Up the Hill and Over

by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Of course Coombe had suspected this all along. Never for a moment had it been really deceived. Over and over again it had said: "My dear, that young man is not a mere local practitioner, mark my words!" From the first, Coombe had observed the marks of true distinction in him. He was so odd! He seemed to care nothing at all for appearances, and, as everybody knows, this comfortable attitude of mind is the privilege of the famous few. Besides, there was the matter of the marriage. Coombe had been right in thinking that Mary Coombe had not gone into the matter blindfold. She had known very well upon which side her bread was buttered, and as to her giving way to his whims in the absurd way she did—that, too, was understandable under the circumstances.

What puzzled Coombe, now, was how she had managed it. She was not pretty, at least not very pretty. She was not young, at least only comparatively young. And goodness knows, she was not clever! Hardly a mother in Coombe but had at least one daughter prettier, younger and cleverer; a daughter, in fact, who could give Mary Coombe aces and kings and still win out. Why had the doctor not been attached to one of these? It was incomprehensible. Even if, through a misplaced devotion to his profession, he had determined to marry into a doctor's family—there was Esther! Esther Coombe was a fine girl and quite nice looking before she had begun to "go off." Even as it was she had more to recommend her than her step-mother. There seemed to be a general impression that all men are fools.

"If they would only let some woman with sense choose their wives for them," declared the eldest Miss Sinclair in a burst of confidence, "they might get along fairly well. But if ever a man gets married to the right woman, it happens by accident."

Nevertheless, at a special meeting of the Ladies' Aid, called for the purpose, it was decided to give the bride a present. They had not intended to do it for fear of establishing a precedent. But when it came out who Dr. Callandar was, it hardly seemed right to let one of their best known members go from them to a more exalted sphere in a city (which many of them might, from time to time, feel inclined to visit) without showing her by some small token how very highly she was held in their regard. Every one could see the sense of this and the vote was unanimous. In regard to the nature of the gift there was more diversity of opinion, but it was finally decided that, as the value of this kind of thing lies not in the gift but in the spirit of the giving, a brown jar with the word "Biscuits" in silver lettering would do very well. Carving knives were thought of but as Mrs. Atkins very fitly said, "Everybody is sure to give carving knives"—a phenomenon which all the ladies accepted as a commonplace.

Of the prospective bride herself, Coombe saw little. She remained very much at home. She had lost much of her spasmodic energy, was inclined to be moody and even rude. Her state of health accounted naturally for this and also for the arrival of a new inmate at the Elms, a cool and capable looking person who was discovered, after much amazed enquiry, to be a trained nurse. Not a hospital nurse exactly but a kind of special nurse whose duties included massage, and the giving of certain baths and things which the doctor thought strengthening. Her name was Miss Philps. Coombe never got behind that. No one could ever boast that she knew more of Miss Philps than her name. She was, and remains to this day, a mystery.

There are people like that, although this was Coombe's first experience of one. Miss Philps was not a recluse. Everywhere Mrs. Coombe went, Miss Philps went too. Even Esther was not more assiduous in her attentions. She was not a silent person either, far from it. She bubbled over with precise and cheerful comment, she appeared to talk even more than was absolutely necessary and it was only upon her departure that her entertainers noticed that she had said nothing at all. A very baffling person to deal with. Coombe could not manage to "take to" her at all and great sympathy was felt for Mrs. Coombe when she was reported to have said to Miss Milligan that going out with Miss Philps felt exactly like a jail delivery—whatever that might be!

But if Miss Philps was not appreciated at large it was different in her own immediate circle. She had not been at the Elms a day before Esther recognised the doctor's wisdom in getting her. She was discreet, capable, kindly. The burden upon the girl's shoulders grew momentarily lighter. Miss Philps, with her matter of fact cheeriness, her strength and her experience, was exactly what that house of overstrained nerves needed.

"Dear me," she said, "you're all as fidgety as corn in a popper. And no need for it. I've nursed dozens worse than your mother, Miss Esther, and had them right as a trivet before I got through. As long as we can keep her hands off the stuff—and that's what I'm here for. So don't worry!"

Esther drew a deep breath. It was certainly good to feel the strain lifting, to have time for dreams again. The time was so pitifully short now. Two more weeks and she would leave Coombe behind her. The old life would be definitely over and done with. Looking back, she could see that it had been a happy life, and the future looked so dark. In youth, all life's happenings seem so terribly final. Every parting feels like a parting forever. Esther felt quite sure that she would never return to Coombe.

In the week before the wedding, freed from her continual attendance upon her mother, she unobtrusively paid farewell to all her old haunts and favourite places. It was a sweet sadness. She did not taste the sweet, but it was there. As one grows older, one does not linger over sad moments. It is because the sweet has vanished, only the bitter remains. But in untried youth sadness has a touch of beauty, a glamour of romance which shrouds its deepest pain. It is as if something within us, infinitely wise, were smiling, knowing well that for the young there is always to-morrow.