The residents of Moresby--by which is usually understood not the bulk of
the community, but that select portion which gathers in the
drawing-rooms and about the tables of its social equals--were moved to a
mild and almost pained surprise at being hospitably bidden to dine at
the Hall within a month of the Chadwicks' arrival. This was, Moresby
recognised with chill ingratitude, a grave breach of social etiquette.
Plainly it was the duty of Moresby to show hospitality to the new-comers
and then accept in return whatever the Hall saw fit to offer in
acknowledgment of its welcome.
But Mrs Chadwick, who needed no precedent in anything she wished to do,
was not prepared to wait on Moresby hospitality, which, she rightly
guessed, would be slow in asserting itself. She wanted to gather her
new neighbours together, and she did not mind in the least whether or no
they invited her back to their houses. As soon, therefore, as they had
called and she had returned the calls, she asked them to dine; and
despite the general feeling of perturbed wonder which this unexpected
invitation occasioned, no one--their numbers were but four, because
Moresby had its limitations--declined.
Thus it came about that on a certain cold December night John Musgrave
foregathered with his neighbours and one or two people from Rushleigh in
the great drawing-room at the Hall, where, as a young man in the old
squire's time, he had been wont to attend functions of a similar nature,
more formal and dull perhaps, as suited the day and prestige of the
entertainer, but certainly not more splendid nor more kindly in tone.
It was so long since John Musgrave had taken part in any entertainment
other than an informal supper at the vicarage or an equally quiet
home-dinner, that he felt rather bewildered as he looked about him on
this assemblage of, for the greater part, familiar faces rendered
unfamiliar by reason of an unwonted magnificence of attire. Even little
Mrs Errol was gowned with unusual elegance. As Mr Musgrave's eyes
fell upon her he was conscious for the first time that she was a very
pretty woman. He had not thought of her as pretty before; he had merely
considered her womanly. It was possible, he realised, to be womanly and
pretty at the same time. Her dress was eminently becoming.
Miss Simpson wore a narrow-shouldered, aesthetic garment, so modestly
cut that only the scraggy column of her throat was visible above its
lavender folds. Mr Musgrave, whose eyes were attracted towards her by
the magnetic force of her gaze, which was riveted on him from the moment
of his entry, compared her to her disadvantage with the vicar's modish
little wife, whose extravagance in the matter of her new dress was
spoiling one-half of her satisfaction in the knowledge that she compared
favourably with the other guests.
Of the rest of the ladies present only one was unknown to Mr Musgrave.
His eyes fell upon her as he left his hostess's side, passed over her
face without recognition, and then, as though suddenly reminded of
having seen it somewhere amid other surroundings, planted, indeed, in an
altogether different setting, they wandered back uncertainly and rested
with a puzzled scrutiny on the delicate profile that was half turned
from him. Something in the rebellious wave of the brown hair, something
in the buoyant grace of the girl's carriage, appeared vaguely familiar.
And then suddenly the stranger turned and faced him squarely, and a pair
of darkly grey eyes looked for a second into his and betrayed a flash of
recognition. The faintest of smiles lit their grey depths. She was
talking to the vicar, and she turned to him and said something in a low
voice, as a result of which the vicar summoned Mr Musgrave to his side
and presented him, and--quite unnecessarily, John Musgrave thought--left
him alone with this exceedingly womanly looking, unwomanly young person.
As Mr Musgrave beheld her now, suitably attired in an exceedingly
elegant yet simple white dinner dress, he found it difficult to
associate this dainty person with the dreadful vision in blue overalls
standing at the top of a long ladder and whistling to the bull-dog. He
shuddered when he recalled that sight. How could any refined girl be
guilty of such immodest conduct?
But the person in the overalls had done him a service. He felt that it
would be only courtesy to acknowledge it. But did not courtesy demand
rather that he should ignore that painful episode? It was possible that
the girl would be displeased to be reminded of that occasion. Mr
Musgrave felt so embarrassed, and was so little successful in concealing
this emotion, that the girl, becoming conscious of it, imagined that he
was shy. She promptly "started in," as she would have phrased it, to
set him at his ease.
"I'm quite in love with Moresby," she said brightly. "It's the
prettiest spot I've happened upon so far. These old places which have
fallen asleep are restful. I was just asking Mr Errol when you arrived
to whom that beautiful garden belonged, with the old gabled house
standing back from the road, and he replied, `Here's the owner.' When I
looked round and saw you I remembered your face. Diogenes introduced us
informally, if you recall the afternoon you called here. He is a
dreadfully pushing person, Diogenes; but he's a dear when you know him."
"I daresay," Mr Musgrave answered, correctly surmising that Diogenes
was the bull-dog. "But I dislike dogs."
"I should never have thought that," replied the girl, looking faintly
surprised; "because Diogenes likes you. He never speaks to people he
doesn't like; and dogs as a rule know at once when people are not
sympathetic. He quite gushed about you after you had gone. I won't
tell him he has made a mistake, it might hurt his feelings. And after
all you are possibly mistaken yourself. You'd love dogs, I expect, if
you once allowed yourself to take an interest in them. They are like
children; one has to get accustomed to them."
"On the occasion you refer to," said Mr Musgrave tactfully, "I was very
obliged to you for coming to my assistance. I confess to having felt
distinctly nervous of Diogenes."
"Most people are," she said. "He looks so ferocious, and he's noisy.
But that was only good-tempered teasing. He always helps me when I am
gardening, and he enjoys thinking he is keeping intruders off. You must
come and see the gardens some day. Mr Errol tells me you are
dreadfully learned about flowers."
"I am interested in flowers," John Musgrave allowed modestly.
"So am I--enormously. I just love having this big place to experiment
with. And my aunt is such a dear; she gives me a free hand." She
laughed delightfully, showing a set of very pretty teeth. "A free hand
constitutes also unlimited funds, and that is such a help in the making
of a beautiful garden."
"I should have thought," Mr Musgrave said, "that the making of a garden
was unnecessary where a garden already existed. I understood the
grounds were always kept up."
"They have been kept from neglect," she answered. "But there is a lot
to be done. We have got to bring it all up to date."
"Oh?" he said, and repressed a shudder. He had never liked that
expression; since his acquaintance with Mrs Chadwick he had grown to
actively dislike it. "I am old-fashioned, I suppose," he added. "I
prefer things left as they are. The associations which cling about
familiar things are more beautiful, in my opinion, than change. No
outlay of money can improve an old-world garden."
"The introduction of a quantity of patent manure into the ground helps
considerably in its productiveness," she answered practically. "Wait
till the summer comes. When you see the glory of bloom then you'll
admit the utility of money. I should like some time to come and see
your garden. Do you work in it yourself?"
"I!" Mr Musgrave appeared taken aback at the suggestion that he should
labour among his borders, which were noted in Moresby for their beauty.
"I supervise the man, of course," he said.
"Oh!" she returned in a tone of commiseration for the pleasure that he
missed. "Supervising is tame. When one feels the soil with one's hands
one learns what it means to love it, and every little root one buries in
the mould becomes as a dear child. You are only scientifically
interested in flowers, I suspect. I've learnt the science of them, too;
but I am trying to forget all that and acquire practical knowledge.
Imagine a mother bringing up her child scientifically! I know some
people consider it a wise plan, but every child, like every plant, has
its little peculiarities, and needs to be made a separate study."
"You are very young," Mr Musgrave remarked, looking into the clear eyes
with a shade of disapproval in his own, "to entertain views on these
subjects."
To his surprise she laughed.
"I'm twenty-eight," she answered frankly. "If one hasn't any views at
that age it is safe to predict one will never have any. At twenty-eight
lots of women are engaged in experimenting practically in the upbringing
of children. I have nephews and nieces ranging up to ten."
Mr Musgrave was by now firmly convinced that he did not like this young
person. He was quite sure that working in overalls was not good for the
mind. And yet, when he came to reflect upon what she had said later, he
failed to discover what there had been to object to so strongly in her
talk. But he had taken a strong objection to the tone of her
conversation. Could it be that he was not merely old-fashioned, but
slightly priggish? Mr Musgrave did not like to think of himself as a
prig. It is a term which Englishmen affect to despise. Nevertheless
there are a few prigs in the world. Mr Musgrave was not a prig, but he
came perilously near to being one at times.
A move in the direction of the dining-room put an end to their talk.
Mr Musgrave was paired off with his legitimate dinner partner, a
Rushleigh lady, the importance of whose social position as a member of
one of the oldest families in the neighbourhood rendered it seemingly
unnecessary for her to support the effort of being even ordinarily
conversational. John Musgrave knew her intimately, and was therefore
not unduly depressed by her long silences and her chilly acceptance of
his stereotyped phrases in an attempt to sustain a courteous soliloquy
during the courses.
Farther down, on the opposite side of the table, the grey-eyed girl was
chatting animatedly with a young medical man, also from Rushleigh, who
appeared, John Musgrave observed with a sense of feeling suddenly bored
and out of tune with his surroundings, to be enjoying himself hugely.
Mr Musgrave had always understood that young people did not enjoy
dinner-parties; as a young man he had found them extraordinarily dull.
But this young man was apparently enjoying both the food and the
company. The grey-eyed girl was not, however, discussing with him
patent manures, or other horticultural matters. At the moment when John
Musgrave observed them they were engaged in a flippant conversation
which the young man characterised as psychological, but which John
Musgrave would not have dignified by such a term. It was the kind of
agreeable nonsense which is pleasing only to youth.
The young man considered the grey-eyed girl ripping. The grey-eyed
girl--who was called Peggy Annersley--referred to him in her thoughts as
a sport. Mr Musgrave would not have approved of either expression.
The vocabulary of youth is uncouth.
In the drawing-room, following the long dinner, there was a little
music, under cover of which many of the guests took refuge in silence,
relieved that the necessity to make conversation was temporarily
relaxed. The business of enjoying one's self is a strenuous matter.
Mr Musgrave, moved by a stern sense of duty and the conviction of what
was correct, went from one group of acquaintances to another and
exchanged civilities with all. Peggy watched his conscientious progress
through the room with mischievous, comprehending eyes. He was the
quaintest thing in Moresby, she reflected, where everything was quaint.
Later, when the guests had departed, in response to a question put by
Mrs Chadwick in reference to him, she stated that he seemed quite a
nice old thing. Mrs Chadwick surveyed her niece thoughtfully, and then
glanced at her own reflection in a mirror.
"Should you describe me as old?" she asked.
"You!" the girl laughed scoffingly. "You dear! What a question?"
"I am thirty-nine," Mrs Chadwick said. "And John Musgrave is forty."
The girl looked unimpressed.
"I daresay. But no one would consider John's years. He is fossilised,"
she said.