Any moment some one might come in and find him there. He got up and locked the door against intrusion before he should be able to master the outward signs of his emotion. Then he returned to his chair and looked about, thinking confusedly. There was something pitiless in the glaring light of noon that disclosed every crack and stain on the ugly brown walls. It was like the relentless light of his new revelation turned upon the stains and patches of his soul, dreary and terrible. Had the hour been twilight, some glamour of lost romance and self-pity might have fallen upon him like a violet veil, hiding the sordid truth; but he lacked the imagination with which artistic natures may shield themselves, and he saw things as they were. He even wandered momently from his own misery to reflect that he would have this room refitted and painted a more cheerful hue, whether for himself or for his successor. The office was beneath the dignity of a city like Warwick.

He picked up the paper and spread it out before him once more, quivering sensitively at the flippant and vulgar tone of the announcement. That "pretty maid" was just Lena to him, whom he had loved in secret, now haled before the tribunal of public opinion. His sensations could scarcely have been more keen, had he also been billed before the gaping crowd. The fact that he was not so billed made him realise what a small part of any secret ever readies the general ear. The plant is pulled up for inspection, but the deeper roots remain behind, hidden in the earth.

There was the elder Pyle, a dignified man, with a war record, who had been one of the committee that thrust the mayor of Warwick aside as unworthy to welcome the President. Here was a strange, unmeditated revenge! Emmet, through Lena, had done much to wreck the happiness of that household. His deed had gotten away from him, and was working on and on, beyond his power to recall, passing from one social class into another as through a familiar medium. The mayor's straight lines of demarcation between classes became blurred; he saw them shift and waver and disappear, till the whole seemed a confused mass of humanity, confluent and interchangeable.

His only desire now was to make reparation, and reparation was denied him. His success had been so steadily progressive, his growing appreciation of his own power so intoxicating, that he had somehow felt he could control this situation also. Even Felicity had not been beyond him, had he chosen to assert himself. But Lena,—so gentle and acquiescent,—it was she who had taken the bit in her teeth and done this astounding thing!

It would be a relief, he reflected, if he could make open confession and begin life over again, or run away from the daily reminder of his sin; but he must remain where he was, and steel himself to see Lena unmoved, a man with an abiding shadow.



CHAPTER XXI

THE MAYOR FINDS HIMSELF AT LAST

It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day, and the sun still shone dazzlingly on the deep, unblemished snow. All morning long, the janitors of the Hall had been toiling through the drifts with their shovels, leaving a narrow pathway behind them from the southern extremity of the building to the street at the end of the maple walk. Now, their heads and shoulders had ceased to rise and fall above the bleak expanse.

Instead, a solitary figure could be seen advancing in the direction of the college, seeming from a distance to be that of a child, and reminding one of Little Red Riding-Hood in the fairy tale. The height of the side walls of snow aided the distance in producing this illusion. Upon coming nearer, one would have seen the child gradually assume the stature of a woman, and had he been a citizen of Warwick, he would have recognised Felicity Wycliffe.

Although, as a general thing, women were not wont to pass that way, except to attend the chapel services of a Sunday or some public ceremony, the bishop's daughter was free of the grounds by peculiar rights, which no one dreamed of questioning. A group of students, meeting her halfway, leaped gallantly into the snow waist-deep to let her pass, and did not presume to question her mission or destination.

The wind had already begun to sift the fine snow into the bottom of the trench, increasing the difficulty of her progress, and forming innumerable little rifts and scallops in the white dunes that swelled upward toward the skyline like the sands of the sea. Suddenly she heard the harsh cawing of a flock of crows that passed overhead, wheeling westward. The sound caused her heart to vibrate with a memory of that wonderful October afternoon when she had listened with Leigh to the same notes beneath the pines, and she shaded her eyes against the sun to watch the course of the flock across the wide basin of the valley. The notes grew less and less, no longer streperous but strangely musical, and finally were heard no more, leaving her oppressed by a sense of loneliness and desertion. Something akin to an antique mood fell upon her, as if she had been given an augury of an irreversible fate.

This spiritual quiescence, numbing her from a realisation of her purpose, held until she disappeared into the huge archway of the tower and began to ascend the narrow stairs. But here her spirit failed her, and she paused. Standing motionless in the gloom, she could hear her heart beating wildly, and the folly of her intention became apparent. But the momentum of her original purpose presently urged her on, it seemed against her will and better judgement, until she stood before Leigh's half-open door. Had the door been closed, she might not have been able to bring herself to knock, she might have turned and departed as silently as she had come; but there was an invitation in this accidental circumstance, to which the gleam of an open fire gave warmth and persuasion.

Listening intently, she heard no sound from within. The few students she had met on the hillside were the only ones she had seen, and she guessed that the majority were still detained by their recitations. At the end of the hour, he would doubtless return from a class. There was time for her to recall what she wished to say and how she would begin. Reassured by this reflection, she was about to enter, when the door on the other side of the hall opened, and she turned to see Cardington's tall figure against the light from within.

"I was listening for your step, Miss Felicity," he said, "having observed your approach from my corner window, but you came as quietly as a snowflake. This is an unexpected honour. It's a long time since I have had the pleasure of a call from you; in fact, not since those days of blessed memory when you were a little girl, and used to run up to take a look at my pictures. But come in. Perhaps I can make you a cup of afternoon tea."

She followed him into the room, and said nothing until he had closed the door behind her. Then she flung back her hood with a sweep of her hand and met his gaze steadily.

"You know I did n't come to see you, don't you?" she demanded with quiet defiance.

"Far be it from me," he temporised, "to assume accurate knowledge of anything as doubtful as the direction a charming young woman's favour may take; but I thought it possible—I thought it possible—for old sake's sake."

The repetition of the reminder touched her, in spite of her preoccupation, and she glanced about the once familiar room with a wistful kindling of the eyes.

"I used to come up here often, did n't I?" she mused. "And father knew where to find me when he had finished his smoke and talk with the boys. There 's the same old picture of the Alhambra you used to tell me stories about." Her defiance was gone now, though her purpose still held. "But I did n't come to see you this time; I shall—soon. I came to see some one else."

"My dear child," he said, fixing her with a gaze of deep concern, "I am old enough to be your father, am I not?"

She nodded silently, waiting for the lecture she felt she so well deserved. Yet it was characteristic of their relationship that she experienced no serious apprehension; she was too well aware of his understanding and indulgence for that.

"But still," he continued, "I lack a few years of reaching the imposing longevity of Methuselah."

She put out her hands in impulsive protest against this reference to their difference in age, understanding the pain that underlay his effort at jocularity. He took and retained them in his own, and his colour deepened.

"This is a most embarrassing demonstration of affection," he commented. "If any one should suddenly open the door, I fear his surprise would be very great. Now, is it not fortunate that my room is opposite that of my young colleague, rather than the room of some other person less well disposed, less a friend, I may say, to you both?"

"I 'm sure it is," she answered. "If any one else had been living in this room, I would never have ventured"—

"Exactly. No one else, perhaps, has had my opportunities for understanding you. Now, on the basis of our long acquaintance, and because of my deep attachment to yourself and your father, I wish to urge you to reconsider your intention of making any other call this afternoon."

"I shall have to use my own judgement," she returned, without flinching. "I am in great perplexity—you don't know."

"I do know," he retorted, "and perhaps the time has come for me to tell you so. A wanderer like myself comes across many unexpected things in the course of his peregrinations. Shall I tell you how, while looking for some records of my family in an old New York church, secretly indulging the genealogical mania I am wont to deride, I lighted upon a record I did not think to find—the record of the marriage of one who is very dear to me?"

"Then you knew all the time! I almost thought so—often."

"Not all the time," he corrected, "though for what seemed a very long time, while I waited for the bolt to fall on your father's unsuspecting head. Perhaps, Felicity, you will accept it as a proof of my devotion to you that I did not consider it my duty to enlighten your father. If I can be of any assistance to you even now—but I am an outsider. I merely wish to assure you of my unswerving—friendship."

"Don't make me cry," she protested, with a shaken little laugh. She bit her lip and winked back the starting tears. "Father knows now—and you know—and I am going to tell Mr. Leigh."

"Well, well," he answered, "I say no more." His eyes searched her face earnestly, and he began to shake her hands, which he had retained in his own from the time she put them there. "You must redeem your promise to come and see me again, I hope under happier circumstances." He flung open the door with suspicious haste, and bowed her out in his ceremonious way.

She found herself facing the same beckoning firelight, with the same reassuring silence about her. In addition she felt a new comfort and an unexpected permission from the recent interview. Without further hesitation, she stepped across the threshold and quietly closed the door behind her.

She was still somewhat shaken by the emotions she had just experienced, but this change of scene brought different sensations and dried her tears. Her first feeling was one of intense relief. Here she was, whether wisely or not she could not tell, but she was glad she had come. She advanced to the centre of the room, and gazed about her at the objects that were his. The first thing that always struck her in any room was its pictures, and here she saw a number of famous astronomers and mathematicians, stiffly arranged in chronological order. There were no Venetian scenes or cathedrals, but above the fireplace she saw an etching of the library of his alma mater, surmounted by his college flag.

What a contrast to the room she called her own! The very atmosphere was different, for mingled with the odour of burning logs she detected a suggestion of tobacco smoke, so faint that only a woman would have perceived it. The simplicity of the place, the absence of ornate decoration, was like him, she reflected. Artistic herself to an exceptional degree, she had never cared for men who possessed an equal knowledge of such things; they were either professional artists, or somehow less than manly.

She was familiar with the rooms of St. George's Hall, and knew to a nicety what furniture and pictures and hangings were best suited to the suggestions inherent in the deep stone windows, the small, leaded panes, the massive fireplaces. Of these things she saw no examples; but on the large desk, littered with a profusion of books and pipes and papers, her glance was arrested by the sight of several candlesticks of various sizes and of beautiful workmanship. She was struck by this as by a psychological singularity, and counted the number—four on the table and three others on the mantel, seven in all, the number freighted with so many religious associations. She wondered whether there were some astronomical association also. Were there seven stars in the Pleiades?

She went to the window and stood looking out at the shadow of the Hall, creeping more rapidly now toward the edge of the plateau. The austere gloom of the scene, the strange, red light of the sunset striking across the eastern valley to the vague blue hills on the horizon, were unutterably sad, and her desolate mood returned, shot through by fear as the time of his arrival became a matter of moments. What was she to say to him? What would he think? Was there yet time to change her mind and make her escape?

Suddenly the voices of students were heard below and the crunching of their steps along the path, She had lingered too long and must abide the issue, for presently she heard him coming up the stairs. Then she thought that it he was buoyant, if he entered light-heartedly, she would leave without a word, cured of her fancy that he loved her. The door opened slowly, and she remained motionless where she stood, her hands resting on the cold stone window-ledge, her eyes fixed intently on the distant hills. But all her senses were conscious of him. She felt that she could see him, that he too was sad, that she heard him sigh, though the only sound in the room during his moment of speechless surprise was the purring of the flames in the fireplace.

"Miss Wycliffe," he ventured doubtfully.

Remembering his experience in the mist, he had almost believed that he was again the victim of an hallucination, but her swift turning, her illuminating smile, were very different from that ghostly vanishing.

"How extraordinary you will think it of me, Mr. Leigh," she said, coming toward him, "to call on you in this fashion." She stood near him, her hands involved in the folds of her cloak, her bearing one of spontaneity and candour. He pulled off his cap and stood waiting. None of the conventional greetings passed between them. He did not even ask her to be seated, so great was his bewilderment, his anxiety to know why she had come. The emotion that had stirred her in Cardington's room seemed gone now. Her smile conveyed an humorous appreciation of her unconventional act. The gaze of her eyes was spiritual and clear.

"I have come to you as to a friend," she explained with sweet seriousness. "You know the trouble I have brought upon myself, upon my father, upon Mr. Emmet, upon every one. I am in great distress of mind. I want to do the right thing, if it is possible to right so much wrong at this late date. I have become confused as to my duty. My husband thinks one thing—my father thinks another—and I don't know what I ought to do. You have been in Mr. Emmet's confidence and in mine. I want you to give me your advice."

"Perhaps you should have chosen a more disinterested judge, Miss Wycliffe," he returned; "but you were right at least in feeling that you could come to me as to a friend. In fact, I was thinking of coming to you, perhaps not altogether as a mere friend—but let that go now. Why should n't one who would have been something nearer, if it had been possible, be at least that? And more—I am grateful to you for giving me this opportunity. I take it as a proof that you have restored me in some measure to your confidence, after I had deserved to lose it entirely."

In reality, there had been no doubt in her mind in regard to her husband, though possibly she would have denied, even to herself, that her decision was formed before she came with the problem to the man that loved her. It was not her duty to Emmet that distressed her, but whether Leigh loved her still. This was what she wished to know, and now his manner told her more than his words.

"Don't say you deserved to lose my confidence," she protested quickly. "It was I who deserved to lose yours."

The attitude her coming demanded of him was cruelly difficult to maintain, and he sought help from action.

"We 'll let bygones be bygones, then," he answered brusquely; but his brusqueness pleased her. "Take this chair by the fire."

"The question is one of duty," she began again.

He flung himself into another chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, locked his fingers about one knee, and regarded her judicially, as if his whole mind were concentrated upon the problem she was stating. In reality, he was absorbed by the extraordinary nature of the situation, and lost in admiration of the picture she presented. Were she posing for a portrait to be painted, she could not have chosen her position more effectively. The firelight brought out a golden tone from her brown skirt. It was lost in the softness of her velvet waist and hair, to reappear mysteriously in her eyes. She had thrown her crimson cloak over the back of the chair, and it formed a rippling band of colour on each side of her figure. Surely, here was a Portrait of a Lady that would have made an artist famous, could he have done it to the life.

She spoke of her struggle with Emmet as it she were stating an hypothetical case for his dispassionate consideration. Her apparent coolness filled him with amazement, but he recognised that she had adopted the only attitude that could justify the interview and preserve her own dignity. His emotions were held in suspension; he even felt he had none, so compelling was the effect of her serious and impersonal frankness. Yet he saw she was not really frank with him. She omitted entirely to mention certain elements in the situation which she must have known that he knew from her husband's confession to him.

His eyes, fixed upon her own, were filled with speculation, and he was unconscious of the inquisitorial effect they produced upon her. He was thinking how very different she was from what he had at first supposed, and how this gradual opening of his eyes to hitherto unsuspected vistas of her character had not changed for one moment the fact of his love for her. She might vacillate and doubt,—she seemed to do so now,—but questionings, retreats, advances, refusals, were for women.

Finally, she spoke of the possibility of going back to Emmet, and he felt that he could not bear it. It was this very thing which he had decided to protest against, and now his opportunity had come. Every word tortured him, filled him with fury against her for the folly of such a sacrifice, with fury also against the fate that forbade him to plead his own cause and to open her eyes to her husband's motives. He arose from his chair and began to pace the room feverishly, tempted each moment to pause, to throw himself at her feet, and to beg her to love him alone. Would he only lose her thus, and gain her contempt as well?

Felicity ceased speaking, looked into the fire with a musing and thoughtful gaze, smoothing absently the fingers of her gloves, and waited for the opinion she had asked him to give. She was more than satisfied now, even a little afraid of the possible expression of the love she had wished to prove. She had tempted him once before, and he had yielded; now she was making another impossible demand upon his self-restraint, calmly asking him to ignore the truth of their own relationship while she discussed her false duty to another. Suddenly he stood before her, and she looked up to encounter his eyes, which seemed to burn with a blue flame in the intensity of his emotion.

"You can't be so foolish as to go back to him!" he cried. "I tell you, Felicity, it's worse than folly—it's wickedness. I love you, and he doesn't—I won't let him have you!"

"Oh, don't!" she protested, rising hurriedly in her turn. "I ought not to have come—how dark it has grown!—I must be going. What shall I do? He refuses to give me up, and—and I am afraid of him!"

The scene on the edge of the cliff had come back to her mind with new and terrible force, all the more portentous as she seemed now to have seen her way of escape made clear. And her husband's face in the moonlight, when she fled from him in panic into the house! Finally, his parting threat that very morning, in which he had involved this man whom she loved. Leigh's arm went about her, and her head rested against his breast. He bent over her, intoxicated by the fragrance of her hair and kissing it passionately.

"All questions and doubts are solved in this," he murmured. "It is different this time, is it not, my darling? What is the use of more words? We understand each other now." He held her from him. "Look up into my eyes," he commanded, with reckless exultation. "Your eyes blind me; how wonderful they are! Do you know what I was thinking, all the time you were talking to me about Emmet? I was n't half listening—I was imagining that you were my wife and not his, sitting with me by the fire. I allowed myself to see things, not as they were, but as they ought to be, as they shall be!"

"I was a proud woman once," she faltered, "but I have no right to be proud any more. If you will only understand me, if you will only love me always as you do now, I shall not care for anything else. Tell me you were to blame, too, and save me some remnant of my self-respect."

"Blame!" he echoed contemptuously. "See, my darling, how I kiss away your tears. Poor child, so storm-tossed, so troubled! Have we not dealt enough with words, while all the time this was the only reality? Can you talk of blame on either side, Felicity, when we love each other as we do?" In that moment of happiness he could not bring himself to tell her of the letter in his pocket that gave him permission to join the expedition to Egypt. He had still a few days to spare, and though he was resolved to go, he would not throw the shadow of separation over their first perfect understanding. That very afternoon he had arranged with Dr. Renshaw for his substitute, and had made his final plans. He would have gone to her to-morrow with the news, but now he would wait until to-morrow before he spoke.

Silence had fallen between them when they heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, buoyant and determined. They might be directed to Cardington's room across the way, but the two listeners stood as if frozen, waiting with strange foreboding for the issue. Then came a loud knocking on the door.

They stood apart, and looked at each other with mute irresolution. The knock was repeated, and before they could fortify themselves to meet the crisis, the door opened and Emmet advanced boldly into the dim light of the fire. Leigh stepped quickly between him and Felicity.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion, Mr. Emmet?" he asked quietly.

The bishop's daughter seemed to grow taller with scorn of the vulgar outbreak and unseemly charges she believed to be inevitable, but her husband raised his hand as if to ward off resentment, and Leigh saw in a glance that he was no longer the man he had known. There was little now of that bold, insistent personality which had once radiated a compelling sense of power. His face seemed thinner, finer, almost luminous with his purpose of renunciation. He looked at Leigh with none of the fury of the outraged husband in his eyes, but rather with a suggestion of sympathy and understanding.

"I 've been to the bishop's," he began abruptly. "I wanted to see him and Felicity once more to take back all I said this morning, and to say I would do as they wished. They were n't at home, and I guessed somehow they might be here. Anyhow, even if they were n't, I wanted you to know, Mr. Leigh, that I 'd given Felicity up. Never mind why,—that's my affair,—but it's right for every one concerned. I 'll not be the dog in the manger any longer. You were intended for her, and she for you. I knew it long ago, though I would n't admit it; and after all this trouble is over, you 'll be happy together"—His voice died away, and having taken a step aside to bring Felicity within range of his vision, he stood looking from one to the other with an expression which prophesied the spiritual aloofness he might one day attain.

"Felicity," he said, "you 'll not have reason to fear me any more. It 's clear sailing for us both now. And don't reproach yourself. The account is more than square. You 've not been as much to blame as I have,—be sure of that."

It seemed, however, to be more with Leigh than with Felicity that he was concerned at the last, and he shook hands with him lingeringly, as if he would show that under happier circumstances, had a woman not come between them, they would have been the friends they were meant to be. The astronomer felt this, as if the message had been spoken, and followed his visitor to the door with scarcely articulate words of appreciation. But Emmet, having accomplished his purpose, was anxious to be gone, and making his exit with unceremonious haste, he ran rapidly down the stairs.

He had not reached the northern end of the Hall before two other figures emerged from the blackness of the archway into the snowy twilight and turned in the same direction. Felicity had not allowed herself to remain a moment longer than was necessary, with Leigh, after her husband's departure; he had returned from seeing his visitor to the door to find her cloaked and ready. He appreciated the situation too well to attempt to detain her, or even to comment upon Emmet's extraordinary change of front and her impending freedom. He knew that she too, like himself, was crushed by her husband's magnanimity, and that all mention of love between them was an impossibility for the time. While their love seemed hopeless, he had kissed her in wild revolt and farewell, but now he found it possible to wait. He experienced a curious joy in a realisation of the fact that she fell short of the perfection he had once assumed in her. From her faults he took heart of grace, and was saved from being over-powered by her beauty.

As he looked at Emmet's sturdy figure plunging on before them, now lost in shadow, now passing through a bar of light that shone from a student's window, he wondered at the man's surrender of one who was to him a treasure-house into which were gathered all the beauty and mystery and fascination of women. The future held much of uncertainty for him, but his love was safe.

This final act of the drama, which was, after all, only the centrepiece of a trilogy, built on a drama acted before Leigh's entrance to the scene, and promising another in the future, was played more below the surface than above. Not one tenth of the things that might have been said was actually spoken; the greater part was unexpressed, perhaps unexpressible. But to the young astronomer, Nature herself, never wholly mute, was full of interpretative music. If the wind was ever a paean of victory, it was such to him as they emerged from the shelter of the Hall and received the full force of its robust and joyful blast; if the familiar stars ever sang in their courses, they sang to him now. From time to time his hand met that of the woman he loved in a clinging touch, as he turned to help her through a drift that had risen since she passed that way, and this progress seemed to his warm imagination an allegory of their future life together.

They neared the end of the maple walk, and the mayor's dark figure became partially obscured by the bulk of his waiting sleigh. The next moment he was standing upright within it, arranging the blanket about him, seeming larger than human against the whiteness beyond. He sank into his seat and gathered up the reins. They heard him speak to his horse in his confidential way; there was a cheerful burst of silvery bells, and the sleigh began to move rapidly down the hill.

As Leigh watched the vanishing figure, his heart was smitten by a keen regret, for he felt that a man of heroic quality, known only when lost, was passing out of his life forever.

THE END