The Price She Paid [13]
she was degraded by her step- father. Before the world he was courteous and considerate toward her as toward everybody. Indeed, Presbury's natural instincts were gentle and kindly. His hatred of Mildred and his passion for humiliating her were the result of his conviction that he had been tricked into the marriage and his inability to gratify his resentment upon his wife. He could not make the mother suffer; but he could make the daughter suffer--and he did. Besides, she was of no use to him and would presently be an expense.
``Your money will soon be gone,'' he said to her. ``If you paid your just share of the expenses it would be gone now. When it is gone, what will you do?''
She was silent.
``Your mother has written to your brother about you.''
Mildred lifted her head, a gleam of her former spirit in her eyes. Then she remembered, and bent her gaze upon the ground.
``But he, like the cur that he is, answered through a secretary that he wished to have nothing to do with either of you.''
Mildred guessed that Frank had made the marriage an excuse.
``Surely some of your relatives will do something for you. I have my hands full, supporting your mother. I don't propose to have two strapping, worthless women hanging from my neck.''
She bent her head lower, and remained silent.
``I warn you to bestir yourself,'' he went on. ``I give you four months. After the first of the year you can't stay here unless you pay your share--your third.''
No answer.
``You hear what I say, miss?'' he demanded.
``Yes,'' replied she.
``If you had any sense you wouldn't wait until your last cent was gone. You'd go to New York now and get something to do.''
``What?'' she asked--all she could trust herself to speak.
``How should _I_ know?'' retorted he furiously. ``you are a stranger to me. You've been educated, I assume. Surely there's something you can do. You've been out six years now, and have had no success, for you're neither married nor engaged. You can't call it success to be flattered and sought by people who wanted invitations to this house when it was a social center.''
He paused for response from her. None came.
``You admit you are a failure?'' he said sharply.
``Yes,'' said she.
``You must have realized it several years ago,'' he went on. ``Instead of allowing your mother to keep on wasting money in entertaining lavishly here to give you a chance to marry, you should have been preparing yourself to earn a living.'' A pause. ``Isn't that true, miss?''
He had a way of pronouncing the word ``miss'' that made it an epithet, a sneer at her unmarried and un- marriageable state. She colored, paled, murmured:
``Yes.''
``Then, better late than never. You'll do well to follow my advice and go to New York and look about you.''
``I'll--I'll think of it,'' stammered she.
And she did think of it. But in all her life she had never considered the idea of money-making. That was something for men, and for the middle and lower classes --while Hanging Rock was regarded as most noisomely middle class by fashionable people, it did not so regard itself. Money-making was not for ladies. Like all her class, she was a constant and a severe critic of the women of the lower orders who worked for her as milliners, dressmakers, shop-attendants, cooks, maids. But, as she now realized, it is one thing to pass upon the work of others; it is another thing to do work oneself. She-- There was literally nothing that she could do. Any occupation, even the most menial, was either beyond her skill or beyond her strength, or beyond both.
Suddenly she recalled that she could sing. Her prostrate spirit suddenly leaped erect. Yes, she could sing! Her voice had been praised by experts. Her singing had been in demand at charity entertainments where amateurs had to compete with professionals. Then down she dropped again. She sang well enough to know how badly she sang--the long and toilsome and expensive training that lay between her and operatic or concert or even music-hall stage.
``Your money will soon be gone,'' he said to her. ``If you paid your just share of the expenses it would be gone now. When it is gone, what will you do?''
She was silent.
``Your mother has written to your brother about you.''
Mildred lifted her head, a gleam of her former spirit in her eyes. Then she remembered, and bent her gaze upon the ground.
``But he, like the cur that he is, answered through a secretary that he wished to have nothing to do with either of you.''
Mildred guessed that Frank had made the marriage an excuse.
``Surely some of your relatives will do something for you. I have my hands full, supporting your mother. I don't propose to have two strapping, worthless women hanging from my neck.''
She bent her head lower, and remained silent.
``I warn you to bestir yourself,'' he went on. ``I give you four months. After the first of the year you can't stay here unless you pay your share--your third.''
No answer.
``You hear what I say, miss?'' he demanded.
``Yes,'' replied she.
``If you had any sense you wouldn't wait until your last cent was gone. You'd go to New York now and get something to do.''
``What?'' she asked--all she could trust herself to speak.
``How should _I_ know?'' retorted he furiously. ``you are a stranger to me. You've been educated, I assume. Surely there's something you can do. You've been out six years now, and have had no success, for you're neither married nor engaged. You can't call it success to be flattered and sought by people who wanted invitations to this house when it was a social center.''
He paused for response from her. None came.
``You admit you are a failure?'' he said sharply.
``Yes,'' said she.
``You must have realized it several years ago,'' he went on. ``Instead of allowing your mother to keep on wasting money in entertaining lavishly here to give you a chance to marry, you should have been preparing yourself to earn a living.'' A pause. ``Isn't that true, miss?''
He had a way of pronouncing the word ``miss'' that made it an epithet, a sneer at her unmarried and un- marriageable state. She colored, paled, murmured:
``Yes.''
``Then, better late than never. You'll do well to follow my advice and go to New York and look about you.''
``I'll--I'll think of it,'' stammered she.
And she did think of it. But in all her life she had never considered the idea of money-making. That was something for men, and for the middle and lower classes --while Hanging Rock was regarded as most noisomely middle class by fashionable people, it did not so regard itself. Money-making was not for ladies. Like all her class, she was a constant and a severe critic of the women of the lower orders who worked for her as milliners, dressmakers, shop-attendants, cooks, maids. But, as she now realized, it is one thing to pass upon the work of others; it is another thing to do work oneself. She-- There was literally nothing that she could do. Any occupation, even the most menial, was either beyond her skill or beyond her strength, or beyond both.
Suddenly she recalled that she could sing. Her prostrate spirit suddenly leaped erect. Yes, she could sing! Her voice had been praised by experts. Her singing had been in demand at charity entertainments where amateurs had to compete with professionals. Then down she dropped again. She sang well enough to know how badly she sang--the long and toilsome and expensive training that lay between her and operatic or concert or even music-hall stage.