 Chapter 12 of Book 2 of their Mutual Child This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on the volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Their Mutual Child by P.G. Woodhouse Book 2, Chapter 12 Dolls with Souls Ruth had not seen Bailey since the afternoon when he had called to warn her against Basil Milbank. Whether it was offended dignity that had kept him away or merely pressure of business she did not know. That pressure of business existed she was aware. The papers were full and had been full for several days of wars and rumors of wars down in Wall Street. And though she understood nothing of finance she knew that Bailey was in the forefront of the battle. Her knowledge was based partly on occasional references to the firm of Bannister and Co. and partly on what she heard in society. She did not hear all that was said in society about Bailey's financial operations. Which as Bailey had the control of her money was unfortunate for her. The manipulation of money bored her and she had left the investing of her legacy entirely to Bailey. Her father she knew had always had a high opinion of Bailey's business instincts and that was good enough for her. She could not know how completely revolutionised the latter's mind had become since the old man's death and how freedom had turned him from a steady young man of business into a frenzied financier. It was common report now that Bailey was taking big chances. Some went so far as to say that he was asking for it. It in his case being presumably the nemesis which waits for those who take big chances in an uncertain market. It was in the air that he was going up against the Pinkney-Doward group and the Norman Graham combination and everybody knew that the cemeteries of Wall Street were full of the unhonoured graves of others who in years past attempted to do the same. Pinkney, that sinister buccaneer, could have eaten a dozen Bailey's. Devouring aspiring young men of the Bailey type was Norman's chief diversion. Ruth knew nothing of these things. She told herself that it was her abruptness that had driven Bailey away. Weariness and depression had settled on Ruth since that afternoon of the storm. It was as if the storm had wrought an awakening in her. It had marked a definite point of change in her outlook. She felt as if she had been roused from a trance by a sharp blow. If Steve had but known, she had had the jolt by which he set such store. She knew now that she had thrown away the substance for the shadow. Kirk's anger saw unlike him so foreign to the weak, easygoing person that she had always thought him, had brought her to herself. But it was too late. There could be no going back and picking up the threads. She had lost him, and must bear the consequences. The withdrawal of Bailey was a small thing by comparison. A submotive in the greater tragedy. But she had always been fond of Bailey, and it hurt her to think that she should have driven him out of her life. It seemed to her that she was very much alone now. She was marooned on a desert island of prof and laughter, everything that mattered she had lost. Even Bill had gone from her. The bitter justice of Kirk's words came home to her now in her time of clear thinking. It was all true. In the first excitement of the new life, he had bored her. She had looked upon Mrs. Porter as a saviour who brought her freedom together with an easy conscience. It had been so simple to deceive herself, to cheat herself into the comfortable belief that all that could be done for him was being done. When, as concerned the essential thing, as Kirk had said, there was no child of the streets who was not better off. She tramped her round of social duties mechanically. Everything bored her now. The joy of life had gone out of her. She ate the bread of sorrow in captivity. And then this morning had come a voice from the world she had lost. Little Mrs. Bailey's voice small and tearful. Could she possibly come out on the next train? Bailey was very ill. Bailey was dying. Bailey had come home last night looking ghastly. He had not slept. In the early morning he had begun to babble. Mrs. Bailey's voice had risen and broken on the word. And Ruth, at the other end of the wire, frightened sobs. The doctor had come. The doctor had looked awfully grave. The doctor had telephoned to New York for another doctor. They were both upstairs now. It was awful and Ruth must come at once. This was the bad news which had brought about the pallor, which had impressed Mr. Keggs as he helped Ruth into her cab. Little Mrs. Bailey was waiting for her on the platform when she got out of the train. She looked like a beaten kitten. She hugged Ruth hysterically. Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you've come. It is better, but it's been awful. The doctors have had to fight him to keep him in bed. He was crazy to get to town. He kept saying over and over again that he must be at the office. They gave him something, and he was asleep when I left the house. She began to cry helplessly. The fates had not bestowed upon Sybil Bannister. The same care in the manner of education for times of crisis as they had accorded to Steve's mammy. Her life till now had been sheltered and unruffled, and disaster sweeping upon her had found her an easy victim. She was trying to be brave, but her powers of resistance were small like her body. She clung to Ruth as a child clings to its mother. Ruth, as she tried to comfort her, felt curiously old. It occurred to her with a suggestion, almost of grotesqueness, that she and Sybil had been debutants in the same season. They walked up to the house. The summer cottage which Bailey had taken was not far from the station. On the way in the intervals of her sobs, Sybil told Ruth the disjointed story of what had happened. Bailey had not been looking well for some days. She had thought it must be the heat or business worries or something. She had not eaten very much. She had seemed too tired to talk when he got home each evening. She had begged him to take a few days' rest. That had been the only occasion in the whole of the last week when she had heard him laugh, and it had been such a horrid, ugly sort of laugh that she wished she hadn't. He had said that if he stayed away from the office for some time to come, it would mean loving a cottage for them for the rest of their lives, and not a summer cottage at Tuxedo at that. My dear child! he had gone on. And you know when Bailey calls me that, said Sybil, it means that there is something the matter, for as a rule he never calls me anything but my name, or baby, or something like that. Which gave Ruth a little shock of surprise. Somehow the idea of the dignified Bailey, addressing his wife as baby, startled her. She was certainly learning these days that she did not know people as completely as she had supposed. There seemed to be endless sides to people's characters, which had never come under her notice. A sudden memory of Kirk on that fateful afternoon came to her and made her wince. Mrs. Bailey continued, My dear child! he went on. This week is about the most important week you and I are ever likely to live through. It's the showdown. We either come out on top or we blow up. It's one thing or the other. And if I take a few days' holiday just now, you would better start looking about for the best place to sell your jewellery. Those were his very words, she said tearfully. I remember them all. It was so unlike his usual way of talking. Ruth acknowledged that it was. More than ever she felt that she did not know the complete Bailey. He was probably exaggerating, she said for the sake of saying something. Sybil was silent for a moment. It isn't that that's worrying me, she went on then. Somehow I don't seem to care at all whether we come out right or not, so long as he gets well. Last night when I thought he was going to die I made up my mind that I couldn't go on living without him. I wouldn't have either. This time the shock of a surprise which came to Ruth was greater by a hundredfold than the first had been. She gave a quick glance at Sybil. Her small face was hard and the little white teeth gleamed between her drawn lips. It was the face for one brief instant of a fanatic. The sight of it affected Ruth extraordinarily. It was as if she had seen a naked soul where she had never imagined a soul to be. She had weighed Sybil in the same calm complacent almost patronizing fashion in which she had weighed Bailey. Kirk, everybody. She had set her down as a delightful child, an undeveloped feather-brained little thing, pleasant to spend an afternoon with, but not to be taken seriously by anyone, as magnificent and superior as Ruth Winfield. And what manner of a man must Bailey be? Bailey whom she had always looked on as a deer, but as quite a joke, something to be chafed and made to look foolish if he was capable of inspiring love like this. A wave of humility swept over her. The pygmies of her world were springing up as giants dwarfing her. The pinnacle of superiority on which she had stood so long was crumbling into dust. She was finding herself. She winced again as the thoughts stabbed her. That she was finding herself too late. They reached the house in silence, each occupied with her own thoughts. The defiant look had died out of Sybil's face and she was once more a child, crying because unknown forces had hurt it. But Ruth was not looking at her now. She was too busy examining this new world into which she had been abruptly cast. This world where dolls had souls and jokes lost their point. At the cottage, good news awaited them. The crisis was passed. Bailey was definitely out of danger. He was still asleep and sleeping easily. It had just been an ordinary breakdown due to worrying and overwork, said the doctor. The bigger of the doctors, the one who had been summoned from New York. Oh, your husband needs now, Mrs. Banasari's rest. See that he's kept quiet. That's all there is to it. As if, by way of commentary on his words, a small boy on a bicycle rode up with a telegram. Sybil opened it. She read it and looked at Ruth with large eyes. From the office, she said, handing it to her. Ruth read it. It was a CDQ, an SOS from the front, an appeal for help from the forefront of the battle. She did not understand the details of it, but the purport was clear. The battle had begun and Bailey was needed. But Bailey lay sleeping in his tent. She handed it back in silence. There was nothing to be done. The second telegram arrived half an hour after the first. It differed from the first only in its greater emphasis. Panic seemed to be growing in the army of the lost leader. The ringing of the telephone began almost simultaneously with the arrival of the second telegram. Ruth went to the receiver. A frantic voice was inquiring for Mr. Banister, even as she put it to her ear. This is Mrs. Winfield speaking, she said steadily. Mr. Banister's sister. Mr. Banister is very ill and cannot possibly attend to any business. There was a silence at the other end of the wire. Then a voice with calm desperation said, Thank you. There was a pause. Thank you. Threw the voice again in a crushed sort of way, and the receiver was hung up. Ruth went back to Sybil. The hours passed. How she got through them Ruth hardly knew. Time seemed to have stopped. For the most part they sat in silence. In the afternoon Sybil was allowed to see Bailey for a few minutes. She returned thoughtful. She kissed Ruth before she sat down, and once or twice after that Ruth, looking up, found her eyes fixed upon her. It seemed to Ruth that there was something which she was trying to say, but she asked no questions. After dinner they set out on the porch. It was a perfect night. The cool dusk was soothing. Ruth broke a long silence. Sybil. Yes, dear? May I tell you something? Well, I'm afraid it's bad news. Sybil turned quickly. You called the office while I was with Bailey. Ruth started. How did you know? I guessed. I've been trying to do it all day, but I hadn't the pluck. Well? I'm afraid things are about as bad as they can be. And Mr. Meadows spoke to me. He was very gloomy. He told me a lot of things which I couldn't follow. Details of what had happened. But I understood all that was necessary. I'm afraid. Bailey's ruined," said Sybil quietly. Mr. Meadows seemed to think so. He may have exaggerated. Sybil shook her head. No. Bailey was talking to me upstairs. I expected it. There was a long silence. Ruth. Yes. I'm afraid," Sybil stopped. Yes. A sudden light of understanding came to Ruth. She knew what it was that Sybil was trying to say. And had been trying to say ever since she spoke with Bailey. My money's gone too, is that it? Sybil did not answer. Ruth went to her quickly and took her in her arms. You poor baby, she cried. What's that what was on your mind wondering how you'd tell me? I knew something was troubling you. Sybil began to sob. I didn't know how to tell you, she whispered. Ruth laughed excitedly. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. A weight which had been crushing the life out of her. In the last few days the scales had fallen from her eyes and she had seen clearly. She realized now what Kirk had realized from the first. That what had forced his life apart from hers had been the golden wedge of her father's money. It was the burden of wealth that had weighed her down without her knowing it. She felt as if she had been suddenly set free. I'm dreadfully sorry, said Sybil feebly. Ruth laughed again. I'm not, she said. If you knew how glad I was, you'd be congratulating me instead of looking as if I was going to bite you. Glad? Of course I'm glad. I was going to be all right again now, Sybil dear. Sir Kirk and I had the most awful quarrel the other day. We actually decided it would be better for us to separate. It was all my fault. I had neglected Kirk, I had neglected Bill and Kirk couldn't stand it any longer. But now that this has happened, don't you see that it would be all right again? You can't stand on your dignity when you're up against real trouble. If this had not happened, neither of us would have had the pluck to make the first move. But now you see, we shall just naturally fall into each other's arms and be happy again, he and I and Bill, just as we were before. They must be lovely for you having Bill," said little Mrs. Bailey wistfully. I wish," she stopped. There was a corner of her mind into which she could not admit anyone, even Ruth, having him ought to have been enough for any woman. Ruth's voice was serious. It was enough for me in the old days when we were at the studio. What fools women are sometimes? I suppose I lost my head coming suddenly into all that money. I don't know why, for it was not as if I had not had plenty of time when Father was alive to get used to the idea of being rich. I think it must have been the unexpectedness of it. I certainly did behave as if I'd gone mad. Goodness, I'm glad it's over, and we can make a fresh start. What's it like being poor, Ruth? Of course, we were never very well off at home, but we weren't really poor. It's heften if you're with the right man," Mrs. Bailey sighed. Bailey's the right man as far as I'm concerned, but I'm wondering how he will bear it, poor dear. Ruth was feeling too happy herself to allow anyone else to be unhappy if she could help it. Why, of course, you'd be splendid about it, she said. You're letting your imagination run away with you. You've got the idea of Bailey and yourself as two broken creatures baking in the streets. I don't know how badly Bailey will be off after this smash, but I do know that he will have all his brains and his energy left. Ruth was conscious of a momentary feeling of surprise that she should be eulogising Bailey in this fashion, and, stranger still, that she should be really sincere in what she said. But today seemed to have changed everything, and she was regarding her brother with a newborn respect. She could still see Sybil's face as it had appeared in that memorable moment of self-revelation. It had made a deep impression upon her. A man like Bailey is worth a large salary to anyone, even if he may not be able to start out for himself again immediately. I'm not worrying about you and Bailey. You will have forgotten all about this crash by this time next year. Sybil brightened up. She was, by nature, easily moved, and Ruth's words had stimulated her imagination. He is awfully clever, she said, her eyes shining. Why this sort of thing happens every six months to anybody who has anything to do with Wall Street, preceded Ruth, fired by her own optimism. You read about it in the papers every day. Nobody thinks anything of it. Sybil, though anxious to look on the bright side, could not quite rise to these heights of scorn for the earthquake which had shaken her world. I hope not. It will be awful to go through a time like this again. Ruth reassured her. Though it entailed a certain inconsistency on her part, she had a true woman's contempt for consistency. Of course she won't have to go through it again. But it would be careful in future not to do whatever it is that he has done. She felt that the end of her inspiring speech was a little weak, but she did not see how she could mend it. Her talk with Mr. Meadows on the telephone had left her as vague as before as to the actual details of what had been happening that day in Wall Street. She remembered stray remarks of his about balls, and she had gathered that something had happened to something which Mr. Meadows called GRDs, which had evidently been at the root of the trouble. But there her grasp of high finance ended. Sybil, however, was not exigent. She brightened up Ruth's words as if they had been the unauthoritative pronouncement from an expert. Bailey is sure to do right, she said. I think I'll creep in and see if he's still asleep. Ruth, left alone on the porch, fell into a pleasant train of thought. There was something in her mental attitude which amused her. She wondered if anybody had ever received the announcement of financial ruin in quite the same way before. Yet to her this attitude seemed the only one possible. How simple everything was now. She could go to Kirk and, as she said to Sybil, start again. The golden barrier between them had vanished. One day had wiped out all the wretchedness of the last year. They were back where they had started. With all the accumulated experience of those twelve months to help them steer the little ship, clearer the rocks on its new voyage. She was roused from her dream by the sound of an automobile drawing up at the door. A voice that she recognized called her name. She went quickly down the steps. Is that you, Aunt Laura? Mrs. Porter, masterly woman, never wasted time in useless chatter. Jump in, my dear, she said crisply. Your husband has stolen William, and he loped with that girl Mammy, whom I never trusted, took an etiquette. End of CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org CHAPTER XIV He looked about him, breathing deep drafts of its coolness. The robins, which, though not so well advertised, rise just as punctually as the lark, were beginning to sing as they made their simple toilets before setting out to attend to the early worm. The sky to the east was a delicate blend of pinks and greens and yellows, with a hint of blue behind the grey, which was still the prevailing note. A vaguely sentimental mood came upon Steve. In his heart he knew perfectly well that he could never be happy for any length of time out of sight and hearing of Broadway cars. But at that moment, such was the magic of the dawn, he felt a longing to settle down in the country and pass the rest of his days a simple farmer with beard unchecked by Razor. He saw himself feeding the chickens and addressing the pigs by their pet names, while Mammy, in a cotton frock, called cheerfully to him to come in because breakfast was ready and getting cold. Mammy, ah! His sigh turned into a yawn. He realised with the abruptness which comes to a man who stands alone with nature in the small hours that he was very sleepy. The excitement which had sustained him till now had begun to ebb. The free life of the bearded farmer seemed suddenly less attractive. Bebb was what he wanted now, not nature. He opened the door of the car and lifted William Bannister out, swathed in rugs. The white hope gurgled drowsily but did not wake. Steve carried him onto the porch and laid him down. Then he turned his attention to the problem of effecting an entry. Once an honest man has taken to amateur burgling, he soon picks up the tricks of it. To open his knife and shoot back the catch of the nearest window was with Steve the work, if not of a moment, of very few minutes. He climbed in and unlocked the front door. Then he carried his young charge into the sitting-room and laid him down on a chair, a step nearer to his ultimate destination. Bed. Steve's faculties were rapidly becoming numb with approaching sleep, but he roused himself to face certain details of the country life which till now had escaped him. His earnest concentration on the main plank of his platform, the spiriting away of William Bannister, had caused him to overlook the fact that no preparations had been made to welcome him on his arrival at his destination. He had treated the shack as if it had been a summer hotel, where he could walk in and engage a room. It now struck him that there was much to be attended to before he could, as he put it to himself, hit the hay. There was the White Hope's bed to be made, and by the way of a preliminary effort to that, sheets must be found and blankets, not to mention pillows. Yawning wearily, he set out on his search. He found sheets, but mistrusted them. They might or might not be perfectly dry. He did not care to risk his godson's valuable health in the experiment. A hazy notion that blankets were always safe restored his spirits, and he became cheerful on reflecting that a child with William Bannister's gift for sleep would not be likely to notice the absence of linen in his bed. The couch, which he finally passed adequate, would have caused Laura Delaney Porter's hair to stand erect, but it satisfied Steve. He went downstairs and, returning with William Bannister, placed him carefully on it and tucked him in. The White Hope slept on. Having assured himself that all was well, Steve made up a similar nest for himself, and, removing his coat and shoes, crawled under the blankets. Five minutes later, rhythmical snores proclaimed the fact that nature had triumphed over all the discomforts of one of the worst-made beds in Connecticut. The sun was high when Steve woke. He rose stiffly and went into the other room. William Bannister still slept. Steve regarded him admiringly. For the Dormhouse Act, he mused, that kid certainly stands alone. You've got to hand it to him. An aching void within him called his mind to the question of breakfast. He began to come home to him that he had not planned out this expedition with that thoroughness which marks the great general. I guess I'll have to get out to the nearest village in the bubble," he said, and, while I'm there, maybe I'd better send Kirk a wire. And I reckon I'll have to take the kid. If he wakes up and finds me gone, he'll throw fits. Up he gets, quire. He needed the recumbent form of his godson with a large hand, until he had massaged out of him the last remains of his great sleep. It took some time, but it was effective. The white hope sat up, full of life and energy. He inspected Steve gravely for a moment, endeavouring to place him. Hello, Steve," he said at length. Hello, kid. Where am I? In the country, in Connecticut. What's Neticut? This is Where We Are. Where are we? Here, in Connecticut. Why? Steve raised a protesting hand, not too early in the day, kid, not before breakfast, he pleaded. Honest, I'm not strong enough. It ain't as if we was a vaudeville team that had got to rehearse. What rehearse? Steve changed the subject. Say, kid, ain't you feeling like you could bite into something? I got an emptiness inside me as big as all outdoors. How about a mouthful of cereal and a shired egg? Now, for the love of Mike," he went on quickly, as his godson opened his mouth to speak, don't say what's shired. It's something you do to eggs. It's one way of fixing them. What's fixing? Inquired William Bannister brightly. Steve sighed. When he spoke, he was calm but determined. That'll be all the dialogue for the present, he said. We'll play the rest of our act in dump show. Get a move on you, and I'll take you out in the bubble, the automobile, the car, the chug-chug wagon, the thing we came here in. If you want to know what bubble is, we'll scare up some breakfast. Steve's ignorance of the locality in which he found himself was complete. But he had a general impression that farmers as a class were people who delighted in providing breakfasts for the needy. If the needy possessed the necessary price. Acting on this assumption, he postponed his trip to the nearest town and drove slowly along the roads with his eyes open for signs of life. He found a suitable farm and, applying the brakes, gathered up William Bannister and knocked at the door. His s'mores as to the hospitality of farmers proved correct, and presently they were sitting down to a breakfast. Weird shit did his famished soul good to contemplate. William Bannister seemed less enthusiastic. Steve, having disposed of two eggs in quick succession, turned to see how his young charge was progressing with his repast and found him eyeing a bowl of bread and milk in a sort of frozen horror. What's matter, kid? He asked. Get busy. No paper? Said William Bannister. For the love of Pete. Do you expect your morning paper out in the woods? No paper? Repeated the white hope firmly. Steve regarded him thoughtfully. I didn't have this trip planned out right, he said regretfully. I ought to have got Mammy to come along. I bet a hundred dollars she would have got next to your meanings in a second. I pass. What's your kick anyway? What's all this about paper? Aunty Laura says not to eat bread that doesn't come wrapped up in paper. Said the white hope, becoming surprisingly lucid. Mammy does it out of crinkly paper. I get you. They feed you rolls at home wrapped up in tissue paper, is that it? What, tissue? Same as crinkly. Well, see here. You remember what we were talking about last night? About germs. Yes? Well, that's one thing germs never do. Eat bread out of crinkly paper. You want to forget all the dope they shot into you back in New York and start fresh. You do what I tell you and you can't go wrong. If you're going to be a regular germ, what you've got to do is wrap yourself round that bread and milk. The quickest you can. Get me? Till you do that, we can't begin to start to have a good time. William Bannister made no more objections. He attacked his meal with an easy conscience. And about a quarter an hour later, leaned back with a deep sigh of repulsion. Steve, meanwhile, had ended into conversation with the lady of the house. Say, I guess you ain't got a kid of your own anywheres, have you? Sure I have, said the hostess proudly. He's out in the field with his pop this minute. His name's Jim. Fine. I want to get hold of a kid to play with this kid here. Jim sounds pretty good to me. What about the same age as this one? For the Lord's sake, Jim's 18 and weighs 200 pounds. Cut out, Jim. I thought from the way you spoke, he was a regular kid. You know anyone in these parts who's got something about the same weight as this one? The farmer's wife reflected. Kid is pretty scarce around here, she said. I reckon you won't get one that I know of. There's that Tom Whiting, but he's a bad boy. He ain't been raised right. What's the matter with him? I don't want to speak harm of no one, but his father used to be a low price fighter and you know what they are. Steve nodded sympathetically. Regular pug-uglies, he said. A friend of mine used to have to mix with them. Quite a blot, poor fella. He used to say there was none of them truly refined. And this kid takes after his pop, eh? Kind of scrappy kid, is that it? He's a bad boy. Well, maybe I better look him over just in case. Where's he to be found? They live in the cottage by the big house you can see through them trees. His pop looks after Mr. Wilson's prized dogs. That's his job. What's Wilson? Asked the White Hope, coming out of his stupor. He peeped me to it by a second, kid. I was just going to ask it myself. He's one of them rich New Yorkers. He has a summer place here. And this Whiting looks after his prized dogs. Well, I guess I'll give him a call. It's going to be lonesome for my kid if he ain't got someone to show him how to hit it up. He's not used to country life. Come along, we'll get into the bubble and go send your pop a telegram. What's telegram? Asked William Bannister. I've got you placed now, said Steve regarding him with interest. You're not going to turn into an ambassador or an artist or any of them things. You're going to be the greatest district attorney that ever came down the pike. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org. Chapter 14 of Book 2 of their Mutual Child. This is their 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 14. The 61st Street Cyclone. It was past seven o'clock when Kirk bending over the wheel with Mammy at his side came inside the shack. The journey had been checked just outside the city by a blowout in one of the back tires. Kirk had spent the time while the shirt-sleeved rescuer from the garage toiled over the injured wheel, walking up and down with a cigar. Neither he nor Mammy had shown much tendency towards conversation. Mammy was habitually of a silent disposition, and Kirk's mind was too full of his thoughts to admit of speech. Ever since he had read Steve's telegram, he had been in the grip of a wild exhilaration. Not stopped to ask himself what this mad freak of Steve's could possibly lead to in the end. He was satisfied to feel that its immediate result would be that for a brief while at any rate he would have his son to himself, away from all the chilling surroundings which had curbed him and frozen his natural feelings in the past. He tried to keep his mind from dwelling upon Ruth. He had thought too much of her of late for his comfort. Since they had parted that day of the thunderstorm, the thought that he had lost her had stabbed him incessantly. He had tried to tell himself that it was the best thing they could do to separate, since it was so plain that their love had died. But he could not cheat himself into believing it. It might be true in her case. It must be, or why had she let him go that afternoon? But for himself, the separation had taught him much as ever, more than ever. Absence had purified him of that dull anger which had been his so short a while before. He looked back and marveled that he could ever have imagined for a moment that he had ceased to love her. Now, as he drove along the empty country roads, he forced his mind to dwell as far as he could, only upon his son. There was a mist before his eyes as he thought of him. What a bully lad he'd been! What fun they'd had in the old days! But that brought his mind back to Ruth, and he turned his mind resolutely to the future again. He chuckled silently as he thought of Steve of all the bad things to do. What had made him think of it? How had such a wild scheme ever ended his head? This, he supposed, was what Steve called punching instead of sparring. But he had never given him credit for the imagination that could conceive a punch of this magnitude. And how had he carried it out? He could hardly have broken into the house, yet that seemed the only way it could have been done. From Steve his thoughts returned to William Bannister. He smiled again. What a time they'd have while it lasted. The worst of it was it could not last long. Tomorrow he supposed he would have to take the child back to his home. He could not be a party to this kidnapping raid for any length of time. This must be looked on as a brief holiday, not as a permanent relief. That was the only flaw in his happiness as he stopped the car at the door of the shack. For by now he had succeeded at last in thrusting the image of Ruth from his mind. There was a light in the ground floor window. He raised his head and shouted, Steve! The door opened. Ah, Kirk, that you? Come along in. You're just in time for the main performance. He caught sight of Mammy standing beside Kirk. Who's that? He cried. For a moment he thought it was Ruth and his honest heart leaped at the thought that his scheme had worked already and brought Kirk and her together again. It's me, Steve, said Mammy in her small voice, and Steve as he heard it was seized with the first real qualm he'd had since he'd embarked upon his great adventure. As Kirk had endeavored temporarily to forget Ruth, so had he tried not to think of Mammy. It was the only thing he was ashamed of in the whole affair, the shock he must have given her. Hello, Mammy, he said sheepishly and paused. Words had not come readily to him. Mammy entered the house without speaking. It seemed to Steve that invective would have been better than this ominous silence. He looked ruefully at her retreating back and turned to greet Steve. You're mighty late, he said. I only got your telegram towards the end of the afternoon. I had been away all day. I came here as fast as I could, hit it up. Directly I hurried it. It would blow out, and that delayed us. Steve ventured a question. Say, Kirk, why us, while we're talking about it? How does Mammy come to be here? She insisted on coming. It seems that everybody in the house was away today, so she tells me, so she came round to me with your note. I guess this has put me in pretty bad with Mammy, observed Steve regretfully. Has she been knocking me on the trip? Not a word. But became subdued again next moment. I guess she's just saving it, he said, resignedly. Steve, what made you do it? Oh, I reckoned you could do with having the kid to yourself for a spell, said Steve awkwardly. You're right, Steve, but how did you manage it? I shouldn't have thought it possible. Oh, it wasn't so hard, that part. I just hid in the house, and, but say, let's forget it, it makes me feel kind of mean somehow. It seems to me I may have lost Mammy her job. It might be hard to do the right thing by everyone in this world, ain't it? Come along in and see the kid. He's great. You get a feeling ready for supper? Him and me, we's just going to start. It occurred to Kirk for the first time that he was hungry. Have you got anything to eat, Steve? Steve brightened again. Have we? he said. We've got everything that is in Connecticut. Why? Say, we're celebrating. This is our big day. Know what's happened? Why? He stopped short as if someone had choked him. They had gone into the sitting room while he was speaking. The table was laid for supper, a chafing dish at one end, and the remainder of the available space was filled with a collection of foods, from cold chicken to candy, which did credit to Steve's imagination. But it was not the sight of these that checked his flow of speech. It was the look on Mammy's face as he caught sight of it in the lamp light. The White Hope was sitting at the table in the attitude of one who has heard the gong and is anxious to begin, while Mammy, bending over him, raised her head as the two men entered and fixed Steve with a baleful stare. What have you been doing to the poor might? she demanded fiercely, to get his face scratched this way. There was no doubt about the scratch. It was a long, angry red line running from temple to chin. The White Hope, becoming conscious of the fact that the attention of the public came and, diagnosing the cause, volunteered an explanation. Bad boy, he said, and looked meaningfully again at the candy. What do you mean, bad boy? Just what he says, Mammy, honest. Gee, you don't think I done it, do you? Have you been letting the precious lamb fight? cried Mammy, her eyes two circles of blue indignation. Steve's enthusiasm overcame his sense of guilt. He uttered a whoop. Letting him? Gee, listen to her. Why say that kid don't have to be let? He's a scrapper from Swatville on the Bingle, honest. That's what all this food is about. We're celebrating. This is a little supper given in his honour by a few of his admirers and backers, meaning me. Why say, Kirk, that kid of yours is just the greatest thing that ever happened. Get that chafing just going and I'll tell you all about it. How did he come by that scratch? said Mammy, coldly sticking to her point. I'll tell you quick enough. But let's get in on the eats first. You wouldn't keep a coming champ waiting for you to grub, would you? Look how he's lamping that candy. Were you going to let the poor mite stuff himself with candy, Steve Dingle? Sure, whatever he says goes. He owns the joint after this afternoon. Mammy swiftly removed the unwholesome delicacy. The idea. Kirk was busying himself for the chafing dish. What have you got in here, Steve? Lobster, Colonel. I had to do thirty miles to get it, too. Mammy looked at him fixedly. Were you going to feed Lobster to this child? She asked with ominous calm. Were you intending to put him to bed full of broil Lobster and marshmallows? Nicks on the rough stuff, Mammy. Pleaded the embarrassed pugilist. How was I to know what kids feed on? And maybe he would have passed up the Lobster at that and stuck to the sardines. Sardines? And kids allowed sardines, said Steve anxiously. The guy in the store told me they were wholesome and nourishing. It looked to me as if they ought to hit young Fitzsimmons about right. What's the matter with them? Little bread and milk is all that he ever has before he goes to bed. Steve detected a flaw in this and hastened to make his point. Sure, but he don't win the Bantamweight Championship of Connecticut every night. Is that what he's done today, Steve? Asked Kirk. It certainly is, and I tell him you. That's the trouble, you're not. You and Mammy seem to be having a discussion about the nourishing properties of sardines and Lobster. What's been happening this afternoon? Bad boy! remarked William Bannister with his mouth full. That's right, Steve, that's it in a nutshell. Say it was this way. It seemed to me that having no kid of his own age to play around with his nibs was apt to get lonesome. So I asked about and found out there was a guy by the name of Whiting living near here who had a kid of the same age or thereabouts. Maybe you remember him. He used to fight at the featherweight limit some time back. Called himself Young O'Brien. He was a pretty good scrapper in his time. And now he's up here looking after some gents' prized dogs. Well, I go to him and borrow his kid. He's a scrappy sort of kid at that and weighs ten pounds more than his nibs. But I reckoned he'd have to do. And I thought I could stay round and part him if they got to mixing it. Mammy uttered an indignant exclamation, but Kirk's eyes were gleaming proudly. Well, he said. Steve swallowed Lobster and resumed. Well, you know how it is. You meet a guy who's been in the same line of business as yourself and you find you've got a heap to talk about. I'd never happened across the gink whiting, but I knew of him. And, of course, he'd heard of me. And we got round to discussing things. I seen him lose on a fowl to Tommy King in the eighteenth round out in Los Angeles. And that kept us busy talking. Him having it that he hadn't gone within a mile of fouling Tommy and me saying I'd been in a ring seat and had the goods on him same as if I'd taken a snapshot. Well, we were both getting pretty hot under the collar about it when suddenly there's the blazes of a noise behind us and there's the two kids scrapping all over the lot. The whiting kid had started, it mind you, and him ten pounds heavier than Bill and tough, too. The white hope confirmed this. Bad boy, he remarked, and with a deep breath resumed excavating work on a grapefruit. Well, I was just making a jump to separate them when this whiting gook says, bet you're a dollar, my kid wins. And before I knew what I was doing, I'd taken him. It wasn't that that stopped me, though. It was his saying that his kid took after his dad and could eat up anything of his own age in America. Well, darn it. Could I take that from a slob of a mixed-ale scrapper when it was handed out at the finest kid that ever came from New York? Of course not, said Kirk indignantly and even Mammy for bought a criticize. She bent over the white hope and gave his grapefruit-stained cheek a kiss. Well, I should say not, cried Steve. I just hollered to his nib, soak it to him, kid, for the honour of number ninety-nine. And, believe me, the young beckhat sort of gathered himself together, winked at me, and began to hammer the stuffing out of the scrappy kid. Say, there was no sterilized stuff about his work. You were a regular germ, all right, weren't you, squire? Germ, agreed the white hope. He spoke drowsily. Gee, Steve resumed his saga in a world of enthusiasm. Gee, if they're right to start with, if they're born right, if they've got the grit in them, you can't sterilize it out of them if you use up half the germ killer in the country. From the way that kid acted, you would have thought he'd been spending the last year in a training camp. The other kid rolled him over, but he'd come up again as if that was just the sort of stuff he liked. And pretty soon, I see that he's uncovered a yellow streak in the whiting kid as big as a barn door. You were on it, weren't you, Colonel? But the white hope had no remarks to offer at this time. His head had fallen forward and was resting peacefully in his grapefruit. He said, sleep, said Mammy. She picked him up gently and carried him out. He's a champine at that, too, said Steve. I had to pull him out of the hay this morning. Well, I guess he's earned it. He's had a busy day. What happened then, Steve? Why, after that, there wasn't a thing to it. Whiting poor Simp couldn't see it. Betcha, ten dollars, my kid wins, he hollers. He's got him going. Take you, I shouts. And at that moment, the scrappy kid sees it's all over. So he does the old business of fouling. Same as his pop done when he fought Tommy King. It's in the blood, I guess. He takes and scratches poor Bill on the cheek. That was enough for me. I jumps in. All over, I says, my kid wins on a foul. Foul nothing, says Whiting. It was an accident. And you lose because you jumped into the fight. Same as Connie McVey did when Corbett fought Sharky. I think you can get away with it. Pulling that old-time stuff. I didn't stop to argue with him. Oh, I says, is that it? Say, just take a slant at your man. If you don't stop him quick, you'll be in Texas. Poor a scrappy kid. He was beating it while the going was good and was half a mile away running hard. Well, that was enough even for the Whiting guy. I guess we'll call it a draw, he says, and all bets off. So I looks at him and says, quite civil and polite. You darned half-baked slobber roughhouse scrapper, I says. It ain't a draw or anything like it. My kid wins. And I'll trouble you now to proceed to cash in with the dough. Or else I'm lovable to start something. So he paid up. And I took the white-hoping doors and gave him a wash and brush-up. Then we cranks up the bubble and hikes off to the town and spends the money on getting food for the celebration supper. And what's over, I slips into the kid's pocket and says, that's your first winner's end, kid, and you've earned it. So he paused and refilled his glass. I want the wagon as a general thing nowadays, he said. But I reckon this is an occasion. Right here is where we drink his health. And overcome by his emotion, he burst into discordant song. For he's a jolly good fellow, bellowed Steve. For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's... There was a sound, a quick footsteps outside, and Mammy entered the room like a small whirlwind. Be quiet, she cried. Do you want to wake him? Wake him? Said Steve, you can't wake that kid with dynamite. He raced his glass. Ladies and gentlemen, the boy wonder, here's to him, the Bantamweight Champion of Connecticut. The 61st Street Cyclone, the kid they couldn't sterilize, the White Hope. The White Hope, echoed Kirk. For he's a jolly good fellow. Saying Steve, be quiet, said Mrs. Porter from the doorway, and Steve, willing round, caught her eye, and collapsed like a pricked balloon. End of Chapter 14 of Book 2, recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org. Book 2, Chapter 15. Mrs. Porter's Waterloo. Of the little band of revelers, it would be hard to say which was the most taken aback by this invasion. The excitement of the moment had kept them from hearing the sound of the automobile, which Mrs. Porter mistrusting the rough road that led to the shack. The Bantamweight Champion of Connecticut, the Bantamweight Champion of Connecticut, the White Hope. The Bantamweight Champion of Connecticut, the White Hope. He was also mistrusting the rough road that led to the shack, had stopped some distance away. Perhaps on the whole, Kirk was more surprised than either of his companions. Their guilty consciences had never been quite free from the idea of the possibility of pursuit. But Kirk, having gathered from Mammy that neither Ruth nor her aunt was aware of what had happened, had counted upon remaining undisturbed till the time for return came on the morrow. Staring at Ruth who had followed Mrs. Porter into the room, Mrs. Porter took charge of the situation. She was in her element. She stood with one hand resting on the table as if she were about to make an after-dinner speech. And indeed she was. Laura Delayne Porter was not dissatisfied with the turn events had taken. On the whole perhaps it might be said that she was pleased. She intended, when she began to speak, to pulverize Kirk and the abandoned young woman whom he had selected as his partner in his shameful escapade. But in this she was swayed almost entirely by her regard for abstract morality. As concerned Ruth, she felt that the situation was on the whole the best thing that could have happened. To her and Napoleonic mind, which took little account of the softer emotions, concerning itself entirely with the future of the race, Kirk had played his part and was now legging superfluous on the stage. His tendency, she felt, was to retard rather than to assist William Bannister's development. His influence, such as he was, clashed with hers. She did not forget that there had been a time when Ruth, having practically to choose between them, had chosen to go Kirk's way and had abandoned herself to a life which could only be considered unhygienic and retrograde. Her defeat in the matter of whiskers, the microbe harboring dog from Ireland, still wrangled. It was true that in what might be called the return match she had utterly routed Kirk. But until this moment she had always been aware of him as an opponent whom might have to be reckoned with. She was quite convinced that it would be in the best interests of everybody, especially of William Bannister, if he could be eliminated. There were signs of human weakness in Ruth, which sometimes made her uneasy. Ruth, she told herself, might bear the torch. But when it came to not faltering, she was less certain of her. Ruth, it was true, had behaved admirably in the matter of the upbringing of William from the moment of her conversion till now. But might she not at any moment become a backslider and fill the white-tailed nursery with abominable long-haired dogs? Most certainly she might. In a woman who had once been a long-haired dog-ist there are always possibilities of a relapse into long-haired dog-ism. Just as in a converted cannibal there are always possibilities of return to the gods of wood and stone, and the disposition to look on his fellow-man purely in the light of breakfast food. For these reasons Mrs. Porter was determined to push home her present advantage to wipe Kirk off the map as an influence in Ruth's life. It was her intention, having recovered William Bannister and bathed him from head to foot in a weak solution of boric acid, to stand over Ruth while she obtained a divorce. That done, she would be in a position to defy Kirk and all his antagonistic views on the subject of the hygienic upbringing of children. She wrapped the table and prepared to speak. Even a Napoleon, however, may err from lack of sufficient information, and there was a flaw in her position of which she was unaware. From the beginning of the drive to the end of it Ruth had hardly spoken a word, and Mrs. Porter, in consequence, was still in ignorance of what had been happening that day in Wall Street and the effect of these happenings on her niece's outlook on life. Could she have known it? The silent girl beside her had already suffered the relapse which she had feared as a remote possibility. With mind during that drive had been in a confusion of regrets and doubts and hopes. There were times when she refused absolutely to believe the story of Kirk's baseness which her aunt poured into her ear during the first miles of the journey. It was absurd and incredible. Yes, they raced along the dark roads. Doubt came to her and would not be driven out. A single unfortunate phrase of Kirk spoken in haste but remembered at leisure formed the basis of this uncertainty. That afternoon when he had left her he had said that Mammy was the real mother of the child. Could it be that Mammy's undeviating devotion to the boy had won the love which she had lost? It seemed possible. Considered in the light of what Mrs. Porter had told her it seemed, in her blackest moments, certain. She knew her wrapped up in the boy Kirk had been. Was it not a logical outcome of his estrangement from herself that he should have turned for consolation to the one person in sympathy with him in his great love for his child? She tried to read his face as he stood looking at her now but she could find no hope in it. The eyes that met hers were cold and expressionless. Mrs. Porter wrapped the table a second time. Mr. Windfield, she said in the metallic voice with which she was wanted to cow publishers insufficiently equipped with dash and enterprise in the matter of advertising treatises on the future of the race. I have no doubt that you are surprised to see us. You appear to be looking your wife in the face. It speaks well for your courage and badly for your sense of shame. If you had the remnants of decent feeling in you you would be physically incapable of the feat. If you would care to know how your conduct strikes an unprejudiced spectator I may tell you that I consider you a scoundrel of the worst type an unfit to associate with any but the low company in which I find you. Steve, who had been listening with interest and indeed a certain relish while Kirk was, as he put it to himself including his in this spirited fashion started at the concluding words of the address which in his opinion seemed slightly personal. He had long ago made up his mind that Laura Elaine Porter, though an entertaining woman and on the whole more worthwhile than a moving picture show was quite mad but he felt even lunatics ought to realise that there was a limit to what they may say. He moaned protestingly and rashly for he drew the speaker's attention upon himself. The person went on Mrs. Porter indicating Steve with a wave of her hand which caused him to sidestep swiftly and throw up an arm as had been his habit in the ring when battling Dick or fighting Jack endeavoured to blot him out with a right swing. All I observe retains the tattered relics of a conscience seeing that he winces you employed to do the only dangerous part of your dirty work I hope he will see that he gets his money in his place I should be feeling uneasy. Ma'am! protested Steve. Mrs. Porter silenced him with a gesture. Be quiet! she said. Steve was quiet. Mrs. Porter returned to Kirk. Of all her burning words Kirk had not heard one. His eyes had never left Ruth's. Like her he was trying to read a message from a face that seemed only cold. In this crisis of their two lives he had no thought for anybody but her. He had a sense of great issues of being on the verge of the tremendous but his brain felt numbed and heavy. He could not think. He could see nothing except her eyes. His inattention seemed to communicate itself to Mrs. Porter. She rapped imperatively up on the table for the third time. The report galvanised Steve as earlier in the day a similar report had galvanised Mr. Penway. But Kirk did not move. Mr. Winfield! Still Kirk made no sign that he had heard her. It was discouraging. But Laura Delaine Porter was not made of the stuff that yields readily to discouragement. She resumed, As for this wretched girl she indicated the silent mammy with a wave of her hand. This abandoned creature, whom you have led astray, this shameless partner of your say! The exclamation came from Steve and it stopped Mrs. Porter like a bullet. To her this interruption from one whom she had fallen upon and wiped out resembled a voice from the tomb. She was not accustomed to having her victims rise up and cut sharply, even peremptorily, into the flow of her speech. Macbeth, confronted by the ghost of Banquo, may have been a little more taken aback. But now march! She endeavoured to quell Steve with a glance. But it was instantly apparent that he was immune for the time being to quelling glances. His eyes were fixed upon her in a cold stare which she found arresting and charged with menace. His chin protruded and his upper lip was entirely concealed behind its fellow in a most uncomfortable manner. She never had the privilege of seeing Steve in the active exercise of his late profession or she would have recognised the look. It was the one which proclaims the state of mind commonly known as being fighting mad. The days had usually heralded a knockout for some too persistent opponent. Say, ma'am, you want to cut that out. That line of talk don't go. Great is the magic of love that can restore a man in an instant of time from being an obsequious wreck to a thing of fire and resolution. A moment before, Steve's only immediate object in life had been to stay quiet and keep out of the way as much as possible. He had never been a man of ready speech and action. Words intimidated him as blows never did, especially the whirl of words which were at Laura Delaine Porter's command in moments of emotion. But this sudden onslaught upon Mammy, innocent Mammy who had done nothing to anybody, scattered his embarrassment and filled him with much the same spirit which sent Bantam wait nights up against heavyweight dragons in the Middle Ages. He felt inspired. Next on The Abandoned Creature, he said with dignity, in the wrong wire, this here lady is my affianced wife. He went to Mammy and, putting his arm round her waist, pressed her to him. He was conscious as he did so of a sensation of wonderment at himself. This was the attitude he had dreamed of a thousand times and had been afraid to assume. For the last three years he had been picturing himself in precisely this position, and daily he had cursed the lack of nerve which had held him back. Yet here he was. And did it all happen in a moment? Funny thing, life. What? exclaimed Mrs. Porter. Jor thing, said Steve. His coolness, the ease of which he found words, astonished him as much as his rapidity of action. I stole the kid, he said, and it was my idea at that. Kirk didn't know anything about it. I wired him to-day what I had done and that he was to come right along. And, added Steve in a burst of inspiration, I said to bring Mammy along too as the kids used to her there ought to be a woman around. And she could be here all right and no harm she being my affianced wife. He liked that phrase. He'd written a book somewhere. And it was the goods. He eyed Mrs. Porter, jointly. Mrs. Porter's gaze wavered. She was not feeling comfortable. Hers was a nature that did not lend itself easily to apologies. Yet apologies were obviously what the situation demanded. The thought of all the eloquence which she had expended to no end added to her discomfort. For the first time, she was pleased that Kirk had so manifestly not been listening to a word of it. Oh! she said. She paused. That puts a different complexion on this affair. Bet your life. She paused once more. Here for some moments before she could bring herself to speak. She managed it at last. I beg your pardon, she said. Mine, ma'am," said Steve, grandly. Five minutes before, the idea that he could ever speak grandly to Laura Delaine Porter would have seemed ridiculous to him. But he was surprised at nothing now. And the young woman— and the future Mrs. Dingles— said Mrs. Porter with an effort. Thank you, ma'am," said Steve, and released Mammy, who forthwith bolted from the room like a scared rabbit. Steve had started to follow her and was left from defeat, stopped him. Wait, she said. What you have said alters the matter in one respect. But there is another point. On your own confession you have been guilty of the extremely serious offence—the penal offence of kidnapping a child, who— Dropping a line about it, ma'am, said Steve, be times rather full just now. He disappeared into the outer darkness after Mammy. In the room they had left, Kirk and Ruth faced each other in silence. Laura Delaine Porter eyed them grimly. It was the hour of her defeat, and she knew it. Forces too strong for her were at work. Her grand attack, the bringing of these two together, that Ruth might confront Kirk in his guilt, had recoiled upon her. The old guard had made their charge up the hill, and it had failed. Victory had become a rout. With one speech, Steve had destroyed her whole plan of campaign. She knew it was over, and it was over. She knew it was over, and that, in another moment, if she remained, she would be compelled to witness the humiliating spectacle of Ruth in Kirk's arms, stammering the words which intuition told her were even now trembling on her lips. She knew, Ruth, she could read her like a primer, and her knowledge told her that she was about to capitulate, that all her pride and resentment had been swept away, that she had gone over to the enemy. Elemental passions were warring against glorid Elaine Porter, and she bowed before them. Mr. Winfield, she said sharply, her voice cutting the silence like a knife. I beg your pardon, I seem to have made a mistake. Good night! Kirk did not answer. Good night, Ruth! Ruth made no sign that she had heard. Mrs. Porter grand in defeat, moved slowly to the door. But even in the greatest women, there is that germ of feminine curiosity which cannot be wholly eliminated, that little grain of dust that asserts itself and clogs the machinery. It had been Mrs. Porter's intention to leave the room without a glance, her back defiantly towards the foe. But, as she reached the door, they came from behind her a sound of movement, a stifled cry, a little sound whose meaning she knew too well. She hesitated. She stood still, fighting herself. But the grain of dust had done its work. For an instance, she ceased to be a smoothly working machine and became a woman, subject to the dictates of impulse. She turned. Intuition had not deceived her. Ruth had gone over to the enemy. She was in Kirk's arms, holding him to her, her face hidden against his shoulder, for all the world as if Laura Delaine Porter, her guiding force, had ceased to exist. Mrs. Porter closed the door and walked stiffly through the scented night to where the headlights of her automobile cleft the darkness. Birds asleep in the trees fluttered uneasily, at the sudden throbbing of the engine. End of Book 2, Chapter 15 Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Book 2, Chapter 16 Of Their Mutual Child by P. G. Woodhouse This LibriVox recording isn't the public domain. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Book 2, Chapter 16 The White Hope Link The White Hope Slapped The noise of the departing car which had roused the birds made no impression on him. As Steve had said, dynamite could not do it. He slumbered on, calmly detached, unaware of the remarkable changes which in the past twenty-four hours had taken place in his life. An epoch had ended, and a new one began, but he knew it not. And probably if Kirk and Ruth, who were standing at his bedside watching him, had roused him and informed him of these facts, he would have displayed little excitement. He had the philosophical temperament. He took things as they came. Great natural phenomena, like Lord Elaine Porter, he accepted as part of life. When they were in his life, he endured them stoically. When they were out of it, he got on without them. Marcus Aurelius would have liked William Bannister Winfield. They belonged to the same school of thought. The years have attended to destroy this placidity towards life and to develop in man a sense of gratitude to fate for its occasional kindnesses. And Kirk, having been in the world longer than William Bannister, did not take the gifts of the gods so much for granted. He was profoundly grateful for what had happened, that Lord Elaine Porter should have retired from active interference in his concerns was much. But that he should have had the incredible good fortune to be freed from the burden of John Bannister's money before. If ever money was the root of all evil, this had been. It had come into his life like a poisonous blight, withering and destroying wherever it touched. It had changed Ruth. It had changed William Bannister. It had changed himself. It was as if the spirit of the old man had lived on, hating him and working him mischief. He always had a superstitious fear of it, and events had proved him right. Now the cloud had rolled away. A few crowded hours of Bailey's dashing in facility had removed the curse forever. He was alone with Ruth and his son in a world that contained only them, just as in the old days of their happiness. There was something symbolic, something suggestive of the beginning of a new order of things in their isolation at this very moment. Steve had gone. Only he and Ruth and the child were left. The child. The White Hope was the real hero of the story, the real principle of the drama of their three lives. He was the link that bound them together, the force that worked for coherence and against chaos. He stood between them, his hands in theirs, and while he did so there could be no parting of the ways. His grip was light, but strong as steel. Time would bring troubles, moods, misunderstandings, for they were both human, but while that grip held there could be no gulf dividing Ruth and himself as it had divided them in the past. He faced the future calmly with open eyes. It would be rough going at first, very rough going. It meant hard work, incessant work, no more vague masterpieces which might or might not turn into Carmen or the Spanish maiden, no more delightful idle days to be loafed through in the studio or the shops, no more dreams seen hazzly through the smoke of a cigar as he lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling of what he would do tomorrow. Tomorrow must look after itself. His business was with the present and the work of the present. He braced himself to the fight, confident of his power to win. He had found himself. Bill stirred in his sleep and muttered. Ruth bent over him and kissed the honourable scratch on his cheek. Poor little chap, you'll wake up and find you aren't a millionaire baby after all. I wonder if you'll mind. Kirk, do you mind? Mind? I don't, Sid Ruth. I think it would be rather fun being poor again. Who's poor? said Kirk, startling. I'm not. I've got you and I've got Bill. Do you remember ages ago what that Vince girl, the model, you know, said that her friend had called me? A plute. That's me. I'm the richest man in the world. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org End of Their Mutual Child by P. G. Woodhouse