The Green God

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

"Dead!" said Muriel, turning to me. "Is it really true?"

I assured her that it was.

She glanced at me with a scared sort of a look. "Do you think," she said, slowly, "that Li Min's story of the vengeance of Buddha could really be true, after all?"

"No, I do not," I said, though I was not so absolutely sure as I pretended to be. "It is hardly likely that Buddha would turn his vengeance upon an inoffensive dog, who had certainly done nothing to incur it. It is a curious and unfortunate coincidence, that is all. The dog has no doubt died of fright, caused by his unusual situation, coupled perhaps with lack of food, water and air. Or he may have dashed himself against the door in his struggles and died of apoplexy. I've frequently heard of dogs dying from some such cause, especially old ones. How old was Boris?"

"About four years," said Muriel, and I knew from the way in which she spoke that she did not believe my explanation of the affair in the least.

When we reached the floor below, the Major directed Gibson and one of the other servants to remove the dog's body from the room, and we all retired to the library, where we discussed the matter for a long time. Major Temple, on sober thought, was inclined to agree with my view of the matter, but in spite of our attempts to regard the event in a common-sense light, we could not shake off a mysterious feeling of dread at the thought of these two creatures, a man and a dog having so inexplicably come to their ends in this room. In Ashton's case, at least, there was a tangible enough evidence of the cause of death, but in the case of Boris there was none. Major Temple stepped out and examined the dog's body when the men brought it down from above, and upon his return reported that there was no wound or mark of any sort upon the animal that could account for its death.

Miss Temple essayed a few airs upon the piano, but our thoughts were not attuned to music, and presently, as it was close to eleven o'clock, she said good-night to us both and left us. As she passed me on her way from the room, she leaned over and kissed me upon the forehead, and I turned to find the Major staring at me in perplexity. Poor man, so many strange things had happened during the course of this eventful day that I fear he would not have been greatly surprised had I suddenly stood upon my head and attempted to recite the Jabberwock backward. I at once told him of my love for Muriel, and of her feelings toward me, and asked his consent to our marriage. "It is a bit sudden, I'll admit, Sir," I concluded, "but none the less real and true for all that."

"But, my dear Sir," gasped the Major, evidently very much taken aback by my flow of words, and my earnest and somewhat excited manner, "I hardly know you. How can you expect me to reply to such a question, to give my consent to your marriage with my daughter, when I know absolutely nothing of your position, your prospects, or your income?"

I expected his objections and answered them at once. "You are quite right, Sir, of course," I answered. "As for my income, I am making close to a thousand pounds a year from my profession, which, as you may know, is that of an illustrator for books and for the magazines. In addition to that, I have an income from my father's estate of 800 pounds a year. At my mother's death I shall have as much more. My father was Edward Morgan, of whom you may perhaps have heard. He was a well-known civil engineer, and railway constructor, and distinguished himself in India, in the construction of the great sea-wall at Calcutta. My mother is still living, and I know she would be most happy to welcome Muriel as a daughter, for I have no brothers or sisters, and she is very lonely."

At the mention of my profession and my income I noticed that Major Temple's frown relaxed somewhat, but when I mentioned my father's name and the fact of his having spent a part of his life in India, he fairly beamed.