"When I first came in," he continued, "and Littleford thrust me into a chair beside you, I caught the scent of these lilies before I knew they were in your hands. It was something like an experience that befell one of my ancestors as he approached America after a two months' voyage in a sailing vessel. They were nearing Virginia one night in May, and a land breeze blew the fragrance of flowers to them across the water before they saw the shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam—You know the verse?"
She rose hurriedly to her feet, distressed, perhaps repentant. "You must not," she protested in a low voice. "You must not."
"There is some reason why I must not?" he questioned, confronting her with paling face. She nodded a confirmation of his fear. "Then I must ask just one question more," he persisted miserably. "Suppose the reason did not exist—I don't ask you to tell me now what it is—but suppose there were no reason. Would you forbid me to love you then?"
For a moment she did not reply, and he watched her face as one who would read an enigmatical page from the book of fate. The question demanded an answer, a definite reply, which she was not prepared to give. He saw dawning in her eyes a recognition of him in a new light; it was as if she now contemplated the possibility she had rejected. In this attitude of mind, as in nothing else, the bishop's cold and calculating nature disclosed itself in the daughter, and Leigh divined that she did not wish to love him, though she allowed herself to desire the tribute of his love. It was this desire that enabled her to enjoy the situation, to convey to him a denial that was not absolute. She might withdraw herself,—she had said that she must,—yet something might remain, something more than friendship, less than the claims of an acknowledged love.
"If the reason did not exist," she repeated slowly, "then—perhaps."
He heard the words with a gesture of acquiescence, and followed her in silence down the aisle in the direction of the house, wondering why he did not stop her before it was too late and ask her whether he had heard aright, why he had not kissed her when he could have done it so easily, and thereby, perhaps, have shaken her allegiance to some other claim. For his intuition told him that though he was not her acknowledged lover, he was by no means a mere friend. It was this assurance that gave him hope, and there was comfort in the thought that he had not lost all by daring too much.
About two hours later, Leigh descended from the billiard-room, where he had been playing an inattentive and indifferent game with one of his colleagues, and encountered Bishop Wycliffe coming into the hall from the library in company with his host and Anthony Cobbens. The major part of the company had already gone, leaving a few elderly talkers in various corners, and a group of young people dancing in the ballroom, which had been cleared after the lecture for that purpose.
"Ah, Littleford," the bishop was saying, "these entertainments of yours are entirely delightful. You give every one the particular thing he wants and send him away contented: to the artistic a glimpse of Velasquez; to the young, a turn of the 'light fantastic toe;' to me, one of your good cigars and a quiet chat in the corner about old times. But have you seen Felicity?"
Littleford, a comfortable-looking man, with a fresh colour, a yellow beard, and a general air of good living and goodfellowship about him, hurried off to the ballroom to inquire. Meanwhile, Cobbens helped the bishop into his coat with the solicitous attention due a swell official of the Church, who was at the same time the father of Felicity Wycliffe. Leigh, performing the same operation for himself, was chatting with the other two, when Littleford returned to say that his search had been in vain.
"She probably went home with Mrs. Parr," the bishop commented. "They came together, I believe."