IV

AT the pier Mildred sent her mother a telegram, giving the train by

which she would arrive--that and nothing more. As she descended from

the parlor-car there stood Mrs. Presbury upon the platform, face

wreathed in the most joyous of welcoming smiles, not a surface trace of

the curiosity and alarm storming within. After they had kissed and

embraced with a genuine emotion which they did not try to hide, because

both suddenly became unconscious of that world whereof ordinarily they

were constantly mindful--after caresses and tears Mrs. Presbury said:

"It's all very well to dress plain, when everyone knows you can afford

the best. But don't you think you're overdoing it a little?"

Mildred laughed somewhat nervously. "Wait till we're safe at home,"

said she.

On the way up from the station in the carriage they chattered away in

the liveliest fashion, to make the proper impression upon any observing

Hanging-Rockers. "Luckily, Presbury's gone to town to-day," said his

wife. "But really he's quite livable--hasn't gone back to his old

ways. He doesn't know it, but he's rapidly growing deaf. He imagines

that everyone is speaking more and more indistinctly, and he has lost

interest in conversation. Then, too, he has done well in Wall Street,

and that has put him in a good humor."

"He'll not be surprised to see me--alone," said Mildred.

"Wait till we're home," said her mother nervously.

At the house Mrs. Presbury carried on a foolish, false-sounding

conversation for the benefit of the servants, and finally conducted

Mildred to her bedroom and shut doors and drew portieres and glanced

into closets before saying: "Now, what IS the matter, Millie? WHERE is

your husband?"

"In Paris, I suppose," replied Mildred. "I have left him, and I shall

never go back."

"Presbury said you would!" cried her mother. "But I didn't believe it.

I don't believe it. I brought you up to do your duty, and I know you

will."

This was Mildred's first opportunity for frank and plain speaking; and

that is highly conducive to frank and plain thinking. She now began to

see clearly why she had quit the general. Said she: "Mamma, to be

honest and not mince words, I've left him because there's nothing in

it."

"Isn't he rich?" inquired her mother. "I've always had a kind of

present--"

"Oh, he's rich, all right," interrupted the girl. "But he saw to it

that I got no benefit from that."

"But you wrote me how he was buying you everything!"

"So I thought. In fact he was buying ME nothing." And she went on to

explain the general's system.

Her mother listened impatiently. She would have interrupted the long

and angry recital many times had not Mildred insisted on a full hearing

of her grievances, of the outrages that had been heaped upon her.

"And," she ended, "I suppose he's got it so arranged that he could have

me arrested as a thief for taking the gold bag."

"Yes, it's terrible and all that," said her mother. "But I should have

thought living with me here when Presbury was carrying on so dreadfully

would have taught you something. Your case isn't an exception, any

more than mine is. That's the sort of thing we women have to put up

with from men, when we're in their power."

"Not I," said Mildred loftily.

"Yes, you," retorted her mother. "ANY woman. EVERY woman. Unless we

have money of our own, we all have trouble with the men about money,

sooner or later, in one way or another. And rich men!--why, it's

notorious that they're always more or less mean about money. A wife has

got to use tact. Why, I even had to use some tact with your father,

and he was as generous a man as ever lived. Tact--that's a woman's

whole life. You ought to have used tact. You'll go back to him and use

tact."

"You don't know him, mamma!" cried Mildred. "He's a monster. He isn't

human."

Mrs. Presbury drew a long face and said in a sad, soothing voice: "Yes,

I know, dear. Men are very, very awful, in some ways, to a nice

woman--with refined, ladylike instincts. It's a great shock to a

pure--"

"Oh, gammon!" interrupted Mildred. "Don't be silly, mother. It isn't

worth while for one woman to talk that kind of thing to another. I

didn't fully know what I was doing when I married a man I didn't

love--a man who was almost repulsive to me. But I knew enough. And I

was getting along well enough, as any woman does, no matter what she

may say--yes, you needn't look shocked, for that's hypocrisy, and I

know it now-- But, as I was saying, I didn't begin to HATE him until

he tried to make a slave of me. A slave!" she shuddered. "He's a

monster!"

"A little tact, and you can get everything you want," insisted her

mother.

"I tell you, you don't know the man," cried Mildred. "By tact I suppose

you mean I could have sold things behind his back--and all that." She

laughed. "He hasn't got any back. He had it so arranged that those

cold, wicked eyes of his were always watching me. His second wife

tried 'tact.' He caught her and drove her into the streets. I'd have

had no chance to get a cent, and if I had gotten it I'd not have dared

spend it. Do you imagine I ran away from him without having THOUGHT?

If there'd been any way of staying on, any way of making things even

endurable, I'd have stayed."

"But you've got to go back, Milly," cried her mother, in tears.

"You mean that you can't support me?"

"And your brother Frank--" Mrs. Presbury's eyes flashed and her rather

stout cheeks quivered. "I never thought I'd tell anybody, but I'll

tell you. I never liked your brother Frank, and he never liked me.

That sounds dreadful, doesn't it?"

"No, mother dear," said Mildred gently. "I've learned that life isn't

at all as--as everybody pretends."

"Indeed it isn't," said her mother. "Mothers always have favorites

among their children, and very often a mother dislikes one of her

children. Of course she hides her feeling and does her duty. But all

the same she can't help the feeling that is down in her heart. I had a

presentiment before he was born that I wouldn't like him, and sure

enough, I didn't. And he didn't like me, or his father, or any of us."

"It would never occur to me to turn to him," said Mildred.

"Then you see that you've got to go back to the general. You can't get

a divorce and alimony, for it was you that left him--and for no cause.

He was within his rights."

Mildred hesitated, confessed: "I had thought of going back to him and

acting in such a way that he'd be glad to give me a divorce and an

allowance."

"Yes, you might do that," said her mother. "A great many women do.

And, after all, haven't they a right to? A lady has got to have proper

support, and is it just to ask her to live with a man she loathes?"

"I haven't thought of the right or wrong of it," said Mildred. "It

looks to me as though right and wrong have very little to do with life

as it's lived. They're for hypocrites--and fools."

"Mildred!" exclaimed her mother, deeply shocked.

Mildred was not a little shocked at her own thoughts as she inspected

them in the full light into which speech had dragged them. "Anyhow,"

she went on, "I soon saw that such a plan was hopeless. He's not the

man to be trifled with. Long before I could drive him to give me a

living and let me go he would have driven me to flight or suicide."

Her mother had now had time to reflect upon Mildred's revelations.

Aided by the impressions she herself had gotten of the little general,

she began to understand why her daughter had fled and why she would not

return. She felt that the situation was one which time alone could

solve. Said she: "Well, the best thing is for you to stay on here and

wait until he makes some move."

"He'll have me watched--that's all he'll do," said Mildred. "When he

gets ready he'll divorce me for deserting him."

Mrs. Presbury felt that she was right. But, concealing her

despondency, she said: "All we can do is to wait and see. You must

send for your luggage."

"I've nothing but a large bag," said Mildred. "I checked it in the

parcel-room of the New York station."

Mrs. Presbury was overwhelmed. How account to Hanging Rock for the

reappearance of a baggageless and husbandless bride? But she held up

bravely. With a cheerfulness that did credit to her heart and showed

how well she loved her daughter she said: "We must do the best we can.

We'll get up some story."

"No," said Mildred. "I'm going back to New York. You can tell people

here what you please--that I've gone to rejoin him or to wait for

him--any old thing."

"At least you'll wait and talk with Presbury," pleaded her mother. "He

is VERY sensible."

"If he has anything to suggest," said Mildred, "he can write it. I'll

send you my address."

"Milly," cried her mother, agitated to the depths, "where ARE you

going? WHAT are you going to do? You look so strange--not at all like

yourself."

"I'm going to a hotel to-night--probably to a boarding-house

to-morrow," said Mildred. "In a few days I shall begin to--" she

hesitated, decided against confidence--"begin to support myself at

something or other."

"You must be crazy!" cried her mother. "You wouldn't do anything--and

you couldn't."

"Let's not discuss it, mamma," said the girl tranquilly.

The mother looked at her with eyes full of the suspicion one lady

cannot but have as to the projects of another lady in such

circumstances.

"Mildred," she said pleadingly, "you must be careful. You'll find

yourself involved in a dreadful scandal. I know you wouldn't DO

anything WRONG no matter how you were driven. But--"

"I'll not do anything FOOLISH, mamma," interrupted the girl. "You are

thinking about men, aren't you?"

"Men are always ready to destroy a woman," said her mother. "You must

be careful--"

Mildred was laughing. "Oh, mamma," she cried, "do be sensible and do

give me credit for a little sense. I've got a very clear idea of what

a woman ought to do about men, and I assure you I'm not going to be

FOOLISH. And you know a woman who isn't foolish can be trusted where a

woman who's only protected by her principles would yield to the first

temptation--or hunt round for a temptation."

"But you simply can't go to New York and live there all alone--and with

nothing!"

"Can I stay here--for more than a few days?"

"But maybe, after a few days--" stammered her mother.

"You see, I've got to begin," said Mildred. "So why delay? I'd gain

nothing. I'd simply start Hanging Rock to gossiping--and start Mr.

Presbury to acting like a fiend again."

Her mother refused to be convinced--was the firmer, perhaps, because

she saw that Mildred was unshakable in her resolve to leave

forthwith--the obviously sensible and less troublesome course. They

employed the rest of Mildred's three hours' stop in arguing--when

Mildred was not raging against the little general. Her mother was more

than willing to assist her in this denunciation, but Mildred preferred

to do it all herself. She had--perhaps by unconsciously absorbed

training from her lawyer father--an unusual degree of ability to see

both sides of a question. When she assailed her husband, she saw only

her own side; but somehow when her mother railed and raved, she began

to see another side--and the sight was not agreeable. She wished to

feel that her husband was altogether in the wrong; she did not wish to

have intruded upon her such facts as that she had sold herself to

him--quite in the customary way of ladies, but nevertheless quite

shamelessly--or that in strict justice she had done nothing for him to

entitle her to a liberal money allowance or any allowance at all.

On the train, going back to New York, she admitted to herself that the

repulsive little general had held strictly to the terms of the

bargain--"but only a devil and one with not a single gentlemanly

instinct would insist on such a bargain." It took away much of the

shame, and all of the sting, of despising herself to feel that she was

looking still lower when she turned to despising him.

To edge out the little general she began to think of her mother, but as

she passed in review what her mother had said and how she had said it

she saw that for all the protests and arguings her mother was more than

resigned to her departure. Mildred felt no bitterness; ever since she

could remember her mother had been a shifter of responsibility. Still,

to stare into the face of so disagreeable a fact as that one had no

place on earth to go to, no one on earth to turn to, not even one's own

mother--to stare on at that grimacing ugliness did not tend to

cheerfulness. Mildred tried to think of the future--but how could she

think of something that was nothing? She knew that she would go on,

somehow, in some direction, but by no effort of her imagination could

she picture it. She was so impressed by the necessity of considering

the future that, to rouse herself, she tried to frighten herself with

pictures of poverty and misery, of herself a derelict in the vast and

cold desert of New York--perhaps in rags, hungry, ill, but all in vain.

She did not believe it. Always she had had plenty to wear and to eat,

and comfortable surroundings. She could no more think of herself as

without those things than a living person can imagine himself dead.

"I'm a fool," she said to herself. "I'm certain to get into all sorts

of trouble. How can it be otherwise, when I've no money, no friends,

no experience, no way of making a living--no honest way--perhaps no way

of the other kind, either?" There are many women who ecstasize their

easily tickled vanities by fancying that if they were so disposed they

need only flutter an eyelid to have men by the legion striving for

their favors, each man with a bag of gold. Mildred, inexperienced as

she was, had no such delusions. Her mind happened not to be of that

chastely licentious caste which continually revolves and fantastically

exaggerates the things of the body.

She could not understand her own indifference about the future. She

did not realize that it was wholly due to Stanley Baird's offer. She

was imagining she was regarding that offer as something she might

possibly consider, but probably would not. She did not know that her

soul had seized upon it, had enfolded it and would on no account let it

go. It is the habit of our secret selves thus to make decisions and

await their own good time for making us acquainted with them.

With her bag on the seat beside her she set out to find a temporary

lodging. Not until several hotels had refused her admittance on the

pretext that they were "full up" did she realize that a young woman

alone is an object of suspicion in New York. When a fourth room-clerk

expressed his polite regrets she looked him straight in the eye and

said:

"I understand. But I can't sleep in the street. You must tell me

where I can go."

"Well, there's the Ripon over in Seventh Avenue," said he.

"Is it respectable?" said she.

"Oh, it's very clean and comfortable there," said he. "They'll treat

you right."

"Is it respectable?" said she.

"Well, now, it doesn't LOOK queer, if that's what you mean," replied

he. "You'll do very nicely there. You can be just as quiet as you

want."

She saw that hotel New York would not believe her respectable. So to

the Ripon she went, and was admitted without discussion. As the last

respectable clerk had said, it did not LOOK queer. But it FELT queer;

she resolved that she would go into a boarding-house the very next day.

Here again what seemed simple proved difficult. No respectable

boarding-house would have Miss Mary Stevens. She was confident that

nothing in her dress or manner hinted mystery. Yet those sharp-eyed

landladies seemed to know at once that there was something peculiar

about her. Most of them became rude the instant they set eyes upon

her. A few--of the obviously less prosperous class--talked with her,

seemed to be listening for something which her failing to say decided

them upon all but ordering her out of the house. She, hindered by her

innocence, was slow in realizing that she could not hope for admission

to any select respectable circle, even of high-class salesladies and

clerks, unless she gave a free and clear account of herself--whence she

had come, what she was doing, how she got her money.

Toward the end of the second day's wearisome and humiliating search she

found a house that would admit her. It was a pretentious,

well-furnished big house in Madison Avenue. The price--thirty-five

dollars a week for board, a bedroom with a folding bed in an alcove,

and a bath, was more than double what she had counted on paying, but

she discovered that decent and clean lodgings and food fit to eat were

not to be had for less. "And I simply can't live pig-fashion," said

she. "I'd be so depressed that I could do nothing. I can't live like

a wild animal, and I won't." She had some vague

notion--foreboding--that this was not the proper spirit with which to

face life. "I suppose I'm horribly foolish," reflected she, "but if I

must go down, I'll go down with my colors flying." She did not know

precisely what that phrase meant, but it sounded fine and brave and

heartened her to take the expensive lodgings.

The landlady was a Mrs. Belloc. Mildred had not talked with her twenty

minutes before she had a feeling that this name was assumed. The

evening of her first day in the house she learned that her guess was

correct--learned it from the landlady herself. After dinner Mrs.

Belloc came into her room to cheer her up, to find out about her and to

tell her about herself.

"Now that you've come," said she, "the house is full up--except some

little rooms at the top that I'd as lief not fill. The probabilities

are that any ladies who would take them wouldn't be refined enough to

suit those I have. There are six, not counting me, every one with a

bath and two with private parlors. And as they're all handsome,

sensible women, ladylike and steady, I think the prospects are that

they'll pay promptly and that I won't have any trouble."

Mildred reflected upon this curious statement. It sounded innocent

enough, yet what a peculiar way to put a simple fact.

"Of course it's none of my business how people live as long as they

keep up the respectabilities," pursued Mrs. Belloc. "It don't do to

inquire into people in New York. Most of 'em come here because they

want to live as they please."

"No doubt," said Mildred a little nervously, for she suspected her

landlady of hitting at her, and wondered if she had come to

cross-examine her and, if the results were not satisfactory, to put her

into the street.

"I know _I_ came for that reason," pursued Mrs. Belloc. "I was a

school-teacher up in New England until about two years ago. Did you

ever teach school?"

"Not yet," said Mildred. "And I don't think I ever shall. I don't

know enough."

"Oh, yes, you do. A teacher doesn't need to know much. The wages are

so poor--at least up in New England--that they don't expect you to know

anything. It's all in the books. I left because I couldn't endure the

life. Lord! how dull those little towns are! Ever live in a little

town?"

"All my life," said Mildred.

"Well, you'll never go back."

"I hope not."

"You won't. Why should you? A sensible woman with looks--especially

if she knows how to carry her clothes--can stay in New York as long as

she pleases, and live off the fat of the land."

"That's good news," said Mildred. She began to like the landlady--not

for what she said, but for the free and frank and friendly way of the

saying--a human way, a comradely way, a live-and-let-live way.

"I didn't escape from New England without a struggle," continued Mrs.

Belloc, who was plainly showing that she had taken a great fancy to

"Mary Stevens."

"I suppose it was hard to save the money out of your salary," said

Mildred.

Mrs. Belloc laughed. She was about thirty-five years old, though her

eyes and her figure were younger than that. Her mouth was pleasant

enough, but had lost some of its freshness. "Save money!" cried she.

"I'd never have succeeded that way. I'd be there yet. I had never

married--had two or three chances, but all from poor sticks looking for

someone to support them. I saw myself getting old. I was looking

years older than I do now. Talk about sea air for freshening a woman

up--it isn't in it with the air of New York. Here's the town where

women stay young. If I had come here five years ago I could almost try

for the squab class."

"Squab class?" queried Mildred.

"Yes, squabs. Don't you see them around everywhere?--the women dressed

like girls of sixteen to eighteen--and some of them are that, and

younger. They go hopping and laughing about--and they seem to please

the men and to have no end of a good time. Especially the oldish men.

Oh, yes, you know a squab on sight--tight skirt, low shoes and silk

stockings, cute pretty face, always laughing, hat set on rakishly and

hair done to match, and always a big purse or bag--with a yellow-back

or so in it--as a kind of a hint, I guess."

Mildred had seen squabs. "I've envied them--in a way," said she.

"Their parents seem to let them do about as they please."

"Their parents don't know--or don't care. Sometimes it's one,

sometimes the other. They travel in two sets. One is where they meet

young fellows of their own class--the kind they'll probably marry,

unless they happen to draw the capital prize. The other set they

travel in--well, it's the older men they meet round the swell hotels

and so on--the yellow-back men."

"How queer!" exclaimed Mildred, before whose eyes a new world was

opening. "But how do they--these--squabs--account for the money?"

"How do a thousand and one women in this funny town account at home for

money and things?" retorted Mrs. Belloc. "Nothing's easier. For

instance, often these squabs do--or pretend to do--a little something

in the way of work--a little canvassing or artists' model or anything

you please. That helps them to explain at home--and also to make each

of the yellow-back men think he's the only one and that he's being

almost loved for himself alone."

Mrs. Belloc laughed. Mildred was too astonished to laugh, and too

interested--and too startled or shocked.

"But I was telling you how _I_ got down here," continued the landlady.

"Up in my town there was an old man--about seventy-five--close as the

bark on a tree, and ugly and mean." She paused to draw a long breath

and to shake her head angrily yet triumphantly at some figure her fancy

conjured up. "Oh, he WAS a pup!--and is! Well, anyhow, I decided that

I'd marry him. So I wrote home for fifty dollars. I borrowed another

fifty here and there. I had seventy-five saved up against sickness. I

went up to Boston and laid it all out in underclothes and house

things--not showy but fine and good to look at. Then one day, when the

weather was fine and I knew the old man would be out in his buggy

driving round--I dressed myself up to beat the band. I took hours to

it--scrubbing, powdering, sacheting, perfuming, fixing the hair, fixing

my finger-nails, fixing up my feet, polishing every nail and making

them look better than most hands."

Mildred was so interested that she was excited. What strange freak was

coming?

"You never could guess," pursued Mrs. Belloc, complacently. "I took my

sunshade and went out, all got up to kill. And I walked along the road

until I saw the old man's buggy coming with him in it. Then I gave my

ankle a frightful wrench. My! How it hurt!"

"What a pity!" said Mildred sympathetically. "What a shame!"

"A pity? A shame?" cried Mrs. Belloc, laughing. "Why, my dear, I did

it a-purpose."

"On purpose!" exclaimed Mildred.

"Certainly. That was my game. I screamed out with pain--and the

scream was no fake, I can tell you. And I fell down by the roadside on

a nice grassy spot where no dust would get on me. Well, up comes the

old skinflint in his buggy. He climbed down and helped me get off my

slipper and stocking. I knew I had him the minute I saw his old face

looking at that foot I had fixed up so beautifully."

"How DID you ever think of it?" exclaimed Mildred.

"Go and teach school for ten years in a dull little town, my dear--and

look in the glass every day and see your youth fading away--and you'll

think of most anything. Well, to make a long story short, the old man

took me in the buggy to his house where he lived with his deaf,

half-blind old widowed daughter. I had to stay there three weeks. I

married him the fourth week. And just two months to a day from the

afternoon I sprained my ankle, he gave me fifty dollars a week--all

signed and sealed by a lawyer--to go away and leave him alone. I might

have stood out for more, but I was too anxious to get to New York. And

here I am!" She gazed about the well-furnished room, typical of that

almost luxurious house, with an air of triumphant satisfaction. Said

she: "I've no patience with a woman who says she can't get on. Where's

her brains?"

Mildred was silent. Perhaps it was a feeling of what was hazily in the

younger woman's mind and a desire to answer it that led Mrs. Belloc to

say further: "I suppose there's some that would criticize my way of

getting there. But I want to know, don't all women get there by

working men? Only most of them are so stupid that they have to go on

living with the man. I think it's low to live with a man you hate."

"Oh, I'm not criticizing anybody," said Mildred.

"I didn't think you were," said Mrs. Belloc. "If I hadn't seen you

weren't that kind, I'd not have been so confidential. Not that I'm

secretive with anybody. I say and do what I please. Anyone who doesn't

like my way or me can take the other side of the street. I didn't come

to New York to go in society. I came here to LIVE."

Mildred looked at her admiringly. There were things about Mrs. Belloc

that she did not admire; other things--suspected rather than known

things--that she knew she would shrink from, but she heartily admired

and profoundly envied her utter indifference to the opinion of others,

her fine independent way of walking her own path at her own gait.

"I took this boarding-house," Mrs. Belloc went on, "because I didn't

want to be lonesome. I don't like all--or even most of--the ladies

that live here. But they're all amusing to talk with--and don't put on

airs except with their men friends. And one or two are the real

thing--good-hearted, fond of a joke, without any meanness. I tell you,

New York is a mighty fine place if you get 'in right.' Of course, if

you don't, it's h-e-l-l." (Mrs. Belloc took off its unrefined edge by

spelling it.) "But what place isn't?" she added.

"And your husband never bothers you?" inquired Mildred.

"And never will," replied Mrs. Belloc. "When he dies I'll come into a

little more--about a hundred and fifty a week in all. Not a fortune,

but enough with what the boarding-house brings in. I'm a pretty fair

business woman."

"I should say so!" exclaimed Mildred.

"You said you were Miss Stevens, didn't you?" said Mrs. Belloc--and

Mildred knew that her turn had come.

"Yes," replied she. "But I am also a married woman." She hesitated,

reddened. "I didn't give you my married name."

"That's your own business," said Mrs. Belloc in her easiest manner. "My

right name isn't Belloc, either. But I've dropped that other life. You

needn't feel a bit embarrassed in this house. Some of my boarders SEEM

to be married. All that have regular-appearing husbands SAY they are.

What do I care, so long as everything goes along smoothly? I don't get

excited about trifles."

"Some day perhaps I'll tell you about myself," said Mildred. "Just at

present I--well, I seem not to be able to talk about things."

"It's not a bad idea to keep your mouth shut, as long as your affairs

are unsettled," advised Mrs. Belloc. "I can see you've had little

experience. But you'll come out all right. Just keep cool, and don't

fret about trifles. And don't let any man make a fool of you. That's

where we women get left. We're afraid of men. We needn't be. We can

mighty easily make them afraid of us. Use the soft hand till you get

him well in your grip. Then the firm hand. Nothing coarse or cruel or

mean. But firm and self-respecting."

Mildred was tempted to take Mrs. Belloc fully into her confidence and

get the benefit of the advice of shrewdness and experience. So strong

was the temptation, she would have yielded to it had Mrs. Belloc asked

a few tactful, penetrating questions. But Mrs. Belloc refrained, and

Mildred's timidity or delicacy induced her to postpone. The next day

she wrote Stanley Baird, giving her address and her name and asking him

to call "any afternoon at four or five." She assumed that he would

come on the following day, but the letter happened to reach him within

an hour of her mailing it, and he came that very afternoon.

When she went down to the drawing-room to receive him, she found him

standing in the middle of the room gazing about with a quizzical

expression. As soon as the greetings were over he said:

"You must get out of here, Mildred. This won't do."

"Indeed I shan't," said she. "I've looked everywhere, and this is the

only comfortable place I could find--where the rates were reasonable

and where the landlady didn't have her nose in everybody's business."

"You don't understand," said he. "This is a bird-cage. Highly gilded,

but a bird-cage."

She had never heard the phrase, but she understood--and instantly she

knew that he was right. She colored violently, sat down abruptly. But

in a moment she recovered herself, and with fine defiance said:

"I don't care. Mrs. Belloc is a kind-hearted woman, and it's as easy

to be respectable here as anywhere."

"Sure," assented he. "But you've got to consider appearances to a

certain extent. You won't be able to find the right sort of a

boarding-house--one you'd be comfortable in. You've got to have a flat

of your own."

"I can't afford it," said Mildred. "I can't afford this, even. But I

simply will not live in a shabby, mussy way."

"That's right!" cried Stanley. "You can't do proper work in poor

surroundings. Some women could, but not your sort. But don't worry.

I'm going to see you through. I'll find a place--right away. You want

to start in at once, don't you?"

"I've got to," said Mildred.

"Then leave it all to me."

"But WHAT am I to do?"

"Sing, if you can. If not, then act. We'll have you on the stage

within a year or so. I'm sure of it. And I'll get my money back, with

interest."

"I don't see how I can accept it," said Mildred very feebly.

"You've got to," said Stanley. "What alternative is there? None. So

let's bother no more about it. I'll consult with those who know, find

out what the thing costs, and arrange everything. You're as helpless

as a baby, and you know it."

Yes, Mildred knew it.

He looked at her with an amused smile. "Come, out with it!" he cried.

"You've got something on your mind. Let's get everything straight--and

keep it that way."

Mildred hung her head.

"You're uneasy because I, a man, am doing this for you, a young woman?

Is that it?"

"Yes," she confessed.

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and spoke in a brisk,

businesslike way. "In the first place, it's got to be done, hasn't it?

And someone has got to do it? And there is no one offering but me? Am

I right?"

She nodded.

"Then _I_'ve got to do it, and you've GOT to let me. There's logic, if

ever there was logic. A Philadelphia lawyer couldn't knock a hole in

it. You trust me, don't you?"

She was silent.

"You don't trust me, then," said he cheerfully. "Well, perhaps you're

right. But you trust yourself, don't you?"

She moved restlessly, but remained silent.

"You are afraid I might put you in a difficult position?"

"Something like that," she admitted, in a low, embarrassed voice.

"You fear that I expect some return which you do not intend to give?"

She was silent.

"Well, I don't," said he bluntly. "So put your mind at rest. Some day

I'll tell you why I am doing this, but I want you to feel that I ask

nothing of you but my money back with interest, when you can afford to

pay."

"I can't feel that," said she. "You're putting me in your debt--so

heavily that I'd feel I ought to pay anything you asked. But I

couldn't and wouldn't pay."

"Unless you felt like it?" suggested he.

"It's honest for me to warn you that I'm not likely to feel that way."

"There is such a thing as winning a woman's love, isn't there?" said he

jestingly. It was difficult to tell when Stanley Baird was jesting and

when he was in earnest.

"Is that what you expect?" said she gravely.

"If I say yes?"

She lowered her eyes and laughed in an embarrassed way.

He was frankly amused. "You see, you feel that you're in my power. And

you are. So why not make the best of it?" A pause, then he said

abruptly and with a convincing manliness, "I think, Mildred, you can

trust me not to be a beast."

She colored and looked at him with quick contrition. "I'm ashamed of

myself," said she. "Please forget that I said anything. I'll take

what I must, and I'll pay it back as soon as I can. And--thank you,

Stanley." The tears were in her eyes. "If I had anything worth your

taking I'd be glad to give it to you. What vain fools we women are!"

"Aren't you, though!" laughed he. "And now it's all settled--until

you're on the stage, and free, and the money's paid back--WITH

interest. I shall charge you six per cent."

When she first knew him she had not been in the least impressed by what

now seemed to her his finest and rarest trait, for, in those days she

had been as ignorant of the realities of human nature as one who has

never adventured his boat beyond the mouth of the peaceful land-locked

harbor is ignorant of the open sea. But in the hard years she had been

learning--not only from Presbury and General Siddall, but from the cook

and the housemaid, from every creditor, every tradesman, everyone whose

attitude socially toward her had been modified by her changed

fortunes--and whose attitude had not been changed? Thus, she was now

able to appreciate--at least in some measure--Stanley Baird's delicacy

and tact. No, not delicacy and tact, for that implied effort. His

ability to put this offer in such a way that she could accept without

serious embarrassment arose from a genuine indifference to money as

money, a habit of looking upon it simply as a means to an end. He

offered her the money precisely as he would have offered her his

superior strength if it had been necessary to cross a too deep and

swift creek. She had the sense that he felt he was doing something

even less notable than he admitted, and that he talked of it as a

valuable and rather unusual service simply because it was the habit

thus to regard such matters.

As they talked on of "the great career" her spirits went up and up. It

was evident that he now had a new and keen interest in life, that she

was doing him a greater favor than he was doing her. He had always had

money, plenty of it, more than he could use. He now had more than

ever--for, several rich relatives had died and, after the habit of the

rich, had left everything to him, the one of all the connections who

needed it least. He had a very human aversion to spending money upon

people or things he did not like. He would have fought to the last

court an attempt by his wife to get alimony. He had a reputation with

the "charity gang" of being stingy because he would not give them so

much as the price of a bazaar ticket. Also, the impecunious spongers at

his clubs spread his fame as a "tight-wad" because he refused to let

them "stick him up" for even a round of drinks. Where many a really

stingy man yielded through weakness or fear of public opinion, he stood

firm. His one notable surrender of any kind had been his marriage;

that bitter experience had cured him of the surrendering habit for all

time. Thenceforth he did absolutely and in everything as he pleased.

Mildred had heard that he was close about money. She had all but

forgotten it, because her own experience with him had made such a

charge seem ridiculous. She now assumed--so far as she thought about it

at all--that he was extremely generous. She did not realize what a

fine discriminating generosity his was, or how striking an evidence of

his belief in her as well as of his liking for her.

As he rose to go he said: "You mustn't forget that our arrangement is

a secret between us. Neither of us can afford to have anyone know it."

"There isn't anyone in the world who wouldn't misunderstand it," said

she, without the least feeling of embarrassment.

"Just so," said he. "And I want you to live in such a way that I can

come to call. We must arrange things so that you will take your own

name--"

"I intend to use the name Mary Stevens in my work," she interrupted.

"But there mustn't be any concealment, any mystery to excite curiosity

and scandal--"

This time the interruption was her expression. He turned to see what

had startled her, and saw in the doorway of the drawing-room the

grotesquely neat and stylish figure of the little general. Before

either could speak he said:

"How d'you do, Mr. Baird? You'll pardon me if I ask you to leave me

alone with my WIFE."

Stanley met the situation with perfect coolness. "How are you,

General?" said he. "Certainly, I was just going." He extended his

hand to Mildred, said in a correct tone of conventional friendliness,

"Then you'll let me know when you're settled?" He bowed, moved toward

the door, shook hands with the general, and passed out, giving from

start to finish a model example of a man of the world extricating

himself from an impossible situation and leaving it the better for his

having been entangled. To a man of Siddall's incessant and clumsy

self-consciousness such unaffected ease could not but be proof positive

of Mildred's innocence--unless he had overheard. And his first words

convinced her that he had not. Said he:

"So you sent for your old admirer?"

"I ran across him accidentally," replied Mildred.

"I know," said the little general. "My men picked you up at the pier

and haven't lost sight of you since. It's fortunate that I've kept

myself informed, or I might have misunderstood that chap's being here."

A queer, cloudy look came into his eyes. "I must give him a warning

for safety's sake." He waved his hand in dismissal of such an

unimportant trifle as the accidental Baird. He went on, his wicked

eyes bent coldly and dully upon her: "Do you know what kind of a house

this is?"

"Stanley Baird urged me to leave," replied she. "But I shall stay until

I find a better--and that's not easy."

"Yes, my men have reported to me on the difficulties you've had. It

was certainly fortunate for you that I had them look after you.

Otherwise I'd never have understood your landing in this sort of a

house. You are ready to come with me?"

"Your secretary explained that if I left the hotel it was the end."

"He told you that by my orders."

"So he explained," said Mildred. She seated herself, overcome by a

sudden lassitude that was accompanied not by fear, but by indifference.

"Won't you sit down? I am willing to hear what you have to say."

The little general, about to sit, was so astonished that he

straightened and stiffened himself. "In consenting to overlook your

conduct and take you back I have gone farther than I ever intended. I

have taken into consideration your youth and inexperience."

"But I am not going back," said Mildred.

The little general slowly seated himself. "You have less than two

hundred and fifty dollars left," said he.

"Really? Your spies know better than I."

"I have seen Presbury. He assures me that in no circumstances will he

and your mother take you back."

"They will not have the chance to refuse," said Mildred.

"As for your brother--"

"I have no brother," said she coldly.

"Then you are coming back with me."

"No," said Mildred. "I should"--she cast about for an impressive

alternative--"I should stay on here, rather."

The little general--his neat varnished leather and be-spatted shoes

just touched the floor--examined his highly polished top-hat at several

angles. Finally he said: "You need not fear that your misconduct will

be remembered against you. I shall treat you in every way as my wife.

I shall assume that your--your flight was an impulse that you regret."

"I shan't go back," said Mildred. "Nothing you could offer would

change me."

"I cannot make any immediate concession on the--the matter that caused

you to go," pursued he, as if she had not spoken, "but if I see that

you have reliability and good sense, I'll agree to give you an

allowance later."

Mildred eyed him curiously. "Why are you making these offers, these

concessions?" she said. "You think everyone in the world is a fool

except yourself. You're greatly deceived. I know that you don't mean

what you've been saying. I know that if you got me in your power

again, you would do something frightful. I've seen through that mask

you wear. I know the kind of man you are."

"If you know that," said the general in his even slow way, monotonous,

almost lifeless, "you know you'd better come with me than stand out

against me."

She did not let him see how this struck terror into her. She said: "No

matter what you might do to me, when I'm away from you, it would be

less than you'd do with me under your roof. At any rate, it'd seem

less."

The general reflected, decided to change to another point: "You made a

bargain with me. You've broken it. I never let anyone break a bargain

with me without making them regret it. I'm giving you a chance to keep

your bargain."

She was tempted to discuss, but she could not find the words, or the

strength. Besides, how futile to discuss with such a man. She sank

back in her chair wearily. "I shall never go back," she said.

He looked at her, his face devoid of expression, but she had a sense of

malignance unutterable eying her from behind a screen. He said: "I

see you've misunderstood my generosity. You think I'm weak where you

are concerned because I've come to you instead of doing as I said and

making you come to me." He rose. "Well, my offer to you is closed. And

once more I say, you will come to me and ask to be taken back. I may

or may not take you back. It depends on how I'll feel at that time."

Slowly, with his ludicrously pompous strut, he marched to the

drawing-room door. She had not felt like smiling, but if there had

been any such inclination it would have fled before the countenance

that turned upon her at the threshold. It was the lean, little face

with the funny toupee and needle-like mustache and imperial, but behind

it lay a personality like the dull, cold, yellow eyes of the devil-fish

ambushed in the hazy mass of dun-colored formlessness of collapsed body

and tentacles. He said:

"You'd best be careful how you conduct yourself. You'll be under

constant observation. And any friends you make--they'd do well to

avoid you."

He was gone. She sat without the power of motion, without the power of

thought. After a time--perhaps long, perhaps short, she did not

know--Mrs. Belloc came in and entered upon a voluble apology for the

maid's having shown "the little gentleman" into the drawing-room when

another was already there. "That maid's as green as spring corn," said

she. "Such a thing never happened in my house before. And it'll never

happen again. I do hope it didn't cause trouble."

"It was my husband," said Mildred. "I had to see him some time."

"He's certainly a very elegant little gentleman," said Mrs. Belloc. "I

rather like small men, myself."

Mildred gazed at her vaguely and said, "Tell me--a rich man, a very

rich man--if he hates anyone, can he make trouble?"

"Money can do anything in this town," replied Mrs. Belloc. "But

usually rich men are timid and stingy. If they weren't, they'd make us

all cringe. As it is, I've heard some awful stories of how men and

women who've got some powerful person down on them have been hounded."

Mildred turned deathly sick. "I think I'll go to my room," she said,

rising uncertainly and forcing herself toward the door.

Mrs. Belloc's curiosity could not restrain itself. "You're leaving?"

she asked. "You're going back to your husband?"

She was startled when the girl abruptly turned on her and cried with

flashing eyes and voice strong and vibrant with passion: "Never!

Never! No matter what comes--NEVER!"

The rest of the day and that night she hid in her room and made no

effort to resist the terror that preyed upon her. Just as our strength

is often the source of weakness, so our weaknesses often give birth to

strength. Her terror of the little general, given full swing, shrieked

and grimaced itself into absurdity. She was ashamed of her orgy, was

laughing at it as the sun and intoxicating air of a typical New York

morning poured in upon her. She accepted Mrs. Belloc's invitation to

take a turn through the park and up Riverside Drive in a taxicab, came

back restored to her normal state of blind confidence in the future.

About noon Stanley Baird telephoned.

"We must not see each other again for some time," said he. "I rather

suspect that you--know--who may be having you watched."

"I'm sure of it," said she. "He warned me."

"Don't let that disturb you," pursued Stanley. "A man--a singing

teacher--his name's Eugene Jennings--will call on you this afternoon at

three. Do exactly as he suggests. Let him do all the talking."

She had intended to tell Baird frankly that she thought, indeed knew,

that it was highly dangerous for him to enter into her affairs in any

way, and to urge him to draw off. She felt that it was only fair to

act so toward one who had been unselfishly generous to her. But now

that the time for speaking had come, she found herself unable to speak.

Only by flatly refusing to have anything to do with his project could

she prevail upon him. To say less than that she had completely and

finally changed her mind would sound, and would be, insincere. And

that she could not say. She felt how noble it would be to say this, how

selfish, and weak, too, it was to cling to him, possibly to involve him

in disagreeable and even dangerous complications, but she had no

strength to do what she would have denounced another as base for not

doing. Instead of the lofty words that flow so freely from the lips of

stage and fiction heroines, instead of the words that any and every

reader of this history would doubtless have pronounced in the same

circumstances, she said:

"You're quite sure you want to go on?"

"Why not?" came instantly back over the wire.

"He is a very, very relentless man," replied she.

"Did he try to frighten you?"

"I'm afraid he succeeded."

"You're not going back on the career!" exclaimed he excitedly. "I'll

come down there and--"

"No, no," cried she. "I was simply giving you a chance to free

yourself." She felt sure of him now. She scrambled toward the heights

of moral grandeur. "I want you to stop. I've no right to ask you to

involve yourself in my misfortunes. Stanley, you mustn't. I can't

allow it."

"Oh, fudge!" laughed he. "Don't give me these scares. Don't

forget--Jennings at three. Good-by and good luck."

And he rang off that she might have no chance on impulse to do herself

mischief with her generous thoughtfulness for him. She felt rather

mean, but not nearly so mean as she would have felt had she let the

opportunity go by with no generous word said. "And no doubt my

aversion for that little wretch," thought she, "makes me think him more

terrible than he is. After all, what can he do? Watch me--and discover

nothing, because there'll be nothing to discover."

Jennings came exactly at three--came with the air of a man who wastes

no one's time and lets no one waste his time. He was a youngish man of

forty or thereabouts, with a long sharp nose, a large tight mouth, and

eyes that seemed to be looking restlessly about for money. That they

had not looked in vain seemed to be indicated by such facts as that he

came in a private brougham and that he was most carefully dressed,

apparently with the aid of a valet.

"Miss Stevens," he said with an abrupt bow, before Mildred had a chance

to speak, "you have come to New York to take singing lessons--to

prepare yourself for the stage. And you wish a comfortable place to

live and to work." He extended his gloved hand, shook hers frigidly,

dropped it. "We shall get on--IF you work, but only if you work. I do

not waste myself upon triflers." He drew a card from his pocket. "If

you will go to see the lady whose name and address are written on this

card, I think you will find the quarters you are looking for."

"Thank you," said Mildred.

"Come to me--my address is on the card, also--at half-past ten on

Saturday. We will then lay out your work."

"If you find I have a voice worth while," Mildred ventured.

"That, of course," said Mr. Jennings curtly. "Until half-past ten on

Saturday, good day."

Again he gave the abrupt foreign bow and, while Mildred was still

struggling with her surprise and confusion, she saw him, through the

window, driving rapidly away. Mrs. Belloc came drifting through the

room; she had the habit of looking about whenever there were new

visitors, and in her it was not irritating because her interest was

innocent and sympathetic. Said Mildred:

"Did you see that man, Mrs. Belloc?"

"What an extraordinary nose he had," replied she.

"Yes, I noticed that," said Mildred. "But it was the only thing I did

notice. He is a singing teacher--Mr. Jennings."

"Eugene Jennings?"

"Yes, Eugene."

"He's the best known singing teacher in New York. He gets fifteen

dollars a half-hour."

"Then I simply can't take from him!" exclaimed Mildred, before she

thought. "That's frightful!"

"Isn't it, though?" echoed Mrs. Belloc. "I've heard his income is

fifty thousand a year, what with lessons and coaching and odds and

ends. There's a lot of them that do well, because so many fool women

with nothing to do cultivate their voices--when they can't sing a

little bit. But he tops them all. I don't see how ANY teacher can put

fifteen dollars of value into half an hour. But I suppose he does, or

he wouldn't get it. Still, his may be just another case of New York

nerve. This is the biggest bluff town in the world, I do believe.

Here, you can get away with anything, I don't care what it is, if only

you bluff hard enough."

As there was no reason for delay and many reasons against it, Mildred

went at once to the address on the card Jennings had left. She found

Mrs. Howell Brindley installed in a plain comfortable apartment in

Fifty-ninth Street, overlooking the park and high enough to make the

noise of the traffic endurable. A Swedish maid, prepossessingly white

and clean, ushered her into the little drawing-room, which was

furnished with more simplicity and individual taste than is usual

anywhere in New York, cursed of the mania for useless and tasteless

showiness. There were no messy draperies, no fussy statuettes, vases,

gilt boxes, and the like. Mildred awaited the entrance of Mrs. Brindley

hopefully.

She was not disappointed. Presently in came a quietly-dressed,

frank-looking woman of a young forty--a woman who had by no means lost

her physical freshness, but had gained charm of another and more

enduring kind. As she came forward with extended but not overeager

hand, she said:

"I was expecting you, Mrs. Siddall--that is, Miss Stevens."

"Mr. Jennings did not say when I was to come. If I am disturbing you--"

Mrs. Brindley hastened to assure her that her visit was quite

convenient. "I must have someone to share the expense of this

apartment with me, and I want the matter settled. Mr. Jennings has

explained about you to me, and now that I've seen you--" here she

smiled charmingly--"I am ready to say that it is for you to say."

Mildred did not know how to begin. She looked at Mrs. Brindley with

appeal in her troubled young eyes.

"You no doubt wish to know something about me," said Mrs. Brindley. "My

husband was a composer--a friend of Mr. Jennings. He died two years

ago. I am here in New York to teach the piano. What the lessons will

bring, with my small income, will enable me to live--if I can find

someone to help out at the expenses here. As I understand it, you are

willing to pay forty dollars a week, I to run the house, pay all the

bills, and so on--all, of course, if you wish to come here."

Mildred made a not very successful attempt to conceal her embarrassment.

"Perhaps you would like to look at the apartment?" suggested Mrs.

Brindley.

"Thank you, yes," said Mildred.

The tour of the apartment--two bedrooms, dining-room, kitchen,

sitting-room, large bath-room, drawing-room--took only a few minutes,

but Mildred and Mrs. Brindley contrived to become much better

acquainted. Said Mildred, when they were in the drawing-room again:

"It's most attractive--just what I should like. What--how much did Mr.

Jennings say?"

"Forty dollars a week." She colored slightly and spoke with the

nervousness of one not in the habit of discussing money matters. "I do

not see how I could make it less. That is the fair share of the--"

"Oh, I think that is most reasonable," interrupted Mildred. "And I

wish to come."

Mrs. Brindley gave an almost childlike sigh of relief and smiled

radiantly. "Then it's settled," said she. "I've been so nervous about

it." She looked at Mildred with friendly understanding. "I think you

and I are somewhat alike about practical things. You've not had much

experience, either, have you? I judge so from the fact that Mr.

Jennings is looking after everything for you."

"I've had no experience at all," said Mildred. "That is why I'm

hesitating. I'm wondering if I can afford to pay so much."

Mrs. Brindley laughed. "Mr. Jennings wished to fix it at sixty a week,

but I insisted that forty was enough," said she.

Mildred colored high with embarrassment. How much did Mrs. Brindley

know?--or how little? She stammered: "Well, if Mr. Jennings says it

is all right, I'll come."

"You'll let me know to-morrow? You can telephone Mr. Jennings."

"Yes, I'll let you know to-morrow. I'm almost sure I'll come. In

fact, I'm quite sure. And--I think we shall get on well together."

"We can help each other," said Mrs. Brindley. "I don't care for

anything in the world but music."

"I want to be that way," said Mildred. "I shall be that way."

"It's the only sure happiness--to care for something, for some THING,"

said Mrs. Brindley. "People die, or disappoint one, or become

estranged. But when one centers on some kind of work, it gives

pleasure always--more and more pleasure."

"I am so afraid I haven't voice enough, or of the right kind," said

Mildred. "Mr. Jennings is going to try me on Saturday. Really I've no

right to settle anything until he has given his opinion."

Mrs. Brindley smiled with her eyes only, and Mildred wondered.

"If he should say that I wouldn't do," she went on, "I'd not know which

way to turn."

"But he'll not say that," said Mrs. Brindley. "You can sing, can't

you? You have sung?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then you'll be accepted by him. And it will take him a long time to

find out whether you'll do for a professional."

"I'm afraid I sing very badly."

"That will not matter. You'll sing better than at least half of

Jennings's pupils."

"Then he doesn't take only those worth while?"

Mrs. Brindley looked amused. "How would he live if he did that? It's

a teacher's business to teach. Learning--that's the pupil's lookout. If

teachers taught only those who could and would learn, how would they

live?"

"Then I'll not know whether I'll do!" exclaimed Mildred.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," said Mrs. Brindley. "No one

can tell you. Anyone's opinion might be wrong. For example, I've

known Jennings, who is a very good judge, to be wrong--both ways."

Hesitatingly: "Why not sing for me? I'd like to hear."

"Would you tell me what you honestly thought?" said Mildred.

Mrs. Brindley laughingly shook her head. Mildred liked her honesty.

"Then it'd be useless to sing for you," said she. "I'm not vain about

my voice. I'd simply like to make a living by it, if I could. I'll

even confess that there are many things I care for more than for music.

Does that prove that I can never sing professionally?"

"No, indeed," Mrs. Brindley assured her. "It'd be strange if a girl of

your age cared exclusively for music. The passion comes with the work,

with progress, success. And some of the greatest--that is, the most

famous and best paid--singers never care much about music, except as a

vanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with a

certain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. The

rest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes the

singer, not brains or temperament."

"Do let me sing for you," said Mildred. "I think it will help me."

Between them they chose a little French song--"Chanson d'Antonine"--and

Mrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. "I wish

to listen," said she, "and I can't if I play."

Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sang

neither better nor worse than usual--sang in the clear and pleasant

soprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When she

finished she said:

"That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?"

Mrs. Brindley reflected before she replied: "I BELIEVE it's worth

trying. If I were you, I should keep on trying, no matter what anyone

said."

Mildred was instantly depressed. "You think Mr. Jennings may reject

me?" she asked.

"I KNOW he will not," replied Mrs. Brindley. "Not as long as you can

pay for the lessons. But I was thinking of the real thing--of whether

you could win out as a singer."

"And you don't think I can?" said Mildred.

"On the contrary, I believe you can," replied Mrs. Brindley. "A singer

means so much besides singing. The singing is the smallest part of it.

You'll understand when you get to work. I couldn't explain now. But I

can say that you ought to go ahead."

Mildred, who had her share of vanity, had hoped for some enthusiasm.

Mrs. Brindley's judicial tone was a severe blow. She felt a little

resentful, began to cast about for vanity-consoling reasons for Mrs.

Brindley's restraint. "She means well," she said to herself, "but

she's probably just a tiny bit jealous. She's not so young as she once

was, and she hasn't the faintest hope of ever being anything more than

a piano-teacher."

Mrs. Brindley showed that she had more than an inkling of Mildred's

frame of mind by going on to say in a gentle, candid way: "I want to

help you. So I shall be careful not to encourage you to believe too

much in what you have. That would prevent you from getting what you

need. You must remember, you are no longer a drawing-room singer, but

a candidate for the profession. That's a very different thing."

Mildred saw that she was mistaken, that Mrs. Brindley was honest and

frank and had doubtless told her the exact truth. But her vanity

remained sore. Never before had anyone said any less of her singing

than that it was wonderful, marvelous, equal to a great deal that

passed for fine in grand opera. She had known that this was

exaggeration, but she had not known how grossly exaggerated. Thus,

this her first experience of the professional attitude was galling.

Only her unusual good sense saved her from being angry with Mrs.

Brindley. And it was that same good sense that moved her presently to

try to laugh at herself. With a brave attempt to smile gayly she said:

"You don't realize how you've taken me down. I had no idea I was so

conceited about my singing. I can't truthfully say I like your

frankness, but there's a part of me that's grateful to you for it, and

when I get over feeling hurt, I'll be grateful through and through."

Mrs. Brindley's face lighted up beautifully. "You'll DO!" she cried.

"I'm sure you'll do. I've been waiting and watching to see how you

would take my criticism. That's the test--how they take criticism. If

they don't take it at all, they'll not go very far, no matter how

talented they are. If they take it as you've taken it, there's

hope--great hope. Now, I'm not afraid to tell you that you sang

splendidly for an amateur--that you surprised me."

"Don't spoil it all," said Mildred. "You were right; I can't sing."

"Not for grand opera, not for comic opera even," replied Mrs. Brindley.

"But you will sing, and sing well, in one or the other, if you work."

"You really mean that?" said Mildred.

"If you work intelligently and persistently," said Mrs. Brindley.

"That's a big if--as you'll discover in a year or so."

"You'll see," said Mildred confidently. "Why, I've nothing else to do,

and no other hope."

Mrs. Brindley's smile had a certain sadness in it. She said:

"It's the biggest if in all this world."

V

AT Mrs. Belloc's a telephone message from Jennings was awaiting her; he

would call at a quarter-past eight and would detain Miss Stevens only a

moment. And at eight fifteen exactly he rang the bell. This time

Mildred was prepared; she refused to be disconcerted by his abrupt

manner and by his long sharp nose that seemed to warn away, to threaten

away, even to thrust away any glance seeking to investigate the rest of

his face or his personality. She looked at him candidly, calmly, and

seeingly. Seeingly. With eyes that saw as they had never seen before.

Perhaps from the death of her father, certainly from the beginning of

Siddall's courtship, Mildred had been waking up. There is a part of

our nature--the active and aggressive part--that sleeps all our lives

long or becomes atrophied if we lead lives of ease and secure

dependence. It is the important part of us, too--the part that

determines character. The thing that completed the awakening of

Mildred was her acquaintance with Mrs. Belloc. That positive and

finely-poised lady fascinated her, influenced her powerfully--gave her

just what she needed at the particular moment. The vital moments in

life are not the crises over which shallow people linger, but are the

moments where we met and absorbed the ideas that enabled us to weather

these crises. The acquaintance with Mrs. Belloc was one of those vital

moments; for, Mrs. Belloc's personality--her look and manner, what she

said and the way she said it--was a proffer to Mildred of invaluable

lessons which her awakening character eagerly absorbed. She saw

Jennings as he was. She decided that he was of common origin, that his

vanity was colossal and aquiver throughout with sensitiveness; that he

belonged to the familiar type of New-Yorker who succeeds by bluffing.

Also, she saw or felt a certain sexlessness or indifference to sex--and

this she later understood. Men whose occupation compels them

constantly to deal with women go to one extreme or the other--either

become acutely sensitive to women as women or become utterly

indifferent, unless their highly discriminated taste is appealed

to--which cannot happen often. Jennings, teaching only women because

only women spending money they had not earned and could not earn would

tolerate his terms and his methods, had, as much through necessity as

through inclination, gone to the extreme of lack of interest in all

matters of sex. One look at him and the woman who had come with the

idea of offering herself in full or part payment for lessons drooped in

instinctive discouragement.

Jennings hastened to explain to Mildred that she need not hesitate

about closing with Mrs. Brindley. "Your lessons are arranged for,"

said he. "There has been put in the Plaza Trust Company to your credit

the sum of five thousand dollars. This gives you about a hundred

dollars a week for your board and other personal expenses. If that is

not enough, you will let me know. But I estimated that it would be

enough. I do not think it wise for young women entering upon the

preparation for a serious career to have too much money."

"It is more than enough," murmured the girl. "I know nothing about

those things, but it seems to me--"

"You can use as little of it as you like," interrupted Jennings, rising.

Mildred felt as though she had been caught and exposed in a

hypocritical protest. Jennings was holding out something toward her.

She took it, and he went on:

"That's your check-book. The bank will send you statements of your

account, and will notify you when any further sums are added. Now, I

have nothing more to do with your affairs--except, of course, the

artistic side--your development as a singer. You've not forgotten your

appointment?"

"No," said Mildred, like a primary school-child before a formidable

teacher.

"Be prompt, please. I make no reduction for lessons wholly or partly

missed. The half-hour I shall assign to you belongs to you. If you do

not use it, that is your affair. At first you will probably be like

all women--careless about your appointments, coming with lessons

unprepared, telephoning excuses. But if you are serious you will soon

fall into the routine." "I shall try to be regular," murmured Mildred.

Jennings apparently did not hear. "I'm on my way to the opera-house,"

said he. "One of my old pupils is appearing in a new role, and she is

nervous. Good night."

Once more that swift, quiet exit, followed almost instantaneously by

the sound of wheels rolling away. Never had she seen such rapidity of

motion without loss of dignity. "Yes, he's a fraud," she said to

herself, "but he's a good one."

The idea of a career had now become less indefinite. It was still

without any attraction--not because of the toil it involved, for that

made small impression upon her who had never worked and had never seen

anyone work, but because a career meant cutting herself off from

everything she had been brought up to regard as fit and proper for a

lady. She was ashamed of this; she did not admit its existence even to

herself, and in her talks with Baird about the career she had professed

exactly the opposite view. Yet there it was--nor need she have been

ashamed of a feeling that is instilled into women of her class from

babyhood as part of their ladylike education. The career had not

become definite. She could not imagine herself out on a stage in some

sort of a costume, with a painted face, singing before an audience.

Still, the career was less indefinite than when it had no existence

beyond Stanley Baird's enthusiasm and her own whipped-up pretense of

enthusiasm.

She shrank from the actual start, but at the same time was eager for

it. Inaction began to fret her nerves, and she wished to be doing

something to show her appreciation of Stanley Baird's generosity. She

telephoned Mrs. Brindley that she would come in the morning, and then

she told her landlady.

Mrs. Belloc was more than regretful; she was distressed. Said she:

"I've taken a tremendous fancy to you, and I hate to give you up. I'd

do most anything to keep you."

Mildred explained that her work compelled her to go.

"That's very interesting," said Mrs. Belloc. "If I were a few years

younger, and hadn't spent all my energy in teaching school and putting

through that marriage, I'd try to get on the stage, myself. I don't

want to lose sight of you."

"Oh, I'll come to see you from time to time."

"No, you won't," said Mrs. Belloc practically. "No more than I'd come

to see you. Our lives lie in different directions, and in New York

that means we'll never have time to meet. But we may be thrown

together again, some time. As I've got a twenty years' lease on this

house, I guess you'll have no trouble in finding me. I suppose I could

look you up through Professor Jennings?"

"Yes," said Mildred. Then impulsively, "Mrs. Belloc, there's a reason

why I'd like to change without anyone's knowing what has become of

me--I mean, anyone that might be--watching me."

"I understand perfectly," said Mrs. Belloc with a ready sympathy that

made Mildred appreciate the advantages of the friendship of

unconventional, knock-about people. "Nothing could be easier. You've

got no luggage but that bag. I'll take it up to the Grand Central

Station and check it, and bring the check back here. You can send for

it when you please."

"But what about me?" said Mildred.

"I was coming to that. You walk out of here, say, about half an hour

after I go in the taxi. You walk through to the corner of Lexington

Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street--there aren't any cabs to be had

there. I'll be waiting in the taxi, and we'll make a dash up the East

Side and I can drop you at some quiet place in the park and go on--and

you can walk to your new address. How does that strike you?"

Mildred expressed her admiration. The plan was carried out, as Mrs.

Belloc--a born genius at all forms of intrigue--had evolved it in

perfection on the spur of the moment. As they went up the far East

Side, Mrs. Belloc, looking back through the little rear window, saw a

taxi a few blocks behind them. "We haven't given them the slip yet,"

said she, "but we will in the park." They entered the park at East

Ninetieth Street, crossed to the West Drive. Acting on Mrs. Belloc's

instructions, the motorman put on full speed--with due regard to the

occasional policeman. At a sharp turning near the Mall, when the taxi

could be seen from neither direction, he abruptly stopped. Out sprang

Mildred and disappeared behind the bushes completely screening the walk

from the drive. At once the taxi was under-way again. She, waiting

where the screen of bushes was securely thick, saw the taxi that had

followed them in the East Side flash by--in pursuit of Mrs. Belloc

alone.

She was free--at least until some mischance uncovered her to the little

general. At Mrs. Brindley's she found a note awaiting her--a note from

Stanley Baird: