Bruce worked at his plans for the Laconia memorial determinedly and, he hoped, with inspiration. He looked in at the Hardens’ on a Sunday afternoon and found Millicent entertaining several callow youths—new acquaintances whom she had met at the functions to which Mills’s cautious but effective propaganda had admitted her. Bruce did not remain long; he thought Millicent was amused by his poorly concealed disappointment at not finding her alone. But he was deriving little satisfaction from his self-denial in remaining away and grew desperate for a talk with her. He made his next venture on a wild March night, and broke forth in a pæan of thanksgiving when he found her alone in the library.
“You were deliciously funny when you found me surrounded! Those were nice boys; they’d just discovered me!”
“They had the look of determined young fiends! I knew I couldn’t stay them out. But I dare ’em to leave home on a night like this!”
“Oh, I know! You’re afraid of competition! After you left that Sunday mamma brought in ginger cookies and we popped corn and had a grand old time!”
“It sounds exciting. But it was food for the spirit I needed; I couldn’t have stood it to see them eat!”
“Just for that our pantry is closed to you forever—never a cookie! Those boys were vastly pleased to meet you. They knew you as a soldier of the Republic and a crack handball player—not as an eminent architect. That for fame! By the way, you must be up to something mysterious. Dale gave me just a tiny hint that you’re working on something prodigious. But of course I don’t ask to be let into the secret!”
“The secret’s permanent if I fail!” he laughed.
He was conscious that their acquaintance had progressed in spite of their rare meetings. Tonight she played for him and talked occasionally from the organ—running comment on some liturgical music with which she had lately been familiarizing herself. Presently he found himself standing beside her; there seemed nothing strange in this—to be standing where he could watch her hands and know the thrill of her smile as she invited his appreciation of some passage that she was particularly enjoying....
“What have you been doing with your sculpting? Please bring me up to date on everything,” he said.
“Oh, not so much lately. You might like to see some children’s heads I’ve been doing. I bring some of the little convalescents to the house from the hospital to give them a change.”
“Lucky kids!” he said. “To be brought here and played with.”
“Why not? They’re entitled to all I have as much as I am.”
“Revolutionist! Really, Millicent, you must be careful!”
Yes; no matter how little he saw of her, their amity and concord strengthened. Sometimes she looked at him in a way that quickened his heartbeat. As they went down from the organ his hand touched hers and he thrilled at the fleeting contact. A high privilege, this, to be near her, to be admitted to the sanctuary of her mind and heart. She had her clichés; harmony was a word she used frequently, and colors and musical terms she employed with odd little meanings of her own.
In the studio she showed him a plaque of her mother’s head which he knew to be creditable work. His praise of it pleased her. She had none of the amateur’s simpering affectation and false modesty. She said frankly she thought it the best thing she had done.
“I know mamma—all her expressions—and that makes a difference. You’ve got to see under the flesh—get the inner light even in clay. I might really get somewhere if I gave up everything else,” she said pensively as they idled about the studio.
“Yes; you could go far. Why not?”
“Oh, but I’d have to give up too much. I like life—being among people; and I have my father and mother. I think I’ll go on just as I am. If I got too serious about it I might be less good than now, when I merely play at it....”
In their new familiarity he made bold to lift the coverings of some of her work that she thought unworthy of display. She became gay over some of her failures, as she called them. She didn’t throw them away because they kept her humble.
On a table in a corner of the room stood a bust covered with a cloth to which they came last.
“Another magnum opus?” he asked carelessly. She lifted the cloth and stood away from it.
“Mr. Mills gave me some sittings. But this is my greatest fizzle of all; I simply couldn’t get him!”
The features of Franklin Mills had been reproduced in the clay with mechanical fidelity; but unquestionably something was lacking. Bruce studied it seriously, puzzled by its deficiencies.
“Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “It’s curious that a thing can come so close and fail.”
“It’s a true thing,” remarked Bruce, “as far as it goes. But you’re right; there’s something that isn’t there. If you don’t mind, it’s dead—there’s—there’s no life in it.”
Millicent touched the clay here and there, suggesting points where the difficulty might lie. She was so intent that she failed to see the changing expression on Bruce’s face. He had ceased to think of the clay image. Mills himself had been in the studio, probably many times. The thought of this stirred the jealousy in Bruce’s heart—Millicent and Mills! Every kind and generous thought he had ever entertained for the man was obliterated by this evidence that for many hours he had been there with Millicent. But she, understanding nothing of this, was startled when he flung round at her.
“I think I can tell you what’s the matter,” he said in a tone harsh and strained. “The fault’s not yours!”
“No?” she questioned wonderingly.
“The man has no soul,” he said, as though he were pronouncing sentence of death.
That Millicent should have fashioned this counterfeit of Mills, animated perhaps by an interest that might quicken to love, was intolerable. Passion possessed him. Lifting the bust, he flung it with a loud crash upon the tile floor. He stared dully at the scattered fragments.
“God!” he turned toward her with the hunger of love in his eyes. “I—I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to do that!”
He caught her hand roughly; gently released it, and ran up the steps into the library.
Millicent remained quite still till the outer door had closed upon him. She looked down at the broken pieces of the bust, trying to relate them to the cause of his sudden wrath. Then she knelt and began mechanically, patiently, picking up the fragments. Suddenly she paused. Her hands relaxed and the bits of clay fell to the floor. She stood up, her figure tense, her head lifted, and a light came into her eyes.
He had made a fool of himself: this was Bruce’s reaction to the sudden fury that had caused him to destroy Millicent’s bust of Franklin Mills. He would never dare go near her again; and having thus fixed his own punishment, and being very unhappy about it, a spiteful fate ordained that he should meet her early the next morning in the lobby of the Central States Trust Company, where, out of friendly regard for Shepherd Mills, he had opened an account.
“So—I’m not the only early riser!” she exclaimed, turning away from one of the teller’s windows as he passed. “This is pay day at home and I’m getting the cook’s money. I walked down—what a glorious morning!”
“Cook—money?” he repeated stupidly. There was nothing extraordinary in the idea that she should be drawing the domestic payroll. Her unconcern, the deftness with which she snapped her purse upon a roll of new bills and dropped it into a bead bag were disconcerting. Her eyes turned toward the door and he must say something. She was enchanting in her gray fur coat and feathered hat of vivid blue; it hadn’t been necessary for her to say that she had walked four miles from her house to the bank; her glowing cheeks were an eloquent advertisement of that.
“Please,” he began eagerly. “About last night—I made a dreadful exhibition of myself. I know—I mean that to beg your forgiveness——”
“Is wholly unnecessary!” she finished smilingly. “The bust was a failure and I had meant to destroy it myself. So please forget it!”
“But my bad manners!”
She was making it too easy for his comfort. He wished to abase himself, to convince her of his contrition.
“Well,” she said with a judicial air, “generally speaking, I approve of your manners. We all have our careless moments. I’ve been guilty myself of upsetting bric-a-brac that I got tired of seeing in the house.”
“You ought to scold me—cut my acquaintance.”
“Who’d be punished then?” she demanded, drawing the fur collar closer about her throat.
“I might die!” he moaned plaintively.
“An irreparable loss—to the world!” she said, “for which I refuse to become responsible.” She took a step toward the door and paused. “If I may refer to your destructive habits, I’ll say you’re some critic!” She left him speculating as to her meaning. To outward appearances, at least, she hadn’t been greatly disturbed by the smashing of Mills’s image.
When he had concluded his errand he went to the enclosure where the company’s officers sat to speak to Shep, whom he had been avoiding since the encounter with Walters at the Athletic Club. Shep jumped up and led the way to the directors’ room.
“You know,” he began, “I don’t want to seem to be pursuing you, but”—he was stammering and his fine, frank eyes opened and shut quickly in his agitation—“but you’ve got to know how much I appreciate——”
“Now, old man,” Bruce interrupted, laying his hand on Shep’s shoulder, “let’s not talk of ancient history.”
Shep shook his head impatiently.
“No, by George! You’ve got to take my thanks! It was bully of you to punch that scoundrel’s head. I ought to have done it myself, but——” He held out his arms, his eyes measuring his height against Bruce’s tall frame, and grinned ruefully.
“I didn’t give you a chance, Shep,” said Bruce, drawing himself onto the table and swinging his legs at ease. “I don’t believe that bird’s been looking for me; I’ve been right here in town.”
“I guess he won’t bother you much!” exclaimed Shep with boyish pride in his champion’s prowess. “You certainly gave him a good one!”
“He seemed to want it,” replied Bruce. “I couldn’t just kiss him after he slapped me!”
“I told Connie! I didn’t care for what Walters said—you understand—but I wanted Connie to know what you did—for her!”
His eyes appealed for Bruce’s understanding. But Bruce, who had hoped that Shep wouldn’t tell Connie, now wished heartily that Shep would drop the matter.
“You made too much of it! It wasn’t really for anyone in particular that I gave Walters that little tap—it was to assert a general principle of human conduct.”
“We’ll never forget it,” declared Shep, not to be thwarted in his expression of gratitude. “That anyone should speak of Connie—Connie—in that fashion! Why, Connie’s the noblest girl in the world! You know that, the whole world knows it!”
He drew back and straightened his shoulders as though daring the world to gainsay him.
“Why, of course, Shep!” Bruce replied quietly. He drew a memorandum from his pocket and asked about some bonds the trust company had advertised and into which he considered converting some of the securities he had left with his banker at Laconia which were now maturing. Shep, pleased that Bruce was inviting his advice in the matter, produced data from the archives in confirmation of his assurance that the bonds were gilt-edge and a desirable investment. Bruce lingered, spending more time than was necessary in discussing the matter merely to divert Shep’s thoughts from the Walters’ episode.
Bruce had never before worked so hard; Freeman said that the designer of the Parthenon had been a loafer in comparison. After a long and laborious day he would drive to the Freemans with questions about his designs for the memorial that he feared to sleep on. Dale remarked to her husband that it was inspiring to see a young man of Bruce’s fine talent and enthusiasm engrossed upon a task and at the same time in love—an invincible combination.
Carroll had kept in mind the visit to Laconia he had proposed and they made a week-end excursion of it in May. Bruce was glad of the chance to inspect the site of the memorial, and happier than he had expected to be in meeting old friends. It was disclosed that Carroll’s interest in Bruce’s cousin was not quite so incidental as he had pretended. Mills’s secretary had within the year several times visited Laconia, an indication that he was not breaking his heart over Leila.
Bruce stole away from the hotel on Sunday morning to visit his mother’s grave. She had lived so constantly in his thoughts that it seemed strange that she could be lying in the quiet cemetery beside John Storrs. There was something of greatness in her or she would never have risked the loss of his respect and affection. She had trusted him, confident of his magnanimity and love. Strange that in that small town, with its brave little flourish of prosperity, she had lived all those years with that secret in her heart, perhaps with that old passion tormenting her to the end. She had not been afraid of him, had not feared that he would despise her. “O soul of fire within a woman’s clay”—this line from a fugitive poem he had chanced upon in a newspaper expressed her. On his way into town he passed the old home, resenting the presence of the new owner, who could not know what manner of woman had dwelt there, sanctified its walls, given grace to the garden where the sun-dial and the flower beds still spoke of her.... Millicent was like Marian. Very precious had grown this thought, of the spiritual kinship of his mother and Millicent.
Traversing the uneven brick pavements along the maple arched street, it was in his mind that his mother and Millicent would have understood each other. They dreamed the same dreams; the garden walls had not shut out Marian Storrs’s vision of the infinite. A church bell whose clamorous peal was one of his earliest recollections seemed subdued today to a less insistent note by the sweetness of the spring air. Old memories awoke. He remembered a sermon he had heard in the church of the sonorous bell when he was still a child; the fear it had wakened in his heart—a long noisy discourse on the penalties of sin, the horror in store for the damned. And he recalled how his mother had taken his hand and smiled down at him there in the Storrs pew—that adorable smile of hers. And that evening as they sat alone in the garden on the bench by the sun-dial she had comforted him and told him that God—her God—was not the frightful being the visiting minister had pictured, but generous and loving. Yes, Millicent was like Marian Storrs....
After this holiday he fell upon his work with renewed energy—but he saw Millicent frequently. It was much easier to pass through the Harden gate and ring the bell now that the windows of the Mills house were boarded up. Mrs. Harden and the doctor made clear their friendliness—not with parental anxiety to ingratiate themselves with an eligible young man, but out of sincere regard and liking.
“You were raised in a country town and all us folks who were brought up in small towns speak the same language,” Mrs. Harden declared. She conferred the highest degree of her approval by receiving him in the kitchen on the cook’s day out, when she could, in her own phrase, putter around all she pleased. Millicent, enchantingly aproned, shared in the sacred rites of preparing the evening meal on these days of freedom, when there was very likely to be beaten biscuit, in the preparation of which Bruce was duly initiated.
Spring repeated its ancient miracle in the land of the tall corn. A pleasant haven for warm evenings was the Harden’s “back yard” as the Doctor called it, though it was the most artistic garden in town, where Mrs. Harden indulged her taste in old-fashioned flowers; and there was a tea house set in among towering forest trees where Millicent held court. Bruce appearing late, with the excuse that he had been at work, was able to witness the departure of Millicent’s other “company” as her parents designated her visitors, and enjoy an hour with her alone. Their privacy was invaded usually by Mrs. Harden, who appeared with a pitcher of cooling drink and plates of the cakes in which she specialized. She was enormously busy with her work on the orphan asylum board. She was ruining the orphans, the Doctor said; but he was proud of his wife and encouraged her philanthropies. He was building a hospital in his home town—thus, according to Bud Henderson, propitiating the gods for the enormity of his offense against medical ethics in waxing rich off the asthma cure. The Doctor’s sole recreation was fishing; he had found a retired minister, also linked in some way with the Hardens’ home town, who shared his weakness. They frequently rose with the sun and drove in Harden’s car to places where they had fished as boys. Bruce had known people like the Hardens at Laconia. Even in the big handsome house they retained their simplicity, a simplicity which in some degree explained Millicent. It was this quality in her that accounted for much—the sincerity and artlessness with which she expressed beliefs that gained sanctity from her very manner of speaking of them.
On a June night he put into the mail his plans for the memorial and then drove to the Hardens’. Millicent had been playing for some callers who were just leaving.
“If you’re not afraid of being moonstruck, let’s sit out of doors,” she suggested.
“It’s a habit—this winding up my day here! I’ve just finished a little job and laid it tenderly on the knees of the gods.”
“Ah, the mysterious job is done! Is it anything that might be assisted by a friendly thought?”
“Just a bunch of papers in the mail; that’s all.”
They talked listlessly, in keeping with the langurous spirit of the night. The Mills house was plainly visible through the shrubbery. In his complete relaxation, his contentment at being near Millicent, Bruce’s thoughts traveled far afield while he murmured assent to what she was saying. The moonlit garden, its serenity hardly disturbed by the occasional whirr of a motor in the boulevard, invited to meditation, and Millicent was speaking almost as though she were thinking aloud in her musical voice that never lost its charm for him.
“It’s easy to believe all manner of strange things on a night like this! I can even imagine that I was someone else once upon a time....”
“Go right on!” he said, rousing himself, ready for the game which they often played like two children. He turned to face her. “I have a sneaking idea that a thousand years ago at this minute I was sitting peacefully by a well in an oasis with camels and horses and strange dark men sleeping round me; that same lady moon looking down on the scene, making the sandy waste look like a field of snow.”
“That sounds dusty and hot! Now me—I’m on a galley ship driving through the night; a brisk cool wind is blowing; a slave is singing a plaintive song and the captain of the rowers is thumping time for them to row by and the moon is shining down on an island just ahead. It’s all very jolly! We’re off the coast of Greece somewhere, I think.”
“I suppose that being on a ship while I’m away off in a desert I really shouldn’t be talking to you. I couldn’t take my camel on your yacht!”
“There’s telepathy,” she suggested.
“Thanks for the idea! If we’ve arrived in this pleasant garden after a thousand-year journey I certainly shan’t complain!”
“It wouldn’t profit you much if you did! And besides, my feelings would be hurt!” she laughed softly. “I do so love the sound of my own voice—I wonder if that’s because I’ve been silent a thousand years!”
“I hope you weren’t, for—I admire your voice! Looking at the stars does make you think large thoughts. If they had all been flung into space by chance, as a child scatters sand, we’d have had a badly scrambled universe by this time—it must be for something—something pretty important.”
“I wonder....” She bent forward, her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand laid against her cheek. “Let’s pretend we can see all mankind, from the beginning, following a silken cord that Some One ahead is unwinding and dropping behind as a guide. And we all try to hold fast to it—we lose it over and over again and stumble over those who have fallen in the dark places of the road—then we clutch it again. And we never quite see the leader, but we know he is there, away on ahead trying to guide us to the goal——”
“Yes,” he said eagerly, “the goal——”
“Is happiness! That’s what we’re all searching for! And our Leader has had so many names—those ahead are always crying back a name caught from those ahead of them—down through the ages. But it helps to know that many are on ahead clutching the cord, not going too fast for fear the great host behind may lose their hope and drop the cord altogether!”
“I like that; it’s bully! It’s the life line, the great clue——”
“Yes, yes,” she said, “and even the half gods are not to be sneered at; they’ve tangled up the cord and tied hard knots in it—— Oh, dear! I’m soaring again!”
There had been some question of her going away for the remainder of the summer, and he referred to this presently. He was hoping that she would go before the return of Mills and Leila. The old intimacy between the two houses would revive: it might be that Millicent was ready to marry Mills; and tonight Bruce did not doubt his own love for her—if only he might touch her hand that lay so near and tell her! In the calm night he felt again the acute loneliness that had so beset him in his year-long pilgrimage in search of peace; and he had found at the end a love that was not peace. After the verdict of the judges of the memorial plans was given it would be best for him to leave—go to New York perhaps and try his fortune there, and forget these months that had been so packed with experience.
“We’re likely to stay on here indefinitely,” Millicent was saying. “I’d rather go away in the winter; the summer is really a joy. A lot of the people we know are staying at home. Connie and Shep are not going away, and Dale says she’s not going to budge. And Helen Torrence keeps putting off half a dozen flights she’s threatened to take. And Bud and Maybelle seem content. So why run away from friends?”
“No reason, of course. The corn requires heat and why should we be superior to the corn?”
“I had a letter from Leila today. She says she’s perishing to come home!”
“I’ll wager she is!” laughed Bruce. “What’s going to happen when she comes?”
He picked up his hat and they were slowly crossing the lawn toward the gate.
“You mean Freddie Thomas.”
“I suppose I do mean Fred! But I didn’t mean to pump you. It’s Leila’s business.”
“I’ll be surprised if a few months’ travel doesn’t change Leila. She and Freddy had an awful crush on each other when she left. If she’s still of the same mind—well, her father may find the trip wasn’t so beneficial!”
From her tone Bruce judged that Millicent was not greatly concerned about Leila. She went through the gates with him to his car at the curb.
“Whatever it is you sent shooting through the night—here’s good luck to it!” she said as he climbed into his machine. “Do you suppose that’s the train?”
She raised her hand and bent her head to listen. The rumble of a heavy train and the faint clang of a locomotive bell could be heard beyond the quiet residential neighborhood. He was pleased that she had remembered, sorry now that he had not told her what it was that he had committed to the mails. She snapped her fingers, exclaiming:
“I’ve sent a wish with it, whether it’s to your true love or whatever it is!”
“It wasn’t a love letter,” he called after her as she paused under the gate lamps to wave her hand.