A very few minutes after she read these words, she was at work on the play.But--a very few minutes thereafter she was sitting with the play in her lap, eyes gazing into the black and menacing future.The misgivings of the night before had been fed and fattened into despairing certainties by the events of the day.The sun was shining, never more brightly;but it was not the light of her City of the Sun.She stayed in all afternoon and all evening.During those hours before she put out the light and shut herself away in the dark a score of Susans, every one different from every other, had been seen upon the little theater of that lodging house parlor-bedroom.There had been a hopeful Susan, a sad but resolved Susan, a strong Susan, a weak Susan; there had been Susans who could not have shed a tear; there had been Susans who shed many tears--some of them Susans all bitterness, others Susans all humility and self-reproach.Any spectator would have been puzzled by this shifting of personality.
Susan herself was completely confused.She sought for her real self among this multitude so contradictory.Each successive one seemed the reality; yet none persisted.When we look in at our own souls, it is like looking into a many-sided room lined with mirrors.We see reflections--re-reflections--views at all angles--but we cannot distinguish the soul itself among all these counterfeits, all real yet all false because partial.
"What shall I do? What can I do? What will I do?"--that was her last cry as the day ended.And it was her first cry as her weary brain awakened for the new day.
At the end of the week came the regular check with a note from Garvey--less machine-like, more human.He apologized for not having called, said one thing and another had prevented, and now illness of a near relative compelled him to leave town for a few days, but as soon as he came back he would immediately call.It seemed to Susan that there could be but one reason why he should call--the reason that would make a timid, soft-hearted man such as he put off a personal interview as long as he could find excuses.She flushed hot with rage and shame as she reflected on her position.Garvey pitying her!
She straightway sat down and wrote:
DEAR MR.GARVEY: Do not send me any more checks until Mr.
Brent comes back and I have seen him.I am in doubt whether I shall be able to go on with the work he and I had arranged.
She signed this "Susan Lenox" and dispatched it.At once she felt better in spite of the fact that she had, with characteristic and fatal folly, her good sense warned her, cut herself off from all the income in sight or in prospect.She had debated sending back the check, but had decided that if she did she might give the impression of pique or anger.No, she would give him every chance to withdraw from a bargain with which he was not content; and he would get the idea that it was she who was ending the arrangement, would therefore feel no sense of responsibility for her.She would save her pride; she would spare his feelings.She was taking counsel of Burlingham these days--was recalling the lesson he had taught her, was getting his aid in deciding her course.
Burlingham protested vehemently against this sending back of the check; but she let her pride, her aversion to being an object of pity, overrule him.
A few days more, and she was so desperate, so harassed that she altogether lost confidence in her own judgment.While outwardly she seemed to be the same as always with Rod, she had a feeling of utter alienation.Still, there was no one else to whom she could turn.Should she put the facts before him and ask his opinion? Her intelligence said no; her heart said perhaps.While she was hesitating, he decided for her.
