A few crowded hours of Bailey's
dashing imbecility had removed the curse forever.
He was alone with Ruth and his son in a world that contained only them,
just as in the old days of their happiness. There was something
symbolic, something suggestive of the beginning of a new order of
things, in their isolation at this very moment. Steve had gone. Only he
and Ruth and the child were left.
The child--the White Hope--he was the real hero of the story, the real
principal of the drama of their three lives. He was the link that bound
them together, the force that worked for coherence and against chaos.
He stood between them, his hands in theirs; and while he did so there
could be no parting of the ways. His grip was light, but as strong as
steel. Time would bring troubles, moods, misunderstandings, for they
were both human; but, while that grip held, there could be no gulf
dividing Ruth and himself, as it had divided them in the past.
He faced the future calmly, with open eyes. It would be rough going at
first, very rough going. It meant hard work, incessant work. No more
vague masterpieces which might or might not turn into "Carmen" or "The
Spanish Maiden." No more delightful idle days to be loafed through in
the studio or the shops. No more dreams, seen hazily through the smoke
of a cigar, as he lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, of what
he would do to-morrow.
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