The Mynns' Mystery Part 49

"Hush, Denton," said Gertrude colouring, as she softly laid down the dog's heavy head, with the effect that the poor beast whined.

"Now, I tell you what I should do if I were you, Miss Gertie," continued the old woman. "Dogs are a deal like human beings when they're ill."

"What do you mean, Denton?"

"Why, poor Bruno has been shut up in this dark stable and wants fresh air. If I were you, I should go and get a book, and then lead the dog right down to the bottom of the garden, to the old seat under the yew hedge, and you could read in the shade while he lies down in the sun."

"Denton, you ought to have been a d.u.c.h.ess," cried Gertrude; "you dear, clever old thing. Lie still, Bruno, and I'll be back directly."

Full of her idea, Gertrude ran into the drawing-room for a book; told Mrs Hampton, who was writing letters, what she was about to do; and, catching a sunshade from the hall-stand, she was back in the stable before five minutes had elapsed.

It was no easy task, though, to get the dog down to the bottom lawn.

The poor beast, evidently in a drowsy way, approved of the change; but at the end of every few yards he lowered his head, and stood as if going to sleep on his outstretched legs. At such times Gertrude felt disposed to give up; but invariably as she came to this determination the dog seemed to revive, and slowly followed her again.

The old rustic chair was reached at last, and Bruno lay down, in the full suns.h.i.+ne, upon the soft turf; while his mistress settled herself in a well-clipped nook of the great yew hedge, which separated the bottom of the garden from the meadows, across which ran a footpath, forming a short cut to the station.

The flies troubled the dog a little, but he was soon apparently sleeping, basking in the sun; though the opening of one eye every time a leaf was turned over by his mistress told that he never lost consciousness.

Gertrude read a page or two of her book, and then began reading page after page of her life; and there was a curious feeling of wonderment as she went on, thinking of Saul's advances, and the horror with which they had inspired her; then of the coming of him who called himself George Harrington, the man she had tutored herself that it was her duty to love, with the result that the chivalrous being she had expected to see had completely disillusionised her; and her duty had become a pain.

She wondered, as she thought of his embraces, of the drink-poisoned breath, and the horror of his self-inflicted illness, and what followed.

It was all oppressive and strange. It had seemed as if her life was to be one long act of self-devotion, with clouds surrounding her, and her heart aching painfully over the fate from which there seemed to be no escape.

Then, all at once, in a way that seemed to frighten her, the suns.h.i.+ne had burst the clouds, and dazzled her with its effulgence. She felt a strange kind of joy, that the hero she had painted in her heart could not even compare with the frank, manly, chivalrous fellow who had come and boldly declared the other to be an impostor.

"Was this the first dawning of love?" she asked herself, as the warm blood mantled in her cheeks; and she wondered whether it was unmaidenly and strange to think so warmly of the man who had been selected to be her husband.

She had just come to the conclusion that it would be possible to love such a one as this, when there was a faint rustling sound beyond the hedge, as of a footstep in the gra.s.s, and a voice said thoughtfully:

"I wonder whether she ever comes down here." A low, deep growl from Bruno followed; and, without thinking that her words might be heard, Gertrude cried:

"Down, Bruno! down!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

MASTER'S STICK.

"I beg your pardon. Really, Miss Bellwood, I did not expect to find you here."

"Mr--"

"Harrington," he said, as she paused. "You need not be afraid to call me by that name; and George. They are mine, indeed."

"I beg your pardon, Mr Harrington."

Bruno uttered a low, ominous growl.

"Your dog does not like me," he said.

"You are a stranger."

"At present; but not for long, I hope."

"Quiet, Bruno!" she said, to hide her confusion. "He has been hurt very much. I brought him out here for a change."

"Lucky dog," he said; and then in dread lest it might be considered an impertinence: "How was he hurt? Run over--a kick?"

"No, poor fellow; somebody must have struck him a terrible blow on the head."

"Indeed! That's bad. Let me look at him. I understand a good deal about dogs."

"You do?" cried Gertrude eagerly.

"Oh, yes. I have been in the wilds, sometimes for months, with no other companion than a dog. May I come through? There is quite a gap here."

"A gap? Then let me bring Bruno to you," she said hastily.

He smiled as he said to himself, "this is a strange position;" and he appreciated the maiden delicacy which prompted the words, and stood religiously on the field side of the hedge as Gertrude coaxed the dog to follow her.

Bruno rose painfully and walked to the gap, where he suddenly seemed to revive, for he growled fiercely, set up his ruff, and began to look eagerly about, snuffling loudly the while.

"Down, Bruno!" cried Gertrude excitedly. "He does not like you. He might bite."

"He had better not," cried the young man merrily. "Dogs must not bite friends--his mistress' friends," he added meaningly; and, as through the slightly broken opening in the yews he saw Gertrude shrink, he continued hurriedly: "no, it is not at me, but at something about the gra.s.s. Oh, I see, he has found a broken stick."

For as he spoke, the dog had ferreted out of the long gra.s.s, at the foot of the hedge, a broken walking-stick--the upper part of a strong oaken cudgel, whose top was a heavy root k.n.o.b, over which he growled savagely.

"Why, Bruno, what's the matter?" cried Gertrude. "Perhaps you had better go."

"Oh, no; I don't like to be afraid of a dog; and, besides, I think they have _nous_ enough to know when you mean well by them. Here, old chap, let's look at your head."

Bruno ceased growling, and raised his muzzle with the stick across his mouth, as the young man parted the yew bushes and knelt down.

"Yes, Bruno--good dog--friends," said Gertrude nervously.

"He does not quite believe it yet," said the young man. "Suppose you shake hands with me."

She hesitated a moment as she looked in his eyes, but they were so frank and pleasant to gaze upon that she halted no longer, but placed her hand in his, and then tried to s.n.a.t.c.h it back in alarm, but it was pinioned tightly in a warm, firm pressure.

"There Bruno," he said, "your mistress and I are friends, and she will never have one more faithful and true. Now, old fellow," he added, loosing the hand, "let's have that stick. Good dog. What are you growling at?"

He took the stick from the dog, threw it down, and then quietly laid his hand upon his head; then placed the other on the side, and the dog whimpered softly.

"Hurt you, old fellow? well, I'll be more gentle, but I must examine you. Poor lad, then. Why, you have been in the wars. You ought to be dead."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Gertrude.