Ruth sat down and rested her chin on her hand, staring at nothing. Kirk
went to the window and looked out.
Over the park the sky was black. In the room behind him the light had
faded till it seemed as if night were come. The air was heavy and
stifling. A flicker of lightning came and went in the darkness over the
trees.
He turned abruptly.
"It is the only reasonable thing to do. Our present mode of life is a
farce. We are drifting farther apart every day. Perhaps I have changed.
I know you have. We are two strangers chained together. We have made a
muddle of it, and the best thing we can do is to admit it.
"I am no good to you. I have no part in your present life. You're the
queen and I'm just the prince consort, the fellow who happens to be
Mrs. Winfield's husband. It's not a pleasant part to have to play, and
I have had enough of it. We had better separate before we hate each
other. You have your amusements. I have my work. We can continue them
apart. We shall both be better off."
He stopped. Ruth did not speak. She was still sitting in the same
attitude. It was too dark to see her face. It formed a little splash of
white in the dusk. She did not move.
Kirk went to the door.
"I'm going up to say good-bye to Bill. Have you anything to say against
that? And I shall say good-bye to him in my own way."
She made no sign that she had heard him.
"Good-bye," he said again.
The door closed.
Up in the nursery Bill crooned to himself as he played on the floor.
Mamie sat in a chair, sewing. The opening of the door caused them to
look up simultaneously.
"Hello," said Bill.
His voice was cordial without being enthusiastic. He was glad to see
Kirk, but tin soldiers were tin soldiers and demanded concentrated
attention. When you are in the middle of intricate manoeuvres you
cannot allow yourself to be more than momentarily distracted by
anything.
"Mamie," said Kirk hoarsely, "go out for a minute, will you? I shan't
be long."
Mamie obediently departed. Later, when Keggs was spreading the news of
Kirk's departure in the servants' hall, she remembered that his manner
had struck her as strange.
Kirk sat down in the chair she had left and looked at Bill. He felt
choked. There was a mist before his eyes.
"Bill."
The child, absorbed in his game, did not look up.
"Bill, old man, come here a minute. I've something to say."
Bill looked up, nodded, moved a couple of soldiers, and got up. He came
to Kirk's side. His chosen mode of progression at this time was a kind
of lurch. He was accustomed to breathe heavily during the journey, and
on arrival at the terminus usually shouted triumphantly.
Kirk put an arm round him. Bill stared gravely up into his face. There
was a silence. From outside came a sudden rumbling crash. Bill jumped.
"Funder," he said in a voice that shook a little.
"Not afraid of thunder, are you?" said Kirk.
Bill shook his head stoutly.
"Bill."
"Yes, daddy?"
Kirk fought to keep his voice steady.
"Bill, old man, I'm afraid you won't see me again for some time. I'm
going away."
"In a ship?"
"No, not in a ship."
"In a train?"
"Perhaps."
"Take me with you, daddy."
"I'm afraid I can't, Bill."
"Shan't I ever see you again?"
Kirk winced. How direct children are! What was it they called it in the
papers? "The custody of the child." How little it said and how much it
meant!
The sight of Bill's wide eyes and quivering mouth reminded him that he
was not the only person involved in the tragedy of those five words. He
pulled himself together. Bill was waiting anxiously for an answer to
his question. There was no need to make Bill unhappy before his time.
"Of course you will," he said, trying to make his voice cheerful.
"Of course I will," echoed Bill dutifully.
Kirk could not trust himself to speak again. The old sensation of
choking had come back to him. The room was a blur.
He caught Bill to him in a grip that made the child cry out, held him
for a long minute, then put him gently down and made blindly for the
door.
The storm had burst by the time Kirk found himself in the street. The
thunder crashed and great spears of lightning flashed across the sky. A
few heavy drops heralded the approach of the rain, and before he had
reached the corner it was beating down in torrents.
He walked on, raising his face to the storm, finding in it a curious
relief. A magical coolness had crept into the air, and with it a
strange calm into his troubled mind. He looked back at the scene
through which he had passed as at something infinitely remote. He could
not realize distinctly what had happened. He was only aware that
everything was over, that with a few words he had broken his life into
small pieces. Too impatient to unravel the tangled knot, he had cut it,
and nothing could mend it now.
"Why?"
The rain had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The sun was struggling
through a mass of thin cloud over the park. The world was full of the
drip and rush of water. All that had made the day oppressive and
strained nerves to breaking point had gone, leaving peace behind. Kirk
felt like one waking from an evil dream.
"Why did it happen?" he asked himself. "What made me do it?"
A distant rumble of thunder answered the question.
Chapter VIII Steve to the Rescue
It is an unfortunate fact that, when a powder-magazine explodes, the
damage is not confined to the person who struck the match, but extends
to the innocent bystanders. In the present case it was Steve Dingle who
sustained the worst injuries.
Of the others who might have been affected, Mrs. Lora Delane Porter was
bomb-proof. No explosion in her neighbourhood could shake her. She
received the news of Kirk's outbreak with composure. Privately, in her
eugenic heart, she considered his presence superfluous now that William
Bannister was safely launched upon his career.
In the drama of which she was the self-appointed stage-director, Kirk
was a mere super supporting the infant star. Her great mind, occupied
almost entirely by the past and the future, took little account of the
present. So long as Kirk did not interfere with her management of Bill,
he was at liberty, so far as she was concerned, to come or go as he
pleased.
Steve could not imitate her admirable detachment. He was a poor
philosopher, and all that his mind could grasp was that Kirk was in
trouble and that Ruth had apparently gone mad.
The affair did not come to his ears immediately. He visited the studio
at frequent intervals and found Kirk there, working hard and showing no
signs of having passed through a crisis which had wrecked his life. He
was quiet, it is true, but then he was apt to be quiet nowadays.
Probably, if it had not been for Keggs, he would have been kept in
ignorance of what had happened for a time.
Walking one evening up Broadway, he met Keggs taking the air and
observing the night-life of New York like himself.
Keggs greeted Steve with enthusiasm. He liked Steve, and it was just
possible that Steve might not have heard about the great upheaval. He
suggested a drink at a neighbouring saloon.
"We have not seen you at our house lately, Mr. Dingle," he remarked,
having pecked at his glass of beer like an old, wise bird.
He looked at Steve with a bright eye, somewhat puffy at the lids, but
full of life.
"No," said Steve. "That's right. Guess I must have been busy."