Chapter Twenty One.
Bruno Gets into a Scrape.
The sound that startled them was a faint scratching noise at the door, and Gertrude hurried across the room to open and admit the dog Bruno, who was lying on the sheepskin mat, and who raised his head, gazed in his mistress’s face, uttered a low whine, and then dropped his head between his paws.
“Why, Bruno, Bruno? what’s the matter?”
“Shall I go up and knock at master’s door again, Miss Gertie?” said the housekeeper, who came along the passage just then. “Why, what’s the matter with the dog?”
“I don’t know, Denton; he seems ill. Oh! His head is covered with blood.”
“Ugh! So it is,” cried the old woman. “I haven’t seen him before this morning, miss. He has been fighting. Go down, sir, directly. Bad dog!”
Bruno did not move, but lay blinking at his mistress, and whined uneasily.
“He has been fighting with some one who had a big stick then,” said Mrs Hampton shortly. “Look the poor dog’s head is all swollen up, and there’s a great cut here.”
“My poor old Bruno?” cried Gertrude, going on her knees beside the dog, and taking one of his paws, when the brute whined feebly, and made a faint effort to lick her hand.
“Yes, he has a bad cut upon his head,” said Denton, as she closely examined the place; “and it has been bleeding terribly. Poor fellow! I’ll call cook to help carry him away, and we’ll bathe it.”
“No,” said Gertrude decisively; “he was dear uncle’s favourite, and he shall be treated as a friend. Let him stop here, Denton. Draw the mat into this corner, and put another thick mat beside it.”
This was done, the mat slipping easily over the smooth floor, with its load; and after submitting patiently to the domestic surgery of his mistress and the old housekeeper, Bruno once more tried to lick the former’s hand and closed his eyes in sleep.
“There,” said Gertrude, with business-like cheerfulness, as the basin, sponge, and towels used were removed. “Now, Denton, I think you really ought to go and waken your master.”
“Yes, miss,” said the old lady, after giving Mrs Hampton an inquiring look, responded to by a shake of the head.
The old housekeeper seemed to catch that shake of the head, and she went upstairs while Gertrude led the way back to the dining-room, and looked carefully over the table to see that the maid had removed all that was untidy, and left the place attractive-looking for her master, when he should come down.
“Labour in vain, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, with a quaint smile. “He’ll want nothing but a cup of the strongest tea; and don’t let him have any spirits in it if he asks.”
“Miss Gertrude? Miss Gertrude?” came from the stairs; and upon their going to the door, it was to see the old housekeeper hurrying down. “Master’s not in his room, my dear.”
“What?”
“I knocked till I grew nervous, thinking he might be in a fit, and then I turned the handle, and went in.”
“And he is not there,” cried Gertrude. “Now, Mrs Hampton,” she added, as she turned triumphantly on her old friend, “now what have you to say for yourself. Yes! Look!” she cried, as she ran to the hat stand. “We might have known—hat and stick not here. I felt sure he must have gone for a long morning stroll.”
“Well, I’m glad I am wrong,” said Mrs Hampton sharply. “Then we have been fidgeting ourselves for nothing. Eh, Denton? Yes? What is it?”
She had suddenly caught sight of the old housekeeper making signs to her, and screwing up her face in a most mysterious way!
“Yes, Denton, what is it? Why don’t you speak?” cried Gertrude, as she caught sight of the old woman’s action.
“I—I—nothing, my dear, only he is not there,” said Denton hesitatingly.
“What are you keeping back?” said Gertrude firmly.
“N-othing, my dear.”
“Denton!”
“Don’t ask me, my dear, please,” faltered the old woman.
“I desire you to speak,” cried Gertrude imperatively.
“Then I will, my dear, for it’s only another reason why you should not go and do what you are thinking about doing,” cried the old woman angrily. “I don’t care, you may send me away if you like, but I shall have done my duty by you, and I shan’t have that on my mind.”
“Have the goodness to remember what you are, Denton,” said Gertrude, speaking coldly, and turning very pale.
“Yes, miss, only your poor old servant, but I can’t see you going headlong to destruction without trying to stop you. I say you oughtn’t to marry a gentleman who can’t keep from the drink, and goes out spending the night after everybody else has gone to bed.”
“What do you mean, Denton?”
“That we’ve been wherritting ourselves about him all the morning, and he’s never been to bed all night.”
“Denton!”
“Well, miss, come up and look. The bed’s just as I turned it down, and the pillows all of a puff.”
“That will do,” said Gertrude gravely. “Your master is not bound to consult anybody if he chooses to go out.”
“No, miss.”
“Mrs Hampton, shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Gertrude quietly, “or would you like a walk?”
“I think we will stay in, my dear,” was the reply; and they went into the drawing-room, where after closing the door they stood looking in each other’s eyes.
“Gertie,” said Mrs Hampton at last, and she took her young companion’s hand.
“No, no,” said Gertrude, shrinking.
“I was not going to preach, my dear—only help,” said Mrs Hampton, smiling cheerfully. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“I feel that I must be,” cried Gertrude. “You think that George has repented of what he said to Saul Harrington, and has joined him, or followed him to Paris.”
“Exactly. That is what I do think.”
“Well,” said Gertrude slowly, “he might have told us. Stop,” she added quickly, “he must have left a note for us in the study.”
“Of course,” cried Mrs Hampton; and they went quickly into the little library, which the new master had affected as soon as he took possession of the place.
A particular odour of spirits and some drug attacked their nostrils as soon as they entered the little room, and their eyes met in an anxious look, but only to be averted as each sought for a letter.
“No,” said Gertrude sadly, “he has not written.”
“It was a sudden thought, my dear, and we shall have one, or a telegram, before long. He is sure to send.”
“He is sure to send,” said Gertrude involuntarily, as a curious chill ran through her, and she turned ghastly pale; for at that moment there came the long, low howl of a dog as if from a great distance, though they felt and knew that it was the faint cry of the wounded beast, and from close at hand—the mournfully strange howl uttered by a dog when it displays that mysterious knowledge of impending or neighbouring death.