CHAPTER XIV
SUCH THINGS MAY NOT BE
A few hours later Fleda slowly made her way homeward through the woods on
the Manitou side of the Sagalac. Leaving Ingolby's house, she had seen
men from the ranches and farms and mines beyond Lebanon driving or riding
into the town, as though to a fair or fete-day. Word of anticipated
troubles had sped through the countryside, and the innate curiosity of a
race who greatly love a row brought in sensation-lovers. Some were
skimming along in one-horse gigs, a small bag of oats dangling beneath
like the pendulum of a great clock. Others were in double or
triple-seated light wagons--"democrats" they were called. Women had a bit
of colour in their hats or at their throats, and the men had on clean
white collars and suits of "store-clothes"--a sign of being on pleasure
bent. Young men and girls on rough but serviceable mounts cantered past,
laughing and joking, and their loud talking grated on the ear of the girl
who had seen a Napoleon in the streets of his Moscow.
Presently there crossed her path a gruesomely ugly hearse, with glass
sides and cheap imitation ostrich plumes drawn by gorged ravens of horses
with egregiously long tails, and driven by an undertaker's assistant,
who, with a natural gaiety of soul, displayed an idiotic solemnity by
dragging down the corners of the mouth.
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