The vicar, as he took off his surplice after the early celebration on
Christmas morning, and turned to hang it on its peg, became aware that
Robert had entered the vestry, and was hovering about, busying himself
unnecessarily, moving things ostentatiously and replacing them in the
same positions, and watching the vicar furtively meanwhile, as a man
might whose conscience is not altogether free from reproach. The vicar
looked at his sexton with as much severity as he was capable of assuming
towards Robert, whose failings were sufficiently familiar to him to have
ceased to appear disproportionately grave. But Robert merited rebuke,
and was apparently expecting it. In anticipation of reproof he
attempted propitiation.
"Never seed a bigger congregation than we 'ad for 'Oly Commoonion this
morning, sir," he observed. "Folks don't turn up most places like they
do at our church."
Some of the credit for the large congregation he appropriated to
himself. The vicar finished disrobing, and then faced deliberately
round.
"I am at least relieved," he said, "that you were capable of putting in
an appearance."
"Oh ay," Robert answered cheerfully. "I've never failed these thirty
year--though there 'ave been times, I allow, when I'd rather a laid
a-bed. But Hannah sees to that."
"I heard," the vicar said gravely, "that you were very drunk last night,
Robert."
"I was, sir," Robert admitted, unabashed.
When an unpleasant situation had to be faced he liked to face it and get
it over. Usually on these occasions he carried matters to a triumphant
finish and got as much satisfaction out of them as tribulation. When a
thing is done, it's done, was Robert's philosophy; no use grizzling over
it.
"I am ashamed of you," the vicar said. "Your conduct was a serious
abuse of hospitality. They tell me you were carried home utterly
incapable."
"I was, sir," Robert admitted again.
"Hadn't Hannah something to say about that?" the vicar inquired,
repressing an inclination to smile. His knowledge of the power and
quality of Mrs Robert's eloquence on these occasions suggested that
further reprimanding on his side was superfluous.
Robert slowly stroked his beard and looked, the vicar could not but
observe, pleasantly reminiscent.
"I expect she 'ad, sir," he said. "But, thank God! I was too far gone
to bear aught 'er said. Daresay she talked all night, too; she
generally does."
Robert seized the vicar's overcoat and helped him into it, and, with
unusual solicitude for his health, inquired if he had not thought of
wearing a muffler.
"The cold's cruel," he said. "You ought to take care o' yer throat.
Think o' the disappointment if you was laid by, and couldn't preach."
"I wish," the vicar observed drily, "that you would study your own
constitution as carefully."
"That's all right, sir," Robert answered, wilfully misunderstanding. "I
allays wears a old muffler when the weather's sharp."
He handed the vicar his hat, performing these supererogatory offices
with the patronising air of a man humouring his superior's
peculiarities.
"Milk punch they said it was," he muttered in the form of a soliloquy.
"I thought a babby could 'a' swallowed it. Milk don't digest, I reckon,
in a stummick come to my age. But 'twas pretty drinking, howsomever."
So much, the vicar mused, for Robert's repentance. It were as
profitable to rebuke the weather for inclemency as Robert for his sins.
The vicar dismissed Robert from his mind on emerging into the open, and
allowed his thoughts to dwell instead on something he had witnessed the
previous night, and had reviewed so often since, that, brief as had been
his glimpse of the scene, it was photographed on his memory with the
distinctness of a picture actually present to his gaze. This scene
which was so startlingly fresh in his mind was a glimpse he had obtained
in passing the open door of the billiard-room, of John Musgrave holding
Peggy Annersley's hand while he hung over the back of the settee on
which she was seated and looked into the upturned face. So quiet had
been the grouping of this picture, so utterly unexpected and unreal had
it appeared to Walter Errol's surprised gaze, that it might have been
the enactment of another tableau, such as those he had been witnessing
in the room he had just left. One long astonished look he had given it,
and then, utterly bewildered, like a man who feels his solid world
reduced to unsubstantiality, he had passed on and mingled with the other
guests in the hall. He had been a witness of the tardy appearance of
John Musgrave and Miss Annersley; and for the rest of the night was
conscious of a watchful curiosity in regard to them which, against his
volition, he found himself exercising until the party broke up.
"Coelebs!... Old Coelebs!" he mused, and laughed softly as he pursued
his way to the vicarage, where, in the cosy morning-room, his wife and
tiny daughter waited for him with their Christmas gifts.
A happy man was the vicar that Christmas morning, and comparing his
comfortable, pleasant home with the lonely elegance of John Musgrave's
house it gave him genuine satisfaction to recall the amazing picture of
John Musgrave bending over pretty Peggy Annersley in an attitude which
conveyed more to the impartial observer than a merely friendly interest
in his charming companion. Possibly last night was the first occasion
on which John Musgrave had ever held a girl's hand in this way and hung
over her, looking into her eyes. Such conduct in the case of the
average man would have counted for nothing, or for very little... But
Coelebs... The man who never looked at a woman with the natural
interest of the ordinary male...
The vicar broke into a smile at his own thoughts, and, since nothing had
been said to raise a smile, was called upon by his wife to explain the
cause of his good humour. His answer was ambiguous.
"I think," he said, "that Mrs Chadwick is succeeding in some of her
schemes with most unlooked-for results."
"I fail to see that there was anything in last night's party to suggest
extraordinary developments," Mrs Errol replied. She had not witnessed
the scene which her husband had witnessed and he had not spoken of it to
her. "And I don't find anything in that to smile about. You must enjoy
an abnormal sense of humour."
"Perhaps I do," he allowed. "Tell me what you think of Miss Peggy
Annersley."
Mrs Errol smiled in her turn, and glanced at her husband with the
tolerant contempt women show towards their men when they suspect them of
falling a victim to the fascinations of a popular member of their sex.
"You, too?" she said.
"There was nothing in my question to justify that remark," said the
vicar, who did not, however, appear to resent it. "Like Miss Dartle, I
asked for information."
"I think she is quite a nice girl," replied Mrs Errol ungrudgingly;
"and, judging by the way in which the men flock after her, they share my
opinion. Doctor Fairbridge is crazy about her."
"Oh!" said the vicar. Plainly this intelligence was not pleasing to
him. Doctor Fairbridge was the Rushleigh practitioner, and he was young
and good-looking, and unquestionably eligible. "You think that, do you?
Should you say that he stands any chance of winning her?"
"She seems to like him," Mrs Errol answered. "It would be a very
suitable match. He is the right age, and his practice is good. They
say he is clever. At the same time, I don't fancy Miss Annersley is the
kind of girl who is eager to get married. She will probably be
difficult to please."
"H'm?" remarked the vicar, and looked a trifle serious. He began to
entertain doubts of Miss Annersley. "You wouldn't, I suppose," he
hazarded, "suspect her of being a flirt?"
"That depends on what you mean exactly. Given the opportunity, every
woman is a flirt. I wouldn't accuse her of being unscrupulous. But all
girls like attention; it is against human nature to discourage what one
derives amusement from."
"I wish human nature were different in that respect," the vicar
returned.
He was quite convinced that John Musgrave had no thought of flirting,
and he did not like to believe that Miss Annersley was merely deriving
amusement. She had looked, he recalled, on the previous night quite
sweetly serious. But a woman might look serious and yet be inwardly
amused. If Peggy Annersley was amusing herself at John Musgrave's
expense it would be the finish, the vicar realised, of his friend's
liking and respect for her sex. John Musgrave was not the type of man
to make a heartbreak of it, but assuredly he would not essay a second
time.
"I should like to know," Mrs Errol said, "why you are so particularly
concerned with Miss Annersley's matrimonial affairs? Your interest is
most extraordinary."
Then it was that the vicar told her of the scene he had accidentally
witnessed the previous night. She was not so greatly impressed as he
had expected her to be, but a scene described is less effective than the
same scene actually beheld. He found that he could not adequately
depict the expression on the two faces; he could only explain baldly
that John seemed very much in earnest.
"John always is," she retorted. "That's what makes him so dull. You
don't for one moment imagine, do you, that a pretty girl like Miss
Annersley would fall in love with John?"
"I do not think that I took her feelings into consideration," he
answered. "I have a very strong suspicion that John is falling in love
with her."
"I'm not sure," returned Mrs Errol, smiling, "that that wouldn't be
more amazing than the other thing. I can't credit it--but I hope he
is."
"Time will show," the vicar said. "If she is nothing better than a
little baggage I hope he isn't. He deserves a higher reward than the
knowledge that he is affording Miss Annersley amusement."
The Errols were dining with Mr Musgrave that day; an early dinner,
according to the invariable custom in Mr Musgrave's household on
Christmas Day. The Musgrave party attended the morning service, at
which the party from the Hall was also present. And to Mrs Errol's
surprise--she had never seen him there before--Doctor Fairbridge, who
had motored out from Rushleigh, was seated beside Peggy Annersley in one
of the Hall pews. Subsequently he accepted Mrs Chadwick's invitation
and returned with her party to the Hall.
Notwithstanding that Mrs Errol had professed scepticism of the romance
her husband suspected in connection with John Musgrave and pretty Peggy,
she found herself taking a greater interest in the principals in the
little comedy, so that her attention wandered a good deal during the
service and her watchful eyes travelled more than once from the demurely
unconscious face of the girl to the strong, grave, immovable face of Mr
Musgrave, which, for all its impassive expression, had once during the
singing of the first hymn turned deliberately in Peggy's direction with
a quickness and keenness of look which Mrs Errol described as
searching. If there was anything in her husband's assumption--and she
began to think there might be--John Musgrave would be well advised not
to dally over his love-making, or the more energetic younger man would
anticipate him in the bid for Miss Annersley's favour. Looking at the
young doctor and comparing his youth with Mr Musgrave's somewhat
austere middle-age, Mrs Errol formed the opinion that John's chances
were not great.
After the service the opposing forces met in the churchyard and
exchanged greetings. It occurred to Mrs Errol that Peggy, hedged about
with a bodyguard of young men, was fairly inaccessible; nevertheless
John Musgrave penetrated the group and shook hands with her. The girl,
Mrs Errol observed, aided him in his purpose. She drew a little apart
and remained chatting with him for some minutes--minutes during which
Mr Musgrave's gaze never left the winsome face with its laughing eyes,
which were raised in frank good-fellowship to his own. Whether there
was any sentiment in his preference or not, the preference was
undoubtedly there.
Mrs Sommers' eldest boy, John the second, aged five, broke away from
his mother and flung himself upon Peggy, interrupting John the elder's
tete-a-tete.
"I wish you were coming with us," he said.
"That's very sweet of you," replied Peggy, with her arm about the child.
"Persuade her to, John," said Mr Musgrave.
Peggy flashed a look at him.
"I wish I could," she said; "but..."
"Of course," he returned promptly. "I understand that it's not
possible."
"Why can't you come?" urged John the second, tugging at her hand.
"Uncle John wants you, and so do I. Why can't you come?"
"Miss Annersley has her aunt's guests to entertain, John," Mr Musgrave
explained. "I am afraid we can't prefer our claim."
"She isn't Miss Annersley, she's Peggy," the boy corrected. "Aren't
you?"
Peggy laughed.
"Sometimes I am," she admitted. "But that's a special privilege, John."
"What's that?" asked John junior.
Mr Musgrave, with a hand on his small nephew's shoulder, undertook to
answer this question.
"It is something you enjoy on account of your youth, and from which I am
debarred, though I should better appreciate it, on account of my age.
Youth has advantages."
"I don't think," said Peggy, looking amused, "that he is the least bit
wiser for your very able explanation."
"Perhaps," he suggested, "you can put it more plainly."
"A special privilege, John," she returned obligingly--and if she were
addressing the child she looked directly at the man--"that sort of
special privilege, is a favour one extends to a person one likes, in
return for a similar favour. I don't think that is much clearer," she
added, and suddenly felt herself blushing beneath Mr Musgrave's steady
gaze.
"The definition is perfectly obvious," he replied. "But I fancy we have
both been talking over John's head."
Peggy stooped abruptly and kissed the child. When she straightened
herself she moved away with him and joined Mrs Sommers.