"I am a drag on you. I'm going to take a place in a store."
He affected an indignation so artistic that it ought to have been convincing. "I'm ashamed of you!" he cried. "I see you're losing your nerve."
This was ingenious, but it did not succeed. "You can't deceive me any longer," was her steady answer. "Tell me honest—couldn't you have got something to do long ago, if it hadn't been for trying to do something for me?"
"Sure," replied he, too canny to deny the obvious. "But what has that to do with it? If I'd had a living offer, I'd have taken it. But at my age a man doesn't dare take certain kinds of places. It'd settle him for life. And I'm playing for a really big stake and I'll win. When I get what I want for you, we'll make as much money a month as I could make a year. Trust me, my dear."
It was plausible; and her "loss of nerve" was visibly aggravating his condition—the twitching of hands and face, the terrifying brightness of his eyes, of the color in the deep hollows under his cheek bones. But she felt that she must persist. "How much money have we got?" she asked.
"Oh—a great deal enough."
"You must play square with me," said she. "I'm not a baby, but a woman—and your partner."
"Don't worry me, child. We'll talk about it tomorrow."
"How much? You've no right to hide things from me. You—hurt me."
"Eleven dollars and eighty cents—when this bill for supper's paid and the waitress tipped."
"I'll try for a place in a store," said she.
"Don't talk that way or think that way," cried he angrily. "There's where so many people fail in life. They don't stick to their game. I wish to God I'd had sense enough to break straight for Chicago or New York. But it's too late now. What I lack is nerve—nerve to do the big, bold things my brains show me I ought."
His distress was so obvious that she let the subject drop. That night she lay awake as she had fallen into the habit of doing. But instead of purposeless, rambling thoughts, she was trying definitely to plan a search for work. Toward three in the morning she heard him tossing and muttering—for the wall between their rooms was merely plastered laths covered with paper. She tried his door; it was locked. She knocked, got no answer but incoherent ravings. She roused the office, and the night porter forced the door. Burlingham's gas was lighted; he was sitting up in bed—a haggard, disheveled, insane man, raving on and on—names of men and women she had never heard—oaths, disjointed sentences.
"Brain fever, I reckon," said the porter. "I'll call a doctor."
In a few minutes Susan was gladdened by the sight of a young man wearing the familiar pointed beard and bearing the familiar black bag. He made a careful examination, asked her many questions, finally said:
"Your father has typhoid, I fear. He must be taken to a hospital."
"But we have very little money," said Susan.
"I understand," replied the doctor, marveling at the calmness of one so young. "The hospital I mean is free. I'll send for an ambulance."
While they were waiting beside Burlingham, whom the doctor had drugged into unconsciousness with a hypodermic, Susan said: "Can I go to the hospital and take care of him?"
"No," replied the doctor. "You can only call and inquire how he is, until he's well enough to see you."
"And how long will that be?"
"I can't say." He hadn't the courage to tell her it would be three weeks at least, perhaps six or seven.
He got leave of the ambulance surgeon for Susan to ride to the hospital, and he went along himself. As the ambulance sped through the dimly lighted streets with clanging bell and heavy pounding of the horse's hoofs on the granite pavement, Susan knelt beside Burlingham, holding one of his hot hands. She was remembering how she had said that she would die for him—and here it was he that was dying for her. And her heart was heavy with a load of guilt, the heaviest she was ever to feel in her life. She could not know how misfortune is really the lot of human beings; it seemed to her that a special curse attended her, striking down all who befriended her.
They dashed up to great open doors of the hospital. Burlingham was lifted, was carried swiftly into the receiving room. Susan with tearless eyes bent over, embraced him lingeringly, kissed his fiery brow, his wasted cheeks. One of the surgeons in white duck touched her on the arm.
"We can't delay," he said.
"No indeed," she replied, instantly drawing back.
She watched the stretcher on wheels go noiselessly down the corridor toward the elevator and when it was gone she still continued to look. "You can come at any hour to inquire," said the young doctor who had accompanied her. "Now we'll go into the office and have the slip made out."
They entered a small room, divided unequally by a barrier desk; behind it stood a lean, coffee-sallowed young man with a scrawny neck displayed to the uttermost by a standing collar scarcely taller than the band of a shirt. He directed at Susan one of those obtrusively shrewd glances which shallow people practice and affect to create the impression that they have a genius for character reading. He drew a pad of blank forms toward him, wiped a pen on the mat into which his mouse-colored hair was roached above his right temple. "Well, miss, what's the patient's name?"
"Robert Burlingham."
"Age?"
"I don't know."
"About what?"
"I—I don't know. I guess he isn't very young. But I don't know."
"Put down forty, Sim," said the doctor.
"Very well, Doctor Hamilton." Then to Susan: "Color white, I suppose. Nativity?"
Susan recalled that she had heard him speak of Liverpool as his birthplace. "English," said she.
"Profession?"
"Actor."
"Residence?"
"He hasn't any. It was sunk at Jeffersonville. We stop at theWalnut Street House."
"Walnut Street House. Was he married or single?"
"Single." Then she recalled some of the disconnected ravings."I—I—don't know."
"Single," said the clerk. "No, I guess I'll put it widower. Next friend or relative?"
"I am."
"Daughter. First name?"
"I am not his daughter."
"Oh, niece. Full name, please."
"I am no relation—just his—his friend."
Sim the clerk looked up sharply. Hamilton reddened, glowered at him. "I understand," said Sim, leering at her. And in a tone that reeked insinuation which quite escaped her, he went on, "We'll put your name down. What is it?"
"Lorna Sackville."
"You don't look English—not at all the English style of beauty, eh—Doctor?"
"That's all, Miss Sackville," said Hamilton, with a scowl at the clerk. Susan and he went out into Twelfth Street. Hamilton from time to time stole a glance of sympathy and inquiry into the sad young face, as he and she walked eastward together. "He's a strong man and sure to pull through," said the doctor. "Are you alone at the hotel?"
"I've nobody but him in the world," replied she.
"I was about to venture to advise that you go to a boarding house," pursued the young man.
"Thank you. I'll see."
"There's one opposite the hospital—a reasonable place."
"I've got to go to work," said the girl, to herself rather than to him.
"Oh, you have a position."
Susan did not reply, and he assumed that she had.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to call and see—Mr. Burlingham. The physicians at the hospital are perfectly competent, as good as there are in the city. But I'm not very busy, and I'd be glad to go."
"We haven't any money," said the girl. "And I don't know when we shall have. I don't want to deceive you."
"I understand perfectly," said the young man, looking at her with interested but respectful eyes. "I'm poor, myself, and have just started."
"Will they treat him well, when he's got no money?"
"As well as if he paid."
"And you will go and see that everything's all right?"
"It'll be a pleasure."
Under a gas lamp he took out a card and gave it to her. She thanked him and put it in the bosom of her blouse where lay all the money they had—the eleven dollars and eighty cents. They walked to the hotel, as cars were few at that hour. He did all the talking—assurances that her "father" could not fail to get well, that typhoid wasn't anything like the serious disease it used to be, and that he probably had a light form of it. The girl listened, but her heart could not grow less heavy. As he was leaving her at the hotel door, he hesitated, then asked if she wouldn't let him call and take her to the hospital the next morning, or, rather, later that same morning. She accepted, she hoped that, if he were with her, she gratefully; would be admitted to see Burlingham and could assure herself that he was well taken care of.
The night porter tried to detain her for a little chat. "Well," said he, "it's a good hospital—for you folks with money. Of course, for us poor people it's different. You couldn't hiremeto go there."
Susan turned upon him. "Why not?" she asked.
"Oh, if a man's poor, or can't pay for nice quarters, they treat him any old way. Yes, they're good doctors and all that. But they're like everybody else. They don't give a darn for poor people. But your uncle'll be all right there."
For the first time in her life Susan did not close her eyes in sleep.
The young doctor was so moved by her worn appearance that he impulsively said: "Have you some troubles you've said nothing about? Please don't hesitate to tell me."
"Oh, you needn't worry about me," replied she. "I simply didn't sleep—that's all. Do they treat charity patients badly at the hospital?"
"Certainly not," declared he earnestly. "Of course, a charity patient can't have a room to himself. But that's no disadvantage."
"How much is a room?"
"The cheapest are ten dollars a week. That includes private attendance—a little better nursing than the public patients get—perhaps. But, really—Miss Sackville——"
"He must have a room," said Susan.
"You are sure you can afford it? The difference isn't——"
"He must have a room." She held out a ten-dollar bill—ten dollars of the eleven dollars and eighty cents. "This'll pay for the first week. You fix it, won't you?"
Young Doctor Hamilton hesitatingly took the money. "You are quite, quite sure, Miss Sackville?—Quite sure you can afford this extravagance—for it is an extravagance."
"He must have the best we can afford," evaded she.
She waited in the office while Hamilton went up. When he came down after perhaps half an hour, he had an air of cheerfulness. "Everything going nicely," said he.
Susan's violet-gray eyes gazed straight into his brown eyes; and the brown eyes dropped. "You are not telling me the truth," said she.
"I'm not denying he's a very sick man," protested Hamilton.
"Is he——"
She could not pronounce the word.
"Nothing like that—believe me, nothing. He has the chances all with him."
And Susan tried to believe. "He will have a room?"
"He has a room. That's why I was so long. And I'm glad he has—for, to be perfectly honest, the attendance—not the treatment, but the attendance—is much better for private patients."
Susan was looking at the floor. Presently she drew a long breath, rose. "Well, I must be going," said she. And she went to the street, he accompanying her.
"If you're going back to the hotel," said he, "I'm walking that way."
"No, I've got to go this way," replied she, looking up Elm Street.
He saw she wished to be alone, and left her with the promise to see Burlingham again that afternoon and let her know at the hotel how he was getting on. He went east, she north. At the first corner she stopped, glanced back to make sure he was not following. From her bosom she drew four business cards. She had taken the papers from the pockets of Burlingham's clothes and from the drawer of the table in his room, to put them all together for safety; she had found these cards, the addresses of theatrical agents. As she looked at them, she remembered Burlingham's having said that Blynn—Maurice Blynn, at Vine and Ninth Streets—might give them something at one of the "over the Rhine" music halls, as a last resort. She noted the address, put away the cards and walked on, looking about for a policeman. Soon she came to a bridge over a muddy stream—a little river, she thought at first, then remembered that it must be the canal—the Rhine, as it was called, because the city's huge German population lived beyond it, keeping up the customs and even the language of the fatherland. She stood on the bridge, watching the repulsive waters from which arose the stench of sewage; watching canal boats dragged drearily by mules with harness-worn hides; followed with her melancholy eyes the course of the canal under bridge after bridge, through a lane of dirty, noisy factories pouring out from lofty chimneys immense clouds of black smoke. It ought to have been a bright summer day, but the sun shone palely through the dense clouds; a sticky, sooty moisture saturated the air, formed a skin of oily black ooze over everything exposed to it. A policeman, a big German, with stupid honest face, brutal yet kindly, came lounging along.
"I beg your pardon," said Susan, "but would you mind telling me where—" she had forgotten the address, fumbled in her bosom for the cards, showed him Blynn's card—"how I can get to this?"
The policeman nodded as he read the address. "Keep on this way, lady"—he pointed his baton south—"until you've passed four streets. At the fifth street turn east. Go one—two—three—four—five streets east. Understand?"
"Yes, thank you," said the girl with the politeness of deep gratitude.
"You'll be at Vine. You'll see the name on the street lamp.Blynn's on the southwest corner. Think you can find it?"
"I'm sure I can."
"I'm going that way," continued the policeman. "But you'd better walk ahead. If you walked with me, they'd think you was pinched—and we'd have a crowd after us." And he laughed with much shaking of his fat, tightly belted body.
Susan contrived to force a smile, though the suggestion of such a disgraceful scene made her shudder. "Thank you so much. I'm sure I'll find it." And she hastened on, eager to put distance between herself and that awkward company.
"Don't mention it, lady," the policeman called after her, tapping his baton on the rim of his helmet, as a mark of elegant courtesy.
She was not at ease until, looking back, she no longer saw the bluecoat for the intervening crowds. After several slight mistakes in the way, she descried ahead of her a large sign painted on the wall of a three-story brick building:
After some investigation she discovered back of the saloon which occupied the street floor a grimy and uneven wooden staircase leading to the upper stories. At the first floor she came face to face with a door on the glass of which was painted the same announcement she had read from the wall. She knocked timidly, then louder. A shrill voice came from the interior:
"The door's open. Come in."
She turned the knob and entered a small, low-ceilinged room whose general grime was streaked here and there with smears of soot. It contained a small wooden table at which sprawled a freckled and undernourished office boy, and a wooden bench where fretted a woman obviously of "the profession." She was dressed in masses of dirty white furbelows. On her head reared a big hat, above an incredible quantity of yellow hair; on the hat were badly put together plumes of badly curled ostrich feathers. Beneath her skirt was visible one of her feet; it was large and fat, was thrust into a tiny slipper with high heel ending under the arch of the foot. The face of the actress was young and pertly pretty, but worn, overpainted, overpowdered and underwashed. She eyed Susan insolently.
"Want to see the boss?" said the boy.
"If you please," murmured Susan.
"Business?"
"I'm looking for a—for a place."
The boy examined her carefully. "Appointment?"
"No, sir," replied the girl.
"Well—he'll see you, anyhow," said the boy, rising.
The mass of plumes and yellow bangs and furbelows on the bench became violently agitated. "I'm first," cried the actress.
"Oh, you sit tight, Mame," jeered the boy. He opened a solid door behind him. Through the crack Susan saw busily writing at a table desk a bald, fat man with a pasty skin and a veined and bulbous nose.
"Lady to see you," said the boy in a tone loud enough for bothSusan and the actress to hear.
"Who? What name?" snapped the man, not ceasing or looking up.
"She's young, and a queen," said the boy. "Shall I show her in?"
"Yep."
The actress started up. "Mr. Blynn——" she began in a loud, threatening, elocutionary voice.
"'Lo, Mame," said Blynn, still busy. "No time to see you.Nothing doing. So long."
"But, Mr. Blynn——"
"Bite it off, Mame," ordered the boy. "Walk in, miss."
Susan, deeply colored from sympathy with the humiliated actress and from nervousness in those forbidding and ominous surroundings, entered the private office. The boy closed the door behind her. The pen scratched on. Presently the man said:
"Well, my dear, what's your name?"
With the last word, the face lifted and Susan saw a seamed and pitted skin, small pale blue eyes showing the white, or rather the bloodshot yellow all round the iris, a heavy mouth and jaw, thick lips; the lower lip protruded and was decorated with a blue-black spot like a blood boil, as if to indicate where the incessant cigar usually rested. At first glance into Susan's sweet, young face the small eyes sparkled and danced, traveled on to the curves of her form.
"Do sit down, my dear," said he in a grotesquely wheedling voice. She took the chair close to him as it was the only one in the little room.
"What can I do for you? My, how fresh and pretty you are!"
"Mr. Burlingham——" began Susan.
"Oh—you're the girl Bob was talking about." He smiled and nodded at her. "No wonder he kept you out of sight." He inventoried her charms again with his sensual, confident glance. "Bob certainly has got good taste."
"He's in the hospital," said Susan desperately. "So I've come to get a place if you can find me one."
"Hospital? I'm sorry to hear that." And Mr. Blynn's tones had that accent of deep sympathy which get a man or woman without further evidence credit for being "kind-hearted whatever else he is."
"Yes, he's very ill—with typhoid," said the girl. "I must do something right away to help him."
"That's fine—fine," said Mr. Blynn in the same effective tone. "I see you're as sweet as you are pretty. Yes—that's fine—fine!" And the moisture was in the little eyes. "Well, I think I can do something for you. Imustdo something for you. Had much experience?—Professional, I mean."
Mr. Blynn laughed at his, to Susan, mysterious joke. Susan smiled faintly in polite response. He rubbed his hands and smacked his lips, the small eyes dancing. The moisture had vanished.
"Oh, yes, I can place you, if you can do anything at all," he went on. "I'd 'a' done it long ago, if Bob had let me see you. But he was too foxy. He ought to be ashamed of himself, standing in the way of your getting on, just out of jealousy. Sing or dance—or both?"
"I can sing a little, I think," said Susan.
"Now, that's modest. Ever worn tights?"
Susan shook her head, a piteous look in her violet-gray eyes.
"Oh, you'll soon get used to that. And mighty well you'll look in 'em, I'll bet, eh? Where did Bob get you? And when?" Before she could answer, he went on, "Let's see, I've got a date for this evening, but I'll put it off. And she's a peach, too. So you see what a hit you've made with me. We'll have a nice little dinner at the Hotel du Rhine and talk things over."
"Couldn't I go to work right away?" asked the girl.
"Sure. I'll have you put on at Schaumer's tomorrow night——" He looked shrewdly, laughingly, at her, with contracted eyelids. "Ifeverything goes well. Before I do anything for you, I have to see what you can do for me." And he nodded and smacked his lips. "Oh, we'll have a lovely little dinner!" He looked expectantly at her. "You certainly are a queen! What a dainty little hand!" He reached out one of his hands—puffy as if it had been poisoned, very white, with stubby fingers. Susan reluctantly yielded her hand to his close, mushy embrace. "No rings. That's a shame, petty——" He was talking as if to a baby.—"That'll have to be fixed—yes, it will, my little sweetie. My, how nice and fresh you are!" And his great nostrils, repulsively hairy within, deeply pitted without, sniffed as if over an odorous flower.
Susan drew her hand away. "What will they give me?" she asked.
"How greedy it is!" he wheedled. "Well, you'll get plenty—plenty."
"How much?" said the girl. "Is it a salary?"
"Of course, there's the regular salary. But that won't amount to much. You know how those things are."
"How much?"
"Oh, say a dollar a night—until you make a hit."
"Six dollars a week."
"Seven. This is a Sunday town. Sunday's the big day. You'll haveWednesday, Saturday and Sunday matinées, but they don't pay for them."
"Seven dollars a week." And the hospital wanted ten. "Couldn'tI get—about fifteen—or fourteen? I think I could do on fourteen."
"Rather! I was talking only of the salary. You'll make a good many times fifteen—if you play your cards right. It's true Schaumer draws only a beer crowd. But as soon as the word flies round thatyou're there, the boys with the boodle'll flock in. Oh, you'll wear the sparklers all right, pet."
Rather slowly it was penetrating to Susan what Mr. Blynn had in mind. "I'd—I'd rather take a regular salary," said she. "I must have ten a week for him. I can live any old way."
"Oh, come off!" cried Mr. Blynn with a wink. "What's your game? Anyhow, don't play it on me. You understand that you can't get something for nothing. It's all very well to love your friend and be true to him. But he can't expect—he'll not ask you to queer yourself. That sort of thing don't go in the profession. . . . Come now, I'm willing to set you on your feet, give you a good start, if you'll play fair with me—show appreciation. Will you or won't you?"
"You mean——" began Susan, and paused there, looking at him with grave questioning eyes.
His own eyes shifted. "Yes, I mean that. I'm a business man, not a sentimentalist. I don't want love. I've got no time for it. But when it comes to giving a girl of the right sort a square deal and a good time, why you'll find I'm as good as there is going." He reached for her hands again, his empty, flabby chin bags quivering. "I want to help Bob, and I want to help you."
She rose slowly, pushing her chair back. She understood now whyBurlingham had kept her in the background, why his quest hadbeen vain, why it had fretted him into mortal illness."I—couldn't do that," she said. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't."
He looked at her in a puzzled way. "You belong to Bob, don't you?"
"No."
"You mean you're straight—a good girl?"
"Yes."
He was half inclined to believe her, so impressive was her quiet natural way, in favorable contrast to the noisy protests of women posing as virtuous. "Well—if that's so—why you'd better drop out of the profession—and get away from Bob Burlingham."
"Can't I have a place without—what you said?"
"Not as pretty a girl as you. And if they ain't pretty the public don't want 'em."
Susan went to the door leading into the office. "No—the other door," said Blynn hastily. He did not wish the office boy to read his defeat in Susan's countenance. He got up himself, opened the door into the hall. Susan passed out. "Think it over," said he, eyes and mouth full of longing. "Come round in a day or two, and we'll have another talk."
"Thank you," said Susan. She felt no anger against him. She felt about him as she had about Jeb Ferguson. It was not his fault; it was simply the way life was lived—part of the general misery and horror of the established order—like marriage and the rest of it.
"I'll treat you white," urged Blynn, tenderly. "I've got a soft heart—that's why I'll never get rich. Any of the others'd ask more and give less."
She looked at him with an expression that haunted him for several hours. "Thank you. Good-by," she said, and went down the narrow, rickety stairs—and out into the confused maze of streets full of strangers.
AT the hotel again; she went to Burlingham's room, gathered his belongings—his suit, his well-worn, twice-tapped shoes, his one extra suit of underclothes, a soiled shirt, two dickeys and cuffs, his whisk broom, toothbrush, a box of blacking, the blacking brush. She made the package as compact as she could—it was still a formidable bundle both for size and weight—and carried it into her room. Then she rolled into a small parcel her own possessions—two blouses, an undervest, a pair of stockings, a nightgown—reminder of Bethlehem and her brief sip at the cup of success—a few toilet articles. With the two bundles she descended to the office.
"I came to say," she said calmly to the clerk, "that we have no money to pay what we owe. Mr. Burlingham is at the hospital—very sick with typhoid. Here is a dollar and eighty cents. You can have that, but I'd like to keep it, as it's all we've got."
The clerk called the manager, and to him Susan repeated. She used almost the same words; she spoke in the same calm, monotonous way. When she finished, the manager, a small, brisk man with a large brisk beard, said:
"No. Keep the money. I'd like to ask you to stay on. But we run this place for a class of people who haven't much at best and keep wobbling back and forth across the line. If I broke my rule——"
He made a furious gesture, looked at the girl angrily—holding her responsible for his being in a position where he must do violence to every decent instinct—"My God, miss, I've got a wife and children to look after. If I ran my hotel on sympathy, what'd become of them?"
"I wouldn't take anything I couldn't pay for," said Susan. "As soon as I earn some money——"
"Don't worry about that," interrupted the manager. He saw now that he was dealing with one who would in no circumstances become troublesome; he went on in an easier tone: "You can stay till the house fills up."
"Could you give me a place to wait on table and clean up rooms—or help cook?"
"No, I don't need anybody. The town's full of people out of work. You can't ask me to turn away——"
"Please—I didn't know," cried the girl.
"Anyhow, I couldn't give but twelve a month and board," continued the manager. "And the work—for a lady like you——"
A lady! She dropped her gaze in confusion. If he knew about her birth!
"I'll do anything. I'm not a lady," said she. "But I've got to have at least ten a week in cash."
"No such place here." The manager was glad to find the fault of uppish ideas in this girl who was making it hard for him to be business-like. "No such place anywhere for a beginner."
"I must have it," said the girl.
"I don't want to discourage you, but——" He was speaking less curtly, for her expression made him suspect why she was bent upon that particular amount. "I hope you'll succeed. Only—don't be depressed if you're disappointed."
She smiled gravely at him; he bowed, avoiding her eyes. She took up her bundles and went out into Walnut Street. He moved a few steps in obedience to an impulse to follow her, to give her counsel and warning, to offer to help her about the larger bundle. But he checked himself with the frown of his own not too prosperous affairs.
It was the hottest part of the day, and her way lay along unshaded streets. As she had eaten nothing since the night before, she felt faint. Her face was ghastly when she entered the office of the hospital and left Burlingham's parcel. The clerk at the desk told her that Burlingham was in the same condition—"and there'll be probably no change one way or the other for several days."
She returned to the street, wandered aimlessly about. She knew she ought to eat something, but the idea of food revolted her. She was fighting the temptation to go to theCommercialoffice, Roderick Spenser's office. She had not a suspicion that his kindness might have been impulse, long since repented of, perhaps repented of as soon as he was away from her. She felt that if she went to him he would help her. "But I mustn't do it," she said to herself. "Not after what I did." No, she must not see him until she could pay him back. Also, and deeper, there was a feeling that there was a curse upon her; had not everyone who befriended her come to grief? She must not draw anyone else into trouble, must not tangle others in the meshes of her misfortunes. She did not reason this out, of course; but the feeling was not the less strong because the reasons for it were vague in her mind. And there was nothing vague about the resolve to which she finally came—that she would fight her battle herself.
Her unheeding wanderings led her after an hour or so to a big department store. Crowds of shoppers, mussy, hot, and cross, were pushing rudely in and out of the doors. She entered, approached a well-dressed, bareheaded old gentleman, whom she rightly placed as floorwalker, inquired of him:
"Where do they ask for work?"
She had been attracted to him because his was the one face within view not suggesting temper or at least bad humor. It was more than pleasant, it was benign. He inclined toward Susan with an air that invited confidence and application for balm for a wounded spirit. The instant the nature of her inquiry penetrated through his pose to the man himself, there was a swift change to lofty disdain—the familiar attitude of workers toward fellow-workers of what they regard as a lower class. Evidently he resented her having beguiled him by the false air of young lady into wasting upon her, mere servility like himself, a display reserved exclusively for patrons. It was Susan's first experience of this snobbishness; it at once humbled her into the dust. She had been put in her place, and that place was not among people worthy of civil treatment. A girl of his own class would have flashed at him, probably would have "jawed" him. Susan meekly submitted; she was once more reminded that she was an outcast, one for whom the respectable world had no place. He made some sort of reply to her question, in the tone the usher of a fashionable church would use to a stranger obviously not in the same set as the habitués. She heard the tone, but not the words; she turned away to seek the street again. She wandered on—through the labyrinth of streets, through the crowds on crowds of strangers.
Ten dollars a week! She knew little about wages, but enough to realize the hopelessness of her quest. Ten dollars a week—and her own keep beside. The faces of the crowds pushing past her and jostling her made her heartsick. So much sickness, and harassment, and discontent—so much unhappiness! Surely all these sad hearts ought to be kind to each other. Yet they were not; each soul went selfishly alone, thinking only of its own burden.
She walked on and on, thinking, in this disconnected way characteristic of a good intelligence that has not yet developed order and sequence, a theory of life and a purpose. It had always been her habit to walk about rather than to sit, whether indoors or out. She could think better when in motion physically. When she was so tired that she began to feel weak, she saw a shaded square, with benches under the trees. She entered, sat down to rest. She might apply to the young doctor. But, no. He was poor—and what chance was there of her ever making the money to pay back? No, she could not take alms; than alms there was no lower way of getting money. She might return to Mr. Blynn and accept his offer. The man in all his physical horror rose before her. No, she could not do that. At least, not yet. She could entertain the idea as a possibility now. She remembered her wedding—the afternoon, the night. Yes, Blynn's offer involved nothing so horrible as that—and she had lived through that. It would be cowardice, treachery, to shrink from anything that should prove necessary in doing the square thing by the man who had done so much for her. She had said she would die for Burlingham; she owed even that to him, if her death would help him. Had she then meant nothing but mere lying words of pretended gratitude? But Blynn was always there; something else might turn up, and her dollar and eighty cents would last another day or so, and the ten dollars were not due for six days. No, she would not go to Blynn; she would wait, would take his advice—"think it over."
A man was walking up and down the shaded alley, passing and repassing the bench where she sat. She observed him, saw that he was watching her. He was a young man—a very young man—of middle height, strongly built. He had crisp, short dark hair, a darkish skin, amiable blue-gray eyes, pleasing features. She decided that he was of good family, was home from some college on vacation. He was wearing a silk shirt, striped flannel trousers, a thin serge coat of an attractive shade of blue. She liked his looks, liked the way he dressed. It pleased her that such a man should be interested in her; he had a frank and friendly air, and her sad young heart was horribly lonely. She pretended not to notice him; but after a while he walked up to her, lifting his straw hat.
"Good afternoon," said he. When he showed his strong sharp teeth in an amiable smile, she thought of Sam Wright—only this man was not weak and mean looking, like her last and truest memory picture of Sam—indeed, the only one she had not lost. "Good afternoon," replied she politely. For in spite of Burlingham's explanations and cautionings she was still the small-town girl, unsuspicious toward courtesy from strange men. Also, she longed for someone to talk with. It had been weeks since she had talked with anyone nearer than Burlingham to her own age and breeding.
"Won't you have lunch with me?" he asked. "I hate to eat alone."
She, faint from hunger, simply could not help obvious hesitation before saying, "I don't think I care for any."
"You haven't had yours—have you?"
"No."
"May I sit down?"
She moved along the bench to indicate that he might, without definitely committing herself.
He sat, took off his hat. He had a clean, fresh look about the neck that pleased her. She was weary of seeing grimy, sweaty people, and of smelling them. Also, except the young doctor, since Roderick Spenser left her at Carrolltown she had talked with no one of her own age and class—the class in which she had been brought up, the class that, after making her one of itself, had cast her out forever with its mark of shame upon her. Its mark of shame—burning and stinging again as she sat beside this young man!
"You're sad about something?" suggested he, himself nearly as embarrassed as she.
"My friend's ill. He's got typhoid."
"That is bad. But he'll get all right. They always cure typhoid, nowadays—if it's taken in time and the nursing's good. Everything depends on the nursing. I had it a couple of years ago, and pulled through easily."
Susan brightened. He spoke so confidently that the appeal to her young credulity toward good news and the hopeful, cheerful thing was irresistible. "Oh, yes—he'll be over it soon," the young man went on, "especially if he's in a hospital where they've got the facilities for taking care of sick people. Where is he?"
"In the hospital—up that way." She moved her head vaguely in the direction of the northwest.
"Oh, yes. It's a good one—for the pay patients. I suppose for the poor devils that can't pay"—he glanced with careless sympathy at the dozen or so tramps on benches nearby—"it's like all the rest of 'em—like the whole world, for that matter. It must be awful not to have money enough to get on with, I mean. I'm talking about men." He smiled cheerfully. "With a woman—if she's pretty—it's different, of course."
The girl was so agitated that she did not notice the sly, if shy, hint in the remark and its accompanying glance. Said she:
"But it's a good hospital if you pay?"
"None better. Maybe it's good straight through. I've only heard the servants' talk—and servants are such liars. Still—I'd not want to trust myself to a hospital unless I could pay. I guess the common people have good reason for their horror of free wards. Nothing free is ever good."
The girl's face suddenly and startlingly grew almost hard, so fierce was the resolve that formed within her. The money must be got—must!—and would. She would try every way she could think of between now and to-morrow; then—if she failed she would go to Blynn.
The young man was saying: "You're a stranger in town?"
"I was with a theatrical company on a show boat. It sank."
His embarrassment vanished. She saw, but she did not understand that it was because he thought he had "placed" her—and that her place was where he had hoped.
"Youareup against it!" said he. "Come have some lunch. You'll feel better."
The good sense of this was unanswerable. Susan hesitated no longer, wondered why she had hesitated at first. "Well—I guess I will." And she rose with a frank, childlike alacrity that amused him immensely.
"You don't look it, but you've been about some—haven't you?"
"Rather," replied she.
"I somehow thought you knew a thing or two."
They walked west to Race Street. They were about the same height. Her costume might have been fresher, might have suggested to an expert eye the passed-on clothes of a richer relative; but her carriage and the fine look of skin and hair and features made the defects of dress unimportant. She seemed of his class—of the class comfortable, well educated, and well-bred. If she had been more experienced, she would have seen that he was satisfied with her appearance despite the curious looking little package, and would have been flattered. As it was, her interest was absorbed in things apart from herself. He talked about the town—the amusements, the good times to be had at the over-the-Rhine beer halls, at the hilltop gardens, at the dances in the pavilion out at the Zoo. He drew a lively and charming picture, one that appealed to her healthy youth, to her unsatisfied curiosity, to her passionate desire to live the gay, free city life of which the small town reads and dreams.
"You and I can go round together, can't we? I haven't got much, but I'll not try to take your time for nothing, of course. That wouldn't be square. I'm sure you'll have no cause to complain. What do you say?"
"Maybe," replied the girl, all at once absent-minded. Her brain was wildly busy with some ideas started there by his significant words, by his flirtatious glances at her, by his way of touching her whenever he could make opportunity. Evidently there was an alternative to Blynn.
"You like a good time, don't you?" said he.
"Rather!" exclaimed she, the violet eyes suddenly very violet indeed and sparkling. Her spirits had suddenly soared. She was acting like one of her age. With that blessed happy hopefulness of healthy youth, she had put aside her sorrows—not because she was frivolous but for the best of all reasons, because she was young and superbly vital. Said she: "I'm crazy about dancing—and music."
"I only needed to look at your feet—and ankles—to know that," ventured he the "ankles" being especially audacious.
She was pleased, and in youth's foolish way tried to hide her pleasure by saying, "My feet aren't exactly small."
"I should say not!" protested he with energy. "Little feet would look like the mischief on a girl as tall as you are. Yes, we can have a lot of fun."
They went into a large restaurant with fly fans speeding. Susan thought it very grand—and it was the grandest restaurant she had ever been in. They sat down—in a delightfully cool place by a window looking out on a little plot of green with a colladium, a fountain, some oleanders in full and fragrant bloom; the young man ordered, with an ease that fascinated her, an elaborate lunch—soup, a chicken, with salad, ice cream, and fresh peaches. Susan had a menu in her hand and as he ordered she noted the prices. She was dazzled by his extravagance—dazzled and frightened—and, in a curious, vague, unnerving way, fascinated. Money—the thing she must have for Burlingham in whose case "everything depended on the nursing." In the brief time this boy and she had been together, he, without making an effort to impress, had given her the feeling that he was of the best city class, that he knew the world—the high world. Thus, she felt that she must be careful not to show her "greenness." She would have liked to protest against his extravagance, but she ventured only the timid remonstrance, "Oh, I'm not a bit hungry."
She thought she was speaking the truth, for the ideas whirling so fast that they were dim quite took away the sense of hunger. But when the food came she discovered that she was, on the contrary, ravenous—and she ate with rising spirits, with a feeling of content and hope. He had urged her to drink wine or beer, but she refused to take anything but a glass of milk; and he ended by taking milk himself. He was looking more and more boldly and ardently into her eyes, and she received his glances smilingly. She felt thoroughly at ease and at home, as if she were back once more among her own sort of people—with some element of disagreeable constraint left out.
Since she was an outcast, she need not bother about the small restraints the girls felt compelled to put upon themselves in the company of boys. Nobody respected a "bastard," as they called her when they spoke frankly. So with nothing to lose she could at least get what pleasure there was in freedom. She liked it, having this handsome, well-dressed young man making love to her in this grand restaurant where things were so good to eat and so excitingly expensive. He would not regard her as fit to associate with his respectable mother and sisters. In the casts of respectability, her place was with Jeb Ferguson! She was better off, clear of the whole unjust and horrible business of respectable life, clear of it and free, frankly in the outcast class. She had not realized—and she did not realize—that association with the players of the show boat had made any especial change in her; in fact, it had loosened to the sloughing point the whole skin of her conventional training—that surface skin which seems part of the very essence of our being until something happens to force us to shed it. Crises, catastrophes, may scratch that skin, or cut clear through it; but only the gentle, steady, everywhere-acting prying-loose of day and night association can change it from a skin to a loose envelope ready to be shed at any moment.
"What are you going to do?" asked the young man, when the acquaintance had become a friendship—which was before the peaches and ice cream were served.
"I don't know," said the girl, with the secretive instinct of self-reliance hiding the unhappiness his abrupt question set to throbbing again.
"Honestly, I've never met anyone that was so congenial. But maybe you don't feel that way?"
"Then again maybe I do," rejoined she, forcing a merry smile.
His face flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes grew more ardent as he said: "What were you looking for, when I saw you in Garfield Place?"
"Was that Garfield Place?" she asked, in evasion.
"Yes." And he insisted, "What were you looking for?"
"What wereyoulooking for?"
"For a pretty girl." They both laughed. "And I've found her. I'm suited if you are. . . . Don't look so serious. You haven't answered my question."
"I'm looking for work."
He smiled as if it were a joke. "You mean for a place on the stage.That isn't work.Youcouldn't work. I can see that at a glance."
"Why not?"
"Oh, you haven't been brought up to that kind of life. You'd hate it in every way. And they don't pay women anything for work. My father employs a lot of them. Most of his girls live at home. That keeps the wages down, and the others have to piece out with"—he smiled—"one thing and another."
Susan sat gazing straight before her. "I've not had much experience," she finally said, thoughtfully. "I guess I don't know what I'm about."
The young man leaned toward her, his face flushing with earnestness. "You don't know how pretty you are. I wish my father wasn't so close with me. I'd not let you ever speak of work again—even on the stage. What good times we could have!"
"I must be going," said she, rising. Her whole body was alternately hot and cold. In her brain, less vague now, were the ideas Mabel Connemora had opened up for her.
"Oh, bother!" exclaimed he. "Sit down a minute. You misunderstood me. I don't mean I'm flat broke."
Susan hastily reseated herself, showing her confusion. "I wasn't thinking of that."
"Then—what were you thinking of?"
"I don't know," she replied—truthfully, for she could not have put into words anything definite about the struggle raging in her like a battle in a fog. "I often don't exactly know what I'm thinking about. I somehow can't—can't fit it together—yet."
"Do you suppose," he went on, as if she had not spoken, "do you suppose I don't understand? I know you can't afford to let me take your time for nothing. . . . Don't you like me a little?"
She looked at him with grave friendliness. "Yes." Then, seized with a terror which her habitual manner of calm concealed from him, she rose again.
"Why shouldn't it be me as well as another?. . . At least sit down till I pay the bill."
She seated herself, stared at her plate.
"Now what are you thinking about?" he asked.
"I don't know exactly. Nothing much."
The waiter brought the bill. The young man merely glanced at the total, drew a small roll of money from his trousers pocket, put a five-dollar note on the tray with the bill. Susan's eyes opened wide when the waiter returned with only two quarters and a dime. She glanced furtively at the young man, to see if he, too, was not disconcerted. He waved the tray carelessly aside; the waiter said "Thank you," in a matter-of-course way, dropped the sixty cents into his pocket. The waiter's tip was by itself almost as much as she had ever seen paid out for a meal for two persons.
"Now, where shall we go?" asked the young man.
Susan did not lift her eyes. He leaned toward her, took her hand. "You're different from the sort a fellow usually finds," said he. "And I'm—I'm crazy about you. Let's go," said he.
Susan took her bundle, followed him. She glanced up the street and down. She had an impulse to say she must go away alone; it was not strong enough to frame a sentence, much less express her thought. She was seeing queer, vivid, apparently disconnected visions—Burlingham, sick unto death, on the stretcher in the hospital reception room—Blynn of the hideous face and loose, repulsive body—the contemptuous old gentleman in the shop—odds and ends of the things Mabel Connemora had told her—the roll of bills the young man had taken from his pocket when he paid—Jeb Ferguson in the climax of the horrors of that wedding day and night. They went to Garfield Place, turned west, paused after a block or so at a little frame house set somewhat back from the street. The young man, who had been as silent as she—but nervous instead of preoccupied—opened the gate in the picket fence.
"This is a first-class quiet place," said he, embarrassed but trying to appear at ease.
Susan hesitated. She must somehow nerve herself to speak of money, to say to him that she needed ten dollars—that she must have it. If she did not speak—if she got nothing for Mr. Burlingham—or almost nothing—and probably men didn't give women much—if she were going with him—to endure again the horrors and the degradation she had suffered from Mr. Ferguson—if it should be in vain! This nice young man didn't suggest Mr. Ferguson in any way. But there was such a mystery about men—they had a way of changing so—Sam Wright—Uncle George even Mr. Ferguson hadn't seemed capable of torturing a helpless girl for no reason at all——
"We can't stand here," the young man was saying.
She tried to speak about the ten dollars. She simply could not force out the words. With brain in a whirl, with blood beating suffocatingly into her throat and lungs, but giving no outward sign of agitation, she entered the gate. There was a low, old-fashioned porch along the side of the house, with an awning curiously placed at the end toward the street. When they ascended the steps under the awning, they were screened from the street. The young man pulled a knob. A bell within tinkled faintly; Susan started, shivered. But the young man, looking straight at the door, did not see. A colored girl with a pleasant, welcoming face opened, stood aside for them to enter. He went straight up the stairs directly ahead, and Susan followed. At the threshold the trembling girl looked round in terror. She expected to see a place like that foul, close little farm bedroom—for it seemed to her that at such times men must seek some dreadful place—vile, dim, fitting. She was in a small, attractively furnished room, with a bow window looking upon the yard and the street. The furniture reminded her of her own room at her uncle's in Sutherland, except that the brass bed was far finer. He closed the door and locked it.
As he advanced toward her he said: "Whatare you seeing? Please don't look like that." Persuasively, "You weren't thinking of me—were you?"
"No—Oh, no," replied she, passing her hand over her eyes to try to drive away the vision of Ferguson.
"You look as if you expected to be murdered. Do you want to go?"
She forced herself to seem calm. "What a coward I am!" she said to herself. "If I could only die for him, instead of this. But I can't. And Imustget money for him."
To the young man she said: "No. I—I—want to stay."
Late in the afternoon, when they were once more in the street, he said. "I'd ask you to go to dinner with me, but I haven't enough money."
She stopped short. An awful look came into her face.
"Don't be alarmed," cried he, hurried and nervous, and blushing furiously. "I put the—the present for you in that funny little bundle of yours, under one of the folds of the nightgown or whatever it is you've got wrapped on the outside. I didn't like to hand it to you. I've a feeling somehow that you're not regularly—that kind."
"Was it—ten dollars?" she said, and for all he could see she was absolutely calm.
"Yes," replied he, with a look of relief followed by a smile of amused tenderness.
"I can't make you out," he went on. "You're a queer one. You've had a look in your eyes all afternoon—well, if I hadn't been sure you were experienced, you'd almost have frightened me away."
"Yes, I've had experience. The—the worst," said the girl.
"You—you attract me awfully; you've got—well, everything that's nice about a woman—and at the same time, there's something in your eyes—— Are you very fond of your friend?"
"He's all I've got in the world."
"I suppose it's his being sick that makes you look and act so queer?"
"I don't know what's the matter with me," she said slowly."I—don't know."
"I want to see you again—soon. What's your address?"
"I haven't any. I've got to look for a place to live."
"Well, you can give me the place you did live. I'll write you there, Lorna. You didn't ask me my name when I asked you yours. You've hardly said anything. Are you always quiet like this?"
"No—not always. At Least, I haven't been."
"No. You weren't, part of the time this afternoon—at the restaurant. Tell me, what are you thinking about all the time? You're very secretive. Why don't you tell me? Don't you know I like you?"
"I don't know," said the girl in a slow dazed way. "I—don't—know."
"I wouldn't take your time for nothing," he went on, after a pause. "My father doesn't give me much money, but I think I'll have some more day after tomorrow. Can I see you then?"
"I don't know."
He laughed. "You said that before. Day after tomorrow afternoon—in the same place. No matter if it's raining. I'll be there first—at three. Will you come?"
"If I can."
She made a movement to go. But still he detained her. He colored high again, in the struggle between the impulses of his generous youth and the fear of being absurd with a girl he had picked up in the street. He looked at her searchingly, wistfully. "I know it's your life, but—I hate to think of it," he went on. "You're far too nice. I don't see how you happened to be in—in this line. Still, what else is there for a girl, when she's up against it? I've often thought of those things—and I don't feel about them as most people do. . . . I'm curious about you. You'll pardon me, won't you? I'm afraid I'll fall in love with you, if I see you often. You won't fail to come day after tomorrow?"
"If I can."
"Don't you want to see me again?"
She did not speak or lift her eyes.
"You like me, don't you?"
Still no answer.
"You don't want to be questioned?"
"No," said the girl.
"Where are you going now?"
"To the hospital."
"May I walk up there with you? I live in Clifton. I can go home that way."
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Then—good-by—till day after tomorrow at three." He put out his hand; he had to reach for hers and take it. "You're not—not angry with me?"
"No."
His eyes lingered tenderly upon her. "You aresosweet! You don't know how I want to kiss you. Are you sorry to go—sorry to leave me—just a little?. . . I forgot. You don't like to be questioned. Well, good-by, dear."
"Good-by," she said; and still without lifting her gaze from the ground she turned away, walked slowly westward.
She had not reached the next street to the north when she suddenly felt that if she did not sit she would drop. She lifted her eyes for an instant to glance furtively round. She saw a house with stone steps leading up to the front doors; there was a "for rent" sign in one of the close-shuttered parlor windows. She seated herself, supported the upper part of her weary body by resting her elbows on her knees. Her bundle had rolled to the sidewalk at her feet. A passing man picked it up, handed it to her, with a polite bow. She looked at him vaguely, took the bundle as if she were not sure it was hers.
"Heat been too much for you, miss?" asked the man.
She shook her head. He lingered, talking volubly—about the weather—then about how cool it was on the hilltops. "We might go up to the Bellevue," he finally suggested, "if you've nothing better to do."
"No, thank you," she said.
"I'll go anywhere you like. I've got a little money that I don't care to keep."
She shook her head.
"I don't mean anything bad," he hastened to suggest—because that would bring up the subject in discussable form.
"I can't go with you," said the girl drearily. "Don't bother me, please."
"Oh—excuse me." And the man went on.
Susan turned the bundle over in her lap, thrust her fingers slowly and deliberately into the fold of the soiled blouse which was on the outside. She drew out the money. A ten and two fives. Enough to keep his room at the hospital for two weeks. No, for she must live, herself. Enough to give him a room one week longer and to enable her to live two weeks at least. . . . And day after tomorrow—more. Perhaps, soon—enough to see him through the typhoid. She put the money in her bosom, rose and went on toward the hospital. She no longer felt weary, and the sensation of a wound that might ache if she were not so numb passed away.
A clerk she had not seen before was at the barrier desk. "I came to ask how Mr. Burlingham is," said she.
The clerk yawned, drew a large book toward him. "Burlingham—B—Bu—Bur——" he said half to himself, turning over the leaves. "Yes—here he is." He looked at her. "You his daughter?"
"No, I'm a friend."
"Oh—then—he died at five o'clock—an hour ago."
He looked up—saw her eyes—only her eyes. They were a deep violet now, large, shining with tragic softness—like the eyes of an angel that has lost its birthright through no fault of its own. He turned hastily away, awed, terrified, ashamed of himself.