The White Hope slept. The noise of the departing car, which had rousedthe birds, had made no impression on him. As Steve had said, dynamitecould not do it. He slumbered on, calmly detached, unaware of theremarkable changes which, in the past twenty-four hours, had takenplace in his life. An epoch had ended and a new one begun, but he knewit 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 wouldhave displayed little excitement. He had the philosophical temperament.
He took things as they came. Great natural phenomena, like Lora DelanePorter, he accepted as part of life. When they were in his life, heendured them stoically. When they went out of it, he got on withoutthem. Marcus Aurelius would have liked William Bannister Winfield. Theybelonged to the same school of thought.
The years have a tendency todestroy this placidity towards life and to develop in man a sense ofgratitude to fate for its occasional kindnesses; and Kirk, having beenin the world longer than William Bannister, did not take the gifts ofthe gods so much for granted. He was profoundly grateful for what hadhappened. That Lora Delane Porter should have retired from activeinterference with his concerns was much; but that he should have hadthe incredible good fortune to be freed from the burden of JohnBannister's money was more.
If ever money was the root of all evil, this had been. It had come intohis life like a poisonous blight, withering and destroying wherever ittouched. It had changed Ruth; it had changed William Bannister; it hadchanged himself; it was as if the spirit of the old man had lived on,hating him and working him mischief. He always had superstitious fearof it; and events had proved him right.
And now the cloud had rolled away. A few crowded hours of Bailey'sdashing imbecility 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 somethingsymbolic, something suggestive of the beginning of a new order ofthings, in their isolation at this very moment. Steve had gone. Only heand Ruth and the child were left.
The child--the White Hope--he was the real hero of the story, the realprincipal of the drama of their three lives. He was the link that boundthem together, the force that worked for coherence and against chaos.
He stood between them, his hands in theirs; and while he did so therecould be no parting of the ways. His grip was light, but as strong assteel. Time would bring troubles, moods, misunderstandings, for theywere both human; but, while that grip held, there could be no gulfdividing Ruth and himself, as it had divided them in the past.
He faced the future calmly, with open eyes. It would be rough going atfirst, very rough going. It meant hard work, incessant work. No morevague masterpieces which might or might not turn into "Carmen" or "TheSpanish Maiden." No more delightful idle days to be loafed through inthe studio or the shops. No more dreams, seen hazily through the smokeof a cigar, as he lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, of whathe would do to-morrow. To-morrow must look after itself. His businesswas with the present and the work of the present.
He braced himself to the fight, confident of his power to win. He hadfound himself.
Bill stirred in his sleep and muttered. Ruth bent over him and kissedthe honourable scratch on his cheek.
"Poor little chap! You'll wake up and find that you aren't amillionaire baby after all! I wonder if you'll mind. Kirk, do_you_ mind?""Mind!""I don't," said Ruth. "I think it will be rather fun being poor again.""Who's poor?" said Kirk stoutly. "I'm not. I've got you and I've gotBill. Do you remember--ages ago--what that Vince girl, the model, youknow, said that her friend had called me? A plute. That's me. I'm therichest man in the world."
The End
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