After the outburst, his voice sank with startling rapidity to a tone of
honeyed confidence, and he wagged an inviting forefinger at Mr. Snoddy,
who opened his mouth. "Shall we take an example? Not from the marvellous,
my friends; let us seek an illustration from the ordinary. Is that not
better? One familiar to the humblest of us. One we can all comprehend. One
from our every-day life. One which will interest even the young. Yes. The
common house-fly. On a window-sill we place a bit of fly-paper, and
contiguous to it, a flower upon which the happy insect likes to feed and
rest. The little fly approaches. See, he hovers between the two. One is a
fatal trap, an ambuscade, and the other a safe harbor and an innocuous
haven. But mystery allures him. He poises, undecided. That is the present.
That, my friends, is the Present! What will he do? WHAT will he do? What
will he DO? Memories of the past are whispering to him: 'Choose the
flower. Light on the posy.' Here we clearly see the influence of the past
upon the present. But, to employ a figure of speech, the fly-paper beckons
to the insect toothsomely, and, thinks he; 'Shall I give it a try? Shall
I? Shall I give it a try?' The future is in his own hands to make or
unmake. The past, the voice of Providence, has counselled him: 'Leave it
alone, leave it alone, little fly. Go away from there.' Does he heed the
warning? Does he heed it, ladies and gentlemen? Does he? Ah, no! He
springs into the air, decides between the two attractions, one of them, so
deadly to his interests and--drops upon the fly-paper to perish
miserably! The future is in his hands no longer. We must lie upon the bed
that we have made, nor can Providence change its unalterable decrees."
After the tragedy, the orator took a swallow of water, mopped his brow
with the figured handkerchief and announced that a new point herewith
presented itself for consideration. The audience sank back with a gasp of
release from the strain of attention. Minnie Briscoe, leaning back,
breathless like the others, became conscious that a tremor agitated her
visitor. Miss Sherwood had bent her head behind the shelter of the judge's
broad shoulders; was shaking slightly and had covered her face with her
hands.
"What is it, Helen?" whispered Miss Briscoe, anxiously. "What is it? Is
something the matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing, dear." She dropped her hands from her face. Her cheeks
were deep crimson, and she bit her lip with determination.
"Oh, but there is! Why, you've tears in your eyes. Are you faint? What is
it?"
"It is only--only----" Miss Sherwood choked, then cast a swift glance at
the profile of the melancholy young man. The perfectly dismal decorum of
this gentleman seemed to inspire her to maintain her own gravity. "It is
only that it seemed such a pity about that fly," she explained. From where
they sat the journalistic silhouette was plainly visible, and both Fisbee
and Miss Sherwood looked toward it often, the former with the wistful,
apologetic fidelity one sees in the eyes of an old setter watching his
master.