His Family by Ernest Poole (popular ebook readers txt) 📕

“I wouldn’t have done it,” her father said. “I gave you that remark of Baird’s in strict confidence, Edith⁠—”

“Now father,” was her good-humored retort, “suppose you leave this matter to me. I know just what I’m doing.”

“Well,” he reflected uneasily, after she had left him, “here’s more trouble in the family. If Edith isn’t careful she’ll make a fine mess of this whole affair.”

After dinner he went up to Deborah’s room, but through the open doorway he caught a glimpse of his daughter which made him instinctively draw back. Sitting bolt upright in her bed, sternly she was eyeing herself in a small mirror in her hand. Her father chuckled noiselessly. A moment later, when he went in, the glass had disappeared from view. Soon afterwards Baird himself arrived, and as they heard him coming upstairs Roger saw his daughter frown, but she continued talking.

“Hello, Allan,” she said with indifference. “I’m feeling much better this evening.”

“Are you? Good,” he answered, and he started to pull up an easy chair. “I was hoping I could stay awhile⁠—I’ve been having one of those long mean days⁠—”

“I’d a little rather you wouldn’t,” Deborah put in softly. Allan turned to her in surprise. “I didn’t sleep last night,” she murmured, “and I feel so drowsy.” There was a little silence. “And I really don’t think there’s any need of your dropping in tomorrow,” she added. “I’m so much better⁠—honestly.”

Baird looked at her a moment.

“Right⁠—O,” he answered slowly. “I’ll call up tomorrow night.”

Roger followed him downstairs.

“Come into my den and smoke a cigar!” he proposed in hearty ringing tones. Allan thanked him and came in, but the puzzled expression was still on his face, and through the first moments of their talk he was very absentminded. Roger’s feeling of guilt increased, and he cursed himself for a meddlesome fool.

“Look here, Baird,” he blurted out, “there’s something I think you ought to know.” Allan slightly turned his head, and Roger reddened a little. “The worst thing about living in a house chock full of meddling women is that you get to be one yourself,” he growled. “And the fact is⁠—” he cleared his throat⁠—“I’ve put my foot in it, Baird,” he said. “I was fool enough the other day to quote you to Edith.”

“To what effect?”

“That if Deborah keeps on like this she’ll be an old woman at thirty-five.”

Allan sat up in his chair:

“Was Edith here this afternoon?”

“She was,” said Roger.

“Say no more.”

Baird had a wide, likable, generous mouth which wrinkled easily into a smile. He leaned back now and enjoyed himself. He puffed a little cloud of smoke, looked over at Roger and chuckled aloud. And Roger chuckled with relief. “What a decent chap he is,” he thought.

“I’m sorry, of course,” he said to Baird. “I thought of trying to explain⁠—”

“Don’t,” said Allan. “Leave it alone. It won’t do Deborah any harm⁠—may even do her a little good. After all, I’m her physician⁠—”

“Are you?” Roger asked with a twinkle. “I thought upstairs you were dismissed.”

“Oh no, I’m not,” was the calm reply. And the two men went on smoking. Roger’s liking for Baird was growing fast. They had had several little talks during Deborah’s illness, and Roger was learning more of the man. Raised on a big cattle ranch that his father had owned in New Mexico, riding broncos on the plains had given him his abounding health of body, nerve and spirit, his steadiness and sanity in all this feverish city life.

“Are you riding these days?” he inquired.

“No,” said Roger, “the park is too hot⁠—and they don’t sprinkle the path as they should. I’ve had my cob sent up to the mountains. By the way,” he added cordially, “you must come up there and ride with me.”

“Thanks, I’d like to,” Allan said, and with a little inner smile he added dryly to himself, “He’s getting ready to meddle again.” But whatever amusement Baird had in this thought was concealed behind his sober gray eyes. Soon after that he took his leave.

“Now then,” Roger reflected, with a little glow of expectancy, “if Edith will only leave me alone, she may find I’m smarter then she thinks!”

One evening in the following week, after Edith had left town, Roger had Bruce to dine at his club, a pleasant old building on Madison Square, where comfortably all by themselves they could discuss Baird’s chances.

“A. Baird and I have been chums,” said Bruce, “ever since we were in college. Take it from me I know his brand. And he isn’t the kind to be pushed.”

“Who wants to push him?” Roger demanded, with a sudden guilty twinge.

“Edith does,” Bruce answered. “And I tell you that won’t do with A. Baird. He has his mind set on Deborah sure. He’s been setting it harder and harder for months⁠—and he knows it⁠—and so does she. But they’re both the kind of people who don’t like interference, they’ve got to get to it by themselves. Edith must keep out of the way. She mustn’t take it on herself to ask him up to the mountains.” Roger gave a little start. “If she does, there’ll be trouble with Deborah.”

Roger smoked for a moment in silence and then sagely nodded his head.

“That’s so,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, my boy, I guess you’re right.”

Bruce lifted his mint julep:

“God, but it’s hot in here tonight. How about taking a spin up the river?”

“Delighted,” replied his father-in-law.

And a half hour later in Bruce’s new car, which was the pride and joy of his life, they were far up the river. On a long level stretch of road Bruce “let her out to show what she could do.” And Roger with his heart in his mouth and his eye upon the speedometer, saw it creep to sixty-three.

“Almost as good as a horse,” remarked Bruce, when the car had slowed a little.

“Almost,” said Roger, “but not quite. It’s⁠—well, it’s dissipation.”

“And a horse?”

“Is life,” was the grave reply. “You’ll have