A Woman's War. Warwick Deeping

six years had passed since Miss Carmagee had deposited herself as a supporter of James Murchison on his professional platform. Her pleasant stolidity had done him service, for Miss Carmagee impressed her convictions on people by sitting down with the serene look of one who never argues. She was a woman who stated her opinions with a buxom frankness, and who sat on opposition as though it were a cushion. She was perhaps the only woman who gave no sparks to the flint of Mrs. Steel’s aggressive vivacity. Miss Carmagee’s placidity was unassailable. To attack her was like throwing pease against a pyramid.

      “Well, my dear, so you have furnished the cottage.”

      She lay back contentedly in her basket-chair—chairs were the few things that nourished grievances against her—and beamed on Catherine Murchison, who sat shaded by the leaves of a young lime. The tea-table stood between them. Miss Carmagee liked basking in the sun like some sleek, fat spaniel.

      “It is such a dear little place.” And the young wife’s eyes were full of tenderness. “I want James to keep the gray hairs from coming too fast. I shall lure him away to Marley Down, one day in seven, if I can.”

      “Of course, my dear, you can persuade him.”

      “Jim has such an obstinate conscience. He gives his best to people, and naturally they overwork him. We have rivals, too, to consider. I know that Betty Steel is jealous of us, but then—”

      A touch of wistfulness on Catherine’s face brought Miss Carmagee’s optimism to the rescue.

      “You need not fear the Steels, my dear.”

      “No, perhaps not.”

      “Many people—I, for one—don’t trust them. The woman is too thin to be sincere,” and Miss Carmagee’s bust protested the fact.

      “Betty’s kind enough in her way.”

      “When she gets her way, my dear. But tell me about the cottage. Are the drains quite safe, and are there plenty of cupboards?”

      Catherine was launched into multitudinous details—the staining of floors, the choosing of tapestries, the latest bargains in old furniture. It eased her to talk to this placid woman, for, despite her courage, her heart was sad in her and full of forebodings for her husband. The truth had become as a girdle of thorns about her, worn both day and night. She bore the smart of it without a flicker of the lids, and carried her head bravely before the world.

      The strip of garden, with its prim and old-fashioned atmosphere, was invaded abruptly by the rising generation. There was a flutter of feet round the laurel hedge bordering the path to the front gate, and Mr. Porteus pranced into view, a veritable light-opera lawyer with youth at either elbow.

      “Hello, godma! may I have some strawberries?”

      Master Jack Murchison plumped himself emphatically into Miss Carmagee’s lap, oblivious of the fact that he was sitting on her spectacles.

      “Jack, dear, you must not be so rough.”

      Mr. Porteus crossed the grass with the more dignified and less voracious Dutch bonnet beside him. Miss Gwen and the bachelor always treated each other with a species of stately yet twinkling civility. The lawyer’s wrinkles turned into smile wreaths in the child’s presence, and there was less perking up of his critical eyebrows.

      “Here’s a handful for you, Kate; I was ambuscaded and captured round the corner. Who said strawberries? Will Miss Gwendolen Murchison deign to deprive the blackbirds of a few?”

      “Do you grow stawberries for the blackbirds, godpa?”

      “Do I, Miss Innocent! No, not exactly.”

      Catherine had removed her son and heir from Miss Carmagee’s lap. The fat lady looked cheerful and unperturbed. Master Jack was suffered to ruffle her best skirts with impunity.

      “Don’t let them eat too much, Porteus.”

      Her brother cocked a birdlike eye at Miss Gwen.

      “Sixpence for the biggest strawberry brought back unnibbled. Off with you. And don’t trample on the plants, John Murchison, Esq.”

      The pair raced for the fruit-garden, Master Jack’s enthusiasm rendering him oblivious to the crime of taking precedence of a lady. Gwen relinquished the van to him, and dropped to a demure toddle. Her brother’s flashing legs suggested the thought to her that it was undignified to be greedy.

      “Pardon me, Kate, I think you are wanted over the way.”

      Mr. Carmagee’s sudden soberness of manner brought the color to Catherine’s cheeks. The lawyer was rattling the keys in his pocket, and blinking irritably at space. Intuition warned her that he was more concerned than he desired her to imagine. She rose instantly, as though her thoughts were already in her home.

      “Good-bye; you will excuse me—”

      She bent over Miss Carmagee and kissed her, her heart beating fast under the silks of her blouse.

      “I’ll bring the youngsters over presently, Kate.”

      “Thank you so much.”

      “And send some fruit with them.”

      “You are always spoiling us.”

      And Porteus Carmagee accompanied her to the gate.

      The lawyer rejoined his sister under the lime-tree, biting at his gray mustache, and still rattling the keys in his trousers pocket. He walked with a certain jerkiness that was peculiar to him, the spasmodic and irritable habit of a man whose nerve-force seemed out of proportion to his body.

      “Murchison’s an ass—a damned ass,” and he flashed a look over his shoulder in the direction of the fruit-garden.

      Familiarity had accustomed Miss Carmagee to her brother’s forcible methods of expression. He detonated over the most trivial topics, and the stout lady took the splutterings of his indignation as a matter of course.

      “Well?” and she examined her bent spectacles forgivingly.

      “Murchison’s been overworking himself.”

      “So Kate told me.”

      “The man’s a fool.”

      “A conscientious fool, Porteus.”

      Mr. Carmagee sniffed, and expelled a sigh through his mustache.

      “I’ve warned him over and over again. Idiot! He’ll break down. They had to bring him home in a cab from Mill Lane half an hour ago.”

      His sister’s face betrayed unusual animation.

      “What is the matter?”

      “Heat stroke, or fainting fit. I saw the cab at the door, and collared the youngsters as they were coming round the corner with the nurse. Poor little beggars. I shall tell Murchison he’s an infernal fool unless he takes two months’ rest.”

      Miss Carmagee knew where her brother’s heart lay. He generally abused his friends when he was most in earnest for their salvation.

      “Kate will persuade him, Porteus.”

      “The woman’s a treasure. The man ought to consider her and the children before he addles himself for a lot of thankless and exacting sluts. Conscience! Conscience be damned. Why, only last week the man must sit up half the night with a sweep’s child that had diphtheria. Conscience! I call it nonsense.”

      Miss Carmagee smiled like the moon coming from behind a cloud.

      “You approve of Parker Steel’s methods?”

      “That little snob!” and the lawyer’s coat-tails gave an expressive flick.

      “James Murchison only wants rest. Leave him to Kate; wives are the best physicians often.”

      Mr.