She nodded understandingly.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "St. George's Hall is personified for him in Anthony Cobbens. He told me all about their early associations and subsequent estrangement. I must say that after his arraignment of the man, I half expected to see them fly at each other's throats, whereas they almost embraced." He threw back his head and laughed heartily at the remembrance.

"The amenities of civilisation—and politics," she murmured, smiling.

"But how roiled poor Emmet was underneath," he mused. "I wish I had Cardington's gift of speech to express the thoughts that have lately been taking shape in my mind concerning the spectacle of a democratic aristocracy. Now, if Emmet had the philosophical attitude of mind, he would n't have the strength to struggle which he undoubtedly does have. He needs that stimulus of personal animosity to get somewhere; if he were philosophical, he would be unambitious. When he has arrived, as they say, he will come to see that an aristocracy in the usual worldly sense of the term must have money to maintain its existence. The old aristocracy must have accessions of vulgar blood and vulgar money to keep it alive, just as the language must be rejuvenated from time to time by slang from the streets. I made a tentative effort to present some such point of view to him as you suggested, but it didn't take. He could only see Cobbens's red head in front of his eyes, and it was like the proverbial rag of the same colour to the bull. Emmet is a generation short of being able to see in his personal enemy a synopsis of the processes of history. This, in short, is my conclusion. I'm afraid I did n't accomplish what we hoped for."

"I might have known it," she commented. "But I'm grateful to you for making the attempt."

"What hypocrites we are!" he cried, sitting up. "A little of my own philosophy would n't be a bad thing for home use. I could easily allow myself to get into as great a rage against Warwick as Emmet himself. Already I 've begun to call it hard names, such as deadly, and cold, and snobbish. I'm beginning to see that a man like myself must always be on the outside here. I ought to have begun to live in Warwick three generations ago, or to have brought a fortune with me. In the West men are estimated on their individual merits, and one is n't made to feel himself an outsider."

"Perhaps because there's no inside to get into," she suggested coolly.

He had a vision of that sanctum into which Cobbens could buy his way with his wife's money, and he realised that this was not the first glimpse he had had of a quality in the woman he loved that was not all sweetness.

"I feel like one who has interfered in a family quarrel," he returned, good-naturedly. "Well, I may be only a transient here, a bird of passage nesting for a year in the towers of the Hall. I will earnestly request myself to be amused at the spectacle of a democratic aristocracy." He felt that in her heart she agreed with him, else, why did she favour Emmet's candidacy?

"That will be like the attempt to extract sunbeams from cucumbers," she replied, with a note of weariness in her voice. "But the equanimity with which you took my speech about the West makes me feel like a horrid shrew. Have you really got a sweet disposition, Mr. Leigh, or are you just putting on airs?"

"Perhaps I have some occult reason for wishing to win your good opinion," he suggested.

For the second time she staved off a personal drift in the conversation. "It's getting darker," she said, looking about with sudden concern.

"Don't say you must be going, Miss Wycliffe," he begged. "This is the very best part of the day. Let me light a fire of pine cones." He started up and stood before her, anticipating her acquiescence. She nodded her approval graciously, and at that moment the setting sun, struggling through the trees, shone full across her face and illumined her eyes. In this clear glow they were no longer black, but brown as the brown velvet of her jacket. He was haunted by a sense of a duplicated experience, and then remembered the fragile girl sitting on the stone step with her basket of eggs in her lap. But Miss Wycliffe's colouring was glorified, rather than penetrated, by the sun's rays, enriched rather than absorbed. Her face, framed in a large hat faced underneath with a delicate tint of blue chiffon, seemed to look out at him as from an inverted sea-shell, and the picture arrested him on the point of going. As if she suspected the cause of his delay and intended to break the charm, she removed the hat deftly and placed it with her gloves beside her.

"I think a fire would be pleasant," she remarked, "though it is really as warm as summer."

She had changed the picture only to improve it, for the suggestion of wildness and freedom in her dark hair fitted more perfectly with the spirit of the twilight woods. It may be that only a man can understand the fascination that exists for men in just such a simple operation as she had performed. The absolute femininity of it, the fumbling for the hatpins, the deliberate and thoughtful reinserting of them afterward in the discarded hat, where they can be found when needed, the invariable smoothing back of the hair from brow and eyes,—all these things make their peculiar appeal. It was this that caused Leigh to smile as he turned away and went in search of fuel, whistling softly to himself. Returning with his hat well filled with pine cones, he caught sight of her face before she noted his approach, and was struck, as once before, by her expression of immeasurable sadness. She sat, as at first, embracing her knees with her hands, her nether lip drawn in as if she would suppress a sigh, her eyes fixed upon the distance and shadowed by something of the solemnity of the coming night.

As the light flames shot suddenly up from the heap of cones, their brilliancy made the surrounding woods seem vast and dark, the more so as the sun had now sunk behind the hill across the stream, filling the woods in that quarter with a glow as from another fire. He fed the flames thoughtfully with bits of broken branches, talking somewhat at random about a camping trip in the Yosemite.

"Isn't it absurd," she said presently, "that we have gradually lowered our voices till we are talking almost in whispers?"

"I mean to break the spell at once," he declared, and having made a trumpet with his hand, he hallooed loudly toward the west. The result was unexpected. A ghostly triple echo, which the lower tone of their earlier conversation had failed to elicit, answered him from the opposite shore. In broad daylight an echo will suggest mystery and a bodiless, impish mocker, even to an unimaginative mind, but now the effect was intensified tenfold by the silence and darkness that enclosed them like a wall.

"You may laugh," she said, "but I don't wonder that primitive peoples imagined a haunted nature. I 'm an absolute Pagan this very moment. I believe in Pan and Echo and all the rest of them, and I don't like their company a bit."

"Have you noticed how silent it has grown all of a sudden?" he asked. "It seems only a few minutes ago that we heard the crows cawing in the branches, and the woods were full of small noises of squirrels and birds."

She leaned forward and prodded the fire absently with a stick, gazing into the flames as if fascinated. Presently a whiff of smoke unlike that from the burning faggots reached her, and she looked up to see that he had lighted his pipe.

"I don't mind your smoking," she commented, smiling, "but if that's a sign that you have settled down for half an hour of solid comfort, I must interpose. You can smoke as we go along."

"It's only half-past five," he said regretfully, holding up his watch to the light.

Her reply was forestalled by a sound, slight in itself, and one that would have passed unnoted an hour before, the sharp snapping of a twig somewhere in the darkness behind her. Only when he saw her start, and the widening of her dark eyes, did he realise how much truth had been contained in her jesting confessions of a few moments since. He could see that she was more than startled, that her emotion was one of fright.

"Why, it's nothing," he said reassuringly, rising to his feet. "Any little noise sounds loud in the woods at night. It was only a squirrel, or a decayed branch giving way. I 'll prove it to you." He raised his voice and called "Hello, there!" The result was vaguely disconcerting. "I forgot our friend Echo," he said apologetically. With some idea of restoring her composure by his own unconcern, he began to move in the direction from which the sound had come; but he had taken only a few steps when a blot of darkness which had crouched before him like a huge stone or the stump of a tree suddenly detached itself and rose into the form of a man. Leigh had an indistinct vision of a face, of arms that seemed to ward him off, and then the intruder fled without a word, breaking through the woods like a frightened animal. He stumbled back to the fire, and stood listening till the sounds of flight had died away.

"Well," he declared, "that was a surprise! A mutual one too, it seems. I don't know which of us was frightened the most, but we got away from each other as fast as we could."

"Oh, I knew it!" she cried, beginning to fasten on her hat with trembling fingers. "I had felt for some time that we were not alone."

"It was only the keeper," he assured her, "or some tramp, attracted by the firelight and thinking he had stumbled upon the camp of one of his pals. Let's leave him the rest of the grapes, to show that we bear him no ill-will for the shock he has given us. I'll just scrape a ring about the fire to keep it from spreading."

"This is my last picnic," she declared, "for this year at least. I couldn't come here again after that fright."

"Perhaps it's just as well I happened along," he remarked. "That fellow may have been lurking about the woods all the afternoon, hoping to pick up something from late visitors like ourselves."

A moment later he regretted his ill-considered words, for at the thought of the peril she might have been in, she rose to her feet with an evident return of her panic. Without waiting to put on her gloves, she thrust them into his hands with an impulsive movement, almost childlike in its unconscious betrayal of emotion. He put the gloves in his pocket and took her hand to lead her down the slope. "It's slippery here," he explained. But there was no need to apologize for what she by no means considered a liberty. Indeed, though he was conscious of nothing so much as of her hand in his, he was aware that she felt in his own merely a needed support. As she leaned upon him in the descent, he divined that her fear increased, instead of diminishing, with their progress into the circumjacent darkness, as if the act of flight intensified an appreciation of the original cause. He strove to dispel the emotion his own words had done so much to arouse, not without a guilty self-congratulation that his thoughtlessness had driven her to his protection. Feeling his way thus, step by step, he presently saw before his feet, as in a dream, the dim reflection of a star; and then the stream grew upon his vision, like a strip of fallen sky.

At that moment her foot slipped on the smooth pine needles, and with a smothered cry she seemed almost to swoon into his arms at the very margin of the water. Instinctively he held her close, her heart beating wildly against his own. A fragrance sweeter than the fragrance of the woods pervaded his senses, and he felt her hair brush against his cheek. Then she stood released, having recovered herself with a swift impulse, like a wild creature that had felt in time the first touch of the snare. This elusiveness, this sudden recoil from his contact, sobered him. What he might have done, had she remained a moment longer in his arms, must be forever a matter of conjecture with him now; but the intoxication vanished like a vapor from his mind, leaving a keen vision of the situation in its uncoloured reality. There arose within him a certain sense of shame that he had given so much and received, as yet, nothing in kind. He had passed that period of youth when a stolen kiss seems the acme of love's adventure. Such a theft on his part, irrespective of its consequences, would have left him still unsatisfied.

The belt of sky above the stream was sown thick with stars, that were beginning to make themselves felt more clearly each moment as the turning world gradually plunged this part of its surface into deeper shadow. In this wan light the pathway lay dimly discernible before them. The condition of the atmosphere was such as is best described by the word sublustris, that glimmering radiance which lies somewhere between thick darkness and such a light as is thrown by the crescent moon. It was no longer necessary that he should guide her as before, and as soon as she had freed herself from his embrace, she began to take the lead.

"What a coward you must think me!" she said, with a ghostly little laugh. "Even now I would n't dare go last. As it is, I can see ahead and know that you are behind me."

Her confidence in his protecting power brought him scant consolation. A spirit of dreariness seemed to rise up from the faint reflections that floated on the stagnant water; it blew stealthily out of the encroaching woods, and was voiced in the stuttering, tentative note of an awakened owl. Familiarity with nature had freed him from that sense of pursuit in the woods at night which oppresses even a stout heart unaccustomed to loneliness, and the flight of the unexpected apparition was sufficient proof that he had no desire to molest them. The incident certainly offered no ground for continued uneasiness, he reflected. Why, then, did she make so much of it? Why indeed, except that her companion was not the one man in all the world with whom she would choose to be there alone. The time and the place were full of romantic suggestions, were the loved one present. That he was not present was indicated only too clearly by the unconscious confession of her next remark: "I would n't have believed two hours ago that this path could seem so long!"

They reached the boat-house at last, but instead of turning up the ravine which he had followed from the spring, she ascended a flight of stairs and came out upon an open road. From this point their way was straight and plain. On their right lay the woods from which they had emerged, and on their left was an unobstructed field. In this free space the heavens seemed to expand immeasurably, and both felt the influence of the change. She began to make light of her former alarm, and his mood became more hopeful. He told himself that he had nourished impossible expectations, considering their short acquaintance, and that the remnant of their time together could be better employed than by indulging alone his wounded pride. As they walked up and down the platform, waiting for the car, the frogs from a near-by pool trilled intermittently, and they paused to listen.

"They seem to be congratulating themselves upon the prolongation of the summer season," he remarked. "Miss Wycliffe, have you any peculiar associations with that sound?"

"Dinners," she returned flippantly. "Heavens! I've had enough of nature for one evening. How perfectly melancholy! But what do they remind you of?"

"I 'm in a reminiscent mood," he confessed. "I can never hear the frogs trilling in the night without being reminded of the marshlands around my native town in the Middle West. Every night, all summer long, I could hear that symphony through the open windows of my room, and because I was then in the adventurous and romantic period of youth, the recurrence of the sound brings back an echo of old emotions. I feel as if I were being called upon to go out into the world and seek my fortune."

"Have you been back there lately?" she asked. "How does it seem to revisit the home of your childhood after having had adventures, and after having done something in the world? I 've never had any home but this, I 've never travelled except for pleasure, and I 've never accomplished anything."

Leigh lifted his head and laughed, but the laugh was not altogether a happy one. "You present me to myself in a new light," he answered. "So far I have only accomplished the feat of reaching the first rung of the ladder which I used to think I would have climbed by this time. But yes, I have been back there recently, and found everything changed. In fact, the West is a symbol of mutation. The marshlands have been filled in; streets extend across the places where I used to go for cat-tails; they have no more batrachian concerts there now. The only reminder of that earlier characteristic of the place is a huge green frog worked out in a marble mosaic on the floor of the new court house. That is the seal of my native town."

By mere accident Leigh had made that first important step in love's progress; he had succeeded in arousing a personal interest.

"It's quite charming," she commented, "and not lacking in an element of poetry, either."

"Poetry," he echoed, inspired by her appreciation. "It's just those apparently common things that are so full of it, but the poets don't see it, or else they don't quite dare to give it expression. The conventions of the art are too overpowering. Take the railroad train, for example, which stands to most of us for convenience combined with a certain measure of discomfort. There 's nothing more stimulating to the imagination than the whistle of a locomotive in the distance at night, though perhaps only the poor, to whom travel is a luxury, appreciate to the full its invitation and the suggestion of adventure. Working up from one stratum to another through difficulties, they are attended by a growing wonder as the world expands before them. But to have all experiences open to you from the first by the power of wealth, such as travel and theatres, for example, is the real misfortune of birth. The curiosity of the rich is gratified before it is stimulated by denial. Then what is left to them?"

"Ennui," she answered simply.

"What a blessing it is, then," he went on, "to have no time for that emotion, or rather, lack of emotion. I believe that if I had been born rich, I should have been ruined long before this; but I set myself a long road to travel, a road that reaches, in fact"—he made a wide upward gesture—"to the stars."

"Now what is it," he continued, after a pause, "that makes Warwick so uninspiring, in spite of its obvious charm? Is n't it the spiritual stagnation that comes with wealth and aristocracy? One reads it in the very faces of the people, and recognises it in the things they think worth while. It doesn't need a long observation to discover this. A stranger takes in the impression with his first breath here. Like the first glance at a new face, it reveals the truth. Afterward you get accustomed to an unprepossessing face, and forget what you first thought of it. In much the same way, I suppose, a man could become hypnotised and drugged by the atmosphere of Warwick. All this is in the nature of an explanation of what I meant this afternoon by my denunciation of the place."

She stood silently looking down into the pool from which arose the sound that had brought them to this point. It was evident that she felt no temptation now to indulge in one of those retorts that came so easily to her tongue. Leigh had appealed to her imagination, a thing which the modern man more rarely succeeds in doing with a woman than his predecessor who wore gay garments and rode a caparisoned steed in the lists. Besides, his earnestness had given his thought, though it was by no means a new one, his own personal stamp, and won its acceptance. Deeper than these causes, he had expressed her own convictions.

"A denunciation," he continued shrewdly, "with which you sympathised."

"One must do something," she said, with a little gesture of despair, "or die of suffocation."

"Exactly," he agreed, "even if it be only to take the side of the under dog in a municipal election. Can you wonder that your sympathy with Emmet, your evident revolt against the point of view of your own class, set me to speculating upon the reason? Have I worked out the problem to its demonstration?"

Her silence seemed to give assent to his question, though she was apparently so deeply plunged in thought that she forgot to reply in words; and the appearance of the headlight of the trolley-car down the track brought their conversation to a close. Miss Wycliffe herself suggested that they take the front seat beside the motorman, explaining that she always enjoyed the unobstructed view ahead. He handed her up, pleased to think that they were still to be for some time practically alone. At their backs a glass partition shut off the rest of the car; the motorman himself seemed a mere automaton, with ears for nothing but the bell, and eyes for nothing but the gleaming track ahead. Leigh suspected that a wish to avoid a possible recognition from some passenger had influenced her in taking this seat, and he dared to hope also that she shared his appreciation of the further opportunity to be alone together. Their conversation, however, was fragmentary, as if each were deep in incommunicable thoughts. From time to time, as the car swung swiftly around a curve, she swayed against him softly, so that he began to look expectantly ahead for a change in the straight line of the track, laughing happily to himself at her involuntary apology. Their comradeship seemed to have entered upon a stage in which mere propinquity was sufficient to give content without the aid of conversation, and a deep serenity of mood had now replaced the wavering uncertainties of his earlier emotions. This atmosphere of harmony and understanding remained unbroken until they stood before her house; but now an inexplicable change occurred. She suddenly held out her hand with a gesture that seemed to him frankly impatient, as if she were anxious to be gone. "And my gloves," she said. "I think I gave them to you."

He produced them reluctantly. "I had hoped you would forget them, Miss Wycliffe."

"One does n't easily forget a new pair of gloves," she answered in a tone cruelly matter-of-fact, as if she would show deliberately her unconcern. He could now see all too clearly what a fool's dream he had cherished, and the awakening was painfully abrupt. He divined that something was amiss, something of which he had no knowledge or right to a knowledge. During that afternoon he had passed through the whole gamut of a lover's emotions, only to strike at last the lowest note of all, and he watched her hurrying up the walk as if she were going out of his life forever.

That evening he turned over in his mind all the phases of their enigmatical relationship, cursing his bland folly as he recalled with keen humiliation his complacent explanation of her to herself while they waited for the car. Her manner at parting appeared nothing less than a decisive rebuke. When at length he fell asleep, he was visited by a ghastly dream, in which the incident in the woods was re-enacted with all the grewsome accentuation that belongs to the realm of dreamland. Again the shadowy figure rose up before his feet and fled away. He pursued and grappled with the intruder in the darkness, demanding his name and trying to see his face. Finally he seemed to prevail, but the figure slipped from his grasp and left him there alone. He turned back then, seeking the fire and smitten with poignant anxiety for the woman he loved; but the light was quenched, and the place could not be found. After struggling for what seemed a lifetime through mazes of darkness and terror, he awoke.



CHAPTER IX

"HER HEART WAS OTHERWHERE"

A few nights after the meeting in the woods, Leigh was hurrying along Birdseye Avenue, like the belated White Rabbit on its way to the Queen's croquet party. He was going to a lecture on Velasquez at the house of one of his colleagues, Professor Littleford. The beginning of the lecture was set for eight o'clock, and it was now past the hour, for he had been detained in the city by the joint debate between Emmet and Judge Swigart, put at half past five that the workingmen might have an opportunity to attend.

The time consumed in returning to the Hall, in dining and dressing, almost convinced him of the advisability of staying at home, but he reflected that to do so was probably to miss a chance of seeing Miss Wycliffe, and this was a risk he was by no means disposed to run. He was possessed by a desire to see her again and to test the permanency of her last mood with him, when she had demanded her gloves and left him in despair. If she were inclined to repentance, he felt that he would know it, even if he managed to meet her for only a moment in the midst of the crowd. But it chanced that fate was kinder to him than he had dared to hope.

As he had anticipated, he was one of the last arrivals, but he was not destined to experience the embarrassment he feared from this circumstance. The wide hallway of the great house was deserted, and he threaded his way through several dimly lighted drawing-rooms in the direction of a voice that indicated the location of the lecturer. Not until he stood in the doorway of what appeared to be an assembly hall, and was in reality the ballroom of the house, did he realise the reason of the obscurity through which he had passed. At the far end of the room, he saw one of the well-known portraits of Philip IV projected by a lantern upon a huge sheet of canvas. The widening shaft of light that traversed the intervening space dimly disclosed the audience as a series of heads, from which arose a sibilant wave of amused comment as the portrait of the king melted into that of his daughter, a serious infant with corkscrew curls, all unconscious of the monstrous absurdity of her voluminous skirts. This transition from one picture to another was accepted by one of the audience as an opportunity to shift his chair, and Leigh saw the bishop's salient profile thrown for a moment on the canvas, before he subsided again to the general level.

The young man supposed that in thus discovering the whereabouts of the bishop he had also located his daughter, and he marked the spot against the restoration of full light to the room. Meanwhile he maintained his position in the door, and would have continued to do so, had not his host tiptoed to his side and thrust him into a near-by chair.

For some time he remained almost rigidly still, as if he would make amends for the slight noise of his entrance by subsequent self-effacement. The succession of pictures, even the surrender of Breda and the scene of the jolly drinkers, shared his attention with that part of the room in which he had seen the bishop rise, but he soon realised that no further discoveries were possible as yet in that direction, and began to pay more heed to the lecturer.

He knew in a vague way that he was sitting beside a woman; but presently this consciousness increased till it became a delicate and pervasive atmosphere. There was a seduction in the shadowy presence that distracted his thoughts from the woman he loved, sitting somewhere there in the obscurity before him. He experienced a well-nigh guilty pleasure in this temporary yielding to a feminine influence other than that to which he had consecrated himself, and finally he admitted his deliberate appreciation. Leaning back in his chair and turning his head to satisfy his curiosity, he saw for the first time the trick his mind had played him. Convinced though he had been that Miss Wycliffe was in another part of the room, he had known all the time with his senses that she was sitting at his side. At least, it now seemed to him that his apparent disloyalty was in reality an involuntary tribute to her quality. She had made herself felt even when he thought she was another. As he looked down at her rounded cheek and white shoulders, she lifted her eyes with a recognition as suppressed as that of acquaintances in church, and then whispered inaudibly in the ear of a companion beyond. It was now that he saw a bunch of lilies of the valley in the hand that rested in her lap, and knew by what channel his imagination had been awakened.

The lecture was shorter than Leigh had anticipated, and all too short for his desire. There was in his present position a peculiar, unspoken intimacy of which he felt that she also must be aware. It seemed unlikely that he could see her alone, and he cherished every moment as perhaps the best that would be vouchsafed. Almost before he realised what had happened, the walls of the room sprang into view at the sharp click of the electric lights, and he saw the lecturer, previously a disembodied voice, making his final bow. As he rose with the others, he caught a glimpse of many faces already familiar, and felt unexpectedly at home. Among the crowd he recognized Cardington by the bishop's side, Cobbens's smiling face, several of his colleagues, and a number of the students. The tide set toward the door, and they were carried before it. Not until they reached the less crowded room beyond did Leigh perceive that Miss Wycliffe was still closely attended by the companion with whom she had exchanged an occasional whisper at the lecture.

"You remember Mrs. Parr?" she reminded him.

"I do indeed," he replied, though till now he had received merely the impression of a face vaguely familiar.

"But you passed me only yesterday on the street without recognition," Mrs. Parr complained. "I don't know whether I ought to speak to you or not."

The tone of her voice, which aimed at charming piquancy and realised only an airy affectation, attracted his attention, and revamped her upon his mind as one of the party of star-gazers. Her personality was acrid and insistent, and he imagined that the friendship between the two women was of her own making and maintenance. The nature of her greeting left him no choice but a flat and awkward confession of absent-mindedness. This trifling irritation, however, was of small moment compared with the fact that Miss Wycliffe was evidently content with his company and not disposed to leave him, as she could easily have done upon a reasonable pretext. The three continued together, drifting in the same direction through the rooms which now began to present a bewildering spectacle of changing groups and colours. Their talk was the usual art jargon which the recent lecture suggested, but in this Leigh bore perforce a subordinate part. It was Mrs. Parr who appealed to him from time to time for a confirmation of her views concerning composition, drawing, and high lights, and each appeal presented itself to him as an interruption. At last he was merely relieved to find that she had disappeared. Miss Wycliffe regarded him with a curious look, in which disapproval of his unconscious rudeness was mitigated by an indulgent appreciation of its cause.

"You 've succeeded in driving her away at last," she said, with a touch of severity.

He divined that he was not seriously under the ban of her displeasure. "I?" he echoed, disingenuously.

"She began by taking a great fancy to you," she went on, "that night on the tower, but you simply refused to pay any attention to her. And to-night you behaved in the same manner. When you came and sat beside us, she regarded it as quite a romantic little event."

"She has a husband, has n't she?" he questioned bluntly.

"Yes, but she still indulges fancies for 'stunning young men.'"

"Then Mr. Parr does n't answer to that description, I suppose?" he queried.

"Mr. Parr is more stunned than stunning," she achieved, quick as a flash.

"I don't wonder at it," he said, laughing heartily. "I seem to see the poor fellow sunk in a coma of marital despair."

"This is extremely wicked and ungrateful talk in both of us," she murmured, "and I shall encourage it no further."

Leigh was fairly intoxicated by Miss Wycliffe's manner toward him. She had never been so frankly sweet before, and he had never seen her as radiant as now. She had the air of one filled with a mischievous impulse, which she restrained with an effort. A suggestion of daring lurked in her momentary sidelong glance, and awoke in him a responsive exhilaration. To other eyes that watched them curiously she appeared to assume a certain proprietary right. If she introduced him to this one or that, if they ran into other groups from time to time, she contrived with exquisite skill to make these interruptions temporary and to keep him to herself.

Their progress, though he was but dimly aware of it, was something of a triumphal one for himself. He was sufficiently striking in appearance when alone to attract attention, and Miss Wycliffe's evident partiality now made him a special mark for speculative glances. He began to gain an appreciation of her absolutely entrenched position in that society in which the older women were inclined to pet her and the older men indulged in gallant little speeches. As for her contemporaries, they paid her tribute in their kind.

In this way they participated in the slow movement that for some time had been turning toward the dining-room. Through the open door they saw the solid phalanx of earnest eaters that surged about the tables. To disinterested eyes the sight might have appeared one of agonised appetition, in which, as in battle, some particular person or movement arrested the attention for a moment from the general effect: a stout and determined matron planted like James Fitz-James upon his rock; a tall youth with salad raised aloft as he turned to make his escape; the perspiring face of some bewildered darkey, who could have found ample use for the hands of a Briareus in the stress of conflicting orders. Leigh turned to his companion with an enquiring glance.

"Will you allow me to forage for you, Miss Wycliffe?"

She shook her head. "Not yet, at any rate," she answered. "What a spectacle! We might step into the conservatory and rest awhile."

She led the way through a near-by door into the vistas of greenness beyond. There she paused from time to time to call his attention to some rare plant, to lift some blossom to her face, and then went on with the assurance of one entirely at home in her surroundings. Through the thick branches Leigh caught more than one glimpse of a white dress, and heard an occasional ripple of youthful merriment. The vision of one of his students hurrying down a parallel aisle with spoils from the table gave him a humorous sense of fellow feeling.

At length they found a seat of twisted branches, screened by a row of palms. From the hallway of the house the scraping of the violins came intermittently, like the sound of crickets in a distant field, so faint that they could also hear the puffing of the breeze through a raised panel in the slanting roof of glass above their heads. It seemed as if the wonderful Indian Summer night were trying to steal in among the guests through that small opening, to bid them be still. To look up at that vitreous, transparent roof was like gazing into the enchantment of a witch's mirror, so imminent was the mysterious depth of the night beyond. Miss Wycliffe emitted the ghost of a sigh, as if to express her relief and sense of escape, perhaps her weariness. Leigh, following her glance upward, caught sight of a solitary, brilliant star peeping through the triangular aperture, and reflected with keen appreciation that it was the planet Venus. There was an opportunity in this chance apparition, of which, however, he did not avail himself. It was true that she had drawn his eyes down from the stars to gaze into her own, and that the planet upon which they then looked together had been given the name of the goddess of love. These facts, beautifully coincident as they seemed to him, would not bear expression in words. She would think he was making conventional love to her, and his instinct forbade such an obvious beginning. He spoke, therefore, only of the refreshing contrast of their asylum with the noise and glare of the drawing-rooms, noting with a passing pang as he did so that the lilies of the valley which she had carried with her thus far were drooping in her lap, their expiring odour quenched by the heavy fragrance about them.

Perhaps it was a touch of feminine perversity that led her to acquiesce in his animadversions upon the scene they had just left. It was certainly a function in which she was peculiarly fitted to shine, and she had taken her part with every appearance of enjoyment; yet her comments were more caustic than his own.

"The lecture was the better part," she declared. "I wish it had been longer—but you missed a good deal of it."

"Yes," he explained. "I didn't get away from the debate till after six o'clock."

"The debate!" she echoed, fixing him with an interested gaze. "I had forgotten that this was the evening. Tell me about it. Did your tentative efforts with Mr. Emmet bear any fruit, after all?"

He shook his head, smiling. "It was an extraordinary spectacle," he mused. "The pit and the balconies, the aisles, the space at the back, and the stairs down to the sidewalk were filled with labourers, packed close together, their dinner-pails in their hands and their pipes in their mouths. You could have cut the air with a knife into chunks of tobacco smoke."

"And how did he seem?" she asked.

"You have good reason to be proud of your protege, Miss Wycliffe," he answered, kindling with generous enthusiasm. "Emmet outclassed his opponent completely—in style, in delivery, in subject-matter, and, as it seemed to me, in the justice of his cause. I was so amazed and impressed that I carried the atmosphere of the thing with me until—until I dropped into the chair beside you, and then I forgot all about it."

She moved uneasily and toyed with the flowers in her lap, then glanced up at him, but not with the glance of a woman who is ready to listen to a declaration of love. His next words were determined by that look, and there was no little self-renunciation in his pursuance of a subject he would fain have dropped for one nearer his heart. He had to remind himself once more of the shortness of their acquaintance, and of her natural curiosity concerning one of the crises in a struggle which had interested her so keenly.

"It only shows how far one's judgments fall below the mark sometimes," he went on. "Not till this afternoon did I get a true perspective of the man, when I saw him standing there, perfectly self-possessed and powerful, reading his speech"—

"Reading!" she interrupted.

"Yes, reading, and actually gaining in effectiveness by doing so. It seems that each speaker was allowed only twenty minutes, and rather than run the risk of going off on a tangent, he had written the whole thing out—but he knew it practically by heart."

"It was like him," she commented. "He's clever. But what did he say?"

Her eager interest, her knowledge of the man, the compliment she paid him, filled Leigh with bitterness of which he was ashamed. He found himself under the necessity of describing to the woman he loved the triumph of another man, who had, as he now saw clearly, appealed to her imagination. To be sure, it was nothing more than that, but as far as it went, it hurt his own cause to play the role of the narrating messenger. He was focussing her attention upon an exciting drama in which he had borne the inglorious part of witness; but he was too proud a man to be ungenerous in his comments, or to let her see the duality of his mental state.

"His speech was a frank setting off of the masses against the classes," he returned. "He said the same things I had heard him say in conversation, only with more pith and point. Emmet has the Irish gift of expression when he's aroused—there's no doubt of it. He practically took for his text: The Man in the One-storied House against the Man in the Mansion. One thing struck me as especially keen. His opponents have been claiming that the city is a great business corporation, in which the citizens are stockholders and the officials directors; but Emmet pointed out the fact that in a stock company a man is entitled to as many votes as he has shares, while in a municipal corporation the individual, not the stock he possesses, is the unit. He made a good point there in maintaining that the corner-stone of democracy is manhood suffrage, not property suffrage. He tore apart that apparently reasonable comparison, and showed beneath it an attempt to rob the poor man of his rights."

She nodded her appreciation. "It was a good point, but I don't agree with him, nevertheless. Property-holders ought to have more to say in the management of a city than those who have nothing at stake. If I had my way, I would confine manhood suffrage to state and national elections."

Leigh was struck by these words into silence. For the first time she had made him realise that she was a rich woman, though he had heard from Cardington that the bishop merely held his wife's large property in trust for the daughter. Now he detected in her a shrewd and practical strain, perhaps an inheritance from some ancestor who had laid the foundations of her fortune. He saw also that her revolt against the moribund spirituality of the wealthy class to which she belonged was offset by a consciousness of possession, so that she could support Emmet one moment and condemn his theories the next. On one side of their natures, Leigh and Miss Wycliffe touched in sympathetic understanding; on the other, they were as far apart as the poles. No poor man, however civilised he may be, can range himself on the side of wealth, unless he is either a fortune hunter or a sycophant, and Leigh was neither. At the present moment he merely felt, with a sinking of spirit, the existence of an artificial barrier between them of which he had previously been but dimly conscious.

"I 'm something of a socialist myself," he said, "only, I 'm waiting for a great leader and a reasonable propaganda."

"You 'll never find either," she retorted with spirit. Then her face softened into the expression of a listener to a good story. "But don't let us discuss these endless and stupid questions. What I want is the personal and spectacular side of it. How did the two men compare? And with which of them did the people side?"

"With their own representative, naturally. I was impressed with the tenseness of the feeling. The audience cheered Emmet until he had to remind them that they were cutting into his twenty-minute allowance. Then they kept silent, but more like animals held in leash, I thought, and I could n't help wondering what would happen if the cork should suddenly pop off and let out all that bottled sense of ill usage. When Judge Swigart got up, he did n't mend matters by referring continually to Emmet as his 'distinguished antagonist,' in a tone that suggested irony rather than respect. He said he was pained and astonished to hear Mr. Emmet declare that there was class feeling in Warwick; he himself had never detected any; he objected to the setting off of aristocrat against democrat, when all were democratic; he denied that the city was run by a clique."

"Really," Miss Wycliffe remarked, laughing, "he could n't expect them to swallow that. Of course Warwick is run by a clique—it always has been—and I 'd like to see them turned out for once."

Leigh was no longer astonished at the sudden swinging of the pendulum. "They did n't swallow it," he said grimly, "and it took Emmet's personal appeal for fair play to make them stop their hissing and catcalls. I thought there 'd be a riot at one time, but instead, the men began to get up and walk out, leaving Swigart talking to their backs. I was swept along with the crowd, and that was the last I saw or heard."

He caught the flash of her eyes at the vivid picture he had drawn, and could no longer conceal his bitterness. "When I saw Emmet standing there, whipping up the mob and then holding it in check, and thought of his scanty schooling, I felt the handicap of professorial pursuits"—

"Oh, eloquence!" she interrupted, with a quick and tactful understanding of his hurt. "There's nothing easier in the world, if you only have the knack. I think I may say so, as the daughter of a bishop. Mr. Emmet moved them merely because he voiced their own hatreds and prejudices in a clear and convincing way, not that he said anything so very remarkable." There was undisguised scorn in her tone, and he understood that this was the heiress speaking. "A trumpet makes more noise of a certain kind than a telescope," she went on, "and the noise is what the people like. Have you ever read 'Numa Roumestan'? At the risk of preventing you from doing so, I must recommend it."

She lifted the flowers as if to throw them away, preparatory to a return to the house, but he defeated her intention by deftly reaching forward and taking them from her hand.

"You must allow me to save them, Miss Wycliffe," he explained, in answer to the quick inquiry of her sidelong glance. "Let me indulge a romantic impulse to-night, though we have had such an interesting conversation on other matters." He thrust the lilies of the valley into an inside pocket of his coat, and sat looking at her with a speculative sadness that made a light or flippant comment on her part impossible. She said nothing, though her poise conveyed the suggestion of intended flight. She doubtless appreciated the fact that this was what she might have anticipated, that she could not lead a young man who was in love with her to such a place without this result. Her purpose in so doing was best known to herself. In his mind there was evidently a doubt whether it was wanton cruelty, or a desire for information concerning her protege. He began to wonder, in view of the persistence of her interest in Emmet, whether she had not divined the cause of his late arrival from the first.

"When I first came in," he continued, "and Littleford thrust me into a chair beside you, I caught the scent of these lilies before I knew they were in your hands. It was something like an experience that befell one of my ancestors as he approached America after a two months' voyage in a sailing vessel. They were nearing Virginia one night in May, and a land breeze blew the fragrance of flowers to them across the water before they saw the shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam—You know the verse?"

She rose hurriedly to her feet, distressed, perhaps repentant. "You must not," she protested in a low voice. "You must not."

"There is some reason why I must not?" he questioned, confronting her with paling face. She nodded a confirmation of his fear. "Then I must ask just one question more," he persisted miserably. "Suppose the reason did not exist—I don't ask you to tell me now what it is—but suppose there were no reason. Would you forbid me to love you then?"

For a moment she did not reply, and he watched her face as one who would read an enigmatical page from the book of fate. The question demanded an answer, a definite reply, which she was not prepared to give. He saw dawning in her eyes a recognition of him in a new light; it was as if she now contemplated the possibility she had rejected. In this attitude of mind, as in nothing else, the bishop's cold and calculating nature disclosed itself in the daughter, and Leigh divined that she did not wish to love him, though she allowed herself to desire the tribute of his love. It was this desire that enabled her to enjoy the situation, to convey to him a denial that was not absolute. She might withdraw herself,—she had said that she must,—yet something might remain, something more than friendship, less than the claims of an acknowledged love.

"If the reason did not exist," she repeated slowly, "then—perhaps."

He heard the words with a gesture of acquiescence, and followed her in silence down the aisle in the direction of the house, wondering why he did not stop her before it was too late and ask her whether he had heard aright, why he had not kissed her when he could have done it so easily, and thereby, perhaps, have shaken her allegiance to some other claim. For his intuition told him that though he was not her acknowledged lover, he was by no means a mere friend. It was this assurance that gave him hope, and there was comfort in the thought that he had not lost all by daring too much.

About two hours later, Leigh descended from the billiard-room, where he had been playing an inattentive and indifferent game with one of his colleagues, and encountered Bishop Wycliffe coming into the hall from the library in company with his host and Anthony Cobbens. The major part of the company had already gone, leaving a few elderly talkers in various corners, and a group of young people dancing in the ballroom, which had been cleared after the lecture for that purpose.

"Ah, Littleford," the bishop was saying, "these entertainments of yours are entirely delightful. You give every one the particular thing he wants and send him away contented: to the artistic a glimpse of Velasquez; to the young, a turn of the 'light fantastic toe;' to me, one of your good cigars and a quiet chat in the corner about old times. But have you seen Felicity?"

Littleford, a comfortable-looking man, with a fresh colour, a yellow beard, and a general air of good living and goodfellowship about him, hurried off to the ballroom to inquire. Meanwhile, Cobbens helped the bishop into his coat with the solicitous attention due a swell official of the Church, who was at the same time the father of Felicity Wycliffe. Leigh, performing the same operation for himself, was chatting with the other two, when Littleford returned to say that his search had been in vain.

"She probably went home with Mrs. Parr," the bishop commented. "They came together, I believe."

"Mrs. Parr is still here," Littleford said, "and complaining that Miss Wycliffe has deserted her."

The bishop's residence was only about a block away, on the other side of the street, and Leigh saw that Littleford's information caused no particular concern. Seeking significance in everything she did, he wondered whether her early withdrawal contained any element of hope for himself, or whether she were ill. As he recalled the suppressed excitement of her manner, he feared that this latter conjecture might be the true one, and his heart contracted with anxiety. The three men descended the broad steps together, the bishop remarking upon the lateness of the season and the clemency of the air. When they reached the street, he turned with Cobbens in the direction of his house, with an absent-minded though courteous good-night.

Though the leaves of the elms had now in a large measure left the branches, the suggestion of a cathedral nave was still presented to the mind. The equidistant trunks were, as formerly, the supporting pillars, but the vista had suffered a mournful change, as if the roof had suddenly been blown away, leaving the springing ribs a black tracery against the autumnal sky. This ruinous work of the frost was strangely offset by the soft witchery of the breeze, which seemed either a reminiscence of the spring that was past, or a promise of the spring to come. Leigh's thoughts took a turn in harmony with this influence. He began to readjust his first conception of Miss Wycliffe,—she was now Felicity in his unspoken meditations,—and to realise that she was not like a Russian noblewoman, ready to sacrifice all for socialism, as he had at first conceived her. Had she continued to be such a magnificent and heroic creature, he would have loved her less. She gained infinitely more than she lost by this more intimate view. She was no longer a possible reformer and a subject for the historian, but a woman pure and simple, with all a woman's alluring inconsistencies.

Immersed in this new conception, he was startled by a voice and hurrying step behind him, and turned to meet Cardington's outstretched hand and the hospitable offer of a cigar. As they went on together, his colleague commented in his voluminous way upon the evening they had just spent, and before long, with Velasquez as a starting-point, he had launched upon a compendious history of Spain, interspersed with anecdotes of his own travels in that romantic land.

In this way they had almost reached the end of the rows of elms, when they saw before them a man and woman walking with the slow and tentative steps of those absorbed in deep personal conversation. At their nearer approach the woman turned quickly for a moment, said something in a low voice, and then the two hurried abruptly down a side street, whose thicker shadows offered a screen from further observation. Leigh, listening but inattentively to his companion's disquisition and meditating still of Felicity, gave the couple only a fleeting glance, thinking, if he thought of them at all, that they were a maid from one of the neighbouring houses and her lover.

The next moment he realised that he had heard the intonation of Miss Wycliffe's voice, or had imagined it. He would doubtless have thought it mere imagination, some accidental resemblance to which his ear had given identity, had not Cardington's manner registered a sudden emotional disturbance. He paused in his narration, like one smitten with mental atrophy and searching for the word that was about to reach his lips. His position on the inside of the walk offered a barrier between Leigh and the retreating couple, and he gave a curious impression of maintaining that position carefully as they passed the street. Then he resumed his story with something of accentuated intensity. Neither made the slightest comment on the incident.



CHAPTER X

MISTRESS AND MAID

"Miss Felicity," said Cardington, standing before her with a humorous suggestion in his manner of presenting arms to a superior officer, "I have come to perform what is both a duty and a pleasure; I have come, in short, to—pay my bet." With these words he carefully laid a box of candy upon the table.

"You have my sympathy, Mr. Cardington," she returned, "not so much because you have lost the bet, as because you were under the necessity of ending your sentence with such an insignificant word. I saw that you were groping for a polysyllabic finish." She was in the best of spirits, and prepared for the exchange of quibbles in which they sometimes indulged.

"But my finish is best expressed by just that abrupt and insignificant monosyllable!" he cried, his solemnity swept away by a mood of extravagant banter. "Now, you know, since we have elected a professional baseball player to the mayor's office, I foresee great possibilities unfolding in municipal affairs. I rather anticipate that the city fathers will seek recreation from their arduous labours by indulging in an occasional game of ball in the park. I hope to have the pleasure of applauding our respected mayor as he walks up to the plate as of yore and knocks out a home run. Not a bad idea, bishop, is it?" For Bishop Wycliffe had entered the room quietly and stood behind his daughter, listening to the speech with a wide, appreciative smile.

"It is extremely probable," he now answered. "I shall be surprised if some such innovation is not introduced. And why not? Tempera mutantur, my friend. We have a President who so far forgets the traditions of his office as to beguile his spare moments by whacking the heads of his friends in a game of singlestick. Why not a mayor who plays baseball in the park? What an old fogy you are, Cardington!"

"Old!" Cardington echoed ruefully. "My dear bishop! And you baptised my infant head after you came to your Episcopal office!"

"Ah, but I was young then," the bishop retorted, "or I should never have assumed that responsibility."

They were still laughing at this sally when the maid appeared in the door to announce that dinner was served. Seeing a late caller, she hesitated, and Cardington broke in.

"I must go now," he announced. "Remember, Miss Felicity, not to overdo the matter of eating sweetmeats. There would be a certain unnecessary redundancy in such an indulgence, a carrying of coals to Newcastle, so to speak."

"No, you must stay to dinner," she urged, "and afterward smoke one of father's cigars to solace you for the loss of the box you might have had if the election had gone the other way."

"Might have had!" he retorted. "You mean would have had. I hope there was no doubt of your intention to pay your honest debts."

"Come," the bishop interrupted, taking him by the arm and marching him away, "enough of these quibbles. You must stay, of course."

"But this is the irony of fate," he continued, glancing back fondly at his daughter, "that in spite of all my preaching, I have not been able to convince the one nearest me of the iniquity of gambling."

"I am reminded of that historic occasion," Cardington answered, "when you preached a sermon against the putting on of apparel and the plaiting of the hair, and extolled the inward adornment of a meek and quiet spirit, quoting St. Peter and Tertullian with singular effect"—

"But how was I to know," Miss Wycliffe put in, "that the return of that sermon from the bottom of the barrel would coincide with the appearance of my new hat?"

"It was just that lack of cooperation between you and your right reverend father which scandalised the congregation," Cardington commented.

"It was a beautiful hat," she mused regretfully. "Every one admired it."

"Yes, yes," said the bishop. "'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.'"

Strange to say, this quotation, so lightly uttered, was destined to strike the keynote of the dinner. The subject of the mayor-elect was too vividly present in the minds of all three to be long absent from their conversation, and a discussion inevitably followed a reminder from Cardington that this was the evening in which the people were to celebrate their victory by a procession. Miss Wycliffe jestingly proposed an illumination of the house; but her father's patience with her perversity was exhausted. Doubtless the triumph of the cause he hated intensified his emotion. Had the judge been elected, he could easily have been magnanimous, or could have twitted her with good humour. But there comes a time, even to the most philosophical parent, when the independent judgment of a child seems a personal affront, an ingratitude "sharper than a serpent's tooth." He loved the beautiful old city in which his life had been spent, and wished to see it ruled always by men of his own class. To him the outcome of the election was really a significant calamity, the beginning of the end of the aristocratic democracy he cherished. Not Lincoln, the dissenter and man of the people, but Washington, the gentleman and Churchman, was his ideal of an American statesman. It is perhaps not too much to say that he would prefer to see the wheels of government falter for a while in the hands of an aristocrat rather than to see them turn smoothly under the propelling power of a plebeian, were it in his suffrage to make the choice.

"An illumination of the house," he echoed bitterly. "We might put some flaming hoops out in the street, so that the clown can turn a somersault through them as he passes by."

The taunt was greeted by Cardington with something of excessive appreciation, and the bishop, softened by his success, threw back his head and smiled broadly at his daughter, regarding her through half-closed eyes.

It was evident that Miss Wycliffe did not relish the absurd picture of her protege thus presented to her mind, and a reply in kind seemed to hover in the scornful curves of her lips; but she was a woman of finer mettle than to show either her anger or her hurt.

"Mr. Cardington," she said with subtle mockery, "your part in the performance is plain"—

She broke off, attracted by the unusual manner of the maid, whose hand, as she placed a plate before her mistress, shook violently, so that she overturned a glass of wine. Miss Wycliffe glanced up, surprised at this awkwardness in one usually so adroit, and pushed back her chair to avoid the crimson stain that was slowly spreading toward the edge of the table. Unconsciously all three suspended their conversation to watch the simple operation of putting salt upon the cloth. Cardington, turning his eyes toward his hostess with an anticipatory relish for the rest of her sentence, was suddenly struck by an inexplicable change. Her face had become white in a moment, and she was regarding the maid's trembling hands with curious intensity.

"You were saying, Miss Felicity,"—he reminded her.

"What was it?" she asked, recovering herself with an effort. "Oh, yes. I was about to suggest that your height marks you out as the proper person to hold up the hoops."

"Agreed!" he cried. "If you will stand by and hand them up."

This raillery was only a passing incident, for Miss Wycliffe's mood had suffered a permanent eclipse. The bishop returned more reasonably and with perfect seriousness to the subject of the election, and finally launched upon a long diatribe after the Platonic fashion, with the professor as a sympathetic interlocutor. His daughter refrained from combatting him openly, but he divined and resented her unexpressed opposition. Her attitude was one of finality; her silence indicated an indifference to his opinions more exasperating than words. It was the young astronomer, he reflected, who had helped to crystallise her strange views. His lurking fear that she might one day marry and leave him was aroused at the thought, and his heart contracted with jealousy. She possessed in his eyes something of the sanctity of a vestal virgin, one who must not be profaned by marriage. In such an event, also, his cherished hope that she might complete the quadrangle of St. George's Hall was likely to be frustrated forever. These fears moved him to argue with a bitterness that served only to defeat his purpose the more.

Cardington's participation displayed an animus which hitherto had been absent from his remarks upon the subject, as if the result of the election had stirred him deeply, also.

"I have heard," he remarked, "that Emmet would never have been elected if it had n't been for the support of Bat What's-his-name and the gang that makes his saloon a rendezvous."

Whether this insinuation produced some effect upon the maid, or whether the nervousness she had exhibited during the whole evening culminated coincidently, none present could know, but no sooner had the words left his lips than a finger-bowl which she held fell from her hands and broke in a hundred glittering fragments on the carpet. At this second proof of incompetence the bishop started irritably, and looked at her without a word. That look was sufficient. A professor unexpectedly roared out upon by his class, a clergyman breaking down in a sermon, could scarcely have experienced a keener sense of professional failure and humiliation than the unfortunate girl knew at that moment. To the bishop's astonishment, she suddenly raised her apron to her eyes and burst into tears.

"That will do, Lena," Miss Wycliffe said quietly. "We 've had enough excitement for one evening. You may go; and send Mary in your place."

"What's the matter with the girl?" the bishop asked, when the door had closed behind her. There was an odd blending of annoyance and compassion in his tone.

"Lena hasn't been well," his daughter replied, "for some days."

"Then let her rest awhile," he said; "and call the doctor, if it's necessary." The incident seemed to distract him entirely from his previous thoughts. "It is just such a scene as this," he continued, "that reminds one of the hidden tragedies going on all the time in the lives about us. Lena is usually a very quiet and skilful girl, and it has been a pleasure to have her about. Perhaps she's going through some love affair, as big a thing in her existence as the chief events in ours are to us. Girls of that class so often acquire a certain gentleness and breeding from association, and then marry some rough coal-heaver or mechanic. It's a pity—a great pity."

"She's pretty enough to meet a King Cophetua," Cardington remarked judicially.

The observation was directed at Miss Wycliffe, and was an effort to make her forget the conversation in which his animus had led him to transgress even his elastic limits with her. There was something almost comical in the concerned expression of his light blue eyes, no longer fierce, as he gazed at her. But she met this dumb appeal coldly.

"If you will excuse me, father," she said presently, "I 'll go up to Lena's room, and see whether she 's really ill."

The two men, left alone, drank their coffee, and then went into the bishop's study to smoke. As the door remained open, Cardington seated himself in a chair that commanded a vista of the drawing-room, and lingered on in the hope of Felicity's return, until the first lights of Emmet's triumphal procession began to flash past the windows from the street beyond.

"Here comes the Imperator up the Via Sacra!" he commented, rising. "I must go out and see whether he has a slave behind him to whisper in his ear, Memento te hominem esse."

But it would appear that his curiosity concerning the procession was short-lived, for when he reached the scene, he plunged contemptuously between the straggling columns, and gained the further curb. Then he turned down a side street, without one backward look, and took his way forlornly toward St. George's Hall.

The bishop, not sorry to be left to his meditations, had made no effort to detain his visitor. Now he extended his hand for another cigar, changed his mind, and sat thinking. Genuinely indifferent to the procession passing by with torches and transparencies and bands of music, he remained with his back toward the windows, his head sunk upon his breast. He was steept in a depressing consciousness of having mismanaged the situation with his daughter, of having widened the breach he had meant to close. His tact had failed him because his affections and interests were too intimately concerned, much as a surgeon's hand might falter in an operation upon one of his own family.

What was the meaning of this strange interest which Felicity had taken in the career of a man normally beyond the radius of her acquaintance and sympathy? At first it had seemed a jest, then a sentimental charity maintained in foolish pride, but only recently had it created anything approaching estrangement between them. And this situation was the more difficult to bear because of their long intellectual and artistic companionship. She was more to him than a son, for he had a priestly appreciation of the subtlety of women. He had watched her mind unfold in foreign travel, little dreaming that this experience with him was sowing the seeds of discontent with her narrow environment which were now beginning to bear such bitter fruit. Something of a celibate by nature, he loved to think of her as an eternal priestess, who would consecrate herself and her fortune to the work of the Church.

Going back in his mind, he could date the acute stage of the present situation pretty accurately from the inception of her acquaintance with the young professor of mathematics. Leigh had disclosed a certain Western democracy that first evening, and had established immediately some sort of understanding with his hostess. The bishop had seen them together at Littleford's house, and had drawn his own conclusions. Divination of the hidden interests and emotions of others was one of his gifts, a gift he had so fostered that sometimes his moves in the intricate game of life were like strokes of genius. He did not doubt now that Leigh was in love with his daughter, and for the first time he was seriously doubtful of her attitude toward a young man. Proud and beautiful, she had always held herself aloof, with something of fine scorn, from the frock-coated, silk-hatted, conventional men of her acquaintance, as if she shared her father's opinion of her worth, as if she secretly sympathised with the plans she knew he cherished concerning the completion of the college quadrangle. Was she now to decline to the level of this fortune hunter, this crude young Westerner?

As for Cardington, of course he loved her, too; but the bishop knew her too well to suppose that the professor would ever captivate her imagination. He had always been within her horizon, and he served the useful purpose, from the bishop's point of view, of distracting her attention from more formidable aspirants.

That hour of reflection resulted in at least one definite resolve: Leigh's connection with the college should cease at the expiration of the year for which he was engaged. Meanwhile, the bishop might need a rest, and might take Felicity with him to Bermuda, leaving the affairs of the diocese in the hands of his coadjutor.

Having reached this conclusion, he became aware of the fact that the procession had long since passed, that the house was very still, and that Felicity had evidently retired to her room for the night. He got up and walked aimlessly out into the drawing-room, where the lights were turned low. He listened at the foot of the stairs, and thought to call her, but the silence seemed ominous, and for some reason he forbore. Was she really so deeply hurt that she would not return and bid him good-night? They had never been demonstrative, but neither were such affectionate courtesies ever omitted between them. He could not seek her now and demand an explanation. From such a scene he shrank instinctively. To-morrow he would begin on a new tack. He would relegate this absurd difference of opinion between them to the obscure corner it deserved, where he trusted it would soon die of neglect. It was indeed fortunate for the bishop's rest that night that his conjecture concerning his daughter's state of mind fell so far short of the truth.

When Lena Harpster left the dining-room at her mistress's command, she was in a condition bordering upon hysteria. Her burst of tears expressed the culmination of a long strain. She had dared to disobey her lover, driven to desperation by the increasing importunities of the young man of the house in which she served, and had fled to Miss Wycliffe's as to a refuge. But her letter of explanation to Emmet had remained unanswered. Was it not her love for him that had driven her to disobey? She even refrained from signing her appeal for pardon, as a concession to his desire for secrecy. Either he was too much absorbed, or his wrath was implacable, and a fortnight had passed without a sign. Would he seize this pretext, now that he had been elected mayor, to cast her off forever, as an impediment to his progress in the world? This doubt had so preyed upon her nerves that Miss Wycliffe was not far from the truth when she explained to her father that the maid was ill. But it was the vilification of her lover, to which she was forced to listen in silence, that had brought her emotions to a disastrous climax.

Once in her little room, she threw herself upon the bed and sobbed without restraint, but her abandonment to grief was short. She arose hastily and bathed her eyes in cold water, moved by the reflection that tears only served to mar her beauty, the sole dower she possessed. There came into her mind also the sudden resolve to go out and see the parade. She would stand near one of the electric lights, and perhaps her lover would see her and give some sign, a smile, a wave of the hand, whose significance would be known to them alone.

Fired by new hope, she discarded her apron and cap and donned her prettiest skirt. Then, standing in front of her little mirror, she applied a dash of colour to her pale cheeks with a few deft touches, spreading it into an appearance of nature with a bit of chamois skin. She opened the bureau drawer and threw a white silk waist upon the bed. But now a perplexing question arose. Which riband should she wear about her throat? She selected two, and laid them before her for consideration. This one she wore when he first kissed her; but the new one was prettier. Which would he prefer? Or was it possible that he would not see her at all in the crowd? While these thoughts ran through her mind, she smoothed her eyebrows with her pink little thumb, and paused to reflect that she would like to have a tiny eyebrow brush with an ivory handle, such an one as she had seen among the toilet articles on her mistress's dressing-table. Then she glanced at the ring on her finger which Emmet had given her, and for a while she forgot everything else, fixed in contemplation.

The ring was one whose peculiar value Lena was far from realising: a Maltese cross of old gold, set with four uncut emeralds. Seen by gaslight the stones lacked brilliancy, and she thought the ring itself awkward and heavy. From the first she had regarded the gift superstitiously, as if the dull green stones, like four dull eyes, emitted a baleful influence. It was significant of her utter lack of religious associations that the cross itself suggested no counter charm. Had she been a Catholic, that shape alone would have made the ring a talisman, but her people were Congregationalists, to whom religious symbols were anathema, and she herself had seldom gone to church. In fact, Lena was vaguely disappointed in the ring, and even ashamed of it. If her lover were as rich as he said, why had he not bought her a diamond? But repentance followed hard upon this questioning. The ring was not what she desired, but it was a pledge of his love, and she raised it to her lips.

She was in this attitude, her thin, white shoulders glimmering bare, a graceful and nymph-like figure, when a light tap at the door froze her into immobility, and then she saw her mistress's face reflected in the mirror. With a little cry of embarrassment, she turned and leaned against the bureau, lifting one hand with that instinctive gesture which Greek sculptors have immortalised in many a lovely statue.

"I did n't mean to frighten you, Lena," Miss Wycliffe said quietly, when she had shut the door carefully behind her and taken a chair. "I thought you might be ill, and came to see whether I could do anything for you."

The words were kind, but there was something in the speaker's manner that was less assuring. Her face was pale, and her eyes were bright, but not with compassion. Confronting each other thus, they presented a striking contrast. The mistress's dark, rich beauty made the other's prettiness seem ephemeral, without reducing it to the level of the commonplace; for Lena was not common as servants are, either in her personality or in the atmosphere she created in her room. Even her visitor, absorbed as she was in her own purpose, was not unconscious of the cleanliness of the place, of the artistic aspiration represented by the few prints on the walls.

"I did have a turn, Miss Wycliffe," Lena stammered, "but I feel better now. I thought, perhaps, if I went out to get the fresh air"—

"And saw the procession?" her mistress suggested, with a curious smile.

Lena nodded guiltily, and a flush quickly spread beyond the limits of colour which art had fixed in her cheeks.

"Perhaps that would do you good," Miss Wycliffe remarked. Then, with a penetrating regard, she added, "And I suspect you have a personal interest in the parade, Lena."

"I want to see Mr. Emmet," the girl confessed, as if she could not resist the inquisition of the stronger nature confronting her. But there was pride, too, as well as implication, in the admission.

"Perhaps it was Mr. Emmet who gave you that odd ring?" Miss Wycliffe continued relentlessly.

"Yes," in a voice that was almost a whisper.

"And you regard it as an engagement ring?"

"He did n't say so definitely, Miss Wycliffe. He told me not to wear it yet, and I did n't until tonight. And he made me promise not to tell—anything. You will keep my secret, Miss Wycliffe, until—until"—

"No, child, I won't tell, but I 'm sorry to say that I shall have to deprive you of the ring, as it happens to be one of my own. I noticed it on your hand at dinner, and while I was sorry to think of taking it back, I could n't help feeling that a fortunate chance had restored it to me."

Lena drooped pitifully, and her mistress deigned to explain further, though her tone was hard and cold.

"If the ring were of no special value, I shouldn't mind, but it belonged in the family, and I prized it highly. Undoubtedly I lost it in the car, where it was found by Mr. Emmet. Let me see it; I 'm sure I can't be mistaken."

She held out her hand imperiously, and resistance to her will was impossible. At that moment the head of the procession could be seen through the trees, and the sound of music floated up to the little room. Lena held the ring in the palm of her hand, forgetting that she had ever thought it less than beautiful, and her tears began to drop slowly. Then she surrendered it with an impulsive movement, like that of a conquered child. Her heart failed her. The necessity of giving up the ring seemed prophetic of the future; and moreover she was now too late to see him pass.

"Yes," Miss Wycliffe said coolly, "I was right. The cutting and arrangement of the stones is peculiar, and there's not another like it in Warwick." She arose to her feet, the ring gripped in her hand till the edge of the cross almost cut her tender palm. "And one thing more, Lena. I have a reason for asking it. Do you love Mr. Emmet?"

There was no need to answer, and indeed the girl could not utter a word, so intense was her misery, so overpowering her assurance of impending disaster.

"And do you suppose he loves you, just because he has kissed you and given you this ring which he picked up in the car?"

There was still no answer, and the next words came like the voice of fate.

"Well, I feel it my duty to tell you that a man in his position can only be amusing himself when he pays attention to a girl in yours. You must have nothing more to do with him. It's better for you to know it now, and to have done with this infatuation, for I tell you plainly, he means nothing that an honest girl can accept."

Left alone, Lena tottered as if she would have fallen; then sank upon her knees and crept to the window. With trembling fingers she raised the sash and let in the cool night air upon her bare neck and shoulders. She let in also a fuller burst of music and cheering, and through her tears she saw the lights dancing wildly, like a procession of fallen stars. Somewhere in that stream of splendour and sound he sat in his carriage, proud and triumphant, and with no thought of her.

In her own room Miss Wycliffe stood before her mirror, looking now at the white reflection of her face, and now at the recovered ring which she had tossed upon the bureau, while in her splendid eyes blazed the light of a great and implacable anger. For the man who was at that moment passing by in the street, who had taken her gift and bestowed it upon a servant, had been her husband for more than two years.



CHAPTER XI

AT THE OLD CONTINENTAL

One snowy afternoon, shortly before Christmas, Mayor Emmet came out to his sleigh from the City Hall, drawing on his gloves with a sense of release from unaccustomed confinement. While others hurried along, shrinking into their coats as if they would withdraw as far as possible from the nipping cold, he strode slowly and breathed deep, showing a strong man's conscious enjoyment of Nature in one of her sterner moods. His manner displayed a consciousness of something else also, of the position he meant to grace. He was already beginning to appreciate the discomfiture of his enemies. They had thought to find him bewildered and inefficient, and had encountered instead a man whose conception of his rights and duties was just and adequate. Strange also to superficial thinkers was his dignity of bearing, to which the elite of Warwick paid the compliment of their resentment. But that ease and precision of movement, that steady glance of the eye, had been transferred from the baseball field to become singularly effective in the mayor's office.

It was now that his experience as a conductor also yielded its harvest, though few of those whose money he had formerly collected realised the valuable knowledge they had given him of human nature's more difficult side. They had unwittingly taught him to control his temper under trying circumstances, to hear much and say little, and now they wondered at the success of their teaching. Even his language was exasperatingly correct. They might claim that his speech for the joint debate had been written by another, but this would not explain the excellent quality of his ordinary conversation; and it never occurred to them to point to him with pride as a product of the public schools for which their city was justly famous.

That a man not connected with one of the old families, not possessed of a baccalaureate degree, should really be effective in the mayor's chair was such an unheard-of presumption that they denied the fact. Yet they could not claim that he assumed excess of air. His lack of exuberance was so marked, he had taken hold of his work with such seriousness and sobriety, that he seemed to be a man of great coldness, or one whose sense of triumph was tempered by a secret trouble.

Those whose condemnation was not altogether sweeping found the phrase "an imitation" capable of conveying some consolation. He was like a wooden cigar, a lead quarter; in short, he was a loaf baked in a different oven, and that was enough. How could a man that wore a heavy watch-chain possess the genuine quality? In the judgment of the First Church, that chain was heavy enough to bind him hand and foot and to sink him in the depths of the sea.