VII

In the weeks which followed, Roger found the peace of his home so interrupted and disturbed by wedding preparations that often retreating into his den he earnestly told himself he was through, that a man with three grown daughters was a fool to show any sympathy with the utter folly of their lives. Yield an inch and they took a mile! It began one night when Deborah said,

“Now, dearie, I think you had better make up your mind to give Laura just the kind of wedding she likes.”

And Roger weakly agreed to this, but as time wore on he discovered that the kind of wedding Laura liked was a thing that made his blood run cold. There seemed to be no end whatever to the young bride’s blithe demands. The trousseau part of it he didn’t mind. To the gowns and hats and gloves and shoes and trunks and jaunty travelling bags which came pouring into the house, he made no objection. All that, he considered, was fair play. But what got on Roger’s nerves was this frantic fuss and change! The faded hall carpet had to come up, his favorite lounge was whisked away, the piano was re-tuned while he was trying to take a nap, rugs were beaten, crates and barrels filled the halls, and one whole bedroom stripped and bare was transformed into a shop where the wedding presents were displayed. In the shuffle his box of cigars disappeared. In short, there was the devil to pay!

And Deborah, was as bad as the bride. At times it appeared to Roger as though her fingers fairly itched to jab and tug at his poor old house, which wore an air of mute reproach. She revealed a part of her nature that he viewed with dark amazement. Every hour she could spare from school, she was changing something or other at home⁠—with an eager glitter in her eyes. Doing it all for Laura, she said. Fiddlesticks and rubbish! She did it because she liked it!

In gloomy wrath one afternoon he went up to see Edith and quiet down. She was well on the way to recovery, but instead of receiving solace here he only found fresh troubles. For sitting up in her old-fashioned bed, with an old-fashioned cap of lace upon her shapely little head, Edith made her father feel she had washed her hands of the whole affair.

“I’m sorry,” she said in an injured tone, “that Laura doesn’t care enough about her oldest sister to put off the wedding two or three weeks so I could be there. It seems rather undignified, I think, for a girl to hurry her wedding so. I should have loved to make it the dear simple kind of wedding which mother would have wanted. But so long as she doesn’t care for that⁠—and in fact has only found ten minutes⁠—once⁠—to run in and see the baby⁠—”

In dismay her father found himself defending the very daughter of whom he had come to complain. It was not such a short engagement, he said, he had learned they had been engaged some time before they told him.

“Do you approve of that?” she rejoined. “When I was engaged, I made Bruce go to you before I even let him⁠—” here Edith broke off primly. “Of course that was some time ago. An engagement, Laura tells me, is ‘a mere experiment’ nowadays. They ‘experiment’ till they feel quite sure⁠—then notify their parents and get married in a week.”

“She is rushing it, I admit,” Roger soothingly replied. “But she has her mind set on Paris in June.”

“Paris in June,” said Edith, “sums up in three words Laura’s whole conception of marriage. You really ought to talk to her, father. It’s your duty, it seems to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d rather not tell you.” Edith’s glance went sternly to the cradle by her bed. “Laura pities me,” she said, “for having had five children.”

“Oh, now, my dear girl!”

“She does, though⁠—she said as much. When she dropped in the other day and I tried to be sympathetic and give her a little sound advice, she said I had had the wedding I liked and the kind of married life I liked, and she was going to have hers. And she made it quite plain that her kind is to include no children. It’s to be simply an effort to find by ‘experiment’ whether or not she loves Hal Sloane. If she doesn’t⁠—” Edith gave a slight but emphatic wave of dismissal.

“Do you mean to say Laura told you that?” her father asked with an angry frown.

“I mean she made me feel it⁠—as plainly as I’m telling it! What I can’t understand,” his daughter went on, “is Deborah’s attitude in the affair.”

“What’s the matter with Deborah?” inquired Roger dismally.

“Oh, nothing’s the matter with Deborah. She’s quite self-sufficient. She at least can play with modern ideas and keep her head while she’s doing it. But when poor Laura⁠—a mere child with the mind of a chicken⁠—catches vaguely at such ideas, applies them to her own little self and risks her whole future happiness, it seems to me perfectly criminal for Deborah not to interfere! Not even a word of warning!”

“Deborah believes,” said her father, “in everyone’s leading his own life.”

“That’s rot,” was Edith’s curt reply. “Do I lead my own life? Does Bruce? Do you?”

“No,” growled Roger feelingly.

“Do my children?” Edith demanded. “I know Deborah would like them to. That’s her latest and most modern fad, to run a school where every child shall sit with a rat in its lap or a goat, and do just what he pleases⁠—follow his natural bent, she says. I hope she won’t come up to the mountains and practice on my children. I should hate to break with Deborah,” Edith ended thoughtfully.

Roger rose and walked the room. The comforting idea entered his mind that when the wedding was over he would take out his collection of rings and carefully polish every one. But even this hope did not stay with him long.

“With Laura at home,” he heard Edith continue, “you at least had a daughter to run your house. If Deborah tries to move you out⁠—”

“She won’t!” cried Roger in alarm.

“If she does,” persisted Edith, “or if she begins any talk of the kind⁠—you come to me and I’ll talk to her!”

Her father walked in silence, his head down, frowning at the floor.

“It seems funny,” Edith continued, “that women like me who give children their lives, and men like Bruce who are building New York⁠—actually doing it all the time⁠—have so little to say in these modern ideas. I suppose it’s because we’re a little too real.”

“To come back to the wedding,” Roger suggested.

“To come back to the wedding, father dear,” his daughter said compassionately. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a ‘mere form’ which will make you rather wretched. When you get so you can’t endure it, come in and see me and the baby.”

As he started for home, her words of warning recurred to his mind. Yes, here was the thing that disturbed him most, the ghost lurking under all this confusion, the part which had to do with himself. It was bad enough to know that his daughter, his own flesh and blood, was about to settle her fate at one throw. But to be moved out of his house bag and baggage! Roger strode wrathfully up the street.

“It’s your duty to talk to her,” Edith had said. And he meditated darkly on this: “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. I know my duties without being told. How does Edith know what her mother liked? We had our own likings, her mother and I, and our own ideas, long after she was tucked into bed. And yet she’s always harping on ‘what mother would have wanted.’ What I should like to know⁠—right now⁠—is what Judith would want if she were here!”

With a pang of utter loneliness amid these vexing problems, Roger felt it crowding in, this city of his children’s lives. As he strode on down Broadway, an old hag selling papers thrust one in his face and he caught a glimpse of a headline. Some bigwig woman re-divorced. How about Laura’s “experiment”? A mob of street urchins nearly upset him. How about Deborah? How about children? How about schools, education, the country? How about God? Was anyone thinking? Had anyone time? What a racket it made, slam-banging along. The taxis and motor trucks thundered and brayed, dark masses of people swept endlessly by, as though their very souls depended on their dinners or their jobs, their movies, roaring farces, thrills, their harum scarum dances, clothes. A plump little fool of a woman, her skirt so tight she could barely walk, tripped by on high-heeled slippers. That was it, he told himself, the whole city was high-heeled! No solid footing anywhere! And, good Lord, how they chattered!

He turned into a less noisy street. What would Judith want if she were here? It became disturbingly clear to him that she would undoubtedly wish him to have a talk with Laura now, find out if she’d really made up her mind not to have any children, and if so to tell her plainly that she was not only going against her God but risking her own happiness. For though Judith had been liberal about any number of smaller things, she had been decidedly clear on this. Yes, he must talk to Laura.

“And she’ll tell me,” he reflected, “that Edith put me up to it!”

If only his oldest daughter would leave the other girls alone! Here she was planning a row with Deborah over whether poor young George should be allowed to play with rats! It was all so silly!⁠ ⁠… Yes, his three children were drifting apart, each one of them going her separate way. And he rather took comfort in the thought, for at least it would stop their wrangling. But again he pulled himself up with a jerk. No, certainly Judith would not have liked this. If she’d ever stood for anything, it was for keeping the family together. It had been the heart and center of their last talks before she died.

His face relaxed as he walked on, but in his eyes was a deeper pain. If only Judith could be here. Before he reached home he had made up his mind to talk with Laura that very night. He drew out his latchkey, opened his door, shut it firmly and strode into his house. In the hall they were putting down the new carpet. Cautiously picking his way upstairs, he inquired for Laura and was told she was dressing for dinner. He knocked at her door.

“Yes?” came her voice.

“It’s I,” he said, “your father.”

“Oh, hello, dad,” came the answer gaily, in that high sweet voice of hers. “I’m frightfully rushed. It’s a dinner dance tonight for the bridesmaids and the ushers.” Roger felt a glow of relief. “Come in a moment, won’t you?”

What a resplendent young creature she was, seated at her dresser. Behind her the maid with needle and thread was swiftly mending a little tear in the fluffy blue tulle she was wearing. The shaded light just over her head brought a shimmer of red in her sleek brown hair. What lips she had, what a bosom. She drew a deep breath and smiled at him.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” her father asked her.

“Oh, dad, my love, we have every evening filled and crammed right up to the wedding,” she replied. “No⁠—the last evening I’ll be here. Hal’s giving his ushers a dinner that night.”

“Good. I want to talk to you, my dear.” He felt his voice solemn, a great mistake. He saw the quick glance from her luminous eyes.

“All right, father⁠—whenever you like.”

Much embarrassed Roger left the room.

The few days which remained were a crowding confusion of dressmakers, gowns and chattering friends and gifts arriving at all hours. As a part of his resolve to do what he could for his daughter, Roger stayed home from his office that week. But all he could do was to unpack boxes, take out presents and keep the cards, and say, “Yes, my dear, it’s very nice. Where shall I put this one?” As the array of presents grew, from time to time unconsciously he glanced at the engagement ring upon Laura’s finger. And all the presents seemed like that. They would suit her apartment beautifully. He’d be glad when they were out of the house.

The only gift that appealed to his fancy was a brooch, neither rich nor new, a genuine bit of old jewelry. But rather to his annoyance he learned that it had been sent to Laura by the old Galician Jew in the shop around the corner. It recalled to his mind the curious friendship which had existed for so long between the old man and his daughter. And as she turned the brooch to the light Roger thought he saw in her eyes anticipations which made him uneasy. Yes, she was a child of his. “June in Paris⁠—” other Junes⁠—“experiments”⁠—no children. Again he felt he must have that talk. But, good Lord, how he dreaded it.

The house was almost ready now, dismantled and made new and strange. It was the night before the wedding. Laura was taking her supper in bed. What was he going to say to her? He ate his dinner silently. At last he rose with grim resolution.

“I think I’ll go up and see her,” he said. Deborah quickly glanced at him.

“What for?” she asked.

“Oh, I just want to talk to her⁠—”

“Don’t stay long,” she admonished him. “I’ve a masseuse coming at nine o’clock to get the child in condition to rest. Her nerves are rather tense, you know.”

“How about mine?” he said to himself as he started upstairs. “Never mind, I’ve got to tackle it.”

Laura saw what he meant to say the moment that he entered the room, and the tightening of her features made it all the harder for Roger to think clearly, to remember the grave, kind, fatherly things which he had intended to tell her.

“I don’t want to talk of the wedding, child, but of what’s coming after that⁠—between you and this man⁠—all your life.” He stopped short, with his heart in his mouth, for although he did not look at her he had a quick sensation as though he had struck her in the face.

“Isn’t this rather late to speak about that? Just now? When I’m nervous enough as it is?”

“I know, I know.” He spoke hurriedly, humbly. “I should have talked to you long ago, I should have known you better, child. I’ve been slack and selfish. But it’s better late than never.”

“But you needn’t!” the girl exclaimed. “You needn’t tell me anything! I know more than you think⁠—I know enough!” Roger looked at her, then at the wall. She went on in a voice rather breathless: “I know what I’m doing⁠—exactly⁠—just what I’m getting into. It’s not as it was when you were young⁠—it’s different⁠—we talk of these things. Harold and I have talked it all out.” In the brief and dangerous pause which followed Roger kept looking at the wall.

“Have you talked⁠—about having children?”

“Yes,” came the answer sharply, and then he felt the hot clutch of her hand. “Hadn’t you better go now, dad?” He hesitated.

“No,” he said. His voice was low. “Do you mean to have children, Laura?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know. Do you mean to have children?” Her big black eyes, dilating, were fixed defiantly on his own.

“Well then, no, I don’t!” she replied. He made a desperate effort to think what he could say to her. Good God, how he was bungling! Where were all his arguments?

“How about your religion?” he blurted out.

“I haven’t any⁠—which makes me do that⁠—I’ve a right to be happy!”

“You haven’t!” His voice had suddenly changed. In accent and in quality it was like a voice from the heart of New England where he had been born and bred. “I mean you won’t be happy⁠—not unless you have a child! It’s what you need⁠—it’ll fill your life! It’ll settle you⁠—deepen you⁠—tone you down!”

“Suppose I don’t want to be toned down!” The girl was almost hysterical. “I’m no Puritan⁠—I want to live! I tell you we are different now! We’re not all like Edith⁠—and we’re not like our mothers! We want to live! And we have a right to! Why don’t you go? Can’t you see I’m nearly crazy? It’s my last night, my very last! I don’t want to talk to you⁠—I don’t even know what I’m saying! And you come and try to frighten me!” Her voice caught and broke into sobs. “You know nothing about me! You never did! Leave me alone, can’t you⁠—leave me alone!”

“Father?” He heard Deborah’s voice, abrupt and stern, outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. He went in blind fashion out of the room and down to his study. He lit a cigar and smoked wretchedly there. When presently Deborah appeared he saw that her face was set and hard; but as she caught the baffled look, the angry tortured light in his eyes, her own expression softened.

“Poor father,” she said, in a pitying way. “If Edith had only let you alone.”

“I certainly didn’t do much good.”

“Of course you didn’t⁠—you did harm⁠—oh, so much more harm than you know.” Into the quiet voice of his daughter crept a note of keen regret. “I wanted to make her last days in this house a time she could look back on, so that she’d want to come home for help if ever she’s in trouble. She has so little⁠—don’t you see?⁠—of what a woman needs these days. She has grown up so badly. Oh, if you’d only let her alone. It was such a bad, bad time to choose.” She went to her father and kissed him. “Well, it’s over now,” she said, “and we’ll make the best we can of it. I’ll tell her you’re sorry and quiet her down. And tomorrow we’ll try to forget it has happened.”

For Roger the morrow went by in a whirl. The wedding, a large church affair, was to take place at twelve o’clock. He arose early, put on his Prince Albert, went down and ate his breakfast alone. The waitress was flustered, the coffee was burnt. He finished and anxiously wandered about. The maids were bustling in and out, with Deborah giving orders pellmell. The caterers came trooping in. The bridesmaids were arriving and hurrying up to Roger’s room. That place was soon a chaos of voices, giggles, peals of laughter. Laura’s trunks were brought downstairs, and Roger tagged them for the ship, one for the cabin and three for the hold, and saw them into the wagon. Then he strode distractedly everywhere, till at last he was hustled by Deborah into a taxi waiting outside.

“It’s all going so smoothly,” Deborah said, and a faint sardonic glimmer came into her father’s hunted eyes. Deborah was funny!

Soon he found himself in the church. He heard whispers, eager voices, heard one usher say to another, “God, what a terrible head I’ve got!” And Roger glared at him for that. Plainly these youngsters, all mere boys, had been up with the groom a good part of the night.⁠ ⁠… But here was Laura, pale and tense. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. There was silence, then the organ, and now he was taking her up the aisle. Strange faces stared. His jaw set hard. At last they reached the altar. An usher quickly touched his arm and he stepped back where he belonged. He listened but understood nothing. Just words, words and motions.

“If any man can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

“No,” thought Roger, “I won’t speak.”

Just then he caught sight of Deborah’s face, and at the look in her steady gray eyes all at once he could feel the hot tears in his own.

At the wedding breakfast he was gay to a boisterous degree. He talked to strange women and brought them food, took punch with men he had never laid eyes on, went off on a feverish hunt for cigars, came back distractedly, joked with young girls and even started some of them dancing. The whole affair was over in no time. The bride and the groom came rushing downstairs; and as they escaped from the shower of rice, Roger ran after them down the steps. He gripped Sloane’s hand.

“Remember, boy, it’s her whole life!” entreated Roger hoarsely.

“Yes, sir! I’ll look out! No fear!”

“Goodbye, daddy!”

“God bless you, dear!”

They were speeding away. And with the best man, who looked weary and spent, Roger went slowly back up the steps. It was an effort now to talk. Thank Heaven these people soon were gone. Last of all went the ponderous aunt of the groom. How the taxi groaned as he helped her inside and started her off to Bridgeport. Back in his study he found his cigars and smoked one dismally with Bruce. Bruce was a decent sort of chap. He knew when to be silent.

“Well,” he spoke finally, rising, “I guess I’ll have to get back to the office.” He smiled a little and put his hand on Roger’s weary shoulder. “We’re glad it’s over⁠—eh?” he asked.

“Bruce,” said Roger heavily, “you’ve got a girl of your own growing up. Don’t let her grow to feel you’re old. Live on with her. She’ll need you.” His massive blunt face darkened. “The world’s so damnably new,” he muttered, “so choked up with fool ideas.” Bruce still smiled affectionately.

“Go up and see Edith,” he said, “and forget ’em. She never lets one into the flat. She said you were to be sure to come and tell her about the wedding.”

“All right, I’ll go,” said Roger. He hunted about for his hat and coat. What a devilish mess they had made of the house. A half hour later he was with Edith; but there, despite his efforts to answer all her questions, he grew heavier and heavier, till at last he barely spoke. He sat watching Edith’s baby.

“Did you talk to Laura?” he heard her ask.

“Yes,” he replied. “It did no good.” He knew that Edith was waiting for more, but he kept doggedly silent.

“Well, dear,” she said presently, “at least you did what you could for her.”

“I’ve never done what I could,” he rejoined. “Not with any one of you.” He glanced at her with a twinge of pain. “I don’t know as it would have helped much if I had. This town is running away with itself. I want a rest now, Edith, I want things quiet for a while.” He felt her anxious, pitying look.

“Where’s Deborah?” she asked him. “Gone back to school already?”

“I don’t know where she is,” he replied. And then he rose forlornly. “I guess I’ll be going back home,” he said.

On his way, as his thoughts slowly cleared, the old uneasiness rose in his mind. Would Deborah want to keep the house? Suppose she suggested moving to some titty-tatty little flat. No, he would not stand in her way. But, Lord, what an end to make of his life.

His home was almost dark inside, but he noticed rather to his surprise that the rooms had already been put in order. He sank down on the living room sofa and lay motionless for a while. How tired he was. From time to time he drearily sighed. Yes, Deborah would find him old and life here dull and lonely. Where was she tonight, he wondered. Couldn’t she quit her zoo school for one single afternoon? At last, when the room had grown pitch dark, he heard the maid lighting the gas in the hall. Roger loudly cleared his throat, and at the sound the startled girl ejaculated, “Oh, my Gawd!”

“It’s I,” said Roger sternly. “Did Miss Deborah say when she’d be back?”

“She didn’t go out, sir. She’s up in her room.”

Roger went up and found her there. All afternoon with both the maids she had been setting the house to rights, and now she ached in every limb. She was lying on her bed, and she looked as though she had been crying.

“Where have you been?” she inquired.

“At Edith’s,” her father answered. She reached up and took his hand, and held it slowly tighter.

“You aren’t going to find it too lonely here, with Laura gone?” she asked him. And the wistfulness in her deep sweet voice made something thrill in Roger.

“Why should I?” he retorted. Deborah gave a queer little laugh.

“Oh, I’m just silly, that’s all,” she said. “I’ve been having a fit of blues. I’ve been feeling so old this afternoon⁠—a regular old woman. I wanted you, dearie, and I was afraid that you⁠—” she broke off.

“Look here,” said Roger sharply. “Do you really want to keep this house?”

“Keep this house? Why, father!”

“You think you can stand it here alone, just the two of us?” he demanded.

“I can,” cried Deborah happily. Her father walked to the window. There as he looked blindly out, his eyes were assaulted by the lights of all those titty-tatty flats. And a look of vicious triumph appeared for a moment on his face.

“Very well,” he said quietly, turning back. “Then we’re both suited.” He went to the door. “I’ll go and wash up for supper,” he said.