Up The Hill And Over Part 37

"I'm not different. Who says I am different? It is you who are trying to make a fuss. I'm sure I do not care about your letter. Why should I?

Your father always seemed to think you needed no advice from any one.

Only don't imagine that I am blind. I _saw_ you with a letter."

Having triumphantly secured the last word, she turned to busy herself with the tea-tray, and Esther, knowing the uselessness of argument, went on toward the house. Aunt Amy attempted to follow but was stopped by Mary.

"Amy, what did that doctor want here?"

"He came to see me."

Mary laughed. "Likely!" she said. "This tea is quite cold. Was it he who left the letter for Esther?"

"Esther didn't have a letter. I had one."

Again the incredulous laugh, and the dull red mounted into Aunt Amy's faded cheeks. She clutched the treasured letter tightly under her dress.

This mocking woman should never see it! But as she turned again to leave her, another consideration appealed to her unstable mind. Mary suspected Esther--and nothing would annoy her more than to find herself mistaken.

On impulse Aunt Amy flung the letter upon the tea-tray.

"There it is. Read it, if you like. It has nothing to do with Esther. Or any one else. I found it in one of your mother's old trunks."

Left alone, Mary Coombe drank her tea, which after all was not very cold. She was not really interested in the letter, now that she had got it. Had not a vagrant breeze tossed it, obtrusively, upon her lap, she would probably not have looked at it.

Listlessly she picked it up, opened it, glanced at the firm, clear writing....

A sharp, tingling shock ran through her. It was as if some one had knocked, loudly, at dead of night at a closed door! That writing--how absurdly fanciful she was getting!

"Dearest wife," she read, "at last I can call you 'wife' without fear"--the vagrant breeze, which had tossed the letter into her lap, tossed it off again. Her glance followed it, fascinated!

Of course she had dreamed the writing? She had been terribly troubled by dreams of late. But what had Amy said about finding the paper in her mother's trunk? The whole thing was a fantastic nightmare. She had but to lean forward, pick up the letter, read it properly and laugh at her foolishness.

But it was a long time before she found the strength to pick it up. When she did, she read it quietly to the end with its scrawled "H." Then she read it over again, word by word. Her expression was one of terror and amaze.

When she had finished she looked up, over the pleasant garden, with blank eyes. Her face was ashen.

"He came," she said aloud. "He came! But--_what did she tell him when he came_?"

The garden had no answer to the question. Somewhere could be heard a girl's laugh and the sharp bark of a protesting puppy. Mary Coombe drew her hand across her eyes as if to clear them of film and, trying to rise, slipped down beside the elm-tree seat, a soft blot of whiteness on the green.

They found her there when they had finished washing the puppy, but though she came quickly to herself under their eager ministrations, she would not tell them what had caused her sudden illness. To all their questionings she answered pettishly, "Nothing! Nothing but the heat."

CHAPTER XXI

When a man of thirty-five has at last shaken himself free from the burden of an unhappy love affair, he is not particularly disposed to welcome an emotional reawakening. He knows the pains and penalties too well; the fire of Spring, he has learned, can burn as well as brighten.

Callandar thought that he had done with love, and a growing suspicion that love had not done with him brought little less than panic. Upon the occasion of Willits' second visit he had begun to realise his danger and the professor never guessed how nearly he had persuaded him to leave Coombe. Some deep instinct was urging flight, but the impulse had come just a little bit too late. He could not go, because he wanted so very much to stay.

After Willits' departure he had deliberately tested himself. For five days he did not try to see Esther and upon the sixth he realised finally that seeing Esther was the only thing that mattered. Then had come the short interview under the elm tree--an interview which had shown him a new Esther, demure, adorable, with eyes which refused to look at him. He had come away from that meeting with a new pulse beating in his heart.

To doubt was no longer possible. He loved her.

But she? Lovers are proverbially modest, but their modesty is fear disguised. They hope so much that they fear to hope at all; it seemed impossible to Callandar that Esther should not love him and yet it seemed impossible that she should. Only one thing emerged clearly from the chaos--the immediate necessity of finding out.

"Why don't you ask her?" demanded Common Sense in that wearily patient way with which Common Sense meets the vagaries of lovers.

"But it is so soon," objected Caution, while Fear, aroused, whispered, "Be careful. Give her time." Even Mrs. Grundy made herself heard with her usual references to what people, represented by Mrs. Sykes, might say, adding scornfully, "Why, you haven't met the girl's mother yet.

Don't make a fool of yourself, please."

But over all these voices rose another voice, insistent, demanding to be satisfied. It might be premature, it might be all that was rash and foolish but he simply had to find out at once whether or not Esther Coombe loved him.

His final decision came one morning when driving slowly home from an all night fight with death. He was tired but exultant, because he had won the fight, and life, which slips so easily away, seemed doubly precious.

After all, he was no longer a boy. If life still held something beautiful for him, why should he wait? He had waited so many years already.

Guiding the car with one hand, he slipped the other into his pocket and opening a small locket which he found there, gazed long and earnestly at the picture it contained. The face it showed him was a young face, fair, rounded, childish. Dear Molly! his thought of her was infinitely tender.

He loved her all the more for the knowledge that he had not loved her enough. Well, he could never atone now. She was gone--slipped away, he thought, with but little more knowledge of living than the tiny baby he had just helped to bring into the world. Brushing away the mist which for a moment blurred his sight, Callandar kissed the picture gently and shut the case.

The dawn was golden now. The motor began to gather speed. An early farmer getting into market with a load of hay, drew amiably to one side to let it pa.s.s. From a, wayside house came the cheerful noise of opening shutters; a milk cart rattled out of a nearby gate; the motor sped still faster--the new day was fairly begun.

Early as it was, Mrs. Sykes was busy washing the veranda. This was a ritual, rigorously observed twice every day; in the morning with a pail and broom, in the evening with the hose. Par be it from us to malign the excellent Mrs. Sykes or to suggest that her opportune presence on the front steps was due to anything save the virtue of cleanliness. Mrs.

Sykes, as she often said, couldn't abide curiosity. Still, it would be very interesting to know whether Amelia Hill's latest was a boy or a girl. Mrs. Hill had already been blessed with nine olive branches, all girls, and had confided to Mrs. Sykes that if the tenth presented no variation, she didn't know what on earth Hill would do--he having acted so kind of wild-like last time. Mrs. Sykes, unable to resist the trend of her nature, had advised that no variation could be looked for. "It may be," she had said, "but after a run of nine, it isn't to be expected. There's no denying that girls run in some families. I know jest how you feel, Mrs. Hill, and, if I could, I'd encourage you, for I'm a great believer in speaking the truth in kindness. But it's best to be prepared, and a girl it will be, you may be sure."

"You are up early, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "Wait till I take the car around and I'll finish up those steps for you."

"Land no! I won't let you, Doctor. You're clean tired out. I've got a cup of hot coffee waiting. I don't suppose, with Amelia laid aside, any of them Hills would think to give you so much as a bite. All girls too."

"Not all girls now, Mrs. Sykes," said the doctor cheerfully. "A son and heir arrived this morning. Fine little fellow. They appear to be delighted."

The discomfited prophet leaned against the door-post for support.

"A boy? It can't be a boy! It doesn't stand to reason!"

"It never does, Mrs. Sykes."

"And I was so sure 'twould be another girl!" There was an infinitesimal pause during which Mrs. Sykes' whole outlook readjusted itself, and then with a heavy sigh she continued, "Poor Amelia Hill! She'll certainly have her troubles now. I shouldn't wonder a mite if it didn't live.

Miracles like that seldom do. And if it does, it will be spoiled to death. No boy can come along after nine sisters and not be made a sissy of. Far better if it had been a girl in the first place. And yet I suppose Amelia's just as chirpy as possible? She never was one to look ahead to see what's coming."

"Lucky for her!" murmured Callandar, as he picked his way over the shining wetness of the veranda. "And now, Mrs. Sykes, I want you to do me a favour. Don't go predicting to my patient that her boy baby will die, or if he doesn't it would be better for him if he did. A woman who has mothered nine children is ent.i.tled to a little peace of mind with the tenth. Don't you think so?"

"Land sakes, yes. If you put it that way. But the shock will be all the worse when it comes. Still, if you want the poor thing left in a fool's paradise I don't object. Perhaps it would be a good thing to have the three littlest Hills over here to spend a week with Ann. I can stand them if you can."

"Good idea!" Callandar smiled at her, but attempted no thanks. He had learned early that she was as shy about doing a kindness as a child who hides its face, while offering you half of its lolly-pop. "I'll fetch them. But some one will have to pick them out. Likely as not I'd bring the middle three instead."

"They are dreadful similar," a.s.sented Mrs. Sykes, pouring coffee. "I don't know but what it was them Hill children that made me a suffragette!"

"What?"

Mrs. Sykes did not notice the unflattering (or flattering) surprise in the doctor's voice.