Part 32 (1/2)
And of course she had been unjust in fearing that Mary had gone into debt. They had one experience of that kind, an experience which had ended in a solemn promise that it would never happen again. Mary understood the position as well as she did.
As the girl's thought trailed naturally into the problem paths of every day, her weeks of freedom, her new interests, the strange experience in the manse garden seemed already remote. With the little frown of accustomed perplexity slipping in between her straight, black brows, her deeper agitation quieted. The unusual has no antidote so effective as the commonplace.
They found Mrs. Coombe waiting for them on the veranda. Lying back in the shade, in her white dress she looked very much at her ease. Yet a quick observer might have noticed a certain anxiety in the glance she tried to render merely welcoming. She was thinner than she had been; tired lines dragged at the corners of the pouting mouth and dark circles showed plainly through their dusting of pearl powder. Changes which creep in unnoticed when one sees a person every day are startlingly apparent when absence has forced a clearer focus. Esther had known that her step-mother had changed, was changing, but as she bent over her now, the extent of the change shocked her. With a tightening at her heart she wondered what her father would say if he could see the difference wrought by one short year. Pearl powder, lavishly used, is not becoming, especially when it sifts into mult.i.tudes of fine lines; nor can powder or anything else brighten a dull, yellowing skin which in health would still be delicately clear and firm.
But the dulled eyes and the faded face were only the symptoms of the real change in Mary Coombe. The thing itself lay deeper. Striving to express a subtlety which would not lend itself to words, Esther had more than once told herself that her mother was ”not the same woman.” Yet it was only to-day, as she stooped to kiss her, that the startling, literal truth of the phrase struck home. The outside changes were nothing--it was the woman herself who had changed.
”Well, Esther!” The sweet high voice with its impatient note was the same as ever. ”Here we are home again. Fancy me forgetting it was Sunday! Wasn't it funny? We met old MacTavish coming up from the station (not a single cab down to meet the train, of course!) and he looked so shocked. Really, this place grows more insufferable every day. It seems to agree with you, though, you're looking awfully well. Amy looks well, too. The new doctor must be something of a wonder.”
”He is considered very clever. Aunt Amy is certainly better. Now that you are home you must let him see what he can do for you.”
Mrs. Coombe's pouting lips lengthened into a hard line.
”I won't see a doctor. And that's flat.”
”Are you feeling better, then?”
As was always the case, her mother's perversity dissipated Esther's sympathy and left her tone cold. It was all the colder probably because just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs.
Coombe was wearing was not simple at all. The delicate embroidery on it was all hand work. And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle. It was probably a new ”best” gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on? The skirt was not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent. Esther noticed these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned women in town she had become one of the most slovenly. All her natty, pretty, American ”style” which the plainer Canadians had sometimes envied was gone. But this--this was worse than usual! The girl's quick eyes travelled downward, noting the increased signs of deterioration with something like distress.
”Why, mother,” she exclaimed involuntarily, ”there is a hole in your stocking!”
”Is there?” Mary Coombe thrust out a small and elegant foot clad in thinnest silk and shod with pretty slippers not very clean and turning over at the heel.
”Dear me!” she said. ”So there is. I need new slippers too. I quite forgot to get any.”
”Oh, mother!” Jane's cry was instant. ”You got heaps. Tan ones and brown ones and white ones and black ones with silver buckles--”
”Jane!” interrupted Esther, laughing. ”Give your imagination a rest.”
”But you did, didn't you, mother?”
”Did I? Why, yes--I did buy a few shoes. I had forgotten. The Customs man didn't find them either. Run and fetch me a clean white pair, Jane, and bring down the surprise we got for Esther--see how disapproving she looks. I declare, Esther, it would be just like you to make things disagreeable the moment I get home. I didn't charge a cent, if that's what you're afraid of.”
”I knew you wouldn't do that,” gravely. ”And of course I'm glad you got the things. But I can't see how you managed.”
”Oh, sales,” vaguely. ”Things are so cheap in Detroit and Jessica Bremner is a born shopper. She gets wonderful bargains. Anyway, I got them, and I'm not a cent in debt.”
”What's debt?” asked Jane.
”Buying what you can't pay for, Janie.”
”Oh, mother paid for everything. I saw her. It's Mrs. Bremner that's in debt, isn't she, mother?”
”Don't be silly, Jane, of course not. Jessica is far better off than we are.”
”But she only gave you half the money for the ring. I heard her say--”
”Jane, get those slippers at once.”
”I'm going. But Mrs. Bremner said--”