"Yes--in a way," her cousin admitted."Only--the woman must keep herself pure until the ceremony has been performed.""But if he said so to her, wasn't that saying so to God just as much as if the preacher had been there?""No, it wasn't," said Ruth with irritation."And it's wicked to think such things.All I know is, God says a woman must be married before she--before she has any children.And your mother wasn't." Susan shook her head."I guess you don't understand any better than I do--really.""No, I don't," confessed Ruth."But I'd like to see any man more than kiss me or put his arm round me without our having been married.""But," urged Susan, "if he kissed you, wouldn't that be like marriage?""Some say so," admitted Ruth."But I'm not so strict.A little kissing and that often leads a man to propose." Susan reflected again."It all sounds low and sneaking to me," was her final verdict."I don't want to have anything to do with it.But I'm sure my mother was a good woman.It wasn't her fault if she was lied to, when she loved and believed.And anybody who blames her is low and bad.I'm glad I haven't got any father, if fathers have to be made to promise before everybody or else they'll not keep their word.""Well, I'll not argue about it," said Ruth."I'm telling you the way things are.The woman has to take _all_ the blame." Susan lifted her head haughtily."I'd be glad to be blamed by anybody who was wicked enough to be that unjust.I'd not have anything to do with such people.""Then you'd live alone."
"No, I shouldn't.There are lots of people who are good and----""That's wicked, Susan," interrupted Ruth."All good people think as I tell you they do.""Do Aunt Fanny and Uncle George blame my mother?""Of course.How could they help it, when she----" Ruth was checked by the gathering lightnings in those violet-gray eyes.
"But," pursued Susan, after a pause, "even if they were wicked enough to blame my mother, they couldn't blame me.""Of course not," declared Ruth warmly."Hasn't everybody always been sweet and kind to you?""But last night you said----"
Ruth hid her face."I'm ashamed of what I said last night," she murmured."I've got, Oh, such a _nasty_ disposition, Susie.""But what you said--wasn't it so?" Ruth turned away her head.
Susan drew a long sigh, so quietly that Ruth could not have heard.
"You understand," Ruth said gently, "everybody feels sorry for you and----"Susan frowned stormily, "They'd better feel sorry for themselves.""Oh, Susie, dear," cried Ruth, impulsively catching her hand, "we all love you, and mother and father and I--we'll stand up for you through everything----""Don't you _dare_ feel sorry for me!" Susan cried, wrenching her hand away.
Ruth's eyes filled with tears.
"You can't blame us because everybody----You know, God says, `The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children----'""I'm done with everybody," cried Susan, rising and lifting her proud head, "I'm done with God."Ruth gave a low scream and shuddered.Susan looked round defiantly, as if she expected a bolt from the blue to come hurtling through the open window.But the sky remained serene, and the quiet, scented breeze continued to play with the lace curtains, and the birds on the balcony did not suspend their chattering courtship.This lack of immediate effect from her declaration of war upon man and God was encouraging.The last of the crushed, cowed feeling Ruth had inspired the night before disappeared.With a soul haughtily plumed and looking defiance from the violet-gray eyes, Susan left her cousin and betook herself down to breakfast.
In common with most children, she had always dreamed of a mysterious fate for herself, different from the commonplace routine around her.Ruth's revelations, far from daunting her, far from making her feel like cringing before the world in gratitude for its tolerance of her bar sinister, seemed a fascinatingly tragic confirmation of her romantic longings and beliefs.No doubt it was the difference from the common lot that had attracted Sam to her; and this difference would make their love wholly unlike the commonplace Sutherland wooing and wedding.Yes, hers had been a mysterious fate, and would continue to be.Nora, an old woman now, had often related in her presence how Doctor Stevens had brought her to life when she lay apparently, indeed really, dead upon the upstairs sitting-room table--Doctor Stevens and Nora's own prayers.An extraordinary birth, in defiance of the laws of God and man; an extraordinary resurrection, in defiance of the laws of nature--yes, hers would be a life superbly different from the common.And when she and Sam married, how gracious and forgiving she would be to all those bad-hearted people; how she would shame them for their evil thoughts against her mother and herself!
The Susan Lenox who sat alone at the little table in the dining-room window, eating bread and butter and honey in the comb, was apparently the same Susan Lenox who had taken three meals a day in that room all those years--was, indeed, actually the same, for character is not an overnight creation.Yet it was an amazingly different Susan Lenox, too.The first crisis had come; she had been put to the test; and she had not collapsed in weakness but had stood erect in strength.
After breakfast she went down Main Street and at Crooked Creek Avenue took the turning for the cemetery.She sought the Warham plot, on the western slope near the quiet brook.There was a clump of cedars at each corner of the plot; near the largest of them were three little graves--the three dead children of George and Fanny.In the shadow of the clump and nearest the brook was a fourth grave apart and, to the girl, now thrillingly mysterious:
LORELLA LENOX
BORN MAY 9, 1859
DIED JULY 17, 1879