Up The Hill And Over Part 40

Callandar groaned. "And you married again--on that?"

"Yes. I had to, anyway. I couldn't hold out against mother. I daren't tell her. She left us after the wedding, when the mine failed, and went back to Cleveland. It was there she must have got your letter, and the note I found last night. And when you came, she told you I was dead--to save the scandal. She was always different after that, though I never guessed why. It was a lie, you see, and mother was terrified of telling lies. It was the only thing she was afraid of. She believed that liars go to h.e.l.l."

The tone in which she spoke of the probable torment of her mother was quite without feeling. Callandar listened in fascinated wonder. Was this Molly?--Pretty, kind-hearted Molly?

"I cannot understand," he said in a stifled voice. "It is all too horrible! This man you married--"

"He is dead. He died a year ago. I thought at first that you must have found out and that was why you came. I should have died of fright if you had come while he was alive. He would never have understood--never! He didn't like mother but he wasn't afraid of her. And I think that at last he suspected that she had made me marry him for his money. But he was always good. At first I was afraid all the time--oh, it was dreadful! I think I have always been afraid--all my life--" Without warning she threw her hands out wildly and broke into choking sobs, crying with the abandon of a frightened child. Yet no one could have mistaken the impulse of her grief. It was for herself she wept.

Was it possible that she was a child still? A child in spite of her woman's knowledge, and the dulled l.u.s.tre of her hair? Callandar remembered grimly that Molly's views of right and wrong had always been peculiarly simple. She had never wished to do wrong, but when she had done it, it had never seemed so very wrong to her. Her greatest dread had always been the dread of other people's censure.

"Don't cry," he said gently.

She must have felt the change in his voice, for although her sobs redoubled she did not again shrink from the hand he laid upon her hair.

It was all over. She had told him the truth. Surely he must see that he was the one to blame, not she.

After a while she dried her eyes and looked up at him timidly but with restored confidence.

"People need never know now!" she said more calmly.

"People? Do people matter?"

She picked a daisy and began nervously to strip it of its petals--a pang of agony caught at the man's heart. So, only that morning, had he imagined himself consulting the daisy oracle. "She loves me, she loves me not." Absolutely he put the memory from him. Molly was speaking.

"People do matter. They make things so unpleasant. Not that I care as much about them as I used to; but still, one has to be careful. People are so prying, always wanting to know things," she glanced around nervously, "but let's not talk about them. I don't understand things yet. How did you find me, if you thought I was--dead?"

"Accident, if there be such a thing. I was driving down the road. I am living in the town near here--in Coombe!"

"But you can't! I live in Coombe. It is my home. There isn't a Chedridge in the place."

"My name is not Chedridge now. I took my uncle's name when I inherited his money. I am called Henry Callandar."

"Callandar!" Her voice rose shrilly on the word. "And you are living in Coombe? Why you are--you must be--Esther's Dr. Callandar!"

The man went deathly white, yet his enormous self-control, the fruit of years, held him steady.

Mary Coombe began to laugh weakly. "Why, of course, that explains it all, don't you see? Haven't you placed me yet? Esther is my step-daughter. The man I married was Doctor Coombe."

"Good G.o.d!" The exclamation was revelation enough had Mary Coombe heard it. But she did not hear it; this new aspect of the situation had seemed to her so farcical that her laughter threatened to become hysterical.

"Oh, it's so funny!" she gasped.

It was certainly funny--such a good joke! The Doctor thought he might as well laugh too. But at the sound of his laughter, hers abruptly ceased.

"Don't do that!"

He tried to control himself. It was hard. He wanted to shriek with laughter. Esther's step-mother, the mysterious Mrs. Coombe, was Molly--his wife! Some mocking demon shouted into his ears the words he had intended to say to her when he came to tell her that he and Esther loved each other. He thought of his own high mood of the morning, of the tender regret which he had laid away with the dead of the dead past. It seemed as if all the world were rocking with diabolic laughter--Fate plans such amusing things!

He caught himself up--madness lay that way.

"Please don't laugh!" said Mrs. Coombe a trifle fretfully. "At least not so loudly. You startle me. My nerves are so wretched. And anyway it's more serious than you seem to think. We shall have to discuss ways of managing so that people will not know. Your being already acquainted with Esther will help. It will make your coming to the house quite natural. But it will be better to admit that we knew each other years ago, were boy and girl friends or something like that. Your change of name and my marriage will explain perfectly why we did not know each other until we met. n.o.body will go behind that. They will think it quite romantic. The only one we need be afraid of is Esther. She is so quick to notice--"

She did not know about Esther then? She had never guessed that the girl was more to him than a mere acquaintance. Thank G.o.d for that! And thank G.o.d, above all, that the worst had not happened--Esther herself did not know, would never know now--

"I believe it can come quite naturally after all," Mary went on more cheerfully. "No one will wonder at anything if we say we are old friends. And we can be specially careful with Esther. I wouldn't have her know for anything. She is like her father. She would never understand. She doesn't know what it is to be afraid, as I was afraid of my mother. Do you think it is wicked that sometimes I'm glad she is dead, mother, I mean?"

He answered with an effort. "You used to be fond of your mother, Molly."

"Oh, don't call me Molly. Call me Mary. It will sound much better. No one has ever heard me called Molly here. If Esther heard it she would wonder at once. You will be careful, won't you?"

"Yes. I shall be careful." He had not heard what she said, save that she had mentioned Esther's name. Rather he was thinking with a grat.i.tude which shook his very soul that fate had at least spared the innocent.

Esther was safe. She did not love him. He felt sure of that now. Strange irony, that his deepest thankfulness should be that Esther did not love him.

A small hand fell like a feather upon his arm.

"Harry!"

"Yes, Molly!"

He looked down into her quivering face and saw in it, dimly, the face of the girl in his locket, not a mere outward semblance this time but the soul of Molly Weston, reaching out to him across the years. Her light touch on his arm was the very shackle of fate. Her glance claimed him.

Nothing that she had done could modify that claim--the terrible claim of weakness upon the strength which has misled it.

Vaguely he felt that this was the test, the ultimate test. If he failed now he was lost indeed. Something within him reached out blindly for the strength he had dreamed was his, found it, clutched it desperately--knew that it held firm.

He took the slight figure in his arms, felt that it still trembled and said the most comforting thing he could think of. "Don't worry, Molly.

No one will ever know."

CHAPTER XXIV

Ester was sitting upon the back porch, hulling strawberries and watching with absent amus.e.m.e.nt the tireless efforts of Jane to induce a very fat and entirely brainless pup to shake hands. It had been a busy day, for owing to the absence of the free and independent "Sat.u.r.day Help" Esther had insisted upon helping Aunt Amy in the kitchen. Now the Sat.u.r.day pies and cakes were accomplished and only the strawberries lay between Esther and freedom.

She had intended, a little later, to walk out along the river road in search of marguerites, but when Mary, more than usually restless after her fainting spell of yesterday, had offered to go instead, she had not demurred. It would be quite as pleasant to take a book and sit out under the big elm. Esther was at that stage when everything seems to be for the best in this "best of all possible worlds." She was living through those suspended moments when life stands tiptoe, breathless with expectancy, yet calm with an a.s.surance of joy to come.

With the knowledge that Henry Callandar was not quite as other men, had come an intense, delicious shyness; the aloofness of the maiden who feels love near yet cannot, through her very nature, take one step to meet it.

There was no hurry. She was surrounded with a roseate haze, lapped in deep content; for, while the doctor had learned nothing from their last meeting under the elm, Esther had learned everything. She had not seemed to look at him as they parted, yet she had known, oh, she had known very well, how he had looked at her! All she wanted, now, was to be alone with that look; to hold it there in her memory, not to a.n.a.lyse or question, but to glance at it shyly now and again, feeding with quick glimpses the new strange joy at the heart.

"D'ye think He ever forgets to put brains into dogs?" asked Jane suddenly. "Oh, you silly thing, don't roll over like that! Stop wriggling and give me your paw!"

"He, who?" vaguely.

Jane made a disgusted gesture. "You're not listening, Esther! You know there is only one Person who puts brains into dogs!"

"But Pickles is such a puppy, Jane. Give him time."