THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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you know."
As Marianne bit her lip to regain her self-control, poor Miss Corner unconsciously applied the match which blew up her party. She flashed her glasses round the lawn and then crossed to Miss Asprey, speaking with the easy familiarity of one old school-mate to another.
"Well, Decima, anything fresh about your anonymous letter?"
Miss Asprey raised her heavy ivory lids.
"No," she replied. "It is best forgotten."
"No idea as to who wrote it?" went on Miss Corner, unabashed.
"No."
Miss Corner suddenly exploded into a fit of laughter. "Perhaps I could make a guess," she said.
As though her words were a signal, the dark blotch, huddled in a corner of the garden, quivered into hideous life and mingled with the other guests.
With the entry of Fear, Miss Corner's party was practically killed, for its spirit had soured and died. The continual hum of conversation was now broken by sudden awkward pauses. Immaculate men and elegant ladies stood in the usual little clusters, but each one gave the impression of whispering to his friend, while he tried to overhear his neighbour. For the same thought was in every mind.
'There is someone here who has slandered a good woman. I may be the next victim.'
Usually, the Squire was the first to leave any social function, for even Mrs. Scudamore waited for his signal. On this occasion, however, Miss Asprey made the important move. She rose unobtrusively and whispered to Miss Corner.
"Thank you, dear Julia. Let me slip away quietly. I don't want to break up your party, but I feel I must return to my poor Miss Mack."
But the queen of the village could not leave without the notice of her subjects. The Squire was next to react to the moral rot. He looked at his watch, caught his wife's eyes, and asked her to collect Vivian, who was playing clock-golf with the manly Major Blair.
Immediately his car rolled away there was a general departure, which was swift and concentrated. Miss Corner—her red face perplexed, but smiling—stood and shook hands, while she listened to a collection of assorted compliments and excuses. Within ten minutes, she was left alone in her garden, amid a desert of empty chairs, drained tea-cups and strawberry-hulls.
"Well, I'm damned," she remarked, as she lit a fresh cigarette and sat down to think.
Presently, Mrs. Pike came out on the lawn, although not quite certain of her reception.
"It's over a bit early, isn't it, madam?" she asked doubtfully.
"Well, that's nothing for us to complain of," said Miss Corner briskly. "You can get cleared away. And I can return to the excellent company of Mr. Strachey. You really ought to read him, Mrs. Pike."
But Mrs. Pike knew that the most detached hostess must feel the failure of an expensive entertainment, and she showed her sympathy.
"It's a shame...I wonder why."
Miss Corner winked at a bed of flamingo-red sweet-Williams.
"Perhaps, Mrs. Pike," she said, "that is the half of your story which we do not know."
CHAPTER VIII — PAYING THE BILL
By the next day, Fear had slunk back to its lair, so that the social life of the village again flowed on tranquilly. The Scudamores' evening parade was punctual and affectionate as usual. But there was one difference.
Miss Corner was not met casually in any drawing-room. It was true that her name was not left out of invitation-lists purposely; but it was not included. And nobody knew exactly why—or could be prevailed on to discuss the situation. It was just an instinctive matter of sensitive feelers.
Miss Corner was not affected by the social frost, for it gave her more time for her new school-serial—all about a boy who topped the Examinations, in spite of the fact that his rival cheated—which was rather an indictment on the accuracy of the text-books from which he cribbed.
She had to break off, however, when the bills for the garden-party came in. Her brow puckered as she wrote cheques for the orchestra, the waiters, hired chairs, cream and ices. Then, as the acid of the situation bit home to her practical nature, she exploded into a heart-felt 'Damn'.
Presently, she took up a blank engagement-book.
"Lady d'Arcy's At Home," she murmured. "Too fine a day to waste on shoddy minds, when I could meet Maurois. But the walk will be good for my overweight."
Joan Brook also disliked the prospect of giving up her afternoon of precious liberty, while Lady d'Arcy was equally depressed.
"You must stay in, Brooky," she said. "An appalling sacrifice. Just asking to be bored—and my garden calling."
The kindly lady did not know that boredom was not to be her portion, or that she was destined to make local history. As she sat in front of the tea-tray, and murmured the platitudes of a hostess, her big, grey-green eyes were mournfully fixed on her sheets of irises, while her thoughts hovered, like butterflies, over her flowers.
To Joan, also, the scene had the blurred quality of a dream. The vast drawing-room, with its dark polished surfaces and rippling reflections of greenery, seemed a shady cavern from which she, too, looked out wistfully into the quivering heat. She could hear the hum of bees beating on the warm air, like a myriad invisible spinning-wheels, as she fixed her eyes on a distant streak of brilliant yellow, which marked the union of the gardens with the buttercup-pastures.
It was the static At Home, with its familiar guests, tea equipment, and refreshment; everything was as usual—polite boredom, corpulent silver, and a smother of cream. Joan dutifully shouted down a dowager's ear-trumpet, and listened to an interchange of political views, drawn from the same source—the leader of the only newspaper read by the best people.
She looked up with a sense of relief when the footman announced Mrs. Perry, for the doctor's wife was always an irritant quality. On this occasion, Marianne did not fail Joan. She swooped in, dressed in amber, and heavily scented with some Oriental attar of geraniums. Soon, without warning, she threw a smoking bomb into the drowsy drawing-room.
"Well," she said, sweeping the politicians off the board, "what do you think about Miss Corner's confession?"
"Confession?" echoed Lady d'Arcy. "What has Miss Corner confessed to?"
"Writing the anonymous letter to Miss Asprey. She practically admitted it at her garden-party."
"But that was only her nonsense. Why should she give herself away?"
"To throw dust in our eyes, of course. Besides, who else could have written it? She's always been jealous of Miss Asprey. And she lives alone, and very likely, broods. My husband says that every anonymous letter-writer is a pathological case."
There was a painful pause, for all present were of kindly disposition, and scandal was almost an unknown quality. Although they were aware of an undercurrent of throbbing interest, they were relieved when Lady d'Arcy, so to speak, re-spread the smother of cream over the conversation.
"We have no actual proof," she said blandly.
"What proof can you have?" persisted Marianne. "An anonymous letter is not witnessed, like a legal document."
Pent up in one corner, fluid Lady d'Arcy overflowed in another.
"But is it English to suspect someone who's not been proved guilty?" she asked.
The doctor's wife drew up a corner of her scarlet lip, exposing a tooth, almost in a snarl.
"It's rather a personal matter with me," she said, "as, naturally, I objected to a remark she made about my husband. I may ask you, Lady d'Arcy, is it English