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Road to Understanding, The

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>DIVERGING WAYS</h3> Of course the inevitable happened. However near two roads may be at the start, if they diverge ever so slightly and keep straight ahead, there is bound to be in time all the world between them. In the case of Burke and Helen, their roads never started together at all: they merely crossed; and at the crossing came the wedding. They were miles apart at the start—miles apart in tastes, traditions, and environment. In one respect only were they alike: undisciplined self-indulgence—a likeness that meant only added differences when it came to the crossing; and that made it all the more nearly impossible to merge those two diverging roads into one wide way leading straight on to wedded happiness. All his life Burke had consulted no one's will but his own. It was not easy now to walk when he wanted to sit still, nor to talk when he wanted to read; especially as the one who wanted him to walk and to talk happened to be a willful young person who all her life had been in the habit of walking and talking when she wanted to. Burke, accustomed from babyhood to leaving his belongings wherever he happened to drop them, was first surprised and then angry that he did not find them magically restored to their proper places, as in the days of his boyhood and youth. Burke abhorred disorder. Helen, accustomed from her babyhood to being picked-up after, easily drifted into the way of letting all things, both hers and his, lie as they were. It saved a great deal of work. Even so simple a matter as the temperature of a sleeping-room had its difficulties. Burke liked air. He wanted the windows wide open. Helen, trained to think night air was damp and dangerous, wanted them shut. And when two people are sleepy, cross, and tired, it is appalling what a range of woe can lie in the mere opening and shutting of a window. Burke was surprised, annoyed, and dismayed. Being unaccustomed to disappointments he did not know how to take them gracefully. This being married was not proving to be at all the sort of thing he had pictured to himself. He had supposed that life, married life, was to be a new wonder every day; an increasing delight every hour. It was neither. Living now was a matter of never-ending adjustment, self-sacrifice, and economy. And he hated them all. In spite of himself he was getting into debt, and he hated debt. It made a fellow feel cheap and mean. Even Helen was not what he had thought she was. He was ashamed to own it, even to himself, but there was a good deal about Helen that he did not like. She was not careful about her appearance. She was actually almost untidy at times. He hated those loose, sloppy things she sometimes wore, and he abominated those curl-paper things in her hair. She was willful and fretful, and she certainly did not know how to give a fellow a decent meal or a comfortable place to stay. For his part, he did not think a girl had any right to marry until she knew something about running a simple home. Then there was her constant chatter. Was she not ever going to talk about anything but the silly little everyday happenings of her work? A fellow wanted to hear something, when he came home tired at night, besides complaints that the range didn't work, or that the grocer forgot his order, or that the money was out. Why, Helen used to be good company, cheerful, often witty. Where were her old-time sparkle and radiance? Her talk now was a meaningless chatter of trivial things, or an irritating, wailing complaint of everything under the sun, chiefly revolving around the point of "how different everything was" from what she expected. Great Scott! As if he had not found some things different! That evidently was what marriage was—different. But talking about it all the time did not help any. Couldn't she read? But, then, if she did read, it would be only the newspaper account of the latest murder; and then she would want to talk about that. She never read anything worth while. And it was for this, this being married to Helen, that he had given up so much: dad, his home, everything. She didn't appreciate it—Helen didn't. She did not rightly estimate what he was being made to suffer. That there was any especial meaning in all this that he himself should take to heart—that there was any course open to him but righteous discontent and rebellion—never occurred to Burke. His training of frosted cakes and toy shotguns had taught him nothing of the traditional "two bears," "bear" and "forbear." The marriage ceremony had not meant to him "to be patient, tender, and sympathetic." It had meant the "I will" of self-assertion, not the "I will" of self-discipline. That Helen ought to change many of her traits and habits he was convinced. That there might be some in himself that needed changing, or that the mere fact of his having married Helen might have entailed upon himself certain obligations as to making the best of what he had deliberately chosen, did not once occur to him. As for Helen—Helen was facing her own disillusions. She was not trying now to be the daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband to a well-kept home. She had long since decided that that was impossible—on sixty dollars a month. She was tired of being a martyr wife. Even the laurel wreath of praise had lost its allurement: she would not get it, probably, even if she earned it; and, anyway, she would be dead from trying to get it. And for her part she would rather have some fun while she was living. But she wasn't having any fun. Things were so different. Everything was different. She had not supposed being married was like this: one long grind of housework from morning till night, and for a man who did not care. And Burke did not care—now. Once, the first thing he wanted when he came into the house was a kiss and a word from her. Now he wanted his dinner. And he was so fussy, too! She could get along with cold things; but he wanted hot ones, and lots of them. And he always wanted finger-bowls and lots of spoons, and everything fixed just so on the table, too. He said it wasn't that he wanted "style." It was just that he wanted things decent. As if she hadn't had things decent herself—and without all that fuss and clutter! After dinner he never wanted to talk now, or to go to walk. He just wanted to read or study. He said he was studying; something about his work. As if once he would have cared more for any old work than for her! And she was so lonely! There was nobody now for her to be with. Mrs. Jones had moved away, and there were never any callers now. She had returned every one of the calls she had had from Burke's fine friends. She had put on her new red dress and her best hat with the pink roses; and she had tried to be just as bright and entertaining as she knew how to be. But they never came again, so of course she could not go to see them. She had gone, once or twice. But Burke said she must not do that. It was not proper to return your own calls. If they wanted to see her they would come themselves. But they never came. Probably, anyhow, they did not want to see her; and that was the trouble. Not that she cared! They were a "stuck-up" lot, anyway; and she was just as good as they were. She had told one woman so, once—the woman that carried her eyeglasses on the end of a little stick and stared. That woman always had made her mad. So it was just as well, perhaps, that they did not come any more, after all. Burke was ashamed of her, anyway, when they did come. She knew that. He did not like anything she did nowadays. He was always telling her he did wish she would stop saying "you was," or holding her fork like that, or making so much noise eating soup, and a dozen other things. As if nobody in the house had a right to do anything but his way! It had been so different at home! There everything she did was just right. And she was never lonely. There were the parties and the frolics and the sleigh-rides, and the girls running in all the time, and the boys every evening on the porch, or in the parlor, or taking her buggy-riding. Nothing there was ever complete without her. While here— Well, who supposed being married meant working like a slave all day, and being cooped up all the evening with a man whose nose was buried in a book, and who scarcely spoke to you! And there was the money. Burke acted, for all the world, as if he thought she ate money, and ate it whether she was hungry or not, just to spite him. As if she didn't squeeze every penny till it fairly shrieked, now; and as if anybody could make ten dollars a week go further than she did! To be sure, at first she had been silly and extravagant, running up bills, and borrowing of Mrs. Jones, as she did. And of course she was a little unreasonable and childish about keeping that account-book. But that was only at the first, when she was quite ignorant and inexperienced. It was very different now. She kept a cash account, and most of the time it came right. How she wished she had an allowance, though! But Burke utterly refused to give her that. Said she'd be extravagant and spend it all the first day. As if she had not learned better than that by bitter experience! And as if anything could be worse than the way they were trying to get along now, with her teasing for money all the time, and him insisting on seeing the bills, and then asking how they could manage to eat so many eggs, and saying he should think she used butter to oil the floors with. He didn't see how it could go so fast any other way! And wasn't he always telling her she did not manage right? And didn't he give her particular fits one day and an awful lecture on wastefulness, just because he happened to find half a loaf of mouldy bread in the jar? Just as if he didn't spend something—and a good big something, too!—on all those cigars he smoked. Yet he flew into fits over a bit of mouldy bread of hers. To be sure, when she cried, he called himself a brute, and said he didn't mean it, and it was only because he hated so to have her pinching and saving all the time that it made him mad—raving mad. Just as if she was to blame that they did not have any money! But she was to blame, of course, in a way. If it had not been for her, he would be living at home with all the money he wanted. Sometimes it came to her with sickening force that maybe Burke was thinking that, too. Was he? Could it be that he was sorry he had married her? Very well—her chin came up proudly. He need not stay if he did not want to. He could go. But—the chin was not so high, now—he was all there was. She had nobody but Burke now. Could it be— She believed she would ask Dr. Gleason some time. She liked the doctor. He had been there several times now, and she felt real well acquainted with him. Perhaps he would know. But, after all, she was not going to worry. She did not believe that really Burke wished he had not married her. It was only that he was tired and fretted with his work. It would be better by and by, when he had got ahead a little. And of course he would get ahead. They would not always have to live like this! <hr style='width: 45%;' /> It was in March that Burke came home to dinner one evening with a radiant face, yet with an air of worried excitement. "It's dad. He's sent for me," he explained, in answer to his wife's questions. "Sent for you!" "Yes. He isn't very well, Brett says. He wants to see me." "Humph! After all this time! I wouldn't go a step if I was you." "Helen! Not go to my father?" Helen quaked a little under the fire in her husband's eyes; but she held her ground. "I don't care. He's treated you like dirt. You know he has." "I know he's sick and has sent for me. And I know I'm going to him. That's enough for me to know—at present," retorted the man, getting to his feet, and leaving his dinner almost untasted. Half an hour later he appeared before her, freshly shaved, and in the radiant good humor that seems to follow a bath and fresh garments as a natural consequence. "Come, chicken, give us a kiss," he cried gayly; "and don't sit up for me: I may be late." "My, but ain't we fixed up!" pouted Helen jealously. "I should think you was going to see your best girl." "I am," laughed Burke boyishly. "Dad was my best girl—till I got you. Good-bye! I'm off." "Good-bye." Helen's lips still pouted, and her eyes burned somberly as she sat back in her chair. Outside the house Burke drew a long breath, and yet a longer one. It seemed as if he could not inhale deeply enough the crisp, bracing air. Then, with an eager stride that would cover the distance in little more than half the usual time, he set off toward Elm Hill. There was only joyous anticipation in his face now. The worry was all gone. After all, had not Brett said that this illness of dad's was nothing serious? For a week Burke had known that something was wrong—that his father was not at the Works. In vain had he haunted office doors and corridors for a glimpse of a face that never appeared. Then had come the news that John Denby was ill. A paralyzing fear clutched the son's heart. Was this to be the end, then? Was dad to—die, and never to know, never to read his boy's heart? Was this the end of all hopes of some day seeing the old look of love and pride in his father's eyes? Then it would, indeed, be the end of—everything, if dad died; for what was the use of struggling, of straining every nerve to make good, if dad was not to be there to—know? It had been at this point that Burke, in spite of his hurt pride, and of his very lively doubts as to the cordiality of his reception, had almost determined to go himself to the old home and demand to see his father. Then, just in time, had come Brett's wonderful message that his father wished to see him, and that he was not, after all, fatally or even seriously ill. Dad was not going to die, then; and dad wished to see him—wished to see him! Burke drew in his breath now again, and bounded up the great stone steps of Denby Mansion, two at a time. The next minute, for the first time since his marriage the summer before, he stood in the wide, familiar hallway. Benton, the old butler, took his hat and coat; and the way he took them had in it all the flattering deference of the well-trained servant, and the rapturous joy of the head of a house welcoming a dear wanderer home. Burke looked into the beaming old face and shining eyes—and swallowed hard before he could utter an unsteady "How are you, Benton?" "I'm very well, sir, thank you, sir. And it's glad I am to see you, Master Burke. This way, please. The master's in the library, sir." Unconsciously Burke Denby lifted his chin. A long-lost something seemed to have come back to him. He could not himself have defined it; and he certainly could not have told why, at that moment, he should suddenly have thought of the supercilious face of his hated "boss" at the Works. Behind Benton's noiseless steps Burke's feet sank into luxurious velvet depths. His eyes swept from one dear familiar object to another, in the great, softly lighted hall, and leaped ahead to the open door of the library. Then, somehow, he found himself face to face with his father in the dear, well-remembered room. "Well, Burke, my boy, how are you?" They were the same words that had been spoken months before in the President's office at the Denby Iron Works, and they were spoken by the same voice. They were spoken to the accompaniment of an outstretched hand, too, in each case. But, to Burke, who had heard them on both occasions, they were as different as darkness and daylight. He could not have defined it, even to himself; but he knew, the minute he grasped the outstretched hand and looked into his father's eyes, that the hated, impenetrable, insurmountable "wall" was gone. Yet there was nothing said, nothing done, except a conventional "Just a little matter of business, Burke, that I wanted to talk over with you," from the elder man; and an equally conventional "Yes, sir," from his son. Then the two sat down. But, for Burke, the whole world had burst suddenly into song. It was, indeed, a simple matter of business. It was not even an important one. Ordinarily it would have been Brett's place, or even one of his assistants', to speak of it. But the President of the Denby Iron Works took it up point by point, and dwelt lovingly on each detail. And Burke, his heart one wild pæan of rejoicing, sat with a grave countenance, listening attentively. And when there was left not one small detail upon which to pin another word, and when Burke was beginning to dread the moment of dismissal, John Denby turned, as if casually, to a small clay tablet on the desk near him. And Burke, following his father into a five-thousand-year-old past to decipher a Babylonian thumb-print, lost all fear of that dread dismissal. Later came old Benton with the ale and the little cakes that Burke had always loved. With a pressure of his thumb, then, John Denby switched off half the lights, and the two, father and son, sat down before the big fireplace, with the cakes and ale between them on a low stand. Behind the century-old andirons, the fire leaped and crackled, throwing weird shadows over the beamed ceiling, the book-lined walls, the cabinets of curios, bringing out here and there a bit of gold tooling behind a glass door or a glinting flash from bronze or porcelain. With a body at ease and a mind at rest, Burke leaned back in his chair with a long-drawn sigh, each tingling sense ecstatically responsive to every charm of light and shade and luxury. Half an hour later he rose to go. John Denby, too, rose to his feet. "You'll come again, of course," the father said, as he held out his hand. For the first time that evening there was a faint touch of constraint in his manner. "Suppose you come to dinner—Sunday. Will you?" "Surely I will, and be glad—" With a swift surge of embarrassed color Burke Denby stopped short. In one shamed, shocked instant it had come to him that he had forgotten Helen—forgotten her! Not for a long hour had he even remembered that there was such a person in existence. "Er—ah—that is," he began again, stammeringly. An odd expression crossed John Denby's countenance. "You will, of course, bring your wife," he said. "Good-night." Burke mumbled an incoherent something and fled. The next moment he found himself in the hall with Benton, deferential and solicitous, holding his coat. Again out in the crisp night air, Burke drew a long breath. Was it true? Had dad invited him to dinner next Sunday? And with Helen? What had happened? Had dad's heart got the better of his pride? Had he decided that quarreling did not pay? Did this mean the beginning of the end? Was he ready to take his son back into his heart? He had not said anything, really. He had just talked in the usual way, as if nothing had happened. But that would be like dad. Dad hated scenes. Dad would never say: "I'm sorry I was so harsh with you; come back—you and Helen. I want you!"—and then fall to crying and kissing like a woman. Dad would never do that. It would be like dad just to pick up the thread of the old comradeship exactly where he had dropped it months ago. And that was what he had seemed to be doing that evening. He had talked just as he used to talk—except that never once had he mentioned—mother. Burke remembered this now, and wondered at it. It was so unusual—in dad. Had he done it purposely? Was there a hidden meaning back of it? He himself had not liked to think of mother, lately; yet, somehow, she seemed always to be in his mind. In spite of himself he was always wondering what she would think of—Helen. But, surely, dad— With his thoughts in a dizzy whirl of excitement and questionings, Burke thrust his key into the lock and let himself into his own apartment. The hall—never had it looked so hopelessly cheap and small. Burke, still under the spell of Benton's solicitous ministrations, jerked off his hat and coat and hung them up. Then he strode into the living-room. Helen, fully dressed, was sitting at the table, reading a magazine. "Hullo! Sitting up, are you, chicken?" he greeted her, brushing her cheek with his lips. "I told you not to; but maybe it's just as well you did— I might have waked you," he laughed boyishly. "Guess what's happened!" "Got a raise?" Helen's voice was eager. Her husband frowned. "No. I got one last month, you know. I'm getting a hundred now. What more can you expect—in my position?" He spoke coldly, with a tinge of sharpness. He was wondering why Helen always managed to take the zest out of anything he was going to do, or say. Then, with an obvious effort at gayety, he went on: "It's better than a raise, chicken. Dad's invited us to dinner next Sunday—both of us." "To dinner! Only to dinner?" "Only to dinner! Great Cæsar, Helen—only to dinner!" "Well, I can't help it, Burke. It just makes me mad to see you jump and run and be so pleased over just a dinner, when it ought to be for every dinner and all the time; and you know it." "But, Helen, it isn't the dinner. It's that—that dad cares." The man's voice softened, and became not quite steady. "That maybe he's forgiven me. That he's going to be now the—the old dad that I used to know. Oh, Helen, I've missed him so! I've—" But his wife interrupted tartly. "Well, I should think 'twas time he did forgive you—and I'm not saying I think there was anything to forgive, either. There wouldn't have been, if he hadn't tried to interfere with what was our own business—yours and mine." There was a brief silence. Burke, looking very white and stern, had got to his feet, and was moving restlessly about the room. "Did you think he was—giving in?" asked Helen at last. "He was very kind." "What did you tell him?" "What do you mean?" "About the dinner, Sunday." "I don't know, exactly. I said—something; yes, I think. I meant it for yes—then." The man spoke with sudden utter weariness. There was another brief silence. A dawning shrewdness was coming into Helen's eyes. "Oh, of course, yes. We'd want to go," she murmured. "It might mean he was giving in, couldn't it?" There was no reply. "Do you think he was giving in?" Still no reply. Helen scowled. "Burke, why in the world don't you answer me?" she demanded crossly. "You were talkative enough a minute ago, when you came in. I should think you might have enough thought of my interests to want us to go to live with your father, if there's any chance of it. And while 'twouldn't be my way to jump the minute he held out his hand, yet if this dinner really means that we'll be going up there to live pretty soon, why—" "Helen!" Burke had winced visibly, as if from a blow. "Can't you see anything, or talk anything, but our going up there to live? It's enough for me that dad just looked at me to-night with the old look in his eyes; that somehow he's smashed that confounded wall between us; that— But what's the use? Never mind the dinner. We won't go." "Nonsense, Burke! Don't be silly. Of course—we're going! I wouldn't miss it for the world—under the circumstances." And Helen, with an air of finality, rose to her feet to prepare for bed. Her husband, looking after her with eyes that were half resigned, half rebellious, for the second time that evening gave a sigh of utter weariness, and turned away. They went to the dinner. Helen became really very interested and enthusiastic in her preparations for it; and even Burke, after a time, seemed to regain a little of his old eagerness. They had, to be sure, nearly a quarrel over the dress and hat that Helen wished to wear. But after some argument, and not a few tears, she yielded to her husband's none too gently expressed abhorrence of the hat in question (which was a new one), and of the dress—one he had always disliked. "But I wanted to make a good impression," pouted Helen. "Exactly! So do I want you to," returned her husband significantly. And there the matter ended. It was not a success—that dinner. Helen, intent on making her "good impression," very plainly tried to be admiring, entertaining, and solicitous of her host's welfare and happiness. She resulted in being nauseatingly flattering, pert, and inquisitive. John Denby, at first very evidently determined to give no just cause for criticism of his own behavior, was the perfection of courtesy and cordiality. Even when, later, he was unable quite to hide his annoyance at the persistent and assiduous attentions and questions of his daughter-in-law, he was yet courteous, though in unmistakable retreat. Burke Denby—poor Burke! With every sense and sensitiveness keyed to instant response to each tone and word and gesture of the two before him, each passing minute was, to Burke, but a greater torture than the one preceding it. Long before dinner was over, he wished himself and Helen at home; and as soon as was decently possible after the meal, he peremptorily suggested departure. "I couldn't stand it! I couldn't stand it another minute," he told himself passionately, as he hurried Helen down the long elm-shaded walk leading to the street. "But dad—dad was a brick! And he asked us to come again. Again! Good Heavens! As if I'd go through that again! It was so much worse there than at home. But I'm glad he didn't put her in mother's chair. I don't think even I could have stood that—to-day!" "Well, that's over," murmured Helen complacently, as they turned into the public sidewalk,—"and well over! Still, I didn't enjoy myself so very much, and I don't believe you did, either," she laughed, "else you wouldn't have been in such a taking to get away." There was no answer. Helen, however, evidently sure of her ground, did not seem to notice. She yawned pleasantly. "Guess I'm sleepy. Ate too much. 'Twas a good dinner; and, just as I told your father, things always taste especially good when you don't get much at home. I said it on purpose. I thought maybe 'twould make him think." Still silence. Helen turned sharply and peered into her husband's face. "What's the matter?" she demanded suspiciously. "Why are you so glum?" Burke, instantly alert to the danger of having another scene such as had followed Gleason's first visit, desperately ran to cover. "Nothing, nothing!" He essayed a gay smile, and succeeded. "I'm stupid, that's all. Maybe I'm sleepy myself." "It can't be you're put out 'cause we came away so early! You suggested it yourself." Her eyes were still suspiciously bent upon him. "Not a bit of it! I wanted to come." She relaxed and took her gaze off his face. The unmistakable sincerity in his voice this last time had carried conviction. "Hm-m; I thought you did," she murmured contentedly again. "Still, I was kind of scared when you proposed it. I didn't suppose 'twas proper to eat and run. Mother always said so. Do you think he minded it—your father?" "Not a bit!" Burke, in his thankfulness to have escaped the threatened scene, was enabled to speak lightly, almost gayly. "Hm-m. Well, I'm glad. I wouldn't have wanted him to mind. I tried to be 'specially nice to him, didn't I?" "You did, certainly." Burke's lips came together a little grimly; but Helen's eyes were turned away; and after a moment's pause she changed the subject—to her husband's infinite relief. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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