Part 33 (1/2)

Again Mrs. Coombe arose; this time without flurry. The little excitement had done her good. The dull eyes were actually sparkling, the sallow cheeks were flushed. She looked just as she used to look in one of her little rages before the great change came.

”That's enough, Esther. I'll take no more from you. I did what seemed to me right. If Amy were in her right mind I should not have had to take the ring, she would have offered it. Under the circ.u.mstances I did the only sensible thing. Amy will never discover the loss. I am getting a very good price for it from Jessica Bremner. It is a valuable jewel. She s.n.a.t.c.hed at the chance of getting it.”

Behind its whiteness Esther's face seemed to glow with pale flame. ”Is it possible that you have forgotten the history of that ring?” she asked. ”That it was poor Auntie's engagement ring and that, although she can't remember anything about it, she knows it means something more than life to her. And that she always says that she cannot die without the ruby on her finger?”

Mrs. Coombe looked uncomfortable, but kept her poise.

”It's all rubbish. She'll forget all about it. Dying people don't think of ruby rings. And anyway, she will probably outlive all of us. If not--we can easily divert her attention.”

The girl looked at her step-mother in horror, half believing that this must be some cruel joke. The callousness of the words seemed unbelievable. But the reality of them could no longer be doubted and the pale glow died out of her face, leaving it white and hard.

”I do not understand you,” she said slowly. ”Somehow you do not seem quite--human. But be sure of this, Aunt Amy shall have back her lover's ring. Jane says it has not all been paid for. How much did you receive?”

”I shall not tell you. And I warn you, Esther, not to waste your money.

If you buy it back, I shall sell it again.”

They were standing now facing each other. Esther took a step forward and looked down steadily into her step-mother's face. Her own curious eyes were wide open, they looked like blue stars, bright, cold and powerful as flame.

”No! You shall not.”

For a s.p.a.ce Mary Coombe met that sword-like look, then her weaker will gave way. Her eyes s.h.i.+fted and fell. Her hands began to pluck nervously at the embroidery of her dress. She laughed, a little, affected laugh with no mirth in it, turned and entered the house.

CHAPTER XIX

We have stated elsewhere that Coombe was conservative, but by this we do not mean to imply that it was benighted. Far from it! True, it talked a great deal before it ventured upon anything strange or new, referred constantly to the tax rate and ran no risks, but at the time of which we write it had decided to take a plebescite upon the matter of Local Option and, a little later, the council wished to go so far as to present Andrew MacCandless, who had served them five times as mayor, with an address and a purse of fifty dollars.

The Presbyterian church, too, although still clinging to solid doctrine, was far removed from the tuning-fork stage. Through throes of terrible convulsion it had come to possess an organ, a paid soloist, and a Ladies' Aid, that insidious first thing in women's clubs.

The first meeting of the Knox Church Ladies' Aid, after the return of Mrs. Coombe and Jane, was held for the purpose of putting together a quilt, not the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind, of course, but something quite new--an autograph quilt, very chaste.

It was a large meeting and, providentially, Mrs. Coombe was late. I say providentially because, had she been early, it is difficult to imagine how her fellow members would have eased their minds of the load of comment justified by her indiscreet home-coming, and several other things equally painful but interesting. The Ladies' Aid had its printed const.i.tution but it also had its unwritten laws and one of these laws was that strictest courtesy must always be observed. No member, whatever her failings, was ever discussed in meeting--when she was present.

”What I cannot excuse,” said Mrs. Bartley Simson, ”is the tone of levity in which she answered Mr. MacTavish when he met her on the way from the station. It is possible that she had some good reason for coming on that particular train. I am not one of those who hold that nothing can ever justify Sunday travel. Exceptional cases must be allowed for. But the frivolity of her excuse nothing can justify.”

”Besides,” said Miss Atkins, the secretary, ”it was a--it sounded like--what I mean to say is that she could not possibly, _no one_ could possibly, have forgotten what day of the week it was.”

A subdued chorus of ”Certainly not” and ”Absurd” showed the trend of public opinion upon this point.

”I once forgot that Wednesday was Thursday,” said the youngest Miss Sinclair, who always stood for peace at any price.

”Don't be silly, Jessie!” The elder Miss Sinclair, who believed in war with honour, jogged her sister's elbow none too gently. ”That's a different thing altogether. For my own part,” raising her voice, ”I think that as a society we cannot be too careful how we minimise the fact itself. To us, as a society, it is the fact itself that matters, and not what Mrs. Coombe said about it. That, to a certain extent, may be her own affair. But I hold, and I say it without fear of successful contradiction, that no member of a community can disregard the Sabbath in a public way without affecting the community at large. That is why I feel justified in criticising Mrs. Coombe's behaviour. And I hope,” here she raised a piercing eye and let it range triumphantly over the circle, ”I sincerely hope that the minister has been told of this occurrence!”

The meeting rustled with approbation. This, it felt, was something like a proper spirit. There was no compromise here. A thrill of conscious virtue, raised to the _n_th power, shot through the circle.

”You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?”

asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)

”I do.”