BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL
Helen Denby received the letter from her husband at two o'clock by a
special messenger.
Helen had passed a sleepless night and an unhappy morning. The surge of
bitter anger which at first, like the ink, had blackened everything it
touched, soon spent itself, and left her weak and trembling. Dorothy
Elizabeth, after her somewhat upsetting day, sank into an unusually
sound slumber; but her mother, all through the long night watches, lay
with sleepless eyes staring into the dark, thinking.
Helen was very angry with Burke. There was no gainsaying that. She was a
little frightened, too, at what she herself had said. In a soberer
moment she would not have spoken quite like that, certainly. But it had
been so hateful--his asking if she called that a happy home! As if she
did not want a happy home as much as he ever could!
To Helen, then, came her old vision of the daintily gowned wife
welcoming her husband to the well-kept home; and all in the dark her
cheek flushed hot.
How far short, indeed, of that ideal had she fallen! And she was going
to be such a help to Burke; such an inspiration; such a guide,
counselor, and friend! (Swiftly the words came galloping out of that
long-forgotten honeymoon.) Had she helped him? Had she been an
inspiration, and a guide, and a counselor, and a friend? Poor Burke! He
_had_ given up a good deal for her sake. (With the consciousness of that
vacant pillow by her side, a wave of remorseful tenderness swept over
her.) And of course it must have been hard for him. They had told him
not to marry her, too. They had warned him that she was not suited to
him, that she would drag him--
With a low cry Helen sat up in bed suddenly.
"_Drag him down!_"
Had she dragged him down? No, no, not that--never that! She had been
careless and thoughtless. She had not been a good housekeeper; and maybe
sometimes she had been fretful and fault-finding, and--and horrid. But
she loved him dearly. She had always loved him. It only needed something
like this to show her how much she loved him. Why, he was Burke, her
husband--Baby's father! As if ever she could let it be said that she had
dragged him down!
Quivering, shaken with sobs, she fell back on the pillow. For a few
moments she cried on convulsively. Then, with a tremulous indrawn
breath, she opened her eyes and stared into the dark again. A new
thought had come to her.
But there was time yet. Nothing dreadful had happened. She would show
Burke, his friends, everybody, that she had not dragged him down. From
now on she would try. Oh, how she would try! He should see. He _should_
find a happy home when he came at night. She knew more, now, than she
did, about housekeeping. Besides, there was more money now,--a little
more,--and she had some one to help her with the work. Bridget was
really doing very well; and there was Mrs. Cobb, so kind and helpful.
She would go to her for advice always. Never again should Burke come
home and find such a looking place. Baby should be washed and dressed.
She herself would be dressed and waiting. Dinner, too, even on Bridget's
day out, should be all ready and waiting. As if ever again she would run
the risk of Burke's having to flee from his own home because he could
not stand it! He should see!
It was in this softened, exalted state of mind that Helen rose the next
morning and proceeded to begin the carrying-out of her vows, by essaying
the almost hopeless task (with Bridget's not overcheerful assistance) of
putting into spotless order the entire apartment.
At two o'clock, when Burke's letter came, she was utterly weary and
almost sick; but she was still in the softened, exalted state of the
early morning.
With a wondering, half-frightened little cry at sight of the familiar
writing, she began to read. John Denby's check for ten thousand dollars
had fallen into her lap unnoticed.
_My dear Helen_ [she read]: First let me apologize for
flying off the handle the way I did last night. I shouldn't
have done it. But, do you know? I believe I'm glad I
did--for it's taught me something. Maybe you've discovered
it, too. It's this: you and I have been getting on each
other's nerves, lately. We need a rest from each other.
Now, don't bristle up and take it wrong, my dear. Just be
sensible and think. How many times a day do we snap and
snarl at each other? You're tired and half sick with the
work and the baby. I'm tired and half sick with _my_ work,
and we're always rubbing each other the wrong way. That's
why I think we need a vacation from each other. And dad has
made it possible for us to take one. He wants me to go to
Alaska with him on a little trip. I want to go, of course.
Then, too, I think I ought to go. Dad needs me. Not that he
is old, but he is just getting over an illness, and his head
bothers him a lot. I can be of real use to him.
At his own suggestion he is sending you the enclosed check.
He wants you to accept it with his best wishes for a
pleasant vacation. He suggests--and I echo him--that it
would be a fine idea if you should take the baby and go back
to your home town for a visit. I know your father and mother
are not living; but there must be some one there whom you
would like to visit. Or, better yet, now that you have the
means, you would probably prefer a good hotel for
headquarters, and then make short visits to all your
friends. It would do you worlds of good, and Baby, too.
And now--I'm writing this instead of coming to tell it face
to face, because I believe it's the best way. I'll be frank.
After last night, we might say things when we first met that
we'd be sorry for. And I don't want that to happen. So I'm
going to stay up here for a day or two.
Let me see--to-day is Friday. We are due to leave next
Wednesday. I'll be down the first of the week to say
good-bye and pick up my traps. Meanwhile, chicken, you'll be
all right with Bridget there; and just you put your wits to
work and go to planning out that vacation of yours, and how
you're going to spend the money. Then you can be ready to
tell me all about it when I come down.
Your affectionate husband,
BURKE.
Helen's first feeling, upon finishing the note, was one of utter
stupefaction. With a dazed frown and a low ejaculation she turned the
letter over and began to read it again--more slowly. This time she
understood. But her thoughts were still in a whirl of surprised
disbelief. Then, gradually, came a measure of conviction.
Fresh from her vigils of the night before, with its self-accusations and
its heroic resolutions, she was so chastened and softened that there was
more of grief than of anger in her first outburst.
She began to cry a little wildly.
Burke was going away. He _wanted_ to go. He said they--they got on each
other's nerves. He said they needed a vacation from each other. _Needed_
one! As if they did! It wasn't that. It was his father's idea. _She_
knew. 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 wife
welcoming her husband home to a well-kept house. There would not be any
chance to show how she had changed. There would not be--
But there would be--after he came back.
Helen stopped sobbing, and caught her breath with a new hope in her
eyes. Dorothy Elizabeth began to cry, and Helen picked her up and
commenced to rock her.
Of course there _would_ 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--had
shown 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 that
he should go. And had they not provided for her? She was to go-- There
was a check somewhere--
Burrowing in her lap under Dorothy Elizabeth's warm little body, Helen
dragged forth an oblong bit of crumpled paper. Carefully she spread it
flat. 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, when
all the time they had been so generous! And it really _was_ the best
way, too, that they should be apart for a while. It would give her a
chance to adjust herself and practice--and it would need some practice
if she were really going to be that daintily gowned young wife welcoming
her husband to a well-kept home! And with ten thousand dollars! What
couldn't they get with ten thousand dollars?
Dorothy Elizabeth, at that moment, emitted a sharp, frightened cry. For
how was Dorothy Elizabeth to know that the spasmodic pressure that so
hurt her was really only a ten-thousand-dollar hug of joy?
In less than half an hour, Helen, leaving the baby with Bridget, had
sought Mrs. Cobb. She could keep her good news no longer.
"I came to tell you. I'm going away--Baby and I," she announced
joyously. "We're going next week."
"Jiminy! You don't say so! But you don't mean you're goin' away ter
_live_?"
"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 so
much--Baby and I do." There was a shade of importance in voice and
manner.
"That you do!" exclaimed Mrs. Cobb, with emphasis. "And I'm glad you're
goin'. But, sakes alive, I'm goin' ter miss ye, child!"
"I shall miss you, too," beamed Helen cordially.
"How long you goin' ter be gone?"
"I don't know, exactly. It'll depend, some, on Burke--I mean Mr.
Denby--when he wants me to come back."
"Oh, ain't he goin', too?" An indefinable change came to Mrs. Cobb's
voice.
"Oh, no, not with us," smiled Helen. "He's going to Alaska."
"To--_Alaska_! And, pray, what's he chasin' off to a heathen country
like that for?"
"Tisn't heathen--Alaska isn't," flashed Helen, vaguely irritated without
knowing 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 to
school."
"Maybe 'tis; but that ain't sayin' why he's goin' there, instead of with
you," retorted Mrs. Cobb. In spite of the bantering tone in which this
was uttered, disapproval was plainly evident in Mrs. Cobb's voice.
"He's going with his father," answered Helen, with some dignity.
"His father! Humph!"
This time the disapproval was so unmistakably evident that Helen flamed
into prompt defense, in righteous, wifely indignation.
"I don't know why you speak like that, Mrs. Cobb. Hasn't he got a right
to go with his father, if he wants to? Besides, his father needs him.
Burke says he does."
"And _you_ don't need him, I s'pose," flamed Mrs. Cobb, in her turn,
nettled that her sympathetic interest should meet with so poor a
welcome. "Of course it's none of my business, Mis' Denby, but it seems a
shame to me for him ter let you and the baby go off alone like this, and
so I spoke right out. I always speak right out--what I think."
Helen flushed angrily. However much she might find fault with her
husband herself, she suddenly discovered a strong disinclination to
allowing any one else to do so. Besides, now, when he and his father
had been so kind and generous--! She had not meant to tell Mrs. Cobb of
the ten-thousand-dollar check, lest it lead to unpleasant questioning as
to why it was sent. But now, in the face of Mrs. Cobb's unjust
criticism, she flung caution aside.
"You're very kind," she began, a bit haughtily; "but, you see, this time
you have made a slight mistake. I don't think it's a shame at all for
him to go away with his father who needs him; and you won't, when you
know what they've sent me. They sent me a check this afternoon for ten
thousand dollars."
"_Ten--thousand--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 this
very afternoon."
"For the land's sake!" breathed Mrs. Cobb. Then, as her dazed wits began
to collect themselves, a new look came to her eyes. "They _sent_ it?"
she cried.
"By special messenger--yes," bowed Helen, again importantly.
"But how funny to _send_ it, instead of bringing it himself--your
husband, I mean."
Too late Helen saw her mistake. In a panic, now, lest unpleasant truths
be 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 letter, you know. A lovely letter, all about
what a good time Baby and I could have with the money."
The suspicion in Mrs. Cobb's eyes became swift conviction. An angry red
stained her cheeks--but it was not anger at Helen. That was clearly to
be seen.
"Look a-here, Mis' Denby," she began resolutely, "I'm a plain woman, and
I 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 ter
help. There's somethin' wrong here. If you don't know it, it's time you
did. If you _do_ know it, and are tryin' ter keep it from me, you might
just 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 it
is--you'll _need_ a friend, you poor little thing! Now, what is it?"
Helen shook her head feebly. Her face went from white to red, and back
again to white. Still determined to keep her secret if possible, she
made a brave attempt to regain her old airiness of manner.
"Why, Mrs. Cobb, it's nothing--nothing at all!"
Mrs. Cobb exploded into voluble wrath.
"Nothin', is it?--when a man goes kitin' off ter Alaska, and sendin' his
wife ten thousand dollars ter go somewheres else in the opposite
direction! Maybe you think I don't know what that means. But I do! And
he's tryin' ter play a mean, snivelin' trick on ye, and I ain't goin'
ter stand for it. I never did like him, with all his fine, lordly airs,
a-thinkin' himself better than anybody else what walked the earth. But
if I can help it, I ain't goin' ter see you cheated out of your just
deserts."
"_Mrs. Cobb!_" expostulated the dismayed, dumfounded wife; but Mrs. Cobb
had 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 a
baby ter try ter bring up and edyercate. The idea of your standin' for a
separation with only ten thousand--"
"Separation!" interrupted Helen indignantly, as soon as she could find
her voice. "It isn't a separation. Why, we never thought of such a
thing;--not for--for _always_, the way you mean it."
"What is it, then?"
"Why, it's just a--a playday," stammered Helen, still trying to cling to
the remnant of her secret. "He _said_ it was a playday--that I was to go
off and have a good time with Baby."
"If it's just a playday, why didn't he give it to you ter take it
_tergether_, then? Tell me that!"
"Why, he--he's going with his father."
"You bet he is," retorted Mrs. Cobb grimly. "And he's goin' ter keep
with his father, too."
"What do you mean?" Helen's lips were very white.
Mrs. Cobb gave an impatient gesture.
"Look a-here, child, do you think I'm blind? Don't ye s'pose I know how
you folks have been gettin' along tergether?--or, rather, _not_ gettin'
along tergether? Don't ye s'pose I know how he acts as if you wasn't the
same breed o' cats with him?"
"Then you've seen--I mean, you think he's--ashamed of me?" faltered
Helen.
"Think it! I _know_ it," snapped Mrs. Cobb, ruthlessly freeing her mind,
regardless of the very evident suffering on her listener's face; "and
it's just made my blood boil. Time an' again I've thought of speakin' up
an' tellin' ye I jest wouldn't stand it, if I was you. But I didn't. I
ain't no hand ter butt in where it don't concern me. But ter see you so
plumb fooled with that ten thousand dollars--I jest can't stand it no
longer. I _had_ ter speak up. Turnin' you off with a beggarly ten
thousand dollars--and them with all that money! Bah!"
"But, Mrs. Cobb, maybe he's coming back," stammered Helen faintly, with
white 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, he
won't come back--ter _you_, Mis' Denby."
"But he--he don't say it's for--for all time."
"'Course he don't. But, ye see, he thinks he's lettin' ye down
easy--a-sendin' ye that big check, an' tellin' ye ter take a playday. He
don't want ye ter suspect, yet, an' make a fuss. He's countin' on bein'
miles away when ye _do_ wake up an' start somethin'. That's why I'm
a-talkin' to ye now--ter put ye wise ter things. I ain't goin' ter
stand by an' see you bamboozled. Now do you go an' put on your things
an' 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."
"_I go up there?_" Helen's voice was full of dismayed protest.
"Sure! You brace right up to 'em, an' tell 'em you've caught on ter
their 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, I
mean."
"_Divorce!_" almost shrieked Helen.
"But that he's got ter treat ye fair and square, an' give ye somewheres
near what's due ye," went on Mrs. Cobb, without apparently noticing
Helen'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 'em
what's what."
"Oh, but Mrs. Cobb, I--I--" With a choking sob and a hysterical shake of
her head, Helen turned and fled down the hall to her own door. Once
inside her apartment she stumbled over to the crib and caught the
sleeping Dorothy Elizabeth into her arms.
"Oh, Baby, Baby, it's all over--all over," she moaned. "I can't ever be
a daintily gowned wife welcoming him to a well-kept home now.
Never--never! I can't welcome him at all. He isn't coming back. He
doesn't _want_ to come back. He's ashamed of us, Baby,--_ashamed of
us_!"
Dorothy Elizabeth, roused from her nap and convulsively clutched in a
pair of nervous hands, began to whimper restlessly.
"No, no, Baby, not of you," sobbed Helen, rocking the child back and
forth in her arms. "It was me--just me he was ashamed of. What shall I
do, what _shall_ I do?"
"And I thought it was just as he said," she went on chokingly, after a
moment'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,--it
wasn't; and I see it now. He's ashamed of me. He's always been ashamed
of 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 a _vacation_! And he says _I'm_ to
have one, too, and I must tell him all about it when he comes down next
week. Maybe he thinks I will. _Maybe he thinks I will!_
"We won't be here, Baby,--we won't! We'll go
somewhere--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 a
decision as to her own course of action. That she could not be there
when her husband came to make ready for his journey, she was convinced.
She told herself fiercely that she would take herself and the baby
away--quite away out of his sight. He should not be shamed again by the
sight of her. But she knew in her heart that she was fleeing because she
dared not go through that last meeting with her husband, lest she should
break down. And she did not want to break down. If Burke did not want
_her_, was it likely she was going to cry and whine, and let him know
that she _did_ want him? Certainly not!
Helen's lips came together in a thin, straight line, in spite of her
trembling chin. Between her hurt love and her wounded pride, Helen was
in just that state of hysterics and heroics to do almost
anything--except something sane and sober.
First, to get away. On that she was determined. But where to go--that
was the question. As for going back to the old home town--as Burke had
suggested--_that_ she would not do--now. Did they think, then, that she
was going back there among her old friends to be laughed at, and gibed
at? What if she did have ten thousand dollars to spend on frills and
finery to dazzle their eyes? How long would it be before the whole town
found out, as had Mrs. Cobb, that that ten thousand dollars was the
price Burke Denby had paid for his freedom from the wife he was ashamed
of? Never! She would not go there. But where could she go?
It was then that a plan came to her--a plan so wild and dazzling that
even her frenzied aspiration scouted it at first as impossible. But it
came again and again; and before long her fancy was playing with it, and
turning it about with a wistful "Of course, if I could!" which in time
became a hesitating "And maybe, after all, I _could_ do it," only to
settle at last into a breathlessly triumphant "I will!"
After that things moved very swiftly in the little Denby flat. It was
Saturday morning, and there was no time to lose.
First, Helen gathered all the cash she had in the house, not forgetting
the baby's bank (which yielded the biggest sum of all), and counted it.
She had nineteen dollars and seventeen cents. Then she rummaged among
her husband's letters and papers until she found a letter from Dr.
Gleason bearing his Boston address. Next, with Bridget to help her, she
flung into her trunk everything belonging to herself and the baby that
it was possible to crowd in, save the garments laid out to wear. By
three o'clock Bridget was paid and dismissed, and Helen, with Dorothy
Elizabeth, was waiting for the carriage to take them to the railroad
station.
With the same tearless exaltation that had carried her through the
prodigious tasks of the morning, Helen picked up her bag and Dorothy
Elizabeth, and followed her trunk down the stairs and out to the street.
She gave not one backward glance to the little home, and she carefully
avoided anything but an airy "Good-bye" to the watching Mrs. Cobb in
the window on the other side. Not until the wheels began to turn, and
the journey was really begun, did Helen's tearless exaltation become the
frightened anxiety of one who finds herself adrift on an uncharted sea.
Then Helen began to cry.