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.
