"I PLUCKED THE ROSE, IMPATIENT OF DELAY"
The Bradford House was a famous hostelry, and had long been deservedly
popular for its cuisine. It was a pleasure to sit in the long, low
café, to observe the rafters of natural wood, the antique fireplace,
and the mural paintings illustrating scenes from Colonial history: the
landing at Plymouth Rock, the death of Miantonomoh, the Boston Tea
Party. Still more pleasant it was, while the colonists attacked the
Pequods on the wall, to attack a lobster salad or a welsh rabbit on the
table, and to reflect that the main business of men _fruges consumere
nati_ was no longer to fight Indians.
Some such comforting reflection seemed to be mirrored in the genial
countenance of Professor Littleford, as he sat with Miss Wycliffe and
the Parrs in a corner, listening to the music that floated in from the
room beyond, and viewing the scene through the smoke of his cigarette.
He and Miss Wycliffe had a full view of the room, to which the Parrs
had shown their indifference by turning their backs, Mrs. Parr being
absorbed in her own excited comments upon the scene in the opera house,
while her husband was earnestly employed in the business which had
brought him to that place. In fact, he had pleasantly occupied the
major time of the President's speech in gustatory anticipations that
were now being realised to his perfect satisfaction; and if he thought
of the mayor at all, it was to reflect that Emmets could come and go
without changing the flavour of his favourite viands.
"It was fortunate," Littleford remarked, "that I telephoned over and
reserved this table, but I 'm afraid our friends have disappointed us."
He glanced uneasily at the chairs leaning one against each end of the
table, and then over the room. In all that crowd of eager talkers
there was practically but one theme of conversation, the recent scene
in the opera house, and but one verdict, praise of the committee. In
obscure saloons the same topic was bandied back and forth over bars
dripping with beer, but there the verdict went the other way. Could
all the excited comment on this subject, all the oaths and laughter,
have been collected into one volume of sound, what a mighty roar would
have ascended, shattering the far quiet of the moonlit night!
As Littleford looked across the room, three men entered the door and
began to make their way between the tables in his direction. The first
was Cobbens, his hat in the bend of his arm, as if it had rested there
continuously since his performance on the platform. He was acutely
conscious of the interest his appearance aroused, and bowed from left
to right with his nervous, expansive smile, a Gallic personality in
manner and dress. It was evident that he felt himself among friends,
and regarded his entrance as something of a triumphal progress. To him
social Warwick was the world, and its approval was commendation enough,
in spite of the President's rebuke. He by no means estimated at its
full value the hatred he had won from the masses, and to see him now, a
pleased and genial person, the fact was hard to realise. His
companions, or rather, the men who followed in his wake, were
Cardington and Leigh. They had left their hats and coats in the
check-room, and were following the lawyer's lead instinctively, as men
will in the mazes of a crowded place. At the same moment Littleford
held up his hand and the bishop's daughter indicated her presence and
her welcome by a beckoning motion of her napkin. All three men saw the
signal and accepted it.
Littleford's brow clouded slightly at sight of Leigh, and his greeting
of the young man was a shade less cordial than his greeting of the
other two. There were three men and two chairs, which was awkward, and
he was expecting only Swigart and Cobbens. Cardington was always
welcome, but the astronomer was still an outsider, and the present
excitement was one of peculiarly local interest. Had Leigh been a man
of means, Littleford would have commanded the waiter to find another
chair somewhere, even at the risk of being obliged to compress his
ample form against the wall; but now he retained his seat in deliberate
helplessness, hoping that the situation would presently be adjusted by
the tactful withdrawal of the only supernumerary of the party.
Unhappily for this hope, the supernumerary was not disposed to regard
himself as such. He may have known that Cobbens would have left his
hat outside had he intended to remain, but at all events, it needed
only Miss Wycliffe's smile of welcome to justify him in taking the
chair beside her.
Her acknowledgement of the lawyer's greeting was brief and perfunctory,
as if she forgot to masque her indifference; and just as unconsciously
she betrayed her partiality for the young astronomer by those minute
signals which a woman displays when off her guard. She swayed toward
him almost imperceptibly, and looked at him with content, as a woman
looks at the man she loves before she realises more than her desire to
have him near.
Cobbens began to apologise for himself and the judge. "I forgot that
of course we were expected at the club, when I promised to meet you
here; but it seems we are still on dress parade."
"Let me congratulate you," Mrs. Parr interposed, "for putting that
creature in his place."
"It was neat," Littleford commented, with appreciation.
Felicity glanced up from her conversation with Leigh to meet an
unmistakable desire for her judgment in the lawyer's eyes. The winning
prettiness of her manner, the transient glow, were gone in an instant,
to be replaced by an expression almost stony in its unhappiness.
"Something had to be done," Cobbens observed modestly, "to maintain the
dignity of the city."
The moment was epic in its possibilities, to two of the men present.
Cobbens might interpret an expression of approval on her part as a sign
that she forgave him for humiliating her _protégé_ and had outgrown her
fancy, but to Leigh such an expression would mean infinitely more.
Thus they waited, each hoping for the significant and illuminating
word. But none was given. At the lawyer's mention of dignity in
connection with himself, a slight smile hovered about the corners of
her lips, but it found no reflection in the cold brightness of her
eyes. She made as if she failed to realise that a comment was
expected, or as if the subject were not of sufficient interest to move
her to speak. The hiatus was closed before its existence could be
felt, except by the three so vitally concerned.
"I did think," Littleford explained, "that it would be pleasanter here
because of the jam at the club. That's why I proposed that you and
Swigart slip away."
The lawyer, perhaps not yet convinced that he had played and lost, now
addressed Felicity directly. "Won't you come to the reception with Mr.
Littleford and me, Miss Wycliffe? I brought my machine around for the
express purpose of carrying you off."
"I 'm too comfortable to move now," she answered coolly, "and I don't
propose to make the President shake hands with me twice in one day.
Besides, I want to have a little chat with Mr. Leigh. We have n't met
for ages. Mr. Littleford, I know you want to go,"--
"I deny it," he interposed gallantly.
--"and as I refuse to move, I don't see why my stubbornness should keep
you away from something more interesting."
"In other words," Cobbens said, with as good a grace as his
disappointment would allow, "we have received our _congé_, and had
better not stand upon the order of our going."
She greeted this declaration with laughing protest, but the two went
off together, Littleford being eager to get from one of the
participants the inside history of the scene he had witnessed, and
Cobbens well aware that to remain would be to subject himself
gratuitously to the humiliation of taking a second place in her
attention.
Leigh, exhilarated by his good fortune, was impervious to the keen,
malicious glance the lawyer had bestowed upon him, while Cardington,
who had stood by during the whole colloquy in perfect silence, did not
even now venture to seat himself, but looked down upon Felicity with
the mute reproach of one neglected.
"Mr. Cardington," she said gaily, "don't stand there like a
clock-tower, without striking a note, but take Mr. Littleford's place
here by me."
He did as she commanded, and having given his order, he took out a
cigarette and puffed meditatively.
"Now please don't fall into the doleful doldrums," she protested, "when
we 've had such an enlivening evening."
"A most effective alliteration," he murmured, but without spontaneity.
It was evident that the doldrums were very real with him, for he made
no effort to take part in the ensuing conversation, in spite of the
fact that the subject was one which might have aroused him to his best
endeavours.
Felicity's mood was a revelation to Leigh, though he could not fail to
divine its cause, and to guess the emotions she had undergone. Had her
pride led her to defend her husband, or had she been reserved and sad,
he would not have been surprised, but her sparkle and gaiety were like
the glancing of light on the surface of a rock. She even shared in
Mrs. Parr's ecstatic triumph over Emmet and echoed her praise of
Cobbens, but with a subtle effect of mockery, so that her friend was
presently reduced to a hurt and bewildered silence. In all this Leigh
saw the effect of her husband's humiliation upon her, that it had torn
from the mayor the last shred of the glamour with which her foolish
fancy had once surrounded him. He was moved to speculate upon her
probable attitude, had Emmet seized his opportunity and risen
adequately to the occasion, but the speculation was fruitless, and the
present topic of conversation full of hazard to himself. He was
guiltless of the vulgarity of showing an animus against Emmet,
guiltless also of the hypocrisy of defending him against his wife; and
he embraced the opportunity Mrs. Parr's discomfiture offered of turning
the talk to Bermuda.
How much of this psychological drama was visible to Cardington it would
be impossible to say, but apparently he was lost to his surroundings,
for he allowed the others to thresh out the Emmet incident without the
assistance of his own able flail. Not until the conversation turned to
Bermuda did he arouse himself from his reverie and take the lead. The
topic suggested to his mind the influence of climate upon architecture
and the arts, and presently he was exploring distant ramifications of
the theme.
"I feel it incumbent upon myself," Cardington said, "to confess that I
gave Mr. Emmet my careful consideration this evening, during the
moments I could spare from a contemplation of our Chief Executive, and
I must say that I found him the more interesting study of the two. I
began to demolish my earlier views, or prejudices, and to build up a
new opinion of the man. Fairness compels me to admit that I got a
different conception of his possibilities. As I sat looking at him,
expecting to see every sign of demoralisation in his aspect, I began to
perceive that he by no means regarded himself down and out for good, if
you will allow the sporting phrase. Mr. Emmet was fooled this time,
but he will not be fooled again. I thought I could see that he had
learned his lesson well, and if I were Mr. Anthony Cobbens, I should
feel the stirring of a very considerable doubt as to the ultimate
outcome of the struggle to which he has now committed himself. Perhaps
he has provoked a jinnee in that young man which will one day rise up
and envelop him in a cloud of political suffocation. Don't you think
so, Miss Felicity?"
He looked at her inquiringly, anticipating her acquiescence. In his
expression the ideal and impersonal quality that constituted his
peculiar charm was now apparent, and suggested an inward exaltation, as
if he had gained a victory over himself and had made an honourable
amend. Leigh, watching her with tense emotion, saw that she was deeply
impressed, and he seemed to read the record of her thoughts in the
shadows that came and went within her eyes. She was weighing her
husband's qualities and possibilities in the scales of this unexpected
opinion, and the decision hung suspended in the balance. As he divined
her secret struggle and realised that she might go back to the man who
did not love her, who wished to use her for his own advancement, he
suffered an agony of jealousy that was well-nigh insupportable.
For a few moments she delayed to answer, toying with her fork in
thoughtful abstraction. In fact, her love for the young astronomer
beside her was contending with the old desire to control her husband
and to make him a figure in the world. In the inmost recesses of her
heart she knew that she no longer loved Emmet, and that they could
never wholly meet. What she did not, perhaps, so frankly own was the
fact that she had found too late the man she could have loved and for
whom she should have waited. With him she had common social
experiences and religious traditions, and time had taught her the value
of these things she had once imagined she despised. But, after all, it
was the right man against the wrong man, irrespective of such
considerations. Now that Emmet was mayor, she found she did not care;
the prize was an apple of Sodom in her hand. He had even lost the
picturesqueness which appeared to be his in another sphere, without
gaining in compensation the things that were Leigh's by inheritance.
The argument went against him now, if that could be called an argument
which was only a question of love. She looked up finally with a smile
that seemed to indicate indifference, or the weary shelving of a long
vexed question.
"Perhaps you are right," she answered. "I 'm sure I don't presume to
say."
Cardington rose to his feet abruptly, and his glance seemed one of
judgment upon her.
"A scandalous proceeding!" he broke out. "This night's work was a
scandalous proceeding." Her startled flush arrested him, and his tone
attained a sudden jocularity. "Well, I must leave you here to fight it
out among yourselves. I have a piece of work that is calling loudly to
me from the hill. Good-night!" He paid his bill, and strode away
without another word.
"I never knew a man with such a range of learning," Leigh said; "he
makes the rest of us seem like ignoramuses."
"We are all his students," Mrs. Parr put in, "whether we wish to be or
not." She spoke with such feeling that the others were moved to
laughter. For some time she had been looking from Leigh to Felicity
with that birdlike movement of the head, until she had made a woman's
great discovery, that her friend was not indifferent to his admiration.
Without going so far as to wish Felicity to marry him, she was deeply
pleased that he seemed to have driven away the more unworthy fancy.
This was enough for the present, and her content shone in her glances
toward the young man like an unspoken message of good-will.
As they stood on the curb outside while Mr. Parr went to find his
carriage, the scene before them presented such a contrast with the
experiences of the evening that instinctively they were hushed in
contemplation. The bare branches of the trees in the park across the
way were silvered by the rays of the full moon, which wrought a
motionless tracery on the thin remnant of snow beneath. Through a gap
could be seen the white shaft of the soldiers' monument, lifting high
above the trees a splendid figure of Victory, with wings outspread
against the pale sky. Modelled after the Pillar of Trajan, only more
lovely in the purity of its white marble, it was one of the rare
objects of art that gave Warwick a claim to distinction and justified
the pride of its citizens. Around it were carved innumerable figures
of soldiers, climbing a spiral pathway. Indistinguishable now in the
moonlight, they still remained in the memory, like the echo of a
martial song.
This was the first appeal of the night, made to the eye alone; but
presently, despite the random noises of the street, they became aware
of a dull, continuous sound, and knew that the stream which intersected
the park on its way to the river had been freed from ice by the January
thaw, and was pouring its swollen waters over the dam. The note was
deep and full, like a solemn recitative, as if Nature's diurnal
harmonies had sunk to this one transitional key. Above all, the
mildness of the air, full of the alluring witchery of a false spring,
affected the imagination like a delicate, ethereal wine.
Leigh lifted his head and swept the sky with the keenness of the
scientist to whom its vast spaces are a familiar book; yet when he
suddenly desisted and looked down at Felicity, she saw in his eyes the
rare expression of the poet.
"It would almost seem," he said, "that Nature has gradually been taking
on a more serene and mysterious beauty every moment, to rebuke the
feverish struggles of men."
Their glances lingered, and he read in her a wild unhappiness and a
suggestion of reckless daring that stirred his heart to he knew not
what tempestuous emotions. He found in that look a license for his
dreams, and made her the guardian of his conscience. He had no wish to
be more honourable than she, and this surrender was attended by an
ecstasy that derived its final sweetness from a sense of transgression.
When the carriage came round, he handed Mrs. Parr in, and then
hesitated.
"We ought to walk home such a night as this, Miss Wycliffe," he
suggested.
Mrs. Parr leaned forward and laughed lightly with appreciation.
"Felicity, dear," she said, "if you're going to walk, do draw up your
hood, or you'll catch cold."
Leigh's heart grew warm with gratitude at this friendly interposition,
and to his surprise even Parr himself seemed not indifferent to his
cause. "Yes," he added, pulling at his cigar till it glowed redly,
"this is the kind of weather when one catches cold easily. The worst
cold I ever caught was during one of these January thaws." With this
advice they drove away, pleased with their innocent cooperation.
Felicity, laughing at their warning, nevertheless accepted the
suggestion. The long Shaker cloak gave a demure and Puritanical effect
to her figure as her head disappeared beneath the hood, an effect of
outline merely, for the richness of its crimson hue suggested other
associations. For some time they walked in comparative silence through
the park, pausing for a moment on the stone arch that spanned the
stream to note the glint of the moon on the swirling water, and even
when they found themselves at last in Birdseye Avenue, their talk was
all of the night and the sorcery of its effects, veiling and again
unconsciously betraying the nature of their inward thoughts.
A realisation of the fact that his opportunity was slipping by moved
Leigh to desperation. Yet an opportunity for what? Try as he might,
he could never understand how she had come to marry Emmet; her
practical repudiation of the act could not undo it. What was he to
hope for from this cruel and beautiful woman? He was indifferent to
the fact that for some time he had not spoken.
"What are you thinking of?" she asked, turning upon him with a hint of
challenge. "Has the moonlight bewitched you, Mr. Leigh?"
"Not the moonlight," he answered shortly, "though I am bewitched."
She regarded him with an air of inquiry, even of invitation. Was it
possible that she failed to know what might result? Did she hunger for
further evidences of her power?
"Don't look at me like that," he went on, "if you wish me to remember
that you once forbade me to love you. Don't I know how hopeless my
love is? Your eyes have come between me and my work day and night to
invite me to take what you can never give, and what I believe you would
not give if you could. Is n't it enough that you have been cruel to
one man?"
They were passing her house, but neither paused. His passion had led
him to disclose his knowledge of her secret, and her heart was gripped
in a sudden fear. For the moment, it seemed to her that all Warwick
must know, that the fact she now desired to conceal was common
property, to be to-morrow the wonder of the town.
"See how deserted the street is," he said. "It is as if you and I were
walking alone in the world, and who can tell when we shall be alone
again?"
Presently he paused and faced her. She stood looking up at him, her
face, framed by the gathered edge of her crimson hood, ethereally
beautiful in the full moonlight.
"Do you know how a man feels when he loves you, Felicity?" he demanded.
It was the first time he had ever addressed her by that name, but she
accepted it without protest, waiting with parted lips for his next
words. "How can you be so quiet?" he went on passionately. "It is n't
possible that you can be as cruel as you seem! Why did n't you treat
me brutally at the very first, and give me my answer before I was such
a fool as to ask the question? That would have been kindness. But you
let me hope, I don't know why, perhaps because you wanted to use me,
perhaps to feed your vanity. Just now I hardly know what I am saying
to you; but don't think that I shall be one of your victims. You owe
me something, Felicity, some memory to carry with me the rest of my
life. That at least I will have, even if I must pay for it by never
seeing you again."
Before she could forestall his intention, he had drawn her into his
arms. Her hand faltered in a vain effort against his breast, and she
was lost. She leaned against him helplessly. "There," he said,
kissing her once and again, "now you know how I love you."
They stood apart, trembling. In his eyes shone a mournful triumph,
while her indignation was rendered speechless by a full knowledge of
her responsibility for the act. She could have averted it, had she
wished.
"I did not dream," he said at last, as if speaking to himself alone,
"that a woman could be so sweet."
"Have you forgotten that I am"--She could not frame the word that
hovered on her lips, nor maintain the dignity for which she strove
against the suffocating tumult of joy that rioted in her heart.
"Your husband gave me his confidence," he answered bitterly. "You see
how well I deserved it."
"Then you realise what you have done." There was a note of finality in
her voice, and, turning slowly, she began to retrace her steps. She
was unconscious of the fact that they were walking close together until
the sound of a carriage overtaking them caused her to draw away
instinctively and to glance with apprehension at the roadway. The
vehicle passed within a few feet of the curb, and the bishop leaned
forward with a look of recognition.
"Father has been to the reception," she said. "I must go in now."
"There is so much I want to say," he protested.
She smiled drearily. "You must spare me further humiliation," she
answered. He knew her meaning without more words. He must not speak
to her of her mistake, nor hint of the possibility of her freedom. Yet
it was this possibility that struggled dumbly within them for
recognition, so that now their mood was one of storm, all the more
intense from its repression. They were conscious each moment of the
man who stood between them, no longer the familiar figure, but one
evoked by their mutual guilt and sublimated by Cardington's prophetic
words, strong to avenge himself upon his enemies and betrayers. Leigh,
convinced that Emmet would claim his own, suffered already the anguish
of renunciation, more poignant that the pressure of her unresisting
lips was still felt warmly on his own. Before her house he stooped and
kissed her again without fear of repulse, chastened and subdued.
"Since it is to be good-bye," she said quietly.
He stood where she left him, watching her figure lessening between the
trees until it was swallowed up in the shadow of the house. The door
opened, he saw the crimson flash of her cloak for a moment in the light
from within, and then she was gone.
The bishop, sitting beside the lamp with a book in his hand, glanced up
as his daughter entered, with a keen inquiry in his deepset eyes.
"I thought I just passed you with Mr. Leigh," he remarked, watching the
effect of his words. Her unusual colour and the brilliancy of her eyes
served to confirm his suspicions, though her manner was as studiedly
indifferent as his own. It was with difficulty that she restrained the
trembling of her fingers fumbling with the fastening of her cloak.
"Yes," she answered. "Mr. Leigh met us at the Bradford after the
President's speech, and the night was so beautiful that we walked home
together."
Looking at her attentively, he was struck by a new softness and
radiance in her beauty, and by the fact that the Shaker cloak was
singularly becoming. He thought of his sermon on personal adornment,
and in spite of his anxiety, a deep amusement dawned in his eyes. "And
went around Robin Hood's barn, by the way," he supplemented.
"Is n't the longest way round the shortest way home?" she asked coolly.
His smile had reassured her. Whatever he suspected, it was much less
than the truth.
It was not in the bishop's nature to come out with a direct question
that might precipitate a scene, except as a last resort, and he
presently bade her good-night, after commenting upon the events of the
evening with the casual interest of one accustomed to public
spectacles. In reality, his interest had been deep, but now another
matter demanded his thought, and he was willing to be alone. He was
reminded by the encounter in the street that it was high time to put
the machinery in operation by which the young professor was to be
quietly dismissed from St. George's Hall. Satisfied with his analysis
of his daughter's state of mind, he perfected his plan, and went to bed
in comparative content.
Leigh sat for a long time staring at the flame of his lamp and striving
to take reckoning with himself. He could no more have told how he
found his way to his room than if he had been carried thither in a
state of insensibility, but there he was, trying to think, while mere
emotion still held a riotous sway. He had kissed her, and the touch of
her lips, the fragrance of her skin, were even now present in his
senses. The experience caused him to readjust his impression of her.
She had lost something in his eyes. What was it? Not height; though
she seemed less tall. The change was not in stature. Like Pygmalion,
he had found the marble grow warm and human beneath his caress; he was
still bewildered by the wonder of it, and mad with a sense of triumph.
She had lost her inaccessibility, her inviolable distance, but she had
gained in womanly quality, gained infinitely upon his heart, so that
now he longed for only one thing--to take her in his arms once more.
At the thought he flushed warmly; but suddenly his heart grew cold, as
her words came back so vividly to his mind that they seemed spoken
audibly in the room: "Since it is to be good-bye."
He arose from his chair and walked rapidly up and down the room, as if
to escape from his own condemnation. Had he, then, no honour at all?
The question brought him face to face with his naked soul, and he was
afraid. What sophistry was that by which he had justified his act? He
had argued that it was to be a kiss of farewell, and no sooner had he
attained his wish than all thought of the stipulation vanished utterly
from his mind, leaving only a more insatiable longing. The last
vestige of his morality seemed to be swept away, and memory made the
taste of stolen waters still sweet to his lips. When he judged Emmet
so severely, he was proudly sure of his own standards, but now he felt
he had none. Her husband's scornful and warning look, the day they
encountered each other in the street, was then prophetic. The man
estimated him unerringly, and knew what he had to fear.
Reflection had come at last, and would not down. Surely, Emmet was the
more honourable of the two, and had been more sinned against than
sinning. He had slipped, had recovered himself, and was honestly
striving to make amends. How shamefully cruel his treatment had been
from every hand, from his wife's, his friend's, his political
opponents'! Where was now his own guilty triumph of a few moments
since? He sank into his chair once more, and faced the fact that Emmet
had given him an example to follow, that he must keep his promise not
to see Felicity again.
His eye fell upon his pipe and he seized it avidly. At the table, he
had not smoked with Cardington and Parr; he had scarcely eaten. Now,
the tobacco brought peculiar relief to his over-wrought mind, and
dulled for a few moments the edge of his remorse. In the wavering
clouds of smoke he saw her eyes once more. And the crimson cloak! Was
ever a wrap worn by mortal woman so bewitching, so deliciously
contradictory in its suggestions? The Shaker women never married, and
this was their peculiar garment, though they always wore one of sad,
monotonous gray. Every winter they came to Warwick and sold cloaks of
worldly colours to the rich young women of the town, seeking money for
their dwindling settlement. In the contradiction between the
demureness of outline and the warmth of colour the wearer found a
weapon of coquetry.
Presently the pipe was smoked out, and then the second and the third,
with gradual lessening of narcotic power. The vision of the senses was
gone, and the relentless reality of duty returned. Once more he left
his chair and began his restless pacing to and fro. Thus the miserable
night wore on, until he threw himself upon his bed to win the oblivion
of sleep.
But now another memory assailed him: the night following his meeting
with Felicity in the woods, when, during fitful dreams, a vision of
that strange figure rising up in the shadows beyond the fire returned
to haunt him. Suddenly he was sitting up in bed, staring into the
darkness. In despair he went to his windows and raised the curtains to
see if it were near the dawn. It was four o'clock, but night still
covered the wintry landscape. The full moon was setting in the west.
Transformed from a natural object by the medium of his over-strained
and weary mind, it now presented a sinister and mocking face, as it
peered through the diamonded panes and poured a flood of yellow light
upon the floor.