"Not in the house? What business has she to be out? Where is she?"
"I could not tell you, madam." Keggs paused, reluctant to deal the
final blow, as a child lingers lovingly over the last lick of ice-cream
in a cone. "I last saw her at about five o'clock, driving off with Mr.
Winfield in an automobile."
"What!"
Keggs was content. His climax had not missed fire. Its staggering
effect was plain on the face of his hearer. For once Mrs. Porter's
poise had deserted her. Her one word had been a scream.
"She did not tell me her destination, madam," went on Keggs, making all
that could be made of what was left of the situation after its artistic
finish. "She came in and packed a suit-case and went out again and
joined Mr. Winfield in the automobile, and they drove off together."
Mrs. Porter recovered herself. This was a matter which called for
silent meditation, not for chit-chat with a garrulous butler.
"That will do, Keggs."
"Very good, madam."
Keggs withdrew to his pantry, well pleased. He considered that he had
done himself justice as a raconteur. He had not spoiled a good story in
the telling.
Mrs. Porter went to her room and sat down to think. She was a woman of
action, and she soon reached a decision.
The errant pair must be followed, and at once. Her great mind, playing
over the situation like a searchlight, detected a connection between
this elopement and the disappearance of William Bannister. She had long
since marked Kirk down as a malcontent, and she now labelled the absent
Mamie as a snake in the grass who had feigned submission to her rule,
while meditating all the time the theft of the child and the elopement
with Kirk. She had placed the same construction on Mamie's departure
with Kirk as had Mr. Penway, showing that it is not only great minds
that think alike.
A latent conviction as to the immorality of all artists, which had been
one of the maxims of her late mother, sprang into life. She blamed
herself for having allowed a nurse of such undeniable physical
attractions to become a member of the household. Mamie's very quietness
and apparent absence of bad qualities became additional evidence
against her now, Mrs. Porter arguing that these things indicated deep
deceitfulness. She told herself, what was not the case, that she had
never trusted that girl.
But Lora Delane Porter was not a woman to waste time in retrospection.
She had not been in her room five minutes before her mind was made up.
It was improbable that Kirk and his guilty accomplice had sought so
near and obvious a haven as the studio, but it was undoubtedly there
that pursuit must begin. She knew nothing of his way of living at that
retreat, but she imagined that he must have appointed some successor to
George Pennicut as general factotum, and it might be that this person
would have information to impart.
The task of inducing him to impart it did not daunt Mrs. Porter. She
had a just confidence in her powers of cross-examination.
She went to the telephone and called up the garage where Ruth's
automobiles were housed. Her plan of action was now complete. If no
information were forthcoming at the studio, she would endeavour to find
out where Kirk had hired the car in which he had taken Mamie away. He
would probably have secured it from some garage near by. But this
detective work would be a last resource. Like a good general, she did
not admit of the possibility of failing in her first attack.
And, luck being with her, it happened that at the moment when she set
out, Mr. Penway, feeling pretty comfortable where he was, abandoned his
idea of going out for a stroll along Broadway and settled himself to
pass the next few hours in Kirk's armchair.
Mr. Penway's first feeling when the bell rang, rousing him from his
peaceful musings, was one of mild vexation. A few minutes later, when
Mrs. Porter had really got to work upon him, he would not have
recognized that tepid emotion as vexation at all.
Mrs. Porter wasted no time. She perforated Mr. Penway's spine with her
eyes, reduced it to the consistency of summer squash, and drove him
before her into the studio, where she took a seat and motioned him to
do the same. For a moment she sat looking at him, by way of completing
the work of subjection, while Mr. Penway writhed uneasily on his chair
and thought of past sins.
"My name is Mrs. Porter," she began abruptly.
"Mine's Penway," said the miserable being before her. It struck him as
the only thing to say.
"I have come to inquire about Mr. Winfield."
As she paused Mr. Penway felt it incumbent upon him to speak again.
"Dear old Kirk," he mumbled.
"Nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Porter sharply. "Mr. Winfield is a
scoundrel of the worst type, and if you are as intimate a friend of his
as your words imply, it does not argue well for your respectability."
Mr. Penway opened his mouth feebly and closed it again. Having closed
it, he reopened it and allowed it to remain ajar, as it were. It was
his idea of being conciliatory.
"Tell me." Mr. Penway started violently. "Tell me, when did you last
see Mr. Winfield?"
"We went to Long Beach together this afternoon."
"In an automobile?"
"Yes."
"Ah! Were you here when Mr. Winfield left again?"
For the life of him Mr. Penway had not the courage to say no. There was
something about this woman's stare which acted hypnotically upon his
mind, never at its best as early in the evening.
He nodded.
"There was a young woman with him?" pursued Mrs. Porter.
At this moment Mr. Penway's eyes, roving desperately about the room,
fell upon the bottle of Bourbon which Kirk's kindly hospitality had
provided. His emotions at the sight of it were those of the shipwrecked
mariner who see a sail. He sprang at it and poured himself out a stiff
dose. Before Mrs. Porter's disgusted gaze he drained the glass and then
turned to her, a new man.
The noble spirit restored his own. For the first time since the
interview had begun he felt capable of sustaining his end of the
conversation with ease and dignity.
"How's that?" he said.
"There was a young woman with him?" repeated
Mrs. Porter.
Mr. Penway imagined that he had placed her by this time. Here, he told
himself in his own crude language, was the squab's mother camping on
Kirk's trail with an axe. Mr. Penway's moral code was of the easiest
description. His sympathies were entirely with Kirk. Fortified by the
Bourbon, he set himself resolutely to the task of lying whole-heartedly
on behalf of his absent friend.
"No," he said firmly.
"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Porter.
"No," repeated Mr. Penway with iron resolution. "No young woman. No
young woman whatsoever. I noticed it particularly, because I thought it
strange, don't you know - what I mean is, don't you know, strange there
shouldn't be!"
How tragic is a man's fruitless fight on behalf of a friend! For one
short instant Mrs. Porter allowed Mr. Penway to imagine that the
victory was his, then she administered the _coup-de-grace_.
"Don't lie, you worthless creature," she said. "They stopped at my
house on their way while the girl packed a suitcase."
Mr. Penway threw up his brief. There are moments when the stoutest-
hearted, even under the influence of old Bourbon, realize that to fight
on is merely to fight in vain.
He condensed his emotions into four words.
"Of all the chumps!" he remarked, and, pouring himself out a further
instalment of the raw spirit, he sat down, a beaten man.
Mrs. Porter continued to harry him.
"Exactly," she said. "So you see that there is no need for any more
subterfuge and concealment. I do not intend to leave this room until
you have told me all you have to tell, so you had better be quick about
it. Kindly tell me the truth in as few words as possible - if you know
what is meant by telling the truth."
A belated tenderness for his dignity came to Mr. Penway.
"You are insulting," he remarked. "You are - you are - most insulting."
"I meant to be," said Mrs. Porter crisply. "Now. Tell me. Where has Mr.
Winfield gone?"
Mr. Penway preserved an offended silence. Mrs. Porter struck the table
a blow with a book which caused him to leap in his seat.
"Where has Mr. Winfield gone?"
"How should I know?"
"How should you know? Because he told you, I should imagine.
Where - has - Mr. - Winfield - gone?"
"C'nnecticut," said Mr. Penway, finally capitulating.
"What part of Connecticut?"
"I don't know."
"What part of Connecticut?"
"I tell you I don't know. He said: 'I'm off to Connecticut,' and left."
It suddenly struck Mr. Penway that his defeat was not so overwhelming
as he had imagined. "So you haven't got much out of me, you see, after
all," he added.
Mrs. Porter rose.
"On the contrary," she said; "I have got out of you precisely the
information which I required, and in considerably less time than I had
supposed likely. If it interests you, I may tell you that Mr. Winfield
has gone to a small house which he owns in the Connecticut woods."
"Then what," demanded Mr. Penway indignantly, "did you mean by keeping
on saying 'What part of C'nnecticut? What part of C'nnecticut? What
part - - '"
"Because Mr. Winfield's destination has only just occurred to me." She
looked at him closely. "You are a curious and not uninteresting object,
Mr. Penway."
Mr. Penway started. "Eh?"
"Object lesson, I should have said. I should like to exhibit you as a
warning to the youth of this country."
"What!"
"From the look of your frame I should imagine that you were once a man
of some physique. Your shoulders are good. Even now a rigorous course
of physical training might save you. I have known more helpless cases
saved by firm treatment. You have allowed yourself to deteriorate much
as did a man named Pennicut who used to be employed here by Mr.
Winfield. I saved him. I dare say I could make something of you. I can
see at a glance that you eat, drink, and smoke too much. You could not
hold out your hand now, at this minute, without it trembling."
"I could," said Mr. Penway indignantly.
He held it out, and it quivered like a tuning-fork.
"There!" said Mrs. Porter calmly. "What do you expect? You know your
own business best, I suppose, but I should like to tell you that if you
do not become a teetotaller instantly, and begin taking exercise, you
will probably die suddenly within a very few years. Personally I shall
bear the calamity with fortitude. Good evening, Mr. Penway."
For some moments after she had gone Mr. Penway sat staring before him.
His eyes wore a glassy look. His mouth was still ajar.
"Damn woman!" he said at length.
He turned to his meditations.
"Damn impertinent woman!"
Another interval for reflection, and he spoke again.
"Damn impertinent, interfering woman that!"
He reached out for the bottle of Bourbon and filled his glass. He put
it to his lips, then slowly withdrew it.
"Damn impertinent, inter - I wonder!"
There was a small mirror on the opposite wall. He walked unsteadily
toward it and put out his tongue. He continued in this attitude for a
time, then, with increased dejection, turned away.
He placed a hand over his heart. This seemed to depress him still
further. Finally he went to the table, took up the glass, poured its
contents carefully back into the bottle, which he corked and replaced
on the shelf.
On the floor against the wall was a pair of Indian clubs. He picked
these up and examined them owlishly. He gave them little tentative
jerks. Finally, with the air of a man carrying out a great resolution,
he began to swing them. He swung them in slow, irregular sweeps, his
eyes the while, still glassy, staring fixedly at the ceiling.
Chapter XII
Dolls with Souls
Ruth had not seen Bailey since the afternoon when he had called to
warn her against Basil Milbank. Whether it was offended dignity that
kept him away, or merely pressure of business, she did not know.
That pressure of business existed, she was aware. The papers were full,
and had been full for several days, of wars and rumours of wars down in
Wall Street; and, though she understood nothing of finance, she knew
that Bailey was in the forefront of the battle. Her knowledge was based
partly on occasional references in the papers to the firm of Bannister
& Co. and partly on what she heard in society.
She did not hear all that was said in society about Bailey's financial
operations - which, as Bailey had the control of her money, was
unfortunate for her. The manipulation of money bored her, and she had
left the investing of her legacy entirely to Bailey. Her father, she
knew, had always had a high opinion of Bailey's business instincts, and
that was good enough for her.
She could not know how completely revolutionized the latter's mind had
become since the old man's death, and how freedom had turned him from a
steady young man of business to a frenzied financier.
It was common report now that Bailey was taking big chances. Some went
so far as to say that he was "asking for it," "it" in his case being
presumably the Nemesis which waits on those who take big chances in an
uncertain market. It was in the air that he was "going up against" the
Pinkey-Dowd group and the Norman-Graham combination, and everybody knew
that the cemeteries of Wall Street were full of the unhonoured graves
of others who in years past had attempted to do the same.
Pinkey, that sinister buccaneer, could have eaten a dozen Baileys.
Devouring aspiring young men of the Bailey type was Norman's chief
diversion.
Ruth knew nothing of these things. She told herself that it was her
abruptness that had driven Bailey away.
Weariness and depression had settled on Ruth since that afternoon of
the storm. It was as if the storm had wrought an awakening in her. It
had marked a definite point of change in her outlook. She felt as if
she had been roused from a trance by a sharp blow.
If Steve had but known, she had had the "jolt" by which he set such
store. She knew now that she had thrown away the substance for the
shadow.
Kirk's anger, so unlike him, so foreign to the weak, easy-going person
she had always thought him, had brought her to herself. But it was too
late. There could be no going back and picking up the threads. She had
lost him, and must bear the consequences.
The withdrawal of Bailey was a small thing by comparison, a submotive
in the greater tragedy. But she had always been fond of Bailey, and it
hurt her to think that she should have driven him out of her life.
It seemed to her that she was very much alone now. She was marooned on
a desert island of froth and laughter. Everything that mattered she had
lost.
Even Bill had gone from her. The bitter justice of Kirk's words came
home to her now in her time of clear thinking. It was all true. In the
first excitement of the new life he had bored her. She had looked upon
Mrs. Porter as a saviour who brought her freedom together with an easy
conscience. It had been so simple to deceive herself, to cheat herself
into the comfortable belief that all that could be done for him was
being done, when, as concerned the essential thing, as Kirk had said,
there was no child of the streets who was not better off.
She tramped her round of social duties mechanically. Everything bored
her now. The joy of life had gone out of her. She ate the bread of
sorrow in captivity.
And then, this morning, had come a voice from the world she had
lost - little Mrs. Bailey's voice, small and tearful.
Could she possibly come out by the next train? Bailey was very ill.
Bailey was dying. Bailey had come home last night looking ghastly. He
had not slept. In the early morning he had begun to babble - Mrs.
Bailey's voice had risen and broken on the word, and Ruth at the other
end of the wire had heard her frightened sobs. The doctor had come. The
doctor had looked awfully grave. The doctor had telephoned to New York
for another doctor. They were both upstairs now. It was awful, and Ruth
must come at once.
This was the bad news which had brought about the pallor which had
impressed Mr. Keggs as he helped Ruth into her cab.
Little Mrs. Bailey was waiting for her on the platform when she got out
of the train. Her face was drawn and miserable. She looked like a
beaten kitten. She hugged Ruth hysterically.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you've come. He's better, but it has been
awful. The doctors have had to _fight_ him to keep him in bed. He
was crazy to get to town. He kept saying over and over again that he
must be at the office. They gave him something, and he was asleep when
I left the house."
She began to cry helplessly. The fates had not bestowed upon Sybil
Bannister the same care in the matter of education for times of crisis
which they had accorded to Steve's Mamie. Her life till now had been
sheltered and unruffled, and disaster, swooping upon her, had found her
an easy victim.
She was trying to be brave, but her powers of resistance were small
like her body. She clung to Ruth as a child clings to its mother. Ruth,
as she tried to comfort her, felt curiously old. It occurred to her
with a suggestion almost of grotesqueness that she and Sybil had been
debutantes in the same season.
They walked up to the house. The summer cottage which Bailey had taken
was not far from the station. On the way, in the intervals of her sobs,
Sybil told Ruth the disjointed story of what had happened.
Bailey had not been looking well for some days. She had thought it must
be the heat or business worries or something. He had not eaten very
much, and he had seemed too tired to talk when he got home each
evening. She had begged him to take a few days' rest. That had been the
only occasion in the whole of the last week when she had heard him
laugh; and it had been such a horrid, ugly sort of laugh that she
wished she hadn't.
He had said that if he stayed away from the office for some time to
come it would mean love in a cottage for them for the rest of their
lives - and not a summer cottage at Tuxedo at that. "'My dear child,'"
he had gone on, "and you know when Bailey calls me that," said Sybil,
"it means that there is something the matter; for, as a rule, he never
calls me anything but my name, or baby, or something like that."
Which gave Ruth a little shock of surprise. Somehow the idea of the
dignified Bailey addressing his wife as baby startled her. She was
certainly learning these days that she did not know people as
completely as she had supposed. There seemed to be endless sides to
people's characters which had never come under her notice. A sudden
memory of Kirk on that fateful afternoon came to her and made her
wince.
Mrs. Bailey continued: "'My dear child,' he went on, 'this week is
about the most important week you and I are ever likely to live
through. It's the show-down. We either come out on top or we blow up.
It's one thing or the other. And if I take a few days' holiday just now
you had better start looking about for the best place to sell your
jewellery.'
"Those were his very words," she said tearfully. "I remember them all.
It was so unlike his usual way of talking."
Ruth acknowledged that it was. More than ever she felt that she did not
know the complete Bailey.
"He was probably exaggerating," she said for the sake of saying
something.
Sybil was silent for a moment.
"It isn't that that's worrying me," she went on then. "Somehow I don't
seem to care at all whether we come out right or not, so long as he
gets well. Last night, when I thought he was going to die, I made up my
mind that I couldn't go on living without him. I wouldn't have,
either."
This time the shock of surprise which came to Ruth was greater by a
hundred-fold than the first had been. She gave a quick glance at Sybil.
Her small face was hard, and the little white teeth gleamed between her
drawn lips. It was the face, for one brief instant, of a fanatic. The
sight of it affected Ruth extraordinarily. It was as if she had seen a
naked soul where she had never imagined a soul to be.
She had weighed Sybil in the same calm, complacent almost patronizing
fashion in which she had weighed Bailey, Kirk, everybody. She had set
her down as a delightful child, an undeveloped, feather-brained little
thing, pleasant to spend an afternoon with, but not to be taken
seriously by any one as magnificent and superior as Ruth Winfield. And
what manner of a man must Bailey be, Bailey whom she had always looked
on as a dear, but as quite a joke, something to be chaffed and made to
look foolish, if he was capable of inspiring love like this?
A wave of humility swept over her. The pygmies of her world were
springing up as giants, dwarfing her. The pinnacle of superiority on
which she had stood so long was crumbling into dust.
She was finding herself. She winced again as the thought stabbed her
that she was finding herself too late.
They reached the house in silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.
The defiant look had died out of Sybil's face and she was once more a
child, crying because unknown forces had hurt it. But Ruth was not
looking at her now.
She was too busy examining this new world into which she had been
abruptly cast, this world where dolls had souls and jokes lost their
point.
At the cottage good news awaited them. The crisis was past. Bailey was
definitely out of danger. He was still asleep, and sleeping easily. It
had just been an ordinary breakdown, due to worrying and overwork, said
the doctor, the bigger of the doctors, the one who had been summoned
from New York.
"All your husband needs now, Mrs. Bannister, is rest. See that he is
kept quiet. That's all there is to it."
As if by way of a commentary on his words, a small boy on a bicycle
rode up with a telegram.
Sybil opened it. She read it, and looked at Ruth with large eyes.
"From the office," she said, handing it to her.
Ruth read it. It was a C. D. Q., an S.O.S. from the front; an appeal
for help from the forefront of the battle. She did not understand the
details of it, but the purport was clear. The battle had begun, and
Bailey was needed. But Bailey lay sleeping in his tent.
She handed it back in silence. There was nothing to be done.
The second telegram arrived half an hour after the first. It differed
from the first only in its greater emphasis. Panic seemed to be growing
in the army of the lost leader.
The ringing of the telephone began almost simultaneously with the
arrival of the second telegram. Ruth went to the receiver. A frantic
voice was inquiring for Mr. Bannister even as she put it to her ear.
"This is Mrs. Winfield speaking," she said steadily, "Mr. Bannister's
sister. Mr. Bannister is very ill and cannot possibly attend to any
business."
There was a silence at the other end of the wire. Then a voice, with
the calm of desperation, said: "Thank you." There was a pause. "Thank
you," said the voice again in a crushed sort of way, and the receiver
was hung up. Ruth went back to Sybil.
The hours passed. How she got through them Ruth hardly knew. Time
seemed to have stopped. For the most part they sat in silence. In the
afternoon Sybil was allowed to see Bailey for a few minutes. She
returned thoughtful. She kissed Ruth before she sat down, and once or
twice after that Ruth, looking up, found her eyes fixed upon her. It
seemed to Ruth that there was something which she was trying to say,
but she asked no questions.
After dinner they sat out on the porch. It was a perfect night. The
cool dusk was soothing.
Ruth broke a long silence.
"Sybil!"
"Yes, dear?"
"May I tell you something?"
"Well?"
"I'm afraid it's bad news."
Sybil turned quickly.
"You called up the office while I was with Bailey?"
Ruth started.
"How did you know?"
"I guessed. I have been trying to do it all day, but I hadn't the
pluck. Well?"
"I'm afraid things are about as bad as they can be. A Mr. Meadows spoke
to me. He was very gloomy. He told me a lot of things which I couldn't
follow, details of what had happened, but I understood all that was
necessary, I'm afraid - - "
"Bailey's ruined?" said Sybil quietly.
"Mr. Meadows seemed to think so. He may have exaggerated."
Sybil shook her head.
"No. Bailey was talking to me upstairs. I expected it."
There was a long silence.
"Ruth."
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid - "
Sybil stopped.
"Yes?"
A sudden light of understanding came to Ruth. She knew what it was that
Sybil was trying to say, had been trying to say ever since she spoke
with Bailey.
"My money has gone, too? Is that it?"
Sybil did not answer. Ruth went quickly to her and took her in her
arms.
"You poor baby," she cried. "Was that what was on your mind, wondering
how you should tell me? I knew there was something troubling you."
Sybil began to sob.
"I didn't know how to tell you," she whispered.
Ruth laughed excitedly. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted
from her shoulders - a weight which had been crushing the life out of
her. In the last few days the scales had fallen from her eyes and she
had seen clearly.
She realized now what Kirk had realized from the first, that what had
forced his life apart from hers had been the golden wedge of her
father's money. It was the burden of wealth that had weighed her down
without her knowing it. She felt as if she had been suddenly set free.
"I'm dreadfully sorry," said Sybil feebly.
Ruth laughed again.
"I'm not," she said. "If you knew how glad I was you would be
congratulating me instead of looking as if you thought I was going to
bite you."
"Glad!"
"Of course I'm glad. Everything's going to be all right again now.
Sybil dear, Kirk and I had the most awful quarrel the other day. We - we
actually decided it would be better for us to separate. It was all my
fault. I had neglected Kirk, and I had neglected Bill, and Kirk
couldn't stand it any longer. But now that this has happened, don't you
see that it will be all right again? You can't stand on your dignity
when you're up against real trouble. If this had not happened, neither
of us would have had the pluck to make the first move; but now, you
see, we shall just naturally fall into each other's arms and be happy
again, he and I and Bill, just as we were before."
"It must be lovely for you having Bill," said little Mrs. Bailey
wistfully. "I wish - "
She stopped. There was a corner of her mind into which she could not
admit any one, even Ruth.
"Having him ought to have been enough for any woman." Ruth's voice was
serious. "It was enough for me in the old days when we were at the
studio. What fools women are sometimes! I suppose I lost my head,
coming suddenly into all that money - I don't know why; for it was not
as if I had not had plenty of time, when father was alive, to get used
to the idea of being rich. I think it must have been the unexpectedness
of it. I certainly did behave as if I had gone mad. Goodness! I'm glad
it's over and that we can make a fresh start."
"What is it like being poor, Ruth? Of course, we were never very well
off at home, but we weren't really poor."
"It's heaven if you're with the right man."
Mrs. Bailey sighed.
"Bailey's the right man, as far as I'm concerned. But I'm wondering how
he will bear it, poor dear."
Ruth was feeling too happy herself to allow any one else to be unhappy
if she could help it.
"Why, of course he will be splendid about it," she said. "You're
letting your imagination run away with you. You have got the idea of
Bailey and yourself as two broken creatures begging in the streets. I
don't know how badly Bailey will be off after this smash, but I do know
that he will have all his brains and his energy left."
Ruth was conscious of a momentary feeling of surprise that she should
be eulogizing Bailey in this fashion, and - stranger still - that she
should be really sincere in what she said. But to-day seemed to have
changed everything, and she was regarding her brother with a new-born
respect. She could still see Sybil's face as it had appeared in that
memorable moment of self-revelation. It had made a deep impression upon
her.
"A man like Bailey is worth a large salary to any one, even if he may
not be able to start out for himself again immediately. I'm not
worrying about you and Bailey. You will have forgotten all about this
crash this time next year." Sybil brightened up. She was by nature
easily moved, and Ruth's words had stimulated her imagination.
"He _is_ awfully clever," she said, her eyes shining.
"Why, this sort of thing happens every six months to anybody who has
anything to do with Wall Street," proceeded Ruth, fired by her own
optimism. "You read about it in the papers every day. Nobody thinks
anything of it."
Sybil, though anxious to look on the bright side, could not quite rise
to these heights of scorn for the earthquake which had shaken her
world.
"I hope not. It would be awful to go through a time like this again."
Ruth reassured her, though it entailed a certain inconsistency on her
part. She had a true woman's contempt for consistency.
"Of course you won't have to go through it again. Bailey will be
careful in future not to - not to do whatever it is that he has done."
She felt that the end of her inspiring speech was a little weak, but
she did not see how she could mend it. Her talk with Mr. Meadows on the
telephone had left her as vague as before as to the actual details of
what had been happening that day in Wall Street. She remembered stray
remarks of his about bulls, and she had gathered that something had
happened to something which Mr. Meadows called G.R.D.'s, which had
evidently been at the root of the trouble; but there her grasp of high
finance ended.
Sybil, however, was not exigent. She brightened at Ruth's words as if
they had been an authoritative pronouncement from an expert.
"Bailey is sure to do right," she said. "I think I'll creep in and see
if he's still asleep."
Ruth, left alone on the porch, fell into a pleasant train of thought.
There was something in her mental attitude which amused her. She
wondered if anybody had ever received the announcement of financial
ruin in quite the same way before. Yet to her this attitude seemed the
only one possible.
How simple everything was now! She could go to Kirk and, as she had
said to Sybil, start again. The golden barrier between them had
vanished. One day had wiped out all the wretchedness of the last year.
They were back where they had started, with all the accumulated
experience of those twelve months to help them steer their little ship
clear of the rocks on its new voyage.
* * * * *
She was roused from her dream by the sound of an automobile drawing up
at the door. A voice that she recognised called her name. She went
quickly down the steps.
"Is that you, Aunt Lora?"
Mrs. Porter, masterly woman, never wasted time in useless chatter.
"Jump in, my dear," she said crisply. "Your husband has stolen William
and eloped with that girl Mamie (whom I never trusted) to Connecticut."
Chapter XIII
Pastures New
Steve had arrived at the Connecticut shack in the early dawn of the
day which had been so eventful to most of his friends and
acquaintances. William Bannister's interest in the drive, at first
acute, had ceased after the first five miles, and he had passed the
remainder of the journey in a sound sleep from which the stopping of
the car did not awaken him.
Steve jumped down and stretched himself. There was a wonderful
freshness in the air which made him forget for a moment his desire for
repose. He looked about him, breathing deep draughts of its coolness.
The robins which, though not so well advertised, rise just as
punctually as the lark, were beginning to sing as they made their
simple toilets before setting out to attend to the early worm. The sky
to the east was a delicate blend of pinks and greens and yellows, with
a hint of blue behind the grey which was still the prevailing note.
A vaguely sentimental mood came upon Steve. In his heart he knew
perfectly well that he could never be happy for any length of time out
of sight and hearing of Broadway cars; but at that moment, such was the
magic of the dawn, he felt a longing to settle down in the country and
pass the rest of his days a simple farmer with beard unchecked by
razor. He saw himself feeding the chickens and addressing the pigs by
their pet names, while Mamie, in a cotton frock, called cheerfully to
him to come in because breakfast was ready and getting cold.
Mamie! Ah!
His sigh turned into a yawn. He realized with the abruptness which
comes to a man who stands alone with nature in the small hours that he
was very sleepy. The excitement which had sustained him till now had
begun to ebb. The free life of the bearded farmer seemed suddenly less
attractive. Bed was what he wanted now, not nature.
He opened the door of the car and lifted William Bannister out, swathed
in rugs. The White Hope gurgled drowsily, but did not wake. Steve
carried him on to the porch and laid him down. Then he turned his
attention to the problem of effecting an entry.
Once an honest man has taken to amateur burgling he soon picks up the
tricks of it. To open his knife and shoot back the catch of the nearest
window was with Steve the work, if not of a moment, of a very few
minutes. He climbed in and unlocked the front door. Then he carried his
young charge into the sitting-room and laid him down on a chair, a step
nearer his ultimate destination - bed.
Steve's faculties were rapidly becoming numb with approaching sleep,
but he roused himself to face certain details of the country life which
till now had escaped him. His earnest concentration on the main plank
of his platform, the spiriting away of William Bannister, had caused
him to overlook the fact that no preparations had been made to welcome
him on his arrival at his destination. He had treated the shack as if
it had been a summer hotel, where he could walk in and engage a room.
It now struck him that there was much to be attended to before he
could, as he put it to himself, hit the hay. There was the White Hope's
bed to be made, and, by the way of a preliminary to that, sheets must
be found and blankets, not to mention pillows.
Yawning wearily he set out on his search.
He found sheets, but mistrusted them. They might or might not be
perfectly dry. He did not care to risk his godson's valuable health in
the experiment. A hazy notion that blankets were always safe restored
his spirits, and he became cheerful on reflecting that a child with
William Bannister's gift for sleep would not be likely to notice the
absence of linen in his bed.
The couch which he finally passed adequate would have caused Lora
Delane Porter's hair to stand erect, but it satisfied Steve. He went
downstairs, and, returning with William Bannister, placed him carefully
on it and tucked him in. The White Hope slept on.
Having assured himself that all was well, Steve made up a similar nest
for himself, and, removing his coat and shoes, crawled under the
blankets. Five minutes later rhythmical snores proclaimed the fact that
nature had triumphed over all the discomforts of one of the worst-made
beds in Connecticut.
* * * * *
The sun was high when Steve woke. He rose stiffly and went into the
other room. William Bannister still slept.
Steve regarded him admiringly.
"For the dormouse act," he mused, "that kid certainly stands alone. You
got to hand it to him."
An aching void within him called his mind to the question of breakfast.
It began to come home to him that he had not planned out this
expedition with that thoroughness which marks the great general.
"I guess I'll have to get out to the nearest village in the bubble," he
said. "And while I'm there maybe I'd better send Kirk a wire. And I
reckon I'll have to take the kid. If he wakes up and finds me gone
he'll throw fits. Up you get, squire."
He kneaded the recumbent form of his godson with a large hand until he
had massaged out of him the last remains of his great sleep. It took
some time, but it was effective. The White Hope sat up, full of life
and energy. He inspected Steve gravely for a moment, endeavouring to
place him.
"Hello, Steve," he said at length.
"Hello, kid."
"Where am I?"
"In the country. In Connecticut."
"What's 'Necticut?"
"This is. Where we are."
"Where are we?"
"Here. In Connecticut."
"Why?"
Steve raised a protesting hand.
"Not so early in the day, kid; not before breakfast," he pleaded.
"Honest, I'm not strong enough. It ain't as if we was a vaudeville team
that had got to rehearse."
"What's rehearse?"
Steve changed the subject.
"Say, kid, ain't you feeling like you could bite into something? I got
an emptiness inside me as big as all outdoors. How about a mouthful of
cereal and a shirred egg? Now, for the love of Mike," he went on
quickly, as his godson opened his mouth to speak, "don't say 'What's
shirred?' It's something you do to eggs. It's one way of fixing 'em."
"What's fixing?" inquired William Bannister brightly.
Steve sighed. When he spoke he was calm, but determined.
"That'll be all the dialogue for the present," he said. "We'll play the
rest of our act in dumb show. Get a move on you, and I'll take you out
in the bubble - the automobile, the car, the chug-chug wagon, the thing
we came here in, if you want to know what bubble is - and we'll scare up
some breakfast."
Steve's ignorance of the locality in which he found himself was
complete; but he had a general impression that farmers as a class were
people who delighted in providing breakfasts for the needy, if the
needy possessed the necessary price. Acting on this assumption, he
postponed his trip to the nearest town and drove slowly along the roads
with his eyes open for signs of life.
He found a suitable farm and, applying the brakes, gathered up William
Bannister and knocked at the door.
His surmise as to the hospitality of farmers proved correct, and
presently they were sitting down to a breakfast which it did his
famished soul good to contemplate.
William Bannister seemed less enthusiastic. Steve, having disposed
of two eggs in quick succession, turned to see how his young charge
was progressing with his repast, and found him eyeing a bowl of
bread-and-milk in a sort of frozen horror.
"What's the matter, kid?" he asked. "Get busy."
"No paper," said William Bannister.
"For the love of Pete! Do you expect your morning paper out in the
woods?"
"No paper," repeated the White Hope firmly.
Steve regarded him thoughtfully.
"I didn't have this trip planned out right," he said regretfully. "I
ought to have got Mamie to come along. I bet a hundred dollars she
would have got next to your meanings in a second. I pass. What's your
kick, anyway? What's all this about paper?"
"Aunty Lora says not to eat bread that doesn't come wrapped up in
paper," said the White Hope, becoming surprisingly lucid. "Mamie undoes
it out of crinkly paper."
"I get you. They feed you rolls at home wrapped up in tissue-paper, is
that it?"
"What's tissue?"
"Same as crinkly. Well, see here. You remember what we was talking
about last night about germs?"
"Yes."