The Road to Understanding Part 41

"But he isn't going to get us both!" Helen's eyes were twinkling, but her mouth showed suddenly firm lines.

The doctor wheeled sharply.

"What do you mean? Surely, _now_ you aren't going to--to--" He stopped helplessly.

"He's going to get _her_--but not me."

"Oh, come, come, Helen, my dear!" protested two dismayed voices.

But Helen shook her head decidedly.

"Listen. I've got it all planned. You said he wanted a--a sort of private secretary or stenographer, didn't you?"

"Why, y-yes."

"Well, I'm going to send Betty."

"Betty!"

"Certainly. She can fill the position--you needn't worry about that.

She's eighteen, you know, and she's really very self-reliant and capable. She doesn't understand shorthand, of course; but she can write his letters for him, just the same, and in three or four languages, if he wants her to. She can typewrite. Mr. Reynolds got a typewriter for the girls long ago. And she _loves_ to fuss over old books and curios.

She and Gladys have spent days in those old London shops."

"A real Denby digger--eh?" smiled the doctor.

"Yes. And I've been so glad she was interested--like her father."

"But you don't mean you're going to give your daughter up," cried Mrs.

Thayer, aghast, "and not go yourself!"

"You couldn't! Besides, as if Burke would stand for that," cut in the doctor.

"But he isn't going to know she _is_ his daughter," smiled Helen.

"Not know she is his daughter!" echoed two voices, in stupefaction.

"No--not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relying on you to--er--apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes were merry.

"Oh, nonsense! This is too absurd for words," spluttered the doctor.

"I don't think so."

"His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him day by day, and he not to know it? Bos.h.!.+ Sounds like a plot from a s.h.i.+lling shocker!"

"Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?--you know 'twas a book in the first place that set me to making myself 'swell' and 'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief.

"Oh, but, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Thayer with genuine concern. "I do think this is impossible."

The expression on Helen Denby's face changed instantly. Her eyes grew very grave, but luminously tender. Her lips trembled a little.

"People, dear people, if you'll listen just a minute I think I can convince you," she begged. "I have it all planned out. Betty and I will go to Dalton and find a quiet little home somewhere. Oh, I shall keep well out of sight--never fear," she nodded, in reply to the quick doubt in the doctor's eyes. "Betty shall go every morning to her father's house, and--I'm not afraid of Betty. He will love her. He can't help it.

And he will see how dear and sweet and good she is. Then, by and by, he shall know that she is his--his very own."

"But--but Betty herself! Can she act her part in this remarkable scheme?" demanded the doctor.

"She won't be acting a part. She'll just be acting herself. She is not to know anything except that she is his secretary."

"Impossible!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed two voices.

"I don't think so. Anyway, it's worth trying; and if it works it'll mean--everything." The last word was so low it was scarcely above a whisper.

"But--yourself, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Thayer. "Where do you come in?

What part have you in this--play?"

The rich red surged from neck to brow. The doctor and his sister could see that, though they could not see Helen Denby's face. It was turned quite away. There was a moment's silence; then, a little breathlessly, came the answer.

"I--don't--know. I suppose that will be--the 'curtain,' won't it?

And--I've never been sure of the ending--yet. But--" She hesitated; then suddenly she turned, her eyes s.h.i.+ning and deeply tender. "Don't you see?

It's the only way, after all. I can't very well go up to Dalton and ring his doorbell and say, 'Here, behold your wife and daughter. Won't you please take us in?'--can I? Though at first, when I heard of his father's death and thought of him so lonely there, I did want to do--just that. But I knew that wasn't best, even before your letter came telling me--what he said.

"But now--why, this is just what I've wanted from the first--to show Betty to him, some time, when he didn't dream who she was. I wanted to _know_ that he wasn't--ashamed of her. And this (his wanting a secretary) gave me a better chance than I ever thought I could have.

Why, people, dear people, don't you see?--with this I shan't mind now one bit all these long, long years of waiting. Won't you help me--please? I can't, of course, do it without your help."

The doctor threw up both his hands--his old gesture of despair.

"Help you? Of course we'll help you, just as we did before--to get the moon, if you ask for it. I feel like a comic opera and a movie farce all in one; but never mind. I'll do it. Now, what is it I _am_ to do?"

Helen relaxed into such radiant joyousness and relief, that she looked almost like the girl Burke Denby had married nineteen years before.

"You dear! I knew you would!" she breathed.

"Yes; but what is it?" he groaned in mock despair. "Speak out. I want to know the worst at once. What _am_ I to do?"

"Please, you're to go up to Dalton and tell Mr. Burke Denby you think you've found a young woman who will make him an excellent secretary.

Then, if he consents to try her, you're to find a little furnished apartment on a nice, quiet street, not too far from the Denby Mansion, of course, where we can live. Then I'd like a note of introduction for Betty to take to her father: she's the daughter of an old friend whom you've known for years--see?--and you are confident she will give satisfaction. That's all. Now, I'm sure--isn't all that quite--easy?"

"Oh, very easy,--very easy, indeed!" replied the doctor, with another groan. "You little witch! I declare I believe you'll carry this absurd, preposterous thing through to a triumphant finish, after all."

"Thank you. I _knew_ you wouldn't fail me," smiled Helen, with tear-wet eyes.

"But, my dear, I don't think yet that everything is quite clear,"

demurred Mrs. Thayer. "How about Betty? Just what does Betty know of her father?"

A look very like fear crossed the bright face opposite. "She knows nothing, of course, of--of my leaving home and the cause of it. I've never told her anything of her father except to hold him up as a symbol of everything good and lovable. When she was a little girl, you know, I could always do anything with her by just telling her that daddy wanted it so."

"But where does she think he is? Now that she is older, she must have asked some questions," murmured Mrs. Thayer.

Helen shook her head. A faint smile came to her lips. "She hasn't; but I've been so afraid she would, and I've been dreading it always. Then one day Mrs. Reynolds told me something Betty said to her. Since then I've felt a little easier."