Coelebs. F. E. Mills Young
inclined towards a lesser seriousness. As for me, I was never more in earnest in my life. Fill Belle’s place, and then you will be relieved of the necessity for engaging such a sour-faced person as opened your front door to me yesterday.”
“You mean Eliza?” said John Musgrave, surprised. “She is a most respectable woman.”
“Guaranteed respectability has no need to be so disagreeably assertive of its claim to recognition,” the vicar returned, unmoved. “The lack of amiability in one’s expression suggests an unamiable disposition. A cheerful heart is the supremest of virtues.”
He rose to his feet in response to the agreeable summons of the supper-gong, and placed a hand affectionately on John Musgrave’s shoulder.
“Adam was the first man to take a bite out of an apple,” he said, “but since he created the precedent for eating the fruit, men have developed the taste for apples.”
“For a clergyman, Walter,” his friend returned disapprovingly, “your conversation is at times highly irreverent.”
Chapter Three.
A few weeks later John Musgrave set out across the fields in search of the vicar. The vicar on that particular morning was engaged in a search of quite another description, a search which necessitated the company of his sexton, armed with the iron rod with which he prodded in the moundless graveyard where the poor of the parish lay sleeping, to discover where he might, without disturbing an older resident, dig a grave for a fresh interment.
The nature of the soil in the Moresby churchyard was such that it was quite safe, after the lapse of a certain number of years, to bury the present generation in the resting-places of their predecessors. There were no headstones to suggest ownership in this little acre of the dead; and, owing to a whim of the old squire, who during his lifetime had ruled the parish with the despotism of an autocrat, the graves had been dug level with the rest of the ground. Since the advent of the present vicar mounds were insisted upon, and headstones encouraged; so that a man might feel assured when he was laid to rest that his resting-place would remain undisturbed. The old order was changing, even in the matter of interments.
For a while Robert prodded unsuccessfully; wherever he drove his rod in, after a few feet of solid earth it sank suddenly into the unresisting depths of an uncollapsed grave.
“Time most o’ these ’ad a failed in,” he grumbled. “It grows more difficult to find a spot wi’ each fresh buryin’.”
“Try here,” suggested the vicar.
Robert drove his rod in once again. To the depth of about six feet it pierced firm, resisting soil.
“Reckon that’s got it, sir,” he said, as he drew the rod out from the ground. “I’ll carry this back along, an’ fetch my spade.”
At this moment the vicar looked up and beheld John Musgrave bearing towards him. He stepped off the grass, where the quiet dead lay unmarked beneath his feet, and went to meet him.
“Are you busy?” Mr. Musgrave asked, turning, and falling into step with him as he walked along the broad gravelled path beneath the scanty shade of the thinning trees.
“Not particularly. I have time to spare you, if you want me. We’ve a funeral this afternoon.”
“Yes. Blackmoor, of course; Martha informed me he was to be buried to-day. Mrs. Blackmoor assists Martha in the kitchen when she requires help. A very respectable woman.” Walter Errol smiled.
“She is,” he agreed. She had not always been so, as he and John both knew; but a call to grace in later life atoned for the indiscretions of youth. “Blackmoor had his failings,” he added, “but he was a good-hearted man; and that goes a long way towards the redeeming virtues. What was it you wished to see me about, John?”
Mr. Musgrave looked worried—more than worried; he appeared annoyed. He did not answer immediately. He passed through the little wicket gate into the lane, which led past the schoolhouse to the vicarage, in a preoccupied silence, upon which the unmusical singing of the school-children broke inharmoniously. Presently he said:
“I have received a very inconsiderate letter from Belle this morning. She writes to say she is coming to me next week—”
“But that’s great,” interposed Walter Errol. “You’ll enjoy that.”
“I should enjoy having Belle,” Mr. Musgrave answered quietly. “But she proposes bringing Mrs. Chadwick with her. I was not agreeably prepossessed with this lady, and I do not anticipate pleasure from the visit. The Hall is to be got ready for their immediate occupation, and she wishes to superintend matters, I understand. I do not see the necessity for her superintending the redecoration of the Hall from my house. She could have stayed in Rushleigh.”
“It won’t be a long visit, I suppose?” the vicar suggested encouragingly. “And Mrs. Sommers will relieve you of the principal share of the entertaining.”
“I maintain,” John Musgrave pursued, “that it is inconsiderate of Belle. She must be aware that it will put me out. My establishment is not equal to the entertainment of guests. It incommodes the servants.”
“My dear John,” the vicar returned sensibly, “you don’t run a house for the convenience of your servants. A little extra work will not injure the health of the respectable Eliza, and Martha likes company. Whether you like it or not, it is good for you. When do the ladies arrive?”
“On Tuesday,” answered John Musgrave shortly. “Belle desires that I will send the motor into Rushleigh to meet the train.”
“Naturally you would do so,” said the vicar.
“I shall do so, of course. But it is inconvenient. It is King’s day off. He was not pleased when I told him he would be required to meet the afternoon train.”
“Oh, Coelebs,” said the vicar, laughing, “your servants are more arbitrary than a dozen wives. Why should they be unwilling to study your convenience occasionally?”
“My servants are accustomed to system,” Mr. Musgrave replied with dignity. “I am systematic myself.”
“No one can dispute that, John. But system, like everything else when carried to excess, becomes wearisome. We will go in and tell Mary your news. She will be most interested.”
“I want you to dine with me on Tuesday evening,” Mr. Musgrave said, as they turned in at the vicarage gate, “if Mrs. Errol will be so kind. It will help me immensely.”
“She’ll be delighted,” the vicar assured him. “And so shall I. Don’t you worry, Coelebs, we’ll see you through.”
In the interest of John Musgrave’s surprising news the vicar forgot for the time his more important duties. He remained to discuss with his wife and John this unexpected house-party to which the host alone looked forward with manifest misgivings.
Mrs. Errol was pleased at the prospect of anything that offered a change from the dead level of monotony to which the social life of Moresby had sunk; and as soon as John Musgrave departed in the company of her husband she ran upstairs to her bedroom to hunt in her wardrobe for some garment which represented an evening gown, and might, with a slight alteration, be adapted to the present mode. In Moresby it was not necessary to be attired in the latest fashion; one simple evening dress did duty for local entertainments for years. But this occasion was different. Mrs. Errol was aware that the ladies she would meet on Tuesday would not be garbed in the fashion of a bygone season. They, however, would not be, she felt, unkindly in their criticism; and the knowledge that her dress was shabby did not concern her unduly. The Moresby living did not yield a handsome stipend.
The vicar, on parting from John Musgrave, returned by way of the