“What is it?” he inquired.
“Bruce is worse.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. Why didn’t Edith let me know?”
“She had Lake tonight,” said Deborah. He knitted his brows in annoyance, then smiled.
“Well, I don’t mind that,” he replied. “I’m rather glad. She’ll feel easier now. What did he tell her?”
“He seemed to consider it serious—by the number of things he ordered.”
“Two nurses, of course—”
“Yes, day and night.” Deborah was silent a moment.
“I may be wrong,” she continued, “but I still feel sure the child will live. But I know it means a long hard fight. The expense of it all will be heavy.”
“Well?”
“Whatever it is, I’ll meet it,” she said. “Father can’t, he has reached the end. But even if he could help still, it wouldn’t make much difference in what I’ve been deciding. Because when I was with Bruce tonight, I saw as clear as I see you now that if I had a child like that—as sick as that—I’d sacrifice anything—everything—schools, tenement children, thousands! I’d use the money which should have been theirs, and the time and the attention! I’d shut them all out, they could starve if they liked! I’d be like Edith—exactly! I’d center on this one child of mine!”
Deborah turned her eyes to his, stern and gleaming with her pain. And she continued sharply:
“But I don’t mean to shut those children out! And so it’s clear as day to me that I can’t ever marry you! That baby tonight was the finishing stroke!”
She made a quick restless movement. Baird leaned slowly forward. Her hands in her lap were clenched together. He took them both and held them hard.
“No, this isn’t clear,” he said. “I can feel it in your hands. This is nerves. This is the child upstairs. This is Edith in the house. This is school, the end of the long winter’s strain.”
“No, it’s what I’ve decided!”
“But this is the wrong decision,” Allan answered steadily.
“It’s made!”
“Not yet, it isn’t, not tonight. We won’t talk of it now, you’re in no condition.” Deborah’s wide sensitive lips began to quiver suddenly:
“We will talk of it now, or never at all! I want it settled—done with! I’ve had enough—it’s killing me!”
“No,” was Allan’s firm reply, “in a few days things will change. Edith’s child will be out of danger, your other troubles will clear away!”
“But what of next winter, and the next? What of Edith’s children? Can’t you see what a load they are on my father? Can’t you see he’s ageing fast?”
“Suppose he dies,” Baird answered. “It will leave them on your hands. You’ll have these children, won’t you, whether you marry or whether you don’t! And so will I! I’m their guardian!”
“That won’t be the same,” she cried, “as having children of our own—”
“Look into my eyes.”
“I’m looking—” Her own eyes were bright with tears.
“Why are you always so afraid of becoming a mother?” Allan asked. In his gruff low voice was a fierce appeal. “It’s this obsession in your mind that you’ll be a mother like Edith. And that’s absurd! You never will! You say you’re afraid of not keeping school the first thing in your life! But you always do and you always will! You’re putting it ahead of me now!”
“Yes, I can put it ahead of you! But I couldn’t put it ahead of my child!” He winced at this and she noticed it. “Because you are strong, and the child would be weak! The child would be like Bruce tonight!”
“Are you sure if you marry you must have a child?”
“Yes,” she answered huskily, “if I married you I’d want a child. And that want in me would grow and grow until it made both of us wretched. I’m that kind of a woman. That’s why my work has succeeded so far—because I’ve a passion for children! They’re not my work, they’re my very life!” She bowed her head, her mouth set hard. “But so are you,” she whispered. “And since this is settled, Allan, what do you think? Shall we try to go on—working together side by side—seeing each other every day as we have been doing all these months? Rather hard on both of us, don’t you think? I do, I feel that way,” she said. Again her features quivered. “The kind of feeling I have—for you—would make that rather—difficult!”
His grip tightened on her hands.
“I won’t give you up,” he said. “Later you will change your mind.”
He left the room and went out of the house. Deborah sat rigid. She trembled and the tears came. She brushed them angrily away. Struggling to control herself, presently she grew quieter. Frowning, with her clear gray eyes intently staring before her, she did not see her father come into the doorway. He stopped with a jerk at sight of her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. She started.
“Nothing’s the matter! How is Bruce?”
“I don’t know. Who went out a few minutes ago?”
“Allan Baird,” she answered.
“Oh. You explained to him, of course, about Lake—”
“Yes, he understands,” she said. “He won’t come here after this—”
Roger looked at her sharply, wondering just what she meant. He hesitated. No, he would wait.
“Good night,” he said, and went upstairs.
XXXVI
On the morrow Bruce did not grow better. If anything, the child grew worse. But by the next morning the crisis had passed. In the house the tension relaxed, and Roger suddenly felt so weak that he went to see his own physician. They had a long and serious talk. Later he went to his office, but he gave little heed to his work. Sitting there at his desk, he stared through the window far out over the city. A plan was forming in his mind.
At home that night, at dinner, he kept watching Deborah, who looked tired and pale and rather relaxed. And as soon as she was out of the house he telephoned Allan to come at once.
“It’s something which can’t wait,” he urged.
“Very well, I’ll come right
