Yet, before her hand could touch the child, the dog turned upon her savagely, while she, seemingly beyond all personal fear, threw her arms about his rigid neck, pressing her agonized, white face against his black head and fiercely opened, slavering jaws, while she pleaded humbly: “Forgive me, ‘Watch’! I know I do not deserve it—and you know just what I meant should happen! But, forgive me, ‘Watch,’ for her sake! Give her to me, honest, brave, old ‘Watch’! I promise you I will love her all my life long!”
He held himself very stiff within her circling arms for a moment, looking hard into her eyes, then suddenly he brightened visibly—gave her one all-comprehensive caress reaching from chin to brow—and gently, cautiously stepping backward, left the piteous bundle within the reach of her hungry hands. ‘Watch’ first looked across at Brockway and wagged a courteous greeting to him, then he stretched himself, both fore and aft, and yawned great, loud, throat-revealing yawns that went far to show how long a time his muscles and his nerves had been kept taut and on the strain.
Meantime, the first loving kiss, the first sweet mother-kiss that blesses where it rests, had been given, and under cover of the all-concealing, matronly shawl of that period, the baby had established communication with the quick-lunch-counter Dame Nature superintended.
Mrs. Tyler needed young Brockway’s help in getting home, after the shock she had received, and at the beginning of their long walk his horror of her was so evident that, in self defence, she told him part of her story, and with such effect that there were tears in the lad’s eyes when he tried to realize what those dreadful months must have been—during which she could not recall ever to have seen the sun—could not remember any act of her own doing, all that time—save that one awful act!—was only conscious of one desire—to destroy this child, because its coming would prevent her husband from making the regular payment on the farm, and he might lose it and be ruined—so she watched and waited for a chance to abandon the baby to the wild animals—that she might thus save the farm and family—and he rejoiced with her, as she told of how, suddenly at his home, she had had a loud, rushing sound in her ears, the sunlight had become visible to her, she had looked at her lap for her baby, and then remembered she had left it in the woods to be devoured! How she had run—how she had prayed, and God had been merciful!—and he, Brockway, would not hate and fear her now—would he? and he would not speak of this any more than he could help?—and oh, was not black “Watch” a hero to save her darling’s life? But the boy thought she owed a good deal to the condition of the bear. It was fat and sleek—well fed, and therefore good-natured. Had it been rough-coated, thin, hungry, “Watch” would have probably given his life—and in vain! And then, at her gasping cry at such a suggestion, he had, with rustic, bashful awkwardness, “reckon’d he was a plumb fool at talkin’, and would she please just not count that in at all?” and so had left her safely at her kitchen-door, while “Watch,” dropping the work-basket he had carried home, escorted the young man a short distance down the road, then, taking a jaunty farewell of him, gave himself up to a careful and thorough smelling of apparently the entire farm and all its implements. Of course it was troublesome, but it was the only trustworthy way of finding exactly what had been done during his absence and that of his master.
Late that night, John Tyler, tired, chilled and anxious, drove home, and was met some distance down the road by old, black “Watch,” carrying a lighted lantern, and prancing and plunging about so joyously that the lantern light seemed like some small animal running along the road, gliding under bushes, even darting up tree trunks occasionally in its efforts to escape the pursuing dog. The man was surprised, for he felt that only his wife would have given “Watch” that light, and the surprise was pleasant to him.
Then he unharnessed, watered, fed and bedded down the weary horses, eagerly assisted by “Watch,” who seemed to be in absolutely puppyish high spirits. Why, even when he had with such frantic violence declared the presence of a burglar in the far corner where the harness hung and Mr. Tyler was compelled to pull down and show to him the old blanket he was mistaking for a burglar (a thing he had never seen in his life and only heard of from a city dog following his master’s buggy the summer before)—even then he was neither humiliated nor cast down, but had, as was his wont, slid into the stall of gray “Billy” (the oldest and best horse on the place), and, standing up by the manger, proceeded, with both paws, to dig for some sort of small game in “Billy’s” shoulder. Then the horse laid back his ears, opened his mouth and bit at “Watch,” who bit back at him—their teeth sometimes clicking sharply together, to their seeming great delight. And this continued until the low whistle of the man separated the friends and play-fellows, and master and dog went to the house together, leaving the closed stable filled with humble rustic music, the rhythmic, melodious expression of utter content, of comfort won, that is produced by the crunch—crunch—crunch of great, white teeth grinding silvery-yellow oats or crushing the brittle sweetness of the orange-colored corn. Listen! Count! One, two, three, crunch—crunch—crunch, now a long, deep, soft sigh, then crunch—crunch—crunch!
At the house John met another surprise. He had expected to hunt about in semi-darkness for the bread-crock and the butter or molasses, or anything almost, and take a “cold bite,” and go to bed, but here was as good a supper ready for him as the limited contents of their very primitive larder would allow, and oh!—crowning grace of an American farmer’s meal—it was hot!
Only pork, white, firm, sweet as a nut, crisply and amiably sharing the same small frying pan with the sliced potatoes! Hot “corn-dodger” and hotter coffee! But oh, beyond these comforts there was a look in the wife’s hazel eyes, a clear, bright, straight look that shook his very heart—it was so like the good days of the past!
When supper was over, and “Watch” was carefully separating his bits of corn-bread with gravy on them from those bits which had none, and after the manner of his race, eating the best portions first, Mrs. Tyler came to her husband and put one arm about his neck, while with the other she closely cuddled the baby to her side. As John stood looking down on them, he felt it was for him a blessed sight, and bent to kiss her; but she avoided the caress, and hiding her face on his breast, she made a full confession.
Perhaps it was as well that she could not see the pallor of his face as she told of the hours the baby lay abandoned in the woods, nor the drops of perspiration on his brow as she described the bear in the thicket and old, black “Watch’s” furious defence of the helpless little one. The silence that followed her plea for forgiveness was for a few moments broken only by “Watch.” He had sat bolt upright before them, watching their faces closely with his honest, brown eyes, and now he sniffed and snuffled, as though on the verge of tears, while with persuasive tail he rapped on the bare floor so loudly that one might have mistaken the noise for the nailing down of a carpet.