With the New Year--or, rather, in advance of it--Peggy's youngest sister
arrived at the Hall. Mrs Chadwick had invited the entire family; but
the Midland doctor could not leave her practice, and the children of the
married niece had inconveniently developed whooping-cough; so Sophy, the
architect, had divided her holiday, spending Christmas with her married
sister and coming on to the Hall for the finish of the festivities,
which included a dance to be held on New Year's Eve and a round of
somewhat dull dinners and similar entertainments wherewith the
Chadwicks' guests sought to make a return of hospitality.
Sophy hated dinner-parties, but she looked forward with considerable
enthusiasm to the coming dance. Mrs Chadwick had provided both nieces
with dresses for the occasion, and, in order that these independent
young women should not feel unduly indebted, she called these her
Christmas gifts.
"Aunt Ruby is a brick," remarked Sophy, as she surveyed herself
complacently in the mirror in her sister's room and wondered what use
the gauzy creation would serve when she got back to her plans and her
desk. "I look really _chic_, don't I?"
"You look sweet," Peggy said with warm sincerity; and her sister caught
her round the waist and drew her to the glass and stood holding her and
surveying their double reflections with critical, unenvious eyes.
"I look just a plain young gawk beside you," she said. "You _are_
pretty, Peggy. You grow prettier every year. Is the masculine breast
of Moresby susceptible?--or is Moresby wholly feminine? A bachelor--an
eligible bachelor--would be an anomaly in a place like this."
"There is John," said Peggy, smiling.
Her sister's brows lifted ironically.
"John! Has it come to that already? Who is John?"
"We passed him on the road from Rushleigh," Peggy explained. "The
comfortable-looking person in the motor with the fur on his coat."
Sophy laughed.
"Is that all Moresby can produce?... You poor dear! John looks about
as romantic as a city alderman. I can tell you exactly the kind of man
he is: he attends church regularly and collects the offertory, and he
subscribes handsomely to all the local charities. His opinion carries
weight, not because it is really worth anything, but because he is a
local institution and because the motor and the fur coat give him an air
of prosperous distinction. He stands for usage in Moresby; and usage,
coupled with a substantial banking account, gains respect. I shall
enter the lists and try to cut you out with John."
Peggy received this intimation with amusement.
"Your tongue is too sharp," she said. "John likes womenly women."
"Heavens!" ejaculated Sophy, with a curious little twist of the lips.
"I hope he is prepared to match his ideal's womanliness with a
corresponding manliness. That is a point these fastidious people are
apt to overlook." She scrutinised her sister with a wicked little smile
and touched the becoming dimple at the corner of Peggy's mouth with the
tip of a long, well-shaped finger. "I believe you are cultivating the
quality," she said.
"What quality?"
"Womanliness, my innocent," Sophy retorted, and laughed again. "Don't
do it, my Pegtop. It is not womanly to tamper with a fastidious
middle-aged heart."
"John wouldn't consider it womanly of us to be discussing him in this
manner," Peggy returned.
"And I'm equally convinced he wouldn't consider it womanly of you to
take liberties with his Christian name," said Sophy. "I think it will
be a good day for John when Aunt Ruby takes you abroad in the spring.
By the way, isn't John Mrs Sommers' brother? Yes! Well, she is all
right. He can't be such an absolute bore, after all."
One thing Sophy discovered during the New Year's Eve ball, which was
that if Moresby could not produce any young men, Rushleigh could; that
one of these was well-favoured and agreeable; that, moreover, he was
very unmistakably in love with her sister. It was significant in
Sophy's opinion, that her sister, while speaking of John with such ready
flippancy, had refrained from mentioning Doctor Fairbridge altogether.
Clearly such unnatural reserve on Peggy's side did not originate from a
lack of interest; no girl, Sophy's experience assured her, lacks
interest in a good-looking man who favours her with a generous share of
that same quality. The conclusion she arrived at, therefore, was that
Peggy, being pleasantly embarrassed by his devotion, was desirous of
appearing unconscious of it.
Peggy introduced Doctor Fairbridge to her sister; and Sophy danced with
him several times, and found him extremely entertaining. He was, and
she knew it, exerting himself to create a good impression, which
amiability, though not disinterested, pleased Sophy. She ranged herself
promptly on his side, prepared to champion him whole-heartedly in his
bid for her sister's favour. John Musgrave she refused to consider in
the light of a possible rival.
Mr Musgrave did not care about dancing, but he sat through one of the
intervals beside Sophy in the warmth of the great fire in the hall and
asked her several astonished questions relative to her work, and showed
surprise when she informed him that she had drawn up some of the plans
for the reconstruction of the home farm-buildings. He did not, she
perceived, take either herself or her work quite seriously; but that did
not trouble Sophy.
"It is such an amazing profession for a young lady," he remarked
gravely.
"Why?" inquired Sophy.
"It seems so to me," he replied, unable, he found, to explain further.
"These new ideas appear to me fantastic. It's a reversion of things.
Women's sphere should be the home."
"Well," said Sophy, smiling, "that's where my sphere lies mainly. I
plan homes--for other people. It isn't a new idea really. Abroad, you
know, the women build the home--the blacks, I mean. Aunt Ruby says the
women make all those jolly ill-constructed huts; they cut the poles, and
do everything. I'd like to go out and teach them how to construct them
properly, with some idea of ventilation other than a doorway." She
laughed cheerfully, and held a daintily-gloved hand to the flames.
"Wouldn't it be awful if we had to sit here with the door open to let
the smoke escape?"
Mr Musgrave looked round the beautiful old hall, looked at the several
couples seated on the broad oak staircase, looked into his companion's
young, fresh, smiling face, and smiled too.
"It would be unpleasantly draughty," he allowed.
She lifted her white shoulders expressively.
"I like modern comfort," she said. "I love everything beautiful and
solid and good. I admire this house, and I admire Moresby. It is
picturesque. But I wouldn't care to live here."
"No? Why?" he asked.
"I don't enjoy vegetating. I should turn into a cabbage if I had to
remain here. It's the same with Peggy. We are all alike that way; we
must have change."
"Ah!" he said. "That is a sign of the times, too."
For some reason or other he seemed ill-pleased with her last remark,
though he could not have explained why a desire for change in a young
lady whom he met for the first time should disturb him. Perhaps it was
less the expression of Sophy's own inclination than that reference to a
similar taste on her sister's part which vexed him; or it may have been
that he resented the general tone of her remarks about the desirability
of Moresby as a permanent dwelling-place. He had lived most of his life
in Moresby, and he felt no nearer in kin to the vegetable world now than
in the days of his more fervid youth.
"It is natural that the present generation should be representative of
the times," observed Sophy cheerfully. "I wouldn't wish to be an
anachronism."
She laughed gaily at the perplexed gravity of his face. Her sister's
opinion, expressed earlier in the evening, to the effect that John would
not like her because of the sharpness of her tongue, occurred to her as
surprisingly astute. John certainly did not like her. Possibly he
cherished antipathy towards most things which he failed to understand.
Mr Musgrave had never met such an astounding young woman before. By
comparison, Peggy Annersley appeared a very simple and gracious
contrast. He was getting perilously near to thinking of Peggy as
womanly; and yet when he first met Peggy that flattering adjective was
the last he would have applied as fittingly describing her. He had
almost forgotten the abominable overalls. He certainly was not thinking
of them when presently Peggy flitted up to them, a distractingly
pleasing sight in blue, with blush roses at her breast. The roses had
been made in Paris, but Mr Musgrave did not detect their artificiality.
Peggy dexterously exchanged her own partner for her sister's escort,
and sat down beside Mr Musgrave on the big oak seat.
"I'm tired," she said, and played absently with her fan, making the
remark as though she considered some explanation of this rescue of her
bored young sister necessary. Sophy's idea of enjoyment was not, she
knew, consistent with sitting out when she might be dancing; and the
band, hired for the occasion from Rushleigh, was playing a two-step.
She did not look tired when she made this admission. But Mr Musgrave
was not observant, and he considered it becoming in a woman to confess
to fatigue. Also the substitution of companions was entirely agreeable
to him. Peggy was undeniably the more charming of the two sisters.
"Don't you dance?" she asked presently.
"These new dances are unfamiliar," he replied. "I used to waltz years
ago; but, save for an occasional square dance, I have not engaged in the
exercise for so long that I expect I have forgotten the steps. I like
to look on."
He was not, however, indulging his liking; there was no view of the
dancing from where they sat. The couples on the staircase had melted
away with the first strains of the music, find Peggy and John Musgrave
had the old hall to themselves.
"I don't care about looking on," said Peggy. "I like to take part, or
get away from it altogether. It's nice sitting here; it's restful."
She lifted the little decorated programme hanging from her fan and
studied it, wrinkling her pretty brows over the undecipherable initials
which defaced its page.
"I don't believe you have asked me for a single dance," she said, the
faintest trace of reproach perceptible in her voice.
Before this attack Mr Musgrave experienced some embarrassment. The
rebuke in its directness was tantamount to an accusation of negligence;
in its suggestion of an invitation it implied a compliment. John
Musgrave was as much discomfited by the one as by the other.
"I--I didn't wish to trespass on your good nature to that extent," he
replied.
"Isn't that just a little unkind?" hazarded Peggy, with a smile which
brought the dimple into play.
Mr Musgrave fell to studying the dimple while Peggy studied her card,
and became so intent in this pleasing form of research that he omitted
to answer her question. Presently he took the card from her.
"Is it filled?" he inquired.
"There's one blank--a square, towards the end," replied Peggy demurely,
not thinking it necessary to tell him with what difficulty she had
preserved that blank space in her programme.
"I can't dance," he said, reddening. "I've forgotten how. It wouldn't
be fair to spoil your enjoyment. So many people would be grateful for
the privilege of dancing it with you."
Peggy shook her head.
"I do not feel like gratifying them," she said.
Very gravely and deliberately Mr Musgrave took hold of the tiny pencil
hanging by its slender cord from the card, and, pencil in one large
gloved hand and programme in the other, looked searchingly into the grey
eyes that met his steadfast scrutiny with a kindly smile.
"Does that," he asked, "convey a gracious permission to me to write my
name against the blank?"
"Not--unless to do so would be equally agreeable to you," Peggy
answered.
Mr Musgrave did not immediately remove his gaze from hers. So long,
indeed, did he continue looking at her that Peggy felt her cheeks grow
warm beneath his earnest eyes. Then he transferred his attention from
her face to the card he held, and wrote his name clearly, "John
Musgrave," in the single blank space thereon.
"Thank you," he said, and returned her programme to her with a courteous
bow.
Peggy, experiencing a timid embarrassment in having so easily gained her
point, felt curiously inadequate to making any suitable reply. She took
the card from him with nervous fingers and let it fall into her lap, and
sat gazing into the fire abstractedly, concealing in this concentration
on the flames the tiny gleam of triumph that lighted the grey eyes. The
thought, shaping its f mutely in her mind in inelegant phraseology, was,
in effect, that Moresby would sit up when it saw John treading a measure
with herself. Had Mr Musgrave divined that thought it is safe to
predict that he would never have led pretty Peggy Annersley out on the
ballroom floor.