The cry was so peculiar, and impressed its hearers so painfully, that
they stood looking at each other, Gertrude with blanched cheeks, and
Mrs Hampton, who had not outgrown the superstitious dread common to
most natures suffering from a nervous tremor that she had not felt for
years.
She was the first to speak with assumed cheerfulness.
"Why, it's that dog," she said. "I declare for the moment it quite
startled me?"
"Yes," said Gertrude, with her voice sounding husky and strange, "it was
the dog."
But neither moved to do what was most natural under the circumstances:
to go and pat and pacify the poor animal, neither did they discuss the
possibility of how it was injured, but stood listening for its next cry,
and both started violently as the door was opened and Mrs Denton, white
and trembling, hurried into the room.
"Did--did you hear that, Miss Gertrude?" she said in an awe-stricken
whisper.
"Do you mean poor Bruno's howl?"
"Yes, miss," said the old woman in the same low tone of voice.
"The poor thing is in pain, I suppose."
"No, miss, it isn't that," said Denton slowly. "If he was hurt, he
would yelp sharply. He has got something on his mind."
"Don't be such a ridiculous old woman, Denton!" cried Mrs Hampton
impatiently, to cover her own dread. "Dogs have no minds. They howl
sometimes because it's their nature to."
"Yes, ma'am," said the old housekeeper respectfully, but speaking in a
very slow, impressive tone; "because it is their nature to howl when
they know there's death on the way."
"Gertrude, my dear, for goodness' sake don't you be superstitious. It's
absurd. It is what you have just heard--an old woman's tale. Why, if
dogs howled because there was death about, they'd pass their days doing
nothing else, and wouldn't have time even to wag their tails."
"Denton, you are old enough to know better."
"Yes, ma'am, I'm seventy years and three months old, and I suppose I
ought to know better, but I don't."
"There is nothing to mind, Denton," said Gertrude gently. "Poor Bruno
quite startled me for the moment, but he has settled down now, and--"
She stopped short, for the dog again uttered the same long, low howl--a
cry which sounded more impressive than the one they had heard before.
Gertrude's face looked ghastly, and for a moment she reeled and caught
at Mrs Hampton's trembling hand, while the old housekeeper sank upon
her knees and buried her face in her apron.
Gertrude was the first to recover her presence of mind.
"How childish!" she said, as she crossed to the old woman where she
knelt. "Denton, dear, don't think so seriously of such a trifle. There
is no truth in these old superstitious ideas."
"No truth, my dear?" said the old woman, taking and kissing the hand
laid upon her shoulder. "Was there no truth in my shutting poor Bruno
up in the shed, and his getting out by tearing his way under the side,
and howling in the garden the night poor dear master died? I know what
you will both say to me, that I am a silly old woman; but I have seen
and heard strange things in my time, and I hope, with all my heart, that
this is not a sign of ill having come to some one we know, whether it's
to young master or Mr Saul. But, mark my words, we shall hear
something terrible, and before long."
"Yes, we shall all hear bad news, Denton, if we live long enough," said
Mrs Hampton, who was quite herself again. "Let's go and see how your
patient is, Gertrude, my dear."
She crossed to the door, and Gertrude followed her quickly, leaving the
old housekeeper hesitating as to whether to go or stay, and ending by
slowly following the others into the hall.
Bruno had not moved from where he had been left, but lay with his head
between his paws, and eyes closed, apparently asleep, till Gertrude
stood over him, when he half opened his eyes and looked up at her.
"Poor old dog, then!" she said gently, as she went down on one knee and
softly stroked his neck.
The dog closed his eyes and responded to her caress by giving a few raps
upon the floor with his tail, after which he lay perfectly still, as if
asleep.
"I wonder how he was hurt," said Gertrude gently.
"Some brute must have struck him, and he ought to be punished."
"Bruno would not hurt anyone except those he hates," said Mrs Denton
slowly, as she came and stood close by them.
"Poor thing!" said Mrs Hampton. "Well, we can do no more. He will
soon get better. Come, Gertrude."
The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly
raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering
a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.
"Really," exclaimed Mrs Hampton, "he must not do that or you must have
him moved, Gertrude."
The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs
Hampton into the drawing-room.
"Ought we to take any steps about George?" said Gertrude, after a pause;
"to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?"
"No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he
pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write."
Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over
sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and
glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in
their rapid plying.
"And a good thing if he has gone," she said to herself. "If I could do
as I liked, he'd have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so
long as he did not come and worry her."
By this time Gertrude's attention was taken up by her accounts, and her
countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.
"Love him?" said Mrs Hampton. "She does not even like him, only fights
hard to do what she has been told."
The day passed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden
departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among
the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called
"just a snack" about twelve o'clock, the said snack being termed lunch;
but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of
ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner
and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not
particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton
pocket-handkerchief "again he felt a bit peckish." Not that he ever did
feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked
by the four young Seasons at home.
John's making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of
cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the
regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top
slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the
same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the
sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices
were placed close together at the cut edge.
Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen--how
to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of
place.
But John Season was not unpractised.
Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of
bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked
grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That
would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef
for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the
casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef
was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his
conscience and the cook's.
On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his
mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and
the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had
been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his
sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his
work, and then at the glass of beer freshly drawn for his use.
"Yes?" he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of
conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; "he came
home with his head queer, did he?"
"Yes, and bleeding," said the housemaid. "I dunno where he'd been."
"I do," said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden
slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one
inch away.
"You do, John?" said the cook, with her eyes wide open.
"Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him."
"But he hadn't been out?" said the housemaid.
"Not he."
"Then how did he get that cut on the head?" said the housemaid.
"I know," cried cook triumphantly.
"How?"
"Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the
bricks."
"Oh!" ejaculated the housemaid, snatching at the explanation.
"Wrong," said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge apron, as
a necessity after his hearty meal.
"Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?" said cook.
"He'd been interfering with master in the dark. Didn't know him, I
s'pose; and master give him a polt with a stick."
"Oh!" ejaculated the housemaid.
"But why should he interfere with master?" said cook, who felt annoyed
at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.
"Because he was a good dog," said John, taking a sip from his glass, and
moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big
piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.
"A good dog to fly at his master!" exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in
her apron.
"He's only a new master that he don't know well, and don't much like,"
said John sententiously; "and he sees him coming out of the window in
the middle of the night."
"Oh!" ejaculated the housemaid again.
"`Burglars!' says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like
saying burglars."
"Yes; I've always noticed that," said the housemaid, emphasising the
last word.
"Fiddle!" said cook contemptuously.
"Ah, you may say fiddle," said John, taking out his red handkerchief,
and slowly spreading it upon his knees, "but that's it. Sees him coming
down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on
the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the
laurels."
"And who says master went out of the stairkiss window," said cook with a
snort, "when there's a front door to the house as well as a back?"
"I did, my dear, and you needn't be cross."
"Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do
you know he went out that way?"
"Ah!" exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say "that's a poser."
"Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a
eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place," said John with a
satisfied smile.
"You did, John?" said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice
as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another glass of ale.
"Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I've done before."
"But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?"
"Larks!" said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar cock. "Why do
young men get out of other windows o' nights, eh?"
"Well, of all!" exclaimed the housemaid.
"Then he ought to be ashamed of himself," exclaimed cook; "and for two
pins I'd go and tell Miss Gertrude myself."
No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook
seemed to consider her proposition off.
"It's no business of our'n, cook," said John Season, slowly extending
his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden
and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an
open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to
fall.
The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John
Season's pocket.
"There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then," whispered
cook.
"That's so, under the stairkiss window," said the gardener.
"Under the stairkiss window!" said the housemaid. "My?"
Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,
"But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?" said cook
excitedly.
"Oh, it's easy enough to any one as knows what he's about," said the
gardener. "Off course he'd drop down."
"And no bars to the window," exclaimed cook indignantly. "Well, I
always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night."
"Not you, cook. Burglars don't know," said John, "and higgerance is
stronger than iron bars."
"But shan't you tell Miss Gertrude?" said the housemaid.
"What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little
lass? Not likely."
"No," said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; "a
still tongue maketh a wise head."
This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him
fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at
The Mynns.
"Well, here's luck," said John Season, before tossing off the remaining
half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket,
he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the
late dinner: "Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a
beet."