“That depends,” said he.
“On what?”
“On what you want.”
“I want to be a singer, a great singer.”
“No, there’s no hope.”
She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gave it the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal.
“Now, if you wanted to make a living,” he went on, “and if you were determined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea that you might be able to make a living–why, then there might be hope.”
“You think I can sing?”
“I never heard you. Can you?”
“They say I can.”
“What do YOU say?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’ve never been able to judge. Sometimes I think I’m singing well, and I find out afterward that I’ve sung badly. Again, it’s the other way.”
“Then, obviously, what’s the first thing to do?”
“To learn to judge myself,” said she. “I never thought of it before–how important that is. Do you know Jennings–Eugene Jennings?”
“The singing teacher? No.”
“Is he a good teacher?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you are your own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is a small and minor part of a career as a singer.”
“But it isn’t,” protested she.
A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her and her affairs from his mind.
“Is it?” she said, to bring him back.
“What?” asked he vaguely.
“You said that a singer didn’t have to be able to sing.”
“Did I?” He glanced down the shore toward the house. “It feels like lunch-time.” He rose.
“What did you mean by what you said?”
“When you have thought about your case a while longer, we’ll talk of it again–if you wish. But until you’ve thought, talking is a waste of time.”
She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faint smile about his lips. He said:
“Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughly respectable occupation–or can be made so by any preacher or justice of the peace. It’s followed by many of our best women–those who pride themselves on their high characters–and on their pride.”
“I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him,” said she. “I tried it once. I shall never do it again.”
“That sounds fine,” said he. “Let’s go to lunch.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Do you?”
She sank down upon the sand and burst into a wild passion of sobs and tears. When her fight for self- control was over and she looked up to apologize for her pitiful exhibition of weakness–and to note whether she had made an impression upon his sympathies–she saw him just entering the house, a quarter of a mile away. To anger succeeded a mood of desperate forlornness. She fell upon herself with gloomy ferocity. She could not sing. She had no brains. She was taking money–a disgracefully large amount of money– from Stanley Baird under false pretenses. How could she hope to sing when her voice could not be relied upon? Was not her throat at that very moment slightly sore? Was it not always going queer? She–sing! Absurd. Did Stanley Baird suspect? Was he waiting for the time when she would gladly accept what she must have from him, on his own terms? No, not on his terms, but on the terms she herself would arrange– the only terms she could make. No, Stanley believed in her absolutely–believed in her career. When he discovered the truth, he would lose interest in her, would regard her as a poor, worthless creature, would be eager to rid himself of her. Instead of returning to the house, she went in the opposite direction, made a circuit and buried herself in the woods beyond the Shrewsbury. She was mad to get away from her own company; but the only company she could fly to was more depressing than the solitude and the taunt and sneer and lash of her own thoughts. It was late in the afternoon before she nerved herself to go home. She hoped the others would have gone off somewhere; but they were waiting for her, Stanley anxious and Cyrilla Brindley irritated. Her eyes sought Keith. He was, as usual, the indifferent spectator.
“Where have you been?” cried Stanley.
“Making up my mind,” said she in the tone that forewarns of a storm.
A brief pause. She struggled in vain against an impulse to look at Keith. When her eyes turned in his direction he, not looking at her, moved in his listless way toward the door. Said he:
“The auto’s waiting. Come on.”
She vacillated, yielded, began to put on the wraps Stanley was collecting for her. It was a big touring- car, and they sat two and two, with the chauffeur alone. Keith was beside Mildred. When they were under way, she said:
“Why did you stop me? Perhaps I’ll never have the courage again.”
“Courage for what?” asked he.
“To take your advice, and break off.”
“MY advice?”
“Yes, your advice.”
“You have to clutch at and cling to somebody, don’t you? You can’t bear the idea of standing up by your own strength.”
“You think I’m trying to fasten to you?” she said, with an angry laugh.
“I know it. You admitted it. You are not satisfied with the way things are going. You have doubts about your career. You shrink from your only comfortable alternative, if the career winks out. You ask me my opinion about yourself and about careers. I give it. Now, I find you asked only that you might have someone to lean on, to accuse of having got you into a mess, if doing what you think you ought to do turns out as badly as you fear.”
It was the longest speech she had heard him make. She had no inclination to dispute his analysis of her motives. “I did not realize it,” said she, “but that is probably so. But–remember how I was brought up.”
“There’s only one thing for you to do.”
“Go back to my husband? You know–about me –don’t you?”
“Yes”
“I can’t go back to him.”
“No.”
“Then–what?” she asked.
“Go on, as now,” replied he.
“You despise me, don’t you?”
“No.”
“But you said you did.”
“Dislike and despise are not at all the same.”
“You admit that you dislike me,” cried she triumphantly. He did not answer.
“You think me a weak, clinging creature, not able to do anything but make pretenses.”
No answer.
“Don’t you?” she persisted.
“Probably I have about the same opinion of you that you have of yourself.”
“What WILL become of me?” she said. Her face lighted up with an expression of reckless beauty. “If I could only get started I’d go to the devil, laughing and dancing–and taking a train with me.”
“You ARE started,” said he, with an amiable smile. “Keep on. But I doubt if you’ll be so well amused as you may imagine. Going to the devil isn’t as it’s painted in novels by homely old maids and by men too timid to go out of nights. A few steps farther, and your disillusionment will begin. But there’ll be no turning back. Already, you are almost too old to make a career.”
“I’m only twenty-four. I flattered myself I looked still younger.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” said he. “Most of the singers, even the second-rate ones, began at fifteen– began seriously. And you haven’t begun yet.”
“That’s unjust,” she protested. “I’ve done a little. Many great people would think it a great deal.”
“You haven’t begun yet,” repeated he calmly. “You have spent a lot of money, and have done a lot of dreaming and talking and listening to compliments, and have taken a lot of lessons of an expensive charlatan. But what have those things to do with a career?”
“You’ve never heard me sing.”
“I do not care for singing.”
“Oh!” said she in a tone of relief. “Then you know nothing about all this.”
“On the contrary, I know everything about a career. And we were talking of careers, not of singing.”
“You mean that my voice is worthless because I haven’t the other elements?”
“What else could I have meant?” said he. “You haven’t the strength. You haven’t the health.”
She laughed as she straightened herself. “Do I look weak and sickly?” cried she.
“For the purposes of a career as a female you are strong and well,” said he. “For the purpose of a career as a singer–” He smiled and shook his head. “A singer must have muscles like wire ropes, like a blacksmith or a washerwoman. The other day we were climbing a hill–a not very steep hill. You stopped five times for breath, and twice you sat down to rest.”
She was literally hanging her head with shame. “I wasn’t very well that day,” she murmured.
“Don’t deceive yourself,” said he. “Don’t indulge in the fatal folly of self-excuse.”
“Go on,” she said humbly. “I want to hear it all.”
“Is your throat sore to-day?” pursued he.
She colored. “It’s better,” she murmured.
“A singer with sore throat!” mocked he. “You’ve had a slight fogginess of the voice all summer.”
“It’s this sea air,” she eagerly protested. “It affects everyone.”
“No self-excuse, please,” interrupted he. “Cigarettes, champagne, all kinds of foolish food, an impaired digestion–that’s the truth, and you know it.”
“I’ve got splendid digestion! I can eat anything!” she cried. “Oh, you don’t know the first thing about singing. You don’t know about temperament, about art, about all the things that singing really means.”
“We were talking of careers,” said he. “A career means a person who can be relied upon to do what is demanded of him. A singer’s career means a powerful body, perfect health, a sound digestion. Without them, the voice will not be reliable. What you need is not singing teachers, but teachers of athletics and of hygiene. To hear you talk about a career is like listening to a child. You think you can become a professional singer by paying money to a teacher. There are lawyers and doctors and business men in all lines who think that way about their professions–that learning a little routine of technical knowledge makes a lawyer or a doctor or a merchant or a financier.”
“Tell me–WHAT ought I to learn?”
“Learn to think–and to persist. Learn to concentrate. Learn to make sacrifices. Learn to handle yourself as a great painter handles his brush and colors. Then perhaps you’ll make a career as a singer. If not, it’ll be a career as something or other.”
She was watching him with a wistful, puzzled expression. “Could I ever do all that?”
“Anyone could, by working away at it every day. If you gain only one inch a day, in a year you’ll have gained three hundred and sixty-five inches. And if you gain an inch a day for a while and hold it, you soon begin to gain a foot a day. But there’s no need to worry about that.” He was gazing at her now with an expression of animation that showed how feverishly alive he was behind that mask of calmness. “The day’s work–that’s the story of success. Do the day’s work persistently, thoroughly, intelligently. Never mind about to-morrow. Thinking of it means dreaming or despairing–both futilities. Just the day’s work.”
“I begin to understand,” she said thoughtfully. “You are right. I’ve done nothing. Oh, I’ve been a fool–more foolish even than I thought.”
A long silence, then she said, somewhat embarrassed and in a low voice, though there was no danger of those in front of them hearing:
“I want you to know that there has been nothing wrong–between Stanley and me.”
“Do you wish me to put that to your credit or to your discredit?” inquired he.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, you’ve just told me that you haven’t given Stanley anything at all for his money–that you’ve cheated him outright. The thing itself is discreditable, but your tone suggests that you think I’ll admire you for it.”
“Do you mean to say that you’d think more highly of me if I were–what most women would be in the same circumstances?”
“I mean to say that I think the whole business is discreditable to both of you–to his intelligence, to your character.”
“You are frank,” said she, trying to hide her anger.
“I am frank,” replied he, undisturbed. He looked at her. “Why should I not be?”
“You know that I need you, that I don’t dare resent,” said she. “So isn’t it–a little cowardly?”
“Why do you need me? Not for money, for you know you’ll not get that.”
“I don’t want it,” cried she, agitated. “I never thought of it.”
“Yes, you’ve probably thought of it,” replied he coolly. “But you will not get it.”
“Well, that’s settled–I’ll not get it.”
“Then why do you need me? Of what use can I be to you? Only one use in the world. To tell you the truth–the exact truth. Is not that so?”
“Yes,” she said. “That is what I want from you –what I can’t get from anyone else. No one else knows the truth–not even Mrs. Brindley, though she’s intelligent. I take back what I said about your being cowardly. Oh, you do stab my vanity so! You mustn’t mind my crying out. I can’t help it–at least, not till I get used to you.”
“Cry out,” said he. “It does no harm.”
“How wonderfully you understand me!” exclaimed she. “That’s why I let you say to me anything you please.”
He was smiling peculiarly–a smile that somehow made her feel uncomfortable. She nerved herself for some still deeper stab into her vanity. He said, his gaze upon her and ironical:
“I’m sorry I can’t return the compliment.”
“What compliment?” asked she.
“Can’t say that you understand me. Why do you think I am doing this?”
She colored. “Oh, no indeed, Mr. Keith,” she protested, “I don’t think you are in love with me–or anything of that sort. Indeed, I do not. I know you better than that.”
“Really?” said he, amused. “Then you are not human.”
“How can you think me so vain?” she protested.
“Because you are so,” replied he. “You are as vain–no more so, but just as much so–as the average pretty and attractive woman brought up as you have been. You are not obsessed by the notion that your physical charms are all-powerful, and in that fact there is hope for you. But you attach entirely too much importance to them. You will find them a hindrance for a long time before they begin to be a help to you in your career. And they will always be a temptation to you to take the easy, stupid way of making a living–the only way open to most women that is not positively repulsive.”
“I think it is the most repulsive,” said Mildred.
“Don’t cant,” replied he, unimpressed. “It’s not so repulsive to your sort of woman as manual labor– or as any kind of work that means no leisure, no luxury and small pay.”
“I wonder,” said Mildred. “I–I’m afraid you’re right. But I WON’T admit it. I don’t dare.”
“That’s the finest, truest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” said Keith.
Mildred was pleased out of all proportion to the compliment. Said she with frank eagerness, “Then I’m not altogether hopeless?”
“As a character, no indeed,” replied he. “But as a career– I was about to say, you may set your mind at rest. I shall never try to collect for my services. I am doing all this solely out of obstinacy.”
“Obstinacy?” asked the puzzled girl.
“The impossible attracts me. That’s why I’ve never been interested to make a career in law or politics or those things. I care only for the thing that can’t be done. When I saw you and studied you, as I study every new thing, I decided that you could not possibly make a career.”
“Why have you changed your mind?” she interrupted eagerly.
“I haven’t,” replied he. “If I had, I should have lost interest in you. Just as soon as you show signs of making a career, I shall lose interest in you. I have a friend, a doctor, who will take only cases where cure is impossible. Looking at you, it occurred to me that here was a chance to make an experiment more interesting than any of his. And as I have no other impossible task inviting me at present, I decided to undertake you–if you were willing.”
“Why do you tell me this?” she asked. “To discourage me?”
“No. Your vanity will prevent that.”
“Then why?”
“To clear myself of all responsibility for you. You understand–I bind myself to nothing. I am free to stop or to go on at any time.”
“And I?” said Mildred.
“You must do exactly as I tell you.”
“But that is not fair,” cried she.
“Why not?” inquired he. “Without me you have no hope–none whatever.”
“I don’t believe that,” declared she. “It is not true.”
“Very well. Then we’ll drop the business,” said he tranquilly. “If the time comes when you see that I’m your only hope, and if then I’m in my present humor, we will go on.”
And he lapsed into silence from which she soon gave over trying to rouse him. She thought of what he had said, studied him, but could make nothing of it. She let four days go by, days of increasing unrest and unhappiness. She could not account for herself. Donald Keith seemed to have cast a spell over her–an evil spell. Her throat gave her more and more trouble. She tried her voice, found that it had vanished. She examined herself in the glass, and saw or fancied that her looks were going–not so that others would note it, but in the subtle ways that give the first alarm to a woman who has beauty worth taking care of and thinks about it intelligently. She thought Mrs. Brindley was beginning to doubt her, suspected a covert uneasiness in Stanley. Her foundations, such as they were, seemed tottering and ready to disintegrate. She saw her own past with clear vision for the first time– saw how futile she had been, and why Keith believed there was no hope for her. She made desperate efforts to stop thinking about past and future, to absorb herself in present comfort and luxury and opportunities for enjoyment. But Keith was always there–and to see him was to lose all capacity for enjoyment. She was curt, almost rude to him–had some vague idea of forcing him to stay away. Yet every time she lost sight of him, she was in terror until she saw him again.
She was alone on the small veranda facing the high- road. She happened to glance toward the station; her gaze became fixed, her body rigid, for, coming leisurely and pompously toward the house, was General Siddall, in the full panoply of his wonderful tailoring and haberdashery. She thought of flight, but instantly knew that flight was useless; the little general was not there by accident. She waited, her rigidity giving her a deceptive seeming of calm and even ease. He entered the little yard, taking off his glossy hat and exposing the rampant toupee. He smiled at her so slightly that the angle of the needle-pointed mustaches and imperial was not changed. The cold, expressionless, fishy eyes simply looked at her.
“A delightful little house,” said he, with a patronizing glance around. “May I sit down?”
She inclined her head.
“And you are looking well, charming,” he went on, and he seated himself and carefully planted his neat boots side by side. “For the summer there’s nothing equal to the seashore. You are surprised to see me?”
“I thought you were abroad,” said Mildred.
“So I was–until yesterday. I came back because my men had found you. And I’m here because I venture to hope that you have had enough of this foolish escapade. I hope we can come to an understanding. I’ve lost my taste for wandering about. I wish to settle down–to have a home and to stay in it. By that I mean, of course, two or three–or possibly four– houses, according to the season.” Mildred sent her glance darting about. The little general saw and began to talk more rapidly. “I’ve given considerable thought to our–our misunderstanding. I feel that I gave too much importance to your–your– I did not take your youth and inexperience of the world and of married life sufficiently into account. Also the first Mrs. Siddall was not a lady–nor the second. A lady, a young lady, was a new experience to me. I am a generous man. So I say frankly that I ought to have been more patient.”
“You said you would never see me again until I came to you,” said Mildred. As he was not looking at her, she watched his face. She now saw a change–behind the mask. But he went on in an unchanged voice:
“Were you aware that Mrs. Baird is about to sue her husband for a separation–not for a divorce but for a separation–and name you?”
Mildred dropped limply back in her chair.
“That means scandal,” continued Siddall, “scandal touching my name–my honor. I may say, I do not believe what Mrs. Baird charges. My men have had you under observation for several weeks. Also, Mrs. Brindley is, I learn, a woman of the highest character. But the thing looks bad–you hiding from your husband, living under an assumed name, receiving the visits of a former admirer.”
“You are mistaken,” said Mildred. “Mrs. Baird would not bring such a false, wicked charge.”
“You are innocent, my dear,” said the general.
“You don’t realize how your conduct looks. She intends to charge that her husband has been supporting you.”
Mildred, quivering, started up, sank weakly back again.
“But,” he went on, “you will easily prove that your money is your inheritance from your father. I assured myself of that before I consented to come here.”
“Consented?” said Mildred. “At whose request?”
“That of my own generosity,” replied he. “But my honor had to be reassured. When I was satisfied that you were innocent, and simply flighty and foolish, I came. If there had been any taint upon you, of course I could not have taken you back. As it is, I am willing–I may say, more than willing. Mrs. Baird can be bought off and frightened off. When she finds you have me to protect you, she will move very cautiously, you may be sure.”
As the little man talked, Mildred saw and felt behind the mask the thoughts, the longings of his physical infatuation for her coiling and uncoiling and reaching tremulously out toward her like unclean, horrible tentacles. She was drawn as far as could be back into her chair, and her soul was shrinking within her body.
“I am willing to make you a proper allowance, and to give you all proper freedom,” he went on. He showed his sharp white teeth in a gracious smile. “I realize I must concede something of my old-fashioned ideas to the modern spirit. I never thought I would, but I didn’t appreciate how fond I was of you, my dear.” He mumbled his tongue and noiselessly smacked his thin lips. “Yes, you are worth concessions and sacrifices.”
“I am not going back,” said Mildred. “Nothing you could offer me would make any difference.” She felt suddenly calm and strong. She stood. “Please consider this final.”
“But, my dear,” said the general softly, though there was a wicked gleam behind the mask, “you forget the scandal–”
“I forget nothing,” interrupted she. “I shall not go back.”
Before he could attempt further to detain her she opened the screen door and entered. It closed on the spring and on the spring lock.
Donald Keith, coming in from the sea-front veranda, was just in time to save her from falling. She pushed him fiercely away and sank down on the sofa just within the pretty little drawing-room. She said:
“Thank you. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was only angry with myself. I’m getting to be one of those absurd females who blubber and keel over.”
“You’re white and limp,” said he. “What’s the matter?”
“General Siddall is out there.”
“Um–he’s come back, has he?” said Keith.
“And I am afraid of him–horribly afraid of him.”
“In some places and circumstances he would be a dangerous proposition,” said Keith. “But not here in the East–and not to you.”
“He would do ANYTHING. I don’t know what he can do, but I am sure it will be frightful–will destroy me.”
“You are going with him?”
She laughed. “I loathe him. I thought I left him through fear and anger. I was mistaken. It was loathing. And my fear of him–it’s loathing, too.”
“You mean that?” said Keith, observing her intently. “You wish to be rid of him?”
“What a poor opinion you have of me,” said she. “Really, I don’t deserve quite that.”
“Then come with me.”
The look of terror and shrinking returned. “Where? To see him?”
“For the last time,” said Keith. “There’ll be no scene.”
It was the supreme test of her confidence in him. Without hesitation, she rose, preceded him into the hall, and advanced firmly toward the screen door through which the little general could be seen. He was standing at the top step, his back to them. At the sound of the opening door he turned.
“This is Mr. Donald Keith,” said Mildred. “He wishes to speak to you.”
The general bowed; Keith bent his head. They eyed each other with the measuring glance. Keith said in his dry, terse way: “I asked Miss Gower to come with me because I wish her to hear what I have to say to you.”
“You mean my wife,” said the general with a gracious smile.
“I mean Miss Gower,” returned Keith. “As you know, she is not your wife.”
Mildred uttered a cry; but the two men continued to look each at the other, with impassive countenances.
“Your only wife is the woman who has been in the private insane asylum of Doctor Rivers at Pueblo, Colorado, for the past eleven years. For about twenty years before that she was in the Delavan private asylum near Denver. You could not divorce her under the laws of Colorado. The divorce you got in Nevada was fraudulent.”
“That’s a lie,” said the general coldly.
Keith went on, as if he had not heard: “You will not annoy this lady again. And you will stop bribing Stanley Baird’s wife to make a fool of herself. And you will stop buying houses in the blocks where Baird owns real estate, and moving colored families into them.”
“I tell you that about my divorce is a lie,” replied Siddall.
“I can prove it,” said Keith. “And I can prove that you knew it before you married your second wife.”
For the first time Siddall betrayed at the surface a hint of how hard he was hit. His skin grew bright yellow; wrinkles round his eyes and round the base of his nose sprang into sudden prominence.
“I see you know what I mean–that attempt to falsify the record at Carson City,” said Keith. He opened the screen door for Mildred to pass in. He followed her, and the door closed behind them. They went into the drawing-room. He dropped into an easy chair, crossed his legs, leaned his head back indolently–a favorite attitude of his.
“How long have you known?” said she. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“Oh, a good many years,” replied he. “It was one of those accidental bits of information a man runs across in knocking about. As soon as Baird told me about you, I had the thing looked up, quietly. I was going up to see him to-morrow–about the negroes and Mrs. Baird’s suit.”
“Does Stanley know?” inquired she.
“No,” said Keith. “Not necessary. Never will be. If you like, you can have the marriage annulled without notoriety. But that’s not necessary, either.”
After a long silence, she said: “What does this make out of me?”
“You mean, what would be thought of you, if it were known?” inquired he. “Well, it probably wouldn’t improve your social position.”
“I am disgraced,” said she, curiously rather than emotionally.
“Would be, if it were known,” corrected he, “and if you are nothing but a woman without money looking for a husband. If you happened to be a singer or an actress, it would add to your reputation–make you more talked about.”
“But I am not an actress or a singer.”
“On the other hand, I should say you didn’t amount to much socially. Except in Hanging Rock, of course –if there is still a Hanging Rock. Don’t worry about your reputation. Fussing and fretting about your social position doesn’t help toward a career.”
“Naturally, you take it coolly. But you can hardly expect me to,” cried she.
“You are taking it coolly,” said he. “Then why try to work yourself up into a fit of hysterics? The thing is of no importance–except that you’re free now–will never be bothered by Siddall again. You ought to thank me, and forget it. Don’t be one of the little people who are forever agitating about trifles.”
Trifles! To speak of such things as trifles! And yet– Well, what did they actually amount to in her life? “Yes, I AM free,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve got what I wanted–got it in the easiest way possible.”
“That’s better,” said he approvingly.
“And I’ve burnt my bridges behind me,” pursued she. “There’s nothing for me now but to go ahead.”
“Which road?” inquired he carelessly.
“The career,” cried she. “There’s no other for me. Of course I COULD marry Stanley, when he’s free, as he would be before very long, if I suggested it. Yes, I could marry him.”
“Could you?” observed he.
“Doesn’t he love me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then why do you say he would not marry me?” demanded she.
“Did I say that?”
“You insinuated it. You suggested that there was a doubt.”
“Then, there is no doubt?”
“Yes, there is,” she cried angrily. “You won’t let me enjoy the least bit of a delusion. He might marry me if I were famous. But as I am now– He’s an inbred snob. He can’t help it. He simply couldn’t marry a woman in my position. But you’re overlooking one thing–that _I_ would not marry HIM.”
“That’s unimportant, if true,” said Keith.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t care anything about it, my dear lady,” said Keith. “Have you got time to waste in thinking about how much I am in love with you? What a womanly woman you are, to be sure. Your true woman, you know, never thinks of anything but love–not how much she loves, but how much she is loved.”
“Be careful!” she warned. “Some day you’ll go too far in saying outrageous things to me.”
“And then?” said he smilingly.
“You care nothing for our friendship?”
“The experiment is the only interest I have in you,” replied he.
“That is not true,” said she. “You have always liked me. That’s why you looked up my hus– General Siddal{sic} and got ready for him. That’s why you saved me to-day. You are a very tender-hearted and generous man–and you hide it as you do everything else about yourself.”
He was looking off into space from the depths of the easy chair, a mocking smile on his classical, impassive face.
“What puzzles me,” she went on, “is why you interest yourself in as vain and shallow and vacillating a woman as I am. You don’t care for my looks–and that’s all there is to me.”
“Don’t pause to be contradicted,” said he.
She was in a fine humor now. “You might at least have said I was up to the female average, for I am. What have they got to offer a man but their looks? Do you know why I despise men?”
“Do you?”
“I do. And it’s because they put up with women as much as they do–spend so much money on them, listen to their chatter, admire their ridiculous clothes. Oh, I understand why. I’ve learned that. And I can imagine myself putting up with anything in some one man I happened to fancy strongly. But men are foolish about the whole sex–or all of them that have a shadow of a claim to good looks.”
“Yes, the men make fools of themselves,” admitted he. “But I notice that the men manage somehow to make the careers, and hold on to the money and the power, while the women have to wheedle and fawn and submit in order to get what they want from the men. There’s nothing to be said for your sex. It’s been hopelessly corrupted by mine. For all the talk about the influence of woman, what impression has your sex made upon mine? And your sex–it has been made by mine into exactly what we wished it to be. Take my advice, get out of your sex. Abandon it, and make a career.”
After a while she recalled with a start the events of less than an hour ago–events that ought to have seemed wildly exciting, arousing the deepest and strongest emotions. Yet they had made no impression upon her. Absolutely none. She had no horror in the thought that she had been the victim of a bigamist; she had no elation over her release into freedom and safety. She wondered whether this arose from utter frivolousness or from indifference to the trifles of conventional joys, sorrows, agitations, excitements which are the whole life of most people–that indifference which is the cause of the general opinion that men and women who make careers are usually hardened in the process.
As she lay awake that night–she had got a very bad habit of lying awake hour after hour–she suddenly came to a decision. But she did not tell Keith for several days. She did it in this way:
“Don’t you think I’m looking better?” she asked.
“You’re sleeping again,” said he.
“Do you know why? Because my mind’s at rest. I’ve decided to accept your offer.”
“And my terms?” said he, apparently not interested by her announcement.
“And your terms,” assented she. “You are free to stop whenever the whim strikes you; I must do exactly as you bid. What do you wish me to do?”
“Nothing at present,” replied he. “I will let you know.”
She was disappointed. She had assumed that something– something new and interesting, probably irritating, perhaps enraging, would occur at once. His indifference, his putting off to a future time, which his manner made seem most hazily indefinite, gave her the foolish and collapsing sense of having broken through an open door.
VII
THE first of September they went up to town. Stanley left at once for his annual shooting trip; Donald Keith disappeared, saying–as was his habit– neither what he was about nor when he would be seen again. Mrs. Brindley summoned her pupils and her musical friends. Mildred resumed the lessons with Jennings. There was no doubt about it, she had astonishingly improved during the summer. There had come–or, rather, had come back–into her voice the birdlike quality, free, joyous, spontaneous, that had not been there since her father’s death and the family’s downfall. She was glad that her arrangement with Donald Keith was of such a nature that she was really not bound to go on with it–if he should ever come back and remind her of what she had said. Now that Jennings was enthusiastic–giving just and deserved praise, as her own ear and Mrs. Brindley assured her, she was angry at herself for having tolerated Keith’s frankness, his insolence, his insulting and contemptuous denials of her ability. She was impatient to see him, that she might put him down. She said to Jennings:
“You think I can make a career?”
“There isn’t a doubt in my mind now,” replied he. “You ought to be one of the few great lyric sopranos within five years.”
“A man, this summer–a really unusual man in some ways–told me there was no hope for me.”
“A singing teacher?”
“No, a lawyer. A Mr. Keith–Donald Keith.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Jennings. “His mother was Rivi, the famous coloratura of twenty years ago.”
Mildred was astounded. “He must know something about music.”
“Probably,” replied Jennings. “He lived with her in Italy, I believe, until he was almost grown. Then she died. You sang for him?”
“No,” Mildred said it hesitatingly.
“Oh!” said Jennings, and his expression–interested, disturbed, puzzled–made Mildred understand why she had been so reluctant to confess. Jennings did not pursue the subject, but abruptly began the lesson. That day and several days thereafter he put her to tests he had never used before. She saw that he was searching for something–for the flaw implied in the adverse verdict of the son of Lucia Rivi. She was enormously relieved when he gave over the search without having found the flaw. She felt that Donald Keith’s verdict had been proved false or at least faulty. Yet she was not wholly reassured, and from time to time she suspected that Jennings had not been, either.
Soon the gayety of the preceding winter and spring was in full swing again. Keith did not return, did not write, and Cyrilla Brindley inquired and telephoned in vain. Mildred worked with enthusiasm, with hope, presently with confidence. She hoped every day that Keith would come; she would make him listen to her, force him to admit. She caught a slight cold, neglected it, tried to sing it away. Her voice left her abruptly. She went to Jennings as usual the day she found herself able to do nothing more musical than squeak. She told him her plight. Said he:
“Begin! Let’s hear.”
She made a few dismal attempts, stopped short, and, half laughing, half ashamed, faced him for the lecture she knew would be forthcoming. Now, it so happened that Jennings was in a frightful humor that day–one of those humors in which the most prudent lose their self-control. He had been listening to a succession of new pupils–women with money and no voice, women who screeched and screamed and thoroughly enjoyed themselves and angled confidently for compliments. As Jennings had an acute musical ear, his sufferings had been frightful. He was used to these torments, had the habit of turning the fury into which they put him into excellent financial or disciplinary account. But on this particular day his nerves went to pieces, and it was with Mildred that the explosion came. When she looked at him, she was horrified to see a face distorted and discolored by sheer rage.
“You fool!” he shouted, storming up and down. “You fool! You can’t sing! Keith was right. You wouldn’t do even for a church choir. You can’t be relied on. There’s nothing behind your voice–no strength, no endurance, no brains. No brains! Do you hear?–no brains, I say!”
Mildred was terrified. She had seen him in tantrums before, but always there had been a judicious reserving of part of the truth. Instead of resenting, instead of flashing eye or quivering lips, Mildred sat down and with white face and dazed eyes stared straight before her. Jennings raved and roared himself out. As he came to his senses from this debauch of truth-telling his first thought was how expensive it might be. Thus, long before there was any outward sign that the storm had passed, the ravings, the insults were shrewdly tempered with qualifyings. If she kept on catching these colds, if she did not obey his instructions, she might put off her debut for years–for three years, for two years at least. And she would always be rowing with managers and irritating the public–and so on and on. But the mischief had been done. The girl did not rouse.
“No use to go on to-day,” he said gruffly–the pretense at last rumblings of an expiring storm.
“Nor any other day,” said Mildred.
She stood and straightened herself. Her face was beautiful rather than lovely. Its pallor, its strong lines, the melancholy intensity of the eyes, made her seem more the woman fully developed, less, far less, the maturing girl.
“Nonsense!” scolded Jennings. “But no more colds like that. They impair the quality of the voice.”
“I have no voice,” said the girl. “I see the truth.”
Jennings was inwardly cursing his insane temper. In about the kindliest tone he had ever used with her, he said: “My dear Miss Stevens, you are in no condition to judge to-day. Come back to-morrow. Do something for that cold to-night. Clear out the throat –and come back to-morrow. You will see.”
“Yes, I know those tricks,” said she, with a sad little smile. “You can make a crow seem to sing. But you told me the truth.”
“To-morrow,” he cried pleasantly, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. He knew the folly of talking too much, the danger of confirming her fears by pretending to make light of them. “A good sleep, and to-morrow things will look brighter.”
He did not like her expression. It was not the one he was used to seeing in those vain, “temperamental” pupils of his–the downcast vanity that will be up again in a few hours. It was rather the expression of one who has been finally and forever disillusioned.
On her way home she stopped to send Keith a telegram: “I must see you at once.”
There were several at the apartment for tea, among them Cullan, an amateur violinist and critic on music whom she especially liked. For, instead of the dreamy, romantic character his large brown eyes and sensitive features suggested, he revealed in talk and actions a boyish gayety–free, be it said, from boyish silliness– that was most infectious. His was one of those souls that put us in the mood to laugh at all seriousness, to forget all else in the supreme fact of the reality of existence. He made her forget that day–forget until Keith’s answering telegram interrupted: “Next Monday afternoon.”
A week less a day away! She shrank and trembled at the prospect of relying upon herself alone for six long days. Every prop had been taken away from her. Even the dubious prop of the strange, unsatisfactory Keith. For had he not failed her? She had said, “must” and “at once”; and he had responded with three words of curt refusal.
After dinner Stanley unexpectedly appeared. He hardly waited for the necessary formalities of the greeting before he said to Mrs. Brindley: “I want to see Mildred alone. I know you won’t mind, Mrs. Brindley. It’s very important.” He laughed nervously but cheerfully. “And in a few minutes I’ll call you in. I think I’ll have something interesting to tell you.”
Mrs. Brindley laughed. With her cigarette in one hand and her cup of after-dinner coffee in the other, she moved toward the door, saying gayly to Mildred:
“I’ll be in the next room. If you scream I shall hear. So don’t be alarmed.”
Stanley closed the door, turned beaming upon Mildred. Said he: “Here’s my news. My missus has got her divorce.”
Mildred started up.
“Yes, the real thing,” he assured her. “Of course I knew what was doing. But I kept mum–didn’t want to say anything to you till I could say everything. Mildred, I’m free. We can be married to-morrow, if you will.”
“Then you know about me?” said she, confused.
“On the way I stopped in to see Keith. He told me about that skunk–told me you were free, too.”
Mildred slowly sat down. Her elbows rested upon the table. There was her bare forearm, slender and round, and her long, graceful fingers lay against her cheek. The light from above reflected charmingly from the soft waves and curves of her hair. “You’re lovely–simply lovely!” cried Stanley. “Mildred– darling–you WILL marry me, won’t you? You can go right on with the career, if you like. In fact, I’d rather you would, for I’m frightfully proud of your voice. And I’ve changed a lot since I became sincerely interested in you. The other sort of life and people don’t amuse me any more. Mildred, say you’ll marry me. I’ll make you as happy as the days are long.”
She moved slightly. Her hand dropped to the table.
“I guess I came down on you too suddenly,” said he. “You look a bit dazed.”
“No, I’m not dazed,” replied she.
“I’ll call Mrs. Brindley in, and we’ll all three talk it over.”
“Please don’t,” said she. “I’ve got to think it out for myself.”
“I know there isn’t anyone else,” he went on. “So, I’m sure–dead sure, Mildred, that I can teach you to love me.”
She looked at him pleadingly. “I don’t have to answer right away?”
“Certainly not,” laughed he. “But why shouldn’t you? What is there against our getting married? Nothing. And everything for it. Our marriage will straighten out all the–the little difficulties, and you can go ahead with the singing and not bother about money, or what people might say, or any of those things.”
“I–I’ve got to think about it, Stanley,” she said gently. “I want to do the decent thing by you and by myself.”
“You’re afraid I’ll interfere in the career–won’t want you to go on? Mildred, I swear I’m–”
“It isn’t that,” she interrupted, her color high. “The truth is–” she faltered, came to a full stop– cried, “Oh, I can’t talk about it to-night.”
“To-morrow?” he suggested.
“I–don’t know,” she stammered. “Perhaps to- morrow. But it may be two or three days.”
Stanley looked crestfallen. “That hurts, Mildred,” he said. “I was SO full of it, so anxious to be entirely happy, and I thought you’d fall right in with it. Something to do with money? You’re horribly sensitive about money, dear. I like that in you, of course. Not many women would have been as square, would have taken as little–and worked hard–and thought and cared about nothing but making good– By Jove, it’s no wonder I’m stark crazy about YOU!”
She was flushed and trembling. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “You’re beating me down into the dust. I –I’m–” She started up. “I can’t talk to-night. I might say things I’d be– I can’t talk about it. I must–”
She pressed her lips together and fled through the hall to her own room, to shut and lock herself in. He stared in amazement. When he heard the distant sound of the turning key he dropped to a chair again and laughed. Certainly women were queer creatures– always doing what one didn’t expect. Still, in the end– well, a sensible woman knew a good chance to marry and took it. There was no doubt a good deal of pretense in Mildred’s delicacy as to money matters–but a devilish creditable sort of pretense. He liked the ladylike, “nice” pretenses, of women of the right sort –liked them when they fooled him, liked them when they only half fooled him.
Presently he knocked on the door of the little library, opened it when permission came in Cyrilla’s voice. She was reading the evening paper–he did not see the glasses she hastily thrust into a drawer. In that soft light she looked a scant thirty, handsome, but for his taste too intellectual of type to be attractive–except as a friend.
“Well,” said he, as he lit a cigarette and dropped the match into the big copper ash-bowl, “I’ll bet you can’t guess what I’ve been up to.”
“Making love to Miss Stevens,” replied she. “And very foolish it is of you. She’s got a steady head in that way.”
“You’re mighty right,” said he heartily. “And I admire her for that more than for anything else. I’d trust her anywhere.”
“You’re paying yourself a high compliment,” laughed Cyrilla.
“How’s that?” inquired he. “You’re too subtle for me. I’m a bit slow.”
Mrs. Brindley decided against explaining. It was not wise to risk raising an unjust doubt in the mind of a man who fancied that a woman who resisted him would be adamant to every other man. “Then I’ve got to guess again?” said she.
“I’ve been asking her to marry me,” said Stanley, who could contain it no longer. “Mrs. B. was released from me to-day by the court in Providence.”
“But SHE’S not free,” said Cyrilla, a little severely.
Stanley looked confused, finally said: “Yes, she is. It’s a queer story. Don’t say anything. I can’t explain. I know I can trust you to keep a close mouth.”
“Minding my own business is my one supreme talent,” said Cyrilla.
“She hasn’t accepted me–in so many words,” pursued Baird, “but I’ve hopes that it’ll come out all right.”
“Naturally,” commented Cyrilla dryly.
“I know I’m not–not objectionable to her. And how I do love her!” He settled himself at his ease. “I can’t believe it’s really me. I never thought I’d marry–just for love. Did you?”
“You’re very self-indulgent,” said Cyrilla.
“You mean I’m marrying her because I can’t get her any other way. There’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Brindley. I’m marrying her because I don’t want her any other way. That’s why I know it’s love. I didn’t think I was capable of it. Of course, I’ve been rather strong after the ladies all my life. You know how it is with men.”
“I do,” said Mrs. Brindley.
“No, you don’t either,” retorted he. “You’re one of those cold, stand-me-off women who can’t comprehend the nature of man.”
“As you please,” said she. In her eyes there was a gleam that more than suggested a possibility of some man–some man she might fancy–seeing an amazingly different Cyrilla Brindley.
“I may say I was daft about pretty women,” continued Baird. “I never read an item about a pretty woman in the papers, or saw a picture of a pretty woman that I didn’t wish I knew her–well. Can you imagine that?” laughed he.
“Commonplace,” said Cyrilla. “All men are so. That’s why the papers always describe the woman as pretty and why the pictures are published.”
“Really? Yes, I suppose so.” Baird looked chagrined. “Anyhow, here I am, all for one woman. And why? I can’t explain it to myself. She’s pretty, lovely, entrancing sometimes. She has charm, grace, sweetness. She dresses well and carries herself with a kind of sweet haughtiness. She looks as if she knew a lot–and nothing bad. Do you know, I can’t imagine her having been married to that beast! I’ve tried to imagine it. I simply can’t.”
“I shouldn’t try if I were you,” said Mrs. Brindley.
“But I was talking about why I love her. Does this bore you?”
“A little,” laughed Cyrilla. “I’d rather hear some man talking about MY charms. But go on. You are amusing, in a way.”
“I’ll wager I am. You never thought I’d be caught? I believed I was immune–vaccinated against it. I thought I knew all the tricks and turns of the sex. Yet here I am!”
“What do you think caught you?”
“That’s the mystery. It’s simply that I can’t do without her. Everything she looks and says and does interests me more than anything else in the world. And when I’m not with her I’m wishing I were and wondering how she’s looking or what she’s saying or doing. You don’t think she’ll refuse me?” This last with real anxiety.
“I haven’t an idea,” replied Mrs. Brindley. “She’s –peculiar. In some moods she would. In others, she couldn’t. And I’ve never been able to settle to my satisfaction which kind of mood was the real Mary Stevens.”
“She IS queer, isn’t she?” said Stanley thoughtfully. “But I’ve told her she’d be free to go on with the career. Fact is, I want her to do it.”
Mrs. Brindley’s eyes twinkled. “You think it would justify you to your set in marrying her, if she made a great hit?”
Stanley blushed ingenuously. “I’ll not deny that has something to do with it,” he admitted. “And why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” said she. “But, after she had made the hit, you’d want her to quit the stage and take her place in society. Isn’t that so?”
“You ARE a keen one,” exclaimed he admiringly. “But I didn’t say that to her. And you won’t, will you?”
“It’s hardly necessary to ask that,” said Mrs. Brindley. “Now, suppose– You don’t mind my talking about this?”
“What I want,” replied he. “I can’t talk or think anything but her.”
“Now, suppose she shouldn’t make a hit. Suppose she should fail–should not develop reliable voice enough?”
Stanley looked frightened. “But she can’t fail,” he cried with over-energy. “There’s no question about her voice.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Brindley hastened to say. “I was simply making conversation with her as the subject.”
“Oh, I see.” Stanley settled back.
“Suppose she should prove not to be a great artist– what then?” persisted Cyrilla, who was deeply interested in the intricate obscure problem of what people really thought as distinguished from what they professed and also from what they imagined they thought.
“The fact that she’s a great artist–that’s part of her,” said Baird. “If she weren’t a great singer, she wouldn’t be she–don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Brindley with an ironic sadness which she indulged openly because there was no danger of his understanding.
“I don’t exactly love her because she amounts to a lot–or is sure to,” pursued he, vaguely dissatisfied with himself. “It’s just as she doesn’t care for me because I’ve got the means to take care of her right, yet that’s part of me–and she’d not be able to marry me if I hadn’t. Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Brindley with more irony and less sadness. “There’s always SOME reason beside love.”
“I’d say there’s always some reason FOR love,” said Baird, and he felt that he had said something brilliant– as is the habit of people of sluggish mentality when they say a thing they do not themselves understand. “You don’t doubt that I love her?” he went on. “Why should I ask her to marry me if I didn’t?”
“I suppose that settles it,” said Cyrilla.
“Of course it does,” declared he.
For an hour he sat there, talking on, most of it a pretty dull kind of drivel. Mrs. Brindley listened patiently, because she liked him and because she had nothing else to do until bedtime. At last he rose with a long sigh and said:
“I guess I might as well be going.”
“She’ll not come in to-night again,” said Cyrilla slyly.
He laughed. “You are a good one. I’ll own up, I’ve been staying on partly in the hope that she’d come back. But it’s been a great joy to talk to you about her. I know you love her, too.”
“Yes, I’m extremely fond of her,” said she. “I’ve not known many women–many people without petty mean tricks. She’s one.”
“Isn’t she, though?” exclaimed he.
“I don’t mean she’s perfect,” said Mrs. Brindley. “I don’t even mean that she’s as angelic as you think her. I’d not like her, if she were. But she’s a superior kind of human.”
She was tired of him now, and got him out speedily. As she closed the front door upon him, Mildred’s door, down the hall, opened. Her head appeared, an inquiring look upon her face. Mrs. Brindley nodded. Mil- dred, her hair done close to her head, a dressing-robe over her nightgown and her bare feet in little slippers, came down the hall. She coiled herself up in a big chair in the library and lit a cigarette. She looked like a handsome young boy.
“He told you?” she said to Mrs. Brindley.
“Yes,” replied Cyrilla.
Silence. In all their intimate acquaintance there had never been an approach to the confidential on either side. It was Cyrilla’s notion that confidences were a mistake, and that the more closely people were thrown together the more resolutely they ought to keep certain barriers between them. She and Mildred got on too admirably, liked each other too well, for there to be any trifling with their relations–and over-intimacy inevitably led to trifling. Mildred had restrained herself because Mrs. Brindley had compelled it by rigid example. Often she had longed to talk things over, to ask advice; but she had never ventured further than generalities, and Mrs. Brindley had never proffered advice, had never accepted opportunities to give it except in the vaguest way. She had taught Mildred a great deal, but always by example, by doing, never by saying what ought or ought not to be done. Thus, such development of Mildred’s character as there had been was natural and permanent.
“He has put me in a peculiar position,” said Mildred. “Or, rather, I have let myself drift into a peculiar position. For I think you’re right in saying that oneself is always to blame. Won’t you let me talk about it to you, please? I know you hate confidences. But I’ve got to–to talk. I’d like you to advise me, if you can. But even if you don’t, it’ll do me good to say things aloud.”
“Often one sees more clearly,” was Cyrilla’s reply– noncommittal, yet not discouraging.
“I’m free to marry him,” Mildred went on. “That is, I’m not married. I’d rather not explain–”
“Don’t,” said Mrs. Brindley. “It’s unnecessary.”
“You know that it’s Stanley who has been lending me the money to live on while I study. Well, from the beginning I’ve been afraid I’d find myself in a difficult position.”
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Brindley, as she paused.
“But I’ve always expected it to come in another way–not about marriage, but–”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Brindley. “You feared you’d be called on to pay in the way women usually pay debts to men.”
Mildred nodded. “But this is worse than I expected –much worse.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Cyrilla. “Yes, you’re right. If he had hinted the other thing, you could have pretended not to understand. If he had suggested it, you could have made him feel cheap and mean.”
“I did,” said Mildred. “He has been–really wonderful–better than almost any man would have been– more considerate than I deserved. And I took advantage of it.”
“A woman has to,” said Cyrilla. “The fight between men and women is so unequal.”
“I took advantage of him,” repeated Mildred. “And he apologized, and I–I went on taking the money. I didn’t know what else to do. Isn’t that dreadful?”
“Nothing to be proud of,” said Cyrilla. “But a very usual transaction.”
“And then,” pursued Mildred, “I discovered that I–that I’d not be able to make a career. But still I kept on, though I’ve been trying to force myself to– to show some pride and self-respect. I discovered it only a short time ago, and it wasn’t really until to-day that I was absolutely sure.”
“You ARE sure?”
“There’s hardly a doubt,” replied Mildred. “But never mind that now. I’ve got to make a living at something, and while I’m learning whatever it is, I’ve got to have money to live on. And I can get it only from him. Now, he asks me to marry him. He wouldn’t ask me if he didn’t think I was going to be a great singer. He doesn’t know it, but I do.”
Mrs. Brindley smiled sweetly.
“And he thinks that I love him, also. If I accept him, it will be under doubly false pretenses. If I refuse him I’ve got to stop taking the money.”
A long silence; then Mrs. Brindley said: “Women– the good ones, too–often feel that they’ve a right to treat men as men treat them. I think almost any woman would feel justified in putting off the crisis.”
“You mean, I might tell him I’d give him my answer when I was independent and had paid back.”
Cyrilla nodded. Mildred relit her cigarette, which she had let go out. “I had thought of that,” said she. “But–I doubt if he’d tolerate it. Also”–she laughed with the peculiar intonation that accompanies the lifting of the veil over a deeply and carefully hidden corner of one’s secret self–“I am afraid. If I don’t marry him, in a few weeks, or months at most, he’ll probably find out that I shall never be a great singer, and then I’d not be able to marry him if I wished to.”
“He IS a temptation,” said Cyrilla. “That is, his money is–and he personally is very nice.”
“I married a man I didn’t care for,” pursued Mildred. “I don’t want ever to do that again. It is– even in the best circumstances–not agreeable, not as simple as it looks to the inexperienced girls who are always doing it.”
“Still, a woman can endure that sort of thing,” said Mrs. Brindley, “unless she happens to be in love with another man.” She was observing the unconscious Mildred narrowly, a state of inward tension and excitement hinted in her face, but not in her voice.
“That’s just it?” said Mildred, her face carefully averted. “I–I happen to be in love with another man.”
A spasm of pain crossed Cyrilla’s face.
“A man who cares nothing about me–and never will. He’s just a friend–so much the friend that he couldn’t possibly think of me as–as a woman, needing him and wanting him”–her eyes were on fire now, and a soft glow had come into her cheeks–“and never daring to show it because if I did he would fly and never let me see him again.”
Cyrilla Brindley’s face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair. She sighed covertly. “You are lovely,” she said, “and young–above all, young.”
“This man is peculiar,” replied Mildred forlornly. “Anyhow, he doesn’t want ME. He knows me for the futile, weak, worthless creature I am. He saw through my bluff, even before I saw through it myself. If it weren’t for him, I could go ahead–do the sensible thing–do as women usually do. But–” She came to a full stop.
“Love is a woman’s sense of honor,” said Cyrilla softly. “We’re merciless and unscrupulous–anything– everything–where we don’t love. But where we do love, we’ll go farther for honor than the most honorable man. That’s why we’re both worse and better than men–and seem to be so contradictory and puzzling.”
“I’d do anything for him,” said Mildred. She smiled drearily. “And he wants nothing.”
She had nothing more to say. She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken. As she rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla. Then, with a sudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her. “Thank you–so much,” she said. “You’ve done me a world of good. Saying it all out loud before YOU has made me see. I know my own mind, now.”
She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla’s face as she said, “Good night, Mildred.” But she did note the use of her first name–and her own right first name–for the first time since they had known each other. She embraced and kissed her again. “Good night, Cyrilla,” she said gratefully.
As she entered Jennings’s studio the next day he looked at her; and when Jennings looked, he saw–as must anyone who lives well by playing upon human nature. He did not like her expression. She did not habitually smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not show themselves in that inane way. But this seriousness of hers was of a new kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety and saneness of soul. And that kind of seriousness– the deep, inward gravity of a person whose days of trifling with themselves and with the facts of life, and of being trifled with, are over–would have impressed Jennings equally had she come in laughing, had her every word been a jest.
“No, I didn’t come for a lesson–at least not the usual kind,” said she.
He was not one to yield without a struggle. Also he wished to feel his way to the meaning of this new mood. He put her music on the rack. “We’ll begin where we–”
“This half-hour of your time is mine, is it not?” said she quietly. “Let’s not waste any of it. Yesterday you told me that I could not hope to make a career because my voice is unreliable. Why is it unreliable?”
“Because you have a delicate throat,” replied he, yielding at once where he instinctively knew he could not win.
“Then why can I sing so well sometimes?”
“Because your throat is in good condition some days –in perfect condition.”
“It’s the colds then–and the slight attacks of colds?”
“Certainly.”
“If I did not catch colds–if I kept perfectly well –could I rely on my voice?”
“But that’s impossible,” said he.
“Why?”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“Then I haven’t the physical strength for a career?”
“That–and also you are lacking in muscular development. But after several years of lessons–”
“If I developed my muscles–if I became strong–”
“Most of the great singers come from the lower classes–from people who do manual labor. They did manual labor in their youth. You girls of the better class have to overcome that handicap.”
“But so many of the great singers are fat.”
“Yes, and under that fat you’ll find great ropes of muscle–like a blacksmith.”
“What Keith meant,” she said. “I wonder– Why do I catch cold so easily? Why do I almost always have a slight catch in the throat? Have you noticed that I nearly always have to clear my throat just a little?”
Her expression held him. He hesitated, tried to evade, gave it up. “Until that passes, you can never hope to be a thoroughly reliable singer,” said he.
“That is, I can’t hope to make a career?”
His silence was assent.
“But I have the voice?”
“You have the voice.”
“An unusual voice?”
“Yes, but not so unusual as might be thought. As a matter of fact, there are thousands of fine voices. The trouble is in reliability. Only a few are reliable.”
She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “I begin to understand what Mr. Keith meant,” she said. “I begin to see what I have to do, and how–how impossible it is.”
“By no means,” declared Jennings. “If I did not think otherwise, I’d not be giving my time to you.”
She looked at him gravely. His eyes shifted, then returned defiantly, aggressively. She said:
“You can’t help me to what I want. So this is my last lesson–for the present. I may come back some day–when I am ready for what you have to give.”
“You are going to give up?”
“Oh, no–oh, dear me, no,” replied she. “I realize that you’re laughing in your sleeve as I say so, because you think I’ll never get anywhere. But you–and Mr. Keith–may be mistaken.” She drew from her muff a piece of music–the “Batti Batti,” from “Don Giovanni.” “If you please,” said she, “we’ll spend the rest of my time in going over this. I want to be able to sing it as well as possible.”
He looked searchingly at her. “If you wish,” said he. “But I doubt if you’ll be able to sing at all.”
“On the contrary, my cold’s entirely gone,” replied she. “I had an exciting evening, I doctored myself before I went to bed, and three or four times in the night. I found, this morning, that I could sing.”
And it was so. Never had she sung better. “Like a true artist!” he declared with an enthusiasm that had a foundation of sincerity. “You know, Miss Stevens, you came very near to having that rarest of all gifts– a naturally placed voice. If you hadn’t had singing teachers as a girl to make you self-conscious and to teach you wrong, you’d have been a wonder.”
“I may get it back,” said Mildred.
“That never happens,” replied he. “But I can almost do it.”
He coached her for half an hour straight ahead, sending the next pupil into the adjoining room–an unprecedented transgression of routine. He showed her for the first time what a teacher he could be, when he wished. There was an astonishing difference between her first singing of the song and her sixth and last–for they went through it carefully five times. She thanked him and then put out her hand, saying:
“This is a long good-by.”
“To-morrow,” replied he, ignoring her hand.
“No. My money is all gone. Besides, I have no time for amateur trifling.”
“Your lessons are paid for until the end of the month. This is only the nineteenth.”
“Then you are so much in.” Again she put out her hand.
He took it. “You owe me an explanation.”
She smiled mockingly. “As a friend of mine says, don’t ask questions to which you already know the answer.”
And she departed, the smile still on her charming face, but the new seriousness beneath it. As she had anticipated, she found Stanley Baird waiting for her in the drawing-room of the apartment. Being by habit much interested in his own emotions and not at all in the emotions of others, he saw only the healthful radiance the sharp October air had put into her cheeks and eyes. Certainly, to look at Mildred Gower was to get no impression of lack of health and strength. Her glance wavered a little at sight of him, then the expression of firmness came back.
“You look like that picture you gave me a long time ago,” said he. “Do you remember it?”
She did not.
“It has a–different expression,” he went on. “I don’t think I’d have noticed it but for Keith. I happened to show it to him one day, and he stared at it in that way he has–you know?”
“Yes, I know,” said Mildred. She was seeing those uncanny, brilliant, penetrating eyes, in such startling contrast to the calm, lifeless coloring and classic chiseling of features.
“And after a while he said, `So, THAT’S Miss Stevens!’ And I asked him what he meant, and he took one of your later photos and put the two side by side. To my notion the later was a lot the more attractive, for the face was rounder and softer and didn’t have a certain kind of–well, hardness, as if you had a will and could ride rough shod. Not that you look so frightfully unattractive.”
“I remember the picture,” interrupted Mildred. “It was taken when I was twenty–just after an illness.”
“The face WAS thin,” said Stanley. “Keith called it a `give away.’ ”
“I’d like to see it,” said Mildred.
“I’ll try to find it. But I’m afraid I can’t. I haven’t seen it since I showed it to Keith, and when I hunted for it the other day, it didn’t turn up. I’ve changed valets several times in the last six months–”
But Mildred had ceased listening. Keith had seen the picture, had called it a “give away,” had been interested in it–and the picture had disappeared. She laughed at her own folly, yet she was glad Stanley had given her this chance to make up a silly day-dream. She waited until he had exhausted himself on the subject of valets, their drunkenness, their thievish habits, their incompetence, then she said:
“I took my last lesson from Jennings to-day.”
“What’s the matter? Do you want to change? You didn’t say anything about it? Isn’t he good?”
“Good enough. But I’ve discovered that my voice isn’t reliable, and unless one has a reliable voice there’s no chance for a grand-opera career–or for comic opera, either.”
Stanley was straightway all agitation and protest. “Who put that notion in your head? There’s nothing in it, Mildred. Jennings is crazy about your voice, and he knows.”
“Jennings is after the money,” replied Mildred. “What I’m saying is the truth. Stanley, our beautiful dream of a career has winked out.”
His expression was most revealing.
“And,” she went on, “I’m not going to take any more of your money–and, of course, I’ll pay back what I’ve borrowed when I can”–she smiled–“which may not be very soon.”
“What’s all this about, anyhow?” demanded he. “I don’t see any sign of it in your face. You wouldn’t take it so coolly if it were so.”
“I don’t understand why I’m not wringing my hands and weeping,” replied she. “Every few minutes I tell myself that I ought to be. But I stay quite calm. I suppose I’m–sort of stupefied.”
“Do you really mean that you’ve given up?” cried he.
“It’s no use to waste the money, Stanley. I’ve got the voice, and that’s what deceived us all. But there’s nothing BEHIND the voice. With a great singer the greatness is in what’s behind the voice, not in the voice itself.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” cried he violently. “You’ve been discouraged by a little cold. Everybody has colds. Why, in this climate the colds are always getting the Metropolitan singers down.”
“But they’ve got strong throats, and my throat’s delicate.”
“You must go to a better climate. You ought to be abroad, anyhow. That was part of my plan–for us to go abroad–” He stopped in confusion, reddened, went bravely on–“and you to study there and make your debut.”
Mildred shook her head. “That’s all over,” said she. “I’ve got to change my plans entirely.”
“You’re a little depressed, that’s all. For a minute you almost convinced me. What a turn you did give me! I forgot how your voice sounded the last time