The Road to Understanding

Like children then they scrambled for the rolling nickels and elusive dimes; and in the ensuing frolic the tiresome account-book was forgotten—which was exactly what Burke had hoped would happen.

This was the second week. At the end of the third, the “mean old thing” was in a worse muddle than ever, according to Helen; and, for her part, she would rather never buy anything at all if she had got to go and tell that nuisance of a book every time!

The fourth Saturday night Helen did not produce the book at all.

“Oh, I don’t keep that any longer,” she announced, with airy nonchalance, in answer to Burke’s question. “It never came right, and I hated it, anyhow. So what’s the use? I’ve got what I’ve got, and I’ve spent what I’ve spent. So what’s the difference?” And Burke, after a feeble remonstrance, gave it up as a bad job. Incidentally it might be mentioned that Burke was having a little difficulty with his own cash account, and was tempted to accuse his own book of stealing—else where did the money go?

It was the next Monday night that Burke came home with a radiant countenance.

“Gleason’s here—up at the Hancock House. He’s coming down after dinner.”

“Who’s Gleason?”

Helen’s tone was a little fretful—there was a new, intangible something in her husband’s voice that Helen did not understand, and that she did not think she liked.

“Gleason! Who’s Doc Gleason!” exclaimed Burke, with widening eyes. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t know him, do you?” he added, with a slight frown. Burke Denby was always forgetting that Helen knew nothing of his friends or of himself until less than a year before. “Well, Doc Gleason is the best ever. He went to Egypt with us last year, and to Alaska the year before.”

“How old is he?”

“Old? Why, I don’t know—thirty—maybe more. He must be a little more, come to think of it. But you never think of age with the doctor. He’ll be young when he’s ninety.”

“And you like him—so well?” Her voice was a little wistful.

“Next to dad—always have. You’ll like him, too. You can’t help it. He’s mighty interesting.”

“And he’s a doctor?”

“Yes, and no. Oh, he graduated and hung out his shingle; but he never practiced much. He had money enough, anyway, and he got interested in scientific research—antiquarian, mostly, though he’s done a bit of mountain-climbing and glacier-studying for the National Geographic Society.”

“Antiquarian? Oh, yes, I know—old things. Mother was that way, too. She had an old pewter plate, and a dark blue china teapot, homely as a hedge fence, I thought, but she doted on ‘em. And she doted on ancestors, too. She had one in that old ship—Mayflower, wasn’t it?”

Burke laughed.

“Mayflower! My dear child, the Mayflower is a mere infant-in-arms in the doctor’s estimation. The doctor goes back to prehistoric times for his playground, and to the men of the old Stone Age for his preferred playmates.”

“Older than the Mayflower, then?”

“A trifle—some thousands of years.”

“Goodness! How can he? I thought the Mayflower was bad enough. But what does he do—collect things?”

“Yes, to some extent; he has a fine collection of Babylonian tablets, and—”

“Oh, I know—those funny little brown and yellow cakes like soap, all cut into with pointed little marks—what do you call it?—like your father has in his library!”

“The cuneiform writing? Yes. As I said, the doctor has a fine collection of tablets, and of some other things; but principally he studies and goes on trips. It was a trip to the Spanish grottoes that got him interested in the archæological business in the first place, and put him out of conceit with doctoring. He goes a lot now, sometimes independently, sometimes in the interest of some society. He does in a scientific way what dad and I have done for fun—traveling and collecting, I mean. Then, too, he has written a book or two which are really authoritative in their line. He’s a great chap—the doctor is. Wait till you see him. I’ve told him about you, too.”

“Then you told him—that is—he knows—about the marriage.”

“Why, sure he does!” Burke’s manner was a bit impatient. “What do you suppose, when he’s coming here to-night? Now, mind, put on your prettiest frock and your sweetest smile. I want him to see why I married you,” he challenged banteringly. “I want him to see what a treasure I’ve got. And say, dearie, do you suppose—could we have him to dinner, or something? Could you manage it? I wanted to ask him to-night; but of course I couldn’t—without your knowing beforehand.”

“Mercy, no, Burke!” shuddered the young housekeeper. “Don’t you dare—when I don’t know it.”

“But if you do know it—” He paused hopefully.

“Why, y-yes, I guess so. Of course I could get things I was sure of, like potato salad and—”

Burke sat back in his chair.

“But, Helen, I’m afraid—I don’t think—that is, I’m ‘most sure Gleason doesn’t like potato salad,” he stammered.

“Doesn’t he? Well, he needn’t eat it, then. We’ll have all the more left for the next day.”

“But, Helen, er—”

“Oh, I’ll have chips, too; don’t worry, dear. I’ll give him something to eat,” she promised gayly. “Do you suppose I’m going to have one of your swell friends come here, and then have you ashamed of me? You just wait and see!”

“Er, no—no, indeed, of course not,” plunged in her husband feverishly, trying to ward off a repetition of the “swell”—a word he particularly abhorred.

Several times in the last two months he had heard Helen use this word—twice when she had informed him with great glee that some swell friends of his from Elm Hill had come in their carriage to call; and again quite often when together on the street they met some one whom he knew. He thought he hated the word a little more bitterly every time he heard it.

For several weeks now the Denbys had been receiving calls—Burke Denby was a Denby of Denby Mansion even though he was temporarily marooned on Dale Street at a salary of sixty dollars a month. Besides, to many, Dale Street and the sixty dollars, with the contributory elements of elopement and irate parent, only added piquancy and interest to what would otherwise have been nothing but the conventional duty call.

To Helen, in the main, these calls were a welcome diversion—”just grand,” indeed. To Burke, on whom the curiosity element was not lost, they were an impertinence and a nuisance. Yet he endured them, and even welcomed them, in a way; for he wanted Helen to know his friends, and to like them—better than she liked Mrs. Jones. He did not care for Mrs. Jones. She talked too loud, and used too much slang. He did not like to have Helen with her. Always, therefore, after callers had been there, his first eager question was: “How did you like them, dear?” He wanted so much that Helen should like them!