The Price She Paid [4]
that sent men who knew they hadn't a ghost of a chance with her discontentedly back to the second-choice women who alone were available for them. Fortunately for Mildred, Stanley Baird, too wise to flatter a woman discriminatingly, did not tell her the secret of her fascination. If he had told her, she would no doubt have tried to train and to use it--and so would inevitably have lost it.
To go on with that important conference in the sitting-room in the handsome, roomy house of the Gowers at Hanging Rock, Frank Gower eagerly seized upon his wife's subtly nasty remark. ``I don't see why in thunder you haven't married, Milly,'' said he. ``You've had every chance, these last four or five years.''
``And it'll be harder now,'' moaned her mother. ``For it looks as though we were going to be wretchedly poor. And poverty is so repulsive.''
``Do you think,'' said Mildred, ``that giving me the idea that I must marry right away will make it easier for me to marry? Everyone who knows us knows our circumstances.'' She looked significantly at Frank's wife, who had been wailing through Hanging Rock the woeful plight of her dead father-in-law's family. The young Mrs. Gower blushed and glanced away. ``And,'' Mildred went on, ``everyone is saying that I must marry at once--that there's nothing else for me to do.'' She smiled bitterly. ``When I go into the street again I shall see nothing but flying men. And no man would come to call unless he brought a chaperon and a witness with him.''
``How can you be so frivolous?'' reproached her mother.
Mildred was used to being misunderstood by her mother, who had long since been made hopelessly dull by the suffocating life she led and by pain from her feet, which never left her at ease for a moment except when she had them soaking in cold water. Mrs. Gower had been born with ordinary feet, neither ugly nor pretty and entirely fit for the uses for which nature intended feet. She had spoiled them by wearing shoes to make them look smaller and slimmer than they were. In steady weather she was plaintive; in changeable weather she varied between irritable and violent.
Said Mildred to her brother: ``How much--JUST how much is there?''
``I can't say exactly,'' replied her brother, who had not yet solved to his satisfaction the moral problem of how much of the estate he ought to allow his mother and sister and how much he ought to claim for himself --in such a way that the claim could not be disputed.
Mildred looked fixedly at him. He showed his uneasiness not by glancing away, but by the appearance of a certain hard defiance in his eyes. Said she:
``What is the very most we can hope for?''
A silence. Her mother broke it. ``Mildred, how CAN you talk of those things--already?''
``I don't know,'' replied Mildred. ``Perhaps because it's got to be done.''
This seemed to them all--and to herself--a lame excuse for such apparent hardness of heart. Her father had always been SENDER-HEARTED--HAD NEVER SPOKEN OF MONEY, OR ENCOURAGED HIS FAMILY IN SPEAKING OF IT.
A LONG AND PAINFUL SILENCE. THEN, THE WIDOW ABRUPTLY:
``YOU'RE SURE, Frank, there's NO insurance?''
``Father always said that you disliked the idea,'' replied her son; ``that you thought insurance looked like your calculating on his death.''
Under her husband's adroit prompting Mrs. Gower had discovered such a view of insurance in her brain. She now recalled expressing it--and regretted. But she was silenced. She tried to take her mind of the sub- ject of money. But, like Mildred, she could not. The thought of imminent poverty was nagging at them like toothache. ``There'll be enough for a year or so?'' she said, timidly interrogative.
``I hope so,'' said Frank.
Mildred was eying him fixedly again. Said she: ``Have you found anything at all?''
``He had about eight thousand dollars in bank,'' said Frank. ``But most of it will go for the pressing debts.''
``But how did HE expect to live?'' urged Mildred.
``Yes, there must have been SOMETHING,'' said her mother.
``Of course,
To go on with that important conference in the sitting-room in the handsome, roomy house of the Gowers at Hanging Rock, Frank Gower eagerly seized upon his wife's subtly nasty remark. ``I don't see why in thunder you haven't married, Milly,'' said he. ``You've had every chance, these last four or five years.''
``And it'll be harder now,'' moaned her mother. ``For it looks as though we were going to be wretchedly poor. And poverty is so repulsive.''
``Do you think,'' said Mildred, ``that giving me the idea that I must marry right away will make it easier for me to marry? Everyone who knows us knows our circumstances.'' She looked significantly at Frank's wife, who had been wailing through Hanging Rock the woeful plight of her dead father-in-law's family. The young Mrs. Gower blushed and glanced away. ``And,'' Mildred went on, ``everyone is saying that I must marry at once--that there's nothing else for me to do.'' She smiled bitterly. ``When I go into the street again I shall see nothing but flying men. And no man would come to call unless he brought a chaperon and a witness with him.''
``How can you be so frivolous?'' reproached her mother.
Mildred was used to being misunderstood by her mother, who had long since been made hopelessly dull by the suffocating life she led and by pain from her feet, which never left her at ease for a moment except when she had them soaking in cold water. Mrs. Gower had been born with ordinary feet, neither ugly nor pretty and entirely fit for the uses for which nature intended feet. She had spoiled them by wearing shoes to make them look smaller and slimmer than they were. In steady weather she was plaintive; in changeable weather she varied between irritable and violent.
Said Mildred to her brother: ``How much--JUST how much is there?''
``I can't say exactly,'' replied her brother, who had not yet solved to his satisfaction the moral problem of how much of the estate he ought to allow his mother and sister and how much he ought to claim for himself --in such a way that the claim could not be disputed.
Mildred looked fixedly at him. He showed his uneasiness not by glancing away, but by the appearance of a certain hard defiance in his eyes. Said she:
``What is the very most we can hope for?''
A silence. Her mother broke it. ``Mildred, how CAN you talk of those things--already?''
``I don't know,'' replied Mildred. ``Perhaps because it's got to be done.''
This seemed to them all--and to herself--a lame excuse for such apparent hardness of heart. Her father had always been SENDER-HEARTED--HAD NEVER SPOKEN OF MONEY, OR ENCOURAGED HIS FAMILY IN SPEAKING OF IT.
A LONG AND PAINFUL SILENCE. THEN, THE WIDOW ABRUPTLY:
``YOU'RE SURE, Frank, there's NO insurance?''
``Father always said that you disliked the idea,'' replied her son; ``that you thought insurance looked like your calculating on his death.''
Under her husband's adroit prompting Mrs. Gower had discovered such a view of insurance in her brain. She now recalled expressing it--and regretted. But she was silenced. She tried to take her mind of the sub- ject of money. But, like Mildred, she could not. The thought of imminent poverty was nagging at them like toothache. ``There'll be enough for a year or so?'' she said, timidly interrogative.
``I hope so,'' said Frank.
Mildred was eying him fixedly again. Said she: ``Have you found anything at all?''
``He had about eight thousand dollars in bank,'' said Frank. ``But most of it will go for the pressing debts.''
``But how did HE expect to live?'' urged Mildred.
``Yes, there must have been SOMETHING,'' said her mother.
``Of course,