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Road to Understanding, The

<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> <h3>THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING</h3> 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 shine 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?" No reply. "Miss Darling, what do you mean?" With a sudden fierce recklessness the girl turned and faced him. "I mean that—just that—what you did now, and a minute ago. The way you have of—of expecting everybody and everything to bend to your will and wishes. Oh, I know, it's silly and horrible and everything for me to say this. But you made me do it. I told you it was impertinent! Don't you see? I'd have to have love and laughter and sympathy and interest and—and all that around me. I couldn't be happy here. This house is like a tomb, and you—sometimes you are jolly and kind and—and fine. But I never know how you're going to be. And I'd die if I had to worry and fret and fear all the time how you were going to be! Mr. Denby, I—I couldn't live in such a place, and mother couldn't either. And I— Oh, what have I said? But you made me do it, you made me do it!" For one long minute there was utter silence in the room. Burke Denby, at the library table, sat motionless, his hand shading his eyes. Betty, in her chair, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Her eyes were frightened—but her chin was high. Suddenly he stirred. His hand no longer shaded his face. Betty, to her amazement, saw that his lips were smiling, though his eyes, she knew, were moist. "Betty, my dear child, I thought before that I wanted you. I know now I've got to have you." Betty, as if the smile were contagious, found her own lips twitching. "What—do you mean?" "I mean that your fearless little tirade was just what I needed, my dear. I have expected everything and everybody to bend to my will and wishes. I suspect that's what's been the matter, too, all the way up. I thought once, long ago, I'd learned my lesson. But it seems I haven't. Here I am up to the same old tricks again. Will you come and—er—train me, Betty? I will promise to be very docile." Betty did laugh this time—and the tension snapped. "Train"—the very word with which she had shocked her mother weeks before! "Seriously, my dear,"—the man's face was very grave now,—"I want you to talk this thing over with your mother. I am a lonely old man—yes, old, in spite of the fact that I'm barely forty—I feel sixty! I want you, and I need you, and—notwithstanding your unflattering opinion of me, just expressed—I believe I can make you happy, and your mother, too. She shall have every comfort, and you shall have love and laughter and sympathy and interest, I promise you. Now, isn't your heart softening just a wee bit? Won't you come?" "Why, of course, I—appreciate your kindness, Mr. Denby, and"—Betty drew a tremulous breath and looked wistfully into the man's pleading eyes—"it would be lovely for—mother, wouldn't it? She wouldn't have to worry any more, or—or—" Burke Denby lifted an imperative hand. His face lighted. He sprang to his feet and spoke with boyish enthusiasm. "The very thing! Miss Darling, I want you to go home and bring your mother back to luncheon with you. Never mind the work," he went on, as he saw her quick glance toward his desk. "I don't want to work. I couldn't—this morning. And I don't want you to. I want to see your mother. I want to tell her—many things—of myself. I want her to see me, and see if she thinks she could give you to me as a daughter, and yet not lose you herself, but come here with you to live." "But I—I could tell her this to-night," stammered Betty, knowing still that, in spite of herself, she was being swept quite off her feet by the extraordinary enthusiasm of the eager man before her. "I don't want to wait till to-night. I want to see her now. Besides,"—he cocked his head whimsically with the confident air of one who knows his point is gained,—"I want a magazine, and I forgot to ask you to get it for me last night. I want the February 'Research.' So we'll just let it go that I'm sending you to the station newsstand for that. Incidentally, you may come back around by your mother's place and bring her with you. There, now surely you won't object to—to running an errand for me!" he finished triumphantly. "No, I surely can't object to—to running an errand for you," laughed Betty, as she rose to her feet, a pretty color in her face. "And I—I'll try to bring mother." It was in a tumult of excitement and indecision that Betty hurried down the long Denby walk that February morning. What would her mother say? How would she take it? Would she consent? Would she consent even to go to luncheon—she who so seldom went anywhere? It was a wonderful thing—this proposal of Mr. Denby's. It meant, of course,—everything, if they accepted it, a complete metamorphosis of their whole lives and future. It could not help meaning that. But would they be happy there? Could they be happy with a man like Mr. Denby? To be sure, he said he would be willing to be—trained. (Betty's face dimpled into a broad smile somewhat to the mystification of the man she chanced to be meeting at the moment.) But would he be really kind and lovable like this all the time? He had been delightful once before—for a few days. What guaranty had they that he would not again, at the first provocation, fall back into his old glum unbearableness? But what would her mother say? Well, she would soon know. She would get the magazine, then hurry home—and find out. It was between trains at the station, and the waiting-room was deserted. Betty hurriedly told the newsstand woman what she wanted, and tried to assume a forbidding aspect that would discourage questions. But the woman made no move to get the magazine. She did not seem even to have heard the request. Instead she leaned over the counter and caught Betty's arm in a vise-like grip. Her face was alight with joyous excitement. "Well, I am glad to see you! I've been watchin' ev'ry day fur you. What did I tell ye? Now I guess you'll say I know when I've seen a face before! Now I know who you are. I see you with your mother at Martin's grocery last Sat'day night, and I tried ter get to ye, but I lost ye in the crowd. I see you first, then I see her, and I knew then in a minute who you was, and why I'd thought I'd seen ye somewheres. I hadn't—not since you was a kid, though; but I knew yer mother, an' you've got her eyes. You're Helen Denby's daughter. My, but I'm glad ter see ye!" Betty, plainly distressed, had been attempting to pull her arm away from the woman's grasp; but at the name a look of relief crossed her face. "You are quite mistaken, madam," she said coldly. "My mother's name is not Helen Denby." "But I see her myself with my own eyes, child! Of course she's older lookin', but I'd swear on my dyin' bed 'twas her. Ain't you Dorothy Elizabeth?" Betty's eyes flew wide open. "You—know—my—name?" "There! I knew 'twas," triumphed the woman. "An' ter think of you comin' back an' workin' fur yer father like this, an'—" "My—what?" It was the woman's turn to open wide eyes of amazement. "Do you mean to say you don't know Burke Denby is your father?" "But he isn't my father! My father is dead!" "Who said so?" "Why, mother—that is—I mean—she never said— What do you mean? He can't be my father. My mother's name is Helen Darling!" Betty was making no effort to get away now. She was, indeed, clutching the woman's arm with her free hand. The woman scowled and stared. Suddenly her face cleared. "My Jiminy! so that's her game! She's keepin' it from ye, I bet ye," she cried excitedly. "Keeping it from me! Keeping what from me? What are you talking about?" Betty's face had paled. The vague questions and half-formed fears regarding her mother's actions for the past few months seemed suddenly to be taking horrible shape and definiteness. "Sakes alive! Do you mean ter say that you don't know that Burke Denby is your father, an' that he give your mother the go-by when you was a kid, an' she lit out with you an' hain't been heard of since?" "No, no, it can't be—it can't be! My father was good and fine, and—" "Rats! Did she stuff ye ter that, too? I tell ye 'tis so. Say, look a-here! Wa'n't you down ter Martin's grocery last Sat'day night at nine o'clock?" "Y-yes." "Well, wa'n't you there with yer mother?" "Y-yes." A power entirely outside of herself seemed to force the answers from Betty's lips. "Well, I see ye. You was tergether, talkin' to the big fat man with the red nose. I started towards ye, but I lost ye in the crowd." Betty's face had grown gray-white. She remembered now. That was the night her mother had run away from—something. "But I knew her," nodded the woman. "I knew she was Helen Denby." "But maybe you were—mistaken." "Mistaken? Me? Not much! I don't furgit faces. You ask yer mother if she don't remember Mis' Cobb. Didn't I live right on the same floor with her fur months? Hain't yer mother ever told ye she lived here long ago?" Betty nodded dumbly, miserably. "Well, I lived next to her, and I knew the whole thing—how she got the letter tellin' her ter go, an' the money Burke Denby sent her—" "Letter! Money! You mean he wrote her to—go—away? He paid her?" The girl had become suddenly galvanized into blazing anger. "Sure! That's what I'm tellin' ye. An' yer mother went. I tried ter stop her. I told her ter go straight up ter them Denbys an' demand her rights—an' your rights. But she wouldn't. She hadn't a mite o' spunk. Just because he was ashamed of her she—" "Ashamed of her! Ashamed of my mother!"—if but Helen Denby could have seen the flash in Betty's eyes! "Sure! She wa'n't so tony, an' her folks wa'n't grand like his, ye know. That's why old Denby objected ter the marriage in the first place. But, say, didn't you know any of this I'm tellin' ye? Jiminy! but it does seem queer ter be tellin' ye yer own family secrets like this—an' you here workin' in his very home, an' not knowin' it, too. If that ain't the limit—like a regular story-book! Now, I ain't never one ter butt in where 'tain't none of my affairs, but I've got ter say this. You're a Denby, an' ought ter have some spunk; an' if I was you I'd brace right up an'— Here, don't ye want yer magazine? What are ye goin' ter do?" But the girl was already halfway across the waiting-room. If Betty's thoughts and emotions had been in a tumult on the way to the station, they were in a veritable chaos on the return trip. She did not go home. She turned her steps toward the Denby Mansion; and because she knew she could not possibly sit still, she walked all the way. So this was the meaning of it—the black veil daytimes, the walks only at night, the nervous restlessness, the unhappiness. Her mother had had something to conceal, something to fear. Poor mother—dear mother—how she must have suffered! But why, why had she come back here and put her into that man's home? And why had she told her always how fine and noble and splendid her father was. Fine! Noble! Splendid, indeed! Still, it was like mother,—dear mother,—always so sweet and gentle, always seeing the good in everything and everybody! But why had she put her there—in that man's house? How could she have done it? And Burke Denby himself—did he know? Did he suspect that she was his daughter? Adopt her, indeed! Was that the way he thought he could pay her mother back for all those years? And the grief and the hurt and the mortification—where did they come in? Ashamed of her! Ashamed of her, indeed! Why, her little finger was as much finer and nobler and— But just wait till she saw him, that was all! Like the overwrought, half-beside-herself young hurricane of wrathfulness that she was, Betty burst into the library at Denby House a few minutes later. The very sight of her face brought the man to his feet. "Why, Betty, what's the matter? Where's your mother? Couldn't she come? What is the matter?" "Come? No, she didn't come. She'll never come—never!" Before the blazing wrath in the young eyes the man fell back limply. "Why, Betty, didn't you tell her—" "I've told her nothing. I haven't seen her," cut in the girl crisply. "But I've seen somebody else. I know now—everything!" From sheer stupefaction the man laughed. "Aren't we getting a little—theatrical, my child?" he murmured mildly. "You needn't call me that. I refuse to recognize the relationship," she flamed. "Perhaps we are getting theatrical—that woman said it was like a story-book. And perhaps you thought you could wipe it all out by adopting me. Adopting me, indeed! As if I'd let you! I can tell you it isn't going to end like a story-book, with father and mother and daughter—'and they all lived happily ever after'—because I won't let it!" "What do you mean by that?" The man's face had grown suddenly very white. Betty fixed searching, accusing eyes on his countenance. "Are you trying to make me think you don't know I'm your daughter; that—" "Betty! Are you really, really—my little Betty?" At the joyous cry and the eagerly outstretched arms Betty shrank back. "Then you didn't know—that?" "No, no! Oh, Betty, Betty, is it true? Then it'll all be right now. Oh, Betty, I'm so glad," he choked. "My little girl! Won't you—come to me?" She shook her head and retreated still farther out of his reach. Her eyes still blazed angrily. "Betty, dear, hear me! I don't know— I don't understand. It's all too wonderful—to have it come—now. Once, for a little minute, the wild thought came to me that you might be. But, Betty, you yourself told me your father was—dead!" "And so he is—to me," sobbed Betty. "You aren't my father. My father was good and true and noble and—you—" "And your mother told you that?" breathed the man, brokenly. "Betty, I—I— Where is she? Is she there—at home—now? I want to—see her!" "I shan't let you see her." Betty had blazed again into unreasoning wrath. "You don't deserve it. You told her you were ashamed of her. Ashamed of her! And she's the best and the loveliest and dearest mother in the world! She's as much above and beyond anything you—you— Why she let me come to you I don't know. I can't think why she did it. But now I—I—" "Betty, if you'll only let me explain—" But the great hall door had banged shut. Betty had gone. Betty took a car to her own home. She was too weak and spent to walk. It was a very white, shaken Betty that climbed the stairs to the little apartment a short time later. "Why, Betty, darling!" exclaimed her mother, hurrying forward. "You are ill! Are you ill?" With utter weariness Betty dropped into a chair. "Mother, why didn't you tell me?" she asked dully, heartbrokenly. "Why did you let me come here and go to that house day after day and not know—anything?" "Why, what—what do you mean?" All the color had drained from Helen Denby's face. "Did you ever know a Mrs. Cobb?" "That woman! Betty, she hasn't—has she been—talking—to you?" Betty nodded wearily. "Yes, she's been talking to me, and— Oh, mother, mother, why did you come here—now?" cried Betty, springing to her feet in sudden frenzy again. "How could you let me go there? And only to-day—this morning, he told me he wanted to adopt me! And you—he was going to have us both there—to live. He said he was so lonely, and that I—I made the sun shine for the first time for years. And afterwards, when I found out who he was, I thought he meant it as a salve to heal all the unhappiness he'd caused you. I thought he was trying to pay; and I told him—" "You told him! You mean you've seen him since—Mrs. Cobb?" "Yes. I went back. I told him—" "Oh, Betty, Betty, what are you saying?" moaned her mother. "What have you done? You didn't tell him that way!" "Indeed I did! I told him I knew—everything now; and that he needn't think he could wipe it out. And he wanted to see you, and I said he couldn't. I—" An electric bell pealed sharply through the tiny apartment. "Mother, that's he! I know it's he! Mother, don't let him in," implored Betty. But her mother already was in the hall. Betty, frightened, despairing, and angry, turned her back and walked to the window. She heard the man's quick cry and the woman's sobbing answer. She heard the broken, incoherent sentences with which the man and the woman attempted to crowd into one brief delirious minute all the long years of heartache and absence. She heard the pleading, the heart-hunger, the final rapturous bliss that vibrated through every tone and word. But she did not turn. She did not turn even when some minutes later her father's voice, low, unsteady, but infinitely tender, reached her ears. "Betty, your mother has forgiven me. Can't—you?" There was no answer. "Betty, dear, he means—we've forgiven each other, and—if I am happy, can't you be?" begged Betty's mother, tremulously. Still no answer. "Betty," began the woman again pleadingly. But the man interposed, a little sadly:— "Don't urge her, Helen. After all, I deserve everything she can say, or do." "But she doesn't understand," faltered Helen. The man shook his head. A wistful smile was on his lips. "No, she doesn't—understand," he said. "It's a long road to—understanding, dear. You and I have found it so." "Yes, I know." Helen's voice was very low. "And there are sticks and stones and numberless twigs to trip one's feet," went on the man softly. "And there are valleys of despair and mountains of doubt to be encountered—and Betty has come only a little bit of the way. Betty is young." "But"—it was Helen's tremulous voice—"it's on the mountain-tops that—that we ought to be able to see the end of the journey, you know." "Yes; but there are all those guideboards, remember," said the man, "and Betty hasn't come to the guideboards yet—regret—remorse—forgiveness—patience, and—atonement." There was a sudden movement at the window. Then Betty, misty-eyed, stood before them. "I know I am—on the mountain of doubt now, but"—she paused, her gaze going from one to the other of the wondrously glorified faces before her—"I'll try so hard to see—the end of the journey," she faltered. "Betty!" sobbed two adoring voices, as loving arms enfolded her. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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