The day before the wedding, the wedding dress came home. No one had seen
it. Mary's superstition in regard to this point was indulgently smiled
at by everybody.
"But hadn't I better see it on you just once," suggested Esther. "Some
trifle may have been forgotten and a missing hook and eye might spoil
the effect of the whole thing."
"Oh, I have thought of that. Miss Milligan is going to run in after
supper to see that everything is right. Then if anything is needed she
can attend to it at once. Of course, it doesn't matter about Miss
Milligan seeing it--for bad luck I mean."
"How about me?" asked Callandar, smiling.
"You!" with a playful shriek, "you would be worse than anybody. You
would hoodoo it entirely!"
"How about little girls?" asked Jane coaxingly.
Mary turned suddenly peevish. "Don't bother me, Jane. I shall not let
any one see it and that's enough." But their combined suggestions had
disturbed her, and it was only upon their serious assurance that of
course her wishes would be respected that her amiability returned.
Yet it was apparent that she felt rather worried about the dress herself
for she had worked herself into a small fever of nervous anxiety before
the promised appearance of Miss Milligan for the last fitting. When at
last that lady arrived, a trifle late, and very much out of breath, Mary
would hardly let her say good evening to the others, before hurrying
her upstairs.
"And I think," said she hesitatingly, "that I shan't come down again
to-night. I am tired. If the doctor calls in, tell him that I am trying
to get a good rest for to-morrow. Good night, Miss Philps. Good
night, Esther!"
To the girl's astonishment she kissed her. A light, hot kiss which fell
on her cheek like a fleck of glowing ash. Yet it was a real kiss and may
have meant that the giver was not ungrateful. Jane, too, had a good
night kiss that night; but Aunt Amy had already gone upstairs.
* * * * *
"Well?" They were safely in the upstairs room now and the door was
closed.
"I've got it. It came on the afternoon mail. I went down to the post
office specially. I knew you kind of counted on it for to-morrow."
With the glee of a child playing conspirator Miss Milligan dived into
the recesses of the reticule she carried. "Here it is. No, that's
peppermints. But it's here somewhere--"
"Oh, hurry!" Mary almost snatched the packet from the friendly hand. At
sight of it she turned deathly white and began to shake as she had
shaken that day in the fitting-room. But this time she recovered
quickly, almost before Miss Milligan had noticed it.
"Thank you so much," she said. With the last effort of her self-control
she forced herself to place the packet upon the dresser. She wanted to
snatch at it to tear it open, to scream with the relief of the tablets
in her hand, but she did none of these things. Instead she thanked Miss
Milligan again and proceeded to talk of other things, anything that
would do to fill up the short time necessary to conceal the real purpose
of the visit so that Esther and Miss Philps would not suspect--never for
a moment suspect!
"Do you think we really need try on the dress?" asked the conscientious
Miss Milligan.
Mrs. Coombe thought not. It was quite all right, she felt sure of that.
And really she was a little tired. It had been a trying day. She
moistened her lips and tried to smile, keeping her eyes well away from
the tempting heaven in the little pasteboard box. Would the woman
never go!
Fortunately Miss Milligan was a lady who prided herself upon her good
sense and also upon her proper pride. She always knew, she declared,
when she was not wanted, and, strange as it may seem, it began to dawn
upon her that this was one of those rare occasions. Mrs. Coombe was very
pleasant, of course, but Miss Milligan missed something, a certain
cordiality which might have tempted her to prolong her stay. She was not
offended, for if she considered that her self-denying journeys to the
post office were meeting with less than their just deserts, she was not
a woman to insist upon gratitude where gratitude was not freely given.
She stayed therefore no longer than the fiction of dress-fitting
required and then with a somewhat strained "good night" passed down the
stairs and out of the house.
Mary waited, rigid as a statue, until she heard the front gate close,
then, the last defence down, she sprang to the dressing table--tearing
off the paper from the package as a puppy dog might tear the covering
from a bone. A glass of water stood ready. Her shaking hands reached for
it, counted the number of tablets and slipped them in. Then, with a long
breath of relief, the tension relaxed. She raised her eyes, triumphing
eyes, to the mirror and saw--Aunt Amy watching her from the doorway.
She had forgotten to lock the door!
But it was only Aunt Amy.
Fear and relief came in almost the same breath. She steadied herself
against the dresser.
"Shut the door!"
Aunt Amy obeyed. But she shut herself inside the door. "What do you
want?" Mary never wasted words on Amy--"Ah!"
With a motion so swift that it seemed like a conjuror's miracle, Aunt
Amy had slipped from her stand by the door, snatched up the open box,
and was back again before the choking cry on the other's lips had
formed itself.
"Esther says you musn't take these," said Aunt Amy in her colourless
voice.
For a second Mary hesitated. If she made the murderous spring which
every baffled nerve in her tortured body urged her to make, Amy would
scream. A scream would mean, Miss Philps--Esther--the doctor: agony and
defeat. With a mighty effort she held herself. She tried to
speak quietly.
"Don't be a fool, Amy. This is some medicine the doctor gave me himself.
Hand it to me at once."
Aunt Amy smiled. It was a sly little smile. It made Mary want to rave,
for it said more plainly than words that Aunt Amy knew. Swiftly she
changed her tactics. Her face softened, became gentle, entreating--
"Amy--dear. I am only going to use a little. If you love me, give me the
box."
Useless! Aunt Amy still smiled. She put the box behind her. With her
other hand she felt for the door knob.
"Amy, give it to me! What have I ever done to you?"
"You stole my ring." In exactly the same tone she might have said, "You
are a murderess."
The ring! Mary had forgotten the ring. Wait, perhaps it was not hopeless
even yet. Amy placed an absurd value on that ring--and she, Mary, had
the gem in her possession. She did not know that Esther had found and
restored it. To her it was still in the box at the bottom of her drawer.
A dazzling plan flashed through her excited brain. She would bribe Amy
with the ring. The thought nerved her.
"Do you really want your ring back?" she asked sweetly.
Aunt Amy paused with her hands on the door knob.
"I have it back."
"Oh, no. You haven't. It is in a box in my drawer."
"It is not. Esther gave it to me!" But there was a spark of fear in
Amy's eyes. Contradiction so easily confused her. _Had_ Esther given her
the ring? She felt oddly uncertain.
Mary laughed, and the laugh increased Aunt Amy's confusion. After all it
was quite possible that Mary had taken the ring again. It had been
locked away and hidden, but locks and hiding-places were never an
obstacle to "Them."
"I've got it safe enough!" taunted Mary, tormentingly.
The spark of fear flamed. Amy took a swift step forward. "Give it to
me!"
"Give me the box--and I will."
Aunt Amy had ceased to care about the box. Almost she placed it in the
outstretched hand, then, with quick cunning, caught it back.
"The ring first."
Mary shrugged her shoulders. She felt cool enough now. It was going to
be easy. She turned to the bureau and began to pull things out of the
drawer, scattering them anywhere. She could not remember exactly where
she had put the ring. As she searched, she talked.
"There is nothing to be tragic about," she said. "I intended to give you
your ring anyway--some day. And the medicine is nothing that will hurt.
It is only something to make me sleep so that I shan't look a sight
to-morrow. I am taking only a little. No one will know. I shall not even
oversleep. But if Esther or any of them knew, they would make a fuss.
You must promise not to tell them--before I give you the ring. Just tell
Esther that I do not want to be disturbed early. I'll wake myself, in
plenty of time for the wedding."
"In plenty of time for the wedding!" For a moment Amy wondered what it
was about the phrase which sounded familiar? Then she seemed to see, as
in a dream, the vision of a young girl all in white, with flowers in her
hands, sitting alone in a room waiting, watching a clock--a clock which
never quite came round to the hour of eleven on Tuesday. Time has a
great deal to do with weddings, evidently. People who wish to be married
must be ready at the fateful moment, otherwise they have to
wait--forever, perhaps. "Plenty of time"--suddenly a flash of direct
inspiration seemed to coordinate her scattered faculties. She saw
clearly a plan, a beautiful, simple plan to prevent the marriage. What
if Mary should _not_ wake in plenty of time for the wedding? What if the
hour, the wedding hour, should not find her ready? The thing was so
simple! If one tablet would make Mary sleep, two would make her sleep
longer. For the moment she forgot even the ruby ring in her childish
pleasure at such a clever idea. Her worn face was lit by a satisfied
smile as she swiftly, quietly dropped more tablets from the box into the
glass--one--two--she was not quite sure how many!
"Here is the ring," said Mary turning at last from the disturbed drawer
with a cardboard box in her hand. It was the box from which Esther had
taken the ring long before, but Mary was in too great a hurry to open
it. She did not doubt that it contained the ring. For once in her life
Mary thought she was playing fair.
They completed the exchange in silence, Mary wondering a little at the
pleasant change which she saw in Amy's face. But she was too hurried to
enquire into the cause of it. She hardly waited to hear her promise not
to tell Esther but fairly pushed her from the room. Then, secure behind
her locked door, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead and sank
exhausted into the nearest chair.
When her strength came back her first care was to hide the remaining
tablets in a safe place in her travelling bag, she never intended to use
them again, never! But it would do no harm to feel that she could trust
herself to leave them alone, as of course she could. Then she loosened
her hair, not pausing to brush it, and, slipping off her dress, wrapped
herself in a certain flowered dressing gown. Not one of the dainty new
ones, but a gown whose lace was yellowed and torn, a gown which felt
like an old friend but which, after to-night, she would wear no more--
Listen! Was that some one at the door?
Only Miss Philps calling good-night. Mary answered "Good-night" in a
sleepy voice, and the step passed on. It left her shaking like a leaf in
the wind. What else indeed was she? A fluttering, fading leaf shaken in
the teeth of a wind of dread and mad desire.
All was quiet now. She would be disturbed no more that night. Her
shaking hands rattled the spoon which stirred the mixture in the glass.
The familiar motion quieted her. Here, right in her hands, was peace,
rest, a swift and magical release from the torment of appetite denied.
To-morrow--but why think of to-morrow? She might be stronger then.
Everything might be easier. All she really needed was a long
night's sleep.
She turned out the light and throwing up the blind stood for a moment
looking out into the soft moonlight. The moon was clear. It would be a
beautiful day for the wedding! Smiling, she picked up the glass and
with a whispered, "Here's to the bride!" raised it to her eager lips
and drank.
* * * * *
Silence settled down upon the Elms. There was a harvest moon that night,
a glorious rounded moon more golden than silver. The garden slumbered,
wrapped in mellow light, even the shadows gleamed faintly luminous. The
breeze, roaming at will, shook drowsy perfume from the lingering
flowers, but for all it aped the summer it was unmistakably an autumn
breeze, melancholy, earth-scented. It stirred the curtains at Mary's
window; rustled through the great bowlful of crimson leaves upon
Esther's writing table and softly stirred the dark hair of the girl as
she sat with her face hidden in her curved arms. For a very long time
she sat there while the moon looked in and looked away again and who
can tell what her thoughts were, or if she thought at all.
By and by she rose and went to the window, looking out to where a month
ago she had stood by the garden gate under the stars. It was drenched
with moonlight now and the shadow under the elm tree was dark.
What was that? A darker shadow in the shadow? Esther's hand caught at
the curtain, her heart gave a great leap and then grew still. She knew
who stood there. This was the good-bye he could not speak. Tears fell
unheeded down the girl's pale cheeks. If during those last days she had
had any doubt of the love which loyalty to Mary had helped him hide so
well, they were all swept away now. A warm spot grew and glowed in her
heart and a line from that old immortal love lyric which she had learned
in her school days came back vivid with eternal truth.
"I had not loved thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more."