DANGEROUS.
RICHARD DUNN was walking briskly homeward, half-an-hour later, with a
young man by his side.
He did not look depressed, though the change in his home and
circumstances had been to him, as to Susan, no slight trouble. Dunn
was a man of cheerful spirit; and the cheerfulness could be seen
in his very air. He carried himself with an alert vigour, usually
more characteristic of the artisan than of the labourer. In truth,
Dunn occupied a position decidedly superior to that of the ordinary
labourer, though of course inferior to that of the journeyman. He had
a peculiar knack of picking up knowledge in all directions, and was
actually capable of "handling the tools" in an emergency, though not
usually permitted to exercise this feat in the trade.
Besides being thoroughly "handy" in his ordinary work, Dunn was
something of a scholar. He read much, and thought over what he read.
But Dunn was the last man ever to make a boast of these acquirements.
People were often long in finding out his intelligence and capabilities.
Not always, however. For the young fellow by his side, Archibald Stuart
by name, a last-year apprentice in the workshop of Mr. Rawdon, had
already scented out "something uncommon" in the new workman. Dunn had
known Archibald Stuart's father many years before, and this fact drew
the two together. Moreover, Archibald's homeward road lay past Woodbine
Cottage. Halfway thither, he overtook Dunn, and remained with him.
"You'll tell your mother we're here," Dunn said, as they drew near the
end of their walk. "Dear me, I remember her well as a fine tall lass!
There wasn't a handsomer girl about, nor one that held her head higher.
Your father did think a deal of her, to be sure."
"She has been a good mother to me," Archibald said. He was a fine tall
young fellow himself, doubtless taking after his mother.
"And you're her only one? No brothers nor sisters?"
"None," Archibald said. "Only mother and me."
Dunn stood still. "I won't ask you in to-day," he said. "We're all in a
mess—only come this morning. But we shall see you here soon; and you:
mother too."
"I hope so," Archibald answered. He did not speak with certainty, and a
slight shade crossed his face.
Almost instantly the shadow passed, and was replaced by a look of
admiration. For the door opened, and a voice said, "Father!" as a young
girl came out to welcome him.
The young girl was not alone. A plump little woman, all smiles, stood
close behind, and two children also.
Archibald saw only Nancy, however. He was oblivious to the presence of
anything or anybody else; and he stood stock-still, gazing hard, with
never a thought of how his conduct might seem to others.
I do not think his admiration of Nancy could be wondered at,—she was
such a very pretty girl: not only young and fresh-complexioned, but
really pretty, almost beautiful. Her features were regular, and her
rosy month and blue eyes seemed only made to smile. Besides all this,
Nancy had a nice figure, and a soft winning manner, and hair and dress
and hands all most daintily neat. She wore a print dress, made by
herself; but the dress fitted like a glove; and her linen collar and
cuffs were spotless. So it was not surprising that young Stuart stood
as if he had been moonstruck, almost forgetting where he was.
"Father," Nancy said again, "it's all so nice. Come in and see how
we've put things. I am sure you are tired."
Archibald thought he had never in his life heard so kind and sweet
a voice before. But nobody noticed him. Dunn had responded to the
petition, going straight in. Archibald could see two children clinging
to him, and the wife's hand on his arm. He saw all that without caring
particularly. What did strike him was the upturned girlish face, with
loving eyes and rosy lips, and the voice which he could still hear
repeating,—
"Come and see it all, father! We have been so hard at work all day, and
now things do really look like home."
Then Archibald suddenly woke up to the fact that he had no business
there. He strode fast off to his own home; and all the way thither, he
could not get Nancy Dunn's face out of his mind.
Mrs. Stuart lived two streets farther on. The cottages here were rather
smaller than Woodbine Cottage. It was now nearly eight years since
the death of Archibald's father, and the widow had had a hard time
of it since. The wish of Mrs. Stuart's heart had been that her boy
Archie should be in his father's trade. All her powers were bent to
this aim. Through the long years of his apprenticeship she had pinched
and denied herself in every possible way for his sake. She could not
endure that her boy should be one whit less respectably dressed than
his fellow-apprentices. He always had his best and second best as well
as his working suits. Nay, even in the matter of his pocket-money, she
would not keep him shorter than others.
It may be doubted whether Mrs. Stuart was quite wise here. Archie would
have been none the worse for some necessary self-denial in daily life.
But Mrs. Stuart held her head high still, as she had done in younger
days. She held it high for her boy even more than for herself. She
was very particular as to whom she would know and very anxious about
Archie's acquaintances.
Six years and a half of the apprenticeship were over. Six months
more, and Archie would be a full-blown artisan, receiving man's pay.
Mrs. Stuart's hope and expectation were that then he would repay her
long toil and self-denial. She did not intend him to marry early; and
when he did marry, her daughter-in-law was to be unexceptionable in
character and position. Mrs. Stuart, daughter of a farmer, widow of an
artisan, would be content with nothing lower in the social scale than
her own standing for this only son.
Yes, certainly Mrs. Stuart held her head high; everybody said so. She
held it high literally as well as figuratively, being very tall and
thin and upright. A greater contrast could hardly have been found
than between this cold-mannered handsome woman, and the bright little
roundabout Susan Dunn.
Even towards Archibald, Mrs. Stuart was not gentle or warm in manner.
Dearly, even passionately, as she loved her boy, he seldom had from her
a look or word of tenderness. She indulged him in many ways, but she
expected him always to conform to her will. As yet they had seldom had
collisions. Archie was a good-humoured kind-hearted fellow.
"Mother," said he, about an hour after his return, "there's a family of
Dunns come here to live. Dunn spoke to me to-day, and said he used to
know you and father."
Mrs. Stuart did not seem very much interested. Archibald had to make
the remark over again before it brought a response.
"Dunn!" she said indifferently. "Yes, I remember a man of that name. He
used to work under your father about the time we were married."
"He seems a nice sort of fellow," Archie observed.
"I never cared much about him. He never came in my way," said Mrs.
Stuart.
"But I think they are people we shall like," persisted Archie. "And
they don't know anybody here; you might befriend them, I should think.
Couldn't you?"
"I dare say I could if I chose," said Mrs. Stuart stiffly.
"And you'll choose, won't you—if I ask it?" Archie put on a coaxing
air, sometimes effectual.
"What makes you so keen after them, all in a hurry?" demanded Mrs.
Stuart. "That isn't your fashion commonly."
Archie reddened, feeling conscious. He did not want to speak about
Nancy.
"I like Dunn," he said. "We walked home together, part of the way. He's
a scholar, and no mistake. Got lots of books, and read them all. I
found out by asking—something he said about father started me off. And
he wouldn't mind lending me a volume now and then. I should like that!
Why, I should think he reads more books in a year than all the other
men in our works put together."
"Mayn't be any better man for that," said Mrs. Stuart snappishly. "I
don't hold with such a lot of reading. Has he got any family?"
Archie could only answer, "Yes."
"How many children?"
"Three, I believe."
"Any grown-up girls?"
"Only one," said Archie.
"You've not seen her?"
"Only just a glimpse in passing," said Archie, with a careless air.
Mrs. Stuart's mouth fell into a grim set, and she worked fast.
"I didn't speak to any of them except Dunn," pursued Archie. "He's a
first-rate fellow, mother, really. I wish you'd get to know them."
No answer. Mrs. Stuart sewed on resolutely, clicking her needle
fiercely at every stitch, in a manner peculiar to herself. It boded
temper.
Archie felt irritated, but he knew well that it was wiser to say no
more just then. Silence reigned for some minutes.
"I'm going out for a turn," he announced presently.
Mrs. Stuart paid no attention. Once thoroughly annoyed, she did not
soon recover herself. Archie gave her a look, then strolled out of
the front door, instinctively bending his steps in the direction of
Woodbine Cottage.
He was not without hopes that Nancy might catch a glimpse of him.
Archie, of course, knew himself to be a good-looking young fellow,
especially in the tidy "second best" suit which he donned every
evening. As he passed, he shot a side glance at the window. But
no pretty blue-eyed face was visible; and he wandered on, feeling
aggrieved. Nancy really ought to have been looking out just then!
It was a quiet spring evening, the quietness being broken only by the
subdued mixture of human and other sounds belonging to life in a town.
Absolute stillness cannot be found there. Now and then shrill laugh, a
child's cry, or a vociferous utterance became prominent.
Suddenly a wild chorus of shouts and yells broke out, coming nearer.
Archie came to a standstill, listening. What could it mean?
Somebody hurt! A horse running away! These thoughts occurred to him
first. He would have rushed forward to help, but for a moment, he could
not tell whence the outcries proceeded, so full was the air of uproar.
The uproar swelled, drawing closer, shrieks mingling with deeper-toned
shouts: and all at once Archie could distinguish words: "A MAD DOG! A
MAD DOG!"
For a single instant Archie's impulse was to flee before so gruesome
a peril. But he resisted the coward-thought, knowing that women and
children might be in danger, and went in the direction whence the
volume of sound proceeded—cautiously, and keeping a look-out.
Had he guessed who, a few seconds later, would claim the help of his
strong young arm, he would have sped to her rescue at his utmost speed.
Not far from the neighbourhood of Woodbine Cottage stood the large
red-brick District Church, belonging to this part of Littleburgh. It
was a handsome building, free-seated, intended mainly for working-men
and their families.
Beyond the Church was the Parsonage, surrounded by a neat garden. In
this garden, near the gate, the Rev. Arthur Wilmot stood, carefully
examining a young sapling, which seemed to have suffered a good deal
from the spring breezes.
He was a remarkably tall man, fully six feet four inches in height,
upright, vigorous, and strongly built, with a fine thoughtful face,
guiltless of whiskers or beard. It was a genial face too, full of
kindness. In age he could hardly have passed forty, yet he had been for
ten years a widower, and the gentle girl of sixteen by his side was his
only child.
"That poor little tree is done for, I am afraid," she said.
"Yes; not much hope of its recovery. But we will give it a good dose of
water, dear."
"My watering-can is nearly empty; I'll fill it again."
"No; wait, Annie. You have been often enough, my child. Give it to me."
Mr. Wilmot moved towards her, and at the same instant the loud chorus
of cries and yells which had startled Archie broke upon him and Annie.
"Something must be the matter," Annie said.
Mr. Wilmot listened intently, moving closer to the gate. Annie followed
him. Suddenly words were distinguishable. Mr. Wilmot turned to his
daughter.
"Annie, go indoors at once."
He spoke in a quiet voice, but resolutely. Annie hesitated. She had not
caught the words which had reached his ear; yet something in his look,
combined with those wild shouts, alarmed her.
"What is it?" she began to say.
"You hear me, Annie! Go indoors this instant, and close the door. This
instant: go!"
Never in his life had he spoken so sternly to his darling. Annie turned
at once to obey. She believed that he knew something to be drawing near
which he did not deem it right or proper for her to see.
Mr. Wilmot looked after her till she had passed into the house. Then he
stepped out into the road.
Along that road, coming straight towards him, was a black dog. The
poor creature seemed exhausted, and ran unsteadily, with drooping tail
and lowered head, and bluish foam-flecked tongue hanging from the open
mouth; yet it ran fast. A crowd of hallooing men rushed in its rear,
some little way behind.