1918 His Family by Ernest Poole

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upon the other their aunt; both obviously drawn toward Deborah, a figure who stood in their regard for all that
thrilling outside world, that heaving sparkling ocean on which they too would soon embark; both sternly
repressing their eagerness as an insult to their mother, whom they loved and pitied so, regarding her as a brave
and dear but rapidly ageing creature "well on in her thirties," whom they must cherish and preserve. They both
had such solemn thoughts as they looked at Edith in her chair. But as Roger watched them, with their love and
their solemnity, their guilt and their perplexity, with quiet enjoyment he would wait to see the change he knew
would come. And it always did. The sudden picking up of a book, the vanishing of an anxious frown, and in
an instant their young minds had turned happily back into themselves, into their own engrossing lives, their
plans, their intimate dreams and ambitions, all so curiously bound up with memories of small happenings
which had struck them as funny that day and at which they would suddenly chuckle aloud.
And this was only one stage in their growth. What would be the next, he asked, and all the others after that?
What kind of world would they live in? Please heaven, there would be no wars. Many old things, no doubt,
would be changed, by the work of Deborah and her kind--but not too many, Roger hoped. And these young
people, meanwhile, would be bringing up children in their turn. So the family would go on, and multiply and
scatter wide, never to unite again. And he thought he could catch glimpses, very small and far away but bright
as patches of sunlight upon distant mountain tops, into the widening vista of those many lives ahead. A
wistful look crept over his face.
"In their lives too we shall be there, the dim strong figures of the past."
* * * * *
Deborah came into the room, and at once the whole atmosphere changed. Her niece sprang up delightedly.
"Why, Auntie, how lovely you look!" she exclaimed. And Roger eyed Deborah in surprise. Though she did
not believe in mourning, she had been wearing dark gowns of late to avoid hurting Edith's feelings. But
to-night she had donned bright colors instead; her dress was as near d�collet� as anything that Deborah wore,
and there was a band of dull blue velvet bound about her hair.
"Thanks, dearie," she said, smiling. "Shall we go in to dinner now?" she added to her father. "Edith said not to
wait for her--and I'll have to be off rather early this evening."
"What is it to-night?" he inquired.
"A big meeting at Cooper Union."
And at dinner she went on to say that in her five schools the neighborhood clubs had combined to hold this
meeting, and she herself was to preside. At once her young niece was all animation.
"Oh, I wish I could go and hear you!" she sighed.
"Afraid you can't, Betsy," her aunt replied. And at this, with an instinctive glance toward the door where her
mother would soon come in to stop by her mere presence all such conversation, Elizabeth eagerly threw out
one inquiry after the other, pell mell.
CHAPTER XXVII 101
"How on earth do you do it?" she wanted to know. "How do you get a speech ready, Aunt Deborah--how
much of it do you write out ahead? Aren't you just the least bit nervous--now, I mean--this minute? And
how will you feel on the platform? _What on earth do you do with your feet?_"
As the girl bent forward there with her gaze fixed ardently on her aunt, her grandfather thought in half comic
dismay, "Lord, now she'll want to be a great speaker--like her aunt. And she will tell her mother so!"
"What's the meeting all about?" he inquired. And Deborah began to explain.
In her five schools the poverty was rapidly becoming worse. Each week more children stayed away or came to
school ragged and unkempt, some without any overcoats, small pitiful mites wearing shoes so old as barely to
stick on their feet. And when the teachers and visitors followed these children into their homes they found
bare, dirty, chilly rooms where the little folk shivered and wailed for food and the mothers looked distracted,
gaunt and sullen and half crazed. Over three hundred thousand workers were idle in the city. Meanwhile, to
make matters worse, half the money from uptown which had gone in former years into work for the tenements
was going over to Belgium instead. And the same relentless drain of war was felt by the tenement people
themselves; for all of them were foreigners, and from their relatives abroad, in those wide zones of Europe
already blackened and laid waste, in endless torrents through the mails came wild appeals for money.
In such homes her children lived. And Deborah had set her mind on vigorous measures of relief. Landlords
must be made to wait and the city be persuaded to give work to the most needy, food and fuel must be
secured. As she spoke of the task before her, with a flush of animation upon her bright expressive face at the
thought that in less than an hour she would be facing thousands of people, the gloom of the picture she painted
was dispelled in the spirit she showed.
"These things always work out," she declared, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. And watching her
admiringly, young Betsy thought, "How strong she is! What a wonderful grown-up woman!" And Roger
watching thought, "How young."
* * * * *
"What things?" It was Edith's voice at the door, and among those at the table there was a little stir of alarm.
She had entered unnoticed and now took her seat. She was looking pale and tired. "What things work out so
finely?" she asked, and with a glance at Deborah's gown,
"Where are you going?" she added.
"To a meeting," Deborah answered.
"Oh." And Edith began her soup. In the awkward pause that followed, twice Deborah started to speak to her
sister, but checked herself, for at other dinners just like this she had made such dismal failures.
"By the way, Edith," she said, at last, "I've been thinking of all that furniture of yours which is lying in
storage." Her sister looked up at her, startled.
"What about it?" she asked.
"There's so much of it you don't care for," Deborah answered quietly. "Why don't you let a part of it go? I
mean the few pieces you've always disliked."
"For what purpose?"
CHAPTER XXVII 102
"Why, it seems such a pity not to have Hannah back in the house. She would make things so much easier."
Roger felt a glow of relief.
"A capital plan!" he declared at once.
"It would be," Edith corrected him, "if I hadn't already made other plans." And then in a brisk, breathless tone,
"You see I've made up my mind," she said, "to sell not only part but all my furniture--very soon--and a few
other belongings as well--and use the money to put George and Elizabeth and little Bob back in the schools
where they belong."
"Mother!" gasped Elizabeth, and with a prolonged "Oh-h" of delight she ran around to her mother's chair.
"But look here," George blurted worriedly, "I don't like it, mother, darned if I do! You're selling
everything--just for school!"
"School is rather important, George," was Edith's tart rejoinder. "If you don't think so, ask your aunt." "What
do you think of it, Auntie?" he asked. The cloud which had come on Deborah's face was lifted in an instant.
"I think, George," she answered gently, "that you'd better let your mother do what she thinks best for you. It
will make things easier here in the house," she added, to her sister, "but I wish you could have Hannah, too."
"Oh, I'll manage nicely now," said Edith. And with a slight smile of triumph she resumed her dinner.
"The war won't last forever," muttered Roger uneasily. And to himself: "But suppose it should last--a year or
more." He did not approve of Edith's scheme. "It's burning her bridges all at once, for something that isn't
essential," he thought. But he would not tell her so.
Meanwhile Deborah glanced at the clock.
"Oh! It's nearly eight o'clock! I must hurry or I'll be late," she said. "Good-night, all--"
And she left them.
Roger followed her into the hall.
"What do you think of this?" he demanded. Her reply was a tolerant shrug. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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