Miss Simpson contemplated her appearance by the aid of the long mirror
in her wardrobe with an eye sharply critical as that of the vainest of
her sisters, whose concern for outward things she held generally in
contempt. But a visit to the house of a bachelor in regard to whom one
entertains matrimonial intentions excuses, as anyone will acknowledge, a
greater attentiveness to detail than usual.
The result of her inspection was on the whole satisfactory. The effect
of her severely tailored costume and small, unassertive hat was neat in
the extreme, so neat, indeed, that Mrs Chadwick, when she beheld it,
felt a womanly compassion for the wearer; she preferred to see a woman
daintily gowned. But Mrs Chadwick's taste was not Moresby's.
One lock of Miss Simpson's tightly braided hair betrayed a rebellious
tendency to escape the hairpins and stray pleasingly over her brow.
This could not be permitted. The aid of additional pins was
requisitioned, and the unruly lock was brought into subjection, and
tucked out of sight beneath the unrelenting brim of the eminently
decorous hat.
Woman's hair never seems to achieve a definite recognition in the scheme
of its wearer. Some women regard their hair as an adornment, which it
is, and take trouble that other people shall recognise its claim as an
asset in feminine decorativeness; with other women it would seem that
the human head suffers this objectionable growth only because nature
insists upon it as an essential part of her design. They brush it back
from the face in strained disapproval, and further abuse it by screwing
it into as tight a ball as circumstances permit. No frivolous abandon
is allowed; pins, and even pomade, are resorted to, until what is
undoubtedly beautiful in itself is rendered sufficiently unbecoming to
soothe the most fastidiously decorous mind.
Miss Simpson belonged to this latter category. By instinct Miss Simpson
was modest to the verge of prudery. But as, in the inconsistency of
human nature, a good person is often streaked with evil, and an evil
person possesses a strain of goodness, so Miss Simpson, despite her
prudery, had a touch of the softer sentiments which no woman should be
without. This weakness led to the cherishing of a romantic passion for
Mr Musgrave, which so far overcame her natural decorum as to drive her
to open pursuit of the object of her middle-aged affections. From
anyone else a written proposal to a man would have appealed to her in
the light of an offence against every womanly tradition; but in her own
case circumstances allowed for the forsaking of her principles, even
demanded this sacrifice of her. Plainly John Musgrave would have liked
to propose; but he was a shy man. His gentlemanly refusal of her offer
was, she recognised, prompted by this same shyness, and not at all from
disinclination towards a life-partnership with herself. Eventually she
trusted this not unmanly shyness would be conquered so far as to give
him the courage to open the courtship which she felt he was always on
the verge of beginning.
Proof that he enjoyed her companionship was forthcoming in the fact that
he adhered to the practice of seeking it publicly. If he did not enjoy
her companionship he would assuredly retire from the committee of school
management, and other local matters in which they were jointly
interested. Every one knows that interests in common form a substantial
basis for mutual regard; and John Musgrave and Miss Simpson had a common
bond in their insatiable love for busying themselves in parish affairs.
They considered themselves--it is not an uncommon conceit--indispensable
to the efficient working of the social machinery of Moresby. If the
vicar held opposite views he was too wise a man to air them; and being
good-natured, and tactful beyond the ordinary run of persons in
authority, he allowed them their amiable conceit, and was grateful that
they in return allowed him to occupy his own pulpit and generally
conduct the services. Interference in his particular department was the
one thing he would have resented. On this amicable footing was the
parish of Moresby run.
But with the advent of Mrs Chadwick the vicar, at least, foresaw
complications, and awaited their development with curiosity. Miss
Simpson alone harboured no thought of change in the conduct of Moresby
affairs. That the coming of a stranger should foreshadow interference
in parish matters would never have occurred to her. The coming of the
vicar's wife had not effected that.
But this afternoon, setting forth to call on Mrs Sommers, with a
pleasurable thrill of anticipation which the prospective society of the
ladies would scarcely seem to justify, it entered her mind for the first
time that Mrs Chadwick's residence at the Hall must work some sort of
change in the pleasant routine of their daily lives.
She was not sure that she approved of Mrs Chadwick. She was very sure,
when she arrived and was shown into Mr Musgrave's drawing-room, that
she, disapproved of her. Mrs Chadwick was seated at the open window,
although the day was cold, and she was smoking a cigarette. She threw
the cigarette away on the visitor's entrance, and smilingly apologised.
"I hope you don't object to smoke," she said. "It is an incurable bad
habit with me."
Miss Simpson did not object to smoke from the proper quarter--the proper
quarter being as it issued from between the lips of the sterner sex, who
were privileged in the matter of bad habits, which is a feminine fallacy
that is slipping out of date; she very strongly objected to smoking when
her own sex indulged in it--indeed, save for Mrs Chadwick, she had
never seen a woman smoke. It was, she considered, a disgusting and
unfeminine practice.
She murmured "Really!" And shaking hands somewhat frigidly, addressed
herself pointedly to Mrs Sommers for the first few minutes after
sitting down.
Mrs Chadwick caressed the pekinese, and watched the visitor with
curious interest the while. It was not, however, in Mrs Chadwick's
nature to remain outside any conversation for long; and she gracefully
insinuated herself into the talk, to Miss Simpson's further surprise.
She expected, when she took the trouble to show her displeasure, to see
the object thereof properly quelled. That, too, is a characteristic of
parish omnipotence. And, amazingly, Mrs Chadwick was already betraying
a desire to interfere in Moresby arrangements.
"I visited the schools this morning," she observed, breaking in on Miss
Simpson's gossip about the new schoolmaster, who, seemingly, gave every
satisfaction, being a great improvement on his predecessor, who was, as
Miss Simpson expressed it, a horrid Radical. "It was all very amusing.
They are such quaint, blunt little people. I liked them. But the
schools want pulling down and rebuilding. Everything is obsolete. The
ceilings are too low and the ventilation inadequate. I am all for fresh
air."
She laughed at sight of Miss Simpson's wooden expression, and at the
shiver which ran through her narrow frame as she glanced meaningly at
the wide-open window.
"Do you feel this too much?" she asked pleasantly, and obligingly drew
the window partially down. "Mrs Sommers and I are seasoned; but we
blow Mr Musgrave away at times."
That, of course, accounted for the absence of the master of the house
which Miss Simpson had regretfully noticed. The draughts and the smoke
would naturally drive Mr Musgrave away; no self-respecting man would
stand it.
"I like air," Miss Simpson answered coldly, "in moderation."
Then she returned to the subject of the schools. This outspoken person
must be given to understand from the commencement that, though she might
pose as _grande dame_ in Moresby by reason of her residence at the Hall,
the older residents would not brook interference with existing
institutions. Moresby was conservative in principle, and resented
innovations.
"The present schools are a feature of the place," she said. "No one
would care to have them done away with. They are picturesque."
"Yes; they are," Mrs Chadwick admitted readily. "That is what
distresses me in old places--their beauty. One hates to demolish the
beautiful. But healthy children are more beautiful than old buildings;
and the modern buildings, with up-to-date construction, are healthier
for small people."
"I think our village children are remarkably healthy," Miss Simpson
protested.
"Do you? Half the school, I observed, had colds. Healthy children
should not be susceptible to chills. If they worked in properly
ventilated rooms they would not be. The lungs of the young have immense
powers of resistance, but we weaken these powers with our foolish
indifference to overheating and overcrowding. It is little short of
criminal to study the picturesque in preference to the well-being of the
rising generation."
"I think we should study both," Mrs Sommers intervened, with a view to
soothing the ruffled feelings of her visitor, who was chafing visibly
under this downright attack. "The schools are certainly charming. I
should hate to see them pulled down myself. We will have to effect some
compromise."
Compromise, in Mrs Chadwick's opinion, was as ineffectual as patching a
worn-out garment; the worn-out garment could but fulfil its destiny, and
become rags. But she let the subject drop. It could be revived at some
future date. The schools were being slowly drawn into the network of
her revolutionary schemes for the modernising of Moresby.
Miss Simpson, less diplomatic, and more assertive than Mrs Sommers,
showed her disapproval by abruptly changing the subject, and introducing
an entirely new, and, in Mrs Chadwick's opinion, distinctly quaint
topic of conversation. She referred with considerable vim to certain
matters of local importance which had been given prominence in the pages
of the current number of the _Parish Magazine_. Mrs Chadwick betrayed
such absorbed interest in these matters that Miss Simpson was beguiled
into inquiring whether she had seen the current number of the _Parish
Magazine_. She spoke of the magazine as a lover of the poets might
speak of the works of Shakespeare, with a certain reverential awe for
the importance of proved literary merit. Mrs Chadwick wore the vaguely
distressed look that a well-read woman wears on discovering an
unsuspected limitation in her literary attainments. She had not even
heard before of the _Parish Magazine_.
"I am afraid I don't know it," she answered. "There are such a number
of magazines, aren't there? And so many new ones always coming out.
One can't keep pace with these things. I stick to the old magazines,
like the _Century_, and the _Strand_, and the _Contemporary Review_. If
one ought to read the _Parish Magazine_, of course I should wish to."
Miss Simpson stared, and Mrs Sommers laughed softly, albeit she did not
consider this quizzing altogether fair.
"The publications you refer to are not of the same nature as the _Parish
Magazine_," the visitor observed crushingly. "Our magazine is a purely
local pamphlet for local circulation. It deals solely with parish
matters."
Mrs Chadwick considered this dull, but she did not say so. She
appeared politely impressed.
"That must be very interesting to--to Moresby inhabitants," she said
gravely.
"That is its object," Miss Simpson returned. "Most parishes have their
magazines. The people like to know what takes place locally; and they
find it all noted down."
She spoke with the laboured forbearance of one who seeks to instruct a
very ignorant person on a subject which should not have required
explanation.
"Our magazine is a new venture," she added, with the conscious pride of
the literary aspirant. "I started it last year. I edit it."
"Indeed!" Mrs Chadwick's tone expressed admiration. "Please put me
down as an annual subscriber."
Miss Simpson unbent.
"I shall be delighted. It is a monthly pamphlet, issued at one penny."
"That is not ruinous," murmured the prospective subscriber.
"The village people could not afford more," Miss Simpson explained
patiently. "They all like to read it. Occasionally some of their names
are mentioned. They expect that."
"I should be afraid," Mrs Chadwick remarked, surveying the editress
seriously, "of letting myself in for a libel action in your place. It
is so difficult to be personal without the sacrifice of truth, and
refrain from giving offence. I am inclined to think a parish magazine
must be a dangerous publication."
"You haven't got the idea at all," Miss Simpson said acidly. "We only
mention the things which reflect to the credit of the persons concerned,
such as any little gift to the parish, or the participation in local
entertainments, and such matters; and, of course, work done on
committees. Mr Musgrave's name appears in its columns frequently."
"Belle," said Mrs Chadwick, with one of her radiant smiles, "I insist
upon seeing the _Parish Magazine_. How is it you have kept these things
from me? It would amuse me immensely to read of Mr Musgrave's doings.
He is so reticent about such things himself."
The entrance of Mr Musgrave created a diversion. He came in in advance
of Eliza with the tea; and Mrs Chadwick, watching with mercilessly
observant glance, noted the fluttering agitation of the visitor, whose
austere manner changed as surprisingly as the colour of the chameleon,
and became immediately gracious, and demurely coy. Mr Musgrave's
manner was not responsive. It suggested to Mrs Chadwick his attitude
towards herself.
"I have just been hearing terrible tales of the things you do, which
gain you notoriety in the columns of the _Parish Magazine_," she said
wickedly. "I am going to read up all the back numbers."
John Musgrave did not smile. He crossed the room deliberately, and
closed the window and fastened it--an act Miss Simpson witnessed with
satisfaction.
"So thoughtless of me," said Mrs Chadwick apologetically. "I always
forget your dislike for fresh air."
"I do not dislike fresh air," he returned gravely, "in its proper
place."
"What would you describe as its proper place?" she asked.
"Out of doors," he answered, surprised that a clever woman should ask so
obvious a question.
Then, while the three women sat and watched him, he made the tea, taking
from the caddy a spoonful for each guest, and an additional spoonful for
the requisite strength, according to custom. Mr Musgrave had made his
own tea for many years; he saw no reason now for discontinuing this
practice, though one person present--the one with the least right--would
gladly have relieved him of the task. It was so pathetic, she
reflected, to see a man making the tea; it was significant of his lonely
state. Clearly a man needed a wife to perform this homely office, a
wife of a suitable age, with similar tastes, who would never distress
him with any display of unwomanly traits.
"I always think that no one makes tea quite like you do," she murmured
sweetly, as she received her cup from John Musgrave's hand.
Which speech, in its ambiguity, Mrs Chadwick considered extremely
diplomatic.