"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.