A RUNAWAY
He was a very slow walker, that bear. If I had been alone I would have
been out of sight of the inn in less than five minutes. As it was, I
looked back after a considerable time to see if I really were out of
sight of the house, and I found I was not. She was still standing in
the doorway, and when I turned she waved her handkerchief. Now that I
had truly left and was gone, she seemed to be willing to let me know
better than before what a charming woman she was. I took off my hat
again and pressed forward.
For a couple of miles, perhaps, I walked thoughtfully, and I do not
believe I once thought of the bear shambling silently behind me. I had
been dreaming a day-dream--not building a castle in the air, for I had
seen before me a castle already built. I had simply been dreaming
myself into it, into its life, into its possessions, into the
possession of everything which belonged to it.
It had been a fascinating vision. It had suited my fancy better than
any vision of the future which I had ever had. I was not ambitious; I
loved the loveliness of life. I was a student, and I had a dream of
life which would not interfere with the society of my books. I loved
all rural pleasures, and I had dreamed of a life where these were
spread out ready for my enjoyment. I was a man formed to love, and
there had come to me dreams of this sort of thing.
My dreams had even taken practical shape. As I was dressing myself
that morning I had puzzled my brain to find a pretext for taking the
first step, which would be to remain a few days at the inn.
The pretext for doing this had appeared to me. For a moment I had
snatched at it and shown my joy, and then it had utterly
disappeared--the vision, the fancy, the anticipations, the plans, the
vine-covered home in the air, all were destroyed as completely as if
it had been the tire of my bicycle scattered about in little bits upon
the ground.
"Come along, old Orso!" I exclaimed, endeavoring to mend my pace, and
giving the bear a good pull upon his chain. But the ugly creature did
not walk any faster; he simply looked at me with an air as if he would
say that if I kept long upon the road I would learn to take it easy,
and maintained the deliberate slouch of his demeanor.
Presently I stopped, and Orso was very willing to imitate me in that
action. I found, to my surprise, that I was not walking upon a
macadamized road: such was the highway which passed the inn and led, I
had been told, to the Cheltenham. I was now upon a road of gravel and
clay, smooth enough and wide enough, but of a different character from
that on which I had started that morning. I looked about me. Across a
field to my left I saw a line of trees which seemed to indicate a
road. I had a dim recollection of having passed a road which seemed to
turn to the left, but I had been thinking very earnestly, and had paid
little attention to it. Probably that road was the main road and this
the one which turned off.
I determined to investigate. It would not do to wander out of my way
with my present encumbrance. It was now somewhat after noon; the
country people were eating their dinners or engaged about their barns;
there was nobody upon the road. At some distance ahead of me was a
small house standing well back behind a little group of trees, and I
decided to go there and make inquiries. And as it would not do at all
to throw a rural establishment into a state of wild confusion by
leading a bear up to its door, I conducted Orso to the side of the
road and chained him to a fence-post. He was perfectly satisfied and
lay down, his nose upon his fore-paws.
[Illustration: "TO MY LEFT I SAW A LINE OF TREES"]
I found three women in the little house. They were in a side kitchen
eating their dinner, and I wondered what the bear would have done if
he had smelled that dinner. They told me that I was not on the main
road, and would have to go back more than half a mile in order to
regain it.
When I was out on the road again I said to myself that if I could
possibly make Orso step along at a little more lively pace I might get
to the hotel in time for a very late luncheon, and I was beginning to
think that I had not been wise in declining portable refreshment, when
I heard a noise ahead of me. At a considerable distance along the
road, and not far from where I had left the bear, I saw a horse
attached to a vehicle approaching me at a furious speed. He was
running away! The truth flashed upon me--he had been frightened by
Orso!
I ran a few steps towards the approaching horse. His head was high in
the air, and the vehicle swayed from side to side. It was a tall
affair with two wheels, and on the high seat sat a lady vainly tugging
at the reins. My heart sank. What dreadful thing had I done!
I stood in the middle of the road. It seemed but a few seconds before
the horse was upon me. He swerved to one side, but I was ready for
that. I dashed at his bridle, but caught the end of his cumbrous bit
in my right hand. I leaned forward with all the strength that dwelt in
my muscles and nerves. The horse's glaring eye was over my face, and I
felt the round end of a shaft rise up under my arm. A pair of
outstretched forelegs slid past me. I saw the end of a banged tail
switching in the dust. The horse was on his haunches. He was stopped.
Before I had time to recover an erect attitude and to let up the horse
the occupant of the vehicle was on the ground She had skipped down
with wonderful alacrity on the side opposite to me, and was coming
round by the back of the cart. The horse was now standing on his four
legs, trembling in every fibre, and with eyes that were still wild and
staring. Holding him firmly, I faced the lady as she stopped near me.
She was a young woman in a jaunty summer costume and a round straw
hat. She did not seem to be quite mistress of herself; she was not
pale, but perhaps that was because her face was somewhat browned by
the sun, but her step was not steady, and she breathed hard. Under
ordinary circumstances she would have been assisted to the side of the
road, where she might sit down and recover herself, and have water
brought to her. But I could do nothing of that sort. I could not leave
that shivering horse.
[Illustration: "HE WAS RUNNING AWAY"]
"Are you hurt?" I asked.
"Oh no," she said, "but I am shaken up a bit. I cannot tell you how
grateful I am! I don't believe I ever can tell you!"
"Do not speak of that." I said, quickly. "Perhaps you would feel
better if you were to sit down somewhere."
"Oh, I don't want to sit down," said she. "I am so glad to have my
feet on the solid earth again that that is enough for me. It was a
bear that frightened him--a bear lying down by the side of the road a
little way back. He never ran away before, but when he saw that bear
he gave a great shy and a bolt, and he was off. I just got a glimpse
of the beast."
I was very anxious to change the conversation, and suggested that I
lead the horse into the shade, for the sun was blazing down upon us.
The horse submitted to be led to the side of the road, but he was very
nervous, and looked everywhere for the approach of shaggy bears.
"It is perfectly dreadful," she said, when she again approached me,
"for people to leave bears about in that way. I suppose he was
fastened, for it could not have been a wild beast. They do not lie
down by the side of the road. I do not say that I was rattled, but I
expected every second that there would be a smash, and there would
have been if it had not been for--"
"It is a wonder you were not thrown out," I interrupted, "those carts
are so tall."
"Yes," she answered, "and if I hadn't slipped off the driving-cushion
at the first shy I would have been out sure. I never had anything
happen like this, but who could have expected a great bear by the side
of the road?"
"Have you far to go?" I asked.
"Not very--about three miles. I made a call this morning on the other
road, and was driving home. My name is Miss Larramie. My father's
place is on this road. He is Henry Esmond Larramie." I had heard of
the gentleman, but had never met him. "I am not afraid of horses,"
she continued, "but I do not know about driving this one now. He looks
as if he were all ready to bolt again."
"Oh, it would not do for you to drive him," I said. "That would be
extremely risky."
"I might walk home," she said, "but I could not leave the horse."
"Let me think a minute," said I. Then presently I asked, "Will this
horse stand if he is hitched?"
"Oh yes," she answered; "I always hitch him when I make calls. There
is a big strap under the seat which goes around his neck, and then
through a ring in his bit. He has to stand--he can't get away."
"Very well, then," said I; "I will tell you what I will do. I will tie
him to this tree. I think he is quieter, and if you will stand by him
and talk to him--he knows you?"
"Oh yes," she answered, "and I can feed him with grass. But why do you
want to tie him? What are you going to do?"
As she spoke she brought me the tie strap, and I proceeded to fasten
the horse to a tree.
"Now, then," said I, "I must go and get the bear and take him away
somewhere out of sight. It will never do to leave him there. Some
other horse might be coming along."
"You get the bear!" she said, surprised.
"Yes," I answered; "he is my bear, and--"
She stepped back, her eyes expanded and her lower jaw dropped. "_Your_
bear!" she cried, and with that her glance seemed to run all over me
as if she were trying to find some resemblance to a man who exhibited
a bear.
"Yes," I replied; "I left him there while I went to ask my way. It was
a dreadful thing to do, but I must leave him there no longer. I will
tell you all about it when I come back."
I had decided upon a plan of action. I ran down the road to the bear,
took down some bars of the fence, and then, untying him, I led him
over a field to a patch of woodland. Orso shuffled along humbly as if
it did not make any difference to him where he went, and when I
reached the woods I entered it by an old cart-road, and soon struck
off to one side among some heavy underbrush. Finding a spot where it
would be impossible for the beast to be seen from the road, I fastened
him securely to a tree. He looked after me regretfully, and I think I
heard him whine, but I am not sure of that. I hurried back to the
road, replaced the bars, and very soon had joined the young lady.
"Well," said she, "never in this world would I have thought that was
your bear! But what is to be done now? This horse gave a jump as soon
as he heard you running this way."
"Now," said I, "I will drive you to your house, or, if you are afraid,
you can walk, and I will take him home for you if you will give me the
directions."
"Oh, I am not a bit afraid," she said. "I am sure you can manage
him--you seem to be able to manage animals. But will not this be a
great inconvenience to you? Are you going this way? And won't you have
to come back after your bear? I can't believe that you are really
leading a bear about."
I laughed as I unfastened the horse. "It will not take me long to come
back," I said. "Now, I will get in first, and, when I have him
properly in hand, you can mount on the other side."
The young lady appeared to have entirely recovered from the effects of
her fright, and was by my side in a moment. The horse danced a little
as we started and tried to look behind him, but he soon felt that he
was under control, and trotted off finely.
I now thought that I ought to tell her who I was, for I did not want
to be taken for a travelling showman, although I really did not
suppose that she would make such a mistake.
"So you are the school-master at Walford!" said she. "I have heard
about you. Little Billy Marshall is one of your scholars."
I admitted that he was, and that I was afraid he did not do me very
much credit.
"Perhaps not," she said, "but he is a good boy. His mother sometimes
works for us; she does quite heavy jobs of sewing, and Billy brings
them up by train. He was here a little more than a week ago, and I
asked him how he was getting on at school, and if he had a good
teacher, and he said the man was pretty good. But I want to know about
the bear. How in the world did you happen to be leading a bear?"
I related the ursine incident, which amused her very much, and, as she
was a wheelwoman herself, she commiserated with me sincerely on the
damage to my machine.
"So you stopped at the Holly Sprig?" she said. "And how did you like
the mistress of that little inn?"
I replied that I had found her very interesting.
"Yes, she is an interesting woman," said my companion, "and a very
pretty one, too. Some people wonder why she continues to keep the inn,
but perhaps she has to. You know, her husband was murdered."
[Illustration: "He soon felt that he was under control"]
"No, I did not!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "I knew he was not
living--but murdered! That is dreadful! How did that happen?"
"Nobody knows," she answered. "They had not been married very long--I
do not know how long--when he was killed. He went to New York on
business by himself, and did not come back. They were searching for
him days and days--ever so long, and they could find no clew. At
last--it may have been a month afterwards--or perhaps it was more--it
was found that he had been murdered. His body had been discovered, and
was supposed to be that of somebody else, and had been buried in
whatever place the authorities buried people in such cases. Then it
was too late to get it or to identify it, or to do anything. Wasn't
that perfectly awful?"
This story gave me a peculiar shock. I could not have imagined that
that charming and apparently light-hearted young woman at the Holly
Sprig had ever been crushed down by such a sorrow as this. But I did
not ask any more questions. The young girl by my side probably knew no
more than she had already told me. Besides, I did not want to hear any
more.
"'Royal' goes along just as if nothing had happened," she said,
admiringly regarding the horse. "Now, I wonder if it will be safe for
me to drive him again?"
"I should be very sorry," I answered, "if my thoughtlessness had
rendered him unsafe for you; but if he could be led up and down past
the place where he saw the bear until he becomes convinced that there
is now nothing dreadful in that spot, he may soon be all right again."
"Do you know," she said, suddenly turning towards me, "what I would
like better than anything else in this world? I would like to be able
to stand in the middle of the road and stop a horse as you did!"
I laughed and assured her that I knew there were a great many things
in the world which it would be much better for her to do than that.
"Nothing would please me so much," she said, decisively, "not one
single, solitary thing! There's our gate. Turn in here, please."
I drove up a winding road which led to a house standing among trees on
a slight elevation. "Please let me out here," she said, when I reached
the end of the porch. "I will send a man to take the horse."