"No," said he peremptorily, "I couldn't trust you in those temptations.You must stay where I can guard you."A woman who had deliberately taken to the streets--why, she thought nothing of virtue; she would be having lovers with the utmost indifference; and while she was not a liar yet--"at least, I think not"--how long would that last? With virtue gone, virtue the foundation of woman's character--the rest could no more stand than a house set on sand.
"As long as you want me to love you, you've got to stay with me," he declared."If you persist, I'll know you're simply looking for a chance to go back to your old ways."And though she continued to think and cautiously to inquire about work she said no more to him.She spent not a penny, discouraged him from throwing money away--as much as she could without irritating him--and waited for the cataclysm.Waited not in gloom and tears but as normal healthy youth awaits any adversity not definitely scheduled for an hour close at hand.It would be far indeed from the truth to picture Susan as ever for long a melancholy figure to the eye or even wholly melancholy within.Her intelligence and her too sympathetic heart were together a strong force for sadness in her life, as they cannot but be in any life.In this world, to understand and to sympathize is to be saddened.But there was in her a force stronger than either or both.She had superb health.It made her beautiful, strong body happy; and that physical happiness brought her up quickly out of any depths--made her gay in spite of herself, caused her to enjoy even when she felt that it was "almost like hard-heartedness to be happy." She loved the sun and in this city where the sun shone almost all the days, sparkling gloriously upon the tiny salt particles filling the air and making it delicious to breathe and upon the skin--in this City of the Sun as she called it, she was gay even when she was heavy-hearted.
Thus, she was no repellent, aggravating companion to Rod as she awaited the cataclysm.
It came in the third week.He spent the entire day away from her, toward midnight he returned, flushed with liquor.She had gone to bed."Get up and dress," said he with an irritability toward her which she had no difficulty in seeing was really directed at himself."I'm hungry--and thirsty.We're going out for some supper.""Come kiss me first," said she, stretching out her arms.Several times this device had shifted his purpose from spending money on the needless and expensive suppers.
He laughed."Not a kiss.We're going to have one final blow-out.
I start to work tomorrow.I've taken a place on the _Herald_--on space, guaranty of twenty-five a week, good chance to average fifty or sixty."He said this hurriedly, carelessly, gayly--guiltily.She showed then and there what a surpassing wise young woman she was, for she did not exclaim or remind him of his high resolve to do or die as a playwright."I'll be ready in a minute," was all she said.
She dressed swiftly, he lounging on the sofa and watching her.
He loved to watch her dress, she did it so gracefully, and the motions brought out latent charms of her supple figure."You're not so sure-fingered tonight as usual," said he."I never saw you make so many blunders--and you've got one stocking on wrong side out."She smiled into the glass at him."The skirt'll cover that.Iguess I was sleepy."
"Never saw your eyes more wide-awake.What're you thinking about?""About supper," declared she."I'm hungry.I didn't feel like eating alone.""I can't be here always," said he crossly--and she knew he was suspecting what she really must be thinking.
"I wasn't complaining," replied she sweetly."You know Iunderstand about business."
"Yes, I know," said he, with his air of generosity that always made her feel grateful."I always feel perfectly free about you.""I should say!" laughed she."You know I don't care what happens so long as you succeed." Since their talk in Broadway that first evening in New York she had instinctively never said "we."When they were at the table at Rector's and he had taken a few more drinks, he became voluble and plausible on the subject of the trifling importance of his setback as a playwright.It was the worst possible time of year; the managers were stocked up;his play would have to be rewritten to suit some particular star; a place on a newspaper, especially such an influential paper as the _Herald_, would be of use to him in interesting managers.She listened and looked convinced, and strove to convince herself that she believed.But there was no gray in her eyes, only the deepest hue of violets.
Next day they took a suite of two rooms and a bath in a pretentious old house in West Forty-fourth Street near Long Acre Square.She insisted that she preferred another much sunnier and quieter suite with no bath but only a stationary washstand; it was to be had for ten dollars a week.But he laughed at her as too economical in her ideas, and decided for the eighteen-dollar rooms.Also he went with her to buy clothes, made her spend nearly a hundred dollars where she would have spent less than twenty-five."I prefer to make most of my things," declared she.
"And I've all the time in the world." He would not have it.In her leisure time she must read and amuse herself and keep herself up to the mark, especially physically."I'm proud of your looks," said he."They belong to me, don't they? Well, take care of my property, Miss."She looked at him vaguely--a look of distance, of parting, of pain.Then she flung herself into his arms with a hysterical cry--and shut her eyes tight against the beckoning figure calling her away."No! No!" she murmured."I belong here--_here!_""What are you saying?" he asked.
"Nothing--nothing," she replied.
