THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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commanded.
When the door was closed behind her, Miss Mack spoke to Rose.
"What are you having for supper, in the kitchen?"
"Poached eggs and cocoa," was the reply.
Miss Mack smacked her lips.
"It's cold, this evening," she remarked. "And it smells dampish."
"That's the water," Rose told her. "The mistress told me that, in the old days, this was a farm, with a real water-spout. You may depend on it, the water is still hiding itself, somewhere. Water never goes."
She snapped her lips together and stood at attention, as Miss Asprey returned.
"Miss Mack," she asked, "did you empty my waste-paper basket, today?"
"Yes, Miss Asprey," replied Miss Mack, with conscious virtue. "I gave the bits to Ada, and she burned them with the other rubbish, in the garden incinerator."
Miss Asprey nodded without comment, and relapsed into silence. As the postman's knock sounded louder, Miss Mack took her courage in both hands.
"Miss Asprey, I wonder if I may have porridge for supper, please?"
Miss Asprey raised her brows in surprise, and waved her white hand over the salad.
"This is better for you. It supplies the Vitamin C which is necessary to your diet."
"Porridge is more filling, Miss Asprey."
"But you are getting too stout. Do you weigh, every morning, after your bath?"
Miss Mack blinked at the unexpected question. The bathroom was a primitive cell, and, as there was no gas on the premises, the hot-water supply was dependent on the kitchen fire, plus a defective system of pipes.
"Yes, Miss Asprey," said Miss Mack untruthfully, for she dared not confess that she bathed only on Saturday night, when the cook was out, so that she could stoke up the stove herself. "And, if you please, may I have porridge for my supper? It's quite cheap."
"If you really wish it, of course. And it's not a question of expense, but of your own good." Miss Asprey's voice was astringent, but her companion's china-blue eyes were serene.
'I'll ask for poached eggs, next,' she decided. 'And, after that, something that's really tasty.'
The postman's knock shook the house, and Rose stalked from the room. She returned, a minute later, with a letter on a pewter salver, which she offered to Miss Asprey.
Miss Mack was still dreaming of savoury pudding, made—perhaps—with blood, so that she was not watching Miss Asprey with her usual dog-like fidelity. But, at the sound of a sharply-drawn breath, she looked up, to see Miss Asprey staring at an open letter.
It was obvious that she was upset, for she waited to regain complete self-control before she spoke to the parlourmaid.
"Rose, go to the Rectory and tell the Rector I wish to see him immediately, please." Then she turned to Miss Mack with another request. "When the Rector comes, bring him to me, in the parlour, please."
Miss Mack obediently left her unfinished supper and waited in the dark porch, like a patient sentinel. When the Rector's huge figure loomed through the twilight, he was several paces in front of Rose, although that well-trained person was marching at the double.
As the Rector looked down into the perpetually smiling face of the little woman, she delivered her employer's message.
"Miss Asprey's expecting you in the parlour."
Like a cyclone, the Rector whirled into the living-room, which, like the dining-room, was panelled and dimly-lit. There were violet window-curtains, a few books and a bowl of white lilac—but not a single cushion, rug, or newspaper. Miss Asprey was seated on an oaken settle, with a high back; and, as he entered, the Rector received his impression of her as one whose heart had never been warmed at the fires of Life.
To his mind, she seemed to have withdrawn from grosser contact into the purity of her own soul. His surprise and shock was therefore the greater, when she spoke to him, without any greeting.
"I sent for you, Rector, because I have just received an anonymous letter. It is an attack on my moral character. Will you read it, please?"
He stared at her with incredulous horror, for once, at a loss for words.
"But—but—it's impossible," he said, at last.
Miss Asprey held out the letter, with fingers which trembled slightly.
"Read it," she repeated.
To his eternal credit—for he was consumed by curiosity—the Rector refused.
"No," he said. "You may wish me to read it tonight, but you'll probably think differently, tomorrow."
Miss Asprey shook her gleaming silver head.
"I've nothing to fear from tomorrow, and I fear no one," she told him. "But, after reading this, perhaps, I fear myself. It fills me with doubts—makes me wonder if I know my own heart—as it really is. If I were a Roman Catholic, I should unburden myself in the Confessional. As it is, I have no other course but to ask you to read this letter, and then—if you can—grant me Absolution."
"If that is really your wish, then I'll read it."
Having made his protest, the Rector picked up the letter briskly. It was printed, in block letters, on paper of excellent quality, and was correctly composed and spelt. It began with I the sentence—'You presumed to sit in judgment on unfortunate women whom you dragged out of the gutter, probably against their own wish, but are you, yourself better than the lowest of these?' It continued in the same strain, each line covered with the slime of insinuation, as though a slug had crawled over the pages.
The Rector exploded several times as he read it, and, at the end, he crushed it up angrily between his strong fingers and threw it on the floor.
"Foul," he declared. "Any anonymous letter is a knife in the back, but this one is specially outrageous...Can you tell me, Miss Asprey, if you have any—any suspicions as to the writer?"
"No," replied Miss Asprey. "Besides, the writer does not matter. I only want to know what you think of me."
True to his impulsive nature, the Rector acted without forethought. On this occasion, his muscles leaped to obey his instinct, before his mind creaked into motion, so that he was betrayed into a theatrical gesture. Stooping down, he kissed Miss Asprey's thin white hand, in silent homage.
Before he could feel ashamed, he was rewarded by the glitter of suppressed tears in her eyes.
"That's what I think," he told her. "But I also think that some evil-minded person is jealous of you."
As the door creaked slightly he looked up sharply, and then picked up the letter. Presently he glanced towards Miss Mack, who sat, watchfully, in the shadow of the wall, and pounced on her with a question.
"How do you spell 'judgment,' Miss Mack?"
As he had expected, she spelt it, 'judgement'.
"Exactly," he muttered. "Thank you." He turned to Miss Asprey. "This letter has been written by an educated person. Now, what, exactly, is your wish? Shall I try to trace it back to its source?"
"But can you do that? It is anonymous."
"I haven't the foggiest idea. But I have a friend—a chap with nothing to do, who's potty on puzzles. He'd enjoy getting his teeth into it."
Miss Asprey's answer was to replace the letter on the salver, and to apply a lighted match to one corner.
"That is what I'm going to do with the letter," she said. "My mind is now completely at rest again."
As she watched the paper blaze and then crumble into dust, her expression grew tranquil and the strain faded from her eyes.
But the Rector was suddenly rent with a vague foreboding of future evil. Acting on impulse, he