I
At Christmas Bruce had sent Millicent a box of flowers, which she had acknowledged in a cordial little note, but he had not called on her, making the excuse to himself that he lacked time. But the real reason was a fear that he had begun to care too much for her. He must not allow himself to love her when he could never marry her; he could never ask any woman to take a name to which he had no honest right.
But if he hadn’t seen Millicent he heard of her frequently. He was established as a welcome visitor at all times at the Freemans’ and the Hendersons’. The belated social recognition of the Hardens, in spite of the adroitness with which Mills had inspired it, had not gone unremarked.
There was, Bud said, always some reason for everything Mills did; and Maybelle, who knew everything that was said and done in town, had remarked in Bruce’s hearing that the Hardens’ social promotion was merely an item in Mills’s courtship of Millicent.
“I’ll wager he doesn’t make it! Millicent will never do it,” was Maybelle’s opinion, expressed one evening at dinner.
“Why not?” Bruce asked, trying to conceal his suspicion that the remark was made for his own encouragement.
“Oh, Millie’s not going to throw herself away on an old bird like Frank Mills. She values her youth too much for that.”
“Oh, you never can tell,” said Bud provokingly. “Girls have done it before this.”
“But not girls like Millicent!” Maybelle flung back.
“That’s easy,” Bud acquiesced. “There never was a girl like Millie—not even you, Maybelle, much as I love you. But all that mazuma and that long line of noble ancestors; not a spot on the whole bloomin’ scutcheon! I wonder if Mills is really teasing himself with the idea that he has even a look-in!”
“What you ought to do, Bruce, is to sail in and marry Millie yourself,” said Maybelle. “Dale and I are strong for you!”
“Thanks for the compliment!” exclaimed Bruce. “You and Dale want me to enter the race in the hope of seeing Mills knocked out! No particular interest in me! You don’t want me to win half as much as you want the great Mills to lose. Alas! And this is friendship!”
“The idea warms my sporting blood,” said Bud. “Once the struggle begins we’ll post the bets on the club bulletin. I’ll start with two to one on you, old top!”
“I’m surprised at Connie—she seems to be helping on the boosting of the Hardens,” said Maybelle. “It must occur to her that it wouldn’t help her own fortunes to have a healthy young stepmother-in-law prance into the sketch. When Frank Mills passes on some day Connie’s going to be all set to spend a lot of his money. Connie’s one of the born spenders.”
“That’s all well enough,” remarked Bud. “But just now Connie’s only too glad to have Mills’s attention directed away from her own little diversions. She and George Whitford——”
“Bud!” Maybelle tapped her water glass sharply. “Remember, boys, these people are our friends!”
“Not so up-stage, darling!” said Bud. “I’m sure we’ve been talking only in a spirit of loving kindness!”
“Honorable men and women—one and all!” said Bruce.
“Absolutely!” Bud affirmed, and the subject was dropped.
A few nights later Bruce was obliged to listen to similar talk at the Freemans’, though in a different key. Mrs. Freeman was indignant that Mills should think of marrying Millicent.
“There’s just one right man in the world for every woman,” she declared. “And the right man for Millicent is you, Bruce Storrs!”
Bruce met her gaze with mock solemnity.
“Please don’t force me into a hasty marriage! Here I am, a struggling young architect who will soon be not so young. Give me time to become self-supporting!”
“Of course Millie will marry you in the proper course of things,” said Freeman. “If that girl should throw herself away on Franklin Mills she wouldn’t be Millie. And she is very much Millie!”
“Heavens!” exclaimed his wife. “The bare thought of that girl, with her beauty, her spiritual insight, her sweetness, linking herself to that—that——”
“This talk is all bosh!” interrupted Freeman. “I doubt if Mills ever sees Millicent alone. These gossips ought to be sent to the penal farm.”
“Oh, I think they’ve seen each other in a neighborly sort of way,” said Mrs. Freeman. “Mills is a cultivated man and Millicent’s music and modeling no doubt really interest him. I ran in to see her the other morning and she’s been doing a bust of Mills—she laughed when I asked her about it and said she had hard work getting sitters and Mr. Mills is ever so patient.”
The intimacy implied in this kindled Bruce’s jealousy anew. Dale Freeman, whose prescience was keen, saw a look in his face that gave her instant pause.
“Mr. Mills and Leila are leaving in a few days,” she remarked quickly. “I don’t believe he’s much of a success as a matchmaker. It’s been in the air for several years that Leila must marry Arthur Carroll, but he doesn’t appear to be making any headway.”
“Leila will do as she pleases,” said Freeman, who was satisfied with a very little gossip. “Bruce, how do you feel about tackling that Laconia war memorial?”
Bruce’s native town was to build a museum as a memorial to the soldiers in all her wars, from the Revolutionary patriots who had settled the county to the veterans of the Great War. Freeman had encouraged Bruce to submit plans, which were to be passed on by a jury of the highest distinction. Freeman kept strictly to domestic architecture; but Bruce’s ideas about the memorial had impressed him by their novelty. His young associate had, he saw, a natural bent for monumental structures that had been increased by the contemplation of the famous memorials in Europe. They went into the Freemans’ study to talk over the specifications and terms of the competition, and by midnight Bruce was so reassured by his senior’s confidence that it was decided he should go to work immediately on his plans.
“It would be splendid, Bruce!” said Dale, who had sewed during the discussion, throwing in an occasional apt comment and suggestion. “The people of Laconia would have all the more pride in their heroes if one of them designed the memorial. It’s not big enough to tempt the top-notchers in the profession, but if you land it it will push you a long way up!”
“Yes; it would be a big thing for you,” Freeman added. “You’d better drop your work in the office and concentrate on it....”
Undeterred by the cold, Bruce drove daily into the country, left his car and walked—walked with a new energy begotten of definite ambition and faith in his power of achievement. To create beautiful things: this had been his mother’s prayer for him. He would do this for her; he would create a thing of beauty that should look down forever upon the earth that held her dust.
The site of the proposed building was on the crest of a hill on the outskirts of Laconia and within sight of its main street. Bruce had known the spot all his life and had no trouble in visualizing its pictorial possibilities. The forest trees that crowned the hill would afford a picturesque background for an open colonnade that he meant to incorporate in his plans.
Walking on clear, cold nights he fancied that he saw on every hilltop the structure as it would be, with the winds playing through its arches and wistful young moons coming through countless years to bless it anew with the hope and courage of youth.