THE TOWER
Llewellyn Leigh found himself upon the wide stone flagging in front of
the Hall before he awoke to a realisation of another meeting, now
imminent, whose importance was far less conjectural than that upon
which his fancy would fain have lingered.
The personality of the president of a large university might be a
matter of indifference to a young instructor, inconspicuous among his
many colleagues; but to be transferred to a full professorship in a
small college was to come into close, daily contact with the ruling
power, a contact from which there was no escape, in which instinctive
likes and antipathies might make or mar a career. At this thought the
young man began to speculate with some intensity upon the personality
indicated thus far to his mind only by the name of Doctor Renshaw.
The very silence of the Hall, which impressed him now not so much by
its beauty as by its solidity and height, invested the presiding genius
of the place with something of sphinxlike mystery. The very faces of
the gargoyles, impenetrable and calm, or grinningly grotesque, gave the
fancy visible outward expression. One monster in particular, with
twisted horns and impish tongue lolling forth between wide, inhuman
teeth, seemed to look upon him with peculiar and malicious amusement.
He experienced the spiritual depression which sometimes seems to
emanate from inanimate things, that mood of self-distrust, that
assurance of being unwelcome, which makes the coming to a strange city
where one's fortunes are to be cast an act requiring courage. Seen
close at hand, the college lost something of that inviting charm with
which a distant view invested it. Though the length of the corporate
life of the institution was not unimpressive from an American
standpoint, the present building was comparatively recent. A thirty
years' growth of ivy was scarcely able to atone for the unencrusted
newness of the stones beneath. There was none of that narcotic
suggestion of grey antiquity which in Oxford or Cambridge rebukes and
stills a personal ambition.
Beyond each small doorway he saw a flight of stone stairs vanishing
into the obscurity, and through the open windows he caught glimpses of
decorations on the walls, the flags and signs and photographs which
everywhere represent the artistic standards of the average
undergraduate.
But a compensating surprise was presently in store. As he passed the
tower, he heard the deep notes of a pipe organ; the open diapason and
flutes of the great, the reeds of the swell, piled one upon another in
a splendid harmony. He looked up and saw the lengthened windows that
indicated the location of the chapel, which apparently extended the
full height of the building. The musician within added a two-foot
stop, the final needed element of brilliancy, crowning the edifice of
sound his fingers had reared, so that now the music seemed to burst
through the half-open windows and to shake the vines upon the wall.
Lover of music as he was, this unexpected and triumphant symphony made
a peculiar appeal to Leigh's imagination. Through it, as through a
golden mist, he saw the drama of life sublimated, himself an actor of
dignity and worth; and a few moments later he entered the president's
office with a poise in which there remained no trace of anxious
conjecture.
A figure rose to greet him as he entered, and though he was himself a
tall man, the other loomed above him in the comparative twilight of the
room, until he seemed to assume colossal proportions. Then Leigh
realized that it was not the height of the man, but his bearing, that
gave such significance to the inch or two between them. His grey hair
alone suggested years; he held his shoulders like a man of forty. He
removed his glasses deliberately, put them on the pile of papers beside
him, and stood waiting. There was a courteous enquiry in his very
attitude, although as yet he spoke no word. His head was tilted
slightly backward, and his smile might have seemed almost inane in its
width and in the impression of permanency which it conveyed, were it
not for the intellectuality of the brow, the force of the fine aquiline
nose, and the watchful perspicacity of the deepset eyes.
"This is Doctor Renshaw, I believe," said Leigh tentatively.
"Doctor Renshaw is here," returned the other, indicating by a slight
gesture a figure seated at the far end of the table, which now arose
and came toward them. "Doctor, I venture to assume that I have the
pleasure of making you acquainted with Mr. Leigh, our new professor of
mathematics."
His words were distinctly spoken, but pitched in so low a tone that
they produced an odd effect, as of purring.
It was now that Leigh discovered his mistake. The man whom he had
taken for the president was Bishop Wycliffe, and it required but five
minutes of conversation to show him that the bishop, not the president,
was the significant personality.
Doctor Renshaw might have been anywhere in the afternoon of life, and
one felt instinctively that his sunset had antedated his meridian. He
was like those ancients, spoken of with such disapproval by Cicero, who
began to be old men early that they might continue to be old men for a
long time. His value to the institution he had served so long, and his
safety in his position, lay in the possession of negative qualities.
His silence was interpreted as an indication of wisdom, and the firmly
cut features of his inscrutable face would have served an artist as a
personification of discipline. As he exchanged the conventional
greetings the occasion demanded, he might even then have been standing
for the portrait of himself that was one day to be added to those of
his predecessors on the library wall; or he might have been one of the
portraits already there that had stepped from its frame for a moment to
take the newcomer by the hand.
In short, the thing of greatest significance in this meeting, the thing
which made itself felt by all three participants, was the juxtaposition
of the ancient and modern. The young man, clothed in a light grey
suit, his soft hat crushed in the nervous grasp of his long fingers, a
man whose scholastic training had been disassociated from religious
traditions, now stood face to face with mediaevalism, with two elderly
men in dark habiliments, as greatly superior to himself in that
subtlety which finds its highest expression in the ecclesiastical type
as he was superior to them in the acquisition of scientific truth.
Presently the bishop invited his young friend, as he already called the
new arrival, to walk with him about the grounds. Doctor Renshaw, left
alone, resumed his seat in the heavy oaken chair which had once
belonged to the founder of blessed memory, his shining head round as a
ball against the diamonded panes at his back, the framed plans of the
St. George's Hall of the future looking down upon him. On the broad
stone mantel rested an antique episcopal mitre of black cloth,
decorated with ecclesiastical symbols in tarnished thread, and a tall
clock of almost equal age stood silent in the corner, showing on its
pale, round face the carven signs of the zodiac. These objects seemed
the peculiar property of the solitary tenant of the room, rather than
relics of a former time, so still he sat, so convincing was the
changelessness of his decorous age.
Meanwhile the bishop was giving Leigh new light upon his status in St.
George's Hall.
"I must tell you, Mr. Leigh,--for it is better to be frank
always,--that your appointment is in the nature of an experiment.
Doctor Renshaw engaged your services for a year while I was absent in
Europe. I knew nothing of it until my return, though I have every
reason to believe, in view of your excellent recommendations and family
connections, that the choice was felicitous."
Leigh listened to these words, so kindly but decisively spoken, with an
emotion of uneasiness not untouched by resentment. How premature his
thought of the presidency now appeared, how slight his claims to
consideration! He learned now definitely that the bishop was the real
president of the college, and that Doctor Renshaw was a fairly
negligible element in the situation. He divined also the proud and
self-sufficient spirit of the place, a pride entirely independent of
worldly success, of numbers and noise.
"To be equally frank, bishop," he returned, "I thought I had passed my
professional probation."
"We are all on probation, always," said the bishop, with a suggestion
of amused indulgence in his smile. "I am far from questioning your
professional capacity, but an arrangement for one year leaves us both
free to make other plans, in case we find that the adjustment is not as
perfect as we could have wished. However, that is a future
contingency. _Quid sit futurum cras_--you know the sentiment. If you
leave us, it will doubtless be at your own volition and, like the man
in the parable, for the purpose of taking a higher place."
He laid his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder. "Now
here," he continued, "is the southern boundary of the quadrangle."
Having outlined the architectural possibilities of the future, he
pointed with his stick to the large bronze statue of the founder that
stood on the eastern verge of the plateau, opposite the tower.
"There is only one defect," he remarked, "in that otherwise fine work
of art. You observe that the bishop's hand is extended in blessing
toward the college, with the palm downward. Did you ever know a bishop
to hold out his hand in such a position?"
His air was that of a man who has turned from business to friendly and
familiar discourse with a sense of relief. They visited in turn two
red brick buildings placed at some distance beyond and below the sacred
square, devoted to scientific and athletic pursuits. Leigh wondered
whether their position symbolised their relative unimportance to the
magnificent hall upon the hill, and indicated a grudging concession to
the dominant scientific spirit of the times.
The bishop viewed the chemical apparatus with frank condescension.
"This is Blake's laboratory," he explained. "He amuses himself here
with experiments in odours. If people will give money for such
purposes, I suppose we must take it."
As they climbed slowly back to the plateau, he went lightly from one
subject to another. His gospel of affability had finally crystallized,
until it seemed to be contained in the formula of the small anecdote
whose point, as often as not, turned upon the foibles of men of his own
profession. The effect upon his listener was to put him at his ease,
and to remove entirely the impression which the bishop's explanation of
his position had made upon his mind.
"And now we will look at something that more nearly concerns you," said
the bishop, as they approached the tower. "This large arch, by the
way, is to figure in the completed plan as a _porte cochère_. It can
be opened right through the tower, as you may observe, and the roadway
will then extend from the boulevard behind the college, across the
campus, through the eastern wing, and down the slope to the city
beyond."
Standing on the steps beneath the shadowing archway, Leigh caught a
reflected glow of enthusiasm from his guide's prophetic gaze. He was
stirred by an appreciation of the dream so grandly conceived, so
imperfectly realized, by a divination of the long struggle and the many
disappointments.
"I hope we may live to see it, sir," he said.
"You may--you may," the bishop replied, with a touch of sadness in his
tone. It was like a melancholy echo of Horace's _Postume, Postume_.
"But come," he added, waking from his reverie with an effort. "I can
scarcely expect you to take as much interest in this subject as I do,
as yet, though in time you may begin to dream of it, too. Our goal at
present lies farther up."
He led the way to the second story, where open doors disclosed glimpses
of tenantless rooms.
"Professor Cardington lives here," he remarked, "and you may have the
opposite suite, if you like. The rooms are secluded and command a fine
view in either direction. These are the only apartments in the tower,
and they are ordinarily reserved for the bachelors of the faculty."
Leigh would fain have turned in to examine the rooms he then and there
decided to accept, but the bishop continued to climb upward, and he was
obliged to put aside his curiosity for the time. The stone stairs had
now come to an end, and were replaced by stairs of iron, protected by a
railing, which followed the walls through successive floors and past
slits of windows that framed distant views of the sunny landscape
below. At last they came to a door, which the bishop unlocked. There
was one more flight of stairs, narrower and darker than the others.
Then they raised a trapdoor and stepped forth upon the roof of the
tower.
For a few moments the intense light of the noonday sun was dazzling,
and they stood basking gratefully in the warmth that presented a
striking contrast with the chill shadows from which they had emerged.
Leigh observed that he stood upon a platform some fifty feet square,
surrounded by a parapet that extended at least a foot above his head.
This wall, however, did not shut out the prospect entirely, for the
regular depressions of its castellated edge formed a series of
embrasures through which it was possible for a man of average height to
look out over the surrounding country. The tiled floor sloped slightly
toward each corner, where apertures could be seen leading into four
long stone troughs that spouted water in rainy weather. The enclosure
collected and held both the light and the heat of the sun, and the
bishop remarked that for some time after dark the tiles remained warm
to the touch.
In the centre of this space stood a wooden building, or shed,
twenty-five feet square, painted a dark red, its roof on a level with
the height of the outer parapet. The bishop opened the door with
another key and threw the windows wide, disclosing a canvas-hooded
telescope in the centre, chairs and tables bearing astronomical
instruments, and sidereal maps upon the walls. Then, as he pressed a
lever, the roof was cleft asunder till the sky expanded overhead.
"Ah," he said, pleased with Leigh's exclamation of interest. "I
thought this was more in your line. This equatorial telescope and
sliding roof are the gift of a former alumnus, left us by a provision
in his will. I had hoped he would contribute something toward the
chapel." His sigh, his abstracted look, showed how much more
acceptable such a gift would have been. "Our present chapel in the
main building is more fitted for an assembly hall or commons. Please
God, we shall one day worship Him in a separate edifice more worthy of
the purpose." He depressed the eye end of the telescope until the
muzzle pointed upward above the parapet toward the sky. "The shed," he
went on, "cannot be seen from below. I refused to allow an incongruous
dome to be built here, but the sliding flat roof answers the purpose as
well. You may find a senior who wishes to take astronomy, but I fear
that most of your effort must be expended in drilling elementary
mathematics into recalcitrant freshmen and sophomores. Your
predecessor was a good mathematician as far as he went, but he did n't
go as far as the stars. He tried it once, and fell, like Icarus, into
the sea. In other words, he published something based upon
insufficient data, I believe, which reflected no credit on the college.
Then he naturally blamed the instrument."
"I have done something in astronomy," Leigh remarked, "and hope to do
more."
"Well, I must leave you now," said his conductor. "You must come and
dine with us soon. I would like you to meet my daughter. Say a week
from to-night, at seven. I 'll leave you here, if you wish, to examine
the telescope further. Doctor Renshaw will give you all necessary
information in regard to your rooms, the entrance examinations, _et
cetera_."
He had almost disappeared down the stairs as he said these words.
Presently his head and shoulders arose once more above the roof.
"And here are the keys," he added. "What did you say your given name
was?"
"Llewellyn," Leigh answered, surprised at the abruptness of the
question.
"Ah," said the bishop, chuckling softly, "so it is. A good Welsh name,
but Peter would be more appropriate under the circumstances."
With this little jest, whose significance Leigh was somewhat slow in
grasping, he once more descended the stairs.
It was now high noon, and Leigh, left alone, paced up and down the
large, sunny square, filled with appreciative thoughts of the bishop.
So benign and humorous was the presence of the man that for some time
his influence survived his actual departure and precluded other
thoughts. In a reactionary glow of hope and confidence the young
astronomer traversed the circumference of his lofty eyrie, pausing from
time to time to gaze through one of the embrasures of the parapet upon
the incomparable scene below. Accustomed as he was to the arid glory
of California, he found a grateful refreshment in this far greener
country. The tower was like a Pisgah, from which he gazed upon the
promised land with eyes that wearied of the desert.