THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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of her indisposition, as she lay on a divan, while Vivian anointed her forehead with lavender-water.
"It's that palpitation again," she complained. "I know it's heart—although Dr. Perry will call it stomach."
No one contradicted her, although it was well-known that she was too optimistic over the strength of her digestion to act as a buffer between over-eating and pain.
"He's a terrible man," she said. "But you'd better send for him, Vivian."
"No." The Squire's voice was aggressive. "If you must see a doctor, ring up Rawlings."
"Drag a strange doctor all the way from Cheltenham?" cried his wife. "Whatever for?"
"Because I don't want Perry called in here again."
Both Mrs. Sheriff and her daughter stared at the Squire. Had Ignatius been present, he would have noticed that, while the elder woman was merely astonished, Vivian's eyes showed fear.
She seemed terrified of what her father was about to say; for, directly he spoke, her face grew tranquil again.
"I don't like this legacy business," roared the Squire. "I've no use for a man who takes money from a woman. A spinster, too."
"But, Osbert," argued Mrs. Sheriff, "poor Miss Corner's dead."
"Makes no difference."
"But you inherited money from an unmarried woman."
"She was my god-mother. My old dad chose her, on purpose, because she was rich. Don't be a fool. He must have sucked up to her, while she was alive."
Vivian thought it time to intervene.
"If you sent for him, Dr. Rawlings wouldn't come, Father. Professional etiquette. He knows Dr. Perry's our doctor."
"He's not. I won't have him in the house. Besides, he wouldn't come out on a Sunday. He doesn't want the money. The fellow's a rich man now."
To quote from the B.B.C., the 'debate continued.'
Whatever the outcome, when darkness had fallen Dr. Perry had received no welcome summons to the Hall.
Lit by the silver lamp of the moon, Ignatius Brown and the Rector strolled through the village. The night was warm and still, and the street was deserted. The last courting-couple had returned from the gloom of honeysuckle-twined lanes. Bats blundered low, and owls hooted from an oak mentioned in the Domesday Book. Bowers of jessamine glimmered like small white stars, and the air was heavy with their fragrance.
The wide spread of empty fields blurred to the semblance of a grey tideless sea, and, once again—as the faint lights crept out to starboard and port—the village seemed to ride at anchor, like a gracious derelict three-decker, in the forgotten harbour.
Ignatius fell under its familiar spell.
"I don't want to call any man a liar, Tigger," he said. "But I must confess to being sceptical about any secret evil here."
"All the same, I hold you to your promise," remarked the Rector.
Everyone was indoors; behind each lighted blind or curtain they could see the concealed glow of lamp-light. Sometimes they heard music, or snatches of talk and laughter. For the windows were open, although the tradition of the screened interior was unviolated.
Suddenly the Rector was goaded to betray his sense of blindfold impotence.
"I wish to Heaven," he burst out, "I could draw up every blind, and see for myself what's inside."
As though some night-fairy waited on his wish it was immediately granted. Someone crossed to the window, at which they gazed, and drew aside the curtain, revealing a charming domestic interior, of chintz wall-paper, old china and pink-shaded lamps. By the door, one middle-aged gentlewoman kissed a middle-aged brother good night.
The next minute she put out the light and the house shrank back into the prevailing darkness.
"Apparently," gloated Ignatius, "the village heard you. So it showed you a sample room in a model village."
His words were true. The parlour of Rose Cottage was typical of other drawing-rooms in its light, comfort, and peace.
In one house a woman rose from her chair, where she sat reading. She, too, kissed her company, and—at the door—looked back into the cheerful room, with a smile.
But once outside, her face was that of a dead woman, as she drew from her bag a bit of crumpled paper, covered with printed letters.
Someone knew. The years of false security and happiness were over. She groped her way up the stairs through the dense blackness of fear.
"I can't face it," she whispered. "Never. Never. I'll die first...I'll—die."
CHAPTER XVI — THE LOST INITIAL
The rector returned from matins, the next morning, 'with a message from Miss Asprey, for Ignatius.
"She is full up with engagements, but will see you at three-thirty, today. She can spare you about fifteen minutes only, so I would advise you to be punctual."
In his anxiety not to be late, Ignatius ignored the advice; for he rang the bell of the Tudor mansion at twenty minutes past three. Rose, the gaunt parlour-maid looked rather grave when he mentioned the time of his appointment, but showed him into the empty library.
His lined face lit with enthusiasm at the beauty of the panelling and ancient furniture; but, after glancing at the wooden seats, he decided not to sit down. It was natural, therefore, as he paced the room, to glance casually at the bureau, which held nothing more private than unopened letters and circulars.
He did not pry or do anything which he would not have done in the presence of the mistress of the house. When he crossed over to the shelves, he merely read the titles of some of the oldest books—relics of a little Victorian girl's school days.
He opened some of these, at random, and restored them almost directly; but his conscience was so clear that he retained the copy of Alice in Wonderland, although he heard Miss Asprey's step in the hall.
"Forgive me for looking at the date of your edition," he said, holding up the battered volume. "But 'Alice' is our common talisman. I'm horribly envious. Your edition is earlier than my own."
"That is one of the rewards of age," remarked Miss Asprey, with her special gracious smile.
She waved Ignatius to a carved chair, and sat down herself, as a signal that the interview had begun.
"I understand, from our Rector," she said, "that you wished to see me on the subject of my anonymous letter. If you will listen to me, I think you are making a great mistake."
"I should be very glad to hear your views," Ignatius assured her. "I know, from what I've heard of your former work and experience, that your advice will be valuable."
Miss Asprey's austere face softened slightly at the flattery.
"As you say," she remarked, "I probably know more about the seamy side of life than you do. And I know that it is unwise to stir up mud. At the very beginning I wished to suppress the miserable letter. It was nothing. It did no harm to me, or anyone else...Nothing that has happened since has made me change my original view. The letter is still nothing."
"But there have been other letters," Ignatius reminded her.
"So I hear. But have they caused any harm?"
"Not to those who received them. But they've certainly created an unpleasant and harmful atmosphere."
Miss Asprey waved her thin white hand.
"Give it time," she said. "It will all pass."
In her bleak purity she reminded Ignatius of her