THE CURTAIN RISES
It was, indeed, quite "easy"--surprisingly so, as the doctor soon found
out. Not without some trepidation, however, had he taken the train for
Dalton the next morning and presented his proposition to the master of
Denby House.
"I think I've found your private secretary," he began blithely, hoping
that his pounding heart-throbs did not really sound like a drum.
"You have? Good! What's her name? Somebody you know?" questioned Burke
Denby, with a show of interest.
"Yes. She's a Miss Darling, and I've known her family for years." (The
doctor gulped and swallowed a bit convulsively. The doctor was feeling
that the very walls of the room must be shouting aloud his secret--but
he kept bravely on.) "She doesn't know shorthand, but she can typewrite,
and she's very quick at taking dictation in long hand, I fancy; and she
knows several languages, I believe. I'm sure you'll find her capable and
trustworthy in every way."
"Very good! Sounds well, sure," smiled Burke. "And here, for my needs,
speed and shorthand are not so necessary. I do only personal business at
the house. What salary does she want?"
So unexpected and disconcerting was this quite natural question that the
doctor, totally unprepared for it, nearly betrayed himself by his
confusion.
"Eh? Er--ah--oh, great Scott! Why didn't they--I might have known--" he
floundered. Then, sharply, he recovered himself. "Well, really," he
laughed lightly, "I'm a crackerjack at applying for a job, and no
mistake! I quite forgot to ask what salary she did expect. But I don't
believe that will matter materially. She'll come for what is right, I'm
sure; and you'll be willing to pay that."
"Oh, yes; it doesn't matter. I'll be glad to give her a trial, anyway;
and if she's all you crack her up to be I'll pay her _more_ than what's
right. When can she come? Where does she live?"
"Well, she's going to live here in Dalton," evaded the doctor
cautiously. "She's not here yet; but she and her mother are
coming--er--next week, I believe. Better not count on her beginning work
till the first, though, perhaps. That'll be next week Thursday. I should
think they ought to be--er--settled by that time." The doctor drew a
long breath, much after the fashion of a man who has been crossing a bit
of particularly thin ice.
"All right. Send her along. The sooner the better," nodded Burke, the
old listless weariness coming back to his eyes. "I certainly need--some
one."
"Oh, well, I reckon you'll have--some one, now," caroled the doctor, so
jubilantly that it brought a frown of mild wonder to Burke Denby's
face.
Later, the doctor, still jubilant and confident, hurried down the Denby
walk intent on finding the "modest little apartment" for Helen.
"Oh, well, I don't know!" he exulted to himself, wagging his head like a
cocksure boy. "This comic-opera-farce affair may not be so bad, after
all. Anyhow, I've made my first exit--and haven't spilled anything yet.
Now for scene second!"
Finding a satisfactory little furnished apartment, not too far from the
Denby home, proved to be no small task. But by sacrificing a little on
the matter of distance, the doctor was finally enabled to engage one
that he thought would answer.
"Only she'll have to ride back and forth, I'm afraid," he muttered to
himself, as he started for the station to take his train. "Anyhow, I'm
glad I didn't take that one on Dale Street. She'd meet too many ghosts
of old memories on Dale Street."
Buying his paper at the newsstand in the station, the doctor himself
encountered the ghost of a memory. But he could not place it until the
woman behind the counter cried:--
"There! I thought I'd seen you before. You come two years ago to the
Denby fun'ral, now, didn't ye? I tell ye it takes me ter remember
faces." Then, as he still frowned perplexedly, she explained: "Don't ye
remember? My name's Cobb. I used ter live--" But the doctor had turned
away impatiently. He remembered now. This was the woman who didn't
"think much of old Denby" herself.
On Monday Helen Denby and her daughter went to Dalton. At Helen's urgent
insistence the doctor refrained from accompanying them.
"I don't want you to be seen with us," Helen had protested.
"But why not?" he had argued rebelliously. "I thought I was a friend of
your family for years."
"I know; but I--I just feel that I'd rather not have you with us. I
prefer to go alone, please," she had begged. And perforce he had let her
have her own way.
It was on a beautiful day in late September that Helen Denby and her
daughter arrived at the Dalton station. Helen, fearful either that her
features would be recognized, or that she would betray by word or look
her knowledge of the place, and so bring an amazed question to Betty's
lips, had drawn a heavy veil over her face. Betty, cheerily interested
in everything she saw, kept up a running fire of comment.
"And so this is Dalton! What a funny little station--and for so big a
place, too! It seemed to be big, as we came into it. Is Dalton a large
town, mother?"
"Why, rather large. It used to be--that is, it must be a good deal over
fifteen thousand now, I suppose," murmured the mother, speaking very
unconcernedly.
"Then you've been here before?"
Helen, realizing that already she had made one mistake, suddenly became
convinced that safety--and certainly tranquillity of mind--lay in
telling the truth--to a certain extent.
"Oh, yes, I was here years ago. But the place is much changed, I fancy,"
she answered lightly. "Come, dear, we'll take a taxi. But first I want a
paper. I want to look at the advertisements for a maid, and--"
She had almost reached the newsstand when, to Betty's surprise, she
turned sharply about and walked the other way.
"Why, mother, I thought you said you wanted a paper," cried Betty,
hurrying after her and plucking at her arm.
"But I didn't-- I don't-- I've changed my mind. I won't get it, after
all, just now. I'd rather hurry right home."
She spoke rapidly, almost feverishly; and Betty noticed that she engaged
the first cabby she saw, and seemed impatiently anxious to be off. What
she did not see, however, was that twice her mother covertly glanced
back at the newsstand, and that her face behind the veil was gray-white
and terrified. And what Betty did not know was that, as the taxi
started, her mother whispered frenziedly to herself:--
"That was--that was--Mrs. Cobb. She's older and grayer, but she's got
Mrs. Cobb's eyes and nose. And the wart! I'd know that wart anywhere.
And to think how near I came to _speaking_ to her!"
It was a short drive, and Helen and her daughter were soon in the
apartment the doctor had found for them. To Helen it looked like a haven
of refuge, indeed. Her near encounter with Mrs. Cobb at the station had
somewhat unnerved her. But with four friendly walls to protect her, and
with no eyes but her daughter's in sight, Helen drew a long breath of
relief, and threw off her veil, hat, and coat.
"Oh, isn't this dear!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, and looking
admiringly about the pretty rooms. "And just think--this is home, our
home! Oh, dearie, we're going to be happy here, I'm sure."
"Of course we are! And it is lovely here." The words were all right, but
voice and eyes showed a trace of uneasiness.
"Why, dearie, _don't_ you like it?" asked the girl's mother anxiously.
"Yes, oh, yes; I like it all--_here_. It's only that I was thinking, all
of a sudden, about that Mr. Denby. I was wondering if I should like it
there--with him."
"I think you will, dear."
"But it'll all be so new and--and different from what I've been used to.
Don't you see?"
"Of course, my dear; but that's the way we grow--by encountering things
new and different, you see. But come, we've got lots of things new and
different right here that we haven't even seen yet. I'm going hunting
for a wardrobe," finished the mother lightly, springing to her feet and
picking up her hat and coat.
It was a pretty little apartment of five rooms up one flight,
convenient, and tastefully furnished.
"I don't think even Burke could find fault with this," thought Helen, a
bit wistfully, as her eyes lingered on the soft colorings and
harmonious blendings of rugs and hangings. Aloud she said:--
"Dear me! I feel just like a little girl with a new doll-house, don't
you?"
"Yes; and when our trunks come, and we get our photographs and things
out, it will be lovely, won't it?"
Helen, at one of the windows, gave a sudden exclamation.
"Why, Betty, from this window we can see--"
"See what?" cried Betty, hurrying to the window, as her mother's words
came to an abrupt halt.
"The city, dear, so much of it, and--and all those beautiful houses over
there," stammered Helen. "See that church with the big dome, and the
tall spire next it; and all those trees--that must be a park," she
hurried on, pointing out anything and everything but the one big old
colonial house with its tall pillars that stood out so beautifully fine
and clear against the green of a wide lawn on the opposite hill.
"Oh-h! what a lovely view!" exclaimed Betty, at her side. "Why, I hadn't
noticed it at all before, but we're on a hill ourselves, aren't we?"
"Yes, dear,--West Hill. That's what I think they used to call it."
Helen was not at the window now. She had turned back into the room with
almost an indifferent air. But afterwards, when Betty was busy
elsewhere, she went again to the window and stood for long minutes
motionless, her eyes on the big old house on the opposite hill. It was
ablaze, now, for the last rays of the sun had set every window
gorgeously aflame. And not until it stood again gray and cold in the
gathering dusk did Helen turn back into the room; and then it was with
tear-wet eyes and a long sigh.
Getting settled was much the same thing that getting settled is always
apt to be. There were the same first scrappy, unsatisfying meals, the
same slow-emerging order from seemingly hopeless confusion, the same
shifting of one's belongings from shelf to drawer and back again. In
this case, however, there were only the trunks and their contents to be
disposed of, and the getting settled was, after all, a short matter.
Much to Betty's disapproval, her mother early announced her intention of
doing without a maid.
"Oh, but, mother, dear, you shouldn't. Besides, I thought you said you
were going to have one."
"I thought at first I would, but I've changed my mind. There will be
just us two, and I'd rather have a stout woman come twice a week for the
laundry and cleaning. With you gone all day I shall need something--to
take up my mind."
Betty said more, much more; but to no purpose. Her mother was still
obdurate. It was then that into Betty's mind came a shrewd suspicion,
but she did not give it voice. When evening came, however, she did ask
some questions. It was the night before she was to go for the first time
to take up her work.
"Mother, how did we happen to come up here, to Dalton?"
"Happen to come up--here?" Helen was taken by surprise. She was fencing
for time.
"Yes. What made us come here?"
"Why, I--I wanted to be near to make a home for you, of course, while
you were at work."
"But why am I going to work?"
Helen stirred restlessly.
"Why, my dear, I've told you. I think every girl should have something
whereby she could earn her bread, if it were necessary. And when this
chance came, through Dr. Gleason, I thought it was just the thing for
you to do."
Indifferently Betty asked two or three other questions--immaterial,
irrelevant questions that led her quite away from the matter in hand.
Then, as if still casually, she uttered the one question that had been
the purpose of the whole talk.
"Mother, have we very much--money?"
"Why, no, dear, not so very much. But I wouldn't worry about the money."
The answer had come promptly and with a reassuring smile. But Betty
tossed both the promptness and the reassuring smile into the limbo of
disdain. Betty had her answer. She was convinced now. Her mother was
poor--very poor. That was why there was to be no maid. That was why she
herself was to go as secretary to this Mr. Denby the next day. Mother,
poor, dear mother, was poor! As if _now_ she cared whether she liked the
place or not! As if she would not be glad to work her fingers off for
mother!