CHAPTER XVIIITHE 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 weresinging 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 thathehad 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 earshis 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 ather 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 Iaminterested 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 whoget 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. Ididknow 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.”