It had rained so hard for the past two days that no one had gone to the
village, which was nearly three miles from the farm. But when the storm was
over at last, George and Elizabeth tramped down and came back at dusk with
a bag full of mail. Their clothes were mud-bespattered and they hurried
upstairs to change before supper, while Roger settled back in his chair and
spread open his New York paper. It was July 30, 1914.
From a habit grown out of thirty odd years of business life, Roger read his
paper in a fashion of his own. By instinct his eye swept the page for news
dealing with individual men, for it was upon people's names in print that
he had made his living. And so when he looked at this strange front page it
gave him a swift twinge of alarm. For the news was not of men but of
nations. Austria was massing her troops along the Serbian frontier, and
Germany, Italy, Russia, France and even England, all were in a turmoil,
with panics in their capitals, money markets going wild.
Edith came down, in her neat black dress with its narrow white collar,
ready for supper. She glanced at her father.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Look at this." And he tossed her a paper.
"Oh-h-h," she murmured softly. "Oh, how frightful that would be." And she
read on with lips compressed. But soon there came from a room upstairs the
sudden cry of one of her children, followed by a shrill wail of distress.
And dropping the paper, she hurried away.
Roger continued his reading.
Deborah came. She saw the paper Edith had dropped, picked it up and sat
down to read, and there were a few moments of absolute silence. Then Roger
heard a quivering breath, and glancing up he saw Deborah's eyes, intent and
startled, moving down the columns of print in a swift, uncomprehending way.
"Pretty serious business," he growled.
"It can't happen!" she exclaimed.
And they resumed their reading.
In the next three days, as they read the news, they felt war like a
whirlpool sucking in all their powers to think or feel, felt their own
small personal plans whirled about like leaves in a storm. And while their
minds--at first dazed and stunned by the thought of such appalling armies,
battles, death and desolation--slowly cleared and they strove to think, and
Roger thought of business shivered to atoms in every land, and Deborah
thought of schools by thousands all over Europe closing down, in cities and
in villages, in valleys and on mountain sides, of homes in panic
everywhere, of all ideals of brotherhood shaken, bending, tottering--war
broke out in Europe.
"What is this going to mean to me?"
Millions of people were asking that. And so did Roger and Deborah. The same
night they left for New York, while Edith with a sigh of relief settled
back into her family.
* * * * *
The next morning at his office Roger found John waiting with misery stamped
on his face. John had paid small heed to war. Barely stopping for sleep in
the last two days he had gone through scores and hundreds of papers,
angrily skipping all those names of kings and emperors and czars, and
searching instead for American names, names of patrons--business! Gone!
Each hour he had been opening mail and piling up letters cancelling
contracts, ordering service discontinued.
Roger sat down at his desk. As he worked and figured and dictated letters,
glancing into the outer rooms he saw the long rows of girls at tables
obviously trying to pretend that there was work for them to do. He felt
them anxiously watching him--as in other offices everywhere millions of
other employees kept furtively glancing at their chiefs.
"War," he thought. "Shall I close _down?_" He shrank from what it would
mean to those girls. "Business will pick up again soon. A few
days--weeks--that's all I need."
And he went to his bank. No credit there. He tried other sources, all he
could think of, racking his brains as he went about town, but still he
could not raise a loan. Finally he went to the firm which had once held a
mortgage on his house. The chief partner had been close to Bruce, an old
college friend. And when even this friend refused him aid, "It's a question
of Bruce's children," Roger muttered, reddening. He felt like a beggar, but
he was getting desperate. The younger man had looked away and was nervously
tapping his desk with his pen.
"Bad as that, eh," he answered. "Then I guess it's got to be done." He
looked anxiously up at Roger, who just at that moment appeared very old.
"Don't worry, Mr. Gale," he said. "Somehow or other we'll carry you
through."
"Thank you, sir." Roger rose heavily, feeling weak, and took his departure.
"This is war," he told himself, "and I've got to look after my own."
But he had a sensation almost of guilt, as upon his return to his office he
saw those suddenly watchful faces. He walked past them and went into his
room, and again he searched for ways and means. He tried to see his
business as it would be that autumn, to see the city, the nation, the world
as it would be in the months ahead. Repeatedly he fought off his fears.
But slowly and inexorably the sense of his helplessness grew clear.
"No, I must shut down," he thought.
* * * * *
On his way home that evening, in a crush at a turbulent corner he saw a big
truck jam into a taxi, and with a throb of rebellion he thought of his
son-in-law who was dead. Just the turn of a hair and Bruce might have lived
and been here to look after the children! At the prospect of the crisis,
the strain he saw before him, Roger again felt weak and old. He shook off
his dread and strode angrily on.
In his house, the rooms downstairs were still dismantled for the summer.
There was emptiness and silence but no serenity in them now, only the quiet
before the storm which he could feel from far and near was gathering about
his home. He heard Deborah on the floor above, and went up and found her
making his bed, for the chambermaid had not yet come. Her voice was a
little unnatural.
"It has been a hard day, hasn't it. I've got your bath-room ready," she
said. "Don't you want a nice cool bath? Supper will be ready soon."
When, a half hour later, somewhat refreshed, Roger came down to the table,
he noticed it was set for two.
"Isn't Allan coming?" he asked. Her mobile features tightened.
"Not till later," she replied.
They talked little and the meal was short. But afterwards, on the wooden
porch, Deborah turned to her father,
"Now tell me about your office," she said.
"There's not enough business to pay the rent."
"That won't last--"
"I'm not so sure."
"I am," she said determinedly. Her father slowly turned his head.
"Are you, with this war?" he asked. Her eyes met his and moved away in a
baffled, searching manner. "She has troubles of her own," he thought.
"How much can we run the house on, Deborah?" he asked her. At first she did
not answer. "What was it--about six thousand last year?"
"I think so," she said restlessly. "We can cut down on that, of course--"
"With Edith and the children here?"
"Edith will have to manage it! There are others to be thought of!"
"The children in your schools, you mean."
"Yes," she answered with a frown. "It will be a bad year for the tenements.
But please go on and tell me. What have you thought of doing?"
"Mortgage the house again," he replied. "It hasn't been easy, for money is
tight, but I think I'll be able to get enough to just about carry us
through the year. At home, I mean," he added.
"And the office?"
"Shut down," he said. She turned on him fiercely.
"You won't do that!"
"What else can I do?"
"Turn all those girls away?" she cried. At her tone his look grew troubled.
"How can I help myself, Deborah? If I kept open it would cost me over five
hundred a week to run. Have I five hundred dollars a week to lose?"
"But I tell you it won't last!" she cried, and again the baffled, driven
expression swept over her expressive face. "Can't you see this is only a
panic--and keep going somehow? Can't you see what it means to the
tenements? Hundreds of thousands are out of work! They're being turned off
every day, every hour--employers all over are losing their heads! And City
Hall is as mad as the rest! They've decided already down there to
retrench!"
He turned with a quick jerk of his head:
"Are they cutting you down?" She set her teeth:
"Yes, they are. But the work in my schools is going on--every bit of it
is--for every child! I'm going to find a way," she said. And he felt a
thrill of compassion.
"I'm sorry to hear it," he muttered.
"You needn't be." She paused a moment, smiled and went on in a quieter
voice: "Don't think I'm blind--I'm sensible--I see you can't lose five
hundred a week. But why not try what other employers, quite a few, have
decided to do? Call your people together, explain how it is, and ask them
to choose a committee to help you find which ones need jobs the most. Keep
all you can--on part time, of course--but at least pay them something,
carry them through. You'll lose money by it, I haven't a doubt. But you've
already found you can mortgage the house, and remember besides that I shall
be here. I'm not going to marry now"--her father looked at her
quickly--"and of course I'll expect to do my share toward meeting the
expenses. Moreover, I know we can cut down."
"Retrench," said Roger grimly. "Turn off the servants instead of the
clerks."
"No, only one of them, Martha upstairs--and she is to be married. We'll
keep the cook and the waitress. Edith will have to give up her nurse--and
it will be hard on her, of course--but she'll have to realize this is war,"
Deborah said sharply. "Besides," she urged, "it's not going to last.
Business everywhere will pick up--in a few weeks or months at most. The war
_can't_ go on--it's too horribly big!" She broke off and anxiously looked
at him. Her father was still frowning.
"I'm asking you to risk a good deal," she continued, her voice intense and
low. "But somehow, dearie, I always feel that this old house of ours is
strong. It can _stand_ a good deal. We can all of us stand so much, as soon
as we know we have to." The lines of her wide sensitive mouth tightened
firmly once again. "It's all so vague and uncertain, I know. But one thing
at least is sure. This is no time for people with money--no matter how
little--to shut themselves up in their own little houses and let the rest
starve or beg or steal. This is the time to do our share."
And she waited. But he made no reply.
"Every nation at war is doing it, dad--become like one big family--with
everyone helping, doing his share. Must a nation be at war to do that?
Can't we be brothers without the guns? Can't you see that we're all of us
stunned, and trying to see what war will mean to all the children in the
world? And while we're groping, groping, can't we give each other a hand?"
Still he sat motionless there in the dark. At last he stirred heavily in
his chair.
"I guess you're right," he told her. "At least I'll think it over--and try
to work out something along the lines you spoke of."
Again there was a silence. Then his daughter turned to him with a little
deprecating smile.
"You'll forgive my--preaching to you, dad?"
"No preaching," he said gruffly. "Just ordinary common sense."
* * * * *
A little later Allan came in, and Roger soon left them and went to bed.
Alone with Baird she was silent a moment.
"Well? Have you thought it over?" she asked. "Wasn't I right in what I
said?" At the anxious ring in her low clear voice, leaning over he took her
hand; and he felt it hot and trembling as it quickly closed on his. He
stroked it slowly, soothingly. In the semi-darkness he seemed doubly tall
and powerful.
"Yes, I'm sure you were right," he said.
"Spring at the latest--I'll marry you then--"
Her eyes were intently fixed on his.
"Come here!" she whispered sharply, and Baird bent over and held her
tight. "Tighter!" she whispered. "Tighter!... There!... I said, spring at
the latest! I can't lose you, Allan--now--"
She suddenly quivered as though from fatigue.
"I'm going to watch you close down there," he said in a moment, huskily.