The doctor, leaning against the door in deep reverie, did not seem to hear. Mrs. Sykes, after a suspicious glance, decided that perhaps he really had not heard, and proceeded.
"Not that I'm asking out of curiosity, Land sakes! But I've got some black currant jelly that sick folks fancy. I could spare a jar as well as not."
A pause.
The flower picker bunched her flowers into a tight round knot which she surveyed with pride. "That step-mother of Esther's now," she said. "I don't hold much with her. Flighty, I call her. Delicate, too, if looks don't lie. Men are queer. The only thing queerer is women. What d'ye suppose a sensible middle-aged man like Doctor Coombe ever saw in that pretty doll? And what did she see in him—old enough to be her father? A queer match, I call it. But they do say that her side of it is easy explained. Anyway it must have been a trying thing when the doctor's gold mine didn't—"
Mrs. Sykes' flow of words ceased abruptly, for rising from a last descent upon the rose bush she saw that her audience had vanished.
"Dear me! I hope he didn't think I was trying to be curious," said Mrs.Sykes.
It required some persuasion to induce Aunt Amy to consent to see the doctor. Doctors, she had found (with the single exception of Dr. Coombe), were terribly unreasonable. They asked all kinds of questions, and never believed a word of the answers.
"And if I have a doctor," she declared tearfully, "I shall have to go to bed. And if I go to bed who will get supper? The sprigged tea-set—"
"But you won't need to go to bed, Auntie. You aren't ill, you know; just a little bit upset. If you feel like lying down why not use the sofa in my room? And even if you do not wish to see the doctor for yourself," Esther's tone was reproachful, "think what a good opportunity it is for us to get an opinion about mother. Don't you remember saying just the other day that you thought mother was foolish to be so nervous about doctors?"
"Yes, but she needn't stay in the room, need she, Esther? I don't want her in the room. She laughs. But I would like to lie on your sofa and if I must see him I had better wear my lavender cap."
"Yes, dear, and you will not mind mother staying—"
"But I do mind, Esther. And anyway she can't," triumphantly, "because she has gone out."
"Gone out? Mother? But she knew the doctor was coming and she promised—"
"Yes, I know. She said to tell you she had fully intended staying in until the doctor had been, but she had forgotten about the Ladies' Aid Meeting. She simply had to go to that. She said you could attend to the doctor quite as well as she could and that it was all nonsense anyway, because there was nothing whatever the matter with me." The faded eyes filled with tears again and Esther had much ado to prevent their imminent overflow.
She settled Aunt Amy upon the couch and adjusted the lavender cap without further betrayal of her own feelings, but in her heart she was both angry and hurt. Her mother had known of the doctor's intended visit and had distinctly promised to remain in to receive him. What would Dr. Callandar think? It was most humiliating.
The Ladies' Aid Meeting was plainly an excuse for a deliberate shirking of responsibility. Or, worse still, Mrs. Coombe, divining Esther's double motive, may have left the house purposely to escape seeing the doctor on her own account. Esther well knew the stubbornness of which she was capable upon this one question, and the cunningness of it was like her. She had made no objections; she had not troubled to refuse or to argue—she had simply gone out.
Well, it was something to feel that she, Esther, had done what she could. At any rate, there was no time to worry, for the doctor was already coming up the walk.
Esther hurried to the door. It relieved her to find that he seemed to expect her, and showed no offence on realising that the patient's nearest relative was not at home to receive him. Indeed, he seemed to think of no one save the patient herself. His manner, Esther thought, was perfect. Had she been a little older she might have suspected such perfection, deducing from it that Callandar, like herself, was subconsciously aware of an interest in the situation not altogether professional. But the girl made no deductions and certainly there was no trace of any embarrassment in the doctor's way with his patient. It took only a moment for Esther to decide that here, at least, she had done the right thing. She waited only long enough to see the frightened look in Aunt Amy's eyes replaced by one of timid confidence and then, murmuring an excuse, slipped away, leaving them together.
Callandar also waited while the startled eyes grew quiet and then lifted the fluttering hand into his own firm one.
"Creatures of habit, we doctors, aren't we?" he said, smiling. "Always taking people's temperatures."
Aunt Amy ventured upon a vague answering smile.
"I understand," continued the doctor, "that you have reason to fear that you have been poisoned?"
The hand began to flutter again, but quieted as the pleasant, confident voice went on:
"Your niece has told me something of the case but no details. Perhaps you can supply them for me. When exactly did it happen and what kind of poison was it?"
The fluttering hand became quite still and the eyes of Aunt Amy slowly filled with a great amazement. Here was an unbelievable thing—a doctor who did not argue or deny or playfully scold her for "fancies." A doctor who took her seriously and showed every intention of believing what she said. No one, save Dr. Coombe, had ever done that—
"It is always best in these cases to get the details from the patient herself," went on the doctor, encouragingly.
No, he was not laughing! Aunt Amy could detect nothing save the gravest of interest in his kindly eyes. An immense relief stole over her. A relief so great that Callandar, watching, felt his heart grow hot with pity.
"Oh, doctor!" she cried feebly, "I—" a rush of easy tears drowned the rest of the sentence.
Callandar let her cry. He knew the value of those tears. Presently when she grew more quiet he exchanged her soaking bit of cambric for his own more serviceable square. Aunt Amy dried her eyes on it and handed it back as simply as a child.
"Pray excuse me," she begged, "but—the relief! I might have died if you had not come." She went on brokenly. "You see," dropping her voice, "my relatives arequeer. They have strange ideas. When I know things quite well they tell me I am mistaken. Mary, my niece, laughs. Even Esther, who tries to help me, thinks I do not know what I am talking about. They all argue in the most absurd manner. If I do not pretend always that I agree with them I have no peace. Sometimes when I tell some of the things I know, Esther looks frightened and says I am not to tell Jane. So I try to keep everything to myself. I don't want the children to be frightened. They are young and ought to be happy. I was happy when I was young—at least, I think it was I. Sometimes I'm not sure whether it wasn't some other girl—I get confused—"
"Don't worry about it," said the doctor calmly. "Or about Miss Esther either. I want to hear all about the poison."
Aunt Amy remembered her precarious condition with a start. Her eyes grew vague.
"I don't know how They put it in," she said. "I didn't see Them, you know. I left my cup of coffee standing while I went to find Jane. I heard her crying. She had cut her finger and when I had bound it up I felt faint, so I foolishly forgot and picked up the coffee and drank it. I wasn't quite myself or I should never have been so careless."
The doctor seemed to appreciate this point. "Did you taste anything in the coffee?" he asked.
"No. Of course They would be too clever for that!"
"And when did you begin to feel ill?"
"Just as soon as I remembered that I had forgotten to pour out a fresh cup." The naïveté of this statement was quite lost upon the eager speaker.
Esther, who had re-entered the room, opened her lips to improve this opportunity for argument but, meeting the doctor's eye, refrained. Callandar took no notice of the significant admission.
"Where do you feel the pain now?" he asked.
Aunt Amy appeared disturbed.
"Mostly in my head—I—I think." She moved restlessly.
Callandar appeared to consider this.
"But I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "that you really feel very little actual pain. None at all perhaps?"
Aunt Amy admitted that she could not locate any particular pain.
"Weakness is the predominating symptom," went on the doctor. "It is, in fact, a very simple case. All the more serious, of course, for being so simple,ifwe did not understand it. But now that we know exactly what is wrong we need have no fear."
Aunt Amy's vague eyes began to shine.
"Shall we get the better of them again?" she asked eagerly.
"We certainly shall," kindly. "Miss Esther, I am going to leave some medicine for your aunt; these little pink tablets. She must have one every two hours and two at bedtime. When she has taken them for two days I shall send something else. You will notice an improvement almost at once. Even in an hour or two, perhaps. By the end of the week all medicine may be discontinued."
He crushed a little pink tablet in a spoon, mixed it with water, and watched the old lady while she eagerly swallowed it.
"There!" he exclaimed. "That is the beginning! All we need now is a little rest and quiet. Nothing to excite the patient and a tablet regularly every two hours." He arose, affecting not to see Aunt Amy's grateful tears. "And of course," he added as if by an afterthought, "Theywon't know anything about this. They will think that, having taken the coffee, the result is certain. They will take for granted that They have finished you, in fact! So cheer up, it is worth a little illness to be rid of the fear of Them forever."
A lightning flash of hope lit up the worn face upon the pillow. "Oh,Doctor! Do you really think I am free?"
"Sure of it."
Aunt Amy sank back with a long sigh; her lined face grew suddenly peaceful. Esther, who had observed the little scene with wonder, said nothing, but taking the tablets, kissed her Aunt, and led the way out in silence.
"Well?"
As they stood together in the hall she could see the amused twinkle in the doctor's eye.
"I don't like it! You lied to her!"
"So I did," cheerfully.
"These tablets," holding up the glass vial, "what are they?"
"Tonic."
"And the medicine which you are going to send later?"
"More tonic."
"But she thinks—you gave her to understand that they are the antidote for the poison which you know does not exist."
"No. They are the antidote for a poison which does exist—medicine for a mind diseased."
"It's—it's like taking advantage of a child."
"So it is, exactly. I suppose you have never taken advantage of a child, for the child's good?"
"Certainly not."
"Never told one, gave one to understand, so to speak, that a kiss will cure a bumped head?"
"That's different!"
"Never told your school class during a thunderstorm that lightning never hurts good children?"
"That's very different."
"And yet all the time you know that lightning falls upon the just and unjust equally."
Esther was silent. The doctor laughed.
"I fear we are both sad story-tellers," he said gaily. "But in Aunt Amy's case the fibbing will all be charged to my account, you are merely the nurse. A nurse's duty is to obey orders and not frown (as you are doing now) upon the doctor. You will find that I shall effect a cure. Seriously, I do not believe that you have any idea of what that poor woman has been suffering. If the delusion of living in continual danger can be lifted in any way even for a time, it will make life over for her. You would not really allow a scruple to prevent some alleviation of your Aunt's condition, would you?"
The girl's downcast eyes flashed up to his, startlingly blue.
"No. I would not. I love her. I would tell all the fibs in the world to help her. But all the time I should have a queer idea thatIwas doing wrong. It would be common sense against instinct."
"Against prejudice," he corrected. "The prejudice which always insists that truth consists in a form of words."
They were now in the cool green light of the living room. Esther stood with her back to the table, leaning slightly backward, supporting herself by one hand. She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes. The doctor felt an impulse of irritation against the absent mother who let the girl outwear her strength.
"My advice to you is not to worry," he said abruptly. "You are tired. More tired than a young girl of your age ought to be. You cannot teach those imps of Satan—I mean those charming children—all day and come back to home cares at night. Will it be possible for me to speak to Mrs. Coombe before I go?"
Watching her keenly he saw that now he had touched the real cause of the trouble.
"I am sorry," began Esther, but meeting his look, the prim words of conventional excuse halted. A little smile curled the end of her lips and she added, "Since she went out purposely to escape you, it is not likely."
"Your mother went out to escape me?" in surprise.
"In your capacity of doctor only. You see," with a certain childish naïveté, "she hasn't seen you yet. And mother dislikes doctors very much. Oh!" with a hot blush, "you will think we are a queer family, all of us!"
"It is not at all queer to dislike doctors," he answered her cheerfully."I dislike them myself. At the very best they are necessary evils."
"Indeed no! And when one is ill it seems so foolish—"
"Is Mrs. Coombe ill?"
"I don't know. I think so. She has headaches. She is not at all like herself. I hoped so much that you would meet her this afternoon, and then she—she went out!"
"And this is really what is troubling you, and not Aunt Amy?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Amy has been quite all right until the last two days. But mother—that has been troubling us a long time."
"How long?"
"Almost since father died—a year ago."
"But—don't you think that if Mrs. Coombe were really ill her prejudice would disappear? People do not suffer from choice, usually."
"No. That is just what puzzles me!" She did indeed look puzzled, very puzzled and very young.
"If I could help you in any way?" suggested Callandar. "You may be worrying quite needlessly."
"Do people ever consult you about their mothers behind their mother's back?"
"Often. Why not?"
"Only that it doesn't seem natural. Grown-up people—"
"Are often just as foolish as anybody else!"
"Besides, I doubt if I can make you understand." Now that the ice was broken Esther's voice was eager. "I know very little of the real trouble myself. It seems to be just a general state of health. But it varies so. Sometimes she seems quite well, bright, cheerful, ready for anything! Then again she is depressed, nervous, irritable. She has desperate headaches which come on at intervals. They are nervous headaches, she says, and are so bad that she shuts herself up in her room and will not let any of us in. She will not eat. I—I don't know very much about it, you see."
"You know a little more than that, I think, perhaps when you know me better?—It is, after all, a matter of trusting one's doctor."
"I do trust you. But feelings are so difficult to put into words. And the greatest dread I have about mother's illness is only a feeling, a feeling as if I knew, without quite knowing, that the trouble is deeper than appears. Jane feels it too, so it can't be all imagination. It is caused, I think, by a change in mother herself. She seems to be growing into another person—don't laugh!"
"I am not laughing. Please go on."
"Well, one thing more tangible is that the headaches, which seem to mark a kind of nervous crisis, are becoming more frequent. And the medicine—"
"But you told me that she took no medicine!"
"Did I? Then I am telling my story very badly. She has some medicine which she always takes. It is a prescription which my father gave her a few months before he died. She had a bad attack of some nervous trouble then which seems to have been the beginning of everything. But that time she recovered and it was not until after father's death that the headaches began again. Father's prescription must, long ago, have lost all effect, or why should the trouble get worse rather than better? But mother will not hear a word on the subject. She will take that medicine and nothing else."
"Do you know what the medicine is?"
"No. Father used to fill it for her himself. She says it is a very difficult prescription and she never has it filled in town, always in the city."
"But why? Taylor, here, is quite capable of filling any prescription. He is a most capable dispenser."
"Yes—I know. But mother will not believe it."
"And you say it does her no good whatever?"
"She thinks that it does. She has a wonderful belief in it. But she gets no better."
The doctor looked very thoughtful.
"She will not allow you to try any kind of compress for her head?"
"No. She locks her door. And I am sure she suffers, for sometimes when I have gone up hoping to help I have heard such strange sounds, as if she were delirious. It frightens me!"
"Does she talk of her illness?"
"Never, and she is furious if I do. She says she is quite well and indeed no one would think that anything serious was wrong unless they lived in the house. Any one outside would be sure that I am worrying needlessly. Am I, do you think?"
"I can't think until I know more. But from what you tell me, it looks as if this medicine she is taking might have something to do with it. If it does no good, it probably does harm. Perhaps it was never intended to be used as she is using it. Otherwise, as you say, the attacks would diminish. At the same time a blind faith in a certain medicine is not at all uncommon. One meets it constantly. Also the prejudice against consulting a physician. It is probable that Mrs. Coombe does not realise that she is steadily growing worse. Could you let me examine the medicine?"
Esther hesitated.
"It is kept locked up. But, I might manage it. If I asked her for it she would certainly refuse. I—I should hate to steal it," miserably.
"I see. Well, try asking first. It is just a question of how far one has the right to interfere with another's deliberately chosen course of action. The medicine is probably injurious, even dangerous. I should warn her, at least. If she will do nothing and you still feel responsible I should say that you have a moral right to have your own mind reassured upon the matter."
Esther smiled. "I believe I feel reassured already. Perhaps I have been foolishly apprehensive and it never occurred to me that the medicine might be at fault; at the worst I thought it might be useless, not harmful. If I could only manage to have you see it withouttakingit! There must be a way. I'll think of something and let you know."
"Do." The doctor picked up his hat for the second time. He was genuinely interested. He had not expected to find a problem of any complexity in sleepy Coombe. The cases of Aunt Amy and the peculiar Mrs. Coombe seemed to justify his staying on. It was pleasant also to help this charming young girl—although that, naturally, was a secondary consideration!
Esther ran upstairs with a lightened heart.
"I really could not help being late, Esther! I tried to hurry them butMrs. Lewis was there. You know whatsheis!"
Mrs. Coombe sank gracefully into a veranda chair. Out of the corners of her eyes she cast a swift glance at the face of her step-daughter and, as the girl was not looking, permitted herself a tiny smile of malicious amusement. She was a small woman but one in whom smallness was charm and not defect. Once she had been exceedingly pretty; she was moderately pretty still. The narrow oval of her face remained unspoiled but the small features, once delicately clear, appeared in some strange way to be blurred and coarsened. The fine grained skin which should have been delicate and firm had coarsened also and upon close inspection showed multitudes of tiny lines. Her fluffy hair was very fair, ashy fair almost, and would have been startlingly lovely only that it, too, was spoiled by a dryness and lack of gloss which spoke of careless treatment or ill health, or both. Still, at a little distance, Mary Coombe appeared a young and attractive woman. The surprise came when one looked into her eyes. Her eyes did not fit the face at all; they were old eyes, tired yet restless, and clouded with a peculiar film which robbed them of all depth. Curiously disturbing eyes they were, like windows with the blinds down!
If her eyes were restless, her hands were restless too and she kept snapping the catch of her hand-bag with an irritating click as she spoke.
"I know I ought to have been here when the doctor called to see Amy," she went on, "but I could not get away. Mrs. Lewis talked and talked. That woman is worse than Tennyson's brook. She makes me want to scream! I wonder," musingly, "what would happen if I should jump up some day and scream and scream? I think I'll try it."
"Do!"
"What did Doctor Paragon-what's-his-name say about Amy?"
"He thinks we have been treating Aunt Amy wrongly. He thinks she should be humoured more. His name is Callandar."
"Callandar? What an odd name! It sounds half-familiar. I must have heard it somewhere. There is a Dr. Callandar in Montreal, isn't there? A specialist or something."
"I think this is the same man. But if it is he, doesn't want it known. He is here for his health, and he has never taken the trouble to correct the impression that he is a beginner working up a practice. I thought so myself at first."
"At first?"
"When I first saw him. I have met him several times."
Mrs. Coombe was evidently not sufficiently interested to pursue the subject. "Whoever he is," she said fretfully, "I hope he is not going to allow Amy to fancy herself an invalid."
"He is going to cure the fancy."
"Oh!" dubiously. "Well, I hope he does! I find I must run over toDetroit for a few days."
"What?"
"It would be provoking to have her ill while I'm away. No one else can manage Jane properly while you're at school. Where is Jane?"
"I don't know. You are not speaking seriously, are you?"
"I certainly am. At a pinch I suppose I could take Jane with me. She needs new clothes. But I'd rather not bother with her. Her measure will do quite as well. I wish you would call her. I've got some butterscotch somewhere. Here it is." The restless hands fumbled in the hand-bag. "No, it isn't here, how odd! I promised Jane—"
"Mother, when did you decide to go away?"
"Some time ago. It doesn't matter, does it? I had a letter from JessicaBremner to-day. She asks me to come at once. It's in this bag somewhere.I declare I never can find anything! Anyway, she wants me to come."
"When did you get the letter?"
"On the noon mail, of course."
Esther turned away. She knew very well that there had been no letter from Detroit on the noon mail. But there seemed no use in saying so. These little "inaccuracies" were becoming common enough. At first Esther had exposed and laughed at them as merely humorous mistakes; but that attitude had long been replaced by a cold disgust which did not scruple to call things by their right names. She knew very well that Mary Coombe had developed the habit of lying.
"You see," went on the prevaricator cheerfully, "it would be necessary to run down to Toronto soon anyway. I haven't a rag fit to wear and neither has Jane. But Detroit is better. Things are much cheaper across the line. And easy as anything to smuggle. All you need to do is to wear them once and swear they're old."
"An oath is nothing? But where is the money coming from?"
Mrs. Coombe shrugged her shoulders. "One can't get along without clothes! And even if I could, there is another reason for the trip. My medicine is almost finished. I can't risk being without that."
It was the opportunity for which Esther had waited. She spoke eagerly.
"Why not try getting it filled here? I'm sure they are as careful as possible at Taylor's."
The hand-bag shut with a particularly emphatic click. Mrs. Coombe rose.
"We have discussed that before," she said coldly. "It is a very particular prescription and hard to fill. As it means so much to me in my wretched health to have it exactly right, I am surprised at you, Esther!"
Esther put the surprise aside.
"You could get it by mail, couldn't you?"
"I shall not try to get it by mail."
"But Taylor's are absolutely reliable. Why not give them a chance? If it is not satisfactory I shall never say another word. It seems so senseless going to Detroit for a few drugs which may be had around the corner. Perhaps it is not as difficult to fill as you think. Let me show the prescription to Dr. Callandar—" She stopped suddenly for Mrs. Coombe had grown white, a pasty white, and she broke in upon the girl's suggestion with a little inarticulate cry of rage, so uncalled for, so utterly unexpected, that Esther was frightened. For a moment the film seemed brushed from the hazel eyes—the blinds were raised and angry fear peeped out.
"You wouldn't dare!" The words were a mere breath. Then meeting the girl's look of blank amazement she caught herself from the brink of hysteria and added more calmly, "What an impossible suggestion! I need no second opinion upon the remedy which your father prescribed for me and I shall take none. As for the journey, I shall ask your advice when I wish it. At present I am capable of managing my own affairs. I shall come and go as I like."
The would-be firm voice wavered wrathed badly toward the end of this defiance, but the widely opened eyes were still shining and as she turned to enter the house, Esther caught a look in them, a gleam of something very like hate.
"So that is what comes of asking," said Esther sombrely.
She did not follow her step-mother into the house but remained for a while on the veranda, thinking. It was clearly useless to reopen the subject of the prescription. For some reason Mrs. Coombe regarded it as a fetish. She would not trust it to Taylor's. She would not allow a doctor to see it; there remained only the suggestion of Dr. Callandar that it be inspected without her consent. Esther knew where the prescription was kept, but—
Women are supposed, by men, to have a defective sense of loyalty and it is a belief fairly well established, also among men, that there is a fundamental difference in the attitude of the sexes to that high thing called honour. Esther was both loyal and honourable. To deceive her step-mother, however good the motive, could not but be horrible to her and just now, being angry with a very young and healthy anger, she was less willing than ever to lose her own self-respect in the service of Mary Coombe.
"I won't!" said Esther firmly, and went in to prepare Aunt Amy's supper.
"I don't feel like I ought to be eating upstairs this way," fussed the invalid as Esther came in with the tray. "I am so much better. That medicine the doctor gave me helped me right away. He must be a very smart man, Esther."
"It looks like it, Auntie."
"I don't doubt I'll be around to-morrow just like he said. So I don't want you staying home from school. That girl you get to take your place is kind of cross with the children, isn't she?"
"She is strict."
"Well, don't get her. I don't like to think about the children being scared out of their lives on my account. So I'll just get up as usual. I could get up now if necessary. And my mind feels better."
"Yourmind?" Never before had Esther heard Aunt Amy refer to "her" mind as being in any way troublesome.
"Yes. I suppose you never knew, but sometimes I have felt a little worried about my mind."
"Whatever for?" The surprise which still lingered on the girl's voice was balm to Aunt Amy's soul. She laughed nervously.
"Of course it was foolish," she said, "but really there have been times when I have felt—felt, I can hardly express it, but as if there were a little somethingwrong, you know. Did you ever guess that I felt like that, Esther?"
"No, Auntie."
Aunt Amy shivered. For a moment her faded eyes grew large and dark. "I'm glad you did not guess it. It is a dreadful feeling, like night and thunder and no place to go. A black feeling! I used to be afraid I might get caught in the blackness and never find a way out and then—"
"And then what, dear?"
"Why, then—I'd be mad, Esther!"
"Oh, darling, how awful!" Esther's warm young arms clasped the trembling old creature close. "You must never, never be afraid again! Why didn't you tell me and let me help?"
"I couldn't. You would not have believed me. And it would have frightened you. And you might have told Mary. If Mary knew of it she would be certain to be frightened and if she was frightened she would send me away. Then the darkness would get me."
"It never shall, Auntie. No one shall ever send you away! And you won't be afraid any more, will you?"
"No, not if you don't keep telling me that things I know aren't true. I know they are true, you see, but when you say they aren't it makes my head go round."
"We'll be more careful, dear! And here is your medicine before you have your supper."
Aunt Amy turned cheerfully to the supper tray.
"Your mother need not be told about it," she observed. "She wouldn't understand. She was in a while ago to say she hoped I'd be better in the morning. She is going to the city. What she came for was to ask me to lend her my ruby ring. She never understands why I can't lend it to her. I told her she might have the string of pearls and the pearl brooch and the ring with the little diamonds and anything else except the ruby. You see, I might die before she got back, and I couldn't die without the ruby ring on my finger. I promised somebody—I can't remember whom—"
"I know, dear, don't try to remember."
"Mary says it is shameful waste to leave it lying shut up in the box in my drawer. But it has to lie there. If I took it out now it would stop shining immediately. And it must be all red and bright when I die, like a shining star in the dark. Then, afterwards, you can have it, Esther. You don't mind waiting, do you?"
"Gracious! I hope I'll be an old woman before then! So old that I shan't care for ruby rings at all."
Aunt Amy looked at the girl's pretty hand wistfully. "I'd like to give it to you right now, Esther. But you know how it is. I can't. If the red star did not shine I might lose my way. Some one told me—"
"I know, Auntie. I quite understand. And you have given me so many pretty things that I don't need the ruby."
"You may have anything else you want. But of course the ruby is the loveliest of all. If I could only remember who gave it to me—"
"Perhaps you always had it," suggested Esther, hastily, for she knew quite well the tragic history of the ruby.
"Perhaps. But I don't think so. I love it but I never dare to look at it. It makes the blackness come so near. Does it make you feel that way?"
"No—I don't know—large jewels often give people strange feelings they say."
"Do they?" hopefully. "Go and look at it now. Don't lift it out of the box. Just open the lid and look in. Perhaps you will feel something."
Esther went obediently to the drawer where the beautiful jewel had lain ever since Aunt Amy's arrival. As no one outside knew of its existence it was considered quite safe to keep it in the house. The box lay in a corner under a spotless pile of sweet smelling handkerchiefs. Esther snapped open the lid of the case and looked in. She looked close, closer still, bending over the open drawer—
"Do you feel anything, Esther?"
The girl's answer came, after a second's pause, in a strained voice."The drawer is so dark, I can't tell!"
"Take it to the window," said Aunt Amy.
Esther lifted the case from the drawer and carried it into a better light. Her eyes were panic-stricken. For her indecision had been only a ruse to give herself time to think. She had known the moment she opened the case that the ruby was gone!
"It does make me feel queer," she said, closing the case. "I'll put it away."
"Is it a black feeling?" with interest.
"I think it is."
"Then you are kin to it," said Aunt Amy sagely. "Your mother never has any feeling about it at all. Except that she would like to wear it. She was looking at it when she was in. She was as cross as possible when I told her she could not take it with her."
Esther gathered up the tea things without a word. Her curved mouth was set in a hard red line. At the door she paused and turning back as if upon impulse, said: "If it makes you feel like that, I would advise you not to look at it, Auntie. It will be quite safe. I'll see to that. I'll appoint myself 'Guardian of the Ring.'"
Esther carried the tea-tray into the kitchen and stood for a moment beside the open window letting the sweet air from the garden cool the colour in her cheeks. Through the doorway into the hall she could see into the living room where Jane sat at the table in a little yellow pool of lamplight, busy with her school home work. Farther back, near the dusk of one of the veranda windows, Mrs. Coombe reclined in an easy chair. Her eyes were closed; in the half light she looked very pretty, very fragile; her relaxed pose suggested helplessness. Unconsciously Esther's innate strength answered to the call; her hard gaze softened. To apply the terms liar and thief to that dainty figure in the chair seemed little short of brutality. Mary was weak, that was all—just weak!
At the sound of the girl's step in the doorway Mrs. Coombe opened her eyes. They were very filmy to-night, blank, contented. Her nervousness seemed to have left her. Perhaps she was half asleep, for she yawned, an open, ugly yawn, which she did not trouble to raise her hand to hide.
"I have decided to take Jane with me, Esther."
"I don't want to go," said Jane.
"Well, you are going—that's enough."
"If you have really decided to go," began Esther slowly, "I think you are wise to take Jane. We cannot tell yet just how Aunt Amy may be."
The child returned to her book with a discontented sigh. Esther came nearer and spoke in a lower tone. "But before you go," she said, "please don't forget to replace Aunt Amy's ring. If she were to find it gone it would be no joke but a serious shock, as I suppose you know."
Mrs. Coombe laughed. And Esther realised that a laugh was the last thing she had expected. For anger, evasion, denial, she had been prepared. Mary would probably storm and bluster in her ineffective way—and return the ring. Instead—
"How did you know I had it?" she asked good humouredly.
"I saw that it was gone."
"And the deduction was obvious? Well, this time you are right. I did take it. I expect I have a right to borrow my own Aunt's things if she is too mean to lend them. It's a shame of her to want to keep the only decent jewel we have shut up. Amy gets more selfish every day."
"But you will put it back before she misses it?"
Mrs. Coombe could see her step-daughter's face quite plainly and its expression made her wince, but she was reckless to-night. After all, why pretend? If Esther intended to eternally interfere with her affairs the sooner an open break came, the better.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Certainly not until I return from my visit."
Esther fought down her rising dismay.
"Mother, don't you understand what you are doing? The ring is Aunt Amy'sYou have no right to take it!"
"I've a right if I choose to make one."
"If Auntie finds out it is not in its box, we cannot tell what the effect may be!"
"She needn't find out. What she doesn't know won't hurt her!"
"But—it is stealing!"
Mrs. Coombe laughed. "What a baby you are, Esther, for all your solemn eyes and grown-up airs. Stealing—the idea! Anyway you need not worry since you are not the thief." She yawned again, rose, and declared that she felt quite tired enough to go to bed.
When she had gone, Jane left her lessons and came to her sister's side.
"Esther, do I really have to go away with Mother?"
"It looks like it, Janie. But you'll like it. Mrs. Bremner has a little girl."
"I don't like little girls."
"Then you ought to! The change will probably do you good."
Jane looked dubious. "Things that I don't want never do me any good.Will you help me with my 'rithmetic?"
"I will when I come back."
"Where're you going?"
"Out. I'll not be long. Answer Aunt Amy's bell if it rings, like a dear child."
Esther's decision had been made, as many important decisions are, suddenly, and without conscious thought. All the puzzling over what was right and wrong seemed no longer necessary. Without knowing why, she knew that it had become imperative to get some good advice and get it at once. If she had been disturbed and uneasy before, she was frightened now. Something must be done, if not for Mary's sake at least for the sake of the honoured name she bore, and for Jane's sake!
"Mother doesn't seem toknowwhen a thing is wrong any more!" was the burden of the girl's thought as she hurried upstairs.
She knew where the prescription was kept—in a little drawer of her father's old desk, a drawer supposed to be secret. To-morrow Mary would take it away with her. Esther opened the drawer without allowing herself a moment for thought or regret. The paper was there, folded, in its usual place.
With a sigh of relief she seized it, hurried to her own room for her hat and then out into the summer night. A brisk five minute walk brought her to Mrs. Sykes' gate, and there, for the first time, she hesitated.
"Evening, Esther!" called Mrs. Sykes cheerfully from the veranda. "Come right along in. Mrs. Coombe told Ann you might be over to borrow the telescope valise if she decided to take Jane. Rather sudden, her going away, isn't it? Hadn't heard a word about it until the Ladies' Aid—come up and sit on the veranda and I'll get it."
"I didn't come for the telescope," said Esther. "I came to see Dr.Callandar."
"Oh," with renewed interest. "Well, he's in. At least he's in unless he went out while I was upstairs putting Ann to bed. That's his consulting room where the light is. It's got a door of its own so folks won't be tramping up the hall—but of course you know. You were here this afternoon. Funny, Mrs. Coombe going away with your poor Auntie sick and all! I suppose itisyour Auntie, since it can't be Jane or Mrs. Coombe?"
"Yes, it is Aunt Amy. She has not been very well."
"The heat, likely. Heat is hard on folks with weak heads. Not that your Auntie's head ever seems weaker than lots of other folks. Won't you come up and sit awhile?—Well, ring the bell."
Mrs. Sykes voice trailed off indistinctly as Esther rounded the veranda corner and stood by the rose bush before the doctor's door. She pushed the new electric bell timidly.
"You'll have to push harder than that!" called Mrs. Sykes. "It sticks some!"
But the door had opened at once, letting out a flood of yellow light.
"Miss Coombe—you?"
"It's Esther Coombe come about her Aunt Amy," called the voice from the veranda.
Hastily the doctor drew her in and closed the door with an emphatic bang. Then for the second time that day they looked into each other's eyes and laughed.
"Do you think my patients will stand that?" he asked her ruefully.
"Oh, we are used to Mrs. Sykes, we don't mind."
"That's good! Ah, I see you have the mysterious prescription. It wasn't so hard after all, was it? Probably your mother was quite as anxious as you."
"No, she refused to let me show it you. I took it. To-night was the only chance, for she is going away to-morrow and will take it with her."
"And how about your Presbyterian conscience?" Still with a twinkle.
"Silenced, for the present. But look at it quickly for the silence may not last. It seemed that I simply had to help mother, in spite of herself. And there was no other way. All the same I shall despise myself when I get time to think."
The doctor took the paper with a smile. "When that time comes I shall argue with you, though argument rarely affects feeling. To my mind you are doing an eminently sensible thing."
He opened the paper and peered at it under the lamp; looked quickly up at the girl's eager face and then from her to the paper again.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"Why—I don't know. Where did you get this?"
"In the secret drawer of father's desk."
"Was the prescription always kept there?"
"Yes."
The doctor folded the paper again and handed it to her. "Does this look like the prescription?"
"Yes, of course. It is the prescription."
"I'm afraid not. Come and look."
Esther seized the paper eagerly and saw—a neatly written recipe for salad dressing!
Hot and cold with mortification, she stared at it blankly. "I have been nicely fooled," she said in a low voice.
"Am I permitted to smile, or would it hurt your feelings?"
"It is not at all funny! Of course the real prescription has been removed. She must have suspected. You see, I asked her to let me have it. Oh!" with sudden shame and anger. "She guessed that I might take it, don't you see?"
"I am afraid you are right. But now at least I should think that you have done your whole duty. It would look as if Mrs. Coombe was herself aware of the inadvisability of continuing this prescription. Why else should she be so careful to prevent you showing it to me? At the same time she is determined to go on using it. We cannot prevent her."
"Can we do nothing?"
"When I see her I shall be better able to judge."
"But she is going away."
"Then we must wait. If it is, as I suspect, a case of disordered nerves aggravated by improper treatment, the instinct is strongly for concealment. Do you find, for instance, that Mrs. Coombe is not as frank in other matters as she used to be?"
A shamed blush crimsoned the girl's cheek, but the doctor's tone was compelling and she answered in a low voice: "Yes, I think so."
"Don't look like that. It is only a symptom of something rotten in the nervous system."
"Isn't there such a thing as character?" bluntly.
"As distinct from the nervous system? Some say not. But we do not need to venture such a devastating belief to know, well, that a dyspeptic is usually disagreeable. In potential character he may be equal to the cheeriest man who ever ate a hearty dinner. Think of Carlyle."
"I don't like Carlyle."
"But don't you admire him?"
"No. Do you remember the story of the beggar who picked up his hat one day and instead of giving him sixpence, Carlyle said, 'Mon, ye may say ye hae picked up the hat of Thomas Carlyle.'"
The doctor laughed. "Oh he had a guid conceit o' himself—must you go?"For Esther had risen.
"Yes, thank you. Oh, please do not come with me. It is only a step. I'd much rather not. Mrs. Sykes would conclude that the whole family were in danger of immediate extinction."
She was so evidently perturbed that the doctor laid down his hat, but for the first time it occurred to him that Mrs. Sykes was not an unmixed blessing.
Esther was holding out her hand.
"Then you think we can safely leave it until mother returns?"
"I think we shall have to, and if things have been going on as long as you think, a week more or less will make no very material difference. In any case we cannot examine a lady by force or prevent her from getting a prescription until one knows it to be dangerous."
"No, of course not. Good-night, and—thank you, Doctor!"
"And I am not to be allowed to walk home with you?"
"Truly, I would rather not."
"Then good-night, and don't worry."
He watched her flit down the dusky path, heard the click of the gate latch, and turned back into the office to wonder why it seemed suddenly bare and empty!
Mrs. Coombe had been in the city a week when one morning Ann, who was feeling lonely without Jane, sat swinging upon the five-barred gate and whistling intermittently for Bubble. She had become very tired of waiting. She knew that Bubble could hear. The five-barred gate was within easy hearing distance of the house, and both doors and windows of the office were open. Therefore it became each moment more evident that the whistles were being deliberately ignored.
"Horrid, nasty boy!" exclaimed Ann, climbing to a precarious seat on the highest of the five bars. "Well, if he waits until I come to get him, he'll—just wait!"
It was very hot on the gate. The vacant field on the other side, where the Widow Peel pastured her cow, was hot, too, but if one cut across the field and circled the back of the Widow Peel's cottage one substantially lessened the distance between oneself and the cool deliciousness of the river. The Widow Peel was near-sighted and hardly ever noticed one rushing over her beds of lettuce and carrots and onions, or if she did, she could not "fit a name to 'em."
Ann sighed and swung her brown legs. Should she or should she not go in search of Bubble? Going would mean a distasteful swallowing of proper pride; not going would mean—no Bubble. It would be a case of cutting off one's nose—Ann's small white teeth came together with a little click.
"I'll go. But I'll pay him out afterwards."
With this thoroughly feminine decision she tumbled off the gate, raced across the orchard and, having paused a moment to regain breath and poise, appeared casually at the office door. The office looked cool and empty; Bubble was not upon his official stool. Perhaps, after all, he had not heard the whistles! Perhaps—
"What d'ye want?" asked a gruff voice from behind the desk.
Ann jumped, and then tried to look as if she hadn't.
"I knew you were there!" she said. "But just you wait till the doctor catches you at it!" Mounting the step she frowned across at Bubble who, in the doctor's favourite attitude, was reclining in the doctor's chair. "I suppose you think you look like him, but you don't, nor act like him either. If he was sitting there and a lady came in, he'd be up too quick for anything. And if the lady was polite and stayed on the doorstep (just like I am) he would say, 'Pray come in, madam,' and then he'd set a chair and—"
"Oh, cut it out!" Bubble's dignity collapsed with his attitude. The tilted chair came down with a bang and its occupant settled himself more naturally upon a corner of the desk. "Don't bother me! I can't come out. Doctor's away. Some one's got to attend to business. See those medicines? Well, don't you go handling them! This here is for Lizzie Stephens (measles), and that there is for Mrs. Nixon (twins). If they got mixed I'd be responsible. Run away!"
"Where's the doctor?" asked Ann, ignoring.
"The doctor is out. You needn't wait. He won't be back all day."
"Where'd he go?"
"Little girls mustn't ask questions!"
Ann's small face wrinkled into an elfish grin. "I know where he's gone," she said slyly.
"Yes, you do!" This sarcastic comment was Bubble's most emphatic negative.
"Very well, then, I don't."
Not to be outdone, Ann volunteered no further information. She sat down on the step and waited.
Bubble busied himself with tying up the bottles. Presently he stepped out from behind the desk.
"Think you can mind the office while I run around with these medicines?" he asked sternly.
"Sure!" Ann's assent was placid.
"What'll you say if any one comes and asks for the doctor—or me?"
"You're out delivering medicines and the doctor's been called away very sudden."
"What'll you tell them if they ask you what he's been called away to?"
"Oh, I'll just say they needn't worry, 'tisn't anything catching."
Bubble allowed his face to relax. He even displayed a grudging admiration for this feminine diplomacy.
"And you wouldn't be telling lies, either," he remarked approvingly."All the same," with a return to gloom, "we can't keep it a secret.Folks are bound to find out. You can bet your eyes on that!"
Ann nodded. "I expect most of them know by now. Any one that wanted to could see them.Hedidn't seem to care. They drove right down the main street and you could see the picnic basket sticking out at the side!"
"O cricky! Isn't that just like him? You'd think he wanted the whole town to know he'd gone off picnicking with a girl. But I'd have thought Esther Coombe would have better sense!"
"It wasn't Esther's fault. She couldn't act as if she was ashamed of him, could she? When a gentleman asks a lady to go out in his automobile she can't ask him to drive down the back streets."
"If he had only taken her at night!" groaned the harassed junior partner. "But no, he must take a whole day off and him with two patients on his hands. Look at me! Have I ever asked off to go on any picnics? Not on your tintype. Business is business. Doctors can't fool round like other folks."
Ann nodded agreement. Things were coming her way very nicely. She glanced at the wrathy Bubble out of the corners of her eyes. "I didn't think he'd be mean like that," she remarked craftily.
"Like what? He isn't mean!"
"To make you stay in all day."
"He didn't. Not him! He gave me fifty cents and told me to take a day off. 'Just run around with the medicine, Bubble,' says he, 'and then you can hike it. I have a feeling in my bones,' he says, 'that nobody's going to die to-day.'"
"Well, then—"
"A man has a sense of duty for all that."
"Well," rising with a dejected air, "if you're not coming, good-bye. It will be lovely paddling! Aunt's given me some lettuce sandwiches and two apple turnovers. One was for you, but I suppose I can eat them both. The sugar's leaked all round the edge—lovely!"
The stern disciple of business watched her tie on her sun-bonnet with mingled feelings. It began to look as if she was really going!
"Good-bye," said Ann.
Bubble's red face grew a shade redder.
"Just like a girl!" he said bitterly. "Because a man's got to deliver two medicine bottles, off she goes and won't wait for him. And the farthest I've got to go is over to Mrs. Nixon's. The whole thing won't take five minutes."
Sun-bonnets are splendid things for hiding the face! Had Bubble seenthat slow smile of victory there is no telling what might have happened.But he did not see it. And Ann was too good a general to exult openly.Her answer was carefully careless. "I'll wait—if you'll hurry up!"
But the look which she threw after his hastily retreating figure was as old as Eve.
Meanwhile the doctor and Esther, who had been so criminally careless of professional appearances as to drive down Main Street with a picnic basket protruding, were enjoying themselves with an enjoyment peculiar to careless people. Esther had forgotten about the pile of uncorrected school exercises which were supposed to form her Saturday's work; the doctor had forgotten about the measles and the twins. Rain had fallen in the night and the dust was laid, the trees were intensely green.
Neither of them knew exactly how this pleasant thing had come about, although, as a matter of crude fact, Mrs. Sykes had played the part of the god from the machine. This energetic lady had made the doctor's professional career her peculiar care and it had occurred to her that, as a resident physician, he was disgracefully ignorant of the surrounding country. At the same moment she had remembered that to-morrow was Saturday, and that for trapesing the country and meandering around in outlandish places there was no one in town equal to Esther Coombe.
"But," objected the doctor, "I hardly know Miss Coombe well enough to ask a favour of her."
Mrs. Sykes opined that that didn't matter. "Land sakes," she declared, "it would be a nice state of affairs if one huming-being couldn't do a kindness to another without being acquainted a year or two." Besides, Esther, as the old doctor's daughter, might almost be said to have a duty toward the newcomer. Mrs. Sykes felt sure that Dr. Coombe would have insisted upon proper attentions being shown, since he was always "the politest man you ever saw, and terrible nice to strangers."
Mrs. Sykes also, with the assistance of Aunt Amy, had provided the large basket. They might not need it all, but then again they might. It was best to be prepared. And, anyway, no one should ever say that she, Mrs. Sykes, "skimped" her boarders' meals. As for the big shawl, once belonging to a venerated ancestress, it is always safe to take a big shawl on a country trip even in June heat with the thermometer going up.
The doctor agreed to everything, even the shawl. Whether one is taking a rest cure or not, it is distinctly pleasant to look forward to a day in the country with a lovely girl. Esther had taken his request quite simply. It seemed only natural to her that he should wish to explore, while the invitation to act as guide was frankly welcomed. Indeed her girlish gaiety in the prospect had shown very plainly that such holidays had been rare of late. School did not "keep" on Saturday, Jane was away, and Aunt Amy was so much better that she could leave her without misgiving. Bubble alone prophesied disaster, and at him they all laughed.
There is a little folder published by the Town Council which gives a very good idea of the country around Coombe. We might quote this, but it will be much better for you to go some time and see things for yourself. Dr. Callandar saw a great deal that day, but was never very clear afterwards in his descriptions. It was rocky in spots, he knew, and wild and sweet and piney. And there were little lakes. He remembered the lakes particularly because—well, because of what came later.
They had their lunch on the shores of a jewel-like bay, sitting upon theshawl of Mrs. Sykes' grandmother. Esther had many memories of the place.She had often camped there with her father. But it had been wilder then.Once a bear had come right up to the door of her tent.
"By Jove!" said the doctor enviously, "what did you do?"
"I said 'shoo'!"
"And did he?"
"Yes, he did. He was a nice bear, very obedient. Some days later father and I saw Mrs. Bear trot across the clearing with two baby bears behind. They were moving. I think Mr. Bear was looking for a house when he called on me."
Altogether it was a magic day. There is an erroneous belief that magic has died out of the world. But in our hearts we all know better. Which of us has not lived through the magic hours of a magic day? Which of us does not know that land, unmapped, unnamed, a land whose sun is brighter, whose grass is greener, whose sky is bluer, and whose every road runs into a golden mist? Magic land it must be, for much seeking cannot find it. No one, not the wisest nor the best, may enter it at will; but for every one at some time the unseen gate swings open, birds sing, flowers bloom, the glory and the dream descend! Poor indeed, unutterably poor and cheated of his heritage is he who has not passed that way.
They were not in love, of course. They were too happy for that. Love is the greatest thing in the world, but it is seldom quite happy. Esther and the doctor were not lovers but lingered in that deliciously unconscious state of "going-to-be-in-love-presently" which is nothing less than heavenly. Therefore they ate their lunch with appetite and laughed about the story of the bear. Both were surprised when the doctor's watch told them it was time to think of home.
They came back very slowly along the shaded trail to where the car stood waiting in the brilliant light of the declining sun.
"Just a moment," said the doctor, and cranked vigorously. A confusion of odd noises ensued, from which, somehow, the right noise did not emerge.
"Just a moment," he repeated. "There appears to be something loose—or tight—or something. If you'll just sit out on the grass a moment, Miss Esther, I'll see what it is."
Esther descended. The grass was just as pleasant to sit upon as the car seat and she knew nothing whatever about the tricky ways of motors.
"Just a moment," said Callandar for the third time, and disappeared behind the bonnet. Fifteen minutes after, he reappeared with a very hot face decorated fantastically with black.
"She's sulking," he announced gloomily.
"Is she?" Esther's tone held nothing save placid amusement.
"Just a moment." The doctor banged down the bonnet and effaced himself once more. This time under the body of the car.
Motors are mysterious things. Why a well-treated, not to say pampered, car which some hours before had been left in perfect condition and excellent temper should abruptly turn stubborn and refuse to fulfil its chief end is a problem which we shall not attempt to solve. Every one who has ever owned a motor knows that these things be.
The doctor, a modest man, considered himself a fair mechanician. In expansive moments he, who made nothing of his undoubted excellence in his own profession, was wont to boast that you couldn't teach him much about motors! He had laughed to scorn the remark of his Scotch chauffeur that "they things need a deal o' humourin'!" Humour a thing of cogs and screws? Absurd! One must master a motor, not humour her.
Half an hour later he emerged from the car's eclipse and sank, a pitiable figure, upon the grass beside Esther.
"Won't it go?" asked Esther dreamily. It had been very pleasant sitting there watching the sun set.
The master of motors made a tragic gesture. "No," he said, "she won't."
"Shake her," said Esther.
Dr. Callandar pushed back his sweat-bedewed hair with fingers which left a fearsome streak above his left eyebrow. The girl laughed. But the doctor's decorated face was rueful.
"Do you know, Miss Esther, I'm afraid it isn't a bit funny." His tone, too, was sober; and Esther, suddenly more fully alive to the situation, noticed that the hands clasped recklessly about the knees of once spotless trousers were shaking, just a little. He must be awfully tired!
"That's because you can't see yourself. Give the motor a rest. There is plenty of time. Let's have tea here instead of on the way home. There is cold tea and chicken-loaf, bread and butter, and half a tart."
The doctor brightened. "You may have the half-tart," he concluded generously. "And in return you will forgive me my pessimism. I believe I am hungry and thirsty and—if I could only swear I should be all right presently."
Esther put her small fingers in her ears and directed an absorbed gaze toward the sunset.
Callandar laughed.
"All over!" he called. "Richard is himself again. And now we have got to be serious. Painful as it is, I admit defeat. I can't make that car budge an inch. It won't move. We can't push it. We have no other means of conveyance. Deduction—we must walk!"
"Yes, only like most deductions, it doesn't get us anywhere. Wecan'twalk."
"Not to Coombe of course. Merely to the nearest farm house."
"There isn't any nearest farm house."
"Then to the nearest common or garden house."
"I thought we were going to be serious. Really, there is no house within reasonable walking distance. We are quite in the wilds here. Don't you remember the long stretches of waste land we came through? No one builds on useless ground. The nearest houses of any kind are over on the other side of the lake. The beach is good there and there are a few summer cottages and a boarding house. Farther in is the little railway station of Pine Lake—"
"Jove! That's what we want! Why did you try to frighten me? Once let us reach the station and our troubles are over. There is probably an evening train into Coombe."
"There is. But we shall never catch it. We are on the wrong side of the lake. We have no boat. There is a trail around but it is absolutely out of the question, too far and too rough, even if we knew it, which we do not. It would take a woodsman to follow it even in daylight."