hed.

Later, in the yard, Gordon saw, at a lighted, upper window, the silhouette
of her back, a gleam of white arm. The window cast an elongated rectangle
of warm light on the blue gloom of the grass. It illuminated him, with his
gaze lifted; and, while, standing in the open window, she saw him clearly,
she was as indifferent, as contemptuous of his presence, as though he had
been an animal. A film of cambric, golden in the lamplight, settled about
her smooth shoulders, fell in long diaphanous lines. She raised her arms
to her head, her hair slid darkly across her face, and she turned and
disappeared. He moved away, but the memory rankled delicately in his
imagination, returned the following morning. The thought lingered of that
body, as fine as ivory, unguessed, hidden, in a coarse sheath.

XXVII

His miscellaneous labors at the minister's filled nearly a week of
unremitting labor. But, upon the advent of Sunday, mundane affairs were
suspended in the general confusion of preparation for church. It had
rained during the night, the day was cool and fragrant and clear, and
Gordon determined to evade the morning's services, and plunge aimlessly
into the pleasant fields. He kept in the background until the cavalcade
had started, headed by the minister--the circuit rider had driven off
earlier in his cart to an outlying chapel--and his wife. It was inviting
on the deserted veranda, and Gordon lingered while the village emptied
into the churches, the open.

Finally he sauntered over the street, past the Courthouse, by Pompey
Hollidew's residence. It was, unlike the surrounding dwellings, built of
brick; there was no porch, only three stone steps descending from the main
entrance, and no flowers. The path was overgrown with weeds, the front
shutters were indifferently flung back, half opened, closed. The door
stood wide open, and, as he passed, Gordon gathered the impression of a
dark heap on the hall floor. He dismissed an idle curiosity; and then, for
no discoverable reason, halted, turned back, for a second glance.

Even from the path he saw extending from the heap an arm, a gnarled hand.
It was Pompey Hollidew himself, cold, still, on the floor. Gordon entered,
looking outside for assistance: no one was in sight. Pompey Hollidew wore
the familiar, greenish-black coat, the thread-bare trousers and faded,
yellow shirt. The battered derby had rolled a short distance across the
floor. The dead man's face was a cong