THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER
The sermon was dry and tiresome, old-fashioned and overflowing with
“doctrine.” John Harting had never made a pretense of sympathizing with
the liberality of modern dominies who relied wholly for the saving of
souls upon “the message of love.” True, he had ceased openly to preach
“hell fire,” but doubtless he still believed in it, if not as a literal
punishment for the sinful hereafter, then as the only adequate synonym
of the penalty that should be meted out to the evil-doer who died
unregenerate.
He had found that such preaching, instead of attracting and holding
congregations, left the pews of the little old church sadly vacant; and
the effort to modify his sermons had taken from them the little heart
they once possessed, and made them wearisome and soporific.
The day was warm and sunny, and at times faint little grateful breezes,
venturing in at the open windows, brought the June odors of flowers,
and grass, and green growing things. Birds were singing in the trees
which shaded the church, and away out yonder the river smiled, and the
woods beckoned one to cool shadows and mossy glades.
Thoughts of those glades and shadows occupied Janet in her pew far more
than thoughts of the sermon. But those were not by any means her only
thoughts; once or twice she had ventured an admirably careless and
unstudied glance in the direction of two young men who were sitting
far over at the side of the church, both of whom were maintaining a
commendable and heroic mien of strict attention to the words of the
parson.
It was not, however, Larry Stark who had drawn her glances; her eyes had
been directed toward the clear profile of Larry’s pewmate, concerning
whom she was again wondering and conjecturing. On discovering Tom Locke
there, she had felt a shock of surprise, yet somehow he did not seem at
all out of place, and never was there the faintest token that the
experience was for him in any degree novel or unusual.
So absorbed was she in her speculations that presently she was almost
startled to find the sermon ended, and to hear her father intoning the
first lines of the closing hymn; never before had one of his discourses
seemed so short and passed so quickly.
Standing, she sang with the congregation, without recourse to the hymn
book. She had a voice that was clear, and sweet, and true, expressive
and sympathetic; she was doubly charming when she sang.
In the midst of that hymn she suddenly became self-conscious, and felt
the warm color mounting into her cheeks; although she did not see it,
intuition or something of the sort told her that _he_ had turned to
look in her direction.
Following the benediction, she lingered to speak with some near-by
friends. Passing down the aisle to the door, she found herself face to
face with Stark and Locke, coming across at the rear from the far side.
Larry bowed, and she gave him a friendly smile in return.
“I’m glad to see you at our church again this year, Mr. Stark,” she
said.
“Thank you, Miss Harting,” he returned. “I’m afraid I didn’t come as
often as I should last year. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Locke, one
of our players.”
Their eyes met again, but how changed were the circumstances! Still,
it was not she alone who remembered, and the flush on his face was no
feeble reflection of that upon her own. She murmured something, her
lids drooping quickly; in her ears his voice――strong, fine of timbre,
well modulated――sounded pleasantly. She was disturbed by the remarkable
behavior of her heart.
Afterward she could not recall what she had said, but she remembered
his words accurately. They were few and formal, but they were uttered
in that unmistakable way which marks the speech of a man of breeding.
She took particular note of his hands; while they were a bit slender,
with long fingers, there was something about them indicative of
physical strength, and strength of character, as well. She wondered
that a baseball player could have such fine, well-groomed hands; and
she had come to believe that the hand of any man tattles the secrets of
him to whom it belongs.
After a few moments, the ball players passed out of the church between
two lines of children waiting to enter for Sabbath school when the
congregation should have departed. Even as she smilingly greeted some
of those children, Janet’s eyes followed the retreating figure of Tom
Locke.
She was a bit startled to hear some one speak to her, and to discover
Bent King, hat in hand, at her side. His face was unusually pale, and
there was in his eyes something resembling anger. His voice sounded
unnatural and harsh.
“I must say those two――er――fellows had their nerve with them!” he
observed, in a low tone. “It took a crust for them to stop and speak to
you here. I――I felt like punching their heads!”
“I am very glad you did not permit your feelings to master you,” she
said, with a faint laugh. “I met Larry Stark last year, and I was glad
to see him at church to-day. He introduced Mr. Locke, the new pitcher.”
“Oh, I saw it all,” Bent half growled. “I was standing out here in
the vestibule, where I could look inside, and I saw them time their
movements to meet you.”
“Oh, pshaw! You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not――begging your pardon, Janet. I say it was a sheer case of
nerve for two hired ball players to do a thing like that. I saw
people staring as you were talking to them. I don’t wonder you were
embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed! You must be mistaken, Benton.”
“Of course you were embarrassed――you blushed like fire. It was
humiliating to be compelled to acknowledge an introduction to a common
scrapper like that man Locke.”
“I assure you that I did not feel at all humiliated,” she returned,
with a touch of defiance. “Instead, I was glad of the opportunity to
meet him.”
King choked; the pallor of anger gave way to a flush of the same
nature, and he gazed at her resentfully.
“You must be jesting,” he said, endeavoring to restrain himself. “I
hope you’re not baiting me.”
“Not at all. Ever since the game yesterday I have felt much curiosity
concerning Tom Locke. To some extent, it has been satisfied. I admit I
was surprised to find him plainly very much of a gentleman.”
He bit his lip, his gloved hands gripping and crushing the soft felt
hat, and for the moment he was afraid to speak again. Hatred for Tom
Locke throbbed in every pulse beat.
She broke the momentary silence: “What are you doing here――now?”
“I am waiting to walk home with you.”
“But it is too early. I told you after Sabbath school.”
“I’ll wait,” he said.
“Don’t let me put you to that trouble.”
“I’ll wait,” he repeated grimly.
He was waiting at the door when she came forth after Sabbath school
was over, and he fell in at her side. She made an observation about
the beautiful day, but his face wore a shadow, and it was of something
quite different that he presently spoke.
“I hope, Janet,” he said, “that you are not becoming interested in that
man Locke?”
“Oh, but I _am_ interested in him,” she returned, laughing. “How can
I help being? He is a wonderful pitcher, and he has shown that he can
take care of himself when crowded into a corner. Every one who has seen
him must be interested in him.”
“You know what I mean, Janet. He is a professional ball player, a
stranger, a man whom no one around here knows anything about.”
“Oh, Mr. Cope must know a great deal about him, or he’d never signed
him for the team. I’d really like to ask Mr. Cope some questions.”
“Don’t! If you do that, if you’re not careful, you’ll have people
gossiping. You know how easy it is to start gossip in a small country
town.”
She tossed her head a bit. “Yes, I know; but if they want to gossip
over nothing at all, I’ll not attempt to deprive them of the pleasure.”
“These baseball players,” he went on, “always think they can mash any
country girl they choose. I understand that they joke and boast of
their conquests, and laugh about the silly girls who get stuck on
them. You should have foresight enough――”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. King!” she interrupted frigidly. “You seem
to presume that I’m anxious to pick up a flirtation with a baseball
player. I assure you that you are mistaken; but, even if you were not,
you could not choose a better method of making yourself offensive.”
He saw he had made a false step; in vain he tried to remedy the error.
She would not quarrel, nor would she discuss the matter further,
maintaining silence, save when it became absolutely necessary, out of
politeness, to make some answer to what he was saying. Cursing himself
for a blunderer, he apologized as well as he could, speaking of their
long friendship, and his natural interest in her, which might have led
any one into such an indiscretion. At the door of the parsonage they
parted, he still humble and penitent, she still cool and formal.
“I’m a fool!” he growled as he strode away. “I should have known
better. I _did_ know better, but I lost my head when I saw him fawning
upon her――when I saw her, poppy-cheeked, looking after him. If he takes
a fancy to cut in on my preserves, he’ll find the going rough. I’ll
guarantee he has a vulnerable spot, and I’ll locate it.”