When Peggy Annersley parted from John Musgrave at his gate and set off
down the road accompanied by the joyous Diogenes, now freed from the
lead, Mr Musgrave turned about and slowly retraced his steps along the
gravelled path he had traversed at Peggy's side. His mind, despite the
early prejudice which the sight of the young lady immodestly attired had
excited, and the later annoyance of her unfortunate trespass, which
anyone might well have resented, harboured no unkindly thought. He was
even conscious of a faint amusement as he recalled the astonishing
picture of her unexpected presence in his kitchen, and his own amazement
at finding her there. She stimulated alike his interest and his
curiosity. It is impossible to experience interest in another human
being and remain altogether indifferent in feeling, particularly when
that interest is centred in a member of the opposite sex. John Musgrave
was not given to self-analysis, nor did he disturb his mind with
problems of this nature. Had it occurred to him that a mild interest in
a prepossessing young woman held possibilities of unexpected development
he would promptly have banished the captivating Peggy from the place she
engaged in his thoughts. At that stage in their acquaintance this would
have been quite simple of accomplishment. John Musgrave would have
thought so, at least. But the mind is an odd store-room, and many
things dwell in it which the owner is powerless to eject--small,
persistent, elusive thoughts which hide behind the lumber of
inconsequent things.
As Mr Musgrave slowly paced the gravel walk, lost in a not unpleasing
reverie, he became suddenly aware of an insignificant object lying in
his path, and, stooping to examine this object at closer range,
discovered that it was a woman's glove. Since only one woman had used
that path recently, since, too, the glove had assuredly not been there
when he had accompanied Peggy to the gate, the inference pointed
conclusively to the glove being Peggy's property.
John Musgrave picked it up, and held it between his fingers. Then he
placed it across the palm of one hand and examined it with curiosity,
after the manner of a collector who has discovered some new object of
interest. It was a small glove, absurdly small it seemed to John
Musgrave as it lay across his large palm, and it was obviously new. Had
Mr Musgrave been more experienced in the matter of women's dress he
would have realised from the fact of its newness that the owner would
make some effort to recover her property, an odd glove being useless,
and no woman caring to sacrifice a new pair. But Mr Musgrave did not
consider this point. He was for the time absorbed in contemplation of
the absurd thing.
Having examined it on the one side, he reversed it on his palm and
examined it on the other. Then he took it up, and idly, in abstracted
mood, thrust his fingers into it and began pulling it over his hand.
The futility of attempting to fit a larger object into a smaller was
immediately demonstrated; the kid split obligingly at the seams to
accommodate the hand that was never intended to fill it, and John
Musgrave, gazing at the mischief he had wrought, beheld his large
knuckles bursting through the tear. The new glove was no longer a thing
of any value.
At the moment of realising what he had done he became aware of a still
more disquieting circumstance: the gate behind him clicked and the sound
of rapid footsteps fell upon his ear. Hastily, with a change of colour
which suggested a conscience not altogether free from guilt, he
proceeded to drag the glove off his hand. But the thing resisted
stubbornly, and the girl was almost at his elbow. He desisted from his
efforts, and swung round and faced her, concealing his hand awkwardly
behind his back. There was nothing in the expression of the demure face
that met his gaze to betray that the girl had any suspicion why that
right arm of his should be doubled behind his back; but to one familiar
with Peggy the guilelessness of her look might have suggested knowledge.
"I'm sorry to trouble you again," she said softly, "but I have dropped a
glove. It's a new glove, and I don't wish to lose it. I thought it
might be in the garden, perhaps."
Mr Musgrave hesitated, and was lost. He dissembled. To have admitted
in the first instance having found the glove, even though he had to
confess to having spoilt it, would have been simple, but he had let the
opportunity slip; to own to it now would prove embarrassing. He looked
with discomfited eyes along the path.
"I do not see it," he said.
"No," replied Peggy, "neither do I. But I thought..."
"Perhaps," said Mr Musgrave quickly, "you left it in the kitchen. I
will tell the servants to look. It shall be returned to you."
"I had it," Peggy persisted, "when I was talking with you in the hall."
"Yes?" he said. "Then--then perhaps it is there. It shall be found."
A spirit of wickedness entered into Peggy.
"Never mind," she said brightly. "It serves me right if I have lost it.
Don't trouble to hunt for it, Mr Musgrave. I came back because I
thought I might find it near the gate; but plainly it isn't here.
Good-bye again."
She held out a determined hand. Mr Musgrave was faced with the
greatest dilemma he had ever experienced. What was he to do? Courtesy
demanded that he should take her hand; to ignore it would be
unpardonable. To extend the left hand was equally impossible; to offer
the right was to acknowledge his duplicity, and might lead to an
altogether wrong conception of his motives. A man when he acts upon
impulse is not necessarily guided by any motive. For the fraction of a
second he hesitated; then, with perfect gravity, he drew his arm from
behind his back, and with the hand still wearing the torn fragments of
the lost glove he silently touched her fingers. Peggy's grey eyes were
on his face; they did not fall, he observed, once to his hand. He felt
grateful to her. A little tact--and tact is but the dictates of a
kindly nature--smoothes over many awkward situations.
He returned with her to the gate and opened it for her, and raised his
hat gravely as she passed through, to be greeted with boisterous
effusiveness by Diogenes, who had reluctantly waited outside.
"He's rather a dear, Diogenes," she said, as she proceeded down the
road, a little more soberly now. "He made me feel a little mean female
cad."
John Musgrave, returning along the path, drew off the torn glove and
slipped it into his pocket. Another link had been formed in the chain
of impressions.
By the time Peggy reached the Hall her self-abasement had evaporated,
and her usual good spirits reasserted themselves. She made directly for
the drawing-room, where Mrs Chadwick, after a disappointing afternoon,
lay limply against the cushions of a sofa, solacing herself with the
inevitable cigarette. She looked round at Peggy's entrance, and was so
relieved to see some one bright and young and wholesome that the
resentment she was prepared to show vanished--in her welcoming smile.
Peggy was one of those fortunate people who disarm wrath by reason of
unfailing good temper.
"You are late," Mrs Chadwick said. "If you want fresh tea you will
have to ring for it."
"I don't mind it cold," Peggy returned, attending to her needs at the
tea-table and smiling pleasantly to herself the while. "Tired?" she
asked, dropping comfortably into a seat, and surveying her aunt
inquiringly above the tea-cup in her hand.
"Tired and bored," Mrs Chadwick answered.
"Been entertaining the aborigines, I suppose?"
"Yes. You might have stayed to help me. These people... Peggy, I
consider it is in the nature of a solecism to be so dull; it's a breach
of good taste."
"They can't help it," Peggy said soothingly. "I expect if we had lived
all our days in Moresby we should be dull too. It's stultifying. I am
sorry you have had such a slow time. I've been enjoying myself--hugely.
I've had most surprising adventures."
Mrs Chadwick laughed.
"You generally do," she answered. "But it puzzles me to think how you
contrive adventures in Moresby. Nothing ever happens when I pass beyond
the gates. It would cause me a shock if it did."
"It caused me several shocks," Peggy replied, looking amused. "I
experience them again when I review the afternoon's doings. You'd never
guess where I've been."
"Then I won't try to. Tell me. If you give me a shock it may shake off
the _ennui_ I am suffering. You have done something audacious, I
suppose."
Peggy ceased munching her cake and tried to look serious, but failed.
Two tantalising dimples played at the corners of her mouth and her eyes
shone wickedly.
"A little audacious, perhaps," she allowed. "In the first place, I've
been walking out with the sexton. He was quite interesting and
agreeable until he began to discuss corpses. That made me feel
uncomfortable; so I left him and went to call on Mr Musgrave."
"_What_!" exclaimed Mrs Chadwick.
"It is all right," Peggy proceeded reassuringly. "Nobody saw me. I
slipped in through the tradesmen's entrance and interviewed him in the
kitchen chaperoned by the cook and a sour-faced parlourmaid. Having
satisfied the proprieties thus far, we proceeded to the hall for more
intimate conversation. He is not as fossilised as he looks. He
accompanied me through the garden and kept my glove for a souvenir of
the visit. And I think," Peggy paused and looked into the fire with a
dancing gleam of mischief in the grey eyes, "I think," she added,
smiling, "that he will send me a present of a new pair. Now confess,
you would never have credited John with being such a sport."
"When you have finished romancing," Mrs Chadwick said severely,
"perhaps you will explain exactly what you have been up to. If you had
wished to see Mr Musgrave you could have accomplished your purpose by
remaining at home. He was here this afternoon."
"That wouldn't have proved so exciting," Peggy returned. "He doesn't
open out in front of other people. I like John best in his own home."
She rose with a laugh, and, approaching the sofa, seated herself at Mrs
Chadwick's side.
"I couldn't help it," she said with an affectation of contrition. "It
all just happened. Things will, you know."
And then she gave a more detailed account of the afternoon's doings.
Mrs Chadwick was amused, in spite of a slight vexation. Peggy's
veracious version of her intrusion on Mr Musgrave was disconcerting to
her listener; and the anecdote of the glove, which lost nothing in the
telling, seemed to Mrs Chadwick, who possessed a certain insight into
John Musgrave's sensitive mind, the last straw in the load of prejudice
which would bias John Musgrave's opinion of her niece. She could
cheerfully at the moment have boxed Peggy's ears. But Peggy, laughing
and unrepentant, hung over her aunt and kissed her. Mrs Chadwick was
as weak as water when Peggy coaxed.
"I hope he doesn't send you that pair of gloves," was all she said.
But John Musgrave did send the gloves. He drove into Rushleigh himself
for the purpose of matching the torn glove in his possession, and,
failing to do this, posted it to London, and received a similar pair by
return. He posted this pair to Peggy with a brief note of apology,
which, when she had read it, Peggy, for some unexplained reason, locked
away in a drawer.
The note read as follows:
"Dear Miss Annersley,--
"You will, I trust, pardon me for having destroyed in a moment of
abstraction the glove you dropped in my garden. I believe I have
succeeded in matching it, and hope that the pair enclosed will serve
as well as that which my awkwardness ruined. I apologise for my
carelessness, and the consequent delay in returning your property.
"Yours faithfully,--
"John Musgrave."
"But he hasn't returned my property," mused Peggy, with the new pair of
gloves in one hand and Mr Musgrave's note in the other. "I wonder what
he has done with it?"