CHAPTER XXV — NIGHT-SCENE

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      The next day the village hummed with the news. Everyone was shocked and filled with pity, but the chief emotion was excitement. The local ladies and gentlemen were all kindly, charitable souls, but each, in turn, had chafed under Mrs. Scudamore's mild, reproachful gaze and lifted brow.

      While Miss Asprey ruled by sweet saintliness, she stood as guardian of the conventional law. It was only human nature to be intrigued by the fact that she had actually filled a position which she would have been first to condemn in another.

      When Vivian Sheriff heard of the suicides she was almost stunned with shock. Obedient and law-abiding, she had faithfully observed the traffic signals of Mrs. Scudamore's uplifted hand. The fact of her violent death filled her with horror, but the story of her double life was a heavier blow.

      Her mother was twittering about the tragedy, all over the morning-room. To get out of range of her squeaks and moans, Vivian lit a cigarette and went into the rose-garden.

      She rarely smoked, so the tobacco soon soothed her nerves. It was a brilliant morning—blue and windy—with dew still sparkling in pockets on the rose-walk, where the ramblers hung in scarlet clusters.

      In spite of the tragic news, Vivian was light-hearted, that day, for she was expecting a letter from Major Blair. She had not seen him since Joan intervened, at a critical moment, as he had gone to London, on business. But he had rung her up to say he would write to her.

      Vivian knew that he never sent a letter, if he could use the telephone or telegraph-wire, so she could gauge the significance of his promise. Her hopes were high as she waited for the postman, who was late in reaching the Hall.

      But, although she tried to concentrate on brides-maids and engagement-rings, her thoughts persisted in returning to Mrs. Scudamore.

      'I was so afraid of her. And all the time...It doesn't bear thinking of.'

      The postman appeared round the bend of the lane, and she ran to the gate to receive the letters. There was a large number, and she carried the pile to a rustic table, to sort them out.

      Almost the first one she picked up was addressed to her, in Major Blair's thick, black handwriting. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tore it open. It was written from his Club, and began with the most effective opening gambit for holding interest.

      Will you marry me?'

      Vivian's heart beat very little faster, for she was not emotional; but her small pink face was wreathed in smiles as she read the letter through to its satisfactory end. Then she let it slip to the ground, while her imagination ran riot.

      'Diamonds,' she decided.

      Presently, she looked at the rest of the letters, to find, at the bottom of the pile, one envelope addressed to herself, in printed characters. With a nasty little sinking feeling, she tore it open, and stared at the roughly-blocked message.

      'You are not married yet. Remember, there's many a slip. Wait until the Major knows all about you. I will show you up next.'

      Vivian pushed her fingers distractedly through her hair and tried to think, only to be horrified by her first coherent thought.

      'Thank Heaven, Mrs. Scudamore can't know.'

      Then, as the situation began to be revealed in a stronger light, she relieved her feelings with an hysterical laugh.

      'It would come, just now. But who sent it? The only person who knows, doesn't care any more. Suppose he does, and is jealous. But that's absurd. If I tax him with this, I shall only be giving myself away to him. Or even putting ideas into his head...No, I must take no notice. This is one of those letters that are going about, at present. Just a lucky shot in the dark.'

      Vivian was a cool-headed little person, and not liable to panic. Because her conscience was clear on the main issue, she was able to sum up the position better than Mrs. Scudamore.

      But, as she walked slowly back to the house, the poison began to seep slowly through her system, numbing the pleasure of anticipation. Little black threads of doubt swam before her mental vision.

      'Suppose Fred gets a letter about me. He'd be too angry to treat it like his own. He has two standards, one for himself and one for women. He'd ask questions, and I might give myself away...Or this might be a genuine letter about the bungalow. If so, I'm sunk. Fred would shy at the least hint of scandal.'

      Fear stalked her through the garden and up the shallow steps of the terrace.

      As she lingered in the hall, she could hear her parents' voices in the morning-room. But, instead of telling them of the Major's letter, she left the post in the hall while she put through a long-distance call to London.

      It was not until she had accepted the Major's proposal of marriage, over the telephone, that she felt a shade more secure. Smoothing back the sleek wave of her fair hair, with a slightly self-conscious gesture, she walked into the morning-room and made her welcome announcement.

      "I thought you were going to be left on the shelf," roared the Squire.

      "Vivian didn't want to leave her mother," said Mrs. Sheriff. She added hastily, "I'll send the