Chapter 17: Pink Teas to Flighty Blondes

One by one the years slipped by, swiftly, with little change. In Boston, the doctor, trying not to count them, still had not forgotten. From Helen, through his sister, came glowing accounts of concerts, lectures, travels, and language-lessons for herself and Betty. From Dalton, both directly and indirectly, began to come reports of a new gayety at the old Denby Mansion. Dinners and house-parties, and even a ball or two, figured in the reports.

Vexed and curious, the doctor—who had, of late, refused most of his invitations to Dalton—took occasion, between certain trips of his own, to go up to the little town, to see for himself the meaning of this, to him, unaccountable phase of the situation.

There was a big reception at Denby Mansion on the evening of the day of his arrival. The hotel parlor and office were abuzz with stories of the guests, decorations, and city caterer. There came to the doctor’s ears, too, sundry rumors—some vague, others unpleasantly explicit—concerning a pretty little blonde widow, who was being frequently seen these days in the company of Burke Denby, the son.

“Of course he’d have to get a divorce—but he could do that easy,” overheard the doctor in the corridor. “His wife ran away, didn’t she, years ago? I heard she did.”

Uninvited and unheralded, the doctor attended the reception. Passing up the old familiar walk, he came to an unfamiliar, garish blaze of lights, a riot of color and perfume, a din of shrieking violins, the swish of silken skirts, and the peculiarly inane babble that comes from a multitude of chattering tongues.

Gorgeous lackeys reached unfamiliar hands for his hat and coat, and the doctor was nearly ready to turn and flee the delirium of horror, when he suddenly almost laughed aloud at sight of the half-perplexed, half-terrified, wholly disgusted face of Benton. At that moment the old manservant’s eyes met his own, and the doctor’s eyes grew suddenly moist at the beatific joy which illumined that harassed, anxious old face.

Regardless of the trailing silks and billowing tulle between them, Benton leaped to his side.

“Praise be, if it ain’t Dr. Gleason!” he exulted, incoherent, but beaming.

“Yes; but what is this, Benton?” laughed the doctor. “What is the meaning of all this?”

The old butler rolled his eyes.

“Blest if I know, sir—indeed, I don’t. But I’m thinking it’s gone crazy I am. And sometimes I think maybe the master and young Master Burke, too, are going crazy with me. I do, sir!”