respectability has no need to be so disagreeably assertiveof its claim to recognition," the vicar returned, unmoved. "The lack ofamiability in one's expression suggests an unamiable disposition. Acheerful heart is the supremest of virtues."
He rose to his feet in response to the agreeable summons of thesupper-gong, and placed a hand affectionately on John Musgrave'sshoulder.
"Adam was the first man to take a bite out of an apple," he said, "butsince he created the precedent for eating the fruit, men have developedthe taste for apples."
"For a clergyman, Walter," his friend returned disapprovingly, "yourconversation is at times highly irreverent."
CHAPTER THREE.
A few weeks later John Musgrave set out across the fields in search ofthe vicar. The vicar on that particular morning was engaged in a searchof quite another description, a search which necessitated the company ofhis sexton, armed with the iron rod with which he prodded in themoundless graveyard where the poor of the parish lay sleeping, todiscover where he might, without disturbing an older resident, dig agrave for a fresh interment.
The nature of the soil in the Moresby churchyard was such that it wasquite safe, after the lapse of a certain number of years, to bury thepresent generation in the resting-places of their predecessors. Therewere 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 hadruled the parish with the despotism of an autocrat, the graves had beendug level with the rest of the ground. Since the advent of the presentvicar mounds were insisted upon, and headstones encouraged; so that aman might feel assured when he was laid to rest that his resting-placewould remain undisturbed. The old order was changing, even in thematter 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 unresistingdepths of an uncollapsed grave.
"Time most o' these 'ad a failed in," he grumbled. "It grows moredifficult 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 itpierced firm, resisting soil.
"Reckon that's got it, sir," he said, as he drew the rod out from theground. "I'll carry this back along, an' fetch my spade."
At this moment the vicar looked up and beheld John Musgrave bearingtowards him. He stepped off the grass, where the quiet dead layunmarked beneath his feet, and went to meet him.
"Are you busy?" Mr Musgrave asked, turning, and falling into step withhim as he walked along the broad gravelled path beneath the scanty shadeof the thinning trees.
"Not particularly. I have time to spare you, if you want me. We've afuneral this afternoon."
"Yes. Blackmoor, of course; Martha informed me he was to be buriedto-day. Mrs Blackmoor assists Martha in the kitchen when she requireshelp. A very respectable woman." Walter Errol smiled.
"She is," he agreed. She had not always been so, as he and John bothknew; but a call to grace in later life atoned for the indiscretions ofyouth. "Blackmoor had his failings," he added, "but he was agood-hearted man; and that goes a long way towards the redeemingvirtues. What was it you wished to see me about, John?"
Mr Musgrave looked worried--more than worried; he appeared annoyed. Hedid not answer immediately. He passed through the little wicket gateinto the lane, which led past the schoolhouse to the vicarage, in apreoccupied silence, upon which the unmusical singing of theschool-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 sheproposes bringing Mrs Chadwick with her. I was not agreeablyprepossessed with this lady, and I do not anticipate pleasure from thevisit. The Hall is to be got ready for their immediate occupation, andshe wishes to superintend matters, I understand. I do not see thenecessity for her superintending the redecoration of the Hall from myhouse. She could have stayed in Rushleigh."
"It won't be a long visit, I suppose?" the vicar suggestedencouragingly. "And Mrs Sommers will relieve you of the principalshare 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 notequal to the entertainment of guests. It incommodes the servants."
"My dear John," the vicar returned sensibly, "you don't run a house forthe convenience of your servants. A little extra work will not injurethe health of the respectable Eliza, and Martha likes company. Whetheryou like it or not, it is good for you. When do the ladies arrive?"
"On Tuesday," answered John Musgrave shortly. "Belle desires that Iwill 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 dayoff. He was not pleased when I told him he would be required to meetthe afternoon train."
"Oh, Coelebs," said the vicar, laughing, "your servants are morearbitrary than a dozen wives. Why should they be unwilling to studyyour convenience occasionally?"
"My servants are accustomed to system," Mr Musgrave replied withdignity. "I am systematic myself."
"No one can dispute that, John. But system, like everything else whencarried to excess, becomes wearisome. We will go in and tell Mary yournews. She will be most interested."
"I want you to dine with me on Tuesday evening," Mr Musgrave said, asthey turned in at the vicarage gate, "if Mrs Errol will be so kind. Itwill help me immensely."
"She'll be delighted," the vicar assured him. "And so shall I. Don'tyou worry, Coelebs, we'll see you through."
In the interest of John Musgrave's surprising news the vicar forgot forthe time his more important duties. He remained to discuss with hiswife and John this unexpected house-party to which the host alone lookedforward with manifest misgivings.
Mrs Errol was pleased at the prospect of anything that offered a changefrom the dead level of monotony to which the social life of Moresby hadsunk; and as soon as John Musgrave departed in the company of herhusband she ran upstairs to her bedroom to hunt in her wardrobe for somegarment which represented an evening gown, and might, with a slightalteration, be adapted to the present mode. In Moresby it was notnecessary to be attired in the latest fashion; one simple evening dressdid duty for local entertainments for years. But this occasion wasdifferent. Mrs Errol was aware that the ladies she would meet onTuesday would not be garbed in the fashion of a bygone season. They,however, would not be, she felt, unkindly in their criticism; and theknowledge that her dress was shabby did not concern her unduly. TheMoresby living did not yield a handsome stipend.
The vicar, on parting from John Musgrave, returned by way of thechurchyard, and was reminded as he walked along the elm-lined path ofthe funeral which worldly matters had banished completely from histhoughts. Robert was busy digging the new grave. The vicar's glance,travelling in that direction, was arrested at the sight of Robert'sspade, which appeared out of the ground, it seemed, automatically andindependently, ejected the freshly turned soil, and disappeared, toreappear with conscientious regularity in the performance of itsappointed task. Robert himself was invisible; he was also, which wasunusual, inaudible; the only sounds to be heard were those made by thespade and the falling earth.
The vicar stepped upon the grass and approached the open grave, lookingabout him with the perplexed air of a man whose locality is at fault.Finally he looked into the grave. Robert, perspiring freely, hisflannel shirt open at the throat, looked up, and paused in his laboursand rested upon his spade.
"You are a good twenty yards from the spot we marked," said the vicar.
Robert wiped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief, and noddedbriefly. The vicar did not appear surprised. Unless
he attended at thecutting of the sods, Robert, possessing no bump of locality, frequentlyoverran his distances.
"I ought to 'a' waited for you," he said, and mopped his brow again."Thought this was the place we fixed on. But I mind now it was nearerthe old yew tree. I ought to 'a' waited for you, sir," he repeated, andlooked, the vicar observed, perturbed. "I got wrong somehow."
"Well, I suppose," the vicar said, "this spot will serve as well asanother."
Robert spat upon his hands and grasped his spade, but he did notimmediately use it. He gazed down into the grave resentfully, and