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 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 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.