Chapter 22: Actor and Audience

Helen did not go with her daughter to Denby House the second morning. Betty insisted that she was quite capable of taking the short trip by herself and Helen seemed nothing loath to remain at home. Helen never seemed, indeed, loath to remain at home these days—especially during daylight. In the evening, frequently, she went out for a little walk with Betty. Then was when she did her simple marketing. Then, too, was the only time she would go out without the heavy black veil. Betty, being away all day, and at home only after five o’clock, did not notice all these points at first. As time passed, however, she did wonder why her mother never would go out on Sunday. Still, Betty was too thoroughly absorbed in her own new experiences to pay much attention to anything else. Every morning at nine o’clock she left the house, eager for the day’s work; and every afternoon, soon after five, she was back in the tiny home, answering her mother’s hurried questions as to what had happened through the day.

“And you’re so lovely and interested in every little thing!” she exclaimed to her mother one day.

“But I am interested, my dear, in every little thing,” came the quick answer. And Betty, looking at her mother’s flushed face and trembling lips felt suddenly again the tightening at her throat—that her success or failure should mean so much to mother—dear mother who was trying so hard not to show how poor they were!

For perhaps a week Betty reported little change in the daily routine of her work. She wrote letters, read from books, magazines, or newspapers, worked on the card-index record of correspondence, and sorted papers, pamphlets, and circulars that had apparently been accumulating for weeks.

“But I’m getting along beautifully,” she declared one day. “I’ve got Mrs. Gowing thawed so she actually says as many as three sentences to a course now. And you should see the beaming smile Benton gives me every morning!”

“And—Mr. Denby?” questioned her mother, with poorly concealed eagerness.

Betty lifted her brows and tossed her young head.

“Well, he’s improving,” she flashed mischievously. “He asked for the salt and the pepper, yesterday. And to-day he actually observed that he thought it looked like snow—at the table, I mean. Of course he speaks to me about my work through the day; but he doesn’t say any more than is necessary. Truly, mother, dear, I’d never leave my happy home for him.”

“Oh, Betty, how can you say—such dreadful things!”

Betty laughed again mischievously.

“Don’t worry, mumsey. He’ll never ask me to do it! But, honestly, mother, I can’t see any use in a man’s being so stern and glum all the time.”

“Does he really act so unhappy, then?”

At an unmistakable something in her mother’s voice Betty looked up in surprise.

“Why, mother, that sounded exactly as if you were glad he was unhappy!” she exclaimed.

Helen, secretly dismayed and terrified, boldly flaunted the flag of courage.

“Did I? Oh, no,” she laughed easily. “Still, I’m not so sure but I am a little glad: if he’s unhappy, all the more chance for you to make yourself indispensable by helping him and making him happy. See?”

“Happy!” scoffed Betty with superb disdain; “why, the man doesn’t know what the word means.”

“But perhaps he has seen—a great deal of trouble, dear.” The mother’s eyes were gravely tender.

“Perhaps he has. But is that any reason for inflicting it on other people by reflection?” demanded Betty, with all of youth’s intolerance for age and its incomprehensible attitudes. “Does it do any possible good, either to himself or to anybody else, to retire behind a frown and a grunt, and look out upon all those beautiful things around him through eyes that are like a piece of cold steel? Of course it doesn’t!”

“Oh, Betty, how can you!” protested the dismayed mother again.

But Betty, with a laugh and a spasmodic hug that ended in a playful little shake, retorted with all her old gay sauciness:—

“Don’t you worry, mumsey. I’m a perfect angel to that man.” Then, wickedly, she added as she whisked off: “You see, I haven’t yet had a chance to poke even one finger inside of one of those cabinets!”

It was three days later that Betty, having put on her hat and coat at Denby House, had occasion to go back into the library to speak to her employer.

“Mr. Denby, shall I—” she began; then fell back in amazement. The man before her had leaped to his feet and started toward her, his face white like paper.

“Good God!—you!” he exclaimed. The next instant he stopped short, the blood rushing back to his face. “Oh, Miss Darling! I—er—I thought, for a moment, you were— What a fool!” With the last low muttered words he turned and sat down heavily.

Betty, to whom the whole amazing sentence was distinctly audible, lifted demure eyes to his face.

“I beg your pardon, you said—” The sentence came to a suggestive pause. Into Betty’s demure eyes flashed an unmistakable twinkle.

The man stared, frowned, then flushed a deeper red as full comprehension came. He gave a grim laugh.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Darling. That epithet was meant for me—not you.” He hesitated, his eyes still searching her face. “Strange—strange!” he muttered then; “but I wonder what made you suddenly look so much like— Take off your hat, please,” he directed abruptly. “There!” he exclaimed triumphantly, as Betty pulled out the pins and lifted the hat from her head, “that explains it—your hat! Before, when I first saw you, your eyes reminded me of—of some one, and with your hat on the likeness is much more striking. For a moment I was actually fool enough to think—and I forgot she must be twice your age now, too,” he finished under his breath.