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, and 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.”

“Father! But they can’t do that! Think of the winters!” Deborah cried.

“It’s already settled,” he answered. “I’ve talked to Edith and she has agreed. She has always loved the farm, and it will be good for her children. In the meantime I’ve been talking to George. ‘George,’ I told him, ‘I’m going to talk to you, man to man, about a man’s job I want you to tackle.’ ”

“The farm? But, dearie! He’s only a boy!”

“He’s nearly seventeen,” said Roger, “and a young moose for his age. And old Dave Royce will still be there. It’s the work George has been dreaming about ever since he was a child. You should have seen how he was thrilled by the scheme. I told him we’d spend the summer together up there laying all our plans, investing our money carefully to make every dollar count.”

“What money?” Deborah sharply asked. But her father was talking steadily on:

“We already have a fine lot of cattle. We’ll add to it and enlarge the barn and put in some new equipment. In short, we’ll put it in fine shape, make it a first class dairy farm. ‘And then, George,’ I said to him, ‘I’m going to turn it over to you. I shall give the farm to your mother, and the rest of the money I have I mean to invest in her name down here, so that she’ll have a small income until you can make your dairy pay.’ ”

“What money are you speaking of?” Deborah’s voice was thick and hard, her sensitive lips were parted and she was breathing quickly.

“I’ve sold the house,” he told her. Convulsively she gripped his arms:

“Then tell me where you mean to live!”

“I’m not going to live⁠—I’m going to die⁠—very soon⁠—I have definite knowledge.”

Without speaking Deborah rose; her face went white. Her father kept tight hold of her hands, and he felt them trembling, growing cold.

“You’re soon to be free of everyone,” he continued painfully. “I know this is hurting you, but I see so plain, so plain, my child, just what it is I’ve got to do. I’m trying to clear the way for you to make a simple definite choice⁠—a choice which is going to settle your life one way or the other. I want to make sure you see what you’re doing. Because you mean so much to me. We’re flesh and blood⁠—eh, my daughter?⁠—and in this family of ours we’ve been the closest ones of all!” She seemed to sway a little.

“You’re not going to die!” she whispered.

“So it hurts you to lose me,” he replied. “It will be hard to be so free. Would you rather not have had me at all? I’ve been quite a load on your back, you know. A fearful job you had of it, dragging me up when I was down. And since then Edith and Bruce and the rest, what burdens they have been at times. What sharp worries, heavy sorrows, days and nights you and I have gone through, when we should have been quietly resting⁠—free⁠—to keep up our strength for our next day’s work. Suppose you had missed them, lived alone, would you have worked better? You don’t know. But you will know soon, you’re to give it a trial. For I’ve cleared the way⁠—so that if you throw over Baird to be free you shall get the freedom you feel you need!”

“Father! Please! Is this fair? Is this kind?” She asked in a harsh frightened tone. Her eyes were wet with angry tears.

“This isn’t a time to be kind, my dear.” His voice was quivering like her own. “I’m bungling it⁠—I’m bungling it⁠—but you must let me stumble along and try to show you what I mean. You will have your work, your crowded schools, to which you’ll be able to give your life. But I look ahead, I who know you⁠—and I don’t see you happy, I don’t even see you whole. For you there will be no family. None of the intimate sorrows and joys that have been in this house will come to you. I look back and I see them all⁠—for a man who has come so near the end gets a larger vision.” He shut his eyes, his jaw set tight. “I look into my family back and back, and I see how it has been made of many generations. Certain figures stand out in my mind⁠—they cover over a hundred years. And I see how much they’ve meant to me. I see that I’ve been one of them⁠—a link in a long chain of lives⁠—all inter-bound and reaching on. In my life they have all been here⁠—as I shall be in lives to come.

“And this is what I want for you.” He held her close a moment. The tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Until now you have been one of us, too. You have never once been free. You have been the one in this house to step in and take hold and try to decide what’s best to be done. I’m not putting you up on a pedestal, I don’t say you’ve made no mistakes⁠—but I say you’re the kind of a woman who craves what’s in a family. You’re the one of my daughters who has loved this house the most!”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve loved this house⁠—”

“But now for you all this will stop⁠—quite suddenly,” he told her. “This house of ours will soon be sold. And within a few months I shall be dead, and your family will have dropped out of your life.”

“Stop! Can’t you? Stop! It’s brutal! It isn’t true about you!” she cried. “I won’t believe it!” Her voice broke.

“Go and see my physician,” he said.

“How long have you known it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we had troubles enough as it was, other things to think of. But there’s only one thing now, this freedom you are facing.”

“Please! Please!” she cried imploringly. “I don’t want to talk of myself but of you! This physician⁠—”

“No,” he answered with stern pain, “you’ll have to hear me out, my child. We’re talking of you⁠—of you alone when I am gone. How will it be? Are you quite sure? You will have your work, that vision of yours, and I know how close it has been to you, vivid and warm, almost like a friend. But so was my business once like that, when I was as young as you. And the business grew and it got cold⁠—impersonal, a mere machine. Thank God I had a family. Isn’t your work growing too? Are you sure it won’t become a machine? And won’t you lose touch with the children then, unless you have a child of your own? Friends won’t be enough, you’ll find, they’re not bound up into yourself. The world may reach a stage at last where we shall live on in the lives of all⁠—we may all be one big family. But that time is still far off⁠—we hold to our own flesh and blood. And so I’m sure it will be with you. You see you have been young, my dear, and your spirit has been fresh and new. But how are you going to keep it so, without the ties you’ve always had?” He felt the violent clutch of her hand.

“You won’t die!” she whispered. But he went on relentlessly:

“And what will you do without Allan Baird? For you see you have not even worked alone. You have had this man who has loved you there. I’ve seen how much he has helped you⁠—how you have grown and he has grown since you two got together. And if you throw him over now, it seems to me you are not only losing what has done the most for your work, but you’re running away from life as well. You’ve never won by doing that, you’ve always won by meeting life, never evading it, taking it all, living it full, taking chances! If you marry Baird, I see you both go on together in your work, while in your home you struggle through the troubles, tangles, joys and griefs which most of us mortals know so well! I see you in a world of children, but with children, too, of your own⁠—to keep your spirit always young! Living on in your children’s lives!”

Roger stopped abruptly. He groped for something more to say.

“On the one side, all that,” he muttered, “and on the other, a lonely life which will soon grow old.”

There fell a dangerous silence. And sharply without warning, the influence, deep and invisible, of many generations of stolid folk in New England made itself felt in each of them. Father and daughter grew awkward, both. The talk had been too emotional. Each made, as by an instinct, a quick strong effort at self-control, and felt about for some way to get back upon their old easy footing. Roger turned to his daughter. Her head was still bent, her hands clasped tight, but she was frowning down at them now, although her face was still wet with tears. She drew a deep unsteady breath.

“Well, Deborah,” he said simply, “here I’ve gone stumbling on like a fool. I don’t know what I’ve said or how you have listened.”

“I’ve listened,” she said thickly.

“I have tried,” he went on in a steadier tone, “to give you some feeling of what is ahead⁠—and to speak for your mother as well as myself. And more than that⁠—much more than that⁠—for the world has changed since she was here. God knows I’ve tried to be modern.” A humorous glint came into his eyes, “Downright modern,” he declared. “Have I asked you to give up your career? Not at all, I’ve asked you to marry Baird, and go right on with him in your work. And if you can’t marry Allan Baird, after what he has done for you, how in God’s name can you modern women ever marry anyone? Now what do you say? Will you marry him? Don’t laugh at me! I’m serious! Talk!”

But Deborah was laughing⁠—although her father felt her hands still cold and trembling in his. Her gray eyes, bright and luminous, were shining up into his own.

“What a time you’ve been having, haven’t you, dear!” his daughter cried unsteadily. “Fairly lying awake at night and racking your brains for everything modern I’ve ever said⁠—to turn it and twist it and use it against me!”

“Well?” he demanded. “How does it twist?”

“It twists hard, thank you,” she declared. “You’ve turned and twisted me about till I barely see how I can live at all!”

“You can, though! Marry Allan Baird!”

“I’ll think it over⁠—later on.”

“What is there left to think about? Can you point to one hole in all I’ve said?”

“Yes, a good many⁠—and one right off.”

“Out with it!”

“You’re not dying,” Deborah told him calmly, “I feel quite certain you’ll live for years.”

“Oh, you do, eh⁠—then see my physician!”

“I will, I’ll see him tomorrow. How long did you give yourself? Just a few months?”

“No, he said it might be more,” admitted Roger grudgingly. “If I had no worries to wear me out⁠—”

“Me, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you’ve worried quite enough. You’re going to leave it to me to decide.”

“Very well,” he agreed. He looked at her. “You have listened⁠—hard?” he gruffly asked.

“Yes, dear.” Her hands slowly tightened on his. “But don’t speak of this again. You’re to leave it to me. You promise?”

“Yes.”

And Roger left her.

He went to bed but he could not sleep. With a sudden sag in his spirits he felt what a bungler he had been. He was not used to these solemn talks, he told himself irately. What a fool to try it! And how had Deborah taken it all? He did not mind her laughter, nor that lighter tone of hers. It was only her way of ending the talk, an easy way out for both of them. But what had she thought underneath? Had his points gone home? He tried to remember them. Pshaw! He had been too excited, and he could recall scarcely anything. He had not meant to speak of Baird⁠—he had meant to leave him out! Yes, how he must have bungled it! Doubtless she was smiling still. Even the news about himself she had not taken seriously.

But as he thought about that news, Roger’s mood completely changed. The talk of the evening grew remote, his family no longer real, mere little figures, shadowy, receding swiftly far away.⁠ ⁠… Much quieter now, he lay a long time listening to the life of the house, the occasional sounds from the various rooms. From the nursery adjoining came little Bruce’s piping laugh, and Roger could hear the nurse moving about. Afterwards for a long time he could hear only creaks and breathings. Never had the old house seemed so like a living creature. For nearly forty years it had held all that he had loved and known, all he had been sure of. Outside of it was the strange, the new, the uncertain, the vast unknown, stretching away to infinity.⁠ ⁠…

Again he heard Bruce’s gay little laugh. What did it remind him of? He puzzled. Then he had it. Edith had been a baby here. Her cradle had been in this very room, close by the bed. And how she had laughed! What gurgles and ripples of bursting glee! The first child in his family.⁠ ⁠…