Such states of mind were not constant with Campton; but more and more often, when they came, they swept him on eagle wings over the next desert to the next oasis; and so, gradually, the meaningless days became linked to each other in some kind of intelligible sequence.
Boylston, after the talk which had so agitated Campton, did not turn up again at the studio for some time; but when he next appeared the painter, hardly pausing to greet him, began at once, as if they had just parted: “That monument you spoke about the other day ... you know....”
Boylston glanced at him in surprise.
“If they want me to do it, I’ll do it,” Campton went on, jerking the words out abruptly and walking away toward the window. He had not known, till he began, that he had meant to utter them, or how difficult they would be to say; and he stood there a moment struggling with the unreasoning rebellious irritability which so often lay in wait for his better impulses. At length he turned back, his hands in his pockets, clinking his change as he had done the first time that Boylston had come to him for help. “But as I plan the thing,” he began again, in a queer growling tone, “it’s going to cost a lot—everything of the sort does nowadays, especially in marble. It’s hard enough to get any one to do that kind of work at all. And prices have about tripled, you know.”
Boylston’s eyes filled, and he nodded, still without speaking.
“That’s just what Brant’ll like though, isn’t it?” Campton said, with an irrepressible sneer in his voice. He saw Boylston redden and look away, and he too flushed to the forehead and broke off ashamed. Suddenly he had the vision of Mr. Brant effacing himself at the foot of the hospital stairs when they had arrived at Doullens; Mr. Brant drawing forth the copy of the orderly’s letter in the dark fog-swept cloister; Mr. Brant always yielding, always holding back, yet always remembering to do or to say the one thing the father’s lacerated soul could bear.
“And he’s had nothing—nothing—nothing!” Campton thought.
He turned again to Boylston, his face still flushed, his lips twitching. “Tell them—tell Brant—that I’ll design the thing; I’ll design it, and he shall pay for it. He’ll want to—I understand that. Only, for God’s sake, don’t let him come here and thank me—at least not for a long time!”
Boylston again nodded silently, and turned to go.