"Keith has given you there the secret of a successful career. You'll
never read it in any book, or get it from any teacher, or from any
singer or manager or doctor. You must live like that, you must do
those things or you will fail even in musical comedy. You would fail
even as an actress, if you tried that, when you found out that the
singing was out of the question."
Mildred was impressed. Perhaps she would have been more impressed had
she not seen Keith and Mrs. Brindley in the taxi, Keith talking
earnestly and Mrs. Brindley listening as if to an oracle. Said she:
"Perhaps I'll adopt some of the suggestions."
Cyrilla shook her head. "It's a route to success. You must go the
whole route or not at all."
"Don't forget that there have been other singers besides Rivi."
"Not any that I recall who weren't naturally powerful in every way. And
how many of them break down? Mildred, please do put the silly nonsense
about nerves and temperament and inspiration and overwork and weather
and climate--put all that out of your head. Build your temple of a
career as high and graceful and delicate as you like, but build it on
the coarse, hard, solid rock, dear!"
Mildred tried to laugh lightly. "How Mr. Keith does hypnotize people!"
cried she.
Mrs. Brindley's cheeks burned, and her eyes lowered in acute
embarrassment. "He has a way of being splendidly and sensibly right,"
said she. "And the truth is wonderfully convincing--once one sees it."
She changed the subject, and it did not come up--or, perhaps, come OUT
again--before they went to bed. The next day Mildred began the
depressing, hopeless search for a place to live that would be clean,
comfortable, and cheap. Those three adjectives describe the ideal
lodging; but it will be noted that all these are relative. In fact,
none of the three means exactly the same thing to any two members of
the human family. Mildred's notion of clean--like her notion of
comfortable--on account of her bringing up implied a large element of
luxury. As for the word "cheap," it really meant nothing at all to
her. From one standpoint everything seemed cheap; from another,
everything seemed dear; that is, too dear for a young woman with less
than five hundred dollars in the world and no substantial prospect of
getting a single dollar more--unless by hook and crook, both of which
means she was resolved not to employ.
Never having earned so much as a single penny, the idea of anyone's
giving her anything for what she might be able to do was disturbingly
vague and unreal. On the other hand, looking about her, she saw scores
of men and women, personally known to her to be dull of conversation,
and not well mannered or well dressed or well anything, who were making
livings without overwhelming difficulty. Why not Mildred Gower? In
this view the outlook was not discouraging. "I'll no doubt go through
some discomfort, getting myself placed. But somewhere and somehow I
shall be placed--and how I shall revenge myself on Donald Keith!" His
fascination for her had not been destroyed by his humiliating lack of
belief in her, nor by his cold-hearted desertion at just the critical
moment. But his conduct had given her the incentive of rage, of stung
vanity--or wounded pride, if you prefer. She would get him back; she
would force him to admit; she would win him, if she could--and that
ought not to be difficult when she should be successful. Having won
him, then-- What then? Something superb in the way of revenge; she
would decide what, when the hour of triumph came. Meanwhile she must
search for lodgings.
In her journeyings under the guidance of attractive advertisements and
"carefully selected" agents' lists, she found herself in front of her
first lodgings in New York--the house of Mrs. Belloc. She had often
thought of the New England school-teacher, arrived by such strange
paths at such a strange position in New York. She had started to call
on her many times, but each time had been turned aside; New York makes
it more than difficult to find time to do anything that does not have
to be done at a definite time and for a definite reason. She was worn
out with her futile trampings up and down streets, up and down stairs.
Up the stone steps she went and rang the bell.
Yes, Mrs. Belloc was in, and would be glad to see her, if Miss Stevens
would wait in the drawing-room a few minutes. She had not seated
herself when down the stairs came the fresh, pleasantly countrified
voice of Mrs. Belloc, inviting her to ascend. As Mildred started up,
she saw at the head of the stairs the frank and cheerful face of the
lady herself. She was holding together at the neck a thin silk wrapper
whose lines strongly suggested that it was the only garment she had on.
"Why should old friends stand on ceremony?" said Mrs. Belloc. "Come
right up. I've been taking a bath. My masseuse has just gone." Mrs.
Belloc enclosed her in a delightfully perfumed embrace, and they kissed
with enthusiasm.
"I AM glad to see you," said Mildred, feeling all at once a thrilling
sense of at-homeness. "I didn't realize how glad I'd be till I saw
you."
"It'd be a pretty stiff sort that wouldn't feel at home with me,"
observed Mrs. Belloc. "New York usually stiffens people up. It's had
the opposite effect on me. Though I must say, I have learned to stiffen
with people I don't like--and I'll have to admit that I like fewer and
fewer. People don't wear well, do they? What IS the matter with them?
Why can't they be natural and not make themselves into rubbishy, old
scrap-bags full of fakes and pretenses? You're looking at my hair."
They were in Mrs. Belloc's comfortable sitting-room now, and she was
smoking a cigarette and regarding Mildred with an expression of delight
that was most flattering. Said Mildred:
"Your hair does look well. It's thicker--isn't it?"
"Think so?" said Mrs. Belloc. "It ought to be, with all the time and
money I've spent on it. My, how New York does set a woman to repairing
and fixing up. Nothing artificial goes here. It mustn't be paint and
plumpers and pads, but the real teeth. Why, I've had four real teeth
set in as if they were rooted--and my hips toned down. You may
remember what heavy legs I had--piano-legs. Look at 'em now." Mrs.
Belloc drew the wrapper to her knee and exposed in a pale-blue silk
stocking a thin and comely calf.
"You HAVE been busy!" said Mildred.
"That's only a little part. I started to tell you about the hair. It
was getting gray--not in a nice, pretty way, all over, but in spots and
streaks. Nothing else makes a woman look so ragged and dingy and old
as spotted, streaky gray hair. So I had the hair-woman touch it up.
She vows it won't make my face hard. That's the trouble with dyed or
touched hair, you know. But this is a new process."
"It's certainly a success," said Mildred. And in fact it was, and
thanks to it and the other improvements Mrs. Belloc was an attractive
and even a pretty woman, years younger than when Mildred saw her.
"Yes, I think I've improved," said Mrs. Belloc. "Nothing to scream
about--but worth while. That's what we're alive for--to improve--isn't
it? I've no patience with people who slide back, or don't get
on--people who get less and less as they grow older. The trouble with
them is they're vain, satisfied with themselves as they are, and lazy.
Most women are too lazy to live. They'll only fix up to catch a man."
Mildred had grown sober and thoughtful.
"To catch a man," continued Mrs. Belloc. "And not much even for that.
I'll warrant YOU'RE getting on. Tell me about it."
"Tell me about yourself, first," said Mildred.
"WHY all this excitement about improving?" And she smiled significantly.
"No, you'll have to guess again," said Mrs. Belloc. "Not a man. You
remember, I used to be crazy about gay life in New York--going out, and
men, theaters, and lobster-palaces--everything I didn't get in my home
town, everything the city means to the jays. Well, I've gotten over all
that. I'm improving, mind and body, just to keep myself interested in
life, to keep myself young and cheerful. I'm interested in myself, in
my house and in woman's suffrage. Not that the women are fit to vote.
They aren't, any more than the men. But what MAKES people? Why,
responsibility. That old scamp I married--he's dead. And I've got the
money, and everything's very comfortable with me. Just think, I didn't
have any luck till I was an old maid far gone. I'm not telling my age.
All my life it had rained bad luck--pitchforks, tines down. And why?"
"Yes, why?" said Mildred. She did not understand how it was, but Mrs.
Belloc seemed to be saying the exact things she needed to hear.
"I'll tell you why. Because I didn't work. Drudging along isn't work
any more than dawdling along. Work means purpose, means head. And my
luck began just as anybody's does--when I rose up and got busy. You
may say it wasn't very creditable, the way I began; but it was the best
_I_ could do. I know it isn't good morals, but I'm willing to bet that
many a man has laid the foundations of a big fine career by doing
something that wasn't at all nice or right. He had to do it, to 'get
through.' If he hadn't done it, he'd never have 'got through.' Anyhow,
whether that's so or not, everyone's got to make a fight to break into
the part of the world where living's really worth living. But I needn't
tell YOU that. You're doing it."
"No, I'm not," replied Mildred. "I'm ashamed to say so, but I'm not.
I've been bluffing--and wasting time."
"That's bad, that's bad," said Mrs. Belloc. "Especially, as you've got
it in you to get there. What's been the trouble? The wrong kind of
associations?"
"Partly," said Mildred.
Mrs. Belloc, watching her interestedly, suddenly lighted up. "Why not
come back here to live?" said she. "Now, please don't refuse till I
explain. You remember what kind of people I had here?"