Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise

D >> David Graham Phillips >> Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise


"Who's there?"

"Only me," cried Susan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh--nothing."

"Was he at Sinclairs'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruth submitted.

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

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

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

"I had an awful time--awful!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV


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

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

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

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

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

"Is that you?"

A brief silence, then a faint "Yes."

"May I come in?"

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

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

"I'm ready," she called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, that counter-jumper?"

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

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

"What thing?"

"No matter."

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

"You'll come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me all about it?"

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

"No?. . . Sometime?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, mother----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does _she_ realize?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At ten," replied Ruth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" asked Ruth coldly.

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

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

"You must let me in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He told you he loved you?"

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

"Yes--he did!"

"I don't believe you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Susan stood as if petrified.

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

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

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

"Susie!"

No answer.

More sharply, "Susie!"

"Yes," said Susan, without moving.

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

"I'll not tell," said Susan.

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

No answer.

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

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

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

"Yes," said Susan.

"You're not angry with me?"

"No."

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

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

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

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