"You are sure you have them all?"
"I can find no trace of more."
"Then I think we have a strong fight coming—but a good hope, too."
Miss A. Milligan stood before the door of her select dressmaking parlours, meditatively picking her teeth with a needle. We hasten to observe that her teeth were quite clean and that this was merely a harmless habit denoting intense mental concentration. Miss Milligan was tall and full of figure with an elegant waist and a bust so like a pin-cushion that it fulfilled the duties of that article admirably. Her small bright eyes set in a wide expanse of face suggested nothing so much as currants in an underdone bun, and just now, as she watched the graceful figure of Mrs. Coombe, bride to be, disappear around the corner, they gave the impression of having been poked too far in while the bun was soft.
The door of Miss Milligan's select parlours did not open upon the main street, it being far from her desire to attract promiscuous trade. The parlours, indeed, were situated upon one of the "nicest" streets in Coombe and occupied a corner lot, so that a splendid view down two of the most genteel residential streets was obtainable from their windows. The only sign of business anywhere was a board of chaste design over the doorway, bearing the simple legend, "A. MILLIGAN." Even the word "Dressmaker" was considered superfluous. Also there was one window, near the door, which from time to time displayed wonderfully coloured plates of terribly twisting and elegantly elongated females purporting to be the very latest from Paris (France).
Mrs. Coombe was getting some "things" made at Miss Milligan's. It had been rumoured at first that she had contemplated running down to Toronto and Detroit, buying most of her trousseau there, but for some unexplained reason the plan had been given up. Doctor Callandar, it appeared, believed in patronising local tradesmen and had been sufficiently ungallant to veto the Detroit visit altogether. Everybody wondered why Mary Coombe stood it. Surely it was bad enough when a man sets up to be a domestic tyrant after marriage. They were surprised at Dr. Callandar—they hadn't thought it of him.
"It is women like Mary Coombe who submit tamely to such indignities," declared the eldest Miss Sinclair, "who have held back the emancipation of women from the beginning of time."
"She looks so poorly, too," agreed Miss Jessie. "I am sure she needs a change. I should think that Esther would insist upon it."
But Esther appeared in all things to back up Dr. Callandar. People admitted that they were disappointed in Esther and only hoped that the day would never come when she would be sorry. For if all the world loves a lover, all the world is indulgent to a prospective bride and any one could see that this particular bride was being denied her proper privileges. Any one would think she was a child and not to be trusted alone. Esther went with her everywhere, simply everywhere. Of course it was sweet of Esther to be so attentive, but people didn't wonder that her mother didn't like it.
Such were the current comments of the town, sent out somewhat in the nature of feelers, for behind them all, Coombe, having a very sensitive nose for gossip, was uneasily aware that their cleverest investigators were not yet in possession of the root of the matter. Every one seemed to know everything, and yet—no wonder that Miss Milligan picked her teeth in agonies of mental tumult at finding herself sole possessor of a satisfactory explanation which she was bound in honour not to disclose.
Mrs. Coombe had just been in. She had been having a "first fitting" and in the privacy of the fitting room she had been perfectly frank with Miss Milligan. She had told Miss Milligan "things." She had told her things which would move a heart of stone, regardless of the fact that Miss Milligan's heart was made of the softest of soft materials and beat warmly under her spiky pin cushion. The fact that her eyes were hard and black had nothing to do with it; mistakes in eyes occur constantly in the best regulated families. At this very moment when her eyes were more like currants than ever she was making up her mind that, come what might, doctors or no doctors, she was not going to see a fellow creature put upon.
For, you see, Mrs. Coombe, poor little thing, had confided in Miss Milligan. She had told her all about it, and like most mysteries, it had turned out to be very simple. It seemed that Dr. Callandar, such a perfectly charming man in most respects, had a most absurd prejudice against patent medicines. This prejudice, common to the medical profession on account of patents interfering with profits, was, in Dr. Callandar's case, almost an obsession. Miss Milligan, being a sensible person, knew very well that there are patentsandpatents. Some of them are frauds, of course, but there are others which are better than any prescription that any doctor ever wrote. Miss Milligan did not speak from hearsay, she had had an extensive experience the results of which lent themselves to conversational effort. Therefore it is easy to see how she understood and sympathised at once when Mrs. Coombe told her of a remedy which she had found to be quite excellent but which the doctor absolutely forbade her to use.
"Not that he means to be inconsiderate, dear Miss Milligan, only he is so very sure of his own point of view. Doctors have to be firm of course. But you can see it is rather hard on me. The trouble is that I cannot obtain the remedy I need in Coombe. It is a remedy very little known and useful only in obscure nerve troubles. I have been in the habit of getting it from a certain firm in Detroit, not a very well-known firm, and now, of course, that is impossible—without upsetting the doctor, which I hesitate to do."
Miss Milligan was of the opinion that a little upsetting was just what the doctor required.
"No—o." The visitor shook her head. She could not bring her mind to it. She would prefer to suffer herself. But did not Miss Milligan think that, in face of such an unreasonable and violent prejudice, a little innocent strategy might be justified?
Miss Milligan thought so, very emphatically.
Mrs. Coombe sighed. "I do so want to look well for the wedding, you know. And really, nothing seems to help me like my own particular medicine. It is hard, very hard, to be without it."
Miss Milligan did not doubt it. It seemed, to her, a perfect shame. But had Mrs. Coombe ever tried "Peebles' Perfect Pick-me-ups" for the nerves? They were certainly very excellent.
Yes. Mrs. Coombe had heard of them and no doubt they were very good for some people. But constitutions differ so. On the whole she felt sure that even "Peebles' Perfect Pick-me-ups" would not suit her nearly as well as her own particular remedy.
It was at this point that Miss Milligan stopped fitting and began to pick her teeth, a sign, as we have before stated, of great mental activity. If nothing would suit Mrs. Coombe but this one medicine and if the medicine could be obtained in Detroit and if Mrs. Coombe had the correct address—why not write for it? It was a brilliant idea, but Mrs. Coombe shook her head.
She had the address, naturally, and she had also thought of writing, but it would be of no use. Esther and the doctor actually watched her mail.
"Incredible!"
"Oh, not in any offensive way. They did not mean to be tyrannous. They were quite convinced that patent medicines were very injurious. But women suffering from nerves (like yourself, dear Miss Milligan) know that relief is often found in the least likely places and from remedies not mentioned in the Materia Medica."
Miss Milligan knew that very well. And people are so hard to convince. When Mrs. Barker, over the hill, had first recommended that new blood-purifier to Miss Milligan, Miss Milligan had laughed. But after taking only six bottles she had thanked Mrs. Barker with tears in her eyes. "And I must say," added she in a burst of virtuous indignation, "that if I were going to Detroit to-morrow I would bring you back all the patent medicine you wanted, Mrs. Coombe, and be very glad to do it."
This was most satisfactory save for one small fact, namely that Miss Milligan was not going to Detroit to-morrow. Mrs. Coombe thanked her very much and raised her arm (which shook sadly) while Miss Milligan pinned in the underarm seam.
"Even as it is," went on Miss Milligan, "I don't see why—a little higher please, and turn a trifle to the light, thank you!—I don't see why it can't be done. Nobody inspects my mail, thank heaven! and one address is as good to a druggist as another."
What a bright idea! Strange that it had never occurred to Mrs. Coombe to arrange things so easily. It was very, very clever and kind of Miss Milligan to think of it. But—people might talk! Think how upset the doctor would be if their innocent little plot were spoken of abroad. People are so unkind, quite horrid in fact. And as Esther and the doctor were doing it all for her good they would naturally hate to have their actions misunderstood. Of course, Mrs. Coombe knew that Miss Milligan herself would never mention it to a soul. She felt quite sure of that, still—as it did not appear how the little plot could be spread abroad under those circumstances unless the lay-figure in the corner should become communicative, Mrs. Coombe's sentence remained plaintively unfinished. Miss Milligan, in spite of its being so very unnecessary, found herself promising solemnly never to mention it.
As the whole thing was entirely unpremeditated it seemed like a special piece of good luck that Mrs. Coombe should have at that moment in her pocket a note to the druggists (who were not called druggists, exactly) and that all she needed to do was to add Miss Milligan's address, and hand to that lady sufficient money to secure a postal note as an enclosure. She did this very quickly and the whole little affair was satisfactorily disposed of when Esther was seen coming hurriedly down the street.
"I thought," said Esther, who entered a little out of breath and with a worried pucker between her eyes, "I thought that I would just run in and see how the linings look."
"You can never tell anything from linings," said Miss Milligan in an injured tone. "Gracious! I don't suppose any one would ever want a dress if they went by the way the linings look. I always advise my customers never to look in the glass until I get to the material, what with seams on the wrong side and all!"
"There is really nothing at all to see as yet," assented Mrs. Coombe crossly.
Esther seated herself by the open window.
"Very well," she said quietly. "I won't look. I'll just wait."
Mrs. Coombe shrugged her shoulders and displaced a pin or two. There was an injured look upon her face and Miss Milligan, replacing the pins, wondered how it is that nice girls like Esther Coombe never see when they're not wanted.
The fitting went quickly forward. Mrs. Coombe seemed to have lost all her genial expansiveness. Miss Milligan's pins had overflowed from her pin-cushion into her mouth and Esther, who appeared tired, gazed steadily out of the window. Only the humming of the machines in the adjoining workroom and the subdued talk and laughter of Miss Milligan's young ladies saved the silence from becoming oppressive. Occasionally, when her supply of pins became exhausted, Miss Milligan would contribute a cooing murmur to the effect that it did "set beautiful across the shoulders" or that "the long line over the hip was quite elegant."
Without doubt the atmosphere had changed with the coming of Esther. Mrs. Coombe became each moment more fidgety, she became, in fact, jerky! Her hands twitched, her head twitched, she could not stand still and suddenly she twitched herself out of Miss Milligan's hands altogether and flinging herself into a chair declared that she couldn't stand any more fitting that day. Even Miss Milligan's black currant eyes could see that her nerves were terribly wrong—she looked ghastly, poor thing! And all on account of a silly prejudice regarding patent medicines.
Esther, who exhibited no surprise at her mother's sudden collapse, helped Miss Milligan to unpin the linings.
"My mother has been a little longer than usual without her tonic," she calmly explained. "The other fittings can wait," and quickly, yet without flurry, she found Mary's hat, bag, gloves and parasol and picked up her handkerchief which she had flung upon the floor.
Mrs. Coombe accepted these services without thanks, indulging indeed in a little spiteful laugh which Miss Milligan obligingly attributed to her poor nerves. Things had come to a pretty pass indeed, thought the sympathetic dressmaker, when a grown woman is obliged to have her medicine chosen for her like a baby.
As she stood in the doorway watching the two ladies out of sight, a just indignation grew within the breast so strongly fortified outside, so vulnerable within; and without even waiting to call her giggling young ladies to order, she pinned on her hat and departed to send Mrs. Coombe's postal note to the Detroit druggist, who, oddly enough, was not a druggist at all.
Esther and her step-mother set out upon their homeward walk in silence. The older woman's face was drawn and bitter, Esther's thoughtful and sad. Though there seemed no reason for haste, Mrs. Coombe's steps grew constantly quicker until she was hurrying breathlessly.
More than once the girl glanced at her anxiously as if about to speak, yet hesitating. Then when the walk threatened to become a run she laid a detaining hand upon her arm.
"If you walk so very rapidly, mother, people will notice." It was the only argument which never failed of effect. Mrs. Coombe's steps slackened.
"Besides," went on Esther eagerly, "every moment is a gain. Ten minutes more will make this the longest interval yet. Don't you think you could try…."
"No!"
The word was only a gasp and the face Mary turned for a moment on the girl was livid. The eyes shone with hate. "You—you beast!" she muttered chokingly.
Esther turned a shade paler, but otherwise gave no sign that she had heard. "Mother, just try, you are doing so well, so splendidly. The doctor says …"
"Be quiet—be quiet! I hate him. I won't try. I won't be tortured—oh, why can't you all leave me alone!" She began to sob and moan under her breath, careless even of a possible passerby. Fortunately there was no one, and they were already within sight of home. Esther, very white, supported the shaking woman with her arm and they hurried on together. At the door she would still have accompanied her but Mary flung herself angrily from her hold and ran up the stairs with sudden feverish strength. Esther turned into the living room and dropped into the nearest chair.
She was still sitting there without having removed either hat or gloves when, a little later, Callandar entered.
"Well, nurse," with a faint smile, "how are things to-day?" His quick eye had noticed in a moment the girl's closed eyes and listless attitude, but nothing in his tone betrayed it.
"Very well, I think, until a little while ago. We were late in getting home from the dressmaker's—"
"I see. You look rather done up. The fact is you are overdoing things.Rather foolish, don't you think?"
"No," stubbornly. "I am all right."
"You are exhausted and there is no need. Things are going well. The dose is steadily diminishing, more quickly than she suspects. It looks as if we might begin to breathe again. It is a great gain to feel reasonably sure that she has no more of the stuff hidden anywhere. If she had, she would have used it during that last crisis."
The girl in the chair winced. She hated even to think of the night to which his words referred. "Yes," she said, "but—but there won't be any more times like that, will there?"
"Yes," grimly. "We are not through yet. But every crisis will be a little easier—if things go as they are going."
Esther sighed. "It is very terrible, isn't it?" she said. "And really it doesn't seem fair, for it wasn't her fault; in the beginning she didn't know. And she does suffer so."
"We must not think of it in that way. It helps more to think of the suffering she is escaping. What she is going through now is saving her, body and soul. It is taking her out of torment and leading her back to life, and sanity. You don't know, but I do, and any struggle, any suffering is mild compared to the horrors before her if she kept on. She was taking some cocaine too. The word means nothing to you, but to a physician it spells hell. So you see—it gives one strength."
Esther sat up and straightened her collar. "I'm ashamed of myself," she said. "No wonder you want another nurse. But I won't resign yet. And I wanted to ask you—do you think it is necessary now to be with her whenever she goes out? She hates it so. I think she is getting to hate me, too. Where could she possibly get the stuff? None of our local stores would sell it without a prescription."
"I know. But in a case like this you can never be sure of anything. No, we must not relax in the slightest. Even as it is, I am continually afraid." He began to pace the room restlessly. "There may be a weak spot somewhere, some loop-hole we have forgotten. I think the druggists are safe and the mail is watched. That last supply, you are sure it was all destroyed?"
"Yes, I burned it. At least I gave it to Aunt Amy to burn. I couldn't leave mother."
"Well, let us call Aunt Amy, and make sure. I believe I am foolishly nervous, but—" without finishing his sentence the doctor walked to the door and waited there until Aunt Amy answered his call.
"Auntie," said Esther, "you remember the little package I gave you that night when mother was so ill? It was done up in purplish blue paper."
"Yes, Esther."
"Do you remember what you did with it, dear?"
Aunt Amy looked frightened.
"I—I don't know. I've a very good memory, Esther. But somehow I'm not quite sure."
"You will remember presently," said Callandar kindly. "We want to be quite sure that it was destroyed. You know, I explained to you, that Mary must take no more of that medicine. It is very dangerous…."
"What does it do?" unexpectedly.
"It is a kind of poison. It makes people very ill, so ill that in time they die."
"Mary likes it. She says it makes her nerves better and puts her to sleep."
"When did she say that?"
"When she asked me if I had any."
The doctor and the girl exchanged a quick look.
"And you gave her some?"
"Oh, no, I couldn't. I had burned it in the stove—I remember now."
They both drew a breath of intense relief. But when she had left them, Callandar looked very sober. "There, you see," he said, "was a possibility we had overlooked."
"Yes, and it would have been my fault. I should have made sure long ago.It is hard to get out of the habit of taking things for granted."
"Yet it is the one thing we must never do. In this we must trust no one, and nothing. Then we shall win. If there is no relapse now, the worst, the slowest part, is over. Soon you will be free, dear girl—and God bless you forever for what you have been to her and to me."
She answered him only with a wistful smile and when he had gone, she sighed. She would be free soon, he said. Strange that he could not see that it was her freedom that she dreaded. Hard as it had been, hard as it was, there was a still harder time coming—the time when she would be free—free, to leave forever the man she loved.
The present with its load of duty and anxiety, the constant strain of watching, its bearing of poor Mary's thousand ingratitudes seemed dear and desirable when she thought of the black gulf of separation at the end of the tortuous way. But of course he could not guess. How could he? Men are so different from women.
She knew, though, that she was coming to the end of her strength. Not even the doctor guessed how great the strain of those past weeks had been.
When Mary had awakened to find that her secret was discovered she had been like a mad thing. There had been rage, tears, protestations, hysterical denials—finally confession and anguished promises. That she had never realised the reality of her danger, nor the extent of her servitude was plain. It seemed easy enough to promise. Esther and the doctor were making a terrible fuss about nothing, as usual. She grew sulky under Callandar's warnings and her fury knew no bounds when she found that certain of her hidden stores had been confiscated. She demanded that the supply be left in her hands; was not her promise enough?
But all this was before she knew what denial meant, before she realised that the way back along the path she had trodden so easily was thick-set with suffering; that every backward inch must be fought for with agony and tears. Then she had broken down altogether, had raved and pleaded. The very knowledge of the depth to which she had fallen, threatened to send her deeper still. Callandar soon realised that if she were to be saved it must be in spite of herself. There were but two points of strength in her weak nature; one the newly awakened, yet capricious passion for himself, and the other that ruling terror of her life, which of all her inherent safeguards was the last to give way under the assaults of the drug, namely, "What will people say?" but neither of these, nor both of them together, could stand for a moment before the terrible appetite when once its craving was denied.
Twice she failed her helpers just when they were beginning to hope. In her first search Esther had not exhausted the hiding places of the poison and, to retain the temptation by her, Mary had lied and lied again. Twice when the crises of her desire had come upon her she had given way, helplessly, completely; and twice they had begun all over again. The third time she had not been able to procure the drug, had been compelled to fight through on the decreasing dose which the doctor had allowed.
No wonder Esther shuddered when she thought of that night! Yet at the time she had stood beside the moaning woman, white and firm, when even Callandar had staggered for a moment from the room.
Next morning they had taken heart of hope again. Undoubtedly Mary had exhausted the supply, and the possibility of its being replenished seemed remote. It was only a matter of time now; of care, of unremitting, yet gentle vigilance and Mary would be cured. The bride could go to her husband, clean and in her right mind. And Esther would be free.
Strangely enough, it was Mary herself who objected to a hastening of their remarriage. Perhaps in spite of her inevitable deterioration there was that in her still which forbade her going to him as she was. Perhaps it was only another and more obscure effect of the drug; some downward instinct which made her dread the putting of herself within the circle of her husband's strength. She would fight her fight outside. Why? Was it because she would conquer of herself, or because she did not really wish to conquer at all?
To Esther, Mary's refusal came as a reprieve. But to Callandar it was but a lengthening out of torture. Man's love must always, in its essence, be different from woman's; though many women seem incapable of recognising this fact. To Esther, now that she had put aside her first half-understood glimpse of passion, it was sweet to be near him, to hear his voice, to touch his hand and, above all, to spend her strength in his service. But to him the strain was almost intolerable. The sight of her, the touch of her, the whole soul-shattering nearness of her beauty meant constant conflict; all the fiercer since it must be unsuspected.
Willits, the only man who had been told the truth, watched the fight with admiration, sharply touched with anxiety. Expert in the moulding of buttons, he knew very well that Callandar was drawing rather recklessly upon his newly acquired strength. If the tension did not slacken soon there might be another physical breakdown, and then—Willits shrugged his shoulders. It would be entirely too bad if this very fine button were to be spoiled after all. His heart was sore for his friend.
"You see," Callandar had written in one of his rare letters, "it was a right instinct which warned me that no man escapes the consequences of his own acts. There did come a short, golden time when I put the voice of instinct behind me and dared to think that I, at least, had shaken myself free. Closing the door of yesterday, I boldly knocked open the door of to-morrow—and lo, to-morrow and yesterday were one!
"I know, now, that even had poor Mary been dead, as I believed, the payment would have been exacted in some other way. When my brain is clear enough to think, I have flashes of thankfulness that payment is permitted to take the form of expiation. I can save Mary, and I will. In some strange and rather dreadful way her need is my salvation.
"I have said nothing of Esther. How can I? The other day I heard Miss Sinclair say that Esther Coombe was losing all her good looks. 'Thin as a rail, and peeked as a pin' were the words she used. To me she has never been so lovely. She is thinner; there are hollows in her cheeks; her lips are no longer a thread of scarlet. The transparent lids of her deep, wonderful eyes droop often and her hair seems to have lost its life and hangs soft and very close to her face. I love her. I love her as a man loves a woman, as a knight loves his lady, as a Catholic loves the Madonna! This terrible strain must soon be over for her. I am doing all in my power to hurry on the marriage. She is young. She is bound to forget. When she leaves here she goes out of my life—and may God speed her!
"She is to go to Toronto. Lorna Sinnet has good friends there and they will take her into their circle. She will begin to taste a fuller life, and as her interests expand the old wound will heal. She will find happiness yet. When Mary recovers, she and I will return to Montreal. I am quite fit now. I feel that I can never work hard enough. Mary will like the excitement of city life, and I rely upon you and Lorna to make our coming as easy as possible. How is Lorna? A talk with her will be a tonic.
"Does not all this sound admirably lucid and sensible? I want you to see that I am not losing my hold—that I have finally faced down the problem of the future. And there is one thing that has come to me out of all this, a wonderful thing; I have forgotten Fear. It seems to me that all my life I have lived in fear. Now I am not afraid…."
It was when Bubble was entering the post office for the purpose of posting this letter that he met Miss Milligan, coming out. Miss Milligan was evidently in a hurry, so great a hurry that she had not time to question Bubble upon affairs in general as was her usual custom. Instead she asked him to do something for her. It was a trifling service, only to deliver to Mrs. Coombe a small postal packet which she held in her hand.
"It will only take you a few moments, Zerubbabel," she said. "I was going to deliver it myself but Mrs. Stanton wants a fitting right away. I ought not to have come down to the post at all. But I promised Mrs. Coombe—does Dr. Callandar permit you to run messages in your spare time?"
"Sure," declared the youth, "only I don't get much spare time. The doctor's terrible busy. Since we got the phone in, it's ringing all the time! But I guess I can slip over to Mrs. Coombe's or if I see Jane I can give the parcel to her."
"No!" Miss Milligan seemed struck with a sudden hesitancy. "You must not give it to Jane, you must give it to Mrs. Coombe. Dear me, I believe I had better take it myself."
Without listening to the boy's polite protests she hurried off again.Bubble gazed after her with relieved astonishment.
"Guess it must be something for the wedding," declared he, sapiently.
The next day was the day of the Presbyterian Sunday school picnic. It was bound to be beautiful weather, because it always was. The Presbyterians seemed to have an understanding with Providence to that effect. But Jane, who must have been born a sceptic, was up very early just to see that there was no mistake.
There was a hint, just a hint, of autumn in the air. On the window-sill lay a golden leaf. It was the forerunner. The garden lay quiet, brooding; the rising sun shone softly through a yellow haze.
Jane shivered deliciously in her thin night gown. It was going to be a perfectly glorious, scrumptious day. She leaned farther out to make sure that the leaves of the small silver maple beneath her window were not turned wrong side up—a sure sign of rain. And as she looked, she noticed a curious thing—the side door was open.
Somebody else must be up. If it were Esther, Jane decided that she would call "Boo" very loudly and surprise her; but it was her mother and not Esther who came out of the open door. Jane drew back, watching through the curtains. She thought her mother looked very pretty in her dressing gown with her hair down and her bare feet thrust into pink satin mules. It was a pity, Jane thought, that she wasn't as nice as she looked. And how curiously she was acting. She was actually climbing up the little ladder which led to the bird house by the side of the lawn. Jane knew there was nothing at all in the bird house, for she herself had placed the ladder there the day before. Whatever was she doing? Jane giggled, for one of Mary's slippers had fallen off leaving her foot bare. But she didn't seem to care. She was putting her hand far into the bird house. Jane watched the hand carefully to see what it might bring out. But it came out empty. Mary hurriedly climbed down the ladder, picked up her slipper, glanced quickly around the empty garden and ran back into the house closing the door without a sound.
Jane was puzzled. What had her mother hoped to find in the bird house? She crept back into bed, wondering, and just as she was slipping off to sleep, the solution came. "She was hiding something," thought Jane, sleepily, "and when I get up I'll find out what it is."
Little things are the levers which move the big things of life. Had it been any other day save the day of the picnic, Jane would certainly have found out what Mary hid in the bird house and many things might have been different. But there was so much to do that morning and Ann and Bubble came over before Jane finished breakfast so that in the delightful hurry of getting ready and packing baskets, she forgot all about it.
There was a disappointment, too, at the last moment, for just when they were all ready and the doctor had come with the motor, Mrs. Coombe decided that she really did not feel equal to going and that meant that Esther had to stay behind. Jane showed signs of tears. Ann and Bubble protested volubly. Even the doctor did his best to change Mary's decision.
"You really ought to come, Mary," he said, "the drive alone will do you good, and if you get tired of it, I can bring you home early." He looked at her rather anxiously as he spoke but she did not seem ill. She looked better than usual for her eyes were brighter and her face was faintly flushed.
"No, I won't come to-day. I'm tired. There is not the slightest need forEsther to stay. I am going to stay in my room with a good book."
"Oh, Esther, do come! Oh, Esther, you promised!" Thus Ann and Bubble, while Jane pulled at her frock.
Mary looked on with a slightly acid smile. The doctor drew her aside.
"Won't you come?" he asked patiently. "You see how disappointed the children are."
"Yes, about Esther. And Esther does not need to stay. It's absurd. Are you never going to trust me?"
"You know it isn't you that we distrust. It is something stronger than you, or any of us. Mary, be patient, just a little longer. You want to be free, don't you?"
She hid the glitter in her eyes, against his coat. "Yes, of course. Only don't ask me to go to-day. It excites me. I want to be quiet."
"Very well, and you promise—"
"Yes, I'll promise anything. And if Esther stays I'll be decent to her. Though why you bother about her so much, I don't see. She is nothing to you."
"She is very much to you," sternly.
"Yes—a spy! Oh, well, don't let's quarrel. Be sure to be back early for the supper party to-night. Mr. Macnair and Annabel are invited. You can bring them with you in the motor. It is just as well Esther isn't going. There'll be lots of little things to attend to."
"That's settled then." Knowing that further persuasion was useless, he kissed her and turned to quiet the eager children.
* * * * *
Almost she held her breath as she watched him go. Her small hands twisted, a pulse beat visibly in her temple, her lips worked, she shook from head to foot. Nevertheless she stood there, controlling herself, until the motor horn had honked its farewell to a chorus of children's laughter. Then, as one released from some desperate strain, she turned and fled to her room….
"Mother!" Esther came in slowly, unpinning her hat. There was no answer to her call. But she had not expected any. In her sulky moods Mrs. Coombe often went for days without speaking to her step-daughter. When the girl saw that she had gone to her room she was rather relieved than otherwise; it meant at least a peaceful afternoon. Mary, in her room, was considered safe and all that Esther need do was to be ready in order to accompany her if she decided to go out.
She was not disappointed at missing the picnic. It was getting rather hard to be gay. And it would be nice to have everything ready when the party returned.
It was a quietly beautiful afternoon and as the girl went about her simple tasks she was not unhappy. Already she was learning the great lesson which many more fortunate lovers miss, that the rarest fragrance of love lies in its bestowal. That is why love is of all things most securely ours.
Once she called up to the blowing curtains of Mrs. Coombe's window.
"Mother, won't you come and help me with the flowers?" But no hand pushed the curtain aside, nor did she receive any answer. Perhaps Mary was really asleep. In that case she was sure to be amiable at supper time.
Everything was daintily ready and Esther had had time to slip on her prettiest frock when the "honk" of the returning motor brought a faint colour into her pale cheeks.
"Dear me, you've got quite a colour, Esther," said Miss Annabel Macnair in a slightly injured voice. She had come intending to tell Esther how badly she was looking and to recommend a tonic.
"I don't see why you didn't come to the picnic."
"Oh, Esther," Jane's plain little face was radiant, "you missed it! It was the nicest picnic yet. I won one race and Bubble won another, and Ann won't speak to either of us. She says she hates her aunt because she'd have won a race too if she hadn't had so much starch in her petticoats. But Mrs. Sykes says she wouldn't be a mite surprised if Ann has a bad heart—not a wicked heart, just a bad one, the kind that makes you drop down dead. Some of Ann's folks died of bad hearts, Mrs. Sykes says. But the doctor says it's all nonsense. He agreed with Ann that it wasn't anything but petticoats—Oh, say! how pretty the table looks. Did mother say you could use the best china?"
"Seeing that it's Esther's china on her own mother's side, I guess she can use it if she likes," said Aunt Amy, mildly belligerent. "I thought you might want to set the table before we got home, Esther, and I was so afraid you might forget and use the sprigged tea set. But the doctor said you'd be sure not to."
"That's one of her queer notions, I suppose?" said Miss Annabel in a stage whisper plainly heard by every one. "How odd! Can you come upstairs with me, Esther? I want to speak to you most particularly and I haven't seen you for ages.
"Not that I haven't tried," she continued in her jerky way as they went up the stairs together; "but you seem to be always with your mother. Going to lose her soon. Natural enough. I said to Mrs. Miller, 'There's real devotion.' Possible to overdo it though. Marriage is terribly trying. For relatives. But long engagements are worse. How was it you didn't get to the picnic?"
Esther murmured that she hadn't quite felt like going to the picnic.
"Well, you didn't miss much. Even Angus wasn't as cheerful as usual.Inclined to be moody. And that brings me to what I wanted to tell you.Remember that last time you had lunch with us?"
"Yes."
"Remember me saying that I never ask questions, but that I always find out? Well—I have."
"Have what?" asked Esther, who had not been following.
"Found out. Found out what is the matter with my brother. Exactly what I thought. He is the victim of an unhappy attachment. Unreciprocated!"
"But—"
"You remember you laughed at me, Esther. Suggested liver. And when I mentioned your mother you almost convinced me that I was wrong. Although I am never wrong. Itisyour mother, Esther. My poor brother, brokenhearted, quite—utterly!"
This was so amazing that Esther waited for more.
"I suppose he felt certain of her until Dr. Callandar stepped in. Could hardly believe it. When I told him of your mother's reputed engagement he was not in the least disturbed. Said 'Pshaw!' Couldn't imagine such a possibility. I said, 'I assure you it is the truth, Angus,' and he merely remarked, 'Well, what if it is?' in a most matter of fact way. Quite calm!"
"And you think—"
"My dear, I am sure. All put on. To deceive me. Although I never am deceived. So I waited. And then one night last week I happened to get home from a business session of the Ladies' Aid, early. I went in quietly. Angus was in his study, without a light, but the door was a little bit open, and I could hear his voice quite plainly. He was praying—"
"Oh, please—"
"My dear, I couldn't help hearing. I didn't listen. I was rooted to the spot. Positively! He—"
"You must not tell me, Miss Annabel, I won't listen."
"Very well, my dear. Perhaps you are right. Couldn't tell you his very words anyway. I cannot remember them. He was very eloquent, terribly worked up! And he was praying for Her. That's what he called your mother, just Her. It sounded almost—almost popish, you know! Then suddenly he stopped as if something had cut him off—sharp. There was a silence. So long I began to be frightened and then he cried out loud, 'Not for me! Not for me!' It was dreadful! But it proves my point, I think. Why, my dear, whatever is the matter?"
Esther, leaning against the window frame, was sobbing weakly.
"Dear me! I had no idea you would feel it so badly. Take a sip of water—do!"
Esther struggled to regain her self-control.
"It seems so—sad," she faltered.
"Yes, of course. It is sad. And I have great sympathy with my poor brother," went on Miss Annabel pinning down her hair net. "But do you know, I sometimes think," she hesitated and a slow blush arose in her middle-aged cheek, "I sometimes think that people in love aren't to be pitied after all. Though it is hardly a thought to express to a young girl like you.
"You know," she went on awkwardly as Esther still made no remark, "they feel a great deal, of course, but it must be so veryinteresting. A little cold cream for my nose, Esther. If I leave it until I get home I shall certainly peel."
Esther provided the cream and a powder puff. She felt sick at heart. Her calmer world of the afternoon burst like a bubble leaving only a tear behind. The vision of Angus Macnair in the dark study reaching out frantic hands for the thing he knew could never be his, seemed a last touch of unendurable irony. Surely some one, somewhere, must be moved to dreadful mirth at these blunders of the fates. From the echo of such laughter commonplace was the only refuge. Esther bathed her eyes and called to Jane to let her mother know that supper was ready.
The sounds of the child's cheerful tattoos upon Mrs. Coombe's door accompanied them down the stairs, but when they had waited a few minutes, Jane came quietly into the room alone.
"Mother doesn't answer me, Esther."
Miss Annabel looked surprised, then curious. Esther felt her face flame. It was really too bad of Mary to make things so much harder than she need. Her refusal to answer could only mean that she had determined to be thoroughly disagreeable; and with company in the house. But her annoyance was abruptly checked by the effect of the news upon the doctor. It was not annoyance she read in his eyes. It was dismay. With a murmured sentence, which may or may not have been excuse, he turned from the room.
"I am so sorry," explained Esther smoothly. "Mother is not at all well, one of her old headaches. The doctor has gone up to see if he can be of any use."
Miss Annabel shook her head gloomily. "Mark my words," she said, "your mother ought to take those headaches of hers more seriously. A headache seems a little thing, but I know of a case—"
With Esther's sympathetic encouragement the good lady launched upon a recital of melancholy happenings more or less connected with headaches which occupied her attention very pleasantly and prevented any one else from saying anything until the return of the awaited guest. He came in looking as usual and bearing an apology from the hostess for her sudden indisposition. "Nothing at all serious," he added lightly. "It is possible that she may join us later." But it was noticeable that as he spoke he did not look at Esther nor could her anxious glance read the impassive sternness of his face.
It was not a successful meal. In spite of the pretty table, the dainty food, the well kept up fire of conversation, the beautiful evening out of doors, the softly shaded light inside, from first to last the supper was a nightmare. Of what avail the careful pretence that nothing was wrong? A very miasma of dread enveloped that table, a thing so palpable that Miss Annabel found herself starting at a sound, the minister's ready tongue faltered on a favourite phrase, Esther's clear voice grew blurred, Aunt Amy wrung her hands, Jane's eyes were wide with unchildlike care. Only Callandar seemed undisturbed, courteous, interested.
It was a relief to them all when after an uncomfortable half-hour with coffee on the veranda the minister suddenly remembered a forgotten committee meeting and hurried Miss Annabel away with half her parting words unspoken. The doctor, still courteous and interested, walked down with them to the gate. He would wait, he said, a little longer to see how Mrs. Coombe found herself. Esther carried off a subdued and silent Jane to bed.
"Esther," whispered Jane as her sister bent to kiss her, "why do lovely, lovely days always end so badly?"
"They don't, Janie."
The child sighed. "Mine do. I never had a perfect day in all my life."
"You will have. Every one has perfect days—sometime."
"Have you, Esther?"
"Yes, dear."
Jane looked up sleepily. "Perhaps mine will come to-morrow!"
Esther went slowly down stairs and out into the garden. Callandar was coming up the path from the gate. He walked slowly. When they met, he no longer avoided her glance.
"Well?" She had no need to ask. Yet she did ask, falteringly.
"We have failed," he said briefly.
The quiet hopelessness of his voice left no room for argument. Esther opened her lips to protest, but found nothing to say.
"She has outwitted us," he went on. "How? who can say? They have the cunning of the devil! There is only one thing to do now. Only one way—"
"You mean?—"
"The wedding must take place at once. I suppose the farce is really necessary. But there must be no more delay. Only the unsparing use of a husband's authority can save her now. I shall take her away. I must be with her day and night. In France there is a place I know, beautiful, isolated. I shall take her there. If all else fails there is the treatment of hypnotic suggestion. But—I shall not fail, I dare not!"
Blindly she put out her hand—he clasped it gently—yet not as if he knew whose hand it was. Then, laying it aside, he passed by, and, leaving her sobbing in the dusk, went on into the house and up the stairs to the closed room.
It became quickly known in Coombe that, owing to Mrs. Coombe's delicate health, the wedding would take place much sooner than had been expected. A sea voyage, it was conceded, was the necessary thing and as Dr. Callandar would not allow his fiancée to go away alone it seemed only fair that he should make haste to go with her. Comment on all these points was much more restrained than usual because, just at this time, Coombe withstood the shock of finding out that Dr. Callandar was no less than Dr. Henry Chedridge Callandar of Montreal. No, not his brother, nor his cousin, but the man himself!
Of course Coombe had suspected this all along. Never for a moment had it been really deceived. Over and over again it had said: "My dear, that young man is not a mere local practitioner, mark my words!" From the first, Coombe had observed the marks of true distinction in him. He was so odd! He seemed to care nothing at all for appearances, and, as everybody knows, this comfortable attitude of mind is the privilege of the famous few. Besides, there was the matter of the marriage. Coombe had been right in thinking that Mary Coombe had not gone into the matter blindfold. She had known very well upon which side her bread was buttered, and as to her giving way to his whims in the absurd way she did—that, too, was understandable under the circumstances.
What puzzled Coombe, now, was how she had managed it. She was not pretty, at least not very pretty. She was not young, at least only comparatively young. And goodness knows, she was not clever! Hardly a mother in Coombe but had at least one daughter prettier, younger and cleverer; a daughter, in fact, who could give Mary Coombe aces and kings and still win out. Why had the doctor not been attached to one of these? It was incomprehensible. Even if, through a misplaced devotion to his profession, he had determined to marry into a doctor's family—there was Esther! Esther Coombe was a fine girl and quite nice looking before she had begun to "go off." Even as it was she had more to recommend her than her step-mother. There seemed to be a general impression that all men are fools.
"If they would only let some woman with sense choose their wives for them," declared the eldest Miss Sinclair in a burst of confidence, "they might get along fairly well. But if ever a man gets married to the right woman, it happens by accident."
Nevertheless, at a special meeting of the Ladies' Aid, called for the purpose, it was decided to give the bride a present. They had not intended to do it for fear of establishing a precedent. But when it came out who Dr. Callandar was, it hardly seemed right to let one of their best known members go from them to a more exalted sphere in a city (which many of them might, from time to time, feel inclined to visit) without showing her by some small token how very highly she was held in their regard. Every one could see the sense of this and the vote was unanimous. In regard to the nature of the gift there was more diversity of opinion, but it was finally decided that, as the value of this kind of thing lies not in the gift but in the spirit of the giving, a brown jar with the word "Biscuits" in silver lettering would do very well. Carving knives were thought of but as Mrs. Atkins very fitly said, "Everybody is sure to give carving knives"—a phenomenon which all the ladies accepted as a commonplace.
Of the prospective bride herself, Coombe saw little. She remained very much at home. She had lost much of her spasmodic energy, was inclined to be moody and even rude. Her state of health accounted naturally for this and also for the arrival of a new inmate at the Elms, a cool and capable looking person who was discovered, after much amazed enquiry, to be a trained nurse. Not a hospital nurse exactly but a kind of special nurse whose duties included massage, and the giving of certain baths and things which the doctor thought strengthening. Her name was Miss Philps. Coombe never got behind that. No one could ever boast that she knew more of Miss Philps than her name. She was, and remains to this day, a mystery.
There are people like that, although this was Coombe's first experience of one. Miss Philps was not a recluse. Everywhere Mrs. Coombe went, Miss Philps went too. Even Esther was not more assiduous in her attentions. She was not a silent person either, far from it. She bubbled over with precise and cheerful comment, she appeared to talk even more than was absolutely necessary and it was only upon her departure that her entertainers noticed that she had said nothing at all. A very baffling person to deal with. Coombe could not manage to "take to" her at all and great sympathy was felt for Mrs. Coombe when she was reported to have said to Miss Milligan that going out with Miss Philps felt exactly like a jail delivery—whatever that might be!
But if Miss Philps was not appreciated at large it was different in her own immediate circle. She had not been at the Elms a day before Esther recognised the doctor's wisdom in getting her. She was discreet, capable, kindly. The burden upon the girl's shoulders grew momentarily lighter. Miss Philps, with her matter of fact cheeriness, her strength and her experience, was exactly what that house of overstrained nerves needed.
"Dear me," she said, "you're all as fidgety as corn in a popper. And no need for it. I've nursed dozens worse than your mother, Miss Esther, and had them right as a trivet before I got through. As long as we can keep her hands off the stuff—and that's what I'm here for. So don't worry!"
Esther drew a deep breath. It was certainly good to feel the strain lifting, to have time for dreams again. The time was so pitifully short now. Two more weeks and she would leave Coombe behind her. The old life would be definitely over and done with. Looking back, she could see that it had been a happy life, and the future looked so dark. In youth, all life's happenings seem so terribly final. Every parting feels like a parting forever. Esther felt quite sure that she would never return to Coombe.
In the week before the wedding, freed from her continual attendance upon her mother, she unobtrusively paid farewell to all her old haunts and favourite places. It was a sweet sadness. She did not taste the sweet, but it was there. As one grows older, one does not linger over sad moments. It is because the sweet has vanished, only the bitter remains. But in untried youth sadness has a touch of beauty, a glamour of romance which shrouds its deepest pain. It is as if something within us, infinitely wise, were smiling, knowing well that for the young there is always to-morrow.
The maple by the schoolhouse turned early that year. When Esther, in her pilgrimage, came to say good-bye it welcomed her with all the glory of autumn. Against its greener brothers it stood out, naming, defiant. Beside it, the red pump seemed no longer red. Red and yellow, its falling leaves tossed themselves into the girl's lap as she sat upon the porch steps. It is almost certain that, as Esther gathered them, she compared her sad heart to a leaf which had fluttered from the tree of happy life. There seemed no outlook for her. She could not see through winter into spring.
The school children with their new teacher (whom Esther could not help but feel was sadly incompetent) had all gone home and it was very quiet on the porch steps. She closed her eyes and dreamed and clearly through her dream she heard, as she had heard that first morning in early summer, a determinedly cheerful, yet husky, voice singing. Some one was coming down the hill.
"From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles;From Wombleton to Wimbleton is fifteen miles;From Wimbleton to Wombleton, from Wombleton to Wimbleton,From Wimbleton to Wombleton,—"
The song trailed off into silence as it had done before. The girl's closed eyes smarted with tears—"Oh, it is a very long way!" she murmured, and burying her face in fallen leaves she felt that at last she knew the meaning of despair.
But though his voice had echoed through Esther's dream, Callandar was not on the long hill nor anywhere near it. Unlike Esther, he paid no farewells during these last days. He avoided the hill particularly and drove past the schoolhouse seldom and always at top speed. If the sight of the turning maples moved him at all it was not because he compared his lost happiness to a fallen leaf. Callandar was long past such gentle sadnesses as these. Every day he filled as full of work as possible. He walked far and hard in hope of tiring himself into dreamless sleep at night. And every day his face grew older, greyer, more sternly set.
At the very last, and as if inspired by some special imp of the perverse, Mary declared that she must have a church wedding. Opposition was useless. With all the distorted force of her drug-ridden brain, she desired this one thing. She wept, she coaxed, she raved. Every woman, she stormed, had a right to a proper wedding. She had always been cheated, she had been a pawn shoved about at the bidding of others, her own wishes never consulted. Was there any reason, any reason at all, why she should not be properly married in the church?
He ventured quietly to remind her that there were peculiar circumstances in the case. But she burst out at that. He was ashamed of her. Ashamed of his own wife. If there were peculiar circumstances whose fault were they? Not hers, surely? Would she be where she was now if he had not neglected her all those years? Anyway, peculiar circumstances or not, she would be married decently or she would not be married at all.
With set lips, the doctor gave in. Opposition maddened her, and, after all, one farce more or less could not matter much.
"Very well," he said, "make your own arrangements."
Immediately, Mary became amiable. She was quite polite to Miss Philps, almost pleasant to Esther. Into the preparations for the wedding she entered with some of her old spasmodic energy. The occasion, she determined, should be a talked of one in Coombe. She made plans, a fresh one every day, and talked of them continually.
Only—there was one plan of which she did not speak. There was one unsaid thing which matured quietly, covered by the noise of much talking. Yet this plan more than any other would have to do with the success of her last appearance in Coombe. It would be foolish indeed, she decided, to let any promise, however well-meant, stand in the way of this success. She could not, and would not, face a crowded church feeling as she felt now. That was absurd! She would need some little stimulant to help her carry it off. A very slightly increased dose would do it. Only sufficient to banish that horrible craving, to give her a long, satisfying sleep and then just a touch more, very little, to brace her in the morning. Enough to send warm tingling thrills of well being through her tired body, to brighten her eyes, to clear her brain and steady her shaking nerves—to make her young again, young and a bride.
Only this once! Never again.
Of what use to continue the sophistries which justified her treachery to herself! Perhaps of the three it was she who suffered most during that last week. She lived in an agony of anticipation, a hell of desire for which a sane pen has no description. Yet no one must suspect that she anticipated or desired anything—not the cool-eyed Miss Philps, not Esther, not the doctor, not even Jane. The mask must not slip for one single moment. So far, they suspected nothing; but they were always on their guard, always. A careless look, an unconsidered movement might betray her, and then—! She raved in her room sometimes when she thought of a possible balking of her purpose.
She was very clever. She still had self-control when it was necessary to have it in the furtherance of the one devouring passion. Only when she was quite alone did she ever give way. The doctor thought her wonderfully docile and took heart of hope. A month or two alone with her in Prance and all would be well. In the meantime, patience! Naturally she was full of childish whims. He smiled at her indulgently when she asked him to request Miss Philps to stay outside of the fitting room at Miss Milligan's. "For you know," she said, "it is bad luck, very bad luck, for any person to see one, in one's wedding gown before the proper time. And anyway," the grey eyes filled with easy tears, "I'm sure it isn't good for me never to be trusted, not even with silly Miss Milligan."
The plea seemed genuine. It was like Mary to be concerned about the wedding-dress superstition. And what possible danger could there be? Miss Milligan in all probability had never heard the fatal names of opium and cocaine save as unpleasant things associated with Chinese and tooth-drawing. It was absurd to imagine Mary coming to harm there.
From this you will see that, upon the occasion of the last discovery, Mary had lied desperately and well. The "cache" in the bird-house had been found, but Miss Milligan's name had never been connected in the most remote way with that relapse. Mary had sworn that the new supply had not been new at all but had formed part of an old cache which she had hidden, in a place which even she had forgotten, all quite accidentally. And although many supplementary enquiries were made, the real truth had remained undiscovered.
So in the simplest way in the world, Mary secured several uninterrupted "fittings" with Miss Milligan while the excellent Miss Philps sat without and waited.
"This is positively the last time I shall have to trouble you, dear Miss Milligan," said her customer sweetly. "Of course, as soon as we are married, I am going to tell Dr. Callandar all about it and when he sees how very much better my medicine has made me, he will be quite ready to withdraw his objections. In the meantime I am sure you feel, as I do, that our little ruse has been quite justifiable!"
Miss Milligan did. She felt quite proud of her part in it. It is something to help a fellow woman and still more to get the better of a fellow man. Especially such a celebrated man as Dr. Callandar! She would order the fresh supply at once, that very afternoon, by the first mail. And as soon as the packet came she would see that Mrs. Coombe had it in person. "There is certain to be a few last touches necessary to the dress after it has been sent home," she remarked with a smile of truly Machiavellian subtlety.
"Yes!" said Mary. "That night—after the dress comes home!" She spoke sharply, unnaturally. Her face turned a dull, pasty white. She shook so that Miss Milligan was thoroughly frightened. But presently she controlled herself and forced a pathetic smile.
"You see, dear Miss Milligan, how much I need it."
"Indeed a blind bat could see that!" said the dressmaker pityingly."Shall I call the nurse?"
But Mrs. Coombe would not hear of Miss Milligan calling the nurse!