COUNTER-PLOTS
In thinking it over afterwards Burke Denby tried to place the specific
thing that put into his mind that most astounding suggestion. He knew
very well the precise moment of the inception of the idea--it had been
on Christmas night as he sat before the fire in his gloomy library. But
what had led to it? Of just what particular episode concerning his
acquaintance with this girl had he been thinking when, like a blinding
flash out of the dark, had leaped forth those startling words?
He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it was
Christmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside with
the gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. Being
Christmas, he had not had even the divertisement of his secretary's
presence--companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It could
not but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to the
work, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed.
And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The house
had not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keep
her. He should not like to let her go--now. But if only she could be
there all the time! It would be much easier for _her_--winter storms
were coming on now; and as for him--he should like it very much. The
evenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, it
might not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in an
apartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, or
she might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house was
large enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it would
be nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitable
arrangement all around.
Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not have
to be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not--
Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen--her
eyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had--
It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet with
almost a cry:--
"What if she were--maybe she _is_--your daughter!"
As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos of
thoughts into something like order.
It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet--there were her eyes
so like Helen's, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and of
lifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were,
too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of--himself.
And surely her remarkable love and aptitude for the work she was doing
for him now ought to mean--something.
But could it be? Was it _possible_? Would Helen do such a fantastic
thing--send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor--this girl
had been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. "A
daughter of an old friend." Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lend
himself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. And
yet--
His mind still played with the idea.
Just what did he know about this young woman? Very little. What if,
after all, it were Dorothy Elizabeth? And it might be, for all he _knew_
to the _contrary_. She was about the right age, he should judge--his
little girl would be eighteen--by now. Her name was Elizabeth; she had
told him that, at the same time saying that she was always called
"Betty." There was a mother--but he had never heard the girl mention her
father. And they had dropped, as it were, right out of a clear sky into
Dalton, and into his life. Could it be? Of course it really was too
absurd; but yet--
With a sudden setting of his jaws the man determined to put his
secretary through a course of questions, the answers to which would
forever remove all doubt, one way or another. If at the onset of the
questioning she grew suddenly evasive and confused, he would have his
answer at once: she was his daughter, and was attempting to keep the
knowledge from him until such time as her mother should wish to let the
secret out. On the other hand, even if she were not confused or evasive
as to her answers, she still might be his daughter--and not know of the
relationship. In which case his questions, of course, must be carried to
the point where he himself would be satisfied. Meanwhile he would think
no more about it; and, above all, he would keep his thoughts from
dwelling on what it would be if--she were.
Having reached this wise decision, Burke Denby tossed his half-smoked
cigar into the fire and attempted to toss as lightly the whole subject
from his mind--an attempt which met with sorry success.
* * * * *
Burke Denby plumed himself that he was doing his questioning most
diplomatically when, the next morning, he began to carry out his plans.
With almost superhuman patience he had waited until the morning letters
were out of the way, and until he and his secretary were working
together over sorting the papers in a hitherto unopened drawer.
"Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Darling?" Careless as was his
apparent aim, it was the first gun of his campaign.
"Yes, thank you, very pleasant."
"I didn't. Too quiet. A house needs young people at Christmas. If only I
had a daughter now--" He watched her face closely, but he could detect
no change of color. There was only polite, sympathetic interest. "Let me
see, you live with your mother, I believe," he finished somewhat
abruptly.
"Yes."
"Have you lived in Dalton long?"
"Only since October, when I came to you."
"Do you like it here?"
"Oh, yes, very well."
"Still, not so well as where you came from, perhaps," he smiled
pleasantly.
Betty laughed.
"But I came--from so many places."
"That so?"
"Paris, Berlin, London, Genoa,--mostly London, of late."
"But you are American born!"
"Oh, yes."
"I thought so. Still, it is a little singular, having been gone so long,
that you are so American in your speech and manner. You aren't a bit
English, Miss Darling."
Betty laughed again merrily.
"How mother would love to hear you say that!" she cried. "You see,
mother was so afraid I would be--English, or something foreign--educated
as I was almost entirely across the water. But we were with Americans
all the time, and our teachers, except for languages, were Americans,
whenever possible."
"Hm-m; I see. And now you are here in America again. And does your
mother like it--here?"
"Why, I think so."
"And does she like Dalton, too? Perhaps she has been here before,
though." The casual way in which the question was put gave no
indication of the way the questioner was holding his breath for the
answer.
"Oh, yes. She was here several years ago, she says."
"Indeed!" To Burke Denby it was as if something within him had suddenly
snapped. He relaxed in his chair. His eyes were still covertly searching
Betty's serene face bent over her work. Within himself he was saying:
"Well, _she_ doesn't know, whatever it is." Aloud he resumed: "And were
you, too, ever here?"
"Why, yes; but I don't remember it. I was only a year or two old, mother
said."
The man almost leaped from his chair. Then, sternly, he forced himself
to work one full minute without speaking. A dozen agitated questions
were clamoring for utterance, but he knew better than to give them
voice. With a cheery casualness of manner, that made him inordinately
proud of himself, he said:--
"Well, I certainly am glad you came now. I'm sure I don't know what I
should have done, if you hadn't. But, by the way, how did you happen to
come to me?" Again he held his breath.
"Why, through Dr. Gleason. You knew that!"
"Yes, but I know only that. You never did--exactly this sort of work
before, did you?"
"No--oh, no. But there has to be a beginning, you know; and mother says
she thinks every girl ought to know how to do something, so that she
can support herself if it is necessary. And in our case I think--it is
necessary."
Low as the last words were, the man's sensitively alert ear caught them.
"You mean--"
"I mean--I think mother is--is poor, and is trying to keep it from me."
The words came with all the impetuosity of one who has found suddenly a
sympathetic ear for a long-pent secret. "I can see it in so many
ways--not keeping a maid, and being so--so anxious that I shall do well
here. And--and she doesn't seem natural, some way, lately. She's
unhappy, or something. And she goes out so little--almost never, except
in the evening."
"She doesn't care to--to see people, perhaps." By a supreme effort Burke
Denby hid the fever of excitement and rejoicing within him, and toned
his voice to just the right shade of solicitous interest.
"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively,
she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I've
wondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and--and didn't
want to meet them because--perhaps, her circumstances were changed now.
That isn't like mother, but-- Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr.
Denby. I--I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemed
so--interested."
"I am interested, my dear--Miss Darling," returned the man, not quite
steadily. "I--I think I should like to know--your mother."
"She's lovely."
"Are you--like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merry
challenge--against her taking this as she might take it.
But Betty was too absorbed to be flippant, or even merrily
self-conscious.
"Why, I don't know, but I don't think so--except my eyes. Every one says
my eyes _are_ like hers."
Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room.
Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian glass Tear Vase,
especially prized by him for its associations. In reality he was trying
to master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt.
This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his--Betty.
Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her--father.
And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine what
Helen must have taught her--of him.
Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, Burke
Denby walked back to the table and sat down.
"Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feel
that I know her already. But--your father; I don't think you have told
me a thing about your father yet."
A rapt wistfulness came to the girl's face.
"Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. You
see, I never knew him."
"No?"
Infinite longing and tenderness were coming into the man's eyes.
"But I know _about_ him. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just how
fine and noble and splendid he was, and--"
"_Fine--he--was?_" The words, as they fell from Burke Denby's dry lips
were barely audible.
"Oh, yes. You see, all the way, ever since I could remember, daddy has
been held up to me as so fine and splendid. Why, I learned to hold my
fork--and my temper!--the way daddy would want me to. And there wasn't a
song or a sunset or a beautiful picture that I wasn't told how daddy
would have loved it. Mother was always talking of him, and telling me
about him; so I feel that I know him, just as if he were alive."
"As--if--he--_were_--alive!" Burke Denby half started from his chair,
his face a battle-ground for contending emotions.
"Yes. But he isn't, you see. He died many, many years ago."
There was the sudden tinkling of shattered glass on a polished floor.
"Oh, Mr. Denby!" exclaimed Betty in consternation. "Your beautiful
vase!"
The man, however, did not even glance at the ruin at his feet. Still, he
must have realized what he had done, thought Betty, for, as he crossed
to his desk and sat down heavily, she heard him mutter:--
"To think I _could_ have been--such a fool!"