It is the onlooker who sees most of the game and Aunt Amy was an ideal
onlooker. Always self-effacing and silent, she was now more silent and
self-effacing still. Consequently the principal actors tended to forget
their parts when in her presence. No one explained anything to Aunt Amy
but no one concealed anything from her. She simply "didn't matter." So
far as the playing out of the little drama was concerned, Aunt Amy was
supposed to be safely off the stage. She looked and listened, had her
strange flashes of psychic insight and came to her own conclusions about
it all, quite undisturbed by facts as they appeared to others. Her
conclusions were very simple. Esther loved the doctor. The doctor loved
Esther. That, in spite of this, Callandar was deliberately planning to
marry Mary she considered a purely arbitrary matter arranged by those
mysteriously malignant powers known as "They." Callandar, himself, had
clearly no choice, Esther was helpless, and Mary triumphed easily and
inevitably because Mary was one of "Them" herself. Aunt Amy had become
firmly convinced of this latter fact. Everything went to prove it--the
theft of the ring, the threat to shut her (Amy) up, the easy triumph
over Esther, and a thousand and one trifles all "confirmation strong as
proofs of holy writ." Of course it would be impossible to make this
clear to Esther or the doctor. Amy realised that and did not try. But in
her own mind she thought of it continually. And her little pile of proof
mounted higher day by day.
Esther, absorbed in the care of her step-mother, was not even aware that
Aunt Amy noticed her growing listlessness, her heavy eyes, her fits of
brooding. She did not know that a silent foot paused before her closed
door, listening. All she knew was that it was relief unspeakable to be
with Aunt Amy, to let drop the mask of cheerful energy without fear of
questioning or of wonder. Aunt Amy didn't matter.
Mary, too, felt that it was needless to hoodwink Amy. No need to pretend
with her. She might show herself as irritable, as conscienceless, as
nerve-racked and disagreeable as she chose without fear of displaying
"symptoms." Aunt Amy was not looking for symptoms, indeed Mary thought
she grew more stupid daily. After her marriage something would really
have to be done about Amy. She hoped the doctor wouldn't be silly
about it.
Even Dr. Callandar was not careful to hide his burden from those faded
eyes. He was more self-conscious even with Ann or Bubble than he was
with her. What matter if she did see his mouth harden or his eyes
burn?--Poor Aunt Amy, such things could have no meaning for her. She was
a soul apart.
A soul apart indeed, how far apart none of them quite realised; yet near
enough to love--and hate. As the days went by and Esther drooped like a
graceful plant athirst for water there grew in Aunt Amy's twisted brain
a slow corroding anger. The timid, bitter anger of a weak nature which
is often more deadly than the lordly passion of the strong.
If she could only do something. If she could only outwit "Them"! She
would do anything at all, if she could only find the thing to do. It was
terrible to be so helpless. It was maddening to have to be so careful.
Yet careful she must be, she never forgot that. Often as she went about
the house or stood in the sunny kitchen rolling out her flaky pie-crust,
she pondered over ways and means. But none seemed suitable. Some of her
plans were fantastic to a degree, but she always had sense enough to
reject them in the end. In her planning she was conscious of no sense of
right or wrong but only of suitability. There could be no question of
right or wrong in dealing with "Them." They were outside the pale. No.
What she wanted was something simple and effective. A little poison,
now--in a pie? But Amy knew nothing of poison, nor how to obtain any,
nor how to use it effectively in a pie when once obtained. She might
consult the doctor perhaps? But something warned Aunt Amy that the
doctor would not take kindly to the idea of a little poison in a pie. So
this beautiful scheme had to be given up. She sighed.
"What a big sigh, Auntie!" Esther, who was sitting at the table peeling
apples, looked up questioningly. "A penny for your thoughts."
A look of cunning came over Aunt Amy's face. And instead of speaking her
real thoughts she said, "I was thinking of weddings, Esther."
"But why the sigh?"
"I don't like weddings. Once there was a young girl going to be married.
She was very happy. She was so happy that she was afraid to look at her
own face in the glass. And it was eleven o'clock on Tuesday. I mean she
was waiting for eleven o'clock on Tuesday. She was to be married then.
But just one minute before the time, something happened--the clock
stopped, I think. Anyway eleven o'clock on Tuesday never came. So she
could not get married. And she grew old and her flowers fell to pieces.
It was very sad."
"Poor Auntie!"
Aunt Amy moved uneasily. "Do you know who the girl was, Esther?"
"Don't you know, Auntie?"
"No, that is, I am never sure. Sometimes I think I used to know her. But
she's gone. I never see her now. I'd like to find her if I could."
"You will find her some day, Auntie. Try not to fret about it."
It was seldom indeed that Aunt Amy spoke even thus vaguely of that other
self of hers which she had lost in the tragedy of her youth. Esther's
heart was full of pity as she listened. What was her own trouble
compared to this? She at least would have her memories.
"There is just one chance," went on Aunt Amy, now gently excited. She
had never spoken of this chance before but she felt that Esther might
like to hear of it. "Just one chance! You see, the world being
round--the world is round, isn't it, Esther?"
"Yes."
"Well, the world being round there is a chance that, if she waits long
enough, eleven o'clock on Tuesday may come around again. Then if she is
ready and if she has the ring he gave her, the red ring, and if they are
both very quick they may be married after all."
"Oh, Aunt Amy, _dear_! That is why you love the ruby ring?"
But the old lady's memory was clouding again. She looked bewildered and
would say no more. Esther kissed her with new tenderness. "I am so glad
you have it safely back," she whispered. "You need never be afraid of
losing it again."
Aunt Amy found it hard to make the pies that morning. She was enveloped
in a deep sadness, a sadness which in some misunderstood way seemed
inseparable from the idea of that lost friend of hers, the girl-bride
whose marriage hour had never struck. It seemed to Aunt Amy that the
girl had been waiting a very long time and was tired. Even if the world
were round, it was a very big world and eleven o'clock on Tuesday took a
wearisome time to travel around it. She could not understand why she
should feel so terribly sorry for the waiting girl, but she did. A hot
tear fell into the pie-crust. That would never do! The pie-maker
furtively dried her eyes and came back to the consideration of more
immediate problems.
It may seem strange that no one noticed the morbid state of Aunt Amy at
this time. But it would have been more strange if any one had noticed
it. Of outward signs there were practically none. Even the silent
hand-wringing had ceased. She ceased to rebuke Jane for stepping upon
the third stair; she ceased to talk of the peculiarities inherent in
sprigged china. She was more and more careful not to mention "Them,"
and, as always, her housekeeping was a wonder and a delight.
She even offered to make Mary's wedding-cake. An offer which Mary
received graciously. No one could make fruit cake like Aunt Amy and if
it proved too big for the house oven the baker could bake it in his.
Jane was delighted. She told Bubble that it was to be a "hugeous" cake,
the like of which was never seen in Coombe and she defied Ann to produce
any relative or ancestor whatever whose wedding-cake had even faintly
approached such dimensions. Ann retorted that big wedding-cakes were
vulgar and that her Aunt Sykes did not think it proper for a widow woman
to have a wedding-cake at all.
The making of the cake was a great mental help to Aunt Amy. It seemed to
ease her mind and aid her to think clearly. She thought of many things
as she prepared the materials, made most clever plans. That all the
plans had to do with the preventing of the marriage and the final
circumventing of "Them" goes without saying. There was one especially
good plan which came to her while she stoned the raisins. Still another,
while the currants were being looked over, and a third, more brilliant
than either, while she chopped the candied peel. The trouble was that
when she came to mix all her ingredients into the batter, her plans
began to mix up too, until all was hopeless confusion. It was most
disheartening! And the wedding, now, only a few days off. She wanted to
go away into a corner and wring her hands, but if she did, some one
might notice--and then "They" would have the chance they were looking
for. Aunt Amy was too clever for that!