The Price She Paid [109]
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?''
Mildred smiled. ``Rather--unconventional?''
``That's polite. Well, I've cleared 'em out. Not that I minded their unconventionality; I liked it. It was so different from the straight-jackets and the hypocrisy I'd been living among and hating. But I soon found out that--well, Miss Stevens, the average human being ought to be pretty conventional in his morals of a certain kind. If he--or SHE--isn't, they begin to get unconventional in every way--about paying their bills, for instance, and about drinking. I got sick and tired of those people. So, I put 'em all out--made a sweep. And now I've become quite as respectable as I care to be--or as is necessary. The couples in the house are married, and they're nice people of good families. It was Mrs. Dyckman--she's got the whole sec- ond floor front, she and her husband and the daughter --it was Mrs. Dyckman who interested me in the suffrage movement. You must hear her speak. And the daughter does well at it, too--and keeps a fashionable millinery-shop--and she's only twenty-four. Then there's Nora Blond.''
``The actress?''
``The actress. She's the quietest, hardest-working person here. She's got the whole first floor front. Nobody ever comes to see her, except on Sunday afternoon. She leads the queerest life.''
``Tell me about that,'' said Mildred.
``I don't know much about it,'' confessed Mrs. Belloc. ``She's regular as a clock--does everything on time, and at the same time. Two meals a day--one of them a dry little breakfast she gets herself. Walks, fencing, athletics, study.''
``What slavery!''
``She's the happiest person I ever saw,'' retorted Mrs. Belloc. ``Why, she's got her work, her career. You don't look at it right, Miss Stevens. You don't look happy. What's the matter? Isn't it because you haven't been working right--because you've been doing these alleged pleasant things that leave a bad taste in your mouth and weaken you? I'll bet, if you had been working hard, you'd not be unhappy now. Better come here to live.''
``Will you let me tell you about myself?''
``Go right ahead. May I ask questions, where I want to know more? I do hate to get things halfway.''
Mildred freely gave her leave, then proceeded to tell her whole story, omitting nothing that was essential to an understanding. In conclusion she said: ``I'd like to come. You see, I've very little money. When it's gone, I'll go, unless I make some more.''
``Yes, you must come. That Mrs. Brindley seems to be a nice woman, a mighty nice woman. But her house, and the people that come there--they aren't the right sort for a girl that's making a start. I can give you a room on the top floor--in front. The young lady next to you is a
``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?''
Mildred smiled. ``Rather--unconventional?''
``That's polite. Well, I've cleared 'em out. Not that I minded their unconventionality; I liked it. It was so different from the straight-jackets and the hypocrisy I'd been living among and hating. But I soon found out that--well, Miss Stevens, the average human being ought to be pretty conventional in his morals of a certain kind. If he--or SHE--isn't, they begin to get unconventional in every way--about paying their bills, for instance, and about drinking. I got sick and tired of those people. So, I put 'em all out--made a sweep. And now I've become quite as respectable as I care to be--or as is necessary. The couples in the house are married, and they're nice people of good families. It was Mrs. Dyckman--she's got the whole sec- ond floor front, she and her husband and the daughter --it was Mrs. Dyckman who interested me in the suffrage movement. You must hear her speak. And the daughter does well at it, too--and keeps a fashionable millinery-shop--and she's only twenty-four. Then there's Nora Blond.''
``The actress?''
``The actress. She's the quietest, hardest-working person here. She's got the whole first floor front. Nobody ever comes to see her, except on Sunday afternoon. She leads the queerest life.''
``Tell me about that,'' said Mildred.
``I don't know much about it,'' confessed Mrs. Belloc. ``She's regular as a clock--does everything on time, and at the same time. Two meals a day--one of them a dry little breakfast she gets herself. Walks, fencing, athletics, study.''
``What slavery!''
``She's the happiest person I ever saw,'' retorted Mrs. Belloc. ``Why, she's got her work, her career. You don't look at it right, Miss Stevens. You don't look happy. What's the matter? Isn't it because you haven't been working right--because you've been doing these alleged pleasant things that leave a bad taste in your mouth and weaken you? I'll bet, if you had been working hard, you'd not be unhappy now. Better come here to live.''
``Will you let me tell you about myself?''
``Go right ahead. May I ask questions, where I want to know more? I do hate to get things halfway.''
Mildred freely gave her leave, then proceeded to tell her whole story, omitting nothing that was essential to an understanding. In conclusion she said: ``I'd like to come. You see, I've very little money. When it's gone, I'll go, unless I make some more.''
``Yes, you must come. That Mrs. Brindley seems to be a nice woman, a mighty nice woman. But her house, and the people that come there--they aren't the right sort for a girl that's making a start. I can give you a room on the top floor--in front. The young lady next to you is a