The Misadventure 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 still in Colombia.
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 on Fifth Avenue.
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 it 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 Sixty-First 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 Keggs.
It was from Keggs that he first learned of the changes that had taken
place in the surroundings of William Bannister.
“I’ve ’ad 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 love a duck!” replied the butler, who in his moments of
relaxation was addicted to homely expletives 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 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; what’s more, and
on any one 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 ’ospital, with
its white tiles and its antiseptics and what not, and the temperature
just so and no lower nor higher. I don’t call it ’aving 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 ’ave 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 seen him that day I brought him round
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 up 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 Keggs morosely. “She’s done it
all. And if,” he went on with sudden heat, “she don’t break her ’abit
of addressing me in a tone what the ’umblest dorg 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?” commented Steve, interested. “She’s what
you’d call a tough proposition, that dame. I used to have my eye on her
all the time in the old days, waiting for her 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.”
Keggs shook his head.
“I daren’t, Mr. Dingle. It ’ud be as much as my place is worth.”
“But, darn it! I’m the kid’s godfather.”
“That wouldn’t 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. She’ll tell you more
about the child’s ’abits and daily life than I can.”
“Good enough,” said Steve.
He had not seen Mamie 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, for, whenever he saw her now she was driving in the
automobile with Bill. Keggs’ 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 Mamie the very next time he saw her. This 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, do-or-die frame of mind that he
entered the nursery now.
His visit to Keggs had been rather a 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 Mamie sat
sewing.
Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who the visitor was, and
she put a finger to her lip and pointed to the sleeper. And, as we have
to record another of the long list of Steve’s failures to propose we
may say here, in 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 Mamie.
It was not a very tactful remark, perhaps, considering that Steve was
the child’s godfather, and, as such, might reasonably expect to be
allowed a free pass to his nursery; but Mamie, like Keggs, had fallen
so under the domination of Lora Delane 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 by the approach of Mamie, 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——”
“Sh!” said Mamie warningly.
“What’s the idea? What are you handing me?”
“I’ve got to. It’s to sterilize you. I do it to every one.”
“Gee! You’ve got a swell job! Well, go to it, then. Shoot! I’m ready.”
“It’s boric acid,” explained Mamie.
“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.
When he had finished he drew a deep breath.
“Well!” he said softly. “Say, Mamie, 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 Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. She
refused to be drawn into a discussion on the subject.
“Have you been downstairs with Mr. Keggs, Steve?”
“Yes. It was him that told me about all this. Say, Mame, 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 is not a very long step from telling a
girl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen much
of her lately to 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 Mamie went
on sewing.
In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometer
and the brass knobs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; and
Steve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, 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; there was Mamie, sitting in
another; and there in the corner was the little white cot—well, perhaps
that was being a 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 Mamie to accept him.
It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did not
necessarily follow on to the first that had kept Steve from taking the
plunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem, he feared
his fate too much to put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.
Presently the silence began to oppress Steve. Mamie had her needlework,
and that apparently served her in lieu 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 a big effort.
“Mamie!” he said.
As he was nervous and had been silent so long that his vocal cords had
gone off duty under the impression that their day’s work was over, the
word came out of him like a husky gunshot. Mamie started, and the White
Hope, who had been sleeping peacefully, stirred and muttered.
“S-sh!” hissed Mamie.
Steve collapsed with the feeling that it was not his lucky night, while
Mamie bent anxiously over the cot. The sleeper, however, did not wake.
He gurgled, gave a sigh, then resumed his interrupted repose. Mamie
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 voice was a mere murmur,
but the other was sharp and unmistakable, the incisive note of Lora
Delane Porter. It brought Steve and Mamie to their feet simultaneously.
“What’s it matter?” said Steve stoutly, answering the panic in Mamie’s
eyes. “It’s not her house, and I got a perfect right to be here.”
“You don’t know her. I shall get into trouble.”
Mamie was pale with apprehension. She knew her Lora Delane Porter, and
she knew what would happen if Steve were to be discovered there. It
was, as Keggs put it, as much as her place was worth.
For a brief instant Mamie faced a future in which she was driven 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 had been glad to see Steve again after all
this while—if Steve had known how glad, he would certainly have found
courage and said what he had so often failed to say—and, knowing that
Mrs. 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 Mamie’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 Mamie’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.
And then his eye caught the water-proof sheet of the shower-bath.
Behind that there was just room for concealment.
With a brief nod of encouragement to Mamie, he leaped at it. The door
opened as he disappeared.
Mrs. Porter’s rules concerning visitors, though stringent as regarded
Mamie, 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 spectacled lady.
“You notice 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 erect and complacent, the other leaning forward and peering
through her spectacles. Mamie took advantage of their backs and turned
to cast a hurried glance at the water-proof 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,” said the doctor. “And this, of course, is
for the shower-bath? I understand!”
And, extending a firm 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 Malcolmson’s patents. 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 Mamie 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 Mamie 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 sat 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 Mamie’s face, that the sound of their voices had disturbed
the child, that they were routed from the start.
“Oh, dear me! He is awake,” said the lady doctor.
“I am afraid we did not lower our voices,” added Mrs. Porter. “And yet
William is usually such a sound sleeper. Perhaps we had better——”
“Just so,” said the doctor.
“——go downstairs while the nurse gets him off to sleep again.”
“Quite.”
The door closed behind them.
“Oh, Steve!” said Mamie.
The White Hope had gone to sleep again with the amazing speed of
childhood, and Mamie was looking pityingly at the bedraggled object
which had emerged cautiously from behind the waterproof.
“I got mine,” muttered Steve ruefully. “You ain’t got a towel anywhere,
have you, Mame?”
Mamie 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 Mamie.
Observe the tricks that conscience plays us. If Mamie had told Steve
what had caused William to wake he would certainly have been so charmed
by her presence of mind, exerted on his behalf to save him from the
warm 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, have eased his bosom of much perilous
stuff.
But conscience would not allow Mamie 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 even to Steve.
And if Steve had had the pluck to tell Mamie 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 moving-picture film. He had not actually
risked death for her, perhaps, but he had taken a sudden cold
shower-bath without a murmur—all for her.
Mamie 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 where, if there was no
Mamie, there were, at any rate, dry clothes.