THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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spats, being whirled through Eternity, clasped to his paramour. But I can't imagine the stately Mrs. Scudamore without any clothes...What's angel-skin?"
"Don't—know."
"Neither do I. But I was once privileged to pay a lady's bills, in return for the freedom of her murky mind. As my interest in her was purely metaphysical, I had no knowledge of her wardrobe. But I remember the item—'angel-skin'."
He broke off to speak to the dog.
"Charles Dickens, don't you agree with me that, at this minute, Mr. and Mrs. Scudamore are defying the whirlwind in bath-sheets of angel-skin?"
"Shut up," growled the Rector.
"Good. I've got you roused. My object is achieved."
The Rector, who was holding his head in his hands, looked up, and smiled faintly.
"It's decent of you not to crow," he said. "Especially as it has turned out to be your snake-head."
"Did you see any of the anonymous letters?" asked Ignatius.
"No. Mrs. Scudamore destroyed them all before her—her murder."
"Now, Tigger, don't overdo it and sanctify her. I told you I didn't like her, because I thought her a humbug. That holds still. The whole truth is that she killed herself because she couldn't endure the thought of exposure. She hadn't the guts to sit tight, and she left the poor old boy to face the music...Can you imagine Joan Brook throwing in her hand before her bluff was called?"
"They're different generations," said the Rector. "Still, I agree it was an unnecessary sacrifice. Poor Scudamore called it that."
He rubbed his eyes wearily, and then bounded to his feet with his old energy.
"I clean forgot. This will be an awful shock to Miss Asprey. I'll go over now, and break it gently, before she hears it from one of her maids."
The vivid interest which licked Ignatius' face was like a white tongue of lightning.
"I'll come, too," he said eagerly. "I suppose it's not too late?"
"No, they'll still be up."
But when the two men had passed through the gates of The Spout', no light shone through the diamond-paned windows. As they walked through the gurgling darkness of the garden, they were conscious of a damp desolation, as though an ancient house had lived too long.
The lantern glowed in the porch, so the Rector knocked on the old oak door.
"They must be sitting in the study," he whispered.
To their surprise, Ada—whose sleepy eyes brightened at the sight of Ignatius—showed them into the front panelled parlour, where Miss Asprey, seated in a high-backed carven chair, was reading by the light of a single lamp. Miss Mack sat somewhere in the shadow, and was knitting.
Miss Asprey raised her silver head, and looked at the Rector with faint surprise. Ignatius, who lingered in the background, admired the butterfly touch with which the Rector broke the news to the frail lady.
"Sorry to call so late, but I have some dreadful news for you. Mr. and Mrs. Scudamore are both dead. A double suicide."
Although she looked so ethereal, Miss Asprey proved resistant to the shock. She maintained her self-control, and gave no sign of nervous tension. Her lips did not quiver, and the thin white hands, which held a heavy book, did not tremble. As she listened, the lines of her face were rigid, as though carven in marble.
Only Ignatius noticed that first swift interchange of glances between her and Miss Mack.
"This is a terrible shock," said Miss Asprey. "Terrible. I can hardly realise it. It was thoughtful of you to come, Rector."
"My first thought was for you," he assured her. "I knew what a blow it would be."
"It is indeed. If it is not too painful for you, may I hear the details?"
She listened to the story with a certain detached compassion.
"But why did they do this dreadful thing?" she asked.
"He followed her. And she was driven to it by poisonous anonymous letters," declared the Rector, his voice shaking with anger.
"Still, I don't understand? What had she to fear?"
"Exposure. I suppose it's all over the village, by now. She wasn't married to Scudamore."
"Oh!" Miss Asprey's strangled exclamation was almost a sob. But Ignatius noticed a faint flush of human interest on her cheek. He also remarked the tonic effect of the tragedy upon another life of dull routine, for the little companion's smiling face held suppressed excitement.
When Miss Asprey spoke, her voice was wrung with pity.
"Poor souls. We must not judge them. Sorrow expiates sin, and they must have suffered, every hour of their lives."
The Rector thought of Mr. Scudamore's final speech for the defence.
"There were condoning circumstances—" he began, but Miss Asprey stopped him.
"Nothing can condone sin, but suffering may help to atone." She glanced at the antique clock, which was still patiently carrying on with its job of chopping up time. "Thank you for coming. I appreciate your thought deeply."
The Rector moved to the door.
"It's late," he said, "and you'll both want to go to bed."
Miss Asprey shook her head.
"I think," she murmured, "that they will sleep better to-night than any of us."
The Rector was silent on the homeward way. When they reached the study, Charles met them, and plainly indicated that, while they were welcome to the worthless whisky, he was guarding the precious biscuits with his life. The Rector fed him, and then glanced at Ignatius, who had sunk into a chair.
"You look peaked, Ignatius. I've ridden you too hard with my parochial worries."
"No," replied Ignatius, "it was the atmosphere of Miss Asprey's room. Although it was raw, it was also close—and I respond like a pimpernel, to atmosphere."
"That's queer," remarked the Rector. "Miss Asprey is the sort of Spartan who lives in a perpetual draught."
"Then she's had a change of heart. Didn't you notice that every window was shuttered?"
"No. Then that explains why we didn't see any light."
"We haven't seen it for several nights...Where are your eyes?...Directly I entered the room, I was vaguely reminded, by those bars, of a prison-house."
But the Rector's thoughts were elsewhere.
"Ignatius," he appealed, "you won't go back now?"
"Aha. Ignatius Stock is booming," gloated the bitter little man. "But I'll see you through, padre. Sit down, and let me think."
The Rector dropped heavily into a chair, while Ignatius smoked in silence. Presently he spoke, out of a blue haze.
"Those letters contain no suggestion of blackmail. That is unusual. But they threaten. So they would appear to be actuated by some disordered mind, which craves to make others suffer...And yet, I have a strong suspicion that there is a purpose behind them, and an ugly purpose, too. What? I shall know when I find out why a certain woman never smiles."
But the Rector—worn out—had dropped off to sleep.
Across the Green, Dr. Perry was still at his post, and too stimulated by the double tragedy to feel weariness. True to his character of spectator, he had forgotten his own worries in the human problem of the Scudamores.
He remained for some time at the Clock House, for he had to send for the woman who acted as professional layer-out in the village, and also to interview the police, in the person of Sergeant James.
When, at last, he returned home, his wife's reception was like a blow in the face.
"Horatio.