It was pouring when the two men returned from Spout Manor, and the study looked so cheerless that the Rector put a match to the fire. He was about to light the lamp, when Ignatius stopped him.
"No. I have a story to tell. All good stories should be told by firelight."
The little man was wrought up to a pitch of jubilant vanity, when he was alive to every dramatic effect. As he sat hunched up in his big chair, hugging his knees on which he rested his pointed chin, he looked like a gnome, peeping out from the roots of a hollow oak.
The glow from the fire flickered on his lined face, accentuating its hollows and exaggerating the malice of his grin. He clawed in the air, to demand silence.
"No questions, please, unless absolutely necessary to your understanding."
He paused, to create the necessary suspense, before he began.
"You remember the Squire's illness, and how the poison in his system was liberated by its unlucky combination with gelatine. At the time I remarked that there might be a parallel between his case and your little problem. And I was right.
"Miss Mack was our poison; yet, although she had been in the village for nearly two years, she had been a negative quantity. Her nature is cruel, unscrupulous, ungrateful, and treacherous; she has no moral sense and is dead to any feeling of shame.
"But, fortunately, she is stupid, so she did not know how to liberate—or shall we say, commercialise—her power for evil." Ignatius broke off his story to digress.
"That was why, later on, she did indulge in general blackmail. It would have been a dangerous policy, of course, and what I should have expected of Miss Brook, if she had chosen the wrong turning, instead of being an exceedingly nice girl. But she has the character which Miss Mack does not possess.
"To resume my tale, she remained—a dormant toxin—in the village system; yet, even in her turgid phase, she displayed her force. She has a will, which operates, not by pressure, but by suction. I believe that some of you had experience of her draining powers, although they were naturally attributed to Miss Asprey, as the mistress of Spout Manor. Who would dream of connecting healing—or morphine—properties, as the case might be, to the humble little companion, sitting meekly in her corner?
"But, all the time she was living with Miss Asprey her stronger will was gradually giving her the mastery over her employer, although, owing to her lack of brain, she only made use of her power by asking for small favours—such as special food-fancies and getting her work reduced to a minimum. Later on, she went to more extreme lengths when her hatred of fresh air forced Miss Asprey to submit to closed windows. But I believe, in the beginning, Miss Asprey was unconscious of the true position.
"Now, I must enlighten you as to Miss Asprey's real character. Everyone believes her to be a saint. She is very nearly one—unselfish, charitable, religious, and singularly free from faults...But she has one human failing, and that is vanity. She likes the homage she receives. Exposure, or ridicule, would be more than she could bear.
"From childhood, she has suffered from a handicap which she has concealed under a show of icy austerity, and fine self-control. She is a victim to acute emotionalism. She had a bad break-down, at school, and another when she was obliged to give up her Rescue work.
"In spite of her forced withdrawal, she continued her efforts to help others. Out of charity, she gave a home to Gertrude Mack, who had just served a term of imprisonment for shop-lifting. She was very kind to her, but, perhaps, was a shade too official. I am inferring this. She'd been used to deal with some very loose characters. There is no doubt that Miss Mack resented her treatment. But—all the time—while she was apparently supine, she was slowly sapping Miss Asprey's mental strength, until she had reduced her to so much pulp.
"But still—the poison remained latent.
"Presently, Miss Mack began to break out again. She pilfered from the maids, and, on one occasion, she took a brooch from Miss Brook. Miss Asprey would not give her away, for she evidently feared that exposure would destroy any chance Miss Mack had of a resurrection. So, in order to protect her friends from her attentions, she had to curtail Miss Mack's liberty. Then, she began to hate her employer...And, at this point, you come in, my friend."
"I?" cried the Rector.
"I asked you not to interrupt...Yes, you, my husky friend—a black bull of a fellow, with a hypnotic finger and chest-notes like thunder. I'm not blaming you, of course. If Miss Mack had not paved the way for you, and left poor Miss Asprey scooped out like a hollow nut, she would have got spiritual pleasure and profit from your red-hot Gospel.
"But, as things were, your words fell on a hot-bed of hysteria. You goaded the poor, overwrought soul to the point of convicting herself of non-existent sin. Perhaps, also, she was worried by inhibitions; or you might have stirred up some residue from the mud of her Rescue Work.
"Anyway, there she was, a damned miserable sinner, with no way of getting it out of her system. She wanted the relief of the Confessional...So she adopted the singular course of writing herself an anonymous letter, convicting herself of imaginary sin, which she showed to you. When you, so to speak, gave her Absolution, the crisis was past. She had worked the poison out of her system—so her scheme was, after all, a success.
"Unluckily, someone gossiped, and the thing got about. Miss Corner got suspected—so wrote herself a letter also, to prove that she was a victim, and not the culprit. Then she, most unfortunately, passed out, for she was a valuable witness. After her death, the trouble began, for there was a general nasty feeling, and the rumour of suicide.
"This was the signal for Miss Mack's sluggish brain to wake up. Directly after Miss Asprey had written her letter, the companion found a rough draft of it in the waste-paper-basket. Although she did not realise its value, she kept it. After Miss Corner's death, she saw its significance. That draft was proof that Miss Asprey had written the first letter, so would be under suspicion of having written others.
"In fact, I don't see how any ordinary person could believe her innocence in the face of such damning evidence. Who—but myself—would accept a fantastic tale of her wanting her parson to know of her self-alleged moral depravity?
"Well, Miss Mack now put her suckers into action. She realised that Miss Asprey would have to face the stigma of forcing Miss Corner to commit suicide—for that was the vague general notion. So she skilfully spread lying rumours, and began her anonymous letter campaign.
"Her idea was to create a general atmosphere of fear and suspicion which would be attributed to Miss Asprey. Of course, she struck blindly, in the dark. She hated all the people who had money and security, but she was rather like a vicious child, hitting an adult below the belt. She believed these superior people immune to her attacks.
"I can guess, therefore, at her reaction to the Scudamore suicides. I had one glimpse of her eyes when she heard the news. It's my belief, it made her drunk with power. After that, she must have got hold of some secret information, for she began a specially cruel persecution of Dr. Perry, which did him a lot of harm.
"All the time, she was safe as a sharp-shooter who uses another body for his screen. Miss Asprey would receive the blame for whatever she did. She began to bleed her, as the price of her silence. Then, she spread her net a bit too wide, to include Miss Martin. You know the result."
Ignatius stopped talking. In the leaping firelight, his eyes seemed sunken into pits above his pre-historic smile.
"Now do you understand," he asked, "how that first innocent letter, written by poor Miss Asprey, proved the harmless gelatine which inoculated the poison?"
He waited in vain for applause. Charles yawned, and walked pointedly to the biscuit-barrel. The Rector sighed deeply and lit the lamp.
"Better have some light," he said dully. "And I think we'll both be better for a spot of Johnny Walker. You've certainly earned your drink, Ignatius. How long have you been talking?...But it's a terrible tale."
"Ah!" smiled Ignatius, "I'm used to groping in the labyrinths of choked and distorted minds. It's exhilarating to follow the thread and prove myself right. Before I'd slept one night in the village, I had suspected the truth."
The Rector and Charles exchanged sceptical glances, but Ignatius continued to gloat.
"That first evening we went for a walk, and saw two women in the garden of Spout Manor. Instantly, I concluded, by her slight undefinable air of mastery, that Miss Mack was the mistress. My first impression is never wrong. After you told me of my mistake, I continued to linger on the possibility of strange relations between those two women, shut up together in that old house...Besides, you had already warned me to distrust Miss Asprey's air of ineffability."
"I did not," declared the Rector.
"Not in so many words," said Ignatius. "But, surely, you, yourself, must have been astonished when she insisted on your reading the alleged attack on her moral character? How did that square up with her character for dignity and austere reserve?"
"I suppose so," admitted the Rector.
"You see, therefore, I attended church, with some foreknowledge of Miss Asprey's hysteria. I studied her reaction to your sermon, while I was apparently, admiring her maid. Again, I was right, for I detected all the signs of suppressed neurosis. After that, it was a logical conclusion to see her in the character of a possible victim. And I began to concentrate on Miss Mack."
"How?" asked the Rector.
"I lost no time," explained Ignatius. "The same afternoon, I took Ada for a walk, and picked her brains. She was sharp, and suspected that I wanted to find out if Miss Asprey was severe to Miss Mack—a fact, which—if it was noticed—would have been approved by the servants."
Ignatius broke off to chuckle.
"Poor Ada. I learned that, firstly, Miss Mack had boasted of being mistress of the house; secondly, that the two women were always shut up together; and, lastly, that Ada had been losing personal trifles.
"That evening, you showed me the envelope which had contained Miss Asprey's letter. As I was looking out for any trifle which might be helpful, I remarked the two initials. 'Miss Asprey' would have been the natural address, unless she habitually signed her initials, or unless the letter was written by someone who knew her very well.
"The next morning, I made discreet enquiries of the Postmistress, and a few others, and established the fact that the lady was known, locally, as 'Miss Asprey', although everyone knew her Christian name—'Decima'. But no one could tell me of a second Christian name—"
"Was that why you called on her?" asked the Rector.
"Yes, and I went early, purposely, to get a peep at her old books. I wanted to find out when the second initial was dropped. I failed in my design, but Miss Asprey confirmed my guess at the dropped second name. She also revealed herself to me as a preordained victim for blackmail, owing to her sensitive vanity. Like a soldier who has been shot in rather a ridiculous place, she would rather suffer anything than admit that she had accused herself of having a Past."
Ignatius stopped to smile at a recollection.
"Wait," he said, "I must be fair to her. Once, she was on the point of confession. It was after your historical sermon, when you threatened your flock with desertion. She came back to the church, but Miss Mack followed her, and headed her off. She could not screw up her courage for a second effort. I realised, then, the strength of Miss Mack's hypnotic hold over her."
"Go on," said the Rector, with his first show of real interest.
"Miss Mack seemed to suspect me, for she followed me into the garden, when I visited Miss Asprey. To throw her off the scent, I pretended to believe she was the victim of Miss Asprey's secret cruelty, and offered my help...Then, I reviewed the situation.
"As I told you, there were two explanations. The obvious was that Miss Corner had written both letters. But—if she did not know Miss Asprey had a second Christian name, the only other person who could conceivably have written it, was Miss Asprey herself."
The little man's face radiated joy in his acuteness.
"The one explanation seemed to entail another. I was perplexed as to the hold Miss Mack had over her employer, and guessed there must be some evidence. I remembered, too, that Miss Mack was the natural custodian of the waste-paper-basket. It seemed probable that Miss Asprey would not write her anonymous letter without first making some sort of rough draft, in her own writing. It was evident that, when she made her printed copy, the mere repetition of the charges had inflamed her to such a state of emotional frenzy that she unconsciously used her discarded initial when she addressed the envelope.
"She would not, therefore, realise the importance of the draft, which she presumably threw away."
Ignatius crowed with triumph, as he waved a long finger at the Rector.
"You see, Tigger? I knew there must be a draft, which Miss Mack had got hold of, and which was proof of authorship of the letters. When I had established this probability, I instructed a private enquiry agent to find out something about Miss Asprey and Miss Mack. He had no trouble in verifying Miss Mack's past, as a thief. He also got in touch with a contemporary of Miss Asprey's, who was at her last school, with her, and she told him of her hysteria.
"I had further proof of this, when that old clergyman came to lunch. Of course, decency forbade me to ask questions of him, and he would have told me nothing, if I had. But it seemed evident, from his reluctance to meet Miss Asprey again, that he wished to spare her a painful and embarrassing memory. So I was sure that she had given way to a violent fit of hysteria, when she crashed, and gave up her work, and that he had been a witness of it."
"I see now," said the Rector, "why it all hinged on who wrote that first letter."
"At last," sighed Ignatius. "I don't think there is much more to add. I kept my eye on that poison-head. The Scudamore tragedy proved that letters were being received, while, in the absence of general blackmail, Miss Asprey appeared to be the natural victim. I also discovered that Miss Asprey searched the house, to discover the draft, and, on one occasion, obtained it, for there was a struggle, when Miss Asprey was hurt. Joan Brook was with me when we heard her cry out in pain."
"Horrible," shuddered the Rector.
"It was. To my mind, there was something hideously grim in the way those two women clung to each other, like vines. In order to protect her guests, Miss Asprey did not dare let Miss Mack out of her sight, while even my offer of travel would not tempt the leech to leave her victim...Of course, I had to await developments and definite proof. And that is all."
The Rector stopped rubbing his eyeballs.
"I know I should thank you, Ignatius," he said. "But I'm thinking of my beautiful village. It stood for so much. What is left to me?"
"Everything," declared Ignatius. "All this should confirm your belief in human nature. To begin with, I expect nearly everyone here has received an anonymous letter; but they only reacted to the general uneasiness, and certainly did not lose their sleep. All this proves a marvellously healthy moral record, and sound consciences.
"Miss Asprey shows up well, too. Although she worshiped popularity, she laid herself under suspicion of bullying her companion, rather than expose Miss Mack in her true character of a shop-lifter.
"Even my old enemy, Miss Corner, was rather decent, for, although she didn't care specially for Miss Asprey, she never gossiped about old school-days.
"The Scudamore tragedy was nothing but a triumph of false social values. And the whole wretched business has served to rid Miss Asprey of a dangerous parasite, who would not have been satisfied until she drained her dry."
The Rector's face was a study in conflicting emotions, as he listened to the long speech. Presently, the light returned to his eye, as he felt a gush of his old joy of life. He wanted to thank his friend for his deliverance, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied. Therefore, although he did not know it, he showed his gratitude to Ignatius in the way most calculated to please him. He asked him a last question.
"You spoke of a woman who never smiled. Who is she?"
"Miss Mack, of course," replied Ignatius.
"But she is always smiling," said the Rector.
Ignatius was in his element, as he explained.
"That is exactly why I said she never smiles. A person will smile to express certain pleasant emotions—kindness, joy, amusement, and so on. But, as no one can experience perpetual happiness, a perpetual smile cancels itself out. I was on my guard directly I realised that Miss Mack's smile was no clue to her nature, but was worn as a mask."
A little later, Ignatius took his last walk through the village, accompanied by the Rector. The rain had ceased and the air was washed and fragrant. The black-and-white Tudor cottages gleamed under the starlight, like models of ebon and ivory. Every window was screened with its glowing blind of rose or orange.
Each house preserved its privacy, even while it had nothing to hide. There were no sinister secrets. Inside was domestic peace—contented maids in the kitchen, well-fed cats on the rug. Clocks ticked serenely, and music was drawn from the air.
The postman's knock sounded faintly in the distance. He was bringing the last post—family news, invitations, Charity appeals, receipted bills.
That was all. For nothing had happened here. Nothing would ever happen.
THE END
The village was beautiful. It was enfolded in a hollow of the Downs, and wrapped up snugly—first, in a floral shawl of gardens, and then, in a great green shawl of fields. Lilies and lavender grew in abundance. Bees clustered over sweet-scented herbs with the hum of a myriad spinning-wheels.
Although the cottages which lined the cobbled street were perfect specimens of Tudor architecture, the large houses on the green were, chiefly, of later date. The exception was a mellow Elizabethan mansion—'Spout Manor', on Miss Asprey's printed note-paper—but known locally by its original name of 'The Spout'. This was the residence of Miss Decima Asprey, the queen of the village—an elderly spinster of beautiful appearance and character, and possessed of the essential private means.
Miss Asprey's subjects were not only well-bred and charming, but endowed with such charity that there was no poverty or unemployment in the village. The ladies had not to grapple with a servant problem, which oiled the wheels of hospitality. If family feuds existed, they were not advertised, and private lives were shielded by drawn blinds. Consequently, the social tone was fragrant as rosemary, and scandal nearly as rare as a unicorn.
A perfect spot. Viewed from an airplane, by day, it resembled a black-and-white plaster model of a Tudor village, under a glass case. At night, however, when its lights began to glow faintly, it was like some ancient vessel, with barnacled hull and figure-head, riding in the peace of a forgotten port.
It was a spot which was rarely visited. There was no railway station, no floating population, and a stagnant birth-rate. Even Death seldom knocked at its doors, for the natives resented the mere idea of dying in such a delightful place.
But local prejudice, which had discouraged the Old Gentleman with the Scythe, was not strong enough to bar the triumphant progress of the motor-bus. Denied passage through its streets, the reeling green monster dropped its fares just outside the village, before it looped back to the London road.
One afternoon, in early summer, it brought a woman novelist from London—a thin, fashionable, attractive person, who wrote sensational serials, in order to live, although sometimes, when slumbering dreams stirred, she questioned their necessity. Although her high French heels seemed literally wrenched from city pavements, she had made the sacrifice in order to visit a friend, Joan Brook, who was companion to a local lady.
At the invitation of Lady d'Arcy—Joan's employer—the novelist had been entertained at the Court, a massive biscuit-hued Georgian pile, surrounded with lush parkland, and about a mile from the village. During their tea they had both been conscious of mangled strands of friendship, as they talked of impersonal matters.
Each viewed the other from the detached standard of criticism. Joan thought her friend's lips suggested that she had been affectionately kissing a freshly-painted pillar-box, while the novelist considered that the girl had run to seed badly. But when they walked back to the village they had been insensibly welded together in harmony, by the waving beauty of the fields, ripening for hay and steeped in the glow of sunset. Joan's sunburnt face proclaimed the fact that she never wore a hat, but the novelist, too, took off her tiny mesh of crocheted silk, without a thought of the set of her wave. Smoking as they sauntered, they entered the shady tunnel of the Quaker's Walk, half a mile of chestnut avenue.
"Like it?" asked the novelist.
"Love it." Joan's blue eyes glowed. "I know you think I'm buried. But this corpse hopes the Trump won't sound just yet. I've never been so happy."
"Pray it may last...Any social life?"
"Tennis and garden-parties, later on. The three big houses are the Hall, the Towers and the Court. The Court is ours. The Squire lives at the Hall. The rich people of the neighbourhood live at the Towers, but they're always away."
"Any men?"
"Two. The parson and Major Blair. The Major's a manly man and he belongs to Vivian Sheriff, the Squire's daughter. Vivian and I are the only girls here."
The novelist raised her painted butterfly brows.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "There's the Vivian-girl and the biological specimen. That leaves you and the padre. What's he like?"
"Rather a thrill. Big and black, with a voice like a gong. You should hear him hammer and bellow on Sundays. But I believe he's the genuine thing."
"Going to marry him?"
Joan was conscious of a slight recoil, so that she had to remind herself of her former standard of modern frankness.
"If he doesn't break away, I may," she replied. "After all, I've had to submit meekly to employers all my life, and I'd like to do some bossing myself, for a change. Purely, can't you see me telling the cottagers to boil their potatoes in their skins, and not to have any more babies?"
"I'd believe anything of you, Brook," remarked her friend. "By the way, what's your Lady d'Arcy like?"
"Big and vague, and drifts about aimlessly. I've nothing to do but to act as some sort of anchor. I get a big salary which I can't spend here. But it's not wasted at home. They're nearly sunk, bless 'em."
The novelist's face was not painted to be revealing, but she nodded to show her sympathy with the prevailing economic depression as she studied Joan through her monocle. The girl was tall and strong, with a face expressive of character, and fearless eyes. She wore a sleeveless white tennis-frock and silver slave-bangles on her brown arms. Although she had grown more solid, she seemed to be of compact virtues and charm.
"Well? The verdict?" asked Joan.
"Guilty!" replied her friend. "You're a last year's model. You've put on weight. Your lips look indecently like lips. And—darling, I'm jealous as hell."
"I know I wouldn't swap jobs with you." Joan gave a contented laugh. "This is really a marvellous place, Purley. Everyone has a pedigree and a private income. Everyone's kind. And, my dear, everyone's married."
"I get it. No love-babies, no drains. Gosh, what a picture!" As the two women emerged from the gloom of the avenue they saw the village with its ancient cottages and choked flower-gardens, all steeped in the carnation glow of sunset. At each step they seemed to turn a fresh page of a fairy-tale, with illuminated borders jumbled with box-edging, sage, damson-trees, beehives and a patchwork quilt of peonies, pinks and pansies. Golden girls and boys skipped in the street, while cats were growing mysterious as they awaited the herald—twilight. Soon their real life would begin.
The novelist surrendered herself to the enchantment, although her lip curled at evidence of the survival of the Feudal System, for all the children bobbed to the 'quality'.
As they lingered on the green, Joan pointed to a solid house of buff stucco, adorned with a clock-tower.
"That's 'Clock House'," she said. "The Scudamores live there. I hope we'll meet them, for they're types. They're terribly nice and terribly happily-married. I call them 'The Spirit of the Village'. You'd find them 'Copy'."
The novelist stifled her groan, as Joan proceeded to do the honours of the village. She waved her cigarette towards a grey stone house which was backed by the Norman church.
"The Rectory. My future home." She forced the note of impudence. "Just behind us is the doctor's house, but the walls hide it. It's Queen Anne and rather sweet. He and his wife always play tennis after dinner. You can hear them."
As they stood, listening, the dull thuds behind the rose-red bricks mingled with the faint laughter of children and the cawing of rooks in the elms. Suddenly, the novelist fell prostrate before the cumulative spell of the village.
"It's perfect," she declared. "I wonder if I could rent a cottage for the summer."
"If you did you'd never go back to London," Joan told her. "Nobody ever goes away, not even for holidays. Look out. Here are the Scudamores."
She guiltily hid her cigarette behind her back, as a middle-aged couple advanced, arm-in-arm, over the cobbles. The man had a clean-shaven, long-lipped, legal face, to proclaim him a lawyer with the best County connection, together with a nose which had been in his family for centuries.
His wife was also tall, and possessed of bleached beauty and elegance. Her luxuriant fair hair was fast fading to grey, and her draperies were indefinitely grey-green in colour, like a glacier-fed river.
She greeted Lady d'Arcy's companion with a gracious bow, but did not even glance at her companion.
"She didn't really like me," murmured the novelist when the Scudamores had passed. "Do I look like a fallen woman? Tell her I'm respectable, if painted."
"My dear," gurgled Joan, "she's so charitable that she would not take a chance of disliking you. That's why she wouldn't look. She's a bit overwhelming, but a real Christian...I say, Purley."
As Joan paused and regarded her friend intently, the novelist braced herself to meet the inevitable question.
"Can't you make a story out of this village?"
"You would say that." The novelist's tone was acid. "But, my good woman, what possible copy could I find here? Jane Austen's beaten me to Cranford. The truth is, my child, if there'd been no Fall, there'd be no Publishers and no Lending Libraries."
"But there must be a story everywhere," persisted Joan.
"Not for me."
"Oh, come, Purley, have a shot at it. I want to be amused."
The novelist puckered up her painted lips in a whimsical smile.
"All right," she conceded. "But I'll have to follow my own special line. Something like this. This village seems an earthly paradise, with a population of kindly gracious souls. But the flowers are growing on slime. When twilight falls, they light their lamps and draw down their blinds. And then—when no one can see them they lead their real lives."
"For example?" urged Joan.
"Well, to begin with, that highly-respectable married couple, who disapproved of my lips, are not really married to each other, but are living in sin."
"You priceless chump. Tell me the story of their double life."
"No, I must outline my synopsis first and collect my characters...Hum. The Parsonage is hidden by those discreet yews, so the Rector hasn't got to wait until dark. I think, at this moment, he's throwing a bottle-and-pyjama party with some very hot ladies from town. As for your doctor, he's slowly poisoning his wife, and their tennis is his opportunity. When they've finished their game, she'll be thirsty, and her devoted husband will see to it that she gets the right quencher. Something safe, and very painful."
"Ugh," grimaced Joan. "When I'm Mrs. Padre, I'll ban your novels in our village library."
Once again she was urged to speak recklessly of her designs on the Rector, from a clouded feeling that she was protecting herself from the unforgivable charge of sentiment. Lighting another cigarette, she strolled after her friend, who was peering through the scrolls of lacey iron-work which ornamented the gates of 'The Spout'.
In the distance, against a background of laurels, the novelist saw an austere, silver-haired woman, seated on a bench beside a lily-pond. Her hands were clasped and her eyes raised as though in meditation. She held her pose so rigidly that the folds of her white gown appeared to be carven marble, creating the illusion of an enshrined saint.
But even as the novelist readjusted her monocle, the statue dissolved into life at a touch of warm humanity. Down the yew alley, pottered a little dumpy woman, carrying a glass of milk on a tray. The tall lady patted her shoulders, in thanks, and then drained the glass hastily, as though in obedience to the laws of nutrition, but with a supreme contempt for digestion.
When she walked towards the house, followed by her companion, the difference in their heights was ludicrous, for she was above the usual stature, while her employee was below the average.
"Miss Asprey and her companion, Miss Mack," whispered Joan. "She's an earthly saint, and so good she's not quite human. Miss Mack simply worships her, and runs after her like a little dog."
"Then they shall go into my serial," announced the novelist. "Listen. In reality, your pure, saintly Miss Asprey is a secret sadist. Directly the blinds are drawn, she will begin to torture her poor little companion."
"Can you help being a fool?" asked Joan unkindly.
"You asked for this story, didn't you? Now I'll outline the plot, while we're waiting to go to the bus."
Leaning against the white posts which ringed the green, Joan listened dreamily to her friend's sensational story, which foamed with melodramatic incidents. But even while she laughed at its utter absurdity, she resented it, subconsciously, as an outrage.
'What's the matter with me?' she wondered. 'Purley's really terribly funny. It's only a leg-pull. But—it's cheap.'
She was grateful when her friend grew tired, and glanced at her watch.
"Better be pushing on," she remarked. "Although I just hate to leave this."
The grass was like water-silk, mottled with bars of sunken gold and the cottages rocked through a lavender mist. Twilight was veiling the street as they walked towards the inn, but there were no lights in the village. People sat at open windows, or hung over gates, exchanging greetings and gossip with passers-by. Everyone seemed to be sharing the universal friendship of this interval 'between the lights'.
The moment of withdrawal was at hand.
Presently the novelist stopped, arrested by the sight of a dim, low, lath-and-plaster building, enclosed within a paved garden.
"Gosh, I can smell mildew," she said. "I take it, that is the oldest house in the village."
"I knew you'd make that mistake," exulted Joan. "Every tripper does. That's only a fake-antique, built from fragments of old barns, and it's got every sort of modern improvement. I love it, but the village resents it, especially as its owner is a newcomer. She's only been here eleven years."
"Who's the lucky woman?" sighed the novelist.
"Our local novelist—Miss Julia Corner."
Instantly the writer registered that automatic nonrecognition of her profession towards other members of the tribe.
"Never heard of her. What name does she write under?"
"Her own, and she does jolly well, too. She's a dear old Jumbo, with a perfectly grim sense of humour."
"Hum." The novelist thought of her own tiny mansion-flat. "Evidently, she makes virtue pay. Any special line?"
"Yes, she's the President of our local Temperance Society, and she makes the children sign the Pledge."
"Then, to pay her out for having a better house than me, I'll put her into my serial. She's a secret drinker and hides a bottle of whisky in her wardrobe. At this minute, she is lying under the bed, dead drunk."
Even as she spoke, the oaken door, white with age, was opened, and a massive figure blocked the entry, waving a teapot, in welcome.
"Come in for a cup of tea," she shouted.
"Sorry, but we're catching the bus," called Joan.
Instantly Miss Corner swayed down the flagged path to the garden gate, moving with the deceptive speed of an elephant. The writer from London saw a big red face, radiant with good-nature, bobbed iron-grey hair—cut in a fringe—and beaming eyes behind large horn-rimmed spectacles. Miss Corner wore an infantile Buster Brown blouse, adorned with wide collar and ribbon bow, and a grey tweed skirt.
"I'm just writing a short tale for the Christmas Number of a Boy's Annual," she announced proudly. "It's commissioned, of course. I take a generic interest in boys. Won't you come in and be introduced to my collaborator—Captain Kettle?"
She laughed heartily at her joke, but the source of her amusement was the stranger's painted lips and monocle. When Joan introduced her friend, she held out her big hand cordially.
"A fellow writer?" she exclaimed. "What name do you write under?"
"I'm sorry, but we mustn't stop," said Joan hastily.
"Pity," remarked Miss Corner. "I should love to talk shop. For instance, do you let yourself be grabbed by your characters, or do you go out deliberately to collect copy?"
"She's already found a story in this village," said Joan.
"Then I presume it's for your Parish Magazine," grinned Miss Corner. "Well, since you persist in going, I must return to my boys. Good-bye. Give my love to my special boy—Eros."
They heard her chuckle rumbling from behind the sweet-briar hedge as they walked away.
"What'd you think of her?" asked Joan.
The novelist did not reply, for she was suddenly gripped with overwhelming nostalgia. At that moment, London seemed so far away—a place to which she would never return. She felt as though she were being held by the village—no longer a sunset pool of beauty—but a witched, forgotten spot of whispers, and echoes, and old musty twilight stories.
"Are we far from the inn?" she asked wearily.
"No. Nearly there."
"Good. I could do with a gin-and-it."
The King's Head was a long, low, ancient building, with the faded oil-painting of some dead monarch pendant above its doorway. A faint glow from a hanging ironwork lantern flickered feebly on peeling plaster walls and tiny lattice windows. The writer flopped down on an old settle and stared out at the spread of dark silent country.
"Didn't you want a drink?" asked Joan hospitably.
"No. Desire is dead."
The friends sat in silence, which was presently broken by the novelist.
"Do people ever try to get away from here?" she asked.
"They don't want to," replied Joan. "Miss Asprey has a housemaid—Ada—who's the most beautiful girl I've seen. You'd think she'd want to go on the Stage or the Films, but her only ambition is to be Miss Asprey's parlourmaid. It would take about a ton of dynamite to shift her to Hollywood."
The writer made no comment, for her very mind seemed root-bound.
And then—suddenly—the miracle happened. Two golden sparks appeared in the distance, while a murmur vibrated through the darkness. As they watched, the lights grew brighter and larger, and then were lost in a dip of the landscape. But the hum deepened into a snarl, and round the bend of the road reeled a green monster motor-bus, with brilliant windows and the magic name 'LONDON' glowing in flaming letters.
It looked so utterly incongruous in that forsaken wilderness, as to appear unreal, like a vision of the Mechanical Age of the Future projected before the incredulous vision of some dreamer in the Past.
At the sight of it, the novelist's heart leaped in welcome. London. It reminded her that she was going back to grime and noise—to pavements and city lights. In her joy, she was swept away on a wave of insincere enthusiasm.
"I've loved every minute," she declared. "Good thing I'm going back, or the village might have got me, too."
"Too?" echoed Joan. "What d'you mean by that?"
The writer looked at her friend and was suddenly aware of the origin of her change.
"You're in love, Brooky," she said accusingly. "The village can't get you, because a man's got in first. Well, good-bye. Don't forget to tell me how my serial works out."
"I won't," promised Joan. "Shame you've got to go back."
"A shattering shame."
Joan was guiltily conscious of relief as she watched her friend climb briskly into the bus. In her turn, the novelist sank gratefully into her seat, and waved her hand in farewell. She was leaving peace and beauty, and she left them gladly. When the dark countryside began to slide slowly past the window, she watched it flow behind her, with a smile on her lips.
She was going back to London.
Joan stood before the inn and watched the motor-bus, until it had roared out of sight. Slowly the dust sifted down again, to mingle with the soil of its origin. The fumes of petrol rose higher and higher, until they were dissipated in the aether. The faint snarl of the engine sped on its journey to the last lone star.
'I'm glad old Purley's gone,' thought Joan, lighting another cigarette for company.
When she walked slowly through the village, the moon had risen and was silvering the old Tudor buildings, transforming them to ebon and ivory. Everyone had gone indoors; the lamps were lit and the blinds were drawn. Once again, the old ship rode at anchor in the dead port of Yesterday.
Joan was reminded of her friend's serial, by those screened windows, and her lip curled with derision. She knew each lighted interior so well, and was familiar with the evening's procedure. Miss Corner was tapping away at her incredible epic of how the Mile was won by the smallest boy in the school. The doctor and his wife were reading, for they subscribed to a London Library. In this big house they listened in to classical music on the air, and in that small one they drank cocoa and played Patience.
Everywhere was domestic drama, staged in the peace of Curfew. There were contented servants in comfortable kitchens; well-fed cats and dogs sleeping on rugs; clocks ticking away serene hours.
There was nothing to tell her that her friend's fantastic melodrama was justified by even one instance of insecurity and misery, or what was really happening behind drawn blinds. Only the walls heard—and they kept their secret.
Two days had passed since the novelist's return to London, and nothing survived her visit but a few gnat-bites on her ankles and a filmy memory. The village retained even less of her personality; Joan washed her entirely from her mind, while no one mentioned the painted stranger with the monocle. The picture-paper which was printing her current serial was not in local circulation, so not even her work remained.
But, although life flowed on with the tranquillity of a brimful glassy river, the peace and security of the village was about to be shattered. Like a certain small animal which precedes a beast-of-prey, the novelist had been the herald of disaster. The communal harmony was static; but the first disrupting incident was timed for that evening.
Dr. Perry was late in coming home to dinner. He pushed open his garden-gate with his habitual sense of a mariner returning to port, as he saw the mellow red-brick front of the Queen Anne house. The shaven lawn was veined with evening sunlight, and the wide border of tall pink tulips and forget-me-nots—although imperceptibly past perfection—was still a cloud of shot azure and rose.
He was met on the steps of the porch by a reproachful wife. He had married his dispenser—the daughter of an impoverished Irish peer—and, therefore a stranger; but the village had accepted her on the credential of her husband.
At first sight, they appeared an ill-assorted couple. The doctor belonged to one of the oldest families, and was pale and thin, with a pleasant manner and a tired voice, while his wife was very dark and possessed a parched, passionate beauty.
The black rings around her eyes and her crumpled evening-gown of golden tissue gave her the appearance of a disreputable night-club hostess greeting the dawn; but a strong scent of violet-powder was a clue to a domestic occupation. She had just finished the job of bathing two resisting infants, and, as maternity was, to her, an emotional storm, she had exhausted herself with their wriggles and her own intense rapture.
"Well, Marianne," said her husband, kissing her lightly, "how's the family?"
"In bed," replied Marianne Perry, in her deep, throbbing voice, "I do wish you'd been here to see them in their bath. Micky nearly swam."
"Good. But you look a wet rag," remarked the doctor, as they walked through the wide, panelled hall. The western sun shone through delphinium-blue curtains, revealing an artistic interior, which was rather marred by scattered toys and two perambulators parked in corners.
"Got a pain." Marianne clasped the region of her waist. "Darling, are you poisoning me, so that you can marry my rival, Miss Corner?"
The doctor was false to the London novelist's conception of a double-character, for he displayed no anxiety.
"Too many green gooseberries," he said lightly. "Better take some bicarbonate of soda. It'll settle you, one way—or the other."
"Make me sick? I want my dinner, you brute." Marianne dragged the doctor away from the staircase. "No, you can't change. You're too late. Dinner's dished up."
Arm-in-arm, they entered the dining-room, a pleasant, well-proportioned apartment, hung with oatmeal linen and furnished with a walnut suite. The table-silver was tarnished and the service sketchy, but the meal was remarkably good. Apparently the doctor was not making a success of poisoning his wife, for she ate with a good appetite, in spite of her alleged pain.
"How's the practice?" she asked presently.
"As usual," replied the doctor. "Nothing revealing."
"Been to see Miss Corner?"
"No."
"Liar. Let me see your case-book."
The doctor laid it on the tablecloth without comment.
"I'm going to make up the books after dinner," announced his wife, flicking open the pages.
She spoke with relish, for this was a favourite occupation. The village took its health seriously, and was punctilious in its payments, so that she knew that she was not merely rolling up a paper income when she added up the columns.
"'J.C.', 'J.C.'," she murmured. "Miss Corner's as good as an annuity. What's the matter with her?"
"Suppose you ask her yourself?"
"I know. She's too fat. Is she rich?"
"I don't know."
"But, Horatio, that house cost thousands to build, and there is no money shortage there. She pays her cook seventy. She can't do it on her silly books."
"No?"
"'No?'" Marianne parodied her husband's toneless voice. "My good man, are you ever interested in anything or anyone?"
"That's a curious charge to make." The doctor spoke with his usual inertia, but there was a fugitive gleam in his quiet eyes. "Actually, I endure a chronic condition of frustrate curiosity...I admit, I care nothing for anyone's income, so long as he pays my bill, and I can't get excited about common-or-garden ailments. But—I would like to know what is really at the back of anyone's mind."
"Does anyone?" asked Marianne. "Do you know me?"
"No." The doctor winced as his wife began to dismember a fowl with her usual furious energy. "I wish I did. I should know then why you insist on carving. You'd make a devastating surgeon."
"I carve, because I hate to see you with a knife. You're so deadly professional that I feel I'm watching an operation. And that's a true message from the Back of Beyond, Mr. Curious...By the way, Micky's got a new word. It sounded just like 'bloody'. But I'm waiting for him to say it again, and living in hope."
During the remainder of the meal, Marianne talked exclusively of her infants. Before it was actually finished, she sprang to her feet and again clasped her waist passionately.
"I was a fool to have any dinner," she exclaimed. "My inside's woke up and is swearing at me like mad."
"Bicarbonate," murmured her husband. "How about some tennis, later on?"
"No, my beloved, Momma's no time to play with her biggest baby, this evening. After I'm through with the dispensing I'm going to get busy on those books."
Her eyes glowed at the prospect, and she entirely forgot her interior grumbles.
"I just love it," she declared. "Figures are a real joy to me. I ought to have been a bookie. And all the time I'm jotting down items I'm saying, 'Here's a packet of rusks for baby', and 'Here's new woollen panties for Micky'. What are you going to do?"
"Finish my novel."
The doctor strolled into the drawing-room, which was a cool, pleasant place, of faint pastel-tints, and green from the shade of plane-trees. Stretched on the faded old-rose divan, with his boots wrinkling the silken spread, he lost himself in the translation of a Russian play. Presently, Marianne entered, loaded with stationery, which she dumped down on the bureau.
She gave a cry at the disorder of the couch.
"Curse you, darling. Those cushions are clean."
The doctor slipped guiltily off the divan.
"I think I'll go and smoke a pipe with the padre," he said.
"Do. Go before I slay you. Give my love to that young man and tell him to stop shouting in the pulpit. As a mother, I protest against his waking up all the babies in Australia. And you needn't hurry back, for you're not popular. Leave me your novel."
The doctor fished it up from the carpet.