The Road to Understanding Part 52

Moreover she did not like a certain growing restless nervousness in her mother's manner, nor did she like the increasing pallor of her mother's cheek. Something, somewhere, was wrong. Of this Betty became more and more strongly convinced. Nor did a little episode that took place late in January tend to weaken this belief.

They had gone to market--Betty and her mother. Lured by an attractive "ad," they had gone farther from home than usual, and were in a store not often visited by them. They had given their order and turned to go, when suddenly Betty found herself whisked about by her mother's frantic clutch on her arm and led swiftly quite across the store to the opposite door. There, still impelled by that unyielding clutch on her arm, she found herself dodging in and out of the throngs of customers on their way to the street outside. Even there their pace did not slacken until they were well around the corner of the block.

"Why, mother," panted Betty then, laughing, "I should think you were running away from all the plagues of Egypt."

"I--I was--worse than the plagues of Egypt," laughed her mother, a bit hysterically.

"Why, mother!" cried Betty, growing suddenly alert and anxious.

"There, there, dear, it was nothing. Never mind!" declared her mother.

But even as she spoke she looked back fearfully over her shoulder.

"But, mother, what _was_ it?"

"Nothing. Just a--a woman I didn't want to see. I used to know her years ago, and she was--such a talker! We wouldn't have got home to-night."

"But we shan't now--if we keep on this way," laughed Betty uneasily, her troubled eyes on her mother's face. "We're going in quite the opposite direction from home."

"Dear, dear, so we are! We must have turned the wrong way when we came out from the store."

"Yes, we--did," agreed Betty. Her words were light--but the troubled look had not left her eyes.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

It was on a gray morning early in February that Betty found her employer pacing the library from end to end like the proverbial caged lion. When he turned and spoke, she was startled at the look on his face--a worn, haggard look that told of sleeplessness--and of something else that she could not name.

He ignored her conventional morning greeting.

"Miss Darling, I want to speak to you."

"Yes, Mr. Denby."

"Will you come here to live--as my daughter?"

"Will I--what?" The amazement in Betty's face was obviously genuine.

"You are surprised, of course; and no wonder. I didn't exactly what you call 'break it gently,' did I? And I forgot that you haven't been thinking of this thing every minute for the last--er--month, as I have.

Won't you sit down, please." With an abrupt gesture he motioned her to a chair, and dropped into one himself. "I can't, of course, beat about the bush now. I want you to come here to this house and be a daughter to me.

Will you?"

"But, _Mr. Denby_!"

"'This is so sudden!' Yes, I know," smiled the man grimly. "That's what your face says, and no wonder. It may seem sudden to you--but it is not at all so to me. Believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought. I have debated it--longer than you can guess. And let me tell you at once that of course I want your mother to come, too. That will set your mind at rest on that point."

"But I--I don't think yet that I--I quite understand," faltered the girl.

"In what way?"

"I can't understand yet why--why you want me. You see, I--I have thought lately that--that you positively disliked me, Mr. Denby." Her chin came up with the little determined lift so like her mother.

With a jerk Burke Denby got to his feet and resumed his nervous stride up and down the room.

"My child,"--he turned squarely about and faced her,--"I want you. I need you. This house has become nothing but a dreary old pile of horror to me. You, by some sweet necromancy of your own, have contrived to make the sun s.h.i.+ne into its windows. It's the first time for years that there has been any sun--for me. But when you go, the sun goes. That's why I want you here all the time. Will you come? Of course, you understand I mean adoption--legally. But I don't want to dwell on that part. I want you to _want_ to come. I want you to be happy here. Won't you come?"

Betty drew in her breath tremulously. For a long minute her gaze searched the man's face.

"Well, Miss Betty?" There was a confident smile in his eyes. He had the air of a man who has made a certain somewhat dreaded move, but who has no doubt as to the outcome.

"I'm afraid I--can't, Mr. Denby."

"You--_can't_!"

Betty, in spite of her very real and serious concern and anxiety, almost laughed at the absolute amazement on the man's face.

"No, Mr. Denby."

"May I ask why?" There was the chill of ice in his voice.

Again Betty felt the almost hysterical desire to laugh. Still her face was very grave.

"You-- I-- In the end you would not want me, Mr. Denby," she faltered, "because I--I should not be--happy here."

"May I ask why--_that_?"

There was no answer.

"Miss Darling, why wouldn't you be happy here?"

Genuine distress came into Betty's face.

"I would rather not say, Mr. Denby."

"But I prefer that you should."

"I can't. You would think me--impertinent."

"Not if I tell you to say it, Miss Betty. Why can't you be happy here?

You know very well that you would have everything that money could buy."

"But what I want is something--money can't buy."

"What do you mean?"