Part 39 (1/2)

”Yes; that's what they called it. And he made good money, too,--doin'

nothin'. Wish't they'd want me for one! Well, as I was sayin', they had all this comp'ny, an' more an' more of it; and they give receptions an'

asked the hull town, sometimes. My wife went, and my darter. They said it was fine and grand, and all that, but that they didn't believe old John liked it very well. But Mr. Burke liked it. That was easy to be seen. And there was a pretty little widder there lots, and _she_ liked it. Some said as how they thought there'd be a match there, sometime, if he could get free. But I guess there wa'n't anythin' ter that. Anyhow, all of a sudden, somethin' happened. Everythin' stopped right off short--all the gay doin's and parties--and everybody went home. Then, the next thing we knew, the old house was dark and empty again, and the Denbys gone to Australia with another bridge.”

”Yes, I know. I remember--that,” interposed the doctor, alert and interested.

”Did you see 'em--when they come back?”

”No.”

”Well, they didn't look like the same men. And ever since they've been different, somehow. Stern and silent, with never a smile for anybody, skursley. No b.a.l.l.s an' parties now, you bet ye! Week in and week out, jest shut up in that big silent house--never goin' out at all except to the Works! Then we heard he was sick--Mr. John. But he got better, and was out again. The end come sudden. n.o.body expected that. But he was a good man--a grand good man--John Denby was!”

”He was, indeed,” agreed the doctor, with a long sigh, as he turned away.

This story, with here and there a new twist and turn, the doctor heard on all sides. And always he listened attentively, hopefully, eager, if possible, to find some detail that would help him in some further plea to Burke Denby in behalf of the far-away wife. Even the women wanted to talk to him, and did, sometimes to his annoyance. Once, only, however, did his irritation get the better of his manners. It was when the woman of whom he bought his morning paper at the station newsstand, accosted him--

”Stranger in these parts, ain't ye? Come to the fun'ral, didn't ye?”

”Why--y-yes.”

”Hm-m; I thought so. He was a fine man, I s'pose. Still, I didn't think much of him myself. Used to know him too well, maybe. Used to live next his son--same floor. My name's Cobb--and I used to see--” But the doctor had turned on his heel without even the semblance of an apology.

Ten minutes later he boarded the train for Boston.

To his sister again he told the story of a Dalton trip, and, as before, he omitted not one detail.

”But I can't write, of course, to Helen, now,” he finished gloomily.

”That is, I can't urge her coming back--not in the face of Burke's angry a.s.sertion that he never wants to see her again.”

”Of course not. But don't worry, dear. I haven't given up hope, by any means. Burke wors.h.i.+ped his father. His heart is almost breaking now, at his loss. It is perfectly natural, under the circ.u.mstances, that he should have this intense anger toward anything that ever grieved his loved father. But wait. That's all we can do, anyway. I'll write to Helen, of course, and tell her of her father-in-law's death, but--”

”You wouldn't tell her what Burke said, Edith!”

”Oh, no, no, indeed!--unless I _have_ to, Frank--unless she asks me.”

But Helen did ask her. By return steamer came her letter expressing her shocked distress at John Denby's death, and asking timidly, but urgently, if, in Mrs. Thayer's opinion, it were the time now when she should come home--if she would be welcomed by her husband. To this, of course, there was but one answer possible; and reluctantly Mrs. Thayer gave it.

”And to think,” groaned the doctor, ”that when now, for the first time, Helen is willing to come, we have to tell her--she can't!”

”I know, but”--Edith Thayer resolutely blinked off the tears--”I haven't given up yet. Just wait.”

And the doctor waited. It was, indeed, as his sister said, all that he could do. From time to time he went up to Dalton and made his way up the old familiar walk to have a chat with the taciturn, somber-eyed man sitting alone in the great old library. The doctor never spoke of Helen.

He dared not take the risk. Burke Denby's only interests plainly were business, books, and the rare curios he and his father had collected. A Mrs. Gowing, a distant cousin, had come to be his housekeeper, but the doctor saw little of her. She seemed to be a quiet, inoffensive little woman, plainly very much in the background.

There came an evening finally, however, when, much to the doctor's beatific surprise, Burke Denby, of his own accord, mentioned his wife.

It was nearly two years after John Denby's death. The doctor had run up to Dalton for an overnight visit, and had noticed at once a peculiar restlessness in his host's manner, an odd impatience of voice and gesture. Then, abruptly, in answer to the doctor's own a.s.sertion that Burke needed something to get him away from his constant brooding in the old library,--

”Need something?” he exclaimed. ”Of course I need something! I need my wife and child. I need to live a normal life like other men. I need-- But what's the use?” he finished, with outflung hands.

”I know; but--you, yourself--” By a supreme effort the doctor was keeping himself from shouting aloud with joy.