Whatever poetical or imaginative suggestions might lie in this scene for others, it made no such appeal to Tom Emmet as he strode along, passing belated pedestrians in his course. He had just come from a protracted consultation with his political lieutenants, and deep in the maze of his own plans the twelve beats of the bell now reminded him that Lena Harpster must have been waiting for his coming a full hour by the gate where they had planned to meet. Even this thought could scarcely soften his mood as yet. Sure of the experience that awaited him, he was content to postpone it till the actual moment. Politics was a fact, and his love was a fact, and each was assigned its appropriate time. This eye for the actualities of the moment was characteristic of the man. A street to him was only a thoroughfare, in which there were certain things that concerned him personally, or through which he must pass to reach a definite destination. To Leigh, on the contrary, it was sometimes a comparative unreality, a vista suggesting thoughts of Thebes and Babylon and Rome, a symbol of life's pilgrimage, a path where multitudinous sounds blended into a universal chant of the voyager. It was perhaps this difference that constituted an element of attraction between the two men. The star-gazer admired the practical qualities that made for success in the world below his tower, and the politician paid an involuntary tribute to a spirituality above his own.
Lena Harpster also heard the midnight bell, as she stood in the shadow of a row of tall brick mansions and gazed patiently down the alley, listening for her lover's step. She was undoubtedly as pretty a girl as could be found in Warwick; so pretty, in fact, that when she applied for a position as maid, experienced housekeepers were wont to balance her attractions against the probity of their men-folk. Not infrequently they decided that the former might weigh heavier in the scale, and reserved the place for one less favoured. She was tall and slender, with a light step and a winning grace of movement. When she spoke, her voice was pitched in a key that was pleasantly low and musical, whether from lack of physical force, or because of timidity, or in unconscious imitation of those she served. But more likely this characteristic was merely an expression of innate refinement; for Lena was of native American stock, educated in a country school of some merit; and she regarded herself as a lady, compared with the Irish maids and coloured cooks among whom her lot was cast.
Her throat was long, with a skin of peculiar whiteness. When her sleeves were rolled back while she washed the most valuable of her mistress's glasses, her arms were seen to be of such a satin smoothness as to invite instinctively a caressing touch. And one felt assured, without trying the experiment, that her resentment at such a liberty would be expressed only by a gentle and deprecatory withdrawal. This same whiteness of her complexion was enhanced rather than marred by the presence of a few faint freckles, that suggested sunny fields and the wholesome associations of country life. When excited, her grey eyes shone with a luminous brightness, as if all her vitality were gathered there, while an unexpected colour came and went beneath the delicate texture of her skin.
But of all Lena's attractions, none was more marked than her smile. It was frequent and unaffected, almost maternal in its good nature and indulgence, and disclosed two rows of little teeth, pure and fragile in appearance as porcelain. Yet this smile, so inviting to those who wished to be invited, was disillusioning to cooler and more discriminating observers, for in it her ordinary quality was disclosed, her redundancy of sweetness, her lack of that intellect which enables a woman to triumph over the ravages of time.
As she waited there by the gate, she marked the lapse of time by the cars that passed the end of the alley at intervals of fifteen minutes, occupied not so much with thoughts as with sensations, both those of the moment and those of anticipation. The air was delightfully soft, like that of springtime, and she responded to its caress much as a flower responds, lifting her face placidly to the sky. The atmosphere had now reached the point of saturation, and her fine hair was moistened as by a heavy dew. From time to time she gave an affectionate touch to some small creature which she held warmly in the bend of her arm beneath her cape, or turned her head to listen to the stamping of the horses in a near-by stable. Directly across the alley, a large, half-finished building lifted its walls in the dim light, like a ruin, exhaling from its yawning windows a mingled odour of fresh pine boards and plaster; and toward these squares of blackness she sometimes turned a look almost childish in its suggestion of vague timidity.
At last, when she had lingered long past the time agreed upon, she sighed, but without resentment, and resigned herself to disappointment. She wished to see him this night in particular, for she had something of importance to tell. He had forbidden her to write, and she accepted this tyranny as she accepted the man. Without reflecting deeply upon this elaborate caution of his, the secrecy of their courtship made an appeal to a certain demand of her own nature for concealment and mystery. Where a spirited girl would have questioned and resented, she merely acquiesced.
She had almost abandoned hope when she caught sight of him in the circle of electric light at the far end of the alley. He gave a quick look to left and right before turning in her direction. She would have known that alert turn of the head in any crowd, and now, as his footsteps sounded nearer and nearer, along the narrow board walk that skirted the fences, she unlatched the gate and came out to meet him. When almost upon her, his eyes caught first the white strip of apron beneath her dark cape, and then the dim little face above bending forward for a greeting.
"Well," he said, in a low tone, "did you think I was never coming, girlie?"
She leaned against him with a contented sigh. "You have come, Tom, and that's all I care about."
As he pressed her to him, the kitten, which had lain concealed till now in purring contentment beneath her cape, leaped to the ground and disappeared in the darkness.