by Ernest Poole
“I get so little time for reading,” she murmured. And meanwhile she was thinking, “As soon as he finishes talking, poor dear, I’ll break the news.”
Then Roger had an audacious thought. He would take her to a play, by George! Mustering his courage he led up to it by speaking of a play Deborah had seen, a full-fledged modern drama all centered upon the right of a woman “to lead her own life.” And as he outlined the story, he saw he had caught his daughter’s attention. With her pretty chin resting on one hand, watching him and listening, she appeared much older, and she seemed suddenly close to him.
“How would you like to go with me and see it some evening?” he inquired.
“See what, my love?” she asked him, her thoughts plainly far away; and he looked at her in astonishment:
“That play I’ve just been speaking of!”
“Why, daddy, I’d love to!” she exclaimed.
“When?” he asked. And he fixed a night. He was proud of himself. Eagerly he began to talk of opening nights at Wallack’s. Roger and Judith, when they were young, had been great first nighters there. And now it was Laura who drew him out, and as he talked on she seemed to him to be smilingly trying to picture it all…. “Now I’d better tell him,” she thought.
“Do you remember Harold Sloane?” she asked a little strangely.
“No,” replied her father, a bit annoyed at the interruption.
“Why—you’ve met him two or three times—”
“Have I?” The queer note in her voice made him look up. Laura had risen from her chair.
“I want you to know him—very soon.” There was a moment’s silence. “I’m going to marry him, dad,” she said. And Roger looked at her blankly. He felt his limbs beginning to tremble. “I’ve been waiting to tell you when we were alone,” she added in an awkward tone. And still staring up at her he felt a rush of tenderness and a pang of deep remorse. Laura in love and settled for life! And what did he know of the affair? What had he ever done for her? Too late! He had begun too late! And this rush of emotion was so overpowering that while he still looked at her blindly she was the first to recover her poise. She came around the table and kissed him softly on the cheek. And now more than ever Roger felt how old his daughter thought him.
“Who is he?” he asked hoarsely. And she answered smiling,
“A perfectly nice young man named Sloane.”
“Don’t, Laura—tell me! What does he do?”
“He’s in a broker’s office—junior member of the firm, Oh, you needn’t worry, dear, he can even afford to marry me.”
They heard a ring at the front door.
“There he is now, I think,” she said. “Will you see him? Would you mind?”
“See him? No!” her father cried.
“But just to shake hands,” she insisted. “You needn’t talk or say a word. We’ve only a moment, anyway.” And she went swiftly out of the room.
Roger rose in a panic and strode up and down. Before he could recover himself she was back with her man, or rather her boy—for the fellow, to her father’s eyes, looked ridiculously young. Straight as an arrow, slender, his dress suit irreproachable, the chap nevertheless was more than a dandy. He looked hard, as though he trained, and his smooth and ruddy face had a look of shrewd self-reliance. So much of him Roger fathomed in the indignant cornered glance with which he welcomed him into the room.
“Why, good evening, Mr. Gale—glad to see you again, sir!” Young Sloane nervously held out his hand. Roger took it and muttered something. For several moments, his mind in a whirl, he heard their talk and laughter and his own voice joining in. Laura seemed enjoying herself, her eyes brimming with amusement over both her victims. But at last she had compassion, kissed her father gaily and took her suitor out of the room.
Soon Roger heard them leave the house. He went into his study, savagely bit off a cigar and gripped his evening paper as though he meant to choke it. The maid came in with coffee. “Coffee? No!” he snapped at her. A few moments later he came to his senses and found himself smoking fast and hard. He heartily damned this fellow Sloane for breaking into the family and asking poor Laura to risk her whole life—just for his own selfish pleasure, his whim! Yes, “whim” was the very word for it! Laura’s attitude, too! Did she look at it seriously? Not at all! Quite plainly she saw her career as one long Highland fling and dance, with this Harry boy as her partner! Who had he danced with in his past? The fellow’s past must be gone into, and at once, without delay!
Here indeed was a jolt for Roger Gale, a pretty shabby trick of fate. This was not what he had planned, this was a little way life had of jabbing a man with surprises. For months he had been slowly and comfortably feeling his way into the lives of his children, patiently, conscientiously. But now without a word of warning in popped this young whipper-snapper, turning the whole house upside down! Another young person to be known, another life to be dug into, and with pick and shovel too! The job was far from pleasant. Would Deborah help him? Not at all. She believed in letting people alone—a devilish easy philosophy! Still, he wanted to tell her at once, if only to stir her up a bit. He did not propose to bear this alone! But Deborah was out to-night. Why must she always be out, he asked, in that infernal zoo school? But no, it was not school to-night. She was dining out in some café with a tall lank doctor friend of hers. Probably she was to marry him!
“I’ll have that news for breakfast!” Roger smote his paper savagely. Why couldn’t Laura have waited a little? Restlessly he walked the room. Then he went into the hall, took his hat and a heavy stick which he used for his night rambles, and walked off through the neighborhood. It was the first Saturday evening of Spring, and on those quiet downtown streets he met couples strolling by. A tall thin lad and a buxom girl went into a cheap apartment building laughing gaily to themselves, and Roger thought of Laura. A group of young Italians passed, humming “Trovatore,” and it put him in mind of the time when he had ushered at the opera. Would Laura’s young man be willing to usher? More like him to tango down the aisle!
He reached Washington Square feeling tired but even more restless than before. He climbed to the top of a motor ‘bus, and on the lurching ride uptown he darkly reflected that times had changed. He thought of the Avenue he had known, with its long lines of hansom cabs, its dashing broughams and coupés with jingling harness, livened footmen, everything sprucely up-to-date. How the horses had added to the town. But they were gone, and in their place were these great cats, these purring motors, sliding softly by the ‘bus. Roger had swift glimpses down into lighted limousines. In one a big rich looking chap with a beard had a dressy young woman in his arms. Lord, how he was hugging her! Laura would have a motor like that, kisses like that, a life like that! She was the kind to go it hard! Ahead as far as he could see was a dark rolling torrent of cars, lights gleaming by the thousand. A hubbub of gay voices, cries and little shrieks of laughter mingled with the blare of horns. He looked at huge shop windows softly lighted with displays of bedrooms richly furnished, of gorgeous women’s apparel, silks and lacy filmy stuffs. And to Roger, in his mood of anxious premonition, these bedroom scenes said plainly,
“O come, all ye faithful wives! Come let us adore him, and deck ourselves to please his eye, to catch his eye, to hold his eye! For marriage is a game these days!”
Yes, Laura would be a spender, a spender and a speeder too! How much money had he, that chap? And damn him, what had he in his past? How Roger hated the very thought of poking into another man’s life! Poking where nobody wanted him! He felt desperately alone. To-night they were dancing, he recalled, not at a party in somebody’s home, but in some flashy public place where girls of her kind and fancy women gaily mixed together! How mixed the whole city was getting, he thought, how mad and strange, gone out of its mind, this city of his children’s lives crowding in upon him!
CHAPTER IV
He breakfasted with Deborah late on Sunday morning. He had come down at the usual hour despite his long tramp o
f the previous night, for he wanted to tell her the news and talk it all out before Laura came down—because Deborah, he hadn’t a doubt, with her woman’s curiosity had probed deep into Laura’s affairs in the many long talks they had had in her room. He had often heard them there. And so, as he waited and waited and still his daughter did not come, Roger grew distinctly annoyed; and when at last she did appear, his greeting was perfunctory:
“What kept you out so late last night?”
“Oh, I was having a very good time,” said Deborah contentedly. She poured herself some coffee. “I’ve always wanted,” she went on, “to see Laura really puzzled—downright flabbergasted. And I saw her just like that last night.”
Roger looked up with a jerk of his head:
“You and Laura—together last night?”
“Exactly—on the Astor Roof.” At her father’s glare of astonishment a look of quiet relish came over her mobile features. Her wide lips twitched a little. “Well, why not?” she asked him. “I’m quite a dancer down at school. And last night with Allan Baird—we were dining together, you know—he proposed we go somewhere and dance. He’s a perfectly awful dancer, and so I held out as long as I could. But he insisted and I gave in, though I much prefer the theater.”
“Well!” breathed Roger softly. “So you hoof it with the rest!” His expression was startled and intent. Would he ever get to know these girls? “Well,” he added with a sigh, “I suppose you know what you’re about.”
“Oh no, I don’t,” she answered. “I never know what I’m about. If you always do, you miss so much—you get into a solemn habit of trying nothing till you’re sure. But to return to Laura. As we came gaily down the room we ran right into her, you see. That’s how Allan dances. And when we collided, I smiled at her sweetly and said, ‘Why, hello, dearie—you here too?” And Deborah sipped her coffee. “I have never believed that the lower jaw of a well-bred girl could actually drop open. But Laura’s did. With a good strong light, Allan told me, he could have examined her tonsils for her. Rather a disgusting thought. You see until she saw me there, poor Laura had me so thoroughly placed—my school-marm job, my tastes and habits, everything, all cut and dried. She has never once come to my school, and in every talk we’ve ever had there has always been some perfectly good and absorbing reason why we should talk about Laura alone.”
“There is now,” said her father. He was in no mood for tomfoolery. His daughter saw it and smiled a little.
“What is it?” she inquired. And then he let her have it!
“Laura wants to get married,” he snapped.
Deborah caught her breath at that, and an eager excited expression swept over her attractive face. She had leaned forward suddenly.
“Father! No! Which one?” she asked. “Tell me! Is it Harold Sloane?”
“It is.”
“Oh, dad.” She sank back in her chair. “Oh, dad,” she repeated.
“What’s the matter with Sloane?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing, nothing—it’s all right—”
“It is, eh? How do you know it is?” His anxious eyes were still upon hers, and he saw she was thinking fast and hard and shutting him completely out. And it irritated him. “What do you know of this fellow Sloane?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing—”
“Nothing! Humph! Then why do you sit here and say it’s all right? Don’t talk like a fool!” he exclaimed. He waited, but she said no more, and Roger’s exasperation increased. “He has money enough apparently—and they’ll spend it like March hares!”
Deborah looked up at him:
“What did Laura tell you, dear?”
“Not very much. I’m only her father. She had a dinner and dance on her mind.”
But Deborah pressed her questions and he gave her brief replies.
“Well, what shall we do about it?” he asked.
“Nothing—until we know something more.” Roger regarded her fiercely.
“Why don’t you go up and talk to her, then?”
“She’s asleep yet—”
“Never mind if she is! If she’s going to marry a chap like that and ruin her life it’s high time she was up for her breakfast!”
While he scanned his Sunday paper he heard Deborah in the pantry. She emerged with a breakfast tray and he saw her start up to Laura’s room. She was there for over an hour. And when she returned to his study, he saw her eyes were shining. How women’s eyes will shine at such times, he told himself in annoyance.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Better leave her alone to-day,” she advised. “Harold is coming some night soon.”
“What for?”
“To have a talk with you.”
Her father smote his paper. “What did she tell you about him?” he asked.
“Not much more than she told you. His parents are dead—but he has a rich widowed aunt in Bridgeport who adores him. They mean to be married the end of May. She wants a church wedding, bridesmaids, ushers—the wedding reception here, of course—”
“Oh, Lord,” breathed Roger dismally.
“We won’t bother you much, father dear—”
“You will bother me much,” he retorted. “I propose to be bothered—bothered a lot! I’m going to look up this fellow Sloane—”
“But let’s leave him alone for to-day.” She bent over her father compassionately. “What a night you must have had, poor dear.” Roger looked up in grim reproach.
“You like all this,” he grunted. “You, a grown woman, a teacher too.”
“I wonder if I do,” she said. “I guess I’m a queer person, dad, a curious family mixture—of Laura and Edith and mother and you, with a good deal of myself thrown in. But it feels rather good to be mixed, don’t you think? Let’s stay mixed as long as we can—and keep together the family.”
* * * * *
That afternoon, to distract him, Deborah took her father to a concert in Carnegie Hall. She had often urged him to go of late, but despite his liking for music Roger had refused before, simply because it was a change. But why balk at going anywhere now, when Laura was up to such antics at home?
“Do you mind climbing up to the gallery?” Deborah asked as they entered the hall.
“Not at all,” he curtly answered. He did mind it very much!
“Then we’ll go to the very top,” she said. “It’s a long climb but I want you to see it. It’s so different up there.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied. And as they made the slow ascent, pettishly he wondered why Deborah must always be so eager for queer places. Galleries, zoo schools, tenement slums—why not take a two dollar seat in life?
Deborah seated him far down in the front of the great gallery, over at the extreme right, and from here they could look back and up at a huge dim arena of faces.
“Now watch them close,” she whispered. “See what the music does to them.”
As the symphony began below the faces all grew motionless. And as the music cast its spell, the anxious ruffled feelings which had been with Roger all that day little by little were dispelled, and soon his imagination began to work upon this scene. He saw many familiar American types. He felt he knew what they had been doing on Sundays only a few years before. After church they had eaten large Sunday dinners. Then some had napped and some had walked and some had gone to Sunday school. At night they had had cold suppers, and afterwards some had gone back to church; while others, as in Roger’s house in the days when Judith was alive, had gathered around the piano for hymns. Young men callers, friends of their daughters, had joined in the family singing. Yes, some of these people had been like that. To them, a few short years ago, a concert on the Sabbath would have seemed a sacrilege. He could almost hear from somewhere the echo of “Abide With Me.”
But over this memory of a song rose now the surging music of Tschaikovsky’s “Pathetique.” And the yearnings and fierce hungers in this tumultuous music swept all the hymns from Roger’s mind. Once more he watched the gallery,
and this time he became aware that more than half were foreigners. Out of the mass from every side individual faces emerged, swarthy, weird, and staring hungrily into space. And to Roger the whole shadowy place, the very air, grew pregnant, charged with all these inner lives bound together in this mood, this mystery that had swept over them all, immense and formless, baffling, this furious demanding and this blind wistful groping which he himself had known so well, ever since his wife had died and he had lost his faith in God. What was the meaning of it all if life were nothing but a start, and there were nothing but the grave?
“You will live on in our children’s lives.”
He glanced around at Deborah. Was she so certain, so serene? “What do I know of her?” he asked. “Little or nothing,” he sadly replied. And he tried to piece together from things she had told him her life as it had passed him by. Had there been no questionings, no sharp disillusionments? There must have been. He recalled irritabilities, small acts and exclamations of impatience, boredom, “blues.” And as he watched her he grew sure that his daughter’s existence had been like his own. Despite its different setting, its other aims and visions, it had been a mere beginning, a feeling for a foothold, a search for light and happiness. And Deborah seemed to him still a child. “How far will you go?” he wondered.
Although he was still watching her even after the music had ceased, she did not notice him for a time. Then she turned to him slowly with a smile.
“Well? What did you see?” she asked.
“I wasn’t looking,” he replied.
“Why, dearie,” she retorted. “Where’s that imagination of yours?”
“It was with you,” he answered. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
And still under the spell of the music, Deborah said to her father,
“I was thinking of hungry people—millions of them, now, this minute—not only here but in so many places—concerts, movies, libraries. Hungry, oh, for everything—life, its beauty, all it means. And I was thinking this is youth—no matter how old they happen to be—and that to feed it we have schools. I was thinking how little we’ve done as yet, and of all that we’re so sure to do in the many, many years ahead. Do you see what I mean?” she squeezed his hand.