Kirk was not the only person whom the sudden change in the financialposition of the Winfield family had hit hard. The blighting effects ofsudden wealth had touched Steve while Kirk was still in Colombia.
In a sense, it had wrecked Steve's world. Nobody had told him to stopor 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 goto the house on Fifth Avenue.
For all his roughness, Steve possessed a delicacy which sometimesalmost amounted to diffidence; and he did not need to be told thatthere was a substantial difference, as far as he was concerned, betweenthe new headquarters of the family and the old. At the studio he hadbeen accustomed to walk in when it pleased him, sure of a welcome; buthe had an idea that he did not fit as neatly into the atmosphere ofFifth Avenue as he had done into that of Sixty-First Street; and nobodydisabused him of it.
It was perhaps the presence of Mrs. Porter that really made thedifference. In spite of the compliments she had sometimes paid to hiscommon sense, Mrs. Porter did not put Steve at his ease. He was almostafraid of her. Consequently, when he came to Fifth Avenue, he remainedbelow stairs, talking pugilism with Keggs.
It was from Keggs that he first learned of the changes that had takenplace in the surroundings of William Bannister.
"I've 'ad the privilege of serving in some of the best houses inEngland," said the butler one evening, as they sat smoking in thepantry, "and I've never seen such goings on. I don't hold with thepampering of children.""What do you mean, pampering?" asked Steve.
"Well, Lord love a duck!" replied the butler, who in his moments ofrelaxation was addicted to homely expletives of the lower London type.
"If you don't call it pampering, what do you call pampering? He ain'tallowed to touch nothing that ain't been--it's slipped my memory whatthey call it, but it's got something to do with microbes. They sprinklestuff on his toys and on his clothes and on his nurse; what's more, andon 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, andthe temperature just so and no lower nor higher. I don't call it 'avinga proper faith in Providence, pampering and fussing over a child tothat 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 afterthe child.""But, say, in the old days that kid was about the dandiest little sportthat ever came down the pike. You seen him that day I brought him roundto say hello to the old man. He didn't have no nursery at all then, letalone one with white tiles. I've seen him come up off the studio floorlooking like a coon with the dust. And Miss Ruth tickled to see himlike 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 itall. And if," he went on with sudden heat, "she don't break her 'abitof addressing me in a tone what the 'umblest dorg would resent, I'mliable to forget my place and give her a piece of my mind. Coming roundand interfering!""Got _your_ goat, has she?" commented Steve, interested. "She'swhat you'd call a tough proposition, that dame. I used to have my eyeon her all the time in the old days, waiting for her to startsomething. But say, I'd like to see this nursery you've been talkingabout. 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 justthe same. But, if you care to risk it, Mr. Dingle, I'll show you whereit is. You'll find the young person up there. She'll tell you moreabout 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 heartgrow fonder. It embittered him that his meetings with her were all toorare nowadays. She seemed to have abandoned the practice of walkingaltogether, for, whenever he saw her now she was driving in theautomobile with Bill. Keggs' information about the new system threwsome 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 pluckup courage and propose to Mamie the very next time he saw her. This hadgone on now for over two years, but he still clung to it. Repeatedfailures to reveal his burning emotions never caused him to lose theconviction that he would do it for certain next time.
It was in his customary braced-up, do-or-die frame of mind that heentered the nursery now.
His visit to Keggs had been rather a late one and had lasted some timebefore the subject of the White Hope had been broached, with the resultthat, when Steve arrived among the white tiles and antiseptics, hefound his godson in bed and asleep. In a chair by the cot Mamie satsewing.
Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who the visitor was, andshe put a finger to her lip and pointed to the sleeper. And, as we haveto record another of the long list of Steve's failures to propose wemay say here, in excuse, that this reception took a great deal of theedge 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 wasthe child's godfather, and, as such, might reasonably expect to beallowed a free pass to his nursery; but Mamie, like Keggs, had fallenso under the domination of Lora Delane Porter that she had grown toconsider it almost a natural law that no one came to see Bill unlessapproved of and personally conducted by her.
Steve did not answer. He was gaping at the fittings of the place inwhich 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 momentshe suddenly squirted something at him. It was cold and wet and hit himin the face before, as he put it to Keggs later, he could get his guardup.
"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 buttin?""No. She's out.""Good," said Steve, and sat down, relieved, to resume his inspection ofthe 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 youever struck. Well, you're quite right. It is. It's a shame to think ofthat innocent kid having this sort of deal handed to him. Why, justthink of him at the studio!"But Mamie, whatever her private views, was loyal to her employers. Sherefused 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 seenmuch of each other lately.""No.""Mighty little.""Yes."Having got as far as this, Steve should, of course, have goneresolutely ahead. After all, it is not a very long step from telling agirl in a hushed whisper with a shake in it that you have not seen muchof her lately to hinting that you would like to see a great deal moreof her in the future.
Steve was on the right lines, and he knew it; but that fatal lack ofnerve which had wrecked him on all the other occasions when he had gotas far as this undid him now. He relapsed into silence, and Mamie wenton sewing.
In a way, if you shut your eyes to the white tiles and the thermometerand the brass knobs and the shower-bath, it was a peaceful scene; andSteve, as he sat there and watched Mamie sew, was stirred by it. Removethe white tiles, the thermometer the brass knobs, and the shower-bath,and this was precisely the sort of scene his imagination conjured upwhen the business of life slackened sufficiently to allow him to dreamdreams.
There he was, sitting in one chair; there was Mamie, sitting inanother; and there in the corner was the little white cot--well,perhaps that was being a shade too prophetic; on the other hand, italways came into these dreams of his. There, in short, was everythingarranged just as he pictured it; and all that was needed to make thepicture real was for him to propose and Mamie to accept him.
It was the disturbing thought that the second condition did notnecessarily follow on to the first that had kept Steve from taking theplunge for the last two years. Unlike the hero of the poem, he fearedhis 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 hadnothing to occupy him, and he began to grow restless. He alwaysdespised himself thoroughly for his feebleness on these occasions; andhe 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 hadgone off duty under the impression that their day's work was over, theword came out of him like a husky gunshot. Mamie started, and the WhiteHope, who had been sleeping peacefully, stirred and muttered.
"S-sh!" hissed Mamie.
Steve collapsed with the feeling that it was not his lucky night, whileMamie bent anxiously over the cot. The sleeper, however, did not wake.
He gurgled, gave a sigh, then resumed his interrupted repose. Mamiereturned to her seat.
"Yes?" she said, as if nothing had occurred, and as if there had beenno interval between Steve's remark and her reply.
Steve could not equal her calmness. He had been strung up when hespoke, and the interruption had undone him. He reflected ruefully thathe might have said something to the point if he had been allowed to gostraight 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 therecame a sound of voices from the stairs. One voice was a mere murmur,but the other was sharp and unmistakable, the incisive note of LoraDelane Porter. It brought Steve and Mamie to their feet simultaneously.
"What's it matter?" said Steve stoutly, answering the panic in Mamie'seyes. "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, andshe knew what would happen if Steve were to be discovered there. Itwas, as Keggs put it, as much as her place was worth.
For a brief instant Mamie faced a future in which she was driven fromBill's presence into outer darkness, dismissed, and told never toreturn. That was what would happen. Sitting and talking with Steve inthe sacred nursery at this time of night was a crime, and she had knownit all the time. But she had been glad to see Steve again after allthis while--if Steve had known how glad, he would certainly have foundcourage and said what he had so often failed to say--and, knowing thatMrs. Porter was out, she had thought the risk of his presence worthtaking. Now, with discovery imminent, panic came upon her.
The voices were quite close now. There was no doubt of the destinationof the speakers. They were heading slowly but directly for the nursery.
Steve, not being fully abreast of the new rules and regulations of thesacred apartment, could not read Mamie's mind completely. He did notknow that, under Mrs. Porter's code, the admission of a visitor duringthe hours of sleep was a felony in the first degree, punishable byinstant dismissal. But Mamie's face and her brief reference to troublewere enough to tell him that the position was critical, and with theinstinct of the trapped he looked round him for cover.
But the White Hope's nursery was not constructed with a view toproviding cover for bulky gentlemen who should not have been there. Itwas as bare as a billiard-table as far as practicable hiding-placeswere 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 dooropened as he disappeared.
Mrs. Porter's rules concerning visitors, though stringent as regardedMamie, were capable of being relaxed when she herself was the person torelax them. She had a visitor with her now--a long, severe-looking ladywith a sharp nose surmounted by spectacles, who, taking in the whitetiles, the thermometer, the cot, and the brass knobs in a singlecomprehensive glance, observed: "Admirable!"Mrs, Porter was obviously pleased with this approval. Her companion wasa woman doctor of great repute among the advanced apostles of hygiene;and praise from her was praise indeed. She advanced into the room withan air of suppressed pride.
"These tiles are thoroughly cleaned twice each day with an antisepticsolution.""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 peeringthrough her spectacles. Mamie took advantage of their backs and turnedto cast a hurried glance at the water-proof curtain. It was certainlyan admirable screen; no sign of Steve was visible; but nevertheless shedid not cease to quake.
"This," said Mrs. Porter, "controls the heat. This, this, and this arefor the ventilation.""Just so, just so, just so," said the doctor. "And this, of course, isfor 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 veryingenious arrangement, one of Malcolmson's patents. There is aregulator at the side of the bath which enables the nurse to get justthe correct temperature. I will turn on both, and then----"It was as Mrs. Porter's hand was extended toward the knob that theparalysis which terror had put upon Mamie relaxed its grip. She hadstood by without a movement while the cold water splashed down upon thehidden Steve. Her heart had ached for him, but she had not stirred. Butnow, 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 therescue of adults at critical moments; but William Bannister wasaccorded the opportunity of doing so off it. It happened that at themoment of Mrs. Porter's entry Mamie had been standing near his cot, andshe had not moved since. The consequence was that she was within easyreach of him; and, despair giving her what in the circumstancesamounted to a flash of inspiration, she leaned quickly forward, even asMrs. Porter's finger touched the knob, and gave the round head on thepillow a rapid push.
William Bannister sat up with a grunt, rubbed his eyes, and, seeingstrangers, began to cry.
It was so obvious to Mrs. Porter and her companion, both from theevidence of their guilty consciences and the look of respectfulreproach on Mamie's face, that the sound of their voices had disturbedthe 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 yetWilliam 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 ofchildhood, and Mamie was looking pityingly at the bedraggled objectwhich 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 attemptedto dry himself.
"I'm so sorry, Steve.""Cut it out. It was my fault. I oughtn't to have been there. Say, itwas a bit of luck the kid waking just then.""Yes," said Mamie.
Observe the tricks that conscience plays us. If Mamie had told Stevewhat had caused William to wake he would certainly have been so charmedby her presence of mind, exerted on his behalf to save him from thewarm fate which Mrs. Porter's unconscious hand had been about to bringdown upon him, that he would have forgotten his diffidence then andthere and, as the poet has it, have eased his bosom of much perilousstuff.
But conscience would not allow Mamie to reveal the secret. Already shewas 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 lamba headache. She could not confess the crime even to Steve.
And if Steve had had the pluck to tell Mamie that he loved her, ashe stood before her dripping with the water which he had sufferedin silence rather than betray her, she would have fallen into hisarms. For Steve at that moment had all the glamour for her of theself-sacrificing hero of a moving-picture film. He had not actuallyrisked death for her, perhaps, but he had taken a sudden coldshower-bath without a murmur--all for her.
Mamie was thrilled. She looked at him with the gleaming eyes ofdevotion.
But Steve, just because he knew that he was wet and fancied that hemust look ridiculous, held his peace.
And presently, his secret still locked in his bosom, and his collarsticking limply to his neck, he crept downstairs, avoiding the societyof his fellow man, and slunk out into the night where, if there was noMamie, there were, at any rate, dry clothes.
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