Up The Hill And Over Part 38

"Yes. I think it was the Hill children as much as anything. There they are, nine of them, like as peas in a pod, and all healthy. I shouldn't wonder if the whole nine grows up--and what then? Amelia Hill just can't hope to marry nine of them. Three out of the bunch would be about her limit. And what are the others going to get? I say, give them the vote.

Land sakes! Why not? I ain't one to refuse to others what I don't want myself."

CHAPTER XXII

Tired though he must have been, the doctor had never felt less like sleep. There was a fever in his blood which the cool quietness of the spare room could not soothe. The lavendered freshness of the bed invited in vain. Crossing to the western window, he threw up the blind and looked out to where, peeping out between roofs and trees, the gable window of the Elms glittered in the early sun. The morning breeze blew softly on his face, sweet with the scent of flowering pinks and mignonette. In the orchard all the birds were up and singing. Every blade of gra.s.s was gemmed with dew, sparkling through the yellow glory of dawn like diamonds through a primrose veil. But Callandar, usually so alive to every manifestation of beauty, saw nothing save the distant glitter of the gable window. The morning, in which he could hardly hope to see Esther, stretched before him intolerably long.

Upon impulse he drew his desk to the window and, sitting down, began to write:

"Dear Old b.u.t.ton-Moulder--

"Behold the faulty b.u.t.ton about to be recast! This is to be a big day. I am writing you now because if she refuses me, I shan't be able to tell you of it, and if she accepts me I shan't have time. I fancy you know who she is, old man. I saw enlightenment grow in your eyes that day after church. I hardly knew it myself, then, but now I am sure. Do you remember that house we looked at one day? I have forgotten even the street, but we can find it again. It had a long sloping lawn, you remember, and stone steps and a beautiful panelled hall running straight through to a walled garden which might well have fallen there by some Arabian Nights enchantment. That is the house I mean to have for Esther.

I can see her there quite plainly, in her blue dress, filling the rose bowl which stands upon the round table in a dusky corner of the hall.

Over her shoulder, through the open door, glows the riotous colour of the garden. Her pure profile gleams like mother-o'-pearl against the dark panelling--say, Willits, just go and look up that house, will you?

I am going to ask her to marry me. And I never knew before what a coward I am. Was there ever a chap named Callandar who quoted uppish remarks about being Captain of his Soul? If so, let me apologise for him. I think the chap who wrote those verses could never have been in love--or perhaps he wrote them after she said 'yes.' I'll telegraph the news.

Don't expect me to write. And don't dare to come down to see me. H.C.

"P.S.--I came upon a good thing the other day. It is by Galsworthy, the chap who writes English problem novels:

"'If on a spring night I went by And G.o.d were standing there, What is the prayer that I would cry To Him? This is the prayer: O Lord of courage grave, O Master of this night of spring, Make firm in me a heart too brave To ask Thee anything!'"

"Rather fine, don't you think? Or is it just a madness of pride? On second thought, I don't believe that I have arrived at the stage when I can do without G.o.d. H."

He folded the letter, stamped and addressed it and placed it upon the table in the hall where Ann would find and post it. Then, lighting a cigar, he sat down beside the open window and began to wonder how the momentous meeting with Esther could be best arranged. Perhaps if he walked out to the schoolhouse and waited until lunch time? No, it was Sat.u.r.day morning and there was no school. The obvious thing was to call at the house, but this, the doctor felt, was sure to be unsatisfactory.

Not only was there Jane to think of and Aunt Amy--but there was also the as-yet-unknown Mrs. Coombe. The visit would almost certainly end in a formal call upon the family. He might perhaps send Bubble over with an invitation to go fishing. No, that was too risky. Esther might refuse to go fishing and that would be a bad omen.

In a sudden spasm of nervousness Callandar threw the half-burned cigar out of the window and, following it with his eyes, was not sorry to be distracted by the sight of Ann in her night-dress, crying under the pear tree. Ann crying was an unusual sight, but Ann in a night-dress was almost unbelievable. The doctor knew at once that something serious must have happened and went down to see.

The child looked up at his approach, all the natural impishness of her small face drowned in sorrow. In her open hand she held the body of a tiny bird, all that was left of a fledgling which had tried its wings too soon.

"It toppled off and died," said Ann. "All its brothers and sisters flewed away."

"Heartless things!" said Callandar, and then seeing that comfort was imperative he sat down beside the mourner and tried to do the proper thing. He explained to her that the dead bird was only one of a nest-full and that the dew was wet and that she was getting green stains on her nightie. He reminded her that birds' lives, for all their seeming brightness, are full of danger and trouble. Perhaps the baby bird was just as well out of it. At least it would never know the lack of a worm in season, nor the bitterness of early snow. This particular style of comfort he had found very effective in cases other than baby birds, but it didn't work with Ann.

"I don't care," she sobbed, "it might have lived anyway. It never had a chance to live."

Living, just living, was with Ann clearly the great thing to be desired.

Callandar stopped comforting and took the child on his knee.

"I believe you've got the right idea, little Ann," he said. "It isn't so much the sorrow that counts or the joy either, but just the living through it. We're bound to get somewhere if we keep on. Don't cry any more and we'll bury the little bird all done up in nice white fluffy cotton. As Mrs. Burns says when any one dies: 'It's such a comfort to have 'em put away proper.' And then after a while you and Bubble might go fishing."

"I can't." Ann showed signs of returning tears. "If Aunt lets me go anywhere, I promised to go and help Esther Coombe pick daisies to fix the church for to-morrow."

Here was chance being kind indeed! But the doctor dissembled his exultation.

"Hum! too bad. Where did Miss Esther tell you to go?" he asked guilelessly.

"To the meadow over against the school."

"What time?"

"Half past two."

"Well, cheer up, I'll tell you what--I'll go and help Miss Esther pick the daisies. I can pick quite as fast as you. And I'll speak to Aunt Sykes and make it right with her. So if you run now and get dressed you and Bubble may go just as soon as you've had breakfast. And stay all day. Be sure you stay all day, mind."

A good sound hug was the natural answer to this and when the conspirators met at breakfast everything had been satisfactorily arranged. Ann had her holiday and the doctor's way lay clear before him.

For all his apparent ignorance Callandar knew that daisy field quite as well as Ann. It was wild and lonely, yet full of cosy nooks and hollows.

Mild-eyed cows sometimes pastured there. It was a perfect paradise for meadow-larks. Could any man ask better than to meet the girl he loved in a field like that?

"You're not eating a mite, Doctor."

With a start, Callandar helped himself to marmalade.

So much for the morning of the eventful day. We have given it in detail because it was so commonplace, so empty of any incident which might have foreshadowed the happenings of the afternoon. Callandar was restless, but any man is restless under such circ.u.mstances. He found the morning long, but that was natural. Long afterwards he thought of its slow moving hours, lost in wonder that he should have caught no glimpse, heard no whisper, while all the time, through the beauty of the scented, summer day, the footsteps of inescapable fate drew so swiftly near.

Fortunate indeed for us that the fragile house we dwell in is provided with no windows on the future side, and that the veil of the next moment is as impenetrable as the veil of years.

What are they, anyway, these curious combinations of unforeseen incidents which under the name of "coincidence" startle us out of our dull acceptance of things? Can it be that, after all, s.p.a.ce and circ.u.mstance are but pieces in a puzzle to which the key is lost, so that, playing blindly, we are startled by the _click_ which announces the falling of some corner of the puzzle into place? Or is it merely that we are all more closely linked than we know, and is "coincidence"

but the flashing of one of numberless invisible links into the light of common day? Some day we shall know all about it; in the meantime a little wonder will do us good.

It was, of course, coincidence that this afternoon Mary Coombe should offer to gather the marguerites for Esther and that, the Sat.u.r.day help having failed to materialise, Esther was glad of the offer which left her free to help Aunt Amy in the kitchen. It was also coincidence that Mary should choose to wear her one blue dress and her shady hat which looked a little like Esther's. But, given these coincidences, it is easy to understand why the doctor, pa.s.sing slowly by the field of marguerites, felt his heart bound at the supposed sight of Esther among the flowers.

Now that the moment had really come, his restlessness fell from him. He felt cool, confident, happy! The world, the beautiful world, was gay in gold and green. Over the rise, half hidden by its gentle undulation, he caught the glint of a blue gown--

Running his car under the shade of some nearby trees, the doctor leapt the pasture fence in one fine bound. The blue figure among the daisies was stooping, her face hidden by a shady hat. No one else was in sight--just he and she in all the lovely, sunny, breeze-swept earth! He came towards her softly; called her name, but so low that she did not hear. Then a meadow-lark, disturbed, flew up with his piercing "sweet!"

the stooping figure turned and he saw, in the clear sunlight, the face under the shady hat--

Had something in his brain snapped? Or was he living through a nightmare from which he would awake presently? The world, the daisy field, the figure in blue, himself, all seemed but baseless fabrics of some fantastic vision!

For, by a strange enchantment, the face which should have been Esther's face was the face of Molly Weston, his lost wife!

It could not be! But it was.

Incredible the swiftness with which nature rights herself after a stunning shock. Only for a moment was Callandar left in his paradise of uncertainty. The next moment, he knew that he beheld no vision, knew it and accepted it as certainly and completely as if all his life had been but a preparation for the revelation.

"You!" he said. It was only a whisper but it seemed to fill the universe. "You--Molly!"

At the name, the hazel eyes which had met his so blankly sprang suddenly alive--recognition, knowledge, fear, entreaty, flashed across them in one moment's breathless s.p.a.ce--then they grew blank again and Mary Coombe fell senseless beside her sheaf of daisies.

CHAPTER XXIII