CHAPTER XII — UNDERGROUND

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      The inquest was followed by a complete dislocation of the social life of the village. As Miss Corner was not popular, besides being—according to the local standard—a new-comer, her death should have been only a slight interference. But no one liked to issue invitations from fear of refusals; so strawberries ripened to be made into jam, and roses bloomed only for their owners' admiration.

      When Miss Asprey realised that the steady stream of friendship was restricted to trickles—where two or three gathered together over private tea-tables—she made a move, for the general good. When she met Mrs. Scudamore, on the green, she asked her a pointed question about her garden. Mrs. Scudamore's reply showed understanding, for when gardens attained perfection, they were, so to speak, thrown open to the public.

      "It should be perfect next week. I suppose, Miss Asprey, yours will soon reach its peak?"

      "Yes, very soon it will be at its best. I have a new variety of water-iris, which I hope you will see when it blooms."

      "I hope so. Life must go on." Mrs. Scudamore took the plunge. "I intend to give a garden-party, next week."

      "Then we must discuss our dates, so that they do not clash," remarked Miss Asprey, with a smile. "I agree with you. Life must go on."

      The Rector welcomed his card of invitation to Miss Asprey's party as a hopeful sign that the village life was becoming normal. He was acutely worried over the business of the second letter, and was beginning to show signs of his old enemy, nerves. He was a man who never thought about health, and who did not recognise illness; but his crash had been so catastrophic that he shrank from the evidence of familiar symptoms.

      Miss Asprey's party really seemed an omen of happier days. There were no refusals, and even the Squire's tall white hat might be seen, through the gates, as the distinctive seal of success. It was a hot day, so that the ferny dampness of the garden was most acceptable. Everyone admired the new water-irises—a few clumps—and congratulated Miss Asprey on their creation.

      Joan Brook, who welcomed every distraction, was in excellent spirits as she walked perilously on the narrow rims of the small water-maze. The original vulgar spout of Tudor times had undergone many changes, but it remained faithful to the garden, either in the form of small, natural streams, or confined in shallow stone culverts.

      She looked up at the approach of little Miss Mack, in her best frock—printed reseda-green foulard.

      "Oh, Miss Brook," she asked, "when are we going to have our picnic on the Downs?"

      Joan remembered her promise to Miss Asprey, as she looked down into the expectant face.

      "Oh, I don't know when I'll be free," she said, after an awkward pause. "You must remember, Miss Mack, that you and I are 'Servants of the Private'."

      Miss Mack showed no sign of disappointment.

      "Do you call it 'servitude', when you love the person who employs you?" she asked.

      "But I don't love Lady d'Arcy," said Joan.

      "Don't you? She's very good to you."

      "What of it? I'm good to her."

      "Are you?" Miss Mack spoke with the simplicity of a child.

      "Miss Asprey's very good to me—but I'm not always good to her...But I love her very much."

      Joan played with the idea of arrested development, only to dismiss it as she looked again at Miss Mack. Apparently, she was responsible for the practical management of the party, and she displayed cool competency, which could not be reconciled with mental deficiency.

      Miss Asprey merely posed on a stone settle, in the shade of ancient mulberry trees, like an antique, but still beautiful, piece of statuary. Yet she was not too detached to keep her companion under constant observation. Joan, who was on the watch for sinister developments, ever since her walk, noticed this fact with a sense of discomfort.

      'There's something queer between those two women,' she thought.

      Still playing her favourite part of spectator, she remarked that this party seemed a complete success, although on a simpler scale than Miss Corner's. Vivian Sheriff, in pale pink, had annexed Major Blair, to his apparent content. Dr. and Mrs. Perry made a friendly quartette with the lawyer and his wife, as they drank tea at the same table. Even the Rector's face had lost some of its strain.

      When Ada brought her cucumber sandwiches, she welcomed her with a friendly smile, for Joan was fortunate in having no sense of social values.

      "Ada," she said, "I dare you to copy my new dress. I don't want to be wiped out by you again."

      Ada did not attempt to contradict the obvious fact of her superior beauty, but she did her best to make her voice sound convincing.

      "Well, miss, they do say there's some that prefer dark girls."

      "I'm not one of them," said Joan. "If I were you, Ada, I'd go straight to Hollywood."

      "All the visitors tell me that; but my girl-friend says there's a catch in these big wages. A lot of these film stars get about one week's work in the year, and all the rest of the time they've got to stick on their own Insurance stamps."

      "Your girl-friend comes from London, doesn't he?" asked Joan, who knew all about the Squire's chauffeur.

      "Yes, miss. Pimlico." Ada lowered her voice. "Have you heard about the doctor coming into all Miss Corner's money? Thousands and thousands of pounds. My girl-friend says he's been lucky, both ways."

      "Both ways? What d'you mean, Ada?"

      "Well, he was lucky she poured out that big overdose. Because my girl-friend says the proper dose would have bumped her off. You see, she's been sloshing his stuff down the drain, instead of drinking it, and he said, at the inquest, that he'd made this one extra strong."

      Joan looked thoughtful as Ada passed on with her tray.

      'So that's what they're saying in the village,' she thought. 'A sharp lot, these rustics. I wonder what our lot thinks...Poor Miss Corner.'

      It was odd how much she missed and regretted the noisy, good-natured woman. In spite of her overdone laughter and her under-exposed jokes, she was bracing as the East wind in her fearless contempt of local prejudice.

      Joan actually found herself resenting Vivian's pale pink frills, because they reminded her of poor Miss Corner's party frock. She was gazing, quite mournfully, at the grating through which the brown brook-water was pouring, under a low arch hung with dripping hart's tongues, when the Rector spoke to her.

      "What are you watching