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Road to Understanding, The

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> <h3>A LITTLE BUNCH OF DIARIES</h3> It was three years before the doctor went up to Dalton again. It was on a sad errand this time. John Denby had died suddenly, and after an hour's hesitation, the doctor went up to the funeral. There were no garish lights and shrieking violins to greet him as he passed once more up the long, familiar walk. The warm September sun touched lovingly the old brass knocker, and peeped behind the stately colonial pillars of the long veranda. It gleamed for a moment on the bald heads of the somber-coated men filing slowly through the wide doorway, and it tried to turn to silver the sable crape hanging at the right of the door. Not until that evening, after the funeral, did the doctor have the opportunity for more than a formal word of greeting and sympathy with Burke Denby. He had been shocked in the afternoon at the changes in the young man's face; but he was more so when, at eight o'clock, he called at the house. He found Burke alone in the library—the library whose every book and chair and curio spoke with the voice of the man who was gone—the man who had loved them so well. Burke himself, to the doctor, looked suddenly old and worn, and infinitely weary of life. He did not at once speak of his father. But when he did speak of him, a little later, he seemed then to want to talk of nothing else. Things that his father had done and said, his little ways, his likes and dislikes, the hours of delight they had passed together, the trips they had taken, even the tiddledywinks and Mother Goose of childhood came in for their share. On and on until far into the night he talked, and the doctor listened, with a word now and then of sympathy or appreciation; but with a growing ache in his heart. "You have been, indeed, a wonderful father and son," he said at last unsteadily. "There was never another like us." The son's voice was very low. There was a moment's silence. The doctor, his beseeching eyes on the younger man's half-averted face, was groping in his mind for the right words to introduce the subject which all the evening had been at the door of his lips—Helen. He felt that now, with Burke's softened heart to lend lenience, and with his lonely life in prospect to plead the need of companionship, was the time, if ever, that an appeal for Helen might be successful. But the right words of introduction had not come to him when Burke himself began to speak again. "And it's almost as if I'd lost both father and mother," he went on brokenly; "for dad talked so much of mother. To him she was always with us, I think. I can remember, when I was a little boy, how real she was to me. In all we did or said she seemed to have a part. And always, all the way up, he used to talk of her—except for the time when—" He stopped abruptly. The doctor, watching, wondered at the white compression that came suddenly to his lips. In a moment it was gone, however, and he had resumed speaking. "Of late years, dad has seemed to talk more than ever of mother, and he spoke always as if she were with us. And now I'm alone—so utterly alone. Gleason—how ever am I going to live—without—dad!" The doctor's heart leaped with mingled fear and elation: fear at what he was about to do; elation that his chance to do it had come. He cleared his throat and began, courageously, though not quite steadily. "But—there's your wife, Burke. If only you—" He stopped short in dismay at the look that had come into Burke Denby's face. "My wife! My wife! Don't speak of my wife now, man, if you want me to keep my reason! The woman who brought more sorrow to my father than any other living being! What do you think I wouldn't give if I could blot out the memory of the anguish my marriage brought to dad? I can see his eyes now, when he was pleading with me—before it. Afterwards—Do you know what a brick dad was afterwards? Well, I'll tell you. Never by so much as a look—much less a word—has he reproached or censured me. At first he—he just put up a wall between us. But it was a wall of grief and sore hurt. It was never anger. I know that now. Then, one day, somehow, I found that wall down, and I looked straight into dad's eyes. It was never there again—that wall. I knew, of course, that dad had never—forgotten. The hurt and grief were still there,—that I could so disobey him, disregard his wishes,—but he would not let them be a wall between us any longer. Then, when it all turned out as it did— But he never once said, 'I told you so,' nor even looked it. And he was kind and good to Helen always. But when I think how I—I, who love him so—brought to him all that grief and anguish of heart, I— My wife, indeed! Gleason, I never want to see her face again, or hear her name spoken!" "But your—your child," stammered the dismayed doctor faintly. A shadow of quick pain crossed the other's face. "I know. And that's another thing that grieved dad. He was fond of his little granddaughter. He used to speak of her, often, till I begged him not to. She's mine, of course; but she's Helen's, too,—and she is being brought up by Helen—not me. I can imagine what she's being taught—about her father," he finished bitterly. "Oh, but I'm sure— I know she's—" With a painful color the doctor, suddenly warned from within just in time, came to a frightened pause. Burke, however, lifting a protesting hand, changed the subject abruptly; and the relieved doctor was glad, for once, not to have him wish to talk longer of his missing wife and daughter. Very soon the doctor said good-night and left the house. But his heart was heavy. "Perhaps, after all," he sighed to himself, "it wasn't just the time to get him to listen to reason about Helen—when it was his runaway marriage that had so grieved his father years ago; and his father now—just gone." From many lips, before he left town the next morning, Dr. Gleason learned much of the life and doings of the Denbys during the past few years. Perhaps the death of John Denby had made the Dalton tongues garrulous. At all events they were nothing loath to talk; and the doctor, eager to obtain anything that would enable him to understand Burke Denby, was nothing loath to listen. "Yes, sir, he hain't been well for years—John Denby hain't," related one old man into the doctor's attentive, sympathetic ears. "And I ain't sayin' I wonder, with all he's been through. But you said you was a friend of his, didn't ye?" The doctor inclined his head. "I am, indeed, an old friend of the family." "Well, it's likely, then, you know something yourself of what's happened—though 'course you hain't lived here to see it all. First, ye know, there was his son's marriage. And that cut the old man all up—runaway, and not what the family wanted at all. You know that, of course. But they made the best of it, apparently, after a while, and young Denby took hold first-rate at the Works. Right down to the beginnin' he went, too,—overalls and day wages. And he done well—first-rate!—but it must 'a' galled some. Why, once, fur a spell, he worked under my son—he did. The men liked him, too, when they got over their grinnin' and nonsense, and see he was in earnest. You know what a likely chap young Denby can be, when he wants to." "None better!" smiled the doctor. "Yes. Well, to resume and go on. Somethin' happened one day—in his domestic affairs, I mean. The pretty young wife and kid lit out for parts unknown. And the son went back to his dad. (He and his dad always was more like pals than anythin' else.) Some says he sent her away—the wife, I mean. Some says she runned away herself. Like enough you know the rights of it." There was a suggestion of a pause, and a sly, half-questioning glance; but at the absolute non-committalism of the other's face, the narrator went on hastily. "Well, whatever was the rights or wrongs of it, she went, and hain't been seen in these 'ere parts since, as I know of. Not that I should know her if I did see her, howsomever! Well, that was a dozen—yes, fourteen years ago, I guess, and the old man hain't been the same since. He hain't been the same since the boy's marriage, for that matter. "Well, at first, after she went, the Denbys went kitin' off on one o' them trips o' theirn, that they're always takin'; then they come home and opened up the old house, and things went on about as they used to 'fore young Denby was married. But the old man fell sick—first on the trip, then afterwards, once or twice. He wa'n't well; but that didn't hinder his goin' off again. This time they went with one of their bridges. Always, before, they'd let Henry or Grosset manage the job; but this time they went themselves. After that they went lots—to South America, Africa, Australia, and I don't know where. They seemed restless and uneasy—both of 'em. "Then they begun ter bring folks home with 'em: chaps who wore purple silk socks and neckties, and looked as if they'd never done a stroke of work in their lives; and women with high heels and false hair. My, but there was gay doin's there! Winters there was balls and parties and swell feeds with nigger waiters from Boston, and even the dishes and what they et come from there, too, sometimes, they say. Summers they rode in hayracks and autymobiles, and danced outdoors on the grass—shows, you know. And they was a show with the women barefooted and barearmed, and—and not much on generally. My wife seen 'em once, and she was that shocked she didn't get over it for a month. She said she was brought up to keep a modest dress on her that had a decent waist and skirt to it. But my Bill (he's been in Boston two years now) says it's a pageant and Art, and all right. That you can do it in pageants when you can't just walkin' along the street, runnin' into the neighbors'. See?" "I see," nodded the doctor gravely. "Oh, well, of course they didn't go 'round like that all the time. They played that thing lots where they have them little balls and queer-looking sticks to knock 'em with. They played it all over Pike's Hill and the Durgin pasture in Old Dalton; and they got my grandson to be a—a—" "Caddie?" hazarded the doctor. "Yes; that's what they called it. And he made good money, too,—doin' nothin'. Wish't they'd want me for one! Well, as I was sayin', they had all this comp'ny, an' more an' more of it; and they give receptions an' asked the hull town, sometimes. My wife went, and my darter. They said it was fine and grand, and all that, but that they didn't believe old John liked it very well. But Mr. Burke liked it. That was easy to be seen. And there was a pretty little widder there lots, and she liked it. Some said as how they thought there'd be a match there, sometime, if he could get free. But I guess there wa'n't anythin' ter that. Anyhow, all of a sudden, somethin' happened. Everythin' stopped right off short—all the gay doin's and parties—and everybody went home. Then, the next thing we knew, the old house was dark and empty again, and the Denbys gone to Australia with another bridge." "Yes, I know. I remember—that," interposed the doctor, alert and interested. "Did you see 'em—when they come back?" "No." "Well, they didn't look like the same men. And ever since they've been different, somehow. Stern and silent, with never a smile for anybody, skursley. No balls an' parties now, you bet ye! Week in and week out, jest shut up in that big silent house—never goin' out at all except to the Works! Then we heard he was sick—Mr. John. But he got better, and was out again. The end come sudden. Nobody expected that. But he was a good man—a grand good man—John Denby was!" "He was, indeed," agreed the doctor, with a long sigh, as he turned away. This story, with here and there a new twist and turn, the doctor heard on all sides. And always he listened attentively, hopefully, eager, if possible, to find some detail that would help him in some further plea to Burke Denby in behalf of the far-away wife. Even the women wanted to talk to him, and did, sometimes to his annoyance. Once, only, however, did his irritation get the better of his manners. It was when the woman of whom he bought his morning paper at the station newsstand, accosted him— "Stranger in these parts, ain't ye? Come to the fun'ral, didn't ye?" "Why—y-yes." "Hm-m; I thought so. He was a fine man, I s'pose. Still, I didn't think much of him myself. Used to know him too well, maybe. Used to live next his son—same floor. My name's Cobb—and I used to see—" But the doctor had turned on his heel without even the semblance of an apology. Ten minutes later he boarded the train for Boston. To his sister again he told the story of a Dalton trip, and, as before, he omitted not one detail. "But I can't write, of course, to Helen, now," he finished gloomily. "That is, I can't urge her coming back—not in the face of Burke's angry assertion that he never wants to see her again." "Of course not. But don't worry, dear. I haven't given up hope, by any means. Burke worshiped his father. His heart is almost breaking now, at his loss. It is perfectly natural, under the circumstances, that he should have this intense anger toward anything that ever grieved his loved father. But wait. That's all we can do, anyway. I'll write to Helen, of course, and tell her of her father-in-law's death, but—" "You wouldn't tell her what Burke said, Edith!" "Oh, no, no, indeed!—unless I have to, Frank—unless she asks me." But Helen did ask her. By return steamer came her letter expressing her shocked distress at John Denby's death, and asking timidly, but urgently, if, in Mrs. Thayer's opinion, it were the time now when she should come home—if she would be welcomed by her husband. To this, of course, there was but one answer possible; and reluctantly Mrs. Thayer gave it. "And to think," groaned the doctor, "that when now, for the first time, Helen is willing to come, we have to tell her—she can't!" "I know, but"—Edith Thayer resolutely blinked off the tears—"I haven't given up yet. Just wait." And the doctor waited. It was, indeed, as his sister said, all that he could do. From time to time he went up to Dalton and made his way up the old familiar walk to have a chat with the taciturn, somber-eyed man sitting alone in the great old library. The doctor never spoke of Helen. He dared not take the risk. Burke Denby's only interests plainly were business, books, and the rare curios he and his father had collected. A Mrs. Gowing, a distant cousin, had come to be his housekeeper, but the doctor saw little of her. She seemed to be a quiet, inoffensive little woman, plainly very much in the background. 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!" "Yes, her diary—or, rather, diaries. I found them a month ago among father's things. I can't tell you what was in them. I wouldn't, of course, if I could. They're too—sacred. Perhaps you think even I should not have read them; perhaps I shouldn't. But I did, and I'm glad I did; and I believe she'd have wanted me to. "Of course, at first, when I picked one of them up, I didn't know what it was. Then I saw my name, and I read—page after page. I was a baby—her baby. Gleason, can you imagine what it would be to look deep down into the soul of a good woman and read there all her love, hopes, prayers, and ambitions for her boy—and then suddenly realize that you yourself were that boy?" There was no answer; and Burke, evidently expecting none, went on with the rush of abandonment that told of words suddenly freed from long restraint. "I took up then the first one—the diary she kept that first year of her marriage; and if I had felt small and mean and unworthy before— On and on I read; and as I read, I began to see, dimly, what marriage means—for a woman. They were very poor then. Father was the grandson of the younger, runaway son, Joel, and had only his trade and his day wages. They lived in a shabby little cottage on Mill Street, long since destroyed. This house belonged to the other branch of the family, and was occupied by a rich old man and his daughter. Mother was gently reared, and was not used to work. Those first years of poverty and privation must have been wickedly hard for her. But the little diaries carried no complaints. They did carry weariness, often, and sometimes a pitiful terror lest she be not strong enough for what was before her, and so bring disappointment and grief to 'dear John.' But always, for 'dear John,' I could see there was to be nothing but encouragement and a steadfast holding forth of high aims and the assurance of ultimate success. "Then, one by one, came the babies, with all the agony and fears and hopes they brought with them. Three came and slipped away into the great unknown before I came—to stay. About that time father's patents began to bring success, and soon the money was pouring in. They bought this house. It had been one of their dreams that they would buy it. The old man had died, and the daughter had married and moved away, and the house had been for sale for some time. So they bought it, and soon after I was born we came here to live. Then, when I was four years old, mother died. "That is the story—the bald story. But that doesn't tell you anything of what those diaries were to me. In the light they shed I saw my own marriage—and I was ashamed. I never thought of marriage before from Helen's standpoint. I never thought what she had to suffer and endure, and adapt herself to. I know now. Of course, very soon after our marriage, I realized that she and I weren't suited to each other. But what of it? I had married her. I had effectually prevented her from finding happiness with any other man; yet it didn't seem to occur to me that I had thereby taken on myself the irrevocable duty of trying to make her happy. I have no doubt that my ways and aims and likes and dislikes annoyed her as much as hers did me. But it never occurred to me that my soft greens and browns and Beethoven harmonies got on her nerves just exactly as her pinks and purples and ragtime got on mine. I was never in the habit of looking at anybody's happiness but my own; and I wasn't happy. So I let fling, regardless." Burke paused, and drew a long sigh. The doctor, puffing slowly at his cigar, sedulously kept his face the other way. The doctor, in his fancy, had already peopled the old room with a joyous Helen and Dorothy Elizabeth; and he feared, should he turn, that his face would sing a veritable Hallelujah Chorus—to the consequent amazement of his host. "Mother had trials of her own—lots of them," resumed Burke, after a moment's silence. "She even had some not unlike mine, I believe, for I think I could read between the lines that dad was more than a bit careless at times in manner and speech compared to the polished ways of the men of her family and social circle. But mother neither whined nor ran away. She just smiled and kept bravely straight ahead; and by and by they were under her feet, where they belonged—all those things that plagued. But I—I both whined and ran away—because I didn't like the way my wife ate her soup and spread her bread. They seem so small now—all those little ways I hated—small beside the big things that really counted. Do you know? I believe if more people would stop making the little things big and the big things little, there'd be a whole heap more happiness lying around in this old world! And Helen—poor Helen! She tried— I know she tried. Lots of times, when I was reading in the diaries what mother said about dad,—how she mustn't let him get discouraged or downhearted; how she must tell him she just knew he was going to succeed,—lots of times then I'd think of Helen. Helen used to talk that way to me at the first! I wonder now if Helen kept a diary! And I can't help wondering if, supposing I had been a little less apt to notice the annoyances, and a little more inclined to see the good— Bah! There, there, old man, forgive me," he broke off, with a shrug. "I didn't mean to run on like this. I really didn't—for all the world like the heart-to-heart advice to the lovelorn in a daily news column!" "I'm glad you did, Burke." The doctor's carefully controlled voice expressed cheery interest; that was all. "And now what do you propose to do?" "Do? How? What do you mean?" "Why, about—your wife, of course." "Nothing. There's nothing I can do. And that's the pity of it. She will go on, of course, to the end of her life, thinking me a cad and a coward." "But if you could be—er—brought together again," suggested the doctor in a voice so coldly impersonal it was almost indifferent. "Oh, yes, of course—perhaps. But that's not likely. I don't know where she is, remember; and she's not likely to come back of her own accord, after all this time. Besides, if she did, who's to guarantee that a few old diaries have changed me from an unbearably selfish brute to a livably patient and pleasant person to have about the house? Not but what I'd jump at the chance to try, but— Well, we'll wait till I get it," he finished dryly, with a lightness that was plainly assumed. "Well, anyway, Burke, you've never found any one else!" The Hallelujah Chorus did almost sing through the doctor's voice this time. "No, I've been spared that, thank Heaven. There was one—a Mrs. Carrolton." "Yes, I met her—at that reception, you know," said the doctor, answering the unspoken question. "Oh, yes, I remember. Well, I did come near—but I pulled myself up in time. I knew, in my heart, she wasn't the kind of woman— Then, too, there was Helen. It was only that I was feeling particularly reckless that fall. Besides, I know now that I've cared for Helen—the real Helen—all the time. And there is a real Helen, I believe, underneath it all. As I look back at them—all those years—I know that during every single one of them I've been trying to get away from myself. If it hadn't been for dad—and that's the one joy I have: that I was able to be with dad. They weren't quite lost—those years, for they brought him joy." "No, they've not been lost, Burke," said the doctor, with quiet emphasis. Burke laughed a little grimly. "Oh, I know what you mean, of course. I've been 'tried as by fire'—eh? Well, I dare say I have—and I've been found woefully wanting. But enough of this!" he broke off abruptly, springing to his feet. "You don't happen to know of a young woman who has the skill of experience, the wisdom of age, the adaptability of youth, and the patience of Job all in one, do you?" he demanded. The doctor turned with startled eyes. "Why, Burke, after all this, you don't mean—" "No, it's not a wife I'm looking for," interposed Burke, with a whimsical shrug. "It's a—a stenographer or private secretary, only she must be much more than the ordinary kind. I want to catalogue all this truck father and I have accumulated. She must know French and German—a little Greek and Hebrew wouldn't be amiss. And I want one that would be interested in this sort of thing—one who will realize she isn't handling—er—potatoes, say. My eyes are going back on me, too, and I shall want her to read to me; so I must like her voice. I don't want anything, you see," he smiled grimly. "I should say not," laughed the doctor, rising. "But before you can give me any more necessary qualifications, I guess I'd better be going to bed." "I don't wonder, after the harangue I've given you. But—you don't know of such a person, do you?" "I don't." "No, I suppose not—nor anybody else," finished Burke Denby, a profound gloom that had become habitual settling over his face. "If I do I'll send her to you," nodded the doctor, halfway through the door. The doctor was in a hurry to get up to his room—he had a letter to write. "Thanks," said Burke Denby, still dryly, as he waved his hand in good-night. "Stenographer, indeed!" sang the doctor under his breath, bounding up the stairs like a boy. "Wait till he sees what I am going to get him!" he finished, striding down the hall and into his own room. Before he slept the doctor wrote his letter to Helen. It was a long one, and a joyous one. It told everything that Burke had said, even to his plaintive plea for a private secretary. There could be no doubt now, no further delay, declared the doctor. Helen would come home at once, of course. It only remained for them to decide on the mere details of just how and when. Meanwhile, when might they expect her in Boston? She would come, of course, to his sister's first; and he trusted it would be soon—very soon. Addressing the letter to Mrs. Helen Darling, the doctor tucked it into his pocket to be mailed at the station in the morning. Then, for the few hours before rising time, he laid himself down to sleep. But he did not sleep. His brain was altogether too actively picturing the arrival of Helen Denby and her daughter at the old Denby Mansion, and the meeting between them and the master of the house. And to think that at last it was all coming out right! <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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