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 assertion 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.
"Oh, yes, I know it's all my own fault," cut in Burke crisply. "You can't tell me anything new on that score, that I haven't told myself. Yes, and I know I haven't even been willing to have her name spoken," he went on recklessly, answering the amazement in the doctor's face. "For that matter, I don't know why I'm talking like this now—unless it's because I've always said to you more than I've said to any one else—except dad—about Helen. And now, after being such a cad, it seems almost—due to her that I should say—something. Besides, doesn't somebody say somewhere that confession is good for the soul?"
There was a quizzical smile on his lips, but there was no smile in his eyes.
The doctor nodded dumbly. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he dared not open his lips. But, terrified at the long silence that followed, he finally ventured unsteadily:—
"But why—this sudden change, Burke?"
"It's not so sudden as you think." Burke's eyes, gloomily fixed on the opposite wall, did not turn as he spoke. "It's been coming gradually for a long time. I can see that now. Still, the real eye-opener finally came from—mother."
"Your—mother!"