She completed her toilet with her one good and unworn blouse--plain white, the yoke gracefully pointed--and with a blue neck piece she had been saving.She made a bundle of all her clothing that was fit for anything--including the unworn batiste dress Jeffries and Jonas had given her.And into it she put the pistol she had brought away from Forty-fourth Street.She made a separate bundle of the Jeffries and Jonas hat with its valuable plumes.With the two bundles she descended and went to a pawnshop in Houston Street, to which she had made several visits.
A dirty-looking man with a short beard fluffy and thick like a yellow hen's tail lurked behind the counter in the dark little shop.She put her bundles on the counter, opened them."How much can I get for these things?" she asked.
The man examined every piece minutely."There's really nothing here but the summer dress and the hat," said he."And they're out of style.I can't give you more than four dollars for the lot--and one for the pistol which is good but old style now.
Five dollars.How'll you have it?"
Susan folded the things and tied up the bundles."Sorry to have troubled you," she said, taking one in either hand.
"How much did you expect to get, lady?" asked the pawnbroker.
"Twenty-five dollars."
He laughed, turned toward the back of the shop.As she reached the door he called from his desk at which he seemed about to seat himself, "I might squeeze you out ten dollars.""The plumes on the hat will sell for thirty dollars," said Susan."You know as well as I do that ostrich feathers have gone up."The man slowly advanced."I hate to see a customer go away unsatisfied," said he."I'll give you twenty dollars.""Not a cent less than twenty-five.At the next place I'll ask thirty--and get it.""I never can stand out against a lady.Give me the stuff."Susan put it on the counter again.Said she:
"I don't blame you for trying to do me.You're right to try to buy your way out of hell."The pawnbroker reflected, could not understand this subtlety, went behind his counter.He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer underneath and took out a large tin box.
With another key from another pocket he unlocked this, threw back the lid revealing a disorder of papers.From the depths he fished a paper bag.This contained a roll of bills.He gave Susan a twenty and a five, both covered with dirt so thickly that she could scarcely make out the denominations.
"You'll have to give me cleaner money than this," said she.
"You are a fine lady," grumbled he.But he found cleaner bills.
She turned to her room.At sight of her Mrs.Tucker burst out laughing with delight."My, but you do look like old times!"cried she."How neat and tasty you are! I suppose it's no need to ask if you're going to church?""No," said Susan."I've got nothing to give, and I don't beg.""Well, I ain't going there myself, lately--somehow.They got so they weren't very cordial--or maybe it was me thinking that way because I wasn't dressed up like.Still I do wish you was more religious.But you'll come to it, for you're naturally a good girl.And when you do, the Lord'll give you a more contented heart.Not that you complain.I never knew anybody, especially a young person, that took things so quiet....
It can't be you're going to a dance?"
"No," said Susan."I'm going to leave--go back uptown."Mrs.Tucker plumped down upon the bed."Leave for good?" she gasped.
"I've got Nelly Lemayer to take my place here, if you want her,"said Susan."Here is my share of the rent for next week and half a dollar for the extra gas I've burned last night and today.""And Mrs.Reardon gone, too!" sobbed Mrs.Tucker, suddenly remembering the old scrubwoman whom both had forgotten."And up to that there Morgue they wouldn't let me see her except where the light was so poor that I couldn't rightly swear it was her.How brutal everybody is to the poor! If they didn't have the Lord, what would become of them! And you leaving me all alone!"The sobs rose into hysteria.Susan stood impassive.She had seen again and again how faint the breeze that would throw those shallow waters into commotion and how soon they were tranquil again.It was by observing Mrs.Tucker that she first learned an important unrecognized truth about human nature that amiable, easily sympathetic and habitually good-humored people are invariably hard of heart.In this parting she had no sense of loss, none of the melancholy that often oppresses us when we separate from someone to whom we are indifferent yet feel bound by the tie of misfortunes borne together.Mrs.Tucker, fallen into the habits of their surroundings, was for her simply part of them.And she was glad she was leaving them--forever, she hoped._Christian_, fleeing the City of Destruction, had no sterner mandate to flight than her instinct was suddenly urging upon her.
When Mrs.Tucker saw that her tears were not appreciated, she decided that they were unnecessary.She dried her eyes and said:
