The Price She Paid [37]
one day. Anything else? Yes, a two-franc box of pins. And that was all. Everything else belonged to the general. In the closets, in the trunks--all the general's, part of the trousseau he had paid for. Not an undergarment; not an outer garment; not a hat or a pair of shoes, not a wrap, not a pair of gloves. All, the general's.
He was in the door of the dressing-room--the small wiry figure in rose-silk pajamas. The mustache and imperial were carefully waxed as always, day and night. On the little feet were high-heeled slippers. On the head was a rose-silk Neapolitan nightcap with gay tassel. The nightcap hid the bald spot from which the lofty toupee had been removed. A grotesque little figure, but not grotesque to her. Through the mask of the vain, boastful little face she saw the general watching her, as she had seen him that afternoon when she came in--the mysterious and terrible personality that had made the vast fortune, that had ridden ruthlessly over friend and foe, over man and woman and child--to the goal of its desires.
``It's late, my dear?'' said the little man. ``Come to bed.''
She rose to obey--she in the general's purchases of filmy nightgown under a pale-pink silk dressing-gown.
He smiled with that curious noiseless mumbling and smacking of the thin lips. She sat down again.
``Don't keep me waiting. It's chilly,'' he said, advancing toward her.
``I shall sleep in here to-night--on the couch,'' said she. She was trembling with fright at her own audacity. She could see a fifty-centime piece and a copper dancing before her eyes. She felt horribly alone and weak, but she had no desire to retract the words with which she had thrown down the gauntlet.
The little general halted. The mask dropped; the man, the monster, looked at her. ``What's the matter?'' said he in an ominously quiet voice.
``Mr. Harding delivered your message to-day,'' said she, and her steady voice astonished her. ``So I am going back home.''
He waited, looking steadily at her.
``After he told me and I thought about it, I decided to submit, but just now I saw that I couldn't. I don't know what possesses me. I don't know what I'm going to do, or how I'm going to do it. But it's all over between us.'' She said this rapidly, fluently, in a decisive way, quite foreign to her character as she had thought it.
``You are coming to bed, where you belong,'' said he quietly.
``No,'' replied she, pressing herself against her chair as if force were being used to drag her from it. She cast about for something that would make yielding impossible. ``You are--repulsive to me.''
He looked at her without change of countenance. Said he: ``Come to bed. I ask you for the last time.''
There was no anger in his voice, no menace either open or covert; simply finality--the last word of the man who had made himself feared and secure in the mining-camps where the equation of personal courage is straightway applied to every situation. Mildred shivered. She longed to yield, to stammer out some excuse and obey him. But she could not; nor was she able to rise from her chair. She saw in his hard eyes a look of astonishment, of curiosity as to this unaccountable defiance in one who had seemed docile, who had apparently no alternative but obedience. He was not so astonished at her as she was at herself. ``What is to become of me?'' her terror-stricken soul was crying. ``I must do as he says--I must--yet I cannot!'' And she looked at him and sat motionless.
He turned away, moved slowly toward the door, halted at the threshold to give her time, was gone. A fit of trembling seized her; she leaned forward and rested her arms upon the dressing-table or she would have fallen from the chair to the floor. Yet, even as her fear made her sick and weak, she knew that she would not yield.
The cold drove her to the couch, to lie under half a dozen of the dressing-gowns and presently to fall into a sleep of exhaustion. When she awoke after what she thought was a few minutes of unconsciousness, the clamor of traffic
He was in the door of the dressing-room--the small wiry figure in rose-silk pajamas. The mustache and imperial were carefully waxed as always, day and night. On the little feet were high-heeled slippers. On the head was a rose-silk Neapolitan nightcap with gay tassel. The nightcap hid the bald spot from which the lofty toupee had been removed. A grotesque little figure, but not grotesque to her. Through the mask of the vain, boastful little face she saw the general watching her, as she had seen him that afternoon when she came in--the mysterious and terrible personality that had made the vast fortune, that had ridden ruthlessly over friend and foe, over man and woman and child--to the goal of its desires.
``It's late, my dear?'' said the little man. ``Come to bed.''
She rose to obey--she in the general's purchases of filmy nightgown under a pale-pink silk dressing-gown.
He smiled with that curious noiseless mumbling and smacking of the thin lips. She sat down again.
``Don't keep me waiting. It's chilly,'' he said, advancing toward her.
``I shall sleep in here to-night--on the couch,'' said she. She was trembling with fright at her own audacity. She could see a fifty-centime piece and a copper dancing before her eyes. She felt horribly alone and weak, but she had no desire to retract the words with which she had thrown down the gauntlet.
The little general halted. The mask dropped; the man, the monster, looked at her. ``What's the matter?'' said he in an ominously quiet voice.
``Mr. Harding delivered your message to-day,'' said she, and her steady voice astonished her. ``So I am going back home.''
He waited, looking steadily at her.
``After he told me and I thought about it, I decided to submit, but just now I saw that I couldn't. I don't know what possesses me. I don't know what I'm going to do, or how I'm going to do it. But it's all over between us.'' She said this rapidly, fluently, in a decisive way, quite foreign to her character as she had thought it.
``You are coming to bed, where you belong,'' said he quietly.
``No,'' replied she, pressing herself against her chair as if force were being used to drag her from it. She cast about for something that would make yielding impossible. ``You are--repulsive to me.''
He looked at her without change of countenance. Said he: ``Come to bed. I ask you for the last time.''
There was no anger in his voice, no menace either open or covert; simply finality--the last word of the man who had made himself feared and secure in the mining-camps where the equation of personal courage is straightway applied to every situation. Mildred shivered. She longed to yield, to stammer out some excuse and obey him. But she could not; nor was she able to rise from her chair. She saw in his hard eyes a look of astonishment, of curiosity as to this unaccountable defiance in one who had seemed docile, who had apparently no alternative but obedience. He was not so astonished at her as she was at herself. ``What is to become of me?'' her terror-stricken soul was crying. ``I must do as he says--I must--yet I cannot!'' And she looked at him and sat motionless.
He turned away, moved slowly toward the door, halted at the threshold to give her time, was gone. A fit of trembling seized her; she leaned forward and rested her arms upon the dressing-table or she would have fallen from the chair to the floor. Yet, even as her fear made her sick and weak, she knew that she would not yield.
The cold drove her to the couch, to lie under half a dozen of the dressing-gowns and presently to fall into a sleep of exhaustion. When she awoke after what she thought was a few minutes of unconsciousness, the clamor of traffic