Part 52 (2/2)

”I am so sorry,” explained Esther smoothly. ”Mother is not at all well, one of her old headaches. The doctor has gone up to see if he can be of any use.”

Miss Annabel shook her head gloomily. ”Mark my words,” she said, ”your mother ought to take those headaches of hers more seriously. A headache seems a little thing, but I know of a case--”

With Esther's sympathetic encouragement the good lady launched upon a recital of melancholy happenings more or less connected with headaches which occupied her attention very pleasantly and prevented any one else from saying anything until the return of the awaited guest. He came in looking as usual and bearing an apology from the hostess for her sudden indisposition. ”Nothing at all serious,” he added lightly. ”It is possible that she may join us later.” But it was noticeable that as he spoke he did not look at Esther nor could her anxious glance read the impa.s.sive sternness of his face.

It was not a successful meal. In spite of the pretty table, the dainty food, the well kept up fire of conversation, the beautiful evening out of doors, the softly shaded light inside, from first to last the supper was a nightmare. Of what avail the careful pretence that nothing was wrong? A very miasma of dread enveloped that table, a thing so palpable that Miss Annabel found herself starting at a sound, the minister's ready tongue faltered on a favourite phrase, Esther's clear voice grew blurred, Aunt Amy wrung her hands, Jane's eyes were wide with unchildlike care. Only Callandar seemed undisturbed, courteous, interested.

It was a relief to them all when after an uncomfortable half-hour with coffee on the veranda the minister suddenly remembered a forgotten committee meeting and hurried Miss Annabel away with half her parting words unspoken. The doctor, still courteous and interested, walked down with them to the gate. He would wait, he said, a little longer to see how Mrs. Coombe found herself. Esther carried off a subdued and silent Jane to bed.

”Esther,” whispered Jane as her sister bent to kiss her, ”why do lovely, lovely days always end so badly?”

”They don't, Janie.”

The child sighed. ”Mine do. I never had a perfect day in all my life.”

”You will have. Every one has perfect days--sometime.”

”Have you, Esther?”

”Yes, dear.”

Jane looked up sleepily. ”Perhaps mine will come to-morrow!”

Esther went slowly down stairs and out into the garden. Callandar was coming up the path from the gate. He walked slowly. When they met, he no longer avoided her glance.

”Well?” She had no need to ask. Yet she did ask, falteringly.

”We have failed,” he said briefly.

The quiet hopelessness of his voice left no room for argument. Esther opened her lips to protest, but found nothing to say.

”She has outwitted us,” he went on. ”How? who can say? They have the cunning of the devil! There is only one thing to do now. Only one way--”

”You mean?--”

”The wedding must take place at once. I suppose the farce is really necessary. But there must be no more delay. Only the unsparing use of a husband's authority can save her now. I shall take her away. I must be with her day and night. In France there is a place I know, beautiful, isolated. I shall take her there. If all else fails there is the treatment of hypnotic suggestion. But--I shall not fail, I dare not!”

Blindly she put out her hand--he clasped it gently--yet not as if he knew whose hand it was. Then, laying it aside, he pa.s.sed by, and, leaving her sobbing in the dusk, went on into the house and up the stairs to the closed room.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

It became quickly known in Coombe that, owing to Mrs. Coombe's delicate health, the wedding would take place much sooner than had been expected.

A sea voyage, it was conceded, was the necessary thing and as Dr.

Callandar would not allow his fiancee to go away alone it seemed only fair that he should make haste to go with her. Comment on all these points was much more restrained than usual because, just at this time, Coombe withstood the shock of finding out that Dr. Callandar was no less than Dr. Henry Chedridge Callandar of Montreal. No, not his brother, nor his cousin, but the man himself!

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