Part 27 (2/2)

”There wasn't a thing--that will help.”

”But, aren't they frightened--anxious--anything? Don't they _care_ where she is?”

”Oh, yes; they care very much,” smiled the doctor wearily; ”but not in the way that is going to help any. I couldn't get _anything_ out of Burke, and I didn't get much more out of his father. But I did a little.”

”They don't know, of course, that she's here?”

”Heavens, I hope not!--under the circ.u.mstances. But I felt all kinds of a knave and a fool and a traitor. I got away as soon as possible. I couldn't stay. I hoped to get something--anything--that I could use for a cudgel over Helen, to get her to go back, you know. But I couldn't get a thing. However, I shall keep on urging, of course.”

”But what _did_ they say?”

”Burke said nothing, practically. Nor would he let me say anything. He is very angry (his father told me that), and very bitter.”

”But isn't he frightened, or worried?”

”Not according to his father. It seems they have had a detective on the case, and have traced her to Boston. There the trail ends. But they have found out enough to feel satisfied that no evil has befallen her. Burke argues that Helen is staying somewhere (with friends, he believes) because she wants to. Such being the case he doesn't want her back until she gets good and ready to come. He does want the baby. John Denby told me, in fact, that he believed if Burke found them now, as he's feeling, he'd insist on a separation; and that the baby should be given to him.”

”Given to him, indeed!” flashed Mrs. Thayer angrily. ”And yet, in the face of that, you sit there and say you shall urge her to go back, of course.”

Frank Gleason stirred uneasily.

”I know, Edith, but--”

”There isn't any question about it,” interrupted Mrs. Thayer decidedly.

”That poor child stays where she is now.”

”Oh, but, Edith, this sort of thing can't go on forever, you know,”

remonstrated the doctor nervously, his forehead drawn into an anxious frown.

”I wasn't talking about forever,” returned the lady, with tranquil confidence. ”I was talking about _now_, to-day, next week, next year, if it's necessary.”

”_Next year!_”

”Certainly--if Burke Denby hasn't come to his senses by that time. Why, Frank Gleason, don't you suppose I'd do anything, _everything_, to help that child keep her baby? She wors.h.i.+ps it. Besides, it's going to be the making of her.”

”I know; but if they could be brought together--Burke and his wife, I mean--it seems as if--as if--” The man came to a helpless pause.

”Frank, see here,” began Edith Thayer resolutely. ”You know as well as I do that those two people have been wretched together for a year or more.

They are not suited to each other. They weren't in the first place. To make matters worse, they were both nothing but petted, spoiled children, no more fit to take on the responsibilities of marriage than my Bess and Charlie would be. All their lives they'd had their own dolls and shotguns to do as they pleased with; and when it came to marrying and sharing everything, including their time and their tempers, they flew into bits--both of them.”

”Yes, I know,” sighed the man, still with a troubled frown.

”Well, they're apart now. Never mind who was to blame for it, or whether it was or wasn't a wise move. It's done. They're apart. They've got a chance to think things over--to stand back and get a perspective, as it were. Helen thinks she can metamorphose herself into the perfect wife that Burke will love. Perhaps she can. Let us say she has one chance in a million of doing so;--well, I mean she shall have that chance, especially as the alternative--that is, her going back home now--is sure to be nothing but utter wretchedness all round.”

Frank Gleason shook his head.

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