His Family

by Ernest Poole

  “For Heaven’s sake, Edith,” she burst out, one night when the children had gone to their lessons, “can you think of nothing on earth, except your own little family?”

  “Here it comes again,” thought Roger, scowling into his paper. He heard Edith’s curt reply:

  “No, I can’t, not nowadays. Nobody else seems to think of them.”

  “You mean that I don’t!”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes! I’m thinking of George! Do you want him killed in the trenches—in a war with Germany or Japan?”

  “Are you utterly mad?” demanded Edith.

  “No, I’m awake—my eyes are open! But yours are shut so tight, my dear, you can’t see what has happened! You know this war has made us poor and your own life harder, but that’s all. The big thing it has done you know nothing about!”

  “Suppose you teach me,” Edith said, with a prim provoking little smile. Deborah turned on her angrily:

  “It has shown that all such mothers as you are out of date and have got to change! That we’re bound together—all over the world—whether we like it or whether we don’t! And that if we want to keep out of war, we’ve got to do it by coming right out of our own little homes—_and thinking, Edith, thinking!_”

  “Votes for women,” Edith said. Deborah looked at her, rose with a shrug.

  “All right, Edith, I give up.”

  “Thank you. I’m not worth it. You’d better go back to your office now and go on with your work of saving the world. And use every hour of your time and every dollar you possess. I’ll stay here and look after my children.”

  Deborah had gone into the hall. Roger, buried deep in his paper, heard the heavy street door close. He looked up with a feverish sigh—and saw at the open door of his study George and Betsy standing, curious, solemn and wide eyed. How long had they been listening?

  CHAPTER XXXV

  There came a season of sleet and rain when the smaller children were shut indoors and it was hard to keep them amused. They did not look well, and Edith was worried. She had always dreaded the spring, and to carry her family safely through she had taken them, in former years, to Atlantic City for two weeks. That of course was impossible now. Trouble was bound to come, she thought. And it was not long in coming. Bobby, who was ten years old and went to school with his brother George, caught a wretched cold one day. Edith popped him into bed, but despite her many precautions he gave his cold to Bruce and Tad.

  “Suppose I ask Allan Baird to come,” Deborah suggested. “He’s wonderful with children, you know.”

  Edith curtly accepted his services. She felt he had been sent for to prevent her getting Doctor Lake. But she said nothing. She would wait. Through long hard days and longer nights she slaved upstairs. All Deborah’s proffers of aid she declined. She kept Elizabeth home from school to help her with the many meals, the medicines and the endless task of keeping her lively patients in bed. She herself played with them by the hour, while the ache in her head was a torment. At night she was up at the slightest sound. Heavy circles came under her eyes. Within a few days her baby, Bruce, had developed pneumonia.

  That evening after dinner, while Deborah was sitting with Roger in the living room, she heard her sister coming downstairs. She listened acutely, and glancing around she saw that Roger was listening, too. Edith passed the doorway and went on down the hall, where they heard her voice at the telephone. She came back and looked in at the door.

  “I’ve called Doctor Lake,” she said. “I’ve just taken Bruce’s temperature. It’s a hundred and five and two fifths.” Deborah glanced up with a start.

  “Oh, Edith!” she said softly. Her sister turned and looked at her.

  “I ought to have had him before,” she said. “When he comes, please bring him right up to the room.” And she hurried upstairs.

  “Pshaw!” breathed Roger anxiously. He had seen Bruce an hour ago; and the sight of the tiny boy, so exhausted and so still, had given him a sudden scare. Could it be that this would happen? Roger rose and walked the floor. Edith was right, he told himself, they should have had Lake long before. And they would have, by George, if it had not been for Deborah’s interference! He glanced at her indignantly. Bringing in Baird to save money, eh? Well, it was just about time they stopped saving money on their own flesh and blood! What had Bruce to do with tenement babies? But he had had tenement treatment, just that! Deborah had had her way at last with Edith’s children, and one of them might have to pay with its life! Again Roger glared at his silent daughter. And now, even in his excited state, he noticed how still and rigid she was, how unnatural the look she bent on the book held tightly in her hands.

  Still Deborah said nothing. She could feel her father’s anger. Both he and Edith held her to blame. She felt herself in a position where she could not move a hand. She was stunned, and could not think clearly. A vivid picture was in her mind, vivid as a burning flame which left everything else in darkness. It was of Bruce, one adorable baby, fighting for breath. “What would I do if he were mine?”

  When the doctor arrived she took him upstairs and then came down to her father.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait.” And they both sat silent. At last they heard a door open and close, and presently steps coming down the stairs. Roger went out into the hall:

  “Come right in here, doctor, won’t you? I want to hear about this myself.”

  “Very well, sir.” And Lake entered the room, with Edith close behind him. He took no notice of anyone else. “Write this down,” he said to her. “And give it to the nurse when she comes.” A heavy man of middle age, with curious dark impassive eyes that at times showed an ironic light, Lake was a despot in a world of mothers to whom his word was law. He was busy to-night, with no time to waste, and his low harsh voice now rattled out orders which Edith wrote down in feverish haste—an hourly schedule, night and day. He named a long list of things needed at once. “Night nurse will be here in an hour,” he ended. “Day nurse, to-morrow, eight a.m. Get sleep yourself and plenty of it. As it is you’re not fit to take care of a cat.” Abruptly he turned and left the room. Edith followed. The street door closed, and in a moment after that his motor was off with a muffled roar. Edith came back, picked up her directions and turned to her sister:

  “Will you go up and sit with Bruce? I’ll telephone the druggist,” she said.

  Deborah went to the sick room. Bruce’s small face, peaked and gray in the soft dim light, turned as she entered and came to the bed.

  “Well, dear?” she whispered. The small boy’s eyes, large and heavy with fever, looked straight into hers.

  “Sick,” said the baby hoarsely. The next instant he tossed up his hands and went through a spasm, trying to breathe. It passed, he relaxed a little, and again stared solemnly at his aunt. “Sick,” he repeated. “Wery sick.”

  Deborah sat silent. The child had another fight for his breath; and this time as he did so, Deborah’s body contracted, too. A few moments later Edith came in. Deborah returned downstairs, and for over an hour she sat by herself. Roger was in his study, Betsy and George had gone to bed. The night nurse arrived and was taken upstairs. Still Deborah’s mind felt numb and cold. Instinctively again and again it kept groping toward one point: “If I had a baby as sick as that, what would I do? What would I do?”

  When the doorbell rang again, she frowned, rose quickly and went to the door. It was Allan.

  “Allan—come in here, will you?” she said, and he followed her into the living room.

  “What is it?” he inquired.

  “Bruce is worse.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry. Why didn’t Edith let me know?”

  “She had Lake to-night,” 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 or
dered.”

  “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 to-night, 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 to-night 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 to-night. 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 to-night!”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 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 up.”

  When Baird arrived a little later, Roger opened the door himself, and they went back into his study.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Smoke, Allan?”

  “No, thanks.” Baird looked doubly tall and lean, his face had a gaunt appearance; and as he sat down, his lithe supple right hand slowly closed on the arm of his chair.

  “Now then,” began Roger, “there are two things we want to get clear on. The first is about yourself and Deborah. There has been trouble, hasn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “She has made up her mind not to marry you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I guessed as much.” And Roger paused. “Do you mind my asking questions?

  “No—”

  “Are you still in love with her, Allan?”

  “I am.”

  “And she with you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then it’s the same old trouble.”

  “Yes.” And he told a part of what she had said. As he talked in clear, terse, even tones, Baird’s steady eyes had a tortured light, the look of a man who has almost reached the end of his endurance. Roger smoked in silence.

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “Wait,” said Allan, “a few days more. Then try again. If I fail I’m through.” Roger shot a quick look at him.

  “I don’t think you’ll fail, my boy—and what’s more I think I can help you. This is a large house, Allan—there’s more in it than you know. My second point concerns myself. I’m going to die within a year.”

  As Baird turned on him suddenly, Roger grimly smiled and said, “We won’t go into the details, but I’ve been examined lately and I have quite positive knowledge of what I’ve suspected for some time. So far, I have told no one but you. And I’m telling you only because of the bearing it has on Deborah.” Roger leaned forward heavily. “She’s the one of my daughters who means the most, now that I’m so near the end. When I die next year that may be all—I may simply end—a blank, a grave—I am not sure. But I’ve made up my mind above everything else to see Deborah happy before I go. And I mean to do it by setting her free—so free I think it will frighten her.”

  Roger went on to explain his plan, and they talked together for some time.

  * * * * *

  Another week had soon gone by. Bruce still recovered rapidly, a
nd the other sick children were up and about. Deborah, in the meantime, had barely been in the house at all. But late on Saturday evening Roger found her in her room. She was working. He came behind her.

  “What is it, dad?”

  “Busy, eh?” He hesitated, and laid his hand on her shoulder with a little affectionate pressure. “You’ve kept so busy lately,” he said, “I haven’t had time to see anything of you. How’s your work going?”

  “Much better, thanks—now that the winter is over.”

  He questioned her about her schools. And then after a brief pause,

  “Well, daughter,” he said, “it has been a great fight, and I’m proud of you for it. And if I’ve got anything to say—” his hand was still on her shoulder, and he felt her tighten suddenly—”it isn’t by way of criticism—please be sure of that ahead. In this damnable war my faith in men has been badly shaken up. Humanity seems to me still a child—a child who needs to go to school. God knows we need men and women like you—and I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished, I’d be the last man to hold you back. I only want to help you go on—by seeing to it that you are free—from anything which can hinder you.” He stopped again for a moment.

  “To begin with,” he said, “I understand you’re not going to marry Allan Baird.” She stirred slightly:

  “Did he tell you so?”

  “Yes—I asked him,” Roger replied. “I had Allan here a few nights ago, and he told me you had decided to give up your happiness for the sake of all those children in that big family of yours. You felt you must keep yourself free for them. Very well, if that is your decision I propose to clear the way.” She looked intently up at his face. “You’re not free now,” he continued. “We have Edith and her children here. And I’m growing old—that has got to be thought of—I don’t want to leave them on your hands. So as soon as the baby is well enough, I’m going to move them up to the mountains—not only for the summer—they are to stay the whole year ‘round. From this time on they’re to make it their home.”