THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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darling."
The doctor shook his head.
"Waste of time," he drawled. "It wouldn't be met."
"Why not?"
"For the usual reason. No money in the bank."
His wife stared at him with startled eyes.
"But what am I to do about Nurse?" she asked.
"Fire her, and look after the babes yourself."
Instantly Marianne's overstrung temperament galloped away with her.
"I couldn't," she stormed. "I'd be lost without her. What would my babies do?"
"They will do very well if you will follow my instructions."
"You. You're only a doctor. What do you know about children? It needs a woman to understand them. Nurse can't go."
In order to soothe her, the doctor desperately suggested her favourite occupation.
"Instead of working yourself up over nothing, suppose you rake in a little money? Send out your bills."
Marianne's face smoothed at the idea.
"It's a bit early," she said, "but I'm on to it. Your bookkeeper will now carry on."
The doctor returned to his search. After about fifteen minutes he found the missing paper, and went into the dispensary, to find his wife standing at the window. She was watching the children on the lawn, and there was something so rigid about her pose that his attention was attracted.
"When are you going to begin your bills?" he asked.
"I've finished them," she replied.
"Already?"
"Yes. There wasn't much."
As they stared at each other, she tried to smile stiffly. Her husband saw that she was now completely steadied by the severity of the shock. It was also a bad blow to him, for he had been in constant demand, owing to a slight epidemic of measles. Always a dreamer, he had not realised the non-profitable nature of his work.
"It's the slack season," said Marianne. "You'll have to sack your book-keeper."
Even as she made her poor joke, her face suddenly contorted, and she ran out of the room.
Meanwhile, unconscious of any local thunder, in the midst of prevailing fine weather, Ignatius had returned—against the collar—to the Rectory. When he was introduced to the guest, things appeared to be even worse than he had feared. The clergyman was not their contemporary, but the father of one of the Rector's college friends, and was well over seventy.
He was a stout little man, silver-haired and florid, and with a great store of enthusiasm. In fact, he used so many adjectives to describe the charm of the village that the Rector, touched on his vulnerable spot, impulsively invited him to stay to tea.
"I shall be only too charmed," said Mr. Jenkins. "My inspection was too hurried to do the church real justice."
Ignatius grew still more bored, as lunch dragged on, and the Reverend Jenkins wandered in the mist of the past. The old man's voice droned on incessantly, as he revived ancient recollections and memories, and told stories about dead men and demolished buildings. But presently, at the mention of a chance date, Ignatius sat up, alert and bristling with interest.
"You had the living of St. Giles forty years ago?" he asked.
"No, thirty-five. I was there for six years."
"I wonder if you came across a Miss Asprey, who was Lady Superintendent of a Rescue Home in your Parish?"
"Miss Asprey?" repeated Mr. Jenkins. "Yes. Yes, indeed. I knew her well."
"What was she like?"
"A beautiful woman."
"I mean—in character?"
As the old clergyman paused before answering him, Ignatius glanced at the Rector, and saw that his expression was slightly resentful, as well as anxious. Then the reply came.
"She was one of the best women I've been privileged to meet. In fact, she was almost a saint. She seemed to have no faults. She did noble, self-sacrificing work, which sometimes puzzled her, by its seeming futility. But, as she was frail, she is, probably, now in Heaven, and understands all that was obscure."
"Oh, no, she's not in Heaven," chipped in Ignatius. "She lives here, in a fine old Elizabethan house, and does herself well."
"In-deed?" Mr. Jenkins looked taken aback. "You don't say so? Well, well. How time flies."
But the Rector, who rather regretted his afternoon of boredom, suddenly saw a way out.
"When we've finished doing the church," he said, "we'll go and call on Miss Asprey. You'll both enjoy talking over old days."
"Charmed," his guest assured him. "It will be most delightful, I am sure. It is thoughtful of you to suggest such a pleasure."
But he looked so reflective that Ignatius guessed the origin of his eclipse. With his habitual malice, he could tell exactly when the excuse put in its opportune appearance, for the old clergyman suddenly became his old bright and voluble self.
He praised the village even more than before, and waited until coffee before he glanced at his watch, and groaned.
"I'm so truly grieved, but I shall not be able to accept your kind invitation to stay, after all. I have an engagement which I cannot break. What time does the next bus start?"
"I'll drive you back, if you like," suggested Ignatius spitefully.
"Not for worlds," protested the old clergyman, hurriedly putting on his soft hat, and toddling to the door. As he said 'Good-bye' he renewed his thanks, and also added a message for Miss Asprey.
"Will you tell her how sorry I was not to have the opportunity of renewing our old friendship? Please remember me to her, and say how glad I am that she's been spared to continue her useful, happy life?"
When their guest had gone, the Rector was triumphant.
"I hope you are satisfied now," he said. "You have a genuine testimonial of Miss Asprey's character from one who knew her in her work, which is a different thing from knowing her socially, as we do. The truth about people comes bursting out, when you're both in daily contact, on the same job."
"Yes," admitted Ignatius, "I am sure that old apple-woman told the truth. A bit too much of it, in fact."
"Then I hope you'll no longer see anything grim in the situation, when two women live together, on unequal terms?"
An elfin grin flickered over Ignatius' face.
"Your old friend." he remarked, "praised Miss Asprey to the skies, so long as he thought she was a bit of still-life. But he was definitely anxious to avoid meeting her in the flesh. That is why I regard the situation as even grimmer than before."
CHAPTER XXI — HAPPY DAYS
A week later, Ignatius decided to go back to London.
"It seems futile to stay here, waiting for nothing to happen," he told the Rector. "All I've learned, from recent observation, is that Vivian Sheriff and Joan Brook don't like each other, and that the doctor is not in love with his wife. Sorry not to have been more helpful."
"But you've been of enormous use," declared the Rector, who hailed his friend's departure as an omen of peace. "It was you who pointed out that Miss Corner wrote the first two letters, and that those written after her death, were just practical jokes."
"No. I pointed out that Miss Corner certainly wrote her own letter, and might have written the first, to Miss Asprey. If she didn't, then you're only beginning your troubles."
The