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<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h3>THE STAGE IS SET</h3> Impatient as was the doctor for an answer to his letter, it came before he expected, for a cablegram told of Helen's almost immediate departure for America. "I thought that would fetch her," he crowed to his sister. "And she'll be here just next week Wednesday. That'll get her up to Dalton before Sunday." "Perhaps," observed Mrs. Thayer cautiously. "No 'perhaps' to it," declared the doctor,—"if the boat gets here. You don't suppose she's going to delay any longer now, do you? Besides, isn't she starting for America about as soon as she can? Does that look as if she were losing much time?" "No, it doesn't," she admitted laughingly. The doctor and his sister were not surprised to see a very lovely and charming Helen with the distinction and mellow maturity that the dozen intervening years had brought. Her letters had shown them something of that. But they were not prepared for the changes those same years had wrought in Dorothy Elizabeth. To Helen, their frank start of amazement and quick interchange of glances upon first sight of the girl were like water to a long-parched throat. "You do think she's lovely?" she whispered to the frankly staring doctor, as Mrs. Thayer welcomed the young girl. "Lovely! She's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!" avowed the doctor, with a laughing shrug at his own extravagance. "And she's just as sweet and dear as she is lovely," whispered back the adoring mother, as the girl turned to meet the doctor. "You've your mother's eyes, my dear," said the doctor, very much as he had said it to the little Betty years before. "Have I?" The girl smiled happily. "I'm so glad! I love mother's eyes." It was not until hours later, when Betty had gone to bed, that there was any opportunity to talk over plans. Then, before the fire in the library, Helen found herself alone with the doctor and his sister. "You see, I came almost as soon as I could," she began at once. "I did stay one day—for a wedding." "A wedding?" "Yes, and some one you know, too— Mr. Donald Estey." "Really?" cried Mrs. Thayer. "Jove! After all this time?" The doctor's eyebrows went up. "Yes. And I'm so glad—especially glad for—for he thought once, years ago, that he cared for some one else. And I like to know he's happy—now." "Hm-m," murmured the doctor, with a shrewd smile and a sidelong glance at his sister. "So he's happy—now, eh?" "Oh, very! And she's a beautiful girl." "As beautiful as—Betty, say?" The doctor's voice was teasing. A wonderful light came to Helen's face. "You do think she's beautiful, don't you?" she cried, with a smile that told she needed no answer. "She's a dear—in every way," avowed Mrs. Thayer. "And to think of all this coming to Burke Denby, without even a turn of his hand," envied the doctor. "Lucky dog! And to get you both! He doesn't deserve it!" "But he isn't going to get us both!" Helen's eyes were twinkling, but her mouth showed suddenly firm lines. The doctor wheeled sharply. "What do you mean? Surely, now you aren't going to—to—" He stopped helplessly. "He's going to get her—but not me." "Oh, come, come, Helen, my dear!" protested two dismayed voices. But Helen shook her head decidedly. "Listen. I've got it all planned. You said he wanted a—a sort of private secretary or stenographer, didn't you?" "Why, y-yes." "Well, I'm going to send Betty." "Betty!" "Certainly. She can fill the position—you needn't worry about that. She's eighteen, you know, and she's really very self-reliant and capable. She doesn't understand shorthand, of course; but she can write his letters for him, just the same, and in three or four languages, if he wants her to. She can typewrite. Mr. Reynolds got a typewriter for the girls long ago. And she loves to fuss over old books and curios. She and Gladys have spent days in those old London shops." "A real Denby digger—eh?" smiled the doctor. "Yes. And I've been so glad she was interested—like her father." "But you don't mean you're going to give your daughter up," cried Mrs. Thayer, aghast, "and not go yourself!" "You couldn't! Besides, as if Burke would stand for that," cut in the doctor. "But he isn't going to know she is his daughter," smiled Helen. "Not know she is his daughter!" echoed two voices, in stupefaction. "No—not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relying on you to—er—apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes were merry. "Oh, nonsense! This is too absurd for words," spluttered the doctor. "I don't think so." "His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him day by day, and he not to know it? Bosh! Sounds like a plot from a shilling shocker!" "Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?—you know 'twas a book in the first place that set me to making myself 'swell' and 'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief. "Oh, but, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Thayer with genuine concern. "I do think this is impossible." The expression on Helen Denby's face changed instantly. Her eyes grew very grave, but luminously tender. Her lips trembled a little. "People, dear people, if you'll listen just a minute I think I can convince you," she begged. "I have it all planned out. Betty and I will go to Dalton and find a quiet little home somewhere. Oh, I shall keep well out of sight—never fear," she nodded, in reply to the quick doubt in the doctor's eyes. "Betty shall go every morning to her father's house, and—I'm not afraid of Betty. He will love her. He can't help it. And he will see how dear and sweet and good she is. Then, by and by, he shall know that she is his—his very own." "But—but Betty herself! Can she act her part in this remarkable scheme?" demanded the doctor. "She won't be acting a part. She'll just be acting herself. She is not to know anything except that she is his secretary." "Impossible!" ejaculated two voices. "I don't think so. Anyway, it's worth trying; and if it works it'll mean—everything." The last word was so low it was scarcely above a whisper. "But—yourself, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Thayer. "Where do you come in? What part have you in this—play?" The rich red surged from neck to brow. The doctor and his sister could see that, though they could not see Helen Denby's face. It was turned quite away. There was a moment's silence; then, a little breathlessly, came the answer. "I—don't—know. I suppose that will be—the 'curtain,' won't it? And—I've never been sure of the ending—yet. But—" She hesitated; then suddenly she turned, her eyes shining and deeply tender. "Don't you see? It's the only way, after all. I can't very well go up to Dalton and ring his doorbell and say, 'Here, behold your wife and daughter. Won't you please take us in?'—can I? Though at first, when I heard of his father's death and thought of him so lonely there, I did want to do—just that. But I knew that wasn't best, even before your letter came telling me—what he said. "But now—why, this is just what I've wanted from the first—to show Betty to him, some time, when he didn't dream who she was. I wanted to know that he wasn't—ashamed of her. And this (his wanting a secretary) gave me a better chance than I ever thought I could have. Why, people, dear people, don't you see?—with this I shan't mind now one bit all these long, long years of waiting. Won't you help me—please? I can't, of course, do it without your help." The doctor threw up both his hands—his old gesture of despair. "Help you? Of course we'll help you, just as we did before—to get the moon, if you ask for it. I feel like a comic opera and a movie farce all in one; but never mind. I'll do it. Now, what is it I am to do?" Helen relaxed into such radiant joyousness and relief, that she looked almost like the girl Burke Denby had married nineteen years before. "You dear! I knew you would!" she breathed. "Yes; but what is it?" he groaned in mock despair. "Speak out. I want to know the worst at once. What am I to do?" "Please, you're to go up to Dalton and tell Mr. Burke Denby you think you've found a young woman who will make him an excellent secretary. Then, if he consents to try her, you're to find a little furnished apartment on a nice, quiet street, not too far from the Denby Mansion, of course, where we can live. Then I'd like a note of introduction for Betty to take to her father: she's the daughter of an old friend whom you've known for years—see?—and you are confident she will give satisfaction. That's all. Now, I'm sure—isn't all that quite—easy?" "Oh, very easy,—very easy, indeed!" replied the doctor, with another groan. "You little witch! I declare I believe you'll carry this absurd, preposterous thing through to a triumphant finish, after all." "Thank you. I knew you wouldn't fail me," smiled Helen, with tear-wet eyes. "But, my dear, I don't think yet that everything is quite clear," demurred Mrs. Thayer. "How about Betty? Just what does Betty know of her father?" A look very like fear crossed the bright face opposite. "She knows nothing, of course, of—of my leaving home and the cause of it. I've never told her anything of her father except to hold him up as a symbol of everything good and lovable. When she was a little girl, you know, I could always do anything with her by just telling her that daddy wanted it so." "But where does she think he is? Now that she is older, she must have asked some questions," murmured Mrs. Thayer. Helen shook her head. A faint smile came to her lips. "She hasn't; but I've been so afraid she would, and I've been dreading it always. Then one day Mrs. Reynolds told me something Betty said to her. Since then I've felt a little easier." "Does Mrs. Reynolds know who you really are?" interposed the doctor. "Yes, oh, yes. I told her long ago—even before she took me to London with her, in fact. I thought she ought to know. I've been so glad, since, that I did. It saved me from lots of awkward moments. Besides, it enabled her to be all the more help to me." "But what was it Betty said to her?" asked Mrs. Thayer. "Oh, yes; I didn't tell you, did I? It was this. She asked Mrs. Reynolds one day: 'Did you ever know my father?' And of course Mrs. Reynolds said, 'No.' Then Betty said: 'He is dead, you know. Oh, mother never told me so, in words; but I understand that he is, of course. She just used to say that I mustn't ask for daddy. He couldn't be with us now. That was all. At first, when I was little, I thought he was away on a journey. Then, when I got older, I realized it was just mother's beautiful way of putting it. So now I like to think of him as being just away on a journey. And of course I never say anything to mother. But I do wish I could have known him. He must have been so fine and splendid!'" "The dear child!" murmured Mrs. Thayer. The doctor turned on his heel and walked over to the window abruptly. There was a moment's silence; then softly, Helen said, as she rose to her feet: "So you see now I'm not worrying so much for fear she will question me; and I shall be so happy, by and by, when she finds that daddy has been, after all, only on a journey." Edith Thayer, alone with her brother, after Helen Denby had gone upstairs, wiped her eyes. It was the doctor who spoke first. "If Burke Denby doesn't fall head over heels in love with that little woman and know he's got the dearest treasure on earth, I—I shall do it myself," he declared savagely. He, too, was wiping his eyes. His sister laughed tremulously. "Well, I am in love with her—and I'm not ashamed to own it," she declared. "How altogether dear and charming and winsome she is! And when you think—what these years have done for her!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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