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) he
carried a bombshell.
For two reasons John Denby had failed to see what was taking place in
his own home. First, because it would never have occurred to him that
his son could fall in love with a nursemaid; secondly, because he had
systematically absented himself from the house during the most of his
sister's visit, preferring to take his sister away with him for drives
and walks rather than to stay in the noisy confusion of toys and babies
that his home had become. Because of all this, therefore, he was totally
unprepared for what his son was bringing to him.
He welcomed the young man with affectionate heartiness.
"Well, my boy, it's good to see you! Where have you been keeping
yourself all these two weeks?"
"Why, dad, I've been right here--in fact, I've been very much right
here!"
The conscious color that crept to the boy's forehead should have been
illuminating. 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 but
what I'm enjoying your aunt's visit, of course," he added hastily. "But
here are two weeks of your vacation gone, and I've scarcely seen you a
minute."
"Yes; and that's one thing I wanted to talk about--college," plunged in
the boy. "I've decided I don't want to finish my course, dad. I'd rather
go into business right away."
The man drew his brows together, but did not look entirely displeased.
"Hm-m, well," he hesitated. "While I should hate not to see you
graduated, yet--it's not so bad an idea, after all. I'd be glad to have
you here for good that much earlier, son. But why this sudden
right-about-face? I thought you were particularly keen for that degree."
Again the telltale color flamed in the boyish cheeks.
"I was--once. But, you see, then I wasn't thinking of--getting married."
"Married!" To John Denby it seemed suddenly that a paralyzing chill
clutched his heart and made it skip a beat. This possible future
marriage of his son, breaking into their close companionship, was the
dreaded shadow that loomed ever ahead. "Nonsense, boy! Time enough to
think of that when you've found the girl."
"But I have found her, dad."
John Denby paled perceptibly.
"You have--what?" he demanded. "You don't mean that you've-- Who is
she?"
"Helen. Why, dad, you seem surprised," laughed the boy. "Haven't you
noticed--suspected?"
"Well, no I haven't," retorted the man grimly. "Why should I? I never
heard of the young lady before. What is this--some college tomfoolery? I
might have known, I suppose, what would happen."
"College! Why, dad, she's _here_. You know her. It's Helen,--Miss
Barnet."
"Here! There's no one here but your aunt and--" He stopped, and half
started from his chair. "You don't--you can't mean--your aunt's
nursemaid!"
At the scornful emphasis an indignant red dyed the boy's face.
"I didn't think that of you, dad," he rebuked.
Angry as he was, the man was conscious of the hurt the words gave him.
But he held his ground.
"And I did not think this of you, Burke," he rejoined coldly.
"You mean--"
"I mean that I supposed my son would show some consideration as to the
woman he chose for his wife."
"Father!" The boyish face set into stern lines. The boyish figure drew
itself erect with a majesty that would have been absurd had it not been
so palpably serious. "I can't stand much of this sort of thing, even
from 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 woman
I love--the woman I have asked to be my wife. Please remember that when
you speak of her."
John Denby laughed lightly. Sharp words had very evidently been on the
end of his tongue, when, with a sudden change of countenance, he relaxed
in his chair, and said:--
"Well done, Burke. Your sentiments do you credit, I'm sure. But aren't
we getting a little melodramatic? I feel as if I were on the stage of a
second-rate theater! However, I stand corrected; and we'll speak very
respectfully of the lady hereafter. I have no doubt she is very good and
very lovely, as you say; but"--his mouth hardened a little--"I must
still insist that she is no fit wife for my son."
"Why not?"
"Obvious reasons."
"I suppose you mean--because she has to work for her living," flashed
the boy. "But that--excuse me--seems to me plain snobbishness. And I
must 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't
know your own mind. You'll fancy yourself in love a dozen times yet
before the time comes for you to marry."
"I'm not a boy. I'm a man grown."
"You're not twenty-one yet."
"I shall be next month. And I _do_ 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 going
to marry this nursemaid."
"Father!"
"I mean what I say."
"You won't give your consent?"
"Never!"
"Then-- I'll do it without, after next month."
There was a tense moment of silence. Father and son faced each other,
angry resentment in their eyes. Then, with a sharp ejaculation, John
Denby got to his feet and strode to the window. When he turned a minute
later 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 both
hands 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 two
weeks--hardly an adequate preparation for a lifetime of living together.
And just here comes in the second reason. However good and lovely she
may be, she couldn't possibly qualify for that long lifetime together,
Burke. Simply because she works for her living has nothing to do with
it. She has not the tastes or the training that should belong to your
wife--that _must_ belong to your wife if she is to make you happy, if
she is to take the place of--your mother. And that is the place your
wife will take, of course, Burke."
Under the restraining hands on his shoulders the boy stirred restlessly.
"Tastes! Training! What do I care for that? She suits my tastes."
"She wouldn't--for long."
"You wait and see."
"Too great a risk to run, my boy."
"I'll risk it. I'm going to risk it."
Again there was a moment's silence. Again the stern lines deepened
around the man's lips. Then very quietly there came the words:--
"Burke, if you marry this girl, you will choose between her and me. It
seems to me that I ought not to need to tell you that you cannot bring
her here. She shall never occupy your mother's chair as the mistress of
this house."
"That settles it, then: I'll take her somewhere else."
If Burke had not been so blind with passion he would have seen and felt
the anguish that leaped to his father's eyes. But he did not stop to see
or to feel. He snapped out the words, jerked himself free, and left the
room.
This did not "settle it," however. There were more words--words common
to stern parents and amorous youths and maidens since time immemorial. A
father, appalled at the catastrophe that threatened, not only his
cherished companionship with his only son, but, in his opinion, the
revered sanctity of his wife's memory, wrapped himself in forbidding
dignity. An impetuous lover, torn between the old love of years and the
new, quite different one of weeks, alternately stormed and pleaded. A
young girl, undisciplined, very much in love, and smarting with hurt
pride and resentment, blew hot and cold in a manner that tended to drive
every one concerned to distraction. As soon as possible a shocked,
distressed Sister Eunice packed her trunks and betook herself and her
offending household away.
In time, then, a compromise was effected. Burke should leave college
immediately and go into the Works with his father, serving a short
apprenticeship from the bottom up, as had been planned for him, that he
might be the master of the business, in deed as well as in name, when he
should some day take his father's place. Meanwhile, for one year, he was
not to see or to communicate with Helen Barnet. If at the end of the
year, he was still convinced that his only hope of happiness lay in
marriage to this girl, all opposition would be withdrawn and he might
marry when he pleased--though even then he must not expect to bring his
bride to the old home. They must set up an establishment for themselves.
"We should prefer that,--under the circumstances," had been the prompt
and somewhat haughty rejoinder, much to the father's discomfiture.
Grieved and dismayed as he was at the airy indifference with which his
son appeared to face a fatherless future, John Denby was yet pinning his
faith on that year of waiting. Given twelve months with the boy quite to
himself, free from the hateful spell of this designing young woman, and
there could be no question of the result--in John Denby's mind. In all
confidence, therefore, and with every sense alert to make this year as
perfect as a year could be, John Denby set himself to the task before
him.
It was just here, however, that for John Denby the ghosts walked--ghosts
of innumerable toy pistols and frosted cakes. Burke Denby, accustomed
all his life to having what he wanted, and having it _when_ he wanted
it, moped the first week, sulked the second, covertly rebelled the
third, and ran away the last day of the fourth, leaving behind him the
customary note, which, in this case, read:--
_Dear Dad_: I've gone to Helen. I had to. I've lived a
_year_ of misery in this last month: so, as far as I am
concerned, I _have_ waited my year already. We shall be
married at once. I wrote Helen last week, and she consented.
Now, dad, you'll just have to forgive me. I'm twenty-one.
I'm a man now, not a boy, and a man has to decide these
things for himself. And Helen's a dear. You'll see, when you
know her. We'll be back in two weeks. Now don't bristle up.
I'm not going to bring her home, of course (at present),
after the very cordial invitation you gave me not to! We're
going into one of the Reddington apartments. With my
allowance and my--er--wages (!) we can manage that all
right--until "the stern parent" relents and takes his
daughter home--as he should!
Good-bye,
BURKE.
John Denby read the letter once, twice; then he pulled the telephone
toward him and gave a few crisp orders to James Brett, his general
manager. His voice was steady and--to the man at the other end of the
wire--ominously emotionless. When he had finished talking five minutes
later, certain words had been uttered that would materially change the
immediate future of a certain willful youth just then setting out on
his honeymoon.
There would be, for Burke Denby, no "Reddington apartment." There would
also be no several-other-things; for there would be no "allowance" after
the current month. There would be only the "wages," and the things the
wages could buy.
There was no disputing the fact that John Denby was very angry. But he
was also sorely distressed and grieved. Added to his indignation that
his son should have so flouted him was his anguish of heart that the old
days of ideal companionship were now gone forever. There was, too, his
very real fear for the future happiness of his boy, bound in marriage to
a woman he believed would prove to be a most uncongenial mate. But
overtopping all, just now, was his wrath at the flippant assurance of
his son's note, and the very evident confidence in a final forgiveness
that the note showed. It was this that caused the giving of those stern,
momentous orders over the telephone--John Denby himself had been
somewhat in the habit of having his own way!
The harassed father did not sleep much that night. Until far into the
morning hours he sat before the fireless grate in his library, thinking.
He looked old, worn, and wholly miserable. In his hand, and often under
his gaze, was the miniature of a beautiful woman--his wife.