Mildred stood like a statue--a trite figure of speech, but in this case
an apt one. With the white satin draped about her bare shoulders,
immobile in her cool and tranquil loveliness, she was truly like a
statue, and an admirable one.
The dressmaker knelt at her feet as if before an idol, gathered the
gleaming material into folds here and there, and put in pins, serious
and happy in this congenial work. She admired Mildred immeasurably,
because Miss Henaberry was polite and kind and beautiful, and did
justice to a dressmaker’s art.
Mildred was not the first idol to be obliged to stand still and look
lovely while the keenest anguish racked her. Not by the flicker of an
eyelash would she betray what she suffered. She had read the letter
calmly; she held it now in fingers that trembled not at all. Obediently
she turned, or lifted an arm, and did everything necessary, so that the
dress might be perfect.
It was her wedding dress, and her wedding had been announced for the
first day of June--and for the past fifteen minutes she had known that
there would be no wedding then.
The dressmaker rose and stood back a few feet, to look at the tall,
straight young creature, with her proud little dark head, so nobly set
off by the lustrous satin.
“My!” said she. “You’ll be a perfect vision, Miss Henaberry!”
Mildred smiled then, somewhat faintly. She was able, even willing, to
endure the worst that fate could inflict upon her; but she very much
wanted one hour alone, to endure the first shock. She did not want to
cry, or even to think; all that she needed was a little space of time to
steady and fortify that pride so horribly shaken.
Pride was at once the girl’s finest quality, and her worst. It was a
splendid pride that had made her come out so bravely after her father’s
bankruptcy and death, and, after twenty years of easy and luxurious
living, had set to work to earn her bread as a teacher in a private
school. It was a pride diabolic that made her stand so aloof, and refuse
friendship, because of her morbid fear that some one might pity her.
You could read all that in her face; for though she had the profile, the
wide, low brow, and the fine, grave eyes of Minerva, there was that
about her mouth and chin which was simply mulish obstinacy. She never
had listened, she never would listen, to any warning or advice. Any
number of people had wanted to warn and advise her about Will Mallet.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Terhune, an old friend of her mother’s, “Will can’t
support a wife.”
“He’s never tried,” answered Mildred. “He’s never had a wife.”
“But Will is--” Mrs. Terhune began, and had to stop.
Impossible to describe just what was wrong with Will Mallet. He came of
a good family, and, though he hadn’t a penny, he had influential
connections. He wasn’t lazy, he hadn’t a vice in the world, he was
intelligent, almost scholarly, and altogether a handsome and endearing
boy. Even the fact that at twenty-four he was still at loose ends, and
still looking for his appointed work in the world, couldn’t justify what
Mrs. Terhune said.
She declared that as a husband Will was impossible. He couldn’t be taken
seriously. It was nice to dance with him, play tennis with him, hear him
recite his poems--but marry him!
He had seldom been seen in the little town on the Hudson where he had
been born. Now and then he came to visit an indulgent relative, and to
get assistance moral and material, after which he would go off to try
his luck once more. Every one liked him and no one respected him.
On this last visit he had surprised them all by deciding to stay. He
said he intended to open a florist’s shop and greenhouses. He had looked
about for a likely site, and had asked for advice--which he got in
generous measure. His relations were pleased and rather touched by this
venture, which seemed at once practical and poetic, and he had received
more attention and encouragement than was good for him; but when his
engagement to Mildred was made known, he lost all favor. He was severely
condemned, and remonstrated with, and still further advised.
Will was a young man of no great vanity or self-assurance. He was
fatally inclined to agree with people. He listened, downcast and
wretched, to the admonitions of friends and relatives, and hastened off
to tell Mildred that he was no good, and that she would be better off
without him.
She thought otherwise. She had few illusions about her Will, but she
thought that with help and encouragement he might be improved. She had
for him a maternal sort of love, exacting and yet very tender. She
didn’t wish to spoil him. She meant to inspire him with greater energy
and self-reliance. She told him that he was capable of great things, for
she really thought so. She was kind, indulgent, and yet firm with
him--and she never suspected how she terrified him.
She had all the virtues. She worked hard and earnestly, she saved money,
she read, she studied, she was intelligent, tender-hearted, modest,
reserved, and matchlessly polite. She was beautiful, she knew how to
dress and how to carry herself, and socially she was perfect; but there
is one little truth which Mildred had never been taught. A good example
must not be too good, or, instead of producing a desire for imitation,
the beholders feel only despair and hopeless inferiority.
The bell rang for lunch, and Mildred had difficulty in suppressing a sob
of relief. The dressmaker had the pleasure of going downstairs and
eating at the same table with her idol. She looked about the dismal
dining room of the boarding house with a happy smile.
“Well, you won’t be here much longer, Miss Henaberry,” she said.
Mildred agreed with that. She knew what she could endure, and she knew
also what would be too much for her. She could not endure to remain
there, among those friendly, interested people--not after this!