His Family - Ernest Poole [64]
Edith looked up at Deborah quickly, and as quickly turned away. She went in to her husband. And there, hour by hour through the night, while he lay inert with his hand in hers, little by little she understood. But she asked no question of anyone.
At last Bruce stirred a little and began breathing deep and fast.
And so death came into the family.
CHAPTER XXI
Roger went through the next two days in a kind of a stupor. He remembered holding Edith and feeling her shudder as though from a chill. He remembered being stopped in the hall by George who had dressed himself with care in his first suit with long trousers. "I just wanted you to remember," the boy whispered solemnly, "that I'm nearly sixteen and I'll be here. He said to stand by her and I will." The rest of that ghastly time was a blank, punctuated by small quiet orders which Roger obeyed. Thank God, Deborah was there, and she was attending to everything.
But when at last it was over, and Roger had spent the next day in his office, had found it impossible to work and so had gone home early, Deborah came to him in his room.
"Now we must have a talk," she said. "Allan has gone through Bruce's affairs, and there are still debts to be settled, it seems."
"How much do they come to, Deborah?"
"About five thousand dollars," she said. And for a moment neither spoke. "I wish I could help you out," she went on, "but I have nothing saved and neither has Allan. We've both kept using our money downtown--except just enough for the trip abroad--and we'll need almost all of that to settle for the funeral."
"I can manage," Roger said, and again there was a silence.
"Edith will have to come here to live," Deborah said presently. Her father's heavy face grew stern.
"I'd thought of that," he answered. "But it will be hard on her, Deborah--"
"I know it will--but I don't see anything else to be done." The deep quiet voice of his daughter grew sweet with pity as she spoke. "At least we can try to make it a little easier for her. You can take her up to the mountains and I can close her apartment. But of course she won't agree to it unless she knows how matters stand." Deborah waited a little. "Don't you think you're the best one to tell her?"
"Yes," said Roger, after a pause.
"Then suppose we go to her. I'm sleeping up there for the next few nights."
* * * * *
They found Edith in her living room. She had sent the nurse out, put the children to bed, and left alone with nothing to do she had sat facing her first night. Her light soft hair was disheveled, her pretty features pale and set. But the moment Roger entered he saw that she had herself in hand.
"Well, father," she said steadily. "You'd better tell me about our affairs. My affairs," she corrected herself. When he had explained, she was silent a moment, and then in a voice harsh, bitter, abrupt, "That will be hard on the children," she said. On an impulse he started to take her hand, but she drew a little away from him.
"The children, my dear," he said huskily, "will be taken care of always."
"Yes." And again she was silent. "I've been thinking I'd like to go up to the mountains--right away," she continued.
"Just our idea," he told her. "Deborah will arrange it at once."
"That's good of Deborah," she replied. And after another pause: "But take her home with you--will you? I'd rather not have her here to-night."
"I think she'd better stay, my dear."
"All right." In a tone of weariness. "Madge Deering called me up to-night. She's coming in town to-morrow, and she means to stay till I go."
"I'm glad," he said approvingly. Madge had been a widow for years. Living out in Morristown with four daughters to bring up, she had determinedly fought her way and had not only regained her hold but had even grown in strength and breadth since the death of her husband long ago. "I'm glad," he said. "You and Madge--" he paused.
"Yes, we'll have a good deal in common," Edith finished out his thought. "You look tired, dad. Hadn't you better go home now?" she suggested after a moment.
"Yes," said Roger, rising. "Good-night, my child.