meaning of her words came to him.

"I'm not a goose. I'm your wife," choked Helen, still swayed by theexaltation that had mastered her. "And I'm going to help you win—win,I say! Do you hear me, Burke?"

"Of course I hear you, Helen; and—so'll everybody else, if you don'tlook out.Please speak lower, Helen!"

She was too intent and absorbed to be hurt or vexed. Obediently shedropped her voice almost to a whisper.

"Yes, yes, I know, Burke; and I will, I will, dear." She fell on herknees at his side. "But it seems as if I must shout it to the world. Iwant to go out on the street here and scream it at the top of my voice,till your father in his great big useless house on the hill just has tohear me."

"Burke, listen! You're going to make good. Do you hear? We'll show them.We'll never let them say they—beat us!"

"But, Helen, how? What?" demanded the man, stirred into a show ofinterest at last. "How can we?"

"And we'll have to live in a cheap little hole somewhere—we can't haveone of the Reddingtons."

"Then you'll have to eat—what I cook!" She drew in her breath with ahysterical little laugh that was half a sob.

"You darling! I shall love it!" He caught her to himself in a revulsionof feeling that was as ardent as it was sudden. "Only I'll so hate tohave you do it, sweetheart—it's so messy and doughy!"

"But I didn't know then—what they were saying about me. Burke, theyjust shan't say I'm dragging you down."

"Yes,with me to help! That's it, that's it—I'm going tohelp you,"she breathed fervently, flinging her arms about his neck.

And to each, from the dear stronghold of the other's arms, at themoment, the world looked, indeed, to be a puny thing, scarcely worth theconquering.[Pg 43]

CHAPTER IV

NEST-BUILDING

It is so much easier to say than to do. But nothing in the experience ofeither Burke Denby or of Helen, his wife, had demonstrated this fact forthem. Quite unprepared, therefore, and with confident courage, theyproceeded to pass from the saying to the doing.

True, in the uncompromising sunlight of the next morning, the world didlook a bit larger, a shade less easily conquerable; and a distinctlyunpleasant feeling of helplessness assailed both husband and wife. Yetwith a gay "Now we'll go house-hunting right away so as to save payinghere!" from Helen, and an adoring "You darling—but it's a burningshame!" from Burke, the two sallied forth, after the late hotelbreakfast.

The matter of selecting the new home was not a difficult one—at first.They decided at once that, if they could not have an apartment in theReddington Chambers, they would prefer a house. "For," Burke said, "asfor being packed away like sardines in one of those abominable littlecheap flat-houses, I won't!" So a house they looked for at the start.And very soon they found what Helen said was a "love of a place"—apretty little cottage with a tiny lawn and a flower-bed.[Pg 44]

"And it's so lucky it's for rent," she exulted. "For it's just what wewant, isn't it, dearie?"

"Why, Burke, don't you like it?I think it's a dear! Of course itisn't like your father's house. But we can't expect that."

"Oh, that'll be all right. I'll economize somewhere else. Come; it saysthe key is next door."

"Yes, but, Helen, dearest, I know we can't—" But "Helen, dearest," wasalready halfway up the adjoining walk; and Burke, with a despairingglance at her radiant, eager face, followed her. There was, indeed, noother course open to him, as he knew, unless he chose to make a scene onthe public thorough-fare—and Burke Denby did not like scenes.

The house was found to be as attractive inside as it was out; andHelen's progress from room to room was a series of delightedexclamations. She was just turning to go upstairs when her husband'sthird desperate expostulation brought her feet and her tongue to apause.

"Helen, darling, I tell you we can't!" he was exclaiming. "It's out ofthe question."

"Burke!" Her lips began to quiver. "And when you know how much I wantit!"[Pg 45]

"Sweetheart, don't, please, make it any harder for me," he begged. "I'dgive you a dozen houses like this if I could—and you know it. But wecan't afford even this one. The rent is forty dollars. I heard her tellyou when she gave you the key."

"Oh, but, Burke, that leaves twenty, and we can do a lot on twenty. Justas if what we ate would cost us that! I don't care for meat, anyhow,much. We'll cut that out. And I hate grapefruit and olives. They cost alot. Mrs. Allen was always having them, and—"

"Grapefruit and olives, indeed! And as if food were all of it! Where areour clothes and coal and—and doctor's bills, and I don't-know-what-allcoming from? Why, great Scott, Helen, I smoke half that in a week,sometimes,—not that I shall now, of course," he added hastily. "But,honestly, dearie, we simply can't do it. Now, come, be a good girl, andlet's go on. We're simply wasting time here."

Helen, convinced at last, tossed him the key, with a teary "Allright—take it back then. I shan't! I know I should c-cry right beforeher!" The next minute, at sight of the abject woe and dismay on herhusband's face, she flung herself upon him with a burst of sobs.[Pg 46]

"There, there, Burke, here I am, so soon, making a fuss because we can'tafford things! But I won't any more—truly I won't! I was a mean, horridold thing! Yes, I was," she reiterated in answer to his indignantdenial. "Come, let's go quick!" she exclaimed, pulling herself away, andlifting her head superbly. "I don't want the old place, anyhow. Truly, Idon't!" And, with a dazzling smile, she reached out her hand and trippedenticingly ahead of him toward the door; while the man, bewildered, butenthralled by this extraordinary leap from fretful stubbornness to gaydocility, hurried after her with an incoherent jumble of rapturousadjectives.

Such was Mr. and Mrs. Burke Denby's first experience of home-hunting.The second, though different in detail, was similar in disappointment.So also were the third and the fourth experiences. Not, indeed, untilthe weary, distracted pair had spent three days in time, all theirpatience, and most of their good nature, did they finally arrive at adecision. And then their selection, alas, proved to be one of thedespised tiny flats, in which, according to the unhappy youngbridegroom, they were destined to be packed like sardines.

After all, it had been the "elegant mirror in the parlor," and the "justgrand" tiled and tessellated entrance, that had been the determiningfactors in the decision; for Burke, thankful that at last somethingwithin reach of his pocketbook had been found to bring a sparkle to hisbeloved's eyes, had stifled[Pg 47] his own horror at the tawdry cheapness ofit all, and had given a consent that was not without a measure of reliefborn of the three long days of weary, well-nigh hopeless search.

Dalton, like most manufacturing towns of fifteen or twenty thousandsouls, had all the diversity of a much larger place. There was WestHill, where were the pillared and porticoed residences of thepretentious and the pretending, set in painfully new, wide-sweeping,flower-bordered lawns; and there was Valley Street, a double line oframshackle wooden buildings with broken steps and shutterless windows,where a blade of grass was a stranger and a flower unknown, save forperhaps a sickly geranium on a tenement window sill. There was OldDalton, with its winding, tree-shaded streets clambering all over theslope of Elm Hill, where old colonial mansions, with an air of aloofness(borrowed quite possibly from their occupants), seemed ever to bewithdrawing farther and farther away from plebeian noise and publicity.There was, of course, the mill district, where were the smoke-belchingchimneys and great black buildings that meant the town's bread andbutter; and there were the adjoining streets of workmen's houses, fittedto give a sensitive soul the horrors, so seemingly endless was therepetition of covered stoop and dormer window, always exactly the same,as far as eye could reach. There was, too, the bustling, asphalted,brick-blocked business center; and there were numerous streets ofsimple, pretty[Pg 48] cottages, and substantial residences, among which, withgrowing frequency, there were beginning to appear the tall,many-windowed apartment houses, ranging all the way from the exclusive,expensive Reddington Chambers down to the flimsy structures like the onewhose tawdry ornamentation had caught the fancy of Burke Denby'svillage-bred wife.

To Burke Denby himself, late of Denby House (perhaps the most aloof ofall the "old colonials"), the place was a nightmare of horror. Butbecause his wife's eyes had glistened, and because his wife's lips hadcaroled a joyous "Oh, Burke, I'dlove this place, darling!"—andbecause, most important of all, if it must be confessed, the rent wasonly twenty dollars a month, he had uttered a grim "All right, we'lltake it." And the selection of the home was accomplished.

Not until they were on the way to the hotel that night did there come tothe young husband the full realizing sense that housekeeping meantfurniture.

"Oh, of course Iknew it did," he groaned, half-laughingly, after hisfirst despairing ejaculation. "But I just didn't think; that's all. Ourfurniture at home we'd always had. But of course it does have to bebought—at first."

"Of course! AndI didn't think, either," laughed Helen. "You see, we'dalways hadour furniture, too, I guess. But then, it'll be grand tobuy it. I love new things!"

"Buy it! That's all right—if we had the money[Pg 49] to pay. Heaven onlyknows how much it'll cost. I don't."

"But, Burke, you've gotsome money, haven't you? You took a big rollout of your pocket last night."

"Big roll, indeed! How far do you suppose that would go towardfurnishing a home? Of course I've got some money—a little left from myallowance—but that doesn't mean I've got enough to furnish a home."

"Then let's give up housekeeping and board," proposed Helen. "Then wewon't have to buy any furniture. And I think I'd like it better anyhow;and Iknow you would—after you'd sampled my cooking," she finishedlaughingly.

"Board! Not much, Helen! Wecouldn't board at a decent place. 'Twouldcost too much. And as for the cheap variety—great Scott, Helen! Iwonder if you think I'd stand for that! Heaven knows we'll be enoughgossiped about, as it is, without our planting ourselves right under thenoses of half the tabby-cats in town for them to 'oh' and 'ah' and 'um'every time we turn around or don't turn around! No, ma'am, Helen! We'llshut ourselves up somewhere within four walls we can call home, even ifwe have to furnish it with only two chairs and a bed and a kitchenstove. It'll be ours—and we'll be where we won't be stared at."[Pg 50]

"Dear, dear, Burke, how you do run on! Just as if one minded a littlestaring! I rather like it, myself,—if I know my clothes and my backhair are all right."

"Well, I do," she laughed, uptilting her chin. "It makes one feel sosort of—er—important. But I won't say 'board' again,never,—unlessyou begin to scold at my cooking," she finished with an arch glance.

"As if I could do that!" cried the man promptly, again the adoringhusband. "I shall love everything you do—just because it'syou thatdo it. The only trouble will be,you won't get enough to eat—becauseI shall want to eat it all!"

"You darling! Aren't you the best ever!" she cooed, giving his arm asurreptitious squeeze. "But, really, you know, I am going to be abang-up cook. I've got a cookbook."

"Yesterday, while you went into Stoddard's for that house-key. I saw onein the window next door and I went in and bought it. 'Twas two dollars,so it ought to be a good one. And that makes me think. It took all themoney I had, 'most, in my purse. So I—I'm afraid I'll have to have somemore, dear."

"Why, of course, of course! You mustn't go without money a minute." Andthe young husband, with all the alacrity of a naturally generous nature[Pg 51]supplemented by the embarrassment of this new experience of being askedfor money by the girl he loved, plunged his hand into his pocket andcrowded two bills into her unresisting fingers. "There! And I won't beso careless again, dear. I don't ever mean you to have toask formoney, sweetheart."

"Oh, thank you," she murmured, tucking the bills into her littlehandbag. "I shan't need any more for ever so long, I'm sure. I'm goingto be economicalnow, you know."

"There won't be anything to mind," he answered fervently, with an ardentglance that would have been a kiss had it not been for the annoyingpresence of a few score of Dalton's other inhabitants on the streettogether with themselves.

At nine o'clock the following morning Mr. and Mrs. Burke Denby salliedforth to buy the furniture for their "tenement," as Helen called it,until her husband's annoyed remonstrances changed the word to"apartment."

Burke Denby learned many things during the next few hours. He learnedfirst that tables and chairs and beds and stoves—really decent onesthat a fellow could endure the sight of—cost a prodigious amount ofmoney. But, to offset this, and to make life really[Pg 52] worth the living,after all, it seemed that one might buy a quantity sufficient for one'sneeds, and pay for them in installments, week by week. This idea, whilenot wholly satisfactory, seemed the only way of stretching their limitedmeans to cover their many needs; and, after some hesitation, it wasadopted.

There remained then only the matter of selection; and it was just herethat Burke Denby learned something else. He learned that two people,otherwise apparently in perfect accord, could disagree most violentlyover the shape of a chair or the shade of a rug. Indeed, he would nothave believed it possible that such elements of soul torture could liein a mere matter of color or texture. And how any one with eyes andsensibilities could wish to select for one's daily companions such amass of gingerbread decoration and glaring colors as seemed to meet thefancy of his wife, he could not understand. Neither could he understandwhy all his selections and preferences were promptly dubbed "dingy" and"homely," nor why nothing that he liked pleased her at all. As such wascertainly the case, however, he came to express these preferences lessand less frequently. And in the end he always bought what she wanted,particularly as the price on her choice was nearly always lower than theone on his—which was an argument in its favor that he found it hard torefute.

Tractable as he was as to quality, however, he did have to draw a sharpline as to quantity; for Helen;—with the cheerful slogan, "Why, it'sonly[Pg 53] twenty-five cents a week more, Burke!"—seemed not to realize thatthere was a limit even to the number of those one might spend—on sixtydollars a month. True, at the beginning she did remind him that theycould "eat less" till they "got the things paid for," and that herclothes were "all new, anyhow, being a bride, so!" But she had not saidthat again. Perhaps because she saw the salesman turn his back to laugh,and perhaps because she was a little frightened at the look on herhusband's face. At all events, when Burke did at last insist that theyhad bought quite enough, she acquiesced with some measure of grace.

Burke himself, when the shopping was finished, drew a sigh of relief,yet with an inward shudder at the recollection of certain things marked"Sold to Burke Denby."

"Oh, well," he comforted himself. "Helen's happy—and that's the mainthing; and I shan't see them much. I'm away days and asleep nights." Nordid it occur to him that this was not the usual attitude of a supposedlyproud bridegroom toward his new little nest of a home.

Getting settled in the little Dale Street apartment was, so far as Burkewas concerned, a mere matter of moving from the hotel and dumping thecontents of his trunk into his new chiffonier and closet. True, Helen,looking tired and flurried (and not nearly so pretty as usual), broughtto him some borrowed tools, together with innumerable curtains and rodsand[Pg 54] nails and hooks that simply must be put up, she said, before shecould do a thing. But Burke, after a half-hearted trial,—during whichhe mashed his thumb and bored three holes in wrong places,—flew into apassion of irritability, and bade her get the janitor who "owned thedarn things" to do the job, and to pay him what he asked—'twould beworth it, no matter what it was!

With a very hasty kiss then Burke banged out of the house and headed forthe Denby Iron Works.

It was not alone the curtains or the offending hammer that was wrongwith Burke Denby that morning. The time had come when he must not onlymeet his fellow employees, and take his place among them, but he mustface his father. And he was dreading yet longing to see his father. Hehad not seen him since he bade him good-night and went upstairs to hisown room the month before—to write that farewell note.

Once, since coming back from his wedding trip, he had been tempted toleave town and never see his father again—until he should have made forhimself the name and the money that he was going to make. Then he wouldcome back and cry: "Behold, this is I, your son, and this is Helen, mywife, who, you see, hasnot dragged me down!" He would not, of course,talk like that. But he would show them. He would! This had been whenhe first learned from Brett of the allowance-cutting, and of hisfather's implacable anger.[Pg 55]

Then had come the better, braver decision. He would stay where he was.He would make the name and the money right here, under his father's veryeyes. It would be harder, of course; but there would then be all themore glory in the winning. Besides, to leave now would look likedefeat—would make one seem almost like a quitter. And his father hatedquitters! He would like to show his father. Hewould show his father.And he would show him right here. And had not Helen, his dear wife, saidthat she would aid him? As if he could help winning out under thosecircumstances!

It was with thoughts such as these that he went now to meet his father.Especially was he thinking of Helen, dear Helen,—poor Helen, strugglingback there with those abominable hooks and curtains. And he had beensuch a brute to snap her up so crossly! He would not do it again. It wasonly that he was so dreading this first meeting with his father. Afterthat it would be easier. There would not be anything then only just tokeep steadily going till he'd made good—he and Helen. But now—fatherwould be proud to see how finely he was taking it!

With chin up and shoulders back, therefore, Burke Denby walked into hisfather's office.

"Well, father," he began, with cheery briskness. Then, instantly, voiceand manner changed as he took a hurried step forward. "Dad, what is it?Are you ill?"[Pg 56]

So absorbed had Burke Denby been over the part he himself was playing inthis little drama of Denby and Son, that he had given no thought as tothe probable looks or actions of any other member of the cast. He wasquite unprepared, therefore, for the change in the man he now saw beforehim—the pallor, the shrunken cheeks, the stooped shoulders, theunmistakable something that made the usually erect, debonair man looksuddenly worn and old.

John Denby got to his feet at once. He even smiled and held out hishand. Yet Burke, who took the hand, felt suddenly that there wereuncounted miles of space between them.

There was a brief pause. A torrent of words swept to the tip of theyounger man's tongue; but nothing found voice except another faltering"Er—yes, very well!" which Burke had not meant to say at all. There wasa second brief pause, then John Denby sat down.

"You will find Brett in his office. You have come to work, I dare say,"he observed, as he turned to the letters on his desk.

"Er—yes," stammered the young man. The next moment he found himselfalone, white and shaken, the other side of his father's door.[Pg 57]

To work? Oh, yes, he had come to work; but he had come first to talk.There were a whole lot of things he had meant to say to his father.First, of course, there would have had to be something in the nature ofan apology or the like to patch up the quarrel. Then he would tell himhow he was really going to make good—he and Helen. After that theycould get down to one of their old-time chats. They always had beenchums—he and dad; and they hadn't had a talk for four weeks. Why, forthree weeks he had been saving up a story, a dandy story that dad wouldappreciate! And there were other things, serious things, that—

And here already he had seen his father, and it was over. And he had notsaid a word—nothing of what he had meant to say. He believed he wouldgo back—

With an angry gesture Burke Denby turned and extended his hand halfwaytoward the closed door. Then, with an impatient shrug, he whirled aboutand strode toward the door marked "J. A. Brett, General Manager."

If young Denby had obeyed his first impulse and reëntered his father'soffice he would have found the man with his head bowed on the desk, hisarms outflung.

John Denby, too, was white and shaken. He, too, had been dreading thismeeting, and longing for it—that it might be over. There was now,however, on his part, no feeling of chagrin and impotence[Pg 58] because ofthings that had not been said. There was only a shuddering relief thatthings hadnot been said; that he had been able to carry it straightthrough as he had planned; that he had not shown his boy how muchhe—cared. He was glad that his pride had been equal to the strain; thathe had not weakly succumbed at the first glimpse of his son's face, thefirst touch of his son's hand, as he had so feared that he would do.

And he had not succumbed—though he had almost gone down before thequick terror and affectionate dismay that had leaped into his son'svoice and eyes at sight of his own changed appearance. (Whycould nothe keep those abominable portions of his anatomy from being sowretchedly telltale?) But he had remembered in time. Did the boy think,then, that a mere word of sympathy now could balance the scale againstso base a disregard of everything loyal and filial a month ago? Then hewould show that it could not.

What if he did know now, even better than he had known it all these lastmiserable four weeks, that his whole world had lain in his boy's hand,that his whole life had been bounded by his boy's smile, his whole soulimmersed in his boy's future? What if he did know that all the power andwealth and fame of name that he had won were as the dust in hisfingers—if he might not pass them on to his son? He was not going tolet Burke know this. Indeed, no![Pg 59]

Burke had made his own bed. He should lie in it. Deliberately he hadchosen to cast aside the love and companionship of a devoted father atthe beck of an almost unknown girl's hand. Should the father then offeragain the once-scorned love and companionship? Had he no pride—noproper sense of simple right and justice? No self-respect, even?

It was thus, and by arguments such as these, that John Denby had lashedhimself into the state of apparently cool, courteous indifference thathad finally carried him successfully through the interview just closed.

For a long time John Denby sat motionless, his arms outflung across theletters that might have meant so much, but that did mean so little, tohim—now. Then slowly he raised his head and fixed somber, longing eyeson the door that had so recently closed behind his son.

The boy was in there with Brett now—his boy. He was being told that hiswages for the present were to be fifteen dollars a week, and that he wasexpected to live within his income—that the wages were really veryliberal, considering his probable value to the company at the first. Hewould begin at the bottom, as had been planned years ago; but withthis difference: he would be promoted now only when he had earned it. Hewould have been pushed rapidly ahead to the top, had matters been asthey once were. Now he must demonstrate and prove his ability.[Pg 60]

All this Brett was telling Burke now. Poor Burke! Brett was so harsh, souncompromising. As if it weren't tough enough to have to live on apaltry fifteen dollars a week, without—

John Denby sighed and rose to his feet. Aimlessly he fidgeted about thespacious, well-appointed office. Twice he turned toward the door as ifto leave the room. Once he reached a hesitating hand toward thepush-button on this desk. Then determinedly he sat down and picked upone of his letters.

Brett was right. It was the best way; the only way. And it was well,indeed, that Brett had been delegated to do the telling. If it had beenhimself now—! Shucks! If it had been himself, the boy would only havehad tolook his reproach—and his wages would have been doubled on thespot! Fifteen dollars a week—Burke! Why, the boy could not— Well,then, he need not have been so foolish, so headstrong, so heartlesslydisregardful of his father's wishes. He had brought it upon himself,entirely, entirely!

Whereupon, with an angry exclamation, John Denby shifted about in hishand the letter which for three minutes he had been holding before hiseyes upside down.[Pg 61]

CHAPTER V

THE WIFE

Helen Denby had never doubted her ability to be a perfect wife. As agirl, her vision had pictured a beauteous creature moving through aglorified world of love and admiration, ease and affluence.

Later, at the time of her marriage to Burke Denby, her vision hadaltered sufficiently to present a picture of herself as the sweetgood-angel of the old Denby Mansion, the forgiving young wife who laysup no malice against an unappreciative father-in-law. Even when, stilllater (upon their return from their wedding trip and upon her learningof John Denby's decree of banishment), the vision was necessarily warpedand twisted all out of semblance to its original outlines, there yetremained unchanged the basic idea of perfect wifehood.

Helen saw herself now as the martyr wife whose superb courage andself-sacrifice were to be the stepping-stones of a husband's magnificentsuccess. She would be guide, counselor, and friend. (Somewhere she hadseen those words. She liked them very much.) Unswervingly she would holdBurke to his high purpose. Untiringly she would lead him ever toward hisgoal of "making good."

She saw herself the sweet, loving wife, graciously presiding over thewell-kept home, always ready,[Pg 62] daintily gowned, to welcome his comingwith a kiss, and to speed his going with a blessing. Then, when in duecourse he had won out, great would be her reward. With what sweet prideand gentle dignity would she accept the laurel wreath of praise (Helenhad seen this expression somewhere, too, and liked it), which aremorseful but grateful world would hasten to lay at the feet of her whoalone had made possible the splendid victory—the once despised, floutedwife—the wife who was to drag him down!

It was a pleasant picture, and Helen frequently dwelt uponit—especially the sweet-and-gentle-dignity-wife part. She found itparticularly soothing during those first early days of housekeeping inthe new apartment.

Not that she was beginning in the least to doubt her ability to be thatperfect wife. It was only that to think of things as they would be was apleasant distraction from thinking of things as they were. But of courseit would be all right very soon, anyway,—just as soon as everything gotnicely to running.

Helen did wonder sometimes why the getting of "everything nicely torunning" was so difficult. That a certain amount of training andexperience was necessary to bring about the best results never occurredto her. If Helen had been asked to take a position as stenographer orchurch soloist, she would have replied at once that she did not know howto do the work. Into the position of home-maker, however,[Pg 63] she steppedwith cheerful confidence, her eyes only on the wonderful success she wasgoing to make.

To Helen housekeeping was something like a clock that you wound up inthe morning to run all day. And even when at the end of a week she couldnot help seeing that not once yet had she got around to being the"sweet, daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband to a well-kept home,"before that husband appeared at the door, she still did not doubt herown capabilities. It was only that "things hadn't got to running yet."And it was always somebody else's fault, anyway,—frequently herhusband's. For if he did not come to dinner too early, before a thingwas done, he was sure to be late, and thus spoil everything by hertrying to keep things hot for him. And, of course, under suchcircumstances, nobody couldexpect one to be a sweet and daintilygowned wife!

"Do you know, Burke," she finally wailed one night, between sobs, "Idon't believe it's good for a thing—that old cookbook! I haven't got athing out of it yet that's been real good. I've half a mind to take itback where I got it, and make them change it, or else give me back mymoney. I have, so there!"

"But, dearie," began her husband doubtfully, "you said yourselfyesterday that you forgot the salt in the omelet, and the baking powderin the cake, and—"

"Well, what if I did?" she contended aggrievedly.[Pg 64] "What's a little saltor baking powder? 'Twasn't but a pinch or a spoonful, anyhow, and Iremembered all the other things. Besides, if those rules were any goodthey'd be worded so Icouldn't forget part of the things. And, anyhow,I don't think it's very nice of you to b-blame me all the time when I'mdoing the very best I can. Itold you I couldn't cook, but yousaidyou'd like anything I made, because I did it, and—"

"Yes, yes, darling, and so I do," interrupted the remorseful husband,hurriedly. And, to prove it, he ate the last scrap of the unappetizingconcoction on his plate, which his wife said was a fish croquette.Afterwards still further to show his remorse, he helped her wash thedishes and set the rooms in order. Then together they went for a walk inthe moonlight.

It was a beautiful walk, and it quite restored Helen to good nature.They went up on West Hill (where Helen particularly loved to go), andthey laid wonderful plans of how one day they, too, would build a bigstone palace of a home up there—though Burke did say that, for hispart, he liked Elm Hill quite as well; but Helen laughed him out of that"old-fashioned idea." At least he said no more about it.

They talked much of how proud Burke's father was going to be when Burkehad made good, and of how ashamed and sorry he would be that he had somisjudged his son's wife. And Helen uttered some very sweet andbeautiful sentiments concerning her[Pg 65] intention of laying up no malice,her firm determination to be loving and forgiving.

Then together they walked home in the moonlight; and so thrilled andexalted were they that even the cheap little Dale Street living-roomlooked wonderfully dear. And Helen said that, after all, love was theonly thing that mattered—that they just loved each other. And Burkesaid, "Yes, yes, indeed."

The vision of the sweet, daintily gowned wife and the perfect home wasvery clear to Helen as she dropped off to sleep that night; and she wassure that she could begin to realize it at once. But unfortunately sheoverslept the next morning—which was really Burke's fault, as she said,for he forgot to wind the alarm clock, and she was not used to gettingup at such an unearthly hour, anyway, and she did not see whyhe hadto do it, for that matter—he was really the son of the owner, even ifhe wascalled an apprentice.

This did not help matters any, for Burke never liked any reference tohis position at the Works. To be sure, he did not say much, this time,except to observe stiffly that hewould like his breakfast, if shewould be so good as to get it—as if she were not already hurrying asfast as she could, and herself only half-dressed at that!

Of course the breakfast was a failure. Helen said that perhaps somepeople could get a meal of victuals on to the table, with a hungry maneyeing their every[Pg 66] move, but she could not. Burke declared then that hereally did not want any breakfast anyway, and he started to go; but asHelen only cried the more at this, he had to come back and comforther—thereby, in the end, being both breakfastless and late to his work.

Helen, after he had gone, spent a blissfully wretched ten minutesweeping over the sad fate that should doom such a child of light andlaughter as herself to the somber rôle of martyr wife, and wondered if,after all, it would not be really more impressive and moresoul-torturing-with-remorse for the cruel father-in-law, if she shouldtake poison, or gas, or something (not disfiguring), and lay herselfcalmly down to die, her beautiful hands crossed meekly upon her bosom.

Attractive as was this picture in some respects, it yet had itsdrawbacks. Then, too, there was the laurel wreath of praise due herlater. She had almost forgotten that. On the whole, that would bepreferable to the poison, Helen decided, as she began, with reallycheerful alacrity, to attack the messy breakfast dishes.

It was not alone the cooking that troubled the young wife during thatfirst month of housekeeping. Everywhere she found pitfalls for herunwary feet, from managing the kitchen range to keeping the living-roomdusted.

Helen's idea of money, in her happy, care-free girlhood,[Pg 67] had been thatit was one of the common necessities of life; and she accepted it as shedid the sunshine—something she was entitled to; something everybodyhad. She learned the fallacy of this, of course, when she attempted toearn her own living; but in marrying the son of the rich John Denby, shehad expected to step back into the sunshine, as it were. It was not easynow to adjust herself to the change.

She did not like the idea of asking for every penny she spent, and itseemed as if she was always having to ask Burke for money; and, thoughhe invariably handed it over with a nervously quick, "Why, yes,certainly! I don't mean you to have to ask for it, Helen"; yet shethought she detected a growing irritation in his manner each time. Andon the last occasion he had added a dismayed "But I hadn't any idea youcould have got out so soon as this again!" And it made her feel veryuncomfortable indeed.

As ifshe were to blame that it took so much butter and coffee andsugar and stuff just to get three meals a day! And as if it were herfault that that horrid cookbook was always calling for something she didnot have, like mace, or summer savory, or thyme, and she had to run outand buy a pound of it! Didn't he suppose it tooksome money to stockup with things, when one hadn't a thing to begin with?

Helen had been on the point of saying something of this sort to herhusband, simply as a matter of[Pg 68] self-justification, when thereunexpectedly came a most delightful solution of her difficulty.

"Why don't you open an account with us, Mrs. Denby?" he asked smilinglyone day, in reply to her usual excuse that she could not buy somethingbecause she did not have the money to pay for it.

"An account? What's that? That wouldn't make me have any more money,would it? Father was always talking about accounts—good ones and badones. He kept a store, you know. But I never knew what they were,exactly. I never thought of asking. I never had to pay any attention tomoney at home. What is an account? How can I get one?"

"Why, you give your orders as usual, but let the payment go until theend of the month," smiled the grocer. "We'll charge it—note it down,you know—then send the bill to your husband."

"Oh, that would be just grand," she sighed longingly. "I'd like that.And it's something the way we're buying our furniture, isn'tit?—installments, you know."

"And he pays it? Oh, I see. That's just grand! And he'd like it allright, wouldn't he?—because of course he'd have to pay some time,anyhow. And[Pg 69] this way he wouldn't have to have me bothering him so muchall the time asking for money. Oh, thank you. You're very kind. I thinkI will do that way if you don't mind."

"We shall be glad to have you, Mrs. Denby. So we'll call that settled.And now you can begin right away this morning."

"And can I get those canned peaches and pears and plums, and the grapejelly that I first looked at?"

"Certainly—if you decide you want 'em," mumbled the grocer, throwingthe last six words as a sop to his conscience which was beginning tostir unpleasantly.

"Oh, yes, I want 'em," averred Helen, her eager eyes sweeping thealluringly laden shelves before her. "I wanted them all the time, youknow, only I didn't have enough money to pay for them. Now it'll be allright because Burke'll pay—I mean, Mr. Denby," she corrected with aconscious blush, suddenly remembering what her husband had said thenight before about her calling him "Burke" so much to strangers.

Helen found she wanted not only the fruits and jelly, but several othercans of soups, meats, and vegetables. And it was such a comfort, foronce, to select what she wanted, and not have to count up the money inher purse! She was radiantly happy when she went home from market thatmorning (instead of being tired and worried as was usually the case);and the glow on her face lasted all through the[Pg 70] day and into theevening—so much so that even Burke must have noticed it, for he toldher he did not know when he had seen her looking so pretty. And he gaveher an extra kiss or two when he greeted her.

The second month of housekeeping proved to be a great improvement overthe first. It was early in that month that Helen learned the joy andcomfort of having "an account" at her grocer's. And she soon discoveredthat not yet had she probed this delight to its depths, for not only thegrocer, but the fishman and the butcher were equally kind, and allowedher to open accounts with them. Coincident with this came the discoverythat there were such institutions as bakeries and delicatessen shops,which seemed to have been designed especially to meet the needs of justsuch harassed little martyr housewives as she herself was; for in themone might buy bread and cakes and pies and even salads and cold meats,and fish balls. One might, indeed, with these delectable organizationsat hand, snap one's fingers at all the cookbooks in the world—cookbooksthat so miserably failed to cook!

The baker and the little Dutch delicatessen man, too (when they foundout who she was), expressed themselves as delighted to open an account;and with the disagreeable necessity eliminated of paying on the spot forwhat one ordered, and with so great an assortment of ready-to-eat foodsto select from, Helen found her meal-getting that second month a muchsimpler matter.[Pg 71]

Then, too, Helen was much happier now that she did not have to ask herhusband for money. She accepted what he gave her, and thanked him; butshe said nothing about her new method of finance.

"I'm going to keep it secret till the stores send him the bills," saidHelen to herself. "Then I'll show him what a lot I've saved from what hehas given me, and he'll be so glad to pay things all at once withoutbeing bothered with my everlasting teasing!"

She only smiled, therefore, enigmatically, when he said one day, as hepassed over the money:—

"Jove, girl! I quite forgot. You must be getting low. But I'm glad youdidn't have to ask me for it, anyhow!"

Ask him for it, indeed! How pleased he would be when he found out thatshe was never going to ask him for money again!

Helen was meaning to be very economical these days. When she went tomarket she always saw several things she would have liked, that she didnot get, for of course she wanted to make the bills as small as shecould. Naturally Burke would wish her to do that. She tried to save,too, a good deal of the money Burke gave her; but that was not alwayspossible, for there were her own personal expenses. True, she did notneed many clothes—but she was able to pick up a few bargains in bowsand collars (one always needed fresh neckwear, of course); and she foundsome lovely silk stockings, too, that were very cheap, so she boughtseveral pairs—to save money. And[Pg 72] of course there were always car-faresand a soda now and then, or a little candy.

There were the "movies" too. She had fallen into the way of going ratherfrequently to the Empire with her neighbor on the same floor. It did hergood, and got her out of herself. (She had read only recently how everywife should have some recreation; it was a duty she owed herself and herhusband—to keep herself youthful and attractive.) She got lonesome andnervous, sitting at home all day; and now that she had systematized herhousekeeping so beautifully by buying almost everything all cooked, shehad plenty of leisure. Of course she would have preferred to go to theOlympia Theater. They had a stock company there, and real plays. Buttheir cheapest seats were twenty-five cents, while she might go to theEmpire for ten. So very bravely she put aside her expensive longings,and chose the better part—economy and the movies. Besides, Mrs. Jones,the neighbor on the same floor, said that, for her part, she liked themovies the best,—you got "such a powerful lot more for your dough."

Mrs. Jones always had something bright and original like that tosay—Helen liked her very much! Indeed, she told Burke one day that Mrs.Jones was almost as good as a movie show herself. Burke, however, didnot seem to care for Mrs. Jones. For that matter, he did not care forthe movies, either.

No matter where Helen went in the afternoon, she was always very carefulto be at home before Burke.[Pg 73] She hoped she knew what pertained to beinga perfect wife better than to be careless about matters like that! Mrs.Jones was not always so particular in regard to her husband—which onlyserved to give Helen a pleasant, warm little feeling of superiority atthe difference.

Perhaps Mrs. Jones detected the superiority, for sometimes she laughed,and said:—

"All right, we'll go if you must; but you'll soon get over it. Thislovey-dovey-I'm-right-here-hubby business is all very well for a while,but—you wait!"

"All right, I'm waiting. But—you see!" Helen always laughed back,bridling prettily.

Hurrying home from shopping or the theater, therefore, Helen alwaysstopped and got her potato salad and cold meat, or whatever else sheneeded. And the meal was invariably on the table before Burke's keysounded in the lock.

Helen was, indeed, feeling quite as if she were beginning to realize hervision now. Was she not each night the loving, daintily gowned wifewelcoming her husband to a well-ordered, attractive home? There was evenquite frequently a bouquet of flowers on the dinner table. Somewhere shehad read that flowers always added much to a meal; and since then shehad bought them when she felt that she could afford them. And in themarket there were almost always some cheap ones, only a little faded. Ofcourse, she never bought the fresh, expensive ones.

After dinner there was the long evening together.[Pg 74] Sometimes they wentto walk, after the dishes were done—Burke had learned to dry dishesbeautifully. More often they stayed at home and played games, orread—Burke was always wanting to read. Sometimes they just talked,laying wonderful plans about the fine new house they were going tobuild. Now that Helen did not have to ask Burke for money, there did notseem to be so many occasions when he was fretful and nervous; and theywere much happier together.

All things considered, therefore, Helen felt, indeed, before this secondmonth of housekeeping was over, that she had now "got things nicely torunning."[Pg 75]

CHAPTER VI

THE HUSBAND

Burke Denby had never given any thought as to whether he were going tobe a perfect husband or not. He had wanted to marry Helen, and he hadmarried her. That was all there was to it, except, of course, that theyhad got to show his father that they could make good.

So far as being a husband—good, bad, or indifferent—was concerned,Burke was not giving any more thought to it now than he had given beforehis marriage. He was quite too busy giving thought to othermatters—many other matters.

There was first his work. He hated it. He hated the noise, the smell,the grime, the overalls, the men he worked with, the smugsuperciliousness of his especial "boss." He felt abused and indignantthat he had to endure it all. As if it were necessary to put him throughsuch a course of sprouts as this! As if, when the time came, he couldnot run the business successfully without all these years of dirt andtorture! Was an engineer, then, made tobuild an engine before hecould be taught to handle the throttle? Was a child made to set the typeof a primer before he could be taught his letters? Of course not! Butthey were making him not only set the type, but go down into the minesand dig the stuff the type was made of[Pg 76] before they would teach him hisletters. Yet they pretended it all must be done if he would ever learnto read—that is, to run the Denby Iron Works. Bah! He had a mind tochuck it all. He would if it weren't for dad. Dad hated quitters. Anddad was looking wretched enough, as it was.

Undeniably Burke was very unhappy over his father. He did not like tothink of him, yet his face was always before him, pale and drawn, as hehad seen it at that first interview after his return. As the dayspassed, Burke, in spite of his wish not to see his father, found himselfcontinually seizing every opportunity that might enable him to see him.Daily he found himself haunting doorways and corridors, quite out of hisway, when there was a chance that his father might pass.

He told himself that it was just that he wanted to convince himself thathis father did not look quite so bad, after all. But he knew in hisheart that it was because he hoped his father would speak to him in theold way, and that it might lead to the tearing down of this horriblehigh wall of indifference and formality that had risen between them.Burke hated that wall.

The wall was there, however, always. Nothing ever came of theseconnivings and loiterings except (if it were during working hours) aterse hint from the foreman, perhaps, to get back on his job. How Burkehated that foreman!

And that was another thing—his position among[Pg 77] his fellow workmen. Hewas with them, but not of them. His being among them at all was plainlya huge joke—and when one is acting a tragedy in all seriousness, onedoes not like to hear chuckles as at a comedy. But, for that matter,Burke found the comedy element always present, wherever he went. Theentire town took himself, his work, and his marriage as a huge joke—asubject for gay badinage, jocose slaps on the back, and gleeful criesof:—

It seemed to Burke, indeed, sometimes, that he hated everything butHelen. Helen, of course, was a dear—the sweetest little wife in theworld. As if any one could help loving Helen! And however disagreeablethe day, there was always Helen to go home to at night.

Oh, of course, he had to take that abominable flat along withHelen—naturally, as long as he could not afford to put her in a moreexpensive place. But that would soon be remedied—just as soon as he gota little ahead.

This "going home to Helen" had been one of Burke's happiestanticipations ever since his marriage. It would be so entrancing to findHelen and Helen's kiss waiting for him each night! Often had suchthoughts been in his mind during his honeymoon trip; but never had theybeen so poignantly promising of joy as they were on that first day atthe Works,[Pg 78] after his disheartening interview with his father. All therest of that miserable day it seemed to Burke that the only thing he wasliving for was the going home to Helen that night.

"Home," to Burke, had always meant a place of peace and rest, ofluxurious ease and noiseless servants, of orderly rooms and well-servedmeals, of mellow lights and softly blended colors. Unconsciously nowhome still meant the same, with the addition of Helen—Helen, the centerof it all. It was this dear vision, therefore, that he treasured allthrough his honeymoon trip, that he hugged to himself all that wretchedfirst day of work, and that was still his star of hope as he hurriedthat night toward the Dale Street flat. If he had stopped to think, hewould have realized at once that this new home of a day was not the oldhome of years. But he did not stop to think of anything except that forthe first time in his life he was going home from work to Helen, hiswife.

Burke Denby never forgot the shock of that first home-going. He openedthe door of his apartment—and confronted chaos: a surly janitorstruggling with a curtain pole, a confusion of trunks, chairs, astepladder, and a floor-pail, a disorder of dishes on a coverless table,a smell of burned milk, and a cross, tired, untidy wife who flungherself into his arms with a storm of sobs.

"Home," after that, meant quite something new to Burke Denby. It meantHelen, of course, but[Pg 79]—

Still it would be only for a little while, after all, he consoledhimself each day. Just as soon as he got ahead a little, it would bedifferent. He could sell the stuff, then; and the very first thing to gowould be that hideous purple pillow on the red plush sofa—for thatmatter, the sofa would follow after mighty quick. And the chairs, too.They were a little worse to sit on than to look at—which wasunnecessary. As for the rugs—when it came to those, it would be histurn to select next time. At all events, he would not be obliged to haveone that, the minute you opened the door, bounced into your face andscreamed "Hullo! I'm here. See me!" How he hated that rug! And thepictures and those cheap gilt vases—everything, of course, would bedifferent in the new home.

Nor did Burke stop to think that this constant shifting, in one's mind,of things that are, to things that may some time be, scarcely makes forcontent.

Still, Burke could not have forgotten his house-furnishings, even if hehad tried to do so, for he had to make payments on them "every fewminutes," as he termed it. Indeed, one of the unsolved riddles of hislife these days was as to why there were so many more Mondays (the dayhe paid his installments) than there were Saturdays (the day the Workspaid him) in a week. For that matter, after all was said and done,perhaps to nothing was Burke Denby giving more thought these days thanto money.[Pg 80]

Burke's experience with money heretofore had been to draw a check forwhat he wanted. True, he sometimes overdrew his account a trifle; butthere was always his allowance coming the first of the month; andneither he nor the bank worried.

Now it was quite different. There was no allowance, and no bank—savehis pocket, and there was only fifteen dollars a week coming into that.He would not have believed that fifteen dollars a week could go soquickly, and buy so little. Very early in the first month ofhousekeeping all that remained of his allowance was gone. What did notgo at once to make payments on the furniture was paid over to Helen tosatisfy some of her many requests for money.

And that was another of Burke's riddles—why Helen needed so much moneyjust to get them something to eat. True, of late, she had not asked forit so frequently. She had not, indeed, asked for any for some time—forwhich he was devoutly thankful. He would not have liked to refuse her;and he certainly was giving her all that he could afford to give,without her asking. A fellow must smoke some—though Heaven knew he hadcut his cigars down, both in quantity and quality, until he had cut outnearly all the pleasure!

Still he was glad to do it for Helen. Helen was a little brick. Howpretty she looked when she was holding forth on his "making good," andher not "dragging" him "down"! Bless her heart! As if she[Pg 81] could beguilty of such a thing as that! Why, she was going to drag him up—Helenwas!

And she was doing pretty well, too, running the little home, for a girlwho did not know a thing about it, to begin with. She was doing a wholelot better than at first. Breakfast had not been late for two weeks, nordinner, either. And she was almost always at the door to kiss him now,too, while at the first he had to hunt her up, only to find her cryingin the kitchen, probably—something wrong somewhere.

Oh, to be sure, hewas getting a little tired of potato salad, and healways had abhorred those potato-chippy things; and he himself did notcare much for cold meat. But, of course, after she got a little moreused to things she wouldn't serve that sort of trash quite so often. Hewould be getting real things to eat, pretty soon—good, juicy beefsteaksand roasts, and nice fresh vegetables and fruit shortcakes, with muffinsand griddle-cakes for breakfast. But Helen was a little brick—Helenwas. And she was doing splendidly![Pg 82]

CHAPTER VII

STUMBLING-BLOCKS

Mrs. Burke Denby was a little surprised at the number of lettersdirected to her husband in the morning mail that first day of November,until she noticed the familiar names in the upper left-hand corners ofseveral of the envelopes.

"Oh, it's the bills," she murmured, drawing in her breath a littleuncertainly. "To-day's the first, and they said they'd send them then.But I didn't think there'd be such a lot of them. Still, I've had thingsat all those places. Well, anyway, he'll be glad to pay them all atonce, without my teasing for money all the time," she finished withresolute insistence, as she turned back to her work.

If, now that the time had come, and the bills lay before her in alltheir fearsome reality, Helen was beginning to doubt the wisdom of herfinancial system, she would not admit it, even to herself. And she stillwore a determinedly cheerful face when her husband came home to dinnerthat night. She went into the kitchen as he began to open his mail—shewas reminded of a sudden something that needed her attention. Twominutes later she nearly dropped the dish of potato salad she wascarrying, at the sound of his voice from the doorway.

"Helen, what in Heaven's name is the meaning of[Pg 83] these bills?" He was inthe kitchen now, holding out a sheaf of tightly clutched papers in eachhand.

"Bills! Great Cæsar, Helen! You don't mean to say that youdo knowabout them—that you bought all this stuff?"

"Y-yes—that I didn't have to ask you for money all the time. And you'dhave to p-pay 'em some time, anyhow. We had to eat, you know."

"But, great Scott, Helen! We aren't a hotel! Look atthat—'salad'—'salad'—'salad,'" he exploded, pointing a shaking fingerat a series of items on the uppermost bill in his left hand. "There'stons of the stuff there, and I always did abominate it!"

"But I thought I was going to p-please you, and you called me a h-hotel,and said you a-abominated it!" she wailed, stumbling away blindly.

With a despairing ejaculation Burke flung the bills to the floor, andcaught the sob-shaken little figure of his wife in his arms.

"There, there, I was a brute, and I didn't mean it—not a word of it.Sweetheart, don't, please don't," he begged. "Why, girlie, all the billsin Christendom aren't worth a tear from your dear eyes. Come,won'tyou stop?"

But Helen did not stop, at once. The storm was short, but tempestuous.At the end of ten minutes, however, together they went into thedining-room. Helen carried the potato salad (which Burke declared he wasreally hungry for to-day), and Burke carried the bills crumpled in onehand behind his back, his other arm around his wife's waist.

That evening a remorseful, wistful-eyed wife and a husband with an"I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me" air went over the subject of householdfinances, and came to an understanding.

There were to be no more charge accounts. For the weekly expenses Helenwas to have every cent that could possibly be spared; but what she couldnot pay cash for, they must go without, if they starved. In a prettylittle book she must put down on one side the money received. On theother, the money spent. She was a dear, good little wife, and he lovedher 'most to death; but he couldn't let her run up bills[Pg 85] when he hadnot a red cent to pay them with. He would borrow, of course, forthese—he was not going to have any dirty little tradesmen pestering himwith bills all the time! But this must be the last. Never again!

And Helen said yes, yes, indeed. And she was very sure she would love tokeep the pretty little book, and put down all the money she got, and allshe spent.

At the end of the first week Helen brought her book to her husband, andspread it open before him with great gusto.

On the one side were several entries of small sums, amounting to eightdollars received. On the other side were the words: "Spent all butseventeen cents."

"Oh, but you should put down what you spent it for," corrected Burke,with a merry laugh.

"Oh, shucks! You can't keep a cash account that way! You have to put 'emboth down, and then—er—balance up and see if your cash comes right.See, like this," he cried, taking a little book from his pocket. "I'mkeeping one." And he pointed to a little list which read:[Pg 86]—

"Now that's what I spent yesterday. You want to put yours down likethat, then add 'em up and subtract it from what you receive. What's leftshould equal your cash on hand."

"Hm-m; well, all right," assented Helen dubiously, as she picked up herown little book.

Helen looked still more dubious when she presented her book forinspection the next week.

"Why, Burke, the mean old thing steals—actually steals! It says I oughtto have one dollar and forty-five cents; and I haven't got but fourteencents! It's got it itself—somewhere!"

"Ho, that's easy, dear!" The man gave an indulgent laugh. "You didn'tput 'em all down—what you spent."

"But I did—everything I could remember. Besides, I borrowed fifty centsof Mrs. Jones. I didn't put that down anywhere. I didn't know where toput it."

"She isn't 'that woman'! She's my friend, and I like her," flared Helen,hotly. "I had to have some eggs, and I didn't have a cent of money. Ishall pay her back, of course,—next time you pay me."

"Oh, come, come, Helen, this will never do," he remonstrated. "Of courseyou'll pay her back; but I can't have my wife borrowing of theneighbors!"

"Yes, yes, I know. But I mean, we won't again," interrupted the mandesperately, fleeing to cover in the face of the threatening storm ofsobs. "And, anyhow, we'll see that you have some money now," he criedgayly, plunging his hands into his pockets, and pulling out all thebills and change he had. "There, 'with all my worldly goods I theeendow,'" he laughed, lifting his hands above her bright head, andshowering the money all over her.

Like children then they scrambled for the rolling nickels and elusivedimes; and in the ensuing frolic the tiresome account-book wasforgotten—which was exactly what Burke had hoped would happen.

This was the second week. At the end of the third, the "mean old thing"was in a worse muddle than ever, according to Helen; and, for her part,she would rather never buy anything at all if she had got to go and tellthat nuisance of a book every time!

"Oh, I don't keep that any longer," she announced, with airynonchalance, in answer to Burke's question. "It never came right, and Ihated it, anyhow. So what's the use? I've got what I've got, and I'vespent what I've spent. So what's the difference?" And Burke, after afeeble remonstrance, gave it up as a bad job. Incidentally it might bementioned that Burke was having a little difficulty with his own cashaccount, and was tempted to accuse his own book of stealing—else wheredid the money go?

Helen's tone was a little fretful—there was a new, intangible somethingin her husband's voice that Helen did not understand, and that she didnot think she liked.

"Gleason! Who's Doc Gleason!" exclaimed Burke, with widening eyes. "Oh,I forgot. You don't know him, do you?" he added, with a slight frown.Burke Denby was always forgetting that Helen knew nothing of his friendsor of himself until less than a year before. "Well, Doc Gleason is thebest ever. He went to Egypt with us last year, and to Alaska the yearbefore."

"Old? Why, I don't know—thirty—maybe more. He must be a little more,come to think of it.[Pg 89] But you never think of age with the doctor. He'llbe young when he's ninety."

"Next to dad—always have. You'll like him, too. You can't help it. He'smighty interesting."

"Yes, and no. Oh, he graduated and hung out his shingle; but he neverpracticed much. He had money enough, anyway, and he got interested inscientific research—antiquarian, mostly, though he's done a bit ofmountain-climbing and glacier-studying for the National GeographicSociety."

"Antiquarian? Oh, yes, I know—old things. Mother was that way, too. Shehad an old pewter plate, and a dark blue china teapot, homely as a hedgefence, I thought, but she doted on 'em. And she doted on ancestors, too.She had one in that old ship—Mayflower, wasn't it?"

"Mayflower! My dear child, the Mayflower is a mere infant-in-arms in thedoctor's estimation. The doctor goes back to prehistoric times for hisplayground, and to the men of the old Stone Age for his preferredplaymates."

"Goodness! How can he? I thought the Mayflower was bad enough. But whatdoes he do—collect things?"[Pg 90]

"Oh, I know—those funny little brown and yellow cakes like soap, allcut into with pointed little marks—what do you call it?—like yourfather has in his library!"

"The cuneiform writing? Yes. As I said, the doctor has a fine collectionof tablets, and of some other things; but principally he studies andgoes on trips. It was a trip to the Spanish grottoes that got himinterested in the archæological business in the first place, and put himout of conceit with doctoring. He goes a lot now, sometimesindependently, sometimes in the interest of some society. He does in ascientific way what dad and I have done for fun—traveling andcollecting, I mean. Then, too, he has written a book or two which arereally authoritative in their line. He's a great chap—the doctor is.Wait till you see him. I've told him about you, too."

"Why, sure he does!" Burke's manner was a bit impatient. "What do yousuppose, when he's coming here to-night? Now, mind, put on yourprettiest frock and your sweetest smile. I want him to seewhy Imarried you," he challenged banteringly. "I want him to see what atreasure I've got. And say, dearie,do you suppose—could we havehim to dinner, or something? Could you manage it? I wanted[Pg 91] to ask himto-night; but of course I couldn't—without your knowing beforehand."

"Mercy, no, Burke!" shuddered the young housekeeper. "Don't youdare—when I don't know it."

"Why, y-yes, I guess so. Of course I could get things I was sure of,like potato salad and—"

"But, Helen, I'm afraid—I don't think—that is, I'm 'most sure Gleasondoesn't like potato salad," he stammered.

"Doesn't he? Well, he needn't eat it, then. We'll have all the more leftfor the next day."

"Oh, I'll have chips, too; don't worry, dear. I'll give him something toeat," she promised gayly. "Do you suppose I'm going to have one of yourswell friends come here, and then have you ashamed of me? You just waitand see!"

"Er, no—no, indeed, of course not," plunged in her husband feverishly,trying to ward off a repetition of the "swell"—a word he particularlyabhorred.

Several times in the last two months he had heard Helen use thisword—twice when she had informed him with great glee that some swellfriends of his from Elm Hill had come in their carriage to call; andagain quite often when together on the street they met some one whom heknew. He thought he hated the word a little more bitterly every time heheard it.[Pg 92]

For several weeks now the Denbys had been receiving calls—Burke Denbywas a Denby of Denby Mansion even though he was temporarily marooned onDale Street at a salary of sixty dollars a month. Besides, to many, DaleStreet and the sixty dollars, with the contributory elements ofelopement and irate parent, only added piquancy and interest to whatwould otherwise have been nothing but the conventional duty call.

To Helen, in the main, these calls were a welcome diversion—"justgrand," indeed. To Burke, on whom the curiosity element was not lost,they were an impertinence and a nuisance. Yet he endured them, and evenwelcomed them, in a way; for he wanted Helen to know his friends, and tolike them—better than she liked Mrs. Jones. He did not care for Mrs.Jones. She talked too loud, and used too much slang. He did not like tohave Helen with her. Always, therefore, after callers had been there,his first eager question was: "How did you like them, dear?" He wantedso much that Helen should like them!

To-night, however, in thinking of the prospective visit from Gleason, hewas wondering how the doctor would like Helen—not how Helen would likethe doctor. The change was significant but unconscious—perhaps all themore significant because it was unconscious.

Until he had reached home that night, Burke had been so overjoyed at theprospect of an old-time chat with his friend that he had given littlethought to[Pg 93] Gleason's probable opinion of the Dale Street flat and itsfurnishings. Now, with his eyes on the obtrusive unharmony all abouthim, and his memory going back to the doctor's well-known fastidiousnessof taste, he could think of little else. He did hope Gleason would notthinkhe had selected those horrors! Of course he had alreadyexplained—a little—about his father's disapproval of the marriage, andthe resulting cutting-off of his allowance; but even that would notexcuse (to Gleason) the riot of glaring reds and pinks and purples inhis living-rooms; and one could not very well explain that one's wifeliked the horrors— He pulled himself up sharply. Of course Helenherself was a dear. He hoped Gleason would see how dear she was. Hewanted Gleason to like Helen.

As the hour drew near for the expected guest's arrival, Burke Denby,greatly to his vexation, found himself growing more and more nervous. Heasked himself indignantly if he were going to let a purple cushionentirely spoil the pleasure of the evening. Not until he had seenGleason that afternoon had he realized how sorely he had missed hisfather's companionship all these past weeks. Not until he had foundhimself bubbling over with the things he wanted to talk about thatevening had he realized how keenly he had missed the mental stimulus ofthat father's comradeship. And now, for the sake of a purple cushion,was he to lose the only chance he had had for weeks of conversing withan intelligent[Pg 94]—

With an almost audible gasp the shocked and shamed husband pulledhimself up again.

Well, of course Helen was intelligent. It was only that she was notinterested in, and did not know about, these things he was thinking of;and—

The doorbell rang sharply, and Burke leaped to his feet and hastened topress the button that would release the catch of the lock at theentrance below.

"Why, Burke, you never called down through the tube at all, and askedwho it was," remonstrated Helen, hurrying in, her fingers busy with thefinal fastenings of her dress.

"You bet your life I didn't," laughed Burke, a bit grimly. "You've gotanother guess coming if you think I'm going to hold Doc Gleason off atthe end of a 'Who is it?' bellowed into his ear from that impertinentcopper trumpet down there."

"Why, Burke, that's all right. Everybody does it," maintained Helen. "Wehave to, else we'd be letting all sorts of folks in, and—"

At a warning gesture from her husband she stopped just as a tall,smooth-shaven man with kind eyes and a grave smile appeared at the openhallway door.

"Glad to see you, doctor," cried Burke, extending a cordial hand, thatyet trembled a little. "Let me present you to my wife."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," bobbed Helen. And because she wasnervous she said the next thing that came into her head. "And I hopeyou're pleased[Pg 95] to meet me, too. All Burke's friends are so swell, youknow, that—"

But the visitor advanced quietly, still with that same grave smile, andclasped Mrs. Denby's extended hand.

"I am very sure Burke's friends are, indeed, very glad to meet you," hesaid. "Certainly I am," he finished, with a cordial heartiness so nicelybalanced that even Burke Denby's sensitive alertness could find in itneither the overzealousness of insincerity nor the indifference ofdisdain.

Even when, a minute later, they turned and went into the living room,Burke's still apprehensive watchfulness could detect in his friend'sface not one trace of the dismayed horror he had been dreading to seethere.

"Gleason's a brick," he sighed to himself, trying to relax his tensemuscles. "As if I didn't know that every last gimcrack in this miserableroom would fairly scream at him the moment he entered that door!"

In spite of everybody's very evident efforts to have everything pass offpleasantly, the evening was anything but a success. Helen, at first shyand ill at ease, said little. Then, as if suddenly realizing herdeficiencies as a hostess, she tried to remedy it by talking very loudand very fast about anything that came into her mind, revelingespecially in minute details concerning their own daily lives, rangingall[Pg 96] the way from stories of the elopement and the house-furnishing onthe installment plan to hilarious accounts of her experiences with thecookbook and the account-book.

Very plainly Helen was doing her best to "show off." From one to theother she looked, with little nods and coquettish smiles.

To Gleason her manner said: "You see now why Burke fell in love with me,don't you?" To Burke it said: "There, now I guess you ain't ashamed ofme!"

The doctor, still with the grave smile and kindly eyes, listenedpolitely, uttering now and then a pleasant word or two, in a way thateven the distraught husband could not criticize. As for the husbandhimself, between his anger at Helen and his anger at himself because ofhis anger at Helen, he was in a woeful condition of nervousness andill-humor. Vainly trying to wrest the ball of conversation from Helen'sbungling fingers, he yet felt obliged to laugh in apparent approval ather wild throws. Nor was he unaware of the sorry figure he thus made ofhimself. Having long since given up all hope of the anticipated chatwith his friend, his one aim now was to get the visit over, and thedoctor out of the house as soon as possible. Yet the very fact that hedid want the visit over and the doctor gone only angered him the more,and put into his mouth words that were a mockery of cordiality. Nowonder, then, that for Burke the evening was a series of fidgetings,throat-clearings,[Pg 97] and nervous laughs that (if he had but known it) werefully as distressing to the doctor as they were to himself.

"Well, good people, I must go," he announced cheerily. (For the lasthalf-hour the doctor had been wondering just how soon he might make thatstatement.) "It's half-past nine."

"But you're coming again," gurgled Helen. "You're coming to dinner.Burke said you was."

Burke's mouth flew open—but just in time he snapped it shut. He hadremembered that hospitable husbands do not usually retract their wives'invitations with a terrified "For Heaven's sake, no!"—at least, not inthe face of the prospective guest. Before he could put the new, properwords into his mouth, the doctor spoke.

"Thank you. You're very kind; but I'm afraid not—this time, Mrs. Denby.My stay is to be very short. But I'm glad to have had this littlevisit," he finished, holding out his hand.

And again Burke, neither then, nor when he looked straight into thedoctor's eyes a moment later, could find aught in word or manner uponwhich to pin his watchful suspicions.[Pg 98]

"Now I likehim," she observed emphatically, but not very distinctly(owing to the yawn). "If all your swell friends were—"

"Helen, for Heaven's sake,isn't there any word but that abominable'swell' that you can use?" interrupted her husband, seizing the firstpretext that offered itself as a scapegoat for his irritation.

"All right; 'stuck up,' then, if you like that better. But, for my part,I like 'swell' best. It's so expressive, so much more swell—there, yousee," she laughed, with another shrug; "it just says itself. But,really, I do like the doctor. I think he's just grand. Where does helive?"

"Why, Burke, what's the matter? What are you so short about? Don't youlike it that I like him? I thought you wanted me to like yourfriends."

"Yes, yes, I know; and I do, Helen, of course." Burke got to his feetand took a nervous turn about the tiny room.[Pg 99]

Helen watched him with widening eyes. The look of indolent satisfactionwas gone from her face. She was not yawning now.

"Why, Burke, whatis the matter?" she catechized. "Wasn't I nice tohim? Didn't I talk to him, and just lay myself out to entertain him?Didn't I ask him to dinner, and—"

"Dinner!" Burke fairly snarled the word out as he wheeled sharply. "Holysmoke, Helen! I wonder if you think I'd have that man come here todinner, or come here ever again to hear you— Oh, hang it all, what am Isaying?" he broke off, jerking himself about with a despairing gesture.

"There was, too. Don't you suppose I know? But I tried to do all right.I tried to make you p-proud of me," she choked. "I know I didn't talkmuch at first. I was scared and stupid, he was so fine and grand. And Ididn't know a thing about all that Egyptian stuff you was talking about.Then I thought how 'shamed you'd be of me, and I just made up my mind Iwould talk and show him it wasn't a—a little fool that you'd married;and I s'posed I was doing what you wanted me to. But[Pg 100] I see now Iwasn't. I wasn't fine enough for your grand friend. I ain't never fineenough for 'em. But I don't care. I hate 'em all—every one of 'em! I'drather have Mrs. Jones twice over.She isn't ashamed of me. I thoughtI was p-pleasing you; and now—now—" Her words were lost in a storm ofsobs.

There was but one thing to be done, of course; and Burke did it. He tookher in his arms and soothed and petted and praised her. What he said hedid not know—nor care, for that matter, so long as it served ever soslightly to dam the flood of Helen's tears. That, for the moment, wasthe only thing worth living for. The storm passed at last, as stormsmust; but it was still a teary little wife that received her husband'sgood-night kiss some time later. Burke did not go to sleep very readilythat night. In his mind he was going over his prospective meeting withhis friend Gleason the next day.

What would Gleason say? How would he act? What would he himself say?Whatcould he say? He could not very well apologize for—

Apologize? Indeed, no! As if there were anything, anyway, to apologizefor! He would meet Gleason exactly as usual. He would carry his headhigh. There should be about him no air of apology or appeal. By hisevery act and word he would show that he was not in need of sympathy,and that he should[Pg 101] resent comment. He might even ask Gleason to dinner.He believed hewould ask him to dinner. In no other way, certainly,could he so convincingly show how—er—proud he was of his wife.

It had been arranged that the two men should meet at noon for luncheon;and promptly on time Burke appeared at the hotel. His chin was indeedhigh, and for the first two minutes he was painfully guarded andself-conscious in his bearing. But under the unstudied naturalness ofthe doctor's manner, he speedily became his normal self; and in fiveminutes the two were conversing with their old ease and enthusiasm.

The doctor had with him an Egyptian scarab with a rarely interestinginscription, a new acquisition; also a tiny Babylonian tablet of greatvalue. In both of them Burke was much interested. In the wake then of afive-thousand-year-old stylus, it is not strange that he forgot presentproblems.

"I'm taking these up to-night for your father to see," smiled thedoctor, after a short silence. "He writes me he's got a new tablethimself; a very old one. He thinks he's made a discovery on it, too. Heswears he's picked out a veritable thumb-mark on one side."

"But he says this is a sure thing. It's visible with the naked eye; butunder the microscope it's wonderful.[Pg 102] And— But, never mind! We'll seefor ourselves to-night. You're coming up, of course."

"Sure! And I want to see—" The young man stopped abruptly. A painfulcolor had swept to his forehead. "Er—no. On second thoughts I—I can'tto-night," he corrected. In its resolute emphasis his voice soundedalmost harsh. "But you—you're coming to dinner with us—to-morrownight, aren't you?"

"Oh, no; no, thank you," began the doctor hastily. Then, suddenly, heencountered his friend's steadfast eye upon him. "Er—that is," heamended in his turn, "unless you—you are willing to let me come veryinformally, as I shall have to leave almost at once afterwards. I'mtaking the eight-thirty train that evening."

"Very good. We shall expect you," answered the younger man, with acurious relaxation of voice and manner—a relaxation that puzzled andslightly worried the doctor, who was wondering whether it were therelaxation of relief or despair. The doctor was not sure yet that he hadrightly interpreted that steadfast gaze. Two minutes later, Burke, onceagain self-conscious, constrained, and with his head high, took hisleave.

On his way back to work Burke berated himself soundly. Havingdeliberately bound himself to the martyrdom of a dinner to his friend,he was now insufferably angry that he should regard it as a martyrdom atall. Also he knew within himself that[Pg 103] there seemed, for the moment,nothing that he would not give to spend the coming evening in the quietrestfulness of his father's library with the doctor and an Egyptianscarab.

As if all the Egyptian scarabs and Babylonian tablets in the worldcould balance the scale with Helen on the other side![Pg 104]

CHAPTER VIII

DIVERGING WAYS

Of course the inevitable happened. However near two roads may be at thestart, if they diverge ever so slightly and keep straight ahead, thereis bound to be in time all the world between them.

In the case of Burke and Helen, their roads never started together atall: they merely crossed; and at the crossing came the wedding. Theywere miles apart at the start—miles apart in tastes, traditions, andenvironment. In one respect only were they alike: undisciplinedself-indulgence—a likeness that meant only added differences when itcame to the crossing; and that made it all the more nearly impossible tomerge those two diverging roads into one wide way leading straight on towedded happiness.

All his life Burke had consulted no one's will but his own. It was noteasy now to walk when he wanted to sit still, nor to talk when he wantedto read; especially as the one who wanted him to walk and to talkhappened to be a willful young person who allher life had been in thehabit of walking and talking whenshe wanted to.

Burke, accustomed from babyhood to leaving his belongings wherever hehappened to drop them, was first surprised and then angry that he didnot find[Pg 105] them magically restored to their proper places, as in the daysof his boyhood and youth. Burke abhorred disorder. Helen, accustomedfrom her babyhood to being picked-up after, easily drifted into the wayof letting all things, both hers and his, lie as they were. It saved agreat deal of work.

Even so simple a matter as the temperature of a sleeping-room had itsdifficulties. Burke liked air. He wanted the windows wide open. Helen,trained to think night air was damp and dangerous, wanted them shut. Andwhen two people are sleepy, cross, and tired, it is appalling what arange of woe can lie in the mere opening and shutting of a window.

Burke was surprised, annoyed, and dismayed. Being unaccustomed todisappointments he did not know how to take them gracefully. This beingmarried was not proving to be at all the sort of thing he had picturedto himself. He had supposed that life, married life, was to be a newwonder every day; an increasing delight every hour. It was neither.Living now was a matter of never-ending adjustment, self-sacrifice, andeconomy. And he hated them all. In spite of himself he was getting intodebt, and he hated debt. It made a fellow feel cheap and mean.

Even Helen was not what he had thought she was. He was ashamed to ownit, even to himself, but there was a good deal about Helen that he didnot like. She was not careful about her appearance. She was actuallyalmost untidy at times. He hated those loose, sloppy things shesometimes wore, and he[Pg 106] abominated those curl-paper things in her hair.She was willful and fretful, and she certainly did not know how to givea fellow a decent meal or a comfortable place to stay. For his part, hedid not think a girl had any right to marry until she knew somethingabout running a simple home.

Then there was her constant chatter. Was she not ever going to talkabout anything but the silly little everyday happenings of her work? Afellow wanted to hear something, when he came home tired at night,besides complaints that the range didn't work, or that the grocer forgothis order, or that the money was out.

Why, Helen used to be good company, cheerful, often witty. Where wereher old-time sparkle and radiance? Her talk now was a meaninglesschatter of trivial things, or an irritating, wailing complaint ofeverything under the sun, chiefly revolving around the point of "howdifferent everything was" from what she expected. Great Scott! As ifhe had not found some things different!That evidently was whatmarriage was—different. But talking about it all the time did not helpany.

Couldn't she read? But, then, if she did read, it would be only thenewspaper account of the latest murder; and then she would want to talkabout that. She never read anything worth while.

And it was for this, this being married to Helen, that he had given upso much: dad, his home, everything. She didn't appreciate it—Helendidn't.[Pg 107] She did not rightly estimate what he was being made to suffer.

That there was any especial meaning in all this that he himself shouldtake to heart—that there was any course open to him but righteousdiscontent and rebellion—never occurred to Burke. His training offrosted cakes and toy shotguns had taught him nothing of the traditional"two bears," "bear" and "forbear." The marriage ceremony had not meantto him "to be patient, tender, and sympathetic." It had meant the "Iwill" of self-assertion, not the "I will" of self-discipline. That Helenought to change many ofher traits and habits he was convinced. Thatthere might be some in himself that needed changing, or that the merefact of his having married Helen might have entailed upon himselfcertain obligations as to making the best of what he had deliberatelychosen, did not once occur to him.

As for Helen—Helen was facing her own disillusions. She was not tryingnow to be the daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband to a well-kepthome. She had long since decided that that was impossible—on sixtydollars a month. She was tired of being a martyr wife. Even the laurelwreath of praise had lost its allurement: she would not get it,probably, even if she earned it; and, anyway, she would be dead fromtrying to get it. And for her part she would rather have some fun whileshe was living.[Pg 108]

But she wasn't having any fun. Things were so different. Everything wasdifferent. She had not supposed being married was like this: one longgrind of housework from morning till night, and for a man who did notcare. And Burke did not care—now. Once, the first thing he wanted whenhe came into the house was a kiss and a word from her. Now he wanted hisdinner. And he was so fussy, too!She could get along with coldthings; but he wanted hot ones, and lots of them. And he always wantedfinger-bowls and lots of spoons, and everything fixed just so on thetable, too. He said it wasn't that he wanted "style." It was just thathe wanted things decent. As if she hadn't had things decent herself—andwithout all that fuss and clutter!

After dinner he never wanted to talk now, or to go to walk. He justwanted to read or study. He said he was studying; something about hiswork. As if once he would have cared more for any old work than for her!

And she was so lonely! There was nobody now for her to be with. Mrs.Jones had moved away, and there were never any callers now. She hadreturned every one of the calls she had had from Burke's fine friends.She had put on her new red dress and her best hat with the pink roses;and she had tried to be just as bright and entertaining as she knew howto be. But they never came again, so of course she could not go to seethem. Shehad gone, once or twice. But Burke said she must not dothat. It[Pg 109] was not proper to return your own calls. If they wanted to seeher they would come themselves. But they never came. Probably, anyhow,they did not want to see her; and that was the trouble. Not that shecared! They were a "stuck-up" lot, anyway; and she was just as good asthey were. She had told one woman so, once—the woman that carried hereyeglasses on the end of a little stick and stared. That woman alwayshad made her mad. So it was just as well, perhaps, that they did notcome any more, after all. Burke was ashamed of her, anyway, when theydid come. She knew that. He did not like anything she did nowadays. Hewas always telling her he did wish she would stop saying "you was," orholding her fork like that, or making so much noise eating soup, and adozen other things. As if nobody in the house had a right to do anythingbuthis way!

It had been so different at home! There everything she did was justright. And she was never lonely. There were the parties and the frolicsand the sleigh-rides, and the girls running in all the time, and theboys every evening on the porch, or in the parlor, or taking herbuggy-riding. Nothing there was ever complete without her. While here—Well, who supposed being married meant working like a slave all day, andbeing cooped up all the evening with a man whose nose was buried in abook, and who scarcely spoke to you!

And there was the money. Burke acted, for all the world, as if hethought she ate money, and ate[Pg 110] it whether she was hungry or not, justto spite him. As if she didn't squeeze every penny till it fairlyshrieked, now; and as if anybody could make ten dollars a week gofurther than she did! To be sure, at first she had been silly andextravagant, running up bills, and borrowing of Mrs. Jones, as she did.And of course she was a little unreasonable and childish about keepingthat account-book. But that was only at the first, when she was quiteignorant and inexperienced. It was very different now. She kept a cashaccount, and most of the time it came right. How she wished she had anallowance, though! But Burke utterly refused to give her that. Saidshe'd be extravagant and spend it all the first day. As if she had notlearned better than that by bitter experience! And as if anything couldbe worse than the way they were trying to get along now, with herteasing for money all the time, and him insisting on seeing the bills,and then asking how theycould manage to eat so many eggs, and sayinghe should think she used butter to oil the floors with. He didn't seehow it could go so fast any other way!

And wasn't he always telling her she did not manage right? And didn't hegive her particular fits one day and an awful lecture on wastefulness,just because he happened to find half a loaf of mouldy bread in the jar?Just as ifhe didn't spend something—and a good big something,too!—on all those cigars he smoked. Yet he flew into fits over a bit ofmouldy bread ofhers.[Pg 111]

To be sure, when she cried, he called himself a brute, and said hedidn't mean it, and it was only because he hated so to have her pinchingand saving all the time that it made him mad—raving mad. Just as if shewas to blame that they did not have any money!

But she was to blame, of course, in a way. If it had not been for her,he would be living at home with all the money he wanted. Sometimes itcame to her with sickening force that maybe Burke was thinking that,too. Was he? Could it be that he was sorry he had married her? Verywell—her chin came up proudly. He need not stay if he did not want to.He could go. But—the chin was not so high, now—he was all there was.She had nobody but Burke now.Could it be—

She believed she would ask Dr. Gleason some time. She liked the doctor.He had been there several times now, and she felt real well acquaintedwith him. Perhaps he would know. But, after all, she was not going toworry. She did not believe that really Burke wished he had not marriedher. It was only that he was tired and fretted with his work. It wouldbe better by and by, when he had got ahead a little. And of course hewould get ahead. They would not always have to live like this!

It was in March that Burke came home to dinner one evening with aradiant face, yet with an air of worried excitement.[Pg 112]

Helen quaked a little under the fire in her husband's eyes; but she heldher ground.

"I know he's sick and has sent for me. And I know I'm going to him.That's enough for me to know—at present," retorted the man, getting tohis feet, and leaving his dinner almost untasted.

Half an hour later he appeared before her, freshly shaved, and in theradiant good humor that seems to follow a bath and fresh garments as anatural consequence. "Come, chicken, give us a kiss," he cried gayly;"and don't sit up for me: I may be late."

"My, but ain't we fixed up!" pouted Helen jealously. "I should think youwas going to see your best girl."

"I am," laughed Burke boyishly. "Dad was my best girl—till I got you.Good-bye! I'm off."

"Good-bye." Helen's lips still pouted, and her eyes burned somberly asshe sat back in her chair.

Outside the house Burke drew a long breath, and yet a longer one. Itseemed as if he could not inhale[Pg 113] deeply enough the crisp, bracing air.Then, with an eager stride that would cover the distance in little morethan half the usual time, he set off toward Elm Hill. There was onlyjoyous anticipation in his face now. The worry was all gone. After all,had not Brett said that this illness of dad's was nothing serious?

For a week Burke had known that something was wrong—that his father wasnot at the Works. In vain had he haunted office doors and corridors fora glimpse of a face that never appeared. Then had come the news thatJohn Denby was ill. A paralyzing fear clutched the son's heart.

Was this to be the end, then? Was dad to—die, and never to know, neverto read his boy's heart? Was this the end of all hopes of some dayseeing the old look of love and pride in his father's eyes? Then itwould, indeed, be the end of—everything, if dad died; for what was theuse of struggling, of straining every nerve to make good, if dad was notto be there to—know?

It had been at this point that Burke, in spite of his hurt pride, and ofhis very lively doubts as to the cordiality of his reception, had almostdetermined to go himself to the old home and demand to see his father.Then, just in time, had come Brett's wonderful message that his fatherwished to see him, and that he was not, after all, fatally or evenseriously ill.

Dad was not going to die, then; and dad wished to see him—wished tosee him![Pg 114]

Burke drew in his breath now again, and bounded up the great stone stepsof Denby Mansion, two at a time. The next minute, for the first timesince his marriage the summer before, he stood in the wide, familiarhallway.

Benton, the old butler, took his hat and coat; and the way he took themhad in it all the flattering deference of the well-trained servant, andthe rapturous joy of the head of a house welcoming a dear wanderer home.

Burke looked into the beaming old face and shining eyes—and swallowedhard before he could utter an unsteady "How are you, Benton?"

"I'm very well, sir, thank you, sir. And it's glad I am to see you,Master Burke. This way, please. The master's in the library, sir."

Unconsciously Burke Denby lifted his chin. A long-lost something seemedto have come back to him. He could not himself have defined it; and hecertainly could not have told why, at that moment, he should suddenlyhave thought of the supercilious face of his hated "boss" at the Works.

Behind Benton's noiseless steps Burke's feet sank into luxurious velvetdepths. His eyes swept from one dear familiar object to another, in thegreat, softly lighted hall, and leaped ahead to the open door of thelibrary. Then, somehow, he found himself face to face with his father inthe dear, well-remembered room.

They were the same words that had been spoken months before in thePresident's office at the Denby Iron Works, and they were spoken by thesame voice. They were spoken to the accompaniment of an outstretchedhand, too, in each case. But, to Burke, who had heard them on bothoccasions, they were as different as darkness and daylight. He could nothave defined it, even to himself; but he knew, the minute he grasped theoutstretched hand and looked into his father's eyes, that the hated,impenetrable, insurmountable "wall" was gone. Yet there was nothingsaid, nothing done, except a conventional "Just a little matter ofbusiness, Burke, that I wanted to talk over with you," from the elderman; and an equally conventional "Yes, sir," from his son.

Then the two sat down. But, for Burke, the whole world had burstsuddenly into song.

It was, indeed, a simple matter of business. It was not even animportant one. Ordinarily it would have been Brett's place, or even oneof his assistants', to speak of it. But the President of the Denby IronWorks took it up point by point, and dwelt lovingly on each detail. AndBurke, his heart one wild pæan of rejoicing, sat with a gravecountenance, listening attentively.

And when there was left not one small detail upon which to pin anotherword, and when Burke was beginning to dread the moment of dismissal,John Denby turned, as if casually, to a small clay tablet[Pg 116] on the desknear him. And Burke, following his father into a five-thousand-year-oldpast to decipher a Babylonian thumb-print, lost all fear of that dreaddismissal.

Later came old Benton with the ale and the little cakes that Burke hadalways loved. With a pressure of his thumb, then, John Denby switchedoff half the lights, and the two, father and son, sat down before thebig fireplace, with the cakes and ale between them on a low stand.

Behind the century-old andirons, the fire leaped and crackled, throwingweird shadows over the beamed ceiling, the book-lined walls, thecabinets of curios, bringing out here and there a bit of gold toolingbehind a glass door or a glinting flash from bronze or porcelain. With abody at ease and a mind at rest, Burke leaned back in his chair with along-drawn sigh, each tingling sense ecstatically responsive to everycharm of light and shade and luxury.

"You'll come again, of course," the father said, as he held out hishand. For the first time that evening there was a faint touch ofconstraint in his manner. "Suppose you come to dinner—Sunday. Willyou?"

"Surely I will, and be glad—" With a swift surge of embarrassed colorBurke Denby stopped short. In one shamed, shocked instant it had come tohim that he had forgotten Helen—forgotten her! Not[Pg 117] for a long hourhad he even remembered that there was such a person in existence."Er—ah—that is," he began again, stammeringly.

Burke mumbled an incoherent something and fled. The next moment he foundhimself in the hall with Benton, deferential and solicitous, holding hiscoat.

Again out in the crisp night air, Burke drew a long breath. Was it true?Had dad invited him to dinner next Sunday?And with Helen? What hadhappened? Had dad's heart got the better of his pride? Had he decidedthat quarreling did not pay? Did this mean the beginning of the end? Washe ready to take his son back into his heart? He had not said anything,really. He had just talked in the usual way, as if nothing hadhappened. But that would be like dad. Dad hated scenes. Dad would neversay: "I'm sorry I was so harsh with you; come back—you and Helen. Iwant you!"—and then fall to crying and kissing like a woman. Dad wouldnever do that.

It would be like dad just to pick up the thread of the old comradeshipexactly where he had dropped it months ago. And that was what he hadseemed to be doing that evening. He had talked just as he used totalk—except that never once had he mentioned—mother.[Pg 118] Burke rememberedthis now, and wondered at it. It was so unusual—in dad. Had he done itpurposely? Was there a hidden meaning back of it? He himself had notliked to think of mother, lately; yet, somehow, she seemed always to bein his mind. In spite of himself he was always wondering what she wouldthink of—Helen. But, surely, dad—

With his thoughts in a dizzy whirl of excitement and questionings, Burkethrust his key into the lock and let himself into his own apartment.

The hall—never had it looked so hopelessly cheap and small. Burke,still under the spell of Benton's solicitous ministrations, jerked offhis hat and coat and hung them up. Then he strode into the living-room.

"Hullo! Sitting up, are you, chicken?" he greeted her, brushing hercheek with his lips. "I told you not to; but maybe it's just as well youdid— I might have waked you," he laughed boyishly. "Guess what'shappened!"

"No. I got one last month, you know. I'm getting a hundred now. Whatmore can you expect—in my position?" He spoke coldly, with a tinge ofsharpness. He was wondering why Helen always managed to take the zestout of anything he was[Pg 119] going to do, or say. Then, with an obviouseffort at gayety, he went on: "It's better than a raise, chicken. Dad'sinvited us to dinner next Sunday—both of us."

"Well, I can't help it, Burke. It just makes me mad to see you jump andrun and be so pleased over just a dinner, when it ought to be for everydinner and all the time; and you know it."

"But, Helen, it isn't thedinner. It's that—that dadcares." Theman's voice softened, and became not quite steady. "That maybe he'sforgiven me. That he's going to be now the—the old dad that I used toknow. Oh, Helen, I'vemissed him so! I've—"

"Well, I should think 'twas time he did forgive you—and I'm not sayingI think there was anything to forgive, either. There wouldn't have been,if he hadn't tried to interfere with what was our own business—yoursand mine."

There was a brief silence. Burke, looking very white and stern, had gotto his feet, and was moving restlessly about the room.

"I don't know, exactly. I said—something; yes, I think. I meant it foryes—then." The man spoke with sudden utter weariness.

There was another brief silence. A dawning shrewdness was coming intoHelen's eyes.

"Oh, of course, yes. We'd want to go," she murmured. "Itmight mean hewas giving in, couldn't it?"

"Burke, why in the world don't you answer me?" she demanded crossly."You were talkative enough a minute ago, when you came in. I shouldthink you might have enough thought ofmy interests to want us to goto live with your father, if there's any chance of it. And while'twouldn't bemy way to jump the minute he held out his hand, yet ifthis dinner really means that we'll be going up there to live prettysoon, why—"

"Helen!" Burke had winced visibly, as if from a blow. "Can't you seeanything, or talk anything, but our going up there to live? It's enoughfor me that dad just looked at me to-night with the old look in hiseyes; that somehow he's smashed that confounded wall between us; that—But what's the use? Never mind the dinner. We won't go."

"Nonsense, Burke! Don't be silly. Of course—we're going! I wouldn'tmiss it for the world—under[Pg 121] the circumstances." And Helen, with an airof finality, rose to her feet to prepare for bed.

Her husband, looking after her with eyes that were half resigned, halfrebellious, for the second time that evening gave a sigh of utterweariness, and turned away.

They went to the dinner. Helen became really very interested andenthusiastic in her preparations for it; and even Burke, after a time,seemed to regain a little of his old eagerness. They had, to be sure,nearly a quarrel over the dress and hat that Helen wished to wear. Butafter some argument, and not a few tears, she yielded to her husband'snone too gently expressed abhorrence of the hat in question (which was anew one), and of the dress—one he had always disliked.

"Exactly! So do I want you to," returned her husband significantly. Andthere the matter ended.

It was not a success—that dinner. Helen, intent on making her "goodimpression," very plainly tried to be admiring, entertaining, andsolicitous of her host's welfare and happiness. She resulted in beingnauseatingly flattering, pert, and inquisitive. John Denby, at firstvery evidently determined to give no just cause for criticism of his ownbehavior, was the perfection of courtesy and cordiality. Even when,later, he was unable quite to hide his annoyance at the persistent andassiduous attentions and[Pg 122] questions of his daughter-in-law, he was yetcourteous, though in unmistakable retreat.

Burke Denby—poor Burke! With every sense and sensitiveness keyed toinstant response to each tone and word and gesture of the two beforehim, each passing minute was, to Burke, but a greater torture than theone preceding it. Long before dinner was over, he wished himself andHelen at home; and as soon as was decently possible after the meal, heperemptorily suggested departure.

"I couldn't stand it! I couldn't stand it another minute," he toldhimself passionately, as he hurried Helen down the long elm-shaded walkleading to the street. "But dad—dad was a brick! And he asked us tocome again.Again! Good Heavens! As if I'd go through that again! Itwas so much worsethere than at home. But I'm glad he didn't put herin mother's chair. I don't think even I could have stood that—to-day!"

"Well, that's over," murmured Helen complacently, as they turned intothe public sidewalk,—"and well over! Still, I didn't enjoy myself sovery much, and I don't believe you did, either," she laughed, "else youwouldn't have been in such a taking to get away."

There was no answer. Helen, however, evidently sure of her ground, didnot seem to notice. She yawned pleasantly.

"Guess I'm sleepy. Ate too much.'Twas a good dinner; and, just as Itold your father, things always[Pg 123] taste especially good when you don'tget much at home. I said it on purpose. I thought maybe 'twould make himthink."

Burke, instantly alert to the danger of having another scene such as hadfollowed Gleason's first visit, desperately ran to cover.

"Nothing, nothing!" He essayed a gay smile, and succeeded. "I'm stupid,that's all. Maybe I'm sleepy myself."

"It can't be you're put out 'cause we came away so early! You suggestedit yourself." Her eyes were still suspiciously bent upon him.

She relaxed and took her gaze off his face. The unmistakable sincerityin his voice this last time had carried conviction.

"Hm-m; I thought you did," she murmured contentedly again. "Still, I waskind of scared when you proposed it. I didn't suppose 'twas proper toeat and run. Mother always said so. Do you think he minded it—yourfather?"

"Not a bit!" Burke, in his thankfulness to have escaped the threatenedscene, was enabled to speak lightly, almost gayly.

"Hm-m. Well, I'm glad. I wouldn't have wanted[Pg 124] him to mind. Itried tobe 'specially nice to him, didn't I?"

"You did, certainly." Burke's lips came together a little grimly; butHelen's eyes were turned away; and after a moment's pause she changedthe subject—to her husband's infinite relief.[Pg 125]

CHAPTER IX

A BOTTLE OF INK

Burke Denby did not attempt to deceive himself after that Sunday dinner.His marriage had been a mistake, and he knew it. He was disappointed,ashamed, and angry. He told himself that he was heartbroken; that hestill loved Helen dearly—only he did not like to be with her now. Shemade him nervous, and rubbed him the wrong way. Her mood never seemed tofit in with his. She had so many little ways—

Sometimes he told himself irritably that he believed that, if it were abig thing like a crime that Helen had committed, he could be heroic andforgiving, and glory in it. But forever to battle against a successionof never-ending irritations, always to encounter the friction ofantagonistic aims and ideals—it was maddening. He was ashamed ofhimself, of course. He was ashamed of lots of things that he said anddid. But he could not help an explosion now and then. He felt as ifsomewhere, within him, was an irresistible force driving him to it.

And the pity of it! Was he not, indeed, to be pitied? What had he notgiven up? As if it were his fault that he was now so disillusioned! Hehad supposed that marriage with Helen would be a fresh joy everymorning, a new delight every evening,[Pg 126] an unbelievable glory ofhappiness—just being together.

Now—he did not want to be together. He did not want to go home tofretfulness, fault-finding, slovenliness, and perpetual criticism. Hewanted to go home to peace and harmony, big, quiet rooms, servants thatknew their business, and—dad.

And that was another thing—dad. Dad had been right. He himself had beenwrong. But that did not mean that it was easy to own up that he had beenwrong. Sometimes he hardly knew which cut the deeper: that he had beenproved wrong, thus losing his happiness, or that his father had beenproved right, thus placing him in a position to hear the hated "I toldyou so."

That Helen could never make him happy Burke was convinced now. Never hadhe realized this so fully as since seeing her at his father's table thatSunday. Never had her "ways" so irritated him. Never had he sopoignantly realized the significance of what he had lost—and won. Neverhad he been so ashamed—or so ashamed because he was ashamed—as on thatday. Never, he vowed, would he be placed in the same position again.

As to Helen's side of the matter—Burke quite forgot that there was sucha thing. When one is so very sorry for one's self, one forgets to besorry for anybody else. And Burke was, indeed, very sorry for himself.Having never been in the habit of taking disagreeable medicine, he didnot know how to take[Pg 127] it now. Having been always accustomed to consideronly himself, he considered only himself now. That Helen, too, might bedisappointed and disillusioned never occurred to him.

It was perhaps a month later that another invitation to dinner came fromJohn Denby. This time Burke did not stutter out a joyous, incoherentacceptance. He declined so promptly and emphatically that he quiteforgot his manners, for the moment, and had to attach to the end of hisrefusal a hurried and ineffectual "Er—thank you; you are very kind, I'msure!" He looked up then and met his father's eyes. But instantly hisgaze dropped.

"Er—ah—Helen is not well at all, dad," he still further added,nervously. "Of course I'll speak to her. But I don't think we can come."

There was a moment's pause. Then, very gravely, John Denby said: "Oh, Iam sorry, son."

"He didn't laugh, he didn't sneer, he didn't lookanyhow, only justplain sorry," choked the young man to himself. "And he had such amagnificent chance to do—all of them. But he just—understood."

"Father asked us to dinner next Sunday; but—I said I didn't think wecould go. I told him you weren't feeling well. I didn't think you'd wantto go; and—I didn't want to go myself."[Pg 128]

"Well, I've got my opinion of folks who refuse an invitation withouteven asking 'em if they want to go," she bridled. "Not that I mind much,in this case, though,—if it's just a dinner. I thought once, maybe hemeant something—that he was giving in, you know. But I haven't seen anysigns ofthat. And as for just going to dinner—I can't say I am'specially anxious for that—mean as I feel now."

And there the matter ended. As the summer passed, Burke fell into theway of going often to see his father, though never at meal-time. He wentalone. Helen said she did not care to go, and that she did notseewhat fun Burke could find in it, anyway.

To Burke, these hours that he spent with his father chatting and smokingin the dim old library, or on the vine-shaded veranda, were like abreeze blowing across the desert of existence—like water in a thirstyland. From day to day he planned for these visits. From hour to hour helived upon them.

To all appearances John Denby and his son had picked up their oldcomradeship exactly where the marriage had severed it. Even to Burke'swatchful, sensitive eyes the "wall" seemed quite gone. There was,however, one difference: mother was never mentioned. John Denby neverspoke of her now.

There was plenty to talk about. There were all the old interests, andthere was business. Burke was giving himself heart and soul to businessthese days.[Pg 129] In July he won another promotion, and was given an advancein wages. Often, to Burke's infinite joy, his father consulted him aboutmatters and things quite beyond his normal position, and showed in otherways his approval of his son's progress. Helen, the marriage, and theDale Street home life were never mentioned—for which Burke wasthankful.

"Hecouldn't say anything I'd want to hear," said Burke to himself, attimes. "And I—I can't say anythinghe wants to hear. Best forgetit—if we can."

To "forget it" seemed, indeed, in these days, to be Burke's aim andeffort. Always had Burke tried to forget things. From the day hissix-months-old fingers had flung the offending rattle behind him hadBurke endeavored to thrust out of sight and mind everything thatannoyed—and Helen and marriage had become very annoying.Systematically, therefore, he was trying to forget them. His attitude,indeed, was not unlike that of a small boy who, weary of his game ofmarbles, cries, "Oh, come, let's play something else. I'm tired ofthis!"—an attitude which, naturally, was not conducive to happiness,either for himself or for any one else—particularly as the game he wasplaying was marriage, not marbles.

The summer passed and October came. Life at the Dale Street flat hadsettled into a monotony of discontent and dreariness. Helen,discouraged, disappointed, and far from well, dragged through thehousework day by day, wishing each night that it[Pg 130] were morning, and eachmorning that it were night—a state of mind scarcely conducive tohappiness on her part.

For all that Burke was away so many evenings now, Helen was not solonely as she had been in the spring; for in Mrs. Jones's place had comea new neighbor, Mrs. Cobb. And Mrs. Cobb was even brighter and moreoriginal than Mrs. Jones ever was, and Helen liked her very much. Shewas a mine of information as to housekeeping secrets, and she wasteaching Helen how to make the soft and dainty little garments thatwould be needed in November. But she talked even more loudly than Mrs.Jones had talked; and her laugh was nearly always the first sound thatBurke heard across the hall every morning. Moreover, she possessed aphonograph which, according to Helen, played "perfectly grand tunes";and some one of these tunes was usually the first thing that Burke heardevery night when he came home. So he called her coarse and noisy, anddeclared she was even worse than Mrs. Jones; whereat Helen retorted thatof course hewouldn't like her, ifshe did—which (while possiblytrue) did not make him like either her or Mrs. Cobb any better.

The baby came in November. It was a little girl. Helen wanted to callher "Vivian Mabelle." She said she thought that was a swell name, andthat it was the name of her favorite heroine in a perfectly grand book.But Burke objected strenuously. He declared very emphatically that nodaughter of his[Pg 131] should have to go through life tagged like a vaudevillefly-by-night.

Of course Helen cried, and of course Burke felt ashamed of himself.Helen's tears had always been a potent weapon—though, from over-use,they were fast losing a measure of their power. The first time he sawher cry, the foundations of the earth sank beneath him, and he droppedinto a fathomless abyss from which he thought he would never rise. Itwas the same the next time, and the next. The fourth time, as he feltthe now familiar sensation of sinking down, down, down, he outflungdesperate hands and found an unexpected support—his temper. After thatit was always with him. It helped to tinge with righteous indignationhis despair, and it kept him from utterly melting into weaksubserviency. Still, even yet, he was not used to them—his wife'stears. Sometimes he fled from them; sometimes he endured them in dumbdespair behind set teeth; sometimes he raved and ranted in a way he wasalways ashamed of afterwards. But still they had the power, in ameasure, to make his heart like water within him.

So now, about the baby's name, he called himself a brute and a beast tobring tears to the eyes of the little mother—toward whom, since thebaby's advent, he felt a remorseful tenderness. But he still maintainedthat he could have no man, or woman, call his daughter "Vivian Mabelle."

Burke choked back a hasty word and assumed his pet"I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me" air.

"And you shall name it," he soothed her. "Listen! Here are pencil andpaper. Now, write down a whole lot of names that you'd like, and I'llpromise to select one of them. Then you'll be naming the baby all right.See?"

Helen did not "see," quite, that she would be naming the baby; but,knowing from past experience of her husband's temper that resistancewould be unpleasant, she obediently took the paper and spent some timewriting down a list of names.

Burke frowned a good deal when he saw the list, and declared that it waspretty poor pickings, and that he ought to have known better than tohave bound himself to a silly-fool promise like that. But he chose aname (he said he would keep his word, of course), and he selected"Dorothy Elizabeth" as being less impossible than its accompanying"Veras," "Violets," and "Clarissa Muriels."

For the first few months after the baby's advent, Burke spent much moretime at home, and seemed very evidently to be trying to pay especialattention to his wife's comfort and welfare. He was proud of the baby,and declared it was the cutest little kid going. He poked it in itsribs, thrust a tentative finger into the rose-leaf of a hand (emitting atriumphant chuckle of delight when the rose-leaf became a tightlyclutching little fist), and even allowed the baby to be placed one ortwice in his rather reluctant[Pg 133] and fearful arms. But, for the most part,he contented himself with merely looking at it, and asking how soon itwould walk and talk, and when would it grow its teeth and hair.

Burke was feeling really quite keenly these days the solemnity andresponsibility of fatherhood. He had called into being a new soul. Alittle life was in his hands to train. By and by this tiny pink roll ofhumanity would be a prattling child, a little girl, a young lady. Andall the way she would be turning to him for companionship and guidance.It behooved him, indeed, to look well to himself, that he should be inall ways a fit pattern.

It was a solemn thought. No more tempers, tantrums, and impatience. Nomore idle repinings and useless regrets. What mattered it if he weredisillusioned and heartsick? Did he want this child of his, thisbeautiful daughter, to grow up in such an atmosphere? Never! At once,therefore, he must begin to cultivate patience, contentment,tranquillity, and calmness of soul. He, the pattern, must be all thingsthat he would wish her to be.

And how delightful it would be when she was old enough to meet him onhis own ground—to be a companion for him, the companion he had notfound in his wife! She would be pretty, of course, sweet-tempered, andcheerful. (Was he not to train her himself?) She would be capable andsensible, too. He would see to that. To no man, in the future, shouldshe bring the tragedy of disillusionment that her[Pg 134] mother had brought tohim. No, indeed! For that matter, however, he should not let her marryany one for a long time. He should keep her himself. Perhaps he wouldnot let her marry at all. He did not think much of this marriagebusiness, anyway. Not that he was going to show that feeling any longernow, of course. From now on he was to show only calm contentment andtranquillity of soul, no matter what the circumstances. Was he not afather? Had he not, in the hollow of his hand, a precious young life totrain?

Dorothy Elizabeth was not six months old before the young fatherdiscovered that parenthood changed conditions, not people. He felt justas irritated at the way Helen buttered a whole slice of bread at a time,and said "swell" and "you was," as before; just as impatient because hecould not buy what he wanted; just as annoyed at the purple cushion onthe red sofa.

He was surprised and disappointed. He told himself that he had supposedthat when a fellow made good resolutions, he was given some show of achance to keep them. But as if any onecould cultivate calmcontentment and tranquillity of soul as he was situated!

First, there were not only all his old disappointments and annoyances tocontend with, but a multitude of new ones. It was as if, indeed, eachparticular torment had taken unto itself wife and children, so numerous[Pg 135]had they become. There was really now no peace at home. There wasnothing but the baby. He had not supposed that any one thing or personcould so monopolize everything and everybody.

When the baby was awake, Helen acted as if she thought the earth swungon its axis solely to amuse it. When it slept, she seemed to think theearth ought to stand still—lest it wake Baby up. With the samewholesale tyranny she marshaled into line everything and everybody onthe earth, plainly regarding nothing and no one as of consequence,except in its relationship to Baby.

Such unimportant things as meals and housework, in comparison with Baby,were of even less than second consequence; and Burke grew to feelhimself more and more an alien and a nuisance in his own home. Moreover,where before he had found disorder and untidiness, he now found positivechaos. And however fond he was of the Baby, he grew unutterably weary ofsearching for his belongings among Baby's rattles, balls, shirts, socks,milk bottles, blankets, and powder-puffs.

The "cool, calm serenity" of his determination he found it difficult torealize; and the delights and responsibilities of fatherhood began topall upon him. It looked to be so long a way ahead, even to teeth,talking, and walking, to say nothing of the charm and companionship of ayoung lady daughter!

Children were all very well, of course,—very desirable. But did theynever do anything but cry?[Pg 136] Couldn't they be taught that nights were forsleep, and that other people in the house had some rights besidesthemselves? And must theyalways choose four o'clock in the morningfor a fit of the colic? Helen said it was colic. For his part, hebelieved it was nothing more or less than temper—plain, right-downtemper!

And so it went. Another winter passed, and spring came. Matters were nobetter, but rather worse. A series of incompetent maids had been addingconsiderably to the expense—and little to the comfort—of thehousehold. Helen, as a mistress, was not a success. She understoodneither her own duties nor those of the maid—which resulted in shortperiods of poor service and frequent changes.

July came with its stifling heat, and Dorothy Elizabeth, now twentymonths old, showed a daily increasing disapproval of life in general andof her own existence in particular. Helen, worn and worried, and halfsick from care and loss of sleep, grew day by day more fretful, moredifficult to get along with. Burke, also half sick from loss of sleep,and consumed with a fierce, inward rebellion against everything andeverybody, including himself, was no less difficult to get along with.

Of course this state of affairs could not continue forever. The tensionhad to snap sometime. And it snapped—over a bottle of ink in a baby'shand.

It happened on Bridget's "afternoon out," when Helen was alone with thebaby. Dorothy Elizabeth,[Pg 137] propped up in her high-chair beside thedining-room table, where her mother was writing a letter, reachedcovetous hands toward the fascinating little fat black bottle. The nextinstant a wild shout of glee and an inky tide surging from anupside-down bottle, held high above a golden head, told that the questhad been successful.

Things happened then very fast. There were a dismayed cry from Helen,half a-dozen angry spats on a tiny hand, a series of shrieks fromDorothy Elizabeth, and a rapidly spreading inky pall over baby, dress,table, rug, and Helen's new frock.

With wrathful eyes he swept the scene before him, losing not one detailof scolding woman, shrieking child, dinnerless table, and inky chaos.Then he strode into the room.

"Well, by George!" he snapped. "Nice restful place for a tired man tocome to, isn't it? This is your idea of a happy home, I suppose!"

"Oh, yes, that's right—blame me! Blame me for everything! Maybe youthinkI think this is a happy, restful place, too! Maybe you thinkthis is whatI thought 'twould be—being married to you! But I cantell you it just isn't! Maybe you think I ain't tired of working andpinching and slaving, and never having any fun, and being scolded andblamed all the time because I don't eat and walk and stand up[Pg 138] and sitdown the way you want me to, and— Where are you goin'?" she broke off,as her husband reached for the hat he had just tossed aside, and startedfor the door.

"I'm going down to the square to get something to eat. Then I'm going upto father's. And—you needn't sit up for me. I shall stay all night."

"Yes. I'd like to sleep—for once. And that's what I can't do—here."The next moment the door had banged behind him.

"Why, Baby, he—he—" Then she caught the little ink-stained figure toher and began to cry convulsively.

In the street outside Burke strode along with his head high and his jawsternly set. He was very angry. He told himself that he had a right tobe angry. Surely a man was entitled tosome consideration!

In spite of it all, however, there was, in a far-away corner of hissoul, an uneasy consciousness of a tiny voice of scorn dubbing thisrunning away of his the act of a coward and a cad.

Very resolutely, however, he silenced this voice by recounting again tohimself how really abused he was. It was a long story. It served tooccupy his mind all through the unappetizing meal he tried to eat at thecheap restaurant before climbing Elm Hill.

His father greeted him cordially, and with no surprise[Pg 139] in voice ormanner—which was what Burke had expected, inasmuch as he had againfallen into the way of spending frequent evenings at the old home.To-night, however, Burke himself was constrained and ill at ease. Hisjaw was still firmly set and his head was still high; but his heart wasbeginning to fail him, and his mind was full of questionings.

How would his father take it—this proposition to stay all night? Hewould understand something of what it meant. He could not help butunderstand. But what would he say? How would he act? Would he say inactions, if not in words, that dreaded "I told you so"? Would it unsealhis lips on a subject so long tabooed, and set him into a lengthydissertation on the foolishness of his son's marriage? Burke believedthat, as he felt now, he could not stand that; but he could stand lesseasily going back to the Dale Street flat that night. He could go to ahotel, of course. But he did not want to do that. He wanted dad. But hedid not want dad—to talk.

"How's the baby?" asked John Denby, as Burke dropped himself into achair on the cool, quiet veranda. "I thought she was not looking verywell the last time Helen wheeled her up here." Always John Denby's firstinquiry now was for his little granddaughter.

"Eh? The baby? Oh, she—she's all right. That is"—Burke paused for ashort laugh—"she'swell."

"Oh, yes, she's all right, too, I suppose," he retorted, a bit grimly."But she was—er—humph! Well, I'll tell you." And he gave a graphicdescription of his return home that night.

"Jove, what a mess!—andink, too," ejaculated John Denby, with morethan a tinge of sympathy in his voice. "How'd she ever manage to cleanit up?"

"Without—your dinner?" John Denby asked the question after a verybrief, but very tense, silence.

Burke's lips snapped together again tight shut. John Denby said nothing.His eyes were gravely fixed on the glowing tip of the cigar in his hand.

Burke cleared his throat and hesitated. He had not intended to ask hisquestion quite so soon; but suddenly he was consumed with anoverwhelming desire to speak out and get it over. He cleared his throatagain.

"Dad—would you mind—my sleeping here to-night? It's just that I—Iwant a good night's sleep, for once," he plunged on hurriedly, in answerto a swift something that he saw leap to his father's eyes. "And I can'tget it there—with the baby and all."

There was a perceptible pause. Then, steadily, and with easy cordiality,came John Denby's reply.[Pg 141]

"Why, certainly, my boy. I'm glad to have you. I'll ring at once forBenton to see that—that your old room is made ready for you," he added,touching a push-button near his chair.

Later, when Benton had come and gone, with his kindly old face alightand eager, Burke braced himself for what he thought was inevitable.Something would come, of course. The only question was, what would itbe?

But nothing came—that is, nothing in the nature of what Burke hadexpected. John Denby, after Benton had left the veranda, turned to hisson with a pleasantly casual—

"Oh, Brett was saying to-day that the K. & O. people had granted us anextension of time on that bridge contract."

"Er—yes," plunged in Burke warmly. And with the words, every taut nerveand muscle in his body relaxed as if cut in twain.

It came later, though, when he had ceased to look for it. It came justas he was thinking of saying good-night.

"It has occurred to me, son," broached John Denby, after a short pause,"that Helen may be tired and in sore need of a rest."

Burke caught his breath, and held it a moment suspended. When before hadhis father mentioned Helen, save to speak of her casually in connectionwith the baby?

"Er—er—y-yes, very likely," he stammered,[Pg 142] a sudden vision coming tohim of Helen as he had seen her on the floor in the midst of the inkychaos a short time before.

"You're not the only one that isn't finding the present state of affairsa—a bed of roses, Burke," said John Denby then.

"Er—ah—n-no," muttered the amazed husband. In his ears now rangHelen's—"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching andslaving!" Involuntarily he shivered and glanced at his father—dad couldnot, of course, haveheard!

"I have a plan to propose," announced John Denby quietly, after amoment's silence. "As I said, I think Helen needs a rest—and a change.I've seen quite a little of her since the baby came, you know, and I'venoticed—many things. I will send her a check for ten thousand dollarsto-morrow if she will take the baby and go away for a time—say, to herold home for a visit. But there is one other condition," he continued,lifting a quick hand to silence Burke's excited interruption. "I need arest and change myself. I should like to go to Alaska again; and I'dlike to have you go with me. Will you go?"

Burke sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the wide veranda.(From boyhood Burke had always "thrashed things out" on his feet.) For afull minute now he said nothing. Then, abruptly, he stopped and wheeledabout. His face was very white.

"No, it isn't in the least like quitting, or running[Pg 143] away," suppliedJohn Denby, reading unerringly his son's hesitation. "You're notquitting at all. I'm asking you to go. Indeed, I'm begging you to go,Burke. I want you. I need you. I'm not an old man, I know; but I feellike one. These last two years have not been—er—a bed of roses for me,either." In spite of a certain lightness in his words, the man's voiceshook a little. "I don't think you know, boy, how your old dadhas—missed you."

"Don't I? I can—guess." Burke wheeled and resumed his nervous stride.The words, as he flung them out, were at once a challenge and anadmission. "But—Helen—" He stopped short, waiting.

Again to the distraught husband's ears came the echo of a woman'swailing—"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching andslaving—"

"Then you don't think Helen will feel that I'm running away?" A growinghope was in his eyes, but his brow still carried its frown of doubt.

"Not if she has a check for—ten thousand dollars," replied John Denby,a bit grimly.

"It is, indeed, a large sum, sir,—too large," he resented, with suddenstiffness. "Thank you; but I'm afraid we can't accept it, after all."

John Denby saw his mistake at once; but he did not make the secondmistake of showing it.

"Nonsense!" he laughed lightly, with no sign of[Pg 144] the sudden panic offear within him lest the look on his son's face meant the downfall ofall his plans. "I made it large purposely. Remember, I'm borrowing herhusband for a season; and she needs some recompense! Besides, it'll meana playday for herself. You'll not be so unjust to Helen as to refuse herthe means to enjoy that!—not that she'll spend it all for that, ofcourse. But it will be a comfortable feeling to know that she has it."

"Well, I do put it just that way," nodded the father lightly. "Now,let's go in. I've got some maps and time-tables I want you to see. I'mplanning a different route from the one we took with the doctor—abetter one, I think. But let's see what you say. Come!" And he led theway to the library.

Burke's head came up alertly. His shoulders lost their droop and hisbrow its frown. A new light flamed into his eyes and a new springinessleaped into his step. Always, from the time his two-year-old lips hadbegged to "see the wheels go 'round," had Burke's chief passion anddelight been traveling. As he bent now over the maps and time-tablesthat his father spread before him, voice and hands fairly trembled witheagerness. Then suddenly a chance word sent him to his feet again, theold look of despair on his face.[Pg 145]

With a sharp word John Denby, too, leaped to his feet. Something of thedogged persistence that had won for him wealth and power glowed in hiseyes as he went straight to his son and laid both hands on hisshoulders.

"Burke, I had not meant to say this," he began quietly; "but perhapsit's just as well that I do. Possibly you think I've been blind allthese past months; but I haven't. I've seen—a good deal. Now I want youand Helen to be happy. I don't want to see your life—or hers—wrecked.I believe there's a chance yet for you two people to travel togetherwith some measure of peace and comfort, and I'm trying to give you thatchance. There's just one thing to do, I believe, and that is—to be awayfrom each other for a while. You both need it. For weeks I've beenplanning and scheming how it could be done. How do you suppose Ihappened to have this Alaska trip all cut and dried even down to thetrain and boat schedules, if I hadn't done some thinking? To-night camemy chance. So I spoke."

"You've made good, and more than good there, son. I've been proud ofyou—every inch of the way. You're no quitter there."[Pg 146]

"Thanks, dad!" Only the sudden mist in his eyes and the shake in hisvoice showed how really moved Burke was. "But—Helen," he stammeredthen.

"Will be better off without her—for the same time. While I—shall be,oh, so infinitely better offwith you. Ah, son, but I've missed youso!" It was the same longing cry that had gone straight to Burke's hearta few minutes before. "You'll come?"

There was a tense silence. Burke's face plainly showed the strugglewithin him. A moment more, and he spoke.

"Dad, I'll have to think it out," he temporized brokenly. "I'll let youknow in the morning."

"Good!" If John Denby was disappointed, he did not show it. "We'll letit go till morning, then. Meanwhile, it can do no harm to look at these,however," he smiled, with a wave of his hand toward the maps andtime-tables.

"No, of course not," acquiesced Burke promptly, relieved that his fatheragreed so willingly to the delay.

It was a fine old room. He had forgotten that a bedroom could be solarge—and so convenient. Benton, plainly, had been there. Also,plainly, his hand had not lost its cunning, nor his brain the memory ofhow Master Burke "liked things."[Pg 147]

The arrangement of the lights, the glass of milk by his bed, theturned-down spread and sheet, the latest magazine ready to hishand—even the size and number of towels in his bathroom testified toBenton's loving hand and good memory.

With a sigh that was almost a sob Burke dropped himself into a chair andlooked about him.

It was all so peaceful, so restful, so comfortable. And it was so quiet.He had forgotten that a room could be so quiet.

In spite of his weariness, Burke's preparations for bed were bothlengthy and luxurious—he had forgotten what absolute content lay inplenty of space, towels, and hot water, to say nothing of soap that wasin its proper place, and did not have to be fished out of a baby-basketor a kitchen sink.

Burke did not intend to go to sleep at once. He intended first to settlein his mind what he would do with this proposition of his father's. Hewould have to refuse it, of course. It would not do. Still, he ought togive it proper consideration for dad's sake. That much was due dad.

He stretched himself luxuriously on the bed (he had forgotten that a bedcould be so soft and so "just right") and began to think. But the nextthing he knew he was waking up.

His first feeling was a half-unconscious but delightful sensation ofphysical comfort. His next a dazed surprise as his slowly opened eyesencountered shapes and shadows and arc-light beams on the[Pg 148] walls andceiling quite unlike those in his Dale Street bedroom. Then instantlycame a vague but poignant impression that "something had happened,"followed almost as quickly by full realization.

Like a panorama, then, the preceding evening lay before him: Helen, thecrying baby, the trailing ink, the angry words, the flight, dad, hiswelcome, the pleasant chat, the remarkable proposition. Oh, yes! And itwas of the proposition that he was going to think. He could not acceptit, of course, but—

What a trump dad had been to offer it! What a trump he had been in theway he offered it, too! What a trump he had been all through about it,for that matter. Not a word of reproach, not a hint of patronage. Noteven a look that could be construed into that hated "I told you so."Just a straight-forward offer of this check for Helen, and the trip forhimself, and actually in a casual, matter-of-fact tone of voice as iften-thousand-dollar checks and Alaskan trips were everyday occurrences.

But they weren't! A trip like that did not drop into a man's plate everyday. Of course he could not take it—but what a dandy one it would be!And with dad—!

For that matter, dad really needed him. Dad ought not to go off likethat alone, and so far. Besides, dadwanted him. How his voice hadtrembled when he had said, "I don't think you know, boy, how your olddad has missed you"! As if he didn't, indeed! As if he hadn't donesome missing on his own account![Pg 149]

And the check. Of course he could not let Helen accept that,either,—ten thousand dollars! But how generous of dad to offer it—andof course itwould be good for Helen. Poor Helen! She needed a rest,all right, and she deserved one. Itwould be fine for her to go backto her old home town for a little while, and no mistake. Not that shewould need to spend the whole ten thousand dollars on that, of course.But even a little slice of a sum like that would give her all the frillsand furbelows she wanted for herself and the baby, and send them intothe country for all the rest of the summer, besides leaving nine-tenthsof it for a nest-egg for the future. And what a comfortable feeling itwould give her—always a little money when she wanted it for anything!No more of the hated pinching and starving, for he should tell her tospend it and take some comfort with it. That was what it was for.Besides, when it was gone,he would have some for her. What a boon itwould be to her—that ten thousand dollars! Of course, looking at it inthat light, it was almost hisduty to accept the proposition, and giveher the chance to have it.

But then, after all, he couldn't. Why, it was like accepting charity; hehadn't earned it. Still, if hard work and anguish of mind counted, hehad earned it twice over, slaving away at the beck of Brett and hisminions. And he had made good—so far. Dad had said so. What a trump dadwas to speak as he did! And whendad said a thing like that, it meantsomething![Pg 150]

Well, there was nothing to do, of course, but to go back and buckle downto work—and to life in the Dale Street flat. To be sure, there was thebaby. Of course he was fond of the baby; and it was highly interestingto see her achieve teeth, hair, a backbone, and sense—if only she wouldhurry up a little faster, though. Did babies always take so long to growup?

Burke stretched himself luxuriously and gazed about the room. Thearc-light outside had gone out and dawn was approaching. More and moredistinctly each loved object in the room was coming into view. To hisnostrils came the perfume of the roses and honeysuckles in the gardenbelow his window. To his ears came the chirp and twitter of thebird-calls from the trees. Over his senses stole the soothing peace ofabsolute physical ease.

Once more, drowsily, he went back to his father's offer. Once more, inhis mind, he argued it—but this time with a difference. Thus, sopotent, sometimes, is the song of a bird, the scent of a flower, theshape of a loved, familiar object, or even the feel of a soft bedbeneath one.

After all, might he not be making a serious mistake if he did not accedeto his father's wishes? Of course, so far as he, personally, wasconcerned, the answer would be an unequivocal refusal of the offer. Butthere was his father to consider, and there was Helen to think of; yes,and the baby. How much better it would be for them—for all of them, ifhe accepted it!

Helen and the baby could have months of fresh[Pg 151] air, ease, and happinesswithout delay, to say nothing of innumerable advantages later. Why, whenyou came to think of it, that would be enough, if there were nothingelse! But there was something else. There was dad. Good old dad! Howhappy he'd be! Besides, dad really needed him. How ever had he thoughtfor a moment of sending dad off to Alaska alone, and just after anillness, too! What could he be thinking of to consider it for a moment?That settled it. He should go. He would stifle all silly feelings ofpride and the like, and he would make dad, Helen, and the baby happy.

Which question having been satisfactorily decided, Burke turned over andsettled himself for a doze before breakfast. He did not get it, however.His mind was altogether too full of time-tables, boat schedules,mountain peaks, and forest trails.

It was later, while Burke was leisurely dressing and planning out theday before him, that the bothersome question came to him as to how heshould tell Helen. He was reminded, also, emphatically, of the probablescene in store for him when he should go home at six o'clock that night.And he hated scenes. For that matter, there would probably be anotherone, too, when he told her that he was going away for a time. To besure, there was the ten-thousand-dollar check; and of course very soonhe could convince her that it was really all for her best happiness.After[Pg 152] she gave it a little thought, it would be all right, he waspositive, but there was certain to be some unpleasantness at first,particularly as she was sure to be not a little difficult over hisrunning—er—rather,going away the night before. And he wished hecould avoid it in some way. If only he did not have to go home—

His face cleared suddenly. Why, of course! He would write. How stupid ofhim not to have thought of it before! He could say, then, just what hewanted to say, and she would have a chance to think it over calmly andsensibly, and see how really fine it was for her and the baby. That wasthe way to do it, and the only way. Writing, he could not be unnerved byher tears (of course she would cry at first—she always cried!) orexasperated into saying things he would be sorry for afterwards. Hecould say just enough, and not too much, in a letter, and say it right.Then, early in the following week, just before he was to start on histrip he would go down to the Dale Street house and spend the last two orthree days with Helen and the baby, picking up his traps, and planningwith Helen some of the delightful things she could do with that tenthousand dollars. By that time she would, of course, have entirelycome around to his point of view (even if she had not seen it quitethat way at first), and they could have a few really happy daystogether—something which would be quite impossible if they should meetnow, with the preceding evening fresh in their minds, and[Pg 153] have one oftheir usual wretched scenes of tears, recriminations, and wranglings.

For the present, then, he would stay where he was. Helen would be allright—with Bridget. His father would be overjoyed, he knew; and as forthe few toilet necessities—he could buy those. He needed some newthings to take away. So that was settled.

With a mind at rest again and a heart aflame with joy, Burke hurriedinto his garments and skipped downstairs like a boy.

His face, before his lips got a chance, told his father of his decision.But his lips did not lag long behind. He had expected that his fatherwould be pleased; but he was not quite prepared for the depth of emotionthat shook his father's voice and dimmed his father's eyes, and thatended the half-uttered declaration of joy with what was very near a sob.If anything, indeed, were needed to convince Burke that he was doingjust right in taking this trip with his father, it could be needed nolonger after the look of ineffable peace and joy on that father's face.

Breakfast, with so much to talk of, prolonged itself like a collegespread, until Burke, with a cry of dismay, pulled out his watch andleaped to his feet.

"Jove! Do you know what time it is, dad?" he cried laughingly. "Beholdhow this life of luxury has me already in its clutches! I should havebeen off an hour ago."

"Not so fast, my boy," he smiled. "I've got you, and I mean to keepyou—a few minutes longer."

"Oh, I telephoned Brett this morning that you wouldn't be down tilllate, if you came at all."

"You telephonedthis morning!" puzzled Burke, sinking slowly into hischair again. "But you didn't know then that I—" He stopped once more.

"No, I didn't know then that you'd agree to my proposition," answeredJohn Denby, with a characteristically grim smile. "But I knew, if youdid agree, we'dboth have some talking to do. And if you didn't—Ishould. I meant still to convince you, you see."

"So I wouldn't go down this morning. We've lots of plans to make.Besides, there's your letter."

"Yes, there's—my—letter." This time the young man did not smile. "I'vegot to write my letter, of course."[Pg 155]

CHAPTER X

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

Helen Denby received the letter from her husband at two o'clock by aspecial messenger.

Helen had passed a sleepless night and an unhappy morning. The surge ofbitter anger which at first, like the ink, had blackened everything ittouched, soon spent itself, and left her weak and trembling. DorothyElizabeth, after her somewhat upsetting day, sank into an unusuallysound slumber; but her mother, all through the long night watches, laywith sleepless eyes staring into the dark, thinking.

Helen was very angry with Burke. There was no gainsaying that. She was alittle frightened, too, at what she herself had said. In a soberermoment she would not have spoken quite like that, certainly. But it hadbeen so hateful—his asking if she called that a happy home! As if shedid not want a happy home as much as he ever could!

To Helen, then, came her old vision of the daintily gowned wifewelcoming her husband to the well-kept home; and all in the dark hercheek flushed hot.

How far short, indeed, of that ideal had she fallen! And she was goingto be such a help to Burke; such an inspiration; such a guide,counselor, and friend! (Swiftly the words came galloping out of thatlong-forgotten honeymoon.) Had she helped him? Had[Pg 156] she been aninspiration, and a guide, and a counselor, and a friend? Poor Burke! Hehad given up a good deal for her sake. (With the consciousness of thatvacant pillow by her side, a wave of remorseful tenderness swept overher.) And of course it must have been hard for him. They had told himnot to marry her, too. They had warned him that she was not suited tohim, that she would drag him—

Had she dragged him down? No, no, not that—never that! She had beencareless and thoughtless. She had not been a good housekeeper; and maybesometimes she had been fretful and fault-finding, and—and horrid. Butshe loved him dearly. She had always loved him. It only needed somethinglike this to show her how much she loved him. Why, he was Burke, herhusband—Baby's father! As if ever she could let it be said that she haddragged him down!

Quivering, shaken with sobs, she fell back on the pillow. For a fewmoments she cried on convulsively. Then, with a tremulous indrawnbreath, she opened her eyes and stared into the dark again. A newthought had come to her.

But there was time yet. Nothing dreadful had happened. She would showBurke, his friends, everybody, that she had not dragged him down. Fromnow on she would try. Oh, how she would try! He should see. Heshouldfind a happy home when he came at night. She knew more, now, than she[Pg 157]did, about housekeeping. Besides, there was more money now,—a littlemore,—and she had some one to help her with the work. Bridget wasreally doing very well; and there was Mrs. Cobb, so kind and helpful.She would go to her for advice always. Never again should Burke comehome and find such a looking place. Baby should be washed and dressed.She herself would be dressed and waiting. Dinner, too, even on Bridget'sday out, should be all ready and waiting. As if ever again she would runthe risk of Burke's having to flee from his own home because he couldnot stand it! He should see!

It was in this softened, exalted state of mind that Helen rose the nextmorning and proceeded to begin the carrying-out of her vows, by essayingthe almost hopeless task (with Bridget's not overcheerful assistance) ofputting into spotless order the entire apartment.

At two o'clock, when Burke's letter came, she was utterly weary andalmost sick; but she was still in the softened, exalted state of theearly morning.

With a wondering, half-frightened little cry at sight of the familiarwriting, she began to read. John Denby's check for ten thousand dollarshad fallen into her lap unnoticed.

Helen's first feeling, upon finishing the note, was one of utterstupefaction. With a dazed frown and a low ejaculation she turned theletter over and began to read it again—more slowly. This time sheunderstood. But her thoughts were still in a whirl of surpriseddisbelief. Then, gradually, came a measure of conviction.

Fresh from her vigils of the night before, with its self-accusations andits heroic resolutions, she was so chastened and softened that there wasmore of grief than of anger in her first outburst.

Burke was going away. Hewanted to go. He said they—they got on eachother's nerves. He said they needed a vacation from each other.Neededone! As if they did! It wasn't that. It was his father's idea.Sheknew. It was all his fault! But he was going—Burke was. He said he was.There would not be any chance now to show him the daintily gowned wifewelcoming her husband home to a well-kept house. There would not be anychance to show how she had changed. There would not be—

Helen stopped sobbing, and caught her breath[Pg 160] with a new hope in hereyes. Dorothy Elizabeth began to cry, and Helen picked her up andcommenced to rock her.

Of course therewould be time after he came back. And, after all,might it not be the wisest thing, to be away from each other for a time?Why, even this little while—a single night of Burke's being gone—hadshown her where she stood!—had shown her where it was all leading to!Of course it was the best way, and Burke had seen it. It was right thathe should go. And had they not provided for her? She was to go— Therewas a check somewhere—

Burrowing in her lap under Dorothy Elizabeth's warm little body, Helendragged forth an oblong bit of crumpled paper. Carefully she spread itflat. The next moment her eyes flew wide open.

One thousand dollars! No,ten thousand! It couldn't be! But it was.Ten thousand dollars! And she had been scolding and blaming them, whenall the time they had been so generous! And it reallywas the bestway, too, that they should be apart for a while. It would give her achance to adjust herself and practice—and it would need some practiceif she were really going to be that daintily gowned young wife welcomingher husband to a well-kept home! And with ten thousand dollars! Whatcouldn't they get with ten thousand dollars?

Dorothy Elizabeth, at that moment, emitted a sharp, frightened cry. Forhow was Dorothy Elizabeth[Pg 161] to know that the spasmodic pressure that sohurt her was really only a ten-thousand-dollar hug of joy?

In less than half an hour, Helen, leaving the baby with Bridget, hadsought Mrs. Cobb. She could keep her good news no longer.

"I came to tell you. I'm going away—Baby and I," she announcedjoyously. "We're going next week."

"Oh, no. Just for a visit to my old home town where I was born—only'twill be a good long one. You see, we need a rest and a change somuch—Baby and I do." There was a shade of importance in voice andmanner.

"That you do!" exclaimed Mrs. Cobb, with emphasis. "And I'm glad you'regoin'. But, sakes alive, I'm goin' ter miss ye, child!"

"I don't know, exactly. It'll depend, some, on Burke—I mean Mr.Denby—when he wants me to come back."

"To—Alaska! And, pray, what's he chasin' off to a heathen countrylike that for?"[Pg 162]

"Tisn't heathen—Alaska isn't," flashed Helen, vaguely irritated withoutknowing why. "Heathen countries are—are always hot. Alaska's cold.Isn't Alaska up north—to the pole, 'most? It used to be, when I went toschool."

"Maybe 'tis; but that ain't sayin' why he's goin' there, instead of withyou," retorted Mrs. Cobb. In spite of the bantering tone in which thiswas uttered, disapproval was plainly evident in Mrs. Cobb's voice.

This time the disapproval was so unmistakably evident that Helen flamedinto prompt defense, in righteous, wifely indignation.

"I don't know why you speak like that, Mrs. Cobb. Hasn't he got a rightto go with his father, if he wants to? Besides, his father needs him.Burke says he does."

"Andyou don't need him, I s'pose," flamed Mrs. Cobb, in her turn,nettled that her sympathetic interest should meet with so poor awelcome. "Of course it's none of my business, Mis' Denby, but it seems ashame to me for him ter let you and the baby go off alone like this, andso I spoke right out. I always speak right out—what I think."

Helen flushed angrily. However much she might find fault with herhusband herself, she suddenly discovered a strong disinclination toallowing any[Pg 163] one else to do so. Besides, now, when he and his fatherhad been so kind and generous—! She had not meant to tell Mrs. Cobb ofthe ten-thousand-dollar check, lest it lead to unpleasant questioning asto why it was sent. But now, in the face of Mrs. Cobb's unjustcriticism, she flung caution aside.

"You're very kind," she began, a bit haughtily; "but, you see, this timeyou have made a slight mistake. I don't think it's a shame at all forhim to go away with his father who needs him; and you won't, when youknow what they've sent me. They sent me a check this afternoon for tenthousand dollars."

"Yes," bowed Helen, with a triumphant "I-told-you-so" air, as Mrs.Cobb's eyes seemed almost to pop out of her head. "They sent it thisvery afternoon."

"For the land's sake!" breathed Mrs. Cobb. Then, as her dazed wits beganto collect themselves, a new look came to her eyes. "Theysent it?"she cried.

"But how funny tosend it, instead of bringing it himself—yourhusband, I mean."

Too late Helen saw her mistake. In a panic, now, lest unpleasant truthsbe discovered, she assumed an especially light, cheerful manner.

"Oh, no, I don't think it was funny a bit. He—he wanted it a surprise,I guess. And he wrote—a[Pg 164] letter, you know. A lovely letter, all aboutwhat a good time Baby and I could have with the money."

The suspicion in Mrs. Cobb's eyes became swift conviction. An angry redstained her cheeks—but it was not anger at Helen. That was clearly tobe seen.

"Look a-here, Mis' Denby," she began resolutely, "I'm a plain woman, andI always speak right out. And I'm your friend, too, and I ain't goin'ter stand by and see you made a fool of, and not try ter lift a hand terhelp. There's somethin' wrong here. If you don't know it, it's time youdid. If youdo know it, and are tryin' ter keep it from me, you mightjust as well stop right now, and turn 'round and tell me all about it.As I said before, I'm your friend, and—if it's what I think itis—you'llneed a friend, you poor little thing! Now, what is it?"

Helen shook her head feebly. Her face went from white to red, and backagain to white. Still determined to keep her secret if possible, shemade a brave attempt to regain her old airiness of manner.

"Nothin', is it?—when a man goes kitin' off ter Alaska, and sendin' hiswife ten thousand dollars ter go somewheres else in the oppositedirection! Maybe you think I don't know what that means. But I do! Andhe's tryin' ter play a mean, snivelin' trick on ye, and I ain't goin'ter stand for it. I never[Pg 165] did like him, with all his fine, lordly airs,a-thinkin' himself better than anybody else what walked the earth. Butif I can help it, I ain't goin' ter see you cheated out of your justdeserts."

"Mrs. Cobb!" expostulated the dismayed, dumfounded wife; but Mrs. Cobbhad yet more to say.

"I tell you they're rich—them Denbys be—rich as mud; and as for pokin'you off with a measly ten thousand dollars, they shan't—and you with ababy ter try ter bring up and edyercate. The idea of your standin' for aseparation with only ten thousand—"

"Separation!" interrupted Helen indignantly, as soon as she could findher voice. "It isn't a separation. Why, we never thought of such athing;—not for—foralways, the way you mean it."

"Why, it's just a—a playday," stammered Helen, still trying to cling tothe remnant of her secret. "Hesaid it was a playday—that I was to gooff and have a good time with Baby."

"If it's just a playday, why didn't he give it to you ter take ittergether, then? Tell me that!"

"You bet he is," retorted Mrs. Cobb grimly. "And he's goin' ter keepwith his father, too."

"Look a-here, child, do you think I'm blind? Don't ye s'pose I know howyou folks have been[Pg 166] gettin' along tergether?—or, rather,not gettin'along tergether? Don't ye s'pose I know how he acts as if you wasn't thesame breed o' cats with him?"

"Think it! Iknow it," snapped Mrs. Cobb, ruthlessly freeing her mind,regardless of the very evident suffering on her listener's face; "andit's just made my blood boil. Time an' again I've thought of speakin' upan' tellin' ye I jest wouldn't stand it, if I was you. But I didn't. Iain't no hand ter butt in where it don't concern me. But ter see you soplumb fooled with that ten thousand dollars—I jest can't stand it nolonger. Ihad ter speak up. Turnin' you off with a beggarly tenthousand dollars—and them with all that money! Bah!"

"But, Mrs. Cobb, maybe he's coming back," stammered Helen faintly, withwhite lips.

"Pshaw! So maybe the sun'll rise in the west termorrer," scoffed Mrs.Cobb; "but I ain't pullin' down my winder shades for it yet. No, hewon't come back—teryou, Mis' Denby."

"'Course he don't. But, ye see, he thinks he's lettin' ye downeasy—a-sendin' ye that big check, an' tellin' ye ter take a playday. Hedon't want ye ter suspect, yet, an' make a fuss. He's countin' on bein'miles away when yedo wake up an' start somethin'. That's why I'ma-talkin' to ye now—ter[Pg 167] put ye wise ter things. I ain't goin' terstand by an' see you bamboozled. Now do you go an' put on your thingsan' march up there straight. I'll take care of the baby, an' be glad to,if you don't want ter leave her with Bridget."

"Sure! You brace right up to 'em, an' tell 'em you've caught on tertheir little scheme, and you ain't goin' ter stand for no such nonsense.If he wants ter git rid of you an' the baby, all well an' good. That is,I'm takin' it for granted that you wouldn't fight it—the divorce, Imean."

"But that he's got ter treat ye fair and square, an' give ye somewheresnear what's due ye," went on Mrs. Cobb, without apparently noticingHelen's horrified exclamation. "Now don't cry; and, above all things,don't let 'em think they've scared ye. Just brace right up an' tell 'emwhat's what."

"Oh, but Mrs. Cobb, I—I—" With a choking sob and a hysterical shake ofher head, Helen turned and fled down the hall to her own door. Onceinside her apartment she stumbled over to the crib and caught thesleeping Dorothy Elizabeth into her arms.

"Oh, Baby, Baby, it's all over—all over," she moaned. "I can't ever bea daintily gowned wife welcoming him to a well-kept home now.Never—never! I can't welcome him at all. He isn't coming[Pg 168] back. Hedoesn'twant to come back. He's ashamed of us, Baby,—ashamed ofus!"

Dorothy Elizabeth, roused from her nap and convulsively clutched in apair of nervous hands, began to whimper restlessly.

"No, no, Baby, not of you," sobbed Helen, rocking the child back andforth in her arms. "It was me—just me he was ashamed of. What shall Ido, whatshall I do?"

"And I thought it was just as he said," she went on chokingly, after amoment's pause. "I thought it was a vacation he wanted us to take,'cause we—we got on each other's nerves. But it wasn't, Baby,—itwasn't; and I see it now. He's ashamed of me. He's always been ashamedof me, 'way back when Dr. Gleason first came—he was ashamed of me then,Baby. He was. I know he was. And now he wants to get away—quite away,and never come back. And he calls it avacation! And he saysI'm tohave one, too, and I must tell him all about it when he comes down nextweek. Maybe he thinks I will.Maybe he thinks I will!

"We won't be here, Baby,—we won't! We'll gosomewhere—somewhere—anywhere!—before he gets here," she raved,burying her face in the baby's neck and sobbing hysterically.

Once again Helen passed a sleepless night. Never questioning now Mrs.Cobb's interpretation of her husband's conduct, there remained only adecision as to her own course of action. That she could not[Pg 169] be therewhen her husband came to make ready for his journey, she was convinced.She told herself fiercely that she would take herself and the babyaway—quite away out of his sight. He should not be shamed again by thesight of her. But she knew in her heart that she was fleeing because shedared not go through that last meeting with her husband, lest she shouldbreak down. And she did not want to break down. If Burke did not wanther, was it likely she was going to cry and whine, and let him knowthat shedid want him? Certainly not!

Helen's lips came together in a thin, straight line, in spite of hertrembling chin. Between her hurt love and her wounded pride, Helen wasin just that state of hysterics and heroics to do almostanything—except something sane and sober.

First, to get away. On that she was determined. But where to go—thatwas the question. As for going back to the old home town—as Burke hadsuggested—that she would not do—now. Did they think, then, that shewas going back there among her old friends to be laughed at, and gibedat? What if she did have ten thousand dollars to spend on frills andfinery to dazzle their eyes? How long would it be before the whole townfound out, as had Mrs. Cobb, that that ten thousand dollars was theprice Burke Denby had paid for his freedom from the wife he was ashamedof? Never! She would not go there. But where could she go?

It was then that a plan came to her—a plan so[Pg 170] wild and dazzling thateven her frenzied aspiration scouted it at first as impossible. But itcame again and again; and before long her fancy was playing with it, andturning it about with a wistful "Of course, if I could!" which in timebecame a hesitating "And maybe, after all, Icould do it," only tosettle at last into a breathlessly triumphant "I will!"

After that things moved very swiftly in the little Denby flat. It wasSaturday morning, and there was no time to lose.

First, Helen gathered all the cash she had in the house, not forgettingthe baby's bank (which yielded the biggest sum of all), and counted it.She had nineteen dollars and seventeen cents. Then she rummaged amongher husband's letters and papers until she found a letter from Dr.Gleason bearing his Boston address. Next, with Bridget to help her, sheflung into her trunk everything belonging to herself and the baby thatit was possible to crowd in, save the garments laid out to wear. Bythree o'clock Bridget was paid and dismissed, and Helen, with DorothyElizabeth, was waiting for the carriage to take them to the railroadstation.

With the same tearless exaltation that had carried her through theprodigious tasks of the morning, Helen picked up her bag and DorothyElizabeth, and followed her trunk down the stairs and out to the street.She gave not one backward glance to the little home, and she carefullyavoided anything but an airy "Good-bye" to the watching Mrs. Cobb in[Pg 171]the window on the other side. Not until the wheels began to turn, andthe journey was really begun, did Helen's tearless exaltation become thefrightened anxiety of one who finds herself adrift on an uncharted sea.

CHAPTER XI

IN QUEST OF THE STARS

In a roomy old house on Beacon Hill Dr. Frank Gleason made his home withhis sister, Mrs. Ellery Thayer. The family were at their North Shorecottage, however, and only the doctor was at home on the night thatHawkins, the Thayers' old family butler, appeared at the library doorwith the somewhat disconcerting information that a young person with ababy and a bag was at the door and wished to speak to Dr. Gleason.

"She said you, sir. And she isn't a patient. I asked her, thinking shemight have made a mistake and took you for a real doctor what practices.She said she didn't want doctoring. She wanted you. She's a young personI never saw before, sir."

"Yes, sir." On the manservant's face was an expression of livelycuriosity and disapproval, mingled with a subdued but unholy mirth whichwas not lost on the doctor, and which particularly exasperated him.

"What in thunder can a woman with a baby want[Pg 173] of me at this time of—What's her name?" demanded the doctor.

"Yes, sir. She said you'd"—the servant's voice faltered and swervedever so slightly from its well-trained impassiveness—"er—understand,sir."

"She said I'd—the deuce she did!" exploded the doctor under his breath,flushing an angry red and leaping to his feet. "Didn't you tell her Mrs.Thayer was gone?" he demanded at last, wheeling savagely.

"Wanted only—! Comes here at this time of night with a bag and ababy, refuses to give her name, and says I'll understand!" snarled thedoctor. "Oh, come, Hawkins, this is some colossal mistake, or a foolhoax, or— What kind of looking specimen is she?"

Hawkins, who had known the doctor from his Knickerbocker days, wasguilty of a slow grin.

"Oh, she is! Well—er, tell her I can't possibly see her; that I've goneto bed—away—sick—something![Pg 174] Anything! Tell her she'll have to seeMrs. Thayer."

"Yes, sir." Still the man made no move to go. "She—er—beg pardon,sir—but she'll be that cut up, I fear, sir. You see, she's been cryin'.And she's young—very young."

"Yes, sir. And she was that powerful anxious to see you, sir. I had hardwork to keep her from comingwith me. I did, sir. She's in the hall.And—it's raining outside, sir."

"Oh, good Heavens! Well, bring her in," capitulated the doctor inobvious desperation.

"Yes, sir." This time the words were scarcely out of his mouth beforethe old man was gone. In an incredibly short time he was back with aflushed-faced, agitated young woman carrying a sleeping child in herarms.

At sight of her, the doctor, who had plainly braced himself behind amost forbidding aspect, leaped forward with a low cry and a completechange of manner.

"Mrs. Denby!" he gasped. But instantly he fell back; for the youngwoman, for all the world like a tenpenny-dreadful stage heroine, hissedout a tragic "Sh-h! I don't want anybody to know my name!" with acautious glance toward the none-too-rapidly disappearing Hawkins.

"But what does this mean?" demanded Frank Gleason, when he could findwords. "Where's Burke?"

"Yes." She drew in her breath convulsively. "He says it's only to Alaskawith his father; but that's just to let me down easy."

"You needn't try to make me think any different," she interposedwearily, sinking into the chair the doctor placed for her; "'cause youcan't. I've been over everything you could say. All the way down here Ididn't have anything to do only just to think and think. And I seenow—such lots of things that I never saw before."

"But, why—how do you know—what made you think he has—left you?"stammered the doctor.

"You don't have to say anything about that, either," said Mrs. Denbyvery quietly. And before the dumb agony in the eyes turned full uponhim, he fell silent.

"There ain't any question as to whathas been done; it's just what I'mgoing todo," she went on wearily again. "He sent me ten thousanddollars—Burke's father did; and—"

"Yes; a check. I've got it here. He sent it for a playday, you know,"nodded Mrs. Denby, shifting the weight of the heavy baby in her arms."And—and that's why I came to you."[Pg 176]

"To—to me," stammered the doctor, growing suddenly alertly miserableand nervous again. "A—a playday! But I—I—that is—how—"

"Oh, I'm not going to take the playday. I couldn't eventhinkplay—now," she choked. "It's—" Then in a breathless burst it came."Doctor, you can—youwill help me, won't you?—to learn to stand andwalk and talk and eat soup and wear the right clothes and finger nailsand hair, you know, and not say the wrong things, and everything the wayBurke's friends do—you and all the rest of them—you know, soI canbe swell and grand, too, and he won't be ashamed of me! Andis tenthousand dollars enough to pay—for learning all that?"

From sheer inability to speak, the man could only fall back in his chairand stare dumbly.

"Please,please don't look at me like that," besought the young womanfrenziedly. "It's just as if you said youcouldn't help me. But youcan! I know you can. And I cando it. I know that, too. I read it in abook, once, about a girl who—who was like me. And she went away and gotperfectly grand clothes, and learning, and all; and then she came back;and he—he didn't know her at first—her husband, and he fell in lovewith her all over again. And she didn't have near so much money as I'vegot. Doctor, youwill help me?"

The doctor, with his shocked, amazed eyes on the piteously pleading faceopposite, threw up his hands in despair.[Pg 177]

"But I—you—Burke— Oh, Heavens, my dear lady! How utterly, utterlyimpossible this all is! Come, come, what am I thinking of?—and you withnot even your hat off yet! And that child! I'll call Hawkins at once. Heand his wife are all there are left here, just now,—my sister's at thebeach. But they'll make you and little Miss Dorothy Elizabeth herecomfortable for the night. Then, to-morrow, after a good sleep,we'll—we'll fix it all up. I'll get Burke on the long distance, and—"

"Dr. Gleason," interrupted Helen Denby, with a calmness that would havedeceived him had he not seen her eyes, "my husband isn't worrying aboutme. He thinks I'm at home now. When he finds I'm not, he'll think I'vegone to my old home town where hetold me to go for a visit. He won'tworry then. So that's all right. Don't you see? He's sent meaway—sent me. If you tell him now that I am here, I will walk rightstraight out of that door, and neither you nor him nor anybody else Iknow shall ever see me again."

"Doctor, why can't you be straight with me?" she pleaded. "I had to cometo you. There wasn't anybody else Icould go to. And there isn't anyother way out of it—but this. I tell you I've been doing somethinking. All the way down here it's been just think, think, think."[Pg 178]

"Look a-here," cut in Helen resolutely, "you've been to our house quitea lot since Burke and me was married. You think I made Burke real happy,don't you?"

"You might just as well say the words with your lips, Doctor. Your facehas said them," observed Helen, a little dryly.

"You needn't. I made you. Besides, I'm glad to have you say it. We'reright out in the open, now, and maybe we can get somewhere. Look a-here,do you know?—for the first time in my life to-day I was sorry for JohnDenby. I was! I got to thinking, with Dorothy Elizabeth all safe andsnug in my arms, how, by and by, she'd be a little girl, and then ayoung lady. And she was so sweet and pretty, and—and Iloved her so!And I got to thinking how I'd feel if somebody took her away from me theway I took Burke away from his father, and married her when I didn'twant her to, any more 'n Burke's father wantedhim to; and I—I couldsee then how he must have felt, worshiping Burke as he did. I know—Iused to see them together, when I was nurse there with Mrs. Allen'schildren. I never saw a father and son so much like—chums. He doted onBurke. I know now how he felt. And—and[Pg 179] it's turned out the way hesaid. I hain't been the one for Burke at all. I've—I've dragged himdown."

"Yes, I have. I know. I've been thinking it all over—the life we've ledtogether, and what he might have had, if he hadn't had—if it hadn'tbeen for me. And that's why, now, I want to see if—if I can't learn howto—to make him not ashamed of me. And it ain't for me, only, it's forDorothy Elizabeth. I want to teach her. It's bad enough to have himashamed of me; but I—I just couldn't stand it if he should ever be—beashamed of—her. And now—won't you help me, please? Remember, Burkedon'twant me at home, now, so I'm not displeasing him.Won't youhelp me? It's my only—chance!"

The doctor sprang to his feet. His eyes were moist and his voice shookwhen he spoke.

"Help you! I'll help you to—to bring down the moon and all the stars,if you say the word! Mrs. Denby, you're a—a little brick, and there'sno end to the way I respect and admire you. Of course I'll helpyou—somehow. Thoughhow I haven't the faintest idea. Meanwhile youmust get some rest. As I told you, my sister is at the beach, and thereare only Hawkins and his wife here to keep the house open. But they'llmake you comfortable for the[Pg 180] night, and we'll see to-morrow what can bedone. We'll have some kind of a plan," he finished, as he crossed theroom to ring the bell.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" breathed Helen. "But, remember, please, I'mnot Mrs. Denby. I'm Mrs. Darling—my mother's maiden name," she beggedin a panic, as the doctor touched the bell.

True to his promise, Frank Gleason had a plan, of a sort, ready bymorning. He told it at the breakfast table.

"I'm going to take you to my sister, provided, of course, that youagree," he announced. "Five minutes' talk with her on this matter willbe worth five years' with me. I shouldn't wonder if she kept youherself,—for a time, with her. And you couldn't be in a better place.Perhaps you'll be willing to help her with the children—and she'll beglad of that, I know."

"Not if we can help it. Your money you'll need later for MissDorothy—unless you are willing to make yourself known to your husbandsooner than you seem now to be willing to. We'll invest it in somethingsafe and solid, and it'll bring you in a few hundred a year. You'll havethat to spend; and that will go quite a way—under some circumstances."[Pg 181]

"But I—I want to—to learn things, you know," stammered Helen; "how tobe—be—"

"You'll learn—lots of things, if you live with my sister," remarked thedoctor significantly.

The doctor sighed, too,—though not at all with either relief orcontent. To the doctor, the task before him loomed as absurd and unrealas if it were, indeed, the pulling-down of the stars and the moon—thecarrying-out of his extravagant promise of the night before.[Pg 182]

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAIL OF THE INK

Burke Denby was well pleased with the letter that he had sent to hiswife, enclosing the ten-thousand-dollar check. He felt that it was bothconclusive and diplomatic; and he believed that it carried a franknessthat would prove to be disarming. He had every confidence that Helenwould eventually (if not at once) recognize its logic andreasonableness, and follow its suggestions. With a light heart,therefore, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the day with hisfather. By Saturday, however, a lively curiosity began to assail him asto just how Helen did take the note, after all. There also cameunpleasantly to him a recurrence of the uncomfortable feeling that hisabrupt departure from home Thursday night had been neither brave norkind, and, in fact, hardly decent, under the circumstances. He decidedthat he would, when he saw Helen, really quite humble himself andapologize roundly. It was no more than her due, poor girl!

By Sunday, between his curiosity and his uneasy remorse, he was toonervous really to enjoy anything to the full; but he sternly adhered tohis original plan of not going down to the Dale Street flat beforeMonday, believing, in his heart, that nothing could do so much good toboth of them, under the[Pg 183] circumstances, as a few days of thought apartfrom each other. Monday, however, found him headed for Dale Street; butin an hour he was back at Elm Hill. He was plainly very angry.

"She's gone," he announced, with a brevity more eloquent of his state ofmind than a flood of words would have been.

With a frown John Denby took the proffered bit of paper upon which hadbeen scrawled:—

"Nothing—except that the apartment was in spick-and-span order from endto end; andthat must have takensome time to accomplish."

"There's no one she knows but Mrs. Cobb," interrupted Burke, with animpatient gesture. "Do you suppose I'm going to her and whimper, 'Mywife's gone. Please, do you know when she went?' Not much! I sawher—the dear creature! And one glance at her face showed that she wasdying to be asked. But I didn't afford her that satisfaction. I[Pg 184] gaveher a particularly blithe 'Good-morning,' and then walked away as if I'dknown I was coming home to an empty house all the time. But, I repeat,I'm disappointed. I didn't think this of Helen—running off like this!"

"Of course she was—at that, and at the way I left her the other night.Iwas a bit of a cad there, I'll admit; but that doesn't excuse herfor doing a trick like this. I wrote her a good letter, and you sent hera very generous check; and I told her I was coming to-day to pick up mytraps and say good-bye. She didn't care to see me—that's all. But shemight have had some thought that I'd like to see my daughter before Igo. If there was time I'd run up there. But it's out of thequestion—with only to-morrow before we start."

"Yes. She left there, you know, two years before I saw her. Her fatherdied and then her mother; and she had to look out for herself. I shallwrite, of course, and send it up before I go. And I shall try to writedecently; but I will own up, father, I'm mad clear through."

"Too bad, too bad!" John Denby frowned and shook his head again. "I mustconfess, Burke, that I, too, didn't quite think this—of Helen."

"I don't know her street address, of course." Burke was on his feet,pacing back and forth. "But that isn't necessary. It's a small town—Iknow that.[Pg 185] I told her I thought she'd like the hotel best; but she mayprefer to go to some friend's home. However, that doesn't signify.She'll get it all right, if I direct it simply to Wenton. But I can'thave a reply before I leave. There isn't time, even if she deigned towrite—which I doubt, in her present evident frame of mind. Pleasant,isn't it? Makes me feel real happy to start off with, to-morrow!"

"No, of course it doesn't," admitted John Denby, with a sigh. "But,come, Burke,"—his eyes grew wistful,—"don't let this silly whim ofHelen's spoil everything. Fretting never did help anything, and perhaps,after all, it's the best thing that could have happened. A meetingbetween you, in Helen's present temper, could have resulted only inunhappiness. Obviously Helen is piqued and angry at your suggesting aseparation for a time. She determined to give it to you—but to give itto you a little sooner than you wanted. That's her way of getting backat you. That's all. Let her alone. She'll come to her senses in time.Oh,write, of course," he hastened to add, in answer to the expressionon his son's face. "But don't expect a reply too soon. You must rememberyou gave Helen a pretty big blow to her pride. Iwish she had lookedat the matter sensibly, of course; but probably that was too much toexpect."

"I'm afraid it was—of—" Biting his lips, Burke pulled himself upsharply. "I'll go and write my letter," he finished wearily, instead.

It was January when John Denby and his son returned from their Alaskantrip. The long and rather serious illness of John Denby in November, andthe necessary slowness of their journeying thereafter, had caused aseries of delays very trying to both father and son.

To neither John Denby nor Burke had the trip been an entire success.Burke, in spite of his joy at being with his father and his delight inthe traveling itself, could not get away from the shadow of an upturnedbottle of ink in a Dale Street flat. At times, with all the old boyishenthusiasm and lightness of heart, he entered into whatever came; butunderneath it all, and forever cropping uppermost, was a surge of anger,a bitterness of heart.

Not once, through the entire trip, had Burke heard from his wife. Theirmail, of course, had been infrequent and irregular; but, from time totime, a batch of letters would be found waiting for them, and always,with feverish eagerness, Burke had scanned the envelopes for a sight ofHelen's familiar scrawl. He had never found it, and he was very angrythereat. He was not worried or frightened. Any Denby of the DaltonDenbys was too well known not to have any vital information concerninghim or her communicated to the family headquarters. If anything hadhappened to either Helen or the child, he would have known of it, ofcourse, through Brett. This silence could mean, therefore, but onething: Helen's own wish that he should not hear. He felt[Pg 187] that he had aright to be angry. He pictured Helen happy, gay in her new finery,queening it over her old school friends in Wenton, and nursing wrath andresentment against himself (else why did she not write?)—and thepicture did not please him.

He had suggested separation (for a time), to be sure; but he had notsuggested total annihilation of all intercourse! If she did not care tosay anything for herself, she might, at least, be decent enough to lethim hear as to the welfare of his child, he reasoned indignantly.

On one course of action he was determined. As soon as he returned homehe would go to Helen and have it out with her. If shewished to carryto such absurd lengths her unreasonable pique at his perfectlyreasonable suggestion, he wanted to know it at once, and not live alongthis way!

Under these circumstances it is not strange, perhaps, that the trip, forBurke, was not an unalloyed joy; and the delays, in addition to givinghim no little anxiety for his father, fretted him almost beyondendurance.

As to John Denby—he, too, could not get away from the shadow of anupturned bottle of ink. Besides suffering the reflection of its effecton his son, in that son's moodiness and frequent lack of enthusiasm, hehad no small amount of it on his own account.

Burke's word-picture of that evening's catastrophe had been a vivid one;and John Denby could not forget it. He realized that it meant much inmany[Pg 188] ways. The fact that it had been followed by Helen's ominoussilence did not lessen his uneasy questionings. He wondered if, afterall, he had done the wise thing in bringing about this temporaryseparation. He still believed, in his heart, that he had. But he did notseem to find much happiness in that belief. In spite of his supreme joyand content in his son's companionship, he found himself many a timealmost wishing the trip were over. And the delays at the end were fullyas great a source of annoyance to himself, as they were to his son. He,as well as Burke, therefore, heaved a long sigh of relief as the traindrew into the Dalton station, bringing into view the old Denby familycarriage (John Denby did not care for motor cars), with old Horace onthe box, and with Brett near by, plainly waiting to extend a welcominghand. Brett's face was white and a little strained-looking. John Denby,noticing it through the car window, remarked to his son:—

"Guess Brett will be glad to see us. He looks tired. Overworked, I fear.Faithful fellow—that, Burke! We owe him our trip, anyway. But whosupposed it was going to prolong itself away into January like this?"

Burke Denby had not been at home half an hour, when, his face drawn andashen, he strode into the library where his father was sitting beforethe fire.[Pg 189]

"Father, Helen has not been at Wenton at all," he said in the tragicallyconstrained voice of a man who is desperately trying to keep himselffrom exploding into ravings and denunciations.

"Brett. I found these upstairs in my room—every letter I've writtenher—even the first one from here before I left—returned unopened,marked 'unclaimed, address unknown,' together with a letter from Brettin explanation. I've just been talking with him on the 'phone, too."

"So that's it—why he looked so at the station! What did he say? Whydidn't he let you know before?"

"He says it was a long time before the first letter came back. He knewwe were away up in the mountains, and would be very likely started forhome before he could reach us with it, anyway. And there wouldn't be athing we could do—up there, except to come home; and we'd already bedoing that, anyway. And this would only worry us, and trouble us, andmake our return trip a horror—without helping a bit."

"Then, of course, came the delay, your sickness, and all. Of course hewouldn't let us know then—when wecouldn't come. By that time otherletters[Pg 190] I had written on the way out began to come back from Wenton. (Ialways used my own envelopes with the Dalton address in the corner, soof course they all showed up here in time.) When the second and thirdcame he knew it wasn't a mistake. He'd been hoping the first one was,somehow, he said."

"Yes, yes, I see. And of course it might have been. But what did he do?Didn't he do—anything?"

"Yes. First, he said, he kept his own counsel—here in town. He knewwe'd want to avoid all gossip and publicity."

"He put the thing into the hands of a private detective whom he couldtrust; and he went himself to Wenton—for a vacation, apparently."

"Nothing—except that she was not there, and hadn't been there since sheleft some years ago, soon after her mother's death. He says he'spositive of that. So he had to come back no wiser than he went."

"None, so far as I know. I never heard her mention knowing a soul there.Still, I believe she had a—a position there with some one, before shewent to Aunt Eunice; but I don't know who it was."[Pg 191]

"My best friend! She'd be apt to go to him, wouldn't she, if she wererunning away from me? Besides, we've had three or four letters from himsince we've been gone. Don't you suppose he'd tell us of it, if she'dgone to him?"

"Yes, yes, of course," frowned John Denby, biting his lips. "It's onlythat I was trying to get hold of some one—or something. Think ofit—that child alone in Boston, and—no friends! Of course she hadmoney—that is, I suppose she cashed it—that check?" John Denby turnedwith a start.

"Oh, yes. I asked Brett about that. I hoped maybe there'd be a cluethere, if she got somebody to cash it for her. But there was nothing.She got the money herself, at the bank here, not long after we went. Soshe must have come back for a time, anyway. Brett says Spawlding, at thebank, knew her, of course, and so there was no question as toidentification. Still it was so large a one that he telephoned to Brett,before he paid it, asking if it were all right—you being away. Brettevidently knew you had given her such a check—"

"So he said yes, it was. He says he supposed she had come down fromWenton to get it cashed, and that she would leave the bulk of it therein the bank to her credit. Anyway, all he could do was to assure[Pg 192]Spawlding that you had given her such a check just before you wentaway."

"Yes. The detective, of course, is still working on the case. He got toBoston, but there he's up against a blank wall. He's run a fine-toothcomb through all sorts of public and private institutions in Boston andvicinity without avail. He's made a thorough search at the railroadstation. He can't find a person who has any recollection of a youngwoman and child answering their description, arriving on that date, whoseemed to be troubled or in doubt where to go. He questioned the matron,ticket-men, cabbies, policemen—everybody. Of course every one had seenplenty of young women with babies in their arms—young women who had thehair and eyes and general appearance of Helen, and who were anxious andfretted. (They said young women with babies were apt to be anxious andfretted.) But they didn't remember one who asked frantic questions as towhat to do, and where to go, and all that—acting as we think Helenwould have acted, alone in a strange city."

"I don'tknow where she is, of course. But don't[Pg 193] be too sure it is'poor child' with her, dad. She's doing this thing because shewantsto do it. Don't forget that. Didn't she purposely mislead us by thatnote she left on my chiffonier? She didn't say shehad gone to Wenton,but she let me think she had. 'Address me at Wenton, if you care towrite,' she said. And don't forget that she also said: 'I hope you'llenjoy your playday as much as I shall mine.' Don't you worry aboutHelen. She's taken my child and your ten thousand dollars, and she's offsomewhere, having a good time;—and Helen could have a good time—on tenthousand dollars! Incidentally she's also punishing us. She means togive us a good scare. She's waiting till we get home, and till themoney's gone. Then she'll let herself be found."

"Oh, come, come, Burke, aren't you just a little bit—harsh?"remonstrated John Denby.

"I don't think so. She deserves—something for taking that child awaylike this. Honestly, as my temper is now, if it wasn't for the baby, Ishould feel almost like saying that I hoped she wouldn't ever come back.I don't want to see her. But, of course, with the baby, that's anothermatter."

"Yes; but, see here, dad! Helen knew where she was going. She's gone tofriends. Wouldn't she have left some trace in that station if she'd beenfrightened and uncertain where to go? Brett says the detective found onecabby who remembered taking just such[Pg 194] a young woman and child from anevening train at about that time. He didn't recollect where he took her,and he couldn't say as to whether she had been crying, or not; but he'spositive she directed him where to go without a moment's hesitation. Ifthat was Helen, she knew where she was going all right."

"The detective tried that. He went as a student, or something, andmanaged to hire a room of Mrs. Cobb. He became very friendly and chatty,and showed interest in all the neighbors, not forgetting the vacant flaton the same floor. But he didn't learn—much."

"Oh, yes; he learned that it belonged to a poor little woman whosehusband was as rich as mud, but quite the meanest thing alive, in thathe'd tried to buy her off with ten thousand dollars, because he wasashamed of her! Just about what I should think would come from a womanof Mrs. Cobb's mentality!"

"Apparently. But she didn't know Helen had gone to Boston. The detectivefound out that. She told him she believed she'd gone back home to her[Pg 195]folks. So Helen evidently did not confide in her—or perhaps sheintentionally misled her, as she did us."

For a minute the angry, perplexed, baffled young husband marched backand forth, back and forth, in the great, silent room. Then, abruptly, hestopped short, and faced his father.

"I shall try to find her, of course,—though I think she'll let us hearfrom her of her own accord, pretty soon, now. But I shan't wait forthat. First I shall go to Aunt Eunice and see if she knows the names ofany of the people with whom Helen used to live, before she came to her.Then, whatever clues I find I shall endeavor to follow to the end.Meanwhile, so far as Dalton is concerned,—my wife is out of town.That's all. It's no one's business. The matter will be hauled over everydinner-table and rolled under the tongue of every old tabby in town. Butthey can only surmise and suspect. They can't know anything about it.And we'll be mighty careful that they don't. Brett—bless him!—has beenthe soul of discretion. We'll see that we follow suit.My wife is outof town! That's all!" And he turned and flung himself from the room.

As soon as possible Burke Denby went to his Aunt Eunice and told her hissorry tale. From her he obtained one or two names, and—what he eagerlygrasped at—an address in Boston. Each of these clues he followedassiduously, only to find that it led nowhere. Angrier, but no wiser, hewent back home.[Pg 196]

The detective, too, reported no progress. And as the days became weeks,and the weeks a month, with no word of Helen, Burke settled into abitterness of wrath and resentment that would not brook the mention ofHelen's name in his presence.

Burke was feeling very much abused these days. He was, indeed, thinkingof himself and pitying himself almost constantly. The woman to whom hehad given his name (and for whom he had sacrificed so much) had madethat name a byword and a laughing stock in his native town. He wasneither bachelor nor husband. He was not even a widower, but anondescript thing to be pointed out as a sort of monster. Even his childwas taken away from him; and was doubtless being brought up to hatehim—Burke forgot that Dorothy Elizabeth was as yet but slightly overtwo years old.

As for Helen's side of the matter—Burke was too busy polishing his ownshield of defense to give any consideration to hers. When he thought ofhis wife, it was usually only to say bitterly to himself: "Humph! Whenthat ten thousand dollars is gone we'll hear from her all right!" And hewas not worrying at all about her comfort—with ten thousand dollars tospend.

"She knows whereshe is, and she knows whereI am," he would declarefiercely to himself. "When she gets good and ready she'll come—and notuntil then, evidently!"

In March a line from Dr. Gleason said that he[Pg 197] would be in town a day ortwo, and would drop in to see them.

"Helen—yes. Of course—he'll have to know something; but—I shall tellhim mighty little." Burke's lips snapped together in the grim mannerthat was becoming habitual with him.

Gleason came on Friday. There was an odd constraint in his manner. Atthe same time there was a nervous wistfulness that was almost an appeal.Yet he was making, obviously, a great effort to appear as usual.

Not until Burke found himself alone with his guest did he speak of hiswife. Then he said:—

"Of course! Everybody knows that, I suppose," retorted Burke bitterly.He hesitated, then went on, with manifest effort: "If you don't mind,old fellow, we'll leave it—right there. There's really nothing that Icare to say."

"There are no 'ifs' about it," interrupted Burke, with sternimplacability. "Helen knows very well where I am, and—she isn't here.That's enough for me."

"Gleason, please, I'd rather not talk about it," interrupted Burke Denbydecidedly. And the doctor, in the face of the stern uncompromisingnessof the man before him, and of his own solemn, but hard-wrung promise,given to a no less uncompromising little woman whom he had left only theday before, was forced to drop the matter. His face, however, stillcarried its look of troubled disappointment. And he steadfastly refusedto remain at the house even for a meal—a most extraordinary proceedingfor him.

"He's angry, and he's angry with me," muttered Burke Denby to himself,his eyes moodily fixed on the doctor's hurrying figure as it disappeareddown the street. "He wanted to preach and plead, and tell me my 'duty.'As if I didn't know my own business best myself! Bah! A fig for his'ifs' and 'buts'!"[Pg 199]

CHAPTER XIII

A WOMAN'S WON'T

Two days after his visit to Dalton, Frank Gleason dropped himself into alow chair in his sister's private sitting-room in the Beacon Hill house.

"Oh, yes; they care very much," smiled the doctor wearily; "but not inthe way that is going to help any. I couldn't getanything out ofBurke, and I didn't get much more out of his father. But I did alittle."

"Heavens, I hope not!—under the circumstances. But I felt all kinds ofa knave and a fool and a traitor. I got away as soon as possible. Icouldn't stay. I hoped to get something—anything—that I could use fora cudgel over Helen, to get her to go back, you know. But I couldn't geta thing. However, I shall keep on urging, of course."

"Burke said nothing, practically. Nor would he[Pg 200] let me say anything. Heis very angry (his father told me that), and very bitter."

"Not according to his father. It seems they have had a detective on thecase, and have traced her to Boston. There the trail ends. But they havefound out enough to feel satisfied that no evil has befallen her. Burkeargues that Helen is staying somewhere (with friends, he believes)because she wants to. Such being the case he doesn't want her back untilshe gets good and ready to come. He does want the baby. John Denby toldme, in fact, that he believed if Burke found them now, as he's feeling,he'd insist on a separation; and that the baby should be given to him."

"Given to him, indeed!" flashed Mrs. Thayer angrily. "And yet, in theface of that, you sit there and say you shall urge her to go back, ofcourse."

"There isn't any question about it," interrupted Mrs. Thayer decidedly."That poor child stays where she is now."

"Oh, but, Edith, this sort of thing can't go on forever, you know,"remonstrated the doctor nervously, his forehead drawn into an anxiousfrown.

"I wasn't talking about forever," returned the lady, with tranquilconfidence. "I was talking aboutnow, to-day, next week, next year, ifit's necessary."

"Certainly—if Burke Denby hasn't come to his senses by that time. Why,Frank Gleason, don't you suppose I'd do anything,everything, to helpthat child keep her baby? She worships it. Besides, it's going to be themaking of her."

"I know; but if they could be brought together—Burke and his wife, Imean—it seems as if—as if—" The man came to a helpless pause.

"Frank, see here," began Edith Thayer resolutely. "You know as well as Ido that those two people have been wretched together for a year or more.They are not suited to each other. They weren't in the first place. Tomake matters worse, they were both nothing but petted, spoiled children,no more fit to take on the responsibilities of marriage than my Bess andCharlie would be. All their lives they'd had their own dolls andshotguns to do as they pleased with; and when it came to marrying andsharing everything, including their time and their tempers, they flewinto bits—both of them."

"Well, they're apart now. Never mind who was to blame for it, or whetherit was or wasn't a wise move. It's done. They're apart. They've got achance to think things over—to stand back and get a perspective, as itwere. Helen thinks she can metamorphose herself into the perfect wifethat Burke will love. Perhaps she can. Let us say she has one chance ina million of doing so;—well, I mean she[Pg 202] shall have that chance,especially as the alternative—that is, her going back home now—is sureto be nothing but utter wretchedness all round."

"Yes, yes, very plausible—tosay, of course. I see she's talked youover. She did me. I was ready to pull the moon down for her footstoolthat first night she came to me. I'm ready to do it now—when I'm withher. But away from her, with a chance to think,—it really is absurd,you know, when you come right down to it. Here are Burke and his father,my good friends, hunting the country over for Burke's wife and child.And here am I, harboring her and abetting her, and never opening myhead. Really, it's the sort of thing that you'd say—er—couldn'thappen, you know."

"But itis happening; and so far as their finding her is concerned,you said yourself, long ago, that it was the safest hiding-place in theworld, for they'd never think of looking in it. They've never been inthe habit of coming here, and their friends don't know us. As for theservants, and the few of my friends who see her, she's merely Mrs.Darling. That's all. Besides, you're entirely leaving out ofconsideration Helen's own attitude in the matter. I haven't a doubt butthat, if you did tell, she'd at leastattempt to carry out her crazythreats of flight and oblivion. Really, Frank, so far as being a friendis concerned, you're being the truest friend, both to Burke and hisfather, and to Helen, by keeping her and protecting her[Pg 203] from herselfand others—to say nothing of the real help I hope I'm being to her."

"I know, I know," sighed the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets,and scowling at the toe of his shoe. "You 're a brick, Edith! It's beensimply marvelous to me—the way you've taken hold. Even that first awfulSunday morning last July, when I showed you what I'd brought you, didn'tquite bowl you over."

"It did almost," laughed Edith; "especially when she blurted out thatalarming speech, after you'd told me who she was."

"She said, tragically, frenziedly: 'Oh, Mrs. Thayer, you will help me,won't you?—to be swell and grand andknow things, so's Burke won't beashamed of me. And if you can't makeme so, you will Baby, won't you?I'll do anything—everything you say. Oh, please say you will. Iknowyou're Burke's kind of folks, just to look at you, and at this—thehouse, and all these swell fixings! You will, won't you? Oh, please sayyou will!'"

"Every bit of it—and more, that I can't remember. You see, I couldn'tsay anything—not anything, for a minute. And the more she said, theless Icould say. Probably she saw something of the horror and dismayin my face, and that's what made her so frenzied in her appeal."

"No wonder you were struck dumb at her nerve[Pg 204] and at mine in asking youto take her in," laughed the doctor softly.

"Oh, but 'twas for only a minute. I capitulated at once, first becauseof the baby—she was such a dear!—then because of the mother's love forit. I thought I'd seen devotion, Frank, but never have I seen it likehers."

"How is she doing, really, about—well, er—this privateself-improvement association of hers?" The doctor's smile was eager andquizzical. "I've been away so much, and I've seen so little of her formonths past—howis she doing?"

"Splendidly! She's a daily marvel to me, she's so patient andpainstaking. Oh, of course, she hasn'tlearned so very much—yet. Butshe's so alert and earnest, and she watches everything so! Indeed, if itweren't really so pitiful and so tragic, it would be perfectly funny andabsurd. The things she does and says—the things she asks me to teachher! Feverishly and systematically she's set herself to becoming 'swell'and 'grand.'"

"Oh, yes, I know," laughed the lady, answering his shuddering words andgesture. "And—we've nearly eliminated those expressions from ourvocabulary now. Burke didn't like them either, she says."

"Of course all the teaching in the world isn't going to accomplish thething she wants," went on Mrs. Thayer, a little soberly. "I might teachher[Pg 205] till doomsday that clothes, jewels, grooming, and perfume don'tmake the lady; and unless she learns by intuition and absorption whatdoes make the lady, she'll be little better off than she was before.But she puts me now through a daily catechism until sometimes I amnearly wild. 'Do ladies do this?' 'Do ladies do that?' she queries atevery turn, so that I am almost ready to fly off into a veritable orgyof slang and silliness, just from sheer contrariety. I can tell you,Frank, this attempting to teach the intangible, evanescent thing I'mtrying to teach Helen Denby isn't very easy. If you think it is, you tryit yourself."

"Heaven forbid!" shrugged the man. "But I'll risk you, Edith. But, tellme—does she help you any, in any way? Do you think you can—keep her,for a while?"

"Keep her? Of course I shall keep her! Do you suppose I'd turn thatchild adrift now? Besides, she's a real help to me with the children.And I know—and she knows—that in helping me she is helping herself,and helping Dorothy Elizabeth—'Betty' she calls her now. We're gettingalong beautifully. We—"

There came the sound of hurried steps, then the sudden wide flinging ofthe door, and the appearance of a breathless young woman.

"Oh, Mrs. Thayer, they said the doctor had come, and—" Helen Denbystopped short, her abashed eyes going from one to the other of theexpressive[Pg 206] faces before her. "Oh, I—I beg your pardon," she faltered."I hadn't ought to have burst in like this. Ladies don't. You saidyesterday that ladies never did. But I—I—doctor, you went to—toDalton?" she appealed to the man.

Helen Denby relaxed visibly, and dropped herself into a low chair nearby. The color came back to her face.

"Oh, no. But—" The doctor stirred uneasily. "Mrs. Denby, don't youthink— Won't you let me tell them where you are?"

"You don't have to say any more, doctor," interposed Helen Denby,smiling a little sadly.[Pg 207]

"Well, of course, Burke is very angry and very bitter, just now," heexplained defensively. "But if you two could be brought together—" Hepaused helplessly.

"'Twould be the same old story—only worse. I see so many things nowthat I never saw before. Even if he said right now that he wanted me, Iwouldn't go back. I wouldn't dare to. 'Twouldn't be a day before he'd beashamed of me again. Maybe some time I'll learn—" She paused, her eyeswistfully fixed out the window. "But if I don't"—she turned almostfrenziedly—"Betty will. Betty is going to be a lady from right now.Then some day I'll show her to him. He won't be ashamed of Betty. Yousee if he is!"

Helen Denby sprang to her feet. The wild look of that first night offlight came into her eyes, but her voice, when she spoke, was very calm.

"Dr. Gleason," she began resolutely, "it's just as I told you before.Unless you'll promise not to tell Burke where I am, till I say the word,I shall take Betty and go—somewhere. I don't know where. But it'll bewhere you can't find me—any of you."

"Iam thinking!" choked Helen. "Butyou don't seem to be.Can'tyou see how I want to stay here? I've got a chance, maybe, to be likeyou and your sister, and all the rest of Burke's swell—I mean, likeBurke's friends," she corrected, with a hot blush. "And, anyhow, Betty'sgot a chance. We've made a start. We've begun. And here you want to goand tip it all over by telling Burke. And there can't anything goodhappen, if Burke knows. Besides, didn't he say himself that weneededto have a vacation from each other? Now, won't you promise, please?"

"Oh, good Heavens, yes! Of course I'll promise," he groaned. "I suspectyou could make me promise to shave my head and dance the tangobarefooted down Washington Street, if you set out to. Oh, yes, I'llpromise. But I can tell you right now that I shall wake up in the deadof night and pinch myself to make sure Ihave promised," he finishedwith wrathful emphasis.

Helen laughed light-heartedly. She even tossed the doctor a playfulglance as she turned to go.

"All right! I don't care a mite how much you pinch yourself," shedeclared. "You've promised—and that's all I care for!" And she left theroom with buoyant step.

"You see," observed Mrs. Thayer significantly, as the door closed behindher.[Pg 209]

"Yes, I see—so far," nodded Dr. Frank Gleason with a sigh. "But I dowish I could see—what the end is going to be."

"It isn't given to us to see ends," responded Mrs. Thayer sententiously."We can only attend to the beginnings and make them right."

"Humph!" grunted her brother, with some asperity. "I'm not saying I likethe beginning, in this case. Honestly, to speak plainly, my dear Edith,I consider this thing one big fool business, from beginning to end."

"Can you suggest, dear, all things considered, anything else for us todo than what weare doing?"

"No—confound it! And that's what's the matter," groaned Frank Gleason."But that isn't saying that Ilike to play the fool."

"Well, I shouldn't worry. I'm not worrying," replied his sister, with anenigmatic smile.

"Maybe not. But I'm glad I'm going on that Arctic trip, and that it'sjust next month. I'd as soon not see much of the Denbys just now. Feeltoo much like the evil-eyed, double-dyed villain in a dime movie,"growled the doctor, getting to his feet, and striding from the room.[Pg 210]

CHAPTER XIV

AN UNDERSTUDY

Soon after the doctor started on his trip to the North the Thayersclosed their Beacon Street home and went to their North Shore cottage.The move was made a little earlier than usual this year, a fact whichpleased the children not a little and delighted Helen Denby especially.

"You see, I'm always so afraid in Boston," she explained to Mrs. Thayer,as the train pulled out of the North Station.

"That somewhere—on the street, or somewhere—I'll meet some one fromDalton, or somebody that knew—my husband."

"Yes, I know. And there was danger, of course! But—Helen, that bringsup exactly the subject that I'd been intending to speak to you about.Thus far—and advisedly, I know—we have kept you carefully in thebackground, my dear. But this isn't going to do forever, you know."

"I know, dear; but if you are to learn this—this—" Mrs. Thayerstumbled and paused as she[Pg 211] always stumbled and paused when she tried toreduce to words her present extraordinary mission. "You will have to—tolearn to meet people and mingle with them easily and naturally."

"You mean, I'll have to meet and mingle with swell people if I, too,am— Oh, that horrid word again! Mrs. Thayer,why can't I learn tostop using it? But you mean— I know what you mean. You mean I'll haveto meet and mingle with—with ladies and gentlemen if I'm to be onemyself. Isn't that it?"

"Y-yes, of course; only—the very words 'lady' and 'gentleman' have beenso abused that we—we—Oh, Helen, Helen, you do put things so baldly,and it sounds so—so— Don't you see, dear? It's all just as I've toldyou lots of times. The minute you begin to talk about it, you lose it.It's something that comes to you by absorption and intuition."

"But there are things I have to learn, Mrs. Thayer,—real things, likeholding your fork, and clothes, and finger nails, and not speaking soloud, and not talking about 'folks' being 'swell' and 'tony,' and—"

"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. Thayer, with a touch ofdesperation. "But, after all, it's all so—so impossible! And—" Shestopped abruptly at the look of terrified dismay that always leaped toHelen Denby's eyes in response to such a word. "No, no, I don't meanthat. But, really, Helen,"[Pg 212] she went on hurriedly, "the time has comewhen you must be seen more. And it will be quite safe at the shore, I amsure. You'll meet no one who ever saw you in Dalton; that is certain."

"All the more reason why you should do it then," smiled Mrs. Thayerbriskly. "You're to learnnot to dread it. See? And it'll be easierthan you think. There are some very pleasant people coming down. TheGillespies, Mrs. Reynolds and her little Gladys,—about Betty's age, bythe way,—and next month there'll be the Drew girls and Mr. Donald Esteyand his brother John. Later there will be others—the Chandlers, and Mr.Eric Shaw. And I'm going to begin immediately to have them see you, andhave you see them."

"Of course. And that's the way you'll learn—many other things. Butthere are others—still others—that you can learn in no way as well asby[Pg 213] association with the sort of well-bred men and women you will meetthis summer. I don't mean that you arealways to be with them, mydear; but I do mean that you must be with them enough so that it is amatter of supreme indifference to you whether you are with them or not.Do you understand? You must learn to be at ease with—anybody. See?"

"Yes, I think I do, Mrs. Thayer; and I will try—so hard!" Shehesitated, then asked abruptly, "Who is Mr. Donald Estey, please?"

"That's more cleverly put than you know, child," she shrugged. "I neverthought of it before, but I fancy we all do say Mr. Donald Estey'sname—with a difference."

"In his own estimation—yes! There! I was wrong to say that, Helen, andyou must forget it. Mr. Donald Estey is a very wealthy, very capable,very delightful and brilliant young bachelor. He is a little spoiled,perhaps; but that's our fault and not his, I suspect, for he's pettedand made of enough to turn any man's head. He's very entertaining. Heknows something about everything. He can talk[Pg 214] Egyptian scarabs with mybrother, and Irish crochet with me, and then turn around and discusspolitics with my husband, and quote poetry to Phillis Drew in the nextbreath. All this, of course, makes him a very popular man."

"Why, of—of course!" Mrs. Thayer frowned slightly; then, suddenly, shelaughed. "To tell the truth he's very like your husband, in some ways,I've heard my brother say—tastes, temperament, and so forth."

"Why, y-yes; you might put it that way, I suppose. But never mind.You'll see for yourself when you see him."

"Yes, I'll see—when I see him." Helen Denby nodded and relaxed in herseat. The odd something was still smouldering in her eyes.

"Then it's all settled, remember," smiled Mrs. Thayer. "You're not torun and hide now when somebody comes. You're to learn to meet people.That's your next lesson."

"My next lesson—my next lesson," repeated Helen Denby, half under herbreath. "Oh, I hope I'll learn so much—in this next lesson! I won't runand hide now, indeed, I won't, Mrs. Thayer!"

And at the glorified earnestness of her face, Mrs.[Pg 215] Thayer, watching,felt suddenly her own throat tighten convulsively.

In spite of her valiant promise, Helen Denby, a week later, did almostrun and hide when the Gillespies, the first of Mrs. Thayer's guests,arrived. Held, however, by a stern something within her, she bravelystood her ground and forced herself to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gillespie andtheir daughters, Miss Alice and Miss Maud. It was not so difficult thenext week when Mrs. Reynolds came, perhaps because of the pretty littleGladys, so near her own Betty's age.

Fully alive to her own shortcomings, however, embarrassed, anddistrustful of herself, Helen was careful never to push herself forward,never to take the initiative. And because she was so quiet andunobtrusive, her intense watchfulness, and slavish imitation of what shesaw, passed unnoticed. Gradually, as the days came and went, thetenseness of her concentration relaxed, and she began to move and speakwith less studied caution. It was at this juncture that Mr. Donald Esteyarrived. Instantly into her bearing sprang an entirely new, alerteagerness. But this, too, passed unnoticed, for the change was not inherself alone. The entire household had made instant response to thepresence of Mr. Donald Estey. The men sharpened their wits, and thewomen freshened their furbelows. Breakfast was served on the minute withnever a vacant chair; and even the steps of the maids in the kitchenquickened.[Pg 216]

Because Mr. Donald Estey was always surrounded by an admiring group, thefact that "that quiet little Mrs. Darling" was almost invariably one ofthe group did not attract attention. It was Mr. Donald Estey himself, infact, who first noticed it; and the reason that he noticed it wasbecause once, when she was not there, he found himself looking for hereager face. He realized then that for some time he had been in the habitof finding his chief inspiration in a certain pair of wondrouslybeautiful blue eyes bent full upon himself.

Not that the encountering of admiring feminine eyes bent full upon himwas a new experience to Mr. Donald Estey; but that these eyes weredifferent. There was something strangely fascinating and compelling intheir earnest gaze. It was on the day that he first missed them that hesuddenly decided to cultivate their owner.

He began by asking casual questions of his fellow guests, but he couldfind out very little concerning the lady. She was a Mrs. Darling, afriend of their hostess (which he knew already). She was a widow, theybelieved, though they had never heard her husband mentioned. She waspleasant enough—but so shy and retiring! Charming face she had, though,and beautiful eyes. But did he not think she was—well, a littlepeculiar?

Mr. Donald Estey did not answer this, directly. He became, indeed,always very evasive when his fellow guests turned about and began toquestion[Pg 217] him. Very soon, too, he ceased his own questioning. But thathe had not lost his interest in Mrs. Darling was most unmistakably shownat once, for openly and systematically he began to seek her society—tothe varying opinions (but unvarying interest) of the rest of the houseparty.

If Mr. Donald Estey had expected Mrs. Darling to be shy and coy at hisadvances, he found himself entirely mistaken. She welcomed him with afrank delight that was most flattering, at the same time most puzzling,owing to a certain elusive quality that he could not name.

Mr. Donald Estey thought that he knew women well. It pleased his fancyto think that he had his feminine friends nicely pigeonholed andlabeled, and that he had but to pass an hour or two of intimate talkwith any woman to be able at once to ticket her accurately. His firsthour of intimate talk with Mrs. Darling, however, left him confused andbaffled—but mightily interested: in the course of that one hour he hadshelved her in almost every one of his pigeonholes, only to find at theend of it that she was still free and uncatalogued.

She was a flirt; she was not a flirt. She was sincere; she washypocritical. She was brilliantly subtle; she was incredibly stupid. Shewas charming; she was commonplace. She was as clear as crystal; she wasas inscrutable as a sphinx—and she was all these things in that oneshort first hour. At the end of it, Mr. Donald Estey, with a long breathand a frown,[Pg 218] but with a quickened pulse, decided that he would haveanother hour with her as soon as possible.

He had no difficulty in obtaining it. Mrs. Darling, indeed, seemed quiteas desirous of his society as he was of hers; yet there was still theelusive something in her manner that robbed it of all offensiveeagerness. Again to-day, after the hour's intimate talk, Estey foundhimself confused and baffled, with the lady still outside hispigeonholes. Nor did he find the situation changed the next day, or thenext. Then suddenly he awoke to a new element in the case—theextraordinary deference that was being paid his lightest wish orpreference on the part of Mrs. Darling.

At first, doubting the accuracy of his suspicions, he systematically puther to the test, choosing purposely the most obvious and unmistakable.

Blue was his favorite color, he said: she appeared in blue the next day.Browning was his best-loved poet, he declared: in less than an hour hefound her poring over "Pippa Passes" in the library. A woman who couldtalk, and talk well, on current events won his sincere admiration everytime, he told her: he wondered the next morning how late she must havesat up the night before, studying the merits and demerits of the fourpresidential candidates.

Mr. Donald Estey was flattered, amused, and curiously interested. Notthat what looked to be a determined assault upon his heart was exactly anew experience for him; but that the circumstances in this[Pg 219] case were soout of the ordinary, and that he was still trying to "place" this youngwoman. He was not sure even, always, that she was trying to make a bidfor his affections. He was not sure, either, of his own mind regardingher. In spite of his interest, he was conscious, sometimes, of adistinct feeling of aversion toward her. She was not always, to hismind, quite—the lady, though she was improving in that respect. (Evenin his thoughts the word gave him a shock: he could hardly imagine acandidate for the position of Mrs. Donald Estey in needof—improvement!) But she was beautiful, and there was somethingwonderfully alluring in her eager way of listening to his every word.She was, indeed, not a little refreshing after the languid conservatismof some of the sophisticated young women one usually found at thesecountry houses. Besides, was she, after all, really in love with him?Very likely she was not. At all events, it could do no harm—this mildflirtation—if flirtation it were! He would not worry about it. Plentyof time yet to—to withdraw. He had but to receive (apparently) asummoning message, and he could go at once. That would, of course, endthe affair. Meanwhile— But just exactly what type of woman was she,anyway?

Still amused, interested, and contentedly secure, therefore, Mr. DonaldEstey pursued for another week his pleasant pastime of finding just theproper pigeonhole for this tantalizing will-o'-the-wisp of femininity;then, sharply, he received a jolt that[Pg 220] left him figuratively—almostliterally—breathless and gasping.

Mr. Donald Estey frowned and stirred restlessly—there were times whenMrs. Darling's unconventionality was not "refreshing."

"Well, really—er—" He stopped and stirred again uneasily—there was analmost frenzied earnestness in her face and manner that was somewhatdisconcerting.

"Why, er—Mrs. Darling!" He gave an embarrassed laugh as he sought forjust the right word to say. "You seem—er—extraordinarily interested."He laughed again—to hide the fact that he knew that he had said justthewrong thing.

"I am interested. Indeed, Mr. Estey, it would mean—you cannot know whatit would mean—if you'd tell me."

"Yes, yes, I know. I hadn't ought to talk like this. Ladies don't. I cansee it in your face. But it's because I want toknow so—because Imust know. Please, won't you tell me?"

With a quick lifting of his head Mr. Donald Estey pulled himself sharplytogether. Flattering as it was to be thus deferred to, thisflirtation—if flirtation it were—had gone quite far enough. He laughedagain lightly and sprang to his feet.

"Mr. Estey!" She, too, was on her feet. She had laid a persuasive handon his arm. "Please, you think I'm joking; but I'm not. I really meanit. If you only would do it—it would mean so much to me! Anddon't—don't look at me like that. Iknow I'm not being proper, and Iknow ladies don't do so—what I'm doing. But when I saw it—such asplendid chance to ask you, I—I just had to do it."

"But—but—" The startled, nonplussed man stuttered like a bashfulschoolboy; "it really is so—so absurd, Mrs. Darling, when you—er—stopto think of it."

"Then, if"—she spoke hurriedly, and with evident embarrassment—"if youwon't tell me that way, won't you please tell me another? Couldyou—would you— Am Iany like that girl, Mr. Estey?"

Mr. Donald Estey was guilty of an actual gasp of[Pg 222] dismay. In a whirl ofvexation at the situation in which he found himself, he groped blindlyfor a safe way out. Of course young women (young women such as he knew)did not really propose to one; but was it possible that that was exactlywhat this somewhat remarkable young widow was doing? It seemedincredible. And yet—

Every vestige of self-control slipped from the tortured man like agarment. Conscious only of an insane desire to flee from this wretchedwoman who was about to march him to the altar willy-nilly, he quitejerked his arm free.

"You wouldn't, I can see you wouldn't!" There was a heartbroken littlesob in her voice.

"But—but, Mrs. Darling! Oh, hang it all! What a perfectly preposteroussituation!" he stormed wrathfully. "I don't want—to marry anybody. Itell you I'm not a marrying man! I—" He stopped short at the astoundingchange that had come to the little woman opposite.

She was staring into his face with a growing terror that suddenly, atits height, broke into a gale of hysterical laughter. She covered herface with her hands and dropped into the chair behind her.

"Oh, oh, you didn't—you didn't—but you[Pg 223]did!" she choked, swayingher body back and forth. The next moment she was on her feet, facinghim, a new something in her eyes. The laughter was quite gone. "Youneedn't worry, Mr. Donald Estey." She spoke hurriedly, and with all thewildabandon of her old self. "I wasn't asking you to marry me—so youdon't have to refuse." Her voice quivered with hurt pride.

"Why, of course not, of course not, my dear lady!" He caught at thestraw. "I never thought—"

"Yes, you did; and you was floundering around trying to find a way tosay no. I wasn't good enough for you. And that's just what I was tryingto find out, too,—but it hurt, just the same, when I did find out!"

"Yes, you did. I saw it in your eyes, and in the way you drew back. OnlyI—I didn't meanyou. I never thought of your taking it that way—thatI wanted to marryyou. It was some one else that I meant."

"Yes. You don't know him. But they said you was—were, I mean, likehim; that whatyou liked, he would like. See? And that's why I triedto find out what—what you did like, so I could learn to be what wouldplease him."

"Yes—no—I don't know. I was just trying to walk and talk and breatheand move the way you wanted me to, so I could do it by and by for—him."

"And I'm going to." She lifted her chin determinedly. "I'm going to!And now you know—why I asked you what I did. I was hoping I—I hadgained a little in all these weeks. I've been trying so hard. And beforeyou came, when Mrs. Thayer told me you were like—like the man I love, Idetermined then to watch you and study you, and do everything the wayyou liked, if I could find out what it was. And now to have you think Iwasasking you to—to— As if I'd ever marry—you!" she choked. Thenext moment, with a wild fling of her arms, she was gone.

Alone, Mr. Donald Estey drew a long breath. As he turned, he faced hisown image in the mirror across the room. Slowly he advanced toward it.There was a quizzical smile in his eyes.

"Donald, me boy," he apostrophized, "you have been rejected. Do youhear?Rejected! Jove! But what an extraordinary young woman!" His eyesleft the mirror and sought the door by which she had gone.

Mr. Donald Estey did not see Mrs. Darling again during his stay. Asudden indisposition prevented her from being among the guests for somedays.[Pg 225]

CHAPTER XV

A WOMAN'S WILL

Dr. Gleason's Arctic trip, designed to cover a year of research anddiscovery, prolonged itself into three years and two months. Shipwrecks,thrilling escapes, months of silence, and a period when hope for thesafety of the party was quite gone, all figured in the story before theheroic rescue brought a happier ending to what had come so near to beinganother tragedy of the ice-bound North.

It was June when Frank Gleason, in the care of a nurse and a physician,arrived at his sister's summer cottage by the sea.

For a month after his coming Frank Gleason was too ill to ask manyquestions. But with returning strength came an insistence upon an answerto a query he had already several times put to his sister.

"Edith, what of the Denbys? Where is Helen? Why do you always evade anyquestions about her?"

"Oh, I don't know. All our friends know her as 'Mrs. Darling.' TheDenbys never come here, and[Pg 226] they'd never think of looking here for her,anyway. We figured that out long ago."

"I don't know, Frank; but not for some time—if ever—I should judge,from present indications."

"'If ever'! Good Heavens, Edith, what do you mean?" demanded the doctor,pulling himself up in his chair. "Iknew no good would come of thistom-foolishness!"

"There, there, dear, never mind all this now," begged his sister. "Pleasedon't try to talk about it any more."

"But I will talk about it, Edith. I want to know—and you might just aswell tell me in the first place, and not hang back and hesitate,"protested the doctor, with all the irritability of a naturally strongman who finds himself so unaccountably weak in his convalescence."What's the trouble? Hasn't that—er—fool-improvement business workedout? Well, I didn't think it would!"

"On the contrary, it's working beautifully. Wait till you see her. She'sa dear—a very charming woman. She's developed wonderfully. But alongwith it all has come to her a very deep and genuine, and rather curious,humility, together with a pride, the chief aim of which is to avoidanything like the[Pg 227] position in which she found herself as themortifying, distress-causing wife of Burke Denby."

"That Burke doesn't love her, she is thoroughly convinced. To go to himnow, tacitly asking to be taken back, she feels to be impossible. Shehas no notion of going where she isn't wanted; and she feels very suresheisn't wanted by either Burke or his father. Of course the longerit runs, and the longer she stays away, the harder it seems for her tomake herself known."

"Oh, but thiscan't go on forever," protested Frank Gleason again,restlessly. "I'll see Burke. As soon as I'm on my feet again I shall runup there."

"Yes, yes, I know. I shan't tell, of course. But I can bring backsomething, I'm sure, that will—will cause this stubborn young woman tochange her mind."

"Yes. She's going abroad. Do you remember Angie Reynolds?—Angie Ried,you know—married Ned Reynolds."

"Well, they're going abroad for some years—some business for the firm,I believe. Anyway, Ned will have to be months at a time in differentcities, and Angie and little Gladys are going with him. They have askedHelen and Betty to go, too; and Helen has agreed to go."

"But, my dear Frank, I thought you were just threatening toget Helento leave me!" she challenged.

"So I was," retorted the doctor, nothing daunted. "But it was to get herto go home, where she belonged; not on any wild-goose chase like thisabroad business. What does she want?—to be presented at court? Maybeshe thinks that's going to do the job!"

"Oh, come, come, Frank, now you're sarcastic!" Mrs. Thayer's voice wasearnest, though her eyes were twinkling. "It isn't a wild-goose chase abit. It's a very sensible plan. In the first place, it takes Helen outof the country—which is wise, if she's still going to try to keep herwhereabouts a secret from Burke; for eventually some one, somewhere,would see her—some one who knew her face. She can't always live sosecluded a life as she has these past three years, of course,—we havespent the greater share of that time at the beach here, coming early andstaying late.

"But that isn't all. Angie has taken a great fancy to both Helen andDorothy Elizabeth, and she likes[Pg 229] to have Gladys with them. The childrenare the same age—about five, you know—and great cronies. Angie istaking Helen as a sort of companion-governess. Her duties will be lightand congenial. Both the children will be in her charge, and theirtreatment and advantages will be identical. There will be a nurserygoverness under her, and she herself will be much with Angie, which willbe invaluable to her, in many ways. And, by the way, Frank, the factthat a woman like Angie Reynolds is taking her for a traveling companionshows, more conclusively than anything else could, how greatly improvedHelen is—what a really charming woman she has come to be. But it is asplendid chance for her, certainly, and especially for Betty—her wholelife centers now in Betty—and I urged her taking it. At first shedemurred, on account of leaving me; but I succeeded in convincing herthat it was altogether too good an opportunity to lose."

"Oh, that's all right, then. I shall see Burke long before that." Thedoctor settled back in his chair with a relieved sigh.

"Frank, dear, you can't do anything," she ventured at last. "Didn't Itell you she wasn't ready to go back?"

"Perhaps. But wait. I'm not going to say another[Pg 230] word now, nor let you.Wait till you see her—and you shall see her in a day or two—just assoon as you are strong enough. But not another word now." And to makesure that he obeyed, Mrs. Thayer rose laughingly and left the room.

It was four days later that Frank Gleason for the first time ventureddownstairs and out into the warm sunshine on the south veranda. Hearinga child's gleeful laugh and a woman's gently remonstrative voice,—avoice that he thought he recognized,—he walked the length of theveranda and rounded the corner.

His slippered feet made no sound, so quite unheralded he came upon thewoman and the little girl on the wide veranda steps. Neither one sawhim, and he stopped short at the corner, his eyes alight with suddenadmiration.

Frank Gleason thought he had never seen a more lovely little girl.Blue-eyed, golden-haired, and rosy-cheeked, she was the typicalchild-beautiful of picture and romance. A-tiptoe on the topmost step shewas reaching one dimpled hand for a gorgeous red geranium blooming in apot decorating the balustrade. In the other hand, tightly clutched, wasanother gorgeous blossom, sadly crushed and broken. She was laughinggleefully. Near her, but not attempting to touch her, was a woman thedoctor recognized at once. It was Helen—but Helen with a subtledifference of face, eyes, hair, dress, and manner that was at onceilluminating but baffling.[Pg 231]

"Betty, dear," she was saying gently, "no, no! Mother said not to pickthe flowers."

"But I wants 'em to grow in my hands—so," insisted a threateninglytearful voice, as the tightly clutched flower was thrust forward forinspection.

"But they won't grow there, darling. See!—this one is all crumpled andbroken now. It can't even lift its poor little head. Come, we don't wantthe rest to be like that, do we? Come! Come away with me."

"But mother doesn't." There was a resolute note of decision in the quietvoice now; but suddenly it grew wonderfully soft and vibrant. "And daddywouldn't, either, dearie. Only think how sorry daddy would be to seethat poor little flower in Betty's hand!"

As if in response to a potent something in her mother's voice, Betty'seyes grew roundly serious.

"Because daddy loves all beautiful things, and he wants them to staybeautiful. And this poor little flower in Betty's hand won't bebeautiful much[Pg 232] longer, I fear. It is all broken and crushed; anddaddy—"

With a sudden sense of guilt, as if trespassing on holy ground, thedoctor strode forward noisily.

"So this is Dorothy Elizabeth and her mother—" he began gayly; but hecould get no further.

"Oh, Dr. Gleason, I'm so glad! Youare better, aren't you? I'm so gladto see you!"

"Yes, I'm better. I'm well—only I can't seem to make people believe it.And you— I don't need to ask how you are. And so this big girl is thelittle Dorothy Elizabeth I used to know. You have your mother's eyes, mydear. Come, won't you shake hands with me?"

The little girl advanced slowly, her gaze searching the doctor's face.Then, in her sweet, high-pitched treble, came the somewhat disconcertingquestion:—

"No, my dear. I'm a poor unfortunate man who hasn't any little girl likeyou; but we'll hope, one of these days, you'll see—daddy." He turned toHelen Denby with suddenly grave, questioning eyes.

"Betty, dear,"—Mrs. Denby refused to meet the doctor's gaze,—"go carrythe flower to Annie and ask her please to put it in water for you; thenrun out and play with Bessie in the garden. Mother wants to talk to Dr.Gleason a few minutes." Then,[Pg 233] to the doctor, she turned an agitatedface. "Surely, didn't your sister—tell you? I'm going to London withMrs. Reynolds."

"For more of this 'improvement' business, I suppose," cut in the doctor,a bit brusquely.

"Oh, but I can't blame you, of course," she smiled wistfully; "andespecially now that I see myself how absurd I was to think, for aminute, that I could make myself over into a—a—the sort of wife thatBurke Denby would wish to have."

"Absurd that you could— Come, come!Now what nonsense are youtalking?" snapped the doctor.

"But it isn't nonsense," objected Helen Denby earnestly. "Don't yousuppose I knownow? I used to think it was something you could learnas you would a poem, or that you could put on to you, as you would a newdress. But I know now it's something inside of you that has to grow andgrow just as you grow; and I'm afraid all the putting on and learning inthe world won't getme there."

"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Denby!" expostulated the doctor, in obviousconsternation.[Pg 234]

"But it's so. Listen," she urged tremulously. "Now I—I just can't likethe kind of music Burke does,—discords, and no tune, you know,—thoughI've tried and tried to. Day after day I've gone into the music-room andput in those records,—the classics and the operatic ones that are thereal thing, you know,—but I can't like them; and I still keep likingtunes and ragtime. And there are the books, too. I can't help likingjingles and stories thattell something; and I don't like poetry—notreal poetry like Browning and all the rest of them."

"Oh, but it's other things—lots of them; vague, elusive things that Ican't put my finger on. But I know them now, since I've been here withyour sister and her friends. Why, sometimes it isn't anything more thanthe way a woman speaks, or the way she sits down and gets up, or eventhe way a bit of lace falls over her hand. But they all help. Andthey've helped me, too,—oh, so much. I'm so glad now of this chance tothank you. You don't know—you can't know, what it's been for me—to behere."

"But I thought you just said that you—youcouldn't—that is, thatyou'd—er—given up," floundered the doctor miserably, as if groping forsome sort of support on a topsy-turvy world.

"Given up? Perhaps I have—in a way—for myself. You see, I know nowthat you have to begin young. That's why I'm so happy about Betty. Idon't mind about myself any more, if only I can[Pg 235] make it all right forher. Dr. Gleason, I couldn't—I justcouldn't have her father ashamedof—Betty!"

"Ashamed of that child! Well, I should say not," blustered the doctorincoherently; "nor of you, either, you brave little woman. Why—"

"Bettyis a dear, isn't she?" interrupted the mother eagerly. "Youdo think she'll—she'll be everything he could wish? I'm keeping himalways before her—what he likes, how he'd want her to do, you know. Andalmost always I can make her mind now, with daddy's name, and—"

"My dear lady, can't you see that now—rightnow is just the time foryou to go back to your husband?"

The eager, pleading, wistful-eyed little mother opposite became suddenlythe dignified, stern-eyed woman.

"Why—er—y-yes; well, that is, he— I know he has wanted to know whereyou were."

"Very likely; but that isn't wantingme. Dr. Gleason, don't you thinkI have any pride, any self-respect, even? My husband was ashamed of me.He asked me to go away for a time. He wrote me with his own hand that hewanted a vacation from me. Do you thinknow, without a sign or a wordfrom him, that I am going creeping back to him and ask him to take meback?"[Pg 236]

"Are you? Very well; we'll see—if he says anything. You won't tell himwhere I am, I know. I have your promise. But, Dr. Gleason,"—her voicegrew very sweet and serious,—"I shall not be satisfied now withanything short of a happy married life. I know now what marriage is,where there is love, and trust in each other, and where they like to doand talk about the same things. I've seen your sister and her husband.Unless I canknow that I'm going to bring that kind of happiness toBurke, I shall not consent to go back to him. I will give him hisdaughter. Some time, when she is old enough, I want him to see her. WhenI know that he is proud of my Betty, I may not—mind the rest so much,perhaps. But now—now—" With a choking little cry she turned and fleddown the steps and out on to the garden path.

In the hall he came face to face with his sister. She fluttered intoinstant anxiety.

"I did. Oh, the doctor said so, too," he flung out hurriedly, answeringthe dawning disapproval in her eyes. "I'm going to Dalton next week."

"Now, please don't argue. I'm going. If you and the doctor can get mewell enough to go—all right. But I'm going whether I'm well enough ornot."

"Oh, I shan't break any promises, of course. But I'm going to see Burke.I'm going to find out if he really is ninny enough to keep on holdingoff, at the end of a silly quarrel, the sweetest little wife a man everhad, and—"

"I have, and—doesn't like Browning, indeed! And can't help likingtunes! Oh, good Heavens, Edith, if Burke Denby doesn't— Well, we'll seenext week," he glowered, striding away, followed by the anxious butstill twinkling eyes of his sister.

In accordance with his threat, and in spite of protests, the doctor wentto Dalton the next week. But almost by return train he was back again,stern-lipped and somber-eyed.

"Neither one. They're gone. South America. Bridge contract. Wentthemselves this time."

"Oh, that explains it—why we haven't heard from them since you cameback. Ihad thought it strange, Frank, that not a word ofcongratulation or even inquiry had come from them."

"Yes, I know. I—I'd thought it strange myself—a little. But thatdoesn't help this thing any. I can't very well go to South America tosee Burke, just now—though I'd like to."

"Of course not. Besides, don't forget that you very likely wouldn'taccomplish anything if you did see him."

So deep was the sudden gloom on the doctor's face at her words that thelady added quickly: "You did find out something in Dalton, Frank! I knowyou did by your face. You saw some one."

"And it's right that he shouldn't, of course. It's his business to keephis mouth shut—and he knows his business as well as any man I can thinkof. Oh, he was perfectly civil, and apparently very gracious andopen-hearted in what he said."

"He said that they had gone to South America on a big bridge contract,and that they wouldn't be home for four or five months yet. He said thatthey were very well, and that, probably, when they came back from thistrip, they would go to South Africa for another six months. I couldn'tget anywhere near asking about Helen, and Burke's present state of mindconcerning her. He could scent a question of that sort forty words away;and he invariably veered off at a tangent long before I got to it. Itwas like starting for New York and landing in Montreal! I had to give itup. So far as anything I could learn to the contrary, Mr. Burke Denbyand his father are well, happy, and perfectly content to build bridgesfor heathens and Hottentots the rest of their natural existence. Andthere you are! How, pray, in the face of that, are we going to keepHelen from running off to London?"

"Oh, yes, it can, my dear; and I'm inclined to think it's going on justright. Very plainly they aren't ready for each other—yet. Let her go toLondon and make the best of all these advantages for herself and Betty;and let him go on with his bridge-building for the Hottentots. 'Twill dothem good—both of them, and will be all the better for them when theydo come together."

"Why, Frank, of course they are! You couldn't[Pg 240] keep them apart,"declared the lady, with smiling confidence.

"But, Edith, you haven't ever talked like this—before," puzzled thedoctor, frowning.

"I've never known before that Burke Denby was building bridges for theHottentots."

"Yes, but Master Burke and his father haven't always gone to superintendtheir construction," she flashed. "In other words, if Burke Denby istrying so strenuously to get away from himself, it's a pretty sure signthat there's something in himself that he wants to get away from! Yousee?"

"Well, I should like to see," sighed the doctor, with very evidentdoubt.[Pg 241]

CHAPTER XVI

EMERGENCIES

In September Helen Denby and Dorothy Elizabeth went to London. Withtheir going, a measure of peace came to Frank Gleason. Not having theirconstant presence to remind him of his friend's domestic complications,he could the more easily adopt his sister's complacent attitude ofcheery confidence that it would all come out right in time—that itmust come out right. Furthermore, with Helen not under his own roof,he was not so guiltily conscious of "aiding and abetting" a friend'srunaway wife.

Soon after Helen's departure for London, a letter from Burke Denby infar-away South America told of the Denbys' rejoicing at the happyoutcome of the Arctic trip, and expressed the hope that the doctor waswell, and that they might meet him as soon as possible after theirreturn from South America in December.

The letter was friendly and cordial, but not long. It told little oftheir work, and nothing of themselves. And, in spite of its verbalcordiality, the doctor felt, at its conclusion, that he had, as it were,been attending a formal reception when he had hoped for a cozy chat bythe fire.

In December, at Burke's bidding, he ran up to Dalton for a brief visit,but it proved to be as stiff and[Pg 242] unsatisfying as the letter had been.Burke never mentioned his wife; but he wore so unmistakable an"Of-course-I-understand-you-are-angry-with-me" air, that the doctor(much to his subsequent vexation when he realized it) went out of hisway to be heartily cordial, as if in refutation of the disapprovalidea—which was not the impression the doctor really wished to convey atall. He was, in fact, very angry with Burke. He wanted nothing so muchas to give him a piece of his mind. Yet, so potent was Burke's dignifiedaloofness that he found himself chattering of Inca antiquities andBabylonian tablets instead of delivering his planned dissertation on thefutility of quarrels in general and of Burke's and Helen's inparticular.

With John Denby he had little better success, so far as results wereconcerned; though he did succeed in asking a few questions.

"You have never heard from—Mrs. Denby?" he began abruptly, the minutehe found himself alone with Burke's father.

The old man's face became suddenly mask-like—a phenomenon with whichJohn Denby's business associates were very familiar, but which Dr. FrankGleason had never happened to witness before.

"If you will pardon me, doctor," began John Denby in a colorless voice,"I would rather not discuss the lady. There isn't anything new that Ican[Pg 243] say, and I am beginning to feel—as does my son—that I wouldrather not hear her name mentioned."

This ended it, of course. There was nothing the doctor could say or do.Bound by his promise to Helen Denby, he could not tell the facts; andsilenced by his host's words and manner, he could not discusspotentialities. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to drop thesubject. And he dropped it. He went home the next day. Resolutely thenhe busied himself with his own affairs. Determinedly he set himself toforget the affairs of the Denbys. This was the more easily accomplishedbecause of the long silences and absences of the Denby men themselves,and because Helen Denby still remained abroad with Angie Reynolds.

In London Helen Denby was living in a new world. Quick to realize theadvantages that were now hers, she determined to make the most ofthem—especially for Betty. Always everything now centered around Betty.

In Mrs. Reynolds Helen had found a warm friend and sympathetic ally, onewho, she knew, would keep quite to herself the story Helen had told her.Even Mr. Reynolds was not let into the inner secret of Helen's presencewith them. To him she was a companion governess, a friend of theThayers', to whom his wife had taken a great fancy—a most charminglittle woman, indeed, whom he himself liked very much.[Pg 244]

Freed from the fear of meeting Burke Denby or any of his friends, Helen,for the first time since her flight from Dalton, felt that she wasreally safe, and that she could, with an undivided mind, devote herentire attention to her self-imposed task.

From London to Berlin, and from Berlin to Genoa, she went happily, asMr. Reynolds's business called him. To Helen it made little differencewhere she was, so long as she could force every picture, statue,mountain, concert, book, or individual to pay toll to her insatiablehunger "to know"—that she might tell Betty.

Mrs. Reynolds, almost as eager and interested as Helen herself,conducted their daily lives with an eye always alert as to what would bebest for Helen and Betty. Teachers for Gladys and Betty—were teachersfor Helen, too; and carefully Mrs. Reynolds made it a point that her ownsocial friends should also be Helen's—which Helen accepted withunruffled cheerfulness. Helen, indeed, had now almost reached the goallong ago set for her by Mrs. Thayer: it was very nearly a matter ofsupreme indifference to her whether she met people or not, so far as theidea of meeting them was concerned. There came a day, however, when, fora moment, Helen almost yielded to her old run-and-hide temptation.

They were back in London, and it was near the close of Helen's thirdyear abroad.

"I met Mr. Donald Estey this morning," said Mrs. Reynolds at theluncheon table that noon. "I asked[Pg 245] him to dine with us to-morrow night.He is here for the winter."

Once Helen would have given a cry, dropped her fork with a clatter, orotherwise made her startled perturbation conspicuous to all. That onlyan almost imperceptible movement and a slight change of color resultednow showed something of what Helen Denby had learned during the last fewyears.

"Yes. You remember him," nodded Mrs. Reynolds. "He was at the Thayers'at the same time I was there six years ago—tall, good-looking fellowwith glasses."

"Yes, I remember," smiled Helen. And never would one have imagined thatbehind the quiet words was a wild clamor of "Oh, what shall I do—whatshall I do—whatshall I do?"

What Helen Denby wanted to do was to run away—far away, where Mr.Donald Estey could never find her. Next best would be to tell Mrs.Reynolds that she could not see him; but to do that, she would have totell why—and she did not want to tell even Mrs. Reynolds the story ofthat awful hour at the Thayers' North Shore cottage. True, she mightfeign illness and plead a headache; but Mrs. Reynolds had said that Mr.Estey was to be in London all winter—and she could not very well have aheadache[Pg 246] all winter! There was plainly no way but to meet this thingfairly and squarely. Besides, had not Mrs. Thayer said long ago thatemergencies were the greatest test of manners, as well as of ropes andhousewives, and that she must always be ready for emergencies? Was sheto fail now at this, her first real test?

Mr. Donald Estey was already in the drawing-room when Helen Denby camedown to dinner the following evening. She had put on a simple whitedress—after a horrified rejection of a blue one, her first choice. (Shehad remembered just in time that Mr. Donald Estey's favorite color wasblue.) She was pale, but she looked charmingly pretty as she entered theroom.

"You remember Mr. Estey," Mrs. Reynolds murmured. The next moment Helenfound her hand in a warm clasp, and a pair of laughing gray eyes lookingstraight into hers.

"And I remember Mrs. Darling very well," came to her ears in Mr. DonaldEstey's smoothly noncommittal voice. Then she forced herself to walkcalmly across the room and to sit down leisurely.

What anybody said next she did not hear. Somewhere within her a voicewas exulting: "I've done it, I've done it, and I didn't make a break!"

It was a small table, and conversation at dinner was general. At firstHelen said little, not trusting[Pg 247] herself to speak unless a question madespeech imperative; but gradually she found the tense something withinher relaxing. She was able then to talk more freely; and before thedinner was over she was apparently quite her usual self.

As to Mr. Donald Estey—Mr. Donald Estey was piqued and surprised, butmightily interested. Half his anticipated pleasure in this dinner hadbeen the fact that he was to see Mrs. Darling again. She would blush andstammer, and be adorably embarrassed, of course. He had not forgottenhow distractingly pretty she was when she blushed. He would like to seeher blush again.

But here she was—and she had not blushed at all. What had happened? Acool little woman in a cool little gown had put a cool little hand inhis, with a cool "Oh, yes, I remember him very well." And that was all.Yet she was the same Mrs. Darling that he had met six years before, andthat had— But was she the same, really the same?That Mrs. Darlingcould never have carried off a meeting like this with such sweetserenity. He wondered—

Mr. Donald Estey found frequent opportunity for studying his new-oldfriend during the days that followed, for they were much together. InMrs. Reynolds's eyes he made a very convenient fourth for a day'ssight-seeing trip or a concert, and she often asked him to join them.Also he made an even[Pg 248] more convenient escort for herself and Helen when,as often happened, Mr. Reynolds was unable to accompany them.

In one way and another, therefore, he was thrown often with thissomewhat baffling young woman, who refused to be catalogued. The veryfact that he still could not place her made him more persistent thanever. Besides, to himself he owned that he found her very charming—andvery charming all the time. There was never on his part now that oldfeeling of aversion, of which he used to be conscious at times. And shewas always quite the lady. He wondered how he could ever have thoughther anything else. True, on that remarkable occasion six years before,she had said something about learning how to please—But he was tryingto forget that scene. He did not believe that everything was quitestraight about that extraordinary occasion. There must have been, insome way, a mistake. He did not believe, anyway, that it signified. Atall events, he was not going to worry about a dead and gone past likethat.

Mr. Donald Estey was not the only one that was trying to forget thatoccasion. Helen herself was putting it behind her whenever the thoughtof it entered her head. Thinking of it brought embarrassment; and shedid not like to feel embarrassed. She believed that he was trying toshow that he had forgotten it; and if he were disposed to forget theridiculous affair, surely she should be more than glad to do it. And sheconsidered it very fine of him—very[Pg 249] fine, indeed. She liked him, too.She liked him very much, and she enjoyed being with him. And there couldbe no harm now, either, in being with him all she liked, for he couldnever make the mistake of thinking she cared for him particularly. Heunderstood that she loved some one else. They might be as friendly asthey pleased. There could never—thank Heaven!—be any misunderstandingabout their relationship.

Confidently serene, therefore, Helen Denby enjoyed to the full thestimulus of Mr. Donald Estey's companionship. Then, abruptly, her houseof cards tumbled about her ears.

"Mrs. Darling, will you marry me?" the man asked one day. He spokelightly, so lightly that she could not believe him serious. Yet she gavehim a startled glance before she answered.

"Why, you know—you must remember—what I—I told you, six years ago."The red suffused her face.

"You mean—that you cared for some one else?" He spoke gravely now. Thesmile was quite gone from[Pg 250] his eyes. "But, Mrs. Darling, it's just therethat I can't believeyou're in earnest. Besides, that was six yearsago."

"But I am in earnest, and it's the same—now," she urged feverishly."Oh, Mr. Estey, please, please, don't let's spoil our friendship—thisway. I thought you understood—I supposed, of course, you understoodthat I—I loved some one else very much."

"But, Mrs. Darling, you said that six years ago, and—and you're stillfreenow. Naturally no man would be such a fool as to let— So Ithought, of course, that you had—had—" He came to a helpless pause.

"But I told you then that I was—was learning—was trying to learn— Oh,why do you make me say it?"

"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Darling, you don't expect me to believe that younow,now are still trying to learn to please (as you call it) somemythically impossible man!"

"Then he's blind, deaf, and dumb, I suppose!" Mr. Donald Estey's voicewas still wrathful.

"No, no, oh, no! He's—" Suddenly her face grew grave, and very earnest."Mr. Estey, I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand. If you—you[Pg 251] careanything for me, you will not question me any more. Ican't tell you.Please, please don't say any more."

But Mr. Donald Estey did say more—a little more. He did not say much,for the piteous pleading in the blue eyes stayed half the words on hislips before they were uttered. In the end he went away with a baffled,hurt pain in his own eyes, and Helen did not see him again for somedays. But he came back in time. The pain still lurked in his eyes, butthere was a resolute smile on his lips.

"If you'll permit, I want things to be as they were before," he toldher. "I'm still your friend, and I hope you are mine."

"Don't worry." His resolute smile became almost gay. "You'll see howgood a friend I can be!"

If Mr. Donald Estey was hoping to take by strategy the citadel that hadrefused to surrender, he gave no sign. As the days came and went, he wasclearly and consistently the good friend he had said he would be; andHelen Denby found no cause to complain, or to fear untoward results.

And so the winter passed and spring came; and it was on a beautiful dayin early spring that Helen took Betty (now nine years old) to one ofLondon's most famous curio-shops. There was to be an auction[Pg 252] shortly ofa very valuable collection of books and curios, and the advertisingcatalogue sent to Mr. Reynolds had fallen into Helen's hands.

It was no new thing for Helen to haunt curio-shops and museum-cabinetsgiven over to Babylonian tablets and Egyptian scarabs. Helen had neverforgotten the little brown and yellow "soap-cakes" which were sotreasured by Burke and his father, and of which she had been so jealousin the old days at Dalton. At every opportunity now she studied them.She wanted to know something about them; but especially she wanted Bettyto know about them. Betty must know something about everything—that wasof interest to Burke Denby.

To-day, standing with Betty before a glass case of carefully numberedtreasures, she was so assiduously studying the catalogue in her handthat she did not notice the approach of the tall man wearing glasses,until an amused voice reached her ears.

"I should say not—or hear me, either. I spoke twice before you deignedto turn. I did not know you were so interested in archæology, Mrs.Darling."

"I'm not. I think it's—" Her face changed suddenly. "Oh, yes, I'minterested—very much interested,"[Pg 253] she corrected hastily. "But I meanI—I don't know anything about it. But I—I'm trying to learn. Perhapsyou—Can you tell me anything about these things?"

Something in her face, the fateful "learn," and her embarrassed manner,sent his thoughts back to the scene between them years before. Stiflingan almost uncontrollable impulse to query, "Is it to pleasehim, then,that you must learn archæology?" he shrugged his shoulders and shook hishead.

"I'm afraid not," he smiled. "Oh, I know alittle something of them,it's true; but I've just been chatting with a man out in the front shopwho could talk to you by the hour about those things—and grow fat onit. He's looking at a toby jug now. Shall I bring him in?"

"But, really, you'd find him interesting, I'm sure. I met him in Egyptlast year. His name is Denby—a New Englander like— Why, Mrs. Darling,what is the matter? Are you faint? You're white as chalk!"

"No, no, I'm all right. Did you mean"—with white lips she asked thequestion—"Mr. John Denby?" She threw a quick look at Betty, who was nowhalfway across the room standing in awed wonder before a huge Buddha.

"No, this is Burke Denby, John Denby's son. I met them both last year.But you seem to— Do you know them?"[Pg 254]

"Yes." She said the word quietly, yet with an odd restraint that puzzledhim. He saw that the color was coming back to her face—what he couldnot see or know was that underneath that calm exterior the little womanat his side was wildly adjuring herself: "Now, mind, mind, this is anemergency. Mind you meet it right!" He saw that she took one quick steptoward Betty, only to stop and look about her a little uncertainly.

"Mr. Estey,"—she was facing him now. Her chin was lifted determinedly,but he noticed that her lips were trembling. "I do not want to see Mr.Burke Denby, and hemust not see me. There is no way out of thisplace, apparently, except through the front shop, where he is. I wantyou to go out there and—and talk to him. Then Betty and I can slip byunnoticed."

"Mr. Estey, youwill do what I ask you to—and please go—quickly!He's sure to come out to see—these." She just touched the case ofBabylonian tablets.

To the man, looking into her anguished eyes, came a swift, overwhelmingrevelation. He remembered, suddenly, stories he had heard of a tragedyin Burke Denby's domestic affairs. He remembered words—illuminatingwords—that this woman had said to him. It could not be— And yet—

"I am Mrs. Burke Denby," she interrupted quietly. "You will not betrayme, I know. Now, will you go, please?"

For one appalled instant he gazed straight into her eyes; then without aword he turned and left her.

He knew, a minute later, that he was saying something (he wonderedafterward what it was) to Mr. Burke Denby out in the main shop. He knew,too, without looking up, that a woman and a little girl passed quietlyby at the other side of the room and disappeared through the opendoorway. Then, dazedly, Mr. Donald Estey looked about him. He waswondering if, after all, he had not been dreaming.

That evening he learned that it was not a dream. Freely, and with afrank confidence that touched him deeply, the woman he had known as Mrs.Darling told him the whole story. He heard it with naturally varyingemotions. He tried to be just, to be coolly unprejudiced. He tried also,to hide his own heartache. He even tried to be glad that she loved herhusband, as she so unmistakably did.

"And you'll tell him now, of course—where you are," he said, when shehad finished.

"Er"—he hesitated a little—"you don't want to forget that—er—youhave long ago qualified for—thatunderstudy. You remember that—Iwanted you."

The rich color that flamed into her face told that she fully understoodwhat he meant, yet she shook her head vehemently.

"No, no! Ah, please, don't jest about—that. I was very much inearnest—indeed, I was! And I thought then—that I really could—could—But I understand—lots of things now that I never understood before. Itis really all for Betty that I am working now. I want to makeher—what he would want her to be."

"I don't want you to talk that way, please. I would rather think—justof Betty."

"I don't know." Her eyes grew fathomless. She turned them toward thewindow. "Of course I think and think and think. And of course Iwonder—how it's all coming out. I'm sure I'm doing right now, and Ithink—I was doing right—then."

"When I went away—at the first. I can't see how I could have doneanything else, as things were. Some way, all along, I've felt as if Iwere traveling a—a long road, and that on each side was a tall hedge. Ican't look over it, nor through it. I can't even look ahead—very far.The road turns—so often. But there have never been anycrossroads—there's never been any other way I could take, as I lookedat it. Don't you see, Mr. Estey?"

"Yes, I think I see." The old baffled pain had come back to his eyes,but she did not seem to notice it. Her gaze had drifted back to thewindow.

"And so I feel that now I'm still on that road and that it'sleading—somewhere; and some day I shall know. Until then, there isn'tanything I can do—don't you see?—there isn't anything I can do but tokeep—straight ahead. There really isn't, Mr. Estey."

"No, I suppose there isn't," said Mr. Donald Estey, rising to his feetwith a long sigh.[Pg 258]

CHAPTER XVII

PINK TEAS TO FLIGHTY BLONDES

One by one the years slipped by, swiftly, with little change. In Boston,the doctor, trying not to count them, still had not forgotten. FromHelen, through his sister, came glowing accounts of concerts, lectures,travels, and language-lessons for herself and Betty. From Dalton, bothdirectly and indirectly, began to come reports of a new gayety at theold Denby Mansion. Dinners and house-parties, and even a ball or two,figured in the reports.

Vexed and curious, the doctor—who had, of late, refused most of hisinvitations to Dalton—took occasion, between certain trips of his own,to go up to the little town, to see for himself the meaning of this, tohim, unaccountable phase of the situation.

There was a big reception at Denby Mansion on the evening of the day ofhis arrival. The hotel parlor and office were abuzz with stories of theguests, decorations, and city caterer. There came to the doctor's ears,too, sundry rumors—some vague, others unpleasantly explicit—concerninga pretty little blonde widow, who was being frequently seen these daysin the company of Burke Denby, the son.

"Of course he'd have to get a divorce—but he could do that easy,"overheard the doctor in the[Pg 259] corridor. "His wife ran away, didn't she,years ago? I heard she did."

Uninvited and unheralded, the doctor attended the reception. Passing upthe old familiar walk, he came to an unfamiliar, garish blaze of lights,a riot of color and perfume, a din of shrieking violins, the swish ofsilken skirts, and the peculiarly inane babble that comes from amultitude of chattering tongues.

Gorgeous lackeys reached unfamiliar hands for his hat and coat, and thedoctor was nearly ready to turn and flee the delirium of horror, when hesuddenly almost laughed aloud at sight of the half-perplexed,half-terrified, wholly disgusted face of Benton. At that moment the oldmanservant's eyes met his own, and the doctor's eyes grew suddenly moistat the beatific joy which illumined that harassed, anxious old face.

Regardless of the trailing silks and billowing tulle between them,Benton leaped to his side.

"Yes; but what is this, Benton?" laughed the doctor. "What is themeaning of all this?"

"Blest if I know, sir—indeed, I don't. But I'm thinking it's gone crazyI am. And sometimes I think maybe the master and young Master Burke,too, are going crazy with me. I do, sir!"

"I can well imagine it, Benton," smiled the doctor dryly, as he began tomake his way toward the big[Pg 260] drawing-room where John Denby and his sonwere receiving their guests.

The doctor could find no cause to complain of his welcome. It wascordial and manifestly sincere. He was introduced at once as an old andvalued friend, and he soon found himself the center of a plainlyadmiring group. It was very evidently soon whispered about that he wasthe Dr. Frank Gleason of archæological and Arctic fame; and his onlydifficulty, after his first introduction, was to find any time for hisown observations and reflections. He contrived, however, in spite of hisembarrassing popularity, to see something of his hosts. He talked withthem, when possible, and he watched them with growingly troubled eyes.

Many times that evening he saw the mask drop over John Denby's face.Twice he saw a slow turning away as of ineffable weariness. Once he sawa spasm as of pain twitch his lips; and he noted the quick, involuntarylifting of his hand to his side. He saw that usually, however, themaster of Denby House stood tall and straight and handsome, with thecordial, genial smile of a perfect host.

As to Burke—it was when the doctor was watching Burke that the troublein his eyes grew deepest. True, on Burke's face there was no mask ofinscrutability, in his eyes was no weariness, on his lips no quick spasmof pain. He was gay, alert, handsome, and apparently happy.Nevertheless, the frown on the doctor's face did not diminish.[Pg 261]

There was a look of too much wine—slight, perhaps, but unmistakable—onBurke Denby's face, that the doctor did not like. The doctor also didnot like the way Burke devoted himself to the blonde young woman who wasso eternally at his elbow.

This was the widow, of course. The doctor surmised this at once.Besides, he had met her. Her name was Mrs. Carrolton, and Mrs. Carroltonwas the name he had heard so frequently in the hotel. The doctor did notlike the looks of Mrs. Carrolton. She was beautiful, undeniably, in away; but her blue eyes were shifting, and her mouth, when in repose, hadhard lines. She was not the type of woman he liked to have Burke with,and he would not have supposed she was the sort of woman that Burkehimself would care for. And to see him now, hanging upon her everyword—

With a gesture of disgust the doctor turned his back and stalked to thefarther side of the room, much to the surprise of a vapid young woman,to whom (he remembered when it was too late) he had been supposed to betalking.

A little later, in the dining-room, where he had passed so many restfulhours with Burke and his father, about the softly lighted table, thedoctor now, in the midst of a chattering, thronging multitude, attemptedto keep his own balance, and that of a tiny, wobbly plate,intermittently heaped with salads, sandwiches, cakes, and creams, whichhe was supposed to eat, but which he momentarily and terrifyingly[Pg 262]expected to deposit upon a silken gown or a spotless shirt-front.

The doctor was one of the first of John Denby's guests to make hisadieus. He had decided suddenly that he must get away, quite away, fromthe sight of Burke and the little widow. Otherwise he should saysomething—a very strong something; and, for obvious reasons, he reallycould say—nothing.

Disgusted, frightened, annoyed, and aggrieved, he went home the nextmorning. To his sister he said much. He could talk to his sister. Hegave first a full account of what he had seen and heard in Dalton,omitting not one detail. Then, wrathfully, he reproached her:—

"So you see what's come of your foolishness. Burke isn't buildingbridges for the Hottentots now. He's giving pink teas to flightyblondes."

"But that's only another way of trying to get away from himself, Frank,"she argued.

"I know." She bit her lips. "I am a little worried at that, Frank, I'llown. I've wondered, often, if—if there was ever any danger of somethinglike that happening."

"Well, you wouldn't wonder any longer, if you should see Mrs. NellieCarrolton," observed the doctor, with terse significance.[Pg 263]

"That she'd better come home and look after her property; if shedoesn't, she's likely to lose it. That's what I'm going to tell her."

"Oh, Frank!" murmured his distressed sister again; but she made nofurther demur. And that night the letter went.

In due course came the answer. It was short, but very much to the point.The doctor read it, and said a sharp something behind his teeth. Withoutanother word he handed the note to his sister. And this is what sheread:—

"Hm-m; just about what I expected she'd say," commented the doctor'ssister tranquilly, as she laid the letter down.[Pg 264]

"Oh, you women!" flung out the doctor, springing to his feet and turningwrathfully on his heel.

The doctor was relieved, but not wholly eased in his mind some dayslater when he heard indirectly that Denby Mansion was closed, and thatthe Denbys were off again to some remote corner of the world.

"Oh, yes, it's far, all right," growled the doctor, somewhatbelligerently. "Anyhow, it's too far for the widow, thank Heaven!"

The doctor went himself "far" before the month was out. Already hisplans were made for a six months' trip with a research party to his pethunting-ground—the grotto land of northern Spain. Once more thecalmness of silence and absence left Edith Thayer with only HelenDenby's occasional letters to remind her of Burke Denby and hismatrimonial problem.[Pg 265]

CHAPTER XVIII

A LITTLE BUNCH OF DIARIES

It was three years before the doctor went up to Dalton again. It was ona sad errand this time. John Denby had died suddenly, and after anhour's hesitation, the doctor went up to the funeral.

There were no garish lights and shrieking violins to greet him as hepassed once more up the long, familiar walk. The warm September suntouched lovingly the old brass knocker, and peeped behind the statelycolonial pillars of the long veranda. It gleamed for a moment on thebald heads of the somber-coated men filing slowly through the widedoorway, and it tried to turn to silver the sable crape hanging at theright of the door.

Not until that evening, after the funeral, did the doctor have theopportunity for more than a formal word of greeting and sympathy withBurke Denby. He had been shocked in the afternoon at the changes in theyoung man's face; but he was more so when, at eight o'clock, he calledat the house.

He found Burke alone in the library—the library whose every book andchair and curio spoke with the voice of the man who was gone—the manwho had loved them so well.

Burke himself, to the doctor, looked suddenly old and worn, andinfinitely weary of life. He did not[Pg 266] at once speak of his father. Butwhen he did speak of him, a little later, he seemed then to want to talkof nothing else. Things that his father had done and said, his littleways, his likes and dislikes, the hours of delight they had passedtogether, the trips they had taken, even the tiddledywinks and MotherGoose of childhood came in for their share. On and on until far into thenight he talked, and the doctor listened, with a word now and then ofsympathy or appreciation; but with a growing ache in his heart.

There was a moment's silence. The doctor, his beseeching eyes on theyounger man's half-averted face, was groping in his mind for the rightwords to introduce the subject which all the evening had been at thedoor of his lips—Helen. He felt that now, with Burke's softened heartto lend lenience, and with his lonely life in prospect to plead the needof companionship, was the time, if ever, that an appeal for Helen mightbe successful. But the right words of introduction had not come to himwhen Burke himself began to speak again.

"And it's almost as if I'd lost both father and mother," he went onbrokenly; "for dad talked so much of mother. To him she was always withus, I think. I can remember, when I was a little boy, how real she wasto me. In all we did or said she[Pg 267] seemed to have a part. And always, allthe way up, he used to talk of her—except for the time when—"

He stopped abruptly. The doctor, watching, wondered at the whitecompression that came suddenly to his lips. In a moment it was gone,however, and he had resumed speaking.

"Of late years, dad has seemed to talk more than ever of mother, and hespoke always as if she were with us. And now I'm alone—so utterlyalone. Gleason—how ever am I going to live—without—dad!"

The doctor's heart leaped with mingled fear and elation: fear at what hewas about to do; elation that his chance to do it had come. He clearedhis throat and began, courageously, though not quite steadily.

"But—there's your wife, Burke. If only you—" He stopped short indismay at the look that had come into Burke Denby's face.

"My wife! My wife! Don't speak of my wife now, man, if you want me tokeep my reason! The woman who brought more sorrow to my father than anyother living being! What do you think I wouldn't give if I could blotout the memory of the anguish my marriage brought to dad? I can see hiseyes now, when he was pleading with me—before it. Afterwards—Do youknow what a brick dad was afterwards? Well, I'll tell you. Never by somuch as a look—much less a word—has he reproached or censured me. Atfirst he—he just put up a wall between us. But it was a wall of griefand sore hurt. It was never anger. I know that now. Then, one[Pg 268] day,somehow, I found that wall down, and I looked straight into dad's eyes.It was never there again—that wall. I knew, of course, that dad hadnever—forgotten. The hurt and grief were still there,—that I could sodisobey him, disregard his wishes,—but he would not let them be a wallbetween us any longer. Then, when it all turned out as it did— But henever once said, 'I told you so,' nor even looked it. And he was kindand good to Helen always. But when I think how I—I, who love himso—brought to him all that grief and anguish of heart, I— My wife,indeed! Gleason, I never want to see her face again, or hear her namespoken!"

"I know. And that's another thing that grieved dad. He was fond of hislittle granddaughter. He used to speak of her, often, till I begged himnot to. She's mine, of course; but she's Helen's, too,—and she is beingbrought up by Helen—not me. I can imagine what she's beingtaught—about her father," he finished bitterly.

"Oh, but I'm sure— I know she's—" With a painful color the doctor,suddenly warned from within just in time, came to a frightened pause.

Burke, however, lifting a protesting hand, changed the subject abruptly;and the relieved doctor was glad, for once, not to have him wish to talklonger of his missing wife and daughter.[Pg 269]

Very soon the doctor said good-night and left the house. But his heartwas heavy.

"Perhaps, after all," he sighed to himself, "it wasn't just the time toget him to listen to reason about Helen—when it was his runawaymarriage that had so grieved his father years ago; and his fathernow—just gone."

From many lips, before he left town the next morning, Dr. Gleasonlearned much of the life and doings of the Denbys during the past fewyears. Perhaps the death of John Denby had made the Dalton tonguesgarrulous. At all events they were nothing loath to talk; and thedoctor, eager to obtain anything that would enable him to understandBurke Denby, was nothing loath to listen.

"Yes, sir, he hain't been well for years—John Denby hain't," relatedone old man into the doctor's attentive, sympathetic ears. "And I ain'tsayin' I wonder, with all he's been through. But you said you was afriend of his, didn't ye?"

"Well, it's likely, then, you know something yourself of what'shappened—though 'course you hain't lived here to see it all. First, yeknow, there was his son's marriage. And that cut the old man allup—runaway, and not what the family wanted at all.You know that, ofcourse. But they made the best of it, apparently, after a while, andyoung Denby took hold first-rate at the Works. Right down to[Pg 270] thebeginnin' he went, too,—overalls and day wages. And he donewell—first-rate!—but it must 'a' galled some. Why, once, fur a spell,he workedunder my son—he did. The men liked him, too, when they gotover their grinnin' and nonsense, and see he was in earnest.You knowwhat a likely chap young Denbycan be, when he wants to."

"Yes. Well, to resume and go on. Somethin' happened one day—in hisdomestic affairs, I mean. The pretty young wife and kid lit out forparts unknown. And the son went back to his dad. (He and his dad alwayswas more like pals than anythin' else.) Some says he sent her away—thewife, I mean. Some says she runned away herself. Like enoughyou knowthe rights of it."

There was a suggestion of a pause, and a sly, half-questioning glance;but at the absolute non-committalism of the other's face, the narratorwent on hastily.

"Well, whatever was the rights or wrongs of it, she went, and hain'tbeen seen in these 'ere parts since, as I know of. Not that Ishouldknow her if I did see her, howsomever! Well, that was a dozen—yes,fourteen years ago, I guess, and the old man hain't been the same since.He hain't been the same since the boy's marriage, for that matter.

"Well, at first, after she went, the Denbys went kitin' off on one o'them trips o' theirn, that they're always takin'; then they come homeand opened up the old house, and things went on about as they used[Pg 271] to'fore young Denby was married. But the old man fell sick—first on thetrip, then afterwards, once or twice. He wa'n't well; but that didn'thinder his goin' off again. This time they went with one of theirbridges. Always, before, they'd let Henry or Grosset manage the job; butthis time they went themselves. After that they went lots—to SouthAmerica, Africa, Australia, and I don't know where. They seemed restlessand uneasy—both of 'em.

"Then they begun ter bring folks home with 'em: chaps who wore purplesilk socks and neckties, and looked as if they'd never done a stroke ofwork in their lives; and women with high heels and false hair. My, butthere was gay doin's there! Winters there was balls and parties andswell feeds with nigger waiters from Boston, and even the dishes andwhat they et come from there, too, sometimes, they say. Summers theyrode in hayracks and autymobiles, and danced outdoors on thegrass—shows, you know. And they was a show with the women barefootedand barearmed, and—and not much on generally. My wife seen 'em once,and she was that shocked she didn't get over it for a month. She saidshe was brought up to keep a modest dress on her that had a decent waistand skirt to it. But my Bill (he's been in Boston two years now) saysit's a pageant and Art, and all right. That you can do it in pageantswhen you can't just walkin' along the street, runnin' into theneighbors'. See?"

"Oh, well, of course they didn't go 'round like that all the time. Theyplayed that thing lots where they have them little balls andqueer-looking sticks to knock 'em with. They played it all over Pike'sHill and the Durgin pasture in Old Dalton; and they got my grandson tobe a—a—"

"Yes; that's what they called it. And he made good money, too,—doin'nothin'. Wish't they'd want me for one! Well, as I was sayin', they hadall this comp'ny, an' more an' more of it; and they give receptions an'asked the hull town, sometimes. My wife went, and my darter. They saidit was fine and grand, and all that, but that they didn't believe oldJohn liked it very well. But Mr. Burke liked it. That was easy to beseen. And there was a pretty little widder there lots, andshe likedit. Some said as how they thought there'd be a match there, sometime, ifhe could get free. But I guess there wa'n't anythin' ter that. Anyhow,all of a sudden, somethin' happened. Everythin' stopped right offshort—all the gay doin's and parties—and everybody went home. Then,the next thing we knew, the old house was dark and empty again, and theDenbys gone to Australia with another bridge."

"Well, they didn't look like the same men. And[Pg 273] ever since they've beendifferent, somehow. Stern and silent, with never a smile for anybody,skursley. No balls an' parties now, you bet ye! Week in and week out,jest shut up in that big silent house—never goin' out at all except tothe Works! Then we heard he was sick—Mr. John. But he got better, andwas out again. The end come sudden. Nobody expected that. But he was agood man—a grand good man—John Denby was!"

This story, with here and there a new twist and turn, the doctor heardon all sides. And always he listened attentively, hopefully, eager, ifpossible, to find some detail that would help him in some further pleato Burke Denby in behalf of the far-away wife. Even the women wanted totalk to him, and did, sometimes to his annoyance. Once, only, however,did his irritation get the better of his manners. It was when the womanof whom he bought his morning paper at the station newsstand, accostedhim—

"Hm-m; I thought so. He was a fine man, I s'pose. Still, I didn't thinkmuch of him myself. Used to know him too well, maybe. Used to live nexthis son—same floor. My name's Cobb—and I used to see—" But the doctorhad turned on his heel without even the semblance of an apology.[Pg 274]

To his sister again he told the story of a Dalton trip, and, as before,he omitted not one detail.

"But I can't write, of course, to Helen, now," he finished gloomily."That is, I can't urge her coming back—not in the face of Burke's angryassertion that he never wants to see her again."

"Of course not. But don't worry, dear. I haven't given up hope, by anymeans. Burke worshiped his father. His heart is almost breaking now, athis loss. It is perfectly natural, under the circumstances, that heshould have this intense anger toward anything that ever grieved hisloved father. But wait. That's all we can do, anyway. I'll write toHelen, of course, and tell her of her father-in-law's death, but—"

But Helen did ask her. By return steamer came her letter expressing hershocked distress at John Denby's death, and asking timidly, buturgently, if, in Mrs. Thayer's opinion, it were the time now when sheshould come home—if she would be welcomed by her husband. To this, ofcourse, there was but one answer possible; and reluctantly Mrs. Thayergave it.

"And to think," groaned the doctor, "that when now, for the first time,Helen is willing to come, we have to tell her—she can't!"

"I know, but"—Edith Thayer resolutely blinked off the tears—"I haven'tgiven up yet. Just wait."[Pg 275]

And the doctor waited. It was, indeed, as his sister said, all that hecould do. From time to time he went up to Dalton and made his way up theold familiar walk to have a chat with the taciturn, somber-eyed mansitting alone in the great old library. The doctor never spoke of Helen.He dared not take the risk. Burke Denby's only interests plainly werebusiness, books, and the rare curios he and his father had collected. AMrs. Gowing, a distant cousin, had come to be his housekeeper, but thedoctor saw little of her. She seemed to be a quiet, inoffensive littlewoman, plainly very much in the background.

There came an evening finally, however, when, much to the doctor'sbeatific surprise, Burke Denby, of his own accord, mentioned his wife.

It was nearly two years after John Denby's death. The doctor had run upto Dalton for an overnight visit, and had noticed at once a peculiarrestlessness in his host's manner, an odd impatience of voice andgesture. Then, abruptly, in answer to the doctor's own assertion thatBurke needed something to get him away from his constant brooding in theold library,—

"Need something?" he exclaimed. "Of course I need something! I need mywife and child. I need to live a normal life like other men. I need—But what's the use?" he finished, with outflung hands.

"I know; but—you, yourself—" By a supreme effort the doctor waskeeping himself from shouting aloud with joy.

"Oh, yes, I know it's all my own fault," cut in[Pg 276] Burke crisply. "Youcan't tell me anything new on that score, that I haven't told myself.Yes, and I know I haven't even been willing to have her name spoken," hewent on recklessly, answering the amazement in the doctor's face. "Forthat matter, I don't know why I'm talking like this now—unless it'sbecause I've always said to you more than I've said to any oneelse—except dad—about Helen. And now, after being such a cad, it seemsalmost—due to her that I should say—something. Besides, doesn'tsomebody say somewhere that confession is good for the soul?"

The doctor nodded dumbly. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he dared notopen his lips. But, terrified at the long silence that followed, hefinally ventured unsteadily:—

"It's not so sudden as you think." Burke's eyes, gloomily fixed on theopposite wall, did not turn as he spoke. "It's been coming gradually fora long time. I can see that now. Still, the real eye-opener finally camefrom—mother."

"Yes, her diary—or, rather, diaries. I found them a month ago amongfather's things. I can't tell you what was in them. I wouldn't, ofcourse, if I could. They're too—sacred. Perhaps you think even I shouldnot have read them; perhaps I shouldn't.[Pg 277] But I did, and I'm glad I did;and I believe she'd have wanted me to.

"Of course, at first, when I picked one of them up, I didn't know whatit was. Then I saw my name, and I read—page after page. I was ababy—her baby. Gleason, can you imagine what it would be to look deepdown into the soul of a good woman and read there all her love, hopes,prayers, and ambitions for her boy—and then suddenly realize that youyourself were that boy?"

There was no answer; and Burke, evidently expecting none, went on withthe rush of abandonment that told of words suddenly freed from longrestraint.

"I took up then the first one—the diary she kept that first year of hermarriage; and if I had felt small and mean and unworthy before— On andon I read; and as I read, I began to see, dimly, what marriagemeans—for a woman. They were very poor then. Father was the grandson ofthe younger, runaway son, Joel, and had only his trade and his daywages. They lived in a shabby little cottage on Mill Street, long sincedestroyed. This house belonged to the other branch of the family, andwas occupied by a rich old man and his daughter. Mother was gentlyreared, and was not used to work. Those first years of poverty andprivation must have been wickedly hard for her. But the little diariescarried no complaints. They did carry weariness, often, and sometimes apitiful terror lest she be not strong enough for what was before her,and so bring disappointment[Pg 278] and grief to 'dear John.' But always, for'dear John,' I could see there was to be nothing but encouragement and asteadfast holding forth of high aims and the assurance of ultimatesuccess.

"Then, one by one, came the babies, with all the agony and fears andhopes they brought with them. Three came and slipped away into the greatunknown before I came—to stay. About that time father's patents beganto bring success, and soon the money was pouring in. They bought thishouse. It had been one of their dreams that they would buy it. The oldman had died, and the daughter had married and moved away, and the househad been for sale for some time. So they bought it, and soon after I wasborn we came here to live. Then, when I was four years old, mother died.

"That is the story—the bald story. But that doesn't tell you anythingof what those diaries were to me. In the light they shed I saw my ownmarriage—and I was ashamed. I never thought of marriage before fromHelen's standpoint. I never thought what she had to suffer and endure,and adapt herself to. I know now. Of course, very soon after ourmarriage, I realized that she and I weren't suited to each other. Butwhat of it? I had married her. I had effectually prevented her fromfinding happiness with any other man; yet it didn't seem to occur to methat I had thereby taken on myself the irrevocable duty of trying tomake her happy. I have no doubt that my ways and aims and likes anddislikes annoyed[Pg 279] her as much as hers did me. But it never occurred tome that my soft greens and browns and Beethoven harmonies got on hernerves just exactly as her pinks and purples and ragtime got on mine. Iwas never in the habit of looking at anybody's happiness but my own; andI wasn't happy. So I let fling, regardless."

Burke paused, and drew a long sigh. The doctor, puffing slowly at hiscigar, sedulously kept his face the other way. The doctor, in his fancy,had already peopled the old room with a joyous Helen and DorothyElizabeth; and he feared, should he turn, that his face would sing averitable Hallelujah Chorus—to the consequent amazement of his host.

"Mother had trials of her own—lots of them," resumed Burke, after amoment's silence. "She even had some not unlike mine, I believe, for Ithink I could read between the lines that dad was more than a bitcareless at times in manner and speech compared to the polished ways ofthe men of her family and social circle. But mother neither whined norran away. She just smiled and kept bravely straight ahead; and by and bythey were under her feet, where they belonged—all those things thatplagued. But I—I both whined and ran away—because I didn't like theway my wife ate her soup and spread her bread. They seem so smallnow—all those little ways I hated—small beside the big things thatreally counted. Do you know? I believe if more people would stop makingthe little things big and the big things little, there'd be a whole heapmore happiness[Pg 280] lying around in this old world! And Helen—poor Helen!She tried— I know she tried. Lots of times, when I was reading in thediaries what mother said about dad,—how she mustn't let him getdiscouraged or downhearted; how she must tell him she just knew he wasgoing to succeed,—lots of times then I'd think of Helen. Helen used totalk that way to me at the first! I wonder now if Helen kept a diary!And I can't help wondering if, supposing I had been a little less apt tonotice the annoyances, and a little more inclined to see the good— Bah!There, there, old man, forgive me," he broke off, with a shrug. "Ididn't mean to run on like this. I really didn't—for all the world likethe heart-to-heart advice to the lovelorn in a daily news column!"

"I'm glad you did, Burke." The doctor's carefully controlled voiceexpressed cheery interest; that was all. "And now what do you propose todo?"

"Nothing. There's nothing I can do. And that's the pity of it. She willgo on, of course, to the end of her life, thinking me a cad and acoward."

"But if you could be—er—brought together again," suggested the doctorin a voice so coldly impersonal it was almost indifferent.

"Oh, yes, of course—perhaps. But that's not likely. I don't know whereshe is, remember; and she's not likely to come back of her own accord,after all this time. Besides, if she did, who's to guarantee[Pg 281] that a fewold diaries have changed me from an unbearably selfish brute to alivably patient and pleasant person to have about the house? Not butwhat I'd jump at the chance to try, but— Well, we'll wait till I getit," he finished dryly, with a lightness that was plainly assumed.

"Well, anyway, Burke, you've never found any one else!" The HallelujahChorus did almost sing through the doctor's voice this time.

"Yes, I met her—at that reception, you know," said the doctor,answering the unspoken question.

"Oh, yes, I remember. Well, I did come near—but I pulled myself up intime. I knew, in my heart, she wasn't the kind of woman— Then, too,there was Helen. It was only that I was feeling particularly recklessthat fall. Besides, I know now that I've cared for Helen—the realHelen—all the time. And thereis a real Helen, I believe, underneathit all. As I look back at them—all those years—I know that duringevery single one of them I've been trying to get away from myself. If ithadn't been for dad—and that's the one joy I have: that I was able tobe with dad. They weren't quite lost—those years, for they brought himjoy."

"Oh, I know what you mean, of course. I've[Pg 282] been 'tried as by fire'—eh?Well, I dare say I have—and I've been found woefully wanting. Butenough of this!" he broke off abruptly, springing to his feet. "Youdon't happen to know of a young woman who has the skill of experience,the wisdom of age, the adaptability of youth, and the patience of Joball in one, do you?" he demanded.

"No, it's not a wife I'm looking for," interposed Burke, with awhimsical shrug. "It's a—a stenographer or private secretary, only shemust be much more than the ordinary kind. I want to catalogue all thistruck father and I have accumulated. She must know French and German—alittle Greek and Hebrew wouldn't be amiss. And I want one that would beinterested in this sort of thing—one who will realize she isn'thandling—er—potatoes, say. My eyes are going back on me, too, and Ishall want her to read to me; so I must like her voice. I don't wantanything, you see," he smiled grimly.

"I should say not," laughed the doctor, rising. "But before you can giveme any more necessary qualifications, I guess I'd better be going tobed."

"I don't wonder, after the harangue I've given you. But—you don't knowof such a person, do you?"

"No, I suppose not—nor anybody else," finished Burke Denby, a profoundgloom that had become habitual settling over his face.[Pg 283]

"If I do I'll send her to you," nodded the doctor, halfway through thedoor. The doctor was in a hurry to get up to his room—he had a letterto write.

"Stenographer, indeed!" sang the doctor under his breath, bounding upthe stairs like a boy. "Wait till he sees what I am going to get him!"he finished, striding down the hall and into his own room.

Before he slept the doctor wrote his letter to Helen. It was a long one,and a joyous one. It told everything that Burke had said, even to hisplaintive plea for a private secretary.

There could be no doubt now, no further delay, declared the doctor.Helen would come home at once, of course. It only remained for them todecide on the mere details of just how and when. Meanwhile, when mightthey expect her in Boston? She would come, of course, to his sister'sfirst; and he trusted it would be soon—very soon.

Addressing the letter to Mrs. Helen Darling, the doctor tucked it intohis pocket to be mailed at the station in the morning. Then, for the fewhours before rising time, he laid himself down to sleep. But he did notsleep. His brain was altogether too actively picturing the arrival ofHelen Denby and her daughter at the old Denby Mansion, and the meetingbetween them and the master of the house. And to think that at last itwas all coming out right![Pg 284]

CHAPTER XIX

THE STAGE IS SET

Impatient as was the doctor for an answer to his letter, it came beforehe expected, for a cablegram told of Helen's almost immediate departurefor America.

"I thought that would fetch her," he crowed to his sister. "And she'llbe here just next week Wednesday. That'll get her up to Dalton beforeSunday."

"No 'perhaps' to it," declared the doctor,—"if the boat gets here. Youdon't suppose she's going to delay any longer now, do you? Besides,isn't she starting for America about as soon as she can? Does that lookas if she were losing much time?"

The doctor and his sister were not surprised to see a very lovely andcharming Helen with the distinction and mellow maturity that the dozenintervening years had brought. Her letters had shown them something ofthat. But they were not prepared for the changes those same years hadwrought in Dorothy Elizabeth.

To Helen, their frank start of amazement and quick interchange ofglances upon first sight of the girl were like water to a long-parchedthroat.

"You do think she's lovely?" she whispered to the frankly staringdoctor, as Mrs. Thayer welcomed the young girl.[Pg 285]

"Lovely! She's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!" avowed the doctor,with a laughing shrug at his own extravagance.

"And she's just as sweet and dear as she is lovely," whispered back theadoring mother, as the girl turned to meet the doctor.

"You've your mother's eyes, my dear," said the doctor, very much as hehad said it to the little Betty years before.

It was not until hours later, when Betty had gone to bed, that there wasany opportunity to talk over plans. Then, before the fire in thelibrary, Helen found herself alone with the doctor and his sister.

"You see, I came almost as soon as I could," she began at once. "I didstay one day—for a wedding."

"Yes. And I'm so glad—especially glad for—for he thought once, yearsago, that he cared for some one else. And I like to know he'shappy—now."

"Hm-m," murmured the doctor, with a shrewd smile and a sidelong glanceat his sister. "So he's happy—now, eh?"

"You do think she's beautiful, don't you?" she cried, with a smile thattold she needed no answer.

"And to think of all this coming to Burke Denby, without even a turn ofhis hand," envied the doctor. "Lucky dog! And to get youboth! Hedoesn't deserve it!"

"But he isn't going to get us both!" Helen's eyes were twinkling, buther mouth showed suddenly firm lines.

"What do you mean? Surely,now you aren't going to—to—" He stoppedhelplessly.

"Listen. I've got it all planned. You said he wanted a—a sort ofprivate secretary or stenographer, didn't you?"

"Certainly. She can fill the position—you needn't worry about that.She's eighteen, you know, and she's really very self-reliant andcapable. She doesn't[Pg 287] understand shorthand, of course; but she can writehis letters for him, just the same, and in three or four languages, ifhe wants her to. She can typewrite. Mr. Reynolds got a typewriter forthe girls long ago. And sheloves to fuss over old books and curios.She and Gladys have spent days in those old London shops."

"But you don't mean you're going to give your daughter up," cried Mrs.Thayer, aghast, "and not go yourself!"

"No—not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relyingon you to—er—apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes weremerry.

"His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him dayby day, and he not to know it? Bosh! Sounds like a plot from a shillingshocker!"

"Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?—you know 'twas abook in the first place that[Pg 288] set me to making myself 'swell' and'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief.

"Oh, but, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Thayer with genuine concern. "I dothink this is impossible."

The expression on Helen Denby's face changed instantly. Her eyes grewvery grave, but luminously tender. Her lips trembled a little.

"People, dear people, if you'll listen just a minute I think I canconvince you," she begged. "I have it all planned out. Betty and I willgo to Dalton and find a quiet little home somewhere. Oh, I shall keepwell out of sight—never fear," she nodded, in reply to the quick doubtin the doctor's eyes. "Betty shall go every morning to her father'shouse, and—I'm not afraid of Betty. He will love her. He can't help it.And he will see how dear and sweet and good she is. Then, by and by, heshall know that she is his—his very own."

"But—but Betty herself! Can she act her part in this remarkablescheme?" demanded the doctor.

"She won't be acting a part. She'll just be acting herself. She is notto know anything except that she is his secretary."

"I don't think so. Anyway, it's worth trying; and if it works it'llmean—everything." The last word was so low it was scarcely above awhisper.

"But—yourself, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Thayer. "Where do you come in?What part have you in this—play?"[Pg 289]

The rich red surged from neck to brow. The doctor and his sister couldsee that, though they could not see Helen Denby's face. It was turnedquite away. There was a moment's silence; then, a little breathlessly,came the answer.

"I—don't—know. I suppose that will be—the 'curtain,' won't it?And—I've never been sure of the ending—yet. But—" She hesitated; thensuddenly she turned, her eyes shining and deeply tender. "Don't you see?It's the only way, after all. I can't very well go up to Dalton and ringhis doorbell and say, 'Here, behold your wife and daughter. Won't youplease take us in?'—can I? Though at first, when I heard of hisfather's death and thought of him so lonely there, I did want todo—just that. But I knew that wasn't best, even before your letter cametelling me—what he said.

"But now—why, this is just what I've wanted from the first—to showBetty to him, some time, when he didn't dream who she was. I wanted toknow that he wasn't—ashamed of her. And this (his wanting asecretary) gave me a better chance than I ever thought I could have.Why, people, dear people, don't you see?—with this I shan't mind nowone bit all these long, long years of waiting. Won't you helpme—please? I can't, of course, do it without your help."

"Help you? Of course we'll help you, just as we[Pg 290] did before—to get themoon, if you ask for it. I feel like a comic opera and a movie farce allin one; but never mind. I'll do it. Now, what is it Iam to do?"

Helen relaxed into such radiant joyousness and relief, that she lookedalmost like the girl Burke Denby had married nineteen years before.

"Yes; but what is it?" he groaned in mock despair. "Speak out. I want toknow the worst at once. Whatam I to do?"

"Please, you're to go up to Dalton and tell Mr. Burke Denby you thinkyou've found a young woman who will make him an excellent secretary.Then, if he consents to try her, you're to find a little furnishedapartment on a nice, quiet street, not too far from the Denby Mansion,of course, where we can live. Then I'd like a note of introduction forBetty to take to her father: she's the daughter of an old friend whomyou've known for years—see?—and you are confident she will givesatisfaction. That's all. Now, I'm sure—isn't all that quite—easy?"

"Oh, very easy,—very easy, indeed!" replied the doctor, with anothergroan. "You little witch! I declare I believe you'll carry this absurd,preposterous thing through to a triumphant finish, after all."

"But, my dear, I don't think yet that everything is quite clear,"demurred Mrs. Thayer. "How about Betty? Just what does Betty know of herfather?"[Pg 291]

A look very like fear crossed the bright face opposite. "She knowsnothing, of course, of—of my leaving home and the cause of it. I'venever told her anything of her father except to hold him up as a symbolof everything good and lovable. When she was a little girl, you know, Icould always do anything with her by just telling her that daddy wantedit so."

"But where does she think he is? Now that she is older, she must haveasked some questions," murmured Mrs. Thayer.

Helen shook her head. A faint smile came to her lips. "She hasn't; butI've been so afraid she would, and I've been dreading it always. Thenone day Mrs. Reynolds told me something Betty said to her. Since thenI've felt a little easier."

"Yes, oh, yes. I told her long ago—even before she took me to Londonwith her, in fact. I thought she ought to know. I've been so glad,since, that I did. It saved me from lots of awkward moments. Besides, itenabled her to be all the more help to me."

"Oh, yes; I didn't tell you, did I? It was this. She asked Mrs. Reynoldsone day: 'Did you ever know my father?' And of course Mrs. Reynoldssaid, 'No.' Then Betty said: 'He is dead, you know. Oh, mother nevertold me so, in words; but I understand that he is, of course. She justused to say that I[Pg 292] mustn't ask for daddy. He couldn't be with us now.That was all. At first, when I was little, I thought he was away on ajourney. Then, when I got older, I realized it was just mother'sbeautiful way of putting it. So now I like to think of him as being justaway on a journey. And ofcourse I never say anything to mother. But Ido wish I could have known him. He must have been so fine andsplendid!'"

There was a moment's silence; then softly, Helen said, as she rose toher feet: "So you see now I'm not worrying so much for fear she willquestion me; and I shall be so happy, by and by, when she finds thatdaddy has been, after all, only on a journey."

Edith Thayer, alone with her brother, after Helen Denby had goneupstairs, wiped her eyes.

"If Burke Denby doesn't fall head over heels in love with that littlewoman andknow he's got the dearest treasure on earth, I—I shall doit myself," he declared savagely. He, too, was wiping his eyes.

"Well, I am in love with her—and I'm not ashamed to own it," shedeclared. "How altogether dear and charming and winsome she is! And whenyou think—what these years have done for her!"[Pg 293]

CHAPTER XX

THE CURTAIN RISES

It was, indeed, quite "easy"—surprisingly so, as the doctor soon foundout. Not without some trepidation, however, had he taken the train forDalton the next morning and presented his proposition to the master ofDenby House.

"I think I've found your private secretary," he began blithely, hopingthat his pounding heart-throbs did not really sound like a drum.

"You have? Good! What's her name? Somebody you know?" questioned BurkeDenby, with a show of interest.

"Yes. She's a Miss Darling, and I've known her family for years." (Thedoctor gulped and swallowed a bit convulsively. The doctor was feelingthat the very walls of the room must be shouting aloud his secret—buthe kept bravely on.) "She doesn't know shorthand, but she can typewrite,and she's very quick at taking dictation in long hand, I fancy; and sheknows several languages, I believe. I'm sure you'll find her capable andtrustworthy in every way."

"Very good! Sounds well, sure," smiled Burke. "And here, for my needs,speed and shorthand are not so necessary. I do only personal business atthe house. What salary does she want?"[Pg 294]

So unexpected and disconcerting was this quite natural question that thedoctor, totally unprepared for it, nearly betrayed himself by hisconfusion.

"Eh? Er—ah—oh, great Scott! Why didn't they—I might have known—" hefloundered. Then, sharply, he recovered himself. "Well, really," helaughed lightly, "I'm a crackerjack at applying for a job, and nomistake! I quite forgot to ask what salary she did expect. But I don'tbelieve that will matter materially. She'll come for what is right, I'msure; and you'll be willing to pay that."

"Oh, yes; it doesn't matter. I'll be glad to give her a trial, anyway;and if she's all you crack her up to be I'll pay hermore than what'sright. When can she come? Where does she live?"

"Well, she's going to live here in Dalton," evaded the doctorcautiously. "She's not here yet; but she and her mother arecoming—er—next week, I believe. Better not count on her beginning worktill the first, though, perhaps. That'll be next week Thursday. I shouldthink they ought to be—er—settled by that time." The doctor drew along breath, much after the fashion of a man who has been crossing a bitof particularly thin ice.

"All right. Send her along. The sooner the better," nodded Burke, theold listless weariness coming back to his eyes. "I certainly need—someone."

"Oh, well, I reckon you'll have—some one, now," caroled the doctor, sojubilantly that it brought a frown of mild wonder to Burke Denby'sface.[Pg 295]

Later, the doctor, still jubilant and confident, hurried down the Denbywalk intent on finding the "modest little apartment" for Helen.

"Oh, well, I don't know!" he exulted to himself, wagging his head like acocksure boy. "This comic-opera-farce affair may not be so bad, afterall. Anyhow, I've made my first exit—and haven't spilled anything yet.Now for scene second!"

Finding a satisfactory little furnished apartment, not too far from theDenby home, proved to be no small task. But by sacrificing a little onthe matter of distance, the doctor was finally enabled to engage onethat he thought would answer.

"Only she'll have to ride back and forth, I'm afraid," he muttered tohimself, as he started for the station to take his train. "Anyhow, I'mglad I didn't take that one on Dale Street. She'd meet too many ghostsof old memories on Dale Street."

Buying his paper at the newsstand in the station, the doctor himselfencountered the ghost of a memory. But he could not place it until thewoman behind the counter cried:—

"There! I thought I'd seen you before. You come two years ago to theDenby fun'ral, now, didn't ye? I tell ye it takes me ter rememberfaces." Then, as he still frowned perplexedly, she explained: "Don't yeremember? My name's Cobb. I used ter live—" But the doctor had turnedaway impatiently. He remembered now. This was the woman who didn't"think much of old Denby" herself.[Pg 296]

On Monday Helen Denby and her daughter went to Dalton. At Helen's urgentinsistence the doctor refrained from accompanying them.

"But why not?" he had argued rebelliously. "I thought I was a friend ofyour family for years."

"I know; but I—I just feel that I'd rather not have you with us. Iprefer to go alone, please," she had begged. And perforce he had let herhave her own way.

It was on a beautiful day in late September that Helen Denby and herdaughter arrived at the Dalton station. Helen, fearful either that herfeatures would be recognized, or that she would betray by word or lookher knowledge of the place, and so bring an amazed question to Betty'slips, had drawn a heavy veil over her face. Betty, cheerily interestedin everything she saw, kept up a running fire of comment.

"And so this is Dalton! What a funny little station—and for so big aplace, too! It seemed to be big, as we came into it. Is Dalton a largetown, mother?"

"Why, rather large. It used to be—that is, it must be a good deal overfifteen thousand now, I suppose," murmured the mother, speaking veryunconcernedly.

Helen, realizing that already she had made one mistake, suddenly becameconvinced that safety—and certainly tranquillity of mind—lay intelling the truth—to a certain extent.[Pg 297]

"Oh, yes, I was here years ago. But the place is much changed, I fancy,"she answered lightly. "Come, dear, we'll take a taxi. But first I want apaper. I want to look at the advertisements for a maid, and—"

She had almost reached the newsstand when, to Betty's surprise, sheturned sharply about and walked the other way.

"Why, mother, I thought you said you wanted a paper," cried Betty,hurrying after her and plucking at her arm.

"But I didn't— I don't— I've changed my mind. I won't get it, afterall, just now. I'd rather hurry right home."

She spoke rapidly, almost feverishly; and Betty noticed that she engagedthe first cabby she saw, and seemed impatiently anxious to be off. Whatshe did not see, however, was that twice her mother covertly glancedback at the newsstand, and that her face behind the veil was gray-whiteand terrified. And what Betty did not know was that, as the taxistarted, her mother whispered frenziedly to herself:—

"That was—that was—Mrs. Cobb. She's older and grayer, but she's gotMrs. Cobb's eyes and nose. And the wart! I'd know that wart anywhere.And to think how near I came tospeaking to her!"

It was a short drive, and Helen and her daughter were soon in theapartment the doctor had found for them. To Helen it looked like a havenof refuge, indeed. Her near encounter with Mrs. Cobb at the[Pg 298] station hadsomewhat unnerved her. But with four friendly walls to protect her, andwith no eyes but her daughter's in sight, Helen drew a long breath ofrelief, and threw off her veil, hat, and coat.

"Oh, isn't this dear!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, and lookingadmiringly about the pretty rooms. "And just think—this is home, ourhome! Oh, dearie, we're going to be happy here, I'm sure."

"Of course we are! And it is lovely here." The words were all right, butvoice and eyes showed a trace of uneasiness.

"Yes, oh, yes; I like it all—here. It's only that I was thinking, allof a sudden, about that Mr. Denby. I was wondering if I should like itthere—with him."

"But it'll all be so new and—and different from what I've been used to.Don't you see?"

"Of course, my dear; but that's the way we grow—by encountering thingsnew and different, you see. But come, we've got lots of things new anddifferent right here that we haven't even seen yet. I'm going huntingfor a wardrobe," finished the mother lightly, springing to her feet andpicking up her hat and coat.

It was a pretty little apartment of five rooms up one flight,convenient, and tastefully furnished.

"I don't think even Burke could find fault with this," thought Helen, abit wistfully, as her eyes[Pg 299] lingered on the soft colorings andharmonious blendings of rugs and hangings. Aloud she said:—

"Yes; and when our trunks come, and we get our photographs and thingsout, it will be lovely, won't it?"

"See what?" cried Betty, hurrying to the window, as her mother's wordscame to an abrupt halt.

"The city, dear, so much of it, and—and all those beautiful houses overthere," stammered Helen. "See that church with the big dome, and thetall spire next it; and all those trees—that must be a park," shehurried on, pointing out anything and everything but the one big oldcolonial house with its tall pillars that stood out so beautifully fineand clear against the green of a wide lawn on the opposite hill.

"Oh-h! what a lovely view!" exclaimed Betty, at her side. "Why, I hadn'tnoticed it at all before, but we're on a hill ourselves, aren't we?"

Helen was not at the window now. She had turned back into the room withalmost an indifferent air. But afterwards, when Betty was busyelsewhere, she went again to the window and stood for long minutesmotionless, her eyes on the big old house on the opposite[Pg 300] hill. It wasablaze, now, for the last rays of the sun had set every windowgorgeously aflame. And not until it stood again gray and cold in thegathering dusk did Helen turn back into the room; and then it was withtear-wet eyes and a long sigh.

Getting settled was much the same thing that getting settled is alwaysapt to be. There were the same first scrappy, unsatisfying meals, thesame slow-emerging order from seemingly hopeless confusion, the sameshifting of one's belongings from shelf to drawer and back again. Inthis case, however, there were only the trunks and their contents to bedisposed of, and the getting settled was, after all, a short matter.

Much to Betty's disapproval, her mother early announced her intention ofdoing without a maid.

"Oh, but, mother, dear, you shouldn't. Besides, I thought you said youwere going to have one."

"I thought at first I would, but I've changed my mind. There will bejust us two, and I'd rather have a stout woman come twice a week for thelaundry and cleaning. With you gone all day I shall need something—totake up my mind."

Betty said more, much more; but to no purpose. Her mother was stillobdurate. It was then that into Betty's mind came a shrewd suspicion,but she did not give it voice. When evening came, however, she did asksome questions. It was the night before she was to go for the first timeto take up her work.

"Happen to come up—here?" Helen was taken by surprise. She was fencingfor time.

"Why, I—I wanted to be near to make a home for you, of course, whileyou were at work."

"Why, my dear, I've told you. I think every girl should have somethingwhereby she could earn her bread, if it were necessary. And when thischance came, through Dr. Gleason, I thought it was just the thing foryou to do."

Indifferently Betty asked two or three other questions—immaterial,irrelevant questions that led her quite away from the matter in hand.Then, as if still casually, she uttered the one question that had beenthe purpose of the whole talk.

The answer had come promptly and with a reassuring smile. But Bettytossed both the promptness and the reassuring smile into the limbo ofdisdain. Betty had her answer. She was convinced now. Her mother waspoor—very poor. That was why there was to be no maid. That was why sheherself was to go as secretary to this Mr. Denby the next day. Mother,poor, dear mother, was poor! As ifnow she cared whether she liked theplace or not! As if she would not be glad to work her fingers off formother![Pg 302]

CHAPTER XXI

THE PLAY BEGINS

"I shall take you over, myself," said Helen to her daughter as they rosefrom the breakfast table that first day of October. "And I shall showyou carefully just how to come back this afternoon; but I'm afraid Ishall have to let you come back alone, dear. In the first place, Ishouldn't know when you were ready; and in the second place, I shouldn'twant to go and wait for you."

"Of course not!" cried Betty. "As if I'd let you—and you don't evenhave to go with me. I can find out by asking."

"No, I shall go with you." Betty noticed that her mother's cheeks werevery pink and her eyes very bright. "Don't forget the doctor's letter;and remember, dear, just be—be your own dear sweet self."

"But does it mean so much to you that I—that I—that he—likes me?"asked Betty softly.

The next moment, alarmed and amazed, she found her mother's convulsivearms about her, her mother's trembling voice in her ears.

"Dear, dear, but only look at the fuss this old mother-bird is making atthe first flight of her young one!" she chattered gayly. "Come, no moreof this! We'll be late. We'll get ready right away. You say you have theletter from the doctor. Don't forget that."

"No, I won't. I have it all safe," tossed the girl over her shoulder, asshe hurried away for her hat and coat. A minute later she came back tofind her mother shrouding herself in the black veil. "Oh, mother, dear,please! You aren't going to wear that horrid veil to-day, are you?"she remonstrated.

"Can't you? Good!" (Vaguely Betty wondered at the almost gleeful tone ofthe voice.) "Then nobody can see my eyes—and know that I've beencrying."

"Ho! they wouldn't, anyway," frowned Betty. "Your eyes aren't red atall, mother."

But the mother only laughed again gleefully—and fastened the veil withstill another pin. A minute later mother and daughter left the housetogether.

It was not a long ride to the foot of the street that led up the hill toBurke Denby's home. With carefully minute directions as to the returnhome at night,[Pg 304] Helen left her daughter halfway up the hill, with thehuge wrought-iron gates of the Denby driveway just before her.

"And now remember everything—everything, dear," she faltered,clinging a little convulsively to her daughter's arm. "Dear, dear, butI'm not sure I ought to let you go—after all," she choked.

"Then you must remember to tell me everything—when you come hometo-night—everything. I shall want to know every single little thingthat's happened!"

"I will, dear, I will. And don't worry. I'm sure I'm going to do allright," comforted the girl, plainly trying to quiet the anxious fear inher mother's voice. "And what a beautiful old place it is!" she went on,her admiring eyes sweeping the handsome house and spacious groundsbeyond the gates. "I shall love it there, I know. And I'm so glad thedoctor got it for me. Now, don't worry!" she finished with a gay wave ofher hand as she turned and sped up the hill.

The mother, with a last lingering look and a sob fortunately smotheredin the enshrouding veil, turned and hurried away in the oppositedirection.

Many times before Betty's return late that afternoon, Helen wonderedthat a day, just one little day, could be so long. It seemed to her thateach minute was an hour, and each hour a day, so slowly did the clocktick the time away. She tried to work, to sew, to[Pg 305] read. But thereseemed really nothing that she wanted to do except to stand at one ofthe windows, her eyes on the massive, white-pillared old house set inits wide sweep of green on the opposite hill.

What was happening over there? Was there a possible chance that Burkewould question, suspect, discover—anything? How would he like—Betty?How would Betty like him? How would Betty do, anyway, in such aposition? It was Betty's first experience in—in working for any one;and Betty—sweet and dear and loving as she was—had something of theDenby will and temper, as her mother had long since discovered. Bettywas fearless and high-spirited. If she did not like—but what washappening over there?

And what would the outcome be? After all, perhaps, as the doctor hadsaid, it was something of a comic opera and farce all in one—this thingshe was doing. Very likely the whole thing, from the first, when she ranaway years ago, had been absurd and preposterous, just as the doctor hadsaid. And very likely Burke himself, when he found out, would think so,too. It was a fearsome thing—to take matters in her own hands as shehad done, and attempt to twist the thread in Fate's hands, and wrest itaway from what she feared was destruction—as if her own puny fingerscould deal with Destiny!

And might it not be, after all, that she had been chasing awill-o'-the-wisp of fancied "culture" all these years? True, she nolonger said "swell" and[Pg 306] "grand," and she knew how to eat her soupquietly; but was that going to make Burke—love her? She realized nowsomething of what it was that she had undertaken when she fled to thedoctor years ago. She realized, too, that during these intervening yearsthere had come to her a very real sense of what love, marriage, and ahappy home ought to mean—and what they must mean if she were ever to behappy with Burke, or to make him happy.

At ten minutes before five Betty reached home. Her mother met herhalfway down the stairs.

"Oh, Betty, you—youare here!" she panted. "Now, tell meeverything—every single thing," she reiterated, almost dragging thegirl into the apartment, in her haste and excitement. "Don't skipanything—not the least little thing; for a little thing might mean somuch—to me."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Betty, her laughing eyes growing vaguelytroubled. "Do you reallycare so much?"

With a sudden tightening of the throat Helen pulled herself up sharply.She gave a light laugh.

"Care? Of course I care! Don't you suppose I want to know what my babyhas been doing all the long day away from me? Now, tell me. Sit rightdown and tell me from the beginning."

"All right, I will," smiled Betty. To herself she said: "Poor mother! Asif I wouldn't work my fingers off before I'd fail her, when she cares somuch—when[Pg 307] sheneeds so much—what I earn!" Then, aloud, cheerily,she began:—

"Well, first, I walked up that long, long walk through that beautifullawn to the house; but for a minute I didn't ring the bell. It was sobeautiful—the view from that veranda, with the sun on the reds andbrowns and yellows of the trees everywhere! Then I remembered suddenlythat I hadn't come to make a call and admire the view, but that I was abusiness woman now. So I rang the bell. There was a lovely old brassknocker on the great door; but I saw a very conspicuous push-button, andI concluded that was for real use."

"Well, 'nervous,' we'll call it. Then, as I was planning just what tosay, the door opened and the oldest little old man I ever saw stoodbefore me."

"He was the butler, I found out afterwards. They called him Benton. Heseemed surprised, somehow, to see me, or frightened, or something.Anyway, he started queerly, as his eyes met mine, and he muttered aquick something under his breath; but all I could hear was the last,'No, no, it couldn't be!'"

"The next minute he became so stiff and straight and dignified that evenhis English cousin might have envied him. I told him I was Miss Darling,and that I had a note to Mr. Denby from Dr. Gleason.[Pg 308]

"'Yes, Miss. The master is expecting you. He said to show you right in.This way, please,' he said then, pompously. And then I saw that greathall. Oh, mother, if you could see it! It's wonderful, and so full oftreasures! I could hardly take off my hat and coat properly, fordevouring a superb specimen of old armor right in front of me. ThenBenton took me into the library, and I saw—something even morewonderful."

"Indeed, I don't! Oh, he was there, but he was no wonder, mother, dear.The wonder was cabinet after cabinet filled with jades and bronzes andcarved ivories and Babylonian tablets and— But I couldn't begin to tellyou! I couldn't even begin to see for myself, for, of course, I had tosay something to Mr. Denby."

"Oh, he was just a man, tall and stern-looking, and a little gray. He'sold, you know. He isn't young at all"—spoken with all the sereneconfidence of Betty's eighteen years. "He has nice eyes, and I imaginehe'd be nice, if he'd let himself be. But he won't."

"Oh, mother, dear, you'd have to see him really[Pg 309] to know. It's justthat—that he's so used to having his own way that he takes it as amatter of course, as his right."

"But he does. It shows up in everything that everybody in that housedoes. I could see that, even in this one day I was there. Benton, Sarah(the maid), Mrs. Gowing (the old cousin housekeeper)—even the dog andthe cat show that they've stood at attention for Master Burke Denby alltheir lives. You just wait till I getmy chance. I'll show himsomebody that isn't standing at salute all the time."

"Don't look so shocked, dearie. I shan't do anything or say anything toimperil my—my job." (Betty's eyes twinkled even more merrily over thelast word.) "It's just that I don't think any living man has a right tomake everybody so afraid of him as Mr. Denby very plainly has done. AndI only mean that if the occasion ever came up, I should let him knowthat I am not afraid of him."

"Oh, I will. Don't worry," laughed the girl. "But, listen, don't youwant me to go on with my story?"

"Well, where was I? Oh, I know—just inside the library door. Very good,then. Ruthlessly suppressing[Pg 310] my almost overwhelming longing to pounceon one of those alluring cabinets, I advanced properly and held out mynote to Mr. Denby. As I came near I fancied that he, too, gave a slightstart as he looked sharply into my face; and I thought I caught a realgleam of life in his eyes. The next instant it was gone, however (ifindeed it had ever been there!), and he had taken my note and waved mepolitely to a chair."

"Yes; well, do you know?—that's exactly what I felt like saying tohim," laughed Betty softly. "He just glanced at the note with a lowejaculation; then he sat there staring at nothing for so long that Ibegan to think I should scream from sheer nervousness. Then, perhaps Istirred a little. At all events, he turned with a start, and then iswhen I saw, for just a minute, how kind his eyes could be.

"'There, there, my child, I beg your pardon,' he cried. 'I quite forgotyou were here. Something—your eyes, I think—set me to dreaming. Now tobusiness! Perhaps you'll be good enough to take some letters for me.You'll find pencils, pen, and paper there at your right.' And I did. AndI began. And that's all."

"Not much. I took dictation in long hand for perhaps a dozenletters—most of them short ones. He said he was behind on his personalcorrespondence. Then he went away and left me. He goes down to hisoffice at the Denby Iron Works every forenoon,[Pg 311] I understand. Anyway,there I was, left in that fascinating room with all those cabinets fullof treasures that I so longed to explore, but tied to a lot of scrawlynotes and a typewriter. I forgot to say there was one of thosedisappearing typewriters in a desk over by the window. It wasn't quitelike Gladys's, but the keyboard was, and I very soon got the run of it.

"At one o'clock he came back. I had the letters all done, and theylooked lovely. I was rather proud of them. I passed them over forhim to sign, and waited expectantly for a nice little word ofcommendation—which I didn't get."

"Oh, no, he didn't realize, of course, that this was my maiden effort atprivate secretarying," laughed Betty, a little ruefully, "and that Iwanted to be patted on the head with a 'Well done, little girl!' He justshoved them back for me to fold and put in the envelopes; and just thenBenton came to announce luncheon."

"There isn't much to tell. There were just us three at the table, Mr.Denby, Mrs. Gowing, and myself. There was plenty to eat, and it was verynice. But, dear, dear, the dreariness of it! With the soup Mrs. Gowingobserved that it was a nice day. With the chicken patties she asked if Iliked Dalton; and with the salad she remarked that we had had anunusually cold summer. Dessert was eaten in utter[Pg 312] silence. Why, mother,I should die if I had to spend my life in an atmosphere like that!"

"Oh, yes. He asked me for the salt, and he gave an order to Benton. Oh,he's such fascinating company—he is!"

At the disturbed expression on her mother's face, Betty gave a playfulshrug. "Oh, I know, he's my respected employer, and all that," shelaughed; "and I shall be very careful to do his bidding. Never fear! Butthat doesn't mean that I've got to love him."

"Maybe I shall—when I get him—er—trained," retorted Betty, flashing amerry glance into her mother's dismayed eyes. "Don't worry, dear. I wasa perfect angel to him to-day. Truly I was. Listen! After luncheon Mr.Denby brought me three or four newspapers which he had marked here andthere; and for an hour then I read to him. And what do you think?—whenI had finished he said, in that crisp short way of his: 'You have a goodvoice, Miss Darling. I hope you won't mind if I ask you to read to meoften.' And of course I smiled and said no, indeed, I should be glad toread as often as he liked."

"Of course!" beamed the mother, with so decided an emphasis that Bettyexclaimed warningly:—

"Tut, tut, now! Don'tyou go to tumbling down and worshiping him likeall the rest."[Pg 313]

"Yes," nodded Betty, with tranquil superiority. "It isn't good for him,I tell you. He doesn't get anything but worship from every single one ofthose people around him. Honestly, if he should declare that the earthwas flat, I think that ridiculous old butler and that scared cousinhousekeeper would bow: 'Just as you say, sir, just as you say.' Humph!He'd better tellme the world is flat, some day."

"Well, after the reading there were other letters, then some work on acard-index record of his correspondence. After that I came home. But,mother, oh, mother, only think what it'll be when we begin to catalogueall those treasures in his cabinets. And we're going to do it. He saidwe were. It seems as if I just couldn't wait!"

"But you will be careful what you say to him, dear," begged the motheragain, anxiously. "He wouldn't understand your mischief, dear, andI—I'm sure he wouldn't like it."

"Careful? Why, mumsey, dear, when we get at those cabinets he may tellme a dozen times the earth is flat, if he wants to, and I won't so muchas blink—if I think there's any danger of my getting cheated out ofthat cataloguing!"[Pg 314]

CHAPTER XXII

ACTOR AND AUDIENCE

Helen did not go with her daughter to Denby House the second morning.Betty insisted that she was quite capable of taking the short trip byherself and Helen seemed nothing loath to remain at home. Helen neverseemed, indeed, loath to remain at home these days—especially duringdaylight. In the evening, frequently, she went out for a little walkwith Betty. Then was when she did her simple marketing. Then, too, wasthe only time she would go out without the heavy black veil. Betty,being away all day, and at home only after five o'clock, did not noticeall these points at first. As time passed, however, she did wonder whyher mother never would go out on Sunday. Still, Betty was too thoroughlyabsorbed in her own new experiences to pay much attention to anythingelse. Every morning at nine o'clock she left the house, eager for theday's work; and every afternoon, soon after five, she was back in thetiny home, answering her mother's hurried questions as to what hadhappened through the day.

"And you're so lovely and interested in every little thing!" sheexclaimed to her mother one day.

"But Iam interested, my dear, in every little thing," came the quickanswer. And Betty, looking at her mother's flushed face and tremblinglips felt[Pg 315] suddenly again the tightening at her throat—that her successor failure should mean so much to mother—dear mother who was trying sohard not to show how poor they were!

For perhaps a week Betty reported little change in the daily routine ofher work. She wrote letters, read from books, magazines, or newspapers,worked on the card-index record of correspondence, and sorted papers,pamphlets, and circulars that had apparently been accumulating forweeks.

"But I'm getting along beautifully," she declared one day. "I've gotMrs. Gowing thawed so she actually says as many as three sentences to acourse now. And you should see the beaming smile Benton gives me everymorning!"

"Well, he's improving," she flashed mischievously. "He asked for thesaltand the pepper, yesterday. And to-day he actually observed thathe thought it looked like snow—at the table, I mean. Of course hespeaks to me about my work through the day; but he doesn't say any morethan is necessary. Truly, mother, dear, I'd never leave my happy homeforhim."

"Don't worry, mumsey. He'll never ask me to do[Pg 316] it! But, honestly,mother, I can't see any use in a man's being so stern and glum all thetime."

"Why, mother, that sounded exactly as if you wereglad he wasunhappy!" she exclaimed.

"Did I? Oh, no," she laughed easily. "Still, I'm not so sure but I am alittle glad: if he's unhappy, all the more chance for you to makeyourself indispensable by helping him and making him happy. See?"

"Happy!" scoffed Betty with superb disdain; "why, the man doesn't knowwhat the word means."

"But perhaps he has seen—a great deal of trouble, dear." The mother'seyes were gravely tender.

"Perhaps he has. But is that any reason for inflicting it on otherpeople by reflection?" demanded Betty, with all of youth's intolerancefor age and its incomprehensible attitudes. "Does it do any possiblegood, either to himself or to anybody else, to retire behind a frown anda grunt, and look out upon all those beautiful things around him througheyes that are like a piece of cold steel? Of course it doesn't!"

But Betty, with a laugh and a spasmodic hug that ended in a playfullittle shake, retorted with all her old gay sauciness:[Pg 317]—

"Don't you worry, mumsey. I'm a perfect angel to that man." Then,wickedly, she added as she whisked off: "You see, I haven't yet had achance to poke even one finger inside of one of those cabinets!"

It was three days later that Betty, having put on her hat and coat atDenby House, had occasion to go back into the library to speak to heremployer.

"Mr. Denby, shall I—" she began; then fell back in amazement. The manbefore her had leaped to his feet and started toward her, his face whitelike paper.

"Good God!—you!" he exclaimed. The next instant he stopped short, theblood rushing back to his face. "Oh,Miss Darling! I—er—I thought,for a moment, you were—What a fool!" With the last low mutteredwords he turned and sat down heavily.

Betty, to whom the whole amazing sentence was distinctly audible, lifteddemure eyes to his face.

"I beg your pardon, you said—" The sentence came to a suggestive pause.Into Betty's demure eyes flashed an unmistakable twinkle.

The man stared, frowned, then flushed a deeper red as full comprehensioncame. He gave a grim laugh.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Darling. That epithet was meant for me—notyou." He hesitated, his eyes still searching her face. "Strange—strange!"he muttered then; "but I wonder what made you suddenly look so muchlike— Take off your hat, please," he directed abruptly. "There!" heexclaimed triumphantly, as Betty pulled out the pins and lifted the hatfrom her head, "that explains it—your[Pg 318] hat! Before, when I first sawyou, your eyes reminded me of—of some one, and with your hat on thelikeness is much more striking. For a moment I was actually fool enoughto think—and I forgot she must be twice your age now, too," he finishedunder his breath.

Betty waited a silent minute at the door; then, apparently stillunnoticed, she turned and left the room, pinning her hat on again in thehall.

To her mother that afternoon she carried a jubilant countenance. "Well,mother, he's alive! I've found out that much," she announced merrily.

"He's alive—like folks," twinkled Betty. "He's got memory, a heart, andIthink a sense of humor. I'm sure he did laugh a little over callingme a fool."

"Nothing, dear, nothing—but put on my hat," chuckled Bettyirrepressibly. "Listen, and I'll tell you." And she drew a vivid pictureof the scene in the library. "There, what did I tell you?" she demandedin conclusion. "Did I do anything but put on my hat?"

"Oh, but Betty, you mustn't, you can't—that is, you must— I mean,please be careful!" On Helen's face joy and terror were fighting abattle royal.

"Careful? Of course I'm careful," cried Betty.[Pg 319] "Didn't I stand as stillas a mouse while he was sitting there with his beetling brows bent insolemn thought? And then didn't I turn without a word and pussy-step outof the room when I saw that he had ceased to realize that there was sucha being in the world as little I? Indeed, I did! And not till I got outof doors did I remember that I had gone into that library in the firstplace to ask a question. But I didn't go back. The question wouldkeep—and that was more than I could promise of his temper, if Idisturbed him then. So I came home. But I just can't wait now to getback. Only think how much more interesting things are going to be now!"

"Oh, yes, I shall be watching always for him to come alive again.Besides, it's so romantic! It's a love-story, of course."

"Why, of course it is, mother. If you could have seen his face you'dhave known that no one but somebody he cared very much for could havebroughtthat look to it. You see, he thought for a moment that I wasshe. Then he said, 'What a fool!' and sat down. Next he just looked atme; and, mother, in his eyes there were just years and years of sorrowall rolled into that one minute."

"Yes. And don't you see? I'm not going to mind now ever what he says anddoes, nor how glum he is; for Iknow down inside, he's got a heart.And only think,I look like her!" finished Betty, suddenly springingto her feet, and whirling about in ecstasy. "Oh, it's so exciting, isn'tit?"

But her mother did not answer. She did not seem to have heard, perhapsbecause her back was turned. She had crossed the room to the window.Betty, following her, put a loving arm about her shoulders.

"Oh, and, mother, look!" she exclaimed eagerly. "I was going to tellyou. I discovered it last Sunday. You can see the Denby House from here.Did you know it? It's so near dark now, it isn't very clear, but there'sa light in the library windows, and others upstairs, too. See? Rightthrough there at the left of that dark clump of trees, set in the middleof that open space. That's the lawn, and you can just make out the tallwhite pillars of the veranda. See?"

Helen's voice was light and cheery, and carefully impersonal, carryingno hint of her inward tumult, for which she was devoutly thankful.

In spite of her high expectations, Betty came from Denby House the nextafternoon with pouting lips.

"He's just exactly the same as ever, only more so, if anything," shecomplained to her mother. "He dictated his letters, then for an hour, Ithink, he just sat at his desk doing nothing, with his hand shieldinghis eyes. Twice, though, I caught him looking at[Pg 321] me. But his eyesweren't kind and—and human, as they were yesterday. They were theirusual little bits of cold steel. He went off then to his office at theWorks (he said he was going there), and he never came home even toluncheon. I didn't have half work enough to do, and—and the cabinetswere locked. I tried them. At four he came in, signed the letters, saidgood-afternoon and stalked upstairs. And that's the last I saw of him."

Nightly, after this, for a time, Betty gave forth what she called the"latest bulletin concerning the patient":—

Such were her reports. Then came the day when she impressively announcedthat the patient showed really marked improvement. He asked her to passnot only the salt and the pepper, but the olives.

"And, indeed, when you come to think of it," she went on with mockgravity, "there's mighty little else he can ask me to pass, in the wayof making voluntary conversation; for Benton and Sarah do everythingalmost, except lift the individual mouthfuls for our consumption."

"Yes, yes, I know—that was dreadful, wasn't it, dearie?" laughed Bettycontritely. "But you see I have to be so still and proper up there that[Pg 322]home becomes a regular safety-valve; and you know safety-valves arenecessary—absolutely necessary."

Helen, gazing with fond, meditative eyes at the girl's bright face, drewa tremulous sigh.

"You shouldn't be—not with a safety-valve," retorted Betty. "But,really," she added, turning back laughingly, "there is one funny thing:he never stays around now when there's any chance of his seeing me withmy hat on again. I've noticed it. Every single night since that time hedid see me a week ago, he's bade me his stiff good-afternoon and goneupstairsbefore I'm ready to leave."

"Betty, really?" cried Helen so eagerly that Betty wheeled and faced herwith a mischievous laugh.

"Who's interestednow in Mr. Burke Denby's love-story?" shechallenged. But her mother, her hands to her ears, had fled.

It was the very next afternoon that Betty came home so wildly excitedthat not for a full five minutes could her startled mother obtainanything like a lucid story of the day. Then it came.

"Yes, yes, I know, dear, of course you can't make anything out of what Isay. But listen. I'll begin at the beginning. It was like this: Thismorning he had only a few letters for me. Then, in that tired voice heuses most of the time, he said: 'I think perhaps now, we might as wellbegin on the cataloguing. Everything else is pretty well caught up.' Ijumped up and down and clapped my hands, and—"[Pg 323]

"Oh, I meaninside of me.Outside I just said, 'Yes, sir,' or 'Verywell, Mr. Denby,' or something prim and proper like that.

"Well, then he showed me huge drawers full of notes and clippings in aperfectly hopeless mass of confusion, and he unlocked one of thecabinets and took out the dearest little squat Buddha with diamond eyes,and showed me a number on the base. 'There, Miss Darling,' he beganagain in that tired voice of his, 'some of these notes and clippings arenumbered in pencil to correspond with numbers like these on the curios;but many of them are not numbered at all. Unfortunately, many of thecurios, too, lack numbers. All you can do, of course, is to sort out thepapers by number, separating into a single pile all those that bear nonumber. I shall have to help you about those. You won't, of course, knowwhere they go. I may have trouble myself to identify some of them.Later, after the preliminary work is done, each object will be enteredon a card, together with a condensed tabulation of when and where Iobtained it, its age, history—anything, in short, that we can findpertaining to it. The thing to do first, however, is to go through thesedrawers and sort out their contents by number."

"Having said this (still in that weary voice of his), he put back thelittle Buddha,—which my fingers were just tingling to get holdof,—waved his hand[Pg 324] toward the drawers and papers, and marched out ofthe room. Then I set to work."

"They were everything, mumsey: clippings from magazines and papers andsales catalogues of antiques, typewritten notes, and scrawls in longhand telling when and where and how Mr. Burke Denby or his father hadfound this or that thing. But what a mess they were in! And such a lotof them without the sign of a number!

"First, of course, I took a drawer and sorted the numbers into littlepiles on the big flat library table. Some of them had ten or a dozen,all one number. That work was very easy—only I did so want to readevery last one of those notes and clippings! But of course I couldn'tstop for that then. But I did read some of the unnumbered ones, andpretty quick I found one that I just knew referred to the littlediamond-eyed Buddha Mr. Denby had taken out of the cabinet. I couldn'tresist then. I just had to go and get it and find out. And I did—and itwas; so I put them together on the library table.

"Then I noticed in the same cabinet a little old worn toby jug—ashepherd plaid—about the oldest and rarest there is, you know; and Iknew I had three or four unnumbered notes on toby jugs—and, sureenough! three of them fitted this toby; and I putthem together, withthe jug on top, on the library table. Of course I was wild then to findsome more.[Pg 325] In the other cabinets that weren't unlocked, I could see,through the glass doors, a lot more things, and some of them, I wassure, fitted some of my unnumbered notes; but of course they didn't dome any good, as I couldn't get at them. One perfectly beautiful Orientallacquered cabinet with diamond-paned doors was full of tablets, big andlittle, and I was crazy to get at those— I had a lot of notes abouttablets. I did find in my cabinet, though, a little package of Chinesebank-notes, and I was sure I had something on those. And I had. I knewabout them, anyway. I had seen some in London. These dated 'way back tothe Tang dynasty—sixth century, you know—and were just as smooth!They're made of a kind of paper that crumples up like silk, but doesn'tshow creases. They had little rings printed on them of different sizesfor different values, so that even the ignorant people couldn't bedeceived, and—"

"Yes, yes, dear, but go on—go on," interrupted the eager-eyed mother,with a smile. "I want to know what happenedhere—not back in thesixth century!"

"Yes, yes, I know," breathed Betty; "but they weresointeresting—those things were! Well, of course I put the bank-noteswith their clippings on the table; then I began on another drawer. Itgot to be one o'clock very soon, and Mr. Denby came home to luncheon. Iwish you could have seen his face when he entered the library and sawwhat I had done. His whole countenance lighted up. Why, he looked[Pg 326]actually handsome!—and he's forty, if he's a day! And there wasn't ashred of tiredness in his voice.

"Then when he found the bank-notes and the Buddha and the toby jug withthe unnumbered clippings belonging to them, he got almost as excited asI was. And when he saw how interested I was, he unlocked the othercabinets—and how we did talk, both at once! Anyhow, whenever I stoppedto get my breath he was always talking; and I never could wait for himto finish, there was so much I wanted to ask.

"Poor old Benton! I don't know how many times he announced luncheonbefore it dawned over us that he was there at all; and he lookedpositively apoplectic when we did turn and see him. I don't dare tothink how long we kept luncheon waiting. But everything had that flat,kept-hot-too-long taste, and Benton and Sarah served it with the air ofinjured saints. Mrs. Gowing showed meek disapproval, and didn't makeeven one remark to a course—but perhaps, after all, that was becauseshe didn't have a chance. You see, Mr. Denby and I talked all the timeourselves."

"He hasn't—before. But you see to-day he had such a lot to tell meabout the things—how he came by them, and all that. And every singleone of them has got a story. And he has such wonderful things! Afterluncheon he showed them to me—some of them: such marvelous bronzes andcarved ivories[Pg 327] and Babylonian tablets. He's got one with a realthumb-print on it—think of it, a thumb-print five thousand years old!And he's got a wonderful Buddha two thousand years old from a Chinesetemple, and he knows the officer who got it—during the Boxer Rebellion,you know. And he's got another, not so old, of Himalayan Indian wood,exquisitely carved, and half covered with jewels.

"Why, mother, he's traveled all over the world, and everywhere he'sfound something wonderful or beautiful to bring home. I couldn't beginto tell you, if I talked all night. And he seemed so pleased because Iwas interested, and because I could appreciate to some extent, theirvalue."

"I can—imagine it!" There was a little catch in Helen Denby's voice,but Betty did not notice it.

"Yes, and that makes me think," she went on blithely. "He said such afunny thing once. It was when I held in my hand the Babylonian tabletwith the thumb-mark. I had just been saying how I wished the littletablet had the power to transport the holder of it back to a vision ofthe man who had made that thumb-print, when he looked at me so queerly,and muttered: 'Humph! theyare more than potatoes to you, aren'tthey?' Potatoes, indeed! What do you suppose made him say that? Oh, andthat is when he asked me, too, how I came to know so much about jadesand ivories and Egyptian antiques."

"Why, that I learned in London, of course, with you and Gladys and MissHughes, poking around old shops there—and everywhere else that we couldfind them, wherever we were.You know how we used to go 'digging,' asGladys called it."

"Well, we worked all the afternoon—together!—Mr. Denby and I did.What do you think of that?" resumed Betty, after a moment's pause. "Andnot once since this morning have I heard any tiredness in Mr. BurkeDenby's voice, if you please."

"Oh, ages and ages! It can't help it. Why, mother, there are such a lotof them, and such a whole lot about some of them. Others, that hedoesn't know so much about, we're going to look up. He has lots of bookson such things, and he's buying more all the time. Then all this stuffhas got to be condensed and tabulated and put on cards and filed away.But I love it—every bit of it; and I'm so excited to think I've reallybegun it. And he's every whit as excited as I am, mother. Listen! Heactually forgot all about running away to-night before I put on my hat.And I never thought of it till just as I was pinning it on. He hadfollowed me out into the hall to tell me something about the old armorin the corner; then, all of a sudden, he stopped—off—short, justlike that, and said, 'Good-night, Miss Darling,'[Pg 329] in his old stiff way.As he turned and went upstairs I caught sight of his face. I knew then.It was the hat. I had reminded him again of—her. But I shan't mind,now, if he is stern and glum sometimes—not with a Babylonian tablet ora Chinese Buddha for company. Oh, mother, if you could see thosewonderful things. But maybe sometime you will. I shouldn't wonder."

"Maybe sometime—I—will!" faltered the mother, growing a little white."Why, Betty, what do you mean?"

"Why, I mean, maybe I can take you sometime— I'll ask Mr. Denby by andby, after we get things straightened out, if he won't let me bring yousome day to see them."

"Oh, no, no, Betty, don't—please don't! I—I couldn't think of such athing!"

"Why, mumsey, you needn't look so frightened. They won't bite you. Therearen't any of those thingsalive, dear!"

"No, of course not. But I'm—I'm sure I—I wouldn't be able toappreciate them at all."

"But in London you weretrying to learn to be interested in suchthings," persisted Betty, still earnestly. "Don't you know? You said youwanted to learn to like them, and to appreciate them."

"Yes, I know. But I'm sure I wouldn't like to—to trouble Mr.Denby—here," stammered the mother, her face still very white.[Pg 330]

CHAPTER XXIII

"THE PLOT THICKENS"

It was shortly before Christmas that Frank Gleason ran up to Dalton. Hewent first to see Burke Denby.

"Hullo, Gleason! Good—you're just in time for dinner. But where's yourbag? You aren't going back to-night!"

"No, but I am to-morrow morning, very early, so I left my grip at thehotel. Yes, yes, I know—you'd have had me here, and routed the wholehouse up at midnight," he went on laughingly, shaking his head atBurke's prompt remonstrations, "if I but said the word. But I'm notgoing to trouble you this time. I'll be delighted to stay to dinner,however,—if I get an invitation," he smiled.

"An invitation! As if you needed an invitation for—anything, in thishouse," scoffed Denby. "All mine is thine, as you know very well."

"Thanks. I've half a mind to put you to the test—say with that petthumb-marked tablet of yours," retorted the doctor, with a lift of hiseyebrows. "However, we'll let it go at a dinner this time.—You'relooking better, old man," he said some time later, as they sat at thetable, his eyes critically bent on the other's face.

"Oh, no; busy." There was the briefest of pauses; then, withdisconcerting abruptness, came the question: "Where'd you get that girl,Gleason?"

"G-girl?" The doctor wanted a minute to think. Incidentally he wastrying to swallow his heart—he thought it must be his heart—that biglump in his throat.

"Miss Darling! Oh!" The doctor waved his hand inconsequently. He stillwanted time. He was still swallowing at that lump. "Why, she—she—Itold you. She's the daughter of an old friend. Why, isn't she allright?" He feigned the deepest concern.

Voice and manner carried a message of satisfaction that wasunmistakable. But the doctor chose to ignore it. The doctor felt himselfnow on sure ground. He summoned a still deeper concern to hiscountenance.

"Why, Denby, you don't mean sheisn't all right? What's the trouble?Isn't she capable?—or don't you like her ways?"

"But I mean sheis all right, man," retorted the other impatiently."Why, Gleason, she's a wonder!"

Gleason, within whom the Hallelujah Chorus had become such a shout oftriumph that he half expected[Pg 332] to see Burke Denby cover his ears,managed to utter a cool—

"Well, she is. She's no ordinary girl." ("If Helen could but hear that!"exulted the doctor to himself.) "Why, what do you think? She canactually tellme some things about my own curios!"

"Yes, I know I did. But just hear this. In spite of her seemingintelligence and capability, I'd been dreading to open those cabinetsand let her touch those things dad and I had spent so many dear yearstogether gathering. But, of course, I knew that that was silly. One ofmy chief reasons for getting her was the cataloguing; and it was absurdnot to set her at it. So one day, after everything else was done, Iexplained what I wanted, and told her to go ahead."

"She did—exactly that. She went ahead—'way ahead of what I'd toldher to do. Why, when I got home, I was amazed to see what she'd done.But best of all was her interest and her enthusiasm, and the fact thatshe knew and appreciated what they were. You see that's one of thethings I'd been dreading—her ignorance—her indifference; but I dreadedmore that she might gush and say, 'Oh, how pretty!' And I knew if shedid I'd—I'd want to knock her down."[Pg 333]

"Oh, yes, I know. That was rather a strong statement. But you see I feltstrongly. And then to find— But, Gleason, she really is a wonder. We'reworking together now—I'm working. As I said, I haven't been to theoffice for a week."

"Yes, very. She's pleasant and cheerful, bright, and very much of alady. She's capable, and has uncommon good sense. Her voice, too, isexcellent for reading. In short, she is, as I told you, a wonder; andI'm more than indebted to you for finding her. Let's see, you say you doknow her family?"

"Yes, oh, yes. Good family, too! Now I'm sorry to eat and run, as thechildren say, but I'll have to, Burke, to-night. One or two other littlematters I'll have to attend to before I sleep. But, as I said a fewminutes ago, I'm glad to see you in better spirits. Keep on with thegood work."

The doctor seemed nervous, and anxious to get away; and in anotherminute the great outer door had closed behind him.

There was a slight frown on his face. But in another minute it was gone:he had remembered suddenly that he had promised Miss Darling that hewould try to find certain obscure data regarding the[Pg 334] tablet they hadbeen at work upon that afternoon. It was just as well, perhaps, afterall, that the doctor had had to leave early—it would give more time forwork.

With an eager lifting of his head Burke Denby turned and strode into thelibrary.

Meanwhile, hurrying away from Denby House was the doctor, his whole selfa Hallelujah Chorus of rejoicing. His countenance was still aglow withjoy when, a little later, he rang the bell of a West Hillapartment-house suite bearing the name, "Mrs. Helen Darling."

To his joy he found Helen alone; but hardly had he given her a hastyaccount of his visit to Burke Denby, and assured her that he waspositive everything was working out finely, when Betty came in from thecorner grocery store, breezy and smiling.

"Oh, it's Dr. Gleason!" she welcomed him. "Now, I'm glad mother didn'tgo with me to-night, after all,—for we'd both been out then, and weshouldn't have seen you."

"Which would have been my great loss," bowed the man gallantly, hisapproving eyes on Betty's glowing face.

"Oh, but ours, too,—especially mine," she declared. "You see, I've beenwishing you'd come. I wanted to thank you."

"I love it. Why, Dr. Gleason, you have no idea of the wonderful thingsthat man— But you said you knew him," she broke off suddenly. "Don'tyou know him?"

"Oh, how silly of me!" she laughed. "As if I could tellyou anythingabout antiques and curios! But hasn't he some beautiful things?"

"He has, indeed. But how about the man? You haven't told me at all howyou like Mr. Denby himself."

But Betty plainly was in one of her most mischievous moods. With anothermerry glance at her mother she turned to the doctor.

"It's only this, doctor. You see, at first he was so silent and solemn,and Benton and Sarah and Mrs. Gowing were so scared, and the whole housewas so scared and silent and solemn, that it seemed some days as if Ishould scream, just to make a little excitement. But it's all verydifferent now. Benton and[Pg 336] Sarah are all smiles, Mrs. Gowing actuallylaughs sometimes, and the only trouble is there isn't time enough forMr. Denby to get in all the talking he wants to."

"Oh, very much. Of course, at first it was just about the work—we'recataloguing the curios; but lately it's been in other ways. Why, theother day he found I could play and sing a little, and to-day he askedme to sing for him. And I did."

"Sing? You sang for Mr. Denby?" she cried, plainly very much agitated."But you hadn't told me—that!"

"But what did you sing? Oh, you—you didn't sing any of those foolish,nonsensical songs, did you?" implored Helen, half rising from her chair.

"But I did," bridled Betty. Then, as her mother fell back dismayed, shecried: "Did you suppose I'd risk singing solemn things to a man who hadjust learned to laugh?"

"'Always hated it so'!" echoed Betty, with puzzled eyes. "Why, I hadn'tplayed it before, dearie. I hadn't played anything!"

"No, no, I—I mean always hated everything gay and livelylikeragtime," corrected Helen, her[Pg 337] cheeks abnormally pink, as she carefullyavoided the doctor's eyes. "Why didn't you play some of your good music,dear?"

"Oh, I did, afterwards, of course,—MacDowell and Schubert, and thatlullaby we love. But he liked the ragtime, too, all right. I know hedid. Besides, it just did me good to liven up the old house a bit. Iknow Benton was listening in the hall, and I'm positive Sarah and thecook had the dining-room door open. As for Mrs. Gowing, she—dear oldsoul—just sat and frankly cried. And the merrier I sang, the faster thetears rolled down her face—but it was for joy. I could see that. Andonce I heard her mutter: 'To think that ever again I should hear musicand laughter—here!' Dr. Gleason, did Mr. Denby ever love somebodyonce, and do I look like her?"

Taken utterly by surprise, the doctor, for one awful minute, flounderedin appalled confusion. It was Helen this time who came to the rescue.

"I shall tell the doctor he needn't answer that question, Betty," shesaid, with just a shade of reproval in her voice. "If he did know ofsuch a thing, do you think he ought to tell you, or anybody else?"

"But what makes you think he has?" queried the doctor, with very muchthe air of a small boy who is longing yet fearing to investigate thereason for the non-explosion of a firecracker.[Pg 338]

"Because he said twice that I reminded him of some one, particularlywith my hat on; and both times, afterward, he looked so romantic andsolemn"—Betty's eyes began to twinkle—"that I thought maybe I was onthe track of a real, live love-story, you see. But he hasn't saidanything about it lately; so perhaps I was mistaken, after all. You see,really, he's quite like folks, now, since we've been working on thecurios."

"Very well, only it's slow, of course. There is such a mass of material,and so much to look up and study up besides. We're just getting ittogether and tabulating it now on temporary sheets. We shan't begin thereal cataloguing on the final cards until we have all our material inhand, Mr. Denby says."

"Not a bit! I love it—even the digging after dates. I'm sureyou canunderstand that," she smiled.

"Yes, I can understand that," he smiled back at her. And now, for thefirst time for long minutes, he dared to look across the room into HelenDenby's eyes.[Pg 339]

CHAPTER XXIV

COUNTER-PLOTS

In thinking it over afterwards Burke Denby tried to place the specificthing that put into his mind that most astounding suggestion. He knewvery well the precise moment of the inception of the idea—it had beenon Christmas night as he sat before the fire in his gloomy library. Butwhat had led to it? Of just what particular episode concerning hisacquaintance with this girl had he been thinking when, like a blindingflash out of the dark, had leaped forth those startling words?

He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it wasChristmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside withthe gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. BeingChristmas, he had not had even the divertisement of his secretary'spresence—companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It couldnot but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to thework, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed.And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The househad not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keepher. He should not like to let her go—now. But if only she could bethere all the time! It would be much easier forher—winter[Pg 340] stormswere coming on now; and as for him—he should like it very much. Theevenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, itmight not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in anapartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, orshe might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house waslarge enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it wouldbe nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitablearrangement all around.

Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not haveto be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not—Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen—hereyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had—

It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet withalmost a cry:—

As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos ofthoughts into something like order.

It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet—there were her eyesso like Helen's, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and oflifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were,too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of—himself.And surely her remarkable[Pg 341] love and aptitude for the work she was doingfor him now ought to mean—something.

But could it be? Was itpossible? Would Helen do such a fantasticthing—send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor—this girlhad been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. "Adaughter of an old friend." Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lendhimself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. Andyet—

Just what did he know about this young woman? Very little. What if,after all, it were Dorothy Elizabeth? And it might be, for all heknewto thecontrary. She was about the right age, he should judge—hislittle girl would be eighteen—by now. Her name was Elizabeth; she hadtold him that, at the same time saying that she was always called"Betty." There was a mother—but he had never heard the girl mention herfather. And they had dropped, as it were, right out of a clear sky intoDalton, and into his life. Could it be? Of course it really was tooabsurd; but yet—

With a sudden setting of his jaws the man determined to put hissecretary through a course of questions, the answers to which wouldforever remove all doubt, one way or another. If at the onset of thequestioning she grew suddenly evasive and confused, he would have hisanswer at once: she was his daughter, and was attempting to keep theknowledge from him until such time as her mother should wish to let[Pg 342] thesecret out. On the other hand, even if she were not confused or evasiveas to her answers, she still might be his daughter—and not know of therelationship. In which case his questions, of course, must be carried tothe point where he himself would be satisfied. Meanwhile he would thinkno more about it; and, above all, he would keep his thoughts fromdwelling on what it would be if—she were.

Having reached this wise decision, Burke Denby tossed his half-smokedcigar into the fire and attempted to toss as lightly the whole subjectfrom his mind—an attempt which met with sorry success.

Burke Denby plumed himself that he was doing his questioning mostdiplomatically when, the next morning, he began to carry out his plans.With almost superhuman patience he had waited until the morning letterswere out of the way, and until he and his secretary were workingtogether over sorting the papers in a hitherto unopened drawer.

"Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Darling?" Careless as was hisapparent aim, it was the first gun of his campaign.

"I didn't. Too quiet. A house needs young people at Christmas. If only Ihad a daughter now—" He watched her face closely, but he could detectno change of color. There was only polite, sympathetic interest. "Let mesee, you live with your mother, I believe," he finished somewhatabruptly.[Pg 343]

"I thought so. Still, it is a little singular, having been gone so long,that you are so American in your speech and manner. You aren't a bitEnglish, Miss Darling."

"How mother would love to hear you say that!" she cried. "You see,mother was so afraid I would be—English, or something foreign—educatedas I was almost entirely across the water. But we were with Americansall the time, and our teachers, except for languages, were Americans,whenever possible."

"Hm-m; I see. And now you are here in America again. And does yourmother like it—here?"

"And does she like Dalton, too? Perhaps she has been here before,though." The casual way in which[Pg 344] the question was put gave noindication of the way the questioner was holding his breath for theanswer.

"Indeed!" To Burke Denby it was as if something within him had suddenlysnapped. He relaxed in his chair. His eyes were still covertly searchingBetty's serene face bent over her work. Within himself he was saying:"Well,she doesn't know, whatever it is." Aloud he resumed: "And wereyou, too, ever here?"

The man almost leaped from his chair. Then, sternly, he forced himselfto work one full minute without speaking. A dozen agitated questionswere clamoring for utterance, but he knew better than to give themvoice. With a cheery casualness of manner, that made him inordinatelyproud of himself, he said:—

"Well, I certainly am glad you came now. I'm sure I don't know what Ishould have done, if you hadn't. But, by the way, how did you happen tocome to me?" Again he held his breath.

"Yes, but I know only that. You never did—exactly this sort of workbefore, did you?"

"No—oh, no. But there has to be a beginning, you know; and mother saysshe thinks every girl ought to know how to do something, so that shecan[Pg 345] support herself if it is necessary. And in our case I think—it isnecessary."

"I mean—I think mother is—is poor, and is trying to keep it from me."The words came with all the impetuosity of one who has found suddenly asympathetic ear for a long-pent secret. "I can see it in so manyways—not keeping a maid, and being so—so anxious that I shall do wellhere. And—and she doesn't seem natural, some way, lately. She'sunhappy, or something. And she goes out so little—almost never, exceptin the evening."

"She doesn't care to—to see people, perhaps." By a supreme effort BurkeDenby hid the fever of excitement and rejoicing within him, and tonedhis voice to just the right shade of solicitous interest.

"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively,she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I'vewondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and—and didn'twant to meet them because—perhaps, her circumstances were changed now.That isn't like mother, but— Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr.Denby. I—I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemedso—interested."

"I am interested, my dear—Miss Darling," returned the man, not quitesteadily. "I—I think I should like to know—your mother."[Pg 346]

"Are you—like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merrychallenge—against her taking this as she might take it.

"Why, I don't know, but I don't think so—except my eyes. Every one saysmy eyesare like hers."

Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room.Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian glass Tear Vase,especially prized by him for its associations. In reality he was tryingto master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt.This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his—Betty.Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her—father.And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine whatHelen must have taught her—of him.

Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, BurkeDenby walked back to the table and sat down.

"Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feelthat I know her already. But—your father; I don't think you have toldme a thing about your father yet."

"Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. Yousee, I never knew him."

"But I knowabout him. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just howfine and noble and splendid he was, and—"

"Fine—he—was?" The words, as they fell from Burke Denby's dry lipswere barely audible.

"Oh, yes. You see, all the way, ever since I could remember, daddy hasbeen held up to me as so fine and splendid. Why, I learned to hold myfork—and my temper!—the way daddy would want me to. And there wasn't asong or a sunset or a beautiful picture that I wasn't told how daddywould have loved it. Mother was always talking of him, and telling meabout him; so I feel that I know him, just as if he were alive."

"As—if—he—were—alive!" Burke Denby half started from his chair,his face a battle-ground for contending emotions.

The man, however, did not even glance at the ruin at his feet. Still, hemust have realized what he had done, thought Betty, for, as he crossedto his desk and sat down heavily, she heard him mutter:—

CHAPTER XXV

ENIGMAS

Not until Burke Denby became convinced that Miss Elizabeth Darling wasnot his daughter did he realize how deeply the thought that she might behad taken hold of his very life—how closely entwined in his affectionsshe had become. From the first minute the electrifying idea of herpossible relationship had come to him, he had (in spite of hisdetermination to the contrary) reveled in pictures of what his homewould be with a daughter like that to love—and to love him. Helen, too,was in the pictures—true, a vague, shadowy Helen, yet a Helen idealizedand glorified by the remorseful repentance born of a bunch of wornlittle diaries. Then to have the beautiful vision shattered by one wordfrom the girl's own lips—and just when he had attained the pinnacle ofjoyous conviction that she was, indeed, his little girl of the longago—it seemed as though he could not bear it.

And, most anguishing of all, there was no chance that there was amistake. Even if the incongruity of her description of her father asapplied to himself could be explained away, there was yet theinsurmountable left. With his own ears he had heard her say that herfather was dead—had been dead for many years. That settled it, ofcourse. There could be no mistake about—death.[Pg 349]

After the first stunning force of the disappointment, there came toBurke Denby the reaction—in the case of Burke Denby a characteristicreaction. It became evident, to some extent, the very next day. For thefirst time in weeks he did not work with his secretary over thecataloguing at all during the day. He dictated his letters, then left atonce for his office at the Works. At luncheon he relapsed into his oldstern silence; and in the afternoon, beyond giving a few crispdirections, he showed no interest in Betty's work, absenting himselfmost of the time from the room.

Yet not in the least was all this consciously planned on his part. Hefelt simply an aversion to being with this girl. Even the sight of herbright head bent over her work gave him a pang, the sound of her voicebrought bitterness. Above all, he dreaded a glance from hereyes—Helen's eyes, that had lured him for a brief twenty-four hoursinto a fool's paradise of thinking they might, indeed, be—Helen's eyes.

Burke was grievously disappointed, ashamed, and angry; and beingaccustomed always to acting exactly as he felt, he acted now—as hefelt. He was grievously disappointed that his brief dream of a daughterin his home should have come to naught. He was ashamed that he shouldhave allowed himself to be deluded into such a dream, and angry that thething had so stirred him—that he could be so stirred by the failure ofso absurd and preposterous a supposition to materialize into fact.[Pg 350]

As the days passed, matters became worse rather than better. Added tohis disappointment and chagrin there came to be an unreasoning wraththat this girl was not his daughter, together with a rebellion at hislonely life, and an overmastering self-pity that he should be so abusedof Fate. It was then that he began systematically to avoid, so far aswas possible, being with the girl at all, save for the necessarydictation and instructions. This was the more easily accomplished, asthe cataloguing now had almost arrived at the stage where it was a merematter of copying and tabulating the mass of material already carefullynumbered to correspond with the equally carefully numbered curios in thecabinets.

In spite of it all, however, Burke Denby knew, in his heart, that he wasbecoming more and more fond of this young girl, more and more interestedin her welfare, more and more restless and dissatisfied when not in herpresence, more and more poignantly longing to make her his daughter byadoption, now that it was settled beyond question that she was not hisby the ties of flesh and blood. Outwardly, however, he remained thestern, unsmiling man, silent, morose, and anything but delightful as adaily companion.

To Betty he had become the unsolvable enigma. That this most unhappychange should have been brought about by the breaking of the VenetianTear Vase, she could not believe—valuable and highly treasured as itwas; yet, as she looked back, the[Pg 351] change seemed to have dated from themoment of the vase's shattering on the library floor, the day afterChristmas.

At first she had supposed the man's sudden reversion to gloom andsilence was a mere whim of the mind or a passing distemper of the body.But when day after day brought no light to his eye, no smile to his lip,no elasticity to his step, she became seriously disturbed, particularlyas she could not help noticing that he no longer worked with her; thathe no longer, in fact, seemed to want to remain in the library even tohear her read to him.

She was sorely troubled. Not only did she miss the pleasure and stimulusof his presence and interest in the work, but she feared lest in someway she had disappointed or offended him. She began to question herselfand to examine critically her work.

She could find nothing. Her work had been well done. She knew that.There was absolutely no excuse for this sudden taciturn aloofness on hispart. After all, it was probably nothing more than what might beexpected of him—a going back to his usual self. Without doubt thestrange thing was, not that he was stern and silent and morose now, butthat, for a brief golden period, he had come out of his shell and actedlike a human being. Doubtless it was under the sway of his interest inhis curios, and his first delight at seeing them being brought intosomething like order, that he had, for a moment, as it were, stirredinto something really human. And[Pg 352] his going back to his original sourunpleasantness now was merely a reversion to first principles.

And when they were having such a good time! Surely, for a man thatcould be so altogether charming and delightful to be habitually soextremely undesirable and disagreeable was most exasperating. And he hadbeen such good company! How kind he had been, too, when she had told himso much of her own life and home! How interested he had shown himself tobe in every little detail, just as if he really cared. And now—

With a tense biting of her lip Betty reproached herself bitterly forbeing so free to tell of her own small affairs. She ought to have knownthat any interest a man like that could show was bound to be superficialand insincere. What a pity she should lose, for once, her reserve! Well,at least she had learned her lesson. Never again would she be guilty ofmaking a confidant of Mr. Burke Denby, no matter how suave andhuman-like he might elect to become for some other brief week in thefuture!

To her mother Betty said very little of all this. True, at the first, inher surprise at the remarkable change in her employer's attitude, shehad told her mother of his reversion to gloom and sternness; but it hadseemed to worry and disturb her mother so much that Betty had stopped atonce. And always since then she had avoided speaking of his continueddisagreeableness, and skillfully evaded answering pertinent[Pg 353] questions.She told herself that she realized, of course, it was because her motherwas so fearful that something would happen that this fine position, withthe generous pay, should be lost. Dear mother—who thought she washiding so shrewdly the fact of how poor they were!

There was something else that Betty did not tell her mother, also, andthat was of her first peculiar and annoying experience with the woman atthe newsstand at the station. It was about two weeks after Christmasthat Betty had first seen the woman. Mr. Denby had asked her to goaround by the station on her way home and purchase for him the Decemberissue of "Research." He said it was not a very popular magazine, andthat the woman was one of the few agents in town who kept it for sale.There was an article on Babylonian tablets in the December number, andhe wished to see it.

The station was not very far from her home, and Betty was glad to do theerrand, of course; but when she arrived at the newsstand she found amost offensive person who annoyed her with questions—a large woman withunpleasantly prominent eyes and a wart on her chin.

"Yes, Miss, I've got the magazine right here," she said with alacrity,in reply to Betty's request. "But, say, hain't I seen you beforesomewheres?"

"I don't think so," she smiled. "At least, I do not remember seeing youanywhere."[Pg 354]

"Well, don't you come here often, to the station, or somethin'?"persisted the woman.

"No, I have never been here before—except the day I arrived in townlast September."

"H-m; funny!" frowned the woman musingly. "I'm a great case fur faces,an' I don't very often make a mistake. I could swear I'd seen yousomewheres."

Twice after that Mr. Denby had sent her to this same newsstand for adesired periodical; and on both occasions the woman had been cheerfullyinsistent in her questions, and in her reiterations that somewhere shecertainly had seen her, as she never made mistakes in faces.

"If you'll give me my change, please," requested Betty then, the flushdeepening on her cheeks. "I am in some haste."

"You don't want ter answer, an' I ain't sayin' I wonder," she chuckled."He's a queer bug, an' no mistake, an' I don't wonder ye don't likehim."

"On the contrary, I like him very much," flashed Betty, hurriedlycatching up her magazine, and almost[Pg 355] snatching the coins from thewoman's hand, in her haste to be away.

Betty had not told her mother of these encounters. More and more plainlyBetty was seeing how keenly averse to meeting people her mother was, andhow evasive she was in her answers to the questions the market-mensometimes put to her. Instinctively Betty felt that these questions ofthe newsstand woman would distress her mother very much; so Betty keptthem carefully to herself.

The conviction that her mother was fearful of meeting old friends inDalton was growing on Betty these days, and it disturbed her greatly.Moreover she did not like a certain growing restless nervousness in hermother's manner, nor did she like the increasing pallor of her mother'scheek. Something, somewhere, was wrong. Of this Betty became more andmore strongly convinced. Nor did a little episode that took place latein January tend to weaken this belief.

They had gone to market—Betty and her mother. Lured by an attractive"ad," they had gone farther from home than usual, and were in a storenot often visited by them. They had given their order and turned to go,when suddenly Betty found herself whisked about by her mother's franticclutch on her arm and led swiftly quite across the store to the oppositedoor. There, still impelled by that unyielding clutch on her arm, shefound herself dodging in and out of the throngs of customers on theirway[Pg 356] to the street outside. Even there their pace did not slacken untilthey were well around the corner of the block.

"Why, mother," panted Betty then, laughing, "I should think you wererunning away from all the plagues of Egypt."

"I—I was—worse than the plagues of Egypt," laughed her mother, a bithysterically.

"There, there, dear, it was nothing. Never mind!" declared her mother.But even as she spoke she looked back fearfully over her shoulder.

"Nothing. Just a—a woman I didn't want to see. I used to know her yearsago, and she was—such a talker! We wouldn't have got home to-night."

"But we shan't now—if we keep on this way," laughed Betty uneasily, hertroubled eyes on her mother's face. "We're going in quite the oppositedirection from home."

"Dear, dear, so we are! We must have turned the wrong way when we cameout from the store."

"Yes, we—did," agreed Betty. Her words were light—but the troubledlook had not left her eyes.[Pg 357]

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

It was on a gray morning early in February that Betty found her employerpacing the library from end to end like the proverbial caged lion. Whenhe turned and spoke, she was startled at the look on his face—a worn,haggard look that told of sleeplessness—and of something else that shecould not name.

"You are surprised, of course; and no wonder. I didn't exactly what youcall 'break it gently,' did I? And I forgot that you haven't beenthinking of this thing every minute for the last—er—month, as I have.Won't you sit down, please." With an abrupt gesture he motioned her to achair, and dropped into one himself. "I can't, of course, beat about thebush now. I want you to come here to this house and be a daughter to me.Will you?"

"'This is so sudden!' Yes, I know," smiled the man grimly. "That's whatyour face says, and no[Pg 358] wonder. It may seem sudden to you—but it is notat all so to me. Believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought. Ihave debated it—longer than you can guess. And let me tell you at oncethat of course I want your mother to come, too. That will set your mindat rest on that point."

"I can't understand yet why—why you want me. You see, I—I have thoughtlately that—that you positively disliked me, Mr. Denby." Her chin cameup with the little determined lift so like her mother.

With a jerk Burke Denby got to his feet and resumed his nervous strideup and down the room.

"My child,"—he turned squarely about and faced her,—"I want you. Ineed you. This house has become nothing but a dreary old pile of horrorto me. You, by some sweet necromancy of your own, have contrived to makethe sun shine into its windows. It's the first time for years that therehas been any sun—for me. But when you go, the sun goes. That's why Iwant you here all the time. Will you come? Of course, you understand Imean adoption—legally. But I don't want to dwell on that part. I wantyou towant to come. I want you to be happy here. Won't you come?"

Betty drew in her breath tremulously. For a long minute her gazesearched the man's face.[Pg 359]

"Well, Miss Betty?" There was a confident smile in his eyes. He had theair of a man who has made a certain somewhat dreaded move, but who hasno doubt as to the outcome.

Betty, in spite of her very real and serious concern and anxiety, almostlaughed at the absolute amazement on the man's face.

Again Betty felt the almost hysterical desire to laugh. Still her facewas very grave.

"You— I— In the end you would not want me, Mr. Denby," she faltered,"because I—I should not be—happy here."

"Not if I tell you to say it, Miss Betty. Why can't you be happy here?You know very well that you would have everything that money could buy."

"I meanthat—just that—what you did now, and a minute ago. The wayyou have of—of expecting everybody and everything to bend to your willand wishes. Oh, I know, it's silly and horrible and everything for me tosay this. But youmade me do it. I told you it was impertinent! Don'tyou see? I'd have to have love and laughter and sympathy and interestand—and all that around me. Icouldn't be happy here. This house islike a tomb, and you—sometimes you are jolly and kind and—andfine.But I never knowhow you're going to be. And I'd die if I had to worryand fret and fear all the time how youwere going to be! Mr. Denby,I—I couldn't live in such a place, and mother couldn't either. And I—Oh, what have I said? But you made me do it, you made me do it!"

For one long minute there was utter silence in the room. Burke Denby, atthe library table, sat motionless, his hand shading his eyes. Betty, inher chair, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Her eyes werefrightened—but her chin was high.

Suddenly he stirred. His hand no longer shaded his face. Betty, to heramazement, saw that his lips were smiling, though his eyes, she knew,were moist.

"Betty, my dear child, I thought before that I wanted you. I know nowI'vegot to have you."[Pg 361]

"I mean that your fearless little tirade was just what I needed, mydear. Ihave expected everything and everybody to bend to my will andwishes. I suspect that's what's been the matter, too, all the way up. Ithought once, long ago, I'd learned my lesson. But it seems I haven't.Here I am up to the same old tricks again. Will you come and—er—trainme, Betty? I will promise to be very docile."

Betty did laugh this time—and the tension snapped. "Train"—the veryword with which she had shocked her mother weeks before!

"Seriously, my dear,"—the man's face was very grave now,—"I want youto talk this thing over with your mother. I am a lonely old man—yes,old, in spite of the fact that I'm barely forty—I feel sixty! I wantyou, and I need you, and—notwithstanding your unflattering opinion ofme, just expressed—I believe I can make you happy, and your mother,too. She shall have every comfort, and you shall have love and laughterand sympathy and interest, I promise you. Now, isn't your heartsoftening just a wee bit?Won't you come?"

"Why, of course, I—appreciate your kindness, Mr. Denby, and"—Bettydrew a tremulous breath and looked wistfully into the man's pleadingeyes—"it would be lovely for—mother, wouldn't it? She wouldn't have toworry any more, or—or—"[Pg 362]

Burke Denby lifted an imperative hand. His face lighted. He sprang tohis feet and spoke with boyish enthusiasm.

"The very thing! Miss Darling, I want you to go home and bring yourmother back to luncheon with you. Never mind the work," he went on, ashe saw her quick glance toward his desk. "I don't want to work. Icouldn't—this morning. And I don't want you to. I want to see yourmother. I want to tell her—many things—of myself. I want her to seeme, and see if she thinks she could give you to me as a daughter, andyet not lose you herself, but come here with you to live."

"But I—I could tell her this to-night," stammered Betty, knowing stillthat, in spite of herself, she was being swept quite off her feet by theextraordinary enthusiasm of the eager man before her.

"I don't want to wait till to-night. I want to see her now.Besides,"—he cocked his head whimsically with the confident air of onewho knows his point is gained,—"I want a magazine, and I forgot to askyou to get it for me last night. I want the February 'Research.' Sowe'll just let it go that I'm sending you to the station newsstand forthat. Incidentally, you may come back around by your mother's place andbring her with you. There, now surely you won't object to—to running anerrand for me!" he finished triumphantly.

"No, I surely can't object to—to running an errand for you," laughedBetty, as she rose to her[Pg 363] feet, a pretty color in her face. "AndI—I'll try to bring mother."

It was in a tumult of excitement and indecision that Betty hurried downthe long Denby walk that February morning. What would her mother say?How would she take it? Would she consent? Would she consent even to goto luncheon—she who so seldom went anywhere? It was a wonderfulthing—this proposal of Mr. Denby's. It meant, of course,—everything,if they accepted it, a complete metamorphosis of their whole lives andfuture. It could not help meaning that. But would they be happy there?Could they be happy with a man like Mr. Denby? To be sure, he said hewould be willing to be—trained. (Betty's face dimpled into a broadsmile somewhat to the mystification of the man she chanced to be meetingat the moment.) But would he be really kind and lovable like this allthe time? He had been delightful once before—for a few days. Whatguaranty had they that he would not again, at the first provocation,fall back into his old glum unbearableness?

But what would her mother say? Well, she would soon know. She would getthe magazine, then hurry home—and find out.

It was between trains at the station, and the waiting-room was deserted.Betty hurriedly told the newsstand woman what she wanted, and tried toassume a forbidding aspect that would discourage questions. But thewoman made no move to get the[Pg 364] magazine. She did not seem even to haveheard the request. Instead she leaned over the counter and caughtBetty's arm in a vise-like grip. Her face was alight with joyousexcitement.

"Well, I am glad to see you! I've been watchin' ev'ry day fur you. Whatdid I tell ye?Now I guess you'll say I know when I've seen a facebefore!Now I know who you are. I see you with your mother at Martin'sgrocery last Sat'day night, and I tried ter get to ye, but I lost ye inthe crowd. I seeyou first, then I see her, and I knew then in aminute who you was, and why I'd thought I'd seen ye somewheres. Ihadn't—not since you was a kid, though; but I knew yer mother, an'you've got her eyes. You're Helen Denby's daughter. My, but I'm glad tersee ye!"

Betty, plainly distressed, had been attempting to pull her arm away fromthe woman's grasp; but at the name a look of relief crossed her face.

"You are quite mistaken, madam," she said coldly. "My mother's name isnot Helen Denby."

"But I see her myself with my own eyes, child! Of course she's olderlookin', but I'd swear on my dyin' bed 'twas her. Ain't you DorothyElizabeth?"

"There! I knew 'twas," triumphed the woman. "An' ter think of you comin'back an' workin' fur yer father like this, an'—"

"Why, mother—that is—I mean—she never said— What do you mean? Hecan't be my father. My mother's name is Helen Darling!" Betty was makingno effort to get away now. She was, indeed, clutching the woman's armwith her free hand.

"My Jiminy! so that's her game! She's keepin' it from ye, I bet ye," shecried excitedly.

"Keeping it from me! Keeping what from me? What are you talking about?"Betty's face had paled. The vague questions and half-formed fearsregarding her mother's actions for the past few months seemed suddenlyto be taking horrible shape and definiteness.

"Sakes alive! Do you mean ter say that you don't know that Burke Denbyis your father, an' that he give your mother the go-by when you was akid, an' she lit out with you an' hain't been heard of since?"

"Rats! Did she stuff ye ter that, too? I tell ye'tis so. Say, looka-here! Wa'n't you down ter Martin's grocery last Sat'day night at nineo'clock?"[Pg 366]

"Y-yes." A power entirely outside of herself seemed to force the answersfrom Betty's lips.

"Well, I see ye. You was tergether, talkin' to the big fat man with thered nose. I started towards ye, but I lost ye in the crowd."

Betty's face had grown gray-white. She remembered now. That was thenight her mother had run away from—something.

"Mistaken? Me? Not much! I don't furgit faces. You ask yer mother if shedon't remember Mis' Cobb. Didn't I live right on the same floor with herfur months? Hain't yer mother ever told ye she lived here long ago?"

"Well, I lived next to her, and I knew the whole thing—how she got theletter tellin' her ter go, an' the money Burke Denby sent her—"

"Letter! Money! You mean he wrote her to—go—away? Hepaid her?" Thegirl had become suddenly galvanized into blazing anger.

"Sure! That's what I'm tellin' ye. An' yer mother went. I tried ter stopher. I told her ter go straight up ter them Denbys an' demand herrights—an'your rights. But she wouldn't. She hadn't a mite o' spunk.Just because he was ashamed of her she—"[Pg 367]

"Ashamed of her!Ashamed of my mother!"—if but Helen Denby could haveseen the flash in Betty's eyes!

"Sure! She wa'n't so tony, an' her folks wa'n't grand like his, ye know.That's why old Denby objected ter the marriage in the first place. But,say, didn't you know any of this I'm tellin' ye? Jiminy! but it doesseem queer ter be tellin' ye yer own family secrets like this—an' youhere workin' in his very home, an' not knowin' it, too. If that ain'tthe limit—like a regular story-book! Now, I ain't never one ter butt inwhere 'tain't none of my affairs, but I've got ter say this. You're aDenby, an' ought ter have some spunk; an' if I was you I'd brace rightup an'— Here, don't ye want yer magazine? What are ye goin' ter do?"

If Betty's thoughts and emotions had been in a tumult on the way to thestation, they were in a veritable chaos on the return trip. She did notgo home. She turned her steps toward the Denby Mansion; and because sheknew she could not possibly sit still, she walked all the way.

So this was the meaning of it—the black veil daytimes, the walks onlyat night, the nervous restlessness, the unhappiness. Her motherhadhad something to conceal, something to fear. Poor mother—dearmother—how she must have suffered!

But why,why had she come back here and put[Pg 368] her into that man's home?And why had she told her always how fine and noble and splendid herfather was. Fine! Noble! Splendid, indeed! Still, it was likemother,—dear mother,—always so sweet and gentle, always seeing thegood in everything and everybody! But why had she put her there—in thatman's house? How could she have done it?

And Burke Denby himself—did he know? Did he suspect that she was hisdaughter? Adopt her, indeed! Wasthat the way he thought he could payher mother back for all those years? And the grief and the hurt and themortification—where did they come in? Ashamed of her!Ashamed of her,indeed! Why, her little finger was as much finer and nobler and— Butjust wait till she saw him, that was all!

Like the overwrought, half-beside-herself young hurricane ofwrathfulness that she was, Betty burst into the library at Denby House afew minutes later.

"Why, Betty, what's the matter? Where's your mother? Couldn't she come?What is the matter?"

"I've told her nothing. I haven't seen her," cut in the girl crisply."But I've seen somebody else. I know now—everything!"[Pg 369]

"You needn't call me that. I refuse to recognize the relationship," sheflamed. "Perhaps we are getting theatrical—that woman said it was likea story-book. And perhaps you thought you could wipe it all out byadopting me. Adopting me, indeed! As if I'd let you! I can tell you itisn't going toend like a story-book, with father and mother anddaughter—'and they all lived happily ever after'—because I won't letit!"

"No, no! Oh, Betty, Betty, is it true? Then it'll all be right now. Oh,Betty, I'm so glad," he choked. "My little girl! Won't you—come to me?"

She shook her head and retreated still farther out of his reach. Hereyes still blazed angrily.

"Betty, dear, hear me! I don't know— I don't understand. It's all toowonderful—to have it come—now. Once, for a little minute, the wild[Pg 370]thought came to me that you might be. But, Betty, you yourself told meyour father was—dead!"

"And so he is—to me," sobbed Betty. "You aren't my father. My fatherwas good and true and noble and—you—"

"And your mothertold you that?" breathed the man, brokenly. "Betty,I—I— Where is she? Is she there—at home—now? I want to—see her!"

"I shan't let you see her." Betty had blazed again into unreasoningwrath. "You don't deserve it. You told her you were ashamed of her.Ashamed of her! And she's the best and the loveliest and dearestmother in the world! She's as much above and beyond anything you—you—Why she let me come to you I don't know. I can't think why she did it.But now I—I—"

It was a very white, shaken Betty that climbed the stairs to the littleapartment a short time later.

"Why, Betty, darling!" exclaimed her mother, hurrying forward. "You areill! Are you ill?"

"Mother, why didn't you tell me?" she asked dully, heartbrokenly. "Whydid you let me come here and go to that house day after day and notknow—anything?"[Pg 371]

"Why, what—what do you mean?" All the color had drained from HelenDenby's face.

"Yes, she's been talking to me, and— Oh, mother, mother,why did youcome here—now?" cried Betty, springing to her feet in sudden frenzyagain. "How could you let me go there? And only to-day—this morning, hetold me he wanted to adopt me! And you—he was going to have us boththere—to live. He said he was so lonely, and that I—I made the sunshine for the first time for years. And afterwards, when I found outwho he was, I thought he meant it as a salve to heal all theunhappiness he'd caused you. I thought he was trying topay; and Itold him—"

"Oh, Betty, Betty, what are you saying?" moaned her mother. "What haveyou done? You didn't tell himthat way!"

"Indeed I did! I told him I knew—everything now; and that he needn'tthink he could wipe it out. And he wanted to see you, and I said hecouldn't. I—"

"Mother, that's he! I know it's he! Mother, don't let him in," imploredBetty. But her mother already was in the hall.

Betty, frightened, despairing, and angry, turned her back and walked tothe window. She heard the man's quick cry and the woman's sobbinganswer. She heard the broken, incoherent sentences with which the manand the woman attempted to crowd into one brief delirious minute all thelong years of heartache and absence. She heard the pleading, theheart-hunger, the final rapturous bliss that vibrated through every toneand word. But she did not turn. She did not turn even when some minuteslater her father's voice, low, unsteady, but infinitely tender, reachedher ears.

"Betty, dear, he means—we've forgiven each other, and—ifI am happy,can't you be?" begged Betty's mother, tremulously.

"No, she doesn't—understand," he said. "It's[Pg 373] a long roadto—understanding, dear. You and I have found it so."

"And there are sticks and stones and numberless twigs to trip one'sfeet," went on the man softly. "And there are valleys of despair andmountains of doubt to be encountered—and Betty has come only a littlebit of the way. Betty is young."

"But"—it was Helen's tremulous voice—"it's on the mountain-topsthat—that we ought to be able to see the end of the journey, you know."

"Yes; but there are all those guideboards, remember," said the man, "andBetty hasn't come to the guideboards yet—regret—remorse—forgiveness—patience, and—atonement."

There was a sudden movement at the window. Then Betty, misty-eyed, stoodbefore them.

"I know I am—on the mountain of doubt now, but"—she paused, her gazegoing from one to the other of the wondrously glorified faces beforeher—"I'll try so hard to see—the end of the journey," she faltered.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions willbe renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyrightlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the UnitedStates without permission and without paying copyrightroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use partof this license, apply to copying and distributing ProjectGutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by followingthe terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for useof the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything forcopies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is veryeasy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creationof derivative works, reports, performances and research. ProjectGutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you maydo practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protectedby U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademarklicense, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the freedistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “ProjectGutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the FullProject Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online atwww.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree toand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by allthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return ordestroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in yourpossession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to aProject Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be boundby the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the personor entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only beused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people whoagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a fewthings that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic workseven without complying with the full terms of this agreement. Seeparagraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with ProjectGutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of thisagreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“theFoundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collectionof Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individualworks in the collection are in the public domain in the UnitedStates. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in theUnited States and you are located in the United States, we do notclaim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long asall references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hopethat you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promotingfree access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping theProject Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easilycomply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in thesame format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License whenyou share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also governwhat you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries arein a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of thisagreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or anyother Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes norepresentations concerning the copyright status of any work in anycountry other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or otherimmediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appearprominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any workon which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which thephrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work isderived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does notcontain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of thecopyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone inthe United States without paying any fees or charges. If you areredistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “ProjectGutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must complyeither with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 orobtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is postedwith the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distributionmust comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and anyadditional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional termswill be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all worksposted with the permission of the copyright holder found at thebeginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of thiswork or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute thiselectronic work, or any part of this electronic work, withoutprominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 withactive links or immediate access to the full terms of the ProjectGutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, includingany word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide accessto or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a formatother than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the officialversion posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expenseto the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a meansof obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “PlainVanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include thefull Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ worksunless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providingaccess to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic worksprovided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a ProjectGutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms thanare set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writingfrom the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager ofthe Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as setforth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerableeffort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofreadworks not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the ProjectGutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, maycontain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurateor corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or otherintellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk orother medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage orcannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Rightof Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the ProjectGutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a ProjectGutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim allliability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legalfees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICTLIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSEPROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THETRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BELIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE ORINCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCHDAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover adefect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you canreceive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending awritten explanation to the person you received the work from. If youreceived the work on a physical medium, you must return the mediumwith your written explanation. The person or entity that provided youwith the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy inlieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the personor entity providing it to you may choose to give you a secondopportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. Ifthe second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writingwithout further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forthin paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NOOTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOTLIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain impliedwarranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types ofdamages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreementviolates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, theagreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer orlimitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity orunenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void theremaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, thetrademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyoneproviding copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works inaccordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with theproduction, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any ofthe following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of thisor any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, oradditions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) anyDefect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution ofelectronic works in formats readable by the widest variety ofcomputers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. Itexists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donationsfrom people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with theassistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’sgoals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection willremain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secureand permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and futuregenerations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg LiteraryArchive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, seeSections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of thestate of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the InternalRevenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identificationnumber is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg LiteraryArchive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted byU.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and upto date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s websiteand official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project GutenbergLiterary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespreadpublic support and donations to carry out its mission ofincreasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can befreely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widestarray of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exemptstatus with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulatingcharities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the UnitedStates. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes aconsiderable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep upwith these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locationswhere we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SENDDONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular statevisitwww.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where wehave not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibitionagainst accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states whoapproach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot makeany statements concerning tax treatment of donations received fromoutside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donationmethods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of otherways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. Todonate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the ProjectGutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could befreely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced anddistributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network ofvolunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printededitions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright inthe U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do notnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paperedition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG searchfacility:www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg LiteraryArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how tosubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

I.	Frosted Cakes and Shotguns
II.	An Only Son
III.	Honeymoon Days
IV.	Nest-building
V.	The Wife
VI.	The Husband
VII.	Stumbling-blocks
VIII.	Diverging Ways
IX.	A Bottle of Ink
X.	By Advice of Counsel
XI.	In Quest of the Stars
XII.	The Trail of the Ink
XIII.	A Woman's Won't
XIV.	An Understudy
XV.	A Woman's Will
XVI.	Emergencies
XVII.	Pink Teas to Flighty Blondes
XVIII.	A Little Bunch of Diaries
XIX.	The Stage is set
XX.	The Curtain rises
XXI.	The Play begins
XXII.	Actor and Audience
XXIII.	"The Plot thickens"
XXIV.	Counter-plots
XXV.	Enigmas
XXVI.	The Road to Understanding

Lunch	$.25
Cigar	.10
Car-fare	.10
Paper	.02
Helen	2.00
Cigars	.25
Paper	.02

Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Road to Understanding

E-text prepared by Annie McGuire from scanned images of public domain material generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com/)

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

THE ROAD

TO UNDERSTANDING

BY

ELEANOR H. PORTER

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1917

TO

MY FRIEND

Miss Grace Wheeler

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

From drawings by Mary Greene Blumenschein

CHAPTER I

FROSTED CAKES AND SHOTGUNS

CHAPTER II

AN ONLY SON

CHAPTER III

HONEYMOON DAYS

CHAPTER IV

NEST-BUILDING

CHAPTER V

THE WIFE

CHAPTER VI

THE HUSBAND

CHAPTER VII

STUMBLING-BLOCKS

CHAPTER VIII

DIVERGING WAYS

CHAPTER IX

A BOTTLE OF INK

CHAPTER X

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

CHAPTER XI

IN QUEST OF THE STARS

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAIL OF THE INK

CHAPTER XIII

A WOMAN'S WON'T

CHAPTER XIV

AN UNDERSTUDY

CHAPTER XV

A WOMAN'S WILL

CHAPTER XVI

EMERGENCIES

CHAPTER XVII

PINK TEAS TO FLIGHTY BLONDES

CHAPTER XVIII

A LITTLE BUNCH OF DIARIES

CHAPTER XIX

THE STAGE IS SET

CHAPTER XX

THE CURTAIN RISES

CHAPTER XXI

THE PLAY BEGINS

CHAPTER XXII

ACTOR AND AUDIENCE

CHAPTER XXIII

"THE PLOT THICKENS"

CHAPTER XXIV

COUNTER-PLOTS

CHAPTER XXV

ENIGMAS

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

E-text prepared by Annie McGuire
from scanned images of public domain material generously made available by the
Google Books Library Project
(http://books.google.com/)