THE BLINDNESS OF THE BISHOP
The following morning, Felicity did not appear at the breakfast-table,
a circumstance sufficiently unusual to cause the bishop some
uneasiness, for she rarely failed to rise at a reasonable hour.
"Lena," he said, "go upstairs and see whether Miss Wycliffe is ill, but
don't wake her if she is still asleep."
Left alone, he glanced over the morning paper, too much absorbed in the
hypothesis that would explain his daughter's non-appearance to find
much amusement in the editor's bland and innocuous comments upon the
sensational episode of the preceding night. He recalled her evident
excitement and preoccupation when she came in from her walk with Leigh.
If her interview with the young man had been what he feared, it was
natural she should have lain awake long into the night, and his heart
misgave him at this additional confirmation of his insight.
When Lena Harpster received no response to her gentle tap, she ventured
to open the door softly and to step within her mistress's room. The
lightest sleeper could scarcely have been awakened by her entrance, as
noiseless as a shadow or the slow swaying of a curtain. She stood near
the foot of the bed, in the dim and fragrant room, looking at the
beautiful head upon the pillow, the dark, abundant hair, the half-open
lips relaxed from the control of the mind, revealing now more clearly
all the promises and passions which when awake they might deny.
Some sense of the awe and mystery of sleep caused Lena to stand thus
motionless at gaze, herself a pale, ethereal figure, scarcely less
beautiful than her mistress. There was a guilty consciousness also of
deliberate intrusion. Familiar as she was with the room, it now took
on a different aspect to her eyes. All the objects of art, the
tapestries and pictures and statuettes, which she had admired for
themselves, seemed in a peculiar way the property of their happy owner,
an overflowing expression of her abundant loveliness. What a contrast
that lace-covered bed, that nest of luxury, presented to her own simple
couch beneath the roof, which served merely as a place where she could
lie down and rest! And there was another contrast of which she was
unaware. The sleeping face was more instinct with life, though Sleep
is said to be the brother of Death, than the shadowed eyes that watched.
Miss Wycliffe, she reflected, had only to wish for a thing, and
possession was assured. Above all, it was the thought that she might
also have taken her lover from her which kept the girl's eyes fixed in
wistful speculation. She had ventured to write again to Emmet, but
without result; he had even passed her blindly on the street, leaving
her faint, with a whispered greeting dying pathetically on her lips.
How could she contend with her mistress, if what she feared were true?
Yet how slender her cause of suspicion! Only the incident of the ring,
which Miss Wycliffe had explained most naturally; but the final warning
against Emmet remained in her mind as a declaration of possession.
It was characteristic of Lena's nature that she yielded to no one in
appreciation of Felicity's beauty. Chastened rather than embittered by
a conviction of her own loss, she was not without a consciousness of
the appealing change which sleep now made in the woman she had such
cause to dread. No hint remained of that imperious quality which
moulded others to her will. She seemed to have grown softer, and there
was something childlike in the position of her arm on the counterpane,
in her hand turned palm upward, in her half-curled fingers. A lover,
were he a poet, might have likened them to the petals of a flower that
had begun to open with returning day. Presently the sleeper stirred
and opened her eyes, dimly aware of a retreating presence and a closing
door, but when, an hour later, she awoke fully, the impression was like
that of a dream.
It was ten o'clock when she rang her bell and ordered breakfast in her
room. This order was as unusual as her late sleep, but she seemed to
herself to have awakened a different person, one in whom such small
changes of action were merely an index of greater possibilities. She
received her father's inquiries through Lena with indifference, and
sent back word that she had been only over-tired. Knowing that he
lingered below to see her, she delayed deliberately until he should
grow impatient and leave the house, for she wished to take up again the
train of thought that had kept her so long awake the previous night.
At present, her sole concern was of herself and of her lover.
Having placed the steaming cup of coffee beside her on the
dressing-table, she sipped it from time to time while she fastened up
her hair. Like Leigh, she too had come to a new realisation of self,
but the revelation was attended with far less of spiritual turmoil. It
was as if she were making her own acquaintance over again, and the
process was not without fascination. He had called her cruel. Was
there truth in the charge? She had never been conscious of intentional
cruelty, and yet she was intellectual enough to see that her husband
might have good reason to accuse her of it in her treatment of him.
But Leigh had no such cause of complaint, unless he would hold her
responsible for her beauty. There must be some expression in her face
which she herself had never seen, which she could never summon from its
reflection in the mirror, an expression of desire, impersonal it might
be, but moving the beholder to a personal response.
She was pleased, rather than distressed, by Leigh's condemnation. In
spite of his talk of cruelty and vanity, he had said he did not know a
woman could be so sweet. She knew she could be sweet to the man she
loved, and that no one had ever yet divined how much she had to give.
She placed the back of her hand against her lips and tried to imagine
how they had felt to him when he kissed them. The youthfulness of the
action and the fancy made her smile, and showed her how far she had
gone in thinking of him as a lover.
Her sense of guilt was less acute than her realisation of the
difficulty of her position. It came upon her that she was one day
nearer discovery and condemnation. As yet no plan of action had taken
final shape in her mind. She did not know whether she would wait for
discovery to come and find her, or take the initiative. Leigh's
declaration had acted as a sedative on her unhappiness, and had
banished the desire of an explanation with her husband. She would fain
arrest time while the situation remained as it was, while Leigh was not
yet lost to her for good. What did she mean by allowing him to kiss
her a second time? Did she wish to make amends for the suffering she
had caused, or was her acquiescence a fatal admission? In the latter
case, what hope or consolation could she find in this new discovery?
Cardington too came in for a share of her thought, but scarcely for a
share of her concern. Whatever his suspicions or knowledge, she was
sure that his affection and loyalty would keep him silent. If his
final outbreak at the table the previous evening expressed his
indignation at Emmet's treatment, it seemed to tell also his acceptance
of the inevitable, and to convey to her in her doubt his advice, almost
his entreaty. It was as if he had pointed out to her the path of duty,
and warned her against his colleague, not in a spirit of jealousy, but
in the spirit of a friend who had readied an absolute renunciation of
whatever hopes he might once have cherished, and now thought only of
her. For a moment she softened almost to the point of tears, but this
indulgence was brief. A vision of her husband's bulldog air, as he sat
there baffled and at bay, returned to menace her. She realised that he
would not leave matters longer as they were, that he might force the
crisis that very day. The mettle of the bishop's daughter was never
more apparent than now, as she faced the probable results of her own
actions. She was by no means inclined to take her punishment quietly,
or to admit that she was in the wrong. Having ruled her husband so
long, she would not now allow him to dictate to her, but would fight
for her own happiness. Her hands clenched involuntarily, and her
breath came quick with militant excitement. Had she been a man, her
career, in whatever line she might have chosen, could scarcely have
been less than remarkable.
Meanwhile the bishop was frittering the morning away by a desultory
attention to his correspondence, hoping each moment that Felicity would
pass the open door of his study. He was no longer a busy man, for the
onerous duties of his office were now taken by his coadjutor, and he
could well afford to wait. He did not know what he wished to say to
her, but he would see her face again and observe her manner, that he
might examine anew his grounds of suspicion. For him there were no
longer golden hours which it were a sin for others to filch from him.
In the sunset of his life he dreamed of the active labours of his
successors, of the institution which he would leave in a position to
feed more generously the ministry of the Church. Should he allow her
foolish fancy for a fortune hunter to divert her from the purpose he
hoped she would one day cherish? Even if a husband made no attempt to
dissuade her, a child would inevitably become an heir, and her plans
would be solely for him. Cold and austere by nature, he had married
his own position to wealth, and he felt no desire to perpetuate his
line under the name of another man. Above all, he shrunk from the
thought of his daughter's marriage as from a profanation. She was so
like him in certain mental traits and interests that he could not
appreciate the temperamental difference that kept them far apart.
As the hands of the clock crept toward eleven, he realised that the
morning was slipping away, and that he could wait no longer if he was
to see President Renshaw before he went to lunch. A few minutes later,
he stood in the hall, a distinguished and old-fashioned figure, with
his silk hat, his long cape, and his gold-headed ebony cane. Lena
Harpster was there, dusting an antique chair of ecclesiastical design
that looked as if it had been imported from the chancel of some English
cathedral.
"Lena," he said, laying his letters on the table and beginning to draw
on his gloves, "don't forget to give these to the postman when he
comes; and tell Miss Wycliffe I shall be home to lunch."
She opened the door for his exit and started back against the wall with
a little cry, as if she had seen a ghost, for there, blocking the
bishop's way, his hand extended to touch the bell, stood Mayor Emmet.
The bishop, too much surprised to note the panic of his servant, was
silent for a moment. It did not occur to him that the call could be on
any one but himself. How great would his astonishment have been, had
he known that poor Lena was almost fainting beside him with the wild
hope that her lover had come to claim her at last! How great his
stupefaction, could he have seen his daughter standing midway on the
stairs, one hand on the baluster, the other raised to her heart in
petrifying fear! It was fortunate indeed for Felicity that she had
time, unobserved in the shadow of the stairway, to regain her
self-control. Had she descended a moment earlier, had she been at the
door when Lena threw it open, she could hardly have answered for
herself.
The bishop retreated a step, as if he would thereby invite his
visitor's entrance, but, busy with his gloves, his cane hugged under
one arm, he failed, without the effect of discourtesy, to extend his
hand.
"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Emmet," he said in his courtly and deliberate
manner, and with that suggestion of a purr in his voice which always
betokened concealment and a latent ability to spring. "You find me
just about to go out, but I still have a little leeway. Won't you step
in?"
He was not without curiosity in regard to the object of the mayor's
visit. Speculation glimmered in his eyes, and his wide, affable smile
was subtle with anticipation of a diplomatic test. He was secretly
amused that Emmet should presume upon his blushing honours in this
fashion, but doubtless the man had a plausible excuse for his
intrusion, some civic scheme for which he wished to bespeak
cooperation. After his humiliation the previous night, he had
conceived a plan for drawing some of his opponents into his own camp,
and this was perhaps the first movement of the new campaign. So ran
the bishop's conjecture, and he was not surprised at his visitor's
unmistakable air of excitement, at the pallor of his face. Perhaps his
drubbing at the hands of Cobbens had taught him more respect for the
class he had been wont to denounce to his followers, and had deprived
him of a moiety of his self-assurance.
"Bishop Wycliffe," Emmet returned, coming into the hall and taking off
his hat, "I had n't decided to call upon you--yet. It is your daughter
whom I wish to see."
It was months since the bishop had given Felicity's advocacy of this
man a thought. The election seemed to have killed her interest, for
she had not spoken of him since, and besides, his suspicions were
centred solely on Leigh. Perhaps, then, the scheme was one of charity,
and the mayor had planned to begin with Felicity, remembering her
former kindness.
The bishop hesitated, when the rustle of silken skirts caused him to
turn his head, but he greeted Felicity's appearance unperturbed.
"Oh, here you are, my dear. I thought you had gone out."
"I overheard I had a caller," she returned, taking her husband's hand
and meeting his eyes unflinchingly. "I have n't had a chance to
congratulate you, Mr. Emmet, upon your election, for we had to go South
the next day on account of father's health. You caught me at the
feminine trick of listening over the banisters."
The bishop was secretly annoyed at her cordiality, but still confident
that he could trust his daughter to remember the difference between a
common interest in charitable work and social equality.
"I leave Mr. Emmet in your hands," he said to her. "I have a little
business at the Hall, and shall return for lunch."
And he went out, thinking how like a bewildered yokel the mayor seemed
in the face of his daughter's graceful greeting, and imagining with
relish his further discomfiture.
The door had closed behind him, and as yet Emmet had not said a word to
his wife. Even now it was she who took the initiative.
"Let us go into the drawing-room," she suggested, turning and leading
the way. He followed at once, brushing past Lena with cruel emphasis
of manner. There she stood, or rather leaned against the wall, like
one stricken. The jar of his passing seemed to release the tension of
her limbs, and she sank down slowly, noiselessly, in a dead faint.
Emmet neither heeded her anguish nor heard her soft fall upon the heavy
rug. He hurriedly closed the drawing-room door to prevent his
sweetheart from overhearing his interview with his wife, and strode
into the centre of the room, where Felicity had turned at bay.
"What have you come for?" she asked in a low voice. Her face was as
white as his own, but her self-control was greater.
"For you, Felicity," he answered. "You are my wife, and I 've come for
you."
"I did n't know," she returned relentlessly, "but you had come to see
that poor girl in the hall to whom you gave my ring. Looking from the
stairs, I saw by her manner that she thought so too."
"My God, Felicity!" he gasped, "I believe you 've kept her in this
house like a bird in a cage, to torture her as you 've tortured me.
Why did n't you send her away, when you discovered I 'd been making
love to her?"
"For your greater convenience?"
"Oh, as for that," he retorted, "when you left her here in Warwick and
went away, you practically threw her into my arms. But I did n't take
advantage of it,--only once,--and then I stopped short. That was what
I came to explain. I want you to know how much less cause you have to
throw me over in this way than you think. I want you to forgive me,
and to keep your promise. She's nothing to me--nothing. She 's no
more to me than any one of the dozen men you 've been running around
with are to you,--Cobbens, for example, or that young professor up at
the Hall."
There was more than a suggestion of scorn in his refusal to mention his
real rival by name, and in the belittling adjective. His assumption
that she cared nothing for Leigh would perhaps have found acceptance in
her mind only the day before, but now a memory of last night's scene
made her as cruel to her husband as he had just been to Lena Harpster.
She looked at him coolly, aware of her utter awakening from the
adventurous and romantic mood she had mistaken for love, wondering also
that she should ever have supposed this man capable of satisfying her
ideal. The ideal itself had vanished in the personality of the man who
had taken her in his arms the previous night and poured his passionate
love into her ears.
"It is n't a question of forgiving, Tom," she said, after a pause; and
her tone was conciliatory. "It's a question of discovery. I was
deceived in you. I did n't think you capable of such--such weakness
and vulgarity. It was my fault of judgement, perhaps, but the
awakening is fatal. Can't you see that?"
"What do you mean to do?" he demanded, glaring at her helplessly.
Their points of view were so different, her expression so unrelenting,
that the self-justification he had planned to speak was choked in his
throat. "Do you mean to get a divorce? I tell you, Felicity, there 's
no cause."
"I don't know yet what I mean to do," she said frankly.
"I 'll call upon your father, then," he declared grimly, "and see what
he thinks of it." An ugly gleam shone in his eyes, as he uttered the
threat. It was plain now that love for his wife was the least of his
motives in demanding her; there was ambition, but, strongest of all, a
desire for revenge on the bishop and his class. He would make them
accept him at last. They should pay dearly for their scorn. "I 'll
not be elbowed out of the way and kept in the closet like a family
skeleton any longer," he went on. "The limit of my endurance has been
reached."
Felicity now saw clearly what she had brought upon herself. She paled
with fear, and flushed with anger, but neither emotion coloured her
reply.
"You must give me a few days longer. I prefer to see my father
first--alone. I will let you know--I'll write."
So absorbed were they in their own tense feelings that they failed to
hear the opening and shutting of the front door, which was left
unlatched during the day for just such unconventional calls as the one
Mrs. Parr now happened to make. The first intimation they had of
interruption was her shrill and terror-stricken cry: "Felicity!
Felicity! Your maid is here in the hall--dead!"
Emmet reached Lena's side first. He raised her in his arms and carried
her into the room he had just left, where he laid her gently on a
couch. Felicity had already run upstairs for brandy and
smelling-salts. Emmet, standing over Lena in guilty solicitude,
addressed Mrs. Parr.
"Open the window," he said brusquely, "and give her some air."
She obeyed without question, and Felicity, returning with restoratives,
found her husband hovering over her maid with tell-tale anxiety written
on every feature, while her friend stood at the window looking on in
curious conjecture. Together they bent over the girl's white face and
moistened her lips with brandy. Presently, Lena's eyelids fluttered
and trembled open. The mayor lifted her once more, as if she were a
child, and stood erect.
"I 'll carry her to her room," he said to Felicity, "if you 'll show me
the way."
"It's two flights of stairs," she objected. "Perhaps she had better
stay here for a while."
"She's as light as a feather, poor girl," he returned. "She 's nothing
for me to carry."
"You forget, Felicity," Mrs. Parr put in, with double meaning, "that
Mr. Emmet is an athlete."
Without further protest, Felicity led the way upstairs, and Emmet
followed with his burden. It was inevitable that the gentle clinging
of those arms about his neck, the pressure of her golden head, should
melt his heart like wax and make temporary havoc of his resolution.
Impulsively he bent his face until it rested a moment in her hair.
Circumstances had thrown them together once more in their natural
relationship, both of them scorned, each needing and understanding the
other in a peculiar way. No bold claims or passionate protests could
have won the tender consideration her patient suffering drew from him.
Felicity opened the door, and stood aside to let him pass. He laid
Lena carefully on her little bed and arranged her pillow, then turned
toward the door. It was still open, though his wife no longer stood
there, and he heard the diminishing rustle of her skirts. He stood
looking first at the door and then back again at the bed, irresolutely.
Lena opened her eyes and smiled at him with ineffable sweetness, and
the temptation was overpowering. He took one noiseless step and sank
upon his knees beside her.
"Good-bye, Lena," he murmured brokenly, the stinging and unaccustomed
tears springing to his eyes; "good-bye, my poor little girl. If she
were not my wife--my God, Lena, if she were only not my wife!"
The revelation could add nothing to the emotions she had already
experienced. She was sure of his love; in her weakness and spiritual
exaltation, that was enough. They were now bound together by a common
tragedy, and she knew his gain was loss. If he had made her suffer, he
had brought no less suffering upon himself, and her eyes shone with a
pitiful triumph. His arms were about her, and his cheek was pressed to
her own upon the pillow. Too weak herself to speak, or even to weep,
her eyes told him all she wished to say.
"Forgive me, Lena," he entreated, "forgive me before I go."
"I do, Tom, dear," she whispered. "You know I do."
Her words fell upon his soul with infinite consolation. He felt that
he had received the pardon of Heaven for his sins, and could now depart
bravely to work out his penance. Softened and exalted, he little
realised that the penance was unnecessary and self-imposed, that the
mood which now took on the heroic tone of self-sacrifice was still a
mood of self-seeking, that his love for Lena was selfish now as it had
always been, and utterly unworthy of the devotion he received. It was
true that he loved her, but he loved himself and his ambitions and
revenges more. Her forgiveness was but permission to indulge them to
the end. Nevertheless, when he found Felicity at the telephone in the
hall below, his eyes were still bright with tears. She hung up the
receiver and turned to him coldly. One glance at his face told her his
state of mind and justified her own. She had never seen him at his
worst before. Hypocritical with himself, filled with mawkish emotion
that sublimated him in his own eyes, yet still grimly bent upon his
original purpose, he had reached the very nadir of unattractiveness.
"I have sent for the doctor," she informed him, in the tone of one who
has done her duty. "He will be here soon."
"Your answer," he said hoarsely. "I cannot leave without an answer."
"I will write--soon," she returned, "but leave me now."
Without further insistence he turned from her and ran downstairs. He
was out on the sidewalk before he became aware that his head was
uncovered. He returned to the drawing-room and found his hat on the
floor, where it had fallen from his hand at Mrs. Parr's shrill alarm.
She stood there still, waiting for Felicity's return, but neither
looked at the other or spoke a word, frankly and mutually contemptuous.
The door slammed behind him a second time, and almost immediately
afterward Felicity entered.
"Well, Ella," she said, sinking into a chair, "did you ever see such an
excitement? I never had a greater shock in my life than when you
called out that she was dead. I 'm afraid she's a very delicate girl,
but she 's coming around all right, and I 've sent for the doctor."
She showed unmistakably the strain she had endured.
"Felicity," her friend broke out excitedly, "there's something here I
don't understand. You don't mean to tell me you actually allow that
man to call on you!"
Miss Wycliffe opened her eyes in astonishment. "What a goose you are,
Ella! He came to see father. I had n't time to find out what he
wanted when you nearly frightened me out of my wits."
Mrs. Parr, only partially convinced, was forced to accept the
explanation; and though her eyes adumbrated reproach, she dared not say
more. She remembered, however, the picture of Leigh and Felicity going
off together in the moonlight the previous evening, and was reassured.
In fact, she had run in to gossip about the young man, and to sound his
praises with design, but the situation she encountered at her entering
had revived her old suspicions concerning Emmet. Now she told herself
that they were merely a habit of mind, without justification. She
recalled the mayor's emotion as he bent over Lena, his averted face
when he returned for his hat, and plunged at once into an account of
the episode at the inn, which she had hitherto kept to herself. Before
long they were discussing the probable nature of the tie between Emmet
and Lena with apparently equal interest and conjecture.
About this time, the bishop, coming from Dr. Renshaw's office, met
Leigh face to face on the walk as he was returning to his room from a
recitation, and stopped to speak to him.
"Mr. Leigh," he remarked, with an observant twinkle in his eyes, "you
look as if last night's experience had been too much for you."
"We had enough strenuous excitement to keep any one awake," was the
reply. "It was too violent a break in my monastic life."
The bishop's smile widened; his innuendo had been skilfully parried.
"When you get to be my age," he said, "you will doubtless take your
politics more calmly. I never lose sleep now over the vicissitudes of
those whom the fickle crowd has raised to honour. How does the line
run? _Hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium_--but you probably remember
your Horace better than I do."
It was one of Bishop Wycliffe's little perversities to quote Latin at
the devotees of science, and to maintain an ironical assumption of
their appreciation.
"I don't remember a word of my Horace," Leigh declared. It was not the
first time he had given the bishop the same information, and this fact
lent emphasis to his tone.
"Too bad, too bad," the old man murmured. "I fear the rising
generation has no atmosphere." And he went on his way, chuckling
genially.