Part 46 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXVII
Mrs. Sykes thought much about her boarder in those days and, for a wonder, said very little. Gossip as she was, she could, in the service of one she liked, be both wise and reticent. Perhaps she knew that oracles are valued partly for their silences. At any rate her prestige suffered nothing, for the less she said, the more certain Coombe became that she could, if she would, say a great deal. Of course her pretence of seeing nothing unusual in the doctor's engagement was simply absurd.
Coombe felt sure that like the pig-baby in ”Alice,” she only did it ”to annoy because she knows it teases.”
One by one the most expert gossips of the town charged down upon the doctor's landlady and one by one they returned defeated.
”True about the doctor and Mary Coombe? Why, yes of course it's true.
Land sakes, it's no secret.” Mrs. Sykes would look at her visitor in innocent astonishment. ”Queer? No. I don't see anything queer about it.
Mary Coombe's a nice looking woman, if she is sloppy, and I guess she ain't any older than the doctor, if it comes to that. No, the doctor doesn't say much about it. He ain't a talking man. Sudden? Oh, I don't know. 'Tisn't as if they'd met like strangers. As you say, they _might_ have kept company before. But I never heard of it. I always forget, Mrs. MacTavish, if you take sugar? One spoon or two? As you say, old friends sometimes take up with old friends. But sometimes they don't. My Aunt Susan found her second in a man who used to weed their garden. But it's not safe to judge by that. Ann, hand Mrs. MacTavish this cup, and go tell Bubble Burk that if he doesn't stop aggravating that dog, it'll bite him some day, and n.o.body sorry.”
In this manner did Mrs. Sykes hold the fort. Not from her would Coombe hear of those ”blue things of the soul” which her quick eye divined behind the quiet front of her favourite. But with the doctor himself she had no reserves, it being one of her many maxims that ”what you up and say to a person's face doesn't hurt them any.” The doctor was made well aware that her unvarnished opinion of his prospective marriage was at his disposal at any time.
”I'm not one as gives advice that ain't asked,” declared Mrs. Sykes with sincere self-deception. ”But what sensible folks see in Mary Coombe I can't imagine. I may be biased, not having ever liked her from the very first, but being always willing to give her a chance--which I may say she never took. There's a verse in the Bible she reminds me of, 'Unstable as water'--Ann, what tribe was it that the Lord addressed them words to?”
”I don't know, Aunt.”
”There, you see! She doesn't know! That's what happens along of all these Sunday Schools. In my day I'd be spanked and sent to bed if I didn't know every last thing about the tribes.”
”Ann and I will go and look it up,” said the doctor hastily, hoping to escape; ”it will be good discipline for both of us.”
”Land sakes! I'm not blaming you, Doctor. Naturally you haven't got your mind on texts, and I don't blame you about the other thing either. Men are awful easy taken in. My Aunt Susan used to say that the cleverer a man was the more he didn't understand a woman. Dr. Coombe was what you'd call clever, too, but it didn't help him any. Mind you, I'm not criticising, far from it, but I suppose a person may wonder what a man's eyes are for, without offence. No one knows better than you, Doctor, that I'm not an interfering woman and I'd never dream of saying a word against Mary Coombe to the face of her intended husband, but if I did say anything it would have to be the truth and the truth is that a more thorough-paced bit of uselessness I never saw.”
”Mrs. Sykes,” the doctor's voice was dangerously quiet, ”am I to understand that you are tired of your boarder?”
Mrs. Sykes jumped.
”Land, Doctor, don't get ruffled! I'm real sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to say a word when I set out. My tongue just runs away. And naturally you have to stand up for Mrs. Coombe. I see that. That'll be the last you'll hear from me and 'tisn't as if I'd ever turn around and say 'I told you so' afterwards.”
This was _amende honorable_ and the doctor received it as such; but when he had gone into his office leaving his breakfast almost untouched, Mrs.
Sykes shook her head gloomily.
”You needn't tell me!” she murmured, oblivious of the fact that no one was telling her anything. ”You needn't tell me!” Then, with rare self-reproach, ”Perhaps I hadn't ought to have said so much, but such blindness is enough to provoke a saint. If he'd any eyes--couldn't he see Esther?” Mrs. Sykes sighed as she emptied the doctor's untasted cup.
More frankly disconsolate, though not so outspoken, were Ann and Bubble.
Not only did they dislike the bride elect but they objected to marriage in general. ”A honeymoon will put the kibosh on this here practice, sure,” moaned Bubble.
”Look at me. I'm not thinking of getting married, am I? No, and I'm never going to get married either.”
”I am,” said Ann, ”and I'm going to have ten sons and the first one is going to be called 'Henry' after the doctor.”
”Huh!” said Bubble, ”bet you it isn't. Bet you go and call it after its father. They all do.”
”No chance! Bet you I won't. I wouldn't call it 'Zerubbabel' for anything.”
For an instant they glared at each other, and then as the awful implication dawned upon Bubble his round face grew crimson and his voice thrilled with just resentment.
”Well, if you think you're going to marry me, Miss Ann, you're jolly well mistaken.”