XXXI

If there were any cloud upon his horizon, it was the thought of Laura. She had barely been to the house since Edith had come back to town; and at times, especially in the days when things had looked dark for Roger, he had caught himself reproaching this giddy-gaddy youngest child, so engrossed in her small “ménage” that apparently she could not spare a thought for her widowed sister. Laura on her return from abroad had brought as a gift for Edith a mourning gown from Paris, a most alluring creation⁠—so much so, in fact, that Edith had felt it simply indecent, insulting, and had returned it to her sister with a stilted note of thanks. But Roger did not know of this. There were so many ways, he thought, in which Laura might have been nice to Edith. She had a gorgeous limousine in which she might so easily have come and taken her sister off on little trips uptown. But no, she kept her car to herself. And from her small apartment, where a maid whom she had brought from Rome dressed her several times each day, that limousine rushed her noiselessly forth, gay and wild as ever, immaculate and elegant, radiant and very rich. To what places did she go? What new friends was she making? What was Laura up to?

He did not like her manner, one evening when she came to the house. As he helped her off with her cloak, a sleek supple leopard skin which fitted her figure like a glove, he asked,

“Where’s Hal this evening?” And she answered lightly,

“Oh, don’t ask me what he does with himself.”

“You mean, I suppose,” said Edith, with quiet disapproval, “that he is rushed to death this year with all this business from the war.”

“Yes, it’s business,” Laura replied, as she deftly smoothed and patted her soft, abundant, reddish hair. “And it’s war, too,” she added.

“What do you mean?” her father asked. He knew what she meant, war with her husband. But before Laura could answer him, Edith cut in hastily, for two of her children were present. At dinner she turned the talk to the war. But even on this topic, Laura’s remarks were disturbing. She did not consider the war wholly bad⁠—by no means, it had many good points. It was clearing away a lot of old rubbish, customs, superstitions and institutions out of date. “Musty old relics,” she called them. She spoke as though repeating what someone else had told her. Laura with her chicken’s mind could never have thought it all out by herself. When asked what she meant, she was smilingly vague, with a glance at Edith’s youngsters. But she threw out hints about the church and even Christianity, as though it were falling to pieces. She spoke of a second Renaissance, “a glorious pagan era” coming. And then she exploded a little bomb by inquiring of Edith.

“What do you think the girls over there are going to do for husbands, with half the marriageable men either killed or hopelessly damaged? They’re not going to be nuns all their lives!”

Again her sister cut her off, and the rest of the brief evening was decidedly awkward. Yes, she was changing, growing fast. And Roger did not like it. Here she was spending money like water, absorbed in her pleasures, having no baby, apparently at loose ends with her husband, and through it all so cocksure of herself and her outrageous views about war, and smiling about them with such an air, and in her whole manner, such a tone of amused superiority. She talked about a world for the strong, bits of gabble from Nietzsche and that sort of rot; she spoke blithely of a Rome reborn, the “Wings of the Eagles” heard again. This part of it she had taken, no doubt, from her new Italian friend, her husband’s shrapnel partner.

Pshaw! What was Laura up to?

But that was only one evening. It was not repeated, another month went quickly by, and Roger had soon shaken it from him, for he had troubles enough at home. One daughter at a time, he had thought. And as the dark clouds close above him had cleared, the other cloud too had drifted away, until it was small, just on the horizon, far away from Roger’s house. What was Laura up to? He barely ever thought of that now.

But one night when he came home, Edith, who sat in the living room reading aloud to her smaller boys, gave him a significant look which warned him something had happened. And turning to take off his overcoat, in the hall he almost stumbled upon a pile of hand luggage, two smart patent leather bags, a hat trunk and a sable cloak.

“Hello,” he exclaimed. “What’s this? Who’s here?”

“Laura,” Edith answered. “She’s up in Deborah’s room, I think⁠—they’ve been up there for over an hour.” Roger looked indignantly in at his daughter.

“What has happened?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Edith replied. “They didn’t seem to need me. They made it rather plain, in fact. Another quarrel, I presume. She came into the house like a whirlwind, asked at once for Deborah and flew up to Deborah’s room.”

“Pshaw!” Roger heavily mounted the stairs. He at least did not feel like flying. A whirlwind, eh⁠—a nice evening ahead!

Meanwhile, in her room upstairs Deborah sat motionless, sternly holding her feelings down, while in a tone now kindly but more often full of a sharp dismay, she threw out question after question to Laura who was walking the floor in a quick, feverish sort of way, with gestures half hysterical, her voice bursting with emotions of mingled fright and rage.

“No, this time it’s divorce!” she declared, at the end of her first outburst, in which she had told in fragments of her husband’s double life. “I’ve stood it long enough! I’m through!”

“You mean you don’t care for him,” Deborah said. She was fighting for time to think it out. “You want a divorce. Very well, Laura dear⁠—but how do you think you are going to get it? The laws are rather strict in this state. They allow but one cause. Have you any proofs?”

“No, I haven’t⁠—but I don’t need any proofs! He wants it as badly as I do! Wait⁠—I’ll give you his very words!” Laura’s face grew white with fury. “ ‘It’s entirely up to you, Sweetie’⁠—the beast!⁠—‘You can have any kind of divorce you like. You can let me bring suit on the quiet or you can try to fight me in court, climb up into the witness chair in front of the reporters and tell them all about yourself!’ ”

“Your husband is to bring suit against you?” Deborah’s voice was loud and harsh. “For God’s sake, Laura, what do you mean?”

“Mean? I mean that he has proofs! He has used a detective, the mean little cur, and he’s treating me like the dirt under his feet! Just as though it were one thing for a man, and another⁠—quite⁠—for a woman! He even had the nerve to be mad, to get on a high horse, call me names! Turn me!⁠—turn me out on the street!” Deborah winced as though from a blow. “Oh, it was funny, funny!” Laura was almost sobbing now.

“Stop, this minute!” Deborah said. “You say that you’ve been doing⁠—what he has?” she demanded.

“Why shouldn’t I? What do you know about it? Are you going to turn against me, too?”

“I am⁠—pretty nearly⁠—”

“Oh, good God!” Laura tossed up her hands and went on with her walking.

“Quiet! Please try to be clear and explain.”

“Explain⁠—to you? How can I? You don’t understand⁠—you know nothing about it⁠—all you know about is schools! You’re simply a nun when it comes to this. I see it now⁠—I didn’t before⁠—I thought you a modern woman⁠—with your mind open to new ideas. But it isn’t, it seems, when it comes to a pinch⁠—it’s shut as tight as Edith’s is⁠—”

“Yes, tight!”

“Thank you very much! Then for the love of Heaven will you kindly leave me alone! I’ll have a talk with father!”

“You will not have a talk with father⁠—”

“I most certainly will⁠—and he’ll understand! He’s a man, at least⁠—and he led a man’s life before he was married!”

“Laura!”

“You can’t see it in him⁠—but I can!”

“You’ll say not a word to him, not one word! He has had enough this year as it is!”

“Has he? Then I’m sorry! If you were any help to me⁠—instead of acting like a nun⁠—”

“Will you please stop talking like a fool?”

“I’m not! I’m speaking the truth and you know it! You know no more about love like mine than a nun of the middle ages! You needn’t tell me about Allan Baird. You think you’re in love with him, don’t you? Well then, I’ll tell you that you’re not⁠—your love is the kind that can wait for years⁠—because it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold⁠—it’s all in your mind and your reason! And so I say you’re no help to me now! Here⁠—look at yourself in the glass over there! You’re just plain angry⁠—frightened!”

“Yes⁠—I am⁠—I’m frightened.” While she strove to think clearly, to form some plan, she let her young sister talk rapidly on:

“I know you are! And you can’t be fair! You’re like nearly all American women⁠—married or single, young or old⁠—you’re all of you scared to death about sex⁠—just as your Puritan mothers were! And you leave it alone⁠—you keep it down⁠—you never give it a chance⁠—you’re afraid! But I’m not afraid⁠—and I’m living my life! And let me tell you I’m not alone! There are hundreds and thousands doing the same⁠—right here in New York City tonight! It’s been so abroad for years and years⁠—in Rome and Berlin, in Paris and London⁠—and now, thank God, it has come over here! If our husbands can do it, why can’t we? And we are⁠—we’re starting⁠—it’s come with the war! You think war is hell and nothing else, don’t you⁠—but you’re wrong! It’s not only killing men⁠—it’s killing a lot of hypocrisies too⁠—it’s giving a jolt to marriage! You’ll see what the women will do soon enough⁠—when there aren’t enough men any longer⁠—”

“Suppose you stop this tirade and tell me exactly what you’ve done,” Deborah interrupted. A simple course of action had just flashed into her mind.

“All right, I will. I’m not ashamed. I’ve given you this ‘tirade’ to show you exactly how I feel⁠—that it’s not any question of sin or guilt or any musty old rubbish like that! I know I’m right! I know just what I’m doing!”

“Who’s the man? That Italian?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Right here in New York.”

“Does he mean to stand by you?”

“Of course he does.”

“Will he marry you, Laura?”

“Yes, he will⁠—the minute I’m free from my beast of a husband!”

“And your husband will keep his suit quiet, you said, if you agree not to fight him.”

“Yes.”

Deborah rose abruptly.

“Then will you stay right here tonight, and leave this matter to me?” she asked.

“What do you mean to do?”

“See your husband.”

“What for? When?”

“Tonight, if I can. I want to be sure.”

Laura looked for the moment nonplussed.

“And what of my wishes?” she inquired.

“Your wishes,” said Deborah steadily. “You want a divorce, don’t you⁠—so do I. And you want it quiet⁠—and so do I. I want it so hard that I want to make sure.” Deborah’s tone was kinder now, and she came over close to her sister. “Look here, Laura, if I’ve been hard, forgive me⁠—please⁠—and let me help. I’m not so narrow as you think. I’ve been through a good deal of this before⁠—downtown, I mean, with girls in my school. They come to me, we have long talks. Maybe I am a nun⁠—as you say⁠—but I’m one with a confessional. Not for sins,” she added, as Laura looked up angrily. “Sins don’t interest me very much. But troubles do. And heaven knows that marriage is one,” she said with a curious bitterness. “And when it has failed and there’s no love left⁠—as in your case⁠—I’m for divorce. Only⁠—” her wide sensitive lips quivered just a little, “I’m sorry it had to come like this. But I love you, dear, and I want to help, I want to see you safely through. And while I’m doing it, if we can, I want to keep dad out of it⁠—at least until it’s settled.” She paused a moment. “So if you agree, I’ll go to your husband. I want to be sure, absolutely, just what we can count on. And until I come back, stay here in my room. You don’t want to talk to father and Edith⁠—”

“Most certainly not!” Laura muttered.

“Good. Then stay here until I return. I’ll send you up some supper.”

“I don’t want any, thank you.”

Laura went and threw herself on the bed, while her sister finished dressing.

“It’s decent of you, Deborah.” Her voice was muffled and relaxed. “I wasn’t fair,” she added. “I’m sorry for some of the things I said.”

“About me and marriage?” Deborah looked at herself in the glass in a peculiar searching way. A slight spasm crossed her features. “I’m not sure but that you were right. At times I feel far from certain,” she said. Laura lifted her head from the pillow, watched her sister a moment, dropped back.

“Don’t let this affect you, Deborah.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dearie.” And Deborah moved toward the door. “My affair is just mine, you see, and this won’t make any difference.”

But in her heart she knew it would. What an utter loathing she had tonight for all that people meant by sex! Suddenly she was quivering, her limbs and her whole body hot.

“You say I’m cold,” she was thinking. “Cold toward Allan, calm and cool, nothing but mind and reason! You say it means little to me, all that! But if I had had trouble with Allan, would I have come running home to talk? Wouldn’t I have hugged it tight? And isn’t that love? What do you know of me and the life I’ve led? Do you know how it feels to want to work, to be something yourself, without any man? And can’t that be a passion? Have you had to live with Edith here and see what motherhood can be, what it can do to a woman? And now you come with another side, just as narrow as hers, devouring everything else in sight! And because I’m a little afraid of that, for myself and all I want to do, you say I don’t know what love is! But I do! And my love’s worth more than yours! It’s deeper, richer, it will last!⁠ ⁠… Then why do I loathe it all tonight?⁠ ⁠… But I don’t, I only loathe your side!⁠ ⁠… But yours is the very heart of it!⁠ ⁠… All right, then what am I going to do?”

She was going slowly down the stairs. She stopped for a moment, frowning.