answered, amazed at herignorance. "She died, too--died o' fright, I reckon; 'er warn't 'urtmuch. It was a cow done it. But 'twas more by way o' play than temper.Females is easy scared."
"Yes," Peggy agreed. "I allow that would scare me. You must be verybrave, Mr Robert. I knew you were brave the moment I saw you."
"Eh?" Robert ventured, a little doubtful as to her entire sincerity.He knew something about females and he had never known them other thandeceitful. "Reckon I'm not more easy scared than most."
Hannah would have laughed could she have heard that boast; he was--andshe knew it--scared of her.
"Are you afraid of ghosts?" Peggy asked.
"Ghosts!" Robert's tone was scornful. "No, I ban't afeard o' they.Somethin' you can put your 'and through don't signify much. Wot I mightbe afeard of," he added, wishful not to appear bragging, "is somethin'bigger an' stronger than meself, wot can take holt to your whistle andsqueeze it like the plumbers do the gas-pipes of a 'ouse. That mightscare me, now."
His manner conveyed a doubt whether even that experience couldeffectively arouse his fears. He left it to her imagination to picturehim struggling valiantly, undismayed, against gigantic odds.
"Folks say there's a ghost up at the 'All," he added.
"I knew it!" the girl exclaimed. "I've a feeling in my bones, when Iwake in the dark, that there must be a ghost somewhere."
Robert nodded confirmation.
"Hannah--that's my missis--she used to live 'ousemaid up at the 'All inold squire's time. She seen it. Leastways, she says she 'as," he addedin the tone of a man who considers the reliability of the evidence opento question.
"If she says so, of course she must have seen it," Peggy insisted.
"Well," Robert answered, "I dunno. Seems to me if Hannah 'ad a seen it,er'd 'ave left; an' 'er didn' leave, not till I married 'er. But 'erwas always tellin' up about thicky ole ghost, though 'er never coulddescribe it. If I'd seen a ghost I'd know wot 'e looked like. Misty,'er used to say--kind o' misty like, an' big. I've seed misty kind o'things meself when I've 'ad a drop; but Hannah's teetotal."
Peggy eyed him contemplatively.
"When you are digging graves, Mr Robert, do you never see a ghost?" sheasked.
"No," he said. "Nothin' more'n a few ole bones."
"Ugh?" the girl exclaimed.
"There's naught to mind in bones," Robert returned. "They couldn't puttheirselves together again, anyway, because parts of 'em would bemissin'. But the first lot I 'eaved up turned my stummick, sure. A mangets used to it."
Peggy had a feeling that she had had enough of Robert's society for oneday, and, having come to a stile where an inviting lane branched offfrom the fields, she inquired of him where it led.
"It takes 'ee past the back o' Mr Musgrave's house," he answered.
"Oh," said Peggy, "then I think I am going that way. Thank you verymuch for seeing me past the danger."
She parted from Robert joyfully, and set off with Diogenes down themuddy roadway between its tall green banks.
"We are going to see the back of the fossil's dwelling; now foradventure number two, Diogenes," she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Peggy was fond of boasting that adventures usually met her on her walksabroad. It is a peculiar conceit with some people to believe thatthings happen for them. To the imaginative person the unexpected eventbefalls, and signifies considerably more than it would signify to theperson of a practical mind. The adult of Peggy's temperament nevergrows away from the fairyland of make-believe which usually isconsidered the sole prerogative of childhood. There is a wonderland forgrown people, but not many dwell in it. Peggy dwelt in it, which wasone reason why she always derived enjoyment from her country rambleswith Diogenes.
But on this particular afternoon the adventures which befell Peggy wereless agreeable than exciting. The encounter with the bulls had endedcomfortably as a result of the opportune appearance of a knight-errantin the form of Robert; the second adventure had a less agreeabletermination, 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 whichoccurred. 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'sback entrance she paused and looked about her, less from a sense ofcuriosity 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 wayshe had come, and face again the dangers from which Robert had rescuedher, only to leave her basely in the lurch outside the back gate of thedwelling-house of a respectable, fossilised bachelor, she would beforced to make use of the tradesmen's entrance--the notice was paintedneatly on the gate--and pass through Mr Musgrave's garden.
"Why not?" said Peggy to herself. "I wanted to see his garden. I toldhim so; and he didn't respond as a gentleman should. Therefore I willcommit a trespass."
She would, have committed anything rather than return by the fields withDiogenes, who, for the first time within her knowledge, had defied herauthoritative whistle. Diogenes, having created a precedent by this actof defiance, proceeded to follow it, which is what a precedent existsfor. When Peggy, not without the feeling which a burglar must have whenhe forces his first lock, pushed open the tradesmen's entrance and tooka furtive look inside to assure herself no one was on the watch toprevent her, Diogenes got his inquisitive snub nose between the crack,and using his broad shoulders, forced the gate a little wider andentered 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 pantingbreath permitted, arrived at the back door of Mr Musgrave's house, and,hearing a distressing pandemonium within, did not pause to consider theconventions, but dashed through the scullery and into the kitchen.There such a scene met her eyes as would have moved her to laughter hadshe not been too frightened to realise the comic element in the domesticdrama she beheld. Diogenes held the floor--he was too unwieldy ananimal to get above it; but he had cleared every one else off it andremained master of the situation, showing his teeth, and growlinghideously in huge enjoyment of the game. The respectable Eliza stood onthe 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 sprungupon the highest shelf on the dresser, having dislodged in her ascentmore of Mr Musgrave's valuable dinner-service than would have seemednecessary in attaining to her present elevation. The floor was strewnwith broken china, and the breaker, with arched back and distended tail,looked down upon Diogenes barking amid the debris with the mostmalignant 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 presentoccasion, she had carried merely from force of habit, as one carries anumbrella in England at certain seasons even when one does not expect itto rain. Diogenes, who had recognised the dog-whip only as the symbolof an invitation to go walking, was so astonished when he realised thatthis hitherto agreeable-looking object could hurt that he ceased hisjoyous barking and relapsed into a sulky mood, which changed to awhimpering protest when he discovered that Peggy did not tire as readilyas he did of this abominable misuse of the instrument she wielded.Diogenes had thought it was a game; and the game was having a mostdiscouraging ending.
Mingled with Diogenes' protests, drowning them, indeed, Eliza's noisywailing, the hissing of the cat, and the soothing reiteration ofMartha's "Good doggie!" penetrating Peggy's hearing, took the power outof her arm. She did not laugh, although she experienced an hystericaldesire to both laugh and cry, but she left off thrashi
ng Diogenes andfastened the lead to his collar, to Eliza's intense relief, and thenlooked up.
"I am so sorry," she said, addressing herself to Martha, since Marthaalone showed sufficient control to heed her apology. "I've never knownhim do such a thing before. But he wouldn't hurt anyone--not even thecat. He is perfectly gentle."
He might have been; he was, on the whole; but appearances seemed ratherto belie the assertion.
Martha scrambled down from the chair