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THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING


[Illustration: AT SIGHT OF HER THE DOCTOR LEAPED FORWARD WITH A LOW CRY
(p. 174)]


THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

by

ELEANOR H. PORTER

Author of "Just David"







[Illustration]

Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
1917

Copyright, 1917, by Eleanor H. Porter




TO
MY FRIEND
_Miss Grace Wheeler_




CONTENTS


      I. FROSTED CAKES AND SHOTGUNS                                    1
     II. AN ONLY SON                                                  24
    III. HONEYMOON DAYS                                               33
     IV. NEST-BUILDING                                                43
      V. THE WIPE                                                     61
     VI. THE HUSBAND                                                  75
    VII. STUMBLING-BLOCKS                                             82
   VIII. DIVERGING WAYS                                              104
     IX. A BOTTLE OF INK                                             125
      X. BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL                                        155
     XI. IN QUEST OF THE STARS                                       172
    XII. THE TRAIL OF THE INK                                        182
   XIII. A WOMAN'S WON'T                                             199
    XIV. AN UNDERSTUDY                                               210
     XV. A WOMAN'S WILL                                              225
    XVI. EMERGENCIES                                                 241
   XVII. PINK TEAS TO FLIGHTY BLONDES                                258
  XVIII. A LITTLE BUNCH OF DIARIES                                   265
    XIX. THE STAGE IS SET                                            284
     XX. THE CURTAIN RISES                                           293
    XXI. THE PLAY BEGINS                                             302
   XXII. ACTOR AND AUDIENCE                                          314
  XXIII. "THE PLOT THICKENS"                                         330
   XXIV. COUNTER-PLOTS                                               339
    XXV. ENIGMAS                                                     348
   XXVI. THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING                                   357




ILLUSTRATIONS


  AT SIGHT OF HER THE DOCTOR LEAPED FORWARD WITH A LOW
      CRY (p. 174)                                        _Frontispiece_
  HE WAS LOOKING AT HER LOVELY, GLORIFIED FACE                         6
  JOHN DENBY WENT STRAIGHT TO HIS SON AND LAID BOTH HANDS ON HIS
       SHOULDERS                                                     150
  "SO I RANG THE BELL"                                               310

_From drawings by Mary Greene Blumenschein_




CHAPTER I

FROSTED CAKES AND SHOTGUNS


If Burke Denby had not been given all the frosted cakes and toy shotguns
he wanted at the age of ten, it might not have been so difficult to
convince him at the age of twenty that he did not want to marry Helen
Barnet.

Mabel, the beautiful and adored wife of John Denby, had died when Burke
was four years old; and since that time, life, for Burke, had been
victory unseasoned with defeat. A succession of "anything-for-peace"
rulers of the nursery, and a father who could not bring himself to be
the cause of the slightest shadow on the face of one who was the
breathing image of his lost wife, had all contributed to these
victories.

Nor had even school-days brought the usual wholesome discipline and
democratic leveling; for a pocketful of money and a naturally generous
disposition made a combination not to be lightly overlooked by boys and
girls ever alert for "fun"; and an influential father and the scarcity
of desirable positions made another combination not to be lightly
overlooked by impecunious teachers anxious to hold their "jobs." It was
easy to ignore minor faults, especially as the lad had really a
brilliant mind, and (when not crossed) a most amiable disposition.

Between the boy and his father all during the years of childhood and
youth, the relationship was very beautiful--so beautiful that the entire
town saw it and expressed its approval: in public by nods and admiring
adjectives; in private by frequent admonitions to wayward sons and
thoughtless fathers to follow the pattern so gloriously set for them.

Of all this John Denby saw nothing; nor would he have given it a thought
if he had seen it. John Denby gave little thought to anything, after his
wife died, except to business and his boy, Burke. Business, under his
skillful management and carefully selected assistants, soon almost ran
itself. There was left then only the boy, Burke.

From the first they were comrades, even when comradeship meant the
poring over a Mother Goose story-book, or mastering the intricacies of a
game of tiddledywinks. Later, together, they explored the world of
music, literature, science, and art, spending the long summer playtimes,
still together, traveling in both well-known and little-known lands.

Toward everything fine and beautiful and luxurious the boy turned as a
flower turns toward the light, which pleased the man greatly. And as the
boy had but to express a wish to have it instantly find an echo in his
father's heart, it is not strange, perhaps, that John Denby did not
realize that, notwithstanding all his "training," self-control and
self-sacrifice were unknown words to his son.

One word always, however, was held before the boy from the very
first--mother; yet it was not as a word, either, but as a living
presence. Always he was taught that she was with them, a bright,
beauteous, gracious being, loving, tender, perfect. Whatever they saw
was seen through her eyes. Whatever they did was done as with her.
Stories of her beauty, charm, and goodness filled many an hour of
intimate talk. She was the one flawless woman born into the world--so
said Burke's father to his son.

Burke was nearly twenty-one, and half through college, when he saw Helen
Barnet. She was sitting in the big west window in the library, with the
afternoon sun turning her wonderful hair to gold. In her arms she held a
sleeping two-year-old boy. With the marvelous light on her face, and the
crimson velvet draperies behind her, she looked not unlike a pictured
Madonna. It was not, indeed, until a very lifelike red swept to the
roots of the girl's hair that the young man, staring at her from the
doorway, realized that she was not, in truth, a masterpiece on an
old-time wall, but a very much alive, very much embarrassed young woman
in his father's library.

With a blush that rivaled hers, and an incoherent apology, he backed
hastily from the room. He went then in search of his father. He had
returned from college an hour before to find his father's youngest
sister, Eunice, and her family, guests in the house. But this
stranger--this bewilderingly beautiful girl--

In the upper hall he came face to face with his father.

"Dad, who in Heaven's name is she?" he demanded without preamble.

"_She?_"

"That exquisitely beautiful girl in the library. Who is she?"

"In the library? Girl? Nonsense! You're dreaming, Burke. There's no one
here but your aunt."

"But I just came from there. I saw her. She held a child in her arms."

"Ho!" John Denby gave a gesture as if tossing a trivial something aside.
"You're dreaming again, Burke. The nursemaid, probably. Your aunt
brought one with her. But, see here, son. I was looking for you. Come
into my room. I wanted to know--" And he plunged into a subject far
removed from nursemaids and their charges.

Burke, however, was not to be so lightly diverted. True, he remained for
ten minutes at his father's side, and he listened dutifully to what his
father said; but the day was not an hour older before he had sought and
found the girl he had seen in the library.

She was not in the library now. She was on the wide veranda, swinging
the cherubic boy in the hammock. To Burke she looked even more
bewitching than she had before. As a pictured saint, hung about with
the aloofness of the intangible and the unreal, she had been beautiful
and alluring enough; but now, as a breathing, moving creature treading
his own familiar veranda and touching with her white hands his own
common hammock, she was bewilderingly enthralling.

Combating again an almost overwhelming desire to stand in awed worship,
he advanced hastily, speaking with a diffidence and an incoherence
utterly foreign to his usual blithe boyishness.

"Oh, I hope--I didn't, did I? _Did_ I wake--the baby up?"

With a start the girl turned, her blue eyes wide.

"_You?_ Oh, in the library--"

"Yes; an hour ago. I do hope I didn't--wake him up!"

Before the ardent admiration in the young man's eyes, the girl's fell.

"Oh, no, sir. He just--woke himself."

"Oh, I'm so glad! And--and I want you to forgive me for--for staring at
you so rudely. You see, I was so surprised to--to see you there
like--like a picture, and-- You will forgive me--er-- I don't know your
name."

"Barnet--Helen Barnet." She blushed prettily; then she laughed, throwing
him a mischievous glance. "Oh, yes, I'll forgive you; but--I don't know
your name, either."

"Thank you. I knew you'd--understand. I'm Denby--Burke Denby."

"Mr. Denby's son?"

"Yes."

"Oh-h!"

At the admiration in her eyes and voice he unconsciously straightened
himself.

"And do you live--here?" breathed the girl.

To hide the inexplicable emotion that seemed suddenly to be swelling
within him, the young man laughed lightly.

"Of course--when I'm not away!" His eyes challenged her, and she met the
sally with a gurgle of laughter.

"Oh, I meant--when you're not away," she bridled.

He watched the wild-rose color sweep to her temples--and stepped nearer.

"But you haven't told me a thing of yourself--yet," he complained.

She sighed--and at the sigh an unreasoning wrath against an unknown
something rose within him.

"There's nothing to tell," she murmured. "I'm just here--a nurse to
Master Paul and his brother." Denby's wrath became reasoning and
definite. It was directed against the world in general, and his aunt in
particular, that they should permit for one instant this glorious
creature to sacrifice her charm and sweetness on the altar of menial
services to a couple of unappreciative infants.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he breathed, plainly aglow at the intimate
nearness of this heart-to-heart talk. "But I'm glad--you're _here_!"

Once more, before he turned reluctantly away, he gazed straight into her
blue eyes--and the game was on.

It was a pretty game. The young man was hard hit, and it was his first
wound from Cupid's dart. Heretofore in his curriculum girls had not been
included; and the closeness of his association with his father had not
been conducive to incipient love affairs. Perhaps, for these reasons, he
was all the more ardent a wooer. Certainly an ardent wooer he was. There
was no gainsaying that--though the boy himself, at first, did not
recognize it as wooing at all.

It began with pity.

He was so sorry for her--doomed to slave all day for those two rascally
small boys. He could not keep her out of his mind. As he tramped the
hills the next morning the very blue of the sky and the softness of the
air against his cheek became a pain to him--_she_ was tied to a stuffy
nursery. His own freedom of will and movement became a source of actual
vexation--_she_ was bound to a "do this" and a "do that" all day. He
wondered then, suddenly, if he could not in some way help. He sought her
as soon as possible.

"Come, I want you to go to walk with me. I want to show you the view
from Pike's Hill," he urged.

"Me? To walk? Why, Mr. Denby, I can't!"

Again the wild-rose flush came and went--and again Burke Denby stepped
nearer.

"Why not?"

"Why, I couldn't leave the children; besides--it's Master Paul's nap
hour."

"What a pity--when it's so beautiful out! To-morrow, then, in the
morning?"

She shook her head.

"I couldn't, Mr. Denby."

"The afternoon, then?"

"No."

"Is it because you don't _want_ to?"

"_Want to!_"

At the look of longing that leaped to her face, the thwarted youth felt
again the fierce wrath he had known the first day of their meeting.

"Then, by Jove, you shall!" he vowed. "Don't they ever give you any time
to yourself?"

She dimpled into shy laughter.

"I shall have a few hours Thursday--after three."

"Good! I'll remember. We'll go then."

And they went.

To Burke Denby it was a wonderful and a brand-new experience. Never had
the sky been so blue, the air so soft, the woods so enchantingly
beautiful. And he was so glad that they were thus--for her. She was
enjoying it so much, and he was so glad that he could give this
happiness to her! Enthusiastically he pointed out here a bird and there
a flower; carefully he helped her over every stick and stone;
determinedly he set himself to making her forget her dreary daily tasks.
And when she lifted her wondering eyes to his face, or placed her
half-reluctant fingers in his extended hand, how he thrilled and tingled
through his whole being--he had not supposed that unselfish service to a
fellow-being could bring to one such a warm sense of gratification.

At the top of the hill they sat down to rest, before them the wonderful
panorama of grandeur--the green valley, the silvery river, the
far-reaching mauve and purple mountains.

"My, isn't this real pretty!" exclaimed the girl.

[Illustration: HE WAS LOOKING AT HER LOVELY, GLORIFIED FACE]

The young man scarcely heard the words, else he would have frowned
unconsciously at the "real pretty." He was looking at her lovely,
glorified face.

"I thought you'd like it," he breathed.

"Oh, I do."

"I know another just as fine. We'll go there next."

A shadow like a cloud crossed her face.

"But I have so little time!"

The cloud leaped to his face now and became thunderous.

"Shucks! I forgot. What a nuisance! Oh, I say, you know, I don't think
you ought to be doing--such work. Do you--forgive me, but do you
really--have to?"

"Yes, I have to."

She had turned her face half away, but he thought he could see tears in
her eyes.

"Are you--all alone, then? Haven't you any--people?" His voice had grown
very tender.

"No--no one. Father died, then mother. There was no one else--to care;
and no--money."

"Oh, I'm so--so sorry!"

He spoke awkwardly, with obvious restraint. He wanted suddenly to take
her in his arms--to soothe and comfort her as one would a child. But she
was not a child, and it would not do, of course. But she looked so
forlorn, so appealing, so sweet, so absolutely dear--

He got abruptly to his feet.

"Come, come, this will never do!" he exclaimed blithely. "Here I
am--making you talk of your work and your troubles, when I took you up
here with the express intention of making you forget them. Suppose we go
through this little path here. There's a dandy spring of cold water
farther on. And--and forgive me, please. I won't make you--talk any
more."

And he would not, indeed, he vowed to himself. She was no child. She was
a young woman grown, and a very beautiful one, at that. He could not
console her with a kiss and a caress, and a bonbon, of course. But he
could give her a bit of playtime, now and then--and he would, too. He
would see to it that, for the rest of her stay under his father's roof,
she should not want for the companionship of some one who--who "cared."
He would be her kind and thoughtful good friend. Indeed, he would!

Burke Denby began the very next morning to be a friend to Miss Barnet.
Accepting as irrevocable the fact that she could not be separated from
her work, he made no plans that did not include Masters Paul and Percy
Allen.

"I'm going to take your sons for a drive this morning, if you don't
mind," he said briskly to his aunt at the breakfast table.

"Mind? Of course I don't, you dear boy," answered the pleased mother,
fondly. "_You're_ the one that will mind--as you'll discover, I fear,
when you find yourself with a couple of mischievous small boys on your
hands!"

"I'm not worrying," laughed the youth. "I shall take Miss Barnet along,
too."

"Oh--Helen?