would not be kindness," MrMusgrave replied sententiously.
"Ah, how true that is!" exclaimed Miss Simpson. "You have such acomprehensive way of putting things. One _ought_ to be kind, ofcourse."
"I think," he replied with emphasis, "if the desire to be kind islacking, it is just as well to leave it alone."
"Yes," she acquiesced flatly. "That's true, too. But we most of usdesire to be kind, don't we?"
"No," he returned in his bluntest manner; he was feeling too annoyed towish to be civil. "I fancy in the majority of us that desire is anegligible quantity."
"But not in you," she said insinuatingly.
"In me most pronouncedly," he asserted with conviction.
If this quality were not lacking in himself in a general sense he knewat that moment it was most assuredly lacking in relation to her. MrMusgrave, having been guilty of ungraciousness, was immediately ashamedof his irritation, and during the remainder of the walk he sought toatone for his former discourtesy by a greater amiability than MissSimpson was accustomed to from him--a mistaken form of kindness whichled to the encouragement of all manner of false hopes in Miss Simpson'smaiden mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
John Musgrave sat at his solitary breakfast-table and regarded thecovered dishes before him with, for the first time within his memory, solittle interest in their contents that he felt a strange disinclinationto uncover them. This lack of appetite, he decided, resulted eitherfrom indisposition or from approaching age. Since he felt noindisposition, he attributed it to the latter cause. Persons ofadvancing middle-age were less hearty than youth at the beginning of theday. That was only natural. Therefore he did not lift the covers, butmade an indifferent breakfast of toast and coffee.
Nevertheless, as the day advanced, he made the further discomfitingdiscovery that this lack of interest was not confined solely to thetable, but spread itself like a blight over the ordinary affairs oflife. He was oddly disinclined to follow any of his usual pursuits.Mr Musgrave was unaccountably bored with everything. He experienced arestlessness foreign to his habitual placidity, which restlessness, byreason of its strangeness, worried him considerably. It wasinconceivable that after forty years of tranquil contentment he shoulddevelop the quality which of all others he had found so difficult tocomprehend or sympathise with. Yet restless he was, and dissatisfied--dissatisfied, with Moresby and the even tenor of his days. He wantedinexplicably to fling things into a portmanteau and start off for someplace--any place that was fairly distant.
He did not, of course, yield to this extraordinary impulse. Being movedby such an impulse was sufficiently amazing; to have obeyed it wouldhave been more amazing, still. He went instead into the garden andfreed Diogenes from the chain, and allowed him to exercise uncheckedover the flower borders, to the indignant astonishment of Bond, who waspreparing the beds for the spring planting.
"Blest if he ain't gone dotty over that there dog," he complained.
And the cat, who was airing herself in the belief that her enemy wasconfined to the restricted limits of the chain, sought refuge up a tree,and gloomily watched Diogenes as he gambolled below. She had refused tofollow Eliza's example and evacuate in the enemy's favour, but herresentment of Diogenes' presence was bitter and prolonged; it declinedto soften before Diogenes' persistent overtures towards a greaterfriendliness. Her disapproval remained closely associated with thatfirst unfortunate meeting, which proved an unforgiving spirit. Diogenesand Mr Musgrave had decided to forget that occasion and were, as aresult, firm friends.
When Diogenes was again on the chain, and Mr Musgrave was once morefacing the unwanted viands on his table, looking about him round thelarge empty room--empty that is, in the matter of companionship--he madethe biggest and most startling discovery of the lay: he was lonely--really lonely, as he had not been since the months immediately followinghis sister's marriage. Why, in the name of mystery, should he, who hadnot enjoyed companionship in his home since his sister had left it, whohad not, save in a vague fashion when she left him solitary after one ofher brief return visits, felt the need of companionship, be suddenlygripped with this desolating sense of loneliness? He could notunderstand it; and it was the more disconcerting on account of hisinability to comprehend this obsession which fretted him, and preventedhim from settling calmly to the ordinary routine of the lay.
Mr Musgrave lunched sparingly and later set out for the vicarage for achat with the vicar. He remained for tea, and in the genial society ofthe Errols forgot his depression to the extent of believing himselfcured of the inconvenience. But the depression had lightened merelytemporarily under the influence of that cheery little home circle: outagain in the open, facing the keen east wind, John Musgrave felt theheaviness of his mood descending upon him once more, and with an odddistaste for his lonely fireside he fetched Diogenes and took him for along walk.
On returning from this walk Mr Musgrave did an unexampled thing.Instead of taking Diogenes back to his kennel he led him into the house,into the drawing-room, having removed the chain in the hall and left ithanging there. Diogenes, with the _noblesse oblige_ of good breeding,accepted all this as a matter of course, and, having first made asnuffing tour of inspection round the room, walked to the big skin rugbefore the fire and lay down. So uncertain was he of the enduringnature of this concession that he did not permit himself to sleep, butlay, winking complacently at the flames, and furtively every now andagain blinking at Mr Musgrave. Mr Musgrave seated himself wearily ina chair and stared reflectively at Diogenes.
"I begin to believe," he said half aloud, "that there is considerablecompanionableness in a dog. I wonder that I never kept a dog."
Diogenes, under the impression that he was being directly addressed, gotup and moved nearer to Mr Musgrave and sat on his haunches, lookingwith his bulging, affectionate eyes into Mr Musgrave's face. The manput out a hand and caressed the big head.
"I daresay you are lonely too," he said. "You miss your mistress, Iexpect."
The bulging eyes were eloquent.
"I think, Diogenes," Mr Musgrave added, "that you are sufficiently wellbehaved to be allowed indoors. I--like to see you here."
Diogenes thumped the carpet with his tail, which was tantamount toreplying that he liked being there and was very well satisfied toremain.
Mr Musgrave continued caressing the big head and talking fragmentallywith his dumb friend, until the booming of the gong warned him of thehour. He rose to go to his room to dress, and, when Diogenes would haveaccompanied him, pointed to the rug and bade him lie there and wait.Perplexed, but obedient, Diogenes returned to the fire, and Mr Musgraveleft him there, and stepping forth into the hall and closing the doorbehind him, was surprised to find himself confronted with Martha, Marthahot and red in the face from the exertions of preparing the eveningmeal, and so manifestly worried that something more than Mr Musgrave'sdinner must have been bearing on her mind.
Mr Musgrave halted and regarded her inquiringly, and Martha, with thefear of King's warning relative to the police and the criminal nature ofconcealing dogs exciting her worst apprehensions, informed him dolefullythat some one must have taken Diogenes away.
"I went out to 'is blessed kennel to take him a few bones," sheexplained, "an' the turn it give me to find the dear hanimal gone--chainan' all, sir."
Mr Musgrave with the utmost gravity pointed to the door at his back.
"Diogenes is in there," he announced. "I forgot his feeding time."
Martha gasped.
"In the _drawing-room_, sir?" she ejaculated.
"I was lonely," Mr Musgrave explained. From force of long habit hetreated Martha as a tried and trusted friend. "I find himcompanionable."
"Lor'!" remarked Martha. She scrutinised her master attentively, theidea that he must be sickening for something suggesting itself to hermind. "Dogs are company, that's certain," she said. "When he's 'ad 'issupper you'd like 'im back in the drawing-room, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes," he answered. "I
think he is sufficiently at home now to beallowed to run about as he likes."
Martha took Diogenes to the kitchen and fed him, contemplating him withrenewed interest while he gnawed his bones under the table.
"There's something about that hanimal as I don't understand," she mused."If that ain't the same dog, though different, as burst in after thecat with the young lady from the 'All, I'll eat my apron. It's the sameyoung lady comes to see 'im, anyway. If it isn't 'er dog what does shecome for? And if it is 'er dog what's the master doing with it? It'smy belief," she further reflected, wiping the perspiration from her facewith the apron she had dedicated to gastronomic