THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
utterance. They could not tell, then, that when they were plunged, later, into the dark labyrinth of mystery, a gramophone record of the evening's conversation would hold a clue to one of the key-positions.
"You ought to take a holiday," advised the Rector.
"Too much fag."
The doctor's dragging voice was scarcely audible. Night was dropping on the village in veil upon veil of cloudy blue, citrine, and grey. The men sank lower in their chairs and sucked at their pipes, at peace with Nature and themselves. They might have been sunken in the subaqueous gloom of a fathomless sea—untroubled by the screws of steamers churning the waters above.
Yet, even then, the first blow was about to fall on the village. Far away, in the distance, sounded the postman's double-knock. Presently, he appeared in sight, a little globe of a man, with steel-rimmed spectacles. He rejected the Rectory, but entered the gates of 'The Spout'. They heard his familiar rat-tat, and then they saw him come out of the garden again, and go on his way—but they did not recognise him for the herald of disaster.
Presently the Rector stirred to life.
"Chilly," he remarked. "We'd better go in and have a whisky."
As the men rose stiffly from their low chairs, the Rectory gate creaked, and Rose—Miss Asprey's unhappily-named parlourmaid—stalked up the gravel drive. She was a gaunt, long-lipped dragoon of a woman, and had been in service at a Bishop's palace, so did not pay the local homage to the parson. Her voice was harsh as she gave her commands.
"Miss Asprey's compliments, and will you please to come over, at once."
"Is it urgent?" asked the Rector, not too pleased at the prospect, for his lighted study windows called him, and the whisky was waiting.
"The mistress says please come at once, as it's most important."
"Certainly, then, I'll be over directly."
Rose's tall, black-and-white figure led the way down the path, as the Rector turned to Dr. Perry.
"I suppose you won't wait for me?"
"Thanks, padre, I will," replied the doctor. "I believe Gillie Potter is on the air tonight, so I'll amuse myself with your Wireless."
As he looked after his host, his usually listless eyes were bright with interest, and he meant to wait until midnight, if necessary, for the Rector's return.
For he was positive that his famished curiosity was going to have a feast, and that—for the first time in the history of the village—there would be no clean pillow-slips.
CHAPTER IV — ANONYMOUS
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