THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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knew the circumstances could believe in her innocence.
At that moment, Mrs. Scudamore's self-control was being severely tested in her own drawing-room, where she partnered Ignatius in a game of Contract Bridge. Although Ignatius was a brilliant player, his thoughts had strayed so completely that he had forgotten what was trumps—an incident which lost them the rubber.
Even he had to admire the lady's assumed unconsciousness of his mistake, and the gracious smile with which she paid her score. But when the Rector took him to task for his play, on their homeward walk, he only laughed heartlessly.
"I've given her something to remember me by. What does it matter? They'll square up together, after we're gone. Their sort always does."
"Their marriage is certainly a splendid partnership," said the Rector stiffly.
"Is it? I don't like them. They're self-righteous humbugs."
The Rector was horrified.
"You can't get away with that," he declared. "They're pleasant, well-bred people, and the soul of hospitality."
"You mean, they invite you to the Clock House. But they don't make you feel at home."
"They always make me feel at home," said the Rector. "And I specially liked Mrs. Scudamore's manner to Joan Brook tonight. She was as considerate as if she was her own daughter."
"That's because Miss Brook is a nice girl. But if she came to the Clock House, one snowy night, with a baby in her arms, and asked for a night's lodging, it would be a different affair."
Ignatius broke off to chuckle.
"I can see old Scudamore," he continued, "in correct dinner kit, explaining that he could not admit her, because of consideration and respect for his wife. And Mrs. Scudamore would agree, by dignified nods, while she shut the door, so that the servants should not hear. Afterwards they would go back to their Patience."
"You fatuous idiot," said the Rector patiently. "I suppose you can't help it."
"That's right. Put up with me, as I'll soon be gone. Only Charles will regret me and my car. But, remember this...Mrs. Scudamore may go to church, but she does not worship God. She worships only the opinion of the neighbours. You'll find her out, one day."
The Rector laughed as he opened the Rectory gate. On the other side of the green, the Clock House still glowed with hospitable light. Behind those drawn blinds a charming domestic episode was taking place, as the lawyer divided his winnings with his wife.
"I could hardly keep silent," he declared. "That miserable little man would be rightly punished if everyone refused to play Bridge with him. It was most ungentlemanly to penalise a lady in such a disgraceful manner."
"I could hardly believe my eyes, when he led that club," said Mrs. Scudamore, gathering up her share. "Thank you, love. By the way, I hope I did not show my annoyance."
"No, my dear one, you were wonderful. I noticed that the padre was impressed. Past midnight, my dear. Time for bed."
The servants had gone upstairs long before, and the Scudamores never left a room in disorder. They emptied ash-trays, put away the cards, plumped up the cushions. Then, together, they went the round of the ground-floor, shutting windows and extinguishing the lights.
Jeremy, the cat, was visited, to see that he occupied his basket, and was not creating a scandal by joining the communal concert on the green. Finally, the Scudamores, arm-in-arm, went up to bed.
The shallow steps of the mahogany staircase were thickly covered with blue-and-red Turkey carpet. On the square landing, a marble lady, with a very good figure, which was completely draped, held up a cluster of lamps with rosy shades, so that the polar-bear rug was dyed pink. There was also a tall mirror, a palm—its shining fronds free from dust—and a marble console table, which held a jug of barley-water and two glasses.
The lawyer smiled appreciatively as he poured out their customary night-cap.
"Bar one slight episode, a very pleasant evening," he said, as he clinked his glass against his wife's. "My love to you. Happy days."
Mrs. Scudamore sipped daintily and echoed his Toast.
"My love to you. And Happy Days."
CHAPTER XXII — LIFE AND DEATH
The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Scudamore were having breakfast in the prim morning-room of the Clock House. The sunlight streamed in through the east window, drawing sweetness from the mauve and white stocks on the table, and gleaming on the silver coffee-pot. The lawyer and his wife were finishing their conventional meal of ham-and-eggs, with marmalade and toast. He had extracted the essential parts of the Morning Post, and she had read the Births, Deaths and Marriages in the Times. Afterwards, they would exchange papers, and he would take away the Times, leaving her the Post.
On this special morning, Mr. Scudamore was going up to London for the day, on business.
"I hope to be back by seven, by the latest," he said. "Perhaps, and even probably, I shall be earlier. It all depends on which motor-bus I catch. They don't connect rigidly with the trains."
"Then, dearest, shall we say seven-fifteen for dinner?" asked his wife. "You will be hungry and not want to wait."
"Excellent, love. What are you doing today?"
"I think I shall stay at home and finish off stray ends of work. I want to let the maids go to the Durley Dairy Show this afternoon, and I don't like to leave the house empty."
"No, it is unwise."
The lawyer accepted the current fiction that any unprotected woman could foil the felony of the most brutal tramp, by merely sitting in her own drawing room. But, since burglary was unknown in the village, she was safe enough.
She looked up in faint surprise as the front-door bell rang. A minute later, a maid told the lawyer that Dr. Perry wished to see him.
Husband and wife exchanged glances, their brows slightly raised; then the lawyer wiped his mouth, carefully avoiding treading a crumb into the carpet and crossed to the door.
"Rather an unusual time for a visit," he observed. "It may be urgent. Will you excuse me, my dear?"
Dr. Perry was standing in the study, examining a photograph of Lucerne, with a hint of that glazed and desperate resignation which is present in a dentist's waiting-room. His shabby, well-cut suit hung loosely on him, giving an impression of thinness, but his pale face was tranquil.
"I'm sorry to disturb you at breakfast, Scudamore," he said. "But I wanted to know how Miss Corner's Sale went. When can I expect my legacy?"
"Impossible to say," replied the lawyer. "The house will have to be disposed of by private treaty. All the bids were under the reserve."
"Tiresome." The doctor's voice was light. "I rather want some ready money. My wife tells me my family needs a change of air."
"But they are looking extremely well."
"They are well. But my wife seems to think that sea air is indicated."
From its immobility, the lawyer's shaven face might have been composed of grey asbestos; his long upper lip was grim in his effort not to betray understanding of a friend's financial need.
"I can advance the money out of my own account," he said, "if that is more convenient to you."
"Thanks. It would he rather useful."
"Will tonight do? I'm catching the London train, at Cheltenham. Or shall I write a cheque now?"
"Tomorrow will do excellently. You won't want to bother with business tonight. It's not so urgent. Thanks very much."
Mr. Scudamore returned to the morning-room, where