What she had been unable to do for herself, to save herself from squalor, from hunger, from cold, she was now able to do for the sake of another--to help the man who had enabled her to escape from that marriage, more hideous than anything she had endured since, or ever could be called upon to endure--to save him from certain neglect and probable death in the "charity"hospital.Not by merely tolerating the not too impossible men who joined her without sign from her, and not by merely accepting what they gave, could fifty dollars a week be made.
She must dress herself in franker avowal of her profession, must look as expensive as her limited stock of clothing, supplemented by her own taste, would permit.She must flirt, must bargain, must ask for presents, must make herself agreeable, must resort to the crude female arts--which, however, are subtle enough to convince the self-enchanted male even in face of the discouraging fact of the mercenary arrangement.She must crush down her repugnance, must be active, not simply passive--must get the extra dollars by stimulating male appetites, instead of simply permitting them to satisfy themselves.She must seem rather the eager mistress than the reluctant and impatient wife.
And she did abruptly change her manner.There was in her, as her life had shown, a power of endurance, an ability to sacrifice herself in order to do the thing that seemed necessary, and to do it without shuffling or whining.Whatever else her career had done for her, it undoubtedly had strengthened this part of her nature.And now the result of her training showed.With her superior intelligence for the first time free to make the best of her opportunities, she abruptly became equal to the most consummate of her sisters in that long line of her sister-panders to male appetites which extends from the bought wife or mistress or fiancee of the rich grandee down all the social ranks to the wife or street girl cozening for a tipsy day-laborer's earnings on a Saturday night and the work girl teasing her "steady company" toward matrimony on the park bench or in the dark entry of the tenement.
She was able to pay Clara back in less than ten days.In Spenser's second week at the hospital she had him moved to better quarters and better attendance at thirty dollars a week.
Although she had never got rid of her most unprofessional habit of choosing and rejecting, there had been times when need forced her into straits where her lot seemed to her almost as low as that of the slave-like wives of the tenements, made her almost think she would be nearly as well off were she the wife, companion, butt, servant and general vent to some one dull and distasteful provider of a poor living.But now she no longer felt either degraded or heart sick and heart weary.And when he passed the worst crisis her spirits began to return.
And when Roderick should be well, and the sketch written--and an engagement got--Ah, then! Life indeed--life, at last! Was it this hope that gave her the strength to fight down and conquer the craving for opium? Or was it the necessity of keeping her wits and of saving every cent? Or was it because the opium habit, like the drink habit, like every other habit, is a matter of a temperament far more than it is a matter of an appetite--and that she had the appetite but not the temperament? No doubt this had its part in the quick and complete victory.At any rate, fight and conquer she did.The strongest interest always wins.She had an interest stronger than love of opium--an interest that substituted itself for opium and for drink and supplanted them.Life indeed--life, at last!
In his third week Rod began to round toward health.Einstein observed from the nurse's charts that Susan's visits were having an unfavorably exciting effect.He showed her the readings of temperature and pulse, and forbade her to stay longer than five minutes at each of her two daily visits.
Also, she must not bring up any topic beyond the sickroom itself.One day Spenser greeted her with, "I'll feel better, now that I've got this off my mind." He held out to her a letter."Take that to George Fitzalan.He's an old friend of mine--one I've done a lot for and never asked any favors of.
He may be able to give you something fairly good, right away."Susan glanced penetratingly at him, saw he had been brooding over the source of the money that was being spent upon him.
"Very well," said she, "I'll go as soon as I can.""Go this afternoon," said he with an invalid's fretfulness.
"And when you come this evening you can tell me how you got on.""Very well.This afternoon.But you know, Rod, there's not a ghost of a chance.""I tell you Fitzalan's my friend.He's got some gratitude.
He'll _do_ something."
"I don't want you to get into a mood where you'll be awfully depressed if I should fail.""But you'll not fail."
It was evident that Spenser, untaught by experience and flattered into exaggerating his importance by the solicitude and deference of doctors and nurses to a paying invalid, had restored to favor his ancient enemy--optimism, the certain destroyer of any man who does not shake it off.She went away, depressed and worried.When she should come back with the only possible news, what would be the effect upon him--and he still in a critical stage? As the afternoon must be given to business, she decided to go straight uptown, hoping to catch Fitzalan before he went out to lunch.And twenty minutes after making this decision she was sitting in the anteroom of a suite of theatrical offices in the Empire Theater building.The girl in attendance had, as usual, all the airs little people assume when they are in close, if menial, relations with a person who, being important to them, therefore fills their whole small horizon.She deigned to take in Susan's name and the letter.
