His Family Ernest Poole (top ten books of all time .txt) đ
- Author: Ernest Poole
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âYouâd better have a doctor!â
âTelephone Allanâ âAllan Baird. He knows about this,â she muttered. And Roger ran down to the telephone. He was thoroughly frightened.
âAll right, Mr. Gale,â came Bairdâs gruff bass, steady and slow, âI think I know what the trouble isâ âand I wouldnât worry if I were you. Iâll be there in about ten minutes.â And it was hardly more than that when he came into Deborahâs room. A moment he looked down at her.
âAgain?â he said. She glanced up at him and nodded, and smiled quickly through set teeth. Baird carefully examined her and then turned to Roger: âNow I guess youâd better go out. You stay,â he added to Sarah, the maid. âI may need you here awhile.â
About an hour later he came down to Rogerâs study.
âSheâs safe enough now, I guess,â he said. âIâve telephoned for a nurse for her, and sheâll have to stay in bed a few days.â
âWhatâs the trouble?â
âAcute indigestion.â
âYou donât say!â exclaimed Roger brightly, with a rush of deep relief. Baird gave him a dry quizzical smile.
âPeople have died of that,â he remarked, âin less than an hour. We caught your daughter just in time. May I stay a few moments?â
âGlad to have you! Smoke a cigar!â
âThanksâ âI will.â 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. âI want to talk about her,â he said. âThis little attack is only a symptomâ âit comes from nerves. Sheâs just about ready for a smash. Sheâs had slighter attacks of this kind before.â
âI never knew it,â Roger said.
âNoâ âI donât 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?â
âYes, I was with her there this week.â
âWhat did she show you?â Baird inquired. Roger tried to tell him. âNo, thatâs not what Iâm after,â he said. âThatâs just one of her usual evenings.â For a moment he smoked in silence. âIâm hunting now for something else, for some unusual nervous shock which she appears to me to have had.â
âShe has!â And Roger told him of her visit up to Sing Sing. Bairdâs lean muscular right hand slowly tightened on his chair.
âThatâs a tough family of hers,â he remarked.
âYes,â said Roger determinedly, âand sheâs got to give it up.â
âYou mean she ought to. But she wonât.â
âSheâs got to be made to,â Roger growled. âThis summer at least.â Baird shook his head.
âYou forget her fresh air work,â he replied. âShe 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 donât see the necessity, go and talk to her, and then you will.â
âBut you can forbid it, canât you?â
âNo. Can you?â
âI can try,â snapped Roger.
âLetâs try whatâs possible,â said Baird. âLetâs try to keep her in bed three days.â
âSounds modest,â Roger grunted. And a glimmer of amusement came into Bairdâs impassive eyes.
âTry it,â he drawled. âBy tomorrow night sheâll ask for her stenographer. Sheâll make you think she is out of the woods. But she wonât be, please remember that. A few years more,â he added, âand sheâll have used up her vitality. Sheâll be an old woman at thirty-five.â
âItâs got to be stopped!â cried Roger.
âBut how?â came the low sharp retort. âYouâve got to know her trouble first. And her trouble is deep, itâs motherhoodâ âon a scale which has never been tried beforeâ âfor thousands of children, all of whom are living in a kind of hell. I know your daughter pretty well. Donât make the mistake of mixing her up with the old-fashioned teacher. It isnât what those children learn, itâs how they live that interests her, and how they are all growing up. I say sheâs a motherâ âin spiritâ âbut her body has never borne a child. And that makes it worseâ âbecause it makes her more intense. It isnât natural, you see.â
A little later he rose to go.
âBy the way,â he said, at the door, âthereâs something I meant to tell her upstairsâ âabout a poor devil she has on her mind. A chap named Berryâ âdyingâ âlungs. She asked me to go and see him.â
âYes?â
âI found it was only a matter of days.â The tragic pity in Bairdâs quiet voice was so deep as barely to be heard.
âSo I shot him full of morphine. He wonât wake up. Please tell her that.â
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.
XIIIDeborahâs recovery was rapid and determined. The next night she was sitting up and making light of her illness. On the third day she dismissed her nurse, and when her father came home from his office he found gathered about her bed not only her stenographer but both her assistant principals. He frowned severely and went to his room, and a few minutes later he heard them leave. Presently she called to him, and he came to her bedside. She was lying back on the pillow with rather a guilty expression.
âUp to your old antics, eh?â he remarked.
âExactly. It couldnât be helped, you see. Itâs the last week of our school year, and there are so many little things that have to be attended to. Itâs simply now or never.â
âHumph!â was Rogerâs comment. âItâs now or never with you,â he thought. He went down to his dinner, and when he came back he found her exhausted. In the dim soft light of her room her face looked flushed and feverish, and vaguely he felt she was in a mood where she might listen to reason. He felt her hot dry hand on his. Her eyes were closed, she was smiling.
âTell me the
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