The Price She Paid by David Graham Phillips (page 2)

venturing to poke fun at him. Drunk as he now was, the openest sarcasm would have been accepted as a compliment. After a gorgeous dessert which nobody more than touched–a molded mousse of whipped and frozen cream and strawberries–“specially sent on to me from Florida and costing me a dollar apiece, I guess”–after this costly wonder had disappeared fruit was served. General Siddall had ready a long oration upon this course. He delivered it in a disgustingly thick tone. The pineapple was an English hothouse product, the grapes were grown by a costly process under glass in Belgium. As for the peaches, Potin had sent those deli- cately blushing marvels, and the charge for this would be “not less than a louis apiece, sir–a louis d’or –which, as you no doubt know, is about four dollars of Uncle Sam’s money.”

The coffee–“the Queen of Holland may have it on her PRIVATE table–MAY, I say–but I doubt if anyone else in the world gets a smell of it except me”– the coffee and the brandy came not a moment too soon. Presbury was becoming stupefied with indigestion; his wife was nodding and was wearing that vague, forced, pleasant smile which stands propriety-guard over a mind asleep; Mildred Gower felt that her nerves would endure no more; and the general was falling into a besotted state, spilling his wine, mumbling his words. The coffee and the brandy revived them all somewhat. Mildred, lifting her eyes, saw by way of a mirrored section of the enormous sideboard the English butler surveying master and guests with slowly moving, sneering glance of ineffable contempt.

In the drawing-room again Mildred, requested by Siddall and ordered by Presbury, sang a little French song and then–at the urging of Siddall–“Annie Laurie.” Siddall was wiping his eyes when she turned around. He said to Presbury:

“Take your wife into the conservatory to look at my orchids. I want to say a word to your stepdaughter.”

Mildred started up nervously. She saw how drunk the general was, saw the expression of his face that a woman has to be innocent indeed not to understand. She was afraid to be left alone with him. Presbury came up to her, said rapidly, in a low tone:

“It’s all right. He’s got a high sense of what’s due a respectable woman of our class. He isn’t as drunk as he looks and acts.”

Having said which, he took his wife by the arm and pushed her into the adjoining conservatory. Mildred reseated herself upon the inlaid piano-bench. The little man, his face now shiny with the sweat of drink and emotion, drew up a chair in front of her. He sat– and he was almost as tall sitting as standing. He said graciously:

“Don’t be afraid, my dear girl. I’m not that dangerous.”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. She tried to conceal her aversion; she feared she was not succeeding. But she need not have concerned herself about that. General Siddall, after the manner of very rich men, could not conceive of anyone being less impressed with his superiority in any way than he himself was. For years he had heard only flatteries of himself–his own voice singing his praises, the fawning voices of those he hired and of those hoping to get some financial advantage. He could not have imagined a mere woman not being overwhelmed by the prospect of his courting her. Nor would it have entered his head that his money would be the chief, much less the only, consideration with her. He had long since lost all point of view, and believed that the adulation paid his wealth was evoked by his charms of person, mind, and manner. Those who imagine this was evidence of folly and weak-mindedness and extraordinary vanity show how little they know human nature. The strongest head could not re- main steady, the most accurate eyes could not retain their measuring skill, in such an environment as always completely envelops wealth and power. And the much- talked-of difference between those born to wealth and power and those who rise to it from obscurity resolves itself to little more than the difference between those born mad and those who go insane.

Looking at the little man with the disagreeable eyes, so dull yet so shrewd, Mildred saw that within the drunkard who could scarcely sit straight upon the richly upholstered and carved gilt chair there was another person, coldly sober, calmly calculating. And she realized that it was this person with whom she was about to have the most serious conversation of her life thus far.

The drunkard smiled with a repulsive wiping and smacking of the thin, sensual lips. “I suppose you know why I had you brought here this evening?” said he.

Mildred looked and waited.

“I didn’t intend to say anything to-night. In fact, I didn’t expect to find in you what I’ve been looking for. I thought that old fool of a stepfather of yours was cracking up his goods beyond their merits. But he wasn’t. My dear, you suit me from the ground up. I’ve been looking you over carefully. You were made for the place I want to fill.”

Mildred had lowered her eyes. Her face had become deathly pale. “I feel faint,” she murmured. “It is very warm here.”

“You’re not sickly?” inquired the general sharply. “You look like a good solid woman–thin but wiry. Ever been sick? I must look into your health. That’s a point on which I must be satisfied.”

A wave of anger swept through her, restoring her strength. She was about to speak–a rebuke to his colossal impudence that he would not soon forget. Then she remembered, and bit her lips.

“I don’t ask you to decide to-night,” pursued he, hastening to explain this concession by adding: “I don’t intend to decide, myself. All I say is that I am willing–if the goods are up to the sample.”

Mildred saw her stepfather and her mother watching from just within the conservatory door. A movement of the portiere at the door into the hall let her know that Darcy, the butler, was peeping and listening there. She stood up, clenched her hands, struck them together, struck them against her temples, crossed the room swiftly, flung herself down upon a sofa, and burst into tears. Presbury and his wife entered. Siddall was standing, looking after Mildred with a grin. He winked at Presbury and said:

“I guess we gave her too much of that wine. It’s all old and stronger than you’d think.”

“My daughter hardly touched her glasses,” cried Mrs. Presbury.

“I know that, ma’am,” replied Siddall. “I watched her. If she’d done much drinking, I’d have been done, then and there.”

“I suspect she’s upset by what you’ve been saying, General,” said Presbury. “Wasn’t it enough to upset a girl? You don’t realize how magnificent you are– how magnificent everything is here.”

“I’m sorry if I upset her,” said the general, swelling and loftily contrite. “I don t know why it is that people never seem to be able to act natural with me.” He hated those who did, regarding them as sodden, unappreciative fools.

Mrs. Presbury was quieting her daughter. Presbury and Siddall lighted cigars and went into the smoking– and billiard-room across the hall. Said Presbury:

“I didn’t deceive you, did I, General?”

“She’s entirely satisfactory,” replied Siddall. “I’m going to make careful inquiries about her character and her health. If those things prove to be all right I’m ready to go ahead.”

“Then the thing’s settled,” said Presbury. “She’s all that a lady should be. And except a cold now and then she never has anything the matter with her. She comes of good healthy stock.”

“I can’t stand a sickly, ailing woman,” said Siddall. “I wouldn’t marry one, and if one I married turned out to be that kind, I’d make short work of her. When you get right down to facts, what is a woman? Why, a body. If she ain’t pretty and well, she ain’t nothing. While I’m looking up her pedigree, so to speak, I want you to get her mother to explain to her just what kind of a man I am.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Presbury.

“Have her told that I don’t put up with foolishness. If she wants to look at a man, let her look at me.”

“You’ll have no trouble in that way,” said Presbury.

“I DID have trouble in that way,” replied the general sourly. “Women are fools–ALL women. But the principal trouble with the second Mrs. Siddall was that she wasn’t a lady born.”

“That’s why I say you’ll have no trouble,” said Presbury.

“Well, I want her mother to talk to her plainer than a gentleman can talk to a young lady. I want her to understand that I am marrying so that I can have a WIFE–cheerful, ready, and healthy. I’ll not put up with foolishness of any kind.”

“I understand,” said Presbury. “You’ll find that she’ll meet all your conditions.”

“Explain to her that, while I’m the easiest, most liberal-spending man in the world when I’m getting what I want, I am just the opposite when I’m not getting what I pay for. If I take her and if she acts right, she’ll have more of everything that women want than any woman in the world. I’d take a pride in my wife. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t spend in showing her off to advantage. And I’m willing to be liberal with her mother, too.”

Presbury had been hoping for this. His eyes sparkled. “You’re a prince, General,” he said. “A genuine prince. You know how to do things right.”

“I flatter myself I do,” said the general. “I’ve been up and down the world, and I tell you most of the kings live cheap beside me. And when I get a wife worth showing of, I’ll do still better. I’ve got wonderful creative ability. There isn’t anything I can’t and won’t buy.”

Presbury noted uneasily how cold and straight, how obviously repelled and repelling the girl was as she yielded her fingers to Siddall at the leave-taking. He and her mother covered the silence and ice with hot and voluble sycophantry. They might have spared themselves the exertion. To Siddall Mildred was at her most fascinating when she was thus “the lady and the queen.” The final impression she made upon him was the most favorable of all.

In the cab Mrs. Presbury talked out of the fullness of an overflowing heart. “What a remarkable man the general is!” said she. “You’ve only to look at him to realize that you’re in the presence of a really superior person. And what tact he has!–and how generous he is!–and how beautifully he entertains! So much dignity–so much simplicity–so much–”

“Fiddlesticks!” interrupted Presbury. “Your daughter isn’t a damn fool, Mrs. Presbury.”

Mildred gave a short, dry laugh.

Up flared her mother. “I mean every word I said!” cried she. “If I hadn’t admired and appreciated him, I’d certainly not have acted as I did. _I_ couldn’t stoop to such hypocrisy.”

“Fiddlesticks!” sneered Presbury. “Bill Siddall is a horror. His house is a horror. His dinner was a horror. These loathsome rich people! They’re ruining the world–as they always have. They’re making it impossible for anyone to get good service or good food or good furniture or good clothing or good anything. They don’t know good things, and they pay exorbitant prices for showy trash, for crude vulgar luxury. They corrupt taste. They make everyone round them or near them sycophants and cheats. They substitute money for intelligence and discrimination. They degrade every fine thing in life. Civilization is built up by brains and hard work, and along come the rich and rot and ruin it!”

Mildred and her mother were listening in astonishment. Said the mother:

“I’d be ashamed to confess myself such a hypocrite.”

“And I, madam, would be ashamed to be such a hypocrite without taking a bath of confession afterward,” retorted Presbury.

“At least you might have waited until Mildred wasn’t in hearing,” snapped she.

“I shall marry him if I can,” said Mildred.

“And blissfully happy you’ll be,” said Presbury. “Women, ladies–true ladies, like you and your mother–have no sensibilities. All you ask is luxury. If Bill Siddall were a thousand times worse than he is, his money would buy him almost any refined, delicate lady anywhere in Christendom.”

Mrs. Presbury laughed angrily. “YOU, talking like this–you of all men. Is there anything YOU wouldn’t stoop to for money?”

“Do you think I laid myself open to that charge by marrying you?” said Presbury, made cheerful despite his savage indigestion by the opportunity for effective insult she had given him and he had promptly seized. “I am far too gallant to agree with you. But I’m also too gallant to contradict a lady. By the way, you must be careful in dealing with Siddall. Rich people like to be fawned on, but not to be slobbered on. You went entirely too far.”

Mrs. Presbury, whom indigestion had rendered stupid, could think of no reply. So she burst into tears. “And my own daughter sitting silent while that man insults her mother!” she sobbed.

Mildred sat stiff and cold.

“It’ll be a week before I recover from that dinner,” Presbury went on sourly. “What a dinner! What a villainous mess! These vulgar, showy rich! That champagne! He said it cost him six dollars a bottle, and no doubt it did. I doubt if it ever saw France. The dealers rarely waste genuine wine on such cattle. The wine-cellars of fine houses the world through are the laughing-stock of connoisseurs–like their picture- galleries and their other attempts to make money do the work of taste. I forgot to put my pills in my bag. I’ll have to hunt up an all-night drug-store. I’d not dare go to bed without taking an antidote for that poison.”

But Presbury had not been altogether improvident. He had hoped great things of Bill Siddall’s wine-cellar –this despite an almost unbroken series of bitter disillusionments and disappointments in experience with those who had the wealth to buy, if they had had the taste to select, the fine wines he loved. So, resolving to indulge himself, he had put into his bag his pair of gout-boots.

This was a device of his own inventing, on which he prided himself. It consisted of a pair of roomy doe- skin slippers reenforced with heavy soles and provided with a set of three thin insoles to be used according as the state of his toes made advisable. The cost of the Presbury gout-boot had been, thanks to patient search for a cheap cobbler, something under four dollars– this, when men paid shoe specialists twenty, thirty, and even forty dollars a pair for gout-boots that gave less comfort. The morning after the dinner at which he had drunk to drown his chagrin and to give him courage and tongue for sycophantry, he put on the boots. Without them it would have been necessary to carry him from his room to a cab and from cab to train. With them he was able to hobble to a street-car. He tried to distract his mind from his sufferings by lashing away without ceasing at his wife and his step-daughter.

When they were once more at home, and the mother and daughter escaped from him, the mother said:

“I was glad to see that you put up with that wretch, and didn’t answer him back.”

“Of course,” said Mildred. “He’s mad to be rid of me, but if I offended him he might snatch away this chance.”

“He would,” said Mrs. Presbury. “I’m sure he would. But–” she laughed viciously–“once you’re married you can revenge yourself–and me!”

“I wonder,” said Mildred thoughtfully.

“Why not?” exclaimed her mother, irritated.

“I can’t make Mr. Presbury out,” replied the girl. “I understand why he’s helping me to this chance, but I don’t understand why he isn’t making friends with me, in the hope of getting something after I’m married.”

Her mother saw the point, and was instantly agitated. “Perhaps he’s simply leading you on, intending to up- set it all at the last minute.” She gritted her teeth. “Oh, what a wretch!”

Mildred was not heeding. “I must have General Siddall looked up carefully,” she went on. “It may be that he isn’t rich, or that he has another wife somewhere, or that there’s some other awful reason why marrying him would be even worse than it seems.”

“Worse than it seems!” cried her mother. “How CAN you talk so, Milly! The general seems to be an ideal husband–simply ideal! I wish _I_ had your chance. Any sensible woman could love him.”

A strange look came into the girl’s face, and her mother could not withstand her eyes. “Don’t, mother,” she said quietly. “Either you take me for a fool or you are trying to show me that you have no self- respect. I am not deceiving myself about what I’m doing.”

Mrs. Presbury opened her lips to remonstrate, changed her mind, drew a deep sigh. “It’s frightful to be a woman,” she said.

“To be a lady, Mr. Presbury would say,” suggested Mildred.

After some discussion, they fixed upon Joseph Tilker as the best available investigator of General Siddall. Tilker had been head clerk for Henry Gower. He was now in for himself and had offered to look after any legal business Mrs. Presbury might have without charging her. He presently reported that there was not a doubt as to the wealth of the little general. “There are all sorts of ugly stories about how he made his money,” said Tilker; “but all the great fortunes have a scandalous history, and I doubt if Siddall’s is any worse than the others. I don’t see how it well could be. Siddall has the reputation of being a mean and cruel little tyrant. He is said to be pompous, vain, ignorant–”

“Indeed he’s not,” cried Mrs. Presbury. “He’s a rough diamond, but a natural gentleman. I’ve met him.”

“Well, he’s rich enough, and that was all you asked me to find out,” said Tilker. “But I must warn you, Mrs. Presbury, not to have any business or intimate personal relations with him.”

Mrs. Presbury congratulated herself on her wisdom in having come alone to hear Tilker’s report. She did not repeat any part of it to Mildred except what he had said about the wealth. That she enlarged upon until Mildred’s patience gave out. She interrupted with a shrewd:

“Anything else, mamma? Anything about him personally?”

“We’ve got to judge him in that way for ourselves,” replied Mrs. Presbury. “You know how wickedly they lie about anyone who has anything.”

“I should like to read a full account of General Siddall,” said Mildred reflectively; “just to satisfy my curiosity.”

Mrs. Presbury made no reply.

Presbury had decided that it was best to make no advance, but to wait until they heard from Siddall. He let a week, ten days, go by; then his impatience got the better of his shrewdness. He sought admittance to the great man at the offices of the International Metals and Minerals Company in Cedar Street. After being subjected to varied indignities by sundry under- strappers, he received a message from the general through a secretary: “The general says he’ll let you know when he’s ready to take up that matter. He says he hasn’t got round to it yet.” Presbury apologized courteously for his intrusion and went away, cursing under his breath. You may be sure that he made his wife and his stepdaughter suffer for what he had been through. Two weeks more passed–three–a month. One morning in the mail there arrived this note–type- written upon business paper:

JAMES PRESBURY, Esqr.:
DEAR SIR:

General Siddall asks me to present his compliments and to say that he will be pleased if you and your wife and the young lady will dine with him at his house next Thursday the seventeenth at half-past seven sharp.

ROBERT CHANDLESS, Secretary.

The only words in longhand were the two forming the name of the secretary. Presbury laughed and tossed the note across the breakfast table to his wife. “You see what an ignorant creature he is,” said he. “He imagines he has done the thing up in grand style. He’s the sort of man that can’t be taught manners because he thinks manners, the ordinary civilities, are for the lower orders of people. Oh, he’s a joke, is Bill Siddall–a horrible joke.”

Mrs. Presbury read and passed the letter to Mildred. She simply glanced at it and returned it to her step-father.

“I’m just about over that last dinner,” pursued Presbury. “I’ll eat little Thursday and drink less. And I’d advise you to do the same, Mrs. Presbury.”

He always addressed her as “Mrs. Presbury” because he had discovered that when so addressed she always winced, and, if he put a certain tone into his voice, she quivered.

“That dinner aged you five years,” he went on. “Besides, you drank so much that it went to your head and made you slather him with flatteries that irritated him. He thought you were a fool, and no one is stupid enough to like to be flattered by a fool.”

Mrs. Presbury bridled, swallowed hard, said mildly: “We’ll have to spend the night in town again, I suppose.”

“You and your daughter may do as you like,” said Presbury. “I shall return here that night. I always catch cold in strange beds.”

“We might as well all return here,” said Mildred. “I shall not wear evening dress; that is, I’ll wear a high-neck dress and a hat.”

She had just got a new hat that was peculiarly becoming to her. She had shown Siddall herself at the best in evening attire; another sort of costume would give him a different view of her looks, one which she flattered herself was not less attractive. But Presbury interposed an emphatic veto.

“You’ll wear full evening dress,” said he. “Bare neck and arms for men like Bill Siddall. They want to see what they’re getting.”

Mildred flushed scarlet and her lips trembled as though she were about to cry. In fact, her emotion was altogether shame–a shame so poignant that even Presbury was abashed, and mumbled something apologetic. Nevertheless she wore a low-neck dress on Thursday evening, one as daring as the extremely daring fashions of that year permitted an unmarried woman to wear. It seemed to her that Siddall was still more costly and elegant-looking than before, though this may have been due to the fact that he always created an impression that in the retrospect of memory seemed exaggerated. It seemed impossible that anyone could be so clean, so polished and scoured, so groomed and tailored, so bedecked, so high-heeled and loftily coiffed. His mean little countenance with its grotesquely waxed mustache and imperial wore an expression of gracious benignity that assured his guests they need anticipate no disagreeable news.

“I owe you an apology for keeping you in suspense so long,” said he. “I’m a very busy man, with interests in all parts of the world. I keep house– some of ’em bigger than this–open and going in sis different places. I always like to be at home wherever my business takes me.”

Mrs. Presbury rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that WONDERFUL!” she exclaimed. “What an interesting life you must lead!”

“Oh, so–so,” replied the general. “But I get awful lonesome. I’m naturally a domestic man. I don’t care for friends. They’re expensive and dangerous. A man in my position is like a king. He can’t have friends. So, if he hasn’t got a family, he hasn’t got noth–anything.”

“Nothing like home life,” said Presbury.

“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Presbury.

The little general smiled upon Mildred, sitting pale and silent, with eyes downcast. “Well, I don’t intend to be alone much longer, if I can help it,” said he. “And I may say that I can make a woman happy if she’s the right sort–if she has sense enough to appreciate a good husband.” This last he said sternly, with more than a hint of his past matrimonial misfortunes in his frown and in his voice. “The trouble with a great many women is that they’re fools–flighty, ungrateful fools. If I married a woman like that, I’d make short work of her.”

“And she’d deserve it, General,” said Mildred’s mother earnestly. “But you’ll have no trouble if you select a lady–a girl who’s been well brought up and has respect for herself.”

“That’s my opinion, ma’am,” said the general. “I’m convinced that while a man can become a gentleman, a woman’s got to be born a lady or she never is one.”

“Very true, General,” cried Mrs. Presbury. “I never thought of it before, but it’s the truest thing I ever heard.”

Presbury grinned at his plate. He stole a glance at Mildred. Their eyes met. She flushed faintly.

“I’ve had a great deal of experience of women,” pur- sued the general. “In my boyhood days I was a ladies’ man. And of course since I’ve had money they’ve swarmed round me like bees in a clover-patch.”

“Oh, General, you’re far too modest,” cried Mrs. Presbury. “A man like you wouldn’t need to be afraid, if he hadn’t a cent.”

“But not the kind of women I want,” replied he, firmly if complacently. “A lady needs money to keep up her position. She has to have it. On the other hand, a man of wealth and station needs a lady to assist him in the proper kind of life for men of his sort. So they need each other. They’ve got to have each other. That’s the practical, sensible way to look at it.”

“Exactly,” said Presbury.

“And I’ve made up my mind to marry, and marry right away. But we’ll come back to this later on. Presbury, you’re neglecting that wine.”

“I’m drinking it slowly to enjoy it better,” said Presbury.

The dinner was the same unending and expensive function that had wearied them and upset their digestions on Thanksgiving Day. There was too much of everything, and it was all just wrong. The general was not quite so voluble as he had been before; his gaze was fixed most of the time on Mildred–roving from her lovely face to her smooth, slender shoulders and back again. As he drank and ate his gesture of slightly smacking his thin lips seemed to include an enjoyment of the girl’s charms. And a sensitive observer might have suspected that she was not unconscious of this and was suffering some such pain as if abhorrent and cruel lips and teeth were actually mouthing and mumbling her. She said not a word from sitting down at table until they rose to go into the library for coffee.

“Do tell me about your early life, General,” Mrs. Presbury said. “Only the other day Millie was saying she wished she could read a biography of your romantic career.”

“Yes, it has been rather–unusual,” conceded the general with swelling chest and gently waving dollar- and-a-half-apiece cigar.

“I do so ADMIRE a man who carves out his own fortune,” Mrs. Presbury went on–she had not obeyed her husband’s injunction as to the champagne. “It seems so wonderful to me that a man could with his own hands just dig a fortune out of the ground.”

“He couldn’t, ma’am,” said the general, with gracious tolerance. “It wasn’t till I stopped the fool digging and hunting around for gold that I began to get ahead. I threw away the pick and shovel and opened a hotel.” (There were two or three sleeping-rooms of a kind in that “hotel,” but it was rather a saloon of the species known as “doggery.”) “Yes, it was in the hotel that I got my start. The fellows that make the money in mining countries ain’t the prospectors and diggers, ma’am.”

“Really!” cried Mrs. Presbury breathlessly. “How interesting!”

“They’re fools, they are,” proceeded the general. “No, the money’s made by the fellows that grub-stake the fools–give ’em supplies and send ’em out to nose around in the mountains. Then them that find any- thing have to give half to the fellow that did the grub- staking. And he looks into the claim, and if there’s anything in it, why, he buys the fool out. In mines, like everywhere else, ma’am, it ain’t work, it’s brains that makes the money. No miner ever made a mining fortune–not one. It’s the brainy, foxy fellows that stay back in the camps. I used to send out fifty and a hundred men a year. Maybe only two or three’d turn up anything worth while. No, ma’am, I never got a dollar ahead on my digging. All the gold I ever dug went right off for grub–or a good time.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Presbury. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“But we’re not here to talk about mines,” said the general, his eyes upon Mildred. “I’ve been looking into matters–to get down to business–and I’ve asked you here to let you know that I’m willing to go ahead.”

Profound silence. Mildred suddenly drew in her breath with a sound so sharp that the three others started and glanced hastily at her. But she made no further sign. She sat still and cold and pale.

The general, perfectly at ease, broke the silence. “I think Miss Gower and I would get on faster alone.”

Presbury at once stood up; his wife hesitated, her eyes uneasily upon her daughter. Presbury said: “Come on, Alice.” She rose and preceded him into the adjoining conservatory. The little general posed himself before the huge open fire, one hand behind him, the other at the level of his waistcoat, the big cigar be- tween his first and second fingers. “Well, my dear?” said he.

Mildred somewhat hesitatingly lifted her eyes; but, once she had them up, their gaze held steadily enough upon his–too steadily for his comfort. He addressed himself to his cigar:

“I’m not quite ready to say I’m willing to go the limit,” said he. “We don’t exactly know each other sufficiently well as yet, do we?”

“No,” said Mildred.

“I’ve been making inquiries,” he went on; “that is, I had my chief secretary make them–and he’s a very thorough man, thanks to my training. He reports everything entirely all right. I admire dignity and reserve in a woman, and you have been very particular. Were you engaged to Stanley Baird?”

Mildred flushed, veiled her eyes to hide their resentful flash at this impertinence. She debated with herself, decided that any rebuke short of one that would anger him would be wasted upon him. “No,” said she.

“That agrees with Harding’s report,” said the general. “It was a mere girlish flirtation–very dignified and proper,” he hastened to add. “I don’t mean to suggest that you were at all flighty.”

“Thank you,” said Mildred sweetly.

“Are there any questions you would like to ask about me?” inquired he.

“No,” said Mildred.

“As I understand it–from my talk with Presbury –you are willing to go on?”

“Yes,” said Mildred.

The general smiled genially. “I think I may say without conceit that you will like me as you know me better. I have no bad habits–I’ve too much regard for my health to over-indulge or run loose. In my boyhood days I may have put in rather a heavy sowing of wild oats”–the general laughed; Mildred conjured up the wintriest and faintest of echoing smiles–“but that’s all past,” he went on, “and there’s nothing that could rise up to interfere with our happiness. You are fond of children?”

A pause, then Mildred said quite evenly, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” said the general. “I’ll expect you and your mother and father to dinner Sunday night. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes,” said Mildred.

A longish pause. Then the general: “You seem to be a little–afraid of me. I don’t know why it is that people are always that way with me.” A halt, to give her the opportunity to say the obvious flattering thing. Mildred said nothing, gave no sign. He went on: “It will wear away as we know each other better. I am a simple, plain man–kind and generous in my instincts. Of course I am dignified, and I do not like familiarity. But I do not mean to inspire fear and awe.”

A still longer pause. “Well, everything is settled,” said the general. “We understand each other clearly? –not an engagement, nothing binding on either side –simply a–a–an option without forfeit.” And he laughed–his laugh was a ghoulish sound, not loud but explosive and an instant check upon demonstration of mirth from anyone else.

“I understand,” said Mildred with a glance toward the door through which Presbury and his wife had disappeared.

“Now, we’ll join the others, and I’ll show you the house”–again the laugh–“what may be your future home–one of them.”

The four were soon started upon what was for three of them a weariful journey despite the elevator that spared them the ascents of the stairways. The house was an exaggerated reproduction of all the establishments of the rich who confuse expenditure with luxury and comfort. Bill Siddall had bought “the best of everything”; that is, the things into which the purveyors of costly furnishings have put the most excuses for charging. Of taste, of comfort, of discrimination, there were few traces and these obviously accidental. “I picked out the men acknowledged to be the best in their different lines,” said the general, “and I gave them carte blanche.”

“I see that at a glance,” said Presbury. “You’ve done the grand thing on the grandest possible scale.”

“I’ve looked into the finest of the famous places on the other side,” said the general. “All I can say is, I’ve had no regrets.”

“I should say not,” cried Mrs. Presbury.

With an affectation of modest hesitation–to show that he was a gentleman with a gentleman’s fine appreciation of the due of maiden modesty–Siddall paused at the outer door of his own apartments. But at one sentence of urging from Mrs. Presbury he opened the door and ushered them in. And soon he was showing them everything–his Carrara marble bathroom and bathing-pool, his bed that had been used by several French kings, his dressing-room with its appliances of gold and platinum and precious stones, his clothing. They had to inspect a room full of suits, huge chiffoniers crowded with shirts and ties and underclothes. He exhibited silk dressing-robes and pajamas, pointed out the marks of the fashionable London and Paris makers, the monograms, the linings of ermine and sable. “I’m very particular about everything that touches me,” explained he. “It seems to me a gentleman can’t be too particular.” With a meaning glance at Mildred, “And I’d feel the same way about my wife.”

“You hear that, Mildred?” said Presbury, with a nasty little laugh. He had been relieving the tedium of this sight-seeing tour by observing–and from time to time aggravating–Mildred’s sufferings.

The general released his mirth-strangling goat laugh; Mrs. Presbury echoed it with a gale of rather wild hysterics. So well pleased was the general with the excursion and so far did he feel advanced toward intimacy that on the way down the majestic marble stairway he ventured to give Mildred’s arm a gentle, playful squeeze. And at the parting he kissed her hand. Presbury had changed his mind about returning to the country. On the way to the hotel he girded at Mildred, reviewing all that the little general had said and done, and sneering, jeering at it. Mildred made not a single retort until they were upstairs in the hotel. At the door to her room she said to Presbury–said it in a quiet, cold, terrible way:

“If you really want me to go through with this thing, you will stop insulting him and me. If you do it again, I’ll give up–and go on the streets before I’ll marry him.”

Presbury shrugged his shoulders and went on to the other room. But he did not begin again the next day, and from that time forth avoided reference to the general. In fact, there was an astonishing change in his whole demeanor. He ceased to bait his wife, became polite, even affable. If he had conducted himself thus from the outset, he would have got far less credit, would have made far less progress toward winning the liking of his wife, and of her daughter, than he did in a brief two weeks of change from petty and malignant tyrant to good-natured, interestingly talkative old gentleman. After the manner of human nature, Mildred and her mother, in their relief, in their pleasure through this amazing sudden and wholly unexpected geniality, not merely forgave but forgot all they had suffered at his hands. Mildred was not without a suspicion of the truth that this change, inaugurated in his own good time, was fresh evidence of his contempt for both of them–of his feeling that he could easily make reparation with a little kindness and decency and put himself in the way of getting any possible benefits from the rich alliance. But though she practically knew what was going on in his mind, she could not prevent herself from softening toward him.

Now followed a succession of dinners, of theater- and opera-goings, of week-ends at the general’s new country palace in the fashionable region of Long Island. All these festivities were of the same formal and tedious character. At all the general was the central sun with the others dim and draggled satellites, hardly more important than the outer rim of satellite servants. He did most of the talking; he was the sole topic of conversation; for when he was not talking about himself he wished to be hearing about himself. If Mildred had not been seeing more and more plainly that other and real personality of his, her contempt for him and for herself would have grown beyond control. But, with him or away from him, at every instant there was the sense of that other real William Siddall–a shadowy menace full of terror. She dreamed of it–was startled from sleep by visions of a monstrous and mighty distortion of the little general’s grotesque exterior. “I shall marry him if I can,” she said to her self. “But–can I?” And she feared and hoped that she could not, that courage would fail her, or would come to her rescue, whichever it was, and that she would refuse him. Aside from the sense of her body that cannot but be with any woman who is beautiful, she had never theretofore been especially physical in thought. That side of life had remained vague, as she had never indulged in or even been strongly tempted with the things that rouse it from its virginal sleep. But now she thought only of her body, because that it was, and that alone, that had drawn this prospective purchaser, and his eyes never let her forget it. She fell into the habit of looking at herself in the glass– at her face, at her shoulders, at her whole person, not in vanity but in a kind of wonder or aversion. And in the visions, both the waking and the sleeping, she reached the climax of horror when the monster touched her–with clammy, creepy fingers, with munching lips, with the sharp ends of the mustache or imperial.

Said Mrs. Presbury to her husband, “I’m afraid the general will be irritated by Mildred’s unresponsiveness.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Presbury. “He’s so crazy about himself that he imagines the whole world is in the same state.”

“Isn’t it strange that he doesn’t give her presents? Never anything but candy and flowers.”

“And he never will,” said Presbury.

“Not until they’re married, I suppose.”

Presbury was silent.

“I can’t help thinking that if Milly were to rouse herself and show some–some liking–or at least interest, it’d be wiser.”

“She’s taking the best possible course,” said Presbury. “Unconsciously to both of them, she’s leading him on. He thinks that’s the way a lady should act– restrained, refined.”

Mildred’s attitude was simple inertia. The most positive effort she made was avoiding saying or doing anything to displease him–no difficult matter, as she was silent and almost lifeless when he was near. Without any encouragement from her he gradually got a deep respect for her–which meant that he became convinced of her coldness and exclusiveness, of her absolute trustworthiness. Presbury was more profoundly right than he knew. The girl pursued the only course that made possible the success she longed for, yet dreaded and loathed. For at the outset Siddall had not been nearly so strongly in earnest in his matrimonial project as he had professed and had believed himself. He wished to marry, wished to add to his possessions the admirable show-piece and exhibition opportunity afforded by the right sort of wife; but in the bottom of his heart he felt that such a woman as he dreamed of did not exist in all the foolish, fickle, and shallow female sex. This girl–so cold, so proud, beautiful yet not eager to display her charms or to have them praised–she was the rare bird he sought.

In a month he asked her to marry him; that is, he said: “My dear, I find that I am ready to go the limit–if you are.” And she assented. He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek–and was delighted to discover that the alluring embrace made no impression upon the ice of her “purity and ladylike dignity.” Up to the very last moment of the formal courtship he held himself ready to withdraw should she reveal to his watchfulness the slightest sign of having any “unladylike” tendencies or feelings. She revealed no such sign, but remained “ladylike”; and certainly, so the general reasoned, a woman who could thus resist him, even in the license of the formal engagement, would resist anybody.

As soon as the engagement was formally concluded, the general hurried on the preparations for the wedding. He opened accounts at half a dozen shops in New York–dressmakers, milliners, dealers in fine and fashionable clothing of every kind–and gave them orders to execute whatever commands Miss Gower or her mother–for HER–might give them. When he told her of this munificence and magnificence and paused for the outburst of gratitude, he listened in vain. Mildred colored to the roots of her hair and was silent, was seeking the courage to refuse.

“I know that you and your people can’t afford to do the thing as things related to me must be done,” he went on to say. “So I decided to just start in a little early at what I’ve got to do anyhow. Not that I blame you for your not having money, my dear. On the contrary, that’s one of your merits with me. I wouldn’t marry a woman with money. It puts the family life on a wrong basis.”

“I had planned a quiet wedding,” said Mildred. “I’d much prefer it.”

“Now you can be frank with me, my dear,” said the general. “I know you ladies–how cheated you feel if you aren’t married with all the frills and fixings. So that’s the way it shall be done.”

“Really,” protested Mildred, “I’m absolutely frank. I wish it to be quite quiet–in our drawing-room, with no guests.”

Siddall smiled, genial and tolerant. “Don’t argue with me, my dear. I know what you want, and I’ll see that you get it. Go ahead with these shop-people I’ve put at your disposal–and go as far as you like.

There isn’t anything–ANYTHING–in the way of clothes that you can’t have–that you mustn’t have. Mrs. General Siddall is going to be the best-dressed woman in the world–as she is the prettiest. I haven’t opened an account for you with Tiffany’s or any of those people. I’ll look out for that part of the business, myself.”

“I don’t care for jewelry,” said Mildred.

“Naturally not for the kind that’s been within your means heretofore,” replied he; “but you’ll open your eyes when you see MY jewelry for MY wife. All in good time, my dear. You and your mother must start right in with the shopping; and, a week or so before the wedding, I’ll send my people down to transform the house. I may be wrong, but I rather think that the Siddall wedding will cause some talk.”

He was not wrong. Through his confidential secretary, Harding the thorough, the newspaper press was induced to take an interest in the incredible extravagance Siddall was perpetrating in arranging for a fitting wedding for General William Siddall. For many days before the ceremony there were daily columns about him and his romantic career and his romantic wooing of the New Jersey girl of excellent family and social position but of comparatively modest means. The shopkeepers gave interviews on the trousseau. The decorators and caterers detailed the splendors and the costliness of the preparations of which they had charge. From morning until dark a crowd hung round the house at Hanging Rock, and on the wedding day the streets leading to it were blocked–chiefly with people come from a distance, many of them from New York.

At the outset all this noise was deeply distasteful to Mildred, but after a few days she recovered her normal point of view, forgot the kind of man she was marry- ing in the excitement and exultation over her sudden splendor and fame. So strongly did the delusion presently become, that she was looking at the little general with anything but unfavorable eyes. He seemed to her a quaint, fascinating, benevolent necromancer, having miraculous powers which he was exercising in her behalf. She even reproached herself with ingratitude in not being wildly in love with him. Would not any other girl, in her place, have fallen over ears in love with this marvelous man?

However, while she could not quite convince herself that she loved, she became convinced without effort that she was happy, that she was going to be still happier. The excitement wrought her into a state of exaltation and swept her through the wedding ceremony and the going away as radiant a bride as a man would care to have.

There is much to be said against the noisy, showy wedding. Certainly love has rarely been known to degrade himself to the point of attending any such. But there is something to be said for that sort of married start–for instance, where love is neither invited nor desired, an effort must be made to cover the painful vacancy his absence always causes.

The little general’s insistence on a “real wedding” was most happy for him. It probably got him his bride.

III

THE intoxication of that wedding held on long enough and strongly enough to soften and blunt the disillusionments of the first few days of the honeymoon. In the prospect that period had seemed, even to Mildred’s rather unsophisticated imagination, appalling beyond her power to endure. In the fact–thanks in large part to that intoxication–it was certainly not unendurable. A human being, even an innocent young girl, can usually bear up under any experience to which a human being can be subjected. The general in pajamas– of the finest silk and of pigeon’s-egg blue with a vast gorgeous monogram on the pocket–was more grotesque, rather than more repellent, than the general in morning or evening attire. Also he–that is, his expert staff of providers of luxury–had arranged for the bride a series of the most ravishing sensations in whisking her, like the heroine of an Arabian Night’s tale, from straitened circumstances to the very paradise of luxury.

The general’s ideas on the subject of woman were old fashioned, of the hard-shell variety. Woman was made for luxury, and luxury was made for woman. His woman must be the most divinely easeful of the luxurious. At all times she must be fit and ready for any and every sybaritic idea that might enter her husband’s head–and other purpose she had none. When she was not directly engaged in ministering to his joy she must be busy preparing herself for his next call upon her. A woman was a luxury, was the luxury of luxuries, must have and must use to their uttermost all capacities for gratifying his senses and his vanity. Alone with him, she must make him constantly feel how rich and rare and expensive a prize he had captured. When others were about, she must be constantly making them envy and admire him for having exclusive rights in such wonderful preserves. All this with an inflexible devotion to the loftiest ideals of chastity.

But the first realizations of her husband’s notions as to women were altogether pleasant. As she entered the automobile in which they went to the private car in the special train that took them to New York and the steamer–as she entered that new and prodigally luxurious automobile, she had a first, keen sense of her changed position. Then there was the superb private car–her car, since she was his wife–and there was the beautiful suite in the magnificent steamer. And at every instant menials thrusting attentions upon her, addressing her as if she were a queen, revealing in their nervous tones and anxious eyes their eagerness to please, their fear of displeasing. And on the steamer, from New York to Cherbourg, she was never permitted to lose sight of the material splendors that were now hers. All the servants, all the passengers, reminded her by their looks, their tones. At Paris, in the hotel, in the restaurants, in the shops–especially in the shops– those snobbish instincts that are latent in the sanest and the wisest of us were fed and fattened and pampered until her head was quite turned. And the general began to buy jewels for her. Such jewels– ropes of diamonds and pearls and emeralds, rings such as she had never dreamed existed! Those shopping excursions of theirs in the Rue de la Paix would make such a tale as your ordinary simple citizen, ignorant of the world’s resources in luxury and therefore incredulous about them, would read with a laugh at the extravagance of the teller.

Before the intoxication of the wedding had worn away it was re-enforced by the intoxication of the honey- moon–not an intoxication of love’s providing, but one exceeding potent in its influence upon our weak human brains and hearts, one from which the strongest of us, instead of sneering at poor Mildred, would better be praying to be delivered.

At her marriage she had a few hundred dollars left of her patrimony–three hundred and fifty and odd, to be more exact. She spent a little money of her own here and there–in tips, in buying presents for her mother, in picking up trifles for her own toilet. The day came when she looked in her purse and found two one-franc pieces, a fifty-franc note, and a few coppers. And suddenly she sat back and stared, her mouth open like her almost empty gold bag, which the general had bought her on their first day in the Rue de la Paix. About ten dollars in all the world, and the general had forgotten to speak–or to make any arrangement, at least any arrangement of which she was aware–about a further supply of money.

They had been married nearly a month. He knew that she was poor. Why hadn’t he said something or, better still, DONE something? Doubtless he had simply forgotten. But since he had forgotten for a month, might he not continue to forget? True, he had himself been poor at one time in his life, very poor, and that for a long time. But it had been so many years ago that he had probably lost all sense of the meaning of poverty. She frowned at this evidence of his lack of the finer sensibilities–by no means the first time that lack had been disagreeably thrust upon her. Soon she would be without money–and she must have money –not much, as all the serious expenses were looked after by the general, but still a little money. How could she get it? How could she remind him of his neglect without seeming to be indelicate? It was a difficult problem. She worked at it more and more continuously, and irritably, and nervously, as the days went by and her fifty-two francs dwindled to five.

She lay awake, planning long and elaborate conversations that would imperceptibly lead him up to where he must see what she needed without seeing that he had been led. She carried out these ingenious conversations. She led him along, he docilely and unsuspectingly following. She brought him up to where it seemed to her impossible for any human being endowed with the ordinary faculties to fail to see what was so plainly in view. All in vain. General William Siddall gazed placidly–and saw nothing.

Several days of these failures, and with her funds reduced to a fifty-centime piece and a two-sous copper she made a frontal attack. When they went forth for the day’s shopping she left her gold bag behind. After an hour or so she said:

“I’ve got to go to the Galleries Lafayette for some little things. I shan’t ask you to sacrifice yourself. I know you hate those stuffy, smelly big shops.”

“Very well,” said he. “I’ll use the time in a call on my bankers.”

As they were about to separate, she taking the motor and he walking, she made a face of charming dismay and said: “How provoking! I’ve left my bag at the hotel.”

Instead of the expected prompt offer of money he said, “It’ll only take you a minute or so to drive there.”

“But it’s out of the way,” she replied. “I’ll need only a hundred francs or so.”

Said he: “I’ve an account at the Bon Marche. Go there and have the things charged. It’s much the best big shop in Paris.”

“Very well,” was all she could trust herself to say. She concealed her anger beneath a careless smile and drove away. How dense he was! Could anything be more exasperating–or more disagreeable? What SHOULD she do? The situation was intolerable; yet how could it be ended, except by a humiliating direct request for money? She wondered how young wives habitually dealt with this problem, when they happened to marry husbands so negligent, not to say underbred, as to cause them the awkwardness and the shame. There followed several days during which the money idea was an obsession, nagging and grinning at her every in- stant. The sight of money gave her a peculiar itching sensation. When the little general paid for anything –always drawing out a great sheaf of bank notes in doing it–she flushed hot and cold, her glance fell guiltily and sought the money furtively. At last her desperation gave birth to an inspiration.

About her and the general, or, rather, about the general, revolved the usual rich man’s small army of satellites of various degrees–secretaries, butlers, footmen, valets, other servants male and female, some of them supposed to be devoted entirely to her service, but all in fact looking ever to the little general. The members of this company, regardless of differences of rank and pay, were banded together in a sort of democratic fellowship, talking freely with one another, on terms of perfect equality. She herself had, curiously, gotten on excellent terms with this motley fraternity and found no small relief from the strain of the general’s formal dignity in talking with them with a freedom and ease she had never before felt in the society of underlings. The most conspicuous and most agreeable figure in this company was Harding, the general’s factotum. Why not lay the case before Harding? He was notably sensible, and sympathetic–and discreet.

The following day she did so. Said she, blushing furiously: “Mr. Harding, I find myself in a very embarrassing position. I wonder if you can help me?”

Harding, a young man and of one of the best blond types, said: “No doubt I can–and I’ll be glad to.”

“The fact is”– Her voice was trembling with nervousness. She opened the gold bag, took out the little silver pieces and the big copper piece, extended her pink palm with them upon it–“there’s all I’ve got left of the money I brought with me.”

Harding gazed at the exhibit tranquilly. He was chiefly remarkable for his perfect self-possession. Said he: “Do you wish me to cash a check for you?”

The stupidity of men! Tears of vexation gathered in her eyes. When she could speak she faltered:

“No.”

He was looking at her now–a grave, kind glance.

She somehow felt encouraged and heartened. She went on: “I was hoping–that–that the gen– that my husband had said something to you and that you perhaps had not thought to say anything to me.”

Their glances met, his movingly sympathetic and understanding, hers piteously forlorn–the look of a lovely girl, stranded and friendless in a far strange land. Presently he said gently:

“Yes, he told me to say something to you–if you should speak to me about this matter.” His tone caused in her heart a horrible stillness of suspense. He went on: “He said–I give you his exact words: `If my wife should ask you for money, tell her my ideas on the subject.’ ”

A pause. She started up, crimson, her glance darting nervously this way and that to avoid his. “Never mind. Really, it’s of no importance. Thank you– I’ll get on very well–I’m sorry to have troubled you–”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Siddall,” he interposed, “but I think you’d best let me finish.”

She started to protest, she tried to move toward the door. Her strength failed her, she sat down, waited, nervously clasping and unclasping the costly, jewel- embroidered bag.

“He has explained to me, many times,” continued Harding, “that he believes women do not understand the value of money and ought not to be trusted with it. He proposes to provide everything for you, every comfort and luxury–I am using his own language, Mrs. Siddall–and he has open accounts at the principal shops in every city where you will go–New York, Washington, Chicago, Denver, Paris, London, Rome. He says you are at liberty to get practically anything you please at these shops, and he will pay the bills. He thus entirely spares you the necessity of ever spending any money. Should you see anything you wish at some shop where he has no account, you can have it sent collect, and I or my assistant, Mr. Drawl, will settle for it. All he asks is that you use discretion in this freedom. He says it would be extremely painful to him to have to withdraw it.”

Harding had pronounced this long speech in a dry monotonous voice, like one reading mechanically from a dull book. As Mildred listened, her thoughts began to whirl about the central idea until she fell into a kind of stupor. When he finished she was staring vacantly at the bag in her lap–the bag she was holding open wide.

Harding continued: “He also instructed me to say something about his former–his experiences. The first Mrs. Siddall he married when he was very young and poor. As he grew rich, she became madly extravagant. And as they had started on a basis on which she had free access to his money he could not check her. The result, finally, was a succession of bitter quarrels, and they were about to divorce when she died. He made the second Mrs. Siddall an allowance, a liberal allowance. Her follies compelled him to withdraw it. She resorted to underhanded means to get money from him without his knowing it. He detected the fraud. After a series of disagreeable incidents she committed the indiscretion which caused him to divorce her. He says that these experiences have convinced him that–”

“The second Mrs. Siddall,” interrupted Mildred, “is she still alive?”

Harding hesitated. “Yes,” he said reluctantly.

“Is she–poor?” asked Mildred.

“I should prefer not to–”

“Did the general forbid you to tell me?”

“On the contrary, he instructed me– But I’d rather not talk about it, Mrs. Siddall.”

“Is she poor?” repeated Mildred.

“Yes.”

“What became of her?”

A long pause. Then Harding said: “She was a poor girl when the general married her. After the divorce she lived for a while with the man. But he had nothing. They separated. She tried various kinds of work–and other things. Since she lost her looks– She writes from time to time, asking for money.”

“Which she never gets?” said Mildred.

“Which she never gets,” said Harding. “Lately she was cashier or head waitress in a cheap restaurant in St. Louis.”

After a long silence Mildred said: “I understand. I understand.” She drew a long breath. “I shall understand better as time goes on, but I understand fairly well now.”

“I need not tell you, Mrs. Siddall,” said Harding in his gentle, tranquil way, “that the general is the kindest and most generous of men, but he has his own methods– as who has not?”

Mildred had forgotten that he was there–not a difficult matter, when he had in its perfection the secretarial manner of complete self-effacement. Said she reflectively, like one puzzling out a difficult problem:

“He buys a woman, as he buys a dog or a horse. He does not give his dog, his horse, pocket-money. Why should he give his woman pocket-money?”

“Will it help matters, Mrs. Siddall, to go to the other extreme and do him a grave injustice?”

She did not hear. At the picture presented to her mind by her own thoughts she gave a short satirical laugh. “How stupid of me not to have understood from the outset,” said she. “Why, I’ve often heard of this very thing.”

“It is more and more the custom among men of large property, I believe,” said Harding. “Perhaps, Mrs. Siddall, you would not blame them if you were in their position. The rich men who are careless–they ruin everybody about them, I assure you. I’ve seen it again and again.”

But the young wife was absorbed in her own thoughts. Harding, feeling her mood, did not interrupt. After a while she said:

“I must ask you some questions. These jewels the general has been buying–”

Harding made a movement of embarrassment and protest. She smiled ironically and went on:

“One moment, please. Every time I wish to wear any of them I have to go to him to get them. He asks me to return them when I am undressing. He says it is safer to keep everything in his strong box. I have been assuming that that was the only reason. I begin to suspect– Am I right, Mr. Harding?”

“Really I can’t say, Mrs. Siddall,” said Harding. “These are not matters to discuss with me, if you will permit me to say so.”

“Oh, yes, they are,” replied she laughingly. “Aren’t we all in the same boat?–all employes of the general?”

Harding made no reply.

Mildred was beside herself with a kind of rage that, because outlet was necessary and because raving against the little general would be absolutely futile, found outlet in self-mockery and reckless sarcasm.

“I understand about the jewels, too,” she went on. “They are not mine. Nothing is mine. Everything, including myself, belongs to him. If I give satisfaction in the position for which I’ve been hired for my board and clothes, I may continue to eat the general’s food and sleep in the general’s house and wear the general’s jewels and dresses and ride in the general’s traps and be waited on by the general’s servants. If I don’t like my place or he doesn’t like my way of filling it”–she laughed merrily, mockingly–“out I go–into the streets–after the second Mrs. Siddall. And the general will hire a new–” She paused, cast about for a word in vain, appealed to the secretary, “What would you call it, Mr. Harding?”

Harding rose, looking at her with a very soothing tranquillity. “If I were you, Mrs. Siddall,” said he, “I should get into the auto and go for a long drive– out to the Bois–out to Versailles–a long, long drive. I should be gone four or five hours at least, and I should look at the thing from all sides. Especially, I’d look at it from HIS standpoint.”

Mildred, somewhat quieter, but still mocking, said: “If I should decide to quit, would my expenses be paid back to where I was engaged? I fancy not.”

Harding looked grave. “If you had had money enough to pay your own expenses about, would you have married him?” said he. “Isn’t he paying–paying liberally, Mrs. Siddall–for ALL he gets?”

Mildred, stung, drew herself up haughtily, gave him a look that reminded him who she was and who he was. But Harding was not impressed.

“You said a moment ago–truly–that we are all in the same boat,” observed he. “I put those questions to you because I honestly wish to help you–because I wish you not to act foolishly, hastily.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harding,” said Mildred coldly. And with a slight nod she went, angry and ashamed that she had so unaccountably opened up her secret soul, bared its ugly wounds, before a man she knew so slightly, a man in a position but one remove from menial. However, she took his advice–not as to trying to view the matter from all sides, for she was convinced that there was only the one side, but as to calming herself by a long drive alone in the woods and along quiet roads. When she returned she was under control once more.

She found the general impatiently awaiting her. Many packages had come–from the jewelers, from the furriers, from a shop whose specialty was the thinnest and most delicate of hand-made underwear. The general loved to open and inspect finery for her– loved it more than he loved inspecting finery for himself, because feminine finery was far more attractive than masculine. To whet his pleasure to the keenest she must be there to admire with him, to try on, to exhibit. As she entered the salon where the little man was fussing about among the packages, their glances met. She saw that Harding had told him–at least in discreet outline–of their conversation. She also saw that if she reopened the subject she would find herself straightway whirled out upon a stormy sea of danger that might easily overwhelm her flimsy boat. She silently and sullenly dropped into her place; she ministered to the general’s pleasure in packages of finery. But she did not exclaim, or admire, or respond in any way. The honeymoon was over. Her dream of wifehood was dissipated.

She understood now the look she so often had seen on the faces of rich men’s poor wives driving in state in Fifth Avenue. That night, as she inspected herself in the glass while the general’s maid for her brushed her long thick hair, she saw the beginnings of that look in her own face. “I don’t know just what I am,” she said to herself. “But I do know what I am not. I am not a wife.”

She sent away the maid, and sat there in the dressing- room before the mirror, waiting, her glance traveling about and noting the profuse and prodigal luxury. In the corner stood a circular rack loaded with dressing- gowns–more than a score of exquisite combinations of silk and lace or silk and chiffon. It so happened that there was nowhere in sight a single article of her apparel or for her toilet that was not bought with the general’s money. No, there were some hairpins that she had paid for herself, and a comb with widely separated teeth that she had chanced to see in a window when she was alone one day. Anything else? Yes, a two-franc box of pins. And that was all. Everything else belonged to the general. In the closets, in the trunks–all the general’s, part of the trousseau he had paid for. Not an undergarment; not an outer garment; not a hat or a pair of shoes, not a wrap, not a pair of gloves. All, the general’s.

He was in the door of the dressing-room–the small wiry figure in rose-silk pajamas. The mustache and imperial were carefully waxed as always, day and night. On the little feet were high-heeled slippers. On the head was a rose-silk Neapolitan nightcap with gay tassel. The nightcap hid the bald spot from which the lofty toupee had been removed. A grotesque little figure, but not grotesque to her. Through the mask of the vain, boastful little face she saw the general watching her, as she had seen him that afternoon when she came in–the mysterious and terrible personality that had made the vast fortune, that had ridden ruthlessly over friend and foe, over man and woman and child–to the goal of its desires.

“It’s late, my dear?” said the little man. “Come to bed.”

She rose to obey–she in the general’s purchases of filmy nightgown under a pale-pink silk dressing-gown.

He smiled with that curious noiseless mumbling and smacking of the thin lips. She sat down again.

“Don’t keep me waiting. It’s chilly,” he said, advancing toward her.

“I shall sleep in here to-night–on the couch,” said she. She was trembling with fright at her own audacity. She could see a fifty-centime piece and a copper dancing before her eyes. She felt horribly alone and weak, but she had no desire to retract the words with which she had thrown down the gauntlet.

The little general halted. The mask dropped; the man, the monster, looked at her. “What’s the matter?” said he in an ominously quiet voice.

“Mr. Harding delivered your message to-day,” said she, and her steady voice astonished her. “So I am going back home.”

He waited, looking steadily at her.

“After he told me and I thought about it, I decided to submit, but just now I saw that I couldn’t. I don’t know what possesses me. I don’t know what I’m going to do, or how I’m going to do it. But it’s all over between us.” She said this rapidly, fluently, in a decisive way, quite foreign to her character as she had thought it.

“You are coming to bed, where you belong,” said he quietly.

“No,” replied she, pressing herself against her chair as if force were being used to drag her from it. She cast about for something that would make yielding impossible. “You are–repulsive to me.”

He looked at her without change of countenance. Said he: “Come to bed. I ask you for the last time.”

There was no anger in his voice, no menace either open or covert; simply finality–the last word of the man who had made himself feared and secure in the mining-camps where the equation of personal courage is straightway applied to every situation. Mildred shivered. She longed to yield, to stammer out some excuse and obey him. But she could not; nor was she able to rise from her chair. She saw in his hard eyes a look of astonishment, of curiosity as to this unaccountable defiance in one who had seemed docile, who had apparently no alternative but obedience. He was not so astonished at her as she was at herself. “What is to become of me?” her terror-stricken soul was crying. “I must do as he says–I must–yet I cannot!” And she looked at him and sat motionless.

He turned away, moved slowly toward the door, halted at the threshold to give her time, was gone. A fit of trembling seized her; she leaned forward and rested her arms upon the dressing-table or she would have fallen from the chair to the floor. Yet, even as her fear made her sick and weak, she knew that she would not yield.

The cold drove her to the couch, to lie under half a dozen of the dressing-gowns and presently to fall into a sleep of exhaustion. When she awoke after what she thought was a few minutes of unconsciousness, the clamor of traffic in the Rue de Rivoli startled her. She started up, glanced at the clock on the chimneypiece. It was ten minutes past nine! When, by all the rules governing the action of the nerves, she ought to have passed a wakeful night she had overslept more than an hour. Indeed, she had had the first sound and prolonged sleep that had come to her since the honeymoon began; for until then she had slept alone all her life and the new order had almost given her chronic insomnia. She rang for her maid and began to dress. The maid did not come. She rang again and again; apparently the bell was broken. She finished dressing and went out into the huge, grandly and gaudily furnished salon. Harding was at a carved old-gold and lacquer desk, writing. As she entered he rose and bowed.

“Won’t you please call one of the servants?” said she. “I want my coffee. I guess the bell in my room is broken. My maid doesn’t answer.”

“No, the bell is not broken,” said Harding.

She looked at him questioningly.

“The general has issued an order that nothing is to be done in this apartment, and nothing served, unless he personally authorizes it.”

Mildred paled, drew herself up in what seemed a gesture of haughtiness but was an effort to muster her strength. To save herself from the humiliation of a breakdown before him, she hastily retreated by the way she had come. After perhaps a quarter of an hour she reappeared in the salon; she was now dressed for the street. Harding looked up from his writing, rose and bowed gravely. Said she:

“I am going out for a walk. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“One moment,” said Harding, halting her as she was opening the door into the public hall. “The general has issued an order that if you go out, you are not to be allowed to return.”

Her hand fell from the knob. With flashing eyes she cried, “But that is impossible!”

“It is his orders,” said Harding, in his usual quiet manner. “And as he pays the bills he will be obeyed.”

She debated. Against her will, her trembling hand sought the knob again. Against her will, her weak arm began to draw the door open. Harding came toward her, stood before her and looked directly into her eyes. His eyes had dread and entreaty in them, but his voice was as always when he said:

“You know him, Mrs. Siddall.”

“Yes,” she said.

“The reason he has got ALL he wanted–whatever he wanted–is that he will go to any length. Every other human being, almost, has a limit, beyond which they will not go–a physical fear or a moral fear or a fear of public opinion. But the general–he has no limit.”

“Yes,” she said. And deathly pale and almost stag- gering she drew open the door and went out into the public hall.

“For God’s sake, Mrs. Siddall!” cried Harding, in great agitation. “Come in quickly. They are watching– they will tell him! Are you mad?”

“I think I must be,” said she. “I am sick with fear. I can hardly keep from dropping down here in a faint. Yet–” a strange look, a mingling of abject terror and passionate defiance, gave her an aspect quite insane –“I am going. Perhaps I, too, have no limit.”

And she went along the corridor, past a group of gaping and frightened servants, down the stairway and out by the private entrance for the grand apartments of the hotel in the Rue Raymond de l’Isle. She crossed the Rue de Rivoli and entered the Tuileries Gardens. It was only bracingly cool in the sunshine of that winter day. She seated herself on a chair on the terrace to regain her ebbed strength. Hardly had she sat down when the woman collector came and stood waiting for the two sous for the chair. Mildred opened her bag, found two coins. She gave the coppers to the woman. The other–all the money she had–was the fifty-centime piece.

“But the bag–I can get a good deal for that,” she said aloud.

“I beg your pardon–I didn’t catch that.”

She came back to a sense of her surroundings. Stanley Baird was standing a few feet away, smiling down at her. He was, if possible, even more attractively dressed than in the days when he hovered about her, hoping vague things of which he was ashamed and try- ing to get the courage to put down his snobbishness and marry her because she so exactly suited him. He was wearing a new kind of collar and tie, striking yet in excellent quiet taste. Also, his face and figure had filled out just enough–he had been too thin in the former days. But he was now entered upon that period of the fearsome forties when, unless a man amounts to something, he begins to look insignificant. He did not amount to anything; he was therefore paling and waning as a personality.

“Was I thinking aloud?” said Mildred, as she gave him her hand.

“You said something about `getting a good deal.’ ” He inspected her with the freedom of an old friend and with the thoroughness of a connoisseur. Women who took pains with themselves and were satisfied with the results liked Stanley Baird’s knowing and appreciative way of noting the best points in their toilets. “You’re looking fine,” declared he. “It must be a pleasure to them up in the Rue de la Paix to dress you. That’s more than can be said for nine out of ten of the women who go there. Yes, you’re looking fine–and in grand health, too. Why, you look younger than I ever saw you. Nothing like marriage to freshen a girl up. Well, I suppose waiting round for a husband who may or may not turn up does wear a woman down.”

“It almost killed me,” laughed Mildred. “And you were largely responsible.”

“I?” said Baird. “You didn’t want me. I was too old for you.”

“No, I didn’t want you,” said Mildred. “But you spoiled me. I couldn’t endure the boys of my own age.”

Stanley was remembering that Mildred had married a man much older than he. With some notion of a careless sort of tact in mind he said, “I was betwixt and between–neither young enough nor old enough.”

“You’ve married, too, since we met. By the way, thank you again for that charming remembrance. You always did have such good taste. But why didn’t you come to the wedding–you and your wife?”

He laughed. “We were busy busting up,” said he. “You hadn’t heard? It’s been in the papers. She’s gone back to her people. Oh, nothing disgraceful on either side. Simply that we bored each other to death. She was crazy about horses and dogs, and that set. I think the stable’s the place for horses–don’t care to have ’em parading through the house all the time, every room, every meal, sleeping and waking. And dogs– the infernal brutes always have fleas. Fleas only tickled her, but they bite me–raise welts and hills. There’s your husband now, isn’t it?”

Baird was looking up at the windows of the Continental, across the street. Mildred’s glance slowly and carelessly followed his. At one window stood the little general, gazing abstractedly out over the gardens. At another window Mildred saw Harding; at a third, her maid; at a fourth, Harding’s assistant, Drawl; at a fifth, three servants of the retinue. Except the general, all were looking at her.

“You’ve married a very extraordinary man,” said Baird, in a correct tone of admiration. “One of the ablest and most interesting men we’ve got, _I_ think.”

“So you are free again?” said Mildred, looking at him with a queer, cold smile.

“Yes, and no,” replied Stanley. “I hope to be entirely free. It’s her move next. I’m expecting it every day. But I’m thoroughly respectable. Won’t you and the general dine with me?”

“Thanks, but I’m sailing for home to-morrow or next day.”

“That’s interesting,” said Baird, with enthusiasm. “So am I. What ship do you go on?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m to decide this afternoon, after lunch.” She laughed. “I’m sitting here waiting for someone to ask me to lunch. I’ve not had even coffee yet.”

“Lunch with me!” cried Baird. “I’ll go get the general–I know him slightly.”

“I didn’t say anything about the general,” said Mildred.

Stanley smiled apologetically. “It wouldn’t do for you to go about with me–not when my missus is looking for grounds for divorce.”

“Why not?” said Mildred. “So’s my husband.”

“You busted up, too? Now, that’s what _I_ call jolly.” And he cast a puzzled glance up at the abstracted general. “I say, Mildred, this is no place for either of us, is it?”

“I’d rather be where there’s food,” confessed she.

“You think it’s a joke, but I assure you– Oh, you WERE joking–about YOUR bust-up?”

“No, indeed,” she assured him. “I walked out a while ago, and I couldn’t go back if I would–and I don’t think I would if I could.”

“That’s foolish. Better go back,” advised he. He was preparing hastily to decamp from so perilous a neighborhood. “One marriage is about like another, once you get through the surface. I’m sure you’ll be better off than–back with your stepfather.”

“I’ve no intention of going to his house,” she declared. “Oh, there’s your brother. I forgot.”

“So had I forgotten him. I’ll not go there, either. In fact, I’ve not thought where I’ll go.”

“You seem to have done mighty little thinking before you took a very serious step for a woman.” He was uneasily eying the rigid, abstracted little figure a story up across the way.

“Those things aren’t a question of thinking,” said she absently. “I never thought in my life–don’t think I could if I tried. But when the time came I– I walked out.” She came back to herself, laughed. “I don’t understand why I’m telling you all this, especially as you’re mad with fright and wild to get away. Well, good-by, Stanley.”

He lifted his hat. “Good-by. We’ll meet when we can do so without my getting a scandal on you.” He walked a few paces, turned, and came back. “By the way, I’m sailing on the Deutschland. I thought you’d like to know–so that you and I wouldn’t by any chance cross on the same boat.”

“Thanks,” said she dryly.

“What’s the matter?” asked he, arrested, despite his anxiety to be gone, by the sad, scornful look in her eyes.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You had such a–such a queer look.”

“Really? Good-by.”

In fact, she had thought–had hoped for the sake of her liking for him–that he had come back to make the glaringly omitted offer of help that should have come from any human being learning that a fellow being was in the precarious position in which she had told him she was. Not that she would have accepted any such offer. Still, she would have liked to have heard the kindly words. She sat watching his handsome, graceful figure, draped in the most artistically cut of long dark overcoats, until he disappeared in the crowd in the Rue de Castiglione. Then, without a glance up at the interested, not to say excited windows of the general’s splendid and spreading apartments, she strolled down the gardens toward the Place Concorde. In Paris the beautiful, on a bright and brisk day it is all but impossible to despair when one still has left youth and health. Mildred was not happy–far from it. The future, the immediate future, pressed its terrors upon her. But in mitigation there was, perhaps born of youth and inexperience, a giddy sense of relief. She had not realized how abhorrent the general was– married life with the general. She had been resigning herself to it, accepting it as the only thing possible, keeping it heavily draped with her vanities of wealth and luxury–until she discovered that the wealth and the luxury were in reality no more hers than they were her maid’s. And now she was free!

That word free did not have its full meaning for her. She had never known what real freedom was; women of the comfortable class–and men, too, for that matter– usually are born into the petty slavery of conventions at least, and know nothing else their whole lives through–never know the joy of the thought and the act of a free mind and a free heart. Still, she was released from a bondage that seemed slavish even to her, and the release gave her a sensation akin to the joy of freedom. A heavy hand that was crushing her very soul had been lifted off–no, FLUNG off, and by herself. That thought, terrifying though it was, also gave her a certain new and exalting self-respect. After all, she