 Chapter 12 of their mutual child. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org. Their mutual child by Pidgey Woodhouse. Chapter 12. A Climax. One afternoon about two weeks later, Kirk returning to the studio from an unprofitable raid into the region of the dealers. Found on the table a card bearing the name Mrs. Robert Wilbur. This had been crossed out and beneath it in a straggly hand the name Miss Wilbur had been written. The phenomenon of a caller at the cell of the two hermits was so strange that he awaited Ruth's arrival with more than his customary impatience. She would be able to identify the visitor. George Pennycutt, questioned on the point, had no information of any value to impart. A very pretty young lady she was, said George, with what you might call a lively manner. She had seemed disappointed at finding nobody at home. No, she had left no message. Ruth, arriving a few moments later, was met by Kirk with the card in his hand. Can you throw any light on this? he said. Who is Miss Wilbur? Who has, what you might call a lively manner, and appears disappointed when she does not find us at home? Ruth looked at the card. Simple Wilbur, I wonder what she wants. Who is she? Let's get that settled first. Oh, she's a girl I used to know, I haven't seen her for two years. I thought she'd forgotten my existence. Call her up on the phone. If we don't solve this mystery, we shall not sleep tonight. It's like Robinson Crusoe and the footprint. Ruth went to the telephone. After a short conversation, she turned to Kirk with sparkling eyes, and the air of one with news to impart. Kirk, she wants you to paint her portrait. What? She's engaged at Bailey. Just got engaged. And the first thing she does is to insist on is letting her come to you for her portrait. Sibyl bubbled with laughter. Hits to be her birthday present for Bailey, and Bailey has got to pay for it. That's exactly like Sibyl. I hope the portrait will be. She's taking chances. I think it's simply sweet of her. She's a real friend. Ah, it's fairly long intervals, apparently. Did you say you hadn't seen her for two years? She's an erratic little thing with an awfully good heart. I feel touched to her remembering us. Oh, Kirk, you must do a simply wonderful portrait, something that everybody will talk about, and then our fortune will be made. You will become the only painter that people will go to for their portraits. Kirk did not answer. His experiences of late developed in him an unwanted mistrust of his powers. This was added the knowledge that, except for an impressionist study of Ruth for private exhibition only, he had never attempted a portrait. To be called upon suddenly like this, to show his powers gave him much the same feeling which he'd experienced when called upon as a child to recite poetry before an audience. It was a species of stage fright, but it certainly was a chance. Portrait painting was an uncommonly lucrative line of business. His imagination stirred by Ruth's, saw visions of wealthy applicants turned away from the studio door owing to pressure of work, on the part of the famous man for whose services they were bidding vast sums. By Joe, he said thoughtfully, another aspect of the matter occurred to him. One of what Bailey thinks about it. Oh, he's probably so much in love with her, he doesn't mind what she does. Besides, Bailey likes you, does he? Oh, well, if he doesn't, he will. This will bring you together. I suppose he knows about it. Oh, yes, Sybil said he did. It's all settled. She will be here tomorrow for the first sitting. Kirk spoke the fear that was in his mind. Ruth, old girl, I'm horribly nervous about this. I'm taken with a sort of second sight. I see myself making a ghastly failure of this job and Bailey knocking me down, refusing to come across with a check. Sybil is bringing the check with her tomorrow, said Ruth, simply. Is she? said Kirk. I wonder if that makes it worse or better, I'm trying to think. Sybil Wilbur fluttered in next day at noon, a tiny restless creature who dieted about the studio like a hummingbird. She effervesced with the joy of life. She uttered a squeaks of delight at everything she saw. She hugged Ruth, beamed at Kirk, went wild over William Bannister, thought the studio too cute for words, insisted on being shown all over it, and talked incessantly. It was about two o'clock before she actually began to sit. And even then, she was no statue. Her thought would come into her small head, and she would whirl round to impart it to Ruth, destroying, in a second, the pose which it had taken Kirk ten painful minutes to fix. Kirk was too amused to be irritated. She was such a friendly little soul, and so obviously devoted to Ruth that he felt she was entitled to be a nuisance as a sitter. He wondered more and more what weird principle of selection had been at work to bring Bailey and this butterfly together. He had never given any deep thought to the study of his brother-in-law's character, but from his small knowledge of him he would have imagined someone a trifle more substantial and serious, as the ideal wife for him. Life, he conceived, was to Bailey a stately march. Sybil Wilbur evidently looked on it as a mad gullop. Ruth felt the same. She was fond of Sybil, but she could not see her as the foreordained Mrs. Bailey. I spoke, she swept him off his feet, she said. It just shows you never really get to know a person, even if you're their sister. Bailey must have all sorts of hidden sides to his character, which I never noticed, unless she has. I don't think there's much of that about Sybil. She's just a child. She's very amusing, isn't she? She enjoys life so furiously. I think Bailey will find her rather a-handful. Does she ever sit still, by the way? If she's going to act right along as she did today, this portrait will look like that cubist picture of the dances at the spring. As the sittings went on, Miss Wilbur consented gradually to simmer down, and the portrait progressed with a fair amount of speed. But Kirk was conscious every day of a growing sensation of panic. He was trying his very hardest, but it was bad work, and he knew it. His hand had never had very much coming. But what it had had, it had lost in the years of his idleness. Every day showed him more clearly that the portrait of Miss Wilbur, on which so much depended, was an amateurish daub. He worked doggedly on, but his heart was cold with that chill that grips the artist when he looks on his work and sees it to be bad. At last it was finished. Ruth thought it splendid. Civil Wilbur pronounced it cute, as she did most things. Kirk could hardly better look at it. In its finished state, it was worse than he could have believed possible. In the old days, he had been a fair painter with one or two bad faults. Now the faults seemed to have grown like weeds, choking whatever merit he might once have possessed. This was a horrible production, and he was profoundly thankful when it was packed up and removed from the studio. But behind his thankfulness lurked the feeling that all was not yet over, that there was worse to come. It came. It was heralded by a tearful telephone call from Miss Wilbur, who rang up Ruth with the agitated information that Bailey didn't seem to like it. On the heels of the message came Bailey in person, pink from forehead to collar, and almost as roffful as he had been on the great occasion of his first visit to the studio. His annoyance robbed his speech of its normal statelyness. He struck a colloquial note unusual with him. I guess you know what I've come about, he said. He had found Kirk alone in the studio as ill luck would have it. In the absence of Ruth, he ventured to speak more freely than he would have done in her presence. It's an infernal outrage, he went on. I've been stung, and you know it. Kirk said nothing. His silence infuriated Bailey. It's the portrait I'm speaking about. The portrait of you have the nerve to call it that of Miss Wilbur. I was against her sitting for you from the first, but she insisted. Now she's sorry. It's as bad as all that, is it? said Kirk Dully. He felt curiously indisposed to fight. A listlessness had gripped him. He was even a little sorry for Bailey. He saw his point of view and sympathised with it. Yes, said Bailey fiercely. It is, and you know it. Kirk nodded. Bailey was quite right, he did know it. It's a joke, went on Bailey shrilly. I can't hang it up, people would laugh at it. And to think that I paid you all that money for it. I could have got a real artist for half the price. That is easily remedied, said Kirk. I will send you a check tomorrow. Bailey was not to be appeased. The venom of more than three years cried out for utterance. He had always held definite views upon Kirk, and heaven had sent him the opportunity of expressing them. Yes, it airsay, he said contemptuously. That would settle the whole thing, wouldn't it? What do you think you are, a millionaire? Talking as if that amount of money made no difference to you. Where does my sister come in? How about Ruth? You sneak her away from her home, and then? Kirk's lethargy left him. He flushed. I think that will be about all, banister, he said. He spoke quietly, but his voice trembled. But Bailey's long-damned hatred, having at last found an outlet, was not to be checked in a moment. Will it? Will it, the hell it will. Let me tell you that I came here to talk straight to you. And I'm going to do it. It's about time you had your darn dime-novel romance shown up to you where it strikes somebody else. You think you're a tremendous, dashing, 20th-century young Lock-in-Var, don't you? You thought you had done a pretty smooth bit of work when you sneaked Ruth away. You, you haven't enough backbone in you to make a bluff at working to support her. You're just what my father said you were, a loafer who pretends to be an artist. You've got away with it up to now, but you've shown yourself up at last. You damned waster. Kirk walked to the door and flung it open. You're perfectly right, Bannister, he said quietly. Everything you have said is quite true. Now, would you mind going? I have not finished yet. Yes, you have. Bailey hesitated. The first time Frenzy had left him, and he was beginning to be a little ashamed of himself for having expressed his views in a manner which, though satisfying, was he felt less dignified than he could have wished. He looked at Kirk, who was standing stiffly by the door. Something in his attitude decided Bailey to leave well alone. Such had been his indignation, that it was only now, that for the first time it struck him, that his statement of opinion had not been made without considerable bodily danger to himself. Jard nerves had stood him instead of courage, but now his nerves were soothed and he saw things clearly. He choked down what he had intended to say and walked out. Kirk closed the door softly behind him and began to pace the studio floor as he had done on that night when Ruth had fought for her life in the room upstairs. His mind worked slowly at first. Then as it cleared he began to think more and more rapidly, till the thoughts leaped and ran like tongues of fire scorching him. It was all true. That was what hurt. Every word that Bailey had flung at him had been strictly just. He had thought himself a fine romantic fellow. He was a waster and a loafer who pretended to be an artist. He had thrown away the little talent he had once possessed. He had behaved shamefully to Ruth, shaking his responsibilities and idling through life. He realized it now when it was too late. Suddenly through the chaos of his reflections there shone out clearly one coherent thought, the recollection of what Hank Jardine had offered him. If ever you're in a real tight corner, his brain cleared. He sat down calmly to wait for Ruth. His mind was made up. Hank's offer was the way out. The only way out. And he must take it. End of Chapter 12. A Climax. Read by Tim Bulclea of BigBible.org Book 2, Chapter 1 Of Their Mutual Child by P. G. Woodhouse This LibriVox recording isn't the public domain. Recording by Tim Bulclea of BigBible.org Book 2, Chapter 1 Empty-Handed The steamship Santa Barbara of the United Fruit Line moved slowly through the glittering water of the bay on her way to the dock. Out of quarantine earlier in the morning there had been a mist, through which passing ships loomed up vague and shapeless. But now the sun had dispersed it and a perfect May morning welcomed the Santa Barbara home. Kirk leaned on the rail, looking with dull eyes on the city he had left a year before. Only a year. It seemed ten. As he stood there he felt an old man. A drummer, a cheery soul who had come aboard a Puerto Rico, sauntered up, beaming with well-being and good fellowship. Looks pretty good, sir, said he. Kirk did not answer. He had not heard. Somburg, ventured the drummer. Again encountering silence he turned away hurt. This cheerless attitude on the part of one returning to God's country on one of God's own mornings surprised and wounded him. To him all was right with the world. He had breakfasted well, he was smoking a good cigar, and he was strong in the knowledge that he had done well by the firm this trip, and that bouquets were due to be handed to him in the office on lower Broadway. He was annoyed with Kirk for having cast even a tiny cloud upon his contentment. He communicated his feelings to the third officer who happened to come on deck at that moment. Say, who is that guy? he asked complainingly. The big son of a gun leaning on the rail. Seems like he got a hangover this morning. Is he deaf and dumb or just plain grouchy? The third officer eyed Kirk's back with sympathy. Shouldn't worry him, Freddie, he said. I guess if you'd been up against it like him you'd be shy on the small talk. That's a fellow called Winfield. They carried him on board at Cologne. He was about all in. Got fever in Columbia inland at the mines, and nearly died. His pal did die. Ever met Hank Juddine? All thin man, the other nodded. One of the best, and he made two trips with us. And he's dead? Died of a fever way back in the interior, where there's nothing much else except mosquitoes. He and Winfield went in there after gold. Did they get any? Asked the drummer, interested. The third officer spat disgustedly over the rail. You ask Winfield or rather don't, because I guess it's not his pet subject. He told me all about it when he was getting better. There was gold there all right, in chunks. You'd only need it to be dug for. And it was somebody else that did the digging. Of all the skin games. It may be pretty hot under the collar, and it wasn't me that was stung. Now there you can't buy land if you're a foreigner. You have to lease it from the natives. Poor old Hank leased his bit all right. But when he got to his claim he found somebody else working on it. It seemed there had been a flaw in his agreement, and the owners had let it over his head to these other guys. Who'd slipped them more than what Hank had done. What'd he do? Couldn't do anything. They were the right side of the law. Or what they call the law out there. There was nothing to do except beat it back again 300 miles to the coast. That's where they got the fever which finished Hank. So you can understand, included the third officer, that Mr. Winfield isn't in what you can call a sunny mode. If I were you I'd go and talk to someone else. If conversation's what you need. Kirk stood motionless at the rail thinking. It was not what was past that occupied his thoughts, as the third officer had supposed. It was the future. The forlorn hope had failed. He was limping back to Ruth, wounded and broken. He had sent her a wireless message. She would be at the dock to meet him. How could he face her? Fate had been against him, it was true. But he was in no mood to make excuses for himself. He had failed. That was the beginning and the end of it. He had set out to bring back wealth and comfort to her. And he was returning empty-handed. That was what the immediate future held. The meeting with Ruth. And after? His imagination was not equal to the task of considering that. He had failed as an artist. There was no future for him there. He must find some other work. But he was fit for no other work, he had no training. What could he do in a city where keenness of competition is a tradition? It would be as if an unarmed man should attack a fortress. The thought of the years he had wasted was very bitter. Looking back, he could see how Fate had tricked him into throwing away his one talent. He had had promised. Without work, he could have become an artist, a professional, a man whose work was worth money in the open market. He had never had it in him to be a great artist. But he had had the facility which goes to make a good worker of the second class. He had it still, given the time for hard study. It was still in him to take his proper place among painters. But time for study was out of his reach now. He must set to work at once without a day's delay on something which would bring him immediate money. The reflection brought his mind back abruptly to the practical consideration of the future. Before him, as he stood there, the ragged battlements of New York seemed to frown down on him with a cold cruelty that paralysed his mind. He had seen them a hundred times before. They should have been familiar and friendly. But this morning they were strange and sinister. The skyline which daunts the emigrant as he comes up the bay to his new home. Struck fear into Kirk's heart. He turned away and began to walk up and down the deck. He felt tired and lonely. For the first time he realized just what it meant to him that he should never see Hank again. It had been hard, almost impossible till now, to force his mind to face that fact. He had winced away from it. But now it would not be avoided. It fell upon him like a shadow. Hank had filled a place of his own in Kirk's life. There's been one of those smooth friendships which absence cannot harm. Often they had not seen each other for months at a time. Indeed, now that he thought of it, Hank was generally away and he could not remember that they had ever exchanged letters. Even so, there had been a bond between them which had never been broken. And now Hank had dropped out. Kirk began to think about death. As with most men of his temperament, it was a subject on which his mind had seldom dwelt. Never for any length of time. His parents had died when he was too young to understand and circumstances had shielded him from the shadow of the great mystery. But he understood. It had forced itself into the scheme of his life. But death till now had been a stranger to him. The realization of it affected him oddly. In a sense, he found it stimulating. Not stimulating as birth had been, but more subtly. He could recall vividly the thrill that had come to him with the birth of his son. For days he had walked as one in a trance. The world had seemed unreal, like an opium smoker's dream. There had been magic everywhere. But death had exactly the opposite effect. It made everything curiously real, himself most of all. He had the sensation, as he thought of Hank, of knowing himself for the first time. Somehow he felt strengthened, braced for the fight, as a soldier might who sees his comrade fall at his side. There was something almost vindictive in the feeling that came to him. It was too vague to be analyzed, but it filled him with the desire to fight. It gave him a sense of determination of where she had never before been conscious. It toughened him. It made the old, easy-going Kirkwindfield seem a stranger at whom one could look with detachment and a certain contempt. As he walked back along the deck, the battlements of the city met his gaze once more. But now they seemed less formidable. In the leisurely fashion of a homecoming ship, the Santa Barbara slid into her dock. The gangplank was thrust out. Kirk walked ashore. For a moment he thought that Ruth had not come to meet him. Then his heart leaped madly. He had seen her. There are worse spots in the world than the sheds of the New York customs, but few more desolate. Yet to Kirk just then the shadowy vastness seemed a sunlit garden. A flame of happiness blazed up in his mind, blotting out in an instant the forebodings which had lurked there like evil creatures in a dark vault. The future, with its explanations and plans, could take care of itself. Ruth was the thing of the present. He put his arms round her and held her. The friendly drummer, who chanced to be near, observed them with interest and a good deal of pleasure. The Third Officer's story had temporarily destroyed his feeling that all was right with the world and his sympathetic heart welcomed this evidence that life held compensations, even for men who had been swindled out of valuable gold mines. I guess he's not feeling so worse after all, he mused, and went on his way with an easy mind to be formed upon by his grateful firm. Ruth was holding Kirk at arm's length, her eyes full of tears at sight. You poor boy, how thin you are! I had fever. It's an awful place for fever out there. Kirk! Oh, I'm all right now. The voyage set me up. They made a great fuss of me on board. Ruth's hand was clinging to his arm. He squeezed it against his side. It was wonderful to him. This sense of being together again after these centuries of absence. It drove from his mind the thought of all the explanations which sooner or later he had got to make. Whatever might come after, he would keep this moment in his memory golden and untarnished. Don't you worry about me, he said. Now that I've found you again, I'm feeling better than I ever did in my life. You wait till you see me sparring with Steve tomorrow. By the way, how is Steve? Splendid. Bill? Ruth drew herself up mortally. You dare to ask about your son after Steve. How clumsy that sounds! I mean, you dare to put Steve before your son. I believe you only just realise that you have a son. I've only just realised this anybody or anything in my world except my wife. Well, after that I suppose I've got to forgive you. Since you have asked after Bill at last, I may tell you that he's very well indeed. Kirk's eyes glowed. He ought to be a great kid by now. He is. And, Mami, have you still got her? I wouldn't lose her for a million. And whiskers? I'm afraid whiskers is gone. Not dead. No, I gave them away. For heaven's sake, why? The fact is I've come round to Aunt Laura's way of thinking, eh, about germs. Kirk laughed. The first real laugh he had had for a year. That insane fad of hers. Ruth was serious. I have, she said. We're taking a great deal more care of Bill than in the old days. I hate to think of the way I used to let him run round while then. He might have died. What an nonsense! He was simply bursting with health all the time. I had a terrible shock after you left, Ruth went on. The poor little fellow was awfully ill with some kind of a fever. The doctor almost gave him up. Good heavens. Aunt Laura helped me to nurse him, and she made me see how I had been exposing him to all sorts of risks, and, well, now we guard against them. There was a silence. I grew to rely on her a great deal, Kirk, when you were away. You know I always used to before we were married. She's so wonderfully strong. And then when your letters stopped coming, there aren't any postal arrangements out there in the interior. It was the worst part of it, not being able to write to you or hear from you. Heaven's what an exile I've been this last year. Anything may have happened. Perhaps something has, said Ruth mysteriously. What do you mean? Wait and see. Oh, I know one thing that has happened. I've been looking at you all this while trying to think what it was. You've grown a beard. It looks perfectly horrid. She a laziness that shall come off this very day. I knew you'd hate it. I certainly do. It makes you look so old. Kirk's face clouded. I feel old. For the first time since he had left the ship, the memory of Hank had come back to him. The sight of Ruth had driven him away, but now it swept back on him. The golden moment was over. Life with all its troubles and its explanations and its burdening sense of failure must be faced. What's the matter? I asked Ruth, startled by the sudden change. I was thinking of poor old Hank. Where is Mr. Jardine? Didn't he come back with you? He's dead, dear, said Kirk gently. He died of a fever while we were working our way back to the coast. Oh! It was the idea of death that shocked Ruth, not the particular manifestation of it. Hank had not touched her life. She had begun by disliking him and ended by feeling for him the tolerance of affection which she might bestowed upon a dog or a cat. Hank, as a man, was nothing to her, and she could not quite keep the indifference out of her voice. It was only later, when he looked back on this conversation, that Kirk realized this. At the moment he was unconscious of it, significant as it was of the fact that there were points at which his mind and Ruth's did not touch. When Ruth spoke again it was to change the subject. Well, Kirk, she said, Have you come back with your trunk crammed with nuggets? You haven't said a word about them, I'm dying to know. He groaned inwardly. The moment he had been dreading had arrived more swiftly than he had expected. It was time for him to face facts. No, he said shortly. Ruth looked at him curiously. She met his eyes and saw the pain in them. An intuition told her in an instant what Kirk, stumbling through his story, could not have told her in an hour. She squeezed his arm affectionately. Don't tell me, she said. I understand, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter a bit. Doesn't matter, but Ruth's eyes were dancing. Kirk, dear, I have something to tell you. Wait till we get outside. What do you mean? You'll soon see. They went out into the street. Against the curb a large red automobile was standing. The chauffeur touched his cap as he saw them. Kirk stared at him dumbly. In you get, dear, said Ruth. She met his astonished gaze with a smile of triumph. This was her moment. The moment for which she had been waiting. The chauffeur started the machine. I don't understand whose car is this? Mine, yours, ours. Oh, Kirk, darling, I was so afraid you would come back bulging with a fortune that would make my little one look like nothing. But you haven't, you haven't. It's just splendid. She caught his hand and pressed it. It's simply sweet of you to look so astonished. I was hoping you would. This car belongs to us. And there's another just as big besides and a house and, oh, everything you can think of. Kirk, dear, we've got nothing to worry us any longer. We're rich. End of Book Two, Chapter One. Recording by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org. Book Two, Chapter Two of Their Mutual Child. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org. Their Mutual Child by P.G. Woodhouse. Book Two, Chapter Two. An Unknown Path. Kirk blinked. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The automobile was still there, and he was still in it. Ruth was still gazing at him with the triumphant look in her eyes. The chauffeur, silent emblem of a substantial bank balance, sat stiffly at the steering wheel. Rich, Kirk repeated. Rich? Ruth assured him. I don't understand. Ruth's smile faded. Poor father. Your father? He died just after you sailed just before Bill got ill. She gave a little sigh. Kirk, how odd life is. But it was terrible. It was some kind of a stroke. He'd been working too hard and taking no exercise. And when he sent Steve away that time, he didn't engage anybody else in his place. He went back to his old way of living, which the doctor had warned him against. He worked and worked. Till one day Bailey says he fainted at the office. They brought him home, and he just went out like a burned-out candle. I went to him, but for a long time he wouldn't see me. Oh, Kirk, the hours I spent in the library hoping he would let me come to him. But he never did till right at the end. When I went up he was dying. He couldn't speak. I don't know how he felt towards me at the last. I kissed him. He was all shrunk to nothing. I had a horrible feeling that I had never been a real daughter to him. But, you know, he made it difficult, awfully difficult. And then he died. Bailey was on one side of the bed, and I was on the other. And the nurse and the doctor were whispering outside the door. I could hear them through the transom. She slipped her hand into Kirk's and sat silent while the car slid into the traffic of Fifth Avenue. For the second time the shadow of the great mystery had fallen on the brightness of the perfect morning. The gar had stopped at 34th Street to allow the hurrying crowds to cross the avenue. Kirk looked at them with a feeling of sadness. It was not caused by John Ballester's death. He was too honest to be able to plunge himself into false emotion at will. His feeling was a more vague uneasiness, almost presentiment. Things changed too quickly in this world. Old landmark shifted as the crowd of strangers was shifting before him now, hurrying into his life and hurrying out of it. He too had changed. Ruth, though he had detected no signs of it, must be different from the Ruth he had left a year ago. The old life was dead. What had the new life in store for him? Well, for one thing, other standards of living, new experiences. An odd sensation of regret that this stream of gold had descended upon him deepened his momentary depression. They had been so happy, he and Ruth and the kid, in the old days of the hermit's cell. Something that was almost a superstitious fear of this unexpected legacy came upon him. It was unlucky money, grudgingly given at the eleventh hour. He seemed to feel John Bannister watching him with a sneer, and he was afraid of him. His nerves were still a little unstrung from the horror of his wanderings, and the fever had left him weak. It seemed to him that there was a curse on the old man's wealth, that somehow it was destined to bring him unhappiness. The policeman waved his hand, the car jacked forward. The sudden movement brought him to himself. He smiled, a little ashamed of having been so fanciful. The sky was blue, the sun shone, a cool breeze put the joy of life into him, and at his side Ruth sat, smiling now. From her to the cloud had been lifted. It seems like a fairy story, said Kirk, breaking the silence that had formed between them. I think it must have been the thought of Bill that made him do it, said Ruth. He left half his money to Bailey and half to me during my lifetime. Bailey's married now, by the way, she paused. I'm afraid Father never forgave you, dear, she added. He made Bailey the trustee for the money and he goes to Bill in trust after my death. She looked at him rather nervously, it seemed to Kirk. The terms of the will had been the cause of some trouble to her. Especially had she speculated upon his reception of the news that Bailey was to play so important a part in the administration of the money. Kirk had never told her what had passed between him and Bailey that afternoon in the studio, but her quick intelligence had enabled her to guess the truth. And she was aware that the minds of the two men, their temperaments, were naturally antagonistic. Kirk's reception of the news relieved her. Of course, he said, he couldn't do anything else. He knew nothing of me except I was a kind of man with whom he was quite out of sympathy. He mistrusted all artists, I suspect, in a bunch. And anyway, an artist is pretty sure to be a bad man of business. He would know that, and then, well, what I mean is it strikes me as a very sensible arrangement. Why are we stopping here? The car had drawn up before a large house on the Upper Avenue, one of those houses which advertised affluence with as little reticence as a fat diamond solitaire. We live here, said Ruth, laughing. Kirk drew a long breath. Who were you by George? He exclaimed. I see it's going to take me quite a while to get used to this state of things. A thought struck him. How about the studio? Have you got rid of it? Of course not. The idea. After the perfect times we had there, we're going to keep it on as an annex. Every now and then, when we're tired of being rich, we'll creep off there and boil eggs over the gas stove and pretend we're just ordinary persons again. And, oftener than every now and then, this particular plutocrat is going to creep off there and try to teach himself to paint pictures. Ruth nodded. Yes, I think you ought to have a hobby. It's good for you. Kirk said nothing, but it was not as a hobby that he was regarding his painting. He had come to a knowledge of the realities of the wilderness and to an appreciation of the fact that he had a soul which could not be kept alive, except by honest work. He had the decent man's distaste for living on his wife's money. He supposed that it was inevitable that a certain proportion of it must go to his support. But he was resolved that there should be, in the sight of the gods who looked down on human affairs, at least a reasonable excuse for his existence. If work could make him anything approaching a real artist, he would become one. Meanwhile, he was quite willing that Ruth should look upon his life work as a pleasant pastime to save him from arnwee. Even to his wife, a man is not always eager to exhibit his soul in its nakedness. By the way, he said, Ruth, you won't find George Penicut at the studio. He's gone back to England. I'm sorry, I like George. He liked you. He left all sorts of messages. He nearly wept at it when he said goodbye, but he wouldn't stop. In a burst of confidence, he told me what the trouble was. Our blue sky had gotten his nerves. He wanted to London drizzle again. He said it made him homesick. Kirk entered the house thoughtfully. Somehow, this last piece of news had put the coping stone on the edifice of his... His what? Depression? It was hardly that. No, it was a kind of vague regret. For the life which had so definitely ended, the feeling which the Romans called Desiderium and the Greek Pathos. The defection of George Penicut was a small thing in itself, but it meant the removal of another landmark. We had some bully-good times in that studio, he said. The words were a requiem. The first person whom he met in this great house, in the kingdom of which he was to be king consort, was a butler of incredible statelyness. This was none other than Steve's friend Keggs. But round the outlying portions of this official, he had perceived, as the door opened, a section of a woman in a brown dress. The butler moving to one side, he found himself confronting with his Laura Delaine porter. If other things in Kirk's world had changed, time had wrought in vain upon the great authorus. She looked as masterful, as unyielding, and as efficient as she had looked at the time of his departure. She took his hand without emotion and inspected him keenly. You are thinner, she remarked. I said that land, Laura, said Ruth, poor boy, he's a skeleton. You are not so robust. I've been ill. Ruth interposed. He's had fever, Aunt Laura, and you're not to tease him. I should be the last person to tease any man. What sort of fever? I think it was a blend of all sorts, replied Kirk, kind of Irish stew of fever. You are not infectious. Certainly not. Mrs. Porter checked, Ruth, as she was about to speak. We owe it to William to be careful, she explained. After all the trouble we have taken to exclude him from germs, it is only reasonable to make these inquiries. Come along, dear, said Ruth. I'll show you the house. Turn my down, Laura," she whispered. She means well, and she really is splendid with Bill. Kirk followed her. He was feeling chilled again. His old mistrust of Mrs. Porter revived. If their brief interview was to be taken as evidence, she seemed to have regained entirely her old ascendancy over Ruth. He felt vaguely uneasy as a man might who walks into a powder magazine. Aunt Laura lives here now, observed Ruth casually as they went upstairs. Kirk started. Literally, do you mean? Is this her home? Ruth smiled at him over her shoulder. She wanted to fear with you, she said. Surely this great house is large enough for the three of us. Besides, she's so devoted to Bill, she looks after him all the time. Of course, nowadays I don't get quite so much time to be with him myself. One has an awful lot of calls on one. I feel Bill is so safe without Laura on the premises. She stopped at a door on the first floor. This is Bill's nursery. He's just out now. Mummy takes him for a drive every morning when it's fine. Something impelled Kirk to speak. Don't you ever take him for walks in the morning now? He asked. He used to love it. Silly, of course I do, when I can manage it. For drives, rather, Aunt Laura is rather against his walking much in the city. He might so easily catch something, you know. She opened the door. There, she said. What do you think of that for a nursery? If Kirk had spoken his mind, he would have said that of all the ghastly nurseries the human brain could have conceived, this was the ghastliest. It was a large square room and, to Kirk's startled eyes, had much of the appearance of an operating theatre at a hospital. There was no carpet on the tiled floor. The walls, likewise tiled, were so bare that the eye ached contemplating them. In the corner by the window stood a little white cot. Beside it on the wall hung a large thermometer. Various knobs of brass decorated the opposite wall. At the farther end of the room was a bath, complete with shower, and all the other apparatus of a modern tub. It was probably the most horrible room in all New York. Well, what do you think of it, demanded Ruth proudly. Kirk gazed at her speechless. This, he said to himself, was Ruth, his wife, who had housed his son in the spare bedroom of the studio and allowed a shaggy Irish terrier who had permitted him to play by the hour in the dust of the studio floor who had even assisted him to do so by sending him to the dust herself in the role of a bear or a snake. What had happened to this world from which she had been absent but one short year? Was everybody mad? Or was he hopelessly behind the times? Well, Ruth reminded him, Kirk eyed the dreadful room. It looks clean, he said at last. It is clean, said the voice of Laura Delaney Porter proudly behind him. She had followed them up the stairs to do the honours of the nursery, the centre of her world. It is essentially clean. There is not an object in that room which is not carefully sterilised night and morning with a weak solution of boric acid. Even Mammy inquired Kirk. It had been his attention to be mildly jocular, but Mrs. Porter's reply showed him certainly, have you any idea, Kirk, of the number of germs that are on the surface of the human body? It runs into billions. You, she fixed him with her steely eye, you are at the present moment one mass of microbes. I sneaked through quarantine, all right. To the adult, there is not so much danger in these microbes, provided he or she maintains a reasonable degree of personal cleanliness. That is why adults may be permitted to mix with other adults without preliminary sterilisation. But in the case of a growing child it is entirely different. No precaution is excessive. So, from below at this point, there came the sound of the front doorbell. Ruth went to the landing and looked over the banisters. There ought to be Bill and Mammy back from their drive, she said. The sound of a child's voice came to Kirk as he stood listening. And as he heard it, all the old feeling of paternal pride and excitement which had left him during his wanderings a wave. He reproached himself that while the memory of Ruth had been with him during every waking moment of the past year there had been occasions when that of little William banister had become a little faded. He ran down the stairs. Hello, Mammy, he said. How are you? You're looking well? Mammy greeted him with the shy smile which was want to cause such havoc in Steve's heart. And who is this you've got with you? Mammy, you know you've got no business with young men like this. Who is he? He stood looking at William banister and William banister stood looking at him Kirk smiling William staring with the intense gravity of childhood and trying to place this bearded stranger among his circular friends. He seemed to be thinking that the familiarity of the other's manner indicated a certain amount of previous acquaintanceship. Watch that busy brain working, said Kirk. He's trying to place me. All right, little old man, it's my fault. I had no right to spring myself on you with eight feet of beard. It isn't giving you a square deal. Never mind, it's coming off in a few minutes. Never to return. And then perhaps you'll remember that you were father. Father! shrieked William banister triumphantly taking the cue with admirable swiftness. He leapt at Kirk and Kirk swung him up in the air. It was quite an effort for William banister had grown astonishingly in the past year. Pop! he said firmly as if resolved to prevent any possibility of mistake. Daddy! he added, continuing to play upon the theme. He summed up, Oh, my Pop! then satisfied that this was final. And there could now be no chance for Kirk to back out of the contract. He reached out a hand and gave a tug at the beard which had led to all the confusion. What's this? You may well ask, said Kirk. I got stuck that way because I left you and Mummy for a whole year, but now I'm back and I'm going to be allowed to take it off and give it away. Whom should I give it to? Steve, do you think Steve would like it? Yes, you can go on pulling it, it won't break. On the other hand, I should just like to mention that it's hurting something fierce, my son. It's fastened at the other end, you know. Why? Don't ask me, that's the way it's built. William banister obligingly disentangled himself from the beard. Where you been? he inquired. Mars and Mars away, you know the battery. William banister nodded. Well, a long way past that. First, I took a ship and went ever so many miles. Then I landed and went ever so many more miles with all sorts of beasts trying to bite pieces out of me. This interested William banister. Tigers, he inquired. I didn't actually see any Tigers, but I expect they were sneaking around. They were all mosquitoes, though. You know what a mosquito is? William nodded. Bumps, he observed crisply. That's right. You see this lump here just above my mouth? Well, that's not a mosquito bite. That's my nose. But think of something about that size and you'll have some idea of what a mosquito bite is like out there. But why am I boring you with my troubles? Tell me all about yourself. You've certainly been growing whatever else you may have been doing while I've been away. I can hardly lift you. Has Steve tortured a box yet? At this moment he was aware that he had become the center of a small group. He found himself gazing into her face so stiff with horror and disapproval that he was startled almost into dropping William. What could have happened to induce Mrs. Porter to look like that? He could not imagine. But her expression checked the flow of light conversation as if it had been turned off with a switch. He lowered Bill to the ground. What on earths a matter? He asked. What has happened? Without replying, Mrs. Porter made a gesture in the direction of the nursery, which had the effect of sending Mammy and her charge off again on the journey upstairs, which Kirk's advent had interrupted. Bill seemed sorry to go, but he trudged steadily on without remark. Kirk followed him with his eyes till he disappeared at the bend of the stairway. What's the matter? he repeated. Are you mad, Kirk? He reminded Mrs. Porter in a tense voice. Kirk turned helplessly to Ruth. You better let me explain, Aunt Laura, she said. Of course, Kirk couldn't be expected to know, poor boy. You seem to forget that he has only this minute come into the house. Aunt Laura was not to be appeased. That is absolutely no excuse. He has just left a ship where he cannot have failed to pick up a silly of every description. He has himself only recently recovered from a probably infectious fever. He is wearing a beard, notoriously the most germ-ridden abomination in existence. Kirk started. He was not proud of his beard, but he had not regarded it as quite the pestilential thing which it seemed to be in the eyes of Mrs. Porter. And he picks up the child. She went on, hugs him, kisses him. And you say he could not have known better. Surely the most elementary common sense. Aunt Laura, said Ruth, she spoke quietly, but there was a note in her voice which acted on Mrs. Porter like magic. Her flow of words ceased abruptly. It was a small incident, but it had the effect of making Kirk, grateful as he was for the interruption, somehow vaguely uneasy for a moment. It seemed to indicate some subtle change in Ruth's character, some new quality of hardness added to it. The Ruth he had left when he had sailed for Columbia, would he felt have been capable of quelling her masterful aunt, so very decisively, and with such an economy of words. It suggested previous warfare, in which the elder woman had been subdued to a point where a mere exclamation could pull her up when she forgot herself. Kirk felt uncomfortable. He did not like these sudden discoveries about Ruth. I will explain to Kirk, she said, you go up and see that everything is right in the nursery. And amazing spectacle, off went Mrs. Kirk without another word. Ruth put her arm in Kirk's and led him to the smoking-room. You may smoke a cigar while I tell you all about Bill, she said. Kirk lit a cigar bewildered. It was always unpleasant to be the person to whom things have to be explained. A poor old boy, Ruth went on, you certainly are thin, but about Bill. I am afraid you are going to be a little upset about Bill, Kirk. Aunt Laura has no tact, and she will make a speech on every possible occasion. But she was right just now. It really was rather dangerous picking Bill up like that and kissing him. Kirk stared. I don't understand. Did you expect me to wave my hand to him? Or would it be more correct to bow? Don't be so satirical, Kirk, you wither me. No, seriously, you mustn't kiss Bill, I never do. Nobody does. What? It sounds ridiculous to you, but you were not here when he was so ill and nearly died. You remember that I was telling you at the dock about giving whiskers away? Well, this is all part of it. After what happened, I felt like Aunt Laura that we simply can't take too many precautions. You saw his nursery. Well, it would simply be a waste of money giving him a nursery like that if he was allowed to be exposed to infection when he was out of it. And I am supposed to be infectious. No more than anybody else. There's no need to be hurt about it. It's just as much a sacrifice for me. So nobody makes a fuss over Bill now, is that it? Well, no, not in the way you mean. Pretty dreary outlook for the kid, isn't it? It's all for his good. What a ghastly expression. Ruth left her chair and came to sit on the arm of Kirk's. She ruffled his hair lightly with the tips of her fingers. Kirk, who had been disposed to be militant, softened instantly. The action brought back a flood of memories. It conjured up recollections of peaceful evenings in the old studio. For this had been a favourite habit of Ruth's. It made him feel that he loved her more than he had ever done in his life. And, incidentally, that he was a brute to try and thwart her in anything whatsoever. I know it's horrid for you, dear old boy, said Ruth coaxingly, but do be good and not make a fuss about it. Not kissing Bill doesn't mean you need be any less fond of him. I know it'll be strange at first. I didn't get used to it for ever so long. But honestly, it is for his good. However ghastly the expression of the thing may sound. It's treating the kid like a wretched invalid, grumble Kirk. You wait till you see him playing. Then you'll know if he's a wretched invalid or not. May I see him playing? Don't be silly, of course. I thought I better ask. Being the perambulating plague-spot that I am, I was not taking any risks. How horribly self-centred you are. You will talk as if you were in some special sort of quarantine. I keep on telling you it's the same for all of us. I suppose when I'm with him I should like to be sterilized. I don't think it necessary myself, but Aunt Laura does, so it's always done. It humours her, and it really isn't any trouble. Besides, it may be necessary after all one never knows. And it's best to be on the safe side. Kirk laid down his cigar firmly. The cold cigar which stress of emotion had made him forget to keep a light. Ruth, old girl, he said honestly, this is pure lunacy. Ruth's fingers wandered idly through his hair, and she did not speak for some moments. You will be good about it, won't you, Kirk dear? She said at last. It's curious what a large part hair and its treatment may play in the undoing of strong men. The case of Samson may be recalled in this connection. Kirk, with Ruth ruffling the wiry growth that hit his scalp, was incapable of serious opposition. He tried to beam a roast and resolute, but failed miserably. Oh, very well, he grunted. That's a good boy, and you promised you won't go hugging Bill again. Very well. There's an angel for you. Now, I'll fix your cocktail as a reward. Well, mind you sterilize it carefully. Ruth laughed, having gained her point you could afford to. She made the cocktail and brought it to him. Now, I'll be off to dress, and then you can take me out to lunch somewhere. Aren't you dressed? My goodness, no. Not for going to restaurants. You forget that I'm one of the idle rich now. I spend my whole day putting on different kinds of clothes. I have a position to keep up now, Mr. Winfield. Kirk lit a fresh cigar and sat thinking. The old feeling of desolation when he came up the bay had returned. He felt like a stranger in a strange world. Life was not the same. Ruth was not the same. Nothing was the same. The more he contemplated the new regulations affecting Bill, the chillier and more unfriendly did they seem to him. He could not bring himself to realize Ruth as one of the great army of cranks preaching and carrying out the gospel of Laura Delain Porter. It seemed so at variance with her character as he had known it. He could not seriously bring himself to believe that she genuinely approved these absurd restrictions. Yet apparently she did. He looked into the future. It had a grey and bleak aspect. He seemed himself like a man gazing down an unknown path full of unknown perils. End of Chapter 2 of Book 2 Recording by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org Part 2 Chapter 3 of The Mutual Child This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org Their Mutual Child by PG Woodhouse Part 2 Chapter 3 of the Literature of Steve Kirk was not the only person whom the sudden change in the financial position of the Winfield family had hit hard. The blighting effects of sudden wealth had touched Steve while Kirk was to link Columbia. In a sense, it had wrecked Steve's world. Nobody had told him to stop or even diminish the number of his visits. But the fact remained that by the time Kirk returned to New York, he had practically ceased to go to the house for all his roughness. Steve possessed a delicacy which sometimes almost amounted to diffidence. And he did not need to be told that there was a substantial difference as far as he was concerned between the new headquarters of the family and the old. At the studio, he had been accustomed to walk in when he pleased him sure of a welcome. But he had an idea that he did not fit as neatly into the atmosphere of Fifth Avenue as he had done into that of 61st Street. And nobody disabused him of it. It was perhaps the presence of Mrs. Porter that really made the difference. In spite of the compliments she had sometimes paid to his common sense, Mrs. Porter did not put Steve at his ease. He was almost afraid of her. Consequently, when he came to Fifth Avenue he remained below stairs, talking pugilism with kegs. It was from kegs that he first learned of the changes that had taken place in the surroundings of William Bannister. I've had the privilege of serving in some of the best houses in England, said the Butler one evening as they sat smoking in the pantry. And I've never seen such goings on. I don't hold with the pampering of children. What do you mean, pampering? Asked Steve. Well, Lord Lover Duck, replied the Butler, who in his moments of relaxation was addicted to homely expectives of the lower London type. If you don't call it pampering, what do you call pampering? He ain't allowed to touch nothing that ain't been it's slipped my memory of what they call it, but it's got something to do with microbes. They sprinkle stuff on his toys and on his clothes and on his nurse and what's more on anyone who comes to see him. And his nursery ain't what I call a nursery at all. It's nothing more or less than a private hospital with its white tiles and its antiseptics and what not and the temperature just so and no lower and no higher I don't call it having a proper faith in providence. Pampering and fussing over a child to that extent, you're stringing me. Not a bit of it, Mr. Dingle. I've seen the nursery with my own eyes and I've my information direct from the young person who looks after the child. But say, in the old days that kid was about the dandiest little sport that ever came down the pike. You've seen him that day, I've brought him around to say hello to the old man. He didn't have no nursery at all then, let alone one with white tiles. I've seen him come off the studio floor looking like a coon with the dust and Miss Ruth tickled to see him like that too. For the love of Mike, what's come to her? It's all along of this porter said Kegs morosely. She's done it all and if, he went on with sudden heat, she don't break her habit of addressing me in a tone that the umblest dog would resent. I'm liable to forget my place and give her a piece of my mind. Coming round and interfering. Got your goat, has she? Committed Steve, interested. She's what you'd call a tough proposition that day. I used to have my eye on her all the time in the old days, trying to start something. But say, I'd like to see this nursery you've been talking about. Take me up and let me lamp it. Kegs shook his head. I dare, Mr Dingle. It'd be more than my place is worth. But done it, I'm the kid's godfather. That will make no difference to that porter. She'd pick on me just the same. But if you care to risk it, Mr Dingle, I'll show you where it is. You'll find the young person up there. He'll tell you more about the child's habits in daily life than I can. Good enough, said Steve. He had not seen Mammy for some time and absence had made the heart grow fonder. It embittered him that his meetings with her were all too rare nowadays. She seemed to have abandoned the practice of walking altogether. She seemed to have abandoned the practice of walking altogether. For whenever he saw her now, she was driving in the automobile with Bill. Keg's information about the new system threw some light upon this and made him all the more anxious to meet her now. It was a curious delusion of Steve's that he was always going to pluck up courage and propose to Mammy the very next time he saw her. They had gone on now for over two years, but he still clung to it. Repeated failures to reveal his burning emotions never caused him to lose the conviction that he would do it for certain next time. It was in his customary braced-up door-dye frame of mind that he entered the nursery now. His visit to Keg's had been a rather late one and had lasted some time before the subject of the White Hope had been broached. With the result that when Steve arrived among the White Tiles and antiseptics he found his godson in bed and asleep. In a chair by the cot sat Mammy sewing. Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who the visitor was and she put a finger to her lip and as we have to record another of the long list of Steve's failures to propose we must say here an excuse that this reception took a great deal of the edge off the dashing resolution which had been his up to that moment. It made him feel self-conscious from the start. Whatever brings you up here Steve whispered Mammy. It was not a very tactful remark perhaps considering that Steve was the child's godfather and as such might reasonably expect to pass to his nursery. But Mammy, like Keggs, had fallen so under the domination of Laura Delaine Porter that she had grown to consider it almost a natural law that no one came to see Bill unless approved of and personally conducted by her. Steve did not answer. He was gaping at the fittings of the place in which he found himself. It was precisely as Keggs had described it White Tiles and all. He was roused from his reflections of the approach of Mammy or rather not so much by her approach as by the fact that at this moment she suddenly squirted something at him. It was cold and wet and hit him in the face before as he put it to Keggs later he could get his guard up. For the love of... Shhh! said Mammy warningly. What's the idea? What are you handing me? I've got to get everyone. Gee! You've got a swell job. Well, go to it then. Shoot. I'm ready. It's boric acid. explained Mammy. I shouldn't wonder. Is this all part of the Porter Circus? Yes. Where is she? inquired Steve in sudden alarm. Is she likely to butt in? No, she's out. Good! said Steve and sat down relieved to resume his inspection of the room. Well, he said softly. Say Mammy, what do you think about it? I'm not paid to think about it, Steve. That means you agree with me that it's the punkest state of things you ever struck. Well, you're quite right. It is. It's a shame to think of that innocent kid having this sort of deal handed to him. Why? Just think of him at the studio. But Mammy, whatever her private views was loyal to her employers. She refused to be drawn into a discussion of the subject. Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keg, Steve? Yes, it was him that told me about all this. Say Mammy, we ain't seen much of each other lately. No. Mighty little. Yes. Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have gone resolutely ahead. After all, it was not a very long step from telling a girl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you've not seen much of her lately except hinting that you would like to see a great deal more of her in the future. Steve was on the right lines and he knew it. But that fatal lack of nerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had got as far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence and Mammy went on saying, in a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometer and the brass knobs on the shower bath, it was a peaceful scene. And what Mammy so was stirred by it. Remove the white tiles, the thermometer, the brass knobs and the shower bath and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured up when the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dream dreams. There he was, sitting in one chair and there was Mammy sitting in another and there in the corner was the little white cot. Well, perhaps that was being shade too prophetic. On the other hand it always came into these dreams of his. There in short was everything arranged just as he pictured it and all that was needed to make the picture real was for him to propose and Mammy to accept him. It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did not necessarily follow on the first that it kept Steve from taking the plunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem he feared his fate too much for the touch to win or lose it all. Presently the silence began to oppress Steve. Mammy had her needlework and that apparently served her in due of conversation. But Steve had nothing to occupy him and he began to grow restless. He always despised himself thoroughly for his feebleness on these occasions and he despised himself now. He determined to make the big effort. Mammy! He said As he was nervous and had been silent so long that his vocal chords had gone off duty under the impression that the day's work was over the word came out of him like a husky gunshot. Mammy started and the white hope who had been sleeping peacefully stirred and muttered shh! hissed Mammy. Steve collapsed with the feeling that it was not his lucky night while Mammy bent anxiously over the cot. The sleeper however did not wake. He gurgled Geversy and resumed his interrupted repose. Mammy returned to her seat. Yes, she said as if nothing had occurred and as if there had been no interval between Steve's remark and her reply. Steve could not equal her calmness. He had been strung up when he spoke and the interruption had undone him. He reflected ruefully that he might have said something to the point if he had been allowed to go straight on. Now he had forgotten what he had meant to say. Oh, nothing he replied. Silence fell once more on the nursery. Steve was bracing himself up for another attack when suddenly there came a sound of voices from the stairs. One of the voices was Emya Murmer but the other was sharp and unmistakable the incisive note of Laura Delaine Porter. It brought Steve and Mammy to their feet simultaneously. What's it matter said Steve stoutly answering the panic in Mammy's eyes. It's not her house and I've got a perfect right to be here. You don't know her. I should have gotten into trouble. Mammy was pale with apprehension. She knew her Laura Delaine Porter and she knew what would happen if Steve were to be discovered here. It was as cakes put it as much as her place was worth. For a brief instant Mammy faced a future in which she had fallen from Bill's presence into outer darkness dismissed and told never to return. That was what would happen. Sitting and talking with Steve in the sacred nursery at this time of night was a crime and she had known it all the time but she would be glad to see Steve again after all this while. If Steve had known how glad he would have certainly found courage and said what he had so often failed to say. And knowing that Mammy's porter was out she had thought the risk of his presence worth taking. Now with discovery imminent panic came upon her. The voices were quite close now. There was no doubt of the destination of the speakers. They were heading slowly but directly for the nursery. Steve not being fully abreast of the new rules and regulations of the sacred apartment could not read Mammy's mind completely. He did not know that under Mrs. Porter's code. The admission of a visitor during the hours of sleep was a felony in the first degree punishable by instant dismissal. But Mammy's face and her brief reference to trouble were enough to tell him that the position was critical. And with the instinct of the trapped he looked round him for cover. But the White Hope's nursery was not constructed with a view to providing cover for bulky gentlemen who should not have been there. It was as bare as a billiard table as far as practicable hiding places were concerned. Then his eye caught the waterproof sheet of the shower bath. Behind that there was just room for concealment. With a brief nod of encouragement to Mammy, he leapt at it. The door opened as he disappeared. Mrs. Porter's rules concerning visitors though stringent as regarded Mammy were capable of being relaxed when she herself was the person to relax them. She had a visitor with her now a long, severe looking lady with a sharp nose, surmounted by spectacles who, taking in the white tiles, the thermometer, the cot, and the brass knobs in a single comprehensive glance observed admirable. Mrs. Porter was obviously pleased with this approval. Her companion was a woman doctor of great repute among the advanced apostles of hygiene and praise from her was praise indeed. She advanced into the room with an air of suppressed pride. These tiles are thoroughly cleaned twice each day with an antiseptic solution. Just so said the spectacle lady. You noticed the thermometer? Exactly. Those knobs you see on the wall have various uses. Quite. They examined the knobs with an air of profound seriousness. Mrs. Porter erected and complacent the other leaning forward and peering through her spectacles. Mammy took advantage of their backs and turned to cast a hurried glance at the waterproof curtain. It was certainly an admirable screen. No sign of Steve was visible. But nevertheless, she did not cease to quake. This, said Mrs. Porter, controls the heat. This, this, and this are for the ventilation. Just so, just so, just so, to the doctor. And this, of course, is for the shower bath, I understand. And extending her slim finger, she gave the knob a forceful push. Mrs. Porter nodded. That is the cold shower, she said. This is the hot. It is a very ingenious arrangement, one of Malcomson's paintings. There is a regulator at the side of the bath which enables the nurse to get just the correct temperature. I will turn on both, and then it was as Mrs. Porter's hand was extended toward the knob that the paralysis which terror had put upon Mammy relaxed its grip. She had stood by without a movement while the cold water splashed down upon the hidden Steve. Her heart had ached for him but she had not stirred. But now, with the prospect of allowing him to be boiled alive before her, she acted. It is generally only on the stage that a little child comes to the rescue of adults at critical moments. But William Bannister was accorded the opportunity of doing so off it. It happened that at the moment of Mrs. Porter's entry, Mammy had been standing near his cot and she had not moved since. The consequence was that she was within easy reach of him and despair giving her what in the circumstances amounted to a flash of inspiration. She leaned quickly forward even as Mrs. Porter's finger touched the knob and gave the round head on the pillow a rapid push. William Bannister set up with a grunt, rubbed his eyes and seeing strangers began to cry. It was so obvious to Mrs. Porter and her companion both from the evidence of their guilty consciences and the look of respectful reproach on Mammy's face that the sound of their voices had disturbed the child. That they were routed from the start. Oh, oh, dear me, he's awake, said the lady doctor. I'm afraid we did not lower our voices, added Mrs. Porter and yet William is usually such a sound sleeper. Better just how, said the doctor. Go downstairs while the nurse gets him to off to sleep again. Quite the door closed behind them. Oh, Steve, said Mammy. The White Hope had gone to sleep again with the amazing speed of childhood and Mammy was looking pityingly at the bedraggled object which had emerged cautiously from behind the waterproof. I can't mine, muttered Steve ruefully. You ain't got a towel anywhere, have you, Mam? Mammy produced a towel and watched him apologetically as he attempted to dry himself. I'm so sorry, Steve. Cut it out. It was my fault. I oughtn't to have been there. Say, it was a bit of luck the kid waking just then. Yes, said Mammy. Observe the tricks that conscience plays us. If Mammy had told Steve what a cause William to wake, he would certainly have been so charmed by her presence of mind exerted on his behalf to save him from fate which Mrs. Porter's unconscious hand had been about to bring down upon him. That he would have forgotten his diffidence then and there, and, as the poet has it, eased his bosom of such perilous stuff. But conscience would not allow Mammy to reveal the secret. Already she was suffering the pangs of remorse for having, in however good a cause, broken her idol's rest with a push that might have given the poor Lamb a headache. She could not confess the crime to Steve. And if Steve had had the pluck to tell Mammy that he loved her, as he stood before her dripping with the water which he had suffered in silence rather than betray her, she would have fallen into his arms. For Steve, at that moment, had all the glamour for her of the self-sacrificing hero of a movie-picture film. He had not actually risked death for her perhaps, but he had taken a cold shower bath without a murmur for her. Mammy was thrilled. She looked at him with the gleaming eyes of devotion. But Steve, just because he knew that he was wet and fancied that he must look ridiculous, held his peace. And presently, his secret still locked in his bosom and his collar sticking limply to his neck, he crept downstairs avoiding the society of his fellow man and slunk out into the night If there was no Mammy, there were at any rate dry clothes. End of Part 2, Chapter 3 Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Book 2, Chapter 4 Of Their Mutual Child This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Their Mutual Child by P. G. Woodhouse Book 2, Chapter 4 The Widening Gap The new life hit Kirk as a wave hits a bather, and like a wave swept him off his feet, choked him and generally filled him with a feeling of discomfort. He should have been prepared for it, but he was not. He should have divine from the first that the money was bound to produce changes other than a mere shifting of headquarters, from 61st Street to 5th Avenue. But he had deluded himself at first with the idea that Ruth was different from other women, that she was superior to the artificial pleasures of the society which is distinguished by the Big S. In a moment of weakness, induced by hair ruffling, he had given in on the point of the hygienic upbringing of William Bannister. But there he had imagined his troubles were to cease. He had supposed that he was about to resume the old hermit cell life of the studio and live in a world which contained Ruth, Bill and himself. He was quickly un-deceived. Within two days he was made aware of the fact that Ruth was in the very centre of the social world pool and that she took it for granted that he would join her there. There was nothing of the hermit about Ruth now. She was amazingly un-domestic. Her old distaste for the fashionable life of New York seemed to have vanished absolutely. As far as Kirk could see she was always entertaining or being entertained. He was pitched headlong into a world where people talked incessantly of things which bought him and did things which seemed to him simply mad. And Ruth, whom he had thought he understood, reveled in it all. But first he tried to get at her point of view to discover what she found to enjoy in this lunatic existence of aimlessness and futility. One night as he was driving home from a dinner which had bored him unspeakably he had asked the question point blank. It seemed to him incredible that she could take pleasure in an entertainment which had filled him with such depression. Ruth he said impulsively as the car moved off. What do you see in this sort of thing? How can you stand these people? What have you in common with them? Poor old Kirk, I know you hated it tonight, but we shan't be dining with the Bailey's every night. Bailey Bannister had been their host on that occasion and the dinner had been elaborate and gorgeous. Mrs. Bailey was now one of the leaders of the younger set. Bailey, looking much more than a year older than when Kirk had seen him last, presided at the head of the table with great dignity. And the meeting with him had not contributed to the pleasure of Kirk's evening. We awfully bored. You seem to be getting along quite well with Sybil. Unlike her, she's good fun. She's certainly having good fun. I'd give anything to know what Bailey really thinks of it. She is the most shockingly extravagant little creature in New York. You know the Wilbur's were quite poor and poor Sybil was kept very short. I think that marrying Bailey and having all his money to play with has turned her head. It struck Kirk that the criticism applied equally well to the critic. She does the most absurd things. She gave a freak dinner when you were away that cost her to know how much. She is always doing something. Well, I suppose Bailey knows what he's about. But at her present pace she must be keeping him busy making money to pay for all her fads. You ought to paint a picture of Bailey, Kirk. As the typical patient American husband you couldn't get a better model. Suggested to him and let me hide somewhere where I can hear what he says. Bailey has his own opinion of my pictures. Ruth laughed a little nervously. She had always wondered exactly what had taken place that day in the studio. And the subject was one which she was shy of exhuming. She turned the conversation. What did you ask me just now? Something about? I asked you what you had in common with these people? Ruth reflected. Oh, well, it's rather difficult to say if you put it like that. They're just people, you know. They're amusing sometimes. I used to know some of them. I suppose that's the chief thing which brings us together. They happen to be there. And if you're travelling on a road you naturally talk to your fellow travellers. But why don't you like them? It was Kirk's turn to reflect. Well, that's hard to answer too. I don't think I actively liked or disliked any of them. They seemed to me just not worthwhile. My point is rather, why are we wasting a perfectly good evening mixing with them? What's the use? That's my case in a nutshell. Oh, if you put it like that. What's the use of anything? We must do something. We can't be hermits. A curious feeling of being infinitely far from Ruth came over Kirk. She dismissed his dreams as a whimsical impossibility, not worthy of serious consideration. Why could they not be hermits? They'd been hermits before and it had been the happiest period of both their lives. Why? Just because the old man had died and left them money, must they rule out the best thing in life as impossible and plunge into a nightmare which was no life at all. He had tried to deceive himself but he could do so no longer. Ruth had changed. The curse with which his sensitive imagination had invested John Bannister's legacy was, after all, no imaginary curse. Like a golden wedge it had forced Ruth and himself apart. Everything had changed. He was no longer the centre of Ruth's life. He was just an encumbrance, a nuisance who could not be got rid of and must remain a permanent handicap always in the way. So thought Kirk morbidly as the automobile passed through the silent streets. He must be remembered that he had been extremely bored for a solid three hours and was predisposed consequently to gloomy thoughts. Whatever his faults Kirk rarely whined. He had never felt so miserable but he tried to infuse a turn of lightness into the conversation. After all, if Ruth's intuition fell short of enabling her to understand his feelings, nothing was to be gained by parading them. I guess it's my fault, he said, that I haven't got a breast of the society game as yet. You better give me a few pointers. My trouble is that being new to them I can't tell whether these people are types or exceptions. Take Clarence Grayling, for instance. Are there any more at home like Clarence? My dear child, all Bailey's special friends are like Clarence exactly alike. I remember telling him so once. There was a specimen with a little black moustache who thought America crewed and said the only place to live was in southern Italy. Is he an isolated case or an epidemic? He's scarier than Clarence but he's quite a well-marked type. He is the millionaire's son who has done Europe and doesn't mean you to forget it. There was a chesty person with a wave of hair coming down over his forehead a sickeningly handsome fellow who looked like a poet. I think they called him Basil. Does he run round in flocks or is he unique? Ruth didn't reply for a moment. Basil Milbank was part of the past which in the year during which Kirk had been away had come rather startlingly to life. There had been a time when Basil had been very near and important to her. Indeed but for the intervention of Mrs. Porter described in an earlier passage she would certainly have married Basil. Then Kirk had crossed her path and had monopolized her. During the studio period the recollection of Basil had grown faint. After that, just at the moment when Kirk was not there to lend her strength he had come back into her life. In nearly a year she had seen him daily and gradually at first almost with fear she had realized that the old fascination was by no means such a thing of the past as she had supposed. She had hoped for Kirk's return as a general sorely pressed hopes for reinforcements. With Kirk at her side she felt Basil would slip back into his proper place in the scheme of things and behold Kirk had returned and still the tension remained unrelaxed for Kirk had changed. After the first day she could not conceal it from herself. That it was she who had changed did not present itself to her as a possible explanation of the fact that she now felt out of touch with her husband. All she knew was that they had been linked together by bonds of sympathy and were so no longer. She found Kirk dull. She hated to admit it but the truth forced itself upon her. He had begun to bore her. She collected her thoughts and answered his question. Basil Milbank oh I should call him unique. She felt a wild impulse to warn him to explain the real significance of this man whom he clasped contemptuously with Terence Grayling and that absurd little Donna Ferris as somebody of no account. She wanted to cry out to him that she was in danger and that only he could help her but she could not speak and Kirk went on in the same tone of half tolerant contempt. Who is he? She controlled herself with an effort and answered indifferently. Oh Basil well you might say he's everything. He plays polo, leads coutillions yachts, shoots, plays the piano wonderfully everything. People usually like him very much. She paused. Women especially. She had tried to put something into her tone which might serve to awaken him something which might prepare the way for what she wanted to say and what if she did not say it now when the mood was on her she could never say but Kirk was deaf. He looks at that sort of man he said and as he said it the accumulated boredom of the past three hours found vent in a vast yawn. Ruth set her teeth. She felt as if she had received a blow. When he spoke again it was on the subject of street paving defects in New York City. It was true as Ruth had said that they did not dine with the Baileys every night but that seemed to Kirk as the days went on the one and only bright spot in the new state of affairs he could not bring himself to treat life with a philosophical resignation. His was not open revolt he was outwardly docile but inwardly he rebelled furiously. Perhaps the unnaturally secluded life which he had led since his marriage had unfitted him for mixing in society even more than nature had done he had grown out of the habit of mixing crowds irritated him he hated doing the same thing at the same time as a hundred other people like most bohemians he was at his best in a small circle he liked his friends as single spies not in battalions he was a man who should have had a few intimates and no acquaintances and his present life was bounded north south east and west by acquaintances most of the men to whom he spoke he did not even know by name he would seek information from Ruth as they drove home who was the pop-eyed second-story man with the bald head and the convex waistcoat who glued himself to me tonight he was the final gentleman with the slightly prominent eyes and the rather thin hair that was Brock Mason, the vice-president of consolidated groceries you mustn't even think disrespectfully of a man as rich as that he isn't what you call a sparkling talker he doesn't have to be his time is worth a hundred dollars a minute or a second, I forget which put me down for a nickel's worth next time and then as they began to laugh over Ruth's suggestion they should save up and hire Mr Mason for an afternoon and make him keep quiet all the time for Ruth was generally ready to join him in ridiculing their new acquaintances she had none of that reverence for the great and the near-great which, running to seed, becomes snobbery it was this trait in her which kept alive long after it might have died the hope that her present state of mind was only a phase that after the new game she would become the old Ruth of the studio but when he was honest with himself he was forced to admit that she showed no signs of ever tiring of it they had drifted apart they were out of touch with each other it was not an uncommon state of things in the circle in which Kirk now found himself indeed it seemed to him that the semi-detached couple was the rule rather than the exception but there was small consolation in this reflection he was not at all interested in the domestic troubles of the people he mixed with his own hit him very hard Ruth had criticised little Mrs. Bailey but there was no doubt that she herself had had her head turned quite as completely by the new life the first time that Kirk realised this was when he came upon an article in a Sunday paper printed around a blurred caricature which professed to be a photograph of Mrs. Kirk Winfield in which she was alluded to with reverence and gusto as one of society's leading hostesses in the course of the article reference was made to know fewer than three freak dinners of varying ingenuity which she had provided for her delighted friends it was this that staggered Kirk that Mrs. Bailey should indulge in this particular form of insanity was intelligible but that Ruth should have descended to it he did not refer to the article when he met Ruth but he was more than ever conscious of the gap between them the gap which was widening every day the experiences he had undergone during the year of his wandering had strengthened Kirk considerably but nature is not easily expelled and the constitutional weakness of character which had hampered him through life prevented him from making any open protests or appeal however, he could understand now her point of view and that disarmed him he saw her this state of things had come about in a sense it was the natural state of things Ruth had been brought up in certain surroundings her love for him, new and overwhelming had enabled her to free herself temporarily from these surroundings and become reconciled to a life for which he told himself she had never been intended fate had thrown her back into her natural sphere or she reveled in the old environment as an exile revels in the life of the homeland from which she has been so long absent that was the crux of the tragedy Ruth was at home he was not Ruth was among her own people he was a stranger among strangers a prisoner in a land where men spoke an alien tongue there was nothing to be done the gods had played one of their practical jokes and he must join in the laugh against himself and try to pretend that he was not hurt end of chapter 4 the widening gap recording by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org book 2 chapter 5 of their mutual child this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org their mutual child by Pidgey Woodhouse book 2 chapter 5 the real thing Kirk sat in the nursery with his chin on his hands staring gloomily at William Bannister on the floor, William Bannister played some game of his own invention with his box of bricks they were alone it was the first time they had been alone together thanks as a rule when Kirk played his daily visit Laura Delane Porter was there watchful and forbidding prepared up on the slighted excuse to fall upon him and who had been threatened by Mrs. Porter if she did not stay on guard had once more allowed her to sympathetic nature to get the better of her Kirk was too dispirited to take advantage of his good fortune. He had a sense of being there on parole, of being on his honor not to touch. So he sat in his chair and looked at Bill, while Bill, crooning to himself, played decorously with bricks. The truth had been a long time in coming home to Kirk, but it had reached him at last. Ever since his return he had clung to the belief that it was a genuine conviction of its merits that had led Ruth to support her aunt's scheme for Bill's welfare. He himself had always looked on the exaggerated precautions for the maintenance of the latter's health as ridiculous and unnecessary, but he had acquiesced in them because he thought that Ruth sincerely believed them indispensable. After all, he had not been there when Bill so nearly died, and he could understand that the shock of that episode might have distorted the judgment even of a woman so well-balanced as Ruth. He was quite ready to be loyal to her in the matter, however distasteful it might be to him. But now he saw the truth. A succession of tiny incidents had brought light to him. Ruth might or might not be to some extent genuine in her belief in the new system, but her chief motive for giving it her support was something quite different. He had tried not to admit it to himself, but he could do so no longer. Ruth allowed Mrs. Porter to have her way because it suited her to do so. Because with Mrs. Porter on the premises, she had more leisure in which to amuse herself. Because, to put it in a word, the child had begun to bore her. Everything pointed to that. In the old days it had been her chief pleasure to be with the boy. Their walks in the park had been a daily ceremony, with which nothing had been allowed to interfere. But now she always had some excuse for keeping away from him. Her visits to the nursery when she did go there were brief and perfunctory. And the mischief of it was that she always presented such admirable reasons for abstaining from Bill's society when it was suggested to her that she should go to him, that it was impossible to bring her out into the open and settle the matter once and for all. Patience was one of the virtues which set off the defects in Kirk's character. But he did not feel very patient now, as he sat and watched Bill playing on the floor. Well, Bill, old man, what do you make of it all? he said at last. The child looked up and fixed him with unwinking eyes. Kirk winced. They were so exactly Ruth's eyes. That wide-open expression when somebody, speaking suddenly to her, interrupted a train of thought was one of her hundred minor charms. Bill had reproduced it to the life. He stared for a moment. Then, as if there had been some telepathy between them, said, I want mummy. Kirk laughed bitterly. You aren't the only one. I want mummy, too. Where is mummy? I couldn't tell you exactly. At a luncheon party somewhere. What luncheon party? Sort of entertaining where everybody eats too much and talks all the time without ever saying a thing that's worth hearing. Bill considered this gravely. Why? Because they like it, I suppose. Why do they like it? Goodness knows. Does mummy like it? I suppose so. Does mummy eat too much? She doesn't. The others do. Why? William Manis is thirst for knowledge. Was, at this time, perhaps his most marked characteristic. No encyclopedia could have coped with it. Kirk was accustomed to do his best, cheerfully yielding up what little information on general subjects he happened to possess. But he was like Mrs. Partington sweeping back the Atlantic Ocean with her broom. Because they'd been raised that way, he replied to the last question. Bill Oldman, when you grow up, don't you ever become one of those fellows who can't walk two blocks without stopping three times to catch up with their breath? If you get like that mutt-dunner ferris, you'll break my heart. And you're heading that way, poor kid. What ferris? He's a man I met at dinner the other night. When he was your age, he was the richest child in America, and everybody fussed over him until he grew up into a wretched little creature with a black moustache and two chins. You ought to see him. He'd make you laugh. And you don't get much to laugh at nowadays. I guess it isn't hygienic for a kid to laugh. Bill, honestly, what do you think of things? Don't you ever want to hurl one of those sterilized bricks of yours at a certain lady? Or has she taken all the heart out of you by this time? This was beyond Bill, as Kirk's monologues frequently were. He changed the subject. I wish I had a cat, he said, by way of starting a new topic. Well, why haven't you a cat? Why haven't you a dozen cats, if you want them? I asked Auntie Laura, could I have a cat? And she said, certainly not. Cats are, cats are. I'm hygienic. What's that? It's what your Aunt Laura might think a cat was, or did she say, pestilential? I don't remember. But she wouldn't let you have one. Mommy said a cat might scratch me. Well, you wouldn't mind that? said Kirk anxiously. He had come to be almost morbidly on the lookout for evidence, which might go to prove that this cotton wool existence was stealing from the child the birthright of courage, which was his from both his parents. Much often depends on little things, and if Bill had replied in the affirmative to the question, it would probably have had the result of sending Kirk there and then raging through the house conducting a sort of war of independence. The only thing that had kept him from doing so before was the reflection that Mrs. Porter's system could not definitely be taxed with any harmful results. But his mind was never easy. Every day found him still nervously on the alert for symptoms. Bill soothed him now by answering, No, in a very decided voice. Or well so far, but it had been an anxious moment. It seemed incredible to Kirk that the life he was leading should not in time turn the child into a whimpering bundle of nerves. His conversations with Bill were as a result a sort of spiritual parallel to the daily taking of his temperature with the thermometer. Sooner or later he always let the talk round to some point where Bill must make a definite pronouncement, which would show whether or not the insidious decay had begun to set in. So far all appeared to be well. In earlier conversations, Bill subtly questioned, had stoutly maintained that he was not afraid of Indians, dogs, pirates, mice, cows, dune bugs, or noises in the dark. He had even gone so far as to state that if an Indian chief found his way into the nursery, he, Bill, would chop his head off. The most exacting father could not have asked more. And yet Kirk was not satisfied. He remained uneasy. It so happened that this afternoon, Bill, who had hitherto to maintain his reputation for intrepidity entirely by verbal statements, was afforded an opportunity of providing a practical demonstration that his heart was in the right place. The game he was playing with the Bricks was one that involved a certain amount of running about with a puffing accompaniment of a vaguely equine nature. And while performing this part of the program, he chanced a trip. He hesitated for a moment as if uncertain whether to fall or remain standing, then did the former with a most emphatic bump. He scrambled up, stood looking at Kirk with a twitching lip, then gave a great gulp, and resumed his trotting. The whole exhibition of indomitable heroism was over in half a minute, and he did not even bother to wait for applause. The effect of the incident on Kirk was magical. He was in a position of an earnest worshipper who, tortured with doubts, has prayed for a sign. This was a revelation. A million anti-Indian statements, however resolute, were nothing to this. This was the real thing. Before his eyes, this super-child of his had fallen in a manner which might quite reasonably have led to tears, which would, Kirk felt certain, have produced bellows of anguish from every other child in America. And what had happened? Not alone. No, sir. Not one solitary cry. Just a gulp, which you had to strain your ears to hear, and which, at that, might have been a mere intaking of breath such as every athlete must do, and all was over. This child was the real thing. It had been proved beyond possibility of criticism. There are moments when a man on parole forgets his promise, or thoughts of rules and prohibitions went from Kirk. He rose from his seat, grabbed his son with both hands, and hugged him. We cannot even begin to estimate the number of facility which must have rushed, whooping with joy, on to the unfortunate child. Under a microscope, it would probably have looked like an old home week. And Kirk did not care. He simply kept on hugging. Now, it was a sort of man he was, thoroughly heartless. Bill, you're great! he cried. Bill had been an amazed party to the incident. Nothing of this kind had happened to him for so long that he had forgotten there were children to whom this sort of thing did happen. Then he recollected a similar encounter with a bearded man down in the hall, when he came in one morning from his ride in the automobile. A moment later, he had connected his facts. This man who had no beard was the same man as the man who had a beard, and this behaviour was a personal eccentricity of his. The thought crossed his mind that Aunty Laura would not approve of this. Then, surprisingly, there came the thought that he did not care whether Aunty Laura approved or not. He liked it, and that was enough for him. The seeds of revolt had been sown in the bosom of William Bannister. It happened that Ruth, returning from her luncheon party, looked in at the nursery on her way upstairs. She was confronted with the spectacle of Bill, seated on Kirk's lap, his face against Kirk's shoulder. Kirk, though he had stopped speaking as the door opened, appeared to be in the middle of a story. For Bill, after a brief glance at the newcomer, asked, what happened then? Kirk really, said Ruth. Kirk did not appear in the least ashamed of himself. Ruth, this is the most amazing kid. Do you know what happened just now? He was running along, and he tripped and fell down flat, and he didn't even think of crying. He just picked himself up and, that was very brave of you, Billy, but seriously Kirk, you shouldn't hug him like that. Think what Aunty Laura would say. Aunty Laura be a bother, Aunty Laura. Well, I won't give you away. If she heard, she would write a book about it. And she was just starting to come up when I was downstairs. We came in together. You better fly while there's time. It was sound advice, and Kirk took it. It was not till some time later, going over the incident again in his mind, he realized her very lightly. Ruth had treated. What, if she really adhered to Mrs. Porter's views on hygiene, should have been to her a dreadful discovery. The reflection was pleasant to him for a moment. It seemed to draw Ruth and himself closer together. Then he saw the reverse side of it. If Ruth did not really believe in this absurd hygienic nonsense, why had she permitted it to be practiced upon the boy? There was only one answer. And it was the one which Kirk had already guessed at. She did it because it gave her more freedom, because it bored her to look after the child herself, because she was not the same Ruth he had left at the studio when he started with Hank Jardine for Columbia. End of chapter five, The Real Thing. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org