Part 27 (2/2)
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 embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sport 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 circ.u.mstance 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 b.u.t.ton 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! Hus.h.!.+”
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 ”hus.h.!.+”
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.
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