Up the Hill and Over | Page 7

one might
be a change. There's two churches of Presbyterians and they're tumble
folk for hanging together."

The doctor laughed. "Thanks for the tip. I'll remember. Coombe is
considered a healthy place, isn't it?"
"Danged healthy."
The commiseration in the other's tone lent to the simple question such
an obvious meaning that the doctor hardly knew whether to be amused
or annoyed.
"Heavens, man! I'm not an undertaker. I asked because I'm rather rocky
myself. That is, partly, why I'm here."
The mournful one nodded. "Good a reason as any," he assented sadly.
"By the way--er--there used to be a Dr. Coombe here, didn't there?
Didn't he live somewhere hereabouts?"
The sad one turned his meditative eyes from their focus upon the
horse's back and rested them upon the open and guileleas face by his
side. Then from deep down in his brawny throat came a sudden sound.
It was unmistakably a chuckle. Without the slightest trace of an
accompanying smile, the sound was startling.
"What's the matter?" asked the doctor irritably.
"Nothing. Only when anybody's seen Esther, they always start asking
about old Doc. Coombe. It gives them a kind of opening. Yes, that's the
old Coombe place--over there. The one with the fir trees and the big
elm by the gate."
"A pleasant house," said Callandar in a detached voice.
"So-so. The old Doc. uster putter around considerable. But they say his
widow isn't doing much to keep it up. Tumble flighty woman, so they
say. Young, you know, just about young enough to be the old Doc.'s
daughter--"
"But--"

"Oh! Esther ain't her child. Esther's ma died when she was a baby.
There is a child, though, Jane they call her, a pindling little thing. But
p'r'aps you've met Jane too?"
"I did not say--"
"No, but I thought likely if you'd met one, you'd have met the other.
Jane's nearly always hanging around Esther 'cept in school hours.
Awful fond of Esther she is. Folks say that Esther's more of a mother to
Jane than her own ma. But I dunno. Alviry says it's a shame the way
Esther's put upon; all the cares of the house when she had ought to be
playing with her dolls. Stepmother with 'bout as much sense as a fly.
Old Aunt Amy, nice sort of soul but--" he touched his head
significantly and heaved the heaviest sigh yet.
"Do you mean to say that there is an aunt who isn't quite sane?" asked
Callandar, surprised.
"I don't say so. Some folks does. Alviry says she's a whole lot wiser
than some of the rest of us."
From the tone of this remark it was evident that Alviry's observation
had been intended personally. Callandar choked back a laugh.
"What say?" asked the other suspiciously.
"I said, rather hard luck for a young girl."
The mournful one nodded and relapsed into melancholy. The doctor
turned his attention to the house which a flicker of the whip had
pointed out. It was long and low, with wide verandas and a somewhat
neglected-looking lawn. At one side an avenue of lilacs curved, and on
the other stood a stiff line of fir trees. The front of the house was well
shaded by maples and near the gate stood a giant elm-tree, around the
trunk of which ran a circular seat. It all looked cool, green and inviting.
As the old horse walked sedately past, a woman's figure came out of
one of the long windows and flung itself lightly, yet, even at that
distance, with a certain suggestion of impatience, into one of the

veranda chairs.
"That'll be Mrs. Coombe now," volunteered his informant. "Tumble
saucy way she has of flinging herself around--jes' like a young girl!
Mebby you can see what sort of dress she's got on. Alviry'll be
int'rested to know."
"It's too far off," said Callandar, amused. "All I can see is that the lady
is wearing something white."
"Went out of weeds right on the dot, she did! It's not much over a year
since the old Doc. died. Esther's still wearing some of her black, but jes'
to wear them out, not as symbols. Mrs. Coombe's got a whole new
outfit, Alviry says. Turrible extravagant! Folks says it takes Esther all
her time paying for them with her school money. But I dunno. What
say?"
"I didn't say anything. But, since you ask, do you think all this is any of
my business?"
"Well, since you ask, it ain't. 'Tisn't my business either; but it kind of
passes the time. Giddap!"
Perhaps the old horse knew he was getting near the end of his journey
for, contrary to expectation, he did "giddap" with a jerk which nearly
unseated the doctor and caused a flicker of mild surprise to flit across
the