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The Jtory of*Ju.s£n Lenox
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From the Initial Instalment of i( The Story
of Susan Lenox--Her Fall and Rise.”
Printed by Permission from the June
Number of HEARST’S MAGAZINE
How Susan Awoke to Life.
'“TfHE
1 U
'HE cblldB dead," said Nora, the nurse.
was the upstairs sitting room in one of the
pretentious houses of Sutherland, oldest and
most charming of the towns on the Indiana bank of
l he Ohio. The two big windows were open; their
uinp and listless draperies showed that there was not
the least motion In the stifling humid air of the July
afternoon. At the centre of the room stood an oblong
table; over it were neatly spread several thicknesses
of white cotton cloth; naked upou them lay the body
of a new-born girl baby.
At one side of the tabic nearer the window stood
Nora. Hers were the hard features and corrugat id
skin popularly regarded as the result of a life of toil,
but in fact the result of a life of defiance to the laws
of health. As additional penalties for that same seif-
indulgence she had an enormous bust and hips, thin
face and arms, hollow, sinew-striped neck. The young
man. blond and smooth-faced, at the other aide of the
table and facing the light was Doctor Stevens, a re
cently graduated pupil of the famous Schulze of Saint
Christopher who, as much as any other one man, is
responsible for the rejection of hocus-pocus and the
injection of common sense into American medicine.
For upward of an hour young Stevens, coat off and
shirt sleeves rolled to his shoulders, had been toiling
with the lifeless form on the table. He had tried
everything his training, his reading and his experience
suggested—all the more or less familiar devices simi
lar to those indicated for cages of drowning. Nora
bad watched him, at first with interest and hope, then
with interest alone, finally with swiftly deepening dis
approval, as her compressed lips and angry eyes plainly
revealed. It seemed to her his efTort was degenerating
into sacrilege, into defiance of an obviouB decree of
the Almighty. However, she had not ventured to
speak until the young man, with a muttered ejacula
tion suspiciously like an imprecation, straightened his
stocky figure and began to mop the sweat from his
face, hands and bared arms.
When she saw that her verdict had not been heard,
she repeated it more emphatically. “The child's dead."
said she, "as 1 told you from the set-out." She made
the sign of the cross on her forehead and bosom, while
her fat, dry lips moved in a "Hail Mary."
Stevens was not listening. "Such a fine baby, too,”
he said, hesitating—the old woman mistaking!}’ fan
cied it w’as her words that made him pause. "1 feel
no good at all,” he went on. as if reasoning with him
self “No good at all. losing both the mother and the
child."
"She didn’t want to live," replied Nora. Her glance
stole somewhat fearfully toward the door of the ad
joining room—the bedroom where the mother lay
dead. "There waan t nothing but disgrace ahead for
both of them. Everybody'll be glad "
"Such a fine baby,” muttered the abstracted young
stor.
Love (hi,dice always is,' said Nora She was
“Alv and tenderlv flown at the tiny, syra-
How the Greatest American Novel, the Last and
the Late David Graham Phillips, Came to Be
Yet Reverent Presentation ot the Greatest
Modern Times, Now Beginning in HEARST’S MA
S cial
“A
NO Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no
more.”
Many a pulpit discourse hae been drawn from that text.
Many a book has been written upon the species of human frailty which in
spired Its utterance by Divine lips. But it is a literary event When a nov
elist of these times ignores his opportunity of profitable appeal to sensa
tlon seekers, and makes bis whole effort conform to such a compassionate
purpose and example of our Saviour.
That was the ideal of the lamented young literary genius, David Gra
ham Phillips, When he wrote his last and greatest work of fiction called
"Susan Lenox; Her Fall and Rise.” He had pondered the theme since the
beginning of his writing career. Its problems pursued him in the midst of
his labors on the published novels which brought him high recognition and
a competence. He had the genius to feel that the complete development
of this idea in a novel would be his worthiest undertaking, his master
piece, upon which his fame would rest securely long after its author had
ceased to be.
Phillips firmly believed that this book would serve a high moral pur
pose that it would help to right one of the most lamentable wrongs which
are due to phariseeism, the stupid conventions and the heartless artificial
ity of modern society. For six years he worked upon its text. It was to
be his crowning work—and it proved to be his last.
By no means the least part of the tragedy which saw Phillips, at the
height of his powers, the victim of a worthless assassin’s bullet lay in the
cutting off of a hopeful and purposeful young life; it was a tragedy which
robbed the world of serious, eager minds looking for the truth from one
who in many ways was best gifted to present it to them. Probably there
exists no honest critic of seasoned judgment who would not willingly tes
tify that David Graham Phillips was a genius—the novelist of brightest
promise produced in America in his generation.
He lived to finish his great novel, “Susan Lenox, but his life was
blotted out before he had made any arrangements for its publication. Still
a literary work of such value, such practical usefulness, could not long be
hidden away in its manuscript covers. It is now appearing as the most
important serial given to the public in years. The brief scenes printed on
these pages, short as they are, and from the opening Chapters of the story,
will serve as the reader’s guaranty that the novel in its entirety is one of
the very few that can be missed without distinct personal loss. Here
indeed is the great American novel at last.
David Graham Phillips lived and labored long enough to find his
writings enthusiastically received by the best class of novel readers. Hardly
ever was a young, living novelist so much written about. It was character
istic of him that he should be deeply embarrassed by these public atterf-
tions. But 'they influenced him not at all, except —if that were possible to
spur him on to more serious endeavors in his chosen art. Long before a
crank's bullet sent him out of this life every newspaper and magazine
reader knew that he was one of that gifted group of writers born and
reared in the State of Indiana—and a veritable giant among them. They
knew, too, that he was a man of force and deeds, as well as of moving
literary fancies. If august members of the august United States Senate
were found lacking in their duties to the people, Phillips did not fear to
lash them with his powerful and incorruptible pen. And how they some
times cringed under that lashing Is a matter of record.
Phillips not only believed in work, with a capital "W.” but practised
what he believed. Without doubt he was the most indefatigable worker,
the most studious devote of literature imgenearl of his productive period.
Nor was he satisfied simply to turn out examples of good and honest
workmanship, book after book, and collect, his royalties Ha felt that he
had a mission—it was a mission similar to that, to which Tolstoi conse
crated his life, a mission to assist in the redemption of modern society
through the power of the lessons he promulgated in the guise of fiction.
But unlike Tolstoi, he would not lessen the value and effect of his teach
ing by sacrificing his finished art of the novelist to the tiresome and doubt
ful methods of the preaching propagandist.
Those who are familiar with the novels of Phillips do not need to be
told about his particular literary hobby—-really amounting to a passion.
On page after page of various books are found evidences of his burning
desire to
that, type
doubtless*
dependeni
taint of b
part. If si
by workini
choice of a
to friends,
“It isn
him that
His sp<
woman,
woman ins
luxury. Hf
allow her
Quite
and holding
nee a bef ter. sta
man who was ti
d that most d
women in orde
and sale, of any
no income of
it. She should
band, or of choic
ell as wrote in -
because she
lan should have
aversion amen?
dared her to b<
by nothing m
olved her of the
cuse for her [
sciously, throug
reader’s attenti
thp main pi ;e of his labors.
til Ion .:u rd. Like Tohei
dressed his
discus sing
how
them avidl;
acters and
All t
hardly m
great thi
magnifici
novel, “Sui
The fol
here by
running;
find Je$us Said Unto fier, neither Do
it
Cheei
David Graham Philips Whose Greatest Story* “Susan Lenox” Is Now
Being Published in HEARST’S MAGAZINE.
the sorrows In which she had been entangled by an
Impetuous, trusting heart. The apparition in the_ door
way was commonplace—the mistress of the house,
Lorella’s elder and married sister Fanny—neither
fair nor dark, neither tall nor short, neither thin nor
fat, neither pretty nor homely, neither stupid nor
bright, neither neat nor dowdy—one of that multitude
of excellent, unobtrusive human beings who make the
restful stretches in a world of agitations and who
respond to the impetus of cricumstances as unresist
ingly as cloud to wind.
As the wail of tlie child smote upon Fanny s ears
she lifted her head, startled, and cried out sharply,
“What's that?” „ ..
"We've saved the baby, Mrs. Warliam, replied the
young doctor, beaming on her through his glasses.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Warham. And she abruptly seated
herself on the big chintz-covered sofa beside the door.
"And it’s a lovely child,” pleaded Nora. Her
woman's instinct guided her straight to the secret of
the conflict raging behind Mrs. Warham’s unhappy
How Susan Awoke to Womanhood.
MOT quite seventeen years later, on a fire June
morning, Ruth Warham issued hastily from the
house and started down the long tanbark walk from
the front veranda to the street gate. She wan cow
nineteen—nearer twenty—and a very pretty young
woman indeed. She had grown up one of those small,
slender blondes, exquisite and doll-like, who can not
help seeming fresh and sweet, whatever the truth
about them, without or within.
This morning she had on a new Summer dress of a
blue that matched her eyes and harmonized with her
coloring. She was looking her best, and she had the-
satisfying, confidence-giving sense that it was so.
She had got only far enough from the house to be
visible to the second story windows when a young
voice called:
“Ruthie! Aren’t you going to wait for me?”
Ruth halted; an expression anything but harmonious
with the pretty blue costume stormed across her face.
The truiii is, Susan was beyond question the Belle
of Sutherland. Her eyes, very dark at birth, had
changed to a soft, dreamy violet-gray. Hair and
face.
"The finest girl in the world,” cried Stevens, well-
meaning but tactless.
"Girl!" exclaimed Fanny, starting up from the sora.
“Is it a girl?"
Nora nodded. The young man looked downcast;
he was realizing the practical side of his victory for
science—the consequences to the girl child, to all the
relatives, especially to this woman and her own little
daughter, Ruth.
“A girl!” moaned Fanny, sinking to the sofa again.
"God have mercy on us!"
coloi ing, lashes and e a
her eyes and the inten:
vicinage of contrast whic
To look at her was to bei
violet-grav eyes—by tin
By their regard of calm
tery not untouched of a
thick abundance of wav
golden braids, but grert
thinly about her low
modeled ears and at the
It was not strange or
'ml 'heir psrents 1 ad
as this beauty developed,
to exhale its delicious pi
that they should start
kind to the poor thine
matter of course that the?
object—should have impr
cullne mind of the tow
"poor thing's” social isola'
the boys ceased to be h
were afraid to be alone w
Women are convention
men conventionally is
The youths of Sutherland
alluring, sweet, bright
rowi
itten
itith whose wor!
ders directly at
them the vital
vost of the wril
the clue to th
es.
i the immediate
m the necessar
er present in t
eveloped and gi
enox; Her I-'al!
eg brief scenes
y of HEARST':
remained darl
of her lips b
eeessary to dis
ice fascinated 1
nr, by their cl
inquiry, by th
n sadness. Sh
not so long a:
beautifully ins
about her d
of her exquiHi
•usable—that t
to pity Susan
this personallt
;. It was but
vhole town to
d It was e<i u;
lid have achiev
the conventior
such a sense
.nd "impossibili
terly admiring
r, to ask her t
a business; t
groveling supe
ed for, sighed
but they dai
with all the women ravine lor thing! Wht
a nice man can't afford ti
her.” It was an interesl
profound snobbishness of
ve anything to
typical example
nale character.
metrical form—symmetrical to her and the doctor’s
expert eyes. "Such a deep chest,” she sighed. "Such
pretty hands and feet. A real love child.” There she
glanced nervously at the doctor; it was meet and
proper and pious to speak well of the dead, but she
fell she might be going rather far for a “good woman."
"i'll try it.” cried the young man in a resolute tone.
"It can't do any harm, and "
Without finishing his sentence he laid hold of the
body by the ankles, swung it clear of the table. As
Nora saw it dangling head downward like a dressed
suckling pig on a butcher's hook, she vented a scream
and darted round the table to stop by main force this
revolting desecration of the dead. Stevens called out
sternly: “Mind your business, Nora! PuBh the table
against the wall and get out of the way. 1 want all the
room there is."
“Oh, doctor—for the blessed Jesus' sake ”
“Push back that table!”
Nora shrank before his fierce eyes. She thought his
exertions, his disappointment and the heat had com
bined to topple him over into insanity. She retreated
toward the farther one of the open windows. With
a curse at her stupidity Stevens kicked over the table,
using his foot vigorously in thrusting it to the wall.
"Now !" exclaimed he, taking his stand in the center
of the room and gauging the distauce of ceiling, floor
and walls.
Nora, her hack against the window frame, her
fingers sunk in her big, loose apron, stared petrified.
Stevens, like an athlete swinging an Indian club,
whirled the body round and round his head, at the
full length of his powerful arms. More and more
rapidly he swung it, until his breath came and went
in gasps and the sweat was trickling in streams down
his face and neck. Round and round between ceiling
and floor whirled the naked body of the baby—round
and round for minutes that seemed hours to the horri
fied nurse—round and round with all the strength
and speed the young man could put forth—round and
round until the room was a blur before his throbbing
eyes, until his expression became fully as demoniac
as Nora had been fancying it. Just as she was re
covering from her paralysis of horror and was about
to fly shrieking from the room she was halted by a
sound that made her draw in air until her bosom
swelled as if it would burst its gingham prison. She
craned eagerly toward Stevens. He was whirling the
body more furiously than ever.
“Was that you?" asked Nora hoarsely, "or was it”—
She paused, listened.
The sound came again—the sound of a drowning
person fighting for breath.
"It's—it’s”— muttered Nora. “What is it, doctor?"
“Life!'' panted Stevens, triumph in his glistening,
streaming face. "Life!”
The bedroom door opened. At the slight noise
superstitious Nora paled, shriveled within her green
and white check gingham. She slowly turned her
head as if on this day of miracles she expected yet
another the resure- tien of the resurrected baby's
mother, 'poor • Put l.orel'a Lenox was
forever trenq'*u , ,i ,• her and
When young Stevens was leaving, George Warham
waylaid him at the front gate, separated from the spa
cious old creeper-clad house by long lawnB and an
avenue of elms. "I hear the child's going to live,”
said he anxiously.
Stevens flushed a guilty red. “It’s—it's—a girl,” he
stammered
Warham stared. “A girl!" he cried. Then his face
reddened and in a furtoug tone he burst out, “Now
don’t that heat the devil for luck A girl!
Good Lord, a girl!"
“Nobody in this town’ll blame her." consoled Stevens.
"You know better than that, Bob! A girl! Why,
it’s downright wicked ... I wonder what Fanny
allows to do?" He showed what fear was in his mind
by wheeling Bavagely on Stevens with a etormy, "We
can't keep her—we simply can’t!”
"What's to become of her?” protested Stevens
gently.
Warham made a wild, vague gesture with both arms
’T've got to look out for my own daughter. I won’t
have It. 1 won’t have It!”
Stevens lifted the gate latch. “Well
“Good-by, George. I’ll look in again this evening.”
And knowing the moral Ideas of the town, all he could
muster by way of encouragement was a half-hearted
"Don’t borrow trouble."
But Warham did not hear. He was moving up the
tan-bark walk toward the house, muttering to him
self. When Fanny, unable longer to conceal Lorella’s
plight, had told him, pity and affection for his sweet
sister-in-law, who had made her home with them for
five years, had triumphed over his principles. He had
himself arranged for Fanny to hide Lorella in New
York until she could safely return. But just as the
sisters were about to set out, Lorella, low In body and
in mind, fell ill. Then George—and Fanny, too—had
striven with her to give them the name of her be
trayer, that he might be compelled to do her justice.
Loretta refused.
On that bright June nn
up Main street together,
the delight of sun and ail
dens before the attractivf
Ruth, with the day quit
gone, was fighting against
vicious that It made her a
Two squares, and she
of Sutherland, the home
starting on when she sie
man In striped flannel,
saw her.
After they had shaken !
came almost to their sliou
on. Sam kept pace with
fully trimmed boxwood ba
In about two weeks,” sai'
after Yale. I just blew
father yet.”
By this time they were
ig as tb» eousi
n gave herself
d of the flower
ses they were
rk for her, all
latred of her cc
1.
passing the shr
:he Wrights. S
long the trees
the same Ins
s across the he
Susan began
on his side of I
"I’m going bi
“It’3 awful c
haven’t seen L
“There's nothing can be done to make things right
tor a girl that’s got no father and no name.”
The subject did not come up between him and his
wife until about a week after Lorella’s funeral. He
was thinking of nothing else. At his big grocery
store—wholesale and retail—he sat morosely in his
ofTice brooding over the disgrace and the danger of
deeper disgrace—for, he saw what a hold the baby
already had upon his wife. He was ashamed to ap
pear in the streets; he knew what was going on be
hind the sympathetic faces, heard the whisperings as
if they had been trumpetings. And he was as much
afraid of his own soft heart as of his wife's. But for
the sake of his daughter, he must be firm and just.
One morning, as he was leaving the house after
breakfast, he turned back and said abruptly: "Fan,
don’t you think you'd better send the baby away and
get it over with?”
“No," said his wife unhesitatingly—and he knew his
worst suspicion was correct. ’T've made up my mind
to keen her."
THE MAN.
“‘My but you are looking fine Susie,’ said Sam.” A Christy
Illustration from “The Story of Susan Lenox” Republished
bv Permission nf HEARST’S MAGAZINE.
THE OTHER Gil
“Ruth Warham. one of *
slender l lci les, exq
anil Uoil like 1
small