I
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.