Ralph took up the flimsy pink sheet and folded it in half then over again. He put the small square into his notecase and looked thoughtfully down at his plate. The early sun was pouring in at the window, picking out the silver hairs at his temples and mercilessly emphasizing the harsh lines of his face. A half empty coffee cup stood before him, for he had almost finished his breakfast before the post arrived. A fleeting thought came to him that this was just as well, since a hard knot seemed to have formed in the pit of his stomach, and he felt that it would now be a physical impossibility to swallow food. The letter was out of sight; the printed words were as clear before his eyes as if he still held it before them.
He said aloud, ‘Impossible, of course. A damned dirty tissue of lies.’
Corpse Path Cottage — that man’s arms — the whole thing was ludicrous, so utterly unlikely. Would Laura, out of the blue, visit a stranger in a tumbledown cottage, and then and there fall into his arms? Tormented as he too often was by jealousy concerning her, he was not so jealous a fool as to swallow that. And, since it was not, it could not be jealousy which was drying his throat and making his breath come fast, it must be anger. Though so contemptible a thing should not have power even to anger him.
He pushed away his plate and walked to the window, gazing with unseeing eyes across the neglected lawn, glittering with dew in the sunlight. Birds were singing all around; there was scarcely a breeze to stir the heavy blossom hanging from the white lilac and scenting the air. Away from his domain, the slope was thickly clustered with green where the wood led to the right of way past Corpse Path Cottage, secret and remote in its hollow. Corpse Path Cottage — a place for a meeting — a strange place for a stranger to choose for a dwelling. Unless, indeed, he had come here for any purpose of his own. Unless he had known Laura before.
It was out now, the secret thought. He felt the moisture on his forehead and took out his handkerchief, wiping it with a shaking hand. If she had loved me, he thought, I should never have been like this; and with the thought the door opened, and his wife came into the room.
She wore a housecoat of emerald green, tightly fitting the upper part of her body, and very full skirted. Her face, innocent of makeup, met the brilliant sunshine triumphantly. She looked lovely as a dream.
‘Oh,’ she remarked, as he turned. ‘I thought you had gone.’
‘I’m just going.’
She strolled to the table, sat down, and helped herself to toast and marmalade.
‘What I could do to a hearty English breakfast!’ she said.
‘I should think we could run to more than that,’ said Ralph, looking at the minute finger on her plate.
‘No doubt. The thing is, I can’t. You wouldn’t wish me to lose my sylph-like figure, would you, my sweet?’
She met his brooding gaze with a touch of defiance.
Ralph said slowly, ‘There are more important things in life than looks, you know.’
‘I’m afraid you forgot that when you married me,’ she said.
The colour came up in his dark face. She nibbled her toast, conscious of a little pleasurable thrill. It was so easy to wound him, to flick that defensive pride of his on the raw. A good joke that he should make light of her looks, considering the effect that they had on him, even now; only, of course, he hated his subjection. She had soon realized that. Well, he was not the only one to be disappointed. A tumbledown farm, which proudly called itself the Manor — a struggling farmer, who had buried her in this godforsaken hole. Her own fault, no doubt, but none the easier to bear for that. And she knew what he wanted well enough, but there was time enough for that. If he knew everything he would not be so anxious for her to produce him an heir. Heir — to this! A pity, as he felt so strongly on the subject that he had not picked a wife elsewhere. Life in God’s Blessing was grim enough at the best of times. She certainly did not intend to be tied there hand and foot by the demands of a child. Even if—
She looked at Ralph standing darkly against the light, and her heart lurched suddenly. She could manage him, yes — except on those occasions, more frequent of late, when his temper mastered him. It was a slow-moving affair, but once it was roused she was, as she had told Mark Endicott, afraid.
‘Is — is anything wrong, Ralph?’ she asked.
‘Why? Why should there be?’
His voice was normal, but she did not care for the way he was watching her. Oh God, another scene, she thought, and wished with all her heart that she had not taunted him.
‘Oh, no reason,’ she said lightly, ‘only you seemed to be waiting about, almost as if you had something on your mind.’
‘Your wifely consideration does you credit,’ he said.
‘Oh, well, if you want to take it like that . . .’
She helped herself to another finger of toast, not looking at him, but unpleasantly conscious of his brooding gaze. The room seemed very quiet. She thought, with sick exasperation, will he never go?
As if coming suddenly to himself, Ralph glanced at the clock and started slightly.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed, quite naturally. ‘I was to meet Rawlings at nine. I must go.’
He limped to the door and paused, holding the handle. He said, ‘By the way, I meant to ask you. Did you ever come across that fellow Endicott?’
Mark, when he called Laura a good actress, had spoken no more than the truth. In the fraction of time which passed between the question and her answer her brain raced, but her face did not change colour, and her expression was one of mild surprise.
‘You mean the mysterious gent at Corpse Path Cottage? No, I haven’t had that pleasure. Why do you ask?’
‘You spoke of going to see him — to ask if he had any hand in that ridiculous book.’
‘Oh, that!’ she laughed, immeasurably relieved. ‘Of course I never meant to go. Just a feeble joke to amuse his Reverence. You said at the time he couldn’t have written it, so naturally I had no reason to go.’
‘None,’ agreed Ralph, opening the door. ‘Unless, of course, you happened to have known him before.’
She caught her breath. ‘Are you suggesting—’
‘Suggesting?’ His hard gaze raked her. ‘I’m suggesting nothing. You seem very upset, Laura. Surely my chance remark didn’t hit the bullseye?’
‘Don’t be silly. I was merely a little startled. Naturally if I had known him I should have told you.’
She met his eyes with exactly the right degree of slightly puzzled innocence in her own.
‘I must say, Ralph, I find your attitude rather peculiar. One would think I was in the habit of deceiving you.’
‘Oh, no, my sweet. Not that,’ said Ralph.
He was smiling, but his smile brought her no reassurance. Instead, the hand of fear closed coldly around her heart. It became an actual physical effort to hold her indifferent pose. Mark could not, surely, he had promised, and she had never known him break his word. She thought, if he does not speak I shall scream.
‘Because,’ said Ralph, still smiling, ‘if you were in the habit of deceiving me I should infallibly discover it. And if I did discover it I should just as infallibly kill you.’
On the quietly spoken words he went out, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps cross the hall and crunch haltingly along the gravel of the drive. She sat quite still, looking straight ahead of her. She had not moved a quarter of an hour later, when the maid came in to clear the breakfast things away.
CHAPTER XIII
THE WEATHER FORECAST for 26 July, the day of the annual Church Garden Fête, was unsettled to an infuriating degree. The long dry spell was due to break, as Mrs Richards knew well enough, but she thought in her heart that fervent prayers for rain might well be held over until the fête was safely a thing of the past. It was bad enough for stalls to be crammed into the suffocating atmosphere of the Sunday School hall, but added to this rain would mean the death knell to many immoral and lucrative sideshows, not to mention the children’s sports and a display
of barefoot dancing by the pupils of a highly select school whose principal was an admirer of the poetry of Mrs Oliphant. The opening ceremony, too, graciously undertaken by Lady Bingham of Bingham Grange, would be far more impressive on the green stretch of the vicarage lawn beneath the great cedar tree than with Abraham and Isaac peering hideously from the background. However, biblical works of art and all, if the rains came, the Sunday School hall it would have to be.
From dewy morn the preparations began. Loaded females with distraught expressions shot in and out of the vicarage, colliding in doorways and generally getting in one another’s way. Mr Richards hovered around like a well-meaning ghost, not on lissom printless clerical toes, since he was wearing new boots which hurt him considerably. He felt, subconsciously, the need for support from one of his own sex and was filled with gratitude when he saw Ralph Grey approaching him, accompanied by Mr Heron, who was to be in charge of the sports billed to take place in a neighbouring field. He was pleased to see that Ralph bore his sheaves with him, in the shape of a couple of rabbits and a white cockerel, all lately deceased.
‘Ha!’ ejaculated Mr Richards, smiling happily. ‘Thank you, thank you, my dear fellow. We shall raffle these, I think — by far the best way of bringing in the shekels.’ He laughed gently, rubbing his hands together.
‘An immoral business, if you ask me,’ observed Mr Heron, grinning. ‘The gambling fever corrupts God’s Blessing. I’ll have a couple of tickets myself. I could do with a square meal by way of a change. The last beef we had, my wife and I sat speechless for twenty minutes. Couldn’t chew the gravy.’
Mr Richards was not listening. For the first time, and with a definite shock, he had seen Ralph Grey’s face.
He said diffidently, ‘Forgive me, my dear fellow, but is anything wrong? You don’t look yourself at all.’
‘Nothing wrong with me,’ said Ralph shortly.
‘You certainly look a bit under the weather,’ said Mr Heron, observing him with some curiosity.
‘It’s nothing, I tell you. Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. The heat, probably. There’s thunder on the way.’
‘If we were not in such urgent need of rain,’ said Mr Richards, his eyes on the scurrying figures beneath the trees, ‘I would say, heaven forbid.’
At eleven o’clock, a scud of rain set the helpers fluttering like agitated doves. By the time the fancy needlework stall had been cleared of its carefully arranged stock the clouds had cleared, and the sun shone brilliantly. Muttering but undaunted, the ladies set the stall again.
‘The devil’s in the weather,’ grunted Mr Heron, for a moment presenting his face instead of his wide rear to the sky as he paused in his labours of marking out the course.
‘Conjured up by Miss Margetson, no doubt,’ said Ralph, who was assisting him.
Mr Heron hissed happily. ‘Talking of that fool book, have you heard the tale that’s going the rounds?’
‘I don’t think so. What tale?’
‘That the man of mystery at Corpse Path Cottage is the author. And none too popular for it.’
‘Pack of nonsense,’ said Ralph shortly. ‘He couldn’t have done it in the time.’
‘Not in the time he’s been in the cottage. Naturally. But he may have passed this way before.’
‘And not be noticed? In God’s Blessing?’
‘There are those who say he was noticed. And if you cast your mind back you can recall the days when God’s Blessing was so full of strangers that one more or less would be lost in the crowd.’
‘The camp?’
‘Why not? It’s possible, you know. After all, someone wrote it.’
This Ralph was unable to deny. They worked in silence for some moments, then Mr Heron looked up again.
‘Author or no, there are some queer tales about the bloke.’
‘Oh?’ grunted Ralph discouragingly.
‘Apparently he told the entire bus load on the morning of his arrival a pretty tale — something about a hunted murderer being glad to find a hiding place in that crazy cottage.’
‘Tight, probably. Or pulling their legs.’
‘Making game of the yokels? Could be. Only so-called yokels don’t like that sort of thing, and I don’t blame them. But however you look at it, it was a queer thing to do. And then he knocks young Marlowe down—’
‘Good for him,’ said Ralph.
‘You may be right,’ said Mr Heron handsomely, ‘I can forgive him for that. But when it comes to leading virtuous females astray . . .’
‘What the devil are you getting at?’
Mr Heron jerked up his head in surprise.
‘I say, hadn’t you better come up to the house and rest? You don’t look good at all.’
‘Blast you!’ snarled Ralph. ‘Leave me alone, and finish what you were saying.’
Mr Heron was slow to anger, and Ralph, his chairman of managers, but his colour rose.
‘I don’t know why you should take that tone, Mr Grey,’ he observed.
Ralph swallowed. With a great effort he regained control. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have spoken like that.’
‘Granted. Though I was rather surprised to find you so worked up over Miss Faraday.’
‘Miss Faraday?’
The utter incredulity of his tone brought enlightenment to Mr Heron. He hissed that his bonny lay over the ocean, cursed himself for a tattling fool, and wished himself a hundred miles away. And yet, how was he to know? To his knowledge, no word of gossip had linked Laura Grey’s name with that of the newcomer, though there had been scandal enough muttered in another connection, God save us from pretty ladies, thought Mr Heron piously, and calling to mind the features of his spouse, was comforted.
‘Did you say Miss Faraday?’ repeated Ralph.
‘Believe it or not,’ replied Mr Heron, rallying. ‘I don’t wonder you’re surprised. I was myself. Never would have believed it.’
‘Is there anything to believe?’
Ralph spoke in his normal voice. Mr Heron, softly hissing ‘Cherry Ripe’, was relieved.
‘Probably not,’ he admitted, ‘but it makes a good story.’
Ralph laughed, and anxious to bury the memory of his display of emotion, related another story, both apocryphal and unprintable, which went well. They finished their morning’s work in amity but avoiding any further mention of the name of Endicott. Mr Heron afterwards mentioned to his wife that there was more at the back of Ralph’s sudden gust of temper than met the eye. Mrs Heron fully concurred, adding darkly that with such women as Laura Grey, all things were possible. Mr Heron facetiously asked if she were by any chance moved by jealousy, to which she replied that any woman so misguided as to desire himself might take him with her blessing. A few like compliments passed with the utmost good humour, after which they spoke of other things.
* * *
The day of the Garden Fête was to be long remembered in God’s Blessing. The thunderstorm alone would have been enough to mark it since its like had not been known in the village in living memory. And yet, as Mrs Richards afterwards tearfully said, at the opening ceremony not a cloud was visible in the burning sky.
She spoke the truth. The sun, so coy in the morning, by early afternoon decided to show its mettle. Strong men sweated visibly, and without shame. Women who had prudently set out in costumes smiled sickly smiles and looked on those in flimsy summer dresses with an envy which was truly burning. Ices were sold out in the first hour, and there was a roaring trade in tepid and tasteless lemonade. Every leaf hung heavy on the branches, and no breath of air stirred the bunting chastely draped from tree to tree. The airy muslins of the barefoot dancers clung lovingly to their forms, outlining them with a clarity not always kind. Laura Grey, drifting across the lawn in a filmy turquoise dress and toiling not, took note of the perspiring damsels, and a momentary sardonic amusement lit the boredom on her face. The husband of Mrs Cossett, on holiday and brought like a lamb to the slaughter, looked likewise and for the first time that day was seen to smile. Mr
s Shergold, bolt upright on her chair, watched the curvetting of a plumply quivering damsel and smiled not at all.
In the sports ground, half an hour later, the heir of all the Cossetts held up a race by beating the starting pistol thrice and was ordered off the turf. Naturally hurt by such treatment, he waylaid the winner, who was of a fragile appearance and demanded half his prize money with horrid threats. As the victorious youth took a poor view of this suggestion, Master Cossett advanced upon him, and was instantly butted in the stomach. Loud laughter rang unpleasantly in his ears as he clasped his middle uttering strange sounds, whilst the victor scuttled to safety at the side of his parents.
Miss Faraday, standing behind the jumble stall, felt every stitch she wore clinging to her body, whilst the ominous beginnings of a headache made her temples throb. The heavy garments which she was handling were offensive alike to touch and smell. On all sides, she was assailed by requests to knock down this or that article in price, a thing which she had been strictly forbidden to do during the first two hours of the sale. Mere instrument though she was, her refusal was taken ill, and with mutterings. Her own hat she had removed for a moment, when it had instantly been whisked away, thereby making it clear that some were present who meant to find bargains, by hook or by crook. A jumble sale, she thought, together with flower shows and amateur theatricals, roused the worst human instincts, and all were immoral affairs which should not be allowed.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Mrs Richards, bustling up.
‘Not too well,’ said Amy sadly. ‘They all want reductions.’
‘What do they think we’re doing, giving the stuff away? The prices couldn’t well be lower. Well, hold the fort. It’s only half an hour before Miss Morris is due to relieve you.’
She nodded, gave Amy a smile without warmth, and bustled away. A moment later her voice was heard upraised in encouragement by the bowling for the pig. Amy felt a reluctant affection. Nobody could deny that she was a worker, and well meaning.
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