Long after the lights in the smoking-room had gone out, long after the laughter had ceased, Duncan slowly paced his room. His hands were deep in his pockets and he held a briar pipe between his lips. Occasionally he would take a draw at the pipe, and then watch the blue smoke curl gently upward and fade away in long, thin streaks; but all the time he was thinking over the part Helen Osgood had played in his life. "She is right," he said, half aloud; "I do bluster and go away, and come back to her, and I will do it again. No, by Jove! I won't. A man can't forget that he has been played fast and loose with, and I would not be a man if I went back to that woman. I hate her. I hate her," he repeated. "She might have made a different man of me. I was young and might have taken life better, but she laughed me into the selfish brute I am. O, well," he sighed, as he thought of his past, "I suppose I am no worse than those around me. We all worry over what might have been, but we don't take the pleasure that comes to us. A man's an ass to break his neck for any woman. There are others in the world, good looking ones, too, who will love for the asking." He returned his pipe to its case and closed it with a loud snap. "I have been in the garden before," he continued, "and I will go there again and pluck the flowers that come in my path. I will hold them for a minute; then I will crush them and cast them aside, and I will laugh, too."
CHAPTER XI.
UNDER THE WILLOWS.
The bell of the Fairville Presbyterian Church was slowly tolling the hour of morning service, and its tones, clanging out through the bright green shutters of the belfry on the peaceful Sabbath air, summoned the congregation to worship. The sun shone brightly upon the little white church, with its peaked roof and its tall, weather-vaned steeple, and its rays glanced hotly down upon the dusty roadway and wooden sidewalks of the long, village street. Two rows of white frame houses, fronted by little green patches, each enclosed by a picket fence and a swinging gate, extended away in the distance. Two lines of stately elms cast their shadows partially over the dusty street, while above them stretched the blue vault of the June sky.
The tolling of the bell was the only sound that disturbed the perfect quiet of the day, for even the birds seemed to have ceased their chirping in deference to the Sabbath. Soon, however, in answer to the call to prayer, the little picket gates swung open, and far down the street a slender line of people began to walk, with the measured tread of conscious righteousness, toward the little church which gleamed so white in the sunshine at the end of the street. The board walk creaked under the squeaking tread of Sunday shoes, and solemn lips spoke in subdued Sunday tones, as elders and laity slowly wended along under the shade of the stately elms. White lawn dresses, leghorn bonnets and blue shawls, folded cross-wise, and lisle-thread gloves, were interspersed among flopping broadcloth coats and straight brimmed hats in the throng which passed along the street and through the doors of the church. Once, just after the last tone of the bell had died away, the stillness was broken by the rumble of wheels, and a single carriage rolled through the dust up to the church door. It was a modest equipage, plain in its appointments, but some of the congregation frowned disapprovingly as the door opened and Florence Moreland and her father descended. Without heeding these glances of disapprobation, they walked quietly into the church and passed down the long aisle to the family pew. The movement of numerous fans ceased and many heads were turned to see the Judge and his daughter take their seats, while several pairs of young and envious eyes were directed toward the last production of a city milliner. After the fans had begun to move again, the cadaverous minister rose from his seat and in harsh, nasal tones announced the hymn. There was a hemming and coughing in the choir's gallery, the organ bellows wheezed, hymn-books rustled, and then, as the first strains of the organ sounded, the old familiar lines beginning, "All people that on earth do dwell," swelled forth in zealous tones.
Just as the last notes of the tune floated away and the congregation were taking their seats, a man stole quietly down the aisle and entered the pew behind Florence Moreland. His well-made clothes attracted curious eyes, and during the seemingly interminable prayer for the exorcism of every evil and the granting of all known blessings, many covert glances were sent in his direction. It seemed to those who looked, that during the prayer and the long didactic discourse upon Solomon and Sheba's queen, which followed, his eyes were kept continuously fixed upon the back of a gold-braided jacket in front of him. The doctor's daughter next him glanced over his book during the last hymn and saw that it was not open at the right place, while the elder who passed the plate looked wonderingly at the young Crœsus who placed a greenback among the coppers and silver; but during the entire service his eyes were not removed from the form in front of him. The last roll of the organ died away and the minister pronounced his benedictory prayer. During the conventional moment of silence which followed, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and danced in colored shadows on the backs of the white lawn gowns; then the frocks rustled as the congregation slowly filed out, and the solemn, Sunday faces were relaxed into smiles of friendly greeting.
Florence Moreland waited until most of the people had passed out, then she placed her hand upon the pew door, and was about to open it, when she was startled by the sight of a familiar face behind her. "Harold," she said, when she had recovered from her surprise. "What brought you to Fairville?"
"I came as the bearer of a message for you," Harold Wainwright replied, as he opened the pew door for her.
"For me! From whom?" asked Florence in astonishment.