We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do
not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a
great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred
constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we
write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local
Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to
present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor,
with an address and a purse of fifty dollars.
The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine,
was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible
convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a
Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs.
The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of
Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a
quilt, not the old-fashioned kind, of course, but something quite
new--an autograph quilt, very chaste.
It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say
providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine
how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of
comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other
things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed
constitution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws
was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever
her failings, was ever discussed in meeting--when she was present.
"What I cannot excuse," said Mrs. Bartley Simson, "is the tone of levity
in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the
station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that
particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever
justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the
frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify."
"Besides," said Miss Atkins, the secretary, "it was a--it sounded
like--what I mean to say is that she could not possibly, _no one_ could
possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was."
A subdued chorus of "Certainly not" and "Absurd" showed the trend of
public opinion upon this point.
"I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday," said the youngest Miss
Sinclair, who always stood for peace at any price.
"Don't be silly, Jessie!" The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war
with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. "That's a
different thing altogether. For my own part," raising her voice, "I
think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the
fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters,
and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may
be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful
contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath
in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I
feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope," here
she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle,
"I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!"
The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like
a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious
virtue, raised to the _n_th power, shot through the circle.
"You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?"
asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)
"I do."
"But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!" objected the younger Miss
Sinclair, who was a kindly creature.
An electric silence fell upon the quilters. Every one looked toward the
president.
"I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting," said the
President firmly.
"But--but I did not insinuate anything!" stammered poor Miss Jessie who,
severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President's eye, had
turned the colour of the crimson square before her.
"We all know," went on the President more mildly, "that Mr. Macnair
calls fairly often at the Elms. We may even have heard rumours to the
effect that he intends--I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our
minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand
what I mean. But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss
Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions. There is absolutely
nothing in it. His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence
of--er--affliction in the house."
"Do you mean Aunt Amy?" A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty
face looked up. "Why, can't you see that there is a much simpler
explanation than that?"
It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this
moment to arrive. But the Ladies' Aid were used to interrupted
statements. It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows
looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite
taken by surprise. A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had
learned to expect that. It was the penalty for being late.
"Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!" said the hostess pleasantly.
"No, you are not very late. We are only just beginning."
Every one nodded and smiled. Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to
provide space for the newcomer. A few left their work in order to shake
hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including
topics of conversation. In the space of a few seconds it was noticed
that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk
stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen
her look worse.
"Dear Mrs. Coombe, I think your belt-pin has become--allow me!" Miss
Milligan, dressmaker in private life, with a discreet swiftness,
twitched the blouse and skirt into place and deftly fastened it. At the
same time she closed a gap in the fastening of the blouse itself.
Mary Coombe laughed. "Dear me! Am I undone? I must have forgotten to
ask Amy to fix me. These blouses that fasten in the back are such a
nuisance!"
The President smiled politely, but with evident effort. Mrs. Coombe was
a prominent member. Still, on principle, she, a president, could not be
expected to approve of people who forgot to have themselves done up.
Supposing the minister had been present!
"What are we doing this afternoon?" asked the unconscious delinquent
languidly. "Autograph quilts? I've got a lot of blocks for you--friends
of mine in the city." She began to fumble in the pretty workbag she
carried. "Gracious, I was sure I had them with me! Isn't that odd? I
can't find them."
"Let me look," suggested Miss Jessie Sinclair kindly.
But the other snatched back the open bag with a gesture which was almost
rude.
"Oh, no--they are not there! I can't imagine what I have done with
them." She looked up in a bewildered way. Indeed the perturbation was so
out of proportion to the size of the calamity that the ladies questioned
each other with their eyes.
The President tapped with her thimble upon the quilting frame and every
one became very busy. "I hope," she said, taking the conversation into
her own hands for safe keeping, "that you found all well upon your
return, Mrs. Coombe? I hardly ever seem to see Esther now. Did you know
that we have been talking of changing our meeting to Saturday afternoon
so that Esther and some more of our younger folk may join us? We thought
that it would be so nice for them--and for us too," she finished
graciously.
Mrs. Coombe looked surprised. "I can hardly see Esther at a Ladies' Aid
Meeting," she said. "Did she tell you she would come?"
"No. We have not yet told any one of the proposed change. But we all
felt--"
"We all felt," interrupted Miss Sinclair, who was fairly sniffing the
air with the spirit of glorious war, "that the less time our young girls
have to go off philandering with young fools whom no one knows anything
about, the better it will be for everybody concerned!"
Mary looked up with an air of pleased surprise.
"Has Esther been philandering?" she asked eagerly.
The President frowned. This was hardly according to Hoyle.
"I really think," began Miss Jessie Sinclair indignantly, "that Esther
ought to be allowed to tell her mother--"
"Gracious! Esther never tells me anything. And I'm dying to know. Who is
the 'young fool'?--do tell me, somebody."
Strangely enough, now that the way was open, no one seemed to have
anything to say.
"You've simply got to tell me now," urged Mary delightedly. "Unless it's
only a silly bit of gossip."
This fillip had the desired effect. Everybody began to talk at once and
in five minutes Esther's step-mother knew all about the new doctor and
the broken motor. When they paused for breath, she laughed softly.
"It's the most amusing thing I've heard in ages. Fancy--Esther! Oh, it's
delicious." She looked around the circle of surprised and disappointed
faces and laughed again. "Oh, don't pretend! You know very well that
you're not a bit shocked, really. And surely you don't think that I
ought to scold Esther? Why," with a little flare of her old-time
loyalty, "Esther is worth a dozen ordinary girls. I'd trust Esther with
Apollo on a desert island. But I'll admit I'm rather anxious to see the
young man. He must be rather nice if Esther agreed to show him around.
As for the accident," she shrugged her shoulders, "I know enough about
motors to know that that might happen any time."
"You are right, of course," the President's tone was more cordial. "And
anyway we have no right to discuss Esther's affairs. The reference to it
grew out of the proposed change of meeting. And the change of meeting
was thought of chiefly because when Mr. Macnair heard about the escapade
he seemed much worried. Naturally, as he says, he carries all his young
people on his heart, and Dr. Callandar being such a newcomer--"
"Oh, yes, naturally." Mary Coombe's little gurgle of amusement had a
note of cruelty in it, for she alone of all these women had guessed why
the Rev. Angus Macnair should have taken Esther's escapade so much to
heart. She knew, too, that the minister had no chance, but the idea of a
rival was novel--and entertaining. Could Esther really have taken a
fancy to this young doctor? Mary knew the Coombe gossips too well to
take their chatter seriously, but there might be something in it. At any
rate, there was enough to use as a conversational weapon against Esther.
She was becoming a little nervous of Esther lately. The girl was
positively growing up. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, a new
strength had come to her, a strength which her step-mother's weakness
felt and resented. But now with this nice little story in reserve,
things might be more even. Mary's eyes sparkled as she thought of some
of the smart things she could say the next time Esther began to make a
fuss about--about the matter of the ruby ring, for instance. Esther had
been most disagreeable about that. Just as if any one could have
foreseen that Amy would miss it so soon, or indeed at all, since it had
been her fancy to keep it shut up in a stupid box.
As a matter of fact, the affair of the ring had assumed the proportions
of a small catastrophe. Aunt Amy had been feeling so much better that it
had occurred to her to see if the ring were feeling better too. Only one
peep she would take, hopeful that at last its strange enchantment might
be past. If she could look into its depths without the blackness coming
close she would know, with utter certainty, that Dr. Callandar's
cleverness had circumvented the power of her old enemies. "They" would
trouble her no more.
But when, flushed with hope, she looked--the ring was gone!
Esther, reading in the sitting room, was startled beyond words by the
scream which rang through the house. She seemed to know at once what had
happened and her gaze flew to her step-mother, laden with bitter
reproach, before she sped up the stairs to Aunt Amy's room. The door was
open and the tragedy was plain to see. Aunt Amy stood by the bureau with
the empty box in her hand and on her face an expression so dreadful, so
hopeless that, with a sob, the girl tried to crush it out against
her breast.
"What is it, dear? Don't look like that."
"The ring, Esther! 'They' have taken the ring!"
For an instant the girl hesitated, but common justice demanded that the
sordid truth be told.
"No, dear. The ring is safe. It was taken from the box, but in quite an
ordinary, simple way. Don't tremble so! It is not lost. It is just as if
I had gone to the box and borrowed it--"
As she faltered, the poor woman raised her head in an agony of hope.
"Have you got it, Esther? Oh, Esther, give it to me! I love you, Esther!
You shall have it when I am dead. But I can't die without it. I promised
somebody--I--I can't remember. Oh, Esther, don't keep it away from
me--give it to me now!"
Bitter, angry tears filled the girl's eyes as she took the pleading,
fluttering hands in hers.
"Don't, dear! Listen. It is quite safe. But I haven't got it. I promise
you solemnly I will get it back. You'll believe me, won't you? You know
I would not deceive you. And you won't be frightened? No one had
anything to do with taking it but ourselves. I am going to tell you just
how it happened--"
"Don't bother. I'll tell her myself."
In the doorway stood Mrs. Coombe, her eyes venomous with the anger of
tortured nerves. Her high voice trembled on the verge of hysteria, yet
she tried to speak with her usual mocking lightness.
"There is no need to make a mystery of the thing, I'm sure. I took the
ring because I was hard up--needed money at once. You understand what
that means, I suppose, Amy? You never wore the ring, nor would you allow
me to wear it. It was simply wasted lying in that silly box. My own
jewelry is of much less value. Besides, I use it. One would have thought
that you would be glad to assist in some way with the--er--household
expenses. In any case, no such fuss is necessary, and I should advise
you," her voice grew suddenly cold and menacing, "not to scream like
that again. A few more such shrieks and--people will begin to wonder."
Without so much as a glance at Esther she passed on to her own room.
"Don't mind her!" The indignant girl tried to draw the trembling woman
close. But Aunt Amy cowered away. Five minutes had undone the work of
weeks. All the doctor's carefully laid foundations were crumbling.
Esther, wrung with pity and remorse, stroked the grey hair in silence.
She expected an outbreak of childish tears, but it did not come. Rather,
the shivering grew less and presently Aunt Amy raised her head.
"It was she--Mary--who took it?" she asked in a whisper.
"Yes. But remember I have promised to get it back."
Aunt Amy looked at her blankly. She did not seem to hear.
"I never guessed it was Mary. Never! But now I know. I'll never be
fooled again."
"Know what?" asked Esther uneasily. There was a look in Aunt Amy's eyes
which she disliked, a sly, cool look--more nearly mad than any look she
had ever surprised there. "Tell me what it is that you know," she
repeated coaxingly.
But Aunt Amy would not tell. It was just as well, she thought, that
Esther should not know that at last, after many years, she had found out
the agent employed by "they" for her undoing. Ah, if she had only found
out sooner. The ruby ring might still be shining in its box. But of
course "they" knew that she would never suspect Mary, her own niece.
They were so clever! But now she could be as clever as they--oh, very,
very clever!
"What did she mean about my screaming?" she asked, looking at Esther
cunningly.
"Nothing, nothing at all! Don't think of it."
"But she did. I know what she meant. She meant that if I
get--troublesome--she will shut me up!"
"Nonsense!" declared Esther, thrilled to the heart with pity. "You must
never think such a thought, dear. You shall never live anywhere but here
with us. Why, you are our good angel, Auntie. We could never get on
without you--you know that."
Aunt Amy nodded, stroking the girl's soft hand with her work-worn one.
"You are good and kind, Esther. I know you will take care of me, if you
can. And I'm not afraid just now. It will be all right if I am clever. I
must not be troublesome. If I am, she will put me away with the mad
people. The people that make faces and scream. I never scream. Until
to-day I haven't screamed for a long time. And I'll be more careful. Oh,
I can be very careful, now that I know!"
Again the strange mad look. It flitted across her lifted eyes like a
dark shadow behind a window shade. And again Esther tried gently to
question her, but Aunt Amy was "clever." She didn't intend that Esther
should find out.
The girl left her at last feeling both troubled and sad, but Mary Coombe
laughed at her fears. She was in one of her most difficult moods.
"It was all a tempest in a tea cup, as usual," she declared pettishly.
"I do wish, Esther, that you would not be so disagreeable. She will have
forgotten all about the ring by to-morrow. All she needs is a little
plain speaking, and firmness."
"Firmness! Cruelty, you mean. You terrified her."
"Well, it had a good effect. She quieted down at once."
"She is too quiet. It's that which troubles me. Surely you can see the
damage that has been done? All her new cheerfulness is gone. She is back
to where she was before the doctor helped her."
"I never believed that any real improvement was possible. Insane people
never recover."
"She is not insane! How can you say so? But how shall we explain the
change in her to Dr. Callandar? We can't tell him that--that you--"
"Oh, don't mind me!" flippantly.
"Anyway, the ring will soon be back, thank heaven! I have written to
Mrs. Bremner."
"You wrote to Jessica?"
"Certainly. I told you I should. It was the only thing to do."
Mary Coombe's rage flickered and sank before the quiet force in the
girl's face and voice. With all the will in the world she was too weak
to oppose this new strength in Esther. And before her mortified pride
could frame a retort, the girl had left the room.
It was of this quiet exit of Esther's that Mary was thinking as she
sewed on the autograph quilt. Better than anything else it typified the
change in the girl. It meant decision, and decision meant action. Mary
shrugged her shoulders and frowned over the quilt. Yes, undoubtedly,
Esther was getting troublesome. It might be well if she were married.