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.
Pages:
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310