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Road to Understanding, The

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>A BOTTLE OF INK</h3> Burke Denby did not attempt to deceive himself after that Sunday dinner. His marriage had been a mistake, and he knew it. He was disappointed, ashamed, and angry. He told himself that he was heartbroken; that he still loved Helen dearly—only he did not like to be with her now. She made him nervous, and rubbed him the wrong way. Her mood never seemed to fit in with his. She had so many little ways— Sometimes he told himself irritably that he believed that, if it were a big thing like a crime that Helen had committed, he could be heroic and forgiving, and glory in it. But forever to battle against a succession of never-ending irritations, always to encounter the friction of antagonistic aims and ideals—it was maddening. He was ashamed of himself, of course. He was ashamed of lots of things that he said and did. But he could not help an explosion now and then. He felt as if somewhere, within him, was an irresistible force driving him to it. And the pity of it! Was he not, indeed, to be pitied? What had he not given up? As if it were his fault that he was now so disillusioned! He had supposed that marriage with Helen would be a fresh joy every morning, a new delight every evening, an unbelievable glory of happiness—just being together. Now—he did not want to be together. He did not want to go home to fretfulness, fault-finding, slovenliness, and perpetual criticism. He wanted to go home to peace and harmony, big, quiet rooms, servants that knew their business, and—dad. And that was another thing—dad. Dad had been right. He himself had been wrong. But that did not mean that it was easy to own up that he had been wrong. Sometimes he hardly knew which cut the deeper: that he had been proved wrong, thus losing his happiness, or that his father had been proved right, thus placing him in a position to hear the hated "I told you so." That Helen could never make him happy Burke was convinced now. Never had he realized this so fully as since seeing her at his father's table that Sunday. Never had her "ways" so irritated him. Never had he so poignantly realized the significance of what he had lost—and won. Never had he been so ashamed—or so ashamed because he was ashamed—as on that day. Never, he vowed, would he be placed in the same position again. As to Helen's side of the matter—Burke quite forgot that there was such a thing. When one is so very sorry for one's self, one forgets to be sorry for anybody else. And Burke was, indeed, very sorry for himself. Having never been in the habit of taking disagreeable medicine, he did not know how to take it now. Having been always accustomed to consider only himself, he considered only himself now. That Helen, too, might be disappointed and disillusioned never occurred to him. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> It was perhaps a month later that another invitation to dinner came from John Denby. This time Burke did not stutter out a joyous, incoherent acceptance. He declined so promptly and emphatically that he quite forgot his manners, for the moment, and had to attach to the end of his refusal a hurried and ineffectual "Er—thank you; you are very kind, I'm sure!" He looked up then and met his father's eyes. But instantly his gaze dropped. "Er—ah—Helen is not well at all, dad," he still further added, nervously. "Of course I'll speak to her. But I don't think we can come." There was a moment's pause. Then, very gravely, John Denby said: "Oh, I am sorry, son." Burke, with a sudden tightening of his throat, turned and walked away. "He didn't laugh, he didn't sneer, he didn't look anyhow, only just plain sorry," choked the young man to himself. "And he had such a magnificent chance to do—all of them. But he just—understood." Burke "spoke to Helen" that night. "Father asked us to dinner next Sunday; but—I said I didn't think we could go. I told him you weren't feeling well. I didn't think you'd want to go; and—I didn't want to go myself." Helen frowned and pouted. "Well, I've got my opinion of folks who refuse an invitation without even asking 'em if they want to go," she bridled. "Not that I mind much, in this case, though,—if it's just a dinner. I thought once, maybe he meant something—that he was giving in, you know. But I haven't seen any signs of that. And as for just going to dinner—I can't say I am 'specially anxious for that—mean as I feel now." "No, I thought not," said Burke. And there the matter ended. As the summer passed, Burke fell into the way of going often to see his father, though never at meal-time. He went alone. Helen said she did not care to go, and that she did not see what fun Burke could find in it, anyway. To Burke, these hours that he spent with his father chatting and smoking in the dim old library, or on the vine-shaded veranda, were like a breeze blowing across the desert of existence—like water in a thirsty land. From day to day he planned for these visits. From hour to hour he lived upon them. To all appearances John Denby and his son had picked up their old comradeship exactly where the marriage had severed it. Even to Burke's watchful, sensitive eyes the "wall" seemed quite gone. There was, however, one difference: mother was never mentioned. John Denby never spoke of her now. There was plenty to talk about. There were all the old interests, and there was business. Burke was giving himself heart and soul to business these days. In July he won another promotion, and was given an advance in wages. Often, to Burke's infinite joy, his father consulted him about matters and things quite beyond his normal position, and showed in other ways his approval of his son's progress. Helen, the marriage, and the Dale Street home life were never mentioned—for which Burke was thankful. "He couldn't say anything I'd want to hear," said Burke to himself, at times. "And I—I can't say anything he wants to hear. Best forget it—if we can." To "forget it" seemed, indeed, in these days, to be Burke's aim and effort. Always had Burke tried to forget things. From the day his six-months-old fingers had flung the offending rattle behind him had Burke endeavored to thrust out of sight and mind everything that annoyed—and Helen and marriage had become very annoying. Systematically, therefore, he was trying to forget them. His attitude, indeed, was not unlike that of a small boy who, weary of his game of marbles, cries, "Oh, come, let's play something else. I'm tired of this!"—an attitude which, naturally, was not conducive to happiness, either for himself or for any one else—particularly as the game he was playing was marriage, not marbles. The summer passed and October came. Life at the Dale Street flat had settled into a monotony of discontent and dreariness. Helen, discouraged, disappointed, and far from well, dragged through the housework day by day, wishing each night that it were morning, and each morning that it were night—a state of mind scarcely conducive to happiness on her part. For all that Burke was away so many evenings now, Helen was not so lonely as she had been in the spring; for in Mrs. Jones's place had come a new neighbor, Mrs. Cobb. And Mrs. Cobb was even brighter and more original than Mrs. Jones ever was, and Helen liked her very much. She was a mine of information as to housekeeping secrets, and she was teaching Helen how to make the soft and dainty little garments that would be needed in November. But she talked even more loudly than Mrs. Jones had talked; and her laugh was nearly always the first sound that Burke heard across the hall every morning. Moreover, she possessed a phonograph which, according to Helen, played "perfectly grand tunes"; and some one of these tunes was usually the first thing that Burke heard every night when he came home. So he called her coarse and noisy, and declared she was even worse than Mrs. Jones; whereat Helen retorted that of course he wouldn't like her, if she did—which (while possibly true) did not make him like either her or Mrs. Cobb any better. The baby came in November. It was a little girl. Helen wanted to call her "Vivian Mabelle." She said she thought that was a swell name, and that it was the name of her favorite heroine in a perfectly grand book. But Burke objected strenuously. He declared very emphatically that no daughter of his should have to go through life tagged like a vaudeville fly-by-night. Of course Helen cried, and of course Burke felt ashamed of himself. Helen's tears had always been a potent weapon—though, from over-use, they were fast losing a measure of their power. The first time he saw her cry, the foundations of the earth sank beneath him, and he dropped into a fathomless abyss from which he thought he would never rise. It was the same the next time, and the next. The fourth time, as he felt the now familiar sensation of sinking down, down, down, he outflung desperate hands and found an unexpected support—his temper. After that it was always with him. It helped to tinge with righteous indignation his despair, and it kept him from utterly melting into weak subserviency. Still, even yet, he was not used to them—his wife's tears. Sometimes he fled from them; sometimes he endured them in dumb despair behind set teeth; sometimes he raved and ranted in a way he was always ashamed of afterwards. But still they had the power, in a measure, to make his heart like water within him. So now, about the baby's name, he called himself a brute and a beast to bring tears to the eyes of the little mother—toward whom, since the baby's advent, he felt a remorseful tenderness. But he still maintained that he could have no man, or woman, call his daughter "Vivian Mabelle." "But I should think you'd let me name my own baby," wailed his wife. Burke choked back a hasty word and assumed his pet "I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me" air. "And you shall name it," he soothed her. "Listen! Here are pencil and paper. Now, write down a whole lot of names that you'd like, and I'll promise to select one of them. Then you'll be naming the baby all right. See?" Helen did not "see," quite, that she would be naming the baby; but, knowing from past experience of her husband's temper that resistance would be unpleasant, she obediently took the paper and spent some time writing down a list of names. Burke frowned a good deal when he saw the list, and declared that it was pretty poor pickings, and that he ought to have known better than to have bound himself to a silly-fool promise like that. But he chose a name (he said he would keep his word, of course), and he selected "Dorothy Elizabeth" as being less impossible than its accompanying "Veras," "Violets," and "Clarissa Muriels." For the first few months after the baby's advent, Burke spent much more time at home, and seemed very evidently to be trying to pay especial attention to his wife's comfort and welfare. He was proud of the baby, and declared it was the cutest little kid going. He poked it in its ribs, thrust a tentative finger into the rose-leaf of a hand (emitting a triumphant chuckle of delight when the rose-leaf became a tightly clutching little fist), and even allowed the baby to be placed one or twice in his rather reluctant and fearful arms. But, for the most part, he contented himself with merely looking at it, and asking how soon it would walk and talk, and when would it grow its teeth and hair. Burke was feeling really quite keenly these days the solemnity and responsibility of fatherhood. He had called into being a new soul. A little life was in his hands to train. By and by this tiny pink roll of humanity would be a prattling child, a little girl, a young lady. And all the way she would be turning to him for companionship and guidance. It behooved him, indeed, to look well to himself, that he should be in all ways a fit pattern. It was a solemn thought. No more tempers, tantrums, and impatience. No more idle repinings and useless regrets. What mattered it if he were disillusioned and heartsick? Did he want this child of his, this beautiful daughter, to grow up in such an atmosphere? Never! At once, therefore, he must begin to cultivate patience, contentment, tranquillity, and calmness of soul. He, the pattern, must be all things that he would wish her to be. And how delightful it would be when she was old enough to meet him on his own ground—to be a companion for him, the companion he had not found in his wife! She would be pretty, of course, sweet-tempered, and cheerful. (Was he not to train her himself?) She would be capable and sensible, too. He would see to that. To no man, in the future, should she bring the tragedy of disillusionment that her mother had brought to him. No, indeed! For that matter, however, he should not let her marry any one for a long time. He should keep her himself. Perhaps he would not let her marry at all. He did not think much of this marriage business, anyway. Not that he was going to show that feeling any longer now, of course. From now on he was to show only calm contentment and tranquillity of soul, no matter what the circumstances. Was he not a father? Had he not, in the hollow of his hand, a precious young life to train? Again all this was very well in theory. But in practice— Dorothy Elizabeth was not six months old before the young father discovered that parenthood changed conditions, not people. He felt just as irritated at the way Helen buttered a whole slice of bread at a time, and said "swell" and "you was," as before; just as impatient because he could not buy what he wanted; just as annoyed at the purple cushion on the red sofa. He was surprised and disappointed. He told himself that he had supposed that when a fellow made good resolutions, he was given some show of a chance to keep them. But as if any one could cultivate calm contentment and tranquillity of soul as he was situated! First, there were not only all his old disappointments and annoyances to contend with, but a multitude of new ones. It was as if, indeed, each particular torment had taken unto itself wife and children, so numerous had they become. There was really now no peace at home. There was nothing but the baby. He had not supposed that any one thing or person could so monopolize everything and everybody. When the baby was awake, Helen acted as if she thought the earth swung on its axis solely to amuse it. When it slept, she seemed to think the earth ought to stand still—lest it wake Baby up. With the same wholesale tyranny she marshaled into line everything and everybody on the earth, plainly regarding nothing and no one as of consequence, except in its relationship to Baby. Such unimportant things as meals and housework, in comparison with Baby, were of even less than second consequence; and Burke grew to feel himself more and more an alien and a nuisance in his own home. Moreover, where before he had found disorder and untidiness, he now found positive chaos. And however fond he was of the Baby, he grew unutterably weary of searching for his belongings among Baby's rattles, balls, shirts, socks, milk bottles, blankets, and powder-puffs. The "cool, calm serenity" of his determination he found it difficult to realize; and the delights and responsibilities of fatherhood began to pall upon him. It looked to be so long a way ahead, even to teeth, talking, and walking, to say nothing of the charm and companionship of a young lady daughter! Children were all very well, of course,—very desirable. But did they never do anything but cry? Couldn't they be taught that nights were for sleep, and that other people in the house had some rights besides themselves? And must they always choose four o'clock in the morning for a fit of the colic? Helen said it was colic. For his part, he believed it was nothing more or less than temper—plain, right-down temper! And so it went. Another winter passed, and spring came. Matters were no better, but rather worse. A series of incompetent maids had been adding considerably to the expense—and little to the comfort—of the household. Helen, as a mistress, was not a success. She understood neither her own duties nor those of the maid—which resulted in short periods of poor service and frequent changes. July came with its stifling heat, and Dorothy Elizabeth, now twenty months old, showed a daily increasing disapproval of life in general and of her own existence in particular. Helen, worn and worried, and half sick from care and loss of sleep, grew day by day more fretful, more difficult to get along with. Burke, also half sick from loss of sleep, and consumed with a fierce, inward rebellion against everything and everybody, including himself, was no less difficult to get along with. Of course this state of affairs could not continue forever. The tension had to snap sometime. And it snapped—over a bottle of ink in a baby's hand. It happened on Bridget's "afternoon out," when Helen was alone with the baby. Dorothy Elizabeth, propped up in her high-chair beside the dining-room table, where her mother was writing a letter, reached covetous hands toward the fascinating little fat black bottle. The next instant a wild shout of glee and an inky tide surging from an upside-down bottle, held high above a golden head, told that the quest had been successful. Things happened then very fast. There were a dismayed cry from Helen, half a-dozen angry spats on a tiny hand, a series of shrieks from Dorothy Elizabeth, and a rapidly spreading inky pall over baby, dress, table, rug, and Helen's new frock. At that moment Burke appeared in the door. With wrathful eyes he swept the scene before him, losing not one detail of scolding woman, shrieking child, dinnerless table, and inky chaos. Then he strode into the room. "Well, by George!" he snapped. "Nice restful place for a tired man to come to, isn't it? This is your idea of a happy home, I suppose!" The overwrought wife and mother, with every nerve tingling, turned sharply. "Oh, yes, that's right—blame me! Blame me for everything! Maybe you think I think this is a happy, restful place, too! Maybe you think this is what I thought 'twould be—being married to you! But I can tell you it just isn't! Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and slaving, and never having any fun, and being scolded and blamed all the time because I don't eat and walk and stand up and sit down the way you want me to, and— Where are you goin'?" she broke off, as her husband reached for the hat he had just tossed aside, and started for the door. Burke turned quietly. His face was very white. "I'm going down to the square to get something to eat. Then I'm going up to father's. And—you needn't sit up for me. I shall stay all night." "All—night!" "Yes. I'd like to sleep—for once. And that's what I can't do—here." The next moment the door had banged behind him. Helen, left alone with the baby, fell back limply. "Why, Baby, he—he—" Then she caught the little ink-stained figure to her and began to cry convulsively. In the street outside Burke strode along with his head high and his jaw sternly set. He was very angry. He told himself that he had a right to be angry. Surely a man was entitled to some consideration! In spite of it all, however, there was, in a far-away corner of his soul, an uneasy consciousness of a tiny voice of scorn dubbing this running away of his the act of a coward and a cad. Very resolutely, however, he silenced this voice by recounting again to himself how really abused he was. It was a long story. It served to occupy his mind all through the unappetizing meal he tried to eat at the cheap restaurant before climbing Elm Hill. His father greeted him cordially, and with no surprise in voice or manner—which was what Burke had expected, inasmuch as he had again fallen into the way of spending frequent evenings at the old home. To-night, however, Burke himself was constrained and ill at ease. His jaw was still firmly set and his head was still high; but his heart was beginning to fail him, and his mind was full of questionings. How would his father take it—this proposition to stay all night? He would understand something of what it meant. He could not help but understand. But what would he say? How would he act? Would he say in actions, if not in words, that dreaded "I told you so"? Would it unseal his lips on a subject so long tabooed, and set him into a lengthy dissertation on the foolishness of his son's marriage? Burke believed that, as he felt now, he could not stand that; but he could stand less easily going back to the Dale Street flat that night. He could go to a hotel, of course. But he did not want to do that. He wanted dad. But he did not want dad—to talk. "How's the baby?" asked John Denby, as Burke dropped himself into a chair on the cool, quiet veranda. "I thought she was not looking very well the last time Helen wheeled her up here." Always John Denby's first inquiry now was for his little granddaughter. "Eh? The baby? Oh, she—she's all right. That is"—Burke paused for a short laugh—"she's well." John Denby took his cigar from his lips and turned sharply. "But she's not—all right?" Burke laughed again. "Oh, yes, she's all right, too, I suppose," he retorted, a bit grimly. "But she was—er—humph! Well, I'll tell you." And he gave a graphic description of his return home that night. "Jove, what a mess!—and ink, too," ejaculated John Denby, with more than a tinge of sympathy in his voice. "How'd she ever manage to clean it up?" Burke shrugged his shoulders. "Ask me something easy. I don't know, I'm sure. I cleared out." "Without—your dinner?" John Denby asked the question after a very brief, but very tense, silence. "My dinner—I got in the square." Burke's lips snapped together again tight shut. John Denby said nothing. His eyes were gravely fixed on the glowing tip of the cigar in his hand. Burke cleared his throat and hesitated. He had not intended to ask his question quite so soon; but suddenly he was consumed with an overwhelming desire to speak out and get it over. He cleared his throat again. "Dad—would you mind—my sleeping here to-night? It's just that I—I want a good night's sleep, for once," he plunged on hurriedly, in answer to a swift something that he saw leap to his father's eyes. "And I can't get it there—with the baby and all." There was a perceptible pause. Then, steadily, and with easy cordiality, came John Denby's reply. "Why, certainly, my boy. I'm glad to have you. I'll ring at once for Benton to see that—that your old room is made ready for you," he added, touching a push-button near his chair. Later, when Benton had come and gone, with his kindly old face alight and eager, Burke braced himself for what he thought was inevitable. Something would come, of course. The only question was, what would it be? But nothing came—that is, nothing in the nature of what Burke had expected. John Denby, after Benton had left the veranda, turned to his son with a pleasantly casual— "Oh, Brett was saying to-day that the K. & O. people had granted us an extension of time on that bridge contract." "Er—yes," plunged in Burke warmly. And with the words, every taut nerve and muscle in his body relaxed as if cut in twain. It came later, though, when he had ceased to look for it. It came just as he was thinking of saying good-night. "It has occurred to me, son," broached John Denby, after a short pause, "that Helen may be tired and in sore need of a rest." Burke caught his breath, and held it a moment suspended. When before had his father mentioned Helen, save to speak of her casually in connection with the baby? "Er—er—y-yes, very likely," he stammered, a sudden vision coming to him of Helen as he had seen her on the floor in the midst of the inky chaos a short time before. "You're not the only one that isn't finding the present state of affairs a—a bed of roses, Burke," said John Denby then. "Er—ah—n-no," muttered the amazed husband. In his ears now rang Helen's—"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and slaving!" Involuntarily he shivered and glanced at his father—dad could not, of course, have heard! "I have a plan to propose," announced John Denby quietly, after a moment's silence. "As I said, I think Helen needs a rest—and a change. I've seen quite a little of her since the baby came, you know, and I've noticed—many things. I will send her a check for ten thousand dollars to-morrow if she will take the baby and go away for a time—say, to her old home for a visit. But there is one other condition," he continued, lifting a quick hand to silence Burke's excited interruption. "I need a rest and change myself. I should like to go to Alaska again; and I'd like to have you go with me. Will you go?" Burke sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the wide veranda. (From boyhood Burke had always "thrashed things out" on his feet.) For a full minute now he said nothing. Then, abruptly, he stopped and wheeled about. His face was very white. "Dad, I can't. It seems too much like—like—" "No, it isn't in the least like quitting, or running away," supplied John Denby, reading unerringly his son's hesitation. "You're not quitting at all. I'm asking you to go. Indeed, I'm begging you to go, Burke. I want you. I need you. I'm not an old man, I know; but I feel like one. These last two years have not been—er—a bed of roses for me, either." In spite of a certain lightness in his words, the man's voice shook a little. "I don't think you know, boy, how your old dad has—missed you." "Don't I? I can—guess." Burke wheeled and resumed his nervous stride. The words, as he flung them out, were at once a challenge and an admission. "But—Helen—" He stopped short, waiting. "I've answered that. I've told you. Helen needs a rest and a change." Again to the distraught husband's ears came the echo of a woman's wailing—"Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and slaving—" "Then you don't think Helen will feel that I'm running away?" A growing hope was in his eyes, but his brow still carried its frown of doubt. "Not if she has a check for—ten thousand dollars," replied John Denby, a bit grimly. Burke winced. A painful red reached his forehead. "It is, indeed, a large sum, sir,—too large," he resented, with sudden stiffness. "Thank you; but I'm afraid we can't accept it, after all." John Denby saw his mistake at once; but he did not make the second mistake of showing it. "Nonsense!" he laughed lightly, with no sign of the sudden panic of fear within him lest the look on his son's face meant the downfall of all his plans. "I made it large purposely. Remember, I'm borrowing her husband for a season; and she needs some recompense! Besides, it'll mean a playday for herself. You'll not be so unjust to Helen as to refuse her the means to enjoy that!—not that she'll spend it all for that, of course. But it will be a comfortable feeling to know that she has it." "Y-yes, of course," hesitated Burke, still frowning. "Then we'll call that settled." "I know; but— Of course if you put it that way, why, I—" "Well, I do put it just that way," nodded the father lightly. "Now, let's go in. I've got some maps and time-tables I want you to see. I'm planning a different route from the one we took with the doctor—a better one, I think. But let's see what you say. Come!" And he led the way to the library. Burke's head came up alertly. His shoulders lost their droop and his brow its frown. A new light flamed into his eyes and a new springiness leaped into his step. Always, from the time his two-year-old lips had begged to "see the wheels go 'round," had Burke's chief passion and delight been traveling. As he bent now over the maps and time-tables that his father spread before him, voice and hands fairly trembled with eagerness. Then suddenly a chance word sent him to his feet again, the old look of despair on his face. "Dad, I can't," he choked. "I can't be a quitter. You don't want me to be!" <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_004.jpg" width-obs="332" height-obs="500" alt="JOHN DENBY WENT STRAIGHT TO HIS SON AND LAID BOTH HANDS ON HIS SHOULDERS" title="" /> JOHN DENBY WENT STRAIGHT TO HIS SON AND LAID BOTH HANDS ON HIS SHOULDERS</div> With a sharp word John Denby, too, leaped to his feet. Something of the dogged persistence that had won for him wealth and power glowed in his eyes as he went straight to his son and laid both hands on his shoulders. "Burke, I had not meant to say this," he began quietly; "but perhaps it's just as well that I do. Possibly you think I've been blind all these past months; but I haven't. I've seen—a good deal. Now I want you and Helen to be happy. I don't want to see your life—or hers—wrecked. I believe there's a chance yet for you two people to travel together with some measure of peace and comfort, and I'm trying to give you that chance. There's just one thing to do, I believe, and that is—to be away from each other for a while. You both need it. For weeks I've been planning and scheming how it could be done. How do you suppose I happened to have this Alaska trip all cut and dried even down to the train and boat schedules, if I hadn't done some thinking? To-night came my chance. So I spoke." "But—to be a quitter!" "You're not quitting. You're—stopping to get your breath." "There's—my work." "You've made good, and more than good there, son. I've been proud of you—every inch of the way. You're no quitter there." "Thanks, dad!" Only the sudden mist in his eyes and the shake in his voice showed how really moved Burke was. "But—Helen," he stammered then. "Will be better off without you—for a time." "And—I?" "Will be better off without her—for the same time. While I—shall be, oh, so infinitely better off with you. Ah, son, but I've missed you so!" It was the same longing cry that had gone straight to Burke's heart a few minutes before. "You'll come?" There was a tense silence. Burke's face plainly showed the struggle within him. A moment more, and he spoke. "Dad, I'll have to think it out," he temporized brokenly. "I'll let you know in the morning." "Good!" If John Denby was disappointed, he did not show it. "We'll let it go till morning, then. Meanwhile, it can do no harm to look at these, however," he smiled, with a wave of his hand toward the maps and time-tables. "No, of course not," acquiesced Burke promptly, relieved that his father agreed so willingly to the delay. Half an hour later he went upstairs to his old room to bed. It was a fine old room. He had forgotten that a bedroom could be so large—and so convenient. Benton, plainly, had been there. Also, plainly, his hand had not lost its cunning, nor his brain the memory of how Master Burke "liked things." The arrangement of the lights, the glass of milk by his bed, the turned-down spread and sheet, the latest magazine ready to his hand—even the size and number of towels in his bathroom testified to Benton's loving hand and good memory. With a sigh that was almost a sob Burke dropped himself into a chair and looked about him. It was all so peaceful, so restful, so comfortable. And it was so quiet. He had forgotten that a room could be so quiet. In spite of his weariness, Burke's preparations for bed were both lengthy and luxurious—he had forgotten what absolute content lay in plenty of space, towels, and hot water, to say nothing of soap that was in its proper place, and did not have to be fished out of a baby-basket or a kitchen sink. Burke did not intend to go to sleep at once. He intended first to settle in his mind what he would do with this proposition of his father's. He would have to refuse it, of course. It would not do. Still, he ought to give it proper consideration for dad's sake. That much was due dad. He stretched himself luxuriously on the bed (he had forgotten that a bed could be so soft and so "just right") and began to think. But the next thing he knew he was waking up. His first feeling was a half-unconscious but delightful sensation of physical comfort. His next a dazed surprise as his slowly opened eyes encountered shapes and shadows and arc-light beams on the walls and ceiling quite unlike those in his Dale Street bedroom. Then instantly came a vague but poignant impression that "something had happened," followed almost as quickly by full realization. Like a panorama, then, the preceding evening lay before him: Helen, the crying baby, the trailing ink, the angry words, the flight, dad, his welcome, the pleasant chat, the remarkable proposition. Oh, yes! And it was of the proposition that he was going to think. He could not accept it, of course, but— What a trump dad had been to offer it! What a trump he had been in the way he offered it, too! What a trump he had been all through about it, for that matter. Not a word of reproach, not a hint of patronage. Not even a look that could be construed into that hated "I told you so." Just a straight-forward offer of this check for Helen, and the trip for himself, and actually in a casual, matter-of-fact tone of voice as if ten-thousand-dollar checks and Alaskan trips were everyday occurrences. But they weren't! A trip like that did not drop into a man's plate every day. Of course he could not take it—but what a dandy one it would be! And with dad—! For that matter, dad really needed him. Dad ought not to go off like that alone, and so far. Besides, dad wanted him. How his voice had trembled when he had said, "I don't think you know, boy, how your old dad has missed you"! As if he didn't, indeed! As if he hadn't done some missing on his own account! And the check. Of course he could not let Helen accept that, either,—ten thousand dollars! But how generous of dad to offer it—and of course it would be good for Helen. Poor Helen! She needed a rest, all right, and she deserved one. It would be fine for her to go back to her old home town for a little while, and no mistake. Not that she would need to spend the whole ten thousand dollars on that, of course. But even a little slice of a sum like that would give her all the frills and furbelows she wanted for herself and the baby, and send them into the country for all the rest of the summer, besides leaving nine-tenths of it for a nest-egg for the future. And what a comfortable feeling it would give her—always a little money when she wanted it for anything! No more of the hated pinching and starving, for he should tell her to spend it and take some comfort with it. That was what it was for. Besides, when it was gone, he would have some for her. What a boon it would be to her—that ten thousand dollars! Of course, looking at it in that light, it was almost his duty to accept the proposition, and give her the chance to have it. But then, after all, he couldn't. Why, it was like accepting charity; he hadn't earned it. Still, if hard work and anguish of mind counted, he had earned it twice over, slaving away at the beck of Brett and his minions. And he had made good—so far. Dad had said so. What a trump dad was to speak as he did! And when dad said a thing like that, it meant something! Well, there was nothing to do, of course, but to go back and buckle down to work—and to life in the Dale Street flat. To be sure, there was the baby. Of course he was fond of the baby; and it was highly interesting to see her achieve teeth, hair, a backbone, and sense—if only she would hurry up a little faster, though. Did babies always take so long to grow up? Burke stretched himself luxuriously and gazed about the room. The arc-light outside had gone out and dawn was approaching. More and more distinctly each loved object in the room was coming into view. To his nostrils came the perfume of the roses and honeysuckles in the garden below his window. To his ears came the chirp and twitter of the bird-calls from the trees. Over his senses stole the soothing peace of absolute physical ease. Once more, drowsily, he went back to his father's offer. Once more, in his mind, he argued it—but this time with a difference. Thus, so potent, sometimes, is the song of a bird, the scent of a flower, the shape of a loved, familiar object, or even the feel of a soft bed beneath one. After all, might he not be making a serious mistake if he did not accede to his father's wishes? Of course, so far as he, personally, was concerned, the answer would be an unequivocal refusal of the offer. But there was his father to consider, and there was Helen to think of; yes, and the baby. How much better it would be for them—for all of them, if he accepted it! Helen and the baby could have months of fresh air, ease, and happiness without delay, to say nothing of innumerable advantages later. Why, when you came to think of it, that would be enough, if there were nothing else! But there was something else. There was dad. Good old dad! How happy he'd be! Besides, dad really needed him. How ever had he thought for a moment of sending dad off to Alaska alone, and just after an illness, too! What could he be thinking of to consider it for a moment? That settled it. He should go. He would stifle all silly feelings of pride and the like, and he would make dad, Helen, and the baby happy. Which question having been satisfactorily decided, Burke turned over and settled himself for a doze before breakfast. He did not get it, however. His mind was altogether too full of time-tables, boat schedules, mountain peaks, and forest trails. Jove, but that was going to be a dandy trip! <hr style='width: 45%;' /> It was later, while Burke was leisurely dressing and planning out the day before him, that the bothersome question came to him as to how he should tell Helen. He was reminded, also, emphatically, of the probable scene in store for him when he should go home at six o'clock that night. And he hated scenes. For that matter, there would probably be another one, too, when he told her that he was going away for a time. To be sure, there was the ten-thousand-dollar check; and of course very soon he could convince her that it was really all for her best happiness. After she gave it a little thought, it would be all right, he was positive, but there was certain to be some unpleasantness at first, particularly as she was sure to be not a little difficult over his running—er—rather, going away the night before. And he wished he could avoid it in some way. If only he did not have to go home— His face cleared suddenly. Why, of course! He would write. How stupid of him not to have thought of it before! He could say, then, just what he wanted to say, and she would have a chance to think it over calmly and sensibly, and see how really fine it was for her and the baby. That was the way to do it, and the only way. Writing, he could not be unnerved by her tears (of course she would cry at first—she always cried!) or exasperated into saying things he would be sorry for afterwards. He could say just enough, and not too much, in a letter, and say it right. Then, early in the following week, just before he was to start on his trip he would go down to the Dale Street house and spend the last two or three days with Helen and the baby, picking up his traps, and planning with Helen some of the delightful things she could do with that ten thousand dollars. By that time she would, of course, have entirely come around to his point of view (even if she had not seen it quite that way at first), and they could have a few really happy days together—something which would be quite impossible if they should meet now, with the preceding evening fresh in their minds, and have one of their usual wretched scenes of tears, recriminations, and wranglings. For the present, then, he would stay where he was. Helen would be all right—with Bridget. His father would be overjoyed, he knew; and as for the few toilet necessities—he could buy those. He needed some new things to take away. So that was settled. With a mind at rest again and a heart aflame with joy, Burke hurried into his garments and skipped downstairs like a boy. His face, before his lips got a chance, told his father of his decision. But his lips did not lag long behind. He had expected that his father would be pleased; but he was not quite prepared for the depth of emotion that shook his father's voice and dimmed his father's eyes, and that ended the half-uttered declaration of joy with what was very near a sob. If anything, indeed, were needed to convince Burke that he was doing just right in taking this trip with his father, it could be needed no longer after the look of ineffable peace and joy on that father's face. Breakfast, with so much to talk of, prolonged itself like a college spread, until Burke, with a cry of dismay, pulled out his watch and leaped to his feet. "Jove! Do you know what time it is, dad?" he cried laughingly. "Behold how this life of luxury has me already in its clutches! I should have been off an hour ago." John Denby lifted a detaining hand. "Not so fast, my boy," he smiled. "I've got you, and I mean to keep you—a few minutes longer." "But—" "Oh, I telephoned Brett this morning that you wouldn't be down till late, if you came at all." "You telephoned this morning!" puzzled Burke, sinking slowly into his chair again. "But you didn't know then that I—" He stopped once more. "No, I didn't know then that you'd agree to my proposition," answered John Denby, with a characteristically grim smile. "But I knew, if you did agree, we'd both have some talking to do. And if you didn't—I should. I meant still to convince you, you see." "I see," nodded the younger man, smiling in his turn. "So I wouldn't go down this morning. We've lots of plans to make. Besides, there's your letter." "Yes, there's—my—letter." This time the young man did not smile. "I've got to write my letter, of course." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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