"It amounts to this, then," said Willits presently. "You are cured. The
balance is swinging true again. It has taken a long time, but the cure
is all the more complete for that. Now, when are you coming back to us?"
Callandar did not answer.
"You are needed. Not a day passes that your absence is not felt. You
used to have a strong sense of responsibility toward your work. What has
become of it?"
"I have it still. I am not slighting my work by taking time to build
myself into better shape for it."
"But you will simply stagnate here!" querulously. "You are becoming
slack already. You let your watch run down."
The doctor laughed.
"If many of my patients could do the same without worry they would not
need a doctor. Half of the nervous trouble of the age can be ultimately
traced to watches which won't run down. Leisure--unhurried leisure--that
is what we want. We've got to have it!"
"Piffle! I shall hear you talk about inviting your soul next."
"Well, if I do he is in better shape to accept the invitation than he
used to be."
The professor's gesture was sufficiently expressive.
"Very well. I give up. Remember, I advise against it. I think you are
making a mistake!--I'll have that cigar now. I suppose one is allowed to
smoke in the garden?"
"Yes, do, that's a good fellow! I must run up and make myself
presentable. I suppose you haven't seen Lorna lately?"
"I have seen her very lately. She asked to be remembered."
"Oh, you old prevaricator! Lorna never asked to be remembered in her
life. What she really said was, 'If you see Harry give him my love!'"
"If she did, you don't deserve it! Oh, boy," with sudden earnestness,
"why will you make a fool of yourself? She's a woman in a thousand.
Others see it if you don't. Since you've been away, MacGregor is paying
her marked attention."
"Good old Gregor!" The doctor's exclamation was one of pure pleasure.
"And yet you say my absence isn't doing any good? Go along with you!
Take your cigar and wait for me underneath the Bough. I'll not be long."
He was long, however. The professor's cigar and his cogitations came to
an end together without the promised reappearance. Even when he returned
to the office it was empty except for Ann, who in the stiffest of
starched muslin and whitest of stockings was spread out carefully upon
the widest chair. Her black hair was parted as if by a razor blade and
plastered tightly in slablike masses while the tension of the braids was
such that they stuck out on either side of the small head like decorated
sign posts. Weariness, disgust and defiance were painted visibly upon
the elfish face.
"This is the best chair!" said Ann politely, "but if you'll excuse me I
shan't get up. Every time I sit down it makes a crease in a fresh place.
By the time church is over I look like I was crumpled all over. It's the
starch!" she added in sullen explanation.
Willits, who liked children but did not understand them, essayed a mild
joke.
"Did you put some starch in your hair too?"
Ann flushed scarlet with anger and mortification and made no answer.
"It looked much nicer at breakfast," blundered on the professor
genially. "If I were you I should unstarch it--" he paused abashed by
the glare in Ann's black eyes and turned helplessly to Callandar, who
had just come in, resplendent in faultless church attire.
"Don't listen to him, Ann!" said the doctor. "Button moulders are so
ignorant. They know absolutely nothing about hair or the necessity for
special tidiness on Sundays. All the same, I'm afraid we shall have a
headache if we don't let a reef out somewhere. Sit still a moment, Ann.
I was always intended for a barber."
To the fresh astonishment of Willits his friend's skilful hands busied
themselves with the tightly drawn hair which, only too eager for
freedom, soon fell into some of its usual curves. With a quick, shy
gesture the child drew the adored hand to her lips and kissed it.
Callandar turned a deep red. The professor chuckled, and Ann, furious at
betraying herself before him, fled precipitately, the crackling starch
of her stiff skirts rattling as she ran.
For a moment Willits enjoyed his friend's embarrassment and then, as the
probable meaning of the frock coat began to dawn upon him, his
expression changed to one of apprehension.
"You weren't in earnest about that church nonsense, were you?"
"Certainly. If you need a clean collar take one of mine, and hurry up.
The first bell has stopped ringing."
"But I'm not going!"
"Not if I ask you nicely?"
"But why? What are you going for?"
"Come and see."
The shrewd eyes of the professor grew coldly thoughtful.
"That is exactly what I shall do," he decided.
From the home of Mrs. Sykes upon Duke Street to the First Presbyterian
Church upon Oliver's Hill is a brisk walk of fifteen minutes. As Coombe
lies in a valley, Oliver's Hill is not a hill, really, but a gentle
eminence. It is a charming, tree-lined street bordered by the homes and
gardens of the well-to-do. It is, in fact, _the_ street of Coombe, and
to live upon Oliver's Hill is a social passport seldom mentioned but
never ignored.
As if social prominence were not enough, it had another claim upon the
affections and memories of many, for up this hill every Sunday in a long
and goodly stream poured the first Presbyterians who were not only the
elect but also the elite of Coombe. To see Knox Church "come out" was
one of the sights of the town and, decorously hidden behind a muslin
curtain, a stranger might feast his eyes upon greatness unrebuked. It
was said at one time that every silk hat in Coombe attended Knox Church,
but this was vainglory, for it was afterwards proved that several
repaired to St. Michael's and at least one to the Baptist tabernacle.
With this explanation you will at once understand why the sidewalk was a
few feet broader upon the church side of Oliver's Hill, and if this
circumstance savours to you of ecclesiastical privilege we can only
conclude that you are not Presbyterian, and request you not to be so
narrow-minded.
As the doctor and his half-reluctant friend turned at the foot of the
hill they were immediately absorbed by the stream pressing upwards, for
the last bell had already begun to ring.
"We're all right," whispered Callandar encouragingly. "It rings for five
minutes."
The professor opened his lips to say something, but shut them with a
snap. There was probably method in the doctor's madness but it was
method which would never be disclosed through much questioning. With an
expression of intense solemnity he fixed his eyes, gimlet-like, upon the
middle button of the Sunday blouse of the lady in front of him and
followed up the hill. To the absurdly low-toned remarks of his companion
he vouchsafed no reply whatever.
They entered the church to the subdued rustle of Sunday silks and the
whisper of Sunday voices. At the door some one shook hands with
Callandar and remarked in a ghostly whisper that it was a fine day. A
grave young man, in black, led them to a pew half way down the aisle.
Most of the pews were already full, the latest comers showing slight
signs of hurry; and as they seated themselves the bell stopped and the
organ began.
There was a moment's expectant interval and then two doors, one at
either side of the pulpit, opened simultaneously and the minister
entered from one side, the choir from the other. Before the minister
walked a very solemn man with abnormally long upper lip. This was Elder
John MacTavish, a man of large substance, of great piety and poor
digestion. It was upon this latter account that the doctor always
observed him with peculiar interest, for had not Mrs. Sykes declared
that if he should only be called in once to prescribe for John
MacTavish's stomach his future in Coombe was secure?
"Doctor Parker is doing him just no good at all," she reported. "So keep
an eye on him. If he looks especially dour it's a good sign."
"Would you say that he looks especially 'dour'?" whispered Callandar to
Willits.
"I should. Why?"
"Oh, nothing--only it's a good sign! Hush!"
When the minister has entered the pulpit at Knox Church there is a
moment during which you may bow your head, or, if you consider this
popish, you may cover your face with your gloved hand. It is a moment of
severe quiet. One does not dare even to cough. Hence the doctor's
warning "hush!"
But this morning the quiet was rudely broken. Somewhere, just outside
the open windows, sounded a laugh; a young, clear, unrestrained laugh,
then the call of a sharp whistle, and next moment, through the doors not
yet closed, hurtled something yellow and long-legged! With a joyous bark
it rushed along the nearest aisle, across the front of the pulpit, down
the other aisle and out at the door again.
The congregation was amazed and grieved. Its serenity was shaken, even
the minister seemed disturbed. Some younger members of the choir
giggled. It was most unseemly.
"Naughty dog!" said the voice outside the window. "Go home! Don't dare
to lick my hand!"
One of the choir members grew red in the face and choked. It was
outrageous! And then, as if nothing at all had happened, the girl who
had been the cause of the whole unfortunate incident entered and walked
down the aisle. She appeared to be quite undisturbed; was, in fact,
smiling. Every eye in the church followed her as, a little out of
breath, a little flushed, with dark hair slightly disarranged as if from
an exciting chase, she took her seat, unconscious, or careless, of them
all. The minister, who had paused with almost reproachful obviousness,
gave out the opening psalm and the congregation freed itself from
embarrassment with an accustomed flutter of hymn-books.
Going to church was somewhat interesting after all, thought Professor
Willits. Then, in common with the rest of the congregation, he detached
his eyes from the girl's exquisite profile and focused them upon
the minister.
Friends of the Rev. Angus Macnair asserted that he was a man in a
thousand. For that matter he was a man in any number of thousands; for
his was a personality, true to type, yet not likely to be duplicated.
Born of a Highland Scotch father and a Lowland Scotch mother, he
developed almost exclusively in his father's vein. Loyal in the extreme,
narrow to fanaticism, passionate, emotional, yet trained to the cold
control of a red Indian, he was a man of power, at once the victim and
the triumph of his creed.
Early in life he had come under a conviction of sin, had received
assurance of forgiveness and of election and, before he had left the
Public School, his Call had come. From that time forward he had burnt
with a fierce fire of godliness which, together with a natural
incapacity for seeing two sides to anything, had carried him safely
through the manifold temptations to unbelief and heresy which beset a
modern college education. Many wondered that a man so gifted should
remain in Coombe, but the explanation is simple. He suited Coombe; the
larger churches of the larger cities he did not suit. Lax opinions,
heretical doctrines, outlooks appallingly wide were creeping in
everywhere. It is safe to say that in most of the churches of his own
faith he would have seemed bravely but hopelessly behind the times. But
in Coombe he had found his place. Coombe was conservative. Coombe
Presbyterians were still content to do without frills in the matter of
doctrine. Coombe could still listen to hell fire and, if not unduly
disturbed, did not at least smile behind its hand.
Something of all this the Button-Moulder, student of men, felt as he
watched the sombre yet glowing face of the preacher.
The sermon that morning was one of a series dealing with the
Commandments and the text was, "Thou shalt not bear false witness
against thy neighbour." The speaker had the scholar's power of
concentration, the orator's power of delivery. He was both poignant and
personal. He seemed to do everything save mention names. Some sinners in
that congregation, thought Willits, had undoubtedly been bearing false
witness, and were now listening to a few plain words! Cautiously he
glanced around, almost expecting to see the tale of guilt and sorrow
legibly imprinted upon some culprit's face. But no one seemed at all
disturbed, save one old lady who glared back at him an unmistakable
"Thou art the man!" The congregation sat, serenely, soberly attentive,
testifying their entire agreement with the speaker by an occasional sigh
or nod. The more fiery the preacher's denunciations, the more complacent
his hearers. In astonishment Willits realised that, if appearances go
for anything, no one in Knox Presbyterian Church had ever borne false
witness against anybody!
The collecting of the offering was somewhat of an anti-climax, as was
also the anthem by the choir, the latter consisting of a complicated
arrangement of the question, "If a man die shall he live again?"
reiterated singly by all parts in succession, by duets and quartets and
finally by the whole choir, without so much as a shadow of an answer
appearing anywhere.
Willits gave a long sigh as they stepped into the summer day again. It
had not been uninteresting, but he was quite ready for lunch. The
doctor, on the contrary, seemed unaccountably to linger. He even paused
to talk to a fat lady in mauve velvet who had mauve cheeks to match.
"So glad to see you in church, Doctor! Young men, you know, are inclined
to be young men! And these nice days--very tempting, I'm sure! Is your
friend a stranger?"
Callandar gravely introduced Willits, who became immediately convinced
that this mauve lady was the most unpleasant person he had ever seen and
doubtless the very person to whom the minister had spoken in his sermon.
Why had Callandar let him in for this? Why was he waiting around for
anyway? There he was, shaking hands with some one else--this time it was
the girl who had laughed.
"May I present my friend, Professor Willits, Miss Coombe?"
The girl extended a graceful hand and for an instant the professor was
permitted a look into eyes which caused him to set his firm lips
somewhat grimly.
"And I know, Willits, you will be delighted to meet our pastor, Mr.
Macnair."
A spark began to glow in the professor's eye, but Callandar's face was
guileless. The minister shook hands with professional heartiness, but
his gaze, Willits thought, was wandering. He began to feel interested.
"Very fine day," he remarked imperturbably.
"Lovely, lovely," agreed the minister, still heartily. The mauve lady
was waiting for the pastoral handshake, but he did not notice her. He
was watching the dark girl talking to Callandar.
"What is so rare as a day in June?" said Willits, with deliberate
malice.
"Ah, yes, very much so. Delighted to have met you. You will excuse me,
I'm sure. Annabel," with an impatient glance toward a stout, awkward
woman in the background, "if you are not quite ready I think Miss Coombe
and I will walk on." He moved toward the dark girl as he spoke and
Willits followed.
"Then I'll have to come some other day to get the roses," they heard
Callandar say. "But remember I haven't a single flower in the office. So
it will have to be soon."
"At any time," answered the girl, flushing slightly.
"No flowers?" repeated the minister, a little fussily, "dear me, I will
speak to my sister. Annabel will be delighted to send you any quantity,
Doctor. You must really drop in to see our garden, some day. Sunday, of
course, is a busy day with me. Come, Miss Esther. Good morning, Doctor.
Good morning, Professor. Glad to see you at our services any time--"
Bowing courteously, the minister moved away, followed perforce by Miss
Coombe. (An invitation to lunch at the manse is an honour not to be
trifled with.) Perforce also the doctor stood aside and Willits caught
the look, half shy, half merry, which the girl threw him from the depths
of her remarkable eyes. It was really quite interesting, and rather
funny. Not often had he seen fair ladies carried off from under the nose
of Henry Callandar. Transferring his glance quickly to the face of his
friend, he hoped to surprise a look of chagrin upon his abashed
countenance, but the countenance was not abashed, and the look which he
did surprise there startled him considerably. Henry Callandar, of all
men, to be looking after any girl with a look like that!
Well, he had been invited to come and see. And he had seen.