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 he
still loved Helen dearly--only he did not like to be with her now. She
made him nervous, and rubbed him the wrong way. Her mood never seemed to
fit in with his. She had so many little ways--
Sometimes he told himself irritably that he believed that, if it were a
big thing like a crime that Helen had committed, he could be heroic and
forgiving, and glory in it. But forever to battle against a succession
of never-ending irritations, always to encounter the friction of
antagonistic aims and ideals--it was maddening. He was ashamed of
himself, of course. He was ashamed of lots of things that he said and
did. But he could not help an explosion now and then. He felt as if
somewhere, 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 not
given up? As if it were his fault that he was now so disillusioned! He
had supposed that marriage with Helen would be a fresh joy every
morning, a new delight every evening, an unbelievable glory of
happiness--just being together.
Now--he did not want to be together. He did not want to go home to
fretfulness, fault-finding, slovenliness, and perpetual criticism. He
wanted to go home to peace and harmony, big, quiet rooms, servants that
knew their business, and--dad.
And that was another thing--dad. Dad had been right. He himself had been
wrong. But that did not mean that it was easy to own up that he had been
wrong. Sometimes he hardly knew which cut the deeper: that he had been
proved wrong, thus losing his happiness, or that his father had been
proved right, thus placing him in a position to hear the hated "I told
you so."
That Helen could never make him happy Burke was convinced now. Never had
he realized this so fully as since seeing her at his father's table that
Sunday. Never had her "ways" so irritated him. Never had he so
poignantly realized the significance of what he had lost--and won. Never
had he been so ashamed--or so ashamed because he was ashamed--as on that
day. 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 such
a thing. When one is so very sorry for one's self, one forgets to be
sorry for anybody else. And Burke was, indeed, very sorry for himself.
Having never been in the habit of taking disagreeable medicine, he did
not know how to take it now. Having been always accustomed to consider
only himself, he considered only himself now. That Helen, too, might be
disappointed and disillusioned never occurred to him.
* * * * *
It was perhaps a month later that another invitation to dinner came from
John Denby. This time Burke did not stutter out a joyous, incoherent
acceptance. He declined so promptly and emphatically that he quite
forgot his manners, for the moment, and had to attach to the end of his
refusal a hurried and ineffectual "Er--thank you; you are very kind, I'm
sure!" He looked up then and met his father's eyes. But instantly his
gaze 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, I
am sorry, son."
Burke, with a sudden tightening of his throat, turned and walked away.
"He didn't laugh, he didn't sneer, he didn't look _anyhow_, only just
plain sorry," choked the young man to himself. "And he had such a
magnificent chance to do--all of them. But he just--understood."
Burke "spoke to Helen" that night.
"Father asked us to dinner next Sunday; but--I said I didn't think we
could go. I told him you weren't feeling well. I didn't think you'd want
to go; and--I didn't want to go myself."
Helen frowned and pouted.
"Well, I've got my opinion of folks who refuse an invitation without
even 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 he
meant something--that he was giving in, you know. But I haven't seen any
signs of _that_. And as for just going to dinner--I can't say I am
'specially anxious for that--mean as I feel now."
"No, I thought not," said Burke.
And there the matter ended. As the summer passed, Burke fell into the
way of going often to see his father, though never at meal-time. He went
alone. Helen said she did not care to go, and that she did not _see_
what fun Burke could find in it, anyway.
To Burke, these hours that he spent with his father chatting and smoking
in the dim old library, or on the vine-shaded veranda, were like a
breeze blowing across the desert of existence--like water in a thirsty
land. From day to day he planned for these visits. From hour to hour he
lived upon them.
To all appearances John Denby and his son had picked up their old
comradeship exactly where the marriage had severed it. Even to Burke's
watchful, sensitive eyes the "wall" seemed quite gone. There was,
however, one difference: mother was never mentioned. John Denby never
spoke of her now.
There was plenty to talk about. There were all the old interests, and
there was business. Burke was giving himself heart and soul to business
these days. In July he won another promotion, and was given an advance
in wages. Often, to Burke's infinite joy, his father consulted him about
matters and things quite beyond his normal position, and showed in other
ways his approval of his son's progress. Helen, the marriage, and the
Dale Street home life were never mentioned--for which Burke was
thankful.
"He _couldn't_ say anything I'd want to hear," said Burke to himself, at
times. "And I--_I_ can't say anything _he_ wants to hear. Best forget
it--if we can."
To "forget it" seemed, indeed, in these days, to be Burke's aim and
effort. Always had Burke tried to forget things. From the day his
six-months-old fingers had flung the offending rattle behind him had
Burke endeavored to thrust out of sight and mind everything that
annoyed--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 of
marbles, cries, "Oh, come, let's play something else. I'm tired of
this!"--an attitude which, naturally, was not conducive to happiness,
either for himself or for any one else--particularly as the game he was
playing was marriage, not marbles.
The summer passed and October came. Life at the Dale Street flat had
settled into a monotony of discontent and dreariness. Helen,
discouraged, disappointed, and far from well, dragged through the
housework day by day, wishing each night that it were morning, and each
morning that it were night--a state of mind scarcely conducive to
happiness on her part.
For all that Burke was away so many evenings now, Helen was not so
lonely as she had been in the spring; for in Mrs. Jones's place had come
a new neighbor, Mrs. Cobb. And Mrs. Cobb was even brighter and more
original than Mrs. Jones ever was, and Helen liked her very much. She
was a mine of information as to housekeeping secrets, and she was
teaching Helen how to make the soft and dainty little garments that
would be needed in November. But she talked even more loudly than Mrs.
Jones had talked; and her laugh was nearly always the first sound that
Burke heard across the hall every morning. Moreover, she possessed a
phonograph which, according to Helen, played "perfectly grand tunes";
and some one of these tunes was usually the first thing that Burke heard
every night when he came home. So he called her coarse and noisy, and
declared she was even worse than Mrs. Jones; whereat Helen retorted that
of course he _wouldn't_ like her, if _she_ did--which (while possibly
true) 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 call
her "Vivian Mabelle." She said she thought that was a swell name, and
that it was the name of her favorite heroine in a perfectly grand book.
But Burke objected strenuously. He declared very emphatically that no
daughter of his should have to go through life tagged like a vaudeville
fly-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 saw
her cry, the foundations of the earth sank beneath him, and he dropped
into a fathomless abyss from which he thought he would never rise. It
was the same the next time, and the next. The fourth time, as he felt
the now familiar sensation of sinking down, down, down, he outflung
desperate hands and found an unexpected support--his temper. After that
it was always with him. It helped to tinge with righteous indignation
his despair, and it kept him from utterly melting into weak
subserviency. Still, even yet, he was not used to them--his wife's
tears. Sometimes he fled from them; sometimes he endured them in dumb
despair behind set teeth; sometimes he raved and ranted in a way he was
always ashamed of afterwards. But still they had the power, in a
measure, to make his heart like water within him.
So now, about the baby's name, he called himself a brute and a beast to
bring tears to the eyes of the little mother--toward whom, since the
baby's advent, he felt a remorseful tenderness. But he still maintained
that he could have no man, or woman, call his daughter "Vivian Mabelle."
"But I should think you'd let me name my own baby," wailed his wife.
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 and
paper. Now, write down a whole lot of names that you'd like, and I'll
promise 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 resistance
would be unpleasant, she obediently took the paper and spent some time
writing down a list of names.
Burke frowned a good deal when he saw the list, and declared that it was
pretty poor pickings, and that he ought to have known better than to
have bound himself to a silly-fool promise like that. But he chose a
name (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 more
time at home, and seemed very evidently to be trying to pay especial
attention 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 its
ribs, thrust a tentative finger into the rose-leaf of a hand (emitting a
triumphant chuckle of delight when the rose-leaf became a tightly
clutching little fist), and even allowed the baby to be placed one or
twice in his rather reluctant and fearful arms. But, for the most part,
he contented himself with merely looking at it, and asking how soon it
would walk and talk, and when would it grow its teeth and hair.
Burke was feeling really quite keenly these days the solemnity and
responsibility of fatherhood. He had called into being a new soul. A
little life was in his hands to train. By and by this tiny pink roll of
humanity would be a prattling child, a little girl, a young lady. And
all 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 in
all ways a fit pattern.
It was a solemn thought. No more tempers, tantrums, and impatience. No
more idle repinings and useless regrets. What mattered it if he were
disillusioned and heartsick? Did he want this child of his, this
beautiful 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 things
that he would wish her to be.
And how delightful it would be when she was old enough to meet him on
his own ground--to be a companion for him, the companion he had not
found in his wife! She would be pretty, of course, sweet-tempered, and
cheerful. (Was he not to train her himself?) She would be capable and
sensible, too. He would see to that. To no man, in the future, should
she bring the tragedy of disillusionment that her mother had brought to
_him_. No, indeed! For that matter, however, he should not let her marry
any one for a long time. He should keep her himself. Perhaps he would
not let her marry at all. He did not think much of this marriage
business, anyway. Not that he was going to show that feeling any longer
now, of course. From now on he was to show only calm contentment and
tranquillity of soul, no matter what the circumstances. Was he not a
father? Had he not, in the hollow of his hand, a precious young life to
train?
Again all this was very well in theory. But in practice--
Dorothy Elizabeth was not six months old before the young father
discovered that parenthood changed conditions, not people. He felt just
as 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 he
could not buy what he wanted; just as annoyed at the purple cushion on
the red sofa.
He was surprised and disappointed. He told himself that he had supposed
that when a fellow made good resolutions, he was given some show of a
chance to keep them. But as if any one _could_ cultivate calm
contentment and tranquillity of soul as he was situated!
First, there were not only all his old disappointments and annoyances to
contend with, but a multitude of new ones. It was as if, indeed, each
particular torment had taken unto itself wife and children, so numerous
had they become. There was really now no peace at home. There was
nothing but the baby. He had not supposed that any one thing or person
could so monopolize everything and everybody.
When the baby was awake, Helen acted as if she thought the earth swung
on its axis solely to amuse it. When it slept, she seemed to think the
earth ought to stand still--lest it wake Baby up. With the same
wholesale tyranny she marshaled into line everything and everybody on
the 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 feel
himself more and more an alien and a nuisance in his own home. Moreover,
where before he had found disorder and untidiness, he now found positive
chaos. And however fond he was of the Baby, he grew unutterably weary of
searching 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 to
realize; and the delights and responsibilities of fatherhood began to
pall 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 a
young lady daughter!
Children were all very well, of course,--very desirable. But did they
never do anything but cry? Couldn't they be taught that nights were for
sleep, and that other people in the house had some rights besides
themselves? And must they _always_ choose four o'clock in the morning
for a fit of the colic? Helen said it was colic. For his part, he
believed it was nothing more or less than temper--plain, right-down
temper!
And so it went. Another winter passed, and spring came. Matters were no
better, but rather worse. A series of incompetent maids had been adding
considerably to the expense--and little to the comfort--of the
household. Helen, as a mistress, was not a success. She understood
neither her own duties nor those of the maid--which resulted in short
periods of poor service and frequent changes.
July came with its stifling heat, and Dorothy Elizabeth, now twenty
months old, showed a daily increasing disapproval of life in general and
of her own existence in particular. Helen, worn and worried, and half
sick from care and loss of sleep, grew day by day more fretful, more
difficult to get along with. Burke, also half sick from loss of sleep,
and consumed with a fierce, inward rebellion against everything and
everybody, including himself, was no less difficult to get along with.
Of course this state of affairs could not continue forever. The tension
had to snap sometime. And it snapped--over a bottle of ink in a baby's
hand.
It happened on Bridget's "afternoon out," when Helen was alone with the
baby. Dorothy Elizabeth, propped up in her high-chair beside the
dining-room table, where her mother was writing a letter, reached
covetous hands toward the fascinating little fat black bottle. The next
instant a wild shout of glee and an inky tide surging from an
upside-down bottle, held high above a golden head, told that the quest
had 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 from
Dorothy Elizabeth, and a rapidly spreading inky pall over baby, dress,
table, rug, and Helen's new frock.
At that moment Burke appeared in the door.
With wrathful eyes he swept the scene before him, losing not one detail
of 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 to
come to, isn't it? This is your idea of a happy home, I suppose!"
The overwrought wife and mother, with every nerve tingling, turned
sharply.
"Oh, yes, that's right--blame me! Blame me for everything! Maybe you
think _I_ think this is a happy, restful place, too! Maybe you think
this is what _I_ thought 'twould be--being married to you! But I can
tell you it just isn't! Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and
pinching and slaving, and never having any fun, and being scolded and
blamed all the time because I don't eat and walk and stand up and sit
down 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 started
for the door.
Burke turned quietly. His face was very white.
"I'm going down to the square to get something to eat. Then I'm going up
to father's. And--you needn't sit up for me. I shall stay all night."
"_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.
Helen, left alone with the baby, fell back limply.
"Why, Baby, he--he--" Then she caught the little ink-stained figure to
her and began to cry convulsively.
In the street outside Burke strode along with his head high and his jaw
sternly set. He was very angry. He told himself that he had a right to
be angry. Surely a man was entitled to _some_ consideration!
In spite of it all, however, there was, in a far-away corner of his
soul, an uneasy consciousness of a tiny voice of scorn dubbing this
running away of his the act of a coward and a cad.
Very resolutely, however, he silenced this voice by recounting again to
himself how really abused he was. It was a long story. It served to
occupy his mind all through the unappetizing meal he tried to eat at the
cheap restaurant before climbing Elm Hill.
His father greeted him cordially, and with no surprise in voice or
manner--which was what Burke had expected, inasmuch as he had again
fallen into the way of spending frequent evenings at the old home.
To-night, however, Burke himself was constrained and ill at ease. His
jaw was still firmly set and his head was still high; but his heart was
beginning to fail him, and his mind was full of questionings.
How would his father take it--this proposition to stay all night? He
would understand something of what it meant. He could not help but
understand. But what would he say? How would he act? Would he say in
actions, if not in words, that dreaded "I told you so"? Would it unseal
his lips on a subject so long tabooed, and set him into a lengthy
dissertation on the foolishness of his son's marriage? Burke believed
that, as he felt now, he could not stand that; but he could stand less
easily going back to the Dale Street flat that night. He could go to a
hotel, of course. But he did not want to do that. He wanted dad. But he
did not want dad--to talk.
"How's the baby?" asked John Denby, as Burke dropped himself into a
chair on the cool, quiet veranda. "I thought she was not looking very
well the last time Helen wheeled her up here." Always John Denby's first
inquiry now was for his little granddaughter.
"Eh? The baby? Oh, she--she's all right. That is"--Burke paused for a
short laugh--"she's _well_."
John Denby took his cigar from his lips and turned sharply.
"But she's _not_--all right?"
Burke laughed again.
"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 graphic
description of his return home that night.
"Jove, what a mess!--and _ink_, too," ejaculated John Denby, with more
than a tinge of sympathy in his voice. "How'd she ever manage to clean
it up?"
Burke shrugged his shoulders.
"Ask me something easy. I don't know, I'm sure. I cleared out."
"Without--your dinner?" John Denby asked the question after a very
brief, but very tense, silence.
"My dinner--I got in the square."
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 his
question quite so soon; but suddenly he was consumed with an
overwhelming desire to speak out and get it over. He cleared his throat
again.
"Dad--would you mind--my sleeping here to-night? It's just that I--I
want a good night's sleep, for once," he plunged on hurriedly, in answer
to a swift something that he saw leap to his father's eyes. "And I can't
get it there--with the baby and all."
There was a perceptible pause. Then, steadily, and with easy cordiality,
came John Denby's reply.
"Why, certainly, my boy. I'm glad to have you. I'll ring at once for
Benton 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 alight
and eager, Burke braced himself for what he thought was inevitable.
Something would come, of course. The only question was, what would it
be?
But nothing came--that is, nothing in the nature of what Burke had
expected. John Denby, after Benton had left the veranda, turned to his
son with a pleasantly casual--
"Oh, Brett was saying to-day that the K. & O. people had granted us an
extension of time on that bridge contract."
"Er--yes," plunged in Burke warmly. And with the words, every taut nerve
and muscle in his body relaxed as if cut in twain.
It came later, though, when he had ceased to look for it. It came just
as 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 had
his father mentioned Helen, save to speak of her casually in connection
with the baby?
"Er--er--y-yes, very likely," he stammered, a sudden vision coming to
him of Helen as he had seen her on the floor in the midst of the inky
chaos a short time before.
"You're not the only one that isn't finding the present state of affairs
a--a bed of roses, Burke," said John Denby then.
"Er--ah--n-no," muttered the amazed husband. In his ears now rang
Helen's--"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and
slaving!" Involuntarily he shivered and glanced at his father--dad could
not, of course, have _heard_!
"I have a plan to propose," announced John Denby quietly, after a
moment'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've
noticed--many things. I will send her a check for ten thousand dollars
to-morrow if she will take the baby and go away for a time--say, to her
old home for a visit. But there is one other condition," he continued,
lifting a quick hand to silence Burke's excited interruption. "I need a
rest and change myself. I should like to go to Alaska again; and I'd
like 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 a
full minute now he said nothing. Then, abruptly, he stopped and wheeled
about. His face was very white.
"Dad, I can't. It seems too much like--like--"
"No, it isn't in the least like quitting, or running away," supplied
John Denby, reading unerringly his son's hesitation. "You're not
quitting 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 feel
like 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 voice
shook a little. "I don't think you know, boy, how your old dad
has--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 an
admission. "But--Helen--" He stopped short, waiting.
"I've answered that. I've told you. Helen needs a rest and a change."
Again to the distraught husband's ears came the echo of a woman's
wailing--"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and
slaving--"
"Then you don't think Helen will feel that I'm running away?" A growing
hope 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.
Burke winced. A painful red reached his forehead.
"It is, indeed, a large sum, sir,--too large," he resented, with sudden
stiffness. "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 second
mistake of showing it.
"Nonsense!" he laughed lightly, with no sign of the sudden panic of
fear within him lest the look on his son's face meant the downfall of
all his plans. "I made it large purposely. Remember, I'm borrowing her
husband for a season; and she needs some recompense! Besides, it'll mean
a playday for herself. You'll not be so unjust to Helen as to refuse her
the means to enjoy that!--not that she'll spend it all for that, of
course. But it will be a comfortable feeling to know that she has it."
"Y-yes, of course," hesitated Burke, still frowning.
"Then we'll call that settled."
"I know; but-- Of course if you put it _that_ way, why, I--"
"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'm
planning a different route from the one we took with the doctor--a
better one, I think. But let's see what you say. Come!" And he led the
way to the library.
Burke's head came up alertly. His shoulders lost their droop and his
brow its frown. A new light flamed into his eyes and a new springiness
leaped into his step. Always, from the time his two-year-old lips had
begged to "see the wheels go 'round," had Burke's chief passion and
delight been traveling. As he bent now over the maps and time-tables
that his father spread before him, voice and hands fairly trembled with
eagerness. Then suddenly a chance word sent him to his feet again, the
old look of despair on his face.
"Dad, I can't," he choked. "I can't be a quitter. You don't want me to
be!"
[Illustration: JOHN DENBY WENT STRAIGHT TO HIS SON AND LAID BOTH HANDS
ON HIS SHOULDERS]
With a sharp word John Denby, too, leaped to his feet. Something of the
dogged persistence that had won for him wealth and power glowed in his
eyes as he went straight to his son and laid both hands on his
shoulders.
"Burke, I had not meant to say this," he began quietly; "but perhaps
it's just as well that I do. Possibly you think I've been blind all
these past months; but I haven't. I've seen--a good deal. Now I want you
and 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 together
with some measure of peace and comfort, and I'm trying to give you that
chance. There's just one thing to do, I believe, and that is--to be away
from each other for a while. You both need it. For weeks I've been
planning and scheming how it could be done. How do you suppose I
happened to have this Alaska trip all cut and dried even down to the
train and boat schedules, if I hadn't done some thinking? To-night came
my chance. So I spoke."
"But--to be a quitter!"
"You're not quitting. You're--stopping to get your breath."
"There's--my work."
"You've made good, and more than good there, son. I've been proud of
you--every inch of the way. You're no quitter there."
"Thanks, dad!" Only the sudden mist in his eyes and the shake in his
voice showed how really moved Burke was. "But--Helen," he stammered
then.
"Will be better off without you--for a time."
"And--I?"
"Will be better off without her--for the same time. While I--shall be,
oh, so infinitely better off _with_ you. Ah, son, but I've missed you
so!" It was the same longing cry that had gone straight to Burke's heart
a few minutes before. "You'll come?"
There was a tense silence. Burke's face plainly showed the struggle
within him. A moment more, and he spoke.
"Dad, I'll have to think it out," he temporized brokenly. "I'll let you
know in the morning."
"Good!" If John Denby was disappointed, he did not show it. "We'll let
it 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 and
time-tables.
"No, of course not," acquiesced Burke promptly, relieved that his father
agreed so willingly to the delay.
Half an hour later he went upstairs to his old room to bed.
It was a fine old room. He had forgotten that a bedroom could be so
large--and so convenient. Benton, plainly, had been there. Also,
plainly, his hand had not lost its cunning, nor his brain the memory of
how Master Burke "liked things."
The arrangement of the lights, the glass of milk by his bed, the
turned-down spread and sheet, the latest magazine ready to his
hand--even the size and number of towels in his bathroom testified to
Benton's loving hand and good memory.
With a sigh that was almost a sob Burke dropped himself into a chair and
looked 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 both
lengthy and luxurious--he had forgotten what absolute content lay in
plenty of space, towels, and hot water, to say nothing of soap that was
in its proper place, and did not have to be fished out of a baby-basket
or a kitchen sink.
Burke did not intend to go to sleep at once. He intended first to settle
in his mind what he would do with this proposition of his father's. He
would have to refuse it, of course. It would not do. Still, he ought to
give it proper consideration for dad's sake. That much was due dad.
He stretched himself luxuriously on the bed (he had forgotten that a bed
could be so soft and so "just right") and began to think. But the next
thing he knew he was waking up.
His first feeling was a half-unconscious but delightful sensation of
physical comfort. His next a dazed surprise as his slowly opened eyes
encountered shapes and shadows and arc-light beams on the walls and
ceiling quite unlike those in his Dale Street bedroom. Then instantly
came 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, the
crying baby, the trailing ink, the angry words, the flight, dad, his
welcome, the pleasant chat, the remarkable proposition. Oh, yes! And it
was of the proposition that he was going to think. He could not accept
it, of course, but--
What a trump dad had been to offer it! What a trump he had been in the
_way_ 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. Not
even 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 for
himself, and actually in a casual, matter-of-fact tone of voice as if
ten-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 every
day. 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 like
that alone, and so far. Besides, dad _wanted_ him. How his voice had
trembled when he had said, "I don't think you know, boy, how your old
dad has missed you"! As if he didn't, indeed! As if he hadn't done
_some_ missing on his own account!
And the check. Of course he could not let Helen accept that,
either,--ten thousand dollars! But how generous of dad to offer it--and
of course it _would_ be good for Helen. Poor Helen! She needed a rest,
all right, and she deserved one. It _would_ be fine for her to go back
to her old home town for a little while, and no mistake. Not that she
would 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 frills
and furbelows she wanted for herself and the baby, and send them into
the country for all the rest of the summer, besides leaving nine-tenths
of it for a nest-egg for the future. And what a comfortable feeling it
would 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 to
spend 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 it
would be to her--that ten thousand dollars! Of course, looking at it in
that light, it was almost his _duty_ to accept the proposition, and give
her the chance to have it.
But then, after all, he couldn't. Why, it was like accepting charity; he
hadn't earned it. Still, if hard work and anguish of mind counted, he
_had_ earned it twice over, slaving away at the beck of Brett and his
minions. And he had made good--so far. Dad had said so. What a trump dad
was to speak as he did! And when _dad_ said a thing like that, it meant
something!
Well, there was nothing to do, of course, but to go back and buckle down
to work--and to life in the Dale Street flat. To be sure, there was the
baby. Of course he was fond of the baby; and it was highly interesting
to see her achieve teeth, hair, a backbone, and sense--if only she would
hurry up a little faster, though. Did babies always take so long to grow
up?
Burke stretched himself luxuriously and gazed about the room. The
arc-light outside had gone out and dawn was approaching. More and more
distinctly each loved object in the room was coming into view. To his
nostrils came the perfume of the roses and honeysuckles in the garden
below his window. To his ears came the chirp and twitter of the
bird-calls from the trees. Over his senses stole the soothing peace of
absolute physical ease.
Once more, drowsily, he went back to his father's offer. Once more, in
his mind, he argued it--but this time with a difference. Thus, so
potent, sometimes, is the song of a bird, the scent of a flower, the
shape of a loved, familiar object, or even the feel of a soft bed
beneath one.
After all, might he not be making a serious mistake if he did not accede
to his father's wishes? Of course, so far as he, personally, was
concerned, the answer would be an unequivocal refusal of the offer. But
there 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, if
he accepted it!
Helen and the baby could have months of fresh air, ease, and happiness
without delay, to say nothing of innumerable advantages later. Why, when
you came to think of it, that would be enough, if there were nothing
else! But there was something else. There was dad. Good old dad! How
happy he'd be! Besides, dad really needed him. How ever had he thought
for a moment of sending dad off to Alaska alone, and just after an
illness, 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 of
pride and the like, and he would make dad, Helen, and the baby happy.
Which question having been satisfactorily decided, Burke turned over and
settled 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.
Jove, but that was going to be a dandy trip!
* * * * *
It was later, while Burke was leisurely dressing and planning out the
day before him, that the bothersome question came to him as to how he
should tell Helen. He was reminded, also, emphatically, of the probable
scene 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 another
one, too, when he told her that he was going away for a time. To be
sure, there was the ten-thousand-dollar check; and of course very soon
he could convince her that it was really all for her best happiness.
After she gave it a little thought, it would be all right, he was
positive, but there was certain to be some unpleasantness at first,
particularly as she was sure to be not a little difficult over his
running--er--rather, _going_ away the night before. And he wished he
could 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 of
him not to have thought of it before! He could say, then, just what he
wanted to say, and she would have a chance to think it over calmly and
sensibly, and see how really fine it was for her and the baby. That was
the way to do it, and the only way. Writing, he could not be unnerved by
her tears (of course she would cry at first--she always cried!) or
exasperated into saying things he would be sorry for afterwards. He
could 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 his
trip he would go down to the Dale Street house and spend the last two or
three days with Helen and the baby, picking up his traps, and planning
with Helen some of the delightful things she could do with that ten
thousand dollars. By that time she would, of course, have entirely
come around to his point of view (even if she had not seen it quite
that way at first), and they could have a few really happy days
together--something which would be quite impossible if they should meet
now, with the preceding evening fresh in their minds, and have one of
their usual wretched scenes of tears, recriminations, and wranglings.
For the present, then, he would stay where he was. Helen would be all
right--with Bridget. His father would be overjoyed, he knew; and as for
the few toilet necessities--he could buy those. He needed some new
things to take away. So that was settled.
With a mind at rest again and a heart aflame with joy, Burke hurried
into 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 father
would be pleased; but he was not quite prepared for the depth of emotion
that shook his father's voice and dimmed his father's eyes, and that
ended the half-uttered declaration of joy with what was very near a sob.
If anything, indeed, were needed to convince Burke that he was doing
just right in taking this trip with his father, it could be needed no
longer after the look of ineffable peace and joy on that father's face.
Breakfast, with so much to talk of, prolonged itself like a college
spread, until Burke, with a cry of dismay, pulled out his watch and
leaped to his feet.
"Jove! Do you know what time it is, dad?" he cried laughingly. "Behold
how this life of luxury has me already in its clutches! I should have
been off an hour ago."
John Denby lifted a detaining hand.
"Not so fast, my boy," he smiled. "I've got you, and I mean to keep
you--a few minutes longer."
"But--"
"Oh, I telephoned Brett this morning that you wouldn't be down till
late, if you came at all."
"You telephoned _this morning_!" puzzled Burke, sinking slowly into his
chair 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," answered
John Denby, with a characteristically grim smile. "But I knew, if you
did agree, we'd _both_ have some talking to do. And if you didn't--_I_
should. I meant still to convince you, you see."
"I see," nodded the younger man, smiling in his turn.
"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've
got to write my letter, of course."