NANCY AND THE DOG.
CHILDREN were bundled promiscuously within cottage doors, and mothers
followed them. Handcock stood up at last. He seemed an easy-going sort
of individual—indolent perhaps, and not readily startled or flurried by
passing events.
"O Nannie!" Susan had said faintly, at the first instant. Then she sent
Susie indoors, and stood close to it herself, waiting.
The crowd did not come that way, neither did the dog. People began
presently to breathe more freely, and Handcock returned to say,
"There's no fear. Shouldn't wonder if it's all a scare about nothing!"
But he had not gone farther than the end of the street to inquire.
Suddenly Richard Dunn hurried up, Dick trotting by his side.
"Nannie not here?" Dunn said breathlessly.
"No, she hasn't come. O Richard!"
"It's a scare about the mad dog, I suppose?" said Handcock.
"A scare! No. It's true!" said Dunn hoarsely. "And Nannie not here!"
"Tell me quick,—haven't you seen her?" asked Susan, holding on to his
arm, for he seemed about to start off without another word.
"No. She left something in the shop, and Dicky ran back for it. And the
crowd came between—dog and all. Dick wasn't allowed to leave the shop.
Nobody seems to know anything about Nannie. Let me go, Susan."
Susan made no effort to detain her husband.
Handcock said, "I'll come with you, neighbour;" but his movements were
too slow for the distracted father. Dunn was gone.
Somebody spoke to Susan, but she made no answer. She could not stand,
for her legs shook under her, as if with the palsy, and she crept
inside the cottage, and sat down. Both children came close.
"Mother, I wouldn't have left Nannie if I had known the dog was
coming," said Dicky. "And I wanted to go to her, but the woman held me
tight, and locked the door. I thought Nannie would be so frightened. Do
you think the dog has hurt her, mother?"
Susan shook her head, and moaned. She could not shed a tear, and her
parched tongue refused to speak.
Somebody's face was put in at the door.
"Here she comes, Mrs. Dunn! All right!" a voice said.
The owner of the voice withdrew, and Nancy entered. She walked with
a hasty faltering step, and her face was perfectly white,—lips,
cheeks, and all, as colourless as chalk. Close behind followed a tall
good-looking young man.
Susan stood up, and took bold of Nancy with a tight grasp. She wanted
to ask, "Are you hurt?" but no words came.
"Hadn't you better both sit down?" asked the young man. "The dog didn't
touch her, Mrs. Dunn,—thank God, he didn't! She's only had a fright."
"Mother, he saved me!" Nannie said. "I should have been bitten but for
him!" And Nancy burst into a flood of tears.
* * * * * *
Yes, Archie Stuart had saved Nancy—at his own risk—from one of the most
terrible perils which can well beset a man or woman.
When the thought of helping somebody had occurred to him, he could not,
of course, guess who that somebody might be.
Nancy had failed to find exactly what she wanted at the nearest shop in
the next street: so she had gone farther. Halfway home she found that a
small pattern for the colour of the thread, which she knew her mother
would need, had been left behind.
Dick offered to run back for it, and Nancy, feeling tired, consented.
She promised to wait for Dick a quiet sort of back lane, which had a
high wall on either side, broken only by one five-barred gate, leading
into a yard, and locked. Nancy did not even notice the gate.
She had strolled but a few paces, when a burst of yells filled the air.
What could be the cause? Nancy felt a little afraid. She wished too
that she had not sent Dick off alone.
Scant time remained for thought. The shouts drew nearer, and the
warning cry,—"A mad dog!" reached Nancy's ears distinctly. Almost at
the same instant, a black dog appeared at the farthest end of the lane,
running straight towards her, dropping foam from his open jaws and
hanging tongue.
Nancy staggered against the wall, sick with horror. Men followed
behind, but none were near enough to succour her. She could see no
outlet—no means of escape. Her limbs seemed paralysed with the shock,
so that she could not even run.
"O God, help me! Oh, help!" That cry went up from Nancy's heart, as
the sense of her peril grew upon her. It was not the vague despairing
cry of one who has never thought of God till danger or death threaten.
Nancy had known God from very infancy as her great and loving Father in
heaven,—as One to whom, in the Name of Christ, she might always have
full and instant access. She had a childlike trust in His great might.
It was the instinct of her heart to cry to Him in need.
Nancy did not see it, but help was at hand. Her dilated eyes, fixed
upon the poor mad creature rushing towards her, could look in no other
direction.
Archie Stuart had entered the nearer end of the lane, behind Nancy,
just before the dog appeared.
He did not recognise her at first as the girl whose pretty and gentle
face had taken his fancy. But without recognising Nancy Dunn, he did
recognise a woman in danger,—and, happily, that was enough.
What to do? was the question. Alone he could have climbed the wall
without difficulty, for he was an active young fellow. But with Nancy!
That made all the difference.
The gate lay a few paces beyond Nancy, between her and the dog. The
best hope lay there, if it could be reached in time. Flight seemed
hopeless.
"Don't be frightened!" a voice said at her side. "Here,—this way!"
Nancy clutched her deliverer's arm with one sharp cry; and before she
knew what was happening, he had dragged her to the gate.
Some men in Archie's place might have thrown themselves to the top
first, and pulled up the girl after. But somehow Archie could not do
that. All the manliness of his nature revolted from putting himself in
safety while a woman stood below within reach of the dog.
Without losing an instant, he lifted Nancy in his strong arms, raising
her rapidly till her feet were on the top bar except one.
"Hold fast!" he said shortly, sharply, breathing hard in his
excitement. He did not look to see how close the dreaded creature had
come; but he felt that in four or five seconds more—
"Oh—come!" gasped Nancy.
"Hold on hard! You're safe!"
Archie loosened his grasp of her, clutched the top of the gate, and
swung himself up, with a desperate effort, barely in time. As his feet
rose, the open jaws followed, but the passing snap was fruitless. One
spring, and Archie stood upon the topmost bar, drawing the terrified
girl higher, lest the dog should leap. Already, however, the creature
had gone on, and the crowd of shouting men swept after, keeping, it
must be confessed, at a respectful distance.
Then Archie sprang to the ground, and lifted down the trembling girl.
In the white frightened face, he now recognised Dunn's pretty daughter.
"It's all right; the dog won't come back," Archie said encouragingly.
"It's a mercy I came. But we'll get out of this lane as soon as we can.
It's an awkward place to be caught in. Anywhere else you might have got
inside a door."
"Please,—now," Nancy managed to say, and though shaking still, she was
able to walk. At the end of the lane she paused suddenly.
"Dick—where can Dick be?"
"Is he your brother?"
"Yes. He went back to the shop. What can have become of him?" asked
Nancy, in distress.
"They'll have kept him there, you may be sure of that. I'll just get
you home, and then go to see after him. Don't be frightened," Archie
urged once more.
"It was so dreadful!" Nancy whispered. "I can't thank you. Father will."
"Isn't his name Dunn?" asked Archie, putting a very unnecessary
question. "I walked home with him to-day. My name's Stuart, and he used
to know my father; but I dare say he didn't think of mentioning me?"
Nancy was unable to give the answer which Archie desired. She could
remember nothing at that moment except the mad dog, her own past peril,
and her fears about Dick.
A few minutes brought them to Woodbine Cottage, where Dick was found to
have arrived before them. And while Nancy was still sobbing, and Susan
looking stupefied, and Archie standing by, half proud, yet embarrassed,
Dunn walked in.
He had been told outside of Nancy's return, "looking as white as
paper," one woman said, "and scarce able to drag herself along." Nobody
seemed to be sure whether she had entirely escaped injury. Dunn heart
was filled with a terrible foreboding.
"Nannie!" he said hoarsely, "Is anything wrong?" Then he turned to
Archie. "Tell me the worst," he muttered.
"She's not hurt," Archie answered quickly. "She's not hurt, indeed;
only frightened. The dog didn't touch her; I give you my word for it,
he didn't. She'll be all right presently."
"Nannie, he speaks the truth?" pleaded poor Richard Dunn, hardly able
to believe what he heard.
Nancy looked up at her father, with blue wet eyes, her chest heaving
still, and her lips quivering. "Yes, father, it's quite true," she
sobbed. "I'm not hurt. But I should have been—if—if—O father, he saved
me! I should have been bitten but for him!"
Dunn grasped Archie's hand, and turned his face away, unable to express
what he felt. And none who know what true manliness is will think one
whit the worse of that strong working-man for the big tears upon his
cheeks, drawn forth by the thought of his child's peril.
"Tell me about it," he said huskily, after a pause.
Mrs. Mason had just then walked in, but nobody took any notice of her.
She said nothing, only lifting her hands and eyes with gestures of mute
astonishment, and then bringing a mug of water to Nancy, which helped
to check her sobbing.
Archie was by no means unwilling to "tell all about it." He did not
wish to exalt unduly his own courage, but of course he knew that he
had been courageous, and he felt much gratification in having saved
somebody—especially pretty Nancy Dunn—from a great danger.
So he narrated what had occurred, neither underrating nor overrating
his own share in the matter. Nancy tearfully corroborated his tale,
even to the snap of the dog's jaws after Archie's heel, which she had
distinctly heard.
"Words can't thank you, my lad. If ever there's anything I can do for
you,—if it were with my last shilling,—I'd do it!" Dunn said fervently.
And then, taking off his cap, which he had hitherto forgotten to
remove, Dunn added, in a reverent voice:
"Thank God for His great mercy!"
Susan had neither stirred nor spoken hitherto, and as yet no one had
particularly noticed her stunned look. But now Mrs. Mason went to her
side with the mug of water, and made her drink some. And Susan at
length looked up, saying in a hollow voice, "I shall never trust her
out of my sight again."
"There! There! There! Poor dear! It's given her such a turn, you see,"
Mrs. Mason remarked soothingly, patting Susan on the back, and looking
round at everybody present.
"I shall never trust her out of my sight again," repeated Susan.
"Sue, I wouldn't feel that," Dunn said.
"She might have been bitten! And I should never have forgiven
myself—sending her out alone!"
Mrs. Mason patted Susan again, and Dunn came nearer.
"Sue, my dear, I wonder who takes best care of our Nannie," he
said,—"you and me, or God? If you'd been with her in the lane, I wonder
what you could have done for her? Wasn't it better, God sending the
help in time? I wouldn't feel that, Sue. It seems to me, we ought to
be feeling that there's no need ever to fear again—she's been so cared
for, just when you and me couldn't get at her, or help her."
Susan sighed heavily. "Yes, you're right," she said. "But if Nannie had
been bitten—if we'd the thought of that before us!"
"I suppose God could bear us through anything—even that!" Dunn said,
with an effort. "Only He hasn't called us to it. He has taken care
of our Nannie for us. I do think we ought to be full of nothing but
thankfulness, instead of talking about what might have been. I do think
it," repeated Dunn.
"I ought to go home," Archie said unwillingly. "Mother 'll be anxious,
if she hears about the dog."
"Well, we won't keep you, lad," said Dunn. "But you'll come again? You
can't come too often. I shall be able to thank you better another day.
Sue and me feel all turned upside-down-like this evening."
Archie went off briskly, straight home first, though determined later
to inquire what was become of the dog. He found Mrs. Stuart in a
very troubled state. Some rumours of peril to Archie had reached her
ears; and she was working herself up into a fever of fright. Archie's
appearance and his bright face were a great relief.
He told her something of what had happened, but not more than was
necessary. He rightly judged that Mrs. Stuart would not welcome any
event which should tend to intimacy with the Dunns.
Other people, however, lavishly filled up gaps in Archie's tale; and
before nightfall, Mrs. Stuart knew as much of Archie's doings as he
knew himself.