XII

Roger awoke the next morning feeling sore and weary, and later in his office it was hard to keep his mind on his work. He thought of young Isadore Freedom. He was glad he had met that boy, and so he felt toward Deborah’s whole terrific family. Confused and deafening as it was, there was something inspiring in it all. But God save him from many such evenings! For half his life Roger had been a collector, not only of rings but of people, too, of curious personalities. These human bits, these memories, he had picked up as he lived along and had taken them with him and made them his own, had trimmed and polished every one until its rough unpleasant edges were all nicely smoothed away and it glittered and shone like the gem that it was. For Roger was an idealist. And so he would have liked to do here. What a gem could be made of Isadore with a little careful polishing.

But Deborah’s way was different. She stayed in life, lived in it close, with its sharp edges bristling. In this there was something splendid, but there was something tragic, too. It was all very well for that young Jew to burn himself up with his talk about freedom, his feverish searching for new gods. “In five years,” Roger told himself, “Mr. Isadore Freedom will either tone down or go stark mad.”

But quite probably he would tone down, for he was only a youngster, these were Isadore’s wild oats. But this was no longer Deborah’s youth, she had been at this job ten years. And she hadn’t gone mad, she had kept herself sane, she had many sides her father knew. He knew her in the mountains, or bustling about at home getting ready for Laura’s wedding, or packing Edith’s children off for their summer up at the farm. But did that make it any easier? No. To let yourself go was easy, but to keep hold of yourself was hard. It meant wear and tear on a woman, this constant straining effort to keep her balance and see life whole.

“Well, it will break her down, that’s all, and I don’t propose to allow it,” he thought. “She’s got to rest this summer and go easier next fall.”

But how could he accomplish it? As he thought about her school, with its long and generous arms reaching upon every side out into the tenements, the prospect was bewildering. He searched for something definite. What could he do to prove to his daughter his real interest in her work? Presently he remembered Johnny Geer, the cripple boy whom he had liked, and at once he began to feel himself back again upon known ground. Instead of millions here was one, one plucky lad who needed help. All right, by George, he should have it! And Roger told his daughter he would be glad to pay the expense of sending John away for the summer, and that in the autumn perhaps he would take the lad into his office.

“That’s good of you, dearie,” Deborah said. It was her only comment, but from the look she gave him Roger felt he was getting on.

One evening not long afterwards, as they sat together at dinner, she rose unsteadily to her feet and said in a breathless voice,

“It’s rather close in here, isn’t it? I think I’ll go outside for a while.” Roger jumped up.

“Look here, my child, you’re faint!” he cried.

“No, no, it’s nothing! Just the heat!” She swayed and reeled, pitched suddenly forward. “Father! Quick!” And Roger caught her in his arms. He called to the maid, and with her help he carried Deborah up to her bed. There she shuddered violently and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. Her breath came hard through chattering teeth.

“It’s so silly!” she said fiercely.

But as moments passed the chill grew worse. Her whole body seemed to be shaking, and as Roger was rubbing one of her arms she said something to him sharply, in a voice so thick he could not understand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I can’t feel anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my arm where you’re rubbing⁠—I can’t feel your hand.”

“You’d better have a doctor!”

“Telephone Allan⁠—Allan Baird. He knows about this,” she muttered. And Roger ran down to the telephone. He was thoroughly frightened.

“All right, Mr. Gale,” came Baird’s gruff bass, steady and slow, “I think I know what the trouble is⁠—and I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” And it was hardly more than that when he came into Deborah’s room. A moment he looked down at her.

“Again?” he said. She glanced up at him and nodded, and smiled quickly through set teeth. Baird carefully examined her and then turned to Roger: “Now I guess you’d better go out. You stay,” he added to Sarah, the maid. “I may need you here awhile.”

About an hour later he came down to Roger’s study.

“She’s safe enough now, I guess,” he said. “I’ve telephoned for a nurse for her, and she’ll have to stay in bed a few days.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Acute indigestion.”

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Roger brightly, with a rush of deep relief. Baird gave him a dry quizzical smile.

“People have died of that,” he remarked, “in less than an hour. We caught your daughter just in time. May I stay a few moments?”

“Glad to have you! Smoke a cigar!”

“Thanks⁠—I will.” As Baird reached out for the proffered cigar, Roger suddenly noticed his hand. Long and muscular, finely shaped, it seemed to speak of strength and skill and an immense vitality. Baird settled himself in his chair. “I want to talk about her,” he said. “This little attack is only a symptom⁠—it comes from nerves. She’s just about ready for a smash. She’s had slighter attacks of this kind before.”

“I never knew it,” Roger said.

“No⁠—I don’t suppose you did. Your daughter has a habit of keeping things like this to herself. She came to me and I warned her, but she wanted to finish out her year. Do you know anything about her school work?”

“Yes, I was with her there this week.”

“What did she show you?” Baird inquired. Roger tried to tell him. “No, that’s not what I’m after,” he said. “That’s just one of her usual evenings.” For a moment he smoked in silence. “I’m hunting now for something else, for some unusual nervous shock which she appears to me to have had.”

“She has!” And Roger told him of her visit up to Sing Sing. Baird’s lean muscular right hand slowly tightened on his chair.

“That’s a tough family of hers,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Roger determinedly, “and she’s got to give it up.”

“You mean she ought to. But she won’t.”

“She’s got to be made to,” Roger growled. “This summer at least.” Baird shook his head.

“You forget her fresh air work,” he replied. “She has three thousand children on her mind. The city will be like a furnace, of course, and the children must be sent to camps. If you don’t see the necessity, go and talk to her, and then you will.”

“But you can forbid it, can’t you?”

“No. Can you?”

“I can try,” snapped Roger.

“Let’s try what’s possible,” said Baird. “Let’s try to keep her in bed three days.”

“Sounds modest,” Roger grunted. And a glimmer of amusement came into Baird’s impassive eyes.

“Try it,” he drawled. “By tomorrow night she’ll ask for her stenographer. She’ll make you think she is out of the woods. But she won’t be, please remember that. A few years more,” he added, “and she’ll have used up her vitality. She’ll be an old woman at thirty-five.”

“It’s got to be stopped!” cried Roger.

“But how?” came the low sharp retort. “You’ve got to know her trouble first. And her trouble is deep, it’s motherhood⁠—on a scale which has never been tried before⁠—for thousands of children, all of whom are living in a kind of hell. I know your daughter pretty well. Don’t make the mistake of mixing her up with the old-fashioned teacher. It isn’t what those children learn, it’s how they live that interests her, and how they are all growing up. I say she’s a mother⁠—in spirit⁠—but her body has never borne a child. And that makes it worse⁠—because it makes her more intense. It isn’t natural, you see.”

A little later he rose to go.

“By the way,” he said, at the door, “there’s something I meant to tell her upstairs⁠—about a poor devil she has on her mind. A chap named Berry⁠—dying⁠—lungs. She asked me to go and see him.”

“Yes?”

“I found it was only a matter of days.” The tragic pity in Baird’s quiet voice was so deep as barely to be heard.

“So I shot him full of morphine. He won’t wake up. Please tell her that.”

Tall, ungainly, motionless, he loomed there in the doorway. With a little shrug and a smile he turned and went slowly out of the house.