His Family - Ernest Poole [108]
Roger stopped abruptly. He groped for something more to say.
"On the one side, all that," he muttered, "and on the other, a lonely life which will soon grow old."
There fell a dangerous silence. And sharply without warning, the influence, deep and invisible, of many generations of stolid folk in New England made itself felt in each of them. Father and daughter grew awkward, both. The talk had been too emotional. Each made, as by an instinct, a quick strong effort at self-control, and felt about for some way to get back upon their old easy footing. Roger turned to his daughter. Her head was still bent, her hands clasped tight, but she was frowning down at them now, although her face was still wet with tears. She drew a deep unsteady breath.
"Well, Deborah," he said simply, "here I've gone stumbling on like a fool. I don't know what I've said or how you have listened."
"I've listened," she said thickly.
"I have tried," he went on in a steadier tone, "to give you some feeling of what is ahead--and to speak for your mother as well as myself. And more than that--much more than that--for the world has changed since she was here. God knows I've tried to be modern." A humorous glint came into his eyes, "Downright modern," he declared. "Have I asked you to give up your career? Not at all, I've asked you to marry Baird, and go right on with him in your work. And if you can't marry Allan Baird, after what he has done for you, how in God's name can you modern women ever marry anyone? Now what do you say? Will you marry him? Don't laugh at me! I'm serious! Talk!"
But Deborah was laughing--although her father felt her hands still cold and trembling in his. Her gray eyes, bright and luminous, were shining up into his own.
"What a time you've been having, haven't you, dear!" his daughter cried unsteadily. "Fairly lying awake at night and racking your brains for everything modern I've ever said--to turn it and twist it and use it against me!"
"Well?" he demanded. "How does it twist?"
"It twists hard, thank you," she declared. "You've turned and twisted me about till I barely see how I can live at all!"
"You can, though! Marry Allan Baird!"
"I'll think it over--later on."
"What is there left to think about? Can you point to one hole in all I've said?"
"Yes, a good many--and one right off."
"Out with it!"
"You're not dying," Deborah told him calmly, "I feel quite certain you'll live for years."
"Oh, you do, eh--then see my physician!"
"I will, I'll see him to-morrow. How long did you give yourself? Just a few months?"
"No, he said it might be more," admitted Roger grudgingly. "If I had no worries to wear me out--"
"Me, you mean."
"Exactly."
"Well, you've worried quite enough. You're going to leave it to me to decide."
"Very well," he agreed. He looked at her. "You have listened--hard?" he gruffly asked.
"Yes, dear." Her hands slowly tightened on his. "But don't speak of this again. You're to leave it to me. You promise?"
"Yes."
And Roger left her.
He went to bed but he could not sleep. With a sudden sag in his spirits he felt what a bungler he had been. He was not used to these solemn talks, he told himself irately. What a fool to try it! And how had Deborah taken it all? He did not mind her laughter, nor that lighter tone of hers. It was only her way of ending the talk, an easy way out for both of them. But what had she thought underneath? Had his points gone home? He tried to remember them. Pshaw! He had been too excited, and he could recall scarcely anything. He had not meant to speak of Baird--he