THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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Rector changed the subject.
"I shall miss you," he said, "and Charles will miss the car. I'm afraid his pride will have a nasty knock when it goes. He thinks I've bought it for his special use."
He was now drifting on with the imperceptible flow of village life, where the salient incidents were sunrise and sunset, and the rest, only the hours between. All in his circle seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant episode of Miss Corner's death, and their subsequent scare. It was as though they knew subconsciously that so long as they did not gather together in numbers they were safe from the herd-instinct to panic at a chance shot.
But, though Fear was no longer apparent, as a black shapeless terror, hiding in the shadows, the Rector sometimes wondered if he had really gone. A nasty little doubt persisted that, perhaps, the grim visitor was invisible to him, because he stalked boldly in the daylight.
It might even be that the local ladies and gentlemen had grown so accustomed to him that they found a strange and perverse pleasure in his company, and enjoyed furtive talks with him, in secret holes and corners, when no one was near to see.
Then he remembered the doctor's Arab proverb, 'It is but for a night, oh Muleteer', and he told himself that he must be patient and wait. The trouble would pass.
Two nights before Ignatius was due to return, he and the Rector went to the Clock House for dinner. It was the Scudamores' usual formal meal, with iced drinks and conventional talk, which acted as a sedative on the Rector's twitching mind. Presently Mr. Scudamore mentioned a hopeful piece of local news which seemed to hint at a social revival.
"I hear the Towers is to be opened again."
Ignatius looked up from his asparagus.
"Is that the big nightmare of pepper-pot turrets, on the London road?" he asked. "Who lives there?"
"The Martins. A very wealthy family. They have been abroad, travelling, for two years."
Mrs. Scudamore—a real helpmate—supplemented her husband's information.
"They have four unmarried daughters—charming, unaffected girls—but one has recently become engaged to an Italian count. The two eldest girls—Miss Martin and Constance—are coming first, and the others will follow."
"I think I've heard about them," remarked Ignatius drily. "Aren't they the people, who remember nothing of the places they've visited, except the shops?"
But the lawyer and his wife strangled this sort of conversation at its birth.
"I don't think that is correct," said Mr. Scudamore. "The Martins are so accustomed to travel that they probably accept their own experiences as common knowledge."
"I'm sure that is so," agreed Mrs. Scudamore. "I always think it is rather sweet the way they try to find topics of everyday interest when they meet their stay-at-home friends."
Ignatius thought wistfully of a certain gossip at his Club—a man notorious for his barbed tongue—and he longed for his bitterness, as an antidote to the Scudamores' syrup.
As he looked around the discreetly-lit table, with the symmetrical lace mats on the polished mahogany, and the light arrangement of Iceland poppies, to tone with the amber shades of the candles, he had no premonition how fantastic this memory would appear in the light of a certain unborn event.
The evening was hot, so their coffee was served on the verandah. They were drinking it—still on their best behaviour—when the garden gate was burst open and a girl swung through. It was Joan Brook—flushed with exercise, bare-headed, and wearing a short cape of its own material over her white dinner-frock.
Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the Rector, and his own heavy face lit up in response.
Joan explained to Mrs. Scudamore that she had brought her an invitation to have tea with Lady d'Arcy, the following afternoon.
"Of course, it was my job to write you a note," she laughed. "But I'm often restless in the evening, so I made it an excuse for a walk."
"My wife couldn't wish for a more attractive letter," the lawyer assured her, while his wife made a mild attempt at a joke.
"I shall ask Lady d'Arcy for my stamp...Won't you have some coffee, Miss Brook? Will you sit here?"
She led Joan to a chair, at the extreme end of the line, where she was separated from the Rector by two places. But the girl, with customary directness of purpose, talked to him, across Ignatius.
"I haven't seen you for ages."
"No," agreed the Rector. "I don't know how it is. We always seem to miss each other, these days."
"No parties," exclaimed Joan. "I don't know what's come to the village. It doesn't seem the same place."
Ignatius was amused to notice how quickly Mrs. Scudamore changed the subject.
"Is Vivian Sheriff's engagement announced yet?" she asked.
"Is she engaged?" asked Joan rather sharply.
"That is what I wish to know. Of course, there will be an engagement. Major Blair goes to the Hall, every day: and Vivian is not the girl to make herself cheap with a man whose intentions are not serious."
"But what about his?" asked Joan.
She was so accustomed to modern casual intercourse that she could not understand that she had dropped her usual brick.
"Nice chap, Blair," said the Rector hastily. "I like him, because he's the only player on the links I can lick."
"Yes," agreed the lawyer, "Blair's a man."
As he made the inevitable classification, Ignatius caught Joan's eye, and a smile flickered between them. He lowered his voice.
"I wonder why women never marry the men who understand them."
"I wonder too," said Joan.
"We're a case in point," continued Ignatius. "Our minds march, or, rather, limp together. Yet you wouldn't marry me if I was the last man alive; and I'm a born celibate."
"You were born one," said Joan flippantly, "but you may die double."
Ignatius stuck to his point.
"I do understand you. I saw that you were annoyed to hear of Vivian Sheriff's engagement."
Joan glared at him, and then relaxed to confidence.
"It seemed rather unfair," she admitted.
"Because she has what you want most. Security."
"How did you know that?...But my mother has only got my father's pension, so we have to help. And both my brothers are out of jobs."
She bit her lip and broke off.
"What made me tell you that? I must be mad. I never talk of my family to anyone."
"But I understand you. And that is more than our friend, the padre, ever will."
Mrs. Scudamore—a gracious hostess in her second-best dinner gown—silver-grey brocade—came forward.
"We would like to keep you, Miss Brook," she said sweetly, "but you must get back to the Hall, before it is dark."
Against her will, Joan glanced at Ignatius and caught his responsive grin. Although she was completely fearless, she knew that it was useless to protest.
"I suppose I may send a verbal reply to a verbal invitation," went on Mrs. Scudamore. "Will you tell Lady d'Arcy that I am sorry, but I have a previous engagement."
Formal words—which Joan was to remember later.
She walked back to the Court, feeling disappointed and resentful. She had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with the Rector, and Vivian Sheriff was nearly engaged. Because she was unhappy, she increased her own misery by jealous comparison and an orgy of self-pity.
'She's got everything. He's with her now, and, perhaps, they're kissing...And I'm alone. It's a waste