Meanwhile, down below in the shop, Frithiof had forgotten his last encounter with James Horner, and as he set things in order for the Saturday afternoon closing, his thoughts were far away. He sorted music and took down one portfolio after another mechanically, while all the time it seemed to him that he was wandering with Blanche through the sweet-scented pine woods, hearing her fresh, clear voice, looking into the lovely eyes which had stolen his heart. The instant two o’clock sounded the hour of his release, he snatched up his hat and hurried away; his dreams of the past had taken so strong a hold upon him that he felt he must try for at least one more sight of the face that haunted him so persistently.
He had touched no food since early morning, but he could no more have eaten at that moment than have turned aside in some other direction. Feeling as though some power outside himself were drawing him onward, he followed with scarcely a thought of the actual way, until he found himself within sight of the Lancaster Gate House. A striped red and white awning had been erected over the steps, he caught sight of it through the trees, and his heart seemed to stand still. Hastily crossing the wide road leading to the church, he gained a better view of the pavement in front of Mr. Morgan’s house; dirty little street children with eager faces were clustered about the railings, and nurse-maids with perambulators flanked the red felt which made a pathway to the carriage standing before the door. He turned sick and giddy.
“Fine doings there, sir,” remarked the crossing-sweeper, who was still sweeping up the autumn leaves just as he had been doing when Frithiof had passed him after his interview with Blanche. “They say the bride’s an heiress and a beauty too. Well, well, it’s an unequal world!” and the old man stopped to indulge in a paroxysm of coughing, then held out a trembling hand.
“Got a copper about you, sir?” he asked.
Frithiof, just because the old man made that remark about an unequal world, dropped a sixpence into the outstretched palm.
“God bless you, sir!” said the crossing-sweeper, beginning to sweep up the fallen leaves with more spirit than ever.
“Violets, sir, sweet violets?” cried a girl, whose eye had caught the gleam of the silver coin.
She held the basket toward him, but he shook his head and walked hurriedly away toward the church. Yet the incident never left his memory, and to the end of his life the scent of violets was hateful to him. Like one in a nightmare, he reached the church door. The organ was crashing out a jubilant march; there was a sort of subdued hum of eager anticipation from the crowd of spectators.
“Are you a friend of the bride, sir?” asked an official.
“No,” he said icily.