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from her luminous eyes.
CHAPTER VII 32
"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.
CHAPTER VII 33
"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 to-morrow 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
CHAPTER VII 34
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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]