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
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 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.