THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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Two local ladies, with shady mushroom hats and white sunshades, lined with green, were exchanging garden bulletins and recipes for gooseberry-jelly. A sandy kitten in the gutter chased a white butterfly.
"I admit," he said, "that everyone seems very pleasant, and on friendly terms with each other. But what's under the surface? People don't mix."
"You mean, entertain? Give them time," urged the Rector. "With the end of the letters, things will slowly return to normal."
Ignatius smiled impishly and rubbed his hands.
"But how do you know the letters have stopped?" he asked. "My twig still twitches—and over the most unlikely people. Feebly, I admit. But there's something underneath all this."
He broke off, to stare, as Dr. Perry's Baby Austin, grey with dust, slowly plugged up the street.
The doctor had spent most of the morning motoring over impossible lanes and cart-ruts, out to a case in the country. The man was a panel-patient, so it was not a profitable morning, although satisfactory from a medical standpoint.
But although Dr. Perry's calls kept him busy, the health of the village was unusually good. His wealthy patients suffered chiefly from synthetic illness. They knew enough about certain ailments to recognise symptoms, which were the prelude to pain or discomfort, when they immediately sent for the doctor, who did the rest.
At present, there was only one authentic case of illness, and that was at the Hall. But the seasonal hay fever and rheumatism had sent out their usual preliminary notices. Two wealthy maiden-ladies walked in their garden, in the cool of evening and admired their flowers.
As the elder straightened herself from stooping over a bed of pansies, she clasped her hands over the small of her back.
"I felt a slight twinge," she told her sister. "My Enemy is near."
"Yes," nodded the younger lady. "I sneezed, this morning, passing a field. It's time to send for the doctor."
The elder sister looked thoughtful.
"Mrs. Sheriff tells me the Squire is delighted with the doctor from Cheltenham," she said. "He probably knows the latest theories about rheumatism. Dr. Perry never varies his treatment. I think it's enterprising to seek fresh advice. Especially when it's recommended."
The younger sister looked defiant.
"I shan't see him," she declared. "I'm faithful to my dear Dr. Perry."
As her loyalty took the form of ignoring her hay fever—which ran its usual course—Dr. Perry did not reap any real benefit.
Although he professed pleasure at the general good health of the community, there were times when he wondered if there were smuts floating in the atmosphere which were not washed away by the nightly rains. Both the Rector and Ignatius had been present during the reading of the unlucky letter, and—in his opinion—the Rector was a windbag. But he said nothing of his suspicion to his wife, who, with the babies, spent most of her time lying in the sun, like lizards.
Another person who did not revel in the present idyllic conditions was Joan Brook. With the sudden jam of social life, she had few opportunities of seeing the Rector. Since the country appealed to her more than ever, she traced her restlessness back to its right cause.
She was a resolute girl who did not shirk issues. Because she could not meet the Rector at tennis-parties, she set out on a definite hunting-campaign.
'Man-fever,' she told herself defiantly. 'I don't care, when it's only one. I'm young—and we like each other. So why not?'
But the spirit of perversity entered into the game; in the days when she was merely interested, their paths were always crossing. But now that she cared, the Rector seemed always just round the corner.
About this time, she began to dread the nights. Her bedroom in the huge biscuit-stucco house was small, and faced West, so that it was well-baked in the evening, while the trees, which made the park look so cool, blocked any current of air.
Joan always woke up to be haunted by a dread of her future. In those hours of thick blackness, she saw herself as a bit of stale, realistic fiction. It might have been Miss Corner, turning in her grave, to sum up the familiar position.
'No looks—no money—no talent. If I don't marry him, Heaven help me'.
But she always rose with the lark, ready for cereals, as well as fruit, with her breakfast, and eager to go on with her campaign.
Every evening, after dinner, she strolled over the fields, to the village, in the hope of a casual encounter. On her way, she crossed the glorified lane which led to the Hall—a long, low building, which had been restored after fire, but which possessed one original Tudor wing.
The drive and formal entrance was reached by the main road; but, on this side of the house, part of the grounds stretched down to the hedge. Nearly every evening Joan caught a glimpse of Vivian Sheriff and Major Blair, playing tennis or strolling in the rose-garden.
Their friendship was now losing its blurred outlines of casual comradeship, and sharpening into a definite affair.
When Joan watched them, she knew that she was jealous of Vivian's security.
At the worst, she was provided for—at the best, she would step with the triumphant thump of the Wedding March. It was no wonder that her smoke-blue eyes held no depth, and there was no undertone beneath her light prattle. Vivian was safe.
The mere fact that a girl, possessed of the gay, reckless spirit of the buccaneer, should envy the prospect of being merely settled, proved that Joan had a sharp attack of her special man-fever.
She looked up at the sound of a motor-horn, and saw Ignatius, more insignificant than ever, lost in the interior of his impressive car.
"Like a ride?" he asked. "Wherever you choose."
"All right. Take me to Babylon, and back again."
Joan was not often subtle, so she felt rather proud of herself when Ignatius caught her mood.
"No," he said. "Candlelight is too compromising. But I will take you around England, and return you here, before it is dark."
"Thanks, no." Joan shook her head. "Too tame."
He sighed, as though he, too, at some time, had maddened to the faint, far-away drum of the age-old call. Then his voice grew acid.
"If you come for a ride, at least, you won't be afraid of having to walk home. According to a former remark of yours, you can hardly confuse me with a cave-man."
Joan bit her lip.
"I know I'd rather go for a ride with you than a walk with Miss Asprey," she said quickly.
Her imprudent speech made Ignatius forget a rankling memory.
"Why?" he asked.
With spirited exaggeration, in which she forgot her antipathy to Ignatius, she told him the story of her painful experience.
"There was I, my dear, blown, panting, winded, dead to the world—my knees giving, my tongue hanging, my back cracking—while she just rolled on, like an oiled devil-on-wheels—at exactly three miles an hour. And all for a wretched twopenny-halfpenny brooch...But she had to get even with me for something else."
"And what was that?" asked Ignatius curiously.
Conscious that the Major and Vivian had strolled down to the white gate which opened out to the lane, Joan confided the story of little Miss Mack's disappointment and her promise to Miss Asprey.
"I couldn't have told that to anyone but you," she said. "Everyone here worships her for a saint. But I'm a newcomer, so I see things as they are."
Ignatius looked at her intently.
"I wish I'd been able to talk to you before," he said. "You interest me very much. It's evident that you believe that one's own original impression—however bizarre—should be accepted before the general attitude."