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

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! IV

He breakfasted with Deborah late on Sunday morning. He had come down at the usual hour despite his long tramp of 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 schoolmarm 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 today,” 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 today.” 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