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Updated: June 29, 2025
Not in vain had she dwelt with the philosopher Burlingham. She seated herself on a bench and made herself comfortable. But she no longer needed sleep. She was awake wide awake in every atom of her vigorous young body. The minutes dragged. She was impatient for the dawn to give the signal for the future to roll up its curtain.
"Where are they?" As she spoke, she saw Burlingham in his nightshirt propped against a big blue oil barrel. He was staring stupidly at the ground. And now she noted the others scattered about the levee, each with a group around him or her. "What was it?" she repeated. "A tug butted its tow of barges into you," said someone. "Crushed your boat like an eggshell."
Curiously, while she was thinking much about Brent, she was thinking even more about Burlingham about their long talks on the show boat and in their wanderings in Louisville and Cincinnati. His philosophy, his teachings the wisdom he had, but was unable to apply began to come back to her.
Here we've hit on something that'll land us in Easy Street, and you're all filled up with poison." They were ashamed of themselves. Burlingham had brought back to them vividly the girl's simplicity and sweetness that had won their hearts, even the hearts of the women in whom jealousy of her young beauty would have been more than excusable.
"I do the cooking myself and buy the best. I'm no hand for canned stuff. As for that there cold storage, it's no better'n slow poison, and not so terrible slow at that. Anything your daughter wants I'll give her." "She's not my daughter," said Burlingham, and it was his turn to be red and flustered. "I'm simply looking after her, as she's alone in the world. I'm going to live somewhere else.
For in spite of Burlingham's explanations and cautionings she was still the small-town girl, unsuspicious toward courtesy from strange men. Also, she longed for someone to talk with. It had been weeks since she had talked with anyone nearer than Burlingham to her own age and breeding. "Won't you have lunch with me?" he asked. "I hate to eat alone."
She was seeing queer, vivid, apparently disconnected visions Burlingham, sick unto death, on the stretcher in the hospital reception room Blynn of the hideous face and loose, repulsive body the contemptuous old gentleman in the shop odds and ends of the things Mabel Connemora had told her the roll of bills the young man had taken from his pocket when he paid Jeb Ferguson in the climax of the horrors of that wedding day and night.
See?" "I I think I do," said the girl. "I'm not sure." Burlingham smoked his cigar in silence. When he spoke, it was with eyes carefully averted. "There's another subject the spirit moves me to talk to you about. That's the one Miss Connemora opened up with you yesterday." As Susan moved uneasily, "Now, don't get scared. I'm not letting the woman business bother me much nowadays.
They arranged to meet at the first entrance down the side street; Burlingham gave Susan and Mabel each their fifty dollars and went his way. When they met again in an hour and a half, they burst into smiles of delight. Burlingham had transformed himself into a jaunty, fashionable young middle-aged man, with an air of success achieved and prosperity assured.
As for Violet, every feature of her homeliness, her coarseness, her dissipated premature old age stood forth in all its horror. Susan's heart contracted and her flesh crept as she glanced quickly away. But she still saw, and it was many a week before she ceased to see whenever Violet's name came into her mind. Burlingham, too, looked old and broken.
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