THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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corrected Mickey. "Rat."
He had just learned the word, and was practising it. Marianne screamed, and then caught side of her husband, opening the gate.
"Horatio," she screamed. "Come to Mickey, at once."
In his usual leisurely manner, Dr. Perry examined the child's arm, and then carried him, in silence, into the surgery.
"Get me two large surgical bandages," he said gravely to his wife.
"You—you're not going to operate," she asked faintly.
"You will see what I'm going to do to save life."
Smiling faintly, the doctor applied witch-hazel to Mickey's arm, before he bandaged both his hands, to the baby's delight.
"Keep those on, until the irritation is gone," he said. "It will soon die down, now that he is unable to scratch...And Nurse, you might see that his nails are kept shorter. I don't propose to make a mandarin of my son."
When the shocked woman had carried Mickey away, Marianne turned on her husband.
"Why did you speak to her like that? It was positively an insult."
"It was—but will she recognise it? Can you give me any hope?"
His words were the signal for the storm to break, as Marianne overwhelmed him with reproaches and abuse. The doctor made no attempt to listen or to argue, he was only conscious of irritation and noise.
In the same detached spirit, he looked at her, and was aware that—devoid of her exotic allure and poise—she was merely a gesticulating skinny woman, with outstretched hollow palms.
He was fond of his children, and very fond of his wife; but peace was essential to his happiness. He could have found entire satisfaction with a milk-veined wife like Vivian, or accepted second-best, in a well-ordered celibate existence.
"You've no right to be a father," stormed Marianne.
By his silence the doctor seemed to agree with her. In reality, he was seeing a jovial red face, and beaming eyes under a shock of iron-grey hair. His whole heart was wrung with longing for his friend, Julia Corner.
She would have helped him through this crisis, not only with her cheque-book—for she turned borrowing into just another link of friendship—but with her good-nature and understanding, and the stimulus of her excellent brain, of which, he—alone—had knowledge.
But Julia was in her grave. Lucky woman.
As he thought wistfully of the blessed blank of annihilation, a chance remark recalled him back to the surgery, with the shower of sunlight falling through its glass roof.
"Horatio," said Marianne vehemently, "do answer. Let me borrow the money for a seaside holiday for my babies, from Mrs. Sheriff. She's so kind, she'll lend it, when she knows the circumstances."
The doctor's eyes glittered in his pale face and his low voice suddenly vibrated with passion.
"Marianne," he said, "I forbid you to talk about my private affairs to anyone in the village."
"But you borrowed from Mr. Scudamore."
"Strongly against my own wish. But he was my solicitor, and a very old friend. Besides, I was only forestalling my legacy...But I will not tolerate my financial troubles being made public property. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand that you'd sacrifice your children to your ridiculous pride. And I'll promise nothing. I don't care if you leave me and go to your other woman."
She spoke in mockery, and was utterly confounded when he repeated her words.
"My 'other' woman. Be careful. I may take you at your word."
Marianne tried to laugh, but was startled by the fixity of her husband's eyes.
"Horatio," she implored, "don't look like that. You frighten me. I won't say one word, I promise you...You almost make me believe—. Kiss me, darling. Tell me there's no one else."
Her arms were around his neck, almost strangling him with their pressure; but he did not see the lips he kissed.
His view of them was blocked by a raw grave.
"If there is another woman," he said, "remember this: Should you drive me to her bed I shall never leave it."
CHAPTER XXIX — THE PHILANTHROPIST
As the days passed without further proof of confidence from his parishioners, the Rector's unhappiness grew acute. It seemed to him that everyone in the village was either leaving the sacrifice to his neighbour, or preferred to lose the Rector sooner than violate his essential reserve.
There was nothing to be done, but wait, and cheer himself with the reflection that Ignatius was mistaken in his theory of a wholesale broadcast of anonymous letters.
Ignatius also chafed at the check. One morning he startled the Rector with a new idea.
"Has Miss Mack ever travelled?" he asked.
"How should I know?" replied the Rector.
"Do you think she would like a short Continental holiday?"
"I should imagine so."
"Then, suppose we invite her to take one? I'm in the mood for philanthropy."
The Rector looked at his friend's bleak face, but saw only the birth of malice in his eyes.
"What are you driving at now?" he asked suspiciously.
"Nothing. I merely wish to find out if I'm still on the right track. So far, I have only my theory, but everything is beginning to dovetail so neatly that it needs but one specimen of printing for me to lay down my hand. Meantime, I cannot be too certain of my thesis."
He broke off, to glance through the window, between the sweeping boughs of the cedar trees which shaded the lawn. Outside the gate was a small car, which its owner was on the point of leaving.
"It's that Martin girl," groaned Ignatius. "She met me yesterday, and took an interest in my car. Refuse all invitations for me."
The Rector grinned, for he knew that the Miss Martins would regard a wealthy bachelor as natural quarry. He stepped through the French window and met Constance Martin on the drive.
"I want you and your friend to come to lunch today," she shouted.
The Rector did his best in the matter, but, as he refused to tell lies on behalf of his Ignatius, he ended by promising to come.
The bitter little man came out of his ambush, when he returned to the dining-room, and was furious to hear of the arrangement.
"At least, I shall have an interesting memory to sustain me during the ordeal," he said. "I expect some entertainment at 'The Spout'."
"What will this freak of philanthropy cost you?" asked the Rector.
"About fifty pounds, I suppose. But I do not anticipate being called on to pay. Miss Mack will refuse my offer."
"Don't be too sure."
"Don't you think Miss Asprey will prevent her from going?"
"I'm certain she will do nothing of the kind."
When the two men reached the front door of 'The Spout', the Rector looked at Ignatius, before he knocked.
"Am I to ask for Miss Mack?" he enquired.
"No, Miss Asprey. Miss Mack will be with her."
He proved a true prophet, for when Rose showed them into the study the ladies were together. Miss Asprey stood at the window, while Miss Mack sat at the desk, dutifully opening envelopes.
"Shall I go?" she asked in an