The Road to Understanding Part 21

CHAPTER X

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

Helen Denby received the letter from her husband at two o'clock by a special messenger.

Helen had pa.s.sed a sleepless night and an unhappy morning. The surge of bitter anger which at first, like the ink, had blackened everything it touched, soon spent itself, and left her weak and trembling. Dorothy Elizabeth, after her somewhat upsetting day, sank into an unusually sound slumber; but her mother, all through the long night watches, lay with sleepless eyes staring into the dark, thinking.

Helen was very angry with Burke. There was no gainsaying that. She was a little frightened, too, at what she herself had said. In a soberer moment she would not have spoken quite like that, certainly. But it had been so hateful--his asking if she called that a happy home! As if she did not want a happy home as much as he ever could!

To Helen, then, came her old vision of the daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband to the well-kept home; and all in the dark her cheek flushed hot.

How far short, indeed, of that ideal had she fallen! And she was going to be such a help to Burke; such an inspiration; such a guide, counselor, and friend! (Swiftly the words came galloping out of that long-forgotten honeymoon.) Had she helped him? Had she been an inspiration, and a guide, and a counselor, and a friend? Poor Burke! He _had_ given up a good deal for her sake. (With the consciousness of that vacant pillow by her side, a wave of remorseful tenderness swept over her.) And of course it must have been hard for him. They had told him not to marry her, too. They had warned him that she was not suited to him, that she would drag him--

With a low cry Helen sat up in bed suddenly.

"_Drag him down!_"

Had she dragged him down? No, no, not that--never that! She had been careless and thoughtless. She had not been a good housekeeper; and maybe sometimes she had been fretful and fault-finding, and--and horrid. But she loved him dearly. She had always loved him. It only needed something like this to show her how much she loved him. Why, he was Burke, her husband--Baby's father! As if ever she could let it be said that she had dragged him down!

Quivering, shaken with sobs, she fell back on the pillow. For a few moments she cried on convulsively. Then, with a tremulous indrawn breath, she opened her eyes and stared into the dark again. A new thought had come to her.

But there was time yet. Nothing dreadful had happened. She would show Burke, his friends, everybody, that she had not dragged him down. From now on she would try. Oh, how she would try! He should see. He _should_ find a happy home when he came at night. She knew more, now, than she did, about housekeeping. Besides, there was more money now,--a little more,--and she had some one to help her with the work. Bridget was really doing very well; and there was Mrs. Cobb, so kind and helpful.

She would go to her for advice always. Never again should Burke come home and find such a looking place. Baby should be washed and dressed.

She herself would be dressed and waiting. Dinner, too, even on Bridget's day out, should be all ready and waiting. As if ever again she would run the risk of Burke's having to flee from his own home because he could not stand it! He should see!

It was in this softened, exalted state of mind that Helen rose the next morning and proceeded to begin the carrying-out of her vows, by essaying the almost hopeless task (with Bridget's not overcheerful a.s.sistance) of putting into spotless order the entire apartment.

At two o'clock, when Burke's letter came, she was utterly weary and almost sick; but she was still in the softened, exalted state of the early morning.

With a wondering, half-frightened little cry at sight of the familiar writing, she began to read. John Denby's check for ten thousand dollars had fallen into her lap unnoticed.

_My dear Helen_ [she read]: First let me apologize for flying off the handle the way I did last night. I shouldn't have done it. But, do you know? I believe I'm glad I did--for it's taught me something. Maybe you've discovered it, too. It's this: you and I have been getting on each other's nerves, lately. We need a rest from each other.

Now, don't bristle up and take it wrong, my dear. Just be sensible and think. How many times a day do we snap and snarl at each other? You're tired and half sick with the work and the baby. I'm tired and half sick with _my_ work, and we're always rubbing each other the wrong way. That's why I think we need a vacation from each other. And dad has made it possible for us to take one. He wants me to go to Alaska with him on a little trip. I want to go, of course.

Then, too, I think I ought to go. Dad needs me. Not that he is old, but he is just getting over an illness, and his head bothers him a lot. I can be of real use to him.

At his own suggestion he is sending you the enclosed check.

He wants you to accept it with his best wishes for a pleasant vacation. He suggests--and I echo him--that it would be a fine idea if you should take the baby and go back to your home town for a visit. I know your father and mother are not living; but there must be some one there whom you would like to visit. Or, better yet, now that you have the means, you would probably prefer a good hotel for headquarters, and then make short visits to all your friends. It would do you worlds of good, and Baby, too.

And now--I'm writing this instead of coming to tell it face to face, because I believe it's the best way. I'll be frank.

After last night, we might say things when we first met that we'd be sorry for. And I don't want that to happen. So I'm going to stay up here for a day or two.

Let me see--to-day is Friday. We are due to leave next Wednesday. I'll be down the first of the week to say good-bye and pick up my traps. Meanwhile, chicken, you'll be all right with Bridget there; and just you put your wits to work and go to planning out that vacation of yours, and how you're going to spend the money. Then you can be ready to tell me all about it when I come down.

Your affectionate husband, BURKE.

Helen's first feeling, upon finis.h.i.+ng the note, was one of utter stupefaction. With a dazed frown and a low e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n she turned the letter over and began to read it again--more slowly. This time she understood. But her thoughts were still in a whirl of surprised disbelief. Then, gradually, came a measure of conviction.

Fresh from her vigils of the night before, with its self-accusations and its heroic resolutions, she was so chastened and softened that there was more of grief than of anger in her first outburst.

She began to cry a little wildly.

Burke was going away. He _wanted_ to go. He said they--they got on each other's nerves. He said they needed a vacation from each other. _Needed_ one! As if they did! It wasn't that. It was his father's idea. _She_ knew. It was all his fault! But he was going--Burke was. He said he was.

There would not be any chance now to show him the daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband home to a well-kept house. There would not be any chance to show how she had changed. There would not be--

But there would be--after he came back.

Helen stopped sobbing, and caught her breath with a new hope in her eyes. Dorothy Elizabeth began to cry, and Helen picked her up and commenced to rock her.

Of course there _would_ be time after he came back. And, after all, might it not be the wisest thing, to be away from each other for a time?

Why, even this little while--a single night of Burke's being gone--had shown her where she stood!--had shown her where it was all leading to!

Of course it was the best way, and Burke had seen it. It was right that he should go. And had they not provided for her? She was to go-- There was a check somewhere--

Burrowing in her lap under Dorothy Elizabeth's warm little body, Helen dragged forth an oblong bit of crumpled paper. Carefully she spread it flat. The next moment her eyes flew wide open.

One thousand dollars! No, _ten_ thousand! It couldn't be! But it was.

Ten thousand dollars! And she had been scolding and blaming them, when all the time they had been so generous! And it really _was_ the best way, too, that they should be apart for a while. It would give her a chance to adjust herself and practice--and it would need some practice if she were really going to be that daintily gowned young wife welcoming her husband to a well-kept home! And with ten thousand dollars! What couldn't they get with ten thousand dollars?

Dorothy Elizabeth, at that moment, emitted a sharp, frightened cry. For how was Dorothy Elizabeth to know that the spasmodic pressure that so hurt her was really only a ten-thousand-dollar hug of joy?

In less than half an hour, Helen, leaving the baby with Bridget, had sought Mrs. Cobb. She could keep her good news no longer.

"I came to tell you. I'm going away--Baby and I," she announced joyously. "We're going next week."

"Jiminy! You don't say so! But you don't mean you're goin' away ter _live_?"

"Oh, no. Just for a visit to my old home town where I was born--only 'twill be a good long one. You see, we need a rest and a change so much--Baby and I do." There was a shade of importance in voice and manner.

"That you do!" exclaimed Mrs. Cobb, with emphasis. "And I'm glad you're goin'. But, sakes alive, I'm goin' ter miss ye, child!"

"I shall miss you, too," beamed Helen cordially.

"How long you goin' ter be gone?"

"I don't know, exactly. It'll depend, some, on Burke--I mean Mr.

Denby--when he wants me to come back."

"Oh, ain't he goin', too?" An indefinable change came to Mrs. Cobb's voice.

"Oh, no, not with us," smiled Helen. "He's going to Alaska."

"To--_Alaska_! And, pray, what's he chasin' off to a heathen country like that for?"

"Tisn't heathen--Alaska isn't," flashed Helen, vaguely irritated without knowing why. "Heathen countries are--are always hot. Alaska's cold.