Part 11 (1/2)

Mildred was beside herself with a kind of rage that, because outlet was necessary and because raving against the little general would be absolutely futile, found outlet in self-mockery and reckless sarcasm.

”I understand about the jewels, too,” she went on. ”They are not mine.

Nothing is mine. Everything, including myself, belongs to him. If I give satisfaction in the position for which I've been hired for my board and clothes, I may continue to eat the general's food and sleep in the general's house and wear the general's jewels and dresses and ride in the general's traps and be waited on by the general's servants.

If I don't like my place or he doesn't like my way of filling it”--she laughed merrily, mockingly--”out I go--into the streets--after the second Mrs. Siddall. And the general will hire a new--” She paused, cast about for a word in vain, appealed to the secretary, ”What would you call it, Mr. Harding?”

Harding rose, looking at her with a very soothing tranquillity. ”If I were you, Mrs. Siddall,” said he, ”I should get into the auto and go for a long drive--out to the Bois--out to Versailles--a long, long drive. I should be gone four or five hours at least, and I should look at the thing from all sides. Especially, I'd look at it from HIS standpoint.”

Mildred, somewhat quieter, but still mocking, said: ”If I should decide to quit, would my expenses be paid back to where I was engaged? I fancy not.”

Harding looked grave. ”If you had had money enough to pay your own expenses about, would you have married him?” said he. ”Isn't he paying--paying liberally, Mrs. Siddall--for ALL he gets?”

Mildred, stung, drew herself up haughtily, gave him a look that reminded him who she was and who he was. But Harding was not impressed.

”You said a moment ago--truly--that we are all in the same boat,”

observed he. ”I put those questions to you because I honestly wish to help you--because I wish you not to act foolishly, hastily.”

”Thank you, Mr. Harding,” said Mildred coldly. And with a slight nod she went, angry and ashamed that she had so unaccountably opened up her secret soul, bared its ugly wounds, before a man she knew so slightly, a man in a position but one remove from menial. However, she took his advice--not as to trying to view the matter from all sides, for she was convinced that there was only the one side, but as to calming herself by a long drive alone in the woods and along quiet roads. When she returned she was under control once more.

She found the general impatiently awaiting her. Many packages had come--from the jewelers, from the furriers, from a shop whose specialty was the thinnest and most delicate of hand-made underwear. The general loved to open and inspect finery for her--loved it more than he loved inspecting finery for himself, because feminine finery was far more attractive than masculine. To whet his pleasure to the keenest she must be there to admire with him, to try on, to exhibit. As she entered the salon where the little man was fussing about among the packages, their glances met. She saw that Harding had told him--at least in discreet outline--of their conversation. She also saw that if she reopened the subject she would find herself straightway whirled out upon a stormy sea of danger that might easily overwhelm her flimsy boat. She silently and sullenly dropped into her place; she ministered to the general's pleasure in packages of finery. But she did not exclaim, or admire, or respond in any way. The honeymoon was over. Her dream of wifehood was dissipated.

She understood now the look she so often had seen on the faces of rich men's poor wives driving in state in Fifth Avenue. That night, as she inspected herself in the gla.s.s while the general's maid for her brushed her long thick hair, she saw the beginnings of that look in her own face. ”I don't know just what I am,” she said to herself. ”But I do know what I am not. I am not a wife.”

She sent away the maid, and sat there in the dressing-room before the mirror, waiting, her glance traveling about and noting the profuse and prodigal luxury. In the corner stood a circular rack loaded with dressing-gowns--more than a score of exquisite combinations of silk and lace or silk and chiffon. It so happened that there was nowhere in sight a single article of her apparel or for her toilet that was not bought with the general's money. No, there were some hairpins that she had paid for herself, and a comb with widely separated teeth that she had chanced to see in a window when she was alone 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 ta.s.sel. 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.”