“Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finished joy and moan.”
The words seemed almost personal in their application. The last word was voiced; slowly the little group turned away, following the man whose own life was clouded by so terrible a tragedy. Sidney stood bareheaded by Vashti, beside the two dead lovers, thinking that Len Simpson had been indeed honoured. To have Shakespeare’s words syllabled above his grave is surely to the actor what the salute of the guns is to the soldier.
“Come,” said Vashti softly. She was too politic to stay longer. No wise woman scandalizes the community in which she dwells. They advanced towards the others again, to find the tongues buzzing. There was a commotion amid the groups of women, which indicated that something out of the common order had occurred, which was indeed the case. For Mabella Lansing, unnoticed by the throng which was watching the actors openly and Vashti and Sidney furtively, had driven away with Lanty in his top buggy.
Here was daring with a vengeance!
Even Temperance Tribbey looked rather more grim than usual as she stood with Vashti waiting for the democrat to be brought round.
Fat little Mrs. Wither came gushing and bubbling up to Temperance with an affectation of confidential sympathy.
“My! I hope Mr. Lansing won’t be long bringing the horses.”
“Do you want a ride?” politely asked Miss Tribbey, as if oblivious of the fact that Mrs. Wither was that day driving her new buggy for the first time, and that her destination was diametrically opposed to the way the Lansings would take.