THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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every word of the conversation to his lady. Husband and wife shared each other's secrets, and Mrs. Scudamore never betrayed a business confidence.
"It's that woman," declared the lawyer. "She's draining him for the children."
"I agree, my love," said his wife. "Marianne is to blame. It is terrible when a woman thinks more of her children than of her husband."
"Very terrible," agreed the lawyer, who had no children. His face expressed concern, for although he was many years the doctor's senior, both belonged to old local families. When Perry was a charming, quiet young man, he inherited St. James' House, together with a small private income and an excellent practice.
At that time, everyone expected him to marry Vivian—the Squire's youngest daughter; but the War and sundry romantic complications intervened.
Marianne Perry was always on her best behaviour at the Clock House, and the Scudamores accepted her for her husband's sake; but both resented her unbridled temperament and extravagance which had turned the gracious Queen Anne house into a nursery Bedlam.
"He ought to have married Vivian," sighed Mrs. Scudamore.
"You're right, my love," said the lawyer. "Mrs. Perry is doing his practice no good. The wife of a professional man should be a real help, in every way. Especially in a neighbourhood where an unblemished reputation is essential, in order to create and hold confidence."
"Yes, my love. But I am proud that our standard is so high."
"I feel the same." The lawyer looked at his wife with a fond smile. "Dearest, you are looking blooming. But, in the communal interest, don't you think you might have a neuralgic headache, or a touch of rheumatism? Nothing painful, but something which requires medical attention."
"Dearest, you are always so thoughtful for others. I don't like false pretences, even in small things, but I promise you that the doctor shall soon pay a professional visit to the Clock House."
She glanced at the clock.
"And now, sweetheart, it is time for you to go," she said.
The maid was waiting in the hall, with the lawyer's hat, umbrella and brief-case; but it was Mrs. Scudamore who flicked his coat-collar with a clothes-brush and checked his belongings. She also made sure that his buttonhole—a mauve carnation, flecked with crimson—was secure.
Arm-in-arm, they strolled across the shaven lawn. At the gate, the lawyer raised his tall silk hat and kissed his wife, while she looked up at him with proud eyes.
"Do you realise you are out of fashion?" she asked with gentle irony. "Mrs. Perry tells me that spats are no longer worn. The smartest men wear patent leather boots with grey suede tops, and stiffened collars, of the same material as their shirts."
The lawyer clicked.
"Dear, dear. I'm afraid you will have to put up with me, as I am. Didn't I put up with a wife who always looks a gracious gentlewoman, while fashionable women cropped their heads and cut their skirts to their knees?"
They made a charming study in mutual admiration. The lawyer was spruce in grey striped trousers, a black morning-coat, white slip and linen spats, and a tall hat. His wife wore a dark-prune silk dress, relieved with muslin collars and cuffs. A black velvet band encircled her throat, to hide the strings of her neck.
Then Mr. Scudamore looked at his watch, and kissed his wife again. That was their private farewell, but the neighbours were given the benefit of their public parting. Holding her husband's arm, Mrs. Scudamore walked with him across the green, as far as the pond, where she remained standing—watching him until he had disappeared around the angle of the wall of St. James' House.
He turned and raised his hat before he passed out of sight, while she waved to him. She saw him go, with the usual pang, as though he had passed out of her life, for ever, and she walked slowly home, with a sense of desolation in her heart.
So, true lovers part.
But when she had entered the gates of the Clock House, she reacted to the charm and order of the garden. Life swung her up again in the daily routine, and her step was as light as a girl's as she went to inspect an experimental bed of zinnias.
While she stood, the sun streaming down on the coronet of her graying hair, she turned at the sound of hurrying footsteps, to see Mrs. Perry running up the drive, and committing the unforgivable sin kicking gravel over the grass in her haste.
Mrs. Scudamore thought she must be the herald of disaster, until she saw that Marianne's eyes were brilliant and her teeth flashing in the sunlight.
"I've news for you," she cried. "Marvellous—shattering—news. Another baby."
"Another?" Mrs. Scudamore literally gasped, as she remembered the doctor's financial strait. "Congratulations," she added, with an effort. "What does your husband think of—of the increase?"
"He hasn't had time to think. I stunned him with the glad tidings, half a minute ago. You've got the news red-hot. I just managed to scream it out to Nurse, and told her to spread it around the house."
Mrs. Scudamore felt herself stiffening at this violation of reserve, which outraged every tradition of her code.
"Isn't this announcement rather premature?" she asked.
"You can't get glorious news too soon," declared Marianne. "Think of it. It's too marvellous. New life. Life is the only thing that matters and death the only tragedy."
"I don't hold that view," said Mrs. Scudamore. "When we die, our real life may begin."
Mrs. Perry burst into a shriek of laughter.
"Aren't you cheerful? But I must fly back. Meals must be ordered, if the house fall."
Mrs. Scudamore, who never neglected the obligation of a hostess, walked with her to the gate.
"Of course, you want me to keep it private that you expect a visit from the stork," she said.
Marianne grimaced at the allusion to the conventional medium.
"Don't," she groaned. "No damned bird shall steal my thunder. And spread it all you can. I want the world to know."
A faint smile touched Mrs. Scudamore's withered, but well-cut lips.
"You should keep calm," she said. "There's nothing to get excited about. Babies are merely incidental to marriage."
"How do you know?" flashed Marianne. "You've never had one. Life is the greatest thing of all."
Mrs. Scudamore shook her head.
"When you've been married as long as I have," she said, "you will know that the greatest thing is love."
As Marianne rushed across the green, back to St. James' House, she felt a certain contemptuous pity for Mrs. Scudamore.
'Poor old thing, all dolled up, for nothing to happen. No children. That beautiful house and garden wasted on one lousy cat.'
Mrs. Scudamore walked into her spacious hall, scented with a bowl of freshly-cut mignonette, and contrasted the delight and security of a well-run house and a balanced budget with the leaky finances and slip-shod management of the doctor's home.
'Poor Horatio. Why didn't he marry Vivian? He didn't know, when he called, this morning, of the ultimate tragedy.' She stooped, to encourage her cat, who was washing vigorously, in order to satisfy the high standard of cleanliness which prevailed at the Clock House.
"Good Jeremy. Such a lot of shirt-front to wash. Good cat."
Then she went into the kitchen to order the dinner, for, as Marianne had declared, meals must be ordered, whatever the cosmic conditions.
"Make it seven-fifteen," she said. "The master will be tired. Give me something that is easily prepared for my own lunch. Directly you've washed up, you can all go to the Dairy Show."
"What about your own tea?" asked the cook dutifully.
"I'll get it myself."
"Thank