that it would be exactly difficult for me tomake such a promise. But I can't recognise any reason why I should. Itwould be tantamount to an admission that I agree with you that thepractice is objectionable. I do not. And I do not wish to encourageyour mistaken belief by acquiescing in it. I am sorry. But, you see, Ishould feel myself something of a humbug if I promised that. I willnot, however, offend your sensibilities by smoking in your presence."
"It is the act itself, not the place or time of committing it that is ofimportance," he said with a touch of displeasure.
Peggy considered this ungracious of him; he might at least have thankedher for her consideration for his feelings.
"In that case," she returned audaciously, "perhaps you will be so kindas to light me a cigarette?"
Mr Musgrave felt annoyed, and showed it.
"No," he answered bluntly. "At the risk of appearing discourteous, Idecline to do that."
Peggy was not affronted. She would have thought less of him if he hadcomplied. If one possessed principles, even when they chanced to bemistaken, one had to be consistent and act in accordance with them.Peggy was faithful to her own principles, and she liked sincerity inothers.
At that moment, falling upon the sudden hush in the room which hadfollowed John Musgrave's curt speech, starting on a single note, thricerepeated, and then bursting into a joyous peal, the Moresby chimes brokesoftly on the stillness, died away on the wind, and were borne back totheir listening ears with a fuller, sweeter cadence, conveying themessage of the centuries of peace and good-will upon earth. Peggy, whenshe caught the sound, rose slowly to her feet.
"They'll be assembling in the hall now," she said, and looked at JohnMusgrave. "We had better join them."
"Yes," he said.
Suddenly she held out her hand.
"Peace and good-will," she said, smiling. "We've got to be friends, youknow, on Christmas morning."
"Yes," agreed John Musgrave, consulting the clock. "But it wants tenminutes to the hour yet."
Peggy broke into a little laugh and withdrew her hand hastily before hecould take it.
"Your speech admits of only one interpretation," she said; "you don'twish to befriends before the hour strikes."
"My remark must have been very misleading to have conveyed thatimpression," he returned. "I was not aware that we were upon unfriendlyterms. A difference of opinion does not necessitate the breaking of afriendship."
"Perhaps not," agreed Peggy, looking amused. "But it strains therelationship somewhat. Come along, Mr Musgrave, and toast thefriendship in a bumper of milk punch."
Mr Musgrave accompanied her from the room, and emerging at her sideinto the great hall, already thronged with the other guests, wasinstantly separated from his companion by half a dozen eager young men,who bore Peggy away among them and left Mr Musgrave on the outskirts,as it were, of the festivities, looking, as he felt, utterly strandedand out of touch with his surroundings.
Miss Simpson, who had sought in vain for him throughout the evening,seeing him standing alone, so evidently out of his element, made herdetermined way across the width of the hall and joined him. MrMusgrave did not feel as grateful to her as he might have felt. Hespent much of his time on these social evenings in carefully avoidingher. But it is not always possible to evade a person whose purpose inlife it is to frustrate this aim, particularly when the object of thepursuit shrinks from hurting the pursuer's feelings, Therefore when MissSimpson hurried up to Mr Musgrave, with anxiety and determination inher eyes, he received her with the reserved politeness of a perfectlycourteous person, accepting the inevitable with a fairly good grace.
"They are going to sing `Auld Lang Syne,'" she said. "I loathe thesestupid customs. But one cannot make one's self conspicuous; one has todo as the rest do."
"Assuredly," Mr Musgrave agreed, with his ear inclined towards MissSimpson and his eye fixed on a huge punch-bowl standing on a table inthe centre of the hall, presided over by the female butler and herhelpers.
The scene in the hall, thronged with its brilliant assemblage of guests,many of whom wore, as Peggy did, the costumes in which they had appearedin the tableaux, suggested to Mr Musgrave's mind a scene from an opera.The broad oak staircase, leading up from either side and ending in agallery connecting both, was crowded with young people. Peggy hadjoined one of the groups on the stairs, a group composed largely ofyoung men, whose sallies seemed to be affording her considerableamusement. When the punch was served round and every one, glass inhand, waited for the striking of the hour, looking up to where shestood, leaning against the baluster in her emerald velvet robe, herround white arm upraised holding its glass aloft, Mr Musgrave met hereyes fully as the hour chimed forth, and, meeting them, was consciousthat she was looking towards him deliberately, with a kindly smileparting her lips. She leaned down towards him, and, putting the glassto her lips, drank to him. John Musgrave made a slight inclination ofhis head and drank to her in return. Then, scarce knowing what hiscompanion was saying, amid the hum of talk and laughter, and the curiousabstraction of his thoughts, he observed sententiously:
"There is a sort of dignity in these old customs. I do not think I haveever enjoyed a Christmas party more."
And Miss Simpson, who had just remarked to him on the want of respectfor the day which this hilarity betokened, regarded him with a wonderingreproach, and answered flatly:
"It is very gay, certainly--but--dignified! Do you really think so?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
The vicar, as he took off his surplice after the early celebration onChristmas morning, and turned to hang it on its peg, became aware thatRobert had entered the vestry, and was hovering about, busying himselfunnecessarily, moving things ostentatiously and replacing them in thesame positions, and watching the vicar furtively meanwhile, as a manmight whose conscience is not altogether free from reproach. The vicarlooked at his sexton with as much severity as he was capable of assumingtowards Robert, whose failings were sufficiently familiar to him to haveceased to appear disproportionately grave. But Robert merited rebuke,and was apparently expecting it. In anticipation of reproof heattempted propitiation.
"Never seed a bigger congregation than we 'ad for 'Oly Commoonion thismorning, sir," he observed. "Folks don't turn up most places like theydo at our church."
Some of the credit for the large congregation he appropriated tohimself. The vicar finished disrobing, and then faced deliberatelyround.
"I am at least relieved," he said, "that you were capable of putting inan appearance."
"Oh ay," Robert answered cheerfully. "I've never failed these thirtyyear--though there 'ave been times, I allow, when I'd rather a laida-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 getit over. Usually on these occasions he carried matters to a triumphantfinish and got as much satisfaction out of them as tribulation. When athing is done, it's done, was Robert's philosophy; no use grizzling overit.
"I am ashamed of you," the vicar said. "Your conduct was a seriousabuse of hospitality. They tell me you were carried home utterlyincapable."
"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 andquality of Mrs Robert's eloquence on these occasions suggested thatfurther reprimanding on his side was superfluous.
Robert slowly stroked his beard and looked, the vicar could not butobserve, pleasantly reminiscent.
"I expect she 'ad, sir," he said. "But, thank God! I was too far goneto bear aught 'er said. Daresay she talked all night, too; shegenerally does."
Robert seized the vicar's overcoat and helped him into it, and, withunusual solicitude for his health, inquired if he had not thought ofwearing a muffler.
"The cold's cruel," h
e 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 ownconstitution as carefully."
"That's all right, sir," Robert answered, wilfully misunderstanding. "Iallays wears a old muffler when the weather's sharp."
He handed the vicar his hat, performing these supererogatory officeswith the patronising air of a man humouring his superior'speculiarities.
"Milk punch they said it was," he muttered in the form of a soliloquy."I thought a babby could