On the next evening, Saturday, while Roger ate his dinner, Laura came to
sit with him. She herself was dining out. That she should have dressed so
early in order to keep him company had caused her father some surprise, and
a faint suspicion entered his mind that she had overdrawn at the bank, as
she had the last time she sat with him like this. Her manner certainly was
a bit strange.
But Roger put the thought aside. Whatever she wanted, Laura was worth it.
In a tingling fashion he felt what a glorious time she was having, what a
gorgeous town she knew. It was difficult to realize she was his own
daughter, this dashing stranger sitting here, playing idly with a knife and
caressing him with her voice and her eyes. The blue evening gown she was
wearing to-night (doubtless not yet paid for) made her figure even more
supple and lithe, set off her splendid bosom, her slender neck, her creamy
skin. Her hair, worn low over her temples, was brown with just a tinge of
red. Her eyes were black, with gleaming lights; her lips were warm and
rich, alive. He did not approve of her lips. Once when she had kissed him
Roger had started slightly back. For his daughter's lips were rouged, and
they had reminded him of his youth. He had asked her sister to speak to
her. But Deborah had told him she did not care to speak to people in that
way--"especially women--especially sisters," she had said, with a quiet
smile. All very well, he reflected, but somebody ought to take Laura in
hand.
She had been his favorite as a child, his pet, his tiny daughter. He
remembered her on his lap like a kitten. How she had liked to cuddle there.
And she had liked to bite his hand, a curious habit in a child. "I hurt
daddy!" He could still recollect the gay little laugh with which she said
that, looking up brightly into his face.
And here she was already grown, and like a light in the sober old house,
fascinating while she disturbed him. He liked to hear her high pitched
voice, gossiping in Deborah's room or in her own dainty chamber chatting
with the adoring maid who was dressing her to go out. He loved her joyous
thrilling laugh. And he would have missed her from the house as he would
have missed Fifth Avenue if it had been dropped from the city. For the
picture Roger had formed of this daughter was more of a symbol than of a
girl, a symbol of the ardent town, spending, wasting, dancing mad. It was
Laura who had kept him living right up to his income.
"Where are you dining to-night?" he asked.
"With the Raymonds." He wondered who they were. "Oh, Sarah," she added to
the maid. "Call up Mrs. Raymond's apartment and ask what time is dinner
to-night."
"Are you going to dance later on?" he inquired.
"Oh, I guess so," she replied. "On the Astor Roof, I think they said--"
Her father went on with his dinner. These hotel dances, he had heard, ran
well into Sunday morning. How Judith would have disapproved. He hesitated
uneasily.
"I don't especially care for this dancing into Sunday," he said. For a
moment he did not look up from his plate. When he did he saw Laura
regarding him.
"Oh, do you mind? I'm sorry. I won't, after this," she answered. And Roger
colored angrily, for the glint of amusement in Laura's mischievous black
eyes revealed quite unmistakably that she regarded both her father and his
feeling for the Sabbath as very dear and quaint and old. Old? Of course he
seemed old to _her_, Roger thought indignantly. For what was Laura but a
child? Did she ever think of anything except having a good time? Had she
ever stopped to think out her own morals, let alone anyone else's? Was she
any judge of what was old--or of _who_ was old? And he determined then and
there to show her he was in his prime. Impatiently he strove to remember
the names of her friends and ask her about them, to show a keen lively
interest in this giddy gaddy life she led. And when that was rather a
failure he tried his daughter next on books, books of the most modern kind.
Stoutly he lied and said he was reading a certain Russian novel of which he
had heard Deborah speak. But this valiant falsehood made no impression
whatever, for Laura had never heard of the book.
"I get so little time for reading," she murmured. And meanwhile she was
thinking, "As soon as he finishes talking, poor dear, I'll break the news."
Then Roger had an audacious thought. He would take her to a play, by
George! Mustering his courage he led up to it by speaking of a play Deborah
had seen, a full-fledged modern drama all centered upon the right of a
woman "to lead her own life." And as he outlined the story, he saw he had
caught his daughter's attention. With her pretty chin resting on one hand,
watching him and listening, she appeared much older, and she seemed
suddenly close to him.
"How would you like to go with me and see it some evening?" he inquired.
"See what, my love?" she asked him, her thoughts plainly far away; and he
looked at her in astonishment:
"That play I've just been speaking of!"
"Why, daddy, I'd love to!" she exclaimed.
"When?" he asked. And he fixed a night. He was proud of himself. Eagerly he
began to talk of opening nights at Wallack's. Roger and Judith, when they
were young, had been great first nighters there. And now it was Laura who
drew him out, and as he talked on she seemed to him to be smilingly trying
to picture it all.... "Now I'd better tell him," she thought.
"Do you remember Harold Sloane?" she asked a little strangely.
"No," replied her father, a bit annoyed at the interruption.
"Why--you've met him two or three times--"
"Have I?" The queer note in her voice made him look up. Laura had risen
from her chair.
"I want you to know him--very soon." There was a moment's silence. "I'm
going to marry him, dad," she said. And Roger looked at her blankly. He
felt his limbs beginning to tremble. "I've been waiting to tell you when we
were alone," she added in an awkward tone. And still staring up at her he
felt a rush of tenderness and a pang of deep remorse. Laura in love and
settled for life! And what did he know of the affair? What had he ever done
for her? Too late! He had begun too late! And this rush of emotion was so
overpowering that while he still looked at her blindly she was the first to
recover her poise. She came around the table and kissed him softly on the
cheek. And now more than ever Roger felt how old his daughter thought him.
"Who is he?" he asked hoarsely. And she answered smiling,
"A perfectly nice young man named Sloane."
"Don't, Laura--tell me! What does he do?"
"He's in a broker's office--junior member of the firm, Oh, you needn't
worry, dear, he can even afford to marry _me_."
They heard a ring at the front door.
"There he is now, I think," she said. "Will you see him? Would you mind?"
"See him? No!" her father cried.
"But just to shake hands," she insisted. "You needn't talk or say a word.
We've only a moment, anyway." And she went swiftly out of the room.
Roger rose in a panic and strode up and down. Before he could recover
himself she was back with her man, or rather her boy--for the fellow, to
her father's eyes, looked ridiculously young. Straight as an arrow,
slender, his dress suit irreproachable, the chap nevertheless was more than
a dandy. He looked hard, as though he trained, and his smooth and ruddy
face had a look of shrewd self-reliance. So much of him Roger fathomed in
the indignant cornered glance with which he welcomed him into the room.
"Why, good evening, Mr. Gale--glad to see you again, sir!" Young Sloane
nervously held out his hand. Roger took it and muttered something. For
several moments, his mind in a whirl, he heard their talk and laughter and
his own voice joining in. Laura seemed enjoying herself, her eyes brimming
with amusement over both her victims. But at last she had compassion,
kissed her father gaily and took her suitor out of the room.
Soon Roger heard them leave the house. He went into his study, savagely bit
off a cigar and gripped his evening paper as though he meant to choke it.
The maid came in with coffee. "Coffee? No!" he snapped at her. A few
moments later he came to his senses and found himself smoking fast and
hard. He heartily damned this fellow Sloane for breaking into the family
and asking poor Laura to risk her whole life--just for his own selfish
pleasure, his whim! Yes, "whim" was the very word for it! Laura's attitude,
too! Did she look at it seriously? Not at all! Quite plainly she saw her
career as one long Highland fling and dance, with this Harry boy as her
partner! Who had he danced with in his past? The fellow's past must be gone
into, and at once, without delay!
Here indeed was a jolt for Roger Gale, a pretty shabby trick of fate. This
was not what he had planned, this was a little way life had of jabbing a
man with surprises. For months he had been slowly and comfortably feeling
his way into the lives of his children, patiently, conscientiously. But
now without a word of warning in popped this young whipper-snapper, turning
the whole house upside down! Another young person to be known, another life
to be dug into, and with pick and shovel too! The job was far from
pleasant. Would Deborah help him? Not at all. She believed in letting
people alone--a devilish easy philosophy! Still, he wanted to tell her at
once, if only to stir her up a bit. He did not propose to bear this alone!
But Deborah was out to-night. Why must she always be out, he asked, in that
infernal zoo school? But no, it was not school to-night. She was dining out
in some café with a tall lank doctor friend of hers. Probably she was to
marry him!
"I'll have that news for breakfast!" Roger smote his paper savagely. Why
couldn't Laura have waited a little? Restlessly he walked the room. Then he
went into the hall, took his hat and a heavy stick which he used for his
night rambles, and walked off through the neighborhood. It was the first
Saturday evening of Spring, and on those quiet downtown streets he met
couples strolling by. A tall thin lad and a buxom girl went into a cheap
apartment building laughing gaily to themselves, and Roger thought of
Laura. A group of young Italians passed, humming "Trovatore," and it put
him in mind of the time when he had ushered at the opera. Would Laura's
young man be willing to usher? More like him to _tango_ down the aisle!
He reached Washington Square feeling tired but even more restless than
before. He climbed to the top of a motor 'bus, and on the lurching ride
uptown he darkly reflected that times had changed. He thought of the Avenue
he had known, with its long lines of hansom cabs, its dashing broughams and
coupés with jingling harness, livened footmen, everything sprucely
up-to-date. How the horses had added to the town. But they were gone, and
in their place were these great cats, these purring motors, sliding softly
by the 'bus. Roger had swift glimpses down into lighted limousines. In one
a big rich looking chap with a beard had a dressy young woman in his arms.
Lord, how he was hugging her! Laura would have a motor like that, kisses
like that, a life like that! She was the kind to go it hard! Ahead as far
as he could see was a dark rolling torrent of cars, lights gleaming by the
thousand. A hubbub of gay voices, cries and little shrieks of laughter
mingled with the blare of horns. He looked at huge shop windows softly
lighted with displays of bedrooms richly furnished, of gorgeous women's
apparel, silks and lacy filmy stuffs. And to Roger, in his mood of anxious
premonition, these bedroom scenes said plainly,
"O come, all ye faithful wives! Come let us adore him, and deck ourselves
to please his eye, to catch his eye, to hold his eye! For marriage is a
game these days!"
Yes, Laura would be a spender, a spender and a speeder too! How much money
had he, that chap? And damn him, what had he in his past? How Roger hated
the very thought of poking into another man's life! Poking where nobody
wanted him! He felt desperately alone. To-night they were dancing, he
recalled, not at a party in somebody's home, but in some flashy public
place where girls of 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!