THE TRAIL OF THE INK
Burke Denby was well pleased with the letter that he had sent to his
wife, enclosing the ten-thousand-dollar check. He felt that it was both
conclusive and diplomatic; and he believed that it carried a frankness
that would prove to be disarming. He had every confidence that Helen
would eventually (if not at once) recognize its logic and
reasonableness, and follow its suggestions. With a light heart,
therefore, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the day with his
father. By Saturday, however, a lively curiosity began to assail him as
to just how Helen did take the note, after all. There also came
unpleasantly to him a recurrence of the uncomfortable feeling that his
abrupt departure from home Thursday night had been neither brave nor
kind, and, in fact, hardly decent, under the circumstances. He decided
that he would, when he saw Helen, really quite humble himself and
apologize roundly. It was no more than her due, poor girl!
By Sunday, between his curiosity and his uneasy remorse, he was too
nervous really to enjoy anything to the full; but he sternly adhered to
his original plan of not going down to the Dale Street flat before
Monday, believing, in his heart, that nothing could do so much good to
both of them, under the circumstances, as a few days of thought apart
from each other. Monday, however, found him headed for Dale Street; but
in 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 of
mind than a flood of words would have been.
"Gone! Where?"
"Home--to spend that ten thousand dollars, of course. She left this."
With a frown John Denby took the proffered bit of paper upon which had
been scrawled:--
I hope you'll enjoy your playday as much as I shall mine.
Address me at Wenton--if you care to write.
HELEN.
"Where did you find this?"
"On my chiffonier. I didn't think that--of Helen."
"And there was nothing to show _when_ she left?"
"Nothing--except that the apartment was in spick-and-span order from end
to end; and _that_ must have taken _some_ time to accomplish."
"But perhaps the neighbors would--"
"There's no one she knows but Mrs. Cobb," interrupted Burke, with an
impatient gesture. "Do you suppose I'm going to her and whimper, 'My
wife's gone. Please, do you know when she went?' Not much! I saw
her--the dear creature! And one glance at her face showed that she was
dying to be asked. But I didn't afford her that satisfaction. I gave
her a particularly blithe 'Good-morning,' and then walked away as if I'd
_known_ 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!"
"You think she was angry, then, at your letter?"
"Of course she was--at that, and at the way I left her the other night.
I _was_ a bit of a cad there, I'll admit; but that doesn't excuse her
for doing a trick like this. I wrote her a good letter, and you sent her
a very generous check; and I told her I was coming to-day to pick up my
traps and say good-bye. She didn't care to see me--that's all. But she
might have had some thought that I'd like to see my daughter before I
go. If there was time I'd run up there. But it's out of the
question--with only to-morrow before we start."
"Wenton is her home town, I suppose."
"Yes. She left there, you know, two years before I saw her. Her father
died and then her mother; and she had to look out for herself. I shall
write, of course, and send it up before I go. And I shall try to write
decently; but I will own up, father, I'm mad clear through."
"Too bad, too bad!" John Denby frowned and shook his head again. "I must
confess, 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--I
know that. I told her I thought she'd like the hotel best; but she may
prefer 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't
have a reply before I leave. There isn't time, even if she deigned to
write--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 of
Helen's spoil everything. Fretting never did help anything, and perhaps,
after all, it's the best thing that could have happened. A meeting
between you, in Helen's present temper, could have resulted only in
unhappiness. Obviously Helen is piqued and angry at your suggesting a
separation for a time. She determined to give it to you--but to give it
to you a little sooner than you wanted. That's her way of getting back
at 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 expression
on his son's face. "But don't expect a reply too soon. You must remember
you gave Helen a pretty big blow to her pride. I _wish_ she had looked
at the matter sensibly, of course; but probably that was too much to
expect."
"I'm afraid it was--of--" Biting his lips, Burke pulled himself up
sharply. "I'll go and write my letter," he finished wearily, instead.
And John Denby echoed the long sigh he drew.
It was January when John Denby and his son returned from their Alaskan
trip. The long and rather serious illness of John Denby in November, and
the necessary slowness of their journeying thereafter, had caused a
series 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 in
the traveling itself, could not get away from the shadow of an upturned
bottle of ink in a Dale Street flat. At times, with all the old boyish
enthusiasm and lightness of heart, he entered into whatever came; but
underneath 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. Their
mail, of course, had been infrequent and irregular; but, from time to
time, a batch of letters would be found waiting for them, and always,
with feverish eagerness, Burke had scanned the envelopes for a sight of
Helen's familiar scrawl. He had never found it, and he was very angry
thereat. He was not worried or frightened. Any Denby of the Dalton
Denbys was too well known not to have any vital information concerning
him or her communicated to the family headquarters. If anything had
happened to either Helen or the child, he would have known of it, of
course, through Brett. This silence could mean, therefore, but one
thing: Helen's own wish that he should not hear. He felt that he had a
right to be angry. He pictured Helen happy, gay in her new finery,
queening it over her old school friends in Wenton, and nursing wrath and
resentment against himself (else why did she not write?)--and the
picture did not please him.
He had suggested separation (for a time), to be sure; but he had not
suggested total annihilation of all intercourse! If she did not care to
say anything for herself, she might, at least, be decent enough to let
him hear as to the welfare of his child, he reasoned indignantly.
On one course of action he was determined. As soon as he returned home
he would go to Helen and have it out with her. If she _wished_ to carry
to such absurd lengths her unreasonable pique at his perfectly
reasonable suggestion, he wanted to know it at once, and not live along
this way!
Under these circumstances it is not strange, perhaps, that the trip, for
Burke, was not an unalloyed joy; and the delays, in addition to giving
him no little anxiety for his father, fretted him almost beyond
endurance.
As to John Denby--he, too, could not get away from the shadow of an
upturned bottle of ink. Besides suffering the reflection of its effect
on his son, in that son's moodiness and frequent lack of enthusiasm, he
had 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 in
many ways. The fact that it had been followed by Helen's ominous
silence did not lessen his uneasy questionings. He wondered if, after
all, he had done the wise thing in bringing about this temporary
separation. He still believed, in his heart, that he had. But he did not
seem to find much happiness in that belief. In spite of his supreme joy
and content in his son's companionship, he found himself many a time
almost wishing the trip were over. And the delays at the end were fully
as 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 train
drew into the Dalton station, bringing into view the old Denby family
carriage (John Denby did not care for motor cars), with old Horace on
the box, and with Brett near by, plainly waiting to extend a welcoming
hand. 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 who
supposed it was going to prolong itself away into January like this?"
"Who did, indeed?" murmured Burke, as he followed his father from the
car.
* * * * *
Burke Denby had not been at home half an hour, when, his face drawn and
ashen, he strode into the library where his father was sitting before
the fire.
"Father, Helen has not been at Wenton at all," he said in the tragically
constrained voice of a man who is desperately trying to keep himself
from exploding into ravings and denunciations.
John Denby came erect in his chair.
"_Not been there_-- What do you mean? How do you know?"
"Brett. I found these upstairs in my room--_every letter I've written
her_--even the first one from here before I left--returned unopened,
marked 'unclaimed, address unknown,' together with a letter from Brett
in 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? Why
didn't he let you know before?"
"He says it was a long time before the first letter came back. He knew
we were away up in the mountains, and would be very likely started for
home before he could reach us with it, anyway. And there wouldn't be a
thing we could do--up there, except to come home; and we'd already be
doing that, anyway. And this would only worry us, and trouble us, and
make our return trip a horror--without helping a bit."
"Quite right. Brett is always right," nodded John Denby.
"Then, of course, came the delay, your sickness, and all. Of course he
wouldn't let us know then--when we _couldn't_ come. By that time other
letters I had written on the way out began to come back from Wenton. (I
always used my own envelopes with the Dalton address in the corner, so
of course they all showed up here in time.) When the second and third
came 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 knew
we'd want to avoid all gossip and publicity."
"Of course!"
"He put the thing into the hands of a private detective whom he could
trust; and he went himself to Wenton--for a vacation, apparently."
"Good old Brett! Wise, as usual. What did he find?"
"Nothing--except that she was not there, and hadn't been there since she
left some years ago, soon after her mother's death. He says he's
positive of that. So he had to come back no wiser than he went."
"But--the detective."
"Very little there. Still, there was something. He traced her to
Boston."
"_Boston!_"
"Yes."
"What friends has she in Boston?"
"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 she
went to Aunt Eunice; but I don't know who it was."
"There's Gleason--she knows him."
Burke gave his father a glance from scornful eyes.
"My best friend! She'd be apt to go to him, wouldn't she, if she were
running away from me? Besides, we've had three or four letters from him
since we've been gone. Don't you suppose he'd tell us of it, if she'd
gone to him?"
"Yes, yes, of course," frowned John Denby, biting his lips. "It's only
that I was trying to get hold of some one--or something. Think of
it--that child alone in Boston, and--no friends! Of course she had
money--that is, I suppose she cashed it--that check?" John Denby turned
with a start.
"Oh, yes. I asked Brett about that. I hoped maybe there'd be a clue
there, 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. So
she must have come back for a time, anyway. Brett says Spawlding, at the
bank, knew her, of course, and so there was no question as to
identification. 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. Brett
evidently knew you had given her such a check--"
"Yes, I had told him," nodded John Denby.
"So he said yes, it was. He says he supposed she had come down from
Wenton to get it cashed, and that she would leave the bulk of it there
in the bank to her credit. Anyway, all he could do was to assure
Spawlding that you had given her such a check just before you went
away."
"Yes, yes, I see," nodded John Denby again.
"She didn't leave any of the money, however. She took it all with her."
"Took it _all_--ten thousand dollars!"
"Yes. The detective, of course, is still working on the case. He got to
Boston, but there he's up against a blank wall. He's run a fine-tooth
comb through all sorts of public and private institutions in Boston and
vicinity without avail. He's made a thorough search at the railroad
station. He can't find a person who has any recollection of a young
woman and child answering their description, arriving on that date, who
seemed to be troubled or in doubt where to go. He questioned the matron,
ticket-men, cabbies, policemen--everybody. Of course every one had seen
plenty of young women with babies in their arms--young women who had the
hair and eyes and general appearance of Helen, and who were anxious and
fretted. (They said young women with babies were apt to be anxious and
fretted.) But they didn't remember one who asked frantic questions as to
what to do, and where to go, and all that--acting as we think Helen
would have acted, alone in a strange city."
"Poor child, poor child!" groaned John Denby. "Where can--"
But his son interrupted sternly.
"I don't _know_ where she is, of course. But don't be too sure it is
'poor child' with her, dad. She's doing this thing because she _wants_
to do it. Don't forget that. Didn't she purposely mislead us by that
note she left on my chiffonier? She didn't say she _had_ gone to Wenton,
but she let me think she had. 'Address me at Wenton, if you care to
write,' she said. And don't forget that she also said: 'I hope you'll
enjoy your playday as much as I shall mine.' Don't you worry about
Helen. She's taken my child and your ten thousand dollars, and she's off
somewhere, having a good time;--and Helen could have a good time--on ten
thousand dollars! Incidentally she's also punishing us. She means to
give us a good scare. She's waiting till we get home, and till the
money'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 away
like this. Honestly, as my temper is now, if it wasn't for the baby, I
should 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 another
matter."
"I should say so!" exclaimed John Denby emphatically.
"Yes; but, see here, dad! Helen knew where she was going. She's gone to
friends. Wouldn't she have left some trace in that station if she'd been
frightened and uncertain where to go? Brett says the detective found one
cabby who remembered taking just such a young woman and child from an
evening 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's
positive she directed him where to go without a moment's hesitation. If
that was Helen, she knew where she was going all right."
John Denby frowned and did not answer. His eyes were troubled.
"But perhaps here--at the flat--" he began, after a time.
"The detective tried that. He went as a student, or something, and
managed to hire a room of Mrs. Cobb. He became very friendly and chatty,
and showed interest in all the neighbors, not forgetting the vacant flat
on the same floor. But he didn't learn--much."
"But he learned--something?"
An angry red mounted to Burke's forehead.
"Oh, yes; he learned that it belonged to a poor little woman whose
husband was as rich as mud, but quite the meanest thing alive, in that
he'd tried to buy her off with ten thousand dollars, because he was
ashamed of her! Just about what I should think would come from a woman
of Mrs. Cobb's mentality!"
"Then she knew about the ten-thousand-dollar check?"
"Apparently. But she didn't know Helen had gone to Boston. The detective
found out that. She told him she believed she'd gone back home to her
folks. So Helen evidently did not confide in her--or perhaps she
intentionally misled her, as she did us."
"I see, I see," sighed John Denby.
For a minute the angry, perplexed, baffled young husband marched back
and forth, back and forth, in the great, silent room. Then, abruptly, he
stopped short, and faced his father.
"I shall try to find her, of course,--though I think she'll let us hear
from her of her own accord, pretty soon, now. But I shan't wait for
that. First I shall go to Aunt Eunice and see if she knows the names of
any 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 every
dinner-table and rolled under the tongue of every old tabby in town. But
they 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 been
the soul of discretion. We'll see that we follow suit. _My wife is out
of 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 his
sorry tale. From her he obtained one or two names, and--what he eagerly
grasped at--an address in Boston. Each of these clues he followed
assiduously, only to find that it led nowhere. Angrier, but no wiser, he
went back home.
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 a
bitterness of wrath and resentment that would not brook the mention of
Helen's name in his presence.
Burke was feeling very much abused these days. He was, indeed, thinking
of himself and pitying himself almost constantly. The woman to whom he
had given his name (and for whom he had sacrificed so much) had made
that name a byword and a laughing stock in his native town. He was
neither bachelor nor husband. He was not even a widower, but a
nondescript thing to be pointed out as a sort of monster. Even his child
was taken away from him; and was doubtless being brought up to hate
him--Burke forgot that Dorothy Elizabeth was as yet but slightly over
two years old.
As for Helen's side of the matter--Burke was too busy polishing his own
shield of defense to give any consideration to hers. When he thought of
his wife, it was usually only to say bitterly to himself: "Humph! When
that ten thousand dollars is gone we'll hear from her all right!" And he
was not worrying at all about her comfort--with ten thousand dollars to
spend.
"She knows where _she_ is, and she knows where _I_ am," he would declare
fiercely to himself. "When she gets good and ready she'll come--and not
until then, evidently!"
In March a line from Dr. Gleason said that he would be in town a day or
two, and would drop in to see them.
With the letter in his hand, Burke went to his father.
"Gleason's coming Friday," he announced tersely.
"Well?"
"We've got to settle on what to tell him."
"About--"
"Helen--yes. Of course--he'll have to know something; but--I shall tell
him mighty little." Burke's lips snapped together in the grim manner
that was becoming habitual with him.
Gleason came on Friday. There was an odd constraint in his manner. At
the 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 his
wife. Then he said:--
"You know, of course, that Helen has--er--that she is not here."
"Yes." There was a subdued excitement in the doctor's voice.
"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 I
care to say."
A look of keen disappointment crossed the doctor's face.
"But, Burke, if you knew that your wife--" began the doctor imploringly.
"There are no 'ifs' about it," interrupted Burke, with stern
implacability. "Helen knows very well where I am, and--she isn't here.
That's enough for me."
"But, my dear boy--" pleaded the doctor again.
"Gleason, please, I'd rather not talk about it," interrupted Burke Denby
decidedly. And the doctor, in the face of the stern uncompromisingness
of 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 the
day before, was forced to drop the matter. His face, however, still
carried its look of troubled disappointment. And he steadfastly refused
to remain at the house even for a meal--a most extraordinary proceeding
for 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 disappeared
down 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'!"