The day following his discovery of Leila Mills in the boathouse, Bruce remained in his apartment. He was not a little awed by the instinct that had led him to the river—the unlikeliest of places in which to seek the runaway girl. The poor little drugged body lying there in the cold room; her deep sigh and the touch of her hand on his face as he took her up, and more poignantly the look in Franklin Mills’s face when they met at the door, remained with him, and he knew that these were things he could never forget....
There was more of superstition and mysticism in his blood than he had believed. Lounging about his rooms, staring down at the bleak street as it whitened in a brisk snowfall, his thoughts ranged the wide seas of doubt and faith. Life was only a corridor between two doors of mystery. Petty and contemptible seemed the old familiar teachings about God. Men were not rejecting God; they were merely misled as to his nature. The spirit of man was only an infinitesimal particle of the spirit that was God. No other person he had ever talked with had offered so reasonable a solution of the problem as Millicent.
Again he went over their talk on the golf course. Millicent had the clue—the clue to a reality no less tangible and plausible because it was born of unreality. And here was the beginning of wisdom: to abandon the attempt to explain all things when so manifestly life would become intolerable if the walls of mystery through which man moves were battered down. As near as he was able to express it, the soul required room—all infinity, indeed, as the playground for its proper exercise. The freer a man’s spirit the greater its capacity for loving and serving its neighbor souls. Somewhere in the illimitable horizons of which Millicent dreamed it was imaginable that Something august and supreme dominated the universe—Something only belittled by every attempt to find a name for it....
Strange reflections for a healthy young mind in a stalwart, vigorous young body! Bruce hardly knew himself today. The scent of Leila’s hair as he bore her out of the boathouse had stirred a tenderness in his heart that was strange to him. He hoped Franklin Mills had dealt leniently with Leila. He had no idea what the man would do or say after finding his daughter in such a plight. He considered telephoning Mills’s house to ask about her, but dismissed the thought. His duty was discharged the moment he gave her into her father’s keeping; in all the circumstances an inquiry would be an impertinence.
Poor Leila! Poor, foolish, wilful, generous-hearted little girl! Her father was much too conspicuous for her little excursions among the shoals of folly to pass unremarked. Bruce found himself excusing and defending her latest escapade. She had taken refuge in the oblivion of alcohol as an escape from her troubles.... Something wrong somewhere. Shep and Leila both groping in the dark for the door of happiness and getting no help from their father in their search—a deplorable situation. Not altogether Franklin Mills’s fault; perhaps no one’s fault; just the way things happen, but no less tragic for all that.
Bruce asked the janitor to bring in his meals, content to be alone, looking forward to a long day in which to brood over his plans for the memorial. He was glad that he had not run away from Franklin Mills. It was much better to have remained in the town, and more comfortable to have met Mills and the members of his family than to have lived in the same community speculating about them endlessly without ever knowing them. He knew them now all too well! Even Franklin Mills was emerging from the mists; Bruce began to think he knew what manner of man Mills was. Shepherd had opened his own soul to him; and Leila—Bruce made allowances for Leila and saw her merits with full appreciation. One thing was certain: he did not envy Franklin Mills or his children their lot; he coveted nothing they possessed. He thanked his stars that he had had the wit to reject Mills’s offer to help him into a business position of promise; to be under obligation of any sort to Franklin Mills would be intolerable. Through the afternoon he worked desultorily on his sketches of the Laconia memorial, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed peace. He began combining in a single drawing his memoranda of details; was so pleased with the result in crayon that he began a pen and ink sketch and was still at this when Henderson appeared, encased in a plaid overcoat that greatly magnified his circumference.
“What’s responsible for this!” Bruce demanded.
“Thanks for your hearty greeting! I called your office at five-minute intervals all day and that hard-boiled telephone girl said you hadn’t been there. All the clubs denied knowledge of your whereabouts, so I clambered into my palatial Plantagenet and sped out, expecting to find you sunk in mortal illness. You must stop drinking, son.”
“That’s a good one from you! Please don’t sit on those drawings!”
“My mistake. You’re terribly peevish. By the way—what was the row last night about Leila Mills?” Bud feigned deep interest in a cloisonné jar that stood on the table.
“Well, what was?” asked Bruce. “I might have known you had something up your sleeve.”
“Oh, the kid disappeared yesterday long enough to give her father heart failure. Mills called Maybelle to see if she was at our house; Maybelle called Connie, and Connie said you’d left a party at her house to chase the kidnappers. Of course I’m not asking any questions, but I do like to keep pace with the local news.”
“I’ll say you do!” Bruce grinned at him provokingly. “Did they catch the kidnappers?”
“Well, Connie called Maybelle later to say that Leila was all safe at home and in bed. But even Connie didn’t know where you found the erring lambkin.”
“You’ve called the wrong number,” Bruce said, stretching himself. “I didn’t find Miss Leila. When I left Connie’s I went to the club to shoot a little pool.”
“You certainly lie like a gentleman! Come on home with me to dinner; we’re going to have corn beef and cabbage tonight!”
“In other words, if you can’t make me talk you think Maybelle can!”
“You insult me! Get your hat and let’s skip!”
“No; I’m taking my nourishment right here today. Strange as it may seem—I’m working!”
“Thanks for the hint! Just for that I hope the job’s a failure.”
Bruce was engrossed at his drawing-board when, at half past eight, the tinkle of the house telephone startled him.
“Mr. Storrs? This is Mr. Mills speaking—may I trouble you for a moment?”
“Yes; certainly. Come right up, Mr. Mills!”
There was no way out of it. He could not deny himself to Mills. Bruce hurriedly put on his coat, cleared up the litter on his table, straightened the cushions on the divan and went into the hall to receive his guest. He saw Mills’s head and shoulders below; Mills was mounting slowly, leaning heavily upon the stair rail. At the first landing—Bruce’s rooms were on the third floor—Mills paused and drew himself erect. Bruce stepped inside the door to avoid embarrassing his caller on his further ascent.
“It’s a comfort not to have all the modern conveniences,” Mills remarked graciously when Bruce apologized for the stairs. “Thank you, no; I’ll not take off my coat. You’re nicely situated here—I got your number from Carroll; he can always answer any question.”
His climb had evidently wearied him and he twisted the head of his cane nervously as he waited for his heart to resume its normal beat. There was a tired look in his eyes and his face lacked its usual healthy color. If Mills had come to speak of Leila, Bruce resolved to make the interview as easy for him as possible.
“Twenty-five years ago this was cow pasture,” Mills remarked. “My father owned fifty acres right here when I was a boy. He sold it for twenty times its original cost.”
Whatever had brought Franklin Mills to Bruce’s door, the man knew exactly what he had come to say, but was waiting until he could give full weight to the utterance. In a few minutes he was quite himself, and to Bruce’s surprise he rose and stood, with something of the ceremonial air of one about to deliver a message whose nature demanded formality.
“Mr. Storrs, I came to thank you for the great service you rendered me last night. I was in very great distress. You can understand my anxious concern; so I needn’t touch upon that. Words are inadequate to express my gratitude. But I can at least let you know that I appreciate what you did for me—for me and my daughter.”
He ended with a slight inclination of the head.
“Thank you, Mr. Mills,” said Bruce, taking the hand Mills extended. “I hope Miss Mills is quite well.”
“Quite, thank you.”
With an abrupt change of manner that dismissed the subject Mills glanced about the room.
“You bring work home? That speaks for zeal in your profession. Aren’t the days long enough?”
“Oh, this is a little private affair,” said Bruce, noting that Mills’s gaze had fallen upon the drawings propped against the wall. It was understood between him and the Freemans that his participation in the Laconia competition was to be kept secret; but he felt moved to explain to Mills the nature of the drawings. The man had suffered in the past twenty-four hours—it would be ungenerous to let him go without making some attempt to divert his thoughts from Leila’s misbehavior.
“This may interest you, Mr. Mills; I mean the general proposition—not my little sketches. Only—it must be confidential!”
“Yes; certainly,” Mills smiled a grave assent. “Perhaps you’d rather not tell me—I’m afraid my curiosity got the better of my manners.”
“Oh, not that, sir! Mr. and Mrs. Freeman know, of course; but I don’t want to have to explain my failure in case I lose! I’m glad to tell you about it; you may have some suggestions.”
Mills listened as Bruce explained the requirements of the Laconia memorial and illustrated with the drawings what he proposed to offer.
“Laconia?” Mills repeated the name quickly. “How very interesting!”
“You may recall the site,” Bruce went on, displaying a photograph of the hilltop.
“I remember the place very well; there couldn’t be a finer site. I suppose the town owns the entire hill? That’s a fine idea—to adjust the building to that bit of forest; the possibilities are enormous for effective handling. There should be a fitting approach—terraces, perhaps a fountain directly in front of the entrance—something to prepare the eye as the visitor ascends——”
“That hadn’t occurred to me!” said Bruce. “It would be fine!”
Mills, his interest growing, slipped out of his overcoat and sat down in the chair beside the drawing board.
“Those colonnades extending at both sides give something of the effect of wings—buoyancy is what I mean,” he remarked. “I like the classical severity of the thing. Beauty can be got with a few lines—but they must be the right ones. Nature’s a sound teacher there.”
Bruce forgot that there was any tie between them; Laconia became only a place where a soldiers’ memorial was to be constructed. Mills’s attitude toward the project was marked by the restraint, the diffidence of a man of breeding wary of offending but eager to help. Bruce had seen at once the artistic value of the fountain. He left Mills at the drawing table and paced the floor, pondering it. The look of weariness left Mills’s face. He was watching with frankly admiring eyes the tall figure, the broad, capable shoulders, the finely molded head, the absorbed, perplexed look in the handsome face. Not like Shep; not like any other young man he knew was this Bruce Storrs. He had not expected to remain more than ten minutes, but he was finding it difficult to leave.
Remembering that he had a guest, Bruce glanced at Mills and caught the look in his face. For a moment both were embarrassed.
“Do pardon me!” Bruce exclaimed quickly. “I was just trying to see my way through a thing or two. I’m afraid I’m boring you.”
Mills murmured a denial and took a cigarette from the box Bruce extended.
“How much money is there to spend on this? I was just thinking that that’s an important point. Public work of this sort is often spoiled by lack of funds.”
“Three hundred thousand is the limit. Mr. Freeman warns me that it’s hardly enough for what I propose, and that I’ve got to do some trimming.”
He drew from a drawer the terms of the competition and the specifications, and smoked in silence while Mills looked them over.
“It’s all clear enough. It’s a joint affair—the county does half and the rest is a popular subscription?”
“Yes; the local committee are fine people; too bad they haven’t enough to do the thing just right,” Bruce replied. “Of course I mean the way I’d like to do it—with your idea of the fountain that I’d rejoice to steal!”
“That’s a joke—that I could offer a trained artist any suggestion of real value!”
Bruce was finding his caller a very different Franklin Mills from the man he had talked with in the Jefferson Avenue house, and not at all the man whom, in his rôle of country squire, he had seen at Deer Trail. Mills was enjoying himself; there was no question of that. He lighted a cigar—the cigar he usually smoked at home before going to bed.
“You will not be known as a competitor; your plans will go in anonymously?” he inquired.
“Yes; that’s stipulated,” Bruce replied.
Returning to the plans—they seemed to have a fascination for Mills—one of his questions prompted Bruce to seize a pencil and try another type of entrance. Mills stood by, watching the free swift movement of the strong hand.
“I’m not so sure that’s better than your first idea. I’ve always heard that a first inspiration is likely to be the best—providing always that it is an inspiration! I’d give a lot if I could do what you’ve just done with that pencil. I suppose it’s a knack; you’re born with it. You probably began young; such talent shows itself early.”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t like to fool with a pencil. My mother gave me my first lessons. She had a very pretty talent—sketched well and did water colors—very nice ones, too. That’s one of them over there—a corner of our garden in the old home at Laconia.”
Mills walked slowly across the room to look at a framed water color that hung over Bruce’s writing table.
“Yes; I can see that it’s good work. I remember that garden—I seem to remember this same line of hollyhocks against the brick wall.”
“Oh, mother had that every year! Her flowers were famous in Laconia.”
“And that sun-dial—I seem to remember that, too,” Mills observed meditatively.
“Mother liked that sort of thing. We used to sit out there in the summer. She made a little festival of the coming of spring. I think all the birds in creation knew her as friend. And the neighbor children came in to hear her read—fairy stories and poetry. We had jolly good times there—mother and I!”
“I’m sure you did,” said Mills gravely.
As he stepped away from the table his eyes fell upon the photograph of a young woman in a silver frame. He bent down for a closer inspection. Bruce turned away, walked the length of the room and glanced round to find Mills still regarding the photograph.
“My mother, as she was at about thirty,” Bruce remarked.
“Yes; I thought so. Somewhat older than when I knew her, but the look of youth is still there.”
“I prefer that to any other picture of her I have. She refused to be photographed in her later years—said she didn’t want me to think of her as old. And she never was that—could never have been.”
“I can well believe it,” said Mills softly. “Time deals gently with spirits like hers.”
“No one was ever like her,” said Bruce with feeling. “She made the world a kindlier and nobler place by living in it.”
“And you’re loyal to the ideal she set for you! You think of her, I’m sure, in all you do—in all you mean to do.”
“Yes, it helps—it helps a lot to feel that somewhere she knows and cares.”
Mills picked up a book, scanned the title page unseeingly and threw it down.
“I’ve just about killed an evening for you,” he said with a smile and put out his hand cordially. “My chauffeur is probably frozen.”
“You’ve been a big help!” replied Bruce. “It’s been fine to have you here. I’ll see Mr. Freeman tomorrow and go over the whole thing again. He may be able to squeeze the fountain out of the appropriation! May I tell him it’s your idea?”
“Oh, no! No, indeed! Just let my meddlesomeness be a little joke between us. I shall be leaving town shortly and may not see you again for several months. So good-bye and good luck!”
Bruce walked downstairs with him. At the entrance they again shook hands, as if the good will on both sides demanded this further expression of amity.
A brief item in the “Personal and Society” column of an afternoon newspaper apprised Bruce a few days later of the departure of Mr. Franklin Mills and Miss Leila Mills for the Mediterranean, they having abandoned their proposed trip to Bermuda for the longer voyage. Bruce wondered a little at the change of plans, suspecting that it might in some degree be a disciplinary measure for Leila’s benefit, a scheme for keeping her longer under her father’s eye. He experienced a curious new loneliness at the thought of their absence and then was impatient to find himself giving them a second thought. A month earlier he would have been relieved by the knowledge that Mills was gone and that the wide seas rolled between them. An amazing thing, this! To say they were nothing to him did not help now as in those first months after he had established himself in Mills’s town. They meant a good deal to him and perhaps he meant something to them. It was very odd indeed how he and the Millses circled about each other.
As he put down the newspaper a note was brought to him at his apartment by Mills’s chauffeur. It read:
Dear Bruce: You said I might; I can’t just Mr. Storrs you! Trunks at the station and Dada waiting at the front door. I couldn’t bear the idea of writing you a note you’d read while I was still in town—so please consider that I’m throwing you a kiss from the tail end of the observation car. I could never, never have had the courage to say my thanks to you—if I tried I’d cry and make a general mess of it. But—I want you to know that I do appreciate it—what you did—in saving my life and every little thing! I’d probably have died all right enough in the frightful cold if you hadn’t found me. I really didn’t know till yesterday, when I wormed it out of Dada, just how it all happened! I’m simply crushed! I promise I’ll never do such a thing again. Thank you loads, and be sure I’ll never forget. I wish you were my big brother; I’d just adore being a nice, good little sister to you. Love and kisses, from
Leila.
He reread it a dozen times in the course of the evening. It was so like the child—the perverse, affectionate child—that Leila was. “I wish you were my big brother.” The sentence had slipped from her flying pen thoughtlessly, no doubt, but it gave Bruce a twinge. Shep did not know; Leila did not know! and yet for both of these children of Franklin Mills he felt a fondness that was beyond ordinary friendship. Shep could never be, in the highest sense, a companion of his father; Mills no doubt loved Leila, but he loved her without understanding. Her warm, passionate heart, the very fact that she and Shep were the children of Franklin Mills made life difficult for them. Either would have been happier if they had not been born into the Mills caste. The Mills money and the Mills position were an encumbrance against which more or less consciously they were in rebellion.