May was well advanced before the Chadwicks returned from their
wanderings. They came home unexpectedly towards the middle of the
month, cutting short their stay in London because certain matters in
Moresby called imperatively for Mrs Chadwick's immediate attention; and
Peggy, for another reason which she did not explain, was very ready to
fling aside the holiday mood and return to work.
The first intimation John Musgrave received of the Chadwicks' return
came from the fountain head, being conveyed to him in a manner and at a
moment when, glad though he was to learn that the family was home again,
he would have preferred to have remained in ignorance until a more
favourable opportunity. As matters fell out, however, he made the best
of them, and wore as composed a mien as possible in face of an
embarrassing situation.
Mr Musgrave was starting out for his customary morning walk in
Diogenes' company when outside his gate he came very unexpectedly full
upon Will Chadwick. Had Diogenes' memory been less faithful the meeting
might have passed off without awkwardness; but Diogenes, recognising his
former master, became so wildly effusive in his welcome that Mr
Chadwick during the first few moments could not disentangle himself from
the dog's excited embraces, or return Mr Musgrave's greeting. He
laughed when finally he shook John Musgrave's hand.
"Your dog seems to have taken a violent fancy to me," he said.
"Quiet, Diogenes!" Mr Musgrave commanded unthinkingly. "Down, sir!"
Will Chadwick looked at Diogenes, and from the dog to Mr Musgrave.
Then he looked again at Diogenes more attentively. There was in the
protracted scrutiny, in the queer glint in the indolent blue eyes, a
hint of something very like suspicion, as though Mr Musgrave's
ingenuousness were being questioned. King's face, when Mr Musgrave
took the dog into Rushleigh for purposes of the toilet, wore much the
same expression.
"This is a surprise," exclaimed Mr Musgrave. "I had no idea you were
back."
"We got home last night. Motored from town; a good run, but tiring."
"I trust," Mr Musgrave said, "that the ladies are well?"
"First rate, thanks." Will Chadwick watched Mr Musgrave as, having
succeeded in grasping Diogenes' collar, he promptly fixed the chain.
"New dog, eh?" he said.
"I have had him some months," Mr Musgrave replied. "But I prefer to
keep him on the chain when we get outside the gate. He is a bit wild."
"Seems to be--yes."
Mr Chadwick continued to regard the dog reflectively. He had heard of
people turning suddenly white through shock; he was wondering whether
change of residence could have the effect of changing a white bull-dog
into a brindle.
"You call him Diogenes?" he observed. "It's odd, but he is so like the
dog we had I could almost swear it is the same. Same stock, perhaps.
What's his pedigree?"
"I really haven't an idea," Mr Musgrave replied, feeling increasingly
uncomfortable. "The resemblance you speak of to your dog is very
marked. I have observed it myself. I call him Diogenes on that
account."
"Oh!" said Mr Chadwick.
The talk hung for a time. Mr Chadwick was debating whether a strong
family likeness between two animals might extend to the affections in so
far as to incline them towards the same persons. Mr Musgrave's brindle
betrayed the fawning devotion towards himself that he had been
accustomed to from his own dog.
"He's a nice-looking beast," he remarked, still scrutinising Diogenes
closely. "Might be a prize dog if it wasn't for his coat."
"What is wrong with his coat?" inquired Mr Musgrave anxiously.
"That is what I should like to be able to state definitely. The colour
isn't good."
The speaker here examined the dog at a nearer range, to Mr Musgrave's
further discomfiture. When he faced Mr Musgrave again there was a
puzzled questioning in his eyes, but he made no further allusion to the
dog; the subject was tacitly dropped.
The wisdom of having Diogenes on the chain was manifested when the
moment arrived for Mr Chadwick to separate from Diogenes and his new
master and proceed on his homeward way. Diogenes, despite a very real
attachment for his new owner, was faithful to the old allegiance and
showed so strong a desire to follow Will Chadwick to the Hall that Mr
Musgrave had to exert his strength in order to restrain him. The
business of holding Diogenes as he tugged determinedly at the chain put
Mr Musgrave to the undignified necessity of tugging also. Mr Chadwick
left them struggling in the road and proceeded on his way with an amused
smile; a smile which broadened and finally ended in a laugh.
"I wonder what he smears on the coat to make him that colour?" he mused
as he walked. Then he laughed again.
With the knowledge of the Chadwicks' return Mr Musgrave realised the
necessity for keeping Diogenes once more strictly on the chain, save
only when he had the dog with him in the house; and Diogenes, resenting
this return to captivity, sulked in his kennel and brooded dark plans of
escape during his compulsory inactivity. The desire to escape hardened
into an unalterable resolve following on a visit from Peggy, which visit
moved him to such transports of delight that Peggy found it as much as
she could do to prevent herself from being knocked over. She clung,
laughing, to Mr Musgrave's arm for support when Diogenes hurled himself
upon her; and King, who at the moment of her arrival had been engaged in
the motor-house with Mr Musgrave, regarded the grouping with disfavour,
until, catching Mr Musgrave's eye, he left what he was doing and
retired.
"Oh," cried Peggy, "isn't he glad to see me?"
She let go of Mr Musgrave's arm and busied herself with Diogenes, while
Mr Musgrave looked on, feeling unaccountably very much out in the cold.
"He is looking well," she said, glancing up at John Musgrave and
flushing brightly as she met his eye. "He has grown quite stout."
"That," said Mr Musgrave, "is Martha's fault. She can't understand
that over-feeding is as injurious as the other extreme. She shows her
affection for Diogenes by pandering to his appetite."
"Martha is a dear," the girl said warmly. "You are a lucky dog,
Diogenes, to have found so kind a home. I hope he is good, that he
doesn't give any trouble. Has he broken anything more?"
"No," said Mr Musgrave, and smiled at the memories her words recalled.
"He behaves excellently. Of late I have accustomed him to the house. I
find him companionable, and he dislikes being chained here."
Peggy looked amazed.
"But I thought you--didn't allow dogs indoors?" she said.
"I have never had a dog before," he replied. "I allow Diogenes the run
of the house. The concession was made when you went away, because--
because he seemed to miss you."
"You dear?" Peggy said, hugging Diogenes.
It was not very clear whether the term of endearment referred to Mr
Musgrave or the dog; but, since it was Diogenes who received the
embrace, the verbal caress might have been intended for the man. Peggy
stood up, and turned to John Musgrave impulsively.
"What can I say," she cried, "what can I do to prove how grateful I am?"
"I don't think any proof of your gratitude is needed," he replied.
"Besides, there is no reason why you should feel grateful. In the first
place, it was a small thing to do; and in the second, I have grown
attached to the dog, and am glad of his company. My fireside would seem
very solitary without him."
Peggy's bright face clouded.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, thinking of her plans for the resurrection of
Diogenes. "Then you will want to keep him?"
He shook his head.
"I quite appreciate the fact that he is only a trust. When you are
ready for him he will be more than glad to return."
"But," she protested, "that wouldn't be fair--to you."
Unwittingly Mr Musgrave had roused her sympathy by that reference to
his solitary fireside. It seemed rather selfish to claim Diogenes when
he had grown attached to the dog.
"It wouldn't be fair to you," he returned, "or to Diogenes, if I kept
him. That was not a part of the contract."
"Was there any contract?" she asked, smiling. "I understood that you
sacrificed your personal inclination in order to get Diogenes and me out
of a hole. It was a hole, wasn't it?"
She laughed. It was easy to laugh now over the miseries of that
morning, but it had been no laughing matter at the time. John Musgrave
had rendered her an unforgettable service in rescuing her from that
dilemma.
"It was a hole--yes," he admitted. He looked at her fixedly. "If, as
you say, I sacrificed my inclination on that occasion, I have been
adequately rewarded since; and so, you see, I can't look on the matter
as one requiring thanks. I will keep Diogenes until you are quite ready
for him; then you can come in and fetch him, as you do now--and not
bring him back again."
While he spoke it was abruptly borne in on John Musgrave's consciousness
that he would miss, besides Diogenes, these surreptitious visits of
Peggy Annersley's to which he was growing accustomed, though he did not
always see her when she slipped in at his back entrance; but when he
purposely put himself in the way, as upon the present occasion, he felt
increasingly obliged to Diogenes, and to the accident of circumstances
that was responsible for bringing her there.
"I believe," Peggy said unexpectedly, "that I shall be rather sorry when
that day comes. It's such fun sharing a jolly secret like this. There
is a feeling of adventure... a sort of alliance of conspiracy. If
Moresby only knew!"
If Moresby did not actually know, it suspected more than Miss Annersley
guessed, and it was beginning to talk. Mr Musgrave's reputation, which
had stood the test of years, was suddenly observed to be inclining
dangerously, upsetting the popular belief in the rocklike foundations of
its structural character; suggesting, indeed, the sandy nature of the
soil which formed its basis. The best of servants will talk; and, save
for Martha, Mr Musgrave's servants were not superior in this respect to
any others. Miss Peggy Annersley's visits to Mr Musgrave's
establishment were fairly generally known and discussed in the village.
"When I take Diogenes from you," Peggy added, "you will have to come and
visit him. He'll feel hurt if you don't."
"I shall come," John Musgrave answered quietly, "often. After all, I
have a certain right in the dog."
Peggy nodded.
"He's yours and mine," she rejoined, with a beautiful disregard for the
fact that Diogenes was in reality Mr Chadwick's property. "He's really
more yours than mine, because he would have had to go to strangers if
you hadn't saved him, and then I should never have seen him again. It's
rather amusing being joint owners in a dog. Do you remember telling me
you didn't like dogs? I knew you must be mistaken."
"I am beginning to believe," he replied, "that that was only one of many
mistaken ideas. It is, as a matter of fact, a mistake to express a
decided opinion on any subject in which one is inexperienced."
Peggy glanced at him with newly-kindled interest, a little puzzled as
well as pleased at his frank admission. Then meeting his gaze fully she
abruptly lowered her own, and looked delightfully shy.
"I think," she said irrelevantly, "I'll take Diogenes for his walk."
Mr Musgrave stooped and unfastened the chain. There was no need for a
lead when Diogenes went abroad with Peggy.
"Come with me," she said coaxingly, when they reached the gate, "as far
as the second field. There are bulls in it."
Mr Musgrave thought it very proper that Peggy should be afraid of
bulls; he therefore very willingly accompanied her for her protection.
And when the danger was past, having in mind that possibly the bulls
would be still there when she returned from her walk, he suggested the
advisability of his accompanying her all the way.
"Will you?" Peggy cried. "That will be nice. You are sure you don't
mind?"
Mr Musgrave was very positive on this point. Indeed, he minded so
little that when they met the vicar, and subsequently Miss Simpson, he
experienced so little embarrassment in being seen in Miss Annersley's
company that he felt rather pleased than disconcerted when these
encounters sprang unexpectedly upon them. Mr John Musgrave was, in the
light of Moresby tradition, "walking out."