CHAPTER IV — ANONYMOUS

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      When the golden diamonds gleamed through the windowpanes of Miss Asprey's dining-room, she was seated at her evening meal, with her companion, little Miss Mack, and quite unconscious that, across an empty stretch of grass, two men were discussing her character.

      As she sat in a high-backed carven chair, and mechanically ate what the parlourmaid had piled upon her plate, she seemed unaware of her surroundings, for she stared at the opposite wall, as though trying to pierce it with the intensity of her vision.

      In the early sixties, she was slender and upright as a girl. Her face bore traces of former beauty, in spite of many lines, and a sharpening of nose and chin—forerunner of the fatal nutcracker. The tint of her complexion was pale ivory, and her expression both pure and austere. She wore a black velvet dinner gown, which suited the silver glory of her hair so well as to suggest that even saints have their share of vanity.

      Although she looked so fragile, her appetite was enormous, but she appeared to eat without enjoyment—rather like a machine crushing fodder which was necessary for the repair of a body worn out by a consuming flame-like spirit. Not only was she a woman of tireless energy, broken by lapses into fierce concentrated meditation, but she adhered to the habits of her early life.

      The only child of wealthy parents, Decima Asprey had been at the same school in Germany as Miss Julia Corner; but she was much older than the novelist, and had left to be presented at Court. After one Season only, she grew tired of leading the life of an average Society girl, and went into Retreat, with the idea of becoming a nun. Commonsense prevailed, however, so that she chose a career better suited to her temperament, becoming Matron of a Home for Fallen Women, in a large industrial city.

      She did not spare herself in well-doing, and—like the Rector—she overworked and finally broke down. While she was only in the early thirties, she came to the village to recuperate, and stayed there for nearly thirty years. The Elizabethan mansion—Spout Manor—was then in the market, and after she had bought it she never slept under another roof, in contrast to Queen Elizabeth I's alleged habit for trying strange beds.

      Very soon her gently dominant character asserted itself, and she became ruler of the village. Mr. Sheriff—as head of the oldest family—held the prestige of Squire; the Scudamores were self-appointed guardians of the public tone; but above them all, shone Miss Decima Asprey.

      She sat at the head of the long dining-table, and the gaunt Rose waited on her assiduously, while little Miss Mack 'made a long arm', and helped herself. She was a stocky little woman, about twenty-five years younger than her employer, with a pale, clear, polished complexion, like a china doll's, light blue eyes, and faintly smiling lips. She looked rather stupid, through over-amiability, but serene and good.

      Upstairs, in her bedroom, a half-finished letter lay inside her blotter. It was addressed to a certain Miss Smith, of London, and was filled with praise of Miss Asprey, and contentment with her happy lot.

      'Miss Asprey is an Earthly Angel,' she had written. 'She took me in, when I was down and out, and I feel I can never do enough to repay her. She is so very kind and good, and gives me light work, which makes the time pass quickly and pleasantly. I look and feel much better. I am only living to repay her for what she has done to me. This house is beautiful, all wood, and everyone says it is like a Museum.'

      Now this was rather noble of little Miss Mack, for 'the Spout' was not at all to her personal taste. She preferred rose-pink wall-paper, electric-light, and a nice clean white tablecloth. Visitors might praise the historic perfection of the Tudor mansion, and rave over its furniture, which were all genuine period pieces; but they sat, for a short time only, on its hard oaken chairs, and then rolled away, on cushioned seats, back into the Twentieth Century.

      As she munched her bread-and-cheese Miss Mack's china-blue eyes roamed about the room, semi-lit by one hanging oil-lamp. The panelled walls—black with age—were rendered invisible by the shadows. The oaken table was bare, save for some mats of coarse hand-woven linen. The food was chiefly vegetarian—lentil-soup, salad, biscuits, butter, cheese and fruit. There was only barley-water to drink, although the temperature remained low at 'the Spout'.

      Miss Mack looked distrustfully at the dish of green-stuff, for she did not like raw lettuce, which did not satisfy her appetite, and only gave her flatulence.

      'If you're lucky, you get a rumble,' she thought. 'If you're unlucky, you get a slug.'

      Then she remembered the beautiful food she had once enjoyed, when she stayed with a farmer uncle in the country. When they killed a pig, there was a feast of good things—faggots, brawn, chitterlings, and a delicious dish, called 'Black pudding'. She had been told that it was made from the blood of pigs—but that did not alter the fact that it was both filling and savoury.

      In the distance, she could hear the postman's double-knock, but without interest, for few people wrote to the insignificant Miss Mack. Then her watchful eyes noticed that her idol, Miss Asprey, gave a slight shiver, and, instantly, she was on her stumpy feet, ready for service.

      "May I fetch you a shawl, Miss Asprey?" she asked.

      "No, thank you." Miss Asprey rose and walked to the door, followed by Miss Mack, whom she waved back to her chair. "Please sit down and finish your meal," she 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