THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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and I want a quick sandwich and a long drink," he said, "before we start off again. Leave her there, Burgess. The housekeeper will find you something."
The little man led the way to the dining-room, where he sank into a chair.
"I drove coming back," he told the Rector. "Exhausting. Well, Padre, very soon I shall clear the village of an undesirable alien."
"Alien?" repeated the Rector dully. "Then—it's not the doctor."
"Heavens, no. It's a woman, of course...How long have you been here, Tigger?"
"Nearly three years."
"Good. I suppose, when you have to write to one of the Miss Martins, you would put her Christian name on the envelope, to save confusion?"
"Of course. Everyone calls them by their Christian names. They're nice, informal girls."
"That's all." Ignatius sprang to his feet, and went out of the dining-room, munching a sandwich. "Want to know where I've been?"
"Yes."
"Well, you'll soon know."
The Rector remained silent, partly from fear of what he might learn, and also, from some confused wish to test his strength of character. He told himself that if he could not suffer the torture of suspense for a limited period he was a spineless coward.
Moreover, he could see that Ignatius was in his unhuman mood, when he seemed akin to an elemental, and older than the hills.
Unresponsive to any touch of nature, he wanted to lead up to his efforts, after the manner of a show-man. Cramming another sandwich into his mouth, he led the way to the waiting car, where he gave an order to the chauffeur.
"Court."
The Rector sat silent and sweating during the short drive. When they reached the house, Ignatius asked to see Miss Brook. They waited in the drawing-room, from whose vast windows they looked out at parterres of gladioli, instead of irises. Two minutes later, Joan—radiant with expectation—ran into the room.
"You want to see me?" she asked eagerly, glancing at the Rector.
"I did," said Ignatius. "Have you a portable typewriter?"
"Why—yes."
"Then will you bring it over to the Rectory tomorrow morning to do some private and confidential secretarial work?" Joan stared at him in surprise.
"I should hardly like to ask Lady d'Arcy's permission," she said.
"She'll spare you, when she knows the circumstances," Ignatius told her. "I want you—with the help of the Rector—to make copies of the confession of the person who has been writing these anonymous letters, and send one to everyone in the village."
Joan's mouth, as well as her eyes, opened in amazement. "You know?" she gasped. "Oh, who is it?"
Ignatius looked at her with his ancient wizened grin.
"You'll know that tomorrow. If it's any consolation to you, you will get the early edition of the news, before the rest of the village."
Joan made a gesture of exasperation.
"But I can't wait." She nodded towards the Rector. "Does he know?"
"No, so you needn't hope to get it out of him. But, very soon, he is coming with me to interview the lady in the case."
"Lady? Oh!" Joan gazed intently at Ignatius, a dawning horror in her eyes. "I believe I can guess where you're going," she said.
"Yes, I think you can," he replied.
"It's terrible...But I seem to have known it all along."
"Ah, you've been behind the scenes. Do you remember that night when we strolled through the village? By the way, you gave me a useful hint."
"I? When?"
"When you pointed out the importance of a first impression."
"I'm glad I was of some use." Joan looked at the Rector with glowing eyes. "But I can't believe that the village will really return to normal again."
"In a week your broken social round will be in full circle again," declared Ignatius.
"It's too wonderful. The old times back again. And we have to thank you for it all."
The Rector knew what she meant. The barrier between them was lowered. Her smile was not only happy, but possessive. It made him feel confused and overwhelmed before this sudden rush of good fortune.
Ignatius' acid voice recalled the lovers to earth.
"I've not so much to thank you for, after all, Miss Brook. Miss Corner fouled the trail once, and you might have done so, for the second time. Your lie was both stupid and dangerous. It might have involved you in a serious tangle. Of course, you were afraid of losing your post. Weren't you?"
As Joan bit her lip in uncertainty, Ignatius assured her.
"There is no danger of that now, for nothing will go further than this room. Besides, your grandmother has been dead for a long time...Why did you write that anonymous letter to Mrs. Pomfret?"
Joan's smile became suddenly audacious.
"I thought your memory would explain that," she said. "Don't you remember, the first time we met, telling me a tale about a dog?"
"Yes. I invented it."
"Did you? That's amusing, for it gave me a useful pointer. Mrs. Pomfret was half-starving her little servant. I told you about it, when we met her, that evening."
Ignatius hid his annoyance.
"You did. Mrs. Pomfret spoke of a foul and baseless accusation. Was your letter abusive?"
"Of course not. I wrote as one lady to another. I pretended I was one of her friends. I said I was distressed by the outrageous and untruthful whispers which were circulated through the village, about Edie looking so pale and thin. I didn't believe one word of them, myself, but I thought it was my duty to let her know."
"But, Joan," broke in the Rector, "you're making a terrible accusation. Mrs. Pomfret would be the very last person to be cruel to a girl."
Joan grimaced expressively at Ignatius.
"What did I tell you?" she asked. "No one would believe it. But it's all right now. It was a mistake and it's been put right. She was horrified, too...That was a lucky lie of yours, Mr. Brown."
"Yours, too," said Ignatius. "It's given me an opportunity of appreciating your true character. Good evening, Miss Brook."
He walked from the room, so that the Rector was able to say 'good-bye' to Joan, in private. When he came down the steps of the portico—his face and heart on fire—he was chilled by Ignatius' direction to the chauffeur.
"Spout."
The drive seemed a fantastic nightmare to the Rector, so terrible and incredible was the implication of the address. Old hints returned to his mind with hideous meaning. Joan's wide eyes and parting lips, which showed that she shared the knowledge, was the bitterest memory.
He told himself that he had lost so many ideals—suffered so much disillusionment. He could not bear to witness a saint crash down from her pedestal.
It was growing dark, and the day was drowning in a downfall of fine rain. They reached the 'Spout', in a raw twilight. The ancient house showed a blank face with no glimmer of light; and, as they waited for the door to be opened, they heard, all around them, the gurgles of imprisoned water.
The place seemed haunted with sin and suffering. When the gaunt parlourmaid opened the door, the Rector—who was worked up to the limit of his endurance—shrank back, as though the atmosphere of the interior was tainted.
He felt that the old house was unhappy, and sick unto death. Its peace had fled, and—like him—it could dream no more of the past.
Rose