The Price She Paid [49]
big house in Madison Avenue. The price--thirty-five dollars a week for board, a bedroom with a folding bed in an alcove, and a bath, was more than double what she had counted on paying, but she discovered that decent and clean lodgings and food fit to eat were not to be had for less. ``And I simply can't live pig-fashion,'' said she. ``I'd be so depressed that I could do nothing. I can't live like a wild animal, and I won't.'' She had some vague notion--foreboding--that this was not the proper spirit with which to face life. ``I suppose I'm horribly foolish,'' reflected she, ``but if I must go down, I'll go down with my colors flying.'' She did not know precisely what that phrase meant, but it sounded fine and brave and heartened her to take the expensive lodgings.
The landlady was a Mrs. Belloc. Mildred had not talked with her twenty minutes before she had a feeling that this name was assumed. The evening of her first day in the house she learned that her guess was correct --learned it from the landlady herself. After dinner Mrs. Belloc came into her room to cheer her up, to find out about her and to tell her about herself.
``Now that you've come,'' said she, ``the house is full up--except some little rooms at the top that I'd as lief not fill. The probabilities are that any ladies who would take them wouldn't be refined enough to suit those I have. There are six, not counting me, every one with a bath and two with private parlors. And as they're all handsome, sensible women, ladylike and steady, I think the prospects are that they'll pay promptly and that I won't have any trouble.''
Mildred reflected upon this curious statement. It sounded innocent enough, yet what a peculiar way to put a simple fact.
``Of course it's none of my business how people live as long as they keep up the respectabilities,'' pursued Mrs. Belloc. ``It don't do to inquire into people in New York. Most of 'em come here because they want to live as they please.''
``No doubt,'' said Mildred a little nervously, for she suspected her landlady of hitting at her, and wondered if she had come to cross-examine her and, if the results were not satisfactory, to put her into the street.
``I know _I_ came for that reason,'' pursued Mrs. Belloc. ``I was a school-teacher up in New England until about two years ago. Did you ever teach school?''
``Not yet,'' said Mildred. ``And I don't think I ever shall. I don't know enough.''
``Oh, yes, you do. A teacher doesn't need to know much. The wages are so poor--at least up in New England--that they don't expect you to know anything. It's all in the books. I left because I couldn't endure the life. Lord! how dull those little towns are! Ever live in a little town?''
``All my life,'' said Mildred.
``Well, you'll never go back.''
``I hope not.''
``You won't. Why should you? A sensible woman with looks--especially if she knows how to carry her clothes--can stay in New York as long as she pleases, and live off the fat of the land.''
``That's good news,'' said Mildred. She began to like the landlady--not for what she said, but for the free and frank and friendly way of the saying--a human way, a comradely way, a live-and-let-live way.
``I didn't escape from New England without a struggle,'' continued Mrs. Belloc, who was plainly showing that she had taken a great fancy to ``Mary Stevens.''
``I suppose it was hard to save the money out of your salary,'' said Mildred.
Mrs. Belloc laughed. She was about thirty-five years old, though her eyes and her figure were younger than that. Her mouth was pleasant enough, but had lost some of its freshness. ``Save money!'' cried she. ``I'd never have succeeded that way. I'd be there yet. I had never married--had two or three chances, but all from poor sticks looking for someone to support them. I saw myself getting old. I was looking years older than I do now. Talk about sea air for freshening a woman up--it isn't in it with the air of New York. Here's the town where women stay young. If I had come here five
The landlady was a Mrs. Belloc. Mildred had not talked with her twenty minutes before she had a feeling that this name was assumed. The evening of her first day in the house she learned that her guess was correct --learned it from the landlady herself. After dinner Mrs. Belloc came into her room to cheer her up, to find out about her and to tell her about herself.
``Now that you've come,'' said she, ``the house is full up--except some little rooms at the top that I'd as lief not fill. The probabilities are that any ladies who would take them wouldn't be refined enough to suit those I have. There are six, not counting me, every one with a bath and two with private parlors. And as they're all handsome, sensible women, ladylike and steady, I think the prospects are that they'll pay promptly and that I won't have any trouble.''
Mildred reflected upon this curious statement. It sounded innocent enough, yet what a peculiar way to put a simple fact.
``Of course it's none of my business how people live as long as they keep up the respectabilities,'' pursued Mrs. Belloc. ``It don't do to inquire into people in New York. Most of 'em come here because they want to live as they please.''
``No doubt,'' said Mildred a little nervously, for she suspected her landlady of hitting at her, and wondered if she had come to cross-examine her and, if the results were not satisfactory, to put her into the street.
``I know _I_ came for that reason,'' pursued Mrs. Belloc. ``I was a school-teacher up in New England until about two years ago. Did you ever teach school?''
``Not yet,'' said Mildred. ``And I don't think I ever shall. I don't know enough.''
``Oh, yes, you do. A teacher doesn't need to know much. The wages are so poor--at least up in New England--that they don't expect you to know anything. It's all in the books. I left because I couldn't endure the life. Lord! how dull those little towns are! Ever live in a little town?''
``All my life,'' said Mildred.
``Well, you'll never go back.''
``I hope not.''
``You won't. Why should you? A sensible woman with looks--especially if she knows how to carry her clothes--can stay in New York as long as she pleases, and live off the fat of the land.''
``That's good news,'' said Mildred. She began to like the landlady--not for what she said, but for the free and frank and friendly way of the saying--a human way, a comradely way, a live-and-let-live way.
``I didn't escape from New England without a struggle,'' continued Mrs. Belloc, who was plainly showing that she had taken a great fancy to ``Mary Stevens.''
``I suppose it was hard to save the money out of your salary,'' said Mildred.
Mrs. Belloc laughed. She was about thirty-five years old, though her eyes and her figure were younger than that. Her mouth was pleasant enough, but had lost some of its freshness. ``Save money!'' cried she. ``I'd never have succeeded that way. I'd be there yet. I had never married--had two or three chances, but all from poor sticks looking for someone to support them. I saw myself getting old. I was looking years older than I do now. Talk about sea air for freshening a woman up--it isn't in it with the air of New York. Here's the town where women stay young. If I had come here five