At about the time when Lora Delane Porter was cross-examining KirkWinfield, Bailey Bannister left his club hurriedly.
Inside the club a sad, rabbit-faced young gentleman, who had beenunburdening his soul to Bailey, was seeking further consolation in anamber drink with a cherry at the bottom of it. For this young man wasone of nature's cherry-chasers. It was the only thing he did reallywell. His name was Grayling, his height five feet three, his sockspink, and his income enormous.
So much for Grayling. He is of absolutely no importance, either to theworld or to this narrative, except in so far that the painful story hehas been unfolding to Bailey Bannister has so wrought upon thatexquisite as to send him galloping up Fifth Avenue at five miles anhour in search of his sister Ruth.
Let us now examine Bailey. He is a faultlessly dressed young man ofabout twenty-seven, who takes it as a compliment when people thinkhim older. His mouth, at present gaping with agitation and theunwonted exercise, is, as a rule, primly closed. His eyes, peeringthrough gold-rimmed glasses, protrude slightly, giving him somethingof the dumb pathos of a codfish.
His hair is pale and scanty, his nose sharp and narrow. He is a juniorpartner in the firm of Bannister & Son, and it is his unalterableconviction that, if his father would only give him a chance, he couldshow Wall Street some high finance that would astonish it.
The afternoon was warm. The sun beat down on the avenue. Bailey had notgone two blocks before it occurred to him that swifter and morecomfortable progress could be made in a taxicab than on his admirablytrousered legs. No more significant proof of the magnitude of hisagitation could be brought forward than the fact that he had so farforgotten himself as to walk at all. He hailed a cab and gave theaddress of a house on the upper avenue.
He leaned back against the cushions, trying to achieve a coolness ofmind and body. But the heat of the day kept him unpleasantly soluble,and dismay, that perspiration of the soul, refused to be absorbed bythe pocket-handkerchief of philosophy.
Bailey Bannister was a young man who considered the minding of otherpeople's business a duty not to be shirked. Life is a rocky road forsuch. His motto was "Let _me_ do it!" He fussed about the affairsof Bannister & Son; he fussed about the welfare of his friends at theclub; especially, he fussed about his only sister Ruth.
He looked on himself as a sort of guardian to Ruth. Their mother haddied when they were children, and old Mr. Bannister was indifferentlyequipped with the paternal instinct. He was absorbed, body and soul, inthe business of the firm. He lived practically a hermit life in thegreat house on Fifth Avenue; and, if it had not been for Bailey, soBailey considered, Ruth would have been allowed to do just whatever shepleased. There were those who said that this was precisely what shedid, despite Brother Bailey.
It is a hard world for a conscientious young man of twenty-seven.
Bailey paid the cab and went into the house. It was deliciously cool inthe hall, and for a moment peace descended on him. But the distantsound of a piano in the upper regions ejected it again by reminding himof his mission. He bounded up the stairs and knocked at the door of hissister's private den.
The piano stopped as he entered, and the girl on the music-stoolglanced over her shoulder.
"Well, Bailey," she said, "you look warm.""I _am_ warm," said Bailey in an aggrieved tone. He sat downsolemnly.
"I want to speak to you, Ruth."Ruth shut the piano and caused the music-stool to revolve till shefaced him.
"Well?" she said.
Ruth Bannister was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, "a daughter ofthe gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair." From her mother shehad inherited the dark eyes and ivory complexion which went so wellwith her mass of dark hair; from her father a chin of peculiardetermination and perfect teeth. Her body was strong and supple. Sheradiated health.
To her friends Ruth was a source of perplexity. It was difficult tounderstand her. In the set in which she moved girls married young; yetseason followed season, and Ruth remained single, and this so obviouslyof her own free will that the usual explanation of such a state ofthings broke down as soon as it was tested.
In shoals during her first two seasons, and lately with less unanimity,men of every condition, from a prince--somewhat battered, but still aprince--to the Bannisters' English butler--a good man, but at themoment under the influence of tawny port, had laid their hearts at herfeet. One and all, they had been compelled to pick them up and takethem elsewhere. She was generally kind on these occasions, but alwaysvery firm. The determined chin gave no hope that she might yield toimportunity. The eyes that backed up the message of the chin werepleasant, but inflexible.
Generally it was with a feeling akin to relief that the rejected, whentime had begun to heal the wound, contemplated their position. Therewas something about this girl, they decided, which no fellow couldunderstand: she frightened them; she made them feel that their handswere large and red and their minds weak and empty. She was waiting forsomething. What it was they did not know, but it was plain that theywere not it, and off they went to live happily ever after with girlswho ate candy and read best-sellers. And Ruth went on her way, cool andwatchful and mysterious, waiting.
The room which Ruth had taken for her own gave, like all rooms whenintelligently considered, a clue to the character of its owner. It wasthe only room in the house furnished with any taste or simplicity. Thefurniture was exceedingly expensive, but did not look so. The key-noteof the colour-scheme was green and white. All round the walls werebooks. Except for a few prints, there were no pictures; and the onlyphotograph visible stood in a silver frame on a little table.
It was the portrait of a woman of about fifty, square-jawed,tight-lipped, who stared almost threateningly out of the frame;exceedingly handsome, but, to the ordinary male, too formidableto be attractive. On this was written in a bold hand, bristlingwith emphatic down-strokes and wholly free from feminine flourish:
"To my dear Ruth from her Aunt Lora." And below the signature, inwhat printers call "quotes," a line that was evidently an extractfrom somebody's published works: "Bear the torch and do not falter."Bailey inspected this photograph with disfavour. It always irritatedhim. The information, conveyed to him by amused friends, that his AuntLora had once described Ruth as a jewel in a dust-bin, seemed to him tocarry an offensive innuendo directed at himself and the rest of thedwellers in the Bannister home. Also, she had called him a worm. Also,again, his actual encounters with the lady, though few, had beenmemorably unpleasant. Furthermore, he considered that she had far toogreat an influence on Ruth. And, lastly, that infernal sentence aboutthe torch, which he found perfectly meaningless, had a habit of runningin his head like a catch-phrase, causing him the keenest annoyance.
He pursed his lips disapprovingly and averted his eyes.
"Don't sniff at Aunt Lora, Bailey," said Ruth. "I've had to speak toyou about that before. What's the matter? What has sent you flying uphere?""I have had a shock," said Bailey. "I have been very greatly disturbed.
I have just been speaking to Clarence Grayling."He eyed her accusingly through his gold-rimmed glasses. She remainedtranquil.
"And what had Clarence to say?""A great many things.""I gather he told you I had refused him.""If it were only that!"Ruth rapped the piano sharply.
"Bailey," she said, "wake up. Either get to the point or go or read abook or do some tatting or talk about something else. You knowperfectly well that I absolutely refuse to endure your impressivemanner. I believe when people ask you the time you look pained andimportant and make a mystery of it. What's troubling you? I should havethought Clarence would have kept quiet about insulting me. Butapparently he has no sense of shame."Bailey gaped. Bailey was shocked and alarmed.
"Insulting you! What do you mean? Clarence is a gentleman. He isincapable of insulting a woman.""Is he? He told me I was a suitable wife for a wretched dwarf with themiserably inadequate intelligence which nature gave him reduced topractically a minus quantity by alcohol! At least, he implied it. Heasked me to marry him.""I have just left him at the club. He is very upset.""I should imagine so." A soft smile played over Ruth's face. "I spoketo Clarence. I explained things to him. I lit up Clarence's little mindlike a searchlight."Bailey rose, tremulous with just wrath.
"You spoke to him in a way that I can only call outrageous andimproper, and--er--outrageous."He paced the room with agitated strides. Ruth watched him calmly.
"If the overflowing emotion of a giant soul in torment makes you knockover a table or smash a chair," she said, "I shall send the bill forrepairs to you. You had far better sit down and talk quietly. What_is_ worrying you, Bailey?""Is it nothing," demanded her brother, "that my sister should havespoken to a man as you spoke to Clarence Grayling?"With an impassioned gesture he sent a flower-vase crashing to thefloor.
"I told you so," said Ruth. "Pick up the bits, and don't let the waterspoil the carpet. Use your handkerchief. I should say that that wouldcost you about six dollars, dear. Why will you let yourself be sotemperamental? Now let me try and think what it was I said to Clarence.
As far as I can remember it was the mere A B C of eugenics."Bailey, on his knees, picking up broken glass, raised a flushed andaccusing face.
"Ah! Eugenics! You admit it!""I think," went on Ruth placidly, "I asked him what sort of children hethought we were likely to have if we married.""A nice girl ought not to think about such things.""I don't think about anything else much. A woman can't do a great deal,even nowadays, but she can have a conscience and feel that she owessomething to the future of the race. She can feel that it is her dutyto bring fine children into the world. As Aunt Lora says, she can carrythe torch and not falter."Bailey shied like a startled horse at the hated phrase. He pointedfuriously at the photograph of the great thinker.
"You're talking like that--that damned woman!""Bailey _precious_! You mustn't use such wicked, wicked words."Bailey rose, pink and wrathful.
"If you're going to break another vase," said Ruth, "you will reallyhave to go.""Ever since that--that----" cried Bailey. "Ever since Aunt Lora----"Ruth smiled indulgently.
"That's more like my little man," she said. "He knows as well as I dohow wrong it is to swear.""Be quiet! Ever since Aunt Lora got hold of you, I say, you have becomea sort of gramophone, spouting her opinions.""But what sensible opinions!""It's got to stop. Aunt Lora! My God! Who is she? Just look at herrecord. She disgraces the family by marrying a grubby newspaper fellowcalled Porter. He has the sense to die. I will say that for him. Shethrusts herself into public notice by a series of books and speeches onsubjects of which a decent woman ought to know nothing. And now shegets hold of you, fills you up with her disgusting nonsense, makes asort of disciple of you, gives you absurd ideas, poisons your mind,and--er--er-----""Bailey! This is positive eloquence!""It's got to stop. It's bad enough in her; but every one knows she iscrazy, and makes allowances. But in a young girl like you."He choked.
"In a young girl like me," prompted Ruth in a low, tragic voice.
"It--it's not right. It--it's not proper." He drew a long breath. "It'sall wrong. It's got to stop.""He's perfectly wonderful!" murmured Ruth. "He just opens his mouth andthe words come out. But I knew he was somebody, directly I saw him, byhis forehead. Like a dome!" Bailey mopped the dome.
"Perhaps you don't know it," he said, "but you're getting yourselftalked about. You go about saying perfectly impossible things topeople. You won't marry. You have refused nearly every friend I have."Ruth shuddered.
"Your friends are awful, Bailey. They are all turned out on a pattern,like a flock of sheep. They bleat. They have all got little, narrowfaces without chins or big, fat faces without foreheads. Ugh!""None of them good enough for you, is that it?""Not nearly."Emotion rendered Bailey--for him--almost vulgar.
"I guess you hate yourself!" he snapped.
"No _sir_" beamed Ruth. "I think I'm perfectly beautiful."Bailey grunted. Ruth came to him and gave him a sisterly kiss. She wasvery fond of Bailey, though she declined to reverence him.
"Cheer up, Bailey boy," she said. "Don't you worry yourself. There's amethod in my madness. I'll find him sooner or later, and then you'll beglad I waited.""Him? what do you mean?""Why, _him_, of course. The ideal young man. That's who--or is itwhom?--I'm waiting for. Bailey, shall I tell you something? You're soscarlet already--poor boy, you ought not to rush around in this hotweather--that it won't make you blush. It's this. I'm ambitious. I meanto marry the finest man in the world and have the greatest little oldbaby you ever dreamed of. By the way, now I remember, I told Clarencethat."Bailey uttered a strangled exclamation.
"It _has_ made you blush! You turned purple. Well, now you know. Imean my baby to be the most splendid baby that was ever born. He'sgoing to be strong and straight and clever and handsome, and--oh,everything else you can think of. That's why I'm waiting for the idealyoung man. If I don't find him I shall die an old maid. But I shallfind him. We may pass each other on Fifth Avenue. We may sit next eachother at a theatre. Wherever it is, I shall just reach right out andgrab him and whisk him away. And if he's married already, he'll have toget a divorce. And I shan't care who he is. He may be any one. I don'tmind if he's a ribbon clerk or a prize-fighter or a policeman or acab-driver, so long as he's the right man."Bailey plied the handkerchief on his streaming forehead. The heat ofthe day and the horror of this conversation were reducing his weight atthe rate of ounces a minute. In his most jaundiced mood he had neverimagined these frightful sentiments to be lurking in Ruth's mind.
"You can't mean that!" he cried.
"I mean every word of it," said Ruth. "I hope, for your sake, he won'tturn out to be a waiter or a prize-fighter, but it won't make anydifference to me.""You're crazy!""Well, just now you said Aunt Lora was. If she is, I am.""I knew it! I said she had been putting these ghastly ideas into yourhead. I'd like to strangle that woman.""Don't you try! Have you ever felt Aunt Lora's biceps? It's like aman's. She does dumb-bells every morning.""I've a good mind to speak to father. Somebody's got to make you stopthis insanity.""Just as you please. But you know how father hates to be worried aboutthings that don't concern business."Bailey did. His father, of whom he stood in the greatest awe, was verylittle interested in any subject except the financial affairs of thefirm of Bannister & Son. It required greater courage than Baileypossessed to place this matter before him. He had an uneasy feelingthat Ruth knew it.
"I would, if it were necessary," he said. "But I don't believe you'reserious.""Stick to that idea as long as ever you can, Bailey dear," said Ruth.
"It will comfort you."
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