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, still 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 had been working too
hard and taking no exercise. You know 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, until one day, Bailey says, he fainted at the office. They
brought him home, and he just went out like a burned-out candle. I—I
went to him, but for a long time he wouldn’t see me.
“Oh, Kirk, the hours I spent in the library hoping that he would let me
come to him! But he never did till right at the end. Then I went up,
and he was dying. He couldn’t speak. I don’t know now how he felt
toward 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—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 car had stopped at Thirty-Fourth 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 Bannister’s death. He was too honest
to be able to plunge himself into false emotion at will. His feeling
was more a vague uneasiness, almost a presentiment. Things changed so
quickly in this world. Old landmarks 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? Wealth 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 jerked 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, too, the cloud had been lifted.
“It seems like a fairy-story,” said Kirk, breaking the silence that had
fallen 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 it 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 on 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 at 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 that I was a kind of man with whom he was quite out of
sympathy. He mistrusted all artists, I expect, in a bunch. And, anyway,
an artist is pretty sure to be a bad man of business. He would know
that. And—and, 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 advertise affluence with as little reticence as a
fat diamond solitaire.
“We live here,” said Ruth, laughing.
Kirk drew a long breath.
“Do we? 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 are tired
of being rich, we’ll creep off there and boil eggs over the gas-stove
and pretend we are 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 realities in 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 it was inevitable that a certain portion of it must go to his
support, but he was resolved that there should be in the sight of the
gods who look 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 ennui. Even to his wife a man is
not always eager to exhibit his soul in its nakedness.
“By the way,” said Ruth, “you won’t find George Pennicut at the studio.
He has gone back to England.”
“I’m sorry. I liked George.”
“He liked you. He left all sorts of messages. He nearly wept when he
said good-bye. But he wouldn’t stop. In a burst of confidence he told
me what the trouble was. Our blue sky had got on his nerves. He wanted
a London drizzle again. He said the thought of 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 rather a kind of vague regret for the life
which had so definitely ended, the feeling which the Romans called
_desiderium_ and the Greeks _pathos_. The defection of George Pennicut
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
stateliness. 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 Mrs. Lora
Delane Porter.
If other things in Kirk’s world had changed, time had wrought in vain
upon the great authoress. 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, Aunt Lora,” said Ruth. “Poor boy, he’s a skeleton.”
“You are not so robust.”
“I have been ill.”
Ruth interposed.
“He’s had fever, Aunt Lora, and you are 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. “A kind of Irish
stew of a 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, “and I’ll show you the house. Don’t mind
Aunt Lora,” 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 in a powder
magazine.
“Aunt Lora 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 won’t interfere 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 with Aunt Lora on the premises.”
She stopped at a door on the first floor.
“This is Bill’s nursery. He’s out just now. Mamie 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
Lora 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 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 the 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 to sleep on his bed; 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 descending into the dust herself in the role
of a bear or a snake.
What had happened to this world from which he 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 Lora Delane 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 sterilized night and morning
with a weak solution of boric acid!”
“Even Mamie?” inquired Kirk.
It had been his intention to be mildly jocular, but Mrs. Porter’s reply
showed him that in jest he had spoken the truth.
“Certainly. Have you any idea, Kirk, of the number of germs there 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 sterilization. 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-door bell.
Ruth went to the landing and looked over the banisters.
“That ought to be Bill and Mamie 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, swept over him like 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 William Bannister had become a little faded.
He ran down the stairs.
“Hello, Mamie!” he said. “How are you? You’re looking well.”
Mamie greeted him with the shy smile which was wont to cause such havoc
in Steve’s heart.
“And who’s this you’ve got with you? Mamie, you know you’ve no business
going about with young men like this. Who is he?”
He stood looking at William Bannister, and William Bannister stood
looking at him, Kirk smiling, William staring with the intense gravity
of childhood and trying to place this bearded stranger among his circle
of 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.
It’s all right, Bill, 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’ve a father.”
“Fa-a-a-ar!” shrieked William Bannister triumphantly, taking the cue
with admirable swiftness.
He leaped at Kirk, and Kirk swung him up in the air. It was quite an
effort, for William Bannister had grown astonishingly in the past year.
“Pop,” said he firmly, as if resolved to prevent any possibility of
mistake. “Daddy,” he added, continuing to play upon the theme. He
summed up. “You’re my pop.”
Then, satisfied that this was final and that 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 struck that way because I left
you and mummy for a whole year. But now I’m back I’m going to be
allowed to take it off and give it away. Whom shall 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 on at the other
end, you know.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me. That’s the way it’s built.”
William Bannister obligingly disentangled himself from the beard.
“Where you been?” he inquired.
“Miles and miles away. You know the Battery?”
William Bannister 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 Bannister.
“Tigers?” he inquired.
“I didn’t actually see any tigers, but I expect they were sneaking
round. There were 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
taught you to box yet?”
At this moment he was aware that he had become the centre of a small
group. Looking round he found himself gazing into a 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 his flow of light
conversation as if it had been turned off with a switch. He lowered
Bill to the ground.
“What on earth’s the 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 Mamie and her charge off again
on the journey upstairs which Kirk’s advent had interrupted. Bill
seemed sorry to go, but he trudged sturdily 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?” demanded Mrs. Porter in a tense voice.
Kirk turned helplessly to Ruth.
“You had better let me explain, Aunt Lora,” 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 Lora was not to be appeased.
“That is absolutely no excuse. He has just left a ship where he cannot
have failed to pick up bacilli 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 Lora!” 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 sailed
for Colombia would, he felt, have been incapable 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. Porter without another word.
Ruth put her arm in Kirk’s and led him off to the smoking-room.
“You may smoke a cigar while I tell you all about Bill,” she said.
Kirk lit a cigar, bewildered. It is always unpleasant to be the person
to whom things have to be explained.
“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
Lora 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 have been more correct to bow?”
“Don’t be so satirical, Kirk; you wither me. No, seriously, you really
mustn’t kiss Bill. I never do. Nobody does.”
“What!”
“I dare say it sounds ridiculous to you, but you were not here when he
was so ill and nearly died. You remember what I was telling you at the
dock? About giving Whiskers away? Well, this is all part of it. After
what happened I feel, like Aunt Lora, that we simply can’t take too
many precautions. You saw his nursery. Well, it would be simply 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?”
“Not 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 and sat 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
that you need be any the less fond of him. I know it will 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,” grumbled Kirk.
“You wait till you see him playing, and 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 had better ask. Being the perambulating plague-spot 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 shall have to be sterilized?”
“I don’t think it necessary myself, but Aunt Lora 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 alight.
“Ruth, old girl,” he said earnestly, “this is pure lunacy.”
Ruth’s fingers wandered idly through his hair. She did not speak for
some moments.
“You will be good about it, won’t you, Kirk dear?” she said at last.
It is 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 hid his
scalp, was incapable of serious opposition. He tried to be morose and
resolute, but failed miserably.
“Oh, very well,” he grunted.
“That’s a good boy. And you promise you won’t go hugging Bill again?”
“Very well.”
“There’s an angel for you. Now I’ll fix you a cocktail as a reward.”
“Well, mind you sterilize it carefully.”
Ruth laughed. Having gained her point she could afford to. She made the
cocktail and brought it to him.
“And now I’ll be off and 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’ve a position to keep up now, Mr. Winfield.”
Kirk lit a fresh cigar and sat thinking. The old feeling of desolation
which had attacked him as 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 Lora Delane 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 of these absurd
restrictions. Yet, apparently she did.
He looked into the future. It had a grey and bleak aspect. He seemed to
himself like a man gazing down an unknown path full of unknown perils.