The Price She Paid [110]
clerk in an architect's office, and a fine girl she is.''
``How much does she pay?'' said Mildred.
``Your room won't be quite as nice as hers. I put you at the top because you can sing up there, part of the mornings and part of the afternoons, without disturbing anybody. I don't have a general table any more. You can take your meals in your room or at the restaurant in the apartment-house next door. It's good and quite reasonable.''
``How much for the room?'' persisted Mildred, laughing.
``Seven dollars a week, and the use of the bath.''
Mildred finally wrung from her that the right price was twelve dollars a week, and insisted on paying that --``until my money gets low.''
``Don't worry about that,'' said Mrs. Belloc.
``You mustn't weaken me,'' cried Mildred. ``You mustn't encourage me to be a coward and to shirk. That's why I'm coming here.''
``I understand,'' said Mrs. Belloc. ``I've got the New England streak of hardness in me, though I believe that masseuse has almost ironed it out of my face. Do I look like a New England schoolmarm?''
Mildred could truthfully answer that there wasn't a trace of it.
When she returned to Mrs. Brindley's--already she had ceased to think of it as home--she announced her new plans. Mrs. Brindley said nothing, but Mildred understood the quick tightening of the lines round her mouth and the shifting of the eyes. She hastened to explain that Mrs. Belloc was no longer the sort of woman or the sort of landlady she had been a few months before. Mrs. Brindley of the older New York, could neither understand nor believe in the people of the new and real New York whom it molds for better or for worse so rapidly--and even remolds again and again. But Mildred was able to satisfy her that the house was at least not suspicious.
``It doesn't matter where you're going,'' said Mrs. Brindley. ``It's that you are going. I can't bear giving you up. I had hoped that our lives would flow on and on together.'' She was with difficulty controlling her emotions. ``It's these separations that age one, that take one's life. I almost wish I hadn't met you.''
Mildred was moved, herself. Not so much as Mrs. Brindley because she had the necessities of her career gripping her and claiming the strongest feelings there were in her. Also, she was much the younger, not merely in years but in experience. And separations have no real poignancy in them for youth
``Yes, I know you love me,'' said Cyrilla, ``but love doesn't mean to you what it means to me. I'm in that middle period of life where everything has its fullest meaning. In youth we're easily consoled and distracted because life seems so full of possibilities, and we can't believe friendship and love are rare, and still more rarely worth while. In old age, when the arteries harden and the blood flows slow and cold, we become indifferent. But between thirty-five and fifty-five how the heart can ache!'' She smiled, with trembling lips. ``And how it can rejoice!'' she cried bravely. ``I must not forget to mention that. Ah, my dear, you must learn to live intensely. If I had had your chance!''
``Ridiculous!'' laughed Mildred. ``You talk like an old woman. And I never think of you as older than myself.''
``I AM an old woman,'' said Cyrilla. And, with a tightening at the heart Mildred saw, deep in the depths of her eyes, the look of old age. ``I've found that I'm too old for love--for man-and-woman love--and that means I'm an old woman.''
Mildred felt that there was only a thin barrier of reserve between her and some sad secret of this strange, shy, loving woman's--a barrier so thin that she could almost hear the stifled moan of a broken heart. But the barrier remained; it would have been impossible for Cyrilla Brindley to talk frankly about herself.
When Mildred came out of her room the next morning, Cyrilla had gone, leaving a note:
I can't bear good-bys. Besides, we'll see each other very soon. Forgive me for shrinking, but really I can't.
Before night Mildred was settled in the
``How much does she pay?'' said Mildred.
``Your room won't be quite as nice as hers. I put you at the top because you can sing up there, part of the mornings and part of the afternoons, without disturbing anybody. I don't have a general table any more. You can take your meals in your room or at the restaurant in the apartment-house next door. It's good and quite reasonable.''
``How much for the room?'' persisted Mildred, laughing.
``Seven dollars a week, and the use of the bath.''
Mildred finally wrung from her that the right price was twelve dollars a week, and insisted on paying that --``until my money gets low.''
``Don't worry about that,'' said Mrs. Belloc.
``You mustn't weaken me,'' cried Mildred. ``You mustn't encourage me to be a coward and to shirk. That's why I'm coming here.''
``I understand,'' said Mrs. Belloc. ``I've got the New England streak of hardness in me, though I believe that masseuse has almost ironed it out of my face. Do I look like a New England schoolmarm?''
Mildred could truthfully answer that there wasn't a trace of it.
When she returned to Mrs. Brindley's--already she had ceased to think of it as home--she announced her new plans. Mrs. Brindley said nothing, but Mildred understood the quick tightening of the lines round her mouth and the shifting of the eyes. She hastened to explain that Mrs. Belloc was no longer the sort of woman or the sort of landlady she had been a few months before. Mrs. Brindley of the older New York, could neither understand nor believe in the people of the new and real New York whom it molds for better or for worse so rapidly--and even remolds again and again. But Mildred was able to satisfy her that the house was at least not suspicious.
``It doesn't matter where you're going,'' said Mrs. Brindley. ``It's that you are going. I can't bear giving you up. I had hoped that our lives would flow on and on together.'' She was with difficulty controlling her emotions. ``It's these separations that age one, that take one's life. I almost wish I hadn't met you.''
Mildred was moved, herself. Not so much as Mrs. Brindley because she had the necessities of her career gripping her and claiming the strongest feelings there were in her. Also, she was much the younger, not merely in years but in experience. And separations have no real poignancy in them for youth
``Yes, I know you love me,'' said Cyrilla, ``but love doesn't mean to you what it means to me. I'm in that middle period of life where everything has its fullest meaning. In youth we're easily consoled and distracted because life seems so full of possibilities, and we can't believe friendship and love are rare, and still more rarely worth while. In old age, when the arteries harden and the blood flows slow and cold, we become indifferent. But between thirty-five and fifty-five how the heart can ache!'' She smiled, with trembling lips. ``And how it can rejoice!'' she cried bravely. ``I must not forget to mention that. Ah, my dear, you must learn to live intensely. If I had had your chance!''
``Ridiculous!'' laughed Mildred. ``You talk like an old woman. And I never think of you as older than myself.''
``I AM an old woman,'' said Cyrilla. And, with a tightening at the heart Mildred saw, deep in the depths of her eyes, the look of old age. ``I've found that I'm too old for love--for man-and-woman love--and that means I'm an old woman.''
Mildred felt that there was only a thin barrier of reserve between her and some sad secret of this strange, shy, loving woman's--a barrier so thin that she could almost hear the stifled moan of a broken heart. But the barrier remained; it would have been impossible for Cyrilla Brindley to talk frankly about herself.
When Mildred came out of her room the next morning, Cyrilla had gone, leaving a note:
I can't bear good-bys. Besides, we'll see each other very soon. Forgive me for shrinking, but really I can't.
Before night Mildred was settled in the