CHAPTER XXVI — ULTIMATUM

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      The rector's sermon, the following Sunday, was memorable. It was not only an example of fine oratory, but was imprinted with sincerity. Ignatius, who listened in a spirit of detached criticism, could detect no note which did not ring true.

      The Rector spoke with such subdued intensity that it was clear he was taxing his self-control to the utmost. He pointed out that the recent tragedy was a crime in which some of those present had an indirect share. If not actually guilty, they were accessories after the fact, by their obstinate silence.

      The beautiful spirit of the village was being eaten away by hidden corruption, which could only be destroyed if everyone shared the responsibility. He had been shown the first letter by one whose self-sacrifice was stronger than her personal repugnance of publicity. Unfortunately, no one else was sufficiently unselfish and brave to follow this example. He asked now for so little—merely the envelope in which any letter had been enclosed.

      Ignatius sidled crabwise in his chancel pew, in order to study the bulk of the congregation which filled the nave. He noticed that their faces did not show their usual blank serenity, as though they were encased in protecting cellophane. But, while they were obviously grave and troubled, it appeared that each person was concerned with the responsibility of his neighbour.

      It seemed to him that the volume of communal thought arising from the congregation was so compelling as to reach him, almost in the form of words.

      'Surely, after this, someone will do something.'

      The Rector had himself well in hand until the end of his sermon, when his pent-up fires suddenly burst through their thin crust in an eruption of molten heat. Unconscious of his congregation, unconscious of himself, he was carried away to say more than he had ever intended, when he had roughed out the skeleton outline of his sermon.

      He told them that, while they were to blame, he, himself, was equally guilty. He had failed them, because he had not been able to win their confidence. Although he loved the village—almost more than life itself—if he could not induce them to speak, he must leave them and go out into the wilderness.

      "The cup will be almost too bitter for me to drain," he said. "I am in your hands."

      Ignatius—swift as a ferret on the trail—studied the general reaction to the sermon. For the first time in his experience, the congregation forgot its well-bred passivity. It had been severely shocked, and it showed it.

      Little Mrs. Sheriff appeared on the point of tears. The Squire looked grimly Napoleonic, as though he were willing the congregation to a general confession. Miss Asprey's great grey eyes glowed with the flame of martyrdom, as befitted one who had already made her sacrifice.

      Ignatius had many other fleeting impressions before he remembered to observe a certain young lady in whom he was interested. He noticed that little Miss Mack smiled up at her employer, as though seeking guidance for her own emotions. But when he looked at Joan Brook he was too late to trap the message of her eyes. She sat, looking down at her clasped hands, with lowered lids.

      He remained in his pew after the rest of the congregation had filed out into the sunlit churchyard. Presently the choir joined them, and the organist—a girl from the village—finished putting away her music. She and the sexton were the last to leave the building.

      The Rector had remained in the vestry for some time; but there was no murmur of voices to tell Ignatius that any member of the parochial flock had lingered behind to confess. After glancing at his watch, he resolved to walk back to the Rectory alone.

      He was about to leave the shelter of the porch, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the paved path outside. Acting on impulse, he slipped back into the church, and hid behind a pillar.

      Someone entered the dim building and lingered in the doorway. It was Miss Asprey. She advanced a few paces down the aisle, her eyes still glowing and her lips sternly compressed.

      Ignatius thought that she was on her way to the vestry. Instead, she paused beside her pew and then entered it, to kneel in prayer.

      Engrossed in watching her, he did not hear the door being opened again; but the patter of footsteps caused him to turn so sharply that he almost collided with Miss Mack.

      She uttered a faint squeak, and then held out an ivory-covered Church Service, as though in explanation.

      "Is Miss Asprey inside?" she whispered. "I think she must have missed her prayer-book and gone back to find it. I carried it back, with my own."

      "Yes," said Ignatius, "she is looking for it now...But I hoped that you were making this opportunity to see me alone."

      "I don't understand," murmured Miss Mack.

      "Yes, you do. Don't you remember I once offered to help you?"

      "Yes, yes. You were very kind. I don't know why. Please let me find Miss Asprey."

      Ignatius barred her way.

      "Don't be afraid to speak," he whispered. "She doesn't know you are here. Come outside."

      Miss Mack opened her lips dumbly and shut them again. At the same moment, Miss Asprey turned her head and saw them standing in the doorway. As she rose from her knees, her tall black figure looked grim and commanding in the dim light from the old stained-glass windows. She advanced in their direction so silently and swiftly, that her thin cloak blew out, like a cloud, about to envelop them.

      "Miss Mack." Her voice held reproof. "I did not expect you to follow me here."

      "I'm sorry," said the little companion humbly. "I thought you were looking for your prayer-book."

      "I see. That was kind. Thank you." Miss Asprey turned to Ignatius. "I was going to see