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."