Baird reflected, as he rode through the moonlight, that the thing was done now and couldn't be helped. It was simply up to Garvin: if he did not make good, he would be ousted, that was all. But it was too bad. The man must be mad to celebrate his good luck by a debauch, for that was evidently what it was. Baird was no teetotaler, the consumption of a certain amount of liquor seemed to be necessary for the transaction of business, but he held, with the rest of his kind, that the man who sought to drown his troubles in drink, or celebrate his joys by getting full was a fool, and that the secret debauchee was something decidedly worse.
He was going to Westmore by the Back Road and the Mine Banks, and, as he looked up at Crest Cave, he remembered what Garvin had said: "Lord! I've slept off many a drunk up there." Baird had never solved the mysteries of that queer night he had spent at Westmore—that they were some set of circumstances connected with Garvin was the only explanation he had been able to make to himself. He felt certain of it now; a man with Garvin's weakness was capable of any sort of madness. He was glad Judith was the sane wholesome woman she was.
Baird also remembered what a man at the club had told him of Garvin's father: "The old colonel was a fine sort, hot-tempered and proud as the deuce, but a gallant sort, just the same—until the war broke him. Then came the hard times, beastly hard times for everybody, and the colonel went under—began to soak and went on soaking to the end." Edward and Judith had come before that time, but Garvin had not.
"I suppose the poor devil can't help it," Baird thought, and shrugged away his annoyance. Besides, he was going to become one of the clan; it was his duty to do all he could for Garvin.
In that soberly responsible frame of mind Baird rode up to Westmore, and the long imposing structure that for nearly two centuries had housed Judith's ancestors impressed him somberly. Perhaps it was as well, on the whole, not to have any known ancestors; it must be rather eery to recognize your great-grandfather cropping up in yourself—damned uncomfortable sometimes ... Well, Judith had certified ancestors enough to supply their family with credentials and with ghosts. Their children...
Baird's thoughts had progressed to this point and beyond when he reached Westmore. In the last twenty-four hours he had considered every possible responsibility connected with matrimony and had thought very little about the thing that turns the world golden, that transcends even the transports of passion, hallows heaven and earth. But he had not realized that. Marriage was a serious thing; it had always impressed him as an almost terrifyingly serious thing.
The door was opened to him by Hetty, the big negress. "Can I see Miss Judith?" Baird asked, preparing to step in.
"Miss Judith ain't here, Mr. Baird—she's done gone fo' a visit."
"Not here?" Baird said blankly.
"No, suh—she went this evenin' fo' over Sunday—to Fair Field. They's a party holdin' at the club—she's gone fo' hit."