VII
Mrs. Terhune wept.
“It’s a tragedy,” she said. “A wonderful girl like Mildred, and that wretched Will Mallet!”
“It’s certainly a pity,” said her husband; “but I suppose she knows what she’s doing.”
“Of course she knows, but she doesn’t care. She’s always been like that. I remember that once, when she was a little girl, she said she was going to make a birthday cake for her father. Well, almost as soon as she began, she hurt herself with a hammer, trying to crack walnuts. Her mother told me about it. She said the child was sick and white with pain, but she would have her poor little crushed fingers tied up, and she would go on. The cake turned out not fit to eat, and the obstinate[Pg 109] little thing was suffering so much that she had to be put to bed and the doctor sent for; but all she said was: ‘Anyhow, I made it. I did what I said I’d do!’ And that’s just the way she’s been about Will Mallet. She said she would marry him, and she’s going to. She’d wait—she’d wait forever!”
“Like poor Madama Butterfly,” said her husband. “Still, you’re obliged to admire that spirit. It’s fine!”
“Fine!” said his wife. “Not a bit of it! Devilish—that’s what it is. And when she’s married that scarecrow—yes, he is a scarecrow; I don’t care how handsome he is, he’s stuffed with straw—when she’s married Will Mallet, she’ll grow worse and worse. She’ll trample on him. It’ll do him good, but it’s terribly bad for her. If she’d had a real man like Robert Dacier, she’d have got over that. He’s the best-tempered, best-hearted boy in the world, but nobody could trample on him!”
Mr. Terhune respected his wife’s distress, and said no more. He couldn’t feel quite so strongly about weddings as she did, although he was very fond of Mildred Henaberry, and very sorry for her headstrong folly. He thought that on the whole the world was a pleasant place—especially on such a matchless day as this, the great climax of the summer.
They were speeding along smooth roads to the village where Mildred lived, and where the wedding was to take place that morning. The cloudless sky overhead was a brave, glorious blue, and the sun went up it like a conqueror. The grain stood ripe in the fields, the trees were at their best. You would think the countryside serenely quiet, unless you stopped to listen, and caught the ecstasy of sound from birds and insects all about.
None of this gave comfort to Mrs. Terhune. Her eyes were red when she alighted at the church, and she was glad, for she didn’t intend to look happy. She marched up the aisle and sat down in a front pew beside her husband. No one else was there except a rosy little girl in spectacles, and her mother.
Consulting her wrist watch, Mrs. Terhune saw that she had time to cry a little longer, and she was about to begin, when she was startled by the sight of her favorite nephew, Robert Dacier.
“You here?” she exclaimed, because she had fancied that there were reasons why he would not enjoy Mildred’s wedding.
“Yes,” he said affably, and sat down beside her.
As was mentioned before, he was good at talking, and his aunt and uncle were pleasantly beguiled, until the chiming of the clock in the belfry aroused Mr. Terhune.
“Time they were here,” he said, glancing about.
Dacier went on talking, but his aunt had grown restless. The little girl in spectacles had grown restless, too, and was wriggling.
“Fifteen minutes late!” said Mrs. Terhune. “It’s very odd, Robert! You’d better see if the clergyman is waiting.”
Dacier reported that the clergyman was waiting in the vestry, and growing a little impatient.
“It seems very strange!” said Mrs. Terhune.
Twenty minutes—twenty-five—half an hour. Then the clergyman came in, and, impressed by the appearance of Mr. Terhune, approached him.
“It’s somewhat awkward for me, as it happens,” he observed. “I have an important engagement for half past twelve. I was informed that the young man’s train arrived here shortly after ten, and that he would stop at Miss Henaberry’s house and bring her here at eleven; and my wife informed me that she saw a strange young man with two bags get off that train.”
“Shall I go and see what’s wrong?” asked Dacier. “It’s only a step.”
“Oh, please do!” said Mrs. Terhune.
Off went Robert. He pushed open the little gate, and went up the garden path to the enchanted cottage, which seemed quieter than ever under the hot sun. He rang the bell.
No answer—not a sound inside.
He rang again, and then opened the door and entered.
The sitting room was gay with flowers from the garden, and, if possible, neater and daintier than ever—but empty. Dacier went into the kitchen, and there, on the table, he saw a frosted cake that caused him a sharp pang. No one there!
He went into the little passage and listened, but heard not a sound.
“Miss Henaberry!” he called. “Please! Mildred!”
A door slammed open upstairs, and down she came like a whirlwind, such a tragic and heart-stirring figure! Her dark hair was wildly untidy, her eyes were heavy with tears, yet she had a look of such stern[Pg 110] and dauntless pride on her face that a man might well feel abashed.
“Go away!” she cried. “Why do you come here? Go away!”
“No,” said Dacier. “I’m not going away. They’re waiting for you in the church. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“That’s not very polite.”
“Polite!” she cried. “Do you want to make one of your schoolboy jokes about—this? Go away! I won’t listen to you! I can’t bear to see you!”
“You’ve got to face this,” said Dacier firmly. “There’s no use flying at me. Perhaps I can help you.”
“I don’t want any help—from any one.”
“Where’s Mallet?”
It was a blunt enough question, but the shock of it steadied her. She turned away her head for a minute, and then faced him with something of her old composure.
“The—a boy came with a note,” she said evenly. “Mr. Mallet has been called away on business. The wedding will have to be postponed.”
Dacier came a little nearer, and looked at her with eyes as steady as her own.
“Don’t you think twice is too often?” he asked.
Her pale face grew scarlet.
“What do you mean? How can you dare—”
“I mean just what I said. I think it’s time the wedding came off now,” he answered. “The clergyman’s there, and the guests; and if you’ll take me, here’s the bridegroom.”
She smiled scornfully.
“That’s very chivalrous, Mr. Dacier, but—”
“It would please Mrs. Terhune.”
“I scarcely think you’re called upon to sacrifice yourself for Mrs. Terhune—or for me, either,” said Mildred, still scornful. “I’d rather not talk any more.”
Dacier caught her hand as she was moving away.
“There are lots of other reasons,” he said; “only there’s not time to tell them now, even if you were in the mood to listen. Anyhow, Mildred, I think you know. I’m sure you know. You must have seen, long ago, how I felt.”
“Oh, no!” she said, with a sob. “Not now! Do, please, go away, and leave me alone! You don’t know—you can’t imagine—I could die of shame and wretchedness. Do go away!”
“Darling girl!” he said. “Dear, darling girl! Come and have your wedding! Hold up your dear head again! We’ll say it was a sort of joke, and you meant me all the time. After all, I’m almost as good a fellow as Mallet, don’t you think?”
He said it in a boastful, conceited way that should have been rebuked; but Mildred did not rebuke him.
“Oh, you’re a thousand times better!” she cried, instead. “Better and dearer than any one else in the world! Only—”
It has been mentioned before that Dacier was good at talking. He needed all his skill now, for he had only a few minutes in which to overcome any number of objections, to change her tears to smiles, and to persuade her to make haste and get ready. He succeeded.