The Price She Paid [103]
to leave the other two alone. Mildred urged her to stay--Mildred who had been impatient of her presence when Stanley was announced. Urged her to stay in such a tone that Cyrilla could not persist, but had to sit down again. As the three talked on and on, Mildred continued to picture life with Stanley--continued the vivid picturing she had begun within ten minutes of Stanley's entering, the picturing that had caused her to insist on Cyrilla's remaining as chaperon. A young girl can do no such picturing as Mildred could not avoid doing. To the young girl married life, its tete-a-tetes, its intimacies, its routine, are all a blank. Any attempt she makes to fill in details goes far astray. But Mildred, with Stanley there before her, could see her life as it would be.
Toward half-past ten, Stanley said, shame-faced and pleading, ``Mildred, I should like to see you alone for just a minute before I go.''
Mildred said to Cyrilla: ``No, don't move. We'll go into the drawing-room.''
He followed her there, and when the sound of Mrs. Brindley's step in the hall had died away, he began: ``I think I understand you a little now. I shan't insult you by returning or destroying that note or the check. I accept your decision--unless you wish to change it.'' He looked at her with eager appeal. His heart was trembling, was sick with apprehension, with the sense of weakness, of danger and gloom ahead. ``Why shouldn't I help you, at least, Mildred?'' he urged.
Whence the courage came she knew not, but through her choking throat she forced a positive, ``No.''
``And,'' he went on, ``I meant what I said. I love you. I'm wretched without you. I want you to marry me, career or no career.''
Her fears were clamorous, but she forced herself to say, ``I can't change.''
``I hoped--a little--that you sent me the note to- day because you-- You didn't?''
``No,'' said Mildred. ``I want us to be friends. But you must keep away.''
He bent his head. ``Then I'll go 'way off somewhere. I can't bear being here in New York and not seeing you. And when I've been away a year or so, perhaps I'll get control of myself again.''
Going away!--to try to forget!--no doubt, to succeed in forgetting! Then this was her last chance.
``Must I go, Mildred? Won't you relent?''
``I don't love you--and I never can.'' She was deathly white and trembling. She lifted her eyes to begin a retreat, for her courage had quite oozed away. He was looking at her, his face distorted with a mingling of the passion of desire and the passion of jealousy. She shrank, caught at the back of a chair for support, felt suddenly strong and defiant. To be this man's plaything, to submit to his moods, to his jealousies, to his caprices--to be his to fumble and caress, his to have the fury of his passion wreak itself upon her with no response from her but only repulsion and loathing--and the long dreary hours and days and years alone with him, listening to his commonplaces, often so tedious, forced to try to amuse him and to keep him in a good humor because he held the purse- strings--
``Please go,'' she said.
She was still very young, still had years and years of youth unspent. Surely she could find something better than this. Surely life must mean something more than this. At least it was worth a trial.
He held out his hand. She gave him her reluctant and cold fingers. He said something, what she did not hear, for the blood was roaring in her ears as the room swam round. He was gone, and the next thing she definitely knew she was at the threshold of Cyrilla's room. Cyrilla gave her a tenderly sympathetic glance. She saw herself in a mirror and knew why; her face was gray and drawn, and her eyes lay dully deep within dark circles.
``I couldn't do it,'' she said. ``I sent for him to marry him. But I couldn't.''
``I'm glad,'' said Cyrilla. ``Marriage without love is a last resort. And you're a long way from last resorts.''
``You don't think I'm crazy?''
``I think you've won a great victory.''
``Victory!'' And Mildred
Toward half-past ten, Stanley said, shame-faced and pleading, ``Mildred, I should like to see you alone for just a minute before I go.''
Mildred said to Cyrilla: ``No, don't move. We'll go into the drawing-room.''
He followed her there, and when the sound of Mrs. Brindley's step in the hall had died away, he began: ``I think I understand you a little now. I shan't insult you by returning or destroying that note or the check. I accept your decision--unless you wish to change it.'' He looked at her with eager appeal. His heart was trembling, was sick with apprehension, with the sense of weakness, of danger and gloom ahead. ``Why shouldn't I help you, at least, Mildred?'' he urged.
Whence the courage came she knew not, but through her choking throat she forced a positive, ``No.''
``And,'' he went on, ``I meant what I said. I love you. I'm wretched without you. I want you to marry me, career or no career.''
Her fears were clamorous, but she forced herself to say, ``I can't change.''
``I hoped--a little--that you sent me the note to- day because you-- You didn't?''
``No,'' said Mildred. ``I want us to be friends. But you must keep away.''
He bent his head. ``Then I'll go 'way off somewhere. I can't bear being here in New York and not seeing you. And when I've been away a year or so, perhaps I'll get control of myself again.''
Going away!--to try to forget!--no doubt, to succeed in forgetting! Then this was her last chance.
``Must I go, Mildred? Won't you relent?''
``I don't love you--and I never can.'' She was deathly white and trembling. She lifted her eyes to begin a retreat, for her courage had quite oozed away. He was looking at her, his face distorted with a mingling of the passion of desire and the passion of jealousy. She shrank, caught at the back of a chair for support, felt suddenly strong and defiant. To be this man's plaything, to submit to his moods, to his jealousies, to his caprices--to be his to fumble and caress, his to have the fury of his passion wreak itself upon her with no response from her but only repulsion and loathing--and the long dreary hours and days and years alone with him, listening to his commonplaces, often so tedious, forced to try to amuse him and to keep him in a good humor because he held the purse- strings--
``Please go,'' she said.
She was still very young, still had years and years of youth unspent. Surely she could find something better than this. Surely life must mean something more than this. At least it was worth a trial.
He held out his hand. She gave him her reluctant and cold fingers. He said something, what she did not hear, for the blood was roaring in her ears as the room swam round. He was gone, and the next thing she definitely knew she was at the threshold of Cyrilla's room. Cyrilla gave her a tenderly sympathetic glance. She saw herself in a mirror and knew why; her face was gray and drawn, and her eyes lay dully deep within dark circles.
``I couldn't do it,'' she said. ``I sent for him to marry him. But I couldn't.''
``I'm glad,'' said Cyrilla. ``Marriage without love is a last resort. And you're a long way from last resorts.''
``You don't think I'm crazy?''
``I think you've won a great victory.''
``Victory!'' And Mildred