What the threat would have been she hardly knew, and he never knew, for
he took a step toward her with his hands outstretched, and words seemed
at once to become weak and silly. She clutched her rosy sunshade at
about half its length and struck full at his head. The sunshade broke.
He put his hands to his temples and held them a moment.
"Now, by God," he said, "after that--" and came toward her.
And even as he moved the feet of the deliverer sounded on the stairs.
Hurried feet, spurning the stones, feet swifter than a man's, lighter
than a woman's--little feet that gave out a thin, quick sound not like
the sound of human footsteps. She called aloud on the name of the
deliverer and he came, swift as the arrow from the bow of a
master-archer.
"Charles!" she cried. "Charles, seize him! Hold him!"
And Charles, coming headlong into that dark place like a shaft of live
white light, seized him, and held, by the leg.
Mr. Schultz did his best to defend himself, but he had no stick, and no
blows of the human fist confused or troubled that white bullet head, no
curses affected it, and against those white teeth no kicks or struggles
availed.
"Hold him! hold him!" she cried, the joy of vicarious battle lighting
her eyes.
"Confound it!" said Schultz. "Call the devil off."
"I will," said she, "from the top of the stairs. And I'll leave you this
for comfort: If you behave yourself for the future I won't tell my
husband about this. He'd half kill you."
"I don't know about that," said Schultz, even with Charles's teeth
quietly but persistently boring his leg. "I don't know so much about
that."
"I do," she said, with almost the conviction of the woman in love.
"You'd better stay here till we've gone away. I'm not ungrateful for
what you did for me on that day, and if you never dare to speak to me
again I'll never tell."
"I don't care what you tell," said Schultz. "Call the devil off, I say."
She ran up the stairs, and at the top called out, "Charles, drop it.
Come here, sir."
And Charles dropped it and came.
It was then for the first time that she felt that she was Charles's
mistress, even as Edward was Charles's master.
The dog and the woman went out together into the sunshine, and there,
between blue sky and green grass, embraced with all the emotions proper
to deliverer and delivered. When Edward rejoined them, five minutes
later, she was able to say, quite calmly:
"Yes, he found me out. He _is_ clever. He is a darling."
"He deserves a jolly good hiding," said Edward, "and I've a jolly good
mind to give it to him."
"Let him off this time," she said, "it was so clever of him to find me
out. He hadn't hurt any of the sheep, had he?"
"No," said he, "but he might have."
"Oh, if we come to might-have-beens," said she, "I might not be here, he
might not be here. We all might not be here. Think of that. No, don't
look at him with that 'wait-till-I-get-you-home' expression. Forgive him
and be done with it."
And when she looked at him like that, as he told himself, what could he
do but forgive the dog?
"Why," he said, "of course I'll forgive him!" adding, with one of those
diabolical flashes of insight to which our subconscious selves are
sometimes liable. "Why, I'd forgive Schultz himself if you asked me like
that."
"It isn't Mr. Schultz I want you to forgive," she said, "it's
Charles--Charles that I love."
"Not Schultz whom you like."
"I hate Schultz," said she, so vehemently that he wondered. Because
always before she had defended the man and called him kind and helpful.
It was, however, so pleasant to him that she should hate Schultz that he
put his wonder by to taste that pleasure.
She had the self-control to wait till they were gliding through the
streets of Warwick before she said, "Do you want to stay here any
longer?"
"Not if you don't," said he.
"I should like to go to Chester," she said, "now--this evening. Would
you mind? There's such lots to see, and something might happen at any
moment to stop our--"
"Our incredible honeymoon?" he said. "But what could?"
"Oh, Aunt Alice might be ill and want me"--and hated herself for the
words. The moment she had uttered them she felt that in using her as a
defense she had almost as good as called down the wrath of the gods on
Aunt Alice, whom she loved. "Oh, a thousand things might happen," she
added, quickly.
"My lady's will is my law," said Edward, and within an hour or two they
were on the way to Chester. Charles did not, this time, make his journey
in the dog-box. She smiled on the guard, and Charles traveled in a
first-class carriage with his master and his mistress. He sat between
them and was happy as only they can be happy who have combined duty and
pleasure. He had chased sheep--this was obviously not wrong, since
master had not punished him for it. He had bitten a stranger at
mistress's bidding. Mistress was evidently one who sympathized with the
natural aspirations of right-minded dogs. Charles knew now how much he
loved her. He leaned himself against her, heavily asleep, now and then
growling softly as he slept. His mistress felt that in his dreams he was
still biting Mr. Schultz. He was.