THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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here for both of those good women. One of them ought to be painlessly bumped off."
The second refusal was a sharper shock, for Mrs. Sheriff wrote, expressing regret that no one from the Hall could come, owing to indisposition. Even the doctor's composure was shattered.
"Who's ill?" he asked sharply.
"She doesn't say," replied Marianne. "Well, that's done us in. It's going to be a flop."
"Extraordinary," muttered the doctor, reading the note. "Mrs. Sheriff doesn't seem to realize that it's adding insult to injury to plead illness of which I've no official knowledge. I wonder who's been called in."
"Oh, darling"—Marianne's voice was impatient—"no one's ill. That's only an excuse, because they don't want to meet your special friend—the famous authoress who nobody's ever heard of."
As a matter-of-fact, the Squire's refusal was a gesture of self-respect. He did not like to remember that he had made himself cheap with an odd-looking woman like Mrs. Perry.
"I don't play tennis," he barked, when the invitation-card was received at the Hall.
"You can watch," suggested Mrs. Sheriff.
"Watch rabbits? If I want to watch tennis, I'll go up to Wimbledon."
"Then shall I refuse for you, and accept for Vivian and myself?" asked his wife.
"No, refuse for the lot...There's been some gossip about a letter. I don't want to get mixed up with village scandal."
Mrs. Sheriff was sorry, for the opportunities for Vivian to meet Major Blair were limited; but the Squire had the satisfaction of knowing that he had put Mrs. Perry in her place. She would understand that he was not her spaniel, to come when she whistled. A man had to be careful with a woman of her type; he could still remember the glint of her eyes through her lashes, and the stirring of her hair on his cheek, when she whispered to him.
Even as Marianne anticipated, her party was not a success, although she, herself, was partly to blame. She was too self-centred and restless to make a good hostess; when she talked to a guest, her eyes were elsewhere, and she rarely listened to what was said.
The weather, also, was close, with a hot grey-blue sky, so that the ices melted on their plates before they were served. But the real reason for the social blight was the absence of Miss Asprey and the party from the Hall.
It was an inexplicable double which made the guests look thoughtful. They had to supply the answer to their own question, and, apparently, reached the same conclusion, for when Miss Corner arrived there was not the usual eagerness to secure her as a partner.
In spite of her short sight, the novelist was the best tennis player in the neighbourhood, with a forehand drive like the kick of a horse. She carried four racquets under her arm, and was complete in a short, white, sleeveless tennis frock, and eye-shade.
Her jolly red face beamed over the courts as she waited for the play to begin.
"Enter Helen," she said, bowing to the circle of chairs. "Wonder what my form's like. Well, anyhow, you'll know I shan't try to hit two balls."
Her loud laughter rolled, as she pointed to her scrap of Oxford blue ribbon pinned to her snowy chest. But, presently, she grew impatient of the delay.
"Are we waiting for the Queen to come? What's keeping us? Shall we spin for the shady side? Where's my partner?"
Before the pause became awkward, Joan Brook rushed into the breach.
"Would you like a real handicap, Miss Corner?" she asked. "I'm only a rabbit."
"You can't be bad enough for me," shouted Miss Corner. "I love a fight to the finish—with all the odds against me. Lead on, Macduff."
The novelist gave no sign of feeling any loss of popularity, but there was a glint behind her glasses which told that she was on her mettle. Although it was her first game of the season, she gave a great demonstration of strength and agility. Joan had no chance to show what she could do, for Miss Corner poached every ball.
She went up to the net and smashed, like Horatius defending the bridge, and she gambolled and leaped, like some infuriated seal. When the set was won—on her play alone—she shook hands with her opponents, and then with herself.
"Give you your revenge, later," she remarked "Won't we, Miss Brook?"
She beamed on Joan, but the Rector had recognised the fighting spirit, and was anxious to prove that he belonged to the Church Militant.
"I wish you'd partner me, later," he pleaded.
"You'll learn more by playing against me, padre," she told him. "Put me in a tight corner, with my back against the wall, and I can rise to the occasion."
Although Dr. Perry, Joan and the Rector accompanied her, like a body-guard, with a tacit understanding to protect her from that indefinite withdrawal, which indicated the general feeling, Miss Corner did not require their services.
"Party's hanging fire a bit," she whispered to Dr. Perry. "Leave it to me, Horatio. I'll pull it round."
The pitifully poor quality of her humour was evident, during tea, when she played practical jokes, asked ancient riddles, and told bewhiskered jokes. The fact that her audience did not appear amused, was accepted by her as their own deficiency.
As a matter-of-fact, most of the guests were bewildered and uneasy. The story that Lady d'Arcy had refused to receive the novelist, had gone round the village, and everyone was startled and shocked, for it was an offence against the general charity.
Gentle Mrs. Scudamore—with the self-deception that is part of human nature—forget that she, herself, had initiated the persecution, and was pained by the hostile atmosphere. Later on, when she reviewed the party, she congratulated herself on the good-fortune which seemed to shield her from any direct contact with Miss Corner.
On the one occasion when the novelist had blundered to her side, she had been giving her famous recipe for mint-jelly, to another guest, so, naturally, had to look into vacancy, in order to concentrate on the exact quantities.
Lady d'Arcy, having made her gesture, was not guilty of the discourtesy of the cut direct; but she drifted aimlessly before Miss Corner's approach, like a captive balloon bumping over the grass.
Apparently impervious to social chill and torrid atmosphere alike, Miss Corner put up a spectacular effort during her return match, working at the game with electric energy. But, from the nature of her remarks, when she hit a ball which was 'out', it was obvious that she was playing to the gallery.
"Oh, go to—Bath," she shouted. "I mean—'Go to Coventry'. That's more topical."
The spectators were careful not to look at each other, while they politely applauded Miss Corner's next brilliant shot.
When the set was won, Dr. Perry congratulated the panting champion.
"Not another stroke," he said. "As usual, you've overdone it."
She slapped his shoulder, with the familiarity which always enraged his wife.
"Don't you worry over me, Horatio. My troubles will be over before yours have begun."
He did not smile, as he looked at her intently.
"When are you going away?" he asked.
"Are you telling me to go home?"
"Of course not. But when are you going for that holiday?"
"Day after tomorrow, Grandpa."
"Oh, where are you going?" asked Joan enviously.
"Austrian Tyrol," replied Miss Corner. "I'm going to wear little trousies, and a hat with a feather, and blow a horn, and run up and down mountains, all day."
"Are you shutting up your house?"
"Yes. It's a general exodus. Mrs. Pike is going on a conducted tour to Belgium, and May is going to Ramsgate. I'm taking them both, by bus,