“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.