THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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miniatures on the wall to the lawyer's white linen spats.
Then the unconscious actor within him arose to meet the drama of the situation. His voice throbbed with feeling as he spoke.
"Tell me what you like. It will make no difference. I have always admired Mrs. Scudamore."
The lawyer did not respond to his emotion, for he began to speak in dry precise phrases.
"I want you to understand it was entirely my fault, not hers. It was generally believed I married a widow. But she is legally married to a drunken brute, who is now an incurable, in a Mental Home. We fell in love—and I swept her off her feet. I literally wrenched her from her moorings of innocence. When she came away with me, she went against the whole grain of her nature."
"I understand," murmured the Rector, as the lawyer paused.
When he went on speaking, he used the present tense, a significant symptom of a mind still too jammed by shock, for realisation.
"My wife comes of a clerical family, with rather a rigid outlook. Her father was a Dean and she moved in an exclusive social circle. Her nature is strictly conventional. She has no imagination and little sympathy. She is censorious towards others and very sensitive to any outside criticism of herself...I tell you this, because of my love for her. It may help you to realise something else."
For a moment, he was overcome, for he covered his eyes with his hand. The Rector waited, in silent sympathy, for him to regain mastery over his voice.
"Now that you know what her nature was, don't you see that it would have been easier for her to have felt remorse for her conduct? It would have salved her conscience to be miserable. She would have looked upon her suffering in the light of expiation...But she loved me so entirely that she insisted that we must be happy in our love. She said it was my due, and that there must be no question of sacrifice. She often said that she never wished the past undone, and that we must justify our love by a life of perfect happiness and understanding."
As the lawyer paused for breath, the Rector thought of those evening walks, which advertised the Scudamores' wedded companionship, and the conventional atmosphere of the Clock House, which had hall-stamped it as the home of a happily-married professional couple.
And he understood. It was in this happiness that Mrs. Scudamore had made the supreme sacrifice to love.
"I think she was wonderful," he said.
"I see. You do understand," remarked the lawyer. "Thank you. Now I have something else to say."
His voice grew stronger with his anger.
"I want you to know that my wife was hounded to her death by poisonous anonymous letters. She had been receiving them for some time past, but she said nothing of them to me. They contained vague, cowardly charges, saying her secret life of hypocrisy was known, and that she would be exposed in her true light. The last one warned her that the end was near."
The Rector listened, aghast and cold with horror. It was what he had feared when he first heard of Mrs. Scudamore's suicide, but he had forgotten his premonition.
"She left me a letter," went on the lawyer, "saying she could not bring disgrace on me, or ruin my professional career...And, all this time, she has been her usual self—serene, sensible, gay. She has never given one sign of any secret trouble. But, at the end, she lost her grip. Those damnable letters got her down."
The lawyer crossed to the door.
"Will you see her?" he asked, taking the Rector's assent for granted, and leading the way.
In the hall, he stopped to speak to the cook, who still waited, expectant of orders, outside the dining-room door.
"Give the cat his dinner."
The Scudamores' bedroom was so plainly the room of a married couple who believed in perpetual companionship, that the Rector almost felt he ought to apologise for his presence there, to the lady lying on the big double bed. It was a huge apartment, handsomely furnished, and not crowded, although every bit of solid furniture was duplicated. Mr. Scudamore's dressing-room was evidently only a store-room for his spare clothes.
Mrs. Scudamore was wearing her prune silk dress, and looked darkly composed, and ladylike, even in death. There was no sign of being reduced to the common level of mortality, for she faintly preserved an illusion of superiority. Her hair was still in perfect order. Apparently, no essential hairpin had fallen from its place, in the struggle to recall her to life.
The Rector bent over her and impulsively kissed a cold hand. As he did so, he had a confused memory of a similar homage paid to Miss Asprey.
'Who had stabbed her so cruelly in the back?' he asked himself fearfully.
As the lawyer looked at his wife, he nearly broke down.
"If she had only told me," he muttered. "I should have known how to deal with those letters. If there had been any scandal to face, we'd have faced it together. It was such an unnecessary sacrifice."
Regaining his self-control, he walked from the room, followed by the Rector. When the two men reached the hall, the Rector was reminded of his promise to the cook, by another glimpse of the dining-table.
"Have you had dinner?" he asked.
"Presently," was the vague reply.
"Well—what about a stiff shot of whisky?"
"No, no. The doctor gave me something to brace me."
Although Mr. Scudamore was plainly anxious to be alone, the Rector made another effort.
"I don't want to be a nuisance," he said, "but might I stay with you? Just for company. I wouldn't say one word. But you would know someone was there."
Mr. Scudamore tried to smile as he shook his head. "Very kind of you, Rector, but I'm all right. I have some important writing to do."
As he spoke, he opened the front door. Then his eye fell on the prosperous cat, who was washing after a good dinner.
"There is something you can do for me," he said. "Could you get the cat a good home? It belonged to my wife. I couldn't bear to see it round."
That speech should have warned the Rector. But the lawyer's face was so calm, and his voice so dry and precise, that he was fooled into believing that all was well.
"I'll have him at the Rectory," he promised eagerly. "My dog's a sociable beggar. They won't fight."
"Thank you," said Mr. Scudamore.
The two men shook hands and the Rector went out of the open door.
When he had gone a few yards down the drive, he stopped to light a cigarette, in order to soothe his jangled nerves. As he did so, he heard the report of the shot with which the lawyer blew out his brains.
CHAPTER XXIV — THE SNAKE-HEAD
The rector got away from the Clock House as soon as he could, having left Dr. Perry in charge. When he returned to the Rectory, he appeared so broken by the double tragedy that Ignatius confined his comments to practical sympathy.
But, as he watched the Rector swallow that stiff shot of whisky which he had recommended to the lawyer, his own interest boiled over.
"This is a really extraordinary twist." he said. "Especially after our dinner at the Clock House, and my remarks to you afterwards."
"I remember them. Don't rub them in now," groaned the Rector.
"I'm not gloating. The fact is, for the first time, I am moved to admire the Scudamores. They actually star in Love's Register with Paul and Virginia."
A whimsical grin touched his lips.
"It's curious to picture an elderly, respectable solicitor,