Please believe that I am very sorry to go away without seeing you
and thanking you for all your many, many kindnesses. Will and I
have been obliged to change our plans, however, and to postpone our
wedding for a time; so in order to avoid all the awkward and
tiresome explaining, and so on, I thought it better to go for a
visit to some old friends in the country, until our arrangements
were complete. Of course I shall let you know all about it at the
earliest possible moment.
Please, dear Mrs. Terhune, don’t think me ungrateful or lacking in
affection for running off this way. As you know, I have an almost
morbid horror of gossip, and I couldn’t bear to stay and explain a
hundred times that the wedding was postponed until Will had
improved his position. He is inclined to be far too sensitive about
his earning powers, but I am sure you agree with me that a man is
not to be judged by his financial success. I have perfect faith in
Will.
Mr. Terhune shook his gray head.
“Too bad!” he said. “Well, I’m not surprised.”
And then and there, over the breakfast table, floated the word from
which poor Mildred had run away--that word bitter as death, which she
could not tolerate the thought of hearing. It passed between Mr. and
Mrs. Terhune, it went out to the servants in the kitchen, it found its
way into many other houses--the word “jilted.”
The Terhunes were very fond of Mildred, and were really perturbed by her
disappearance. They knew she had no money and no friends elsewhere. They
consoled themselves, however, by their knowledge of her remarkable
dignity, self-possession, and determination. A girl like Mildred, they
said, would be sure to get on, wherever she went.
“And, in a way, it was the best thing she could have done,” Mrs. Terhune
said, after a week or so. “There’s so much spiteful gossip about the
affair. Poor Mildred!”
Even Mrs. Terhune’s genuine affection was tinged by a faint hue of
complacency.
“Of course I knew how it would be,” she remarked. “I knew Will was
absolutely worthless. Poor Mildred!”
Now, in order to comprehend the case of Mildred Henaberry, one thing
must be admitted. She had a thousand good qualities, the best manners in
the world, and a rare type of beauty, but she was not lovable. You were
obliged to respect and to admire her, and sometimes you resented the
obligation.
As a result, the gossip about her had a decidedly malicious flavor. Any
number of people were delighted at being able to laugh at perfection
brought low. All the malice was toward Mildred--none for Will. Perhaps,
if she had stayed for pity, she would have been pitied, but in running
away she forfeited all claim to generosity.
So that when Robert Dacier arrived, a few months later, he heard Mildred
spoken of as a jilted spinster, who had vanished in order to hide her
hideous disappointment. He heard that she had been a school-teacher,
that she had been “dignified” and “fastidious.” This conveyed to his
mind the picture of a severe and unpleasant female of forty who had got
what she deserved.
Not that Dacier gave much time to thinking about Mildred, for he was not
at all a thoughtful young man. He was a cheerful, careless, good-looking
fellow, who was a nephew of Mrs. Terhune. That lady refused to admit
that of all her nephews and nieces he was her favorite, because she
prided herself upon being a just and sensible woman, far too reasonable
to be beguiled by the lad’s curly head and debonair good humor.
Not that he didn’t have solid and excellent qualities. He was doing very
well as an architect, and was making a creditable income. Certainly he
spent it all, but he spent it in a nice, gentlemanly way.
He earned less in a year than his uncle spent in a month; yet when the
fellow came on a visit to the Terhunes, there was not a trace of poor
relation about him. He had excellent cigars to offer to his uncle, and
he showed his aunt all sorts of little attentions that touched and
delighted her beyond measure. She had never had children of her own, and
I don’t believe she had ever felt much happier than she felt when making
a round of calls with that engaging and delightful nephew, showing him
off with naïve complacency, and fairly basking in his affection.
Naturally she talked to him about Mildred Henaberry, because the affair
had upset and troubled her. He listened good-humoredly, not in the least
interested; but he was destined to be plunged into that affair, head
over heels, and it was Mrs. Terhune who was to push him into it.
It happened simply enough.
“I heard about a new tea room up near Beacon,” he said to his aunt one
afternoon. “Let’s run up there, Aunt Kate!”
“You don’t want to go with your old aunt,” said she, beaming with
delight. “At your age, you want the society of young people.”
He answered exactly as she wanted him to answer. She dressed herself in
her best and most imposing style, and off they went.
It was the most perfect sort of August day--bland, fair, not too hot,
not dusty. Mrs. Terhune leaned back, greatly enjoying it all--the light
air blowing against her face, the pleasant scents of the countryside,
and, above all, the festive feeling caused by the presence of the
holiday-making nephew.
Being only twenty-five to her fifty, Dacier was perhaps not quite so
contented. He would have liked to drive, but it made his aunt nervous,
so he had foregone that pleasure--although, to tell the truth, it made
_him_ nervous to sit back and go creeping along at such a calm, moderate
pace. However, he enjoyed life so much that he was indulgent toward
other people, and wished to make them happy as well; so on they went,
conversing affectionately.