The Watersplash by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

sound of music.
    Everything in Edward stiffened. After all, there was one familiar thing which had slipped from his mind. It was Friday, and on a Friday night from nine to ten Arnold would be in the church practising for Sunday. The Hall made its own electric light, and its supply extended to the church. The days when a village child panted over the bellows were gone. The organ was a fine one, and Arnold could take his fill of music. The village was proud of his playing. On a summer evening the musically inclined would stand and listen for ten minutes or so before going on their way with the remark that Mr. Arnold did play lovely.
    Edward felt no urge to stand and listen. His softened mood was gone. He frowned in the dark, lengthened his stride, and nearly collided with someone making a wavering course from the village. He said sharply, “Hold up, man!” and lent a hand to the process. The fellow had been drinking. He swayed where he stood and said, “Beg pardon, sir.” Edward turned the torch on him. Reddish hair and a dead white face. If it hadn’t been for that unnatural pallor, he might not have known him, but wet or fine, boy or man, sun, wind or rain, William Jackson’s skin had never tanned. “Colour of cream cheese,” Edward could remember old Fullerby saying. “And no more the matter with him than with you nor with me, Mr. Edward.” It was William Jackson all right, and quite a bit the worse for wear. Edward spoke his name, and William straightened up.
    “That’s right, Mr. Edward—going home—that’s me—just going home—”
    “Well, you’d better be careful over the stones. They’re slippery.”
    There was an unsteady laugh.
    “I’m all right—couldn’t slip if I tried to. Nails in my boots, that’s what does it—and over those stones four times a day reg’lar. Got the old cottage at the turn, Annie and me have. That’s since your time. Matter of two years we been married— Annie Parker that used to work for Miss Lucy Wayne. Left her a nice little bit, Miss Lucy did, so we bought the cottage and I put up the banns.”
    The drink was more in his legs than in his tongue, but he was in a mood to stand talking, and Edward was not. He said briskly,
    “Well, you’d better be getting along—and mind your step.”
    William Jackson swayed. He could stand all right if he wanted to—stand as steady as any of them. The trouble was, he didn’t know whether he wanted to be coming or going. There was Mr. Arnold up there in the church, and what did he have that last pint for if it wasn’t to get him so he could stand his ground and say the piece he planned to say? But there was Mr. Edward here—suppose he was to say his piece to Mr. Edward. There was the two of them in it—Mr. Arnold up at the church, and Mr. Edward here in the lane. He didn’t rightly know—he didn’t ought to have had that last pint— He said in a doubtful voice,
    “Mr. Edward—”
    But Edward had already passed him.
    “Good-night, Willy,” he said, and was gone.
    There was the sound of his footsteps getting less, very quick and firm, the same as he always walked from the time they were boys together. Perhaps he did ought to have talked to Mr. Edward—but it was the other one that had the cash. He shook his head, standing there all by himself in the damp lane. Then he turned and went up through the black yew tunnel to the church.
    CHAPTER IX
    The sewing-party at the Vicarage was breaking up. It had been started rather humbly and tentatively by Mrs. Ball, who was interested in the Save the Children movement, but it had proved quite a success. Friday evening found most of the available women in the neighborhood plying a charitable needle in the Vicarage drawing-room. It was a magnificent opportunity for the exchange of news and views, and every woman nourished the hope that to her, and to her alone, there would some day be imparted the secret of the really delicious cake which always made its appearance at half past