“Because,” she replied, “we have a feeling that this is a war where we had much better help ourselves.”
“High ideals,” he snorted.
“Rome reborn,” she remarked, unabashed. And her father scowled at her whimsically.
“You’re a heathen. I give you up,” he declared. Laura had risen, smiling.
“Oh, no, don’t give me up,” she said. “For you see,” she added softly, “I’m a heathen with a great deal of love in her heart for thee, my dearest dad. May I bring him down, my husband?”
“Yes—”
“I’ll telephone to Deborah tomorrow and arrange it.”
When she had gone he returned to his chair and sat for a long time in a daze. He was still disturbed and bewildered. What a daughter of his! And what did it mean? Could she really go on being happy like this? Sinning? Yes, she was sinning! Laura had broken her marriage vows, she had “run off with another fellah.” Those were the plain ugly facts. And now, divorced and remarried, she was careering gayly on! And her views of the war were plain heathenish! And yet there was something about her—yes, he thought, he loved her still! What for? For being so happy! And yet she was wrong to be happy, all wrong! His thoughts went ’round in circles.
And his confusion and dismay grew even deeper the next night when Laura brought her new husband to dine. For in place of the dark polished scoundrel whom Roger had expected, here was a spruce and affable youth with thick light hair and ruddy cheeks, a brisk pleasant manner of talking and a decidedly forcible way of putting the case of his country at war. They kept the conversation to that. For despite Deborah’s friendly air, she showed plainly that she wanted to keep the talk impersonal. And Laura, rather amused at this, replied by treating Deborah and Allan and her father, too, with a bantering forbearance for their old-fashioned, narrow views and Deborah’s religion of brotherhood, democracy. All that to Laura was passé.
From time to time Roger glanced at her face, into her clear and luminous eyes so warm with the joy of living with this new man, her second. How his family had split apart. He wrote Edith the news of her sister, and he received but a brief reply. Nor did Deborah speak of it often. She seemed to want to forget Laura’s life as the crisis in her own drew near.
XLI
Deborah had not yet stopped work. Again and again she put it off. For in her busy office so many demands both old and new kept pressing in upon her, such unexpected questions and vexing little problems kept cropping up as Deborah tried to arrange her work for the colleague who was to take her place in the spring, that day after day she lingered there—until one afternoon in March her husband went to her office, gave her an hour to finish up, and then brought her home with him. She had a fit of the blues that night. Allan was called out on a case, and a little while later Roger found his daughter alone in the living room, a book unopened in her lap, her gray eyes glistening with tears. She smiled when she caught sight of him.
“It’s so silly!” she muttered unsteadily. “Just my condition, I suppose. I feel as though I had done with school for the remainder of my days! … Better leave me now, dearie,” she added. “I’m not very proud of myself tonight—but I’ll be all right in the morning.”
The next day she was herself again, and went quietly on with her preparations for the coming of her child. But still the ceaseless interests of those hordes of other children followed her into the house. Not only her successor but principals and teachers came for counsel or assistance. And later, when reluctantly she refused to see such visitors, still the telephone kept ringing and letters poured in by every mail. For in her larger family there were weddings, births and deaths, and the endless savage struggle for life; and there were many climaxes of dreams and aspirations, of loves and bitter jealousies. And out of all this straining and this fever of humanity, came messages to Deborah: last appeals for aid and advice, and gifts for the child who was to be born; tiny garments quaintly made by women and girls from Italy, from Russia and from Poland; baby blankets, wraps and toys and curious charms and amulets. There were so many of these gifts.
“There’s enough for forty babies,” Deborah told her father. “What on earth am I to do, to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings? And isn’t it rather awful, the way these inequalities will crop up in spite of you? I know of eight tenement babies born down there in this one week. How much fuss and feathers is made over them, and their coming into the world, poor mites?” Roger smiled at his daughter.
“You remind me of Jekyll and Hyde,” he said.
“Father! What a horrible thought! What have Jekyll and Hyde to do with me?”
“Nothing, my dear,” he answered. “Only it’s queer and a little uncanny, something I’ve never seen before, this double mother life of yours.”
It was only a few days later when coming home one evening he found that Deborah’s doctor had put her to bed and installed a nurse. There followed a week of keen suspense when Roger stayed home from the office. She liked to have him with her, and sitting at her bedside he saw how changed his daughter was, how far in these few hours she had drawn into herself. He had suspected for some time that all was not well with Deborah, and Allan confirmed his suspicions. There was to be grave danger both for the mother and the child. It would come out all right, of course, he strove to reassure himself. Nothing else could happen now, with her life so splendidly settled at
