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Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise

by David Graham Phillips · English · Gutenberg #450 · 1,717,648 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise

Author: David Graham Phillips


        
Release date: March 1, 1996 [eBook #450]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/450


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUSAN LENOX: HER FALL AND RISE ***









SUSAN LENOX: HER FALL AND RISE

by
David Graham Phillips

Volume I

WITH A PORTRAIT
OF THE AUTHOR

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK        LONDON

1917





DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

A TRIBUTE


Even now I cannot realize that he is dead, and often in the city
streets--on Fifth Avenue in particular--I find myself glancing
ahead for a glimpse of the tall, boyish, familiar
figure--experience once again a flash of the old happy expectancy.

I have lived in many lands, and have known men. I never knew a
finer man than Graham Phillips.

His were the clearest, bluest, most honest eyes I ever saw--eyes
that scorned untruth--eyes that penetrated all sham.

In repose his handsome features were a trifle stern--and the
magic of his smile was the more wonderful--such a sunny,
youthful, engaging smile.

His mere presence in a room was exhilarating.  It seemed to
freshen the very air with a keen sweetness almost pungent.

He was tall, spare, leisurely, iron-strong; yet figure, features
and bearing were delightfully boyish.

Men liked him, women liked him when he liked them.

He was the most honest man I ever knew, clean in mind, clean-cut
in body, a little over-serious perhaps, except when among
intimates; a little prone to hoist the burdens of the world on
his young shoulders.

His was a knightly mind; a paladin character.  But he could
unbend, and the memory of such hours with him--hours that can
never be again--hurts more keenly than the memory of calmer and
more sober moments.

We agreed in many matters, he and I; in many we differed.  To me
it was a greater honor to differ in opinion with such a man than
to find an entire synod of my own mind.

Because--and of course this is the opinion of one man and worth
no more than that--I have always thought that Graham Phillips
was head and shoulders above us all in his profession.

He was to have been really great.  He is--by his last book,
"Susan Lenox."

Not that, when he sometimes discussed the writing of it with me,
I was in sympathy with it.  I was not.  We always were truthful to
each other.

But when a giant molds a lump of clay into tremendous masses,
lesser men become confused by the huge contours, the vast
distances, the terrific spaces, the majestic scope of the
ensemble.  So I.  But he went on about his business.

I do not know what the public may think of "Susan Lenox." I
scarcely know what I think.

It is a terrible book--terrible and true and beautiful.

Under the depths there are unspeakable things that writhe.  His
plumb-line touches them and they squirm.  He bends his head from
the clouds to do it.  Is it worth doing?  I don't know.

But this I do know--that within the range of all fiction of all
lands and of all times no character has so overwhelmed me as the
character of Susan Lenox.

She is as real as life and as unreal.  She is Life.  Hers was the
concentrated nobility of Heaven and Hell.  And the divinity of
the one and the tragedy of the other.  For she had known
both--this girl--the most pathetic, the most human, the most
honest character ever drawn by an American writer.

In the presence of his last work, so overwhelming, so
stupendous, we lesser men are left at a loss.  Its magnitude
demands the perspective that time only can lend it.  Its dignity
and austerity and its pitiless truth impose upon us that honest
and intelligent silence which even the quickest minds concede is
necessary before an honest verdict.

Truth was his goddess; he wrought honestly and only for her.

He is dead, but he is to have his day in court.  And whatever the
verdict, if it be a true one, were he living he would rest content.

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.



                      BEFORE THE CURTAIN


A few years ago, as to the most important and most interesting
subject in the world, the relations of the sexes, an author had
to choose between silence and telling those distorted truths
beside which plain lying seems almost white and quite harmless.
And as no author could afford to be silent on the subject that
underlies all subjects, our literature, in so far as it
attempted to deal with the most vital phases of human nature,
was beneath contempt.  The authors who knew they were lying sank
almost as low as the nasty-nice purveyors of fake idealism and
candied pruriency who fancied they were writing the truth.  Now
it almost seems that the day of lying conscious and unconscious
is about run.  "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall
make you free."

There are three ways of dealing with the sex relations of men
and women--two wrong and one right.

For lack of more accurate names the two wrong ways may be called
respectively the Anglo-Saxon and the Continental.  Both are in
essence processes of spicing up and coloring up perfectly
innocuous facts of nature to make them poisonously attractive to
perverted palates.  The wishy-washy literature and the
wishy-washy morality on which it is based are not one stage
more--or less--rotten than the libertine literature and the
libertine morality on which it is based.  So far as degrading
effect is concerned, the "pure, sweet" story or play, false to
nature, false to true morality, propagandist of indecent
emotions disguised as idealism, need yield nothing to the
so-called "strong" story.  Both pander to different forms of the
same diseased craving for the unnatural.  Both produce moral
atrophy.  The one tends to encourage the shallow and unthinking
in ignorance of life and so causes them to suffer the merciless
penalties of ignorance.  The other tends to miseducate the
shallow and unthinking, to give them a ruinously false notion of
the delights of vice.  The Anglo-Saxon "morality" is like a nude
figure salaciously draped; the Continental "strength" is like a
nude figure salaciously distorted.  The Anglo-Saxon article reeks
the stench of disinfectants; the Continental reeks the stench of
degenerate perfume.  The Continental shouts "Hypocrisy!" at the
Anglo-Saxon; the Anglo-Saxon shouts "Filthiness!" at the
Continental.  Both are right; they are twin sisters of the same
horrid mother.  And an author of either allegiance has to have
many a redeeming grace of style, of character drawing, of
philosophy, to gain him tolerance in a clean mind.

There is the third and right way of dealing with the sex
relations of men and women.  That is the way of simple candor and
naturalness.  Treat the sex question as you would any other
question.  Don't treat it reverently; don't treat it rakishly.
Treat it naturally.  Don't insult your intelligence and lower
your moral tone by thinking about either the decency or the
indecency of matters that are familiar, undeniable, and
unchangeable facts of life.  Don't look on woman as mere female,
but as human being.  Remember that she has a mind and a heart as
well as a body.  In a sentence, don't join in the prurient clamor
of "purity" hypocrites and "strong" libertines that exaggerates
and distorts the most commonplace, if the most important feature
of life.  Let us try to be as sensible about sex as we are trying
to be about all the other phenomena of the universe in this more
enlightened day.

Nothing so sweetens a sin or so delights a sinner as getting
big-eyed about it and him.  Those of us who are naughty aren't
nearly so naughty as we like to think; nor are those of us who
are nice nearly so nice.  Our virtues and our failings
are--perhaps to an unsuspected degree--the result of the
circumstances in which we are placed.  The way to improve
individuals is to improve these circumstances; and the way to
start at improving the circumstances is by looking honestly and
fearlessly at things as they are.  We must know our world and
ourselves before we can know what should be kept and what
changed.  And the beginning of this wisdom is in seeing sex
relations rationally.  Until that fundamental matter is brought
under the sway of good common sense, improvement in other directions
will be slow indeed.  Let us stop lying--to others--to ourselves.

                                                D.G.P.

July, 1908.




SUSAN LENOX




CHAPTER I


"THE child's dead," said Nora, the nurse.  It was the upstairs
sitting-room in one of the pretentious houses of Sutherland,
oldest and most charming of the towns on the Indiana bank of the
Ohio.  The two big windows were open; their limp and listless
draperies showed that there was not the least motion in the
stifling humid air of the July afternoon.  At the center of the
room stood an oblong table; over it were neatly spread several
thicknesses of white cotton cloth; naked upon them lay the body
of a newborn girl baby.  At one side of the table nearer the
window stood Nora.  Hers were the hard features and corrugated
skin popularly regarded as the result of a life of toil, but in
fact the result of a life of defiance to the laws of health.  As
additional penalties for that same self-indulgence she had an
enormous bust and hips, thin face and arms, hollow,
sinew-striped neck.  The young man, blond and smooth faced, at
the other side of the table and facing the light, was Doctor
Stevens, a recently graduated pupil of the famous Schulze of
Saint Christopher who as much as any other one man is
responsible for the rejection of hocus-pocus and the injection
of common sense into American medicine.  For upwards of an hour
young Stevens, coat off and shirt sleeves rolled to his
shoulders, had been toiling with the lifeless form on the table.
He had tried everything his training, his reading and his
experience suggested--all the more or less familiar devices
similar to those indicated for cases of drowning.  Nora had
watched him, at first with interest and hope, then with interest
alone, finally with swiftly deepening disapproval, as her
compressed lips and angry eyes plainly revealed.  It seemed to
her his effort was degenerating into sacrilege, into defiance of
an obvious decree of the Almighty.  However, she had not ventured
to speak until the young man, with a muttered ejaculation
suspiciously like an imprecation, straightened his stocky figure
and began to mop the sweat from his face, hands and bared arms.

When she saw that her verdict had not been heard, she repeated
it more emphatically.  "The child's dead," said she, "as I told
you from the set-out." She made the sign of the cross on her
forehead and bosom, while her fat, dry lips moved in a "Hail, Mary."

The young man did not rouse from his reverie.  He continued to
gaze with a baffled expression at the tiny form, so like a
whimsical caricature of humanity.  He showed that he had heard
the woman's remark by saying, to himself rather than to her,
"Dead?  What's that?  Merely another name for ignorance." But the
current of his thought did not swerve.  It held to the one
course:  What would his master, the dauntless, the infinitely
resourceful Schulze, do if he were confronted by this
intolerable obstacle of a perfect machine refusing to do its
duty and pump vital force through an eagerly waiting body?
"He'd _make_ it go, I'd bet my life," the young man muttered.
"I'm ashamed of myself."

As if the reproach were just the spur his courage and his
intelligence had needed, his face suddenly glowed with the
upshooting fire of an inspiration.  He thrust the big white
handkerchief into his hip pocket, laid one large strong hand
upon the small, beautifully arched chest of the baby.  Nora,
roused by his expression even more than by his gesture, gave an
exclamation of horror.  "Don't touch it again," she cried,
between entreaty and command.  "You've done all you can--and more."

Stevens was not listening.  "Such a fine baby, too," he said,
hesitating--the old woman mistakenly fancied it was her words
that made him pause.  "I feel no good at all," he went on, as if
reasoning with himself, "no good at all, losing both the mother
and the child."

"_She_ didn't want to live," replied Nora.  Her glances stole
somewhat fearfully toward the door of the adjoining room--the
bedroom where the mother lay dead.

"There wasn't nothing but disgrace ahead for both of them.
Everybody'll be glad."

"Such a fine baby," muttered the abstracted young doctor.

"Love-children always is," said Nora.  She was looking sadly and
tenderly down at the tiny, symmetrical form--symmetrical to her
and the doctor's expert eyes.  "Such a deep chest," she sighed.
"Such pretty hands and feet.  A real love-child." There she
glanced nervously at the doctor; it was meet and proper and
pious to speak well of the dead, but she felt she might be going
rather far for a "good woman."

"I'll try it," cried the young man in a resolute tone.  "It can't
do any harm, and----"

Without finishing his sentence he laid hold of the body by the
ankles, swung it clear of the table.  As Nora saw it dangling
head downwards like a dressed suckling pig on a butcher's hook
she vented a scream and darted round the table to stop by main
force this revolting desecration of the dead.  Stevens called out
sternly:  "Mind your business, Nora!  Push the table against the
wall and get out of the way.  I want all the room there is."

"Oh, Doctor--for the blessed Jesus' sake----"

"Push back that table!"

Nora shrank before his fierce eyes.  She thought his exertions,
his disappointment and the heat had combined to topple him over
into insanity.  She retreated toward the farther of the open
windows.  With a curse at her stupidity Stevens kicked over the
table, used his foot vigorously in thrusting it to the wall.
"Now!" exclaimed he, taking his stand in the center of the room
and gauging the distance of ceiling, floor and walls.

Nora, her back against the window frame, her fingers sunk in her
big loose bosom, stared petrified.  Stevens, like an athlete
swinging an indian club, whirled the body round and round his
head, at the full length of his powerful arms.  More and more
rapidly he swung it, until his breath came and went in gasps and
the sweat was trickling in streams down his face and neck.  Round
and round between ceiling and floor whirled the naked body of
the baby--round and round for minutes that seemed hours to the
horrified nurse--round and round with all the strength and speed
the young man could put forth--round and round until the room
was a blur before his throbbing eyes, until his expression
became fully as demoniac as Nora had been fancying it.  Just as
she was recovering from her paralysis of horror and was about to
fly shrieking from the room she was halted by a sound that made
her draw in air until her bosom swelled as if it would burst its
gingham prison.  She craned eagerly toward Stevens.  He was
whirling the body more furiously than ever.

"Was that you?" asked Nora hoarsely.  "Or was it----"  She paused,
listened.

The sound came again--the sound of a drowning person fighting for
breath.

"It's--it's----" muttered Nora.  "What is it, Doctor?"

"Life!" panted Stevens, triumph in his glistening, streaming face.
"Life!"

He continued to whirl the little form, but not so rapidly or so
vigorously.  And now the sound was louder, or, rather, less
faint, less uncertain--was a cry--was the cry of a living thing.
"She's alive--alive!" shrieked the woman, and in time with his
movements she swayed to and fro from side to side, laughing,
weeping, wringing her hands, patting her bosom, her cheeks.  She
stretched out her arms.  "My prayers are answered!" she cried.
"Don't kill her, you brute!  Give her to me.  You shan't treat a
baby that way."

The unheeding doctor kept on whirling until the cry was
continuous, a low but lusty wail of angry protest.  Then he
stopped, caught the baby up in both arms, burst out laughing.
"You little minx!" he said--or, rather, gasped--a tenderness
quite maternal in his eyes.  "But I got you!  Nora, the table."

Nora righted the table, spread and smoothed the cloths, extended
her scrawny eager arms for the baby.  Stevens with a jerk of the
head motioned her aside, laid the baby on the table.  He felt for
the pulse at its wrist, bent to listen at the heart.  Quite
useless.  That strong, rising howl of helpless fury was proof
enough.  Her majesty the baby was mad through and
through--therefore alive through and through.

"Grand heart action!" said the young man.  He stood aloof, hands
on his hips, head at a proud angle.  "You never saw a healthier
specimen.  It'll be many a year, bar accidents, before she's that
near death again."

But it was Nora's turn not to hear.  She was soothing and
swaddling the outraged baby.  "There--there!" she crooned.
"Nora'll take care of you.  The bad man shan't come near my
little precious--no, the wicked man shan't touch her again."

The bedroom door opened.  At the slight noise superstitious Nora
paled, shriveled within her green and white checked gingham.  She
slowly turned her head as if on this day of miracles she
expected yet another--the resurrection of the resurrected
baby's mother, "poor Miss Lorella." But Lorella Lenox was
forever tranquil in the sleep that engulfed her and the sorrows
in which she had been entangled by an impetuous, trusting heart.
The apparition in the doorway was commonplace--the mistress of
the house, Lorella's elder and married sister Fanny--neither
fair nor dark, neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat,
neither pretty nor homely, neither stupid nor bright, neither
neat nor dowdy--one of that multitude of excellent, unobtrusive
human beings who make the restful stretches in a world of
agitations--and who respond to the impetus of circumstance as
unresistingly as cloud to wind.

As the wail of the child smote upon Fanny's ears she lifted her
head, startled, and cried out sharply, "What's that?"

"We've saved the baby, Mrs. Warham," replied the young doctor,
beaming on her through his glasses.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Warham.  And she abruptly seated herself on the
big chintz-covered sofa beside the door.

"And it's a lovely child," pleaded Nora.  Her woman's instinct
guided her straight to the secret of the conflict raging behind
Mrs. Warham's unhappy face.

"The finest girl in the world," cried Stevens, well-meaning but tactless.

"Girl!" exclaimed Fanny, starting up from the sofa.  "Is it a _girl_?"

Nora nodded.  The young man looked downcast; he was realizing the
practical side of his victory for science--the consequences to
the girl child, to all the relatives.

"A girl!" moaned Fanny, sinking to the sofa again.  "God have mercy on us!"

Louder and angrier rose the wail.  Fanny, after a brief struggle
with herself, hurried to the table, looked down at the tiny
helplessness.  Her face softened.  She had been a mother four
times.  Only one had lived--her fair little two-year-old Ruth--and
she would never have any more children.  The tears glistened in
her eyes.  "What ails you, Nora Mulvey?" she demanded.  "Why
aren't you 'tending to this poor little creature?"

Nora sprang into action, but she wrapped the baby herself.  The
doctor in deep embarrassment withdrew to the farther window.  She
fussed over the baby lingeringly, but finally resigned it to the
nurse.  "Take it into the bathroom," she said, "where everything's
ready to feed it--though I never dreamed----"  As Nora was about
to depart, she detained her.  "Let me look at it again."

The nurse understood that Fanny Warham was searching for
evidence of the mysterious but suspected paternity whose secret
Lorella, with true Lenox obstinacy, had guarded to the end.  The
two women scanned the features.  A man would at a glance have
abandoned hope of discovering anything from a chart so vague and
confused as that wrinkled, twisted, swollen face of the newborn.
Not so a woman.  Said Nora:  "She seems to me to favor the
Lenoxes.  But I think--I _kind_ o' think--I see a _trace_
of--of----"  There she halted, waiting for encouragement.

"Of Galt?" suggested Fanny, in an undertone.

"Of Galt," assented Nora, her tone equally discreet.  "That nose
is Galt-like and the set of the ears--and a kind of something to
the neck and shoulders."

"Maybe so," said Fanny doubtfully.  She shook her head drearily,
sighed.  "What's the use?  Lorella's gone.  And this morning
General Galt came down to see my husband with a letter he'd got
from Jimmie.  Jimmie denies it.  Perhaps so.  Again, perhaps the
General wrote him to write that, and threatened him if he
didn't.  But what's the use?  We'll never know."

And they never did.

When young Stevens was leaving, George Warham waylaid him at the
front gate, separated from the spacious old creeper-clad house
by long lawns and an avenue of elms.  "I hear the child's going
to live," said he anxiously.

"I've never seen anything more alive," replied Stevens.

Warham stared gloomily at the ground.  He was evidently ashamed
of his feelings, yet convinced that they were human and natural.
A moment's silence between the men, then Stevens put his hand on
the gate latch.  "Did--did--my wife----" began Warham.  "Did she
say what she calculated to do?"

"Not a word, George." After a silence.  "You know how fond she
is of babies."

"Yes, I know," replied Warham.  "Fanny is a true woman if ever
there was one." With a certain defiance, "And Lorella--she was
a sweet, womanly girl!"

"As sweet and good as she was pretty," replied Stevens heartily.

"The way she kept her mouth shut about that hound, whoever he
is!" Warham's Roman face grew savage, revealed in startling
apparition a stubborn cruelty of which there was not a trace
upon the surface.  "If I ever catch the ---- ---- I'll fill him
full of holes."

"He'd be lynched--_whoever_ he is," said Stevens.

"That's right!" cried Warham.  "This is the North, but it's near
enough to Kentucky to know what to do with a wretch of that
sort." His face became calmer.  "That poor little baby!  He'll
have a hard row to hoe."

Stevens flushed a guilty red.  "It's--it's--a girl," he stammered.

Warham stared.  "A _girl_!" he cried.  Then his face reddened and
in a furious tone he burst out:  "Now don't that beat the devil
for luck!. . .  A girl!  Good Lord--a girl!"

"Nobody in this town'll blame her," consoled Stevens.

"You know better than that, Bob!  A girl!  Why, it's downright
wicked. . .  I wonder what Fanny allows to do?" He showed what
fear was in his mind by wheeling savagely on Stevens with a
stormy, "We can't keep her--we simply can't!"

"What's to become of her?" protested Stevens gently.

Warham made a wild vague gesture with both arms.  "Damn if I
know!  I've got to look out for my own daughter.  I won't have it.
Damn it, I won't have it!" Stevens lifted the gate latch.  "Well----

"Good-by, George.  I'll look in again this evening." And knowing
the moral ideas of the town, all he could muster by way of
encouragement was a half-hearted "Don't borrow trouble."

But Warham did not hear.  He was moving up the tanbark walk
toward the house, muttering to himself.  When Fanny, unable
longer to conceal Lorella's plight, had told him, pity and
affection for his sweet sister-in-law who had made her home with
them for five years had triumphed over his principles.  He had
himself arranged for Fanny to hide Lorella in New York until she
could safely return.  But just as the sisters were about to set
out, Lorella, low in body and in mind, fell ill.  Then
George--and Fanny, too--had striven with her to give them the
name of her betrayer, that he might be compelled to do her
justice.  Lorella refused.  "I told him," she said, "and he--I
never want to see him again." They pleaded the disgrace to them,
but she replied that he would not marry her even if she would
marry him; and she held to her refusal with the firmness for
which the Lenoxes were famous.  They suspected Jimmie Galt,
because he had been about the most attentive of the young men
until two or three months before, and because he had abruptly
departed for Europe to study architecture.  Lorella denied that
it was he.  "If you kill him," she said to Warham, "you kill an
innocent man." Warham was so exasperated by her obstinacy that
he was at first for taking her at her offer and letting her go
away.  But Fanny would not hear of it, and he acquiesced.
Now--"This child must be sent away off somewhere, and never be
heard of again," he said to himself.  "If it'd been a boy,
perhaps it might have got along.  But a girl----

"There's nothing can be done to make things right for a girl
that's got no father and no name."

The subject did not come up between him and his wife until about
a week after Lorella's funeral.  But he was thinking of nothing
else.  At his big grocery store--wholesale and retail--he sat
morosely in his office, brooding over the disgrace and the
danger of deeper disgrace--for he saw what a hold the baby
already had upon his wife.  He was ashamed to appear in the
streets; he knew what was going on behind the sympathetic faces,
heard the whisperings as if they had been trumpetings.  And he
was as much afraid of his own soft heart as of his wife's.  But
for the sake of his daughter he must be firm and just.

One morning, as he was leaving the house after breakfast, he
turned back and said abruptly:  "Fan, don't you think you'd
better send the baby away and get it over with?"

"No," said his wife unhesitatingly--and he knew his worst
suspicion was correct.  "I've made up my mind to keep her."

"It isn't fair to Ruth."

"Send it away--where?"

"Anywhere.  Get it adopted in Chicago--Cincinnati--Louisville."

"Lorella's baby?"

"When she and Ruth grow up--what then?"

"People ain't so low as some think."

"'The sins of the parents are visited on the children unto----'"

"I don't care," interrupted Fanny.  "I love her.  I'm going to
keep her.  Wait here a minute."

When she came back she had the baby in her arms.  "Just look,"
she said softly.

George frowned, tried not to look, but was soon drawn and held by
the sweet, fresh, blooming face, so smooth, so winning, so innocent.

"And think how she was sent back to life--from beyond the grave.
It must have been for some purpose."

Warham groaned, "Oh, Lord, I don't know _what_ to do!  But--it
ain't fair to our Ruth."

"I don't see it that way. . . .  Kiss her, George."

Warham kissed one of the soft cheeks, swelling like a ripening
apple.  The baby opened wide a pair of wonderful dark eyes, threw
up its chubby arms and laughed--such a laugh!. . .  There was no
more talk of sending her away.




CHAPTER II


NOT quite seventeen years later, on a fine June morning, Ruth
Warham issued hastily from the house and started down the long
tanbark walk from the front veranda to the street gate.  She was
now nineteen--nearer twenty--and a very pretty young woman,
indeed.  She had grown up one of those small slender blondes,
exquisite and doll-like, who cannot help seeming fresh and
sweet, whatever the truth about them, without or within.  This
morning she had on a new summer dress of a blue that matched her
eyes and harmonized with her coloring.  She was looking her best,
and she had the satisfying, confidence-giving sense that it was
so.  Like most of the unattached girls of small towns, she was
always dreaming of the handsome stranger who would fall in
love--the thrilling, love-story kind of love at first sight.  The
weather plays a conspicuous part in the romancings of youth; she
felt that this was precisely the kind of day fate would be most
likely to select for the meeting.  Just before dressing she had
been reading about the wonderful _him_--in Robert Chambers'
latest story--and she had spent full fifteen minutes of blissful
reverie over the accompanying Fisher illustration.  Now she was
issuing hopefully forth, as hopefully as if adventure were the
rule and order of life in Sutherland, instead of a desperate
monotony made the harder to bear by the glory of its scenery.

She had got only far enough from the house to be visible to the
second-story windows when a young voice called:

"Ruthie!  Aren't you going to wait for me?"

Ruth halted; an expression anything but harmonious with the
pretty blue costume stormed across her face.  "I won't have her
along!" she muttered.  "I simply won't!" She turned slowly and,
as she turned, effaced every trace of temper with a dexterity
which might have given an onlooker a poorer opinion of her
character than perhaps the facts as to human nature justify.  The
countenance she presently revealed to those upper windows was
sunny and sweet.  No one was visible; but the horizontal slats in
one of the only closed pair of shutters and a vague suggestion
of movement rather than form behind them gave the impression
that a woman, not far enough dressed to risk being seen from the
street, was hidden there.  Evidently Ruth knew, for it was toward
this window that she directed her gaze and the remark:  "Can't
wait, dear.  I'm in a great hurry.  Mamma wants the silk right
away and I've got to match it."

"But I'll be only a minute," pleaded the voice--a much more
interesting, more musical voice than Ruth's rather shrill and
thin high soprano.

"No--I'll meet you up at papa's store."

"All right."

Ruth resumed her journey.  She smiled to herself.  "That means,"
said she, half aloud, "I'll steer clear of the store this morning."

But as she was leaving the gate into the wide, shady, sleepy
street, who should come driving past in a village cart but
Lottie Wright!  And Lottie reined her pony in to the sidewalk and
in the shade of a symmetrical walnut tree proceeded to invite
Ruth to a dance--a long story, as Lottie had to tell all about
it, the decorations, the favors, the food, who would be there,
what she was going to wear, and so on and on.  Ruth was intensely
interested but kept remembering something that caused her to
glance uneasily from time to time up the tanbark walk under the
arching boughs toward the house.  Even if she had not been
interested, she would hardly have ventured to break off; Lottie
Wright was the only daughter of the richest man in Sutherland
and, therefore, social arbiter to the younger set.

Lottie stopped abruptly, said:  "Well, I really must get on.  And
there's your cousin coming down the walk.  I know you've been
waiting for her."

Ruth tried to keep in countenance, but a blush of shame and a
frown of irritation came in spite of her.

"I'm sorry I can't ask Susie, too," pursued Lottie, in a voice
of hypocritical regret.  "But there are to be exactly eighteen
couples--and I couldn't."

"Of course not," said Ruth heartily.  "Susan'll understand."

"I wouldn't for the world do anything to hurt her feelings,"
continued Lottie with the self-complacent righteousness of a
deacon telling the congregation how good "grace" has made him.
Her prominent commonplace brown eyes were gazing up the walk, an
expression distressingly like envious anger in them.  She had a
thick, pudgy face, an oily skin, an outcropping of dull red
pimples on the chin.  Many women can indulge their passion for
sweets at meals and sweets between meals without serious
injury--to complexion; Lottie Wright, unluckily, couldn't.

"I feel sorry for Susie," she went on, in the ludicrous
patronizing tone that needs no describing to anyone acquainted
with any fashionable set anywhere from China to Peru.  "And I
think the way you all treat her is simply beautiful.  But, then,
everybody feels sorry for her and tries to be kind.  She
knows--about herself, I mean--doesn't she, Ruthie?"

"I guess so," replied Ruth, almost hanging her head in her
mortification.  "She's very good and sweet."

"Indeed, she is," said Lottie.  "And father says she's far and
away the prettiest girl in town."

With this parting shot, which struck precisely where she had
aimed, Lottie gathered up the reins and drove on, calling out a
friendly "Hello, Susie dearie," to Susan Lenox, who, on her
purposely lagging way from the house, had nearly reached the gate.

"What a nasty thing Lottie Wright is!" exclaimed Ruth to her cousin.

"She has a mean tongue," admitted Susan, tall and slim and
straight, with glorious dark hair and a skin healthily pallid
and as smooth as clear.  "But she's got a good heart.  She gives
a lot away to poor people."

"Because she likes to patronize and be kowtowed to," retorted
Ruth.  "She's mean, I tell you." Then, with a vicious gleam in
the blue eyes that hinted a deeper and less presentable motive
for the telling, she added:  "Why, she's not going to ask you
to her party."

Susan was obviously unmoved.  "She has the right to ask whom she
pleases.  And"--she laughed--"if I were giving a party I'd not
want to ask her--though I might do it for fear she'd feel left out."

"Don't you feel--left out?"

Susan shook her head.  "I seem not to care much about going to
parties lately.  The boys don't like to dance with me, and I get
tired of sitting the dances out."

This touched Ruth's impulsively generous heart and woman's easy
tears filled her eyes; her cousin's remark was so pathetic, the
more pathetic because its pathos was absolutely unconscious.
Ruth shot a pitying glance at Susan, but the instant she saw the
loveliness of the features upon which that expression of
unconsciousness lay like innocence upon a bed of roses, the pity
vanished from her eyes to be replaced by a disfiguring envy as
hateful as an evil emotion can be at nineteen.  Susan still
lacked nearly a month of seventeen, but she seemed older than
Ruth because her mind and her body had developed beyond her
years--or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say beyond the
average of growth at seventeen.  Also, her personality was
stronger, far more definite.  Ruth tried to believe herself the
cleverer and the more beautiful, at times with a certain
success.  But as she happened to be a shrewd young person--an
inheritance from the Warhams--she was haunted by misgivings--and
worse.  Those whose vanity never suffers from these torments
will, of course, condemn her; but whoever has known the pain of
having to concede superiority to someone with whom she or he--is
constantly contrasted will not be altogether without sympathy
for Ruth in her struggles, often vain struggles, against the
mortal sin of jealousy.

The truth is, Susan was beyond question the beauty of
Sutherland.  Her eyes, very dark at birth, had changed to a soft,
dreamy violet-gray.  Hair and coloring, lashes and eyebrows
remained dark; thus her eyes and the intense red of her lips had
that vicinage of contrast which is necessary to distinction.  To
look at her was to be at once fascinated by those violet-gray
eyes--by their color, by their clearness, by their regard of
calm, grave inquiry, by their mystery not untouched by a certain
sadness.  She had a thick abundance of wavy hair, not so long as
Ruth's golden braids, but growing beautifully instead of thinly
about her low brow, about her delicately modeled ears, and at
the back of her exquisite neck.  Her slim nose departed enough
from the classic line to prevent the suggestion of monotony that
is in all purely classic faces.  Her nostrils had the
sensitiveness that more than any other outward sign indicates
the imaginative temperament.  Her chin and throat--to look at
them was to know where her lover would choose to kiss her first.
When she smiled her large even teeth were dazzling.  And the
smile itself was exceedingly sweet and winning, with the
violet-gray eyes casting over it that seriousness verging on
sadness which is the natural outlook of a highly intelligent
nature.  For while stupid vain people are suspicious and easily
offended, only the intelligent are truly sensitive--keenly
susceptible to all sensations.  The dull ear is suspicious; the
acute ear is sensitive.

The intense red of her lips, at times so vivid that it seemed
artificial, and their sinuous, sensitive curve indicated a
temperament that was frankly proclaimed in her figure--sensuous,
graceful, slender--the figure of girlhood in its perfection and
of perfect womanhood, too--like those tropical flowers that look
innocent and young and fresh, yet stir in the beholder
passionate longings and visions.  Her walk was worthy of face and
figure--free and firm and graceful, the small head carried
proudly without haughtiness.

This physical beauty had as an aureole to illuminate it and to
set it off a manner that was wholly devoid of mannerisms--of
those that men and women think out and exhibit to give added
charm to themselves--tricks of cuteness, as lisp and baby stare;
tricks of dignity, as grave brow and body always carried rigidly
erect; tricks of sweetness and kindliness, as the ever ready
smile and the warm handclasp.  Susan, the interested in the
world about her, Susan, the self-unconscious, had none of these
tricks.  She was at all times her own self.  Beauty is anything
but rare, likewise intelligence.  But this quality of naturalness
is the greatest of all qualities.  It made Susan Lenox unique.

It was not strange--nor inexcusable that the girls and their
parents had begun to pity Susan as soon as this beauty developed
and this personality had begun to exhale its delicious perfume.
It was but natural that they should start the whole town to
"being kind to the poor thing." And it was equally the matter of
course that they should have achieved their object--should have
impressed the conventional masculine mind of the town with such
a sense of the "poor thing's" social isolation and
"impossibility" that the boys ceased to be her eagerly admiring
friends, were afraid to be alone with her, to ask her to dance.
Women are conventional as a business; but with men
conventionality is a groveling superstition.  The youths of
Sutherland longed for, sighed for the alluring, sweet, bright
Susan; but they dared not, with all the women saying "Poor
thing! What a pity a nice man can't afford to have anything to
do with her!" It was an interesting typical example of the
profound snobbishness of the male character.  Rarely, after Susan
was sixteen, did any of the boys venture to ask her to dance and
so give himself the joy of encircling that lovely form of hers;
yet from babyhood her fascination for the male sex, regardless
of age or temperament, had been uncanny--"naturally, she being
a love-child," said the old women.  And from fourteen on, it grew
steadily.

It would be difficult for one who has not lived in a small town
to understand exactly the kind of isolation to which Sutherland
consigned the girl without her realizing it, without their fully
realizing it themselves.  Everyone was friendly with her.  A
stranger would not have noticed any difference in the treatment
of her and of her cousin Ruth.  Yet not one of the young men
would have thought of marrying her, would have regarded her as
his equal or the equal of his sisters.  She went to all the
general entertainments.  She was invited to all the houses when
failure to invite her would have seemed pointed--but only then.
She did not think much about herself; she was fond of
study--fonder of reading--fondest, perhaps, of making dresses
and hats, especially for Ruth, whom she thought much prettier
than herself.  Thus, she was only vaguely, subconsciously
conscious of there being something peculiar and mysterious in
her lot.

This isolation, rather than her dominant quality of
self-effacing consideration for others, was the chief cause of
the extraordinary innocence of her mind.  No servant, no girl, no
audacious boy ever ventured to raise with her any question
remotely touching on sex.  All those questions seemed to Puritan
Sutherland in any circumstances highly indelicate; in relation
to Susan they seemed worse than indelicate, dreadful though the
thought was that there could be anything worse than indelicacy.
At fifteen she remained as unaware of even the existence of the
mysteries of sex as she had been at birth.  Nothing definite
enough to arouse her curiosity had ever been said in her
hearing; and such references to those matters as she found in
her reading passed her by, as any matter of which he has not the
beginnings of knowledge will fail to arrest the attention of any
reader.  It was generally assumed that she knew all about her
origin, that someone had, some time or other, told her.  Even her
Aunt Fanny thought so, thought she was hiding the knowledge deep
in her heart, explained in that way her content with the
solitude of books and sewing.

Susan was the worst possible influence in Ruth's life.  Our
character is ourself, is born with us, clings to us as the flesh
to our bones, persists unchanged until we die.  But upon the
circumstances that surround us depends what part of our
character shall show itself.  Ruth was born with perhaps
something more than the normal tendency to be envious and petty.
But these qualities might never have shown themselves
conspicuously had there been no Susan for her to envy.  The very
qualities that made Susan lovable reacted upon the pretty, pert
blond cousin to make her the more unlovable.  Again and again,
when she and Susan were about to start out together, and Susan
would appear in beauty and grace of person and dress, Ruth would
excuse herself, would fly to her room to lock herself in and
weep and rage and hate.  And at the high school, when Susan
scored in a recitation or in some dramatic entertainment, Ruth
would sit with bitten lip and surging bosom, pale with jealousy.
Susan's isolation, the way the boys avoided having with her the
friendly relations that spring up naturally among young people
these gave Ruth a partial revenge.  But Susan, seemingly
unconscious, rising sweetly and serenely above all pettiness--

Ruth's hatred deepened, though she hid it from everyone, almost
from herself.  And she depended more and more utterly upon Susan
to select her clothes for her, to dress her, to make her look
well; for Susan had taste and Ruth had not.

On that bright June morning as the cousins went up Main Street
together, Susan gave herself over to the delight of sun and air
and of the flowering gardens before the attractive houses they
were passing; Ruth, with the day quite dark for her, all its
joys gone, was fighting against a hatred of her cousin so
vicious that it made her afraid.  "I'll have no chance at all,"
her angry heart was saying, "so long as Susie's around, keeping
everybody reminded of the family shame." And that was a truth
she could not downface, mean and ungenerous though thinking it
might be.  The worst of all was that Susan, in a simple white
dress and an almost untrimmed white straw hat with a graceful
curve to its brim and set at the right angle upon that wavy dark
hair, was making the beauty of her short blond cousin dim and
somehow common.

At the corner of Maple Street Ruth's self-control reached its
limit.  She halted, took the sample of silk from her glove.  There
was not a hint of her feelings in her countenance, for shame and
the desire to seem to be better than she was were fast making
her an adept in hypocrisy.  "You go ahead and match it for
mamma," said she.  "I've got to run in and see Bessie Andrews."

"But I promised Uncle George I'd come and help him with the
monthly bills," objected Susan.

"You can do both.  It'll take you only a minute.  If mother had
known you were going uptown, she'd never have trusted _me_." And
Ruth had tucked the sample in Susan's belt and was hurrying out
Maple Street.  There was nothing for Susan to do but go on alone.

Two squares, and she was passing the show place of Sutherland,
the home of the Wrights.  She paused to regale herself with a
glance into the grove of magnificent elms with lawns and bright
gardens beyond--for the Wright place filled the entire square
between Broad and Myrtle Streets and from Main to Monroe.  She
was starting on when she saw among the trees a young man in
striped flannels.  At the same instant he saw her.

"Hel-_lo_, Susie!" he cried.  "I was thinking about you."

Susan halted.  "When did you get back, Sam?" she asked.  "I heard
you were going to stay on in the East all summer."

After they had shaken hands across the hedge that came almost to
their shoulders, Susan began to move on.  Sam kept pace with her
on his side of the carefully trimmed boxwood barrier.  "I'm going
back East in about two weeks," said he.  "It's awfully dull here
after Yale.  I just blew in--haven't seen Lottie or father yet.
Coming to Lottie's party?"

"No," said Susan.

"Why not?"

Susan laughed merrily.  "The best reason in the world.  Lottie has
only invited just so many couples."

"I'll see about that," cried Sam.  "You'll be asked all right, all right."

"No," said Susan.  She was one of those whose way of saying no
gives its full meaning and intent.  "I'll not be asked, thank
you--and I'll not go if I am."

By this time they were at the gate.  He opened it, came out into
the street.  He was a tallish, athletic youth, dark, and pleasing
enough of feature to be called handsome.  He was dressed with a
great deal of style of the efflorescent kind called sophomoric.
He was a Sophomore at Yale.  But that was not so largely
responsible for his self-complacent expression as the deference
he had got from babyhood through being heir apparent to the
Wright fortune.  He had a sophisticated way of inspecting Susan's
charms of figure no less than charms of face that might have made
a disagreeable impression upon an experienced onlooker.  There is
a time for feeling without knowing why one feels; and that period
ought not to have been passed for young Wright for many a year.

"My, but you're looking fine, Susie!" exclaimed he.  "I haven't
seen anyone that could hold a candle to you even in the East."

Susan laughed and blushed with pleasure.  "Go on," said she with
raillery.  "I love it."

"Come in and sit under the trees and I'll fill all the time
you'll give me."

This reminded her.  "I must hurry uptown," she said.  "Good-by."

"Hold on!" cried he.  "What have you got to do?" He happened to
glance down the street.  "Isn't that Ruth coming?"

"So it is," said Susan.  "I guess Bessie Andrews wasn't at home."

Sam waved at Ruth and called, "Hello!  Glad to see you."

Ruth was all sweetness and smiles.  She and her mother--quite
privately and with nothing openly said on either side--had
canvassed Sam as a "possibility." There had been keen
disappointment at the news that he was not coming home for the
long vacation.  "How are you, Sam?" said she, as they shook
hands.  "My, Susie, _doesn't_ he look New York?"

Sam tried to conceal that he was swelling with pride.  "Oh, this
is nothing," said he deprecatingly.

Ruth's heart was a-flutter.  The Fisher picture of the Chambers
love-maker, thought she, might almost be a photograph of Sam.
She was glad she had obeyed the mysterious impulse to make a
toilette of unusual elegance that morning.  How get rid of Susan?
"_I_'ll take the sample, Susie," said she.  "Then you won't have to
keep father waiting."

Susie gave up the sample.  Her face was no longer so bright and interested.

"Oh, drop it," cried Sam.  "Come in--both of you.  I'll telephone
for Joe Andrews and we'll take a drive--or anything you like."
He was looking at Susan.

"Can't do it," replied Susan.  "I promised Uncle George."

"Oh, bother!" urged Sam.  "Telephone him.  It'll be all
right--won't it, Ruth?"

"You don't know Susie," said Ruth, with a queer, strained laugh.
"She'd rather die than break a promise."

"I must go," Susan now said.  "Good-by."

"Come on, Ruth," cried Sam.  "Let's walk uptown with her."

"And you can help match the silk," said Ruth.

"Not for me," replied young Wright.  Then to Susan, "What've _you_
got to do?  Maybe it's something I could help at."

"No.  It's for Uncle George and me."

"Well, I'll go as far as the store.  Then--we'll see."

They were now in the business part of Main Street, were at
Wilson's dry goods store.  "You might find it here," suggested
the innocent Susan to her cousin.

Ruth colored, veiled her eyes to hide their flash.  "I've got to
go to the store first--to get some money," she hastily improvised.

Sam had been walking between the two girls.  He now changed to
the outside and, so, put himself next Susan alone, put Susan
between him and Ruth.  The maneuver seemed to be a mere
politeness, but Ruth knew better.  What fate had intended as her
lucky day was being changed into unlucky by this cousin of hers.
Ruth walked sullenly along, hot tears in her eyes and a choke in
her throat, as she listened to Sam's flatterings of her cousin,
and to Susan's laughing, delighted replies.  She tried to gather
herself together, to think up something funny or at least
interesting with which to break into the _tête-à-tête_ and draw
Sam to herself.  She could think nothing but envious, hateful
thoughts.  At the doors of Warham and Company, wholesale and
retail grocers, the three halted.

"I guess I'll go to Vandermark's," said Ruth.  "I really don't
need money.  Come on, Sam."

"No--I'm going back home.  I ought to see Lottie and father.  My,
but it's dull in this town!"

"Well, so long," said Susan.  She nodded, sparkling of hair and
skin and eyes, and went into the store.

Sam and Ruth watched her as she walked down the broad aisle
between the counters.  From the store came a mingling of odors of
fruit, of spices, of freshly ground coffee.  "Susan's an awful
pretty girl, isn't she?" declared Sam with rude enthusiasm.

"Indeed she is," replied Ruth as heartily--and with an honest if
discouraged effort to feel enthusiastic.

"What a figure!  And she has such a good walk.  Most women walk horribly."

"Come on to Vandermark's with me and I'll stroll back with you,"
offered Ruth.  Sam was still gazing into the store where, far to
the rear, Susan could be seen; the graceful head, the gently
swelling bust, the soft lines of the white dress, the pretty
ankles revealed by the short skirt--there was, indeed, a profile
worth a man's looking at on a fine June day.  Ruth's eyes were
upon Sam, handsome, dressed in the Eastern fashion, an ideal
lover.  "Come on, Sam," urged Ruth.

"No, thanks," he replied absently.  "I'll go back.  Good luck!"
And not glancing at her, he lifted his straw hat with its band
of Yale blue and set out.

Ruth moved slowly and disconsolately in the opposite direction.
She was ashamed of her thoughts; but shame never yet withheld
anybody from being human in thought.  As she turned to enter
Vandermark's she glanced down the street.  There was Sam,
returned and going into her father's store.  She hesitated, could
devise no plan of action, hurried into the dry goods store.
Sinclair, the head salesman and the beau of Sutherland, was an
especial friend of hers.  The tall, slender, hungry-looking young
man, devoured with ambition for speedy wealth, had no mind to
neglect so easy an aid to that ambition as nature gave him in
making him a lady-charmer.  He had resolved to marry either
Lottie Wright or Ruth Warham--Ruth preferred, because, while
Lottie would have many times more money, her skin made her a
stiff dose for a young man brought up to the American tradition
that the face is the woman.  But that morning Sinclair exerted
his charms in vain.  Ruth was in a hurry, was distinctly rude,
cut short what in other circumstances would have been a
prolonged and delightful flirtation by tossing the sample on the
counter and asking him to do the matching for her and to send
the silk right away.  Which said, she fairly bolted from the store.

She arrived barely in time.  Young Wright was issuing from Warham
and Company.  He smiled friendly enough, but Ruth knew where his
thoughts were.  "Get what you wanted?" inquired he, and went on
to explain:  "I came back to find out if you and Susie were to be
at home this evening.  Thought I'd call."

Ruth paled with angry dismay.  She was going to a party at the
Sinclairs'--one to which Susan was not invited.  "Aren't you
going to Sinclairs'?" said she.

"I was.  But I thought I'd rather call.  Perhaps I'll go there later."

He was coming to call on Susan!  All the way down Main Street to
the Wright place Ruth fought against her mood of angry and
depressed silence, tried to make the best of her chance to
impress Sam.  But Sam was absent and humiliatingly near to curt.
He halted at his father's gate.  She halted also, searched the
grounds with anxious eyes for sign of Lottie that would give her
the excuse for entering.

"So long," said Sam.

"Do come to Sinclairs' early.  You always did dance so well."

"Oh, dancing bores me," said the blasé Sophomore.  "But I'll be
round before the shindy's over.  I've got to take Lot home."

He lifted the hat again with what both he and Ruth regarded as
a gesture of most elegant carelessness.  Ruth strolled
reluctantly on, feeling as if her toilet had been splashed or
crushed.  As she entered the front door her mother, in a wrapper
and curl papers, appeared at the head of the stairs.  "Why!" cried
she.  "Where's the silk?  It's for your dress tonight, you know."

"It'll be along," was Ruth's answer, her tone dreary, her lip
quivering.  "I met Sam Wright."

"Oh!" exclaimed her mother.  "He's back, is he?"

Ruth did not reply.  She came on up the stairs, went into the
sitting-room--the room where Doctor Stevens seventeen years
before had torn the baby Susan from the very claws of death.  She
flung herself down, buried her head in her arms upon that same
table.  She burst into a storm of tears.

"Why, dearie dear," cried her mother, "whatever is the matter?"

"It's wicked and hateful," sobbed the girl, "but---- Oh, mamma, I
_hate_ Susan!  She was along, and Sam hardly noticed me, and he's
coming here this evening to call."

"But you'll be at Sinclairs'!" exclaimed Mrs. Warham.

"Not Susan," sobbed Ruth.  "He wants to see only her."

The members of the Second Presbyterian Church, of which Fanny
Warham was about the most exemplary and assiduous female member,
would hardly have recognized the face encircled by that triple
row of curl-papered locks, shinily plastered with quince-seed
liquor.  She was at woman's second critical age, and the strange
emotions working in her mind--of whose disorder no one had an
inkling--were upon the surface now.  She ventured this freedom of
facial expression because her daughter's face was hid.  She did
not speak.  She laid a tender defending hand for an instant upon
her daughter's shoulder--like the caress of love and
encouragement the lioness gives her cub as she is about to give
battle for it.  Then she left the room.  She did not know what to
do, but she knew she must and would do something.




CHAPTER III


THE telephone was downstairs, in the rear end of the hall which
divided the lower floor into two equal parts.  But hardly had
Mrs. Warham given the Sinclairs' number to the exchange girl
when Ruth called from the head of the stairs:

"What're you doing there, mamma?"

"I'll tell Mrs. Sinclair you're sick and can't come.  Then I'll
send Susan in your place."

"Don't!" cried Ruth, in an agitated, angry voice.  "Ring off--quick!"

"Now, Ruth, let me----"

"Ring off!" ordered Ruth.  "You mustn't do that.  You'll have the
whole town talking about how I'm throwing myself at Sam's
head--and that I'm jealous of Susan."

Mrs. Warham said, "Never mind" into the telephone sender and
hung up the receiver.  She was frightened, but not convinced.
Hers was a slow, old-fashioned mind, and to it the scheme it had
worked out seemed a model of skillful duplicity.  But Ruth, of
the younger and subtler generation, realized instantly how
transparent the thing was.  Mrs. Warham was abashed but not
angered by her daughter's curt contempt.

"It's the only way I can think of," said she.  "And I still
don't see----"

"Of course you don't," cut in Ruth, ruffled by the perilously
narrow escape from being the laughing stock of the town.  "People
aren't as big fools as they used to be, mamma.  They don't
believe nowadays everything that's told them.  There isn't
anybody that doesn't know I'm never sick.  No--we'll have to----"

She reflected a moment, pausing halfway down the stairs, while
her mother watched her swollen and tear-stained face.

"We might send Susan away for the evening," suggested the mother.

"Yes," assented the daughter.  "Papa could take her with him for
a drive to North Sutherland--to see the Provosts.  Then Sam'd
come straight on to the Sinclairs'."

"I'll call up your father."

"No!" cried Ruth, stamping her foot.  "Call up Mr. Provost, and
tell him papa's coming.  Then you can talk with papa when he gets
home to dinner."

"But maybe----"

"If that doesn't work out we can do something else this afternoon."

The mother and the daughter avoided each other's eyes.  Both felt
mean and small, guilty toward Susan; but neither was for that
reason disposed to draw back.  As Mrs. Warham was trying the new
dress on her daughter, she said:

"Anyhow, Sam'd be wasting time on Susan.  He'd hang round her for
no good.  She'd simply get talked about.  The poor child can't be
lively or smile but what people begin to wonder if she's going
the way of--of Lorella."

"That's so," agreed Ruth, and both felt better.  "Was Aunt
Lorella _very_ pretty, mamma?"

"Lovely!" replied Fanny, and her eyes grew tender, for she had
adored Lorella.  "You never saw such a complexion--like Susan's, only
snow-white." Nervously and hastily, "Most as fine as yours, Ruthie."

Ruth gazed complacently into the mirror.  "I'm glad I'm fair, and
not big," said she.

"Yes, indeed!  I like the womanly woman.  And so do men."

"Don't you think we ought to send Susan away to visit
somewhere?" asked Ruth at the next opportunity for talk the
fitting gave.  "It's getting more and more--pointed--the way
people act.  And she's so sweet and good, I'd hate to have her
feelings hurt." In a burst of generosity, "She's the most
considerate human being I ever knew.  She'd give up anything
rather than see someone else put out.  She's too much that way."

"We can't be too much that way," said Mrs. Warham in mechanical
Christian reproof.

"Oh, I know," retorted Ruth, "that's all very well for church
and Sundays.  But I guess if you want to get along you've got to
look out for Number One. . . .  Yes, she ought to visit somewhere."

"I've been trying to think," said her mother.  "She couldn't go
any place but your Uncle Zeke's.  But it's so lonesome out there
I haven't the heart to send her.  Besides, she wouldn't know what
to make of it."

"What'd father say?"

"That's another thing." Mrs. Warham had latterly grown
jealous--not without reason--of her husband's partiality for Susan.

Ruth sighed.  "Oh, dear!" cried she.  "I don't know what to do.
How's she ever going to get married!"

"If she'd only been a boy!" said Mrs. Warham, on her knees,
taking the unevenness out of the front of the skirt.  "A girl has
to suffer for her mother's sins."

Ruth made no reply.  She smiled to herself--the comment of the
younger generation upon the older.  Sin it might have been; but,
worse than that, it was a stupidity--to let a man make a fool of
her.  Lorella must have been a poor weak-minded creature.

By dinner time Ruth had completely soothed and smoothed her
vanity.  Sam had been caught by Susan simply because he had seen
Susan before he saw her.

All that would be necessary was a good chance at him, and he
would never look at Susan again.  He had been in the East, where
the admired type was her own--refined, ladylike, the woman of
the dainty appearance and manners and tastes.  A brief
undisturbed exposure to her charms and Susan would seem coarse
and countrified to him.  There was no denying that Susan had
style, but it was fully effective only when applied to a sunny
fairy-like beauty such as hers.

But at midday, when Susan came in with Warham, Ruth's jealousy
opened all her inward-bleeding wounds again.  Susan's merry eyes,
her laughing mouth, her funny way of saying even commonplace
things--how could quiet, unobtrusive, ladylike charms such as
Ruth's have a chance if Susan were about?  She waited, silent and
anxious, while her mother was having the talk with her father in the
sitting-room.  Warham, mere man, was amused by his wife's scheming.

"Don't put yourself out, Fanny," said he.  "If the boy wants Ruth
and she wants him, why, well and good.  But you'll only make a
mess interfering.  Let the young people alone."

"I'm surprised, George Warham," cried Fanny, "that you can show
so little sense and heart."

"To hear you talk, I'd think marriage was a business, like groceries."

Mrs. Warham thought it was, in a sense.  But she would never have
dared say so aloud, even to her husband--or, rather, especially
to her husband.  In matters of men and women he was thoroughly
innocent, with the simplicity of the old-time man of the small
town and the country; he fancied that, while in grocery matters
and the like the world was full of guile, in matters of the
heart it was idyllic, Arcadian, with never a thought of duplicity,
except among a few obviously wicked and designing people.

"I guess we both want to see Ruth married well," was all she
could venture.

"I'd rather the girls stayed with us," declared Warham.  "I'd
hate to give them up."

"Of course," hastily agreed Fanny.  "Still--it's the regular
order of nature."

"Oh, Ruth'll marry--only too soon," said Warham.  "And marry
well.  I'm not so sure, though, that marrying any of old Wright's
breed would be marrying what ought to be called well.  Money
isn't everything--not by a long sight--though, of course, it's
comfortable."

"I never heard anything against Sam," protested Mrs. Warham.

"You've heard what I've heard--that he's wild and loose.  But
then you women like that in a man."

"We've got to put up with it, you mean," cried Fanny, indignant.

"Women like it," persisted Warham.  "And I guess Sam's only
sowing the usual wild oats, getting ready to settle.  No, mother,
you let Ruth alone.  If she wants him, she'll get him--she or Susan."

Mrs. Warham compressed her lips and lowered her eyes.  Ruth or
Susan--as if it didn't matter which!  "Susan isn't _ours_," she
could not refrain from saying.

"Indeed, she is!" retorted George warmly.  "Why, she couldn't be
more our own----"

"Yes, certainly," interrupted Fanny.

She moved toward the door.  She saw that without revealing her
entire scheme--hers and Ruth's--she could make no headway with
George.  And if she did reveal it he would sternly veto it.  So
she gave up that direction.  She went upstairs; George took his
hat from the front hall rack and pushed open the screen door.  As
he appeared on the veranda Susan was picking dead leaves from
one of the hanging baskets; Ruth, seated in the hammock, hands
in lap, her whole attitude intensely still, was watching her
with narrowed eyes.

"What's this I hear," cried Warham, laughing, "about you two
girls setting your caps for Sam Wright?" And his good-humored
brown eyes glanced at Ruth, passed on to Susan's wealth of wavy
dark hair and long, rounded form, and lingered there.

Ruth lowered her eyes and compressed her lips, a trick she had
borrowed from her mother along with the peculiarities of her
mother's disposition that it fitted.  Susan flung a laughing
glance over her shoulder at her uncle.  "Not Ruth," said she.
"Only me.  I saw him first, so he's mine.  He's coming to see me
this evening."

"So I hear.  Well, the moon's full and your aunt and I'll not
interrupt--at least not till ten o'clock.  No callers on a child
like you after ten."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be able to hold him that long."

"Don't you fret, Brownie.  But I mustn't make you vain.  Coming
along to the store?"

"No.  Tomorrow," said Susan.  "I can finish in the morning.  I'm
going to wear my white dress with embroidery, and it's got to be
pressed--and that means I must do it myself."

"Poor Sam!  And I suppose, when he calls, you'll come down as if
you'd put on any old thing and didn't care whether he came or
not.  And you'll have primped for an hour--and he, too--shaving
and combing and trying different ties."

Susan sparkled at the idea of a young man, and _such_ a young
man, taking trouble for her.  Ruth, pale, kept her eyes down and
her lips compressed.  She was picturing the gallant appearance
the young Sophomore from Yale, away off in the gorgeous
fashionable East, would make as he came in at that gate yonder
and up the walk and seated himself on the veranda--with Susan!
Evidently her mother had failed; Susan was not to be taken away.

When Warham departed down the walk Ruth rose; she could not bear
being alone with her triumphant rival--triumphant because
unconscious.  She knew that to get Sam to herself all she would
have to do would be to hint to Susan, the generous, what she
wanted.  But pride forbade that.  As her hand was on the knob of
the screen door, Susan said:  "Why don't you like Sam?"

"Oh, I think he's stuck-up.  He's been spoiled in the East."

"Why, I don't see any sign of it."

"You were too flattered by his talking to you," said Ruth, with a
sweet-sour little laugh--an asp of a sneer hid in a basket of flowers.

Susan felt the sting; but, seeing only the flowers, did not
dream whence it had come.  "It _was_ nice, wasn't it?" said she,
gayly.  "Maybe you're right about him, but I can't help liking
him.  You must admit he's handsome."

"He has a bad look in his eyes," replied Ruth.  Such rage against
Susan was swelling within her that it seemed to her she would
faint if she did not release at least part of it.  "You want to
look out for him, Susie," said she, calmly and evenly.  "You
don't want to take what he says seriously."

"Of course not," said Susan, quite honestly, though she, no more
than the next human being, could avoid taking seriously whatever
was pleasantly flattering.

"He'd never think of marrying you." Ruth trembled before and
after delivering this venomous shaft.

"Marrying!" cried Susan, again quite honestly.  "Why, I'm only seventeen."

Ruth drew a breath of relief.  The shaft had glanced off the
armor of innocence without making the faintest dent.  She rushed
into the house.  She did not dare trust herself with her cousin.
What might the demon within her tempt her to say next?

"Come up, Ruth!" called her mother.  "The dress is ready for the
last try-on.  I think it's going to hang beautifully."

Ruth dragged herself up the stairs, lagged into the
sitting-room, gazed at the dress with a scowl.  "What did father
say?" she asked.

"It's no use trying to do anything with your father."

Ruth flung herself in a corner of the sofa.

"The only thing I can think of," said her mother, humbly and
timidly, "is phone the Sinclairs as I originally set out to do."

"And have the whole town laughing at me. . . .  Oh, what do I
care, anyhow!"

"Arthur Sinclair's taller and a sight handsomer.  Right in the
face, Sam's as plain as Dick's hatband.  His looks is all clothes
and polish--and mighty poor polish, I think.  Arthur's got rise
in him, too, while Sam--well, I don't know what'd become of him
if old Wright lost his money."

But Arthur, a mere promise, seemed poor indeed beside Sam, the
actually arrived.  To marry Sam would be to step at once into
grandeur; to marry Arthur would mean years of struggle.
Besides, Arthur was heavy, at least seemed heavy to light Ruth,
while Sam was her ideal of gay elegance.  "I _detest_ Arthur
Sinclair," she now announced.

"You can get Sam if you want him," said her mother confidently.  "One
evening with a mere child like Susie isn't going to amount to much."

Ruth winced.  "Do you suppose I don't know that?" cried she.
"What makes me so mad is his impudence--coming here to see her
when he wouldn't marry her or take her any place.  It's insulting
to us all."

"Oh, I don't think it's as bad as all that, Ruthie," soothed her
mother, too simple-minded to accept immediately this clever
subtlety of self-deception.

"You know this town--how people talk.  Why, his sister----" and
she related their conversation at the gate that morning.

"You ought to have sat on her hard, Ruth," said Mrs. Warham,
with dangerously sparkling eyes.  "No matter what we may think
privately, it gives people a low opinion of us to----"

"Don't I know that!" shrilled Ruth.  She began to weep.  "I'm
ashamed of myself."

"But we must try the dress on." Mrs. Warham spread the skirt,
using herself as form.  "Isn't it too lovely!"

Ruth dried her eyes as she gazed.  The dress was indeed lovely.
But her pleasure in it was shadowed by the remembrance that most
of the loveliness was due to Susan's suggestions.  Still, she
tried it on, and felt better.  She would linger until Sam came,
would exhibit herself to him; and surely he would not tarry long
with Susan.  This project improved the situation greatly.  She
began her toilet for the evening at once, though it was only
three o'clock.  Susan finished her pressing and started to dress
at five--because she knew Ruth would be appealing to her to come
in and help put the finishing touches to the toilet for the
party.  And, sure enough, at half-past five, before she had
nearly finished, Ruth, with a sneaking humility, begged her to
come "for half a minute--if you don't mind--and have got time."

Susan did Ruth's hair over, made her change to another color of
stockings and slippers, put the dress on her, did nearly an
hour's refitting and redraping.  Both were late for supper; and
after supper Susan had to make certain final amendments to the
wonderful toilet, and then get herself ready.  So it was Ruth
alone who went down when Sam Wright came.  "My, but you do look
all to the good, Ruth!" cried Sam.  And his eyes no less than his
tone showed that he meant it.  He hadn't realized what a soft
white neck the blond cousin had, or how perfectly her shoulders
rounded into her slim arms.  As Ruth moved to depart, he said:
"Don't be in such a rush.  Wait till Susie finishes her primping
and comes down."

"She had to help me," said Ruth, with a righteousness she could
justly plume herself upon.  "That's why she's late.  No, I must
get along." She was wise enough to resist the temptation to
improve upon an already splendid impression.  "Come as soon as
you can."

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Sam assured her convincingly.
"Save some dances for me."

Ruth went away happy.  At the gate she glanced furtively back.
Sam was looking after her.  She marched down the street with
light step.  "I must wear low-necked dresses more in the
evenings," she said to herself.  "It's foolish for a girl to
hide a good neck."

Sam, at the edge of the veranda, regretting his promise to call
on Susan, was roused by her voice:  "Did you ever see anything as
lovely as Ruth?"

Sam's regret vanished the instant he looked at her, and the
greedy expression came into his sensual, confident young face.
"She's a corker," said he.  "But I'm content to be where I am."

Susan's dress was not cut out in the neck, was simply of the
collarless kind girls of her age wear.  It revealed the smooth,
voluptuous yet slender column of her throat.  And her arms, bare
to just above the elbows, were exquisite.  But Susan's
fascination did not lie in any or in all of her charms, but in
that subtlety of magnetism which account for all the sensational
phenomena of the relations of men and women.  She was a clever
girl--clever beyond her years, perhaps--though in this day
seventeen is not far from fully developed womanhood.  But even
had she been silly, men would have been glad to linger on and on
under the spell of the sex call which nature had subtly woven
into the texture of her voice, into the glance of her eyes, into
the delicate emanations of her skin.

They talked of all manner of things--games and college East and
West--the wonders of New York--the weather, finally.  Sam was
every moment of the time puzzling how to bring up the one
subject that interested both above all others, that interested
him to the exclusion of all others.  He was an ardent student of
the game of man and woman, had made considerable progress at
it--remarkable progress, in view of his bare twenty years.  He
had devised as many "openings" as an expert chess player.  None
seemed to fit this difficult case how to make love to a girl of
his own class whom his conventional, socially ambitious nature
forbade him to consider marrying.  As he observed her in the
moonlight, he said to himself:  "I've got to look out or I'll
make a damn fool of myself with her." For his heady passion was
fast getting the better of those prudent instincts he had
inherited from a father who almost breathed by calculation.

While he was still struggling for an "opening," Susan eager to
help him but not knowing how, there came from the far interior
of the house three distant raps.  "Gracious!" exclaimed Susan.
"That's Uncle George.  It must be ten o'clock." With frank
regret, "I'm so sorry.  I thought it was early."

"Yes, it did seem as if I'd just come," said Sam.  Her shy
innocence was contagious.  He felt an awkward country lout.
"Well, I suppose I must go."

"But you'll come again--sometime?" she asked wistfully.  It was
her first real beau--the first that had interested her--and what
a dream lover of a beau he looked, standing before her in that
wonderful light!

"Come?  Rather!" exclaimed he in a tone of enthusiasm that could
not but flatter her into a sort of intoxication.  "I'd have hard
work staying away.  But Ruth--she'll always be here."

"Oh, she goes out a lot--and I don't."

"Will you telephone me--next time she's to be out?"

"Yes," agreed she with a hesitation that was explained when she
added:  "But don't think you've got to come. . . .  Oh, I must go in!"

"Good night--Susie." Sam held out his hand.  She took it with a
queer reluctance.  She felt nervous, afraid, as if there were
something uncanny lurking somewhere in those moonlight shadows.
She gently tried to draw her hand away, but he would not let
her.  She made a faint struggle, then yielded.  It was so
wonderful, the sense of the touch of his hand.  "Susie!" he said
hoarsely.  And she knew he felt as she did.  Before she realized
it his arms were round her, and his lips had met hers.  "You
drive me crazy," he whispered.

Both were trembling; she had become quite cold--her cheeks, her hand,
her body even.  "You mustn't," she murmured, drawing gently away.

"You set me crazy," he repeated.  "Do you--love me--a little?"

"Oh, I must go!" she pleaded.  Tears were glistening in her long dark
lashes.  The sight of them maddened him.  "Do you--Susie?" he pleaded.

"I'm--I'm--very young," she stammered.

"Yes--yes--I know," he assented eagerly.  "But not too young to
love, Susie?  No.  Because you do--don't you?"

The moonlit world seemed a fairyland.  "Yes," she said softly.  "I
guess so.  I must go.  I must."

And moved beyond her power to control herself, she broke from
his detaining hand and fled into the house.  She darted up to her
room, paused in the middle of the floor, her hands clasped over
her wildly beating heart.  When she could move she threw open the
shutters and went out on the balcony.  She leaned against the
window frame and gazed up at the stars, instinctively seeking
the companionship of the infinite.  Curiously enough, she thought
little about Sam.  She was awed and wonderstruck before the
strange mysterious event within her, the opening up, the
flowering of her soul.  These vast emotions, where did they come
from?  What were they?  Why did she long to burst into laughter,
to burst into tears?  Why did she do neither, but simply stand
motionless, with the stars blazing and reeling in the sky and
her heart beating like mad and her blood surging and ebbing?  Was
this--love?  Yes--it must be love.  Oh, how wonderful love
was--and how sad--and how happy beyond all laughter--and how
sweet!  She felt an enormous tenderness for everybody and for
everything, for all the world--an overwhelming sense of beauty
and goodness.  Her lips were moving.  She was amazed to find she
was repeating the one prayer she knew, the one Aunt Fanny had
taught her in babyhood.  Why should she find herself praying?
Love--love love!  She was a woman and she loved!  So this was what
it meant to be a woman; it meant to love!

She was roused by the sound of Ruth saying good night to someone
at the gate, invisible because of the intervening foliage.  Why,
it must be dreadfully late.  The Dipper had moved away round to
the south, and the heat of the day was all gone, and the air was
full of the cool, scented breath of leaves and flowers and
grass.  Ruth's lights shone out upon the balcony.  Susan turned to
slip into her own room.  But Ruth heard, called out peevishly:

"Who's there?"

"Only me," cried Susan.

She longed to go in and embrace Ruth, and kiss her.  She would
have liked to ask Ruth to let her sleep with her, but she felt
Ruth wouldn't understand.

"What are you doing out there?" demanded Ruth.  "It's 'way after one."

"Oh--dear--I must go to bed," cried Susan.  Ruth's voice somehow
seemed to be knocking and tumbling her new dream-world.

"What time did Sam Wright leave here?" asked Ruth.

She was standing in her window now.  Susan saw that her face
looked tired and worn, almost homely.

"At ten," she replied.  "Uncle George knocked on the banister."

"Are you sure it was ten?" said Ruth sharply.

"I guess so.  Yes--it was ten.  Why?"

"Oh--nothing."

"Was he at Sinclairs'?"

"He came as it was over.  He and Lottie brought me home." Ruth
was eyeing her cousin evilly.  "How did you two get on?"

Susan flushed from head to foot.  "Oh--so-so," she answered, in
an uncertain voice.

"I don't know why he didn't come to Sinclairs'," snapped Ruth.

Susan flushed again--a delicious warmth from head to foot.  She
knew why.  So he, too, had been dreaming alone.  Love!  Love!

"What are you smiling at?" cried Ruth crossly.

"Was I smiling?. . .  Do you want me to help you undress?"

"No," was the curt answer.  "Good night."

"Please let me unhook it, at least," urged Susan, following Ruth
into her room.

Ruth submitted.

"Did you have a good time?" asked Susan.

"Of course," snapped Ruth.  "What made you think I didn't?"

"Don't be a silly, dear.  I didn't think so."

"I had an awful time--awful!"

Ruth began to sob, turned fiercely on Susan.  "Leave me alone!"
she cried.  "I hate to have you touch me." The dress was, of
course, entirely unfastened in the back.

"You had a quarrel with Arthur?" asked Susan with sympathy.  "But
you know he can't keep away from you.  Tomorrow----"

"Be careful, Susan, how you let Sam Wright hang around you,"
cried Ruth, with blazing eyes and trembling lips.  "You be
careful--that's all I've got to say."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Susan wonderingly.

"Be careful!  He'd never think for a minute of marrying you."

The words meant nothing to Susan; but the tone stabbed into her
heart.  "Why not?" she said.

Ruth looked at her cousin, hung her head in shame.  "Go--go!" she
begged.  "Please go.  I'm a bad girl--bad--_bad_!  Go!" And, crying
hysterically, she pushed amazed Susan through the connecting
door, closed and bolted it.




CHAPTER IV


WHEN Fanny Warham was young her mother--compelled by her
father--roused--"routed out"--the children at half-past six on
week days and at seven on Sundays for prayers and breakfast, no
matter what time they had gone to bed the night before.  The
horror of this made such an impression upon her that she never
permitted Ruth and Susan to be awakened; always they slept until
they had "had their sleep out." Regularity was no doubt an
excellent thing for health and for moral discipline; but the
best rule could be carried to foolish extremes.  Until the last
year Mrs. Warham had made her two girls live a life of the
strictest simplicity and regularity, with the result that they
were the most amazingly, soundly, healthy girls in Sutherland.
And the regimen still held, except when they had company in the
evening or went out--and Mrs. Warham saw to it that there was
not too much of that sort of thing.  In all her life thus far
Susan had never slept less than ten hours, rarely less than twelve.

It lacked less than a minute of ten o'clock the morning after
Sam's call when Susan's eyes opened upon her simple, pale-gray
bedroom, neat and fresh.  She looked sleepily at the little clock
on the night stand.

"Mercy me!" she cried.  And her bare feet were on the floor and
she was stretching her lithe young body, weak from the
relaxation of her profound sleep.

She heard someone stirring in Ruth's room; instantly Ruth's
remark, "He'd never think for a minute of marrying you," popped
into her head.  It still meant nothing to her.  She could not have
explained why it came back or why she fell to puzzling over it
as if it held some mysterious meaning.  Perhaps the reason was
that from early childhood there had been accumulating in some
dusky chamber of her mind stray happenings and remarks, all
baring upon the unsuspected secret of her birth and the
unsuspected strangeness of her position in the world where
everyone else was definitely placed and ticketed.  She was
wondering about Ruth's queer hysterical outburst, evidently the
result of a quarrel with Arthur Sinclair.  "I guess Ruth cares
more for him than she lets on," thought she.  This love that had
come to her so suddenly and miraculously made her alert for
signs of love elsewhere.

She went to the bolted connecting door; she could not remember
when it had ever been bolted before, and she felt forlorn and
shut out.  "Ruth!" she called.

"Is that you?"

A brief silence, then a faint "Yes."

"May I come in?"

"You'd better take your bath and get downstairs."

This reminded her that she was hungry.  She gathered her
underclothes together, and with the bundle in her arms darted
across the hall into the bathroom.  The cold water acted as
champagne promises to act but doesn't.  She felt giddy with
health and happiness.  And the bright sun was flooding the
bathroom, and the odors from the big bed of hyacinths in the
side lawn scented the warm breeze from the open window.  When she
dashed back to her room she was singing, and her singing voice
was as charming as her speaking voice promised.  A few minutes
and her hair had gone up in careless grace and she was clad in
a fresh dress of tan linen, full in the blouse.  This, with her
tan stockings and tan slippers and the radiant youth of her
face, gave her a look of utter cleanness and freshness that was
exceedingly good to see.

"I'm ready," she called.

There was no answer; doubtless Ruth had already descended.  She
rushed downstairs and into the dining-room.  No one was at the
little table set in one of the windows in readiness for the late
breakfasters.

Molly came, bringing cocoa, a cereal, hot biscuit and crab-apple
preserves, all attractively arranged on a large tray.

"I didn't bring much, Miss Susie," she apologized.  "It's so
late, and I don't want you to spoil your dinner.  We're going to
have the grandest chicken that ever came out of an egg."

Susan surveyed the tray with delighted eyes.  "That's plenty," she
said, "if you don't talk too much about the chicken.  Where's Ruth?"

"She ain't coming down.  She's got a headache.  It was that salad
for supper over to Sinclairs' last night.  Salad ain't fit for a
dog to eat, nohow--that's _my_ opinion.  And at night--it's sure
to bust your face out or give you the headache or both."

Susan ate with her usual enthusiasm, thinking the while of Sam
and wondering how she could contrive to see him.  She remembered
her promise to her uncle.  She had not eaten nearly so much as
she wanted.  But up she sprang and in fifteen minutes was on her
way to the store.  She had seen neither Ruth nor her aunt.
"_He_'ll be waiting for me to pass," she thought.  And she was not
disappointed.  There he stood, at the footpath gate into his
father's place.  He had arrayed himself in a blue and white
flannel suit, white hat and shoes; a big expensive-looking
cigarette adorned his lips.  The Martins, the Delevans, the
Castles and the Bowens, neighbors across the way, were watching
him admiringly through the meshes of lace window curtains.  She
expected that he would come forward eagerly.  Instead, he
continued to lean indolently on the gate, as if unaware of her
approach.  And when she was close at hand, his bow and smile
were, so it seemed to her, almost coldly polite.  Into her eyes
came a confused, hurt expression.

"Susie--sweetheart," he said, the voice in as astonishing
contrast as the words to his air of friendly indifference.
"They're watching us from the windows all around here."

"Oh--yes," assented she, as if she understood.  But she didn't.
In Sutherland the young people were not so mindful of gossip,
which it was impossible to escape, anyhow.  Still--off there in
the East, no doubt, they had more refined ways; without a doubt,
whatever Sam did was the correct thing.

"Do you still care as you did last night?" he asked.  The effect
of his words upon her was so obvious that he glanced nervously
round.  It was delightful to be able to evoke a love like this;
but he did wish others weren't looking.

"I'm going to Uncle's store," she said.  "I'm late."

"I'll walk part of the way with you," he volunteered, and they
started on.  "That--that kiss," he stammered.  "I can feel it yet."

She blushed deeply, happily.  Her beauty made him tingle.  "So can
I," she said.

They walked in silence several squares.  "When will I see you
again?" he asked.  "Tonight?"

"Yes--do come down.  But--Ruth'll be there.  I believe Artie
Sinclair's coming."

"Oh, that counter-jumper?"

She looked at him in surprise.  "He's an awfully nice fellow,"
said she.  "About the nicest in town."

"Of course," replied Sam elaborately.  "I beg your pardon.  They
think differently about those things in the East."

"What thing?"

"No matter."

Sam, whose secret dream was to marry some fashionable Eastern
woman and cut a dash in Fifth Avenue life, had no intention of
explaining what was what to one who would not understand, would
not approve, and would be made auspicious of him.  "I suppose
Ruth and Sinclair'll pair off and give us a chance."

"You'll come?"

"Right after din--supper, I mean.  In the East we have dinner in
the evening."

"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Susan.  But she was thinking of the
joys in store for her at the close of the day.

"I must go back now," said Sam.  Far up the street he saw his
sister's pony cart coming.

"You might as well walk to the store." It seemed to her that they
both had ever so much to say to each other, and had said nothing.

"No.  I can't go any further.  Good-by--that is, till tonight."

He was red and stammering.  As they shook hands emotion made them
speechless.  He stumbled awkwardly as he turned to leave, became
still more hotly self-conscious when he saw the grin on the
faces of the group of loungers at a packing case near the curb.
Susan did not see the loafers, did not see anything distinctly.
Her feet sought the uneven brick sidewalk uncertainly, and the
blood was pouring into her cheeks, was steaming in her brain,
making a red mist before her eyes.  She was glad he had left her.
The joy of being with him was so keen that it was pain.  Now she
could breathe freely and could dream--dream--dream.  She made
blunder after blunder in working over the accounts with her
uncle, and he began to tease her.

"You sure are in love, Brownie," declared he.
Her painful but happy blush delighted him.

"Tell me all about it?"

She shook her head, bending it low to hide her color.

"No?. . .  Sometime?"

She nodded.  She was glancing shyly and merrily at him now.

"Well, some hold that first love's best.  Maybe so.  But it seems
to me any time's good enough.  Still--the first time's mighty fine
eh?" He sighed.  "My, but it's good to be young!" And he patted
her thick wavy hair.

It did not leak out until supper that Sam was coming.  Warham
said to Susan, "While Ruth's looking out for Artie, you and I'll
have a game or so of chess, Brownie." Susan colored violently.
"What?" laughed Warham.  "Are _you_ going to have a beau too?"

Susan felt two pairs of feminine eyes pounce--hostile eyes,
savagely curious.  She paled with fright as queer, as
unprecedented, as those hostile glances.  It seemed to her that
she had done or was about to do something criminal.  She could
not speak.

An awful silence, then her aunt--she no longer seemed her loving
aunt--asked in an ominous voice:  "Is someone coming to see you, Susan?"

"Sam Wright"--stammered Susan--"I saw him this morning--he was
at their gate--and he said--I think he's coming."

A dead silence--Warham silent because he was eating, but the two
others not for that reason.

Susan felt horribly guilty, and for no reason.  "I'd have spoken
of it before," she said, "but there didn't seem to be any
chance." She had the instinct of fine shy nature to veil the
soul; she found it hard to speak of anything as sacred as this
love of hers and whatever related to it.

"I can't allow this, Susie," said her aunt, with lips tightly
drawn against the teeth.  "You are too young."

"Oh, come now, mother," cried Warham, good-humoredly.  "That's
foolishness.  Let the young folks have a good time.  You didn't
think you were too young at Susie's age."

"You don't understand, George," said Fanny after she had given
him a private frown.  Susie's gaze was on the tablecloth.  "I
can't permit Sam to come here to see Susie."

Ruth's eyes were down also.  About her lips was a twitching that
meant a struggle to hide a pleased smile.

"I've no objection to Susie's having boys of her own age come to
see her," continued Mrs. Warham in the same precise, restrained
manner.  "But Sam is too old."

"Now, mother----"

Mrs. Warham met his eyes steadily.  "I must protect my sister's
child, George," she said.  At last she had found what she felt
was a just reason for keeping Sam away from Susan, so her tone
was honest and strong.

Warham lowered his gaze.  He understood.  "Oh--as you think best,
Fan; I didn't mean to interfere," said he awkwardly.  He turned
on Susan with his affection in his eyes.  "Well, Brownie, it
looks like chess with your old uncle, doesn't it?"

Susan's bosom was swelling, her lip trembling.  "I--I----" she
began.  She choked back the sobs, faltered out:  "I don't think I
could, Uncle," and rushed from the room.

There was an uncomfortable pause.  Then Warham said, "I must say,
Fan, I think--if you had to do it--you might have spared the
girl's feelings."

Mrs. Warham felt miserable about it also.  "Susie took me by
surprise," she apologized.  Then, defiantly, "And what else can
I do?  You know he doesn't come for any good."

Warham stared in amazement.  "Now, what does _that_ mean?" he demanded.

"You know very well what it means," retorted his wife.

Her tone made him understand.  He reddened, and with too
blustering anger brought his fist down on the table.

"Susan's our daughter.  She's Ruth's sister."

Ruth pushed back her chair and stood up.  Her expression made her
look much older than she was.  "I wish you could induce the rest
of the town to think that, papa," said she.  "It'd make my
position less painful." And she, too, left the room.

"What's she talking about?" asked Warham.

"It's true, George," replied Fanny with trembling lip.  "It's all
my fault--insisting on keeping her.  I might have known!"

"I think you and Ruth must be crazy.  I've seen no sign."

"Have you seen any of the boys calling on Susan since she shot
up from a child to a girl?  Haven't you noticed she isn't invited
any more except when it can't be avoided?"

Warham's face was fiery with rage.  He looked helplessly,
furiously about.  But he said nothing.  To fight public sentiment
would be like trying to thrust back with one's fists an oncreeping
fog.  Finally he cried, "It's too outrageous to talk about."

"If I only knew what to do!" moaned Fanny.

A long silence, while Warham was grasping the fullness of the
meaning, the frightful meaning, in these revelations so
astounding to him.  At last he said:

"Does _she_ realize?"

"I guess so . . .  I don't know . . .  I don't believe she does.
She's the most innocent child that ever grew up."

"If I had a chance, I'd sell out and move away."

"Where?" said his wife.  "Where would people accept--her?"

Warham became suddenly angry again.  "I don't believe it!" he
cried, his look and tone contradicting his words.  "You've been
making a mountain out of a molehill."

And he strode from the room, flung on his hat and went for a
walk.  As Mrs. Warham came from the dining-room a few minutes
later, Ruth appeared in the side veranda doorway.  "I think I'll
telephone Arthur to come tomorrow evening instead," said she.
"He'd not like it, with Sam here too."

"That would be better," assented her mother.  "Yes, I'd telephone
him if I were you."

Thus it came about that Susan, descending the stairs to the
library to get a book, heard Ruth say into the telephone in her
sweetest voice, "Yes--tomorrow evening, Arthur.  Some others are
coming--the Wrights.  You'd have to talk to Lottie . . .  I don't
blame you. . . .  Tomorrow evening, then.  So sorry.  Good-by."

The girl on the stairway stopped short, shrank against the wall.
A moment, and she hastily reascended, entered her room, closed
the door.  Love had awakened the woman; and the woman was not so
unsuspecting, so easily deceived as the child had been.  She
understood what her cousin and her aunt were about; they were
trying to take her lover from her!  She understood her aunt's
looks and tones, her cousin's temper and hysteria.  She sat down
upon the floor and cried with a breaking heart.  The injustice of
it!  The meanness of it!  The wickedness of a world where even her
sweet cousin, even her loving aunt were wicked!  She sat there on
the floor a long time, abandoned to the misery of a first
shattered illusion, a misery the more cruel because never before
had either cousin or aunt said or done anything to cause her
real pain.  The sound of voices coming through the open window
from below made her start up and go out on the balcony.  She
leaned over the rail.  She could not see the veranda for the
masses of creeper, but the voices were now quite plain in the
stillness.  Ruth's voice gay and incessant.  Presently a man's
voice _his_--and laughing!  Then his voice speaking--then the two
voices mingled--both talking at once, so eager were they!  Her
lover--and Ruth was stealing him from her!  Oh, the baseness, the
treachery!  And her aunt was helping!. . .  Sore of heart,
utterly forlorn, she sat in the balcony hammock, aching with
love and jealousy.  Every now and then she ran in and looked at
the clock.  He was staying on and on, though he must have learned
she was not coming down.  She heard her uncle and aunt come up to
bed.  Now the piano in the parlor was going.  First it was Ruth
singing one of her pretty love songs in that clear small voice
of hers.  Then Sam played and sang--how his voice thrilled her!
Again it was Ruthie singing--"Sweet Dream Faces"--Susan began to
sob afresh.  She could see Ruth at the piano, how beautiful she
looked--and that song--it would be impossible for him not to be
impressed.  She felt the jealousy of despair. . . .  Ten
o'clock--half-past--eleven o'clock!  She heard them at the edge of
the veranda--so, at last he was going.  She was able to hear
their words now:

"You'll be up for the tennis in the morning?" he was saying.

"At ten," replied Ruth.

"Of course Susie's asked, too," he said--and his voice sounded
careless, not at all earnest.

"Certainly," was her cousin's reply.  "But I'm not sure she can come."

It was all the girl at the balcony rail could do to refrain from
crying out a protest.  But Sam was saying to Ruth:

"Well--good night.  Haven't had so much fun in a long time.  May
I come again?"

"If you don't, I'll think you were bored."

"Bored!" He laughed.  "That's too ridiculous.  See you in the
morning.  Good night. . . .  Give my love to Susie, and tell her
I was sorry not to see her."

Susan was all in a glow as her cousin answered, "I'll tell her."
doubtless Sam didn't note it, but Susan heard the constraint,
the hypocrisy in that sweet voice.

She watched him stroll down to the gate under the arch of boughs
dimly lit by the moon.  She stretched her arms passionately
toward him.  Then she went in to go to bed.  But at the sound of
Ruth humming gayly in the next room, she realized that she could
not sleep with her heart full of evil thoughts.  She must have it
out with her cousin.  She knocked on the still bolted door.

"What is it?" asked Ruth coldly.

"Let me in," answered Susan.  "I've got to see you."

"Go to bed, Susie.  It's late."

"You must let me in."

The bolt shot back.  "All right.  And please unhook my
dress--there's a dear."

Susan opened the door, stood on the threshold, all her dark
passion in her face.  "Ruth!" she cried.

Ruth had turned her back, in readiness for the service the need
of which had alone caused her to unbolt the door.  At that swift,
fierce ejaculation she started, wheeled round.  At sight of that
wild anger she paled.  "Why, Susie!" she gasped.

"I've found you out!" raged Susan.  "You're trying to steal him
from me--you and Aunt Fanny.  It isn't fair!  I'll not stand it!"

"What _are_ you talking about?" cried Ruth.  "You must have lost
your senses."

"I'll not stand it," Susan repeated, advancing threateningly "He
loves me and I love him."

Ruth laughed.  "You foolish girl!  Why, he cares nothing about you.
The idea of your having your head turned by a little politeness!"

"He loves me he told me so.  And I love him.  I told him so.  He's
mine!  You shan't take him from me!"

"He told you he loved you?"

Ruth's eyes were gleaming and her voice was shrill with hate.
"He told you _that_?"

"Yes--he did!"

"I don't believe you."

"We love each other," cried the dark girl.  "He came to see _me_.
You've got Arthur Sinclair.  You shan't take him away!"

The two girls, shaking with fury, were facing each other, were
looking into each other's eyes.  "If Sam Wright told you he loved
you," said Ruth, with the icy deliberateness of a cold-hearted
anger, "he was trying to--to make a fool of you.  You ought to be
ashamed of yourself.  _We_'re trying to save you."

"He and I are engaged!" declared Susan.  "You shan't take
him--and you can't!  He _loves_ me!"

"Engaged!" jeered Ruth.  "Engaged!" she laughed, pretending not
to believe, yet believing.  She was beside herself with jealous
anger.  "Yes--we'll save you from yourself.  You're like your
mother.  You'd disgrace us--as she did."

"Don't you dare talk that way, Ruth Warham.  It's false--_false_!
My mother is dead--and you're a wicked girl."

"It's time you knew the truth," said Ruth softly.  Her eyes were
half shut now and sparkling devilishly.  "You haven't got any
name.  You haven't got any father.  And no man of any position
would marry you.  As for Sam----"  She laughed contemptuously.
"Do you suppose Sam Wright would marry a girl without a name?"

Susan had shrunk against the door jamb.  She understood only
dimly, but things understood dimly are worse than things that are
clear.  "Me?" she muttered.  "Me?  Oh, Ruth, you don't mean that."

"It's true," said Ruth, calmly.  "And the sooner you realize it
the less likely you are to go the way your mother did."

Susan stood as if petrified.

"If Sam Wright comes hanging round you any more, you'll know how
to treat him," Ruth went on.  "You'll appreciate that he hasn't
any respect for you--that he thinks you're someone to be trifled
with.  And if he talked engagement, it was only a pretense.  Do
you understand?"

The girl leaning in the doorway gazed into vacancy.  After a
while she answered dully, "I guess so."

Ruth began to fuss with the things on her bureau.  Susan went
into her room, sat on the edge of the bed.  A few minutes, and
Ruth, somewhat cooled down and not a little frightened, entered.
She looked uneasily at the motionless figure.  Finally she said,

"Susie!"

No answer.

More sharply, "Susie!"

"Yes," said Susan, without moving.

"You understand that I told you for your own good?  And you'll
not say anything to mother or father?  They feel terribly about it,
and don't want it ever mentioned.  You won't let on that you know?"

"I'll not tell," said Susan.

"You know we're fond of you--and want to do everything for you?"

No answer.

"It wasn't true--what you said about Sam's making love to you?"

"That's all over.  I don't want to talk about it."

"You're not angry with me, Susie?  I admit I was angry, but it
was best for you to know--wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Susan.

"You're not angry with me?"

"No."

Ruth, still more uneasy, turned back into her own room because
there was nothing else to do.  She did not shut the door between.
When she was in her nightgown she glanced in at her cousin.  The
girl was sitting on the edge of the bed in the same position.
"It's after midnight," said Ruth.  "You'd better get undressed."

Susan moved a little.  "I will," she said.

Ruth went to bed and soon fell asleep.  After an hour or so she
awakened.  Light was streaming through the open connecting door.
She ran to it, looked in.  Susan's clothes were in a heap beside
the bed.  Susan herself, with the pillows propping her, was
staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.  It was impossible for Ruth to
realize any part of the effect upon her cousin of a thing she
herself had known for years and had taken always as a matter of
course; she simply felt mildly sorry for unfortunate Susan.

"Susie, dear," she said gently, "do you want me to turn out the light?"

"Yes," said Susan.

Ruth switched off the light and went back to bed, better
content.  She felt that now Susan would stop her staring and
would go to sleep.  Sam's call had been very satisfactory.  Ruth
felt she had shown off to the best advantage, felt that he
admired her, would come to see _her_ next time.  And now that she
had so arranged it that Susan would avoid him, everything would
turn out as she wished.  "I'll use Arthur to make him jealous
after a while--and then--I'll have things my own way." As she fell
asleep she was selecting the rooms Sam and she would occupy in
the big Wright mansion--"when we're not in the East or in Europe."




CHAPTER V


RUTH had forgotten to close her shutters, so toward seven
o'clock the light which had been beating against her eyelids for
three hours succeeded in lifting them.  She stretched herself and
yawned noisily.  Susan appeared in the connecting doorway.

"Are you awake?" she said softly.

"What time is it?" asked Ruth, too lazy to turn over and look at
her clock.

"Ten to seven."

"Do close my shutters for me.  I'll sleep an hour or two." She
hazily made out the figure in the doorway.  "You're dressed,
aren't you?" she inquired sleepily.

"Yes," replied Susan.  "I've been waiting for you to wake."

Something in the tone made Ruth forget about sleep and rub her
fingers over her eyes to clear them for a view of her cousin.
Susan seemed about as usual--perhaps a little serious, but then
she had the habit of strange moods of seriousness.  "What did you
want?" said Ruth.

Susan came into the room, sat at the foot of the bed--there was
room, as the bed was long and Ruth short.  "I want you to tell me
what my mother did."

"Did?" echoed Ruth feebly.

"Did, to disgrace you and--me."

"Oh, I couldn't explain--not in a few words.  I'm so sleepy.
Don't bother about it, Susan." And she thrust her head deeper
into the pillow.  "Close the shutters."

"Then I'll have to ask Aunt Fanny--or Uncle George or
everybody--till I find out."

"But you mustn't do that," protested Ruth, flinging herself from
left to right impatiently.  "What is it you want to know?"

"About my mother--and what she did.  And why I have no
father--why I'm not like you--and the other girls."

"Oh--it's nothing.  I can't explain.  Don't bother about it.  It's
no use.  It can't be helped.  And it doesn't really matter."

"I've been thinking," said Susan.  "I understand a great many
things I didn't know I'd noticed--ever since I was a baby.  But
what I don't understand----"  She drew a long breath, a cautious
breath, as if there were danger of awakening a pain.  "What I don't
understand is--why.  And--you must tell me all about it. . . .  Was
my mother bad?"

"Not exactly bad," Ruth answered uncertainly.  "But she did one
thing that was wicked--at least that a woman never can be
forgiven for, if it's found out."

"Did she--did she take something that didn't belong to her?"

"No--nothing like that.  No, she was, they say, as nice and sweet
as she could be--except---- She wasn't married to your father."

Susan sat in a brown study.  "I can't understand," she said at
last.  "Why--she _must_ have been married, or--or--there wouldn't
have been me."

Ruth smiled uneasily.  "Not at all.  Don't you really understand?"

Susan shook her head.

"He--he betrayed her--and left her--and then everybody knew
because you came."

Susan's violet-gray eyes rested a grave, inquiring glance upon
her cousin's face.  "But if he betrayed her----  What does 'betray'
mean?  Doesn't it mean he promised to marry her and didn't?"

"Something like that," said Ruth.  "Yes--something like that."

"Then _he_ was the disgrace," said the dark cousin, after reflecting.
"No--you're not telling me, Ruth.  _What_ did my mother do?"

"She had you without being married."

Again Susan sat in silence, trying to puzzle it out.  Ruth lifted
herself, put the pillows behind her back.  "You don't
understand--anything--do you?  Well, I'll try to explain--though
I don't know much about it."

And hesitatingly, choosing words she thought fitted to those
innocent ears, hunting about for expressions she thought
comprehensible to that innocent mind, Ruth explained the
relations of the sexes--an inaccurate, often absurd,
explanation, for she herself knew only what she had picked up
from other girls--the fantastic hodgepodge of pruriency,
physiology and sheer nonsense which under our system of
education distorts and either alarms or inflames the imaginations
of girls and boys where the clean, simple truth would at least
enlighten them.  Susan listened with increasing amazement.

"Well, do you understand?" Ruth ended.  "How we come into the
world--and what marriage means?"

"I don't believe it," declared Susan.  "It's--awful!" And she
shivered with disgust.

"I tell you it's true," insisted Ruth.  "I thought it was awful
when I first heard--when Lottie Wright took me out in their
orchard, where nobody could listen, and told me what their cook
had told her.  But I've got kind of used to it."

"But it--it's so, then; my mother did marry my father," said Susan.

"No.  She let him betray her.  And when a woman lets a man betray
her without being married by the preacher or somebody, why,
she's ruined forever."

"But doesn't marriage mean where two people promise to love each
other and then betray each other?"

"If they're married, it isn't betraying," explained Ruth.  "If
they're not, it is betraying." Susan reflected, nodded slowly.
"I guess I understand.  But don't you see it was my father who was
the disgrace?  He was the one that promised to marry and didn't."

"How foolish you are!" cried Ruth.  "I never knew you to be stupid."

"But isn't it so?" persisted Susan.

"Yes--in a way," her cousin admitted.  "Only--the woman must keep
herself pure until the ceremony has been performed."

"But if he said so to her, wasn't that saying so to God just as
much as if the preacher had been there?"

"No, it wasn't," said Ruth with irritation.  "And it's wicked to
think such things.  All I know is, God says a woman must be
married before she--before she has any children.  And your mother
wasn't." Susan shook her head.  "I guess you don't understand any
better than I do--really."

"No, I don't," confessed Ruth.  "But I'd like to see any man more
than kiss me or put his arm round me without our having been married."

"But," urged Susan, "if he kissed you, wouldn't that be like marriage?"

"Some say so," admitted Ruth.  "But I'm not so strict.  A little
kissing and that often leads a man to propose." Susan reflected
again.  "It all sounds low and sneaking to me," was her final
verdict.  "I don't want to have anything to do with it.  But I'm
sure my mother was a good woman.  It wasn't her fault if she was
lied to, when she loved and believed.  And anybody who blames her
is low and bad.  I'm glad I haven't got any father, if fathers
have to be made to promise before everybody or else they'll not
keep their word."

"Well, I'll not argue about it," said Ruth.  "I'm telling you the
way things are.  The woman has to take _all_ the blame." Susan
lifted her head haughtily.  "I'd be glad to be blamed by anybody
who was wicked enough to be that unjust.  I'd not have anything
to do with such people."

"Then you'd live alone."

"No, I shouldn't.  There are lots of people who are good and----"

"That's wicked, Susan," interrupted Ruth.  "All good people think
as I tell you they do."

"Do Aunt Fanny and Uncle George blame my mother?"

"Of course.  How could they help it, when she----"  Ruth was checked
by the gathering lightnings in those violet-gray eyes.

"But," pursued Susan, after a pause, "even if they were wicked
enough to blame my mother, they couldn't blame me."

"Of course not," declared Ruth warmly.  "Hasn't everybody always
been sweet and kind to you?"

"But last night you said----"

Ruth hid her face.  "I'm ashamed of what I said last night," she
murmured.  "I've got, Oh, such a _nasty_ disposition, Susie."

"But what you said--wasn't it so?" Ruth turned away her head.

Susan drew a long sigh, so quietly that Ruth could not have heard.

"You understand," Ruth said gently, "everybody feels sorry for
you and----"

Susan frowned stormily, "They'd better feel sorry for themselves."

"Oh, Susie, dear," cried Ruth, impulsively catching her hand,
"we all love you, and mother and father and I--we'll stand up
for you through everything----"

"Don't you _dare_ feel sorry for me!" Susan cried, wrenching her
hand away.

Ruth's eyes filled with tears.

"You can't blame us because everybody---- You know, God says,
'The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children----'"

"I'm done with everybody," cried Susan, rising and lifting her
proud head, "I'm done with God."

Ruth gave a low scream and shuddered.  Susan looked round
defiantly, as if she expected a bolt from the blue to come
hurtling through the open window.  But the sky remained serene,
and the quiet, scented breeze continued to play with the lace
curtains, and the birds on the balcony did not suspend their
chattering courtship.  This lack of immediate effect from her
declaration of war upon man and God was encouraging.  The last of
the crushed, cowed feeling Ruth had inspired the night before
disappeared.  With a soul haughtily plumed and looking defiance
from the violet-gray eyes, Susan left her cousin and betook
herself down to breakfast.

In common with most children, she had always dreamed of a
mysterious fate for herself, different from the commonplace
routine around her.  Ruth's revelations, far from daunting her,
far from making her feel like cringing before the world in
gratitude for its tolerance of her bar sinister, seemed a
fascinatingly tragic confirmation of her romantic longings and
beliefs.  No doubt it was the difference from the common lot that
had attracted Sam to her; and this difference would make their
love wholly unlike the commonplace Sutherland wooing and
wedding.  Yes, hers had been a mysterious fate, and would
continue to be.  Nora, an old woman now, had often related in her
presence how Doctor Stevens had brought her to life when she lay
apparently, indeed really, dead upon the upstairs sitting-room
table--Doctor Stevens and Nora's own prayers.  An extraordinary
birth, in defiance of the laws of God and man; an extraordinary
resurrection, in defiance of the laws of nature--yes, hers would
be a life superbly different from the common.  And when she and
Sam married, how gracious and forgiving she would be to all
those bad-hearted people; how she would shame them for their
evil thoughts against her mother and herself!

The Susan Lenox who sat alone at the little table in the
dining-room window, eating bread and butter and honey in the
comb, was apparently the same Susan Lenox who had taken three
meals a day in that room all those years--was, indeed, actually
the same, for character is not an overnight creation.  Yet it was
an amazingly different Susan Lenox, too.  The first crisis had
come; she had been put to the test; and she had not collapsed in
weakness but had stood erect in strength.

After breakfast she went down Main Street and at Crooked Creek
Avenue took the turning for the cemetery.  She sought the Warham
plot, on the western slope near the quiet brook.  There was a
clump of cedars at each corner of the plot; near the largest of
them were three little graves--the three dead children of George
and Fanny.  In the shadow of the clump and nearest the brook was
a fourth grave apart and, to the girl, now thrillingly mysterious:


                       LORELLA LENOX
                       BORN MAY 9, 1859
                       DIED JULY 17, 1879


Twenty years old!  Susan's tears scalded her eyes.  Only a little
older than her cousin Ruth was now--Ruth who often seemed to her,
and to everybody, younger than herself.  "And she was good--I
know she was good!" thought Susan.  "_He_ was bad, and the people
who took his part against her were bad.  But _she_ was good!"

She started as Sam's voice, gay and light, sounded directly
behind her.  "What are you doing in a graveyard?" cried he.

"How did you find me?" she asked, paling and flushing and paling again.

"I've been following you ever since you left home."

He might have added that he did not try to overtake her until
they were where people would be least likely to see.

"Whose graves are those?" he went on, cutting across a plot and
stepping on several graves to join her.

She was gazing at her mothers simple headstone.  His glance
followed hers, he read.

"Oh--beg pardon," he said confusedly.  "I didn't see."

She turned her serious gaze from the headstone to his face,
which her young imagination transfigured.  "You know--about her?"
she asked.

"I--I--I've heard," he confessed.  "But--Susie, it doesn't amount
to anything.  It happened a long time ago--and everybody's
forgotten--and----"  His stammering falsehoods died away before
her steady look.  "How did you find out?"

"Someone just told me," replied she.  "And they said you'd never
respect or marry a girl who had no father.  No--don't
deny--please!  I didn't believe it--not after what we had said
to each other."

Sam, red and shifting uneasily, could not even keep his downcast
eyes upon the same spot of ground.

"You see," she went on, sweet and grave, "they don't understand
what love means--do they?"

"I guess not," muttered he, completely unnerved.

Why, how seriously the girl had taken him and his words--such a
few words and not at all definite!  No, he decided, it was the
kiss.  He had heard of girls so innocent that they thought a kiss
meant the same as being married.  He got himself together as well
as he could and looked at her.

"But, Susie," he said, "you're too young for anything
definite--and I'm not halfway through college."

"I understand," said she.  "But you need not be afraid I'll change."

She was so sweet, so magnetic, so compelling that in spite of
the frowns of prudence he seized her hand.  At her touch he flung
prudence to the winds.  "I love you," he cried; and putting his
arm around her, he tried to kiss her.  She gently but strongly
repulsed him.  "Why not, dear?" he pleaded.  "You love me--don't you?"

"Yes," she replied, her honest eyes shining upon his.  "But we
must wait until we're married.  I don't care so much for the
others, but I'd not want Uncle George to feel I had disgraced him."

"Why, there's no harm in a kiss," pleaded he.

"Kissing you is--different," she replied.  "It's--it's--marriage."

He understood her innocence that frankly assumed marriage where
a sophisticated girl would, in the guilt of designing thoughts,
have shrunk in shame from however vaguely suggesting such a
thing.  He realized to the full his peril.  "I'm a damn fool," he
said to himself, "to hang about her.  But somehow I can't help
it--I can't!" And the truth was, he loved her as much as a boy
of his age is capable of loving, and he would have gone on and
married her but for the snobbishness smeared on him by the
provincialism of the small town and burned in by the toadyism of
his fashionable college set.  As he looked at her he saw beauty
beyond any he had ever seen elsewhere and a sweetness and
honesty that made him ashamed before her.  "No, I couldn't harm
her," he told himself.  "I'm not such a dog as that.  But there's
no harm in loving her and kissing her and making her as happy as
it's right to be."

"Don't be mean, Susan," he begged, tears in his eyes.  "If you
love me, you'll let me kiss you."

And she yielded, and the shock of the kiss set both to
trembling.  It appealed to his vanity, it heightened his own
agitations to see how pale she had grown and how her rounded
bosom rose and fell in the wild tumult of her emotions.  "Oh, I
can't do without seeing you," she cried.  "And Aunt Fanny has
forbidden me."

"I thought so!" exclaimed he.  "I did what I could last night to
throw them off the track.  If Ruth had only known what I was
thinking about all the time.  Where were you?"

"Upstairs--on the balcony."

"I felt it," he declared.  "And when she sang love songs I could
hardly keep from rushing up to you.  Susie, we _must_ see each other."

"I can come here, almost any day."

"But people'd soon find out--and they'd say all sorts of things.
And your uncle and aunt would hear."

There was no disputing anything so obvious.

"Couldn't you come down tonight, after the others are in bed and
the house is quiet?" he suggested.

She hesitated before the deception, though she felt that her family
had forfeited the right to control her.  But love, being the supreme
necessity, conquered.  "For a few minutes," she conceded.

She had been absorbed; but his eyes, kept alert by his
conventional soul, had seen several people at a distance
observing without seeming to do so.  "We must separate," he now
said.  "You see, Susie, we mustn't be gossiped about.  You know
how determined they are to keep us apart."

"Yes--yes," she eagerly agreed.  "Will you go first, or shall I?"

"You go--the way you came.  I'll jump the brook down where it's
narrow and cut across and into our place by the back way.  What
time tonight?"

"Arthur's coming," reflected Susie aloud.  "Ruth'll not let him
stay late.  She'll be sleepy and will go straight to bed.  About
half past ten.  If I'm not on the front veranda--no, the side
veranda--by eleven, you'll know something has prevented."

"But you'll surely come?"

"I'll come." And it both thrilled and alarmed him to see how
much in earnest she was.  But he looked love into her loving eyes
and went away, too intoxicated to care whither this adventure
was leading him.

At dinner she felt she was no longer a part of this family.  Were
they not all pitying and looking down on her in their hearts?
She was like a deformed person who has always imagined the
consideration he has had was natural and equal, and suddenly
discovers that it is pity for his deformity.  She now acutely
felt her aunt's, her cousin's, dislike; and her uncle's
gentleness was not less galling.  In her softly rounded youthful
face there was revealed definitely for the first time an
underlying expression of strength, of what is often confused
with its feeble counterfeit, obstinacy--that power to resist
circumstances which makes the unusual and the firm character.
The young mobility of her features suggested the easy swaying of
the baby sapling in the gentlest breeze.  Singularly at variance
with it was this expression of tenacity.  Such an expression in
the face of the young infallibly forecasts an agitated and
agitating life.  It seemed amazingly out of place in Susan
because theretofore she had never been put to the test in any
but unnoted trifles and so had given the impression that she was
as docile as she was fearful of giving annoyance or pain and
indifferent to having her own way.  Those who have this
temperament of strength encased in gentleness are invariably
misunderstood.  When they assert themselves, though they are in
the particular instance wholly right, they are regarded as
wholly and outrageously wrong.  Life deals hardly with them,
punishes them for the mistaken notion of themselves they have
through forbearance and gentleness of heart permitted an
unobservant world to form.

Susan spent the afternoon on the balcony before her window,
reading and sewing--or, rather, dreaming over first a book, then
a dress.  When she entered the dining-room at supper time the
others were already seated.  She saw instantly that something had
occurred--something ominous for her.  Mrs. Warham gave her a
penetrating, severe look and lowered her eyes; Ruth was gazing
sullenly at her plate.  Warham's glance was stern and
reproachful.  She took her place opposite Ruth, and the meal was
eaten in silence.  Ruth left the table first.  Next Mrs. Warham
rose and saying, "Susan, when you've finished, I wish to see you
in the sitting-room upstairs," swept in solemn dignity from the
room.  Susan rose at once to follow.  As she was passing her uncle
he put out his hand and detained her.

"I hope it was only a foolish girl's piece of nonsense," said he
with an attempt at his wonted kindliness.  "And I know it won't
occur again.  But when your aunt says things you won't like to
hear, remember that you brought this on yourself and that she
loves you as we all do and is thinking only of your good."

"What is it, Uncle George?" cried Susan, amazed.  "What have I done?"

Warham looked sternly grieved.  "Brownie," he reproached, "you
mustn't deceive.  Go to your aunt."

She found her aunt seated stiffly in the living-room, her hands
folded upon her stomach.  So gradual had been the crucial
middle-life change in Fanny that no one had noted it.  This
evening Susan, become morbidly acute, suddenly realized the
contrast between the severe, uncertain-tempered aunt of today
and the amiable, altogether and always gentle aunt of two years
before.

"What is it, aunt?" she said, feeling as if she were before a
stranger and an enemy.

"The whole town is talking about your disgraceful doings this
morning," Ruth's mother replied in a hard voice.

The color leaped in Susan's cheeks.

"Yesterday I forbade you to see Sam Wright again.  And already
you disobey."

"I did not say I would not see him again," replied Susan.

"I thought you were an honest, obedient girl," cried Fanny, the
high shrill notes in her voice rasping upon the sensitive, the
now morbidly sensitive, Susan.  "Instead--you slip away from the
house and meet a young man--and permit him to take _liberties_
with you."

Susan braced herself.  "I did not go to the cemetery to meet
him," she replied; and that new or, rather, newly revived
tenacity was strong in her eyes, in the set of her sweet mouth.
"He saw me on the way and followed.  I did let him kiss me--once.
But I had the right to."

"You have disgraced yourself--and us all."

"We are going to be married."

"I don't want to hear such foolish talk!" cried Mrs. Warham
violently.  "If you had any sense, you'd know better."

"He and I do not feel as you do about my mother," said the girl
with quiet dignity.

Mrs. Warham shivered before this fling.  "Who told you?" she demanded.

"It doesn't matter; I know."

"Well, miss, since you know, then I can tell you that your uncle
and I realize you're going the way your mother went.  And the
whole town thinks you've gone already.  They're all saying, 'I
told you so!  I told you so!  Like her mother!'" Mrs. Warham was
weeping hysterical tears of fury.  "The whole town!  And it'll
reflect on my Ruth.  Oh, you miserable girl!  Whatever possessed
me to take pity on you!"

Susan's hands clutched until the nails sunk into the palms.  She
shut her teeth together, turned to fly.

"Wait!" commanded Mrs. Warham.  "Wait, I tell you!"

Susan halted in the doorway, but did not turn.

"Your uncle and I have talked it over."

"Oh!" cried Susan.

Mrs. Warham's eyes glistened.  "Yes, he has wakened up at last.
There's one thing he isn't soft about----"

"You've turned him against me!" cried the girl despairingly.

"You mean _you_ have turned him against you," retorted her aunt.
"Anyhow, you can't wheedle him this time.  He's as bent as I am.
And you must promise us that you won't see Sam again."

A pause.  Then Susan said, "I can't."

"Then we'll send you away to your Uncle Zeke's.  It's quiet out
there and you'll have a chance to think things over.  And I
reckon he'll watch you.  He's never forgiven your mother.  Now,
will you promise?"

"No," said Susan calmly.  "You have wicked thoughts about my
mother, and you are being wicked to me--you and Ruth.  Oh, I
understand!"

"Don't you dare stand there and lie that way!" raved Mrs.
Warham.  "I'll give you tonight to think about it.  If you don't
promise, you leave this house.  Your uncle has been weak where
you were concerned, but this caper of yours has brought him to
his senses.  We'll not have you a loose character--and your
cousin's life spoiled by it.  First thing we know, no respectable
man'll marry her, either."

From between the girl's shut teeth issued a cry.  She darted
across the hall, locked herself in her room.




CHAPTER VI


SAM did not wait until Arthur Sinclair left, but, all ardor and
impatience, stole in at the Warhams' front gate at ten o'clock.
He dropped to the grass behind a clump of lilacs, and to calm
his nerves and to make the time pass more quickly, smoked a
cigarette, keeping its lighted end carefully hidden in the
hollow of his hand.  He was not twenty feet away, was seeing and
hearing, when Arthur kissed Ruth good night.  He laughed to
himself.  "How disappointed she looked last night when she saw I
wasn't going to do that!" What a charmer Susie must be when the
thought of her made the idea of kissing as pretty a girl as Ruth
uninteresting, almost distasteful!

Sinclair departed; the lights in parlor and hall went out;
presently light appeared through the chinks in some of the
second-story shutters.  Then followed three-quarters of an hour
of increasing tension.  The tension would have been even greater
had he seen the young lady going leisurely about her
preparations for bed.  For Ruth was of the orderly, precise women
who are created to foster the virtue of patience in those about
them.  It took her nearly as long to dress for bed as for a
party.  She did her hair up in curl papers with the utmost care;
she washed and rinsed and greased her face and neck and gave
them a thorough massage.  She shook out and carefully hung or
folded or put to air each separate garment.  She examined her
silk stockings for holes, found one, darned it with a neatness
rivaling that of a _stoppeur_.  She removed from her dressing
table and put away in drawers everything that was out of place.
She closed each drawer tightly, closed and locked the closets,
looked under the bed, turned off the lights over the dressing
table.  She completed her toilet with a slow washing of her
teeth, a long spraying of her throat, and a deliberate,
thoroughgoing dripping of boracic acid into each eye to keep and
improve its clearness and brilliancy.  She sat on the bed,
reflected on what she had done, to assure herself that nothing
had been omitted.  After a slow look around she drew off her
bedroom slippers, set them carefully side by side near the head
of the bed.  She folded her nightgown neatly about her legs,
thrust them down into the bed.  Again she looked slowly,
searchingly, about the room to make absolutely sure she had
forgotten nothing, had put everything in perfect order.  Once in
bed, she hated to get out; yet if she should recall any
omission, however slight, she would be unable to sleep until she
had corrected it.  Finally, sure as fallible humanity can be, she
turned out the last light, lay down--went instantly to sleep.

It was hardly a quarter of an hour after the vanishing of that
last ray when Sam, standing now with heart beating fast and a
lump of expectancy, perhaps of trepidation, too, in his throat,
saw a figure issue from the front door and move round to the
side veranda.  He made a detour on the lawn, so as to keep out of
view both from house and street, came up to the veranda, called
to her softly.

"Can you get over the rail?" asked she in the same low tone.

"Let's go back to the summer house," urged he.

"No.  Come up here," she insisted.  "Be careful.  The windows above
are open."

He climbed the rail noiselessly and made an impetuous move for
her hand.  She drew back.  "No, Sam dear," she said.  "I know it's
foolish.  But I've an instinct against it--and we mustn't."

She spoke so gently that he persisted and pleaded.  It was some
time before he realized how much firmness there was under her
gentleness.  She was so afraid of making him cross; yet he also
saw that she would withstand at any cost.  He placed himself
beside her on the wicker lounge, sitting close, his cheek almost
against hers, that they might hear each other without speaking
above a whisper.  After one of those silences which are the
peculiar delight of lovers, she drew a long breath and said:
"I've got to go away, Sam.  I shan't see you again for a long time."

"They heard about this morning?  They're sending you away?"

"No--I'm going.  They feel that I'm a disgrace and a drag.  So I
can't stay."

"But--you've _got_ to stay!" protested Sam.  In wild alarm he
suspected she was preparing to make him elope with her--and he
did not know to what length of folly his infatuation might whirl
him.  "You've no place to go," he urged.

"I'll find a place," said she.

"You mustn't--you mustn't, Susie!  Why, you're only
seventeen--and have no experience."

"I'll _get_ experience," said she.  "Nothing could be so bad as
staying here.  Can't you see that?"

He could not.  Like so many of the children of the rich, he had
no trace of over-nice sense of self-respect, having been lying
and toadying all his life to a father who used the power of his
wealth at home no less, rather more, than abroad.  But he vaguely
realized what delicacy of feeling lay behind her statement of
her position; and he did not dare express his real opinion.  He
returned to the main point.  "You've simply got to put up with it
for the present, Susie," he insisted.  "But, then, of course,
you're not serious."

"Yes.  I am going."

"You'll think it over, and see I'm right, dear."

"I'm going tonight."

"Tonight!" he cried.

"Sh-h!"

Sam looked apprehensively around.  Both breathed softly and
listened with straining ears.  His exclamation had not been loud,
but the silence was profound.  "I guess nobody heard," he finally
whispered.  "You mustn't go, Susie." He caught her hand and held
it.  "I love you, and I forbid it."

"I _must_ go, dear," answered she.  "I've decided to take the
midnight boat for Cincinnati."

In the half darkness he gazed in stupefaction at her--this girl
of only seventeen calmly resolving upon and planning an
adventure so daring, so impossible.  As he had been born and bred
in that western country where the very children have more
independence than the carefully tamed grown people of the East,
he ought to have been prepared for almost anything.  But his
father had undermined his courage and independence; also his
year in the East had given him somewhat different ideas of
women.  Susan's announcement seemed incredible.  He was gathering
himself for pouring out a fresh protest when it flashed through
his mind--Why not?  She would go to Cincinnati.  He could follow
in a few days or a week--and then--

Well, at least they would be free and could have many happy days
together.

"Why, how could you get to Cincinnati?" he said.  "You haven't
any money."

"I've a twenty-dollar gold piece Uncle gave me as a keepsake.
And I've got seventeen dollars in other money, and several
dollars in change," explained she.  "I've got two hundred and
forty-three dollars and fifty cents in the bank, but I can't get
that--not now.  They'll send it to me when I find a place and am
settled and let them know."

"You can't do it, Susie!  You can't and you mustn't."

"If you knew what they said to me!  Oh, I _couldn't_ stay, Sam.
I've got some of my clothes--a little bundle behind the front
door.  As soon as I'm settled I'll let you know."

A silence, then he, hesitatingly, "Don't you--do you--hadn't I
better go with you?"

She thrilled at this generosity, this new proof of love.  But she
said:  "No, I wouldn't let you do that.  They'd blame you.  And I
want them to know it's all my own doing."

"You're right, Susie," said the young man, relieved and
emphatic.  "If I went with you, it'd only get both of us into
deeper trouble." Again silence, with Sam feeling a kind of awe
as he studied the resolute, mysterious profile of the girl,
which he could now see clearly.  At last he said:  "And after you
get there, Susie--what will you do?"

"Find a boarding house, and then look for a place."

"What kind of a place?"

"In a store--or making dresses--or any kind of sewing.  Or I
could do housework."

The sex impulse is prolific of generous impulses.  He, sitting so
close to her and breathing in through his skin the emanations of
her young magnetism, was moved to the depths by the picture her
words conjured.  This beautiful girl, a mere child, born and bred
in the lady class, wandering away penniless and alone, to be a
prey to the world's buffetings which, severe enough in reality,
seem savage beyond endurance to the children of wealth.

As he pictured it his heart impulsively expanded.  It was at his
lips to offer to marry her.  But his real self--and one's real
self is vastly different from one's impulses--his real self
forbade the words passage.  Not even the sex impulse,
intoxicating him as it then was, could dethrone snobbish
calculation.  He was young; so while he did not speak, he felt
ashamed of himself for not speaking.  He felt that she must be
expecting him to speak, that she had the right to expect it.  He
drew a little away from her, and kept silent.

"The time will soon pass," said she absently.

"The time?  Then you intend to come back?"

"I mean the time until you're through college and we can be together."

She spoke as one speaks of a dream as to which one has never a
doubt but that it will come true.  It was so preposterous, this
idea that he would marry her, especially after she had been a
servant or God knows what for several years--it was so absurd
that he burst into a sweat of nervous terror.  And he hastily
drew further away.

She felt the change, for she was of those who are born
sensitive.  But she was far too young and inexperienced to have
learned to interpret aright the subtle warning of the nerves.
"You are displeased with me?" she asked timidly.

"No--Oh, no, Susie," he stammered.  "I--I was thinking.  Do put
off going for a day or two.  There's no need of hurrying."

But she felt that by disobeying her aunt and coming down to see
him she had forfeited the right to shelter under that roof.  "I
can't go back," said she.  "There's a reason." She would not tell
him the reason; it would make him feel as if he were to blame.
"When I get a place in Cincinnati," she went on, "I'll write to you."

"Not here," he objected.  "That wouldn't do at all.  No, send me a
line to the Gibson House in Cincinnati, giving me your address."

"The Gibson House," she repeated.  "I'll not forget that name.
Gibson House."

"Send it as soon as you get a place.  I may be in Cincinnati
soon.  But this is all nonsense.  You're not going.  You'd be afraid."

She laughed softly.  "You don't know me.  Now that I've got to go,
I'm glad."

And he realized that she was not talking to give herself
courage, that her words were literally true.  This made him
admire her, and fear her, too.  There must be something wild and
unwomanly in her nature.  "I guess she inherits it from her
mother--and perhaps her father, whoever he was." Probably she
was simply doing a little early what she'd have been sure to do
sooner or later, no matter what had happened.  On the whole, it
was just as well that she was going.  "I can take her on East in
the fall.  As soon as she has a little knowledge of the world
she'll not expect me to marry her.  She can get something to do.
I'll help her." And now he felt in conceit with himself
again--felt that he was going to be a good, generous friend to her.

"Perhaps you'll be better off--once you get started," said he.

"I don't see how I could be worse off.  What is there here for _me_?"

He wondered at the good sense of this from a mere child.  It was
most unlikely that any man of the class she had been brought up
in would marry her; and how could she endure marriage with a man
of the class in which she might possibly find a husband?  As for
reputation--

She, an illegitimate child, never could have a reputation, at
least not so long as she had her looks.  After supper, to kill
time, he had dropped in at Willett's drug store, where the young
fellows loafed and gossiped in the evenings; all the time he was
there the conversation had been made up of sly digs and hints
about graveyard trysts, each thrust causing the kind of laughter
that is the wake of the prurient and the obscene.  Yes, she was
right.  There could be "nothing in it" for her in Sutherland.  He
was filled with pity for her.  "Poor child!  What a shame!" There
must be something wrong with a world that permitted such iniquities.

The clock struck twelve.  "You must go," she said.  "Sometimes
the boat comes as early as half-past." And she stood up.

As he faced her the generous impulse surged again.  He caught her
in his arms, she not resisting.  He kissed her again and again,
murmuring disconnected words of endearment and fighting back the
offer to marry her.  "I mustn't!  I mustn't!" he said to himself.
"What'd become of us?" If his passions had been as virgin, as
inexperienced, as hers, no power could have held him from going
with her and marrying her.  But experience had taught him the
abysmal difference between before and after; and he found
strength to be sensible, even in the height of his passionate
longing for her.

She clasped her arms about his neck.  "Oh, my dear love!" she
murmured.  "I'd do anything for you.  I feel that you love me as
I love you."

"Yes--yes." And he pressed his lips to hers.  An instant and she
drew away, shaking and panting.  He tried to clasp her again, but
she would not have it.  "I can't stand it!" he murmured.  "I must
go with you--I must!"

"No!" she replied.  "It wouldn't do unless we were really
married." Wistfully, "And we can't be that yet--can we?  There
isn't any way?"

His passion cooled instantly.

"There isn't any way," he said regretfully.  "I'd not dare tell
my father."

"Yes, we must wait till you're of age, and have your education,
and are free.  Then----"  She drew a long breath, looked at him
with a brave smile.  The large moon was shining upon them.  "We'll
think of that, and not let ourselves be unhappy--won't we?"

"Yes," he said.  "But I must go."

"I forgot for the minute.  Good-by, dearest." She put up her
lips.  He kissed her, but without passion now.

"You might go with me as far as the wharf," she suggested.

"No--someone might see--and that would ruin everything.  I'd like
to--I'd----"

"It wouldn't do," she interrupted.  "I wouldn't let you come."

With sudden agitation she kissed him--he felt that her lips were
cold.  He pressed her hands--they, too, were cold.  "Good-by, my
darling," he murmured, vaulted lightly over the rail and
disappeared in the deep shadows of the shrubbery.  When he was
clear of the grounds he paused to light a cigarette.  His hand
was shaking so that the match almost dropped from his fingers.
"I've been making a damn fool of myself," he said half aloud.  "A
double damn fool!  I've got to stop that talk about marrying,
somehow--or keep away from her.  But I can't keep away.  I _must_
have her!  Why in the devil can't she realize that a man in my
position couldn't marry her?  If it wasn't for this marrying
talk, I'd make her happy.  I've simply got to stop this marrying
talk.  It gets worse and worse."


Her calmness deceived her into thinking herself perfectly sane
and sober, perfectly aware of what she was about.  She had left
her hat and her bundle behind the door.  She put on the hat in
the darkness of the hall with steady fingers, took up the
well-filled shawl strap and went forth, closing the door behind
her.  In the morning they would find the door unlocked but that
would not cause much talk, as Sutherland people were all rather
careless about locking up.  They would not knock at the door of
her room until noon, perhaps.  Then they would find on the
pincushion the letter she had written to her uncle, saying
good-by and explaining that she had decided to remove forever
the taint of her mother and herself from their house and their
lives--a somewhat theatrical letter, modeled upon Ouida, whom
she thought the greatest writer that had ever lived, Victor Hugo
and two or three poets perhaps excepted.

Her bundle was not light, but she hardly felt it as she moved
swiftly through the deserted, moonlit streets toward the river.
The wharf boat for the Cincinnati and Louisville mail steamers
was anchored at the foot of Pine Street.  On the levee before it
were piled the boxes, bags, cases, crates, barrels to be loaded
upon the "up boat." She was descending the gentle slope toward
this mass of freight when her blood tingled at a deep, hoarse,
mournful whistle from far away; she knew it was the up boat,
rounding the bend and sighting the town.  The sound echoed
musically back and forth between the Kentucky and the Indiana
bluffs, died lingeringly away.  Again the whistle boomed, again
the dark forest-clad steeps sent the echoes to and fro across the
broad silver river.  And now she could see the steamer, at the
bend--a dark mass picked out with brilliant dots of light; the
big funnels, the two thick pennants of black smoke.  And she
could hear the faint pleasant stroke of the paddles of the big
side wheels upon the water.

At the wharf boat there had not been a sign of life.  But with
the dying away of the second whistle lights--the lights of
lanterns--appeared on the levee close to the water's edge and on
the wharf boat itself.  And, behind her, the doors of the
Sutherland Hotel opened and its office lit up, in preparation
for any chance arrivals.  She turned abruptly out of the beaten
path down the gravel levee, made for the lower and darker end of
the wharf boat.  There would be Sutherland people going up the
river.  But they would be more than prompt; everyone came early
to boats and trains to begin the sweet draught of the excitement
of journeying.  So she would wait in the darkness and go aboard
when the steamer was about to draw in its planks.  At the upper
end of the wharf boat there was the broad gangway to the levee
for passengers and freight; at the lower and dark and deserted
end a narrow beam extended from boat to shore, to hold the boat
steady.  Susan, balancing herself with her bundle, went up to the
beam, sat down upon a low stanchion in the darkness where she
could see the river.

Louder and louder grew the regular musical beat of engine and
paddle.  The searchlight on the forward deck of the _General
Lytle_, after peering uncertainly, suspiciously, at the entire
levee, and at the river, and at the Kentucky shore, abruptly
focused upon the wharf boat.  The _General Lytle_ now seemed a
blaze of lights--from lower deck, from saloon deck, from pilot
house deck, and forward and astern.  A hundred interesting sounds
came from her--tinkling of bells, calls from deck to deck,
whistling, creaking of pulleys, lowing of cattle, grunting of
swine, plaint of agitated sheep, the resigned cluckings of many
chickens.  Along the rail of the middle or saloon deck were
seated a few passengers who had not yet gone to bed.  On the
lower deck was a swarm of black roustabouts, their sooty animal
faces, their uncannily contrasting white teeth and eyeballs,
their strange and varied rags lit up by the torches blazing
where a gangplank lay ready for running out.  And high and clear
in the lovely June night sailed the moon, spreading a faint
benign light upon hills and shores and glistening river, upon
the graceful, stately mail steamer, now advancing majestically
upon the wharf boat.  Susan watched all, saw all, with quick
beating heart and quivering interest.  It was the first time that
her life had been visited by the fascinating sense of event,
real event.  The tall, proud, impetuous child-woman, standing in
the semi-darkness beside her bundle, was about to cast her stake
upon the table in a bold game with Destiny.  Her eyes shone with
the wonderful expression that is seen only when courage gazes
into the bright face of danger.

The steamer touched the edge of the wharf-boat with gentle care;
the wharf-boat swayed and groaned.  Even as the gangplanks were
pushing out, the ragged, fantastic roustabouts, with wild,
savage, hilarious cries, ran and jumped and scrambled to the
wharf-boat like a band of escaping lunatics and darted down its
shore planks to pounce upon the piles of freight.  The mate, at
the steamer edge to superintend the loading, and the wharf
master on the levee beside the freight released each a hoarse
torrent of profanity to spur on the yelling, laughing
roustabouts, more brute than man.  Torches flared; cow and sheep,
pig and chicken, uttered each its own cry of dissatisfaction or
dismay; the mate and wharf master cursed because it was the
custom to curse; the roustabouts rushed ashore empty-handed,
came filing back, stooping under their burdens.  It was a scene
of animation, of excitement, savage, grotesque, fascinating.

Susan, trembling a little, so tense were her nerves, waited
until the last struggling roustabouts were staggering on the
boat, until the deep whistle sounded, warning of approaching
departure.  Then she took up her bundle and put herself in the
line of roustabouts, between a half-naked negro, black as coal
and bearing a small barrel of beer, and a half-naked mulatto
bearing a bundle of loud-smelling untanned skins.  "Get out of
the way, lady!" yelled the mate, eagerly seizing upon a new text
for his denunciations.  "Get out of the way, you black hellions!
Let the lady pass!  Look out, lady!  You damned sons of hell,
what're you about!  I'll rip out your bowels----"

Susan fled across the deck and darted up the stairs to the
saloon.  The steamer was all white without except the black metal
work.  Within--that is, in the long saloon out of which the
cabins opened to right and left and in which the meals were
served at extension tables--there was the palatial splendor of
white and gilt.  At the forward end near the main entrance was
the office.  Susan, peering in from the darkness of the deck, saw
that the way was clear.  The Sutherland passengers had been
accommodated.  She entered, put her bundle down, faced the clerk
behind the desk.

"Why, howdy, Miss Lenox," said he genially, beginning to twist
his narrow, carefully attended blond mustache.  "Any of the folks
with you?"

She remembered his face but not his name.  She remembered him as
one of the "river characters" regarded as outcast by the
Christian respectability of Sutherland.  But she who could not
but be polite to everybody smiled pleasantly, though she did not
like his expression as he looked at her.  "No, I'm alone," said she.

"Oh--your friends are going to meet you at the wharf in the
morning," said he, content with his own explanation.  "Just sign
here, please." And, as she wrote, he went on:  "I've got one room
left.  Ain't that lucky?  It's a nice one, too.  You'll be very
comfortable.  Everybody at home well?  I ain't been in Sutherland
for nigh ten years.  Every week or so I think I will, and then
somehow I don't.  Here's your key--number 34 right-hand side,
well down toward the far end, yonder.  Two dollars, please.  Thank
you--exactly right.  Hope you sleep well."

"Thank you," said Susan.

She turned away with the key which was thrust through one end of
a stick about a foot long, to make it too bulky for
absent-minded passengers to pocket.  She took up her bundle,
walked down the long saloon with its gilt decorations, its
crystal chandeliers, its double array of small doors, each
numbered.  The clerk looked after her, admiration of the fine
curve of her shoulders, back, and hips written plain upon his
insignificant features.  And it was a free admiration he would
not have dared show had she not been a daughter of
illegitimacy--a girl whose mother's "looseness" raised pleasing
if scandalous suggestions and even possibilities in the mind of
every man with a carnal eye.  And not unnaturally.  To think of
her was to think of the circumstances surrounding her coming
into the world; and to think of those circumstances was to think
of immorality.

Susan, all unconscious of that polluted and impudent gaze, was
soon standing before the narrow door numbered 34, as she barely
made out, for the lamps in the saloon chandeliers were turned
low.  She unlocked it, entered the small clean stateroom and
deposited her bundle on the floor.  With just a glance at her
quarters she hurried to the opposite door--the one giving upon
the promenade.  She opened it, stepped out, crossed the deserted
deck and stood at the rail.

The _General Lytle_ was drawing slowly away from the wharf-boat.
As that part of the promenade happened to be sheltered from the
steamer's lights, she was seeing the panorama of Sutherland--its
long stretch of shaded waterfront, its cupolas and steeples, the
wide leafy streets leading straight from the river by a gentle
slope to the base of the dark towering bluffs behind the
town--all sleeping in peace and beauty in the soft light of the
moon.  That farthest cupola to the left--it was the Number Two
engine house, and the third place from it was her uncle's house.
Slowly the steamer, now in mid-stream, drew away from the town.
One by one the familiar landmarks--the packing house, the soap
factory, the Geiss brewery, the tall chimney of the pumping
station, the shorn top of Reservoir Hill--slipped ghostlily away
to the southwest.  The sobs choked up into her throat and the
tears rained from her eyes.  They all pitied and looked down on
her there; still, it had been home the only home she ever had
known or ever would know.  And until these last few frightful
days, how happy she had been there!  For the first time she felt
desolate, weak, afraid.  But not daunted.  It is strange to see in
strong human character the strength and the weakness, two flat
contradictions, existing side by side and making weak what seems
so strong and making strong what seems so weak.  However, human
character is a tangle of inconsistencies, as disorderly and
inchoate as the tangible and visible parts of nature.  Susan felt
weak, but not the kind of weakness that skulks.  And there lay
the difference, the abysmal difference, between courage and
cowardice.  Courage has full as much fear as cowardice, often
more; but it has a something else that cowardice has not.  It
trembles and shivers but goes forward.

Wiping her eyes she went back to her own cabin.  She had
neglected closing its other door, the one from the saloon.  The
clerk was standing smirking in the doorway.

"You must be going away for quite some time," said he.  And he
fixed upon her as greedy and impudent eyes as ever looked from
a common face.  It was his battle glance.  Guileful women, bent on
trimming him for anything from a piece of plated jewelry to a
saucer of ice cream, had led him to believe that before it walls
of virtue tottered and fell like Jericho's before the trumpets
of Joshua.

"It makes me a little homesick to see the old town disappear,"
hastily explained Susan, recovering herself.  The instant anyone
was watching, her emotions always hid.

"Wouldn't you like to sit out on deck a while?" pursued the
clerk, bringing up a winning smile to reinforce the fetching stare.

The idea was attractive, for she did not feel like sleep.  It
would be fine to sit out in the open, watch the moon and the
stars, the mysterious banks gliding swiftly by, and new vistas
always widening out ahead.  But not with this puny, sandy little
"river character," not with anybody that night.  "No," replied
she.  "I think I'll go to bed."

She had hesitated--and that was enough to give him
encouragement.  "Now, do come," he urged.  "You don't know how
nice it is.  And they say I'm mighty good company."

"No, thanks." Susan nodded a pleasant dismissal.

The clerk lingered.  "Can't I help you in some way?  Wouldn't you
like me to get you something?"

"No--nothing."

"Going to visit in Cincinnati?  I know the town from A to Izzard.
It's a lot of fun over the Rhine.  I've had mighty good times
there--the kind a pretty, lively girl like you would take to."

"When do we get to Cincinnati?"

"About eight--maybe half-past seven.  Depends on the landings we
have to make, and the freight."

"Then I'll not have much time for sleep," said Susan.  "Good
night." And no more realizing the coldness of her manner than
the reason for his hanging about, she faced him, hand on the
door to close it.

"You ain't a bit friendly," wheedled he.

"I'm sorry you think so.  Good night--and thank you." And he
could not but withdraw his form from the door.  She closed it and
forgot him.  And she did not dream she had passed through one of
those perilous adventures incident to a female traveling
alone--adventures that even in the telling frighten ladies whose
nervousness for their safety seems to increase in direct
proportion to the degree of tranquillity their charms create in
the male bosom.  She decided it would be unwise regularly to
undress; the boat might catch fire or blow up or something.  She
took off skirt, hat and ties, loosened her waist, and lay upon
the lower of the two plain, hard little berths.  The throb of the
engines, the beat of the huge paddles, made the whole boat
tremble and shiver.  Faintly up from below came the sound of
quarrels over crap-shooting, of banjos and singing--from the
roustabouts amusing themselves between landings.  She thought she
would not be able to sleep in these novel and exciting
surroundings.  She had hardly composed herself before she lost
consciousness, to sleep on and on dreamlessly, without motion.




CHAPTER VII


SHE was awakened by a crash so uproarious that she sat bolt
upright before she had her eyes open.  Her head struck stunningly
against the bottom of the upper berth.  This further confused her
thoughts.  She leaped from the bed, caught up her slippers,
reached for her opened-up bundle.  The crash was still billowing
through the boat; she now recognized it as a great gong sounding
for breakfast.  She sat down on the bed and rubbed her head and
laughed merrily.  "I _am_ a greenhorn!" she said.  "Another minute
and I'd have had the whole boat laughing at me."

She felt rested and hungry--ravenously hungry.  She tucked in her
blouse, washed as well as she could in the tiny bowl on the
little washstand.  Then before the cloudy watermarked mirror she
arranged her scarcely mussed hair.  A charming vision of fresh
young loveliness, strong, erect, healthy, bright of eye and of
cheek, she made as, after a furtive look up and down the saloon,
she stepped from her door a very few minutes after the crash of
that gong.  With much scuffling and bustling the passengers, most
of them country people, were hurrying into places at the tables
which now had their extension leaves and were covered with
coarse white tablecloths and with dishes of nicked stoneware,
white, indeed, but shabbily so.  But Susan's young eyes were not
critical.  To her it all seemed fine, with the rich flavor of
adventure.  A more experienced traveler might have been filled
with gloomy foreboding by the quality of the odor from the
cooking.  She found it delightful and sympathized with the
unrestrained eagerness of the homely country faces about her,
with the children beating their spoons on their empty plates.
The colored waiters presently began to stream in, each wearing
a soiled white jacket, each bearing aloft a huge tray on which
were stacked filled dishes and steaming cups.

Colored people have a keen instinct for class.  One of the
waiters happened to note her, advanced bowing and smiling with
that good-humored, unservile courtesy which is the peculiar
possession of the Americanized colored race.  He flourished her
into a chair with a "Good morning, miss.  It's going to be a fine
day." And as soon as she was seated he began to form round her
plate a large inclosing arc of side dishes--fried fish, fried
steak, fried egg, fried potatoes, wheat cakes, canned peaches,
a cup of coffee.  He drew toward her a can of syrup, a pitcher of
cream, and a bowl of granulated sugar.

"Anything else?" said he, with a show of teeth white and sound.

"No--nothing.  Thank you so much."

Her smile stimulated him to further courtesies.  "Some likes the
yeggs biled.  Shall I change 'em?"

"No.  I like them this way." She was so hungry that the idea of
taking away a certainty on the chance of getting something out
of sight and not yet cooked did not attract her.

"Perhaps--a little better piece of steak?"

"No--this looks fine." Her enthusiasm was not mere politeness.

"I clean forgot your hot biscuits." And away he darted.

When he came back with a heaping plate of hot biscuits, Sally
Lunn and cornbread, she was eating as heartily as any of her
neighbors.  It seemed to her that never had she tasted such grand
food as this served in the white and gold saloon with
strangeness and interest all about her and the delightful sense
of motion--motion into the fascinating golden unknown.  The men
at the table were eating with their knives; each had one
protecting forearm and hand cast round his arc of small dishes
as if to ward off probable attempt at seizure.  And they
swallowed as if the boat were afire.  The women ate more
daintily, as became members of the finer sex on public
exhibition.  They were wearing fingerless net gloves, and their
little fingers stood straight out in that gesture which every
truly elegant woman deems necessary if the food is to be
daintily and artistically conveyed to her lips.  The children
mussed and gormed themselves, their dishes, the tablecloth.
Susan loved it all.  Her eyes sparkled.  She ate everything, and
regretted that lack of capacity made it impossible for her to
yield to the entreaties of her waiter that she "have a little more."

She rose, went into the nearest passageway between saloon and
promenade, stealthily took a ten-cent piece from her pocketbook.
She called her waiter and gave it to him.  She was blushing
deeply, frightened lest this the first tip she had ever given or
seen given be misunderstood and refused.  "I'm so much obliged,"
she said.  "You were very nice."

The waiter bowed like a prince, always with his simple, friendly
smile; the tip disappeared under his apron.  "Nobody could help
being nice to you, lady."

She thanked him again and went to the promenade.  It seemed to
her that they had almost arrived.  Along shore stretched a
continuous line of houses--pretty houses with gardens.  There
were electric cars.  Nearer the river lay several parallel lines
of railway track along which train after train was speeding,
some of them short trains of ordinary day coaches, others long
trains made up in part of coaches grander and more beautiful
than any she had ever seen.  She knew they must be the parlor and
dining and sleeping cars she had read about.  And now they were
in the midst of a fleet of steamers and barges, and far ahead
loomed the first of Cincinnati's big suspension bridges,
pictures of which she had many a time gazed at in wonder.  There
was a mingling of strange loud noises--whistles, engines, on the
water, on shore; there was a multitude of what seemed to her
feverish activities--she who had not been out of quiet
Sutherland since she was a baby too young to note things.

The river, the shores, grew more and more crowded.  Susan's eyes
darted from one new object to another; and eagerly though she
looked she felt she was missing more than she saw.

"Why, Susan Lenox!" exclaimed a voice almost in her ear.

She closed her teeth upon a cry; suddenly she was back from
wonderland to herself.  She turned to face dumpy, dressy Mrs.
Waterbury and her husband with the glossy kinky ringlets and the
long wavy mustache.  "How do you do?" she stammered.

"We didn't know you were aboard," said Mrs. Waterbury, a silly,
duck-legged woman looking proudly uncomfortable in her
bead-trimmed black silk.

"Yes--I'm--I'm here," confessed Susan.

"Going to the city to visit?"

"Yes," said Susan.  She hesitated, then repeated, "Yes."

"What elegant breakfasts they do serve on these boats!  I suppose
your friends'll meet you.  But Mort and I'll look after you till
they come."

"Oh, it isn't necessary," protested Susan.  The steamer was
passing under the bridge.  There were cities on both shores--huge
masses of dingy brick, streets filled with motion of every
kind--always motion, incessant motion, and change.  "We're about
there, aren't we?" she asked.

"The wharf's up beyond the second bridge--the Covington Bridge,"
explained Waterbury with the air of the old experienced
globe-trotter.  "There's a third one, further up, but you can't
see it for the smoke." And he went on and on, volubly airing his
intimate knowledge of the great city which he visited once a
year for two or three days to buy goods.  He ended with a
scornful, "My, but Cincinnati's a dirty place!"

Dirty it might be, but Susan loved it, dirt and all.  The smoke,
the grime somehow seemed part of it, one of its charms, one of
the things that made it different from, and superior to,
monotonous country and country town.  She edged away from the
Waterburys, hid in her stateroom watching the panorama through
the curtained glass of her promenade deck door.  She was
completely carried away.  The city!  So, this was the city!  And
her dreams of travel, of new sights, new faces, were beginning
to come true.  She forgot herself, forgot what she had left
behind, forgot what she was to face.  All her power of thought
and feeling was used up in absorbing these unfolding wonders.
And when the June sun suddenly pierced the heavy clouds of fog and
smoke, she clasped her hands and gasped, "Lovely!  Oh, how lovely!"

And now the steamer was at the huge wharf-boat, in shape like
the one at Sutherland, but in comparative size like the real
Noah's Ark beside a toy ark.  And from the whole tremendous scene
rose an enormous clamor, the stentorian voice of the city.  That
voice is discordant and terrifying to many.  To Susan, on that
day, it was the most splendid burst of music.  "Awake--awake!" it
cried.  "Awake, and _live!_" She opened her door that she might
hear it better--rattle and rumble and roar, shriek of whistle,
clang of bell.  And the people!--Thousands on thousands hurrying
hither and yon, like bees in a hive.  "Awake awake, and live!"

The noises from the saloon reminded her that the journey was
ended, that she must leave the boat.  And she did not know where
to go--she and her bundle.  She waited until she saw the
Waterburys, along with the other passengers, moving up the
levee.  Then she issued forth--by the promenade deck door so that
she would not pass the office.  But at the head of the
companionway, in the forward part of the deck, there the clerk
stood, looking even pettier and more offensive by daylight.  She
thought to slip by him.  But he stopped stroking his mustache and
called out to her, "Haven't your friends come?"

She frowned, angry in her nervousness.  "I shall get on very
well," she said curtly.  Then she repented, smiled politely,
added, "Thank you."

"I'll put you in a carriage," he offered, hastening down the
stairs to join her.

She did not know what to say or do.  She walked silently beside
him, he carrying her bundle.  They crossed the wharf-boat.  A line
of dilapidated looking carriages was drawn up near the end of
the gangplank.  The sight of them, the remembrance of what she
had heard of the expensiveness of city carriages, nerved her to
desperation.  "Give me my things, please," she said.  "I think I'll
walk."

"Where do you want to go?"

The question took her breath away.  With a quickness that amazed
her, her lips uttered, "The Gibson House."

"Oh!  That's a right smart piece.  But you can take a car.  I'll walk
with you to the car.  There's a line a couple of squares up that
goes almost by the door.  You know it isn't far from Fourth Street."

She was now in a flutter of terror.  She went stumbling along
beside him, not hearing a word of his voluble and flirtatious
talk.  They were in the midst of the mad rush and confusion.  The
noises, no longer mingled but individual, smote savagely upon
her ears, startling her, making her look dazedly round as if
expecting death to swoop upon her.  At the corner of Fourth Street
the clerk halted.  He was clear out of humor with her, so dumb,
so unappreciative.  "There'll be a car along soon," said he sourly.

"You needn't wait," said she timidly.  "Thank you again."

"You can't miss it.  Good-by." And he lifted his hat--"tipped"
it, rather--for he would not have wasted a full lift upon such
a female.  She gave a gasp of relief when he departed; then a
gasp of terror--for upon the opposite corner stood the
Waterburys.  The globe-trotter and his wife were so dazed by the
city that they did not see her, though in their helpless
glancing round they looked straight at her.  She hastily ran into
a drug store on the corner.  A young man in shirt sleeves held up
by pink garters, and with oily black hair carefully parted and
plastered, put down a pestle and mortar and came forward.  He had
kind brown eyes, but there was something wrong with the lower
part of his face.  Susan did not dare look to see what it was,
lest he should think her unfeeling.  He was behind the counter.
Susan saw the soda fountain.  As if by inspiration, she said,
"Some chocolate soda, please."

"Ice cream?" asked the young man in a peculiar voice, like that
of one who has a harelip.

"Please," said Susan.  And then she saw the sign, "Ice Cream, ten
cents," and wished she hadn't.

The young man mixed the soda, put in a liberal helping of ice
cream, set it before her with a spoon in it, rested the knuckles
of his brown hairy hands on the counter and said:

"It _is_ hot."

"Yes, indeed," assented Susan.  "I wonder where I could leave my
bundle for a while.  I'm a stranger and I want to look for a
boarding house."

"You might leave it here with me," said the young man.  "That's
about our biggest line of trade--that and postage stamps and
telephone--_and_ the directory.  "He laughed heartily.  Susan did
not see why; she did not like the sound, either, for the young
man's deformity of lower jaw deformed his laughter as well as
his speech.  However, she smiled politely and ate and drank her
soda slowly.

"I'll be glad to take care of your bundle," the young man said
presently.  "Ever been here before?"

"No," said Susan.  "That is, not since I was about four years old."

"I was four," said the young man, "when a horse stepped on my
mouth in the street."

"My, how dreadful!" exclaimed Susan.

"You can see some of the scar yet," the young man assured her,
and he pointed to his curiously sunken mouth.  "The doctors said
it was the most remarkable case of the kind on record,"
continued he proudly.  "That was what led me into the medical
line.  You don't seem to have your boarding house picked."

"I was going to look in the papers."

"That's dangerous--especially for a young lady.  Some of them
boarding houses--well, they're no better'n they ought to be."

"I don't suppose you know of any?"

"My aunt keeps one.  And she's got a vacancy, it being summer."

"I'm afraid it'd be too expensive for me," said Susan, to feel her way.

The young man was much flattered.  But he said, "Oh, it ain't so
toppy.  I think you could make a deal with her for five per."

Susan looked inquiring.

"Five a week--room and board."

"I might stand that," said Susan reflectively.  Then, deciding
for complete confidence, "I'm looking for work, too."

"What line?"

"Oh, I never tried anything.  I thought maybe dressmaking or millinery."

"Mighty poor season for jobs.  The times are bad, anyhow." He was
looking at her with kindly curiosity.  "If I was you, I'd go back
home--and wait."

Susan shrank within herself.  "I can't do that," she said.

The young man thought awhile, then said:  "If you should go to my
aunt's, you can say Mr. Ellison sent you.  No, that ain't me.
It's the boss.  You see, a respectable boarding house asks for
references."

Susan colored deeply and her gaze slowly sank.  "I didn't know
that," she murmured.

"Don't be afraid.  Aunt Kate ain't so particular--leastways, not
in summer when things is slow.  And I know you're quiet."

By the time the soda was finished, the young man--who said his
name was Robert Wylie--had written on the back of Ellison's
business card in a Spencerian hand:  "Mrs. Kate Wylie, 347 West
Sixth Street." He explained that Susan was to walk up two
squares and take the car going west; the conductor would let her
off at the right place.  "You'd better leave your things here,"
said Mr. Wylie, holding up the card so that they could admire
his penmanship together.  "You may not hit it off with Aunt Kate.
Don't think you've got to stay there just because of me."

"I'm sure I'll like it," Susan declared confidently.  Her spirits
were high; she felt that she was in a strong run of luck.

Wylie lifted her package over the counter and went to the door
with her to point out the direction.  "This is Fourth.  The next
up is Fifth.  The next wide one is Sixth--and you can read it on
the lamp-post, too."

"Isn't that convenient!" exclaimed Susan.  "What a lovely city this is!"

"There's worse," said Mr. Wylie, not to seem vain of his native town.

They shook hands most friendly and she set out in the direction
he had indicated.  She was much upset by the many vehicles and
the confusion, but she did her best to seem at ease and at home.
She watched a girl walking ahead of her--a shopgirl who seemed
well-dressed and stylish, especially about the hat and hair.
Susan tried to walk like her.  "I suppose I look and act greener
than I really am," thought she.  "But I'll keep my eyes open and
catch on." And in this, as in all her thoughts and actions since
leaving, she showed confidence not because she was conceited,
but because she had not the remotest notion what she was
actually attempting.  How many of us get credit for courage as we
walk unconcerned through perils, or essay and conquer great
obstacles, when in truth we are not courageous but simply
unaware!  As a rule knowledge is power or, rather, a source of
power, but there are times when ignorance is a power and
knowledge a weakness.  If Susan had known, she might perhaps have
stayed at home and submitted and, with crushed spirit, might
have sunk under the sense of shame and degradation.  But she did
not know; so Columbus before his sailors or Caesar at the
Rubicon among his soldiers did not seem more tranquil than she
really was.  Wylie, who suspected in the direction of the truth,
wondered at her.  "She's game, she is," he muttered again and
again that morning.  "What a nerve for a kid--and a lady, too!"

She found the right corner and the right car without further
adventure; and the conductor assured her that he would set her
down before the very door of the address on the card.  It was an
open car with few passengers.  She took the middle of the long
seat nearest the rear platform and looked about her like one in
a happy dream.  On and on and yet on they went.  With every square
they passed more people, so it seemed to her, than there were in
all Sutherland.  And what huge stores!  And what wonderful
displays of things to wear!  Where would the people be found to
buy such quantities, and where would they get the money to pay?
How many restaurants and saloons!  Why, everybody must be eating
and drinking all the time.  And at each corner she looked up and
down the cross streets, and there were more and ever more
magnificent buildings, throngs upon throngs of people.  Was there
no end to it?  This was Sixth Street, still Sixth Street, as she
saw at the corner lamp-posts.  Then there must be five more such
streets between this and the river; and she could see, up the
cross streets, that the city was even vaster in the direction of
the hills.  And there were all these cross streets!  It was
stupefying--overwhelming--incredible.

She began to be nervous, they were going so far.  She glanced
anxiously at the conductor.  He was watching her interestedly,
understood her glance, answered it with a reassuring nod.  He
called out:

"I'm looking out for you, miss.  I've got you on my mind.  Don't
you fret."

She gave him a bright smile of relief.  They were passing through
a double row of what seemed to her stately residences, and there
were few people on the sidewalks.  The air, too, was clearer,
though the walls were grimy and also the grass in the occasional
tiny front yards.  But the curtains at the windows looked clean
and fresh, and so did the better class of people among those on
the sidewalk.  It delighted her to see so many well-dressed
women, wearing their clothes with an air which she told herself
she must acquire.  She was startled by the conductor's calling out:

"Now, miss!"

She rose as he rang the bell and was ready to get off when the
car stopped, for she was eager to cause him as little trouble as
possible.

"The house is right straight before you," said the conductor.
"The number's in the transom."

She thanked him, descended, was on the sidewalk before Mrs.
Wylie's.  She looked at the house and her heart sank.  She thought
of the small sum in her purse; it was most unlikely that such a
house as this would harbor her.  For here was a grand stone
stairway ascending to a deep stone portico, and within it great
doors, bigger than those of the Wright mansion, the palace of
Sutherland.  However, she recalled the humble appearance and mode
of speech of her friend the drug clerk and plucked up the
courage to ascend and to ring.

A slattern, colored maid opened the door.  At the first glance
within, at the first whiff of the interior air, Susan felt more
at ease.  For she was seeing what even her bedazzled eyes
recognized as cheap dowdiness, and the smell that assailed her
nostrils was that of a house badly and poorly kept--the smell of
cheap food and bad butter cooking, of cats, of undusted rooms,
of various unrecognizable kinds of staleness.  She stood in the
center of the big dingy parlor, gazing round at the grimed
chromos until Mrs. Wylie entered--a thin middle-aged woman with
small brown eyes set wide apart, a perpetual frown, and a chin
so long and so projected that she was almost jimber-jawed.  While
Susan explained stammeringly what she had come for, Mrs. Wylie
eyed her with increasing disfavor.  When Susan had finished, she
unlocked her lips for the first time to say:

"The room's took."

"Oh!" cried Susan in dismay.

The telephone rang in the back parlor.  Mrs. Wylie excused
herself to answer.  After a few words she closed the doors
between.  She was gone fully five minutes; to Susan it seemed an
hour.  She came back, saying:

"I've been talking to my nephew.  He called up.  Well, I reckon
you can have the room.  It ain't my custom to take in ladies as
young as you.  But you seem to be all right.  Your parents allowed
you to come?"

"I haven't any," replied Susan.  "I'm here to find a place and
support myself."

Mrs. Wylie continued to eye her dubiously.  "Well, I have no wish
to pry into your affairs.  'Mind your own business,' that's my
rule." She spoke with defiance, as if the contrary were being
asserted by some invisible person who might appear and gain
hearing and belief.  She went on:  "If Mr. Ellison wants it, why I
suppose it's all right.  But you can't stay out later'n ten o'clock."

"I shan't go out at all of nights," said Susan eagerly.

"You _look_ quiet," said Mrs. Wylie, with the air of adding that
appearances were rarely other than deceptive.

"Oh, I _am_ quiet," declared Susan.  It puzzled her, this
recurrence of the suggestion of noisiness.

"I can't allow much company--none in your room."

"There won't be any company." She blushed deeply.  "That is, a--a
young man from our town--he may call once.  But he'll be off for
the East right away."

Mrs. Wylie reflected on this, Susan the while standing uneasily,
dreading lest decision would be against her.  Finally Mrs. Wylie said:

"Robert says you want the five-dollar room.  I'll show it to you."

They ascended two flights through increasing shabbiness.  On the
third floor at the rear was a room--a mere continuation of the
narrow hall, partitioned off.  It contained a small folding bed,
a small table, a tiny bureau, a washstand hardly as large as
that in the cabin on the boat, a row of hooks with a curtain of
flowered chintz before them, a kitchen chair, a chromo of "Awake
and Asleep," a torn and dirty rag carpet.  The odor of the room,
stale, damp, verging on moldy, seemed the fitting exhalation
from such an assemblage of forbidding objects.

"It's a nice, comfortable room," said Mrs. Wylie aggressively.
"I couldn't afford to give it and two meals for five dollars
except till the first of September.  After that it's eight."

"I'll be glad to stay, if you'll let me," said Susan.  Mrs.
Wylie's suspicion, so plain in those repellent eyes, took all
the courage out of her.  The great adventure seemed rapidly to be
losing its charms.  She could not think of herself as content or
anything but sad and depressed in such surroundings as these.
How much better it would be if she could live out in the open,
out where it was attractive!

"I suppose you've got some baggage," said Mrs. Wylie, as if she
rather expected to hear that she had not.

"I left it at the drug store," explained Susan.

"Your trunk?"

Susan started nervously at that explosive exclamation.  "I--I
haven't got a trunk--only a few things in a shawl strap."

"Well, I never!"

Mrs. Wylie tossed her head, clucked her tongue disgustedly
against the roof of her mouth.  "But I suppose if Mr. Ellison
says so, why you can stay."

"Thank you," said Susan humbly.  Even if it would not have been
basest ingratitude to betray her friend, Mr. Wylie, still she
would not have had the courage to confess the truth about Mr.
Ellison and so get herself ordered into the street.  "I--I think
I'll go for my things."

"The custom is to pay in advance," said Mrs. Wylie sharply.

"Oh, yes--of course," stammered Susan.

She seated herself on the wooden chair and opened out her purse.
She found the five among her few bills, extended it with
trembling fingers toward Mrs. Wylie.  At the same time she lifted
her eyes.  The woman's expression as she bored into the
pocketbook terrified her.  Never before had she seen the savage
greediness that is bred in the city among the people who fight
against fearful odds to maintain their respectability and to
save themselves from the ever threatened drop to the despised
working class.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Wylie, taking the bill as if she were
conferring a favor upon Susan.  "I make everybody pay promptly.
The first of the week or out they go!  I used to be easy and I
came near going down."

"Oh, I shouldn't stay a minute if I couldn't pay," said the
girl.  "I'm going to look for something right away."

"Well, I don't want to discourage you, but there's a great many
out of work.  Still, I suppose you'll be able to wheedle some man
into giving you a job.  But I warn you I'm very particular about
morals.  If I see any signs----"  Mrs. Wylie did not finish her
sentence.  Any words would have been weaker than her look.

Susan colored and trembled.  Not at the poisonous hint as to how
money could be got to keep on paying for that room, for the hint
passed wide of Susan.  She was agitated by the thought:  if Mrs.
Wylie should learn that she was not respectable!  If Mrs. Wylie
should learn that she was nameless--was born in disgrace so deep
that, no matter how good she might be, she would yet be classed
with the wicked.

"I'm down like a thousand of brick on any woman that is at all
loose with the men," continued the landlady.  "I never could
understand how any woman could so far forget herself." And the
woman whom the men had all her life been helping to their
uttermost not to "forget herself" looked sharp suspicion and
envy at Susan, the lovely.  Why are women of the Mrs. Wylie sort
so swift to suspect?  Can it be that in some secret chamber of
their never assailed hearts there lurks a longing--a feeling as
to what they would do if they had the chance?  Mrs. Wylie
continued, "I hope you have strict Christian principles?"

"I was brought up Presbyterian," said Susan anxiously.  She was
far from sure that in Cincinnati and by its Mrs. Wylies
Presbyterian would be regarded as Christian.

"There's your kind of a church a few squares from here," was all
Mrs. Wylie deigned to reply.  Susan suspected a sneer at
Presbyterianism in her accent.

"That'll be nice," she murmured.  She was eager to escape.  "I'll
go for my things."

"You can walk down and take the Fourth Street car," suggested
her landlady.  "Then you can watch out and not miss the store.
The conductors are very impudent and forgetful."

Susan escaped from the house as speedily as her flying feet
would take her down the two flights.  In the street once more,
her spirits rose.  She went south to Fourth Street, decided to
walk instead of taking a car.  She now found herself in much more
impressive surroundings than before, and realized that Sixth
Street was really one of the minor streets.  The further uptown
she went, the more excited she became.  After the district of
stately mansions with wonderful carriages driving up and away
and women dressed like those in the illustrated story papers,
came splendid shops and hotels, finer than Susan had believed
there were anywhere in the world.  And most of the people--the
crowds on crowds of people!--looked prosperous and cheerful and
so delightfully citified!  She wondered why so many of the men
stared at her.  She assumed it must be something rural in her
appearance though that ought to have set the women to staring,
too.  But she thought little about this, so absorbed was she in
seeing all the new things.  She walked slowly, pausing to inspect
the shop windows--the gorgeous dresses and hats and jewelry, the
thousand costly things scattered in careless profusion.  And the
crowds!  How secure she felt among these multitudes of strangers,
not one of them knowing or suspecting her secret of shame!  She
no longer had the sense of being outcast, branded.

When she had gone so far that it seemed to her she certainly
must have missed the drug store, carefully though she had
inspected each corner as she went, she decided that she must
stop someone of this hurrying throng and inquire the way.  While
she was still screwing her courage to this boldness, she espied
the sign and hastened joyfully across the street.  She and Wylie
welcomed each other like old friends.  He was delighted when he
learned that she had taken the room.

"You won't mind Aunt Kate after a while," said he.  "She's sour
and nosey, but she's honest and respectable--and that's the main
thing just now with you.  And I think you'll get a job all right.
Aunt Kate's got a lady friend that's head saleslady at
Shillito's.  She'll know of something."

Wylie was so kind and so hopeful that Susan felt already
settled.  As soon as customers came in, she took her parcel and
went, Wylie saying, "I'll drop round after supper and see how
things are getting on." She took the Sixth Street car back, and
felt like an old resident.  She was critical of Sixth Street now,
and of the women she had been admiring there less than two hours
before--critical of their manners and of their dress.  The
exterior of the boarding house no longer awed her.  She was
getting a point of view--as she proudly realized.  By the time
Sam came--and surely that wouldn't be many days--she would be
quite transformed.

She mounted the steps and was about to ring when Mrs. Wylie
herself, with stormy brow and snapping eyes, opened the door.
"Go into the parlor," she jerked out from between her
unpleasant-looking receding teeth.

Susan gave her a glance of frightened wonder and obeyed.




CHAPTER VIII


AT the threshold her bundles dropped to the floor and all color
fled from her face.  Before her stood her Uncle George and Sam
Wright and his father.  The two elderly men were glowering at
her; Sam, white as his shirt and limp, was hanging his head.

"So, miss!--You've got back, eh?" cried her uncle in a tone she
would not have believed could come from him.

As quickly as fear had seized her she now shook it off.  "Yes,
Uncle," she said calmly, meeting his angry eyes without
flinching.  And back came that expression of resolution--of
stubbornness we call it when it is the flag of opposition to
_our_ will.

"What'd have become of you," demanded her uncle, "if I hadn't
found out early this morning, and got after Sam here and choked
the truth out of him?"

Susan gazed at Sam; but he was such a pitiful figure, so mean and
frightened, that she glanced quickly back to her uncle.  She said:

"But he didn't know where I was."

"Don't lie to me," cried Warham.  "It won't do you any good, any
more than his lying kept us from finding you.  We came on the
train and saw the Waterburys in the street and they'd seen you
go into the drug store.  We'd have caught you there if we'd been
a few minutes sooner, but we drove, and got here in time.  Now,
tell me, Susan"--and his voice was cruelly harsh--"all about
what's been going on between you and Sam."

She gazed fearlessly and was silent.

"Speak up!" commanded Sam's father.

"Yes--and no lies," said her uncle.

"I don't know what you mean," Susan at last answered--truthfully
enough, yet to gain time, too.

"You can't play that game any longer," cried Warham.  "You did make
a fool of me, but my eyes are open.  Your aunt's right about you."

"Oh, Uncle George!" said the girl, a sob in her voice.

But he gazed pitilessly--gazed at the woman he was now abhorring
as the treacherous, fallen, unsexed daughter of fallen Lorella.
"Speak out.  Crying won't help you.  What have you and this fellow
been up to?  You disgrace!"

Susan shrank and shivered, but answered steadfastly, "That's
between him and me, Uncle."

Warham gave a snort of fury, turned to the elder Wright.  "You
see, Wright," cried he.  "It's as my wife and I told you.  Your
boy's lying.  We'll send the landlady out for a preacher and
marry them."

"Hold on, George," objected Wright soothingly.  "I agreed to that
only if there'd been something wrong.  I'm not satisfied yet." He
turned to Susan, said in his gruff, blunt way:

"Susan, have you been loose with my boy here?"

"Loose?" said Susan wonderingly.

Sam roused himself.  "Tell them it isn't so, Susan," he pleaded,
and his voice was little better than a whine of terror.  "Your
uncle's going to kill me and my father'll kick me out."

Susan's heart grew sick as she looked at him--looked furtively,
for she was ashamed to see him so abject.  "If you mean did I let
him kiss me," she said to Mr. Wright, "why, I did.  We kissed
several times.  But we had the right to.  We were engaged."

Sam turned on his father in an agony of terror.  "That isn't
true!" he cried.  "I swear it isn't, father.  We aren't engaged.  I
only made love to her a little, as a fellow does to lots of girls."

Susan looked at him with wide, horrified eyes.  "Sam!" she
exclaimed breathlessly.  "Sam!"

Sam's eyes dropped, but he managed to turn his face in her
direction.  The situation was too serious for him; he did not
dare to indulge in such vanities as manhood or manly appearance.
"That's the truth, Susan," he said sullenly.  "_You_ talked a lot
about marrying but _I_ never thought of such a thing."

"But--you said--you loved me."

"I didn't mean anything by it."

There fell a silence that was interrupted by Mr. Wright.  "You
see there's nothing in it, Warham.  I'll take my boy and go."

"Not by a damn sight!" cried Warham.  "He's got to marry her.
Susan, did Sam promise to marry you?"

"When he got through college," replied Susan.

"I thought so!  And he persuaded you to run away."

"No," said Susan.  "He----"

"I say yes," stormed her uncle.  "Don't lie!"

"Warham!  Warham!" remonstrated Mr. Wright.  "Don't browbeat the girl."

"He begged me not to go," said Susan.

"You lying fool!" shouted her uncle.  Then to Wright, "If he did
ask her to stay it was because he was afraid it would all come
out--just as it has."

"I never promised to marry her!" whined Sam.  "Honest to God,
father, I never did.  Honest to God, Mr. Warham!  You know that's
so, Susan.  It was you that did all the marrying talk."

"Yes," she said slowly.  "Yes, I believe it was." She looked
dazedly at the three men.  "I supposed he meant marriage
because--" her voice faltered, but she steadied it and went
on--"because we loved each other."

"I knew it!" cried her uncle.  "You hear, Wright?  She admits he
betrayed her."

Susan remembered the horrible part of her cousin's sex
revelations.  "Oh, no!" she cried.  "I wouldn't have let him do
that--even if he had wanted to.  No--not even if we'd been married."

"You see, Warham!" cried Mr. Wright, in triumph.

"I see a liar!" was Warham's furious answer.  "She's trying to
defend him and make out a case for herself."

"I am telling the truth," said Susan.

Warham gazed unbelievingly at her, speechless with fury.  Mr.
Wright took his silk hat from the corner of the piano.  "I'm
satisfied they're innocent," said he.  "So I'll take my boy and go."

"Not if I know it!" retorted Warham.  "He's got to marry her."

"But the girl says she's pure, says he never spoke of marriage,
says he begged her not to run away.  Be reasonable, Warham."

"For a good Christian," sneered he at Wright, "you're mighty
easily convinced by a flimsy lie.  In your heart you know the boy
has wronged her and that she's shielding him, just as----"  There
Warham checked himself; it would be anything but timely to
remind Wright of the character of the girl's mother.

"I'll admit," said Mr. Wright smoothly, "that I
wasn't overanxious for my boy's marriage with a girl whose
mother was--unfortunate.  But if your charge had been true,
Warham, I'd have made the boy do her justice, she being only
seventeen.  Come, Sam."

Sam slunk toward the door.  Warham stared fiercely at the elder
Wright.  "And you call yourself a Christian!" he sneered.

At the door--Sam had already disappeared--Mr. Wright paused to
say, "I'm going to give Sam a discipline he'll remember.  The
girl's only been foolish.  Don't be harsh with her."

"You damned hypocrite!" shouted Warham.  "I might have known what
to expect from a man who cut the wages of his hands to pay his
church subscription."

But Wright was far too crafty to be drawn.  He went on pushing
Sam before him.

As the outer door closed behind them Mrs. Wylie appeared.  "I
want you both to get out of my house as quick as you can," she
snapped.  "My boarders'll be coming to dinner in a few minutes."

Warham took his straw hat from the floor beside the chair behind
him.  "I've nothing to do with this girl here.  Good day, madam."
And he strode out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Wylie looked at Susan with storming face and bosom.  Susan
did not see.  She was gazing into space, her face blanched.
"Clear out!" cried Mrs. Wylie.  And she ran to the outer door and
opened it.  "How dare you come into a respectable house!" She
wished to be so wildly angry that she would forget the five
dollars which she, as a professing Christian in full church
standing, would have to pay back if she remembered.  "Clear out
this minute!" she cried shrilly.  "If you don't, I'll throw your
bundle into the street and you after it."

Susan took up the bundle mechanically, slowly went out on the
stoop.  The door closed with a slam behind her.  She descended
the steps, walked a few yards up the street, paused at the edge
of the curb and looked dazedly about.  Her uncle stood beside
her.  "Now where are you going?" he said roughly.

Susan shook her head.

"I suppose," he went on, "I've got to look after you.  You shan't
disgrace my daughter any further."

Susan simply looked at him, her eyes unseeing, her brain swept
clean of thought by the cyclone that had destroyed all her
dreams and hopes.  She was not horrified by his accusations; such
things had little meaning for one practically in complete
ignorance of sex relations.  Besides, the miserable fiasco of her
romantic love left her with a feeling of abasement, of
degradation little different from that which overwhelms a woman
who believes her virtue is her all and finds herself betrayed
and abandoned.  She now felt indeed the outcast, looked down upon
by all the world.

"If you hadn't lied," he fumed on, "you'd have been his wife and
a respectable woman."

The girl shivered.

"Instead, you're a disgrace.  Everybody in Sutherland'll know
you've gone the way your mother went."

"Go away," said the girl piteously.  "Let me alone."

"Alone?  What will become of you?" He addressed the question to
himself, not to her.

"It doesn't matter," was her reply in a dreary tone.  "I've been
betrayed, as my mother was.  It doesn't matter what----"

"I knew it!" cried Warham, with no notion of what the girl meant
by the word "betrayed." "Why didn't you confess the truth while
he was here and his father was ready to marry him to you?  I knew
you'd been loose with him, as your Aunt Fanny said."

"But I wasn't," said Susan.  "I wouldn't do such a thing."

"There you go, lying again!"

"It doesn't matter," said she.  "All I want is for you to go away."

"You do?" sneered he.  "And then what?  I've got to think of
Ruthie." He snatched the bundle from her hand.  "Come on!  I must
do all I can to keep the disgrace to my family down.  As for you,
you don't deserve anything but the gutter, where you'd sink if
I left you.  Your aunt's right.  You're rotten.  You were born
rotten.  You're your mother's own brat."

"Yes, I am," she cried.  "And I'm proud of it!" She turned from
him, was walking rapidly away.

"Come with me!" ordered Warham, following and seizing her by the arm.

"No," said Susan, wrenching herself free.

"Then I'll call a policeman and have you locked up."

Uncle and niece stood regarding each other, hatred and contempt
in his gaze, hatred and fear in hers.

"You're a child in law--though, God knows, you're anything but
a child in fact.  Come along with me.  You've got to.  I'm going to
see that you're put out of harm's way."

"You wouldn't take me back to Sutherland!" she cried.

He laughed savagely.  "I guess not!  You'll not show your face
there again--though I've no doubt you'd be brazen enough to
brass it out.  No--you can't pollute my home again."

"I can't go back to Sutherland!"

"You shan't, I say.  You ran off because you had disgraced yourself."

"No!" cried Susan.  "No!"

"Don't lie to me!  Don't speak to me.  I'll see what I can do to
hide this mess.  Come along!"

Susan looked helplessly round the street, saw nothing, not even
eager, curious faces pressed against many a window pane, saw
only a desolate waste.  Then she walked along beside her uncle,
both of them silent, he carrying her bundle, she tightly
clutching her little purse.


Perhaps the most amazing, the most stunning, of all the blows
fate had thus suddenly showered upon her was this transformation
of her uncle from gentleness to ferocity.  But many a far older
and far wiser woman than seventeen-year-old Susan has failed to
understand how it is with the man who does not regard woman as
a fellow human being.  To such she is either an object of
adoration, a quintessence of purity and innocence, or less than
the dust, sheer filth.  Warham's anger was no gust.  He was simply
the average man of small intelligence, great vanity, and abject
snobbishness or terror of public opinion.  There could be but one
reason for the flight of Lorella's daughter--rottenness.  The
only point to consider now was how to save the imperiled family
standing, how to protect his own daughter, whom his good nature
and his wife's weakness had thus endangered.  The one thing that
could have appeased his hatred of Susan would have been her
marriage to Sam Wright.  Then he would have--not, indeed,
forgiven or reinstated her--but tolerated her.  It is the
dominance of such ideas as his that makes for woman the slavery
she discovers beneath her queenly sway if she happens to do
something deeply displeasing to her masculine subject and adorer.

They went to the Central Station.  The O. and M. express which
connected with the train on the branch line to Sutherland would
not leave until a quarter past two.  It was only a few minutes
past one.  Warham led the way into the station restaurant; with
a curt nod he indicated a seat at one of the small tables, and
dropped into the opposite seat.  He ordered beefsteak and fried
potatoes, coffee and apple pie.

"Sit still!" he said to her roughly and rose to go out to buy a paper.

The girl sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes upon them.
She looked utterly, pitifully tired.  A moment and he came back
to resume his seat and read the paper.  When the waiter flopped
down the steak and the dish of greasily fried potatoes before
his plate, he stuffed the paper in his pocket, cut a slice of
the steak and put it on the plate.  The waiter noisily exchanged
it for the empty plate before Susan.  Warham cut two slices of
the steak for himself, took a liberal helping of the potatoes,
pushed the dish toward her.

"Do you want the coffee now, or with the pie?" asked the waiter.

"Now," said Warham.

"Coffee for the young lady, too?"

Warham scowled at her.  "Coffee?" he demanded.

She did not answer; she did not hear.

"Yes, she wants coffee," said Warham.  "Hustle it!"

"Yes, sir." And the waiter bustled away with a great deal of
motion that created a deceptive impression of speed.  Warham was
helping himself to steak again when the coffee came a
suspicious-looking liquid diffusing an odor of staleness
reheated again and again, an under odor of metal pot not too
frequently scoured.

W

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