“I must apologise for having brought Aleck, my dog, you know, with me,”
began Arthur Heigham; “but the fact was, that at the very last moment
the man I was going to leave him with had to go away, and I had no time
to find another place before the train left. I thought that, if you
objected to dogs, he could easily be sent somewhere into the village.
He is very good-tempered, though appearances are against him.”
“Oh! he will be all right, I daresay,” said George, rather sulkily;
for, with the exception of Snarleyow, in whose fiendish temper he found
something refreshing and congenial, he liked no dogs. “But you must be
careful, or Snarleyow, _my_ dog, will give him a hammering. Here, good
dog, good dog,” and he attempted to pat Aleck on the head, but the
animal growled savagely, and avoided him.
“I never knew him do that before,” ejaculated Arthur, in confusion, and
heartily wishing Aleck somewhere else. “I suppose he has taken a
dislike to you. Dogs do sometimes, you know.”
Next second it struck him that this was one of those things that had
better have been left unsaid, and he grew more uncomfortable than ever.
But at this very moment the situation was rendered intensely lively by
the approach of the redoubtable Snarleyow himself, who, having snapped
at the horse’s heels all the way to the stables, had on his return to
the front of the house spotted Aleck from afar. He was now advancing on
tiptoe in full order of battle, his wicked-looking teeth gleaming, and
his coat and tail standing out like an angry bear’s.
Arthur, already sufficiently put out about the dog question, thought it
best to take no notice; and even when he distinctly heard George
quietly “sah” on his dog as he passed him, he contented himself with
giving Aleck a kick by way of a warning to behave himself, and entered
into some desultory conversation with Philip. But presently a series of
growls behind him announced that an encounter was imminent. Looking
round, he perceived that Snarleyow was standing over the bull-dog, of
which he was more than twice the size, and holding on to the skin of
his neck with his long teeth; whilst George was looking on with
scarcely suppressed amusement.
“I think, Mr. Caresfoot, that you had better call your dog off,” said
Arthur, good-temperedly. “Mine is a peaceable animal, but he is an
awkward customer when he does fight.”
“Oh! better let them settle it; they will be much better friends
afterwards. Hold him, Snarleyow.”
Thus encouraged, the big dog seized the other, and fairly lifted him
off the ground, shaking him violently—a proceeding that had the effect
of thoroughly rousing Aleck’s temper. And then began a most Homeric
combat. At first the bull-dog was dreadfully mauled; his antagonist’s
size, weight, and length of leg and jaw, to say nothing of the thick
coat by which he was protected, all telling against him. But he took
his punishment very quietly, never so much as uttering a growl, in
strange contrast to the big dog’s vociferous style of doing business.
And at last patience was rewarded by his enemy’s fore-paw finding its
way into Aleck’s powerful jaw, and remaining there till Snarleyow’s
attentions to the back of his neck forced him to shift his hold. From
that time forward the sheep-dog had to fight on three legs, which he
found demoralizing. But still he had the advantage, and it was not
until any other dog of Aleck’s size would have retreated half killed
that the bull-dog’s superior courage and stamina began to tell. Quite
heedless of his injuries, and the blood that poured into his eyes, he
slowly but surely drove the great sheep-dog, who by this time would
have been glad to stop, back into an angle of the wall, and then
suddenly pinned him by the throat. Down went Snarleyow on the top of
the bull-dog, and rolled right over him, but when he staggered to his
legs again, his throat was still in its cruel grip.
“Take your dog off!” shouted George, seeing that affairs had taken a
turn he very little expected.
“I fear that is impossible,” replied Arthur, politely, but looking
anything but polite.
“If you don’t get it off, I will shoot it.”
“You will do nothing of the sort, Mr. Caresfoot; you set the dog on,
and you must take the consequences. Ah! the affair is finished.”
As he spoke, the choking Snarleyow, whose black tongue was protruding
from his jaws, gave one last convulsive struggle, and ceased to
breathe. Satisfied with this result, Aleck let go, and having sniffed
contemptuously at his dead antagonist, returned to his master’s side,
and, sitting quietly down, began to lick such of his numerous wounds as
he could reach.
George, when he realized that his favourite was dead, turned upon his
guest in a perfect fury. His face looked like a devil’s. But Arthur,
acting with wonderful self-possession for so young a man, stopped him.
“Remember, Mr. Caresfoot, before you say anything that you may regret,
that neither I nor my dog is to blame for what has happened. I am
exceedingly sorry that your dog should have been killed, but it is your
own fault. I am afraid, however, that, after what has happened, I shall
be as unwelcome here as Aleck; so, if you will kindly order the cart
for me again, I will move on. Our business can no doubt be finished off
by letter.”
George made no reply: it was evident that he could not trust himself to
speak, but, turning sullenly on his heel, walked towards the house.
“Wait a bit, Mr. Heigham,” said Philip, who had been watching the whole
scene with secret delight. “You are perfectly in the right. I will go
and try to bring my cousin to his senses. I am very thankful to your
dog for killing that accursed brute.”
He was away for about ten minutes, during which Arthur took Aleck to a
fountain there was in the centre of a grass plot in front of the house,
and washed his many wounds, none of which, however, were, thanks to the
looseness of his hide, very serious. Just as he had finished that
operation, a gardener arrived with a wheelbarrow to fetch away the
deceased Snarleyow.
“Lord, sir,” he said to Arthur, “I am glad to have the job of tucking
up this here brute. He bit my missus last week, and killed a whole
clutch of early ducks. I seed the row through the bushes. That ‘ere dog
of yours, sir, he did fight in proper style; I should like to have a
dog like he.”
Just then the re-arrival of Philip put a stop to the conversation.
Drawing Arthur aside, he told him that George begged to apologise for
what had occurred, and hoped that he would not think of going away.
“But,” added Philip, with a little laugh, “I don’t pretend that he has
taken a fancy to you, and, if I were you, I should cut my visit short.”
“That is exactly my view of the case. I will leave to-morrow evening.”
Philip made no further remarks for a few moments. He was evidently
thinking. Presently he said,
“I see you have a fishing-rod amongst your things; if you find the time
hang heavy on your hands to-morrow, or wish to keep out of the way, you
had better come over to Bratham Lake and fish. There are some very
large carp and perch there, and pike too, for the matter of that, but
they are out of season.”
Arthur thanked him, and said that he should probably come, and, having
received instructions as to the road, they parted, Arthur to go and
shut up Aleck in an outhouse pointed out to him by his friend the
gardener, and thence to dress for a dinner that he looked forward to
with dread, and Philip to make his way home. As he passed up through
the little flower-garden at the Abbey House, he came across his
daughter, picking the blight from her shooting rose-trees.
“Angela,” he said, “I am sorry if I offended your prejudices this
afternoon. Don’t let us say anything more about it; but I want you to
come and pay a formal call with me at Isleworth to-morrow. It will only
be civil that you should do so.”
“I never paid a call in my life,” she answered, doubtfully, “and I
don’t want to call on my cousin George.”
“Oh! very well,” and he began to move on. She stopped him.
“I will go, if you like.”
“At three o’clock, then. Oh! by the way, don’t be surprised if you see
a young gentleman fishing here to-morrow.”
Angela reflected to herself that she had never yet seen a young
gentleman to speak to in her life, and then asked, with undisguised
interest, who he was.
“Well, he is a sort of connection of your own, through the Prestons,
who are cousins of ours, if any of them are left. His mother was a
Preston, and his name is Arthur Preston Heigham. George told me
something about him just now, and, on thinking it over, I remember the
whole story. He is an orphan, and George’s ward.”
“What is he like?” asked Angela, ingenuously.
“Really I don’t know; rather tall, I think—a gentlemanly fellow. It
really is a relief to speak to a gentleman again. There has been a nice
disturbance at Isleworth,” and then he told his daughter the history of
the great dog fight.
“I should think Mr. Heigham was perfectly in the right, and I should
like to see his dog,” was her comment on the occurrence.
As Arthur dressed himself for dinner that evening he came to the
conclusion that he disliked his host more than any man he ever saw,
and, to say the truth, he descended into the dining-room with
considerable misgivings. Just as he entered, the opposite door opened,
and Sir John Bellamy was announced. On seeing him, George emerged from
the sulky silence into which he was plunged, and advanced to meet him.
“Hullo, Bellamy! I must congratulate you upon your accession to rank.”
“Thank you, Caresfoot, thank you,” replied Mr. Bellamy, who, with the
exception that he had grown a size larger, and boasted a bald patch on
the top of his head that gave him something of the appearance of a
jolly little monk, looked very much the same as when we last saw him as
a newly married man.
“A kind Providence,” he went on, rubbing his dry hands, and glancing
nervously under the chairs, “has put this honour into my hands.”
“A Providence in petticoats, you mean,” broke in George.
“Possibly, my dear Caresfoot; but I do not see him. Is it possible that
he is lurking yonder, behind the sofa?”
“Who on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that exceedingly fine dog of yours, Snarleyow. Snarleyow, where
are you? Excuse me for taking precautions, but last time he put his
head under my chair and bit me severely, as I dare say you remember.”
Arthur groaned at hearing the subject thus brought forward.
“Mr. Heigham’s dog killed Snarleyow this afternoon,” said George, in a
savage voice.
At this intelligence, Sir John’s face became wreathed in smiles.
“I am deeply delighted—I mean grieved—to hear it. Poor Snarleyow! he
was a charming dog; and to think that such a fate should have overtaken
him, when it was only last week that he did the same kind office for
Anne’s spaniel. Poor Snarleyow! you should really have him stuffed.
But, my dear Caresfoot, you have not yet introduced me to the hero of
the evening, Mr. Heigham. Mr. Heigham, I am delighted to make your
acquaintance,” and he shook hands with Arthur with gentle enthusiasm,
as though he were the last scion of a race that he had known and loved
for generations.
Presently dinner was announced, and the three sat down at a small round
table in the centre of the big dining-room, on which was placed a
shaded lamp. It was not a cheerful dinner. George, having said grace,
relapsed into moody silence, eating and drinking with gusto but in
moderation, and savouring every sup of wine and morsel of food as
though he regretted its departure. He was not free from gluttony, but
he was a judicious glutton. For his part, Arthur found a certain
fascination in watching his guardian’s red head as he bobbed up and
down opposite to him, and speculating on the thickness of each
individual hair that contributed to give it such a spiky effect. What
had his mother been like, he wondered, that she had started him in life
with such an entirely detestable countenance? Meanwhile he was replying
in monosyllables to Sir John’s gentle babblings, till at last even that
gentleman’s flow of conversation ran dry, and Arthur was left free to
contemplate the head in solemn silence. As soon as the cloth had been
cleared away, George suggested that they had better get to work. Arthur
assented, and Sir John, smiling with much sweetness, remarked
profoundly that business was one of the ills of life, and must be
attended to.
“At any rate, it is an ill that has agreed uncommonly well with you,”
growled George, as, rising from the table, he went to a solid iron safe
that stood in the corner of the room, and, unlocking it with a small
key that he took from his pocket, extracted a bundle of documents.
“That is an excellent deed-box of yours, Caresfoot,” said Sir John
carelessly.
“Yes; that lock would not be very easy to pick. It is made on my own
design.”
“But don’t you find that small parcels such as private letters are apt
to get lost in it? It is so big.”
“Oh! no; there is a separate compartment for them. Now, Mr. Heigham.”
And then, with the able and benign assistance of Sir John, he proceeded
to utterly confuse and mystify Arthur, till stocks, preference-shares,
consols, and mortgages were all whirling in his bewildered brain.
Having satisfactorily reduced him to this condition, he suddenly sprang
upon him the proposal he had in view with reference to the Jotley
mortgage, pointing out to him that it was an excellent investment, and
strongly advising him, “as a friend,” to leave the money upon the land.
Arthur hesitated a little, more from natural caution than anything he
could urge to the contrary, and George, noticing it, said,
“It is only right that, before you come to any decision, you should see
the map of the estate, and a copy of the deed. I have both in the next
room, if you care to come and look at them.”
Arthur assented, and they went off together; Sir John, whose eyes
appeared to be a little heavy under the influence of the port,
presuming that he was not wanted. But, no sooner had the door closed,
than the worthy knight proved himself very wide-awake. Indeed, he
commenced a singular course of action. Advancing on tiptoe to the safe
in the corner of the room, he closely inspected it through his
eyeglass. Then he cautiously tried the lid of an artfully contrived
subdivision.
“Um!” he muttered, half aloud, “that’s where they are; I wish I had ten
minutes.”
Next he returned swiftly to the table, and, taking a piece of the soft
bread which he was eating instead of biscuit with his wine, he rapidly
kneaded it into dough, and, going to the safe, divided the material
into two portions. One portion he carefully pressed upon the keyhole of
the subdivision, and then, extracting the key of the safe itself, took
a very fair impress of its wards on the other. This done, he carefully
put the pieces of dough in his breast-pocket in such a way that they
were not likely to be crushed, and, with a smile of satisfaction,
returned to his chair, helped himself to a glass of port, and dozed
off.
“Hullo, Bellamy, gone to sleep! Wake up, man. We have settled this
business about the mortgage. Will you write to Mr. Borley, and convey
Mr. Heigham’s decision? And perhaps”—addressing Arthur—“you will do the
same on your own account.”
“Certainly I will write, Caresfoot; and now I think that I must be off.
Her ladyship does not like having to sit up for me.”
George laughed in a peculiarly insulting way.
“I don’t think she would care much, Bellamy, if you stayed away all
night. But look here, tell her I want to see her to-morrow; don’t
forget.”
Sir John bit his knightly lip, but answered, smiling, that he would
remember, and begging George not to ring, as his trap was at the hall-
door, and the servant waiting, he bade an affectionate good-night to
Arthur, to whom he expressed a hope that they would soon meet again,
and let himself out of the room. But, as soon as the door was closed,
he went through another performance exceedingly inappropriate in a
knight. Turning round, his smug face red with anger, he pirouetted on
his toes, and shook his fist violently in the direction of the door.
“You scoundrel!” he said between his teeth, “you have made a fool of me
for twenty years, and I have been obliged to grin and bear it; but I
will be even with you yet, and her too, more especially her.”
So soon as Sir John had left, Arthur told his host that, if the morning
was fine, he proposed to go and fish in Bratham Lake, and that he also
proposed to take his departure by the last train on the following
evening. To these propositions George offered no objection— indeed,
they were distinctly agreeable to him, as lessening the time he would
be forced to spend in the society of a guest he cordially detested, for
such was the feeling that he had conceived towards Arthur.
Then they parted for the night; but, before he left the room, George
went to lock up the safe that was still open in the corner. Struck by
some thought, he unlocked the separate compartment with a key that hung
on his watch-chain, and extracted therefrom a thick and neatly folded
packet of letters. Drawing out one or two, he glanced through them and
replaced them.
“Oh! Lady Anne, Lady Anne,” he said to himself as he closed the case,
“you are up in the world now, and you aspire to rule the county
society, and have both the wealth and the wit to do it; but you must
not kick over the traces, or I shall be forced to suppress you, Lady
Anne, though you are the wife of a Brummagem knight, and I think that
it is time you had a little reminder. You are growing a touch too
independent.”