The Road to Understanding
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 24: Counter-Plots
In thinking it over afterwards Burke Denby tried to place the specific thing that put into his mind that most astounding suggestion. He knew very well the precise moment of the inception of the idea—it had been on Christmas night as he sat before the fire in his gloomy library. But what had led to it? Of just what particular episode concerning his acquaintance with this girl had he been thinking when, like a blinding flash out of the dark, had leaped forth those startling words?
He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it was Christmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside with the gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. Being Christmas, he had not had even the divertisement of his secretary’s presence—companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It could not but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to the work, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed. And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The house had not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keep her. He should not like to let her go—now. But if only she could be there all the time! It would be much easier for her—winter storms were coming on now; and as for him—he should like it very much. The evenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, it might not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in an apartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, or she might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house was large enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it would be nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitable arrangement all around.
Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not have to be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not— Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen—her eyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had—
It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet with almost a cry:—
“What if she were—maybe she is—your daughter!”
As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos of thoughts into something like order.
It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet—there were her eyes so like Helen’s, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and of lifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were, too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of—himself. And surely her remarkable love and aptitude for the work she was doing for him now ought to mean—something.
But could it be? Was it possible? Would Helen do such a fantastic thing—send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor—this girl had been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. “A daughter of an old friend.” Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lend himself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. And yet—
His mind still played with the idea.
Just what did he know about this young woman? Very little. What if, after all, it were Dorothy Elizabeth? And it might be, for all he knew to the contrary. She was about the right age, he should judge—his little girl would be eighteen—by now. Her name was Elizabeth; she had told him that, at the same time saying that she was always called “Betty.” There was a mother—but he had never heard the girl mention her father. And they had dropped, as it were, right out of a clear sky into Dalton, and into his life. Could it be? Of course it really was too absurd; but yet—
With a sudden setting of his jaws the man determined to put his secretary through a course of questions, the answers to which would forever remove all doubt, one way or another. If at the onset of the questioning she grew suddenly evasive and confused, he would have his answer at once: she was his daughter, and was attempting to keep the knowledge from him until such time as her mother should wish to let the secret out. On the other hand, even if she were not confused or evasive as to her answers, she still might be his daughter—and not know of the relationship. In which case his questions, of course, must be carried to the point where he himself would be satisfied. Meanwhile he would think no more about it; and, above all, he would keep his thoughts from dwelling on what it would be if—she were.
Having reached this wise decision, Burke Denby tossed his half-smoked cigar into the fire and attempted to toss as lightly the whole subject from his mind—an attempt which met with sorry success.
Burke Denby plumed himself that he was doing his questioning most diplomatically when, the next morning, he began to carry out his plans. With almost superhuman patience he had waited until the morning letters were out of the way, and until he and his secretary were working together over sorting the papers in a hitherto unopened drawer.
“Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Darling?” Careless as was his apparent aim, it was the first gun of his campaign.
“Yes, thank you, very pleasant.”
“I didn’t. Too quiet. A house needs young people at Christmas. If only I had a daughter now—” He watched her face closely, but he could detect no change of color. There was only polite, sympathetic interest. “Let me see, you live with your mother, I believe,” he finished somewhat abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Have you lived in Dalton long?”
“Only since October, when I came to you.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Oh, yes, very well.”
“Still, not so well as where you came from, perhaps,” he smiled pleasantly.
Betty laughed.
“But I came—from so many places.”
“That so?”
“Paris, Berlin, London, Genoa, —mostly London, of late.”
“But you are American born!”
“Oh, yes.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.