The Price She Paid [99]
She waited, then said:
``Now, you see. I release you, and I'll take no more money to waste.''
He looked at her with dumb misery that smote her heart. Then his expression changed--to the shining, hungry eyes, the swollen veins, the reddened countenance, the watering lips of desire. He seized her in his arms, and in a voice trembling with passion, he cried: ``You must marry me, anyhow! I've GOT to have you, Mildred.''
If she had loved him, his expression, his impassioned voice would have thrilled her. But she did not love him. It took all her liking for him, and the memory of all she owed him--that unpaid debt!--to enable her to push him away gently and to say without any show of the repulsion she felt:
``Stanley, you mustn't do that. And it's useless to talk of marriage. You're generous, so you are taking pity on me. But believe me, I'll get along somehow.''
``Pity? I tell you I love you,'' he cried, catching desperately at her hands and holding them in a grip she could not break. ``You've no right to treat me like this.''
It was one of those veiled and stealthy reminders of obligation habitually indulged in by delicate people seeking repayment of the debt, but shunning the coarseness of direct demand. Mildred saw her opportunity. Said she quietly:
``You mean you want me to give myself to you in payment, or part payment, for the money you've loaned me?''
He released her hands and sprang up. He had meant just that, but he had not had the courage, or the meanness, or both, to admit boldly his own secret wish. She had calculated on this--had calculated well. ``Mildred!'' he cried in a shocked voice. ``YOU so lacking in delicacy as to say such a thing!''
``If you didn't mean that, Stanley, what DID you mean?''
``I was appealing to our friendship--our--our love for each other.''
``Then you should have waited until I was free.''
``Good God!'' he cried, ``don't you see that's hopeless? Mildred, be sensible--be merciful.''
``I shall never marry a man when he could justly suspect I did it to live off him.''
``What an idea! It's a man's place to support a woman!''
``I was speaking only of myself. _I_ can't do it. And it's absurd for you and me to be talking about love and marriage when anyone can see I'd be marrying you only because I was afraid to face poverty and a struggle.''
Her manner calmed him somewhat. ``Of course it's obvious that you've got to have money,'' said he, ``and that the only way you can get it is by marriage. But there's something else, too, and in my opinion it's the principal thing--we care for each other. Why not be sensible, Mildred? Why not thank God that as long as you have to marry, you can marry someone you care for.''
``Could you feel that I cared for you, if I married you now?'' inquired she.
``Why not? I'm not so entirely lacking in self- esteem. I feel that I must count for something.''
Mildred sat silently wondering at this phenomenon so astounding, yet a commonplace of masculine egotism. She had no conception of this vanity which causes the man, at whom the street woman smiles, to feel flattered, though he knows full well what she is and her dire ne- cessity. She could not doubt that he was speaking the truth, yet she could not believe that conceit could so befog common sense in a man who, for all his slowness and shallowness, was more than ordinarily shrewd.
``Even if I thought I loved you,'' said she, ``I couldn't be sure in these circumstances that I wasn't after your money.''
``Don't worry about that,'' replied he. ``I understand you better than you understand yourself.''
``Let's stop talking about it,'' said she impatiently. ``I want to explain to you the business side of this.'' She took her purse from the table. ``Here are the papers.'' She handed him a check and a note. ``I made them out at the bank this morning. The note is for what I owe you--and draws interest at four per cent. The check is for all the money I have left except about four hundred dollars. I've some bills I must pay, and also
``Now, you see. I release you, and I'll take no more money to waste.''
He looked at her with dumb misery that smote her heart. Then his expression changed--to the shining, hungry eyes, the swollen veins, the reddened countenance, the watering lips of desire. He seized her in his arms, and in a voice trembling with passion, he cried: ``You must marry me, anyhow! I've GOT to have you, Mildred.''
If she had loved him, his expression, his impassioned voice would have thrilled her. But she did not love him. It took all her liking for him, and the memory of all she owed him--that unpaid debt!--to enable her to push him away gently and to say without any show of the repulsion she felt:
``Stanley, you mustn't do that. And it's useless to talk of marriage. You're generous, so you are taking pity on me. But believe me, I'll get along somehow.''
``Pity? I tell you I love you,'' he cried, catching desperately at her hands and holding them in a grip she could not break. ``You've no right to treat me like this.''
It was one of those veiled and stealthy reminders of obligation habitually indulged in by delicate people seeking repayment of the debt, but shunning the coarseness of direct demand. Mildred saw her opportunity. Said she quietly:
``You mean you want me to give myself to you in payment, or part payment, for the money you've loaned me?''
He released her hands and sprang up. He had meant just that, but he had not had the courage, or the meanness, or both, to admit boldly his own secret wish. She had calculated on this--had calculated well. ``Mildred!'' he cried in a shocked voice. ``YOU so lacking in delicacy as to say such a thing!''
``If you didn't mean that, Stanley, what DID you mean?''
``I was appealing to our friendship--our--our love for each other.''
``Then you should have waited until I was free.''
``Good God!'' he cried, ``don't you see that's hopeless? Mildred, be sensible--be merciful.''
``I shall never marry a man when he could justly suspect I did it to live off him.''
``What an idea! It's a man's place to support a woman!''
``I was speaking only of myself. _I_ can't do it. And it's absurd for you and me to be talking about love and marriage when anyone can see I'd be marrying you only because I was afraid to face poverty and a struggle.''
Her manner calmed him somewhat. ``Of course it's obvious that you've got to have money,'' said he, ``and that the only way you can get it is by marriage. But there's something else, too, and in my opinion it's the principal thing--we care for each other. Why not be sensible, Mildred? Why not thank God that as long as you have to marry, you can marry someone you care for.''
``Could you feel that I cared for you, if I married you now?'' inquired she.
``Why not? I'm not so entirely lacking in self- esteem. I feel that I must count for something.''
Mildred sat silently wondering at this phenomenon so astounding, yet a commonplace of masculine egotism. She had no conception of this vanity which causes the man, at whom the street woman smiles, to feel flattered, though he knows full well what she is and her dire ne- cessity. She could not doubt that he was speaking the truth, yet she could not believe that conceit could so befog common sense in a man who, for all his slowness and shallowness, was more than ordinarily shrewd.
``Even if I thought I loved you,'' said she, ``I couldn't be sure in these circumstances that I wasn't after your money.''
``Don't worry about that,'' replied he. ``I understand you better than you understand yourself.''
``Let's stop talking about it,'' said she impatiently. ``I want to explain to you the business side of this.'' She took her purse from the table. ``Here are the papers.'' She handed him a check and a note. ``I made them out at the bank this morning. The note is for what I owe you--and draws interest at four per cent. The check is for all the money I have left except about four hundred dollars. I've some bills I must pay, and also