His mind had been dwelling on Allan’s trouble, but now he came back to his gracious adviser.

“You do me good, Aunt Bell—­you’ve taken all that message nonsense out of me.  I suppose I could be one of them, you know—­one of those fellows that get into trouble—­if I saw it was needed; but it isn’t.  Let the men who can’t help it do it—­they have no choice.  Hereafter I shall worry as little about the world’s salvation as I do about my own.”

When they had finished dinner he let it be known that he was not a little anxious concerning a message that was late in arriving, and he made it a point, indeed, that the maid should advise Mrs. Linford to this effect, with an inquiry whether she might not have seen the delayed missive.

Then, after a word with Allan, he went to his room and from his south window smoked into the night—­smoked into something approaching quietude a mind that had been rebelliously running back to the bare-armed girl in dusky white—­the wondering, waiting girl whose hand had trembled into his so long ago—­so many years during which he had been a dreaming fool, forgetting the world to worship certain impalpable gods of idealism—­forgetting a world in which it was the divinely sensible custom to eat one’s candy cane instead of preserving it superstitiously through barren years!

He knew that he had awakened too late for more than a fleeting vision of what would have made his life full.  Now he must be off, up the path again, this time knowing certainly that the woman would never more stand waiting and wondering at the end, to embitter his renunciations.  The woman was definitely gone.  That was something, even though she went with that absurd, unreasoning, womanish suspicion.  And he had one free, dear look from her to keep through the empty days.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FELL FINGER OF CALUMNY SEEMS TO BE AGREEABLY DIVERTED

Shut in his study, the rector of St. Antipas paced the floor with nicely measured steps, or sat at his desk to make endless squares, circles, and triangles.  He was engrossed in the latter diversion when he heard the bell sound below.  He sat back to hear the steps of the maid, the opening of the door; then, after an interval, her steps ascending the stairs and stopping at his own door; then her knock.

“A letter for Mr. Bernal, sir!”

He glanced at the envelope she held, noting its tint.

“He’s not here Nora.  Take it to Mrs. Linford.  She will know where he is.”

He heard her go down the hall and knock at another door.  She was compelled to knock twice, and then there was delay before the door opened.

He drew some pages of manuscript before him and affected to be busy at a work of revision, crossing out a word here, interlining one there, scanning the result with undivided attention.

When he heard a knock he did not look up, but said, “Come!” Though still intent at his work, he knew that Nancy stood there, looking from the letter to him.