Peggy was fond of boasting that adventures usually met her on her walks
abroad. It is a peculiar conceit with some people to believe that
things happen for them. To the imaginative person the unexpected event
befalls, and signifies considerably more than it would signify to the
person of a practical mind. The adult of Peggy's temperament never
grows away from the fairyland of make-believe which usually is
considered the sole prerogative of childhood. There is a wonderland for
grown people, but not many dwell in it. Peggy dwelt in it, which was
one reason why she always derived enjoyment from her country rambles
with Diogenes.
But on this particular afternoon the adventures which befell Peggy were
less agreeable than exciting. The encounter with the bulls had ended
comfortably as a result of the opportune appearance of a knight-errant
in the form of Robert; the second adventure had a less agreeable
termination, possibly because no knight-errant arrived upon the scene,
save in a laggard fashion which was in the nature of an anti-climax.
Diogenes was directly responsible in both instances for everything which
occurred. It was unusual for Diogenes to make himself a nuisance;
possibly the Moresby air was too exhilarating for him.
When Peggy reached the end of the lane and emerged upon Mr Musgrave's
back entrance she paused and looked about her, less from a sense of
curiosity than a sudden realisation that the lane was a _cul-de-sac_,
and unless she could brace herself to make the return journey by the way
she had come, and face again the dangers from which Robert had rescued
her, only to leave her basely in the lurch outside the back gate of the
dwelling-house of a respectable, fossilised bachelor, she would be
forced to make use of the tradesmen's entrance--the notice was painted
neatly on the gate--and pass through Mr Musgrave's garden.
"Why not?" said Peggy to herself. "I wanted to see his garden. I told
him so; and he didn't respond as a gentleman should. Therefore I will
commit a trespass."
She would, have committed anything rather than return by the fields with
Diogenes, who, for the first time within her knowledge, had defied her
authoritative whistle. Diogenes, having created a precedent by this act
of defiance, proceeded to follow it, which is what a precedent exists
for. When Peggy, not without the feeling which a burglar must have when
he forces his first lock, pushed open the tradesmen's entrance and took
a furtive look inside to assure herself no one was on the watch to
prevent her, Diogenes got his inquisitive snub nose between the crack,
and using his broad shoulders, forced the gate a little wider and
entered with a bound.
A rush, a scream, a frantic barking and growling followed, and Peggy,
pursuing in hot haste and whistling as authoritatively as her panting
breath permitted, arrived at the back door of Mr Musgrave's house, and,
hearing a distressing pandemonium within, did not pause to consider the
conventions, but dashed through the scullery and into the kitchen.
There such a scene met her eyes as would have moved her to laughter had
she not been too frightened to realise the comic element in the domestic
drama she beheld. Diogenes held the floor--he was too unwieldy an
animal to get above it; but he had cleared every one else off it and
remained master of the situation, showing his teeth, and growling
hideously in huge enjoyment of the game. The respectable Eliza stood on
the table screaming; Martha, the corpulent, was mounted on a chair.
Since she was not screaming, but was merely murmuring, "Good doggie,
good doggie?" in a soothing voice, Diogenes was not concerned with her,
but gave his whole attention to the subduing of Eliza.
The cause of the first mad rush, Mr Musgrave's sedate tabby, had sprung
upon the highest shelf on the dresser, having dislodged in her ascent
more of Mr Musgrave's valuable dinner-service than would have seemed
necessary in attaining to her present elevation. The floor was strewn
with broken china, and the breaker, with arched back and distended tail,
looked down upon Diogenes barking amid the debris with the most
malignant glare that Peggy had ever beheld in the eyes of a cat.
Peggy swooped down upon Diogenes, and, seizing him by the collar,
belaboured him soundly with the dog-whip, which, until the present
occasion, she had carried merely from force of habit, as one carries an
umbrella in England at certain seasons even when one does not expect it
to rain. Diogenes, who had recognised the dog-whip only as the symbol
of an invitation to go walking, was so astonished when he realised that
this hitherto agreeable-looking object could hurt that he ceased his
joyous barking and relapsed into a sulky mood, which changed to a
whimpering protest when he discovered that Peggy did not tire as readily
as he did of this abominable misuse of the instrument she wielded.
Diogenes had thought it was a game; and the game was having a most
discouraging ending.
Mingled with Diogenes' protests, drowning them, indeed, Eliza's noisy
wailing, the hissing of the cat, and the soothing reiteration of
Martha's "Good doggie!" penetrating Peggy's hearing, took the power out
of her arm. She did not laugh, although she experienced an hysterical
desire to both laugh and cry, but she left off thrashing Diogenes and
fastened the lead to his collar, to Eliza's intense relief, and then
looked up.
"I am so sorry," she said, addressing herself to Martha, since Martha
alone showed sufficient control to heed her apology. "I've never known
him do such a thing before. But he wouldn't hurt anyone--not even the
cat. He is perfectly gentle."
He might have been; he was, on the whole; but appearances seemed rather
to belie the assertion.
Martha scrambled down from the chair and readjusted her cap, which was
drooping coquettishly over one ear.
"Lor'!" she said. "What a fright it give me; it most a turned me inside
out."
Diogenes, thoroughly subdued, wagged a tentative tail at her. He rather
liked Martha. But when Eliza, still weeping, sat down on the table and,
with an unconscious display of thin legs, descended on the far side, he
showed a tendency to become restive, and strained at the unaccustomed
leash. Peggy cuffed him vigorously, whereupon he subsided and affected
to sulk again.
"However could that animal 'ave got in?" exclaimed Martha, at which
simple question Peggy felt guilty. She felt more guilty still when
Martha added acrimoniously to the weeping Eliza, "That's your fault,
Lizer. You must 'ave left the gate open."
"No," said Peggy bravely, conscious of her glowing cheeks, and wishing
from the depths of her being that she had faced the bulls rather than
trespass on Mr Musgrave's property; "I opened the gate. I wanted to
walk through the garden because of the bulls. And then Diogenes saw the
cat and escaped from me."
Martha looked amazed, only imperfectly understanding this none too lucid
explanation; and Eliza, who had been too upset to know whether she had
left the gate open or not, discovering that she was not responsible for
the mischance, stared resentfully at the intruder.
"This is private property," she announced in the haughty manner of a
person who feels herself by virtue of her residence thereon joint owner
of the premises. "You can't walk through private grounds."
What Peggy would have replied, or if she would have replied at all,
remained indeterminate. At that moment Martha straightened her cap anew
and Eliza started to sniff more loudly and Diogenes ventured on a bark
as the kitchen door opened and John Musgrave, with gravely astonished
face, stood framed in the aperture, gazing upon the scene.
To Peggy's consternation the displeased glance of the master of the
house fell immediately upon the broken china which strewed the floor--he
could not possibly overlook it, since it lay almost at his feet--and
then lifted and rested accusingly, it seemed to her, upon her blushing
face. Her presence in his kitchen was an event which called for some
explanation. Peggy proceeded to explain, and to express her regret for
the accident. She hoped, despite a desire to punish her, which from his
expression she was positive he was experiencing, he would eject her by
the front gate instead of the back. It would be horrible if after all
these nerve-shattering happenings she would still be obliged to face the
bulls.
"Diogenes only chased the cat for fun," she finished, loyally excusing
the delinquent, who by no means deserved to have his conduct defended.
"He would not have hurt it really. He's rather partial to cats."
"Indeed!" said Mr Musgrave, and stared up at the cat, who glared back
at him defiantly from her position of security. The cat was suffered,
not as a pet, but because cats in a house were of use in keeping down
the mice. "I think," added Mr Musgrave, "that the cat would feel
happier if Diogenes were removed."
"Please," pleaded Peggy humbly, "let us go by the front gate. I am
really afraid to cross the fields again. Diogenes chases the bulls."
"'Orrid brute!" muttered Eliza with a sniff so loud that it drew Mr
Musgrave's eyes in her direction.
"You had better," he observed drily, "clear away this--rubbish."
He indicated the broken crockery. Then he stood away from the door and
looked at Peggy.
"If you will come with me, Miss Annersley, I will take you through the
garden. Kindly keep the dog on the lead."
Peggy preceded him from the kitchen in a chastened mood, feeling very
like a small girl about to be reprimanded. She resented Mr Musgrave's
air of elderly superiority. He might have assured her, before the
servants at least, that it did not matter, and told her not to distress
herself. She had a conviction that he felt it was only proper she
should distress herself, for which reason she determined not to be
overwhelmingly contrite. It was his cat that had effected the damage;
Diogenes had not scrambled over the furniture.
Mr Musgrave led her through a passage and into the hall, which was wide
and spacious, and had a comfortable fire glowing on the low hearth. It
was a very nice hall. Peggy looked about her with interested curiosity.
It was a nice house altogether; and Mr Musgrave, as he paused and
looked down at her a little uncertainly, did not appear so forbidding as
he had looked in the kitchen. After all, considering the amount of
damage she and Diogenes were responsible for between them, he had shown
admirable control. Peggy was relenting. She experienced the desire to
more adequately express her regret.
"Would you like to--rest a little while?" Mr Musgrave asked.
The question was so unexpected that Peggy wanted to laugh. She realised
that courtesy alone dragged the reluctant suggestion from her unwilling
host, and was aware that acceptance of the invitation by increasing his
embarrassment would aggravate her former offence. Mischief prompted
assent; but the new feeling of kindliness towards him overruled the
teasing instinct, and to Mr Musgrave's relief she declined.
"I think," she said, "you have seen enough of us for one day. When I
come again I will leave Diogenes behind."
She put out a hand and laid it with girlish impulsiveness on his sleeve.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
Mr Musgrave looked down at the small hand as he might have looked at
something that had alighted on his sleeve by accident, which could not
be brushed off, but must be allowed to remove itself at its own
convenience. It was a strong little hand, roughened with labour, and
ungloved, because its owner had removed her glove the better to chastise
Diogenes; but it was quite a nicely-shaped woman's hand, and would have
been fine and white had it been allowed to become so. Then he looked
straight into the upturned face.
"Please don't think any more about it," he said, and meeting the grey
eyes fully, smiled.