Weariness and depression had settled on Ruth since that afternoon of
the storm. It was as if the storm had wrought an awakening in her. It
had marked a definite point of change in her outlook. She felt as if
she had been roused from a trance by a sharp blow.
If Steve had but known, she had had the 'jolt' by which he set such
store. She knew now that she had thrown away the substance for the
shadow.
Kirk's anger, so unlike him, so foreign to the weak, easy-going person
she had always thought him, had brought her to herself. But it was too
late. There could be no going back and picking up the threads. She had
lost him, and must bear the consequences.
The withdrawal of Bailey was a small thing by comparison, a submotive
in the greater tragedy. But she had always been fond of Bailey, and it
hurt her to think that she should have driven him out of her life.
It seemed to her that she was very much alone now. She was marooned on
a desert island of froth and laughter. Everything that mattered she had
lost.
Even Bill had gone from her. The bitter justice of Kirk's words came
home to her now in her time of clear thinking. It was all true. In the
first excitement of the new life he had bored her. She had looked upon
Mrs. Porter as a saviour who brought her freedom together with an easy
conscience. It had been so simple to deceive herself, to cheat herself
into the comfortable belief that all that could be done for him was
being done, when, as concerned the essential thing, as Kirk had said,
there was no child of the streets who was not better off.
She tramped her round of social duties mechanically. Everything bored
her now. The joy of life had gone out of her. She ate the bread of
sorrow in captivity.
And then, this morning, had come a voice from the world she had
lost, little Mrs. Bailey's voice, small and tearful.
Could she possibly come out by the next train? Bailey was very ill.
Bailey was dying. Bailey had come home last night looking ghastly. He
had not slept. In the early morning he had begun to babble, Mrs.
Bailey's voice had risen and broken on the word, and Ruth at the other
end of the wire had heard her frightened sobs. The doctor had come. The
doctor had looked awfully grave. The doctor had telephoned to New York
for another doctor. They were both upstairs now. It was awful, and Ruth
must come at once.
This was the bad news which had brought about the pallor which had
impressed Mr. Keggs as he helped Ruth into her cab.
Little Mrs. Bailey was waiting for her on the platform when she got out
of the train. Her face was drawn and miserable. She looked like a
beaten kitten. She hugged Ruth hysterically.
'Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you've come. He's better, but it has been
awful. The doctors have had to fight him to keep him in bed. He
was crazy to get to town. He kept saying over and over again that he
must be at the office. They gave him something, and he was asleep when
I left the house.'
She began to cry helplessly. The fates had not bestowed upon Sybil
Bannister the same care in the matter of education for times of crisis
