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 I heard it. No, you'd not be so calm, if you
didn't know everything was all right."
Her eyes lit up with sly humor. "Perhaps I'm calm because I feel that
my future's secure as your wife. What more could a woman ask?"
He forced an uncomfortable laugh. "Of course--of course," he said with
a painful effort to be easy and jocose.
"I knew you'd marry me, even if I couldn't sing a note. I knew your
belief in my career had nothing to do with it."
He hesitated, blurted out the truth. "Speaking seriously, that isn't
quite so," said he. "I've got my heart set on your making a great
tear--and I know you'll do it."
"And if you knew I wouldn't, you'd not want to marry me?"
"I don't say that," protested he. "How can I say how I'd feel if you
were different?"
She nodded. "That's sensible, and it's candid," she said. She laid
her hand impulsively on his arm. "I DO like you, Stanley. You have
got such a lot of good qualities. Don't worry. I'm not going to
insist on your marrying me."
"You don't have to do that, Mildred," said he. "I'm staring, raving
crazy about you, though I'm a damn fool to let you know it."
"Yes, it is foolish," said she. "If you'd kept me worrying-- Still, I
guess not. But it doesn't matter. You can protest and urge all you
please, quite safely. I'm not going to marry you. Now let's talk
business."
"Let's talk marriage," said he. "I want this thing settled. You know
you intend to marry me, Mildred. Why not say so? Why keep me gasping
on the hook?"
They heard the front door open, and the rustling of skirts down the
hall. Mildred called:
"Mrs. Brindley! Cyrilla!"
An instant and Cyrilla appeared in the doorway. When she and Baird had
shaken hands, Mildred said:
"Cyrilla, I want you to tell the exact, honest truth. Is there any hope
for a woman with a delicate throat to make a grand-opera career?"
Cyrilla paled, looked pleadingly at Mildred.
"Tell him," commanded Mildred.
"Very little," said Mrs. Brindley. "But--"
"Don't try to soften it," interrupted Mildred. "The truth, the plain
truth."
"You've no right to draw me into this," cried Cyrilla indignantly, and
she started to leave the room.
"I want him to know," said Mildred. "And he wants to know."
"I refuse to be drawn into it," Cyrilla said, and disappeared.
But Mildred saw that Stanley had been shaken. She proceeded to explain
to him at length what a singer's career meant--the hardships, the
drafts on health and strength, the absolute necessity of being
reliable, of singing true, of not disappointing audiences--what a
delicate throat meant--how delicate her throat was--how deficient she
was in the kind of physical strength needed--muscular power with
endurance back of it. When she finished he understood.
"I'd always thought of it as an art," he said ruefully. "Why, it's
mostly health and muscles and things that have nothing to do with
music." He was dazed and offended by this uncovering of the mechanism
of the art--by the discovery of the coarse and painful toil, the
grossly physical basis, of what had seemed to him all idealism. He had
been full of the delusions of spontaneity and inspiration, like all
laymen, and all artists, too, except those of the higher ranks--those
who have fought their way up to the heights and, so, have learned that
one does not achieve them by being caught up to them gloriously in a
fiery cloud, but by doggedly and dirtily and sweatily toiling over
every inch of the cruel climb.
He sat silent when she had finished. She waited, then said:
"Now, you see. I release you, and I'll take no more money to waste."
He looked at her with dumb misery that smote her heart. Then his
expression changed--to the shining, hungry eyes, the swollen veins, the
reddened countenance, the watering lips of desire. He seized her in
his arms, and in a voice trembling with passion, he cried: "You must
marry me, anyhow! I've GOT to have you, Mildred."
If she had loved him, his expression, his impassioned voice would have
thrilled her. But she did not love him. It took all her liking for
him, and the memory of all she owed him--that unpaid debt!--to enable
her to push him away gently and to say without any show of the
repulsion she felt:
"Stanley, you mustn't do that. And it's useless to talk of marriage.
You're generous, so you are taking pity on me. But believe me, I'll
get along somehow."
"Pity? I tell you I love you," he cried, catching desperately at her
hands and holding them in a grip she could not break. "You've no right
to treat me like this."
It was one of those veiled and stealthy reminders of obligation
habitually indulged in by delicate people seeking repayment of the
debt, but shunning the coarseness of direct demand. Mildred saw her
opportunity. Said she quietly:
"You mean you want me to give myself to you in payment, or part
payment, for the money you've loaned me?"
He released her hands and sprang up. He had meant just that, but he
had not had the courage, or the meanness, or both, to admit boldly his
own secret wish. She had calculated on this--had calculated well.
"Mildred!" he cried in a shocked voice. "YOU so lacking in delicacy as
to say such a thing!"
"If you didn't mean that, Stanley, what DID you mean?"
"I was appealing to our friendship--our--our love for each other."
"Then you should have waited until I was free."
"Good God!" he cried, "don't you see that's hopeless? Mildred, be
sensible--be merciful."
"I shall never marry a man when he could justly suspect I did it to
live off him."
"What an idea! It's a man's place to support a woman!"
"I was speaking only of myself. _I_ can't do it. And it's absurd for
you and me to be talking about love and marriage when anyone can see
I'd be marrying you only because I was afraid to face poverty and a
struggle."
Her manner calmed him somewhat. "Of course it's obvious that you've
got to have money," said he, "and that the only way you can get it is
by marriage. But there's something else, too, and in my opinion it's
the principal thing--we care for each other. Why not be sensible,
Mildred? Why not thank God that as long as you have to marry, you can
marry someone you care for."
"Could you feel that I cared for you, if I married you now?" inquired
she.
"Why not? I'm not so entirely lacking in self-esteem. I feel that I
must count for something."
Mildred sat silently wondering at this phenomenon so astounding, yet a
commonplace of masculine egotism. She had no conception of this vanity
which causes the man, at whom the street woman smiles, to feel
flattered, though he knows full well what she is and her dire
necessity. She could not doubt that he was speaking the truth, yet she
could not believe that conceit could so befog common sense in a man
who, for all his slowness and shallowness, was more than ordinarily
shrewd.
"Even if I thought I loved you," said she, "I couldn't be sure in these
circumstances that I wasn't after your money."
"Don't worry about that," replied he. "I understand you better than
you understand yourself."
"Let's stop talking about it," said she impatiently. "I want to explain
to you the business side of this." She took her purse from the table.
"Here are the papers." She handed him a check and a note. "I made
them out at the bank this morning. The note is for what I owe you--and
draws interest at four per cent. The check is for all the money I have
left except about four hundred dollars. I've some bills I must pay,
and also I didn't dare quite strip myself. The note may not be worth
the paper it's written on, but I hope--"
Before she could prevent him he took the two papers, and, holding them
out of her reach, tore them to bits.
Her eyes gleamed angrily. "I see you despise me--as much as I've
invited. But, I'll make them out again and mail them to you."
"You're a silly child," said he gruffly. "We're going to be married."
She eyed him with amused exasperation. "It's too absurd!" she cried.
"And if I yielded, you'd be trying to get out of it." She hesitated
whether to tell him frankly just how she felt toward him. She decided
against it, not through consideration--for a woman feels no
consideration for a man she does not love, if he has irritated her--but
through being ashamed to say harsh things to one whom she owed so much.
"It's useless for you to pretend and to plead," she went on. "I shall
not yield. You'll have to wait until I'm free and independent."
"You'll marry me then?"
"No," replied she, laughing. "But I'll be able to refuse you in such a
way that you'll believe."
"But you've got to marry, Mildred, and right away." A suspicion entered
his mind and instantly gleamed in his eyes. "Are you in love with
someone else?"
She smiled mockingly.
"It looks as if you were," he went on, arguing with himself aloud. "For
if you weren't you'd marry me, even though you didn't like me. A woman
in your fix simply couldn't keep herself from it. Is THAT why you're
so calm?"
"I'm not marrying anybody," said she.
"Then what are you going to do?"
"You'll see."
Once more the passionate side of his nature showed--not merely
grotesque, unattractive, repellent, as in the mood of longing, but
hideous. Among men Stanley Baird passed for a man of rather arrogant
and violent temper, but that man who had seen him at his most violent
would have been amazed. The temper men show toward men bears small
resemblance either in kind or in degree to the temper of jealous
passion they show toward the woman who baffles them or arouses their
suspicions; and no man would recognize his most intimate man friend--or
himself--when in that paroxysm. Mildred had seen this mood, gleaming at
her through a mask, in General Siddall. It had made her sick with fear
and repulsion. In Stanley Baird it first astounded her, then filled
her with hate.
"Stanley!" she gasped.
"WHO is it?" he ground out between his teeth. And he seized her
savagely.
"If you don't release me at once," said she calmly, "I shall call Mrs.
Brindley, and have you put out of the house. No matter if I do owe you
all that money."
"Stop!" he cried, releasing her. "You're very clever, aren't
you?--turning that against me and making me powerless."
"But for that, would you dare presume to touch me, to question me?"
said she.
He lowered his gaze, stood panting with the effort to subdue his fury.
She went back to her own room. A few hours later came a letter of
apology from him. She answered it friendlily, said she would let him
know when she could see him again, and enclosed a note and a check.