THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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my babies' welfare which is more than their father does," she said angrily. "Oh, don't look at me in that doped way...Do wake up."
"The last thing I wish to do."
"Well, then, go to sleep again and make a thorough job of it."
"Strange you should say that." The doctor's voice was almost inaudible. "But, unfortunately, one always wakes up again." Marianne turned towards the door.
"I can make nothing of you, in this mood," she told him. "If I were you I should take a cold bath."
"I've had one."
"A hot one, then. It might stimulate you to some sort of action."
She spoke with contempt, which melted in a sudden change of mood. In one lightning swoop, she was on her knees beside him, and holding him close.
"Darling, think of me," she said, as she kissed him vehemently.
"Strange you should do that," murmured the doctor.
The slam of the door woke him partially, so that he began to think of Marianne's suggestion. A hot bath? It was really rather curious that she should have given such topical advice.
While he had been dreamily thinking of the different methods of committing suicide, the one which appealed most was opening a vein. He had evidence that the lawyer had made a shockingly messy business of his exodus, while Mrs. Scudamore's end was a trifle ignominious. She seemed to him rather too stately a lady to finish up adequately in a scullery.
He again assured himself that he had no intention of committing suicide. It was merely an interesting speculation. His ears began to burn, and he remembered the old superstition.
At that moment, two persons were speaking of him In a beautiful old-world garden, two ladies, with flat heels and high insteps, reviewed their flower-borders and talked of those preliminary aches which heralded the Enemy.
"I don't care," declared the younger sister, who was still defiant, "I shall not call in a strange doctor. I shall remain faithful to my dear Dr. Perry."
Her nose was dominant, since it was an heirloom, but her mouth was gentle. The corners turned up as her elder sister made a suggestion.
"In that case, why don't you send for him?"
"Can we?" queried the younger lady. "The Squire never calls him in now. I never enquired the reason, for I refuse to talk scandal about my dear doctor. But men understand these things better than we do."
"The Squire blows his own nose—not yours," said her sister bluntly. "You have to do that for yourself. You know your late summer hay fever is near. Better tell Markham to ring up Dr. Perry."
The debate continued...Meanwhile, with the letter, still unopened, in his pocket, the doctor forced himself to mount the shallow stairs to the bathroom.
He paused on the square landing, to look down at the hall, as though he was viewing a scene from some play. Through the open front door, was a slice of sunlit turf, the brilliance of flowers, the drip of windy shadows. Doves cooed and babies laughed and shouted. A red reflection from the stained glass window lay on the oaken floor like a crimson rose.
Still heavy as a log, the doctor entered the bathroom and turned on the hot-water tap. The floor was sloppy, but he did not notice it. The disorder which seemed to be the logical result of the babies' baths, failed to rouse him to distaste.
He took off his coat and threw it on a chair, where it hung upside down, so that the note slipped from the pocket to the floor. The doctor looked at it, but made no effort to pick it up, as he again thought of the village.
'A beautiful dream. No one here is really alive except the Rector and Joan Brook, who don't belong. The Squire, for all his noise, is only a bit of tradition. Most of the people are descendants of their ancestors. In fact, we are all characters from some book, with a pleasant plot.'
Even Julia Corner, now that her bright colours were dimmed and her loud laughter withdrawn into the eternal silence, seemed to him a creation of her own fiction. Then he remembered the exception—his own wife, with her passion for life, which projected her—like a flaming comet—into the future.
She wanted no compromise, but welcomed the rack and the turn of the screw; the ecstasy of the wind; the joy of waking to each fresh day, because of the next leaf, still untorn from the calendar. Passion, pain, unrest—all that was life; her hands were greedily opened to clutch at the whole of it.
The doctor suddenly felt a wave of tenderness for Marianne. As he thought of her, Fear, who was still her faithful cavalier, left her, to act as valet-de-chambre to her husband.
"You love your wife and your children," it whispered. "You want to make them secure, don't you? Listen. You have only begun to nibble at your capital. A good lump remains, which would he increased by your Insurances. If your wife had to depend on herself, she would be forced to economise for the sake of her babies. Her income, though small, would be certain. She would not starve."
The doctor shivered slightly as he acknowledged the inexorable logic. He could see no flaw in it.
The bath was full and he tested its temperature with his elbow. It felt soothingly hot, so that he could imagine the pleasure of lying in it, as in some warm embrace in which he could sleep for ever.
"You have a corn," whispered Fear. "Hadn't you better fetch your case of instruments?"
The doctor slipped on his dressing-gown, but was too torpid to tie the girdle. When he reached the hall, the sunny stretch of boards was warm to his feet. A kitten stopped chasing a ball to run after his dangling tails. It followed him to the surgery and stalked him up the stairs.
But when it reached the bathroom it spied the letter lying on the floor, and began to kill it. As it lay on its back, holding the letter in its front paws and kicking it furiously with its back legs, the doctor smiled faintly. Obedient to the natural instinct to prevent destruction, he languidly plucked the note from the kitten's mouth.
"Want to know what's in it?" he asked. "All right, Kitty, I'll read it to you."
As he tore open the envelope the expression of his face changed to intent surprise. The note was from Ignatius.
'You may be interested to know,' it ran, 'that I have positive proof of the identity of the person who has been circulating the anonymous letters. Before night she will have left the village, and tomorrow everyone will know her name. This is a premature announcement, so you must regard it as confidential. But I have reason to believe that you have suffered some personal annoyance, so I wish you to be first to hear. In short, to quote your own Arab proverb, the night is over, oh Muleteer.'
As he read, the blood rushed to the doctor's brain, flooding him with new life. Hope was in the air, whispering to him that the Old Order would soon return. He had forgotten about his corn as he sang in his bath.
When he came out of the bathroom, the kitten perched on his shoulder, Marianne met him on the landing.
"Had a good soak?" she asked. "You seem to be awake, at last."
"I'm feeling rather cheerful," he told her. "We've both been too depressed to remember that there is always the Swing of the Pendulum."
As he spoke, the telephone-bell rang loudly. Marianne, who dashed to answer it, beckoned to her husband, as she listened to the message.
"The Laurels speaking. It's Miss Featherstone's parlour-maid. Is the doctor at home?"
CHAPTER XXXII — TWO VISITS
The rector hardly knew how to get through the day until Ignatius returned. His mind spurt in circles of suspense, hope and fear. When he hurried out to meet the car his first glance told him that his friend had returned in triumph.
He spoke to his chauffeur and then leaped to the ground.