There is a joy in the return of every season, though the return of
spring is felt and celebrated beyond the rest. The gay flame dancing on
the hearth where lately all was blackness, the sense of immunity from
the "wrongs and arrows" of the skies and their confederate earth, the
concentration of the sense upon the intimate charms which four walls can
contain, bring to civilized man consolation for the loss of summer's
lavish warmth and beauty. Children are always sensible of these opening
festivals of the seasons, but many mature people enjoy without realizing
them.
To Mildred the world was again new, and she looked upon its most
familiar objects with the delighted eyes of a traveller returning to a
favorite foreign country. So she did not complain because when she had
left the earth it had been hurrying towards the height of June, and she
had returned to find the golden boughs of October already stripped by
devastating winds. The flames leaped merrily under the great carved
mantel-piece in her white-panelled drawing-room, showing the date 1661,
and the initials of the man who had put it there, and on its narrow
shelf a row of Chelsea figures which she had picked up in various
corners of Oxford. The chintz curtains were drawn around the bay-window
and a bright brass _scaldino_ stood in it, filled with the yellows and
red-browns, the silvery pinks and mauves of chrysanthemums. The ancient
charm, the delicate harmony of the room, in which every piece of
furniture, every picture, every ornament, had been chosen with an
exactness of taste seldom found in the young, made it more pleasurable
to a cultivated eye than the gilded show drawing-rooms into which wealth
too commonly crowds a medley of incongruous treasures and costly
nullities.
It was a free evening for Ian, and as it was but the second since the
Desire of his Eyes had returned to him, his gaze followed her movements
in a contented silence, as she wandered about the room in her slight
grace, the whiteness of her skin showing through the transparency of a
black dress, which, although it was old, Milly would have thought
unsuitable for a domestic evening. When everything was just where it
should be, she returned to the fire and sank into a chair thoughtfully.
"How I should like some rides," she said; "but I suppose I can't have
them, not unless Maxwell Davison's still in Oxford."
Ian's face clouded.
"He's not," he returned, shortly; and knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
hesitating as to how he should put what he had to say about Maxwell
Davison.
Mildred put her hand over her eyes and leaned back in her chair.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a burst of rippling laughter. Ian
started; his own thoughts had not been so diverting.
"What's the joke, Mildred?"
"Oh, Ian, don't you know? Max made love to Milly and she--she bit him!
Wasn't it frightfully funny?" She laughed again, with a more inward
enjoyment.
"I didn't know you bit him, although he richly deserved it; but of
course I knew he made love to you. How do you know?"
"It came to me just now in a sort of flash. I seemed to see him--to see
her, floundering out of the canoe; and both of them in such a towering
rage. It really was too funny."
Ian's face hardened.
"I am afraid I can't see the joke of a man making love to my wife."
"You old stupid! He'd never have dared to behave like that to me; but
Milly's such an ass."
"Milly was frightened, shocked, as any decent woman would be to whom
such a thing happened. She certainly didn't encourage Maxwell; but she
found an appointment already made for her to go on the river with him.
No doubt she took an exaggerated view of her--of your--good God,
Mildred, what am I to say?--well, of your relations with him."
Mildred had closed her eyes. A strange knowledge of things that had
passed during her suppression was coming to her in glimpses.
"I know," she returned, in a kind of wonder at her own knowledge.
"Absurd! But Max did behave abominably. I couldn't have believed it of
him, even with that silly little baa-lamb. Of course she couldn't manage
him. She won't be able to manage Tony long."
"Please don't speak of--of your other self in that way, Mildred. You're
very innocent of the world in both your selves, and you must have been
indiscreet or it would never have occurred to Maxwell to make love to
you."
Ian was actually frowning, his lips were tight and hard, the clear
pallor of his cheek faintly streaked with red. Mildred, leaning forward,
looked at him, interested, her round chin on her hands.
"Are you angry, Ian? I really believe you are. Is it with me?"
"No, not with you. But of course I'm angry when I think of a fellow like
that, my own cousin, a man who has been a guest in my house over and
over again, being cad enough to make love to my wife."
Mildred was smiling quietly to herself.
"How primitive you are, Ian!" she said. "I suppose men are primitive
when they're angry. I don't mind, but it does seem funny _you_ should
be."
He looked at her, surprised.
"Primitive? What do you mean?"
"What difference does it make, Max being your cousin, you silly old boy?
You'd hardly ever seen him till last winter. Clans aren't any use to us
now, are they? And when a man's got a house of his own, as Max had, or
even a hotel, why should he be so grateful as all that for a few decent
meals? He's not in the desert, depending on you for food and protection.
Anyhow, it seems curious to expect him to weigh little things like that
in the balance against what is always said to be such a very strong
feeling as a man's love for a woman."
Men often deplore that they have failed in their attempts fundamentally
to civilize Woman. They would use stronger language if Woman often made
attempts fundamentally to civilize them.
"Please don't look at me like that," Mildred said, tremulously, after a
pause. And the tears rushed to her eyes.
Ian's face softened, as leaning against the tall white mantel-piece he
looked down and met the tear-bright gaze of his beloved.
"Poor sweetheart!" he exclaimed. "You're just a child for all your
cleverness, and you don't half understand what you're talking about. But
listen to me--" He kneeled before her, bringing their heads almost on a
level. "I won't have any more affairs like this of Maxwell's. I dare say
it was as much my fault as yours, but it mustn't happen again."
She dabbed away two tears that hung on her eyelashes, and looked at him
with such a bright alluring yet elusive smile as might have flitted
across the face of Ariel.
"How can I help it if Milly flirts? I don't believe I can help it if I
do myself. But I can tell you this, Ian--yes, really--" Her soft white
arms went about his neck. "I've never seen a man yet who was a patch
upon you for cleverness and handsomeness and goodness and
altogetherness. No! You really are the very nicest man I ever saw!"