CHAPTER XIII — SICK FLOWERS OF SECRECY

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      As Miss Asprey's garden-party had been a success, Mrs. Scudamore was the more surprised and upset when the answers to her own invitations began to arrive at the Clock House. Among the acceptances were so many important refusals that she consulted her lawyer, who was, incidentally, her husband.

      Mr. Scudamore, who felt the situation as keenly as herself, told her what she must do.

      "But, love," she said, "we've never put off a party before."

      "Then, we must create a precedent, my sweetheart," her husband told her. "If we don't, we risk a failure. That would be a new experience for us, too."

      "You're right, as always, love. But I insist on this. The cards must be printed."

      It was thus that Mrs. Scudamore formalised her panic policy, when she sent out her printed regrets, cancelling her party, owing to a family bereavement.

      The Rector was not sorry when he received his intimation, since entertainments at the Clock House were rather formal. He did not know that the card he tossed so gladly into the waste-paper basket, signified the last nail in the coffin of village hospitality, for he had regained his former good spirits.

      Since his sub-conscious mind had ceased to harry him, he was no longer plagued with his recurrent dream. After he had thought 'all round' Miss Asprey's theory, he accepted it. Because she had to wear the halo which the village had hung over her, it did not alter the fact that she was the same woman who had held, for years, a post which called for both administrative and executive powers. Time had not clouded her brain nor diminished her energy.

      It was certain that poor Miss Corner had written her own anonymous letter, so, with her death, the visitation was at an end. At its worst, it was but the flicker of a slightly disordered mind. And yet the Rector felt as though some unclean thing had been buried at the crossroads, with a stake driven through its heart.

      The weather continued perfect, so he worked off his surplus energy on the links, and in digging up a crippled parishioner's garden. After a happy and sweaty afternoon of planting, in the cool of the evening he walked across the wide waving fields, to have dinner at the Hall.

      Life seemed specially good to him, just then, and he was in excellent spirits during the meal, for he liked the Squire and his family, and also his guests, who told smoking-room stories before him, and took his amusement for granted. He had often played golf with Major Blair—who was a man of typical sporting cut, and usually accepted as handsome, on account of a good build.

      His small, good-natured eyes were slightly piggy, and they puckered into slits when he laughed. About half-way through the meal he began to twinkle with amusement.

      "Oh, before I forget it," he said, "did any of you get letters, too?"

      The Rector's heart gave a sharp knock as Major Blair went on to explain.

      "I mean, an anonymous letter. I got mine, yesterday, printed like a kid's writing, warning me that my awful past was known and that I'd soon be for it."

      "Bless my soul," rapped out the Squire. "What are you doing about it?"

      "Nothing. Tore it up. Of course, I've done all the usual things. I should hope so, indeed. But no one would blackmail me, and get away with it. I'm not that sort of ruddy fool."

      "Quite right," remarked the Squire. "Treat these pests with contempt."

      "I always think," said a lady, who claimed to have original opinions, "that if you don't think of unpleasant things, you can make yourself think they've not happened. And then, they haven't."

      "Then you've got that fiver I refused you today," said her husband.

      A wave of laughter rippled round the table. The arrival of gooseberry-fool reminded Mrs. Sheriff of a local lady who had worn gooseberry-green at a wedding, and she asked if anyone had seen the social page of a certain newspaper. The episode was over.

      But it left the Rector badly shaken. Miss Corner was dead. He, himself, had consigned her body to dust. Yet the evil lived on.

      Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Scudamore's cancelled party, and he wondered if there was any connection between it and Major Blair's anonymous letter. His heart hammered, and his head began to swim at a new and horrible possibility.

      He asked himself whether others in the village had also received poison-letters, but had kept their own secrets. As he looked round the dinner-table, he fancied that some of the faces appeared self-conscious, or too composed, as though they were on their guard.

      Then he shook off his suspicion. This was a typical dinner-party, of the more jovial brand. When the meal was over they played idiotic balancing-games in the drawing-room, so that the Rector shed his morbid fancies in his own, and his neighbours', undignified sprawls on the carpet.

      He walked home under the starlight, smoking the Squire's excellent cigar; and he felt at peace with the world, until he passed the churchyard, where Fear was lurking behind the stones. That cold breath upon his cheek reminded him that it was characteristic of the village not to ventilate any personal unpleasantness.

      'The only way to fight this evil is to come out into the open,' he thought. 'But, if they refuse to talk we're beaten.'

      His housekeeper had lit his lamps in the study and put out the tantalus, ready for his return. The faithful spaniel, Charles, guarded the biscuit-barrel with his last drop of blood. The Rector fed him, and exchanged gossip, while he reached for a letter upon the mantel-piece.

      The next second, he felt winded, as though someone had hit him a violent blow below the belt. The address was printed in the familiar Roman characters, and, as he tore open the envelope, he noticed the characteristic good quality of the paper. The letter consisted of two short sentences.

      'Your turn will come. I know all your past life.'

      The Rector sank back in his chair and poured himself out a stiff drink. Not until he had actually experienced it for himself had he realised the demoralising effect of an anonymous letter.

      Since houses are not made of glass, nearly every life must hold a few shaded episodes—indiscretions, or occasions for remorse, in the absence of actual sin. Once in a lifetime even the mildest parish-worker will flame with the fires of some primitive lust, and the eyes of the primmest curate's wife betray their memories of Babylon.

      The letter made the Rector supremely uncomfortable, and it also made him think furiously, as he raked among the ashes of his past. He had entered the Church after a conversion which had run on parallel lines with St. Paul's. During his 'Saul' phase, he had had a good time, which had been very bad, and which had helped him, later, to his complete understanding and success with prostitutes and drunks.

      But although he alternatively grinned and sweated, as he resurrected each discreditable incident—reviving the memory of his hefty spade-work while digging a merry pathway to hell—in the end, he wiped his face with a sigh of relief.

      Like Major Blair, he had done only 'the usual things', so did not fear blackmail. And, like the Major, he tore up the letter and threw the scraps into the grate.

      The Rector spent the next few days in a round of parochial visits. He did not call on his poor parishioners, whose society he really enjoyed, but rang the bells of only the big houses. In nearly every