text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 5

The maid who opened the door showed a reluctance to let Bailey in. She said that Mrs. Porter was busy with her writing and had given orders that she was not to be disturbed.

Nothing could have infuriated Bailey more. He, Bailey Bannister, was to be refused admittance because this preposterous woman wished to write! It was the duty of all decent citizens to stop her writing. If it had not been for her and her absurd books Ruth would never have made it necessary for him to pay this visit at all.

"Kindly take my card to Mrs. Porter and tell her that I must see her at once on a matter of the utmost urgency," he directed.

The domestic workers of America had not been trained to stand up against Bailey's grand manner. The maid vanished meekly with the card, and presently returned and requested him to step in.

Bailey found himself in a comfortable room, more like a man's study than a woman's boudoir. Books lined the walls. The furniture was strong and plain. At the window, on a swivel-chair before a roll-top desk, Mrs. Porter sat writing, her back to the door.

"The gentleman, ma'am," announced the maid.

"Sit down," said his aunt, without looking round or ceasing to write.

The maid went out. Bailey sat down. The gentle squeak of the quill pen continued.

Bailey coughed.

"I have called this morning——"

The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her left shoulder.

"Aunt Lora," spoke Bailey sternly.

"Shish!" said the authoress. Only that and nothing more. Bailey, outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.

After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair, tilted it back, and faced him.

"Well, Bailey?" she said.

She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say.

"Well?" she said again.

He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared in the cab.

"Good gracious, Bailey!" cried Mrs. Porter, "you have not come here and ruined my morning's work for the pleasure of looking at me surely? Say something."

Bailey found his voice.

"I have called to see Ruth, who, I am informed, is with you."

"She is in her room. I made her breakfast in bed. Is there any message I can give her?"

Bailey suddenly remembered the speech he had framed in the cab.

"Aunt Lora," he said, "I am sorry to have to intrude upon you at so early an hour, but it is imperative that I see Ruth and ask her to explain the meaning of a most disturbing piece of news that has come to my ears."

Mrs. Porter did not appear to have heard him.

"A man of your height should weigh more," she said. "What is your weight?"

"My weight; beside the point——"

"Your weight is under a hundred and forty pounds, and it ought to be over a hundred and sixty. Eat more. Avoid alcohol. Keep regular hours."

"Aunt Lora!"

"Well?"

"I wish to see my sister."

"You will have to wait. What did you wish to see her about?"

"That is a matter that concerns——No! I will tell you, for I believe you to be responsible for the whole affair."

"Well?"

"Last night, quite by chance, I found out that Ruth has for some time been paying visits to the studio of an artist."

Mrs. Porter nodded.

"Quite right. Mr. Kirk Winfield. She is going to marry him."

Bailey's hat fell to the floor. His stick followed. His mouth opened widely. His glasses shot from his nose and danced madly at the end of their string.

"What!"

"It will be a most suitable match in every way," said Mrs. Porter.

Bailey bounded to his feet.

"It's incredible!" he shouted. "It's ridiculous! It's abominable! It's—it's incredible!"

Mrs. Porter gazed upon his transports with about the same amount of interest which she would have bestowed upon a whirling dervish at.

"You have not seen Mr. Winfield, I gather?"

"When I do, he will have reason to regret it. I——"

"Sit down."

Bailey sat down.

"Ruth and Mr. Winfield are both perfect types. Mr. Winfield is really a splendid specimen of a man. As to his intelligence, I say nothing. I have ceased to expect intelligence in man, and I am grateful for the smallest grain. But physically, he is magnificent. I could not wish dear Ruth a better husband."

Bailey had pulled himself together with a supreme effort and had achieved a frozen calm.

"Such a marriage is, of course, out of the question," he said.

"Why?"

"My sister cannot marry a—a nobody, an outsider——"

"Mr. Winfield is not a nobody. He is an extraordinarily healthy young man."

"Are you aware that Ruth, if she had wished, could have married a prince?"

"She told me. A little rat of a man, I understand. She had far too much sense to do any such thing. She has a conscience. She knows what she owes to the future of the——"

"Bah!" cried Bailey rudely.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Porter, "that, like most men, you care nothing for the future of the race? You are not interested in eugenics?"

Bailey quivered with fury at the word, but said nothing.

"If you have ever studied even so elementary a subject as the colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl——"

The colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl was too much for Bailey.

"I decline to discuss any such drivel," he said, rising. "I came here to see Ruth, and—"

"And here she is," said Mrs. Porter.

The door opened, and Ruth appeared. She looked, to Bailey, insufferably radiant and pleased with herself.

"Bailey!" she cried. "Whatever brings my little Bailey here, when he ought to be working like a good boy in Wall Street?"

"I will tell you," Bailey's demeanour was portentous.

"He's frowning," said Ruth. "You have been stirring his hidden depths, Aunt Lora!"

Bailey coughed.

"Ruth!"

"Bailey, don't! You don't know how terrible you look when you're roused."

"Ruth, kindly answer me one question. Aunt Lora informs me that you are going to marry this man Winfield. Is it or is it not true?"

"Of course it's true."

Bailey drew in his breath. He gazed coldly at Ruth, bowed to Mrs. Porter, and smoothed the nap of his hat.

"Very good," he said stonily. "I shall now call upon this Mr. Winfield and thrash him." With that he walked out of the room.

He directed his cab to the nearest hotel, looked up Kirk's address in the telephone-book, and ten minutes later was ringing the studio bell.

A look of relief came into George Pennicut's eyes as he opened the door. To George, nowadays, every ring at the bell meant a possible visit from Lora Delane Porter.

"Is Mr. Kirk Winfield at home?" inquired Bailey.

"Yes, sir. Who shall I say, sir?"

"Kindly tell Mr. Winfield that Mr. Bannister wishes to speak to him."

"Yes, sir. Will you step this way, sir?"

Bailey stepped that way.

While Bailey was driving to the studio in his taxicab, Kirk, in boxing trunks and a sleeveless vest, was engaged on his daily sparring exercise with Steve Dingle.

This morning Steve seemed to be amused at something. As they rested, at the conclusion of their fifth and final round, Kirk perceived that he was chuckling, and asked the reason.

"Why, say," explained Steve, "I was only thinking that it takes all kinds of ivory domes to make a nuttery. I ran across a new brand of simp this morning. Just before I came to you I'm scheduled to show up at one of these Astorbilt homes t'other side of the park. First I mix it with the old man, then son and heir blows in and I attend to him.

"Well, this morning, son acts like he's all worked up. He's one of these half-portion Willie-boys with Chippendale legs, but he throws out a line of talk that would make you wonder if it's safe to let him run around loose. Says his mind's made up; he's going to thrash a gink within an inch of his life; going to muss up his features so bad he'll have to have 'em replanted.

"'Why?' I says. 'Never you mind,' says he. 'Well, who is he?' I asks. What do you think happens then? He thinks hard for a spell, rolls his eyes, and says: 'Search me. I've forgotten.' 'Know where he lives?' I asks him. 'Nope,' he says.

"Can you beat it! Seems to me if I had a kink in my coco that big I'd phone to an alienist and have myself measured for a strait-jacket. Gee! You meet all kinds, going around the way I do."

Kirk laughed and lit a cigarette.

"If you want to use the shower, Steve," he said, "you'd better get up there now. I shan't be ready yet awhile. Then, if this is one of your energetic mornings and you would care to give me a rub-down——"

"Sure," said Steve obligingly. He picked up his clothes and went upstairs to the bathroom, which, like the bedrooms, opened on to the gallery. Kirk threw himself on the couch, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and began to think of Ruth.

"Mr. Bannister," announced George Pennicut at the door.

Kirk was on his feet in one bound. The difference, to a man whose mind is far away, between "Mr. Bannister" and "Miss Bannister" is not great, and his first impression was that it was Ruth who had arrived.

He was acutely conscious of his costume, and was quite relieved when he saw, not Ruth, but a severe-looking young man, who advanced upon him in a tight-lipped, pop-eyed manner that suggested dislike and hostility. The visitor was a complete stranger to him, but, his wandering wits returning to their duties, he deduced that this must be one of Ruth's relatives.

It is a curious fact that the possibility of Ruth having other relatives than Mrs. Porter had not occurred to him till now. She herself filled his mind to such an extent that he had never speculated on any possible family that might be attached to her. To him Ruth was Ruth. He accepted the fact that she was Mrs. Porter's niece. That she might also be somebody's daughter or sister had not struck him. The look on Bailey's face somehow brought it home to him that the world was about to step in and complicate the idyllic simplicity of his wooing.

Bailey, meanwhile, as Kirk's hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle detached themselves from the couch and loomed up massively before him, was conscious of a weakening of his determination to inflict bodily chastisement. The truth of Steve's remark, that it made a difference whether one's intended victim is a heavyweight, a middle, or a welter, came upon him with some force.

Kirk, in a sleeveless vest that showed up his chest and shoulders was not an inviting spectacle for a man intending assault and battery. Bailey decided to confine himself to words. There was nothing to be gained by a vulgar brawl. A dignified man of the world avoided violence.

"Mr. Winfield?"

"Mr. Bannister?"

It was at this point that Steve, having bathed and dressed, came out on the gallery. The voices below halted him, and the sound of Bailey's decided him to remain where he was. Steve was not above human curiosity, and he was anxious to know the reason for Bailey's sudden appearance.

"That is my name. It is familiar to you. My sister," said Bailey bitterly, "has made it so."

"Won't you sit down?" said Kirk.

"No, thank you. I will not detain you long, Mr. Winfield."

"My dear fellow! There's no hurry. Will you have a cigarette?"

"No, thank you."

Kirk was puzzled by his visitor's manner. So, unseen in the shadows of the gallery, was Steve.

"I can say what I wish to say in two words, Mr. Winfield," said Bailey. "This marriage is quite out of the question."

"Eh?"

"My father would naturally never consent to it. As soon as he hears of what has happened he will forbid it absolutely. Kindly dismiss from your mind entirely the idea that my sister will ever be permitted to marry you, Mr. Winfield."

Steve, in the gallery, with difficulty suppressed a whoop of surprise. Kirk laughed ruefully.

"Aren't you a little premature, Mr. Bannister? Aren't you taking a good deal for granted?"

"In what way?"

"Well, that Miss Bannister cares the slightest bit for me, for instance; that I've one chance in a million of ever getting her to care the slightest bit for me?"

Bailey was disgusted at this futile attempt to hide the known facts of the case from him.

"You need not trouble to try and fool me, Mr. Winfield," he said tartly. "I know everything. I have just seen my sister, and she told me herself in so many words that she intended to marry you."

To his amazement he found his hand violently shaken.

"My dear old man!" Kirk was stammering in his delight. "My dear old sport, you don't know what a weight you've taken off my mind. You know how it is. A fellow falls in love and instantly starts thinking he hasn't a chance on earth. I hadn't a notion she felt that way about me. I'm not fit to shine her shoes. My dear old man, if you hadn't come and told me this I never should have had the nerve to say a word to her.

"You're a corker. You've changed everything. You'll have to excuse me. I must go to her. I can't wait a minute. I must rush and dress. Make yourself at home here. Have you breakfasted? George! George! Say, George, I've got to rush away. See that Mr. Bannister has everything he wants. Get him some breakfast. Good-bye, old man." He gripped Bailey's hand once more. "You're all right. Good-bye!"

He sprang for the staircase. George Pennicut turned to the speechless Bailey. "How would it be if I made you a nice cup of hot tea and a rasher of 'am, sir?" he inquired with a kindly smile.

Bailey eyed him glassily, then found speech.

"Go to hell!" he shouted. He strode to the door and shot into the street, a seething volcano.

George, for his part, was startled, but polite.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Very good, sir," and withdrew.

Kirk, having reached the top of the stairs, had to check the wild rush he was making for the bathroom in order not to collide with Steve, whom he found waiting for him with outstretched hand and sympathetic excitement writ large upon his face.

"Excuse me, squire," said Steve, "I've been playing the part of Rupert in that little drama you've just been starring in. I just couldn't help listening. Say, this mitt's for you. Shake it! So you're going to marry Bailey's sister, Ruth, are you? You're the lucky guy. She's a queen!"

"Do you know her, Steve?"

"Do I know her! Didn't I tell you I was the tame physical instructor in that palace? I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thrown the medicine-ball at her. Why, I'm the guy that gave her that figure of hers. She don't come to me regular, like Bailey and the old man, but do I know her? I should say I did know her."

Kirk shook his hand.

"You're all right, Steve!" he said huskily, and vanished into the bathroom. A sound as of a tropical deluge came from within.

Steve hammered upon the door. The downpour ceased.

"Say!" called Steve.

"Hello?"

"I don't want to discourage you, squire, but——"

The door opened and Kirk's head appeared.

"What's the matter?"

"Well, you heard what Bailey said?"

"About his father?"

"Sure. It goes."

Kirk came out into the gallery, towelling himself vigorously.

"Who is her father?" he asked, seating himself on the rail.

"He's a son of a gun," said Steve with emphasis. "As rich as John D. pretty nearly and about as chummy as a rattlesnake. Were you thinking of calling and asking him for a father's blessing?"

"Something of the sort, I suppose."

"Forget it! He'd give you the hook before you'd got through asking if you might call him daddy."

"You're comforting, Steve. They call you Little Sunbeam at home, don't they?"

"Hell!" said Steve warmly, "I'm not shooting this at you just to make you feel bad. I gotta reason. I want to make you see this ain't going to be no society walk-over, with the Four Hundred looking on from the pews and poppa signing cheques in the background. Say, did I ever tell you how I beat Kid Mitchell?"

"Does it apply to the case in hand?"

"Does it what to the which?"

"Had it any bearing on my painful position? I only ask, because that's what is interesting me most just now, and, if you're going to change the subject, there's a chance that my attention may wander."

"Sure it does. It's a—what d'you call it when you pull something that's got another meaning tucked up its sleeve?"

"A parable?"

"That's right. A—what you said. Well, this Kid Mitchell was looked on as a coming champ in those days. He had cleaned up some good boys, while I had only gotten a rep about as big as a nickel with a hole in it. I guess I looked pie to him. He turkey-trotted up to me for the first round and stopped in front of me as if he was wondering what had blown in and whether the Gerry Society would stand for his hitting it. I could see him thinking 'This is too easy' as plain as if he'd said it. And then he took another peek at me, as much as to say, 'Well, let's get it over. Where shall I soak him first?' And while he's doing this I get in range and I put my left pretty smart into his lunch-wagon and I pick up my right off the carpet and hand it to him, and down he goes. And when he gets up again it's pretty nearly to-morrow morning and I've drawn the winner's end and gone home."

"And the moral?"

"Why, don't spar. Punch! Don't wait for the wallop. Give it."

"You mean?"

"Why, when old man Bannister says: 'Nix! You shall never marry my child!' come back at him by saying: 'Thanks very much, but I've just done it!'"

"Good heavens, Steve!"

"You'll never win out else. You don't know old man Bannister. I do."

"But——"

The door-bell rang.

"Who on earth's that?" said Kirk. "It can't be Bailey back again."

"Good morning, Pennicut," spoke the clear voice of Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. "I wish to see Mr. Winfield."

"Yes, ma'am. He's upstairs in 'is bath!"

"I will wait in the studio."

"Good Lord!" cried Kirk, bounding from his seat on the rail. "For Heaven's sake, Steve, go and talk to her while I dress. I'll be down in a minute."

"Sure. What's her name?"

"Mrs. Porter. You'll like her. Tell her all about yourself—where you were born, how much you are round the chest, what's your favourite breakfast food. That's what she likes to chat about. And tell her I'll be down in a second."

Steve, reaching the studio, found Mrs. Porter examining the boxing-gloves which had been thrown on a chair.

"Eight-ounce, ma'am," he said genially, by way of introduction. "Kirk'll be lining up in a moment. He's getting into his rags."

Mrs. Porter looked at him with the gimlet stare which made her so intensely disliked by practically every man she knew.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Winfield?" she said.

"Sure. We just been spieling together up above. He sent me down to tell you he won't be long."

Mrs. Porter concluded her inspection.

"What is your name?"

"Dingle, ma'am."

"You are extraordinarily well developed. You have unusually long arms for a man of your height."

"Yep. I got a pretty good reach."

"Are you an artist?"

"A which?"

"An artist. A painter."

Steve smiled broadly.

"I've been called a good many things, but no one's ever handed me that. No, ma'am, I'm a has-been."

"I beg your pardon."

"Granted."

"What did you say you were?" asked Mrs. Porter after a pause.

"A has-been. I used to be a middle, but mother kicked, and I quit. All through taking a blue eye home! Wouldn't that jar you?"

"I have no doubt you intend to be explicit——"

"Not on your life!" protested Steve. "I may be a rough-neck, but I've got me manners. I wouldn't get explicit with a lady."

Mrs. Porter sat down.

"We appear to be talking at cross-purposes," she said. "I still do not gather what your profession is or was."

"Why, ain't I telling you? I used to be a middle——"

"What is a middle?"

"Why, it's in between the light-heavies and the welters. I was a welter when I broke into the fighting game, but——"

"Now I understand. You are a pugilist?"

"Used to be. But mother kicked."

"Kicked whom?"

"You don't get me, ma'am. When I say she kicked, I mean my blue eye threw a scare into her, and she put a crimp in my career. Made me quit when I should have been champ in another couple of fights."

"I am afraid I cannot follow these domestic troubles of yours. And why do you speak of your blue eye? Your eyes are brown."

"This one wasn't. It was the fattest blue eye you ever seen. I ran up against a short right hook. I put him out next round, ma'am, mind you, but that didn't help me any with mother. Directly she seen me blue eye she said: 'That'll be all from you, Steve. You stop it this minute.' So I quit. But gee! It's tough on a fellow to have to sit out of the game and watch a bunch of cheeses like this new crop of middle-weights swelling around and calling themselves fighters when they couldn't lick a postage-stamp, not if it was properly trained. Hell! Beg pardon, ma'am."

"I find you an interesting study, Mr. Dingle," said Mrs. Porter thoughtfully. "I have never met a pugilist before. Do you box with Mr. Winfield?"

"Sure. Kirk and me go five rounds every morning."

"You have been boxing with him to-day? Then perhaps you can tell me if an absurd young man in eye-glasses has called here yet? He is wearing a grey——"

"Do you mean Bailey, ma'am. Bailey Bannister?"

"You know my nephew, Mr. Dingle?"

"Sure. I box with him every morning."

"I never expected to hear that my nephew Bailey did anything so sensible as to take regular exercise. He does not look as if he did."

"He certainly is a kind o' half-portion, ma'am. But say, if he's your nephew, Miss Ruth's your niece."

"Perfectly correct."

"Then you know all about this business?"

"Which business, Mr. Dingle?"

"Why, Kirk and Miss Ruth."

Mrs. Porter raised her eyebrows.

"Really, Mr. Dingle! Has Mr. Winfield made you his confidant?"

"How's that?"

"Has Mr. Winfield told you about my niece and himself?"

"Hell, no! You don't find a real person like Kirk shooting his head about that kind of thing. I had it from Bailey."

"From Bailey?"

"Surest thing you know. He blew in here and shouted it all out at the top of his voice."

"Indeed! I was wondering if he had arrived yet. He left my apartment saying he was going to thrash Mr. Winfield. I came here to save him from getting hurt. Was there any trouble?"

"Not so's you could notice it. I guess when he'd taken a slant at Kirk he thought he wouldn't bother to swat him. Say, ma'am—"

"Well?"

"Whose corner are you in for this scrap?"

"I don't understand you."

"Well, are you rooting for Kirk, or are you holding the towel for old man Bannister?"

"You mean, do I wish Mr. Winfield to marry my niece?"

"You're hep."

"Most certainly I do. It was I who brought them together."

"Bully for you! Well, say, I just been shooting the dope into Kirk upstairs. I been—you didn't happen to read the report of a scrap I once had with a gazook called Kid Mitchell, did you, ma'am?"

"I seldom, I may say never, read the sporting section of the daily papers."

Steve looked at her in honest wonder.

"For the love of Pete! What else do you find to read in 'em?" he said. "Well, I was telling Kirk about it. The Kid came at me to soak me, but I soaked him first and put him out. It's the only thing to do, ma'am, when you're up against it. Get in the first wallop before the other guy can get himself set for his punch. 'Kirk,' I says, 'don't you wait for old man Bannister to tell you you can't marry Miss Ruth. Marry her before he can say it.' I wish you'd tell him the same thing, ma'am. You know the old man as well as I do—better, I guess—and you know that Kirk ain't got a chance in a million with him if he don't rush him. Ain't that right?"

"Mr. Dingle," said Mrs. Porter, "I should like to shake you by the hand. It is amazing to me to find such sound sense in a man. You have expressed my view exactly. If I have any influence with Mr. Winfield, he shall marry my niece to-day. You are a man of really exceptional intelligence, Mr. Dingle."

"Aw, check it with your hat, ma'am!" murmured Steve modestly. "Nix on the bouquets! I'm only a roughneck. But I fall for Miss Ruth, and there ain't many like Kirk, so I'd like to see them happy. It would sure get my goat the worst way to have the old man gum the game for them."

"I cannot understand a word you say," said Mrs. Porter, "but I fancy we mean the same thing. Here comes Mr. Winfield at last. I will speak to him at once."

"Spiel away, ma'am," said Steve. "The floor's yours."

Kirk entered the studio.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 5


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 modification, become quite self-fertile. This is the case with the garden-pea, and also with our beautiful bee-orchis, in which the pollen-masses constantly fall on to the stigmas, and the flower, being thus self-fertilised, produces abundance of capsules and of seed. Yet in many of its close allies insect agency is absolutely required; but in one of these, the fly-orchis, comparatively very little seed is produced, and self-fertilisation would therefore be advantageous to it. When garden-peas were artificially cross-fertilised by Mr. Darwin, it seemed to do them no good, as the seeds from these crosses produced less vigorous plants than seed from those which were self-fertilised; a fact directly opposed to what usually occurs in cross-fertilised plants.

5. As opposed to the theory that there is any absolute need for cross-fertilisation, it has been urged by Mr. Henslow and others that many self-fertilised plants are exceptionally vigorous, such as groundsel, chickweed, sow-thistle, buttercups, and other common weeds; while most plants of world-wide distribution are self-fertilised, and these have proved themselves to be best fitted to survive in the battle of life. More than fifty species of common British plants are very widely distributed, and all are habitually self-fertilised. That self-fertilisation has some great advantage is shown by the fact that it is usually the species which have the smallest and least conspicuous flowers which have spread widely, while the large and showy flowered species of the same genera or families, which require insects to cross-fertilise them, have a much more limited distribution.

6. It is now believed by some botanists that many inconspicuous and imperfect flowers, including those that are wind-fertilised, such as plantains, nettles, sedges, and grasses, do not represent primitive or undeveloped forms, but are degradations from more perfect flowers which were once adapted to insect fertilisation. In almost every order we find some plants which have become thus reduced or degraded for wind or self-fertilisation, as Poterium and Sanguisorba among the Rosaceae; while this has certainly been the case in the cleistogamic flowers. In most of the above-mentioned plants there are distinct rudiments of petals or other floral organs,

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 and as the chief use of these is to attract insects, they could hardly have existed in primitive flowers. The Rev. George Henslow, in his Origin of Floral Structures, says: "There is little doubt but that all wind-fertilised angiosperms are degradations from insect-fertilised flowers.... Poterium sanguisorba is anemophilous; and Sanguisorba officinalis presumably was so formerly, but has reacquired an entomophilous habit; the whole tribe Poterieae being, in fact, a degraded group which has descended from Potentilleae. Plantains retain their corolla but in a degraded form. Junceae are degraded Lilies; while Cyperaceae and Gramineae among monocotyledons may be ranked with Amentiferae among dicotyledons, as representing orders which have retrograded very far from the entomophilous forms from which they were possibly and probably descended" (p. 266).

"The genus Plantago, like Thalictrum minus, Poterium, and others, well illustrate the change from an entomophilous to the anemophilous state. P. lanceolata has polymorphic flowers, and is visited by pollen-seeking insects, so that it can be fertilised either by insects or the wind. P. media illustrates transitions in point of structure, as the filaments are pink, the anthers motionless, and the pollen grains aggregated, and it is regularly visited by Bombus terrestris. On the other hand, the slender filaments, versatile anthers, powdery pollen, and elongated protogynous style are features of other species indicating anemophily; while the presence of a degraded corolla shows its ancestors to have been entomophilous. P. media, therefore, illustrates, not a primitive entomophilous condition, but a return to it; just as is the case with Sanguisorba officinalis and Salix Caprea; but these show no capacity of restoring the corolla, the attractive features having to be borne by the calyx, which is purplish in Sanguisorba, by the pink filaments of Plantago, and by the yellow anthers in the Sallow willow" (p. 271).

"The interpretation, then, I would offer of inconspicuousness and all kinds of degradations is the exact opposite to that of conspicuousness and great differentiations; namely, that species with minute flowers, rarely or never visited by insects, and habitually self-fertilised, have primarily arisen through the neglect of insects, and have in consequence assumed their present floral structures" (p. 282).

In a letter just received from Mr. Henslow, he gives a few additional illustrations of his views, of which the following are the most important: "Passing to Incompletae, the orders known collectively as 'Cyclospermeae' are related to Caryophylleae; and to my mind are degradations from it, of which Orache is anemophilous. Cupuliferae have an inferior ovary and rudimentary calyx-limb on the top. These, as far as I know, cannot be interpreted except as degradations. The whole of Monocotyledons appear to me (from anatomical reasons especially) to be degradations from Dicotyledons, and primarily through the agency of growth in water. Many subsequently became terrestrial, but retained the effects of their primitive habitat through heredity. The 3-merous [sic] perianth of grasses, the parts of the flower being in whorls, point to a degradation from a sub-liliaceous condition."

Mr. Henslow informs me that he has long held these views, but, as far as he knows, alone. Mr. Grant Allen, however, set forth a similar theory in his Vignettes from Nature (p. 15) and more fully in The Colours of Flowers (chap. v.), where he develops it fully and uses similar arguments to those of Mr. Henslow. We know, moreover, that when the petals cease to be required for the attraction of


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 insects, they rapidly diminish in size, lose their bright colour or almost wholly disappear.

The very bare summary that has now been given of the main facts relating to the fertilisation of flowers, will have served to show the vast extent and complexity of the inquiry, and the extraordinary contradictions and difficulties which it presents. We have direct proof of the beneficial results of intercrossing in a great number of cases; we have an overwhelming mass of facts as to the varied and complex structure of flowers evidently adapted to secure this intercrossing by insect agency; yet we see many of the most vigorous plants which spread widely over the globe, with none of these adaptations, and evidently depending on self-fertilisation for their continued existence and success in the battle of life. Yet more extraordinary is it to find numerous cases in which the special arrangements for cross-fertilisation appear to have been a failure, since they have either been supplemented by special means for self-fertilisation, or have reverted back in various degrees to simpler forms in which self-fertilisation becomes the rule. There is also a further difficulty in the highly complex modes by which cross-fertilisation is often brought about; for we have seen that there are several very effective yet very simple modes of securing intercrossing, involving a minimum of change in the form and structure of the flower; and when we consider that the result attained with so much cost of structural modification is by no means an unmixed good, and is far less certain in securing the perpetuation of the species than is self-fertilisation, it is most puzzling to find such complex methods resorted to, sometimes to the extent of special precautions against the possibility of self-fertilisation ever taking place. Let us now see whether any light can be thrown on these various anomalies and contradictions.

No one was more fully impressed than Mr. Darwin with the beneficial effects of intercrossing on the vigour and fertility


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 of the species or race, yet he clearly saw that it was not always and necessarily advantageous. He says: "The most important conclusion at which I have arrived is, that the mere act of intercrossing by itself does no good. The good depends on the individuals which are crossed differing slightly in constitution, owing to their progenitors having been subjected during several generations to slightly different conditions. This conclusion, as we shall hereafter see, is closely connected with various important physiological problems, such as the benefit derived from slight changes in the conditions of life." Mr. Darwin has also adduced much direct evidence proving that slight changes in the conditions of life are beneficial to both animals and plants, maintaining or restoring their vigour and fertility in the same way as a favourable cross seems to restore it. It is, I believe, by a careful consideration of these two classes of facts that we shall find the clue to the labyrinth in which this subject has appeared to involve us.

Just as we have seen that intercrossing is not necessarily good, we shall be forced to admit that close interbreeding is not necessarily bad. Our finest breeds of domestic animals have been thus produced, and by a careful statistical inquiry Mr. George Darwin has shown that the most constant and long-continued intermarriages among the British aristocracy have produced no prejudicial results. The rabbits on Porto Santo are all the produce of a single female; they have lived on the same small island for 470 years, and they still abound there and appear to be vigorous and healthy (see p. 161).

We have, however, on the other hand, overwhelming evidence that in many cases, among our domestic animals and cultivated plants, close interbreeding does produce bad results, and the apparent contradiction may perhaps be explained on the same general principles, and under similar limitations, as were found to be necessary in defining the value of intercrossing. It appears probable, then, that it is not interbreeding in itself that is hurtful, but interbreeding without


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 rigid selection or some change of conditions. Under nature, as in the case of the Porto Santo rabbits, the rapid increase of these animals would in a very few years stock the island with a full population, and thereafter natural selection would act powerfully in the preservation only of the healthiest and the most fertile, and under these conditions no deterioration would occur. Among the aristocracy there has been a constant selection of beauty, which is generally synonymous with health, while any constitutional infertility has led to the extinction of the family. With domestic animals the selection practised is usually neither severe enough nor of the right kind. There is no natural struggle for existence, but certain points of form and colour characteristic of the breed are considered essential, and thus the most vigorous or the most fertile are not always those which are selected to continue the stock. In nature, too, the species always extends over a larger area and consists of much greater numbers, and thus a difference of constitution soon arises in different parts of the area, which is wanting in the limited numbers of pure bred domestic animals. From a consideration of these varied facts we conclude that an occasional disturbance of the organic equilibrium is what is essential to keep up the vigour and fertility of any organism, and that this disturbance may be equally well produced either by a cross between individuals of somewhat different constitutions, or by occasional slight changes in the conditions of life. Now plants which have great powers of dispersal enjoy a constant change of conditions, and can, therefore, exist permanently, or at all events, for very long periods, without intercrossing; while those which have limited powers of dispersal, and are restricted to a comparatively small and uniform area, need an occasional cross to keep up their fertility and general vigour. We should, therefore, expect that those groups of plants which are adapted both for cross-and self-fertilisation, which have showy flowers and possess great powers of seed-dispersal, would be the most abundant and most widely distributed; and this we find to be the case, the Compositae possessing all these characteristics in the highest degree, and being the most generally abundant group of plants with conspicuous flowers in all parts of the world.


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Let us now consider what will be the action of the struggle for existence under the conditions we have seen to exist.

Everywhere and at all times some species of plants will be dominant and aggressive; while others will be diminishing in numbers, reduced to occupy a smaller area, and generally having a hard struggle to maintain themselves. Whenever a self-fertilising plant is thus reduced in numbers it will be in danger of extinction, because, being limited to a small area, it will suffer from the effects of too uniform conditions which will produce weakness and infertility. But while this change is in progress, any crosses between individuals of slightly different constitution will be beneficial, and all variations favouring either insect agency on the one hand, or wind-dispersal of pollen on the other, will lead to the production of a somewhat stronger and more fertile stock. Increased size or greater brilliancy of the flower, more abundant nectar, sweeter odour, or adaptations for more effectual cross-fertilisation would all be preserved, and thus would be initiated some form of specialisation for insect agency in cross-fertilisation; and in every different species so circumstanced the result would be different, depending as it would on many and complex combinations of variation of parts of the flower, and of the insect species which most abounded in the district.

Species thus favourably modified might begin a new era of development, and, while spreading over a somewhat wider area, give rise to new varieties or species, all adapted in various degrees and modes to secure cross-fertilisation by insect agency. But in course of ages some change of conditions might prove adverse. Either the insects required might diminish in numbers or be attracted by other competing flowers, or a change of climate might give the advantage to other more vigorous plants. Then self-fertilisation with greater means of dispersal might be more advantageous; the flowers might become smaller and more numerous; the seeds smaller and lighter so as to be more easily dispersed by the wind, while some of the special adaptations for insect fertilisation being useless would, by the absence of selection and by the law of economy of growth, be reduced to a rudimentary


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 form. With these modifications the species might extend its range into new districts, thereby obtaining increased vigour by the change of conditions, as appears to have been the case with so many of the small flowered self-fertilised plants. Thus it might continue to exist for a long series of ages, till under other changes—geographical or biological—it might again suffer from competition or from other adverse circumstances, and be at length again confined to a limited area, or reduced to very scanty numbers.

But when this cycle of change had taken place, the species would be very different from the original form. The flower would have been at one time modified to favour the visits of insects and to secure cross-fertilisation by their aid, and when the need for this passed away, some portions of these structures would remain, though in a reduced or rudimentary condition. But when insect agency became of importance a second time, the new modifications would start from a different or more advanced basis, and thus a more complex result might be produced. Owing to the unequal rates at which the reduction of the various parts might occur, some amount of irregularity in the flower might arise, and on a second development towards insect cross-fertilisation this irregularity, if useful, might be increased by variation and selection.

The rapidity and comparative certainty with which such changes as are here supposed do really take place, are well shown by the great differences in floral structure, as regards the mode of fertilisation, in allied genera and species, and even in some cases in varieties of the same species. Thus in the Ranunculaceae we find the conspicuous part of the flower to be the petals in Ranunculus, the sepals in Helleborus, Anemone, etc., and the stamens in most species of Thalictrum. In all these we have a simple regular flower, but in Aquilegia it is made complex by the spurred petals, and in Delphinium and Aconitum it becomes quite irregular. In the more simple class self-fertilisation occurs freely, but it is prevented in the more complex flowers by the stamens maturing before the pistil. In the Caprifoliaceae we have small and regular greenish flowers, as in the moschatel (Adoxa); more conspicuous regular open flowers without honey, as in the elder (Sambucus); and


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 tubular flowers increasing in length and irregularity, till in some, like our common honeysuckle, they are adapted for fertilisation by moths only, with abundant honey and delicious perfume to attract them. In the Scrophulariaceae we find open, almost regular flowers, as Veronica and Verbascum, fertilised by flies and bees, but also self-fertilised; Scrophularia adapted in form and colour to be fertilised by wasps; and the more complex and irregular flowers of Linaria, Rhinanthus, Melampyrum, Pedicularis, etc., mostly adapted to be fertilised by bees.

In the genera Geranium, Polygonum, Veronica, and several others there is a gradation of forms from large and bright to small and obscure coloured flowers, and in every case the former are adapted for insect fertilisation, often exclusively, while in the latter self-fertilisation constantly occurs. In the yellow rattle (Rhinanthus Crista-galli) there are two forms (which have been named major and minor), the larger and more conspicuous adapted to insect fertilisation only, the smaller capable of self-fertilisation; and two similar forms exist in the eyebright (Euphrasia officinalis). In both these cases there are special modifications in the length and curvature of the style as well as in the size and shape of the corolla; and the two forms are evidently becoming each adapted to special conditions, since in some districts the one, in other districts the other is most abundant.

These examples show us that the kind of change suggested above is actually going on, and has presumably always been going on in nature throughout the long geological epochs during which the development of flowers has been progressing. The two great modes of gaining increased vigour and fertility—intercrossing and dispersal over wider areas—have been resorted to again and again, under the pressure of a constant struggle for existence and the need for adaptation to ever-changing conditions. During all the modifications that ensued, useless parts were reduced or suppressed, owing to the absence of selection and the principle of economy of growth; and thus at each fresh adaptation some rudiments of old structures were


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 re-developed, but not unfrequently in a different form and for a distinct purpose.

The chief types of flowering plants have existed during the millions of ages of the whole tertiary period, and during this enormous lapse of time many of them may have been modified in the direction of insect fertilisation, and again into that of self-fertilisation, not once or twice only, but perhaps scores or even hundreds of times; and at each such modification a difference in the environment may have led to a distinct line of development. At one epoch the highest specialisation of structure in adaptation to a single species or group of insects may have saved a plant from extinction; while, at other times, the simplest mode of self-fertilisation, combined with greater powers of dispersal and a constitution capable of supporting diverse physical conditions, may have led to a similar result. With some groups the tendency seems to have been almost continuously to greater and greater specialisation, while with others a tendency to simplification and degradation has resulted in such plants as the grasses and sedges.

We are now enabled dimly to perceive how the curious anomaly of very simple and very complex methods of securing cross-fertilisation—both equally effective—may have been brought about. The simple modes may be the result of a comparatively direct modification from the more primitive types of flowers, which were occasionally, and, as it were, accidentally visited and fertilised by insects; while the more complex modes, existing for the most part in the highly irregular flowers, may result from those cases in which adaptation to insect-fertilisation, and partial or complete degradation to self-fertilisation or to wind-fertilisation, have again and again recurred, each time producing some additional complexity, arising from the working up of old rudiments for new purposes, till there have been reached the marvellous flower structures of the papilionaceous tribes, of the asclepiads, or of the orchids.

We thus see that the existing diversity of colour and of structure in flowers is probably the ultimate result of the ever-recurring struggle for existence, combined with the ever-changing relations between the vegetable and animal kingdoms during countless ages. The constant variability of every part


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 and organ, with the enormous powers of increase possessed by plants, have enabled them to become again and again readjusted to each change of condition as it occurred, resulting in that endless variety, that marvellous complexity, and that exquisite colouring which excite our admiration in the realm of flowers, and constitute them the perennial charm and crowning glory of nature.

In his Origin of Species, Mr. Darwin first stated that flowers had been rendered conspicuous and beautiful in order to attract insects, adding: "Hence we may conclude that, if insects had not been developed on the earth, our plants would not have been decked with beautiful flowers, but would have produced only such poor flowers as we see on our fir, oak, nut, and ash trees, on grasses, docks, and nettles, which are all fertilised through the agency of the wind." The argument in favour of this view is now much stronger than when he wrote; for not only have we reason to believe that most of these wind-fertilised flowers are degraded forms of flowers which have once been insect fertilised, but we have abundant evidence that whenever insect agency becomes comparatively ineffective, the colours of the flowers become less bright, their size and beauty diminish, till they are reduced to such small, greenish, inconspicuous flowers as those of the rupture-wort (Herniaria glabra), the knotgrass (Polygonum aviculare), or the cleistogamic flowers of the violet. There is good reason to believe, therefore, not only that flowers have been developed in order to attract insects to aid in their fertilisation, but that, having been once produced, in however great profusion, if the insect races were all to become extinct, flowers (in the temperate zones at all events) would soon dwindle away, and that ultimately all floral beauty would vanish from the earth.

We cannot, therefore, deny the vast change which insects have produced upon the earth's surface, and which has been thus forcibly and beautifully delineated by Mr. Grant Allen: "While man has only tilled a few level plains, a few great river valleys, a few peninsular mountain slopes, leaving the vast mass of earth untouched by his hand, the insect has spread himself over every land in a thousand shapes, and has made the whole


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 flowering creation subservient to his daily wants. His buttercup, his dandelion, and his meadow-sweet grow thick in every English field. His thyme clothes the hillside; his heather purples the bleak gray moorland. High up among the alpine heights his gentian spreads its lakes of blue; amid the snows of the Himalayas his rhododendrons gleam with crimson light. Even the wayside pond yields him the white crowfoot and the arrowhead, while the broad expanses of Brazilian streams are beautified by his gorgeous water-lilies. The insect has thus turned the whole surface of the earth into a boundless flower-garden, which supplies him from year to year with pollen or honey, and itself in turn gains perpetuation by the baits that it offers for his allurement."

In the last four chapters I have endeavoured to give a general and systematic, though necessarily condensed view of the part which is played by colour in the organic world. We have seen in what infinitely varied ways the need of concealment has led to the modification of animal colours, whether among polar snows or sandy deserts, in tropical forests or in the abysses of the ocean. We next find these general adaptations giving way to more specialised types of coloration, by which each species has become more and more harmonised with its immediate surroundings, till we reach the most curiously minute resemblances to natural objects in the leaf and stick insects, and those which are so like flowers or moss or birds' droppings that they deceive the acutest eye. We have learnt, further, that these varied forms of protective colouring are far more numerous than has been usually suspected, because, what appear to be very conspicuous colours or markings when the species is observed in a museum or in a menagerie, are often highly protective when the creature is seen under the natural conditions of its existence. From these varied classes of facts it seems not improbable that fully one-half of the species in the animal kingdom possess colours which have been more or less adapted to secure for them concealment or protection.

Passing onward we find the explanation of a distinct type


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 of colour or marking, often superimposed upon protective tints, in the importance of easy recognition by many animals of their fellows, their parents, or their mates. By this need we have been able to account for markings that seem calculated to make the animal conspicuous, when the general tints and well-known habits of the whole group demonstrate the need of concealment. Thus also we are able to explain the constant symmetry in the markings of wild animals, as well as the numerous cases in which the conspicuous colours are concealed when at rest and only become visible during rapid motion.

In striking contrast to ordinary protective coloration we have "warning colours," usually very conspicuous and often brilliant or gaudy, which serve to indicate that their possessors are either dangerous or uneatable to the usual enemies of their tribe. This kind of coloration is probably more prevalent than has been hitherto supposed, because in the case of many tropical animals we are quite unacquainted with their special and most dangerous enemies, and are also unable to determine whether they are or are not distasteful to those enemies. As a kind of corollary to the "warning colours," we find the extraordinary phenomena of "mimicry," in which defenceless species obtain protection by being mistaken for those which, from any cause, possess immunity from attack. Although a large number of instances of warning colour and of mimicry are now recorded, it is probably still an almost unworked field of research, more especially in tropical regions and among the inhabitants of the ocean.

The phenomena of sexual diversities of coloration next engaged our attention, and the reasons why Mr. Darwin's theory of "sexual selection," as regards colour and ornament, could not be accepted were stated at some length, together with the theory of animal coloration and ornament we propose to substitute for it. This theory is held to be in harmony with the general facts of animal coloration, while it entirely dispenses with the very hypothetical and inadequate agency of female choice in producing the detailed colours, patterns, and ornaments, which in so many cases distinguish the male sex.

If my arguments on this point are sound, they will dispose also of Mr. Grant Allen's view of the direct action of the


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 colour sense on the animal integuments. He argues that the colours of insects and birds reproduce generally the colours of the flowers they frequent or the fruits they eat, and he adduces numerous cases in which flower-haunting insects and fruit-eating birds are gaily coloured. This he supposes to be due to the colour-taste, developed by the constant presence of bright flowers and fruits, being applied to the selection of each variation towards brilliancy in their mates; thus in time producing the gorgeous and varied hues they now possess. Mr. Allen maintains that "insects are bright where bright flowers exist in numbers, and dull where flowers are rare or inconspicuous;" and he urges that "we can hardly explain this wide coincidence otherwise than by supposing that a taste for colour is produced through the constant search for food among entomophilous blossoms, and that this taste has reacted upon its possessors through the action of unconscious sexual selection."

The examples Mr. Allen quotes of bright insects being associated with bright flowers seem very forcible, but are really deceptive or erroneous; and quite as many cases could be quoted which prove the very opposite. For example, in the dense equatorial forests flowers are exceedingly scarce, and there is no comparison with the amount of floral colour to be met with in our temperate meadows, woods, and hillsides. The forests about Para in the lower Amazon are typical in this respect, yet they abound with the most gorgeously coloured butterflies, almost all of which frequent the forest depths, keeping near the ground, where there is the greatest deficiency of brilliant flowers. In contrast with this let us take the Cape of Good Hope—the most flowery region probably that exists upon the globe,—where the country is a complete flower-garden of heaths, pelargoniums, mesembryanthemus, exquisite iridaceous and other bulbs, and numerous flowering shrubs and trees; yet the Cape butterflies are hardly equal, either in number or variety, to those of any country in South Europe, and are utterly insignificant when compared with those of the comparatively flowerless forest-depths of the Amazon or of New Guinea. Neither is there any relation between the colours of other insects and their haunts. Few


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 are more gorgeous than some of the tiger-beetles and the carabi, yet these are all carnivorous; while many of the most brilliant metallic buprestidae and longicorns are always found on the bark of fallen trees. So with the humming-birds; their brilliant metallic tints can only be compared with metals or gems, and are totally unlike the delicate pinks and purples, yellows and reds of the majority of flowers. Again, the Australian honey-suckers (Meliphagidae) are genuine flower-haunters, and the Australian flora is more brilliant in colour display than that of most tropical regions, yet these birds are, as a rule, of dull colours, not superior on the average to our grain-eating finches. Then, again, we have the grand pheasant family, including the gold and the silver pheasants, the gorgeous fire-backed and ocellated pheasants, and the resplendent peacock, all feeding on the ground on grain or seeds or insects, yet adorned with the most gorgeous colours.

There is, therefore, no adequate basis of facts for this theory to rest upon, even if there were the slightest reason to believe that not only birds, but butterflies and beetles, take any delight in colour for its own sake, apart from the food-supply of which it indicates the presence. All that has been proved or that appears to be probable is, that they are able to perceive differences of colour, and to associate each colour with the particular flowers or fruits which best satisfy their wants. Colour being in its nature diverse, it has been beneficial for them to be able to distinguish all its chief varieties, as manifested more particularly in the vegetable kingdom, and among the different species of their own group; and the fact that certain species of insects show some preference for a particular colour may be explained by their having found flowers of that colour to yield them a more abundant supply of nectar or of pollen. In those cases in which butterflies frequent flowers of their own colour, the habit may well have been acquired from the protection it affords them.

It appears to me that, in imputing to insects and birds the same love of colour for its own sake and the same aesthetic tastes as we ourselves possess, we may be as far from the truth as were those writers who held that the bee was a good mathematician, and that the honeycomb was constructed throughout to satisfy its refined mathematical instincts; whereas it is now


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 generally admitted to be the result of the simple principle of economy of material applied to a primitive cylindrical cell.

In studying the phenomena of colour in the organic world we have been led to realise the wonderful complexity of the adaptations which bring each species into harmonious relation with all those which surround it, and which thus link together the whole of nature in a network of relations of marvellous intricacy. Yet all this is but, as it were, the outward show and garment of nature, behind which lies the inner structure—the framework, the vessels, the cells, the circulating fluids, and the digestive and reproductive processes,—and behind these again those mysterious chemical, electrical, and vital forces which constitute what we term Life. These forces appear to be fundamentally the same for all organisms, as is the material of which all are constructed; and we thus find behind the outer diversities an inner relationship which binds together the myriad forms of life.

Each species of animal or plant thus forms part of one harmonious whole, carrying in all the details of its complex structure the record of the long story of organic development; and it was with a truly inspired insight that our great philosophical poet apostrophised the humble weed—


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The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 6

Old John Bannister returned that night. Learning from Bailey's trembling lips the tremendous events that had been taking place in his absence, he was first irritated, then coldly amused. His coolness dampened, while it comforted, Bailey.

A bearer of sensational tidings likes to spread a certain amount of dismay and terror; but, on the other hand, it was a relief to him to find that his father appeared to consider trivial a crisis which, to Bailey, had seemed a disaster without parallel in the annals of American social life.

"She said she was going to marry him!"

Old Bannister opened the nut-cracker mouth that always had the appearance of crushing something. His pale eyes glowed for an instant.

"Did she?" he said.

"She seemed very—ah—determined."

"Did she!"

Silence falling like a cloud at this point, Bailey rightly conjectured that the audience was at an end and left the room. His father bit the end off a cigar and began to smoke.

Smoking, he reviewed the situation, and his fighting spirit rose to grapple with it. He was not sorry that this had happened. His was a patriarchal mind, and he welcomed opportunities of exercising his authority over his children. It had always been his policy to rule them masterfully, and he had often resented the fact that his daughter, by the nature of things, was to a great extent outside his immediate rule.

During office hours business took him away from her. The sun never set on his empire over Bailey, but it needed a definite crisis like the present one to enable him to jerk at the reins which guided Ruth, and he was glad of the chance to make his power felt.

The fact that this affair brought him into immediate contact with Mrs. Porter added to his enjoyment. Of all the people, men or women, with whom his business or social life had brought him into conflict, she alone had fought him squarely and retired with the honours of war. When his patriarchal mind had led him to bully his late wife, it was Mrs. Porter who had fought her cause. It was Mrs. Porter who openly expressed her contempt for his money and certain methods of making it. She was the only person in his immediate sphere over whom he had no financial hold.

He was a man who liked to be surrounded by dependents, and Mrs. Porter stoutly declined to be a dependent. She moved about the world, blunt and self-sufficing, and he hated her as he hated no one else. The thought that she had now come to grips with him and that he could best her in open fight was pleasant to him. All his life, except in his conflicts with her, he had won. He meant to win now.

Bailey's apprehensions amused him. He had a thorough contempt for all actors, authors, musicians, and artists, whom he classed together in one group as men who did not count, save in so far as they gave mild entertainment to the men who, like himself, did count. The idea of anybody taking them seriously seemed too fantastic to be considered.

Of affection for his children he had little. Bailey was useful in the office, and Ruth ornamental at home. They satisfied him. He had never troubled to study their characters. It had never occurred to him to wonder if they were fond of him. They formed a necessary part of his household, and beyond that he was not interested in them. If he had ever thought about Ruth's nature, he had dismissed her as a feminine counterpart of Bailey, than whom no other son and heir in New York behaved so exactly as a son and heir should.

That Ruth, even under the influence of Lora Delane Porter, should have been capable of her present insubordination, was surprising, but the thing was too trivial to be a source of anxiety. The mischief could be checked at once before it amounted to anything.

Bailey had not been gone too long before Ruth appeared. She stood in the doorway looking at him for a moment. Her face was pale and her eyes bright. She was breathing quickly.

"Are you busy, father? I—I want to tell you something."

John Bannister smiled. He had a wintry smile, a sort of muscular affection of the mouth, to which his eyes contributed nothing. He had made up his mind to be perfectly calm and pleasant with Ruth. He had read in novels and seen on the stage situations of this kind, where the father had stormed and blustered. The foolishness of such a policy amused him. A strong man had no need to behave like that.

"I think I have heard it already," he said. "I have just been seeing Bailey."

"What did Bailey tell you, father?"

"That you fancied yourself in love with some actor or artist or other whose name I have forgotten."

"It is not fancy. I do love him."

"Yes?"

There was a pause.

"Are you very angry, father?"

"Why should I be? Let's talk it over quietly. There's no need to make a tragedy of it."

"I'm glad you feel like that, father."

John Bannister lit another cigar.

"Tell me all about it," he said.

Ruth found herself surprisingly near tears. She had come into the room with every nerve in her body braced for a supreme struggle. Her father's unexpected gentleness weakened her, exactly as he had foreseen. The plan of action which he had determined upon was that of the wrestler who yields instead of resisting, in order to throw an antagonist off his balance.

"How did it begin?" he asked.

"Well," said Ruth, "it began when Aunt Lora took me to his studio."

"Yes, I heard that it was she who set the whole thing going. She is a friend of this fellow—what is his name?"

"Kirk Winfield. Yes, she seemed to know him quite well."

"And then?"

In spite of her anxiety, Ruth smiled.

"Well, that's all," she said. "I just fell in love with him."

Mr. Bannister nodded.

"You just fell in love with him," he repeated. "Pretty quick work, wasn't it?"

"I suppose it was."

"You just took one look at him and saw he was the affinity, eh?"

"I suppose so."

"And what did he do? Was he equally sudden?"

Ruth laughed. She was feeling quite happy now.

"He would have liked to be, poor dear, but he felt he had to be cautious and prepare the way before telling me. If it hadn't been for Bailey, he might be doing it still. Apparently, Bailey went to him and said I had said I was going to marry him, and Kirk came flying round, and—well, then it was all right."

Mr. Bannister drew thoughtfully at his cigar. He was silent for a few moments.

"Well, my dear," he said at last. "I think you had better consider the engagement broken off."

Ruth looked at him quickly. He still smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard. She realized suddenly that she had been played with, that all his kindliness and amiability had been merely a substitute for the storm which she had expected. After all, it was to be war between them, and she braced herself for it!

"Father!" she cried.

Mr. Bannister continued to puff serenely at his cigar.

"We needn't get worked up about it," he said. "Let's keep right on talking it over quietly."

"Very well," said Ruth. "But, after what you have just said, what is there to talk over?"

"You might be interested to hear my reasons for saying it."

"And I will argue my side."

Mr. Bannister waved his hand gently.

"You don't have to argue. You just listen."

Ruth bit her lip.

"Well?"

"In the first place," said her father, "about this young man. What is he? Bailey says he is an artist. Well, what has he ever done? Why don't I know his name? I buy a good many pictures, but I don't remember ever signing a cheque for one of his. I read the magazines now and then, but I can't recall seeing his signature to any of the illustrations. How does he live, anyway, without going into the question of how he intends to support a wife?"

"Aunt Lora told me he had private means."

"How much?"

"Five thousand dollars a year."

"Exactly the amount necessary to let him live without working. I have him placed now. I know his type. I could show you a thousand men in this city in exactly the same position. They don't starve and they don't work. This young man of yours is a loafer."

"Well?"

Ruth's voice was quiet, but a faint colour had crept into her face and her eyes were blazing.

"Now perhaps you would care to hear what I think of his principles. How do you feel that he comes out of this business? Does he show to advantage? Isn't there just a suspicion of underhandedness about his behaviour?"

"No."

"No? He lets you pay these secret visits——"

Ruth interrupted.

"There was nothing secret about them—to him. Aunt Lora brought me to the studio in the first place, and she kept on bringing me. I don't suppose it ever occurred to Kirk to wonder who I was and who my father might be. He has been perfectly straight. If you like to say I have been underhanded, I admit it. I have. More so than you imagine. I just wanted him, and I didn't care for anything except that."

"It did not strike you that you owed anything to me, for instance?"

"No."

"I should have thought that, as your father, I had certain claims."

Ruth was silent.

Mr. Bannister sighed.

"I thought you were fond of me, Ruth," he said wistfully. It was the wrestler yielding instead of resisting. Ruth's hard composure melted instantly. She flung her arms round his neck in a burst of remorseful affection.

"Of course I am, father dear. You're making this awfully hard for me."

Mr. Bannister chuckled inwardly. It seemed to him that victory was in sight. He always won, he told himself, always.

"I only want you to be sensible."

Ruth stiffened at the word. It jarred upon her. She felt that they were leagues apart, that they could never be in sympathy with each other.

"Father," she said.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to see Kirk?"

"I have been wondering when he was going to appear on the scene. I always thought it was customary on these occasions for the young man to present himself in person, and not let the lady fight his battles for him. Is this Mr. Winfield a little deficient in nerve?"

Ruth flushed angrily.

"I particularly asked Kirk not to come here before I had seen you. I insisted on it. Naturally, he wanted to."

"Of course!"

There was a sneer in his voice which he did not try to hide. It flicked Ruth like a whip. Her painfully preserved restraint broke up under it.

"Do you think Kirk is afraid of you, father?"

"It crossed my mind."

"He is not."

"I have only your word for it."

"You can have his if you want it. There is the telephone. You can have him here in ten minutes if you want to see him."

"A very good idea. But, as it happens, I do not want to see him. There is no necessity. His views on this matter do not interest me. I——"

There was a hurried knock at the door. Bailey burst in, ruffled and wild as to the eyes.

"Father," he cried, "I don't want to interrupt you, but that infernal woman, Aunt Lora, has arrived, and says she won't go till she has seen you. She's downstairs now."

"Not now," said Lora Delane Porter, moving him to one side and entering the room. "I thought it would be a comfort to you, Ruth, to have me with you to help explain exactly how matters stand. Good evening, John. Go away, Bailey. Now let us discuss things quietly."

"She is responsible for the whole thing, father," cried Bailey.

Mr. Bannister rose.

"There is nothing to discuss," he said shortly. "I have no wish to speak to you at all. As you appear to have played a large part in this affair, I may as well tell you that it is settled. Ruth will not marry Mr. Winfield."

Lora Delane Porter settled herself comfortably in a chair. She drew off her gloves and placed them on the table.

"Please ask that boy Bailey to go," she said. "He annoys me. I cannot marshal my thoughts in his presence."

Quelled by her eye, Bailey removed himself. His father remained standing. Ruth, who had risen at her aunt's entry, sat down again. Mrs. Porter looked round the room with some approval.

"You have a nice taste in pictures, John," she said. "That is a Corot, surely, above the mantelpiece?"

"Will you——"

"But about this little matter. You dislike the idea of Ruth marrying Mr. Winfield? Have you seen Mr. Winfield?"

"I have not."

"Then how can you possibly decide whether he is a fit husband for Ruth?"

"I know all about him."

"What do you know?"

"What Ruth has told me. That he is a loafer who pretends to be an artist."

"He is a poor artist. I grant you that. His drawing is weak. But are you aware that he is forty-three inches round the chest, six feet tall, and in perfect physical condition?"

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything. You have not read my 'Principles of Selection'?"

"I have not."

"I will send you a copy to-morrow."

"I will burn it directly it arrives."

"Then you will miss a great deal of valuable information," said Mrs. Porter tranquilly.

There was a pause. John Bannister glared furiously at Mrs. Porter, but her gaze was moving easily about the room, taking in each picture in turn in a leisurely inspection.

An exclamation from Ruth broke the silence, a sharp cry like that of an animal in pain. She sprang up, her face working, her eyes filled with tears.

"I can't stand it!" she cried. "I can't stand it any longer! Father, Kirk and I were married this afternoon."

Mrs. Porter went quickly to her and put her arm round her. Ruth was sobbing helplessly. The strain had broken her. John Bannister's face was leaden. The veins stood out on his forehead. His mouth twisted dumbly.

Mrs. Porter led Ruth gently to the door and pushed her out. Then she closed it and turned to him.

"So now you know, John," she said. "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Self-control was second nature with John Bannister. For years he had cultivated it as a commercial asset. Often a fortune had depended on his mastery of his emotions. Now, in an instant, he had himself under control once more. His face resumed its normal expression of cold impassiveness. Only his mouth twitched a little.

"Well?" asked Mrs. Porter.

"Take her away," he said quietly. "Take her out of here. Let her go to him. I have done with her."

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Porter, and left the room.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 6


text:
The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 7

Some months after John Bannister had spoken his ultimatum in the library two drought-stricken men met on the Rialto. It was a close June evening, full of thirst.

"I could do with a drink," said the first man. "Several."

"My tongue is black clear down to the roots," said the second.

"Let's go up to Kirk Winfield's," proposed the first man, inspired.

"Not for me," said the other briefly. "Haven't you heard about Kirk? He's married!"

"I know—but——"

"And when I say married, I mean married. She's old John Bannister's daughter, you know, and I guess she inherits her father's character. She's what I call a determined girl. She seems to have made up her mind that the old crowd that used to trail around the studio aren't needed any longer, and they've been hitting the sidewalk on one ear ever since the honeymoon.

"If you want to see her in action, go up there now. She'll be perfectly sweet and friendly, but somehow you'll get the notion that you don't want to go there again, and that she can bear up if you don't. It's something in her manner. I guess it's a trick these society girls learn. You've seen a bouncer handling a souse. He doesn't rough-house him. He just puts his arm round his waist and kind of suggests he should leave the place. Well, it's like that."

"But doesn't Kirk kick? He used to like having us around."

His friend laughed.

"Kick? Kirk? You should see him! He just sits there waiting for you to go, and, when you do go, shuts the door on you so quick you have to jump to keep from getting your coat caught in it. I tell you, those two are about all the company either of them needs. They've got the Newly-weds licked to a whisper."

"It's always the best fellows that get it the worse," said the other philosophically, "and it's always the fellows you think are safe too. I could have bet on Kirk. Six months ago I'd have given you any odds you wanted that he would never marry."

"And I wouldn't have taken you. It's always the way."

The criticisms of the two thirsty men, though prejudiced, were accurate. Marriage had undeniably wrought changes in Kirk Winfield. It had blown up, decentralized, and re-arranged his entire scheme of life. Kirk's was one of those natures that run to extremes. He had been a whole-hearted bachelor, and he was assuredly a much-married man. For the first six months Ruth was almost literally his whole world. His friends, the old brigade of the studio, had dropped away from him in a body. They had visited the studio once or twice at first, but after that had mysteriously disappeared. He was too engrossed in his happiness to speculate on the reasons for this defection: he only knew that he was glad of it.

Their visits had not been a success. Conversation had flowed fitfully. Some sixth sense told him that Ruth, though charming to them all, had not liked them; and he himself was astonished to find what bull dogs they really were. It was odd how out of sympathy he felt with them. They seemed so unnecessary: yet what a large part of his life they had once made up!

Something had come between him and them. What it was he did not know.

Ruth could have told him. She was the angel with the flaming sword who guarded their paradise. Marriage was causing her to make unexpected discoveries with regard to herself. Before she had always looked on herself as a rather unusually reasonable, and certainly not a jealous, woman. But now she was filled with an active dislike for these quite harmless young men who came to try and share Kirk with her.

She knew it was utterly illogical. A man must have friends. Life could not be forever a hermitage of two. She tried to analyse her objection to these men, and came to the conclusion that it was the fact that they had known Kirk before she did that caused it.

She made a compromise with herself. Kirk should have friends, but they must be new ones. In a little while, when this crazy desire to keep herself and him alone together in a world of their own should have left her, they would begin to build up a circle. But these men whose vocabulary included the words "Do you remember?" must be eliminated one and all.

Kirk, blissfully unconscious that his future was being arranged for him and the steering-wheel of his life quietly taken out of his hands, passed his days in a state of almost painful happiness. It never crossed his mind that he had ceased to be master of his fate and captain of his soul. The reins were handled so gently that he did not feel them. It seemed to him that he was travelling of his own free will along a pleasant path selected by himself.

He saw his friends go from him without a regret. Perhaps at the bottom of his heart he had always had a suspicion of contempt for them. He had taken them on their surface value, as amusing fellows who were good company of an evening. There was not one of them whom he had ever known as real friends know each other—not one, except Hank Jardine; and Hank had yet to be subjected to the acid test of the new conditions.

There were moments when the thought of Hank threw a shadow across his happiness. He could let these others go, but Hank was different. And something told him that Ruth would not like Hank.

But these shadows were not frequent. Ruth filled his life too completely to allow him leisure to brood on possibilities of future trouble.

Looking back, it struck him that on their wedding-day they had been almost strangers. They had taken each other blindly, trusting to instinct. Since then he had been getting to know her. It was astonishing how much there was to know. There was a fresh discovery to be made about her every day. She was a perpetually recurring miracle.

The futility of his old life made him wince whenever he dared think of it. How he had drifted, a useless log on a sluggish current!

He was certainly a whole-hearted convert. As to Saul of Tarsus, so to him there had come a sudden blinding light. He could hardly believe that he was the same person who had scoffed at the idea of a man giving up his life to one woman and being happy. But then the abstract wife had been a pale, bloodless phantom, and Ruth was real.

It was the realness of her that kept him in a state of perpetual amazement. To see her moving about the studio, to touch her, to look at her across the dinner-table, to wake in the night and hear her breathing at his side…. It seemed to him that centuries might pass, yet these things would still be wonderful.

And always in his heart there was the gratitude for what she had done for him. She had given up everything to share his life. She had weighed him in the balance against wealth and comfort and her place among the great ones of the world, and had chosen him. There were times when the thought filled him with a kind of delirious pride: times, again, when he felt a grateful humility that made him long to fall down and worship this goddess who had stooped to him.

In a word, he was very young, very much in love, and for the first time in his life was living with every drop of blood in his veins.

Hank returned to New York in due course. He came to the studio the same night, and he had not been there five minutes before a leaden weight descended on Kirk's soul. It was as he had feared. Ruth did not like him.

Hank was not the sort of man who makes universal appeal. Also, he was no ladies' man. He was long and lean and hard-bitten, and his supply of conventional small talk was practically non-existent. To get the best out of Hank, as has been said, you had to let him take his coat off and put his feet up on the back of a second chair and reconcile yourself to the pestiferous brand of tobacco which he affected.

Ruth conceded none of these things. Throughout the interview Hank sat bolt upright, tucking a pair of shoes of the class coyly underneath his chair, and drew suspiciously at Turkish cigarettes from Kirk's case. An air of constraint hung over the party. Again and again Kirk hoped that Hank would embark on the epic of his life, but shyness kept Hank dumb.

He had heard, on reaching New York, that Kirk was married, but he had learned no details, and had conjured up in his mind the vision of a jolly little girl of the Bohemian type, who would make a fuss over him as Kirk's oldest friend. Confronted with Ruth, he lost a nerve which had never before failed him. This gorgeous creature, he felt, would never put up with those racy descriptions of wild adventures which had endeared him to Kirk. As soon as he could decently do so, he left, and Kirk, returning to the studio after seeing him out, sat down moodily, trying to convince himself against his judgment that the visit had not been such a failure after all.

Ruth was playing the piano softly. She had turned out all the lights except one, which hung above her head, shining on her white arms as they moved. From where he sat Kirk could see her profile. Her eyes were half closed.

The sight of her, as it always did, sent a thrill through him, but he was conscious of an ache behind it. He had hoped so much that Hank would pass, and he knew that he had not. Why was it that two people so completely one as Ruth and himself could not see Hank with the same eyes?

He knew that she had thought him uncouth and impossible. Why could not Hank have exerted himself more, instead of sitting there in that stuffed way? Why could not Ruth have unbent? Why had not he himself done something to save the situation? Of the three, he blamed himself most. He was the one who should have taken the lead and made things pleasant for everybody instead of forcing out conversational platitudes.

Once or twice he had caught Hank's eye, and had hated himself for understanding what it said and not being able to deny it. He had marked the end of their old relationship, the parting of the ways, and that a tragedy had been played out that night.

He found himself thinking of Hank as of a friend who had died. What times they had had! How smoothly they had got on together! He could not recall a single occasion on which they had fallen out, from the time when they had fought as boys at the prep. school and cemented their friendship the next day. After that there had been periods when they had parted, sometimes for more than a year, but they had always come together again and picked up the threads as neatly as if there had been no gap in their intimacy.

He had gone to college: Hank had started on the roving life which suited his temperament. But they had never lost touch with each other. And now it was all over. They would meet again, but it would not be the same. The angel with the flaming sword stood between them.

For the first time since the delirium of marriage had seized upon him, Kirk was conscious of a feeling that all was not for the best in a, a feeling of regret, not that he had married—the mere thought would have been a blasphemy—but that marriage was such a complicated affair. He liked a calm life, free from complications, and now they were springing up on every side.

There was the matter of the models. Kirk had supposed that it was only in the comic papers that the artist's wife objected to his employing models. He had classed it with the mother-in-law joke, respecting it for its antiquity, but not imagining that it ever really happened. And Ruth had brought this absurd situation into the sphere of practical politics only a few days ago.

Since his marriage Kirk had dropped his work almost entirely. There had seemed to be no time for it. He liked to spend his days going round the stores with Ruth, buying her things, or looking in at the windows of Fifth Avenue shops and choosing what he would buy her when he had made his fortune. It was agreed upon between them that he was to make his fortune some day.

Kirk's painting had always been more of a hobby with him than a profession. He knew that he had talent, but talent without hard work is a poor weapon, and he had always shirked hard work. He had an instinct for colour, but his drawing was uncertain. He hated linework, while knowing that only through steady practice at linework could he achieve his artistic salvation. He was an amateur, and a lazy amateur.

But once in a while the work fever would grip him. It had gripped him a few days before Hank's visit. An idea for a picture had come to him, and he had set to work upon it with his usual impulsiveness.

This had involved the arrival of Miss Hilda Vince at the studio. There was no harm in Miss Vince. Her morals were irreproachable. She supported a work-shy father, and was engaged to be married to a young gentleman who travelled for a hat firm. But she was of a chatty disposition and no respecter of persons. She had posed frequently for Kirk in his bachelor days, and was accustomed to call him by his first name—a fact which Kirk had forgotten until Ruth, who had been out in the park, came in.

Miss Vince was saying at the moment: "So I says to her, 'Kirk's just phoned to me to sit.' 'What! Kirk!' she says. 'Is he doin' a bit of work for a change? Well, it's about time.' 'Aw, Kirk don't need to work,' I says. 'He's a plute. He's got it in gobs.' So——"

"I didn't know you were busy, dear," said Ruth. "I won't interrupt you."

She went out.

"Was that your wife?" inquired Miss Vince. "She's got a sweet face. Say, I read the piece about you and her in the paper. You certainly got a nerve, Kirk, breaking in on the millionaires that way."

That night Ruth spoke her mind about Miss Vince. It was in vain that Kirk touched on the work-shy father, dwelt feelingly on the young gentleman who travelled in hats. Ruth had made up her mind. It was thumbs down for Miss Vince.

"But if I'm to paint," said Kirk, "I must have models."

"There must be hundreds who don't call you by your Christian name."

"After about five minutes they all do," said Kirk. "It's a way they've got. They mean no harm."

Ruth then made this brilliant suggestion: "Kirk, dear, why don't you paint landscapes?"

In spite of his annoyance, he laughed.

"Why don't I paint landscapes, Ruth? Because I'm not a landscape painter, that's why."

"You could learn."

"It's a different branch of the trade altogether. You might just as well tell a catcher to pitch."

"Well, anyhow," reported Ruth with spirit, "I won't have that Vince creature in the place again."

It was the first time she had jerked at the reins or given any sign that she was holding them, and undoubtedly this was the moment at which Kirk should have said: "My dearest, the time has come for me to state plainly that my soul is my own. I decline to give in to this absurd suggestion. Marriage is an affair of give and take, not a circus where one party holds the hoop while the other jumps through and shams dead. We shall be happier later on if we get this clearly into our heads now."

What he did say was: "Very well, dear. I'll write and tell her not to come."

He knew he was being abominably weak, but he did not care. He even felt a certain pleasure in his surrender. Big, muscular men are given to this feebleness with women. Hercules probably wore an idiotic grin of happiness when he spun wool for Omphale.

Since then the picture had been laid aside, but Kirk's desire to be up and at it had grown with inaction. When a lazy man does make up his mind to assail a piece of work, he is like a dog with a bone.

The music had stopped. Ruth swung round.

"What are you dreaming about Kirk?"

Kirk came to himself with a start.

"I was thinking of a lot of things. For one, about that picture of mine."

"What about it?"

"Well, when I was going to finish it."

"Why don't you?"

Kirk laughed.

"Where's my model? You've scared her up a tree, and I can't coax her down."

Ruth came over to him and sat down on a low chair at his side. She put her arm round his waist and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

"Is he pining for his horrid Vince girl, the poor boy?"

"He certainly is," said Kirk. "Or at any rate, for some understudy to her."

"We must think. Do they all call you Kirk?"

"I've never met one who didn't."

"What horrible creatures you artists are!"

"My dear kid, you don't understand the thing at all. When you're painting a model she ceases to be a girl at all. You don't think of her as anything except a sort of lay-figure."

"Good gracious! Does your lay-figure call you Kirk too?"

"It always looks as if it were going to."

Ruth shuddered.

"It's a repulsive thing. I hate it. It gives me the creeps. I came in here last night and switched on the light, and there it was, goggling at me."

"Are you getting nervous?"

Ruth's face grew grave.

"Do you know, Kirk, I really believe I am. This morning as I was dressing, I suddenly got the most awful feeling that something terrible was going to happen. I don't know what. It was perfectly vague. I just felt a kind of horror. It passed off in a moment or two; but, while it lasted—ugh!"

"How ghastly! Why didn't you tell me before? You must be run down. Look here, let's shut up this place and get out to Florida or somewhere for the winter!"

"Let's don't do anything of the kind. Florida indeed! For the love of Mike, as Steve would say, it's much too expensive. You know, Kirk, we are both frightfully extravagant. I'm sure we are spending too much money as it is. You know you sold out some of your capital only the other day."

"It was only that once. And you had set your heart on that pendant. Surely to goodness, if I drag you away from a comfortable home to live in a hovel, the least I can do is to——"

"You didn't drag me. I just walked in and sat down, and you couldn't think how to get rid of me, so in despair you married me."

"That was it. And now I've got to set to work and make a fortune and—what do you call it?—support you in the style to which you have been accustomed. Which brings us back to the picture. I don't suppose I shall get ten dollars for it, but I feel I shall curl up and die if I don't get it finished. Are you absolutely determined about the Vince girl?"

"I'm adamant. I'm granite. I'm chilled steel. Oh! Kirk, can't you find a nice, motherly old model, with white hair and spectacles? I shouldn't mind her calling you by your first name."

"But it's absurd. I told you just now that an artist doesn't look on his models as human beings while——"

"I know. I've read all about that in books, and I believed it then. Why, when I married you, I said to myself: 'I mustn't be foolish. Kirk's an artist, I mustn't be a comic-supplement wife and object to his using models!' Oh, I was going to be so good and reasonable. You would have loved me! And then, when it came to the real thing, I found I just could not stand it. I know it's silly of me. I know just as well as you do that Miss Vince is quite a nice girl really, and is going to make a splendid Mrs. Travelling Salesman, but that doesn't help me. It's my wicked nature, I suppose. I'm just a plain cat, and that's all there is to it. Look at the way I treat your friends!"

Kirk started.

"You jumped!" said Ruth. "You jerked my head. Do you think I didn't know you had noticed it? I knew how unhappy you were when Mr. Jardine was here, and I just hated myself."

"Didn't you like Hank?" asked Kirk.

Ruth was silent for a moment.

"I wish you would," Kirk went on. "You don't know what a real white man old Hank is. You didn't see him properly that night. He was nervous. But he's one of the very best God ever made. We've known each other all our lives. He and I——"

"Don't tell me!" cried Ruth. "Don't you see that that's just the reason why I can't like him? Don't tell me about the things you and he did together, unless you want me to hate him. Don't you understand, dear? It's the same with all your friends. I'm jealous of them for having known you before I did. And I hate these models because they come into a part of your life into which I can't. I want you all to myself. I want to be your whole life. I know it's idiotic and impossible, but I do."

"You are my whole life," said Kirk seriously. "I wasn't born till I met you. There isn't a single moment when you are not my whole life."

She pressed her head contentedly against his arm.

"Kirk."

"Yes?"

"Let me pose for your picture."

"What! You couldn't!"

"Why not?"

"It's terribly hard work. It's an awful strain."

"I'm sure I'm as strong as that Vince girl. You ask Steve; he's seen me throw the medicine-ball."

"But posing is different. Hilda Vince has been trained for it."

"Well let me try, at any rate."

"But——"

"Do! And I'll promise to like your Hank and not put on my grand manner when he begins telling me what fun you and he used to have in the good old days before I was born or thought of. May I?"

"But——"

"Quick! Promise!"

"Very well."

"You dear! I'll be the best model you ever had. I won't move a muscle, and I'll stand there till I drop."

"You'll do nothing of the kind. You'll come right down off that model-throne the instant you feel the least bit tired."

The picture which Kirk was painting was one of those pictures which thousands of young artists are working on unceasingly every day. Kirk's ideas about it were in a delightfully vague state. He had a notion that it might turn out in the end as "Carmen." On the other hand, if anything went wrong and he failed to insert a sufficient amount of wild devilry into it, he could always hedge by calling it "A Reverie" or "The Spanish Maiden."

Possibly, if the thing became too pensive and soulful altogether, he might give it some title suggestive of the absent lover at the bull-fight—"The Toreador's Bride"—or something of that sort. The only point on which he was solid was that it was to strike the Spanish note; and to this end he gave Ruth a costume of black and orange and posed her on the model-throne with a rose in her hair.

Privately he had decided that ten minutes would be Ruth's limit. He knew something of the strain of sitting to an artist.

"Tired?" he asked at the end of this period.

Ruth shook her head and smiled.

"You must be. Come and sit down and take a rest."

"I'm quite all right, dear. Go on with your work."

"Well, shout out the moment you feel you've had enough."

He began to paint again. The minutes went by and Ruth made no movement. He began to grow absorbed in his work. He lost count of time. Ruth ceased to be Ruth, ceased even to be flesh and blood. She was just something he was painting.

"Kirk!"

The sharp suddenness of the cry brought him to his feet, quivering. Ruth was swaying on the model-throne. Her eyes were staring straight before her and her face was twisted with fear.

As he sprang forward she fell, pitching stiffly head foremost, as he had seen men fall in the ring, her arms hanging at her sides; and he caught her.

He carried her to the couch and laid her down. He hung for an instant in doubt whether to go for water or telephone for the doctor. He decided on the telephone.

He hung up the receiver and went back to Ruth. She stirred and gave a little moan. He flew upstairs and returned with a pitcher of water. When he got back Ruth was sitting up. The look of terror was gone from her face. She smiled at him, a faint, curiously happy smile. He flung himself on his knees beside her, his arm round her waist, and burst into a babble of self-reproach.

He cursed himself for being such a brute, such a beast as to let her stand there, tiring herself to death. She must never do it again. He was a devil. He ought to have known she could not stand it. He was not fit to be married. He was not fit to live.

Ruth ruffled his hair.

"Stop abusing my husband," she said. "I'm fond of him. Did you catch me, Kirk?"

"Yes, thank God. I got to you just in time."

"That's the last thing I remember, wondering if you would. You seemed such miles and miles away. It was like looking at something in a mist through the wrong end of a telescope. Oh, Kirk!"

"Yes, honey?"

"It came again, that awful feeling as if something dreadful was going to happen. And then I felt myself going." She paused. "Kirk, I think I know now. I understand; and oh, I'm so happy!"

She buried her face on his shoulder, and they stayed there silent, till there came a ring at the bell. Kirk got up. George Pennicut ushered in the doctor. It was the same little old doctor who had ministered to George in his hour of need.

"Feeling better, Mrs. Winfield?" he said, as he caught sight of Ruth. "Your husband told me over the 'phone that you were unconscious."

"She fainted," cried Kirk. "It was all through me. I——"

The doctor took him by the shoulders. He had to stretch to do it.

"You go away, young man," he said. "Take a walk round the block. You aren't on in this scene."

Kirk was waiting in the hall when he left a few minutes later.

"Well?" he said anxiously.

"Well?" said the little doctor.

"Is she all right? There's nothing wrong, is there?"

The doctor grinned a friendly grin.

"On the contrary," he said. "You ought to be very pleased."

"What do you mean?"

"It's quite a commonplace occurrence, though I suppose it will seem like a miracle to you. But, believe me, it has happened before. If it hadn't, you and I wouldn't be here now."

Kirk looked at him in utter astonishment. His words seemed meaningless.

And then, suddenly, he understood, and his heart seemed to stand still.

"You don't mean——" he said huskily.

"Yes, I do," said the doctor. "Good-bye, my boy. I've got to hurry off. You caught me just as I was starting for the hospital."

Kirk went back to the studio, his mind in a whirl. Ruth was lying on the couch. She looked up as the door opened. He came quickly to her side.

"Ruth!" he muttered.

Her eyes were shining with a wonderful light of joy. She drew his head down and kissed him.

"Oh, Kirk," she whispered. "I'm happy. I'm happy. I've wanted this so."

He could not speak. He sat on the edge of the couch and looked at her. She had been wonderful to him before. She was a thousand times more wonderful now.

title: The Coming of Bill/Book I/Chapter 7