HERO
IN receiving the new inmate into her home, the big Newfoundland dog
was a difficulty upon which Miss Perkins had not counted. She objected
to dogs, especially to large ones. They were apt to leave footmarks on
a clean doorstep, and to scratch holes in a tidy garden-bed; and Miss
Perkins looked upon them as undesirable members of society.
But Hero had saved his mistress' life; and nobody had the heart to keep
him from her side, if indeed such keeping were possible. He was gentle
as a kitten to everybody, except when they tried to coax him away from
the unconscious Mildred; and then his hair rose, and a suggestion of
white teeth, with a faint under-ground rumble, warned people to be
careful.
Somehow Miss Perkins, in her pity for the woman, had overlooked the
dog; and when Millie Pattison, swathed still in the shawls which had
been wrapped round her chilled frame after the removal of her own
soaked clothes, was laid upon the spare room bed of Periwinkle Cottage,
Hero was there also. Bruised and battered by his struggle with the
waves, he had not once left his mistress; and he took up his station
close beside the bed, as one who had a right to be there.
Miss Perkins protested at once. She couldn't have that beast in the
house, not for nothing nor nobody! But remonstrances, commands,
exhortations, coaxings, offered pieces of meat, proved all alike
unavailing. Hero declined to stir an inch. When a hand was laid on his
collar by one of the men who had carried Millie upstairs, there was
again a gleam of white ivory and a soft gurgle; and the man beat a
quick retreat.
"You'd best let him be for a time, mum," Robins suggested. "He'll come
away by-and-by. If it wasn't for he, she wouldn't be ashore now."
Miss Perkins objected extremely, but for the present she had no choice.
Though brave enough in a general way, she had a fear of dogs, and she
dared not touch him; neither did any one else dare.
So long as Hero was left alone, he remained perfectly passive and
gentle, resting his great head against the end of the bolster, and
watching with troubled brown eyes everything that was done. To move
and lift and attend to his mistress, under those watchful eyes, was
at first rather nervous work; and Miss Perkins kept two women helpers
to assist her through the ordeal. It soon became evident to her, as
it was already evident to others, that Hero entirely understood their
benevolent intentions. He interfered in nothing; only he would not be
driven away.
"I don't know whatever in the world I'm to do at night," Miss Perkins
uttered despairingly. "I wouldn't be left alone with her and that
brute, not if I was paid for it ever so! That's a fact."
Unexpectedly Jessie came to the rescue. Jessie was a born lover of
animals, dogs especially, and Hero of course knew it in a moment. When
she crept into the room after Miss Perkins, her first glance fell, not
upon Millie, but upon the massive dark head of Hero; and her first
exclamation was a subdued, "O you beauty! You dear dog!"
"Jessie, take care. He'll bite you. Look out."
"Oh dear, no, he won't." Jessie fearlessly patted and soothed Hero, and
he leant against her with a confiding air. "You dear creature! Why,
your poor paw is all hurt. You must come with me and have it bathed. I
wish I could know your name, doggie. Come along with me, and I'll bathe
your paw. Come."
She took firm hold of his collar, and, strange to say, Hero offered no
resistance. A fresh warning from Miss Perkins was nipped in the bud.
Jessie passed out of the room with a face of triumph, leading the dog
away.
"Well, I never!" broke simultaneously from Miss Perkins and from the
one other woman who still remained.
"Dogs always come to me. They know I love them," Jessie declared.
She took Hero down into the kitchen, bathed the injured paw in warm
water, and gave him a plateful of scraps: after which Hero went
upstairs again, lay outside the bedroom door, and slipped in on the
first opportunity. He no longer proved unmanageable, however; and for
Jessie, though for no one else, he consented at night to go downstairs
and to be shut into the little scullery, with a mat to sleep on.
"But I'm sure, if I'd known it meant having that brute too, I'd never
have offered to take her in," sighed Miss Perkins. "I've always said I
wouldn't have a dog in the house, not for nobody; and I've meant it,
too."
"And I love dogs!" was all the expression of sympathy she could obtain
from Jessie.
When the dripping clothes of the half-drowned woman were dried and
examined, a small Church Prayer-Book was found in the pocket of the
dress, so tightly clasped that, though greatly damaged, it was still
possible to make out part of a written inscription: "For Mildred; from
her brother, Phil P—," the remainder being illegible. Her clothes were
marked with the initials "M. S. P."
So "Mildred" was the name by which she became known during the next ten
days. Fever ran somewhat high, though not to a dangerous extent and she
wandered dreamily. Sometimes she would call, "Hero!" suddenly, in a
clear voice, and the instant response of the dog, starting to her side
showed this to be his name. She was always soothed by his touch; and if
he were long absent from the room, her restlessness increased. Other
names often on her lips were "Phil," "Louey," and "Lou;" and sometimes
she would vaguely ask, "Were they saved?" It was never needful to
answer her.
Not till fully ten days had passed since the wreck, did Mildred
Pattison steal from the shadowy land of dreams back to the everyday
world of clear consciousness. Even then she was at first too weak for
connected thought; but gradually, as strength returned, recollection
came, and past and present began to take definite shape.
It fell upon the young and inexperienced Jessie to break to her how
matters were. Everybody had dreaded having to do this, and hoped that
it might fall to the lot of some one else. And, after all, it so
happened that Jessie was alone in the room when Millie for the first
time looked with steady and questioning eyes and whispered,—"Tell me,
please!"
Jessie was aware of a shock of alarm. "You mustn't talk yet," she said.
"Aunt Barbara will be back directly."
"Who is aunt Barbara?"
"My aunt, Miss Barbara Perkins. This is our house, you know."
"I don't know—I want to understand."
"We live in Old Maxham, and I live with my aunt. Never mind. You'll
know soon. And I mustn't let you talk?"
"It will not hurt me. Where is—?" She paused, and seemed to think
painfully. The sound of her voice aroused the dog, asleep in a corner.
He came to the bedside, with his soft padding step, and poked a cold
nose into her hand. "Hero!" she said, and she burst into tears.
"Don't! Please don't!" entreated Jessie. "You'll feel better soon. What
a beauty Hero is!"
"Dear old Hero! He—I suppose he saved my life. I have been trying to
remember. He was—on the deck with me. After that—" and a break, "I
can't remember anything else."
"He kept you afloat; and they took you into the boat."
"Ah!"
"I've got to give you some medicine now."
Mildred received it with a quiet "Thank you." Then she said, "I suppose
I have been ill?"
"Yes. But you are getting on nicely. Couldn't you go to sleep now?"
"Not yet. I want to know—what boat was it?"
"One of our Maxham boats. It went out to do what it could."
"And who else—?"
"Please wait a little till aunt Barbara comes in. She'll tell you
anything you want to know."
"Who else was saved?"
"Another day, when you are a little stronger."
"My brother—Philip? He was the Captain. And little Lou?"
Jessie was silent.
"Tell me the truth. I have to hear. Were they saved?"
Silence still; but two drops fell upon Mildred's wrist. She looked up,
faintly smiling.
"Thank you. How sweet of you! I didn't know there was anybody left to
care. Then I was the only one? All the rest drowned?"
"I wish you wouldn't ask me," Jessie said, with a sob.
"No; I know now. I think I knew before. I—saw them dead, you know.
Only, I couldn't quite believe it! To be left so alone as this!"
"Don't, please!"
"Poor old Hero!" She sighed, and closed her eyes. "Only you and I now,
Hero! I wonder why I was saved."
She lay very still for a while, not as if sleeping. Her brows were
knitted, and presently a few hot tears crept slowly out from the shut
lids. Jessie sat watching sorrowfully. The light-hearted girl was
having a glimpse of the darker side of life, which hitherto she had not
known.
A step made her look up. Miss Perkins stood gazing at Mildred.
Jessie whispered under her breath, "She's been asking questions."
"And you've told her?"
"Yes."
"Well, it had to be done. It's a good thing over."
If Mildred heard, she made no sign. An hour and more passed before she
again stirred or opened her eyes. Then she encountered, not Jessie's
face, but that of Miss Perkins.
"Aunt Barbara, I suppose?" she murmured.
"My name's Barbara Perkins. I'm Jessie's aunt." Miss Perkins always
spoke in a possibly combative style.
"Is that Jessie? I like her."
"She's a middling sort of girl. Nothing particular."
"How good of you to take me in."
"Somebody 'd got to do it. And I'd got a spare bedroom,—just till you
could go on to your home."
"I have no home."
Miss Perkins experienced a sense of dismay.
"No home, and no one belonging to me! All are gone. Phil and little Lou
were the last."
"Well, well, I wouldn't think about it now. You've got to get well
first," said Miss Perkins, her duty as nurse rising uppermost.