IV
Mildred lived in the most wonderful little cottage, so tiny, so neat, like the cottage of the three bears, or the abode of the dwarfs. The old woman who came to keep it so bright and spotless was exactly like a witch, too, and Mildred herself might well have been an enchanted princess—except that she worked rather hard, and kept accounts. A small sign in the window read, “Miss Mildred Henaberry—piano lessons,” and all through the day confirmation[Pg 107a] of this floated out across the garden and into the road—stumbling scales, painful excursions in Czemy, and then the masterly touch of the teacher herself, showing what might be done.
Her pupils liked her, because she was patient, polite, and always clear and definite. She liked them because they were young, and because they had such stubby little fingers, such earnest scowls, and such jolly laughs.
On this morning of pelting summer rain she had escorted one of them to the front door—a rosy, moonfaced little girl in spectacles—and was opening a minute umbrella that would shelter the little cropped head, when she saw, coming down the lane, the young man who had been Mrs. Terhune’s emissary. He saw Mildred, raised his hat, and came splashing on through the mud, with his coat collar turned up and his cap pulled down. He entered the gate and reached the veranda steps just as the little girl was coming down.
He smiled down at the child; and, if you will believe it, this youthful creature, not more than ten years old, hesitated, and then came up the steps after him.
“What is it, dear?” asked Mildred.
“If he’s going away soon,” said the little girl, “shan’t I wait and let him go under my umbrella?”
Dacier kissed her.
“I’m very much obliged,” he told her; “but I’ve come for a music lesson, so you’d better not wait.”
They were both silent while the child went down the path.
“Really,” said Mildred, “I am—”
“Of course it’s a subterfuge,” said he; “but even at that, why shouldn’t I have a music lesson? It would be such a good way for us to get acquainted.”
“I see no reason for our becoming acquainted,” said Mildred.
Dacier looked into the distance.
“Even that little girl,” he said, “could read my face and see the sort of fellow I am—honest as daylight, kind, simple—”
Not for the world would Mildred smile.
“I take only children as pupils,” she remarked.
“The sign doesn’t say so,” Dacier pointed out. “I noticed that sign when I was here before. Legally, I’m not so sure that you’d be allowed to discriminate against any person of good character who—”
“Did Mrs. Terhune send you?”
“No. She didn’t need to.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I’m very busy.”
“Miss Henaberry,” said Dacier firmly, “if I’m personally repulsive to you, of course I’ll go at once; but otherwise, why can’t I talk to you for a few minutes? I’m Mrs. Terhune’s nephew, Robert Dacier. I didn’t bring a certificate in my pocket, but I hope you’ll believe me without that.”
Now Dacier was not personally repulsive to Mildred—not in the least. She considered him somewhat presumptuous and overconfident, yet there was about him something that pleased her, something gallant and high-spirited and endearing.
“And he’s Mrs. Terhune’s nephew,” she thought. “I ought to be nice to him.”
To tell you the truth, no matter whose nephew he had happened to be, I don’t believe that Mildred could have helped being nice to him. Very few people could. She let him into her neat little sitting room, and she felt concerned, as any properly constituted woman would have felt, because he was dripping wet. She made him a cup of tea, and, having an hour to wait for the next pupil, sat down to talk to him. Dacier was good at talking.
After he had gone, she was not sorry that he had said he would come again. The smoke of his cigarette lingered in the room, and was not disagreeable. The sound of his voice lingered, too, and perhaps the memory of his audacious, blue-eyed, sunburned face. It was as if a fresh breeze had blown through her neat, lonely little house.
Come again he did, the very next evening, and he made of it the single happy, jolly evening in a long succession of solitary ones. They sat out on the veranda, with the moon shining; and if he had not the respectful humility she had found in other young men, he was none the less interesting for that.
He had no poems to read, as Will Mallet had had. Indeed, he knew little about poetry, or music, or any of the arts; but he said he would like to learn, if she would teach him. When he was going, he asked what time he should come the next day.
“I don’t think you had better come to-morrow,” she said, a little regretfully.
He pointed out that his holiday wouldn’t last forever, and that it did him good to come and hear her talk. He gave other unreasonable reasons, and he did come the next day, and the day after, as well.[Pg 107]
Before a week had passed, Mildred saw that this must be stopped. It made her angry—so very angry that she nearly wept over it alone at night.
“I suppose he thinks, and Mrs. Terhune thinks, that he’s doing a kindness to a poor, forlorn, jilted old maid,” she thought. “He’s entirely too sure of himself. He takes it for granted that I’m glad to see him all the time. He thinks—”
Her ideas of what he thought distressed her beyond measure. That evening, when he appeared again, he found her very cool and aloof—even on the moonlit veranda, and even while he made his best efforts to amuse her.
“Mr. Dacier,” she said suddenly, “I’m very sorry, but I think you’d better not come any more.”
His voice, when he answered had a curious gentleness.
“Why?” he asked.
She was silent for a few moments.
“Because—I’m afraid Mr. Mallet wouldn’t like it,” she said at length. “While he’s away—”
Dacier got down from the railing and began to walk up and down.
“You know, I’m engaged to him,” she added.
“Yes, I know,” said Dacier; “but—”
Mildred felt her face grow hot in the darkness.
“I suppose you’ve heard all sorts of malicious gossip!” she said vehemently.
“Yes—I did hear—something,” he answered slowly.
“You thought he wasn’t coming back?”
Dacier had taken his hat. He paused at the top of the steps, and looked at her.
“I can’t imagine any man not coming back—to you!” he said.