His Family by Ernest Poole (popular ebook readers txt) 📕

“May I talk to you, father?” she asked.

“I suppose so.” Roger scowled.

“You’ll excuse us, Edith?” she added.

“Oh, assuredly, dear.” And Edith rose, looking very much hurt. “Of course, if I’m not needed⁠—”

At this her father scowled again. Why couldn’t Deborah show her sister a little consideration?

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Suppose we go into the study,” she said.

He followed her there and shut the door.

“Well?” he asked, from his big leather chair. Deborah had remained standing.

“I’ve got some bad news,” she began.

“What is it?” he snapped. “School burnt down?” Savagely he bit off a cigar.

“I’ve just had a talk with Harold,” she told him. He shot a glance of surprise and dismay.

“Have, eh⁠—what’s it all about?”

“It’s about a divorce,” she answered.

The lighted match dropped from Roger’s hand. He snatched it up before it was out and lit his cigar, and puffing smoke in a vigilant way again he eyed his daughter.

“I’ve done what I could,” she said painfully, “but they seem to have made up their minds.”

“Then they’ll unmake ’em,” he replied, and he leaned forward heavily. “They’ll unmake ’em,” he repeated, in a thick unnatural tone. “I’m not a’goin’ to hear to it!” In a curious manner his voice had changed. It sounded like that of a man in the mountains, where he had been born and raised. This thought flashed into Deborah’s mind and her wide resolute mouth set hard. It would be very difficult.

“I’m afraid this won’t do, father dear. Whether you give your consent or not⁠—”

“Wun’t, wun’t it! You wait and see if it wun’t!” Deborah came close to him.

“Suppose you wait till you understand,” she admonished sternly.

“All right, I’m waiting,” he replied. She felt herself trembling deep inside. She did not want him to understand, any more than she must to induce him to keep out of this affair.

“To begin with,” she said steadily, “you will soon see yourself, I think, that they fairly loathe the sight of each other⁠—that there is no real marriage left.”

“That’s fiddlesticks!” snapped Roger. “Just modern talk and new ideas⁠—ideas you’re to blame for! Yes, you are⁠—you put ’em in her head⁠—you and your gabble about woman’s rights!” He was angry now. He was glad he was angry. He’d just begun!

“If you want me to leave her alone,” his daughter cut in sharply, “just say so! I’ll leave it all to you!” And she saw him flinch a little. “What would be your idea?” she asked.

“My idea? She’s to go straight home and make up with him!”

She hesitated. Then she said:

“Suppose there’s another woman.”

“Then he’s a beast,” growled Roger.

“And yet you want her to live with him?”

He scowled, he felt baffled, his mind in a whirl. And a wave of exasperation suddenly swept over him.

“Well, why shouldn’t she?” he cried. “Other wives have done it⁠—millions! Made a devilish good success of it, too⁠—made new men of their husbands! Let her show him she’s ready to forgive! That’s only Christian, ain’t it? Hard? Of course it’s hard on her! But can you tell me one hard thing she has ever had to do in her life? Hasn’t it been pleasure, pleasure from the word go? Can’t she stand something hard? Don’t we all of us have to? I do⁠—God knows⁠—with all of you!” And he puffed his cigar in a fury. His daughter smiled. She saw her chance.

“Father,” she said, in a low clear voice, “You’ve had so many troubles. Why not leave this one to me? You can’t help⁠—no matter how hard you try⁠—you’ll only make it worse and worse. And you’ve been through so much this year⁠—you’ve earned the right to be quiet. And that’s what they want, both of them⁠—they both want it quiet, without any scandal.” Her father glared, for he knew about scandal, he handled it in his office each day. “Let me manage this⁠—please,” she said. And her offer tempted him. He struggled for a moment.

“No, I won’t!” he burst out in reply. “I want quiet right enough, but not at the price of her peace with her God!” This sounded foolish, he felt that it did, and he flushed and grew the angrier. “No, I won’t,” he said stubbornly. “She’ll go back to him if I take her myself. And what’s more,” he added, rising, “she’s to go straight back tonight!”

“She is not going back tonight, my dear.” And Deborah caught her father’s arm. “Sit down, please⁠—”

“I’ve heard enough!”

“I’m afraid you haven’t,” she replied.

“Very well.” His smile was caustic. “Give me some more of it,” he said.

“Her husband won’t have her,” said Deborah bluntly. “He told me so himself⁠—tonight.”

“Did, eh⁠—then I’ll talk to him!”

“He thinks,” she went on in a desperate tone, “that Laura has been leading⁠—‘her own little life’⁠—as he put it to me.”

“Eh?”

“He is bringing suit himself.”

“Oh! He is!” cried Roger hoarsely. “Then I will talk to this young man!” But she put out a restraining hand:

“Father! Don’t try to fight this suit!”

“You watch me!” he snarled. Tears showed in her eyes:

“Think! Oh, please! Think what you’re doing! Have you ever seen a divorce-court⁠—here, in New York? Do you know what it’s like? What it can be like?”

“Yes,” Roger panted. He did know, and the picture came vividly into his mind⁠—a mass of eager devouring eyes fixed on a girl in a witness chair. “Tomorrow I see a lawyer!” he said.

“No⁠—you won’t do that, my dear,” Deborah told him sadly. “Laura’s husband has got proofs.”

Her father looked up slowly and glared into his daughter’s face.

“I’ve seen them myself,” she added. “And Laura has admitted it, too.”

Still for a moment he stared at her. Then slowly he settled back in his chair, his eyes dropped in their sockets, and very carefully, with a hand which was trembling visibly, he lifted his cigar to his lips. It had gone nearly out, but he drew on it hard until it began to glow again.

“Well,” he asked simply, “what shall we do?”

Sharply Deborah turned away. To be quiet, to be matter of fact,