"I beg your pardon. Really, Miss Bellwood, I did not expect to find you
here."
"Mr--"
"Harrington," he said, as she paused. "You need not be afraid to call
me by that name; and George. They are mine, indeed."
"I beg your pardon, Mr Harrington."
Bruno uttered a low, ominous growl.
"Your dog does not like me," he said.
"You are a stranger."
"At present; but not for long, I hope."
"Quiet, Bruno!" she said, to hide her confusion. "He has been hurt very
much. I brought him out here for a change."
"Lucky dog," he said; and then in dread lest it might be considered an
impertinence: "How was he hurt? Run over--a kick?"
"No, poor fellow; somebody must have struck him a terrible blow on the
head."
"Indeed! That's bad. Let me look at him. I understand a good deal
about dogs."
"You do?" cried Gertrude eagerly.
"Oh, yes. I have been in the wilds, sometimes for months, with no other
companion than a dog. May I come through? There is quite a gap here."
"A gap? Then let me bring Bruno to you," she said hastily.
He smiled as he said to himself, "this is a strange position;" and he
appreciated the maiden delicacy which prompted the words, and stood
religiously on the field side of the hedge as Gertrude coaxed the dog to
follow her.
Bruno rose painfully and walked to the gap, where he suddenly seemed to
revive, for he growled fiercely, set up his ruff, and began to look
eagerly about, snuffling loudly the while.
"Down, Bruno!" cried Gertrude excitedly. "He does not like you. He
might bite."
"He had better not," cried the young man merrily. "Dogs must not bite
friends--his mistress' friends," he added meaningly; and, as through the
slightly broken opening in the yews he saw Gertrude shrink, he continued
hurriedly: "no, it is not at me, but at something about the grass. Oh,
I see, he has found a broken stick."
For as he spoke, the dog had ferreted out of the long grass, at the foot
of the hedge, a broken walking-stick--the upper part of a strong oaken
cudgel, whose top was a heavy root knob, over which he growled savagely.
"Why, Bruno, what's the matter?" cried Gertrude. "Perhaps you had
better go."
"Oh, no; I don't like to be afraid of a dog; and, besides, I think they
have _nous_ enough to know when you mean well by them. Here, old chap,
let's look at your head."
Bruno ceased growling, and raised his muzzle with the stick across his
mouth, as the young man parted the yew bushes and knelt down.
"Yes, Bruno--good dog--friends," said Gertrude nervously.
"He does not quite believe it yet," said the young man. "Suppose you
shake hands with me."
She hesitated a moment as she looked in his eyes, but they were so frank
and pleasant to gaze upon that she halted no longer, but placed her hand
in his, and then tried to snatch it back in alarm, but it was pinioned
tightly in a warm, firm pressure.
"There Bruno," he said, "your mistress and I are friends, and she will
never have one more faithful and true. Now, old fellow," he added,
loosing the hand, "let's have that stick. Good dog. What are you
growling at?"
He took the stick from the dog, threw it down, and then quietly laid his
hand upon his head; then placed the other on the side, and the dog
whimpered softly.
"Hurt you, old fellow? well, I'll be more gentle, but I must examine
you. Poor lad, then. Why, you have been in the wars. You ought to be
dead."
"Oh!" ejaculated Gertrude.
"I only meant the blow was bad enough to have killed him. Do you know
how serious it is?"
"I know it was a dreadful cut, but it is healing now."
"Cut? The poor dog's skull is fractured. A regular crack. Has he
seemed stupid and dull?"
Gertrude could not answer for a few moments for the sob that choked her;
and, as the impromptu surgeon looked up in her eyes he saw that they
were brimming over.
"Oh, if they would only weep like that for me," he thought; and directly
after, "no, I should be very sorry."
"I--I did not know he was so bad," she faltered.
"But it is mending all right. Yes. Hold still, old fellow; I won't
hurt you much. That's right. Oh, yes, he's mending capitally; but it
would be better if the hair were cut away a little from the wound.
Knife? No. I suppose you could fetch me a pair of scissors?"
"I have a pair," cried Gertrude eagerly, producing a tiny embroidery
pair from a case.
"Capital! but, I say, my great ugly thumb and finger would not go into
those holes. Could you--? No, it would be such a nasty task."
"I should not consider it a nasty task to do anything to help my poor
dog," she said quickly.
"Then you shall do it. There, cut boldly between my fingers. Don't be
afraid. That nasty, matted hair frets the wound. That's right;
capital! Now, there again, and there. Hurt, Bruno? Never mind, old
chap; don't flinch. That will do."
They were busy together, kneeling on either side of the dog for quite
five minutes, before they raised their eyes and looked at each other,
their faces only separated by a dog's width, and Gertrude's eyes fell
beneath the admiring glance which seemed to thrill her.
"I am very grateful to you for what you have done."
"Don't name it. I am very glad."
"But will he get well?"
"Oh, yes. It will take some little time, of course, but animals have a
wonderful faculty for healing up. There, old chap, your case is
attended to. No fees and no bills, thank you. Do you know, I believe
he understands all about it. Hardly flinched, and I know I must have
hurt him a good deal."
"He has always been so patient while I bathed his head, and bandaged the
cut."
"Yes; he knows. There, old chap, you'll know me again, eh?"
Bruno licked the hand which took hold of his muzzle, and whined softly.
"See that, Miss Bellwood?"
"Yes, it is his way of thanking you for what you have done."
"No, I think not. It is his way of showing you that I am not an
impostor. No dog would make such friends with a rogue."
"Are we not giving him the credit of having too much sense?" said
Gertrude archly.
"Ah, well, perhaps so; but I thank him for giving me this interview. I
thought I should like a look round the old place--that is why I came
down; and--yes, I can't be a sham--I did hope that I might catch a
glimpse of you. Good-bye."
He held out his hand again.
"Good-bye," she said slowly and sadly; and she once more timidly placed
her hand in his, when he raised it to his lips.
The next moment he was gone, and Bruno uttered a growl, picked up the
stick once more, and carried it to the house, Gertrude walking
meditatively before him, and asking herself whether she had done right
in talking as she had with such a comparative stranger. Her meditations
were broken by the voice of Mrs Denton.
"Why, Bruno, good dog, where did you get that stick? Broken too. I've
missed that for weeks; it's the one poor dear master used to use when he
walked round the garden. Oh, dear, and broken, too. How it does seem
to bring him back."
But Bruno refused to part with the broken stick, and carried it with him
into the stable, where he laid it in the straw beneath his muzzle.
Someone felt worse and yet better for that walk down the garden.
Perhaps more than one.