Part 7 (1/2)
Thinking it over afterwards, he could never understand why he did not promptly refuse to be coerced, but at the time surrender seemed the only natural thing. Besides, he couldn't stay another day at the Imperial. He had to go somewhere. Perhaps it was his destiny to secure Ann against further feather-beds. Anyway, he accepted it.
”Oh, goody!” cried Ann, clapping her hands.
”Ann! put your hands under those clothes. How often must I tell you that you'll get your death? If you like, Doctor, there's nothing to prevent your moving in to-morrow. I'll need a day to air the feather-tick and make some pie.”
The doctor was at last roused to action.
”There are conditions,” he said hastily. ”If I come here, there is to be no feather-tick and no pie!”
”No feather-bed?” in amazement.
”No pie?” Ann's voice was a sorrowful whisper.
”You see,” Callandar explained, ”I am here partly for my health. My health cannot lie on feather-beds nor eat pie--well, perhaps,” with a glance at Ann, ”an occasional pie may do no harm. But I shall send down some springs and a mattress. I have to use a special kind,” hastily.
”Oh! it's spinal trouble, is it?” Mrs. Sykes surveyed him commiseratingly. ”You look straight enough. But land! You never can tell. Them spinal troubles are most deceiving. Terrible things they are, but they don't shorten life as quickly as some others. Not that that's a blessing! Mostly, folks as has them would be glad to go long before they are took. Still, it gives them some time to be prepared. I remember--”
”I must go now, Mrs. Sykes. Give Ann some of the medicine as soon as it comes. It isn't exactly spinal trouble that is the matter with me, you know, but--er--I'll send down the kind of mattress I like. In fact, I shall probably wish to furnish my rooms myself. You won't mind, I'm sure.”
”Land sakes, no, I don't mind! Most doctors are finicky. Don't worry about the medicine. I'll see that Ann takes it.”
She watched him go with a glance in which satisfaction and foreboding mingled. ”Poor young feller!” she mused. ”He didn't like what I said about his spine a mite. Back troubles makes folks terrible touchy.”
CHAPTER V
Two days after the installation of what Mrs. Sykes persisted in calling the ”spinal mattress,” Esther Coombe was late in getting home from school. As was usually the case when this happened, Jane, designated by mournful Mark as ”the Pindling One,” was sitting on the gatepost gazing disconsolately down the road. There were traces of tears upon her thin little face and the warmth of the hug which returned her sister's greeting was evidence of an unusually disturbed mind.
”Why aren't you playing with the other children, Jane?”
”I don't want to play, Esther. Timothy's dead.”
”Yes, I know, dear. But Fred has promised you a new puppy--”
”I don't want a new puppy. I want Timothy.”
”But Timothy is so much happier, Jane. He was old, you know. In the Happy Hunting Grounds, he will be able to frisk about just like other dogs. Wouldn't you like an apple?”
Jane considered this a moment and decided favourably. But her tale of woe was not yet complete. ”Mother's ill again,” she announced gloomily.
”I mustn't play band or nail the slats on the rabbits' hutch. Aunt Amy gave me my dinner on the back porch. I liked that. I wouldn't go in the house, not till you came, Esther.”
The straight brows of the elder sister came together in a worried frown.
”You know that is being silly, Jane.”
”I don't care.”
”You must learn to care. Run now and get the apple and ask Aunt Amy to wash your face.”