As Esther walked away, demurely acquiescent, by the side of the Rev. Mr. Macnair she was conscious of a conflict of emotions. The sight of the doctor's disappointed face as he stood hat in hand, awoke regret and perhaps a trifle of girlish gratification. She had been sorry herself to miss that half hour among the roses but she was still too young and too happy to know how few are such hours, how irrevocable such losses. Also, it had seemed good to her maidenly pride that Dr. Callandar should know—well, that he should see—just exactly what he should know and see she did not formulate. But underneath her temporary disappointment she felt as light and glad as a bird in springtime.
The minister was speaking, but he had been speaking for several moments before Esther's delighted flutter would permit of her listening to him. When at last her thoughts came back she noticed, with a happy-guilty start, that his tone was one of dignified reproof.
"Naturally we all understand," he was saying, "at least I hope we all understand, that you are not primarily to blame. At the worst one can only impute carelessness—"
"Oh, but it wasn't carelessness! You don't know Buster. He's thecleverestdog! He hid. I had no idea that he was with me until he bounded past me at the church door. And though I whistled and tried to grab him he was in before I knew it. I'll make him sit up meekly and beg your pardon."
A flush of what in a layman might have been anger crimsoned the minister's cheek.
"You are well aware," stiffly, "that I am not referring to the incident of the dog."
"To what then? I am sorry I wasn't listening but you seemed to be scolding and I couldn't think of anything else." Even the abstruse Mr. Macnair saw that her surprise was genuine. His tone grew gentler.
"You are very young, Miss Esther. But since I must speak more plainly, I was referring to that mad escapade of a week ago. Don't misunderstand me, the blame undoubtedly rests upon the man who was thoughtless enough, selfish enough, to put you in such a position."
"Whatever do you mean?" Esther was torn between anger and a desire to laugh. But seeing the earnestness in his face, anger predominated. "Can you possibly be referring to the breakdown of Dr. Callandar's motor?" she asked coldly.
"I refer to the whole unfortunate adventure. If your step-mother had been at home I feel sure it would not have happened. She would never have permitted the excursion to take place."
The girl's dark brows drew together in their own peculiar manner.
"Let us be honest," she suggested. "You know quite well that my step-mother would not have bothered about it in the least."
"I feel it my duty," went on the minister, "to tell you that there were some peculiar features in connection with the disablement of the motor. I understand from the mechanician who accompanied Dr. Callandar to the spot for the recovery of the machine that there was really very little the matter. A short ten minutes completed the necessary repairs."
"Ten minutes? Oh, how silly he must have felt—the doctor I mean. After all the hours he spent and the things he said." She laughed with reminiscent amusement. "He threw the monkey wrench at it, too. And he thought he knew so much about motors!"
Her companion observed her with sombre eyes. Was it possible that she had actually missed the point of his remark?
"Can you understand," he said slowly, "how a man used to driving a motor car can have been entirely baffled by so slight an accident? To me it seems—odd!"
"So Dr. Callandar thought, only he expressed it more forcibly."
"And you?"
"Well, I suppose I was heartless. But it was the funniest thing I ever saw!" Esther's laughter bubbled again.
They were now at the manse gate. He saw that he must hasten.
"My dear Miss Esther, let us be serious. I do not like to disturb your mind but I have a duty in this matter. Has it never occurred to you that this so-called accident may not have been so—so—er—entirely—er—irremediable, so to speak, as it was made to appear?"
"Do you mean that he did it on purpose?" The tone was one of blank amazement. Esther's hand was upon the gate but forgot to press the latch. She was a quick brained girl and the insinuation in the minister's words had been patent. Yet that he should be capable of such an idea seemed incredible! Had he been looking at her he would have seen the clear red surge over her face from neck to brow and then recede, but not before it had lighted a danger spark in her eyes.
"You did mean that!" She went on before he could answer. The scorn in her voice stung. But the Reverend Angus was not a coward.
"That was my meaning. You are a young and inexperienced girl. You go upon an excursion with a man whom none of us know. An accident, a very peculiar accident, happens. You are led to believe that the damage is serious, but later, when the matter is investigated, it is found to have been trifling. What is the natural inference? What have you to say?"
"It has been said before," calmly.
"Well—"
"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor."
They faced each other, the man and the girl. And the man's eyes fell.
"God forbid that I should do so," he murmured.
Esther's face softened. Her anger was not proof against humility.
"If you are really disturbed about it," she said slowly, "I can reassure you. You say that you do not know Dr. Callandar. But I do know him. The whole situation rests upon that. He is a man incapable of the caddish villainy you impute. Why he could not repair the car, I cannot say. I think," with a smile, "that he does not know quite as much about cars as he thinks he does. But he did his best, I know that! When we found his efforts useless we took the only course possible and made at once for the canoe. We had to steal it, you remember, but the doctor showed no faltering in that. He was also prepared to shoot the dog. And you have my word for it that he made no attempt to swamp the canoe or to otherwise complicate matters. I arrived at Mrs. Burton's by ten minutes past nine. She was delighted to see me. Dr. Callandar walked over to the station and sent telegrams to Aunt Amy and Mrs. Sykes. He returned to Coombe upon the morning train. I remained with Mrs. Burton and came back in time for school on the milk train Monday morning. That is the whole story of the adventure and, to be frank, I enjoyed it immensely."
The minister shook his head, but he could say no more. His attitude had not changed, yet he felt a sense of shame before the straightforward honesty of Esther's outlook. She had no sense of the evil of the world. That very fact seemed to make the world less evil.
"When will Mrs. Coombe be back?" he asked abruptly.
Immediately the girl's frank look clouded. "I do not know," she said. "She hardly ever tells me when she is returning. She may be at home any day now. You know how impulsively she acts."
"Yes—just so." The minister's manner was absent. "The fact is I wish very much to speak with your mother regarding a certain matter. Not the matter we have been discussing, we will say no more of that, but a matter of great importance to—er—to me. The importance is such indeed that I doubt if I am justified in delaying longer if you have no idea of when I may expect to see her."
Had Esther been noticing she must have remarked the unusual agitation of his manner, but Esther was not noticing.
"Is it anything you could discuss with me?" she asked innocently. "Mother cares less and less for business. Unless it is something quite private she will probably turn it over to me in any case."
"But this is not—er—a matter of business. Not exactly. Not a business matter at all, in fact. It is a matter which—"
"Oh, there you are!" Miss Annabel's voice was breathless but gratified and free from the faintest suspicion of having arrived, as usual, at exactly the wrong moment. "Are you showing Esther the new rose, Angus? Such a disappointment, Esther, my dear! I had quite made up my mind that it was to be red. It came out pink, and such a beautifully strong plant—such a waste! I simply can't make myself care for pink roses. They are so common. Was I very long? You must both be starved. I know I am. Won't you come upstairs, Esther, and put off your hat?"
Esther intimated that she would. Just now, she had no desire for the further company of Mr. Macnair. She was conscious even of a faint stirring of dislike. Therefore the eagerness with which she followed Miss Annabel filled that good lady with hospitable reproach.
"I didn't intend to be so long," she apologised, "but you know what choir-leaders are? And Angus won't speak to him. I can't make Angus out lately. Tell me," abruptly, as they stood in the cool front room with its closed green shutters, "didyounotice anything peculiar about Angus?"
"No," in surprise, "is he peculiar?"
"Quite. He's getting fussy. He never used to be fussy. The trouble was to induce him to be fussy enough. Except over church matters. But this morning he was just like an ordinary man. About his collar" (Miss Annabel had a fascinating habit of disjointing her sentences anywhere) "nothing suited him. And you know, Esther, what care I always take with his collars. He said they were too shiny. Of course they're shiny. Why not? He said he noticed that men weren't wearing shine on their collars now. Fancy that!"
"Not really?" Esther's fresh laugh rang out.
"Well, words to that effect. He asked me if I wanted to make him a laughing stock before the congregation. Did you ever? And hebanged the door!"
"Does he not bang doors usually?"
"Never. And he banged it hard. It shook the house."
"But people have to bang doors, hard, sometimes, even ministers. I wouldn't worry if I were you. It probably did him the world of good. As for the collars—he may have been noticing Dr. Callandar's. Mrs. Sykes says the doctor sends all his laundry to the city."
"You don't say? And is it different from ours?"
"I—yes, I think it does look different."
"How did you happen to notice it? Oh, Esther, you aren't really carrying on with that strange young man, are you?"
The girl's cheek flamed. The question, she knew, was void of offence. "Carrying on" meant nothing, but the homely phrase seemed suddenly very displeasing—horribly vulgar! Her very ears burned. What if, some time, he should hear a like phrase used to describe their wonderful friendship? The thought was acute discomfort. Oh, how mean and small and misunderstanding people were!
She took off her hat and smoothed her hair without answering. But Miss Annabel was so used to having her anxious queries unanswered that she did not notice the lack.
"I know you haven't, of course," she went on. "But Coombe is such a place for gossip. Ever since you and he had that smash-up with the automobile, people have kind of got it into their heads that you're keeping company. But I said to Mrs. Miller, 'I know Esther Coombe better than you do and it isn't at all likely that a girl who can pick and choose will go off with a stranger—even if he is a doctor. And,' I said, 'how do we know he is a doctor anyway?' Goodness knows he came into the place like a tramp. You've heard, haven't you, Esther, how he came into the Imperial with nothing but a knapsack and riding in Mournful Mark's democrat?"
This time she did pause for an answer and Esther said "Yes," shortly.
"Then that settles it. I knew you had some sense. Just like I said to Mrs. Miller. Next time I see her I'll tell her what you say. 'Tisn't as if we knew anything about the man. No wonder you feel vexed about it."
"I hope you will not mention the subject at all."
"Of course not. Except to tell them how silly they are. You're sure you didn't notice anything queer about Angus when you were walking home from church?"
"Nothing at all." Yet, as she said it, it occurred to her that she had noticed something unusual in the minister's manner—an agitation, a lack of poise! "Perhaps he is disturbed about church matters," she suggested, thinking of the interrupted conversation about the important matter which was not business. "Why don't you ask him?"
Miss Annabel shook her head. "Oh, I never ask him anything! But," cheerfully, "I almost always manage to find out. I'm rather good at finding out things. But this isn't a church matter. I know all the symptoms of that. This is different. It's—it's more human!"
"Liver?" suggested Esther.
"No. I know the symptoms of liver too, Esther! What if it should beLove!"
The idea was so daring that Miss Macnair justly spoke it in italics. But the attitude of her listener was disappointing. Esther looked as if it might be quite a natural thing for the minister of Knox Church to fall in love.
"Love!" she said the word caressingly. "Perhaps it is. They say love is a disturbing thing. But—does it usually make a man bang doors?"
"It often turns a sensible man into a fool." Miss Annabel's tone held bitterness. "But what I can't discover is this! If Angus is in love, whom is he in love with?" The question was delivered with such force that Esther jumped.
"I'm sure I don't know!"
"Nor do I. And that is what I must find out. I have my suspicions. My dear, don't let me startle you, but have you ever thought that it might possibly be—your mother?"
"Gracious! So it might! I never thought of it."
"I have not been blind," went on Miss Annabel complacently. "I have noticed how often he calls at the Elms and how long he stays. Also how very considerate he is of Mrs. Coombe, how patient with Jane, how indulgent with you—"
"Indulgent with me!" indignantly. "Why should he be 'indulgent' with me?"
"Why, indeed," asked Miss Macnair pointedly, "unless on account of your mother?"
Esther subdued a desire to laugh. Many little things, half-observed, seemed to fit in with Miss Annabel's theory. Yet, somehow, instinct told her that the theory was wrong.
"I don't believe it," she declared finally. "At first I thought it possible but now I seem to know that we're on the wrong track. Mr. Macnair is not in love with mother, and as for mother—Oh, the thing is absurd! Aren't you awfully hungry, Miss Annabel?"
It was a curious luncheon party. The host was abstracted, nervous, far from being his usual bland self. The guest was subdued, silent, uneasy for no reason at all. The hostess, usually an ever-springing well of comment and question, had decided upon quiet dignity as the most fitting expression of sensibilities ignored by the banging of doors.
"I think, Angus," she ventured once, "that you ought to remonstrate withMr. McCandless in regard to 'If a man die.' An Easter Anthem is anEaster Anthem, but after five renderings it is hardly fair to expect thecongregation to behave as if they had never heard it before."
"Quite so," said the minister absently.
"Then may I tell him myself that it is your special request—"
"Certainly not. I wish you would not interfere, Annabel. The choir does very well. I think I have told you before that your continual desire for something novel in music has not my sympathy. I am not sure that I approve of this growing craze for anthems. They seem to me, sometimes, wholly unconnected with worship. We do not ask for new hymns every Sunday, nor do we ever become weary of the psalms. Indeed, familiarity seems often the measure of our affection."
"Net with anthems," firmly. "Anthems are different. Aren't anthems different, Esther?"
"I have known familiarity to breed something besides affection in the case of anthems," agreed Esther.
In the ordinary course of things this remark would have aroused her host into delivering a neat and timely discourse upon the proper relation of music to the service of the Protestant Church and the tendency of the present age to unduly exalt the former at the expense of the latter. But to-day he merely upset the salt and looked things at the innocent salt-cellar which his conscience, or his cloth, did not allow him to utter.
Miss Annabel raised her eyebrows at Esther in a significant way, telegraphing, "What did I tell you?" And Esther signaled back, "You were right. He is certainly not himself."
Several other topics were introduced with no better result and every one felt relieved when lunch was over.
"I think," said the Reverend Angus, as they arose, "that it is probably pleasanter in the garden."
Esther glanced at Miss Annabel. She wanted very much to go home. Yet in Coombe it was distinctly bad mannered to leave hurriedly, after a meal. She thought of pleading a headache, but the excuse seemed too transparent and she could think of nothing better. Miss Annabel was unresponsive. Her host was already moving toward the door. Now he held it open for her. There was nothing to do but go. If she were clever she could keep the conversation in Miss Annabel's hands.
But Miss Annabel's brother had other ideas. "I think," he suggested withthe soft authority which in that house was law, "that as you are takingMrs. Miller's class, Annabel, it might be well for you to look over theSabbath School lesson. Our guest will excuse you, I know."
"Why, I've hardly seen her at all, Angus."
"There will be time later. I am sure Miss Esther understands."
Esther understood very well and her heart sank. She was probably in for another scolding. However, as politeness required, she murmured that on no account would she wish to interfere with the proper religious instruction of Mrs. Miller's class. Miss Annabel looked rebellious, but as usual found discretion the better part and contented herself with another facial telegram to Esther: "Find out what is the matter with him." And Esther smiled and nodded: "I'll try."
"Perhaps you would like to see the rose bush to which my sister referred," began the minister nervously as they stepped out upon the lawn. "It is a very fine rose, but pink, I regret to say, pink. It is unfortunate that Annabel should dislike pink so much. I think myself that a pink rose is very pretty. Something a little different from the red and white varieties."
Esther murmured, "Naturally," and opened her strange eyes widely so that he could see the mischief which was like a blue flash in the depths of them. He coloured faintly.
"I fear I am talking nonsense! The fact is that I am thinking of something else. Something so important that it occupies my mind completely. That is why, Esther, I wished to speak with you alone."
The girl was thoroughly interested now. She was flattered also. Miss Annabel had been right. Something was troubling the minister. And she, Esther, was to be his confidant. To her untroubled, girlish conceit (girls are very wise!) it seemed natural enough. She had no doubt of her ability to help him. Therefore her face and her answering "Yes?" were warmly encouraging.
It is a general belief that a woman always knows, instinctively, when a man is going to propose to her. She cannot be taken unawares; her flutter, her surprise, her hesitancy are assumed as being artistically suitable, but her unpreparedness is never bona fide. If this be the true psychology of the matter then Esther's case was the exception which proves the rule. No warning came to her, no intuition. She was still looking at the minister with that warm expression of impersonal interest, when, without further preliminaries, he began his halting avowal of love.
Had the poor pink rose-bush suddenly flamed into crimson she could scarcely have been more surprised. She caught her breath with the shock of it! But shocks are quickly over. One adjusts one's self with incredible swiftness. A moment—and it seemed to Esther that she ought to have been expecting this. That she ought to have known it all along. Thousands of trifles mocked at her for her blindness, thousands of unheeded voices shrieked the truth into her opened ears. She felt miserably guilty. Not yet had she arrived at the stage when she could justify her blindness and deafness to herself. Later, she would understand how custom, the life-long habit of regarding the minister as a man apart, had helped to dull her perception. Later, common sense would prove her innocent of any wilful blunder. But just now, in her first bewilderment, it seemed that nothing could ever excuse that lack of understanding which had made this declaration possible!
"I love you, Esther! I have loved you for two years." (It was like the Reverend Angus to refer to the exact period.) "You must have seen it. This can be no surprise to you. You may blame me in your heart for not speaking sooner. But you were young. There seemed time enough. Then, lately, when I saw that you were no longer a child, I decided to speak as soon as your mother should have returned. But to-day I felt that I could not wait longer. I must know at once—now! I must hear you say that you love me. That you will be my wife. You will—Esther?"
His impassioned tones lingered on the name with ecstasy.
The startled girl forced herself to look at him, a look swift as a swallow's dart, but in it she saw everything—the light on his face—the love in his eyes! And something else she saw, something of which she did not know the name but from which, not loving him, she shrank with an instinctive shiver of revolt. He seemed a different man. The minister, the teacher, was gone, and in his place stood the lover, the claimer. Yes—that was it. He claimed her, his glance, his voice—somewhere in the girl's heart a red spark of anger began to glow.
She tried to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture. "No, do not answer yet. Although you must have known what I have felt for you, you are startled by my suddenness, I can see that. I have told you that it was not my intention to speak so soon. Circumstances have hurried me. I felt that I must have this settled. That—that episode of last week alone would have determined me. Things like that must not recur. I must have the right to advise, to—to protect you. You are so young. You do not know the world, its wickedness, its incredible vileness." His face was white with intense inward passion. "With me you will be safe. My God! to think of you at the mercy of that man—of any man! It stirs a madness of hate in me. Hate is a sin, I know, but God will understand—it is born of love, of my love for you."
Again the girl tried to force some words from her trembling lips. And again he stopped her.
"Do not speak yet. I apologise for my violence. Forgive it. We need not refer to this aspect of the matter again. Let us dwell only upon the sweeter idea of our love—for you do love me? You will love me—Esther?"
But the time for speech had gone. To her own intense surprise and to the minister's consternation, Esther burst into tears.
She was frightened, angry, stung with pity and a kind of horror. She felt herself honoured and insulted at the same time; and with this strange medley of emotions was a consciousness of youth and inexperience very different from the calm, untried confidence of a few minutes before.
"Forgive me, forgive me!" pleaded the conscience stricken suitor. "I have been too sudden! I should have prepared you. I should have allowed you to see more plainly." With a lover's first, fond air of possession he attempted to take her hand.
"Don't!" The word was sharp as a pistol shot. Esther's tears were suddenly stayed. Furtively she slipped the hand he had touched behind her. With the other she felt for her handkerchief and frankly wiped her eyes.
"You startled me," she explained presently. "And I am so sorry, so very sorry! I never dreamed that you thought of me at all—in that way, any more than I have thought of you. You honour me very much. But it is impossible. Quite, quite impossible."
"You mean my position here, as minister? Believe me, I have thought of all that. There may be difficulties but we will conquer them together. Nothing is impossible if you love me, dear."
"Oh!" She turned wide blue eyes upon him. "That is just it. I do not love you."
The blow fell swift, unerring, dealt by the mercilessly honest hand of youth. Esther's eyes were quite dry now. Her nervousness was passing. Regret and pity were merged in one overpowering, instinctive desire: the desire to show him beyond all manner of doubt that she repudiated that possessive touch upon her hand. "I could not ever possibly marry you," she said, as calmly as if she had been accustomed to dismissing suitors all her life.
They were still standing by the rose-bush whose desperate fate it was to produce pink roses. With incredulous dismay, the minister saw her turn from him and take a step toward the house.
She had refused him! She was leaving him! At any moment Annabel might finish her Sunday School lesson and come out upon the lawn—all his self-possession vanished like a puff of smoke.
"Esther!" he cried, "Esther! wait. Give me a moment."
She paused, but did not turn.
"I think there is nothing more to say—I am very sorry."
Sorry! She was sorry. This young girl upon whom he had set his desire, of whom he had felt so sure, to whom his love should have come as a crown, was sorry. King Cophetua, flouted by the beggar maid, could not have been more astonished, more deeply humiliated!
But the greater wound was not to his pride. At any cost to his dignity and self-respect he could not let her go like this. His ministerial manner fell away, his readiness deserted him. In a moment he became all lover, pleading, entreating, with the one great abandon of his life, with the stammering eloquence of unspeakable desire!
Slowly the girl turned to him. He saw her pure profile, then the full charm of her changing face. The blue eyes, widely open, were darker, lovelier than ever—Surely there was softening in their depths….
"Es—ther, Es—ther!" Miss Annabel's voice broke upon the tense moment with cheerful insistence, and Miss Annabel herself appeared at the turn of the walk, waving a slip of paper. She saw them at once.
"You're wanted at home, Esther. Your mother's come back. To-day! Think of that! On the noon train. In face of the whole town. And all she said when Elder MacTavish met her coming up from the station was that she had forgotten it was Sunday. Fancy!"
Perhaps never, in all her life of inopportune arrivals, had Miss Annabel been so truly welcome—or so bitterly resented! Esther turned to her with a heart-sob of relief, the minister walked away without a word.
"Dear me! What's the matter?" said the good lady. "You seem all excited. Perhaps I shouldn't have shouted out the news so abruptly. But it never occurred to me that you might be startled. 'Tisn't as if your mother had been away a year. Jane's waiting for you down by the gate. Such a peculiar child! Nothing I could say will induce her to come in. Don't you find Jane is a peculiar child, Esther?"
"Only a little shy," said Esther, quickening her steps.
"Shy! Mercy, I shouldn't call her shy. That child has the self-possession of a Chinee! I hope you won't mind me saying it, but a little shyness is exactly what Jane needs."
Esther, whose shaken nerves threatened hysterical laughter, made no reply to this, but hurried toward the small figure by the garden gate.
"Oh, Jane!" she called, somewhat shakily.
At her voice, the Shy One stopped kicking holes in the turf with the toes of her new boots and executing a bearlike rush, threw herself into her sister's arms.
"I'm home, Esther! So's mother! And she says I don't have to go to Sunday School. That's why I didn't want to come in. Let's hurry before the minister comes."
"Listen to that!" said Miss Annabel in indignation. "Any one would think my brother was an ogre. Angus! Why, he's gone! I thought he was following us."
"I think Mr. Macnair went into the house."
"Did he? What did I tell you? Perhaps my news surprised him as well as you. I thought he looked as pale as a plate. What do you think?"
"I think it is none of our business."
Miss Annabel gave her a shrewd look. "Perhaps not your business. You don't have to live with him. But I do. Well, good-bye, my dear. Tell your mother," significantly, "that I'll be over to see her soon."
Both girls were relieved that the minister did not leave his study to say good-bye. They breathed more freely and their steps slackened as soon as the corner which hid the manse had been safely passed.
"I've got new boots," began Jane. "See them? And Fred's new dog has got puppies! He calls her Pickles. She got the puppies this morning. Oh! they're darlings! But Fred is horrid. He says he is going to give me one for my own, to make up for Timothy. Just as if anything ever could! I never knew any one so heartless as Fred—except Job."
"Job who?" It was a relief to Esther to let the childish chatter run on.
"Why,Job. Job was just like Fred. When all his wives died and his little children and his cows, he felt bad, but when God gave him more wives and more children and lots of cows he was pleased as Punch. I always thought that so strange of God," in a reflective tone, "but I expect he knew what kind of man Job was and that he didn't have any real feelings. Do you think I ought to take the puppy, Esther? I shouldn't like to be like Job."
"I think there is no danger, dear. But how is mother? Better?"
"Was she sick?" in surprise.
"Her headaches, you know."
"Oh, yes. I don't know whether they are better or not," carelessly. "I didn't see much of mother while we were away. I played all day with Mrs. Bremner's little girl. Except when we went shopping. I think she must be better, for she did such lots of shopping."
Esther smiled. "Not very much, I think, Janie. Shopping takes money."
"But she did! I have lots and lots of new clothes. Only," discontentedly, "most of them don't fit. Mother could never be bothered trying them on. She's got some lovely things, too. Dresses and hats and piles of new shoes and heaps of silk stockings—"
"Jane, why do you say 'lots' and 'piles' and 'heaps' when you know you are exaggerating?"
But there was a note of anxiety in the reproof nevertheless.
"I'm not exaggerating, Esther! She did. Even Miss Bremner asked her what she was going to do with them all."
The elder girl's fingers tightened upon the small hand she held. Her red lips set themselves in a firm line. In face of a danger which she could see and measure Esther had courage enough. And she had faced this particular danger before.
"Mother will tell me all about it, no doubt," she said calmly. "Did she get me something pretty, too?"
"Yes. It's a surprise."
"And when she got all the pretty things I suppose she told the clerks to charge them?"
"Oh, no. She paid for them out of her purse."
Esther was conscious of a swift reaction. The things were paid for. Of course Jane had exaggerated. Children have no sense of value. Some dainty things, Mrs. Coombe was sure to buy; but, as Esther well knew, her slender stock of money would hardly have run to "piles" and "heaps." And of course she had been unjust in fearing that Mary had gone into debt. They had one experience of that kind, an experience which had ended in a solemn promise that it would never happen again. Mary understood the position as well as she did.
As the girl's thought trailed naturally into the problem paths of every day, her weeks of freedom, her new interests, the strange experience in the manse garden seemed already remote. With the little frown of accustomed perplexity slipping in between her straight, black brows, her deeper agitation quieted. The unusual has no antidote so effective as the commonplace.
They found Mrs. Coombe waiting for them on the veranda. Lying back in the shade, in her white dress she looked very much at her ease. Yet a quick observer might have noticed a certain anxiety in the glance she tried to render merely welcoming. She was thinner than she had been; tired lines dragged at the corners of the pouting mouth and dark circles showed plainly through their dusting of pearl powder. Changes which creep in unnoticed when one sees a person every day are startlingly apparent when absence has forced a clearer focus. Esther had known that her step-mother had changed, was changing, but as she bent over her now, the extent of the change shocked her. With a tightening at her heart she wondered what her father would say if he could see the difference wrought by one short year. Pearl powder, lavishly used, is not becoming, especially when it sifts into multitudes of fine lines; nor can powder or anything else brighten a dull, yellowing skin which in health would still be delicately clear and firm.
But the dulled eyes and the faded face were only the symptoms of the real change in Mary Coombe. The thing itself lay deeper. Striving to express a subtlety which would not lend itself to words, Esther had more than once told herself that her mother was "not the same woman." Yet it was only to-day, as she stooped to kiss her, that the startling, literal truth of the phrase struck home. The outside changes were nothing—it was the woman herself who had changed.
"Well, Esther!" The sweet high voice with its impatient note was the same as ever. "Here we are home again. Fancy me forgetting it was Sunday! Wasn't it funny? We met old MacTavish coming up from the station (not a single cab down to meet the train, of course!) and he looked so shocked. Really, this place grows more insufferable every day. It seems to agree with you, though, you're looking awfully well. Amy looks well, too. The new doctor must be something of a wonder."
"He is considered very clever. Aunt Amy is certainly better. Now that you are home you must let him see what he can do for you."
Mrs. Coombe's pouting lips lengthened into a hard line.
"I won't see a doctor. And that's flat."
"Are you feeling better, then?"
As was always the case, her mother's perversity dissipated Esther's sympathy and left her tone cold. It was all the colder probably because just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs. Coombe was wearing was not simple at all. The delicate embroidery on it was all hand work. And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle. It was probably a new "best" gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on? The skirt was not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent. Esther noticed these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned women in town she had become one of the most slovenly. All her natty, pretty, American "style" which the plainer Canadians had sometimes envied was gone. But this—this was worse than usual! The girl's quick eyes travelled downward, noting the increased signs of deterioration with something like distress.
"Why, mother," she exclaimed involuntarily, "there is a hole in your stocking!"
"Is there?" Mary Coombe thrust out a small and elegant foot clad in thinnest silk and shod with pretty slippers not very clean and turning over at the heel.
"Dear me!" she said. "So there is. I need new slippers too. I quite forgot to get any."
"Oh, mother!" Jane's cry was instant. "You got heaps. Tan ones and brown ones and white ones and black ones with silver buckles—"
"Jane!" interrupted Esther, laughing. "Give your imagination a rest."
"But you did, didn't you, mother?"
"Did I? Why, yes—I did buy a few shoes. I had forgotten. The Customs man didn't find them either. Run and fetch me a clean white pair, Jane, and bring down the surprise we got for Esther—see how disapproving she looks. I declare, Esther, it would be just like you to make things disagreeable the moment I get home. I didn't charge a cent, if that's what you're afraid of."
"I knew you wouldn't do that," gravely. "And of course I'm glad you got the things. But I can't see how you managed."
"Oh, sales," vaguely. "Things are so cheap in Detroit and Jessica Bremner is a born shopper. She gets wonderful bargains. Anyway, I got them, and I'm not a cent in debt."
"What's debt?" asked Jane.
"Buying what you can't pay for, Janie."
"Oh, mother paid for everything. I saw her. It's Mrs. Bremner that's in debt, isn't she, mother?"
"Don't be silly, Jane, of course not. Jessica is far better off than we are."
"But she only gave you half the money for the ring. I heard her say—"
"Jane, get those slippers at once."
"I'm going. But Mrs. Bremner said—"
Mrs. Coombe's hand came down with stinging force upon the child's ear.
"Will you obey me—or will you not?"
Jane retired wailing and her mother sank back into her veranda chair, red spots burning through the powder on her cheeks.
Esther sat very still for a moment, and then, without looking at the other, she asked in a low voice:
"What did she mean?"
"How should I know?" fretfully.
"What ring did Mrs. Bremner give you money for? Did—you have to sell one of your rings?"
"Yes, I did."
"Which one?"
"Oh, don't bother me, Esther."
"But I want to know which one."
"It was the big red one!" called Jane from the hallway, where she had waited, safely out of reach.
Mary Coombe sprang up, fury blazing in her eyes, but Jane had fled, andEsther, cool and capable, was blocking the doorway.
"Sit down, mother. I've got to know about this. What ring does she mean?"
For an instant the older woman hesitated, then with a little shrug she turned back to the chair. The fury had died away as quickly as it had arisen.
"I knew you would be disagreeable," she said. "And you were bound to hear about the ring some time. Jane is the most ungrateful child, and a little tell-tale; the makings of a regular little cat! I'm sure I spent her full share on her, and I've brought you something nice, too. Not that I expect to be thanked for it. Of course I had to have some money. I hadn't a rag to wear, not a rag. And I got everything ready made. It's cheaper. Anyway, I can't stand dressmakers any more. They paw one so. I can't bear to be touched, my wretched nerves! And I remembered the fuss you made about the bills last time. You know you did make a fuss, Esther, as if all your dear father left belonged to you and not to me—"
"But what did youdo?"
"I'm telling you, amn't I? I sold the ring, of course."
"Which ring?"
"The ruby ring. It's the only one that is worth anything!"
"You sold Aunt Amy's ring?"
"If you wish to put it that way, yes. I consider it is as much my ring as hers. She is my aunt and it is understood that all her things will come to me. She has lived here ever since I was married and I think it's a funny thing if she can't help me out occasionally. I simply had to have money and the ruby was the only thing worth selling. Good Heavens! Don't look so crazy. One would think I had stolen it!"
"You have."
Again Mrs. Coombe arose; this time without flurry. The little excitement had done her good. The dull eyes were actually sparkling, the sallow cheeks were flushed. She looked just as she used to look in one of her little rages before the great change came.
"That's enough, Esther. I'll take no more from you. I did what seemed to me right. If Amy were in her right mind I should not have had to take the ring, she would have offered it. Under the circumstances I did the only sensible thing. Amy will never discover the loss. I am getting a very good price for it from Jessica Bremner. It is a valuable jewel. She snatched at the chance of getting it."
Behind its whiteness Esther's face seemed to glow with pale flame. "Is it possible that you have forgotten the history of that ring?" she asked. "That it was poor Auntie's engagement ring and that, although she can't remember anything about it, she knows it means something more than life to her. And that she always says that she cannot die without the ruby on her finger?"
Mrs. Coombe looked uncomfortable, but kept her poise.
"It's all rubbish. She'll forget all about it. Dying people don't think of ruby rings. And anyway, she will probably outlive all of us. If not—we can easily divert her attention."
The girl looked at her step-mother in horror, half believing that this must be some cruel joke. The callousness of the words seemed unbelievable. But the reality of them could no longer be doubted and the pale glow died out of her face, leaving it white and hard.
"I do not understand you," she said slowly. "Somehow you do not seem quite—human. But be sure of this, Aunt Amy shall have back her lover's ring. Jane says it has not all been paid for. How much did you receive?"
"I shall not tell you. And I warn you, Esther, not to waste your money.If you buy it back, I shall sell it again."
They were standing now facing each other. Esther took a step forward and looked down steadily into her step-mother's face. Her own curious eyes were wide open, they looked like blue stars, bright, cold and powerful as flame.
"No! You shall not."
For a space Mary Coombe met that sword-like look, then her weaker will gave way. Her eyes shifted and fell. Her hands began to pluck nervously at the embroidery of her dress. She laughed, a little, affected laugh with no mirth in it, turned and entered the house.
We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor, with an address and a purse of fifty dollars.
The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine, was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs.
The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a quilt, not the old-fashioned kind, of course, but something quite new—an autograph quilt, very chaste.
It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed constitution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever her failings, was ever discussed in meeting—when she was present.
"What I cannot excuse," said Mrs. Bartley Simson, "is the tone of levity in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify."
"Besides," said Miss Atkins, the secretary, "it was a—it sounded like—what I mean to say is that she could not possibly,no onecould possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was."
A subdued chorus of "Certainly not" and "Absurd" showed the trend of public opinion upon this point.
"I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday," said the youngest MissSinclair, who always stood for peace at any price.
"Don't be silly, Jessie!" The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. "That's a different thing altogether. For my own part," raising her voice, "I think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters, and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope," here she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle, "I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!"
The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious virtue, raised to the _n_th power, shot through the circle.
"You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?" asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)
"I do."
"But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!" objected the younger MissSinclair, who was a kindly creature.
An electric silence fell upon the quilters. Every one looked toward the president.
"I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting," said thePresident firmly.
"But—but I did not insinuate anything!" stammered poor Miss Jessie who, severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President's eye, had turned the colour of the crimson square before her.
"We all know," went on the President more mildly, "that Mr. Macnair calls fairly often at the Elms. We may even have heard rumours to the effect that he intends—I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand what I mean. But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions. There is absolutely nothing in it. His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence of—er—affliction in the house."
"Do you mean Aunt Amy?" A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty face looked up. "Why, can't you see that there is a much simpler explanation than that?"
It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this moment to arrive. But the Ladies' Aid were used to interrupted statements. It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite taken by surprise. A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had learned to expect that. It was the penalty for being late.
"Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!" said the hostess pleasantly."No, you are not very late. We are only just beginning."
Every one nodded and smiled. Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to provide space for the newcomer. A few left their work in order to shake hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including topics of conversation. In the space of a few seconds it was noticed that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen her look worse.
"Dear Mrs. Coombe, I think your belt-pin has become—allow me!" Miss Milligan, dressmaker in private life, with a discreet swiftness, twitched the blouse and skirt into place and deftly fastened it. At the same time she closed a gap in the fastening of the blouse itself.
Mary Coombe laughed. "Dear me! Am I undone? I must have forgotten to ask Amy to fix me. These blouses that fasten in the back are such a nuisance!"
The President smiled politely, but with evident effort. Mrs. Coombe was a prominent member. Still, on principle, she, a president, could not be expected to approve of people who forgot to have themselves done up. Supposing the minister had been present!
"What are we doing this afternoon?" asked the unconscious delinquent languidly. "Autograph quilts? I've got a lot of blocks for you—friends of mine in the city." She began to fumble in the pretty workbag she carried. "Gracious, I was sure I had them with me! Isn't that odd? I can't find them."
"Let me look," suggested Miss Jessie Sinclair kindly.
But the other snatched back the open bag with a gesture which was almost rude.
"Oh, no—they are not there! I can't imagine what I have done with them." She looked up in a bewildered way. Indeed the perturbation was so out of proportion to the size of the calamity that the ladies questioned each other with their eyes.
The President tapped with her thimble upon the quilting frame and every one became very busy. "I hope," she said, taking the conversation into her own hands for safe keeping, "that you found all well upon your return, Mrs. Coombe? I hardly ever seem to see Esther now. Did you know that we have been talking of changing our meeting to Saturday afternoon so that Esther and some more of our younger folk may join us? We thought that it would be so nice for them—and for us too," she finished graciously.
Mrs. Coombe looked surprised. "I can hardly see Esther at a Ladies' AidMeeting," she said. "Did she tell you she would come?"
"No. We have not yet told any one of the proposed change. But we all felt—"
"We all felt," interrupted Miss Sinclair, who was fairly sniffing the air with the spirit of glorious war, "that the less time our young girls have to go off philandering with young fools whom no one knows anything about, the better it will be for everybody concerned!"
Mary looked up with an air of pleased surprise.
"Has Esther been philandering?" she asked eagerly.
The President frowned. This was hardly according to Hoyle.
"I really think," began Miss Jessie Sinclair indignantly, "that Esther ought to be allowed to tell her mother—"
"Gracious! Esther never tells me anything. And I'm dying to know. Who is the 'young fool'?—do tell me, somebody."
Strangely enough, now that the way was open, no one seemed to have anything to say.
"You've simply got to tell me now," urged Mary delightedly. "Unless it's only a silly bit of gossip."
This fillip had the desired effect. Everybody began to talk at once and in five minutes Esther's step-mother knew all about the new doctor and the broken motor. When they paused for breath, she laughed softly.
"It's the most amusing thing I've heard in ages. Fancy—Esther! Oh, it's delicious." She looked around the circle of surprised and disappointed faces and laughed again. "Oh, don't pretend! You know very well that you're not a bit shocked, really. And surely you don't think that I ought to scold Esther? Why," with a little flare of her old-time loyalty, "Esther is worth a dozen ordinary girls. I'd trust Esther with Apollo on a desert island. But I'll admit I'm rather anxious to see the young man. He must be rather nice if Esther agreed to show him around. As for the accident," she shrugged her shoulders, "I know enough about motors to know that that might happen any time."
"You are right, of course," the President's tone was more cordial. "And anyway we have no right to discuss Esther's affairs. The reference to it grew out of the proposed change of meeting. And the change of meeting was thought of chiefly because when Mr. Macnair heard about the escapade he seemed much worried. Naturally, as he says, he carries all his young people on his heart, and Dr. Callandar being such a newcomer—"
"Oh, yes, naturally." Mary Coombe's little gurgle of amusement had a note of cruelty in it, for she alone of all these women had guessed why the Rev. Angus Macnair should have taken Esther's escapade so much to heart. She knew, too, that the minister had no chance, but the idea of a rival was novel—and entertaining. Could Esther really have taken a fancy to this young doctor? Mary knew the Coombe gossips too well to take their chatter seriously, but there might be something in it. At any rate, there was enough to use as a conversational weapon against Esther. She was becoming a little nervous of Esther lately. The girl was positively growing up. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, a new strength had come to her, a strength which her step-mother's weakness felt and resented. But now with this nice little story in reserve, things might be more even. Mary's eyes sparkled as she thought of some of the smart things she could say the next time Esther began to make a fuss about—about the matter of the ruby ring, for instance. Esther had been most disagreeable about that. Just as if any one could have foreseen that Amy would miss it so soon, or indeed at all, since it had been her fancy to keep it shut up in a stupid box.
As a matter of fact, the affair of the ring had assumed the proportions of a small catastrophe. Aunt Amy had been feeling so much better that it had occurred to her to see if the ring were feeling better too. Only one peep she would take, hopeful that at last its strange enchantment might be past. If she could look into its depths without the blackness coming close she would know, with utter certainty, that Dr. Callandar's cleverness had circumvented the power of her old enemies. "They" would trouble her no more.
But when, flushed with hope, she looked—the ring was gone!
Esther, reading in the sitting room, was startled beyond words by the scream which rang through the house. She seemed to know at once what had happened and her gaze flew to her step-mother, laden with bitter reproach, before she sped up the stairs to Aunt Amy's room. The door was open and the tragedy was plain to see. Aunt Amy stood by the bureau with the empty box in her hand and on her face an expression so dreadful, so hopeless that, with a sob, the girl tried to crush it out against her breast.
"What is it, dear? Don't look like that."
"The ring, Esther! 'They' have taken the ring!"
For an instant the girl hesitated, but common justice demanded that the sordid truth be told.
"No, dear. The ring is safe. It was taken from the box, but in quite an ordinary, simple way. Don't tremble so! It is not lost. It is just as if I had gone to the box and borrowed it—"
As she faltered, the poor woman raised her head in an agony of hope. "Have you got it, Esther? Oh, Esther, give it to me! I love you, Esther! You shall have it when I am dead. But I can't die without it. I promised somebody—I—I can't remember. Oh, Esther, don't keep it away from me—give it to me now!"
Bitter, angry tears filled the girl's eyes as she took the pleading, fluttering hands in hers.
"Don't, dear! Listen. It is quite safe. But I haven't got it. I promise you solemnly I will get it back. You'll believe me, won't you? You know I would not deceive you. And you won't be frightened? No one had anything to do with taking it but ourselves. I am going to tell you just how it happened—"
"Don't bother. I'll tell her myself."
In the doorway stood Mrs. Coombe, her eyes venomous with the anger of tortured nerves. Her high voice trembled on the verge of hysteria, yet she tried to speak with her usual mocking lightness.
"There is no need to make a mystery of the thing, I'm sure. I took the ring because I was hard up—needed money at once. You understand what that means, I suppose, Amy? You never wore the ring, nor would you allow me to wear it. It was simply wasted lying in that silly box. My own jewelry is of much less value. Besides, I use it. One would have thought that you would be glad to assist in some way with the—er—household expenses. In any case, no such fuss is necessary, and I should advise you," her voice grew suddenly cold and menacing, "not to scream like that again. A few more such shrieks and—people will begin to wonder." Without so much as a glance at Esther she passed on to her own room.
"Don't mind her!" The indignant girl tried to draw the trembling woman close. But Aunt Amy cowered away. Five minutes had undone the work of weeks. All the doctor's carefully laid foundations were crumbling. Esther, wrung with pity and remorse, stroked the grey hair in silence. She expected an outbreak of childish tears, but it did not come. Rather, the shivering grew less and presently Aunt Amy raised her head.
"It was she—Mary—who took it?" she asked in a whisper.
"Yes. But remember I have promised to get it back."
Aunt Amy looked at her blankly. She did not seem to hear.
"I never guessed it was Mary. Never! But now I know. I'll never be fooled again."
"Know what?" asked Esther uneasily. There was a look in Aunt Amy's eyes which she disliked, a sly, cool look—more nearly mad than any look she had ever surprised there. "Tell me what it is that you know," she repeated coaxingly.
But Aunt Amy would not tell. It was just as well, she thought, that Esther should not know that at last, after many years, she had found out the agent employed by "they" for her undoing. Ah, if she had only found out sooner. The ruby ring might still be shining in its box. But of course "they" knew that she would never suspect Mary, her own niece. They were so clever! But now she could be as clever as they—oh, very, very clever!
"What did she mean about my screaming?" she asked, looking at Esther cunningly.
"Nothing, nothing at all! Don't think of it."
"But she did. I know what she meant. She meant that if I get—troublesome—she will shut me up!"
"Nonsense!" declared Esther, thrilled to the heart with pity. "You must never think such a thought, dear. You shall never live anywhere but here with us. Why, you are our good angel, Auntie. We could never get on without you—you know that."
Aunt Amy nodded, stroking the girl's soft hand with her work-worn one. "You are good and kind, Esther. I know you will take care of me, if you can. And I'm not afraid just now. It will be all right if I am clever. I must not be troublesome. If I am, she will put me away with the mad people. The people that make faces and scream. I never scream. Until to-day I haven't screamed for a long time. And I'll be more careful. Oh, I can be very careful, now that I know!"
Again the strange mad look. It flitted across her lifted eyes like a dark shadow behind a window shade. And again Esther tried gently to question her, but Aunt Amy was "clever." She didn't intend that Esther should find out.
The girl left her at last feeling both troubled and sad, but Mary Coombe laughed at her fears. She was in one of her most difficult moods.
"It was all a tempest in a tea cup, as usual," she declared pettishly. "I do wish, Esther, that you would not be so disagreeable. She will have forgotten all about the ring by to-morrow. All she needs is a little plain speaking, and firmness."
"Firmness! Cruelty, you mean. You terrified her."
"Well, it had a good effect. She quieted down at once."
"She is too quiet. It's that which troubles me. Surely you can see the damage that has been done? All her new cheerfulness is gone. She is back to where she was before the doctor helped her."
"I never believed that any real improvement was possible. Insane people never recover."
"She is not insane! How can you say so? But how shall we explain the change in her to Dr. Callandar? We can't tell him that—that you—"
"Oh, don't mind me!" flippantly.
"Anyway, the ring will soon be back, thank heaven! I have written toMrs. Bremner."
"You wrote to Jessica?"
"Certainly. I told you I should. It was the only thing to do."
Mary Coombe's rage flickered and sank before the quiet force in the girl's face and voice. With all the will in the world she was too weak to oppose this new strength in Esther. And before her mortified pride could frame a retort, the girl had left the room.
It was of this quiet exit of Esther's that Mary was thinking as she sewed on the autograph quilt. Better than anything else it typified the change in the girl. It meant decision, and decision meant action. Mary shrugged her shoulders and frowned over the quilt. Yes, undoubtedly, Esther was getting troublesome. It might be well if she were married.