The Price She Paid [133]
self. Mildred could not resist--and who can when seated at table with the dish before one's eyes and under one's nose. The Rivi regimen was suspended for the visit. Mildred, back in New York and at work again, found that she was apparently none the worse for her holiday, was in fact better. So she drifted into the way of suspending the regimen for an evening now and then--when she dined with Mrs. Brindley, or when Agnes Belloc had something particularly good. All went well for a time. Then--a cold. She neglected it, feeling sure it could not stay with one so soundly healthy through and through. But it did stay; it grew worse. She decided that she ought to take medicine for it. True, starvation was the cure prescribed by the regimen, but Mildred could not bring herself to two or three days of discomfort. Also, many people told her that such a cure was foolish and even dangerous. The cold got better, got worse, got better. But her throat became queer, and at last her voice left her. She was ashamed to go to Moldini in such a condition. She dropped in upon Hicks, the throat specialist. He ``fixed her up'' beautifully with a few sprayings. A week--and her voice left her again, and Hicks could not bring it back. As she left his office, it was raining --an icy, dreary drizzle. She splashed her way home, in about the lowest spirits she had ever known. She locked her door and seated herself at the window and stared out, while the storm raged within her. After an hour or two she wrote and sent Moldini a note: ``I have been making a fool of myself. I'll not come again until I am all right. Be patient with me. I don't think this will occur again.'' She first wrote ``happen.'' She scratched it out and put ``occur'' in its place. Not that Moldini would have noted the slip; simply that she would not permit herself the satisfaction of the false and self-excusing ``happen.'' It had not been a ``happen.'' It had been a deliberate folly, a lapse to the Mildred she had buried the day she sent Donald Keith away. When the note was on its way, she threw out all her medicines, and broke the new spraying apparatus Hicks had instructed her to buy.
She went back to the Rivi regime. A week passed, and she was little better. Two weeks, and she began to mend. But it was six weeks before the last traces of her folly disappeared. Moldini said not a word, gave no sign. Once more her life went on in uneventful, unbroken routine--diet, exercise, singing--singing, exercise, diet--no distractions except an occasional visit to the opera with Moldini, and she was hating opera now. All her enthusiasm was gone. She simply worked doggedly, drudged, slaved.
When the days began to grow warm, Mrs. Belloc said: ``I suppose you'll soon be off to the country? Are you going to visit Mrs. Brindley?''
``No,'' said Mildred.
``Then come with me.''
``Thank you, but I can't do it.''
``But you've got to rest somewhere.''
``Rest?'' said Mildred. ``Why should I rest?''
Mrs. Belloc started to protest, then abruptly changed. ``Come to think of it, why should you? You're in perfect health, and it'll be time enough to rest when you `get there.' ''
``I'm tired through and through,'' said Mildred, ``but it isn't the kind of tired that could be rested except by throwing up this frightful nightmare of a career.''
``And you can't do that.''
``I won't,'' said Mildred, her lips compressed and her eyes narrowed.
She and Moldini--and fat, funny little Mrs. Moldini --went to the mountains. And she worked on. She would listen to none of the suggestions about the dangers of keeping too steadily at it, about working oneself into a state of staleness, about the imperative demands of the artistic temperament for rest, change, variety. ``It may be so,'' she said to Mrs. Brindley. ``But I've gone mad. I can no more drop this routine than--than you could take it up and keep to it for a week.''
``I'll admit I couldn't,'' said Cyrilla. ``And Mildred, you're making a mistake.''
``Then I'll have to suffer for it. I must
She went back to the Rivi regime. A week passed, and she was little better. Two weeks, and she began to mend. But it was six weeks before the last traces of her folly disappeared. Moldini said not a word, gave no sign. Once more her life went on in uneventful, unbroken routine--diet, exercise, singing--singing, exercise, diet--no distractions except an occasional visit to the opera with Moldini, and she was hating opera now. All her enthusiasm was gone. She simply worked doggedly, drudged, slaved.
When the days began to grow warm, Mrs. Belloc said: ``I suppose you'll soon be off to the country? Are you going to visit Mrs. Brindley?''
``No,'' said Mildred.
``Then come with me.''
``Thank you, but I can't do it.''
``But you've got to rest somewhere.''
``Rest?'' said Mildred. ``Why should I rest?''
Mrs. Belloc started to protest, then abruptly changed. ``Come to think of it, why should you? You're in perfect health, and it'll be time enough to rest when you `get there.' ''
``I'm tired through and through,'' said Mildred, ``but it isn't the kind of tired that could be rested except by throwing up this frightful nightmare of a career.''
``And you can't do that.''
``I won't,'' said Mildred, her lips compressed and her eyes narrowed.
She and Moldini--and fat, funny little Mrs. Moldini --went to the mountains. And she worked on. She would listen to none of the suggestions about the dangers of keeping too steadily at it, about working oneself into a state of staleness, about the imperative demands of the artistic temperament for rest, change, variety. ``It may be so,'' she said to Mrs. Brindley. ``But I've gone mad. I can no more drop this routine than--than you could take it up and keep to it for a week.''
``I'll admit I couldn't,'' said Cyrilla. ``And Mildred, you're making a mistake.''
``Then I'll have to suffer for it. I must