Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
CoelebsThe Love Story of a BachelorBy F.E. Mills YoungPublished by John Lane, The Bodley Head, London.This edition dated 1917.
Coelebs, by F.E. Mills Young.
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________________________________________________________________________COELEBS, BY F.E. MILLS YOUNG.
CHAPTER ONE.
John Musgrave stood before the fire in his dining-room, a copy of the_Daily Telegraph_ in his hands. He was not reading the paper; he waslooking over the top of it at his new housemaid, as she brought in hisbreakfast, and, with many depreciatory sniffs which proclaimed a soulabove such lowly service, set it carefully down upon the snowy damask.
He approved of her. It was natural that he should approve of her,considering he had himself engaged her for three very good reasons; thefirst and all-sufficient reason being that he invariably engaged his ownservants; the second, that she was by no means young; the third, thatshe was plain and respectable.
It is an interesting psychological fact that plain people are moregenerally respectable than handsome people. From this it is not fair toinfer that virtue is necessarily hard-featured; but temptation morefrequently assails the beautiful. As temptation is a thing to beavoided, this doubtless is one of Nature's niggardly attempts atcompensation. Which of us, given the choice, would not unhesitatinglypronounce for the endowment of physical attractions, and risk thepossibility of an encounter with evil in the universal arena?
Virtue is a term which is frequently misapplied. To remain virtuous incircumstances which offer no temptation to be otherwise is a conditionwhich does not justify the individual in the complacency usuallyindulged in where a knowledge of perfect uprightness which has neverbeen assailed conveys a sense of superiority over one's fellows. Therecan be no cause for self-esteem when there has been no battle fought andwon. It was quite safe to predict that Eliza--the eminently respectableChristian name of the middle-aged Abigail--had fought no battle; it wasnot such a level certainty to conclude that, if she had, she ofnecessity would have proved victorious; for appearances, no matter howrespectable and forbidding, are no guarantee of inviolable virtue.Pretty faces have not a monopoly of sentiment. Indeed, the softerqualities of the feminine heart are often hidden behind an outwardausterity.
Nevertheless, Eliza was respectable. She was proud of the fact. Sheflaunted it in one's face, and hurled it at one's head--metaphorically,of course; she had not sufficient energy to hurl anything except inmetaphor. She had dwelt upon it to John Musgrave, when he had firstinterviewed her, so particularly that she had led him to suppose it wasa more rare virtue than he had hitherto imagined, and that he was indeedsecuring a treasure, so that he was even prepared to pay a higher wagefor such an anomaly. He agreed to pay the higher wage; and, with anine-months' character from her last place, felt that he was to becongratulated on this respectable addition to his menage.
Martha, his cook, who was stout, and not as active as, according to herown statement, she might have been, would have preferred some oneyounger and more energetic to help her in the conduct of Mr Musgrave'sbachelor establishment; and when Mr Musgrave informed her kindly thatit would be pleasant for her to have so highly respectable a companionin the kitchen, Martha agreed in the dubious manner of one to whom otherqualities appealed equally, if not more strongly, than extremerespectability. But Martha, though an old family servant, and a steady,reliable woman, was, as Mr Musgrave had before observed, lacking in thefiner sensibilities. She conferred with Bond, the gardener, and withMr Musgrave's chauffeur, and the verdict that was duly pronounced wasthat "Lizer" was neither useful nor ornamental.
John Musgrave himself did not consider Eliza ornamental. But he was notdesirous of adorning his establishment. A housemaid is not an ornament,but a useful domestic addition to the household of a gentleman; tosuggest that she should be anything else would have appealed to JohnMusgrave as indecorous. He liked plain faces and matured years. In hisway he was quite as respectable as Eliza.
"You have forgotten," he said, lowering his paper, and moving a littleto one side in order that she might obtain a view of the fireplace whichhis broad figure had blocked, "to put the fire-irons back in theirplace."
Eliza sniffed. It was a natural infirmity, and one of which she wasless conscious than those about her. It was the only drawback that heremployer had observed in her so far. He disliked mannerisms. Sheglanced at the gleaming tiles on the hearth, at the empty dogs standingupon it, and at the fire-irons referred to, which instead of reposing onthe dogs stood assertively upright on either side of the grate. Elizahad not forgotten them. She had purposely stood them erect in order tosave them from getting soiled. This thoughtfulness was not due to anyregard for the fire-irons, but was conceived with the object of savingherself labour. If the brass became blackened it would be necessary topolish it daily.
She went to considerable trouble to explain this to John Musgrave, wholistened with grave amazement to her voluble reasoning powers. Insteadof commending her prudence he replaced the irons in their rightfulposition in the fender.
"For the future," he said, as he straightened himself after theperformance of this feat, "we will have them in their place."
"They get dirty in the fender," Eliza objected, "and it makes a lot ofcleaning. Every one knows brass fire-irons didn't ought to be used."
"What purpose do they serve, then?" Mr Musgrave inquired.
"They are meant for show, sir," answered Eliza, with a sniff thatbetokened contempt for his masculine ignorance.
Mr Musgrave looked at her with growing disapproval.
"To keep things for show is essentially vulgar," he said. "Everythinghas a proper use, and should be applied to it."
Having delivered himself of this rebuke he returned to the perusal ofhis newspaper. Eliza took up her tray, but, hearing the front doorbell, put it down again and, with a protesting sniff, prepared to answerthe ring.
John Musgrave seated himself at the table with its covers for one, itsair of solid comfort and plenty, which, assertive though it might be,could not disguise a certain blank chilliness of aspect which theexpanse of damask covering the long table insensibly conveyed; as didalso the large, handsomely furnished room with its orderly row ofunoccupied chairs which seemed mutely to protest against this disregardfor their vocation. The apartment was essentially a family room, yetone man took his solitary meals there daily, had taken them there formany years: first as a small boy, with his parents and smaller sister,later as a man, who had seen these dear companions drop out from theiraccustomed places one by one, until now at forty he alone occupied theseat at the head of the table, and dwelt occasionally on those happierdays when his meals had not been solitary.
Death had claimed his parents gently in the natural ordering of things.He had accustomed himself to their loss. But the loss of his sister wasa more recent event, and less in accordance with nature, in JohnMusgrave's opinion. She had left him six years ago, had married acollege friend of his, and taken her bright companionship, and with it,it seemed to the brother who felt himself deserted, the principal partof the comfort and pleasure of his own life, and settled it in the homeof this inconsiderate friend two counties away.
It took John Musgrave a long time to reconcile himself to this marriage;but he had come to regard it now in the light of one of life's constantvexations. He hated change himself. For the life of him he could notunderstand why Belle had wished to marry anyone. People did marry, ofcourse, but in his sister's case there had been absolutely no need fortaking so serious a step; she had everything that a reas
onable womancould desire. But, unlike himself, Belle enjoyed change. He supposedthat this odd taste of hers had led her into matrimony. It was the onlyexplanation that presented itself to his mind.
The married state was not in John Musgrave's opinion at all a desirablecondition. He had never considered it for himself. He did not dislikewomen, but in all the forty years of his life he had never been in love,never met a woman the glance of whose eye had quickened his pulses ormoved him to any deeper sentiment than a momentary interest. He wasafraid of women. For the past ten years he had spent much of his timeavoiding them. Women with marriageable daughters sought himcontinually, and made their pursuit so obvious as to fill him with graveembarrassment. He realised so well that he was not a marrying man thathe could not understand why they failed to see this also.
It was a little indelicate, he considered, that any mother should try tosecure a husband for her daughter.
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