THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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you, madam. Suppose there should be visitors?"
"I shall not be at home to anyone."
Mrs. Scudamore went through her usual morning routine. She put on her thick gloves and a shady hat and did a little ladylike gardening. After she had washed her hands, she drank a glass of buttermilk, and went into the drawing-room, to write letters.
She sat longer than usual at the bureau; one letter in particular, was difficult to compose, besides which she had to plan a list of dinners for the week. There was also some printing to be done, chiefly labels for jam; as she was noted for neat handiwork.
Just as she finished declining the invitation to the wedding of the Bishop's daughter, owing to a previous engagement, lunch was announced. As she ate, she finished a novel, the end of which she was anxious to know. It proved satisfactory, for everyone got married.
At intervals, she raised her eyes from the pages, to look through the window at St. James' House. Life was rioting through that house. She could almost see it quiver, like the jags of summer lightning, electric with creative force.
Then she gazed around the order of her prim room, and shook her head. Love was best.
A maid brought her coffee out to her, on the verandah, and announced that the kitchen regions were left in order. A little later, she heard discreetly lowered voices and the crunching of gravel, as the entire domestic staff crossed the drive, on its way to the trades-people's entrance. Slightly self-conscious in their best finery, the girls pretended to be oblivious of their mistress, who passed them in review.
"Parker," she called.
The kitchen-maid, unfamiliar in a yellow hat, stepped bashfully forward.
"Parker," said her mistress quietly, "have you ever seen me wearing a yellow hat?"
"No, mum," murmured the girl.
"Well, then, if you want to look like a lady, you must dress like one."
"Go up and put on your white hat," commanded the cook. "And be sharp."
But Mrs. Scudamore—always considerate of her staff—intervened.
"No, she mustn't make the rest of you late for the bus. Go as you are, Parker. Only, I want you to count how many ladies wear yellow hats at the Show."
The domestic staff went on its way, and silence fell on the Clock House. Mrs. Scudamore sat and looked at the lawn, mottled with shade and sunlight. Presently, she went into the kitchen and poured out a saucer of milk, which she placed in the corner of the verandah, where the cat—who was settled in his ways—would expect to find it, at four o'clock.
Afterwards, she went all over the house, going to every room, from attic to cellar. There is a certain fascination in roaming through an empty dwelling, which was felt by Mrs. Scudamore.
The order and cleanliness which was evident in the unused attics pleased her sense of housewifery. One was full of empty cardboard dress-boxes, all neatly piled, and shelves of jam-pots, which showed no trace of dust.
When she descended to a lower floor, she ran her finger over the enamel ledges in the White Room, to see if it lived up to the alleged purity of its name, while her heart swelled with the pride of a hostess at her own little arrangements for the comfort of her guests.
On the writing-table of her husband's study, was placed the latest portrait of himself. It was there as a companion to her own photograph, for she insisted that she could not be separated from him, even in pictorial form.
It presented him at his grimmest phase, but she looked at it intently, before she kissed the glass of its frame. Then she placed the copy of the Morning Post, together with the letter, on the blotter, tore a forgotten leaf from the calendar, and went out.
The end of her journey was in the small tiled scullery.
Opening a drawer, she found a pile of cloths, with which she sandbagged the window. After fastening a label—written that morning—to the outside of the door, with drawing-pins, she shut herself inside the scullery.
A warning was printed on the paper in large letters.
'BEWARE OF THE GAS'.
CHAPTER XXIII — THE LAWYER PULLS UP A BLIND
At four o'clock, Jeremy—the cat—who was punctual as the Greenwich Time Signal, drank his milk and washed his shirt-front, in readiness for dinner. Two hours later, the servants, excited and happy, returned from the Dairy Show, to discover the tragedy of a dead mistress.
It was Parker of the yellow hat, who heroically stormed the gas-filled scullery, to open the windows and drag out the lifeless body, while the distracted cook telephoned for Dr. Perry.
Mrs. Scudamore—although punctilious in the fulfillment of promises—was unable to keep her word to her husband, that the doctor should pay an early professional visit to the Clock House. Dr. Perry had just been called away to a case in the country. However, the voice at the other end of the wire added that the Cheltenham doctor's car had been seen to pass through the village, on its way to the Hall.
Not long afterwards, the Squire's new doctor arrived at the Clock House, only to tell them what they already knew. Mrs. Scudamore had been dead for several hours. Efficient in all things, she had made a neat and thorough job of her exit.
But, although he could not restore her to life, the doctor proved of use, for he met Mr. Scudamore on his return from London, and told him the tragic news.
The lawyer, although plainly stunned, did not break down. He read the letter, addressed to himself, which lay on his study table, and then went upstairs to his wife's room, where he remained for a little time. Afterwards, he asked the doctor to send for the Rector.
When he heard the news over the telephone, the Rector was not only shocked, but cold with uncomprehended fear.
"Suicide?" he repeated blankly.
"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it," replied the doctor.
"Horrible. How's Scudamore?"
"Bearing up wonderfully. He has iron self-control. Can you come over soon? I don't want to leave him alone."
"I'll be across in five minutes," promised the Rector.
He was surprised to find everything apparently normal at the Clock House, for he had vaguely expected to see visible signs of disruption. The cat, with one green eye fixed on his invisible watch, had changed for dinner, and sat waiting on the verandah, a patient gentleman in correct black-and-white.
When the front door was opened by the cook, the Rector had a glimpse, through an open door, of the dining-table ready laid for dinner, with all the usual flower-vases and candle-sticks.
"The master's bearing up wonderfully," she said. "The doctor's just gone. I'm glad you've come, parson. Perhaps you'll stay to dinner and get him to eat something, to keep up his strength."
"I'll do my best," promised the Rector.
The lawyer was pacing the drawing-room when he entered. His face looked grey as an extinct volcano, but his voice was under complete control.
"Good of you to come," he said, as the Rector, unable to speak, gripped his hand. "You have heard my wife has committed suicide. There will be an Inquest. I want you to hear the true facts from me."
The muscles of his face worked painfully, like machinery which is wrenched the wrong way, in his effort to keep his tone steady, as he dropped his bombshell.
"My wife and I were not married, to each other."
The Rector stared in incredulous horror around the prim drawing-room, which to him had been the typical apartment of a decorous married couple, and which now, was bracketed with a love-nest. He stared from