"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. "Itwasnice, 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. "IdetestArthur 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.
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'smyopinion. 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 canI," 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 ArtieSinclair'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. "Areyougoing 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 doesthatmean?" 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:
"Doessherealize?"
"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 voicehis—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. MayI 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!"
"Whatareyou 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 youthat?"
"Yes—he did!"
"I don't believe you."
"We love each other," cried the dark girl. "He came to seeme.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! Helovesme!"
"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 wentinto her room, sat on the edge of the bed. A few minutes, andRuth, 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 seehernext 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."
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—shemusthave 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."
"Thenhewas the disgrace," said the dark cousin, after reflecting."No—you're not telling me, Ruth.Whatdid 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 takeallthe 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 anastydisposition, 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 youdarefeel 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:
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. "Hewas bad, and the people who took his part against her were bad. Butshewas 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, wemustsee 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 takelibertieswith 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 meanyouhave 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."