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Road to Understanding, The

<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> <h3>A WOMAN'S WON'T</h3> Two days after his visit to Dalton, Frank Gleason dropped himself into a low chair in his sister's private sitting-room in the Beacon Hill house. "Well?" prompted Mrs. Thayer, voice and manner impatiently eager. "Nothing." "Nothing! But there must have been something!" "There wasn't a thing—that will help." "But, aren't they frightened—anxious—anything? Don't they care where she is?" "Oh, yes; they care very much," smiled the doctor wearily; "but not in the way that is going to help any. I couldn't get anything out of Burke, and I didn't get much more out of his father. But I did a little." "They don't know, of course, that she's here?" "Heavens, I hope not!—under the circumstances. But I felt all kinds of a knave and a fool and a traitor. I got away as soon as possible. I couldn't stay. I hoped to get something—anything—that I could use for a cudgel over Helen, to get her to go back, you know. But I couldn't get a thing. However, I shall keep on urging, of course." "But what did they say?" "Burke said nothing, practically. Nor would he let me say anything. He is very angry (his father told me that), and very bitter." "But isn't he frightened, or worried?" "Not according to his father. It seems they have had a detective on the case, and have traced her to Boston. There the trail ends. But they have found out enough to feel satisfied that no evil has befallen her. Burke argues that Helen is staying somewhere (with friends, he believes) because she wants to. Such being the case he doesn't want her back until she gets good and ready to come. He does want the baby. John Denby told me, in fact, that he believed if Burke found them now, as he's feeling, he'd insist on a separation; and that the baby should be given to him." "Given to him, indeed!" flashed Mrs. Thayer angrily. "And yet, in the face of that, you sit there and say you shall urge her to go back, of course." Frank Gleason stirred uneasily. "I know, Edith, but—" "There isn't any question about it," interrupted Mrs. Thayer decidedly. "That poor child stays where she is now." "Oh, but, Edith, this sort of thing can't go on forever, you know," remonstrated the doctor nervously, his forehead drawn into an anxious frown. "I wasn't talking about forever," returned the lady, with tranquil confidence. "I was talking about now, to-day, next week, next year, if it's necessary." "Next year!" "Certainly—if Burke Denby hasn't come to his senses by that time. Why, Frank Gleason, don't you suppose I'd do anything, everything, to help that child keep her baby? She worships it. Besides, it's going to be the making of her." "I know; but if they could be brought together—Burke and his wife, I mean—it seems as if—as if—" The man came to a helpless pause. "Frank, see here," began Edith Thayer resolutely. "You know as well as I do that those two people have been wretched together for a year or more. They are not suited to each other. They weren't in the first place. To make matters worse, they were both nothing but petted, spoiled children, no more fit to take on the responsibilities of marriage than my Bess and Charlie would be. All their lives they'd had their own dolls and shotguns to do as they pleased with; and when it came to marrying and sharing everything, including their time and their tempers, they flew into bits—both of them." "Yes, I know," sighed the man, still with a troubled frown. "Well, they're apart now. Never mind who was to blame for it, or whether it was or wasn't a wise move. It's done. They're apart. They've got a chance to think things over—to stand back and get a perspective, as it were. Helen thinks she can metamorphose herself into the perfect wife that Burke will love. Perhaps she can. Let us say she has one chance in a million of doing so;—well, I mean she shall have that chance, especially as the alternative—that is, her going back home now—is sure to be nothing but utter wretchedness all round." Frank Gleason shook his head. "Yes, yes, very plausible—to say, of course. I see she's talked you over. She did me. I was ready to pull the moon down for her footstool that first night she came to me. I'm ready to do it now—when I'm with her. But away from her, with a chance to think,—it really is absurd, you know, when you come right down to it. Here are Burke and his father, my good friends, hunting the country over for Burke's wife and child. And here am I, harboring her and abetting her, and never opening my head. Really, it's the sort of thing that you'd say—er—couldn't happen, you know." "But it is happening; and so far as their finding her is concerned, you said yourself, long ago, that it was the safest hiding-place in the world, for they'd never think of looking in it. They've never been in the habit of coming here, and their friends don't know us. As for the servants, and the few of my friends who see her, she's merely Mrs. Darling. That's all. Besides, you're entirely leaving out of consideration Helen's own attitude in the matter. I haven't a doubt but that, if you did tell, she'd at least attempt to carry out her crazy threats of flight and oblivion. Really, Frank, so far as being a friend is concerned, you're being the truest friend, both to Burke and his father, and to Helen, by keeping her and protecting her from herself and others—to say nothing of the real help I hope I'm being to her." "I know, I know," sighed the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and scowling at the toe of his shoe. "You 're a brick, Edith! It's been simply marvelous to me—the way you've taken hold. Even that first awful Sunday morning last July, when I showed you what I'd brought you, didn't quite bowl you over." "It did almost," laughed Edith; "especially when she blurted out that alarming speech, after you'd told me who she was." "What did she say? I don't remember." "She said, tragically, frenziedly: 'Oh, Mrs. Thayer, you will help me, won't you?—to be swell and grand and know things, so's Burke won't be ashamed of me. And if you can't make me so, you will Baby, won't you? I'll do anything—everything you say. Oh, please say you will. I know you're Burke's kind of folks, just to look at you, and at this—the house, and all these swell fixings! You will, won't you? Oh, please say you will!'" "Gorry! Did she say that—all that?" "Every bit of it—and more, that I can't remember. You see, I couldn't say anything—not anything, for a minute. And the more she said, the less I could say. Probably she saw something of the horror and dismay in my face, and that's what made her so frenzied in her appeal." "No wonder you were struck dumb at her nerve and at mine in asking you to take her in," laughed the doctor softly. "Oh, but 'twas for only a minute. I capitulated at once, first because of the baby—she was such a dear!—then because of the mother's love for it. I thought I'd seen devotion, Frank, but never have I seen it like hers." "How is she doing, really, about—well, er—this private self-improvement association of hers?" The doctor's smile was eager and quizzical. "I've been away so much, and I've seen so little of her for months past—how is she doing?" "Splendidly! She's a daily marvel to me, she's so patient and painstaking. Oh, of course, she hasn't learned so very much—yet. But she's so alert and earnest, and she watches everything so! Indeed, if it weren't really so pitiful and so tragic, it would be perfectly funny and absurd. The things she does and says—the things she asks me to teach her! Feverishly and systematically she's set herself to becoming 'swell' and 'grand.'" "Swell! Grand!" "Oh, yes, I know," laughed the lady, answering his shuddering words and gesture. "And—we've nearly eliminated those expressions from our vocabulary now. Burke didn't like them either, she says." "I can imagine not," observed the doctor dryly. "Of course all the teaching in the world isn't going to accomplish the thing she wants," went on Mrs. Thayer, a little soberly. "I might teach her till doomsday that clothes, jewels, grooming, and perfume don't make the lady; and unless she learns by intuition and absorption what does make the lady, she'll be little better off than she was before. But she puts me now through a daily catechism until sometimes I am nearly wild. 'Do ladies do this?' 'Do ladies do that?' she queries at every turn, so that I am almost ready to fly off into a veritable orgy of slang and silliness, just from sheer contrariety. I can tell you, Frank, this attempting to teach the intangible, evanescent thing I'm trying to teach Helen Denby isn't very easy. If you think it is, you try it yourself." "Heaven forbid!" shrugged the man. "But I'll risk you, Edith. But, tell me—does she help you any, in any way? Do you think you can—keep her, for a while?" "Keep her? Of course I shall keep her! Do you suppose I'd turn that child adrift now? Besides, she's a real help to me with the children. And I know—and she knows—that in helping me she is helping herself, and helping Dorothy Elizabeth—'Betty' she calls her now. We're getting along beautifully. We—" There came the sound of hurried steps, then the sudden wide flinging of the door, and the appearance of a breathless young woman. "Oh, Mrs. Thayer, they said the doctor had come, and—" Helen Denby stopped short, her abashed eyes going from one to the other of the expressive faces before her. "Oh, I—I beg your pardon," she faltered. "I hadn't ought to have burst in like this. Ladies don't. You said yesterday that ladies never did. But I—I—doctor, you went to—to Dalton?" she appealed to the man. "Yes, Mrs. Denby." "And you saw—them? Burke and his father?" "Yes." "But, you didn't—you didn't tell them I was here?" "Of course not! Didn't I promise you I wouldn't?" Helen Denby relaxed visibly, and dropped herself into a low chair near by. The color came back to her face. "I know; but I was so afraid they'd find out—some way." "They didn't—from me." She raised startled eyes to his face. "You don't mean they do know where I am?" "Oh, no. But—" The doctor stirred uneasily. "Mrs. Denby, don't you think— Won't you let me tell them where you are?" "Do they want to know?" "Yes. They are trying very hard to find you." "Of course. But if they find me—what then? Does Burke—want me?" The doctor flushed. "Well, he—yes—that is, he—well, of course—" "You don't have to say any more, doctor," interposed Helen Denby, smiling a little sadly. The red deepened on the doctor's face. "Well, of course, Burke is very angry and very bitter, just now," he explained defensively. "But if you two could be brought together—" He paused helplessly. She shook her head. "'Twould be the same old story—only worse. I see so many things now that I never saw before. Even if he said right now that he wanted me, I wouldn't go back. I wouldn't dare to. 'Twouldn't be a day before he'd be ashamed of me again. Maybe some time I'll learn—" She paused, her eyes wistfully fixed out the window. "But if I don't"—she turned almost frenziedly—"Betty will. Betty is going to be a lady from right now. Then some day I'll show her to him. He won't be ashamed of Betty. You see if he is!" Again the doctor stirred uneasily. "But, think! How can I go on from day to day and not let your husband know—" Helen Denby sprang to her feet. The wild look of that first night of flight came into her eyes, but her voice, when she spoke, was very calm. "Dr. Gleason," she began resolutely, "it's just as I told you before. Unless you'll promise not to tell Burke where I am, till I say the word, I shall take Betty and go—somewhere. I don't know where. But it'll be where you can't find me—any of you." "Oh, come, come, my dear child—" "Will you promise?" "But just think how—" "I am thinking!" choked Helen. "But you don't seem to be. Can't you see how I want to stay here? I've got a chance, maybe, to be like you and your sister, and all the rest of Burke's swell—I mean, like Burke's friends," she corrected, with a hot blush. "And, anyhow, Betty's got a chance. We've made a start. We've begun. And here you want to go and tip it all over by telling Burke. And there can't anything good happen, if Burke knows. Besides, didn't he say himself that we needed to have a vacation from each other? Now, won't you promise, please?" With a despairing cry the doctor threw up his hands. "Oh, good Heavens, yes! Of course I'll promise," he groaned. "I suspect you could make me promise to shave my head and dance the tango barefooted down Washington Street, if you set out to. Oh, yes, I'll promise. But I can tell you right now that I shall wake up in the dead of night and pinch myself to make sure I have promised," he finished with wrathful emphasis. Helen laughed light-heartedly. She even tossed the doctor a playful glance as she turned to go. "All right! I don't care a mite how much you pinch yourself," she declared. "You've promised—and that's all I care for!" And she left the room with buoyant step. "You see," observed Mrs. Thayer significantly, as the door closed behind her. "Yes, I see—so far," nodded Dr. Frank Gleason with a sigh. "But I do wish I could see—what the end is going to be." "It isn't given to us to see ends," responded Mrs. Thayer sententiously. "We can only attend to the beginnings and make them right." "Humph!" grunted her brother, with some asperity. "I'm not saying I like the beginning, in this case. Honestly, to speak plainly, my dear Edith, I consider this thing one big fool business, from beginning to end." There was a moment's pause; then very quietly Mrs. Thayer asked:— "Can you suggest, dear, all things considered, anything else for us to do than what we are doing?" "No—confound it! And that's what's the matter," groaned Frank Gleason. "But that isn't saying that I like to play the fool." "Well, I shouldn't worry. I'm not worrying," replied his sister, with an enigmatic smile. "Maybe not. But I'm glad I'm going on that Arctic trip, and that it's just next month. I'd as soon not see much of the Denbys just now. Feel too much like the evil-eyed, double-dyed villain in a dime movie," growled the doctor, getting to his feet, and striding from the room. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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