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Torquato Tasso - "Jerusalem Delivered"

H. G. Keene - "Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra."

Jerome K. Jerome - "Malvina of Brittany"

Joel Benton. - "A Unique Story of a Marvellous Career. Life of Hon. Phineas T."

The Price She Paid

D >> David Graham Phillips >> The Price She Paid




``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 years ago I could almost try for the squab
class.''

``Squab class?'' queried Mildred.

``Yes, squabs. Don't you see them around everywhere?--
the women dressed like girls of sixteen to
eighteen--and some of them are that, and younger.
They go hopping and laughing about--and they seem
to please the men and to have no end of a good time.
Especially the oldish men. Oh, yes, you know a squab
on sight--tight skirt, low shoes and silk stockings,
cute pretty face, always laughing, hat set on rakishly
and hair done to match, and always a big purse or
bag--with a yellow-back or so in it--as a kind of a
hint, I guess.''

Mildred had seen squabs. ``I've envied them--in a
way,'' said she. ``Their parents seem to let them do
about as they please.''

``Their parents don't know--or don't care. Sometimes
it's one, sometimes the other. They travel in two
sets. One is where they meet young fellows of their
own class--the kind they'll probably marry, unless
they happen to draw the capital prize. The other set
they travel in--well, it's the older men they meet round
the swell hotels and so on--the yellow-back men.''

``How queer!'' exclaimed Mildred, before whose eyes
a new world was opening. ``But how do they--these
--squabs--account for the money?''

``How do a thousand and one women in this funny
town account at home for money and things?'' retorted
Mrs. Belloc. ``Nothing's easier. For instance, often
these squabs do--or pretend to do--a little something
in the way of work--a little canvassing or artists'
model or anything you please. That helps them to
explain at home--and also to make each of the yellow-
back men think he's the only one and that he's being
almost loved for himself alone.''

Mrs. Belloc laughed. Mildred was too astonished
to laugh, and too interested--and too startled or
shocked.

``But I was telling you how _I_ got down here,''
continued the landlady. ``Up in my town there was an
old man--about seventy-five--close as the bark on
a tree, and ugly and mean.'' She paused to draw a
long breath and to shake her head angrily yet
triumphantly at some figure her fancy conjured up.
``Oh, he WAS a pup!--and is! Well, anyhow, I
decided that I'd marry him. So I wrote home for fifty
dollars. I borrowed another fifty here and there. I
had seventy-five saved up against sickness. I went up
to Boston and laid it all out in underclothes and house
things--not showy but fine and good to look at. Then
one day, when the weather was fine and I knew the old
man would be out in his buggy driving round--I
dressed myself up to beat the band. I took hours to
it--scrubbing, powdering, sacheting, perfuming,
fixing the hair, fixing my finger-nails, fixing up my feet,
polishing every nail and making them look better than
most hands.''

Mildred was so interested that she was excited. What
strange freak was coming?

``You never could guess,'' pursued Mrs. Belloc,
complacently. ``I took my sunshade and went out, all got
up to kill. And I walked along the road until I saw
the old man's buggy coming with him in it. Then I
gave my ankle a frightful wrench. My! How it
hurt!''

``What a pity!'' said Mildred sympathetically.
``What a shame!''

``A pity? A shame?'' cried Mrs. Belloc, laughing.
``Why, my dear, I did it a-purpose.''

``On purpose!'' exclaimed Mildred.

``Certainly. That was my game. I screamed out
with pain--and the scream was no fake, I can tell
you. And I fell down by the roadside on a nice grassy
spot where no dust would get on me. Well, up comes
the old skinflint in his buggy. He climbed down and
helped me get off my slipper and stocking. I knew
I had him the minute I saw his old face looking at that
foot I had fixed up so beautifully.''

``How DID you ever think of it?'' exclaimed Mildred.

``Go and teach school for ten years in a dull little
town, my dear--and look in the glass every day and
see your youth fading away--and you'll think of most
anything. Well, to make a long story short, the old
man took me in the buggy to his house where he lived
with his deaf, half-blind old widowed daughter. I had
to stay there three weeks. I married him the fourth
week. And just two months to a day from the afternoon
I sprained my ankle, he gave me fifty dollars a
week--all signed and sealed by a lawyer--to go away
and leave him alone. I might have stood out for more,
but I was too anxious to get to New York. And here
I am!'' She gazed about the well-furnished room,
typical of that almost luxurious house, with an air of
triumphant satisfaction. Said she: ``I've no patience
with a woman who says she can't get on. Where's her
brains?''

Mildred was silent. Perhaps it was a feeling of what
was hazily in the younger woman's mind and a desire
to answer it that led Mrs. Belloc to say further: ``I
suppose there's some that would criticize my way of
getting there. But I want to know, don't all women
get there by working men? Only most of them are so
stupid that they have to go on living with the man.
I think it's low to live with a man you hate.''

``Oh, I'm not criticizing anybody,'' said Mildred.

``I didn't think you were,'' said Mrs. Belloc. ``If
I hadn't seen you weren't that kind, I'd not have been
so confidential. Not that I'm secretive with anybody.
I say and do what I please. Anyone who doesn't like
my way or me can take the other side of the street.
I didn't come to New York to go in society. I came
here to LIVE.''

Mildred looked at her admiringly. There were
things about Mrs. Belloc that she did not admire; other
things--suspected rather than known things--that
she knew she would shrink from, but she heartily
admired and profoundly envied her utter indifference to
the opinion of others, her fine independent way of
walking her own path at her own gait.

``I took this boarding-house,'' Mrs. Belloc went on,
``because I didn't want to be lonesome. I don't like
all--or even most of--the ladies that live here. But
they're all amusing to talk with--and don't put on
airs except with their men friends. And one or two
are the real thing--good-hearted, fond of a joke, with-
out any meanness. I tell you, New York is a mighty
fine place if you get `in right.' Of course, if you
don't, it's h-e-l-l.'' (Mrs. Belloc took off its unrefined
edge by spelling it.) ``But what place isn't?'' she
added.

``And your husband never bothers you?'' inquired
Mildred.

``And never will,'' replied Mrs. Belloc. ``When he
dies I'll come into a little more--about a hundred and
fifty a week in all. Not a fortune, but enough with
what the boarding-house brings in. I'm a pretty fair
business woman.''

``I should say so!'' exclaimed Mildred.

``You said you were Miss Stevens, didn't you?'' said
Mrs. Belloc--and Mildred knew that her turn had
come.

``Yes,'' replied she. ``But I am also a married
woman.'' She hesitated, reddened. ``I didn't give you
my married name.''

``That's your own business,'' said Mrs. Belloc in her
easiest manner. ``My right name isn't Belloc, either.
But I've dropped that other life. You needn't feel a
bit embarrassed in this house. Some of my boarders
SEEM to be married. All that have regular-appearing
husbands SAY they are. What do I care, so long as
everything goes along smoothly? I don't get excited
about trifles.''

``Some day perhaps I'll tell you about myself,'' said
Mildred. ``Just at present I--well, I seem not to
be able to talk about things.''

``It's not a bad idea to keep your mouth shut, as
long as your affairs are unsettled,'' advised Mrs. Belloc.
``I can see you've had little experience. But you'll
come out all right. Just keep cool, and don't fret
about trifles. And don't let any man make a fool of
you. That's where we women get left. We're afraid
of men. We needn't be. We can mighty easily make
them afraid of us. Use the soft hand till you get him
well in your grip. Then the firm hand. Nothing
coarse or cruel or mean. But firm and self-respecting.''

Mildred was tempted to take Mrs. Belloc fully into
her confidence and get the benefit of the advice of
shrewdness and experience. So strong was the
temptation, she would have yielded to it had Mrs. Belloc
asked a few tactful, penetrating questions. But Mrs.
Belloc refrained, and Mildred's timidity or delicacy
induced her to postpone. The next day she wrote Stanley
Baird, giving her address and her name and asking him
to call ``any afternoon at four or five.'' She assumed
that he would come on the following day, but the letter
happened to reach him within an hour of her mailing
it, and he came that very afternoon.

When she went down to the drawing-room to receive
him, she found him standing in the middle of the room
gazing about with a quizzical expression. As soon as
the greetings were over he said:

``You must get out of here, Mildred. This won't
do.''

``Indeed I shan't,'' said she. ``I've looked everywhere,
and this is the only comfortable place I could
find--where the rates were reasonable and where the
landlady didn't have her nose in everybody's business.''

``You don't understand,'' said he. ``This is a bird-
cage. Highly gilded, but a bird-cage.''

She had never heard the phrase, but she understood--
and instantly she knew that he was right. She colored
violently, sat down abruptly. But in a moment she
recovered herself, and with fine defiance said:

``I don't care. Mrs. Belloc is a kind-hearted woman,
and it's as easy to be respectable here as anywhere.''

``Sure,'' assented he. ``But you've got to consider
appearances to a certain extent. You won't be able to
find the right sort of a boarding-house--one you'd be
comfortable in. You've got to have a flat of your
own.''

``I can't afford it,'' said Mildred. ``I can't afford
this, even. But I simply will not live in a shabby,
mussy way.''

``That's right!'' cried Stanley. ``You can't do
proper work in poor surroundings. Some women
could, but not your sort. But don't worry. I'm going
to see you through. I'll find a place--right away.
You want to start in at once, don't you?''

``I've got to,'' said Mildred.

``Then leave it all to me.''

``But WHAT am I to do?''

``Sing, if you can. If not, then act. We'll have
you on the stage within a year or so. I'm sure of it.
And I'll get my money back, with interest.''

``I don't see how I can accept it,'' said Mildred very
feebly.

``You've got to,'' said Stanley. ``What alternative
is there? None. So let's bother no more about it.
I'll consult with those who know, find out what the thing
costs, and arrange everything. You're as helpless as a
baby, and you know it.''

Yes, Mildred knew it.

He looked at her with an amused smile. ``Come,
out with it!'' he cried. ``You've got something on
your mind. Let's get everything straight--and keep
it that way.''

Mildred hung her head.

``You're uneasy because I, a man, am doing this for
you, a young woman? Is that it?''

``Yes,'' she confessed.

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and
spoke in a brisk, businesslike way. ``In the first place,
it's got to be done, hasn't it? And someone has got
to do it? And there is no one offering but me? Am
I right?''

She nodded.

``Then _I_'ve got to do it, and you've GOT to let me.
There's logic, if ever there was logic. A Philadelphia
lawyer couldn't knock a hole in it. You trust me, don't
you?''

She was silent.

``You don't trust me, then,'' said he cheerfully.
``Well, perhaps you're right. But you trust yourself,
don't you?''

She moved restlessly, but remained silent.

``You are afraid I might put you in a difficult position?''

``Something like that,'' she admitted, in a low,
embarrassed voice.

``You fear that I expect some return which you do
not intend to give?''

She was silent.

``Well, I don't,'' said he bluntly. ``So put your
mind at rest. Some day I'll tell you why I am doing
this, but I want you to feel that I ask nothing of you
but my money back with interest, when you can afford
to pay.''

``I can't feel that,'' said she. ``You're putting me
in your debt--so heavily that I'd feel I ought to pay
anything you asked. But I couldn't and wouldn't
pay.''

``Unless you felt like it?'' suggested he.

``It's honest for me to warn you that I'm not likely
to feel that way.''

``There is such a thing as winning a woman's love,
isn't there?'' said he jestingly. It was difficult to tell
when Stanley Baird was jesting and when he was in
earnest.

``Is that what you expect?'' said she gravely.

``If I say yes?''

She lowered her eyes and laughed in an embarrassed
way.

He was frankly amused. ``You see, you feel that
you're in my power. And you are. So why not make
the best of it?'' A pause, then he said abruptly and
with a convincing manliness, ``I think, Mildred, you
can trust me not to be a beast.''

She colored and looked at him with quick contrition.
``I'm ashamed of myself,'' said she. ``Please forget
that I said anything. I'll take what I must, and I'll
pay it back as soon as I can. And--thank you, Stanley.''
The tears were in her eyes. ``If I had anything
worth your taking I'd be glad to give it to you. What
vain fools we women are!''

``Aren't you, though!'' laughed he. ``And now it's
all settled--until you're on the stage, and free, and
the money's paid back--WITH interest. I shall charge
you six per cent.''

When she first knew him she had not been in the least
impressed by what now seemed to her his finest and
rarest trait, for, in those days she had been as ignorant
of the realities of human nature as one who has never
adventured his boat beyond the mouth of the peaceful
land-locked harbor is ignorant of the open sea. But
in the hard years she had been learning--not only
from Presbury and General Siddall, but from the cook
and the housemaid, from every creditor, every tradesman,
everyone whose attitude socially toward her had
been modified by her changed fortunes--and whose
attitude had not been changed? Thus, she was now
able to appreciate--at least in some measure--Stanley
Baird's delicacy and tact. No, not delicacy and
tact, for that implied effort. His ability to put this
offer in such a way that she could accept without serious
embarrassment arose from a genuine indifference to
money as money, a habit of looking upon it simply
as a means to an end. He offered her the money
precisely as he would have offered her his superior strength
if it had been necessary to cross a too deep and swift
creek. She had the sense that he felt he was doing
something even less notable than he admitted, and that
he talked of it as a valuable and rather unusual service
simply because it was the habit thus to regard such
matters.

As they talked on of ``the great career'' her spirits
went up and up. It was evident that he now had a
new and keen interest in life, that she was doing him
a greater favor than he was doing her. He had always
had money, plenty of it, more than he could use. He
now had more than ever--for, several rich relatives
had died and, after the habit of the rich, had left
everything to him, the one of all the connections who needed
it least. He had a very human aversion to spending
money upon people or things he did not like. He
would have fought to the last court an attempt by his
wife to get alimony. He had a reputation with the
``charity gang'' of being stingy because he would not
give them so much as the price of a bazaar ticket.
Also, the impecunious spongers at his clubs spread his
fame as a ``tight-wad'' because he refused to let them
``stick him up'' for even a round of drinks. Where
many a really stingy man yielded through weakness
or fear of public opinion, he stood firm. His one
notable surrender of any kind had been his marriage;
that bitter experience had cured him of the surrendering
habit for all time. Thenceforth he did absolutely
and in everything as he pleased.

Mildred had heard that he was close about money.
She had all but forgotten it, because her own experience
with him had made such a charge seem ridiculous.
She now assumed--so far as she thought about it at
all--that he was extremely generous. She did not
realize what a fine discriminating generosity his was,
or how striking an evidence of his belief in her as well
as of his liking for her.

As he rose to go he said: ``You mustn't forget that
our arrangement is a secret between us. Neither of
us can afford to have anyone know it.''

``There isn't anyone in the world who wouldn't
misunderstand it,'' said she, without the least feeling of
embarrassment.

``Just so,'' said he. ``And I want you to live in
such a way that I can come to call. We must arrange
things so that you will take your own name--''

``I intend to use the name Mary Stevens in my
work,'' she interrupted.

``But there mustn't be any concealment, any mystery
to excite curiosity and scandal--''

This time the interruption was her expression. He
turned to see what had startled her, and saw in the
doorway of the drawing-room the grotesquely neat and
stylish figure of the little general. Before either could
speak he said:

``How d'you do, Mr. Baird? You'll pardon me if
I ask you to leave me alone with my WIFE.''

Stanley met the situation with perfect coolness.
``How are you, General?'' said he. ``Certainly, I
was just going.'' He extended his hand to Mildred,
said in a correct tone of conventional friendliness,
``Then you'll let me know when you're settled?'' He
bowed, moved toward the door, shook hands with the
general, and passed out, giving from start to finish a
model example of a man of the world extricating him-
self from an impossible situation and leaving it the
better for his having been entangled. To a man of
Siddall's incessant and clumsy self-consciousness such
unaffected ease could not but be proof positive of
Mildred's innocence--unless he had overheard. And his
first words convinced her that he had not. Said he:

``So you sent for your old admirer?''

``I ran across him accidentally,'' replied Mildred.

``I know,'' said the little general. ``My men picked
you up at the pier and haven't lost sight of you since.
It's fortunate that I've kept myself informed, or I
might have misunderstood that chap's being here.'' A
queer, cloudy look came into his eyes. ``I must give
him a warning for safety's sake.'' He waved his hand
in dismissal of such an unimportant trifle as the accidental
Baird. He went on, his wicked eyes bent coldly
and dully upon her: ``Do you know what kind of a
house this is?''

``Stanley Baird urged me to leave,'' replied she.
``But I shall stay until I find a better--and that's not
easy.''

``Yes, my men have reported to me on the difficulties
you've had. It was certainly fortunate for you
that I had them look after you. Otherwise I'd never
have understood your landing in this sort of a house.
You are ready to come with me?''

``Your secretary explained that if I left the hotel
it was the end.''

``He told you that by my orders.''

``So he explained,'' said Mildred. She seated herself,
overcome by a sudden lassitude that was accompanied
not by fear, but by indifference. ``Won't you sit down?
I am willing to hear what you have to say.''

The little general, about to sit, was so astonished
that he straightened and stiffened himself. ``In
consenting to overlook your conduct and take you back
I have gone farther than I ever intended. I have taken
into consideration your youth and inexperience.''

``But I am not going back,'' said Mildred.

The little general slowly seated himself. ``You have
less than two hundred and fifty dollars left,'' said he.

``Really? Your spies know better than I.''

``I have seen Presbury. He assures me that in no
circumstances will he and your mother take you back.''

``They will not have the chance to refuse,'' said
Mildred.

``As for your brother--''

``I have no brother,'' said she coldly.

``Then you are coming back with me.''

``No,'' said Mildred. ``I should''--she cast about
for an impressive alternative--``I should stay on here,
rather.''

The little general--his neat varnished leather and
be-spatted shoes just touched the floor--examined his
highly polished top-hat at several angles. Finally he
said: ``You need not fear that your misconduct will
be remembered against you. I shall treat you in every
way as my wife. I shall assume that your--your
flight was an impulse that you regret.''

``I shan't go back,'' said Mildred. ``Nothing you
could offer would change me.''

``I cannot make any immediate concession on the--
the matter that caused you to go,'' pursued he, as if
she had not spoken, ``but if I see that you have reliability
and good sense, I'll agree to give you an allowance later.''

Mildred eyed him curiously. ``Why are you making
these offers, these concessions?'' she said. ``You think
everyone in the world is a fool except yourself. You're
greatly deceived. I know that you don't mean what
you've been saying. I know that if you got me in
your power again, you would do something frightful.
I've seen through that mask you wear. I know the
kind of man you are.''

``If you know that,'' said the general in his even
slow way, monotonous, almost lifeless, ``you know you'd
better come with me than stand out against me.''

She did not let him see how this struck terror into
her. She said: ``No matter what you might do to me,
when I'm away from you, it would be less than you'd
do with me under your roof. At any rate, it'd seem
less.''

The general reflected, decided to change to another
point: ``You made a bargain with me. You've broken
it. I never let anyone break a bargain with me without
making them regret it. I'm giving you a chance
to keep your bargain.''

She was tempted to discuss, but she could not find
the words, or the strength. Besides, how futile to
discuss with such a man. She sank back in her chair
wearily. ``I shall never go back,'' she said.

He looked at her, his face devoid of expression, but
she had a sense of malignance unutterable eying her
from behind a screen. He said: ``I see you've
misunderstood my generosity. You think I'm weak where
you are concerned because I've come to you instead of
doing as I said and making you come to me.'' He rose.
``Well, my offer to you is closed. And once more I
say, you will come to me and ask to be taken back. I
may or may not take you back. It depends on how
I'll feel at that time.''

Slowly, with his ludicrously pompous strut, he
marched to the drawing-room door. She had not felt
like smiling, but if there had been any such inclination
it would have fled before the countenance that turned
upon her at the threshold. It was the lean, little face
with the funny toupee and needle-like mustache and
imperial, but behind it lay a personality like the dull,
cold, yellow eyes of the devil-fish ambushed in the hazy
mass of dun-colored formlessness of collapsed body
and tentacles. He said:

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