His Family Ernest Poole (top ten books of all time .txt) 📖

has come to stay! You’re losing all your chances⁠—just as I did years ago! You’ll never know your children!”

But he uttered this cry to himself alone. Outwardly he only frowned. And Edith had gone on to say,

“I do hope that Deborah won’t come up this summer. She’s been very good and kind, of course, and if she comes she’ll be doing it entirely on my account. But I don’t want her here⁠—I want her to marry, the sooner the better, and come to her senses⁠—be happy, I mean. And I wish you would tell her so.”

Within a few days after this Deborah wrote to her father that she was coming the next week. He said nothing to Edith about it at first, he had William saddled and went for a ride to try to determine what he should do. But it was a ticklish business. For women were queer and touchy, and once more he felt the working of those uncanny family ties.

“Deborah,” he reflected, “is coming up here because she feels it’s selfish of her to stay away. If she marries at once, as she told me herself, she thinks Edith will be hurt. Edith won’t be hurt⁠—and if Deborah comes, there’ll be trouble every minute she stays. But can I tell her so? Not at all. I can’t say, ‘You’re not wanted here.’ If I do, she’ll be hurt. Oh Lord, these girls! And Deborah knows very well that if she does get married this month, with Laura abroad and Edith up here and only me at the wedding, Edith will smile to herself and say, ‘Now isn’t that just like Deborah?’ ”

As Roger slowly rode along a steep and winding mountain road, gloomily he reflected to what petty little troubles a family of women could descend, so soon after death itself. And he lifted his eyes up to the hills and decided to leave this matter alone. If women would be women, let them settle their own affairs. Deborah was due to arrive on the following Friday evening. All right, let her come, he thought. She would soon see she was in the way, and then in a little affectionate talk he would suggest that she marry right off and have a decent honeymoon before the school year opened.

So he dismissed it from his mind. And as he listened in the dusk to the numberless murmuring voices of living creatures large and small which rose out of the valley, and as from high above him the serenity of the mountains there towering over thousands of years stole into his spirit, Roger had a large quieting sense of something high and powerful looking down upon the earth, a sense of all humanity honeycombed with millions upon millions of small sorrows, absorbing joys and hopes and fears, and in spite of them all the Great Life sweeping on, with no Great Death to check its course, no immense catastrophe, all these little troubles like mere tiny specks of foam upon the surface of the tide.

Deborah’s visit, the following week, was as he had expected. Within an hour after her coming he could feel the tension grow. Deborah herself was tense, both from the work she had left in New York where she was soon to have five schools, and from the thought of her marriage, only a few weeks ahead. She said nothing about it, however, until as a sisterly duty Edith tried to draw her out by showing an interest in her plans. But the cloud of Bruce’s death was there, and Deborah shunned the topic. She tried to talk of the children instead. But Edith at once was on the defensive, vigilant for trouble, and as she unfolded her winter plans she grew distinctly brief and curt.

“If Deborah doesn’t see it now, she’s a fool,” her father told himself. “I’ll just wait a few days more, and then we’ll have that little talk.”

XXIV

It had rained so hard for the past two days that no one had gone to the village, which was nearly three miles from the farm. But when the storm was over at last, George and Elizabeth tramped down and came back at dusk with a bag full of mail. Their clothes were mud-bespattered and they hurried upstairs to change before supper, while Roger settled back in his chair and spread open his New York paper. It was July 30, 1914.

From a habit grown out of thirty odd years of business life, Roger read his paper in a fashion of his own. By instinct his eye swept the page for news dealing with individual men, for it was upon people’s names in print that he had made his living. And so when he looked at this strange front page it gave him a swift twinge of alarm. For the news was not of men but of nations. Austria was massing her troops along the Serbian frontier, and Germany, Italy, Russia, France and even England, all were in a turmoil, with panics in their capitals, money markets going wild.

Edith came down, in her neat black dress with its narrow white collar, ready for supper. She glanced at her father.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Look at this.” And he tossed her a paper.

“Oh-h-h,” she murmured softly. “Oh, how frightful that would be.” And she read on with lips compressed. But soon there came from a room upstairs the sudden cry of one of her children, followed by a shrill wail of distress. And dropping the paper, she hurried away.

Roger continued his reading.

Deborah came. She saw the paper Edith had dropped, picked it up and sat down to read, and there were a few moments of absolute silence. Then Roger heard a quivering breath, and glancing up he saw Deborah’s eyes, intent and startled, moving down the columns of print in a swift, uncomprehending way.

“Pretty serious business,” he growled.

“It can’t happen!” she exclaimed.

And they resumed their reading.

In the next three days, as they read the