Part 12 (1/2)
”And yet you threw a spell over that fellow Galbraith?”
”Dear, there is a difference; cannot you see?”
”No; upon my soul I can't.”
”I do not want to command even your thought for an instant; you must think of me to please yourself, not because I will it.”
”What a strange girl you are, Millicent! Do you really love me so very much?”
”I love you better than my own soul.”
”A dangerous thing, child; do not ever say that to me again.”
”Why?”
”It shocks me; I cannot tell you why.”
For answer, she gave him a rose from her breast with a childish gesture, as if asking forgiveness. There was an awkwardness, born of an unwonted shyness, in the movement which was more attractive to the artist than the most graceful att.i.tude he had ever seen her a.s.sume. He caught the hand with the rose and crushed them both in his two strong palms, as if to hurt her. She smiled, though her wrist reddened from the sudden pressure. It is more sweet to bear pain from those we love, than to receive kindness from a hand which is not dear.
As Graham was taking his leave, he asked Millicent for two books which she had promised to lend him. Barbara had joined them, and offered to fetch them for him.
”Thank you, Barbara, but I know just where they are.”
”Is it not the Petrarch and your ma.n.u.script translation of Dante that Mr. Graham wants?”
”Yes.”
”You left them on your table. I saw them when I went up to shut the blinds. You had better let me go, you are so tired.”
”Yes, let Miss Deering get them for you; you are quite worn out with your magnetizing.” He wanted to say one last good-night to her.
His lightest wish was her law; she nodded gratefully to Barbara, who disappeared, while Graham told her once more how lovely she was that night. When Miss Deering came back, Graham had already mounted his horse and Millicent was feeding the animal with sugar.
”You are sure you have the right books, Barbara?”
”Quite sure; I know them perfectly.”
”Many thanks to you both, and good-night.”
Millicent was in a wakeful mood that night. She went to the piano and played for an hour or two, as she only played when alone. Her hands drifted dreamily over the key-board, drawing out fantastic melodies,--themes which were composed and forgotten within the hour. In an obscure corner of the room stood a head of Beethoven. Her eyes were fixed on the face of the master while she played, and as the notes grew strong and sweet she smiled; when the harmony changed to a tender minor strain, the smile faded from her face. The music expressed the thoughts which drifted through her mind. At first she played the quick movement of a march, through which rang out the measured beat of a horse's hoofs; then the strain changed to a pensive nocturne suggestive of the forest at night. A tender slumber-song followed, in which her voice took up the melody, chanting loving words in the language of Tuscany. The light, delicate thread of harmony now broadened into a full consonance of sound, the chords following each other tumultuously, as if in translating one supreme moment of leave-taking. As she was striking the closing strains of this emotional improvisation, her powerful voice trembling with a pa.s.sionate _addio_, the sweet symphony of sounds was interrupted by a cras.h.i.+ng discord. She sprang from the piano startled and trembling, to find that a heavy vase of flowers had fallen on the key-board from the shelf above the piano. The metal jar was uninjured, but about her feet were scattered the petals of a bunch of white roses which Graham had plucked for her that night. So rudely was her rhapsody interrupted! She closed the piano, and, after restlessly wandering through the silent house, went to her own room, where she sat looking out of her window at the moon-lit hills. She could not sleep, she was full of unrest.
The gray morning light was filtering into Barbara Deering's room when she was awakened by a light touch on the shoulder. Millicent stood before her, gray as the twilight; she held in her hand a small parchment book.
”Barbara, what books did you give Mr. Graham?”
”The Petrarch and your Dante. What is the matter, Millicent? Have n't you been in bed?”
”No, I could not sleep. Here is the little Dante; where did you find the book you mistook for it?”
Barbara sat up and rubbed her eyes confusedly.
”Why, it was not where I had last seen it. I found it somewhere, in your jewel-box, I think. I am so sorry I made a mistake; 't was just like the Dante. Does it matter much?”