THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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Since her engagement, Vivian would be doubly an object of jealousy. If, instead of being a suspect, she were another victim, her dimmed radiance would be explained.
'But I believe in Joan,' declared the Rector. 'Besides, why should she envy Vivian when she refused to wear my ring?'
Fear explained exactly why she had made her gesture. It was a bold move to avert suspicion. For she was in a tight corner. The stamp had been traced to her, and she had told a deliberate lie.
That had not been explained away. Probably it was part of Ignatius' policy to let her think she was safe, so that she might be lured on to further indiscretion. Another false step might plunge her in the morass.
He could not trust Ignatius. After all, he only knew him as a little eccentric, whose wealth had made him a useful friend in their College days. What did one man know of an-other's heart? It was conceivable that he was spiteful and bored by a thwarted existence.
Fear filled the Rector with the impulse to strike blindly at friend and foe. He could not distinguish between them in this blindfold nightmare. He was utterly baffled and lost.
If he invited the Squire to call in the police, he would set in motion a machine that operated with relentless precision. Should Joan get in its way, she would be caught up and effectively dealt with. It was hopeless to expostulate with metal, or to appeal for mercy to a Robot.
In spite of the sun, the Rector grew cold. He shivered, when Fear poked him in the ribs with a chill finger-tip, just to show the world they were on familiar terms.
'If I do nothing,' thought the Rector, 'the Enemy will soon strike again. Another tragedy. Another grave.'
He stopped before a Tudor cottage, as Miss Asprey walked grandly down its garden-path. Before he could introduce his interesting Companion, Fear—after a glance of recognition at Miss Asprey—espied a dark lady on the green, and hastened off, to act as cavalier to Marianne Perry.
The Rector looked at the worn, ivory features of Miss Asprey, with a sense of sudden release from oppression.
"Have you been visiting Harper?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Miss Asprey. "Dr. Perry is with him now, so I left. We met over his bed, and had our usual argument. A charming man, but, like most doctors, a materialist. He will not admit the importance of the spiritual issue in physical illness."
"I suppose that would depend on what's the matter," said the Rector.
"That is my own point of view. Of course, I have explained the principles of diet and ventilation to Mrs. Harper, and I insist that she carries out my instructions. But Harper's spirit is sick, and he needs healing by prayer."
The Rector could not disagree, for his wide experience had introduced him to cases of special sickness which had not responded to drugs.
"There's no one who can give him spiritual treatment better than you," he said. "You always make me feel refreshed."
"Do I?" Miss Asprey did not smile. "Lately, I've wondered if my powers are beginning to dim. My will does not dominate in the old way."
"You can always dominate me," said the Rector.
He was rewarded by the radiance of her face. With a stately inclination of her graceful neck, she left him before Dr. Perry could reach the gate.
"Confound that saintly woman," he remarked, lightly. "She's won another round. The Harpers have been pouring my medicine down the sink."
"What's the matter with Harper?" asked the Rector.
"Aha, padre, now you're trespassing on my preserves. I'll only say he is in good company, for his complaint is the same as the Squire's. I give it different names, just to mark the difference in their bills."
"How is the Squire getting on?" he asked unthinkingly.
"How should I know? He's not my patient."
"Sorry, Perry, I forgot. But he's not looking in good shape. He's missing you."
"On the contrary, his own doctor probably knows more about the treatment of his complaint than I do. What he doesn't know is how to humour him."
In spite of the breach between them, the Rector felt the old tug of attraction. The doctor's composure was soothing and static. He was under vague suspicion of having ingratiated himself with a woman patient in order to get her money, and was generally suspected of carelessness in his administration of a sleeping-drug. The results had been excellent for him, and, in view of his increase of inherited income, the village felt slightly apprehensive of his professional services.
Yet, when they met him personally, the old loyalties persisted. Impulsively, the Rector held out the olive-branch.
"Why do you never come over in the evenings?" he asked.
"My dear padre," replied the doctor, "you have your private detective. I might interrupt delicate operations."
The Rector had a fleeting memory of the episode of the marked stamps. Apparently, he had not been quick enough in his efforts to hide them.
"Oh, you mean Ignatius Brown," he said. "But he likes you."
"Thanks for the hint. Now, I'll be on my guard."
"Well, even if you won't come over, it's good to have a chat again," said the Rector. "I wish you'd tell me if you think Miss Asprey is losing her grip."
"Not she." The doctor shrugged. "She will live for ever."
"Good. How are things with you, doctor?"
"Excellent, thanks. Family flourishing—and nothing could be better."
"Then you're lucky...Do you remember warning me that there were dark places, even here? I didn't believe you. But since then—"
As his voice broke, the doctor finished his sentence.
"Since then, things have been rather interesting. By the way, what does Miss Brook think of Vivian's engagement? Personally, I'm rather amused by it. She looks so pensive, now she's reached the peak of her ambition."
"You don't like her, do you?" ventured the Rector.
"It's common history I once liked her rather too well. So I may be in the second stage of friendship. But I must be getting along. Good-bye, padre."
The doctor walked home slowly. As he passed the blank windows of the Clock House he looked up at them with a speculative expression.
'I wonder if their way out has been the anticipated success,' he reflected. 'Annihilation should be restful. Well, they, at least, have solved their problem.'
He pushed open the gate, and then recoiled slightly, as his wife flew to meet him. He had learned, from painful experience, to associate these tempestuous rushes of welcome with fresh demands.
His first glance showed him that Marianne was in a state of agitation, as the result of ten minutes spent in the company of a dark Stranger. Fear had been in a sociable mood that day, for he had insisted in accompanying the lady home, in order to see her charming and beautiful children. And he had made the most of his opportunity.
Marianne had pounced down on the elder baby, and discovered that he was suffering from septic blood-poisoning. At least, that was what the superior nurse had hinted, as she stressed, once more, the advantages of a visit to the seaside.
What had really happened was that Mickey had been stung by an insect, who, in harmony with the prevailing tone of the village—chose to remain anonymous. He knew he was only a humble bug, and that his bite could do no mischief.
But Mickey was of an industrious nature, and had lost no time in getting to work. He had a pale, sensitive skin, which responded immediately to vigorous rubbing, so that he got excellent results. His mother became almost hysterical at the sight of the patch of inflammation.
"He's been stung by a mosquito," declared the nurse. "A naughty fly stung you, didn't it, darling?"
"No,"