Coelebs: The Love Story of a Bachelor

“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.

Chapter Eleven

Miss Peggy Annersley was a niece of Mr Chadwick, one of a family of four girls whom Fate had deprived of their mother in early childhood, and, as though repenting the evil turn she had wrought them, had remedied the ill as far as she was able by subsequently removing their father also from a world in which, though undoubtedly ornamental, he was not of the slightest use. Having freed them thus far from the only obstacle in the path of any possible success which might fall to their lot, she threw them with light-hearted irresponsibility and an air of having finished with them, if not finally, at least for the time being, into the care of the wealthy uncle who, being childless, was naturally the person best fitted to undertake the charge of four well-grown, unruly, under-educated girls. Mr Chadwick sent them forthwith to a good boarding-school, and, like Fate, having disposed of them temporarily, dismissed them from his thoughts. But Mr Chadwick was possessed of a wife, and that wife was possessed of ideas regarding the race in general and the feminine half of it in particular; she therefore shouldered his neglected responsibilities and made the education of those four girls her special study.

Mr Chadwick’s idea had been to educate them decently, as he expressed it, and give them a small but sufficient income on which to live independently, and leave them to worry out the problem of life for themselves. Mrs Chadwick objected to this plan on the plea that it was charity, and charity, save in exceptional circumstances, was humiliating to the individual and unsatisfactory, inasmuch as it retarded the mental and moral growth, and disorganised the social scheme.

Therefore each girl was educated as a boy might be, with a knowledge that she must earn her livelihood and had therefore better develop any talent and specialise in the choice of a profession.

The arrangement had worked well. The eldest girl, who, like her father, was ornamental rather than useful, had specialised matrimonially and left the schoolroom for a home of her own, and was very well satisfied with her lot. The second girl had become a medical student; and, showing marked ability in the profession she had chosen, took her M.D. and subsequently practised successfully as a doctor in a busy Midland town. The third girl, who was Peggy, had taken up gardening with equal aptitude, and was employed by her aunt for two reasons: the first being that Mrs Chadwick preferred a woman gardener; the second and all-important reason being that she was very fond of Peggy and wished to keep her with her. The fourth girl was an architect, and, being still quite young, was as yet on the lowest rung of the ladder. She was, however, keen, and Mrs Chadwick hoped that she would become an ornament to her profession in time.

Save for Peggy and the eldest girl, who was a beauty, looks were not the chief asset of the family, so that for the doctor and the young architect it was more expedient that they should do well in the work they had taken up.

Mrs Chadwick was on the whole very satisfied with the result of her effort on their behalf. Next to having girls of her own, four nieces with an average share of brains provided admirable material for the development of her feminist schemes. It afforded her immense gratification to watch their progress, and behold, instead of four helpless girls keeping house in bored inactivity on other people’s money, four – or rather three – very capable young persons equal to fighting their own way through life, and privileged to enjoy the bread of independence. If any girl imagines there is a better lot in life she is mistaken. No occupation unfits a woman for the rôle of wife and mother; it gives her rather a greater right to bring children into the world, when she is able to support them if necessary. Mr Musgrave would not have shared this opinion; but Musgravian ideas fill almshouses and orphanages and are responsible for a great deal of genteel and quite needless poverty. That one half – and that the larger half – of the race should depend for its existence on the other half is absurd.

Peggy Annersley was a young woman of very independent spirit. Had she wished, she might have made her occupation as gardener at the Hall a sinecure. She could have given her orders to those under her and have enjoyed her leisure in any way that appeared agreeable to herself. Mrs Chadwick imposed no conditions or restraints. But Peggy drew a handsome wage, and she liked to fed when she received her monthly cheque that she had earned it; therefore she donned overalls and spoilt her hands, or, as she would have expressed it, hardened them, in the conscientious fulfilment of her duties. She put in her eight hours a day, except in the winter when work was slack, and insisted upon her half-day off during the week. There was only one matter in which she enjoyed any advantage over the rest – she was not liable to dismissal.

On her half-day off Peggy usually went for a walk accompanied by Diogenes. She resolutely refused to give up these half-days to paying calls with her aunt or helping her to entertain visitors. If she were imperatively needed for social duties these had to be worked in in her employers’ time. Peggy was a veritable Trades Union in herself, and refused absolutely to sacrifice her off-time to any object that did not conform with her ideas of pleasurable relaxation.

Thus it fell out that when the guests who had participated in the Chadwicks’ hospitality were, with rigid observance of rule, punctiliously performing their duty in the matter of an after-dinner call, Miss Annersley, in defiance of her aunt’s remonstrance, insisted on going off as usual with the faithful Diogenes. Mrs Chadwick was vexed. Mr Chadwick had that morning met John Musgrave in the village, and had returned with the news that Mr Musgrave had mentioned that it was his purpose to call that same afternoon. Mrs Chadwick for some inexplicable reason desired Peggy’s support on this occasion, and appeared disproportionately annoyed when Peggy departed on her walk and left her aunt to receive Mr Musgrave alone. Mr Chadwick was present, certainly, but the presence of Mr Chadwick could not further her amiable plans for the modernising of John Musgrave.

It was a wild, bright day with a touch of frost in the air, and as she walked briskly across the fields the sun and the wind and the cold air brought a glorious colour into Peggy’s cheeks and lent a sparkle to her eyes. It was regrettable that there was no one there to note these things except Diogenes and a few cows. Peggy was not alarmed of cows; but Diogenes, who was in a boisterous mood, caused her considerable anxiety through displaying a desire to chase these unoffending animals, resenting which, they acted in a manner unseemly in their breed. In one field there were bulls. They were young bulls, and harmless; but Diogenes excited them, and when they began to chase Diogenes he feigned nervousness and sought shelter behind his mistress’s skirts, Peggy, feeling nervous without feigning it, took refuge in the hedge. Then it was that she became aware of a small bearded man, who, having just climbed the stile, walked fearlessly among the herd, which made way before him as before the progress of some royal personage and allowed him to pass unharmed. The small bearded man stopped when he was abreast of Peggy, and stared up at her where she crouched in the hedge with critical, contemptuous eyes.

“Do you like milk?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Yes,” Peggy answered, puzzled to understand why this person, whom she now recognised for the sexton, if he wished to address her should open civilities with such an unusual remark; why, too, he should seem upset with her reply. He looked almost angry.

“Do you like beef?” he proceeded, putting her through this catechism as though he were playing a serious kind of new game.

“Yes,” Peggy repeated with increasing wonder.

The little man looked really fierce now. She was relieved to have Diogenes at hand; this person was more terrifying than the bulls.

“Then wot are you afeard of? Get down out of thicky hedge. They won’t ’urt ’ee.”

Peggy felt indignant; the little man was quite unnecessarily rude.

“I do not care to watch milk churning itself in the open,” she retorted; “and I prefer beef cooked.”

Robert appeared for the moment at a loss for a suitable response. He looked at her sourly, and from her to the dog.

“You shouldn’ take that there toy terrier across the fields, if you’m afeard o’ cattle,” he remarked. “’E’s more mischeevous than wot they be. Get down out o’ thicky ’edge, I tell ’ee. I’ll see ’ee across.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the beginning?” Peggy said, flashing a smile at him and slipping nimbly down from her position of doubtful security. “That’s exactly what I was wishing you would do.”

“I seen a woman orched once,” Robert was beginning conversationally, as they walked along together, when Peggy interrupted him to inquire what “orched” meant.

“Why, bein’ tossed, o’ course,” Robert answered, amazed at her ignorance. “She died, too – died o’ fright, I reckon; ’er warn’t ’urt much. It was a cow done it. But ’twas more by way o’ play than temper. Females is easy scared.”

“Yes,” Peggy agreed. “I allow that would scare me. You must be very brave, Mr Robert. I knew you were brave the moment I saw you.”

“Eh?” Robert ventured, a little doubtful as to her entire sincerity. He knew something about females and he had never known them other than deceitful. “Reckon I’m not more easy scared than most.”

Hannah would have laughed could she have heard that boast; he was – and she knew it – scared of her.

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Peggy asked.

“Ghosts!” Robert’s tone was scornful. “No, I ban’t afeard o’ they. Somethin’ you can put your ’and through don’t signify much. Wot I might be afeard of,” he added, wishful not to appear bragging, “is somethin’ bigger an’ stronger than meself, wot can take holt to your whistle and squeeze it like the plumbers do the gas-pipes of a ’ouse. That might scare me, now.”

His manner conveyed a doubt whether even that experience could effectively arouse his fears. He left it to her imagination to picture him struggling valiantly, undismayed, against gigantic odds.

“Folks say there’s a ghost up at the ’All,” he added.

“I knew it!” the girl exclaimed. “I’ve a feeling in my bones, when I wake in the dark, that there must be a ghost somewhere.”

Robert nodded confirmation.

“Hannah – that’s my missis – she used to live ’ousemaid up at the ’All in old squire’s time. She seen it. Leastways, she says she ’as,” he added in the tone of a man who considers the reliability of the evidence open to question.

“If she says so, of course she must have seen it,” Peggy insisted.

“Well,” Robert answered, “I dunno. Seems to me if Hannah ’ad a seen it, er’d ’ave left; an’ ’er didn’ leave, not till I married ’er. But ’er was always tellin’ up about thicky ole ghost, though ’er never could describe it. If I’d seen a ghost I’d know wot ’e looked like. Misty, ’er used to say – kind o’ misty like, an’ big. I’ve seed misty kind o’ things meself when I’ve ’ad a drop; but Hannah’s teetotal.”

Peggy eyed him contemplatively.

“When you are digging graves, Mr Robert, do you never see a ghost?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Nothin’ more’n a few ole bones.”

“Ugh?” the girl exclaimed.

“There’s naught to mind in bones,” Robert returned. “They couldn’t put theirselves together again, anyway, because parts of ’em would be missin’. But the first lot I ’eaved up turned my stummick, sure. A man gets used to it.”

Peggy had a feeling that she had had enough of Robert’s society for one day, and, having come to a stile where an inviting lane branched off from the fields, she inquired of him where it led.

“It takes ’ee past the back o’ Mr Musgrave’s house,” he answered.

“Oh,” said Peggy, “then I think I am going that way. Thank you very much for seeing me past the danger.”

She parted from Robert joyfully, and set off with Diogenes down the muddy roadway between its tall green banks.

“We are going to see the back of the fossil’s dwelling; now for adventure number two, Diogenes,” she said.

Chapter Twelve

Peggy was fond of boasting that adventures usually met her on her walks abroad. It is a peculiar conceit with some people to believe that things happen for them. To the imaginative person the unexpected event befalls, and signifies considerably more than it would signify to the person of a practical mind. The adult of Peggy’s temperament never grows away from the fairyland of make-believe which usually is considered the sole prerogative of childhood. There is a wonderland for grown people, but not many dwell in it. Peggy dwelt in it, which was one reason why she always derived enjoyment from her country rambles with Diogenes.

But on this particular afternoon the adventures which befell Peggy were less agreeable than exciting. The encounter with the bulls had ended comfortably as a result of the opportune appearance of a knight-errant in the form of Robert; the second adventure had a less agreeable termination, possibly because no knight-errant arrived upon the scene, save in a laggard fashion which was in the nature of an anti-climax. Diogenes was directly responsible in both instances for everything which occurred. It was unusual for Diogenes to make himself a nuisance; possibly the Moresby air was too exhilarating for him.

When Peggy reached the end of the lane and emerged upon Mr Musgrave’s back entrance she paused and looked about her, less from a sense of curiosity than a sudden realisation that the lane was a cul-de-sac, and unless she could brace herself to make the return journey by the way she had come, and face again the dangers from which Robert had rescued her, only to leave her basely in the lurch outside the back gate of the dwelling-house of a respectable, fossilised bachelor, she would be forced to make use of the tradesmen’s entrance – the notice was painted neatly on the gate – and pass through Mr Musgrave’s garden.

“Why not?” said Peggy to herself. “I wanted to see his garden. I told him so; and he didn’t respond as a gentleman should. Therefore I will commit a trespass.”

She would, have committed anything rather than return by the fields with Diogenes, who, for the first time within her knowledge, had defied her authoritative whistle. Diogenes, having created a precedent by this act of defiance, proceeded to follow it, which is what a precedent exists for. When Peggy, not without the feeling which a burglar must have when he forces his first lock, pushed open the tradesmen’s entrance and took a furtive look inside to assure herself no one was on the watch to prevent her, Diogenes got his inquisitive snub nose between the crack, and using his broad shoulders, forced the gate a little wider and entered with a bound.

A rush, a scream, a frantic barking and growling followed, and Peggy, pursuing in hot haste and whistling as authoritatively as her panting breath permitted, arrived at the back door of Mr Musgrave’s house, and, hearing a distressing pandemonium within, did not pause to consider the conventions, but dashed through the scullery and into the kitchen. There such a scene met her eyes as would have moved her to laughter had she not been too frightened to realise the comic element in the domestic drama she beheld. Diogenes held the floor – he was too unwieldy an animal to get above it; but he had cleared every one else off it and remained master of the situation, showing his teeth, and growling hideously in huge enjoyment of the game. The respectable Eliza stood on the table screaming; Martha, the corpulent, was mounted on a chair. Since she was not screaming, but was merely murmuring, “Good doggie, good doggie?” in a soothing voice, Diogenes was not concerned with her, but gave his whole attention to the subduing of Eliza.

The cause of the first mad rush, Mr Musgrave’s sedate tabby, had sprung upon the highest shelf on the dresser, having dislodged in her ascent more of Mr Musgrave’s valuable dinner-service than would have seemed necessary in attaining to her present elevation. The floor was strewn with broken china, and the breaker, with arched back and distended tail, looked down upon Diogenes barking amid the débris with the most malignant glare that Peggy had ever beheld in the eyes of a cat.

Peggy swooped down upon Diogenes, and, seizing him by the collar, belaboured him soundly with the dog-whip, which, until the present occasion, she had carried merely from force of habit, as one carries an umbrella in England at certain seasons even when one does not expect it to rain. Diogenes, who had recognised the dog-whip only as the symbol of an invitation to go walking, was so astonished when he realised that this hitherto agreeable-looking object could hurt that he ceased his joyous barking and relapsed into a sulky mood, which changed to a whimpering protest when he discovered that Peggy did not tire as readily as he did of this abominable misuse of the instrument she wielded. Diogenes had thought it was a game; and the game was having a most discouraging ending.

Mingled with Diogenes’ protests, drowning them, indeed, Eliza’s noisy wailing, the hissing of the cat, and the soothing reiteration of Martha’s “Good doggie!” penetrating Peggy’s hearing, took the power out of her arm. She did not laugh, although she experienced an hysterical desire to both laugh and cry, but she left off thrashing Diogenes and fastened the lead to his collar, to Eliza’s intense relief, and then looked up.

“I am so sorry,” she said, addressing herself to Martha, since Martha alone showed sufficient control to heed her apology. “I’ve never known him do such a thing before. But he wouldn’t hurt anyone – not even the cat. He is perfectly gentle.”

He might have been; he was, on the whole; but appearances seemed rather to belie the assertion.

Martha scrambled down from the chair and readjusted her cap, which was drooping coquettishly over one ear.

“Lor’!” she said. “What a fright it give me; it most a turned me inside out.”

Diogenes, thoroughly subdued, wagged a tentative tail at her. He rather liked Martha. But when Eliza, still weeping, sat down on the table and, with an unconscious display of thin legs, descended on the far side, he showed a tendency to become restive, and strained at the unaccustomed leash. Peggy cuffed him vigorously, whereupon he subsided and affected to sulk again.

“However could that animal ’ave got in?” exclaimed Martha, at which simple question Peggy felt guilty. She felt more guilty still when Martha added acrimoniously to the weeping Eliza, “That’s your fault, Lizer. You must ’ave left the gate open.”

“No,” said Peggy bravely, conscious of her glowing cheeks, and wishing from the depths of her being that she had faced the bulls rather than trespass on Mr Musgrave’s property; “I opened the gate. I wanted to walk through the garden because of the bulls. And then Diogenes saw the cat and escaped from me.”

Martha looked amazed, only imperfectly understanding this none too lucid explanation; and Eliza, who had been too upset to know whether she had left the gate open or not, discovering that she was not responsible for the mischance, stared resentfully at the intruder.

“This is private property,” she announced in the haughty manner of a person who feels herself by virtue of her residence thereon joint owner of the premises. “You can’t walk through private grounds.”

What Peggy would have replied, or if she would have replied at all, remained indeterminate. At that moment Martha straightened her cap anew and Eliza started to sniff more loudly and Diogenes ventured on a bark as the kitchen door opened and John Musgrave, with gravely astonished face, stood framed in the aperture, gazing upon the scene.