Part 5 (1/2)
”She wouldn't--for long.”
”You wait and see.”
”Too great a risk to run, my boy.”
”I'll risk it. I'm going to risk it.”
Again there was a moment's silence. Again the stern lines deepened around the man's lips. Then very quietly there came the words:--
”Burke, if you marry this girl, you will choose between her and me. It seems to me that I ought not to need to tell you that you cannot bring her here. She shall never occupy your mother's chair as the mistress of this house.”
”That settles it, then: I'll take her somewhere else.”
If Burke had not been so blind with pa.s.sion he would have seen and felt the anguish that leaped to his father's eyes. But he did not stop to see or to feel. He snapped out the words, jerked himself free, and left the room.
This did not ”settle it,” however. There were more words--words common to stern parents and amorous youths and maidens since time immemorial. A father, appalled at the catastrophe that threatened, not only his cherished companions.h.i.+p with his only son, but, in his opinion, the revered sanct.i.ty of his wife's memory, wrapped himself in forbidding dignity. An impetuous lover, torn between the old love of years and the new, quite different one of weeks, alternately stormed and pleaded. A young girl, undisciplined, very much in love, and smarting with hurt pride and resentment, blew hot and cold in a manner that tended to drive every one concerned to distraction. As soon as possible a shocked, distressed Sister Eunice packed her trunks and betook herself and her offending household away.
In time, then, a compromise was effected. Burke should leave college immediately and go into the Works with his father, serving a short apprentices.h.i.+p from the bottom up, as had been planned for him, that he might be the master of the business, in deed as well as in name, when he should some day take his father's place. Meanwhile, for one year, he was not to see or to communicate with Helen Barnet. If at the end of the year, he was still convinced that his only hope of happiness lay in marriage to this girl, all opposition would be withdrawn and he might marry when he pleased--though even then he must not expect to bring his bride to the old home. They must set up an establishment for themselves.
”We should prefer that,--under the circ.u.mstances,” had been the prompt and somewhat haughty rejoinder, much to the father's discomfiture.
Grieved and dismayed as he was at the airy indifference with which his son appeared to face a fatherless future, John Denby was yet pinning his faith on that year of waiting. Given twelve months with the boy quite to himself, free from the hateful spell of this designing young woman, and there could be no question of the result--in John Denby's mind. In all confidence, therefore, and with every sense alert to make this year as perfect as a year could be, John Denby set himself to the task before him.
It was just here, however, that for John Denby the ghosts walked--ghosts of innumerable toy pistols and frosted cakes. Burke Denby, accustomed all his life to having what he wanted, and having it _when_ he wanted it, moped the first week, sulked the second, covertly rebelled the third, and ran away the last day of the fourth, leaving behind him the customary note, which, in this case, read:--
_Dear Dad_: I've gone to Helen. I had to. I've lived a _year_ of misery in this last month: so, as far as I am concerned, I _have_ waited my year already. We shall be married at once. I wrote Helen last week, and she consented.
Now, dad, you'll just have to forgive me. I'm twenty-one.
I'm a man now, not a boy, and a man has to decide these things for himself. And Helen's a dear. You'll see, when you know her. We'll be back in two weeks. Now don't bristle up.
I'm not going to bring her home, of course (at present), after the very cordial invitation you gave me not to! We're going into one of the Reddington apartments. With my allowance and my--er--wages (!) we can manage that all right--until ”the stern parent” relents and takes his daughter home--as he should!
Good-bye, BURKE.
John Denby read the letter once, twice; then he pulled the telephone toward him and gave a few crisp orders to James Brett, his general manager. His voice was steady and--to the man at the other end of the wire--ominously emotionless. When he had finished talking five minutes later, certain words had been uttered that would materially change the immediate future of a certain willful youth just then setting out on his honeymoon.
There would be, for Burke Denby, no ”Reddington apartment.” There would also be no several-other-things; for there would be no ”allowance” after the current month. There would be only the ”wages,” and the things the wages could buy.
There was no disputing the fact that John Denby was very angry. But he was also sorely distressed and grieved. Added to his indignation that his son should have so flouted him was his anguish of heart that the old days of ideal companions.h.i.+p were now gone forever. There was, too, his very real fear for the future happiness of his boy, bound in marriage to a woman he believed would prove to be a most uncongenial mate. But overtopping all, just now, was his wrath at the flippant a.s.surance of his son's note, and the very evident confidence in a final forgiveness that the note showed. It was this that caused the giving of those stern, momentous orders over the telephone--John Denby himself had been somewhat in the habit of having his own way!
The hara.s.sed father did not sleep much that night. Until far into the morning hours he sat before the fireless grate in his library, thinking.
He looked old, worn, and wholly miserable. In his hand, and often under his gaze, was the miniature of a beautiful woman--his wife.
CHAPTER III
HONEYMOON DAYS