THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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was at home to him; but his worst suspicions were confirmed.
There was a complete stoppage of all social intercourse. He met no other casual caller in any drawing room. The village was dead, with the paralysis which follows the generation of poison.
Very soon, he found that he was growing affected by the general complaint. In the middle of some friendly chat, he would suddenly remember his anonymous letter, look up into a smiling face, and wonder 'Is it you?'
His chance came on Sunday, when he literally thundered from his pulpit. It must be confessed he rather enjoyed himself, as he denounced, in particular, the secret enemy, who exuded venom, and the congregation, in general, for being accessories after the fact.
His fine organ voice rose up to the Norman arches and sank down to the vaults; he begged for a confidential visit, in his vestry, or a letter giving an instance of personal attack.
Except for a liberal collection in aid of something with a lot of initials, his sermon had no effect. The clot in the village circulation refused, obstinately, to be dislodged.
In despair, the Rector decided to call on the Squire, as his most important parishioner, and to ask his advice. When he reached the Hall, he found the great man in the library, very sorry for himself, with a bright blue patch on his cheek.
"Bee," he said, regrettably repeating his explanation. "A bee bee. Stung me, when my wife was taking the swarm. I was only looking on, too. Odd. My wife would run from a rabbit, yet she's got those confounded bees eating out of her hand."
He was still talking of his wife's freak courage, when the sandy little lady, herself, entered, to enquire about her husband's stung cheek.
She greeted the Rector with rather a scared expression in her pale blue eyes, for she had heard his last sermon.
"Any fresh trouble?" she asked.
"What trouble?" boomed the Squire.
The Rector explained the general situation and appealed to the Squire.
"My feeling is," he said, "that this thing must be stopped. So I came to consult you."
"Quite right," declared the Squire. "It's a matter for the police. I'll put Sergeant James on the job. He will watch the pillar-boxes and all that."
"Yes, the police are up to all the dodges. But I was just wondering. Suppose the writer is a woman?"
"Probably is. The place is stiff with them."
"Exactly." The Rector still looked doubtful. "But do you like the idea of arresting a woman? I don't. May I suggest an alternative?"
"Fire away."
"I have a friend, Ignatius Brown, one of the idle rich. He rather fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes. He's not so clever as he thinks he is, but he's keen, and he should be more than a match for anyone here. Shall I ask him down."
"No," said the Squire. "We don't want any amateurs. I'll instruct James."
As he spoke, he caught his wife's eye. Her lips were pursed and she first nodded violently and then shook her head vehemently.
The Squire knew, from experience, how to interpret these conflicting signals, for, suddenly, he changed his mind.
"All right, then," he said. "Suppose you write to your friend?"
When the Rector had gone, the Squire turned to his wife. Although he usually bullied her, there were times when he followed her advice; for, if the Squire had no positive virtues, he had some rather good faults.
"What the hell did you butt in for, Katie?" he asked pleasantly.
Little Miss Sheriff caught hold of her big husband by the buttonhole, as unceremoniously as though he were one of her bees.
"Osbert," she said, "whatever you do, don't call in the police."
"Why not?"
"Because, dear, I'm not sure it would be wise...I don't understand these things, myself, but poor Miss Corner used to talk to me about inhibitions. Some times, they may take very funny forms."
The Squire's blue patch looked purple as his face grew red with anger.
"What the dickens are you driving at?" he shouted. "Who suffers from inhibitions?"
"I—I'm sure I don't know."
"Yes, you do. You're hiding something. Is it anyone in this house?"
"No one. No one."
Little Mrs. Sheriff's eyes were suffused with tears, and she almost screamed her denial. But the poison of the letters had spread, for she looked around her, and then lowered her voice.
"Osbert, I sometimes wonder if we were wise when we wouldn't let Vivian marry young Belson. After all, he was killed in the War, so we shouldn't have been drawn in with his family."
"Stop hinting," roared the Squire, "and tell me what you really think."
To his surprise, Mrs. Sheriff stooped down and kissed a roll of her husband's red neck.
"Dear," she whispered, "I don't know what to think. But, please, please, don't call in the police. I'm afraid of what mud they might stir up."
CHAPTER XIV — THE TWITCH OF THE TWIG
As the Rector had anticipated, Ignatius was prompt to accept his invitation. He arrived, in his Lanchester, about noon, when the thatched cottages were stewing in sunshine and the honeybees sipping from clove-pinks and monkey-musk. He viewed the vista of Tudor architecture from the study window, and expressed approval.
"A beautiful spot. I may come here to live, when I retire from the complicated business of doing nothing...In fact, by merely looking out of this window, I rather think I've solved part of your little problem."
The Rector smiled at the familiar adjective, 'little', which Ignatius always applied to the concerns of others.
His friend was very short and slight; at a distance, his insignificant figure suggested a schoolboy—but this impression was dispelled by a first glance at his face, which was lined, and acutely intelligent. Also—to put it mildly—he did not suffer from any inferiority complex.
The Rector agreed with his praise of the village, even while he sighed.
"Yes, it's perfect. No one leaves the village, except to die."
Ignatius glanced at his friend's troubled face. Then he used the old College name, as he patted the big man's shoulder with mingled affection and patronage.
"Cheer up, Tigger. Suppose you tell me all about your little trouble."
"Little?" The Rector exploded. "Man, it's not little. It's like some canker eating at the roots of a healthy organism."
"Exactly—how?"
"Fear. Everyone suspects his neighbour. Social intercourse is being destroyed."
"Good thing too. That's just another name for scandal."
"No, Ignatius, not here. This is—this was—a perfect place." The Rector began to pace the study as he burst into a vehement tirade.
"I want you to try to realise what this village means to me. I used to be a materialist. For years I worked in a sink of iniquity where both men and women appeared vile. Oh, I know a finer spirit would have seen flashes of the Light. But I saw none. I just plugged away at the evil. Then, after I crashed, I came here...And I received new vision. An Ideal. I found regeneration."
He broke off with a shame-faced laugh.
"Sorry. I forgot I'm not in my pulpit. But I'm really in great trouble."
"A few harmless unsigned letters.