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.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305