John Musgrave stood before the fire in his dining-room, a copy of the
_Daily Telegraph_ in his hands. He was not reading the paper; he was
looking over the top of it at his new housemaid, as she brought in his
breakfast, and, with many depreciatory sniffs which proclaimed a soul
above such lowly service, set it carefully down upon the snowy damask.
He approved of her. It was natural that he should approve of her,
considering he had himself engaged her for three very good reasons; the
first and all-sufficient reason being that he invariably engaged his own
servants; the second, that she was by no means young; the third, that
she was plain and respectable.
It is an interesting psychological fact that plain people are more
generally respectable than handsome people. From this it is not fair to
infer that virtue is necessarily hard-featured; but temptation more
frequently assails the beautiful. As temptation is a thing to be
avoided, this doubtless is one of Nature's niggardly attempts at
compensation. Which of us, given the choice, would not unhesitatingly
pronounce for the endowment of physical attractions, and risk the
possibility of an encounter with evil in the universal arena?
Virtue is a term which is frequently misapplied. To remain virtuous in
circumstances which offer no temptation to be otherwise is a condition
which does not justify the individual in the complacency usually
indulged in where a knowledge of perfect uprightness which has never
been assailed conveys a sense of superiority over one's fellows. There
can be no cause for self-esteem when there has been no battle fought and
won. It was quite safe to predict that Eliza--the eminently respectable
Christian name of the middle-aged Abigail--had fought no battle; it was
not such a level certainty to conclude that, if she had, she of
necessity would have proved victorious; for appearances, no matter how
respectable and forbidding, are no guarantee of inviolable virtue.
Pretty faces have not a monopoly of sentiment. Indeed, the softer
qualities of the feminine heart are often hidden behind an outward
austerity.
Nevertheless, Eliza was respectable. She was proud of the fact. She
flaunted it in one's face, and hurled it at one's head--metaphorically,
of course; she had not sufficient energy to hurl anything except in
metaphor. She had dwelt upon it to John Musgrave, when he had first
interviewed her, so particularly that she had led him to suppose it was
a more rare virtue than he had hitherto imagined, and that he was indeed
securing a treasure, so that he was even prepared to pay a higher wage
for such an anomaly. He agreed to pay the higher wage; and, with a
nine-months' character from her last place, felt that he was to be
congratulated on this respectable addition to his menage.
Martha, his cook, who was stout, and not as active as, according to her
own statement, she might have been, would have preferred some one
younger and more energetic to help her in the conduct of Mr Musgrave's
bachelor establishment; and when Mr Musgrave informed her kindly that
it would be pleasant for her to have so highly respectable a companion
in the kitchen, Martha agreed in the dubious manner of one to whom other
qualities appealed equally, if not more strongly, than extreme
respectability. But Martha, though an old family servant, and a steady,
reliable woman, was, as Mr Musgrave had before observed, lacking in the
finer sensibilities. She conferred with Bond, the gardener, and with
Mr Musgrave's chauffeur, and the verdict that was duly pronounced was
that "Lizer" was neither useful nor ornamental.
John Musgrave himself did not consider Eliza ornamental. But he was not
desirous of adorning his establishment. A housemaid is not an ornament,
but a useful domestic addition to the household of a gentleman; to
suggest that she should be anything else would have appealed to John
Musgrave as indecorous. He liked plain faces and matured years. In his
way he was quite as respectable as Eliza.
"You have forgotten," he said, lowering his paper, and moving a little
to one side in order that she might obtain a view of the fireplace which
his broad figure had blocked, "to put the fire-irons back in their
place."
Eliza sniffed. It was a natural infirmity, and one of which she was
less conscious than those about her. It was the only drawback that her
employer had observed in her so far. He disliked mannerisms. She
glanced at the gleaming tiles on the hearth, at the empty dogs standing
upon it, and at the fire-irons referred to, which instead of reposing on
the dogs stood assertively upright on either side of the grate. Eliza
had not forgotten them. She had purposely stood them erect in order to
save them from getting soiled. This thoughtfulness was not due to any
regard for the fire-irons, but was conceived with the object of saving
herself labour. If the brass became blackened it would be necessary to
polish it daily.
She went to considerable trouble to explain this to John Musgrave, who
listened with grave amazement to her voluble reasoning powers. Instead
of commending her prudence he replaced the irons in their rightful
position in the fender.
"For the future," he said, as he straightened himself after the
performance of this feat, "we will have them in their place."
"They get dirty in the fender," Eliza objected, "and it makes a lot of
cleaning. Every one knows brass fire-irons didn't ought to be used."
"What purpose do they serve, then?" Mr Musgrave inquired.
"They are meant for show, sir," answered Eliza, with a sniff that
betokened contempt for his masculine ignorance.
Mr Musgrave looked at her with growing disapproval.
"To keep things for show is essentially vulgar," he said. "Everything
has a proper use, and should be applied to it."
Having delivered himself of this rebuke he returned to the perusal of
his newspaper. Eliza took up her tray, but, hearing the front door
bell, put it down again and, with a protesting sniff, prepared to answer
the ring.
John Musgrave seated himself at the table with its covers for one, its
air of solid comfort and plenty, which, assertive though it might be,
could not disguise a certain blank chilliness of aspect which the
expanse of damask covering the long table insensibly conveyed; as did
also the large, handsomely furnished room with its orderly row of
unoccupied chairs which seemed mutely to protest against this disregard
for their vocation. The apartment was essentially a family room, yet
one man took his solitary meals there daily, had taken them there for
many years: first as a small boy, with his parents and smaller sister,
later as a man, who had seen these dear companions drop out from their
accustomed places one by one, until now at forty he alone occupied the
seat at the head of the table, and dwelt occasionally on those happier
days when his meals had not been solitary.
Death had claimed his parents gently in the natural ordering of things.
He had accustomed himself to their loss. But the loss of his sister was
a more recent event, and less in accordance with nature, in John
Musgrave's opinion. She had left him six years ago, had married a
college friend of his, and taken her bright companionship, and with it,
it seemed to the brother who felt himself deserted, the principal part
of the comfort and pleasure of his own life, and settled it in the home
of this inconsiderate friend two counties away.
It took John Musgrave a long time to reconcile himself to this marriage;
but he had come to regard it now in the light of one of life's constant
vexations. He hated change himself. For the life of him he could not
understand why Belle had wished to marry anyone. People did marry, of
course, but in his sister's case there had been absolutely no need for
taking so serious a step; she had everything that a reasonable woman
could desire. But, unlike himself, Belle enjoyed change. He supposed
that this odd taste of hers had led her into matrimony. It was the only
explanation that presented itself to his mind.
The married state was not in John Musgrave's opinion at all a desirable
condition. He had never considered it for himself. He did not dislike
women, but in all the forty years of his life he had never been in love,
never met a woman the glance of whose eye had quickened his pulses or
moved him to any deeper sentiment than a momentary interest. He was
afraid of women. For the past ten years he had spent much of his time
avoiding them. Women with marriageable daughters sought him
continually, and made their pursuit so obvious as to fill him with grave
embarrassment. He realised so well that he was not a marrying man that
he could not understand why they failed to see this also.
It was a little indelicate, he considered, that any mother should try to
secure a husband for her daughter. That a woman should seek to secure a
husband for herself occurred to him a greater indelicacy still. John
Musgrave had had the appalling experience of a written offer of
marriage. He had replied to the writer courteously, and had promptly
burnt the letter. He would have liked to have burnt the recollection of
it, had that been possible; but unfortunately the foolish sentiment of
that ill-considered letter remained in his memory, a constant and
distressful humiliation, which was rendered the more disconcerting
because he was continually and unavoidably brought into contact with the
writer. She lived within a quarter of a mile of his own gates, and
busied herself actively in the parish. John Musgrave also busied
himself in the parish. To have thrown up this work, which he regarded
as a duty of the head of his house, would have been impossible to him.
Therefore he braced himself to meet this woman on school-boards and
committees and other local interests, and tried to appear unconscious,
when he encountered her, of a matter that always jumped into his mind
whenever he saw her thin, eager face, or listened to the insistent tones
of her reed-like voice, which made itself constantly heard at any public
gathering.
John Musgrave was not thinking of this lady as he sat at breakfast and
poured himself out a cup of coffee from the old-fashioned urn that had
graced the table every morning within his memory; but the return of
Eliza, like an austere Flora, whose sour visage showed above a basket of
hot-house fruits hiding shyly beneath a profusion of wax-like blossoms,
brought her promptly and most unpleasantly to his mind. Only one person
in Moresby could send him such a gift. He turned purple in the face
when he beheld this dainty offering of fruit and flowers, and spluttered
with rage as he waved their approach aside.
"Take away that--that rubbish," he commanded fiercely. "How dare you
bring it in here!"
Eliza stared at him resentfully. She did not show surprise, because
that was an emotion she seldom displayed, but she disapproved highly of
his tone.
"I did not know what else to do with it, sir," she answered.
"No, no; of course not." John Musgrave seized an egg, and decapitated
it with a shaking hand. "Take it with you, please," he said, in a
mollified voice.
"Oh, thank you, sir," Eliza murmured, with a twist of her thin lips
which was the only trick of smiling they knew.
He turned in his seat and stared at her fixedly.
"Tell Martha from me," he said curtly, "to throw that litter on the
fire. I don't like cut flowers, and I do not eat fruit. If--if
anything else of the kind arrives, do not take it in."
Eliza carried the rejected offering with her to the kitchen, where
Martha and the chauffeur lingered over a late breakfast, and simperingly
displayed the gift which she bore in the angular crook of her arm.
"The master gave them to me," she announced, with the conscious
intonation of one marked out for especial favour.
The chauffeur was in the act of drinking coffee, but something went
wrong with his throat at this moment, and Eliza, who was fastidious,
turned aside from the unpleasant spectacle he presented, and buried her
nose in the flowers. Martha good-naturedly thumped him on the back.
"Oh Lord?" he gasped. "Oh Lord?"
"I don't wonder," Martha ejaculated, with a contemptuous glance at the
respectable Eliza, who was engaged in examining the contents of her
basket. "That gipsy fortune-teller has turned her 'ead, poor thing!"
"There go all my 'opes," said the mendacious chauffeur, pointing to the
dark stains of spilled coffee as though they symbolised his aspirations.
"Strike me blue mouldy! if I don't go out and cut my bloomin' throat.
If you don't want me to commit sooicide, Lizer, share round those
plums."
Generosity was not catalogued among Eliza's undoubted qualities. She
took from the depths of the basket two of the smallest peaches, and
placing these on the table, retired promptly from the kitchen, bearing
her treasure with her.
"Mean, I call it," cried the indignant chauffeur after her retreating
back. "One measly peach in return for a broken 'eart. If you'd given
me 'alf a dozen I'd 'ave kissed you."
Martha laughed comfortably.
"If you aren't careful, she'll 'ave you up for breach of promise," she
said.
"She'd lose the day," the chauffeur answered confidently. "A jury would
only 'ave to look at 'er to know no man would 'ave 'ad the pluck to 'ave
done it."
Martha laughed again.
"That gipsy woman got a shilling out of 'er," she remarked, "for telling
'er she was going to marry a gentleman. She believes it, silly thing!"
"She's as likely to marry a gentleman as anyone," the chauffeur
answered. "Marriages are made in heaven, I've heard; and that's where
Lizer'll 'ave to go to find 'er man. But the governor didn't ought to
play with 'er young and untried affections. Givin' 'er presents like
that."
Martha rose deliberately, pushing back her chair. She had been in John
Musgrave's service for over twenty years, and therefore spoke as one
having authority.
"'E give 'em to 'er most likely to throw in the ashbin," she said. "A
silly like Lizer would believe anything."
Nevertheless Martha was not happy in her mind in regard to that basket
of hot-house produce. She experienced a strong curiosity to learn where
it had come from, and why it had been sent, and rejected by the
recipient. Only a rooted objection to question Eliza on intimate family
matters restrained her curiosity sufficiently to prevent her from
discussing the subject with her fellow-servant. Martha, as the
back-stairs custodian of the family honour, could not permit herself to
gossip with the housemaid about John Musgrave's affairs.