The Maker of Opportunities Part 16

"How?"

"By letting me look." She rose from her chair, got down from the throne and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett's broad shoulders barred the way.

"Please," she urged.

"I can't, really."

"Why not?" She stood her ground firmly, looking up into his face, but Burnett did not move or reply.

She settled into the pose again and Burnett went mechanically to his place before the canvas. Once it seemed as if he were about to speak--but he thought better of it. He looked down at the ma.s.s of color mingled on the palette. His brush moved slowly on the canvas. At last it stopped and dropped to his side.

"I can't go on."

She dropped out of the pose. "Are you ill?"

"Oh, no," he laughed. With the setting aside of the brushes and palette, Burnett seemed to put away the shadow that had been hanging over his thoughts all the morning. He stood beside her and was looking frankly into her eyes. She saw something in his that had not been there before, for she looked away, past the chimneys and apartment houses, past the clouds, and into the void that was beyond the blue. She had forgotten his presence, and one of her hands which he held in both of his.

"Perhaps you understand," he said quietly. "Perhaps you know."

The fingers moved slightly, but on the brows a tiny frown was gathering.

He relinquished her hand with a sigh and stood looking rather helplessly in the direction of the mute and pitiless easel. They were so deep in thought that neither of them heard the turning of a skeleton key in the latch and the opening of the door. The j.a.panese screen for a moment concealed them from the view of a gentleman who emerged into the room. Ross Burnett looked up helplessly. It was Mortimer Crabb, horror-stricken at this violation of his sanctum.

"Ross!" he said, "what on earth----"

Miss Darrow started from her chair, the crimson rushing to her cheeks, and stood drawing the lace across her shoulders.

Burnett was cool. "Miss Darrow," he asked, "you know Mr. Crabb? He's studying painting, and--er--sometimes uses this place. Perhaps----"

The words hung on his lips as he realized that Miss Darrow with an inclination of the head toward the visitor, had vanished into the dressing-room.

As the door closed words less polite came forth.

But Crabb broke in: "Oh, I say, Ross, you don't mean you've had the nerve----"

Ross Burnett's brows drew together and his large frame seemed to grow compact.

"Hush, Mort," he whispered. "You don't understand. You've made an awful mess of things. Won't you go?"

"But, my dear chap----"

"I'll explain later. But go--please!"

With a glance toward the easel Mortimer Crabb went out.

Ross Burnett closed the door, shot its bolt and put his back against it.

As the clatter of Crabb's boots on the wooden stairs died away on the lower floor, he gave a sigh, folded his arms and waited.

When Miss Darrow emerged from the dressing-room ready for the street, she found him there.

"My things are in the portmanteau," she said, icily. "My maid will call for them. If you will permit me----"

But Burnett did not move.

"Miss Darrow----" he began.

"Will you let me pa.s.s?"

"I can't, Miss Darrow--until you hear. I wouldn't have had it happen for anything in the world."

"I cannot listen. Won't you open the door?"

He bowed his head as though better to receive her reproaches, but he did not move.

"Oh!" she cried, "how could you!" Her chin was raised, and she glanced scornfully at him from under her narrowed lids.

"Please," he pleaded, quietly. "If you'll only listen----"

She turned and walked towards the window. "Isn't it punishment enough for it all to end like this," he went on, "without making it seem as though I were worse than I am? Really, I'm not as bad as I'm painted."

It was an unfortunate phrase. An awkward silence followed it, in which he was conscious that Miss Darrow had turned suddenly from the window and was facing the Thing upon the easel, which was now revealed to them both in all its uncompromising ugliness. From the center of a myriad of streaks of paint something emerged. Something in dull tones, staring like a Gorgon from its muddy illusiveness. To Burnett it had been only a canvas daubed with infelicitous paint. Now from across the room it seemed to have put on a smug and scurrilous personality and odiously leered at him from its unlovely background.

"Don't," cried Burnett. "Don't look at the thing like that."

But the girl did not move. She stood before the easel, her head a little on one side, her eyes upon the canvas.

"It's really not Victorian, is it?" she asked calmly.

"You _must_ listen!" cried Burnett, leaving his post at the door. "I insist. You know why I did this mad thing. I've told you. I'd do it again----"

"I've no doubt you will," she put in scornfully. "It doesn't seem to have been so difficult."

"It was. The hardest thing I've ever done in my life. You gave me the chance. I took it. I won't regret it. It was selfish--brutal--anything you like. But I don't regret--nine wonderful mornings, twenty-seven precious hours--more, I hope, than you've given any man in your life."

He made one rapid stride and took her in his arms. "I love you, Millicent, dear. I've loved you from the first moment--there in the picture gallery. Yes, I'd do it again. Every moment I've blessed the luck that made it possible. Don't turn away from me. You don't hate me.

I know it. You couldn't help feeling a response to a love like mine." He held her close to him, raising her head at last until her lips were level with his own. But he did not touch them. She still struggled faintly, but she would not open her eyes and look at him.

"No, no, you mustn't," was all that she found strength to say.

"You can't deny it. You do--care for me. Look up at me and tell me so."

She would not look at him and at last struggled away and stood, her cheeks flaming.

"You are masterful!" she stammered. "A girl is not to be won in this fashion."

"I love you," he said. "And you----"

"I despise you," she gasped. She turned to the mirror, and rearranged her disordered hair.

"Don't say that. Won't you forgive me?"