“She’s not half so strong as you think and very sensitive, morbidly
sensitive.”
“Um,” said Miss Bliss, “poor thing! I don’t see how if she was so
sensitive, she could have stood that man Masters around so much.”
She went down to dress and presently the news percolated through the
house. There was an opening and shutting of doors and whisperings on
the top flight. Everybody stole up and offered help except the count,
who rose late to the summons of an alarm clock. Mr. Hazard went across
the street for the doctor, met Mrs. Bushey on her way to physical
culture and sent her in.
I met her in the third-floor hall and we talked, sitting on the
banister. The count’s alarm clock had evidently done its work, for he
eyed us through the crack of his door.
“How dreadful--terribly unfortunate,” Mrs. Bushey muttered, then,
looking about, caught the count’s eye at the crack: “Good morning,
Count Delcati. You’re up early.”
The count responded, the gleaming eye large and unwinking as if made of
glass.
Mrs. Bushey’s glance returned to me. The smile called forth by the
greeting of the star lodger died away.
“If her concert was such a failure and she’s sick, how is she going to
live?”
I hadn’t thought of that. It added a complication to the already
complex situation.
“Oh, she must have something,” I said with a vaguely reassuringly air.
“She hasn’t been making money but--”
“Do you know anything positive of her financial position?” interrupted
Mrs. Bushey.
It was hard to be vague on any subject with Mrs. Bushey, on the subject
of finances impossible. She listened to a few soothing sentences then
said grimly:
“I see you don’t really know anything about it. Please try and find
out. Of course I’m one of the most kind-hearted people in the world,
but”--she held her physical culture manuals in the grip of one elbow
and extended her hands--“one must live. I can’t be late with my rent
whatever my lodgers can be.”
The count’s voice issued unexpectedly through the crack:
“I am late two times now and I still stay.”
Mrs. Bushey smiled at the eye.
“Of course, Count Delcati, but you’re different. I know all about you.
But Miss Harris--a singer who can’t make good. They’re notoriously bad
pay.” She turned sharply on me. “What seems to be the matter with her?”
“Collapse,” I said promptly. “Complete collapse and prostration.”
Mrs. Bushey hitched the books into her armpit and patted them in with
her muff.
“Those are only words. I’m glad Mr. Hazard’s gone for the doctor.”
She turned and moved toward the stair-head. “And if it’s anything
contagious she must go at once. Don’t keep her here five minutes. The
doctor’ll know where to send her.” She began the descent. “If I’d only
myself to think of I’d let her stay if it was the bubonic plague.
But I won’t expose the rest of you to any danger.” She descended the
next flight and her voice grew fainter: “I’m only thinking of you, my
lodgers are always my first consideration. If any of you got anything
I’d never forgive myself.” She reached the last flight. “I wouldn’t
expose one of you to contagion if I never made a dollar or rented a
room. That’s the way I am. I know it’s foolish--you needn’t tell me so,
but--” The street door shut on her.
The doctor came with speed and an air of purpose. At last he had
somewhere to go when he ran down the stairs with his bag, and it was
difficult for him to conceal his exhilaration. He was young, firm
and businesslike, examined Lizzie, asked questions and said it was
“shock”. He was very anxious to find out what had “precipitated the
condition,” even read the notices, and then sat with his chin in his
hand looking at the patient and frowning.
Out in the hall I enlarged on her high-strung organization and he
listened, fixing me with a searching gaze that did not conceal the fact
that he was puzzled. We whispered on the landing over nursing, food and
the etceteras of illness, then branched into shocks and their causes
till he suddenly remembered he had to be in a hurry, snatched up his
bag and darted away.
That was yesterday. To-night I have brought up my writing things and
while I watch am scratching this off at the desk where, not so long
ago, I found her choosing her stage name. Poor Lizzie--is there a woman
who would refuse her pity?
I can run over the names of all those I know and I don’t think
there’s one, who, if she could look through the sin at the sinner,
would entirely condemn. The worst of it is they all stop short at the
sin. It hides the personality behind it. I know if I talked to Betty
this way she’d say I was a silly sentimentalist with no knowledge of
life, for even my generous Betty wouldn’t see over the sin. There’s
something wrong with the way women appraise “the values” in these
matters; actions don’t stand in the proper relations to character and
intentions. We’re all either sheep or goats. Everything that makes our
view-point, books, plays, precedent, public opinion, will have it that
we’re sheep or goats, and though we can do a good many bad things and
remain pure spotless sheep, there’s just one thing that if we do do,
puts us forever in the corral with the goats.
But, oh--I groan as I write it--if it only hadn’t been Masters! That
brute, that brigand! A hateful thing some one once told me keeps
surging up in my memory--Rousseau said it I think--that one of the
best tests of character was the type of person selected for love and
friendship. I can’t get it out of my head. What fool ever told it to
me? Oh--all of a sudden I remember--it was Roger--Roger! I feel quite
frightened when I think of him. He would be so angry with me for being
mixed up in such an affair, or--as he’s never angry with me--angry
with fate for leading me into this _galère_. He is one of the people
who adhere to the sheep and goat theory. To him women are black or
white, and the white ones must have the same relation to the black that
Voltaire had to _Le bon Dieu_--know them by sight but not speak.