Mrs. Sykes thought much about her boarder in those days and, for a
wonder, said very little. Gossip as she was, she could, in the service
of one she liked, be both wise and reticent. Perhaps she knew that
oracles are valued partly for their silences. At any rate her prestige
suffered nothing, for the less she said, the more certain Coombe became
that she could, if she would, say a great deal. Of course her pretence
of seeing nothing unusual in the doctor's engagement was simply absurd.
Coombe felt sure that like the pig-baby in "Alice," she only did it "to
annoy because she knows it teases."
One by one the most expert gossips of the town charged down upon the
doctor's landlady and one by one they returned defeated.
"True about the doctor and Mary Coombe? Why, yes of course it's true.
Land sakes, it's no secret." Mrs. Sykes would look at her visitor in
innocent astonishment. "Queer? No. I don't see anything queer about it.
Mary Coombe's a nice looking woman, if she is sloppy, and I guess she
ain't any older than the doctor, if it comes to that. No, the doctor
doesn't say much about it. He ain't a talking man. Sudden? Oh, I don't
know. 'Tisn't as if they'd met like strangers. As you say, they _might_
have kept company before. But I never heard of it. I always forget,
Mrs. MacTavish, if you take sugar? One spoon or two? As you say, old
friends sometimes take up with old friends. But sometimes they don't. My
Aunt Susan found her second in a man who used to weed their garden. But
it's not safe to judge by that. Ann, hand Mrs. MacTavish this cup, and
go tell Bubble Burk that if he doesn't stop aggravating that dog, it'll
bite him some day, and nobody sorry."
In this manner did Mrs. Sykes hold the fort. Not from her would Coombe
hear of those "blue things of the soul" which her quick eye divined
behind the quiet front of her favourite. But with the doctor himself she
had no reserves, it being one of her many maxims that "what you up and
say to a person's face doesn't hurt them any." The doctor was made well
aware that her unvarnished opinion of his prospective marriage was at
his disposal at any time.
"I'm not one as gives advice that ain't asked," declared Mrs. Sykes with
sincere self-deception. "But what sensible folks see in Mary Coombe I
can't imagine. I may be biased, not having ever liked her from the very
first, but being always willing to give her a chance--which I may say
she never took. There's a verse in the Bible she reminds me of,
'Unstable as water'--Ann, what tribe was it that the Lord addressed them
words to?"
"I don't know, Aunt."
"There, you see! She doesn't know! That's what happens along of all
these Sunday Schools. In my day I'd be spanked and sent to bed if I
didn't know every last thing about the tribes."
"Ann and I will go and look it up," said the doctor hastily, hoping to
escape; "it will be good discipline for both of us."
"Land sakes! I'm not blaming you, Doctor. Naturally you haven't got your
mind on texts, and I don't blame you about the other thing either. Men
are awful easy taken in. My Aunt Susan used to say that the cleverer a
man was the more he didn't understand a woman. Dr. Coombe was what you'd
call clever, too, but it didn't help him any. Mind you, I'm not
criticising, far from it, but I suppose a person may wonder what a man's
eyes are for, without offence. No one knows better than you, Doctor,
that I'm not an interfering woman and I'd never dream of saying a word
against Mary Coombe to the face of her intended husband, but if I did
say anything it would have to be the truth and the truth is that a more
thorough-paced bit of uselessness I never saw."
"Mrs. Sykes," the doctor's voice was dangerously quiet, "am I to
understand that you are tired of your boarder?"
Mrs. Sykes jumped.
"Land, Doctor, don't get ruffled! I'm real sorry if I've hurt your
feelings. I didn't mean to say a word when I set out. My tongue just
runs away. And naturally you have to stand up for Mrs. Coombe. I see
that. That'll be the last you'll hear from me and 'tisn't as if I'd ever
turn around and say 'I told you so' afterwards."
This was _amende honorable_ and the doctor received it as such; but when
he had gone into his office leaving his breakfast almost untouched, Mrs.
Sykes shook her head gloomily.
"You needn't tell me!" she murmured, oblivious of the fact that no one
was telling her anything. "You needn't tell me!" Then, with rare
self-reproach, "Perhaps I hadn't ought to have said so much, but such
blindness is enough to provoke a saint. If he'd any eyes--couldn't he
see Esther?" Mrs. Sykes sighed as she emptied the doctor's untasted cup.
More frankly disconsolate, though not so outspoken, were Ann and Bubble.
Not only did they dislike the bride elect but they objected to marriage
in general. "A honeymoon will put the kibosh on this here practice,
sure," moaned Bubble.
"Look at me. I'm not thinking of getting married, am I? No, and I'm
never going to get married either."
"I am," said Ann, "and I'm going to have ten sons and the first one is
going to be called 'Henry' after the doctor."
"Huh!" said Bubble, "bet you it isn't. Bet you go and call it after its
father. They all do."
"No chance! Bet you I won't. I wouldn't call it 'Zerubbabel' for
anything."
For an instant they glared at each other, and then as the awful
implication dawned upon Bubble his round face grew crimson and his voice
thrilled with just resentment.
"Well, if you think you're going to marry me, Miss Ann, you're jolly
well mistaken."
"Will if I like," said Ann, retiring into her sun-bonnet.
Upon the whole, however, their affection for the doctor kept them
friendly. Both children felt that something was wrong somewhere. Their
idol was not happy. Bubble whispered to Ann of long hours when the
doctor sat in his office with an open book before him, a book the pages
of which were never turned. Ann told of weary walks when she trotted
along by his side, wholly forgotten. Only between themselves did they
ever speak of the change in him, and Henry Callandar was well repaid
for the careless kindness of his brighter hours by a faithful
guardianship, a quick-eyed consideration and a stout line of defence
which protected his privacy and ignored his moods without his ever being
aware of such a service.
Esther he seldom saw. She was remarkably clever, he thought, with a
tinge of bitterness, in arranging duties and pleasures which would take
her out of his way. It was better so, of course. It was the worst of
injustice to feel hurt with her for doing what of all things he would
have had her do. But one doesn't reason about these things, one feels.
Sometimes he wondered if that midnight interview with her at the gate
had ever really taken place--or had it been midsummer madness, too sweet
to exist even in memory? Certainly, in the Esther he saw now there was
nothing of the Esther of the stars. She wore her mask well. School had
closed for the holidays and the summer gaieties of Coombe were in full
swing. Esther boated, picnicked, played croquet and tennis. If there was
any change in her at all it showed only in a kind of feverish gaiety
which seemed to wear her strength. She was certainly thinner. Callandar
ventured to suggest to Mary that she was looking far from well. But Mary
laughed at the idea. She was very much annoyed with Esther. The girl
appeared to care nothing at all for the great event, refused to discuss
it, declined absolutely to put herself out in the slightest for the
entertainment of her mother's prospective husband, seemed to avoid him
in fact. Moreover, she openly expressed her intention of leaving home
immediately after the wedding. Mrs. Coombe was afraid people would talk.
Of them all, Aunt Amy was the only one who understood. How her poor,
unsound brain arrived at the knowledge we cannot say. Perhaps Esther was
more careless in her presence, dropping her mask almost as if alone, or
perhaps Aunt Amy's strange psychic insight took no note of masks, or
perhaps--account for it as you will, Aunt Amy knew! Esther and Dr.
Callandar loved each other, and Mary stood between. This latter fact was
not at all surprising to Aunt Amy. Was it not the special delight of the
mysterious "They" to bring misery to all Aunt Amy loved, and was not
Mary their accredited agent? The affair of the ruby ring had proved her
that, though no one else must guess it. What would come of it all, Aunt
Amy could not tell. Wring her hands as she might she could not see into
the future. Often she would mutter a little as she went about her work,
or stand still staring, straining into the dark. No one noted any
difference in her save Jane, for Jane was as yet happily free to
observe. The others, caught up in the whirl of their own destinies, saw
nothing save the problems in their own anxious hearts.
"Esther," said Jane one evening, "Aunt Amy is odder and odder and you
don't seem to care a bit."
Esther, who was preparing to go to a garden party, turned back, a little
startled.
"What do you mean, Jane?"
"I don't know. Can't you see that she isn't happy?"
"But she is better. She never complains. She almost never fancies things
now."
"She goes into corners and stares--and she wrings her hands."
"But she always did that, duck."
Jane was not equal to a more lucid explanation.
"It's not the same," she insisted. "I know it isn't. Esther, when you
go away, will you take Aunt Amy and me?"
"How could I, dear? Your home is here. And you like Dr. Callandar, don't
you?"
"I used to. But he never plays with the pup any more. He's different.
And you're different and mother's different. I don't want to live with
mother. That was a fib I told you the other day about the cut on my
head. I didn't fall and hurt it. It was mother She threw her clothes
brush at me."
"Jane!" There was pure horror in her sister's voice.
"Yes, she did. I went into her room when she was taking some medicine in
a glass and I asked her what it was. Honest, Esther, that is all I did.
And she screamed at me--and threw the brush."
Esther came back into the room and sat down.
"When was this?" in businesslike tones.
Jane considered. "It was that day she wasn't down stairs at all, and
sent word to Dr. Callandar not to come--three days ago I think."
"Yes, I remember. O Janie dear, it looks as if things were going to be
bad again! It must have been one of her very bad headaches. She was
probably in great pain. Of course she did not mean to throw the brush
Are you sure it was medicine she was taking?"
"It was something in a glass," vaguely, "she was mixing it--look out,
Esther! You are spoiling your new gloves."
The girl threw the crumpled gloves aside and drawing the child to her
knee kissed her gently.
"It seems to me," she said slowly, "that big sister has been losing her
eyes lately. She must find them again; it isn't going to help to be a
selfish pig."
"Help what, Esther?"
Esther's only answer was another kiss, but when she had hurried out of
the room, Jane found something round and wet upon her hand.