“There was only little Nettle at home,” Mrs. Chetwynd answers with a sigh—“Jerry and Nell are out shooting with Herbert, and the new dog is no use. Oh Milly, my bright bonny boy, where can he be? See how dreadfully dark it has grown and the cold—think if he should be lying helpless in the snow!”
About the same time on this December afternoon a young man is getting out of the one-horse omnibus which the George Hotel (a small third rate inn, albeit the best in Appleton) usually sends down to meet the afternoon train from London. He is a tall soldierly looking person, with bright dark eyes, and a brisk imperative manner which ensures a certain amount of attention even from the surly landlord.
But when, instead of demanding luncheon, or any creature comforts for himself, the traveller orders a “dog-cart, or any sort of trap with a good horse,” to take him to Mr. Chetwynd’s house, five miles distant, the host demurs.
“Impossible! The omnibus horse is the only one roughed, and he has been out twice to-day already. Besides there is likely to be a heavy fall of snow before night: even if a horse and trap could get to Edenhurst there would be no possibility of getting back before night-fall—mine host is very sorry to disoblige the gentleman, but it is quite out of the question.”
The young man, who is evidently not accustomed to stolid opposition, begins to chafe, and his dark eyes give an angry flash. However he forces himself to speak quietly and persuasively, and even descends to bribery, in his anxiety to spend his Christmas at Edenhurst.
Still the landlord remains obdurate, the fact that he has a big commercial dinner impending at five o’clock making him the less inclined to spare any of his men.
“Well, hang it all!” cries the young man impatiently, “then I declare I’ll get there on my own legs. I can carry my bag,” swinging it stoutly over his shoulder as he speaks, “and you must find some means of sending the other things over to-morrow morning at latest. It would be too tantalizing,” he adds to himself, “after coming two thousand miles to see the little woman, if we could not spend our Christmas Eve together after all.”
And turning a deaf ear to the landlord’s remonstrances and prophesies of evil, he sets forth briskly on the road, well-known to him although untrodden for two long years. “Dear little soul,” he is saying to himself as he strides through the snow, “what a surprise it’ll be to her! I am half sorry now I did not write—perhaps she’ll be startled—but I don’t believe in sudden joy hurting anyone. I wonder if she’ll be altered—I hope not—the little face couldn’t be sweeter than it was. And Herbert Chetwynd is a rare good fellow—what a welcome I shall get from him and his kindhearted wife—it’s almost worth toiling and broiling for two years in India to come home for such a Christmas. I wonder if that jolly pickle Bertie is much grown! Capital little companion he used to be I remember. How far have I come? Oh! just past the second milestone—the snow is getting plaguy deep and I can hardly see ten yards ahead—I can’t say it is pleasant travelling—how I shall appreciate the splendid fire in the big hall fire-place at Edenhurst. They will be burning the Yule-log for Christmas. How I shall enjoy taking up all the old home customs once more. I wonder if the Waits go round now? What a brute I used to feel, lying snug in bed and listening to the poor little shivering mortals singing outside in the frosty morning air, almost before it was light—but I believe Herbert’s wife and Milly always took care that they had a warm breakfast and a toast at the kitchen fire afterwards—but hulloa! I say, what little dog are you, out alone in the snow in this lonely part of the road? Lost your master, have you, poor little beggar? Never mind—you had better follow me home to Edenhurst for to-night—they wouldn’t refuse a welcome even to a stray dog on Christmas Eve. I say, you are very pressing in your attentions my friend—I’m afraid you are on a wrong tack, sniffing and prancing around me—I’m not your master nor have I the honor of that gentleman’s acquaintance, unless—by Jove, if it isn’t little Nettle—the dog I gave Mildred when I went to India. What can she be doing out here alone? And what does she want me to do I wonder?” as the terrier, delighted at the sudden recognition dances round him more energetically than ever, catches his hand and the skirts of his coat gently in her teeth, then runs on a little way ahead, looking back to see if he is following. “Lead on—I’ll follow thee—that seems to be what you want me to say, eh, little Nettle? All right there!” and the traveller’s two long legs contrive to make quite as rapid progress along the road as the terrier’s four short ones especially as the poor little animal occasionally lights on a snowy heap softer and deeper than the rest and is nearly lost to sight altogether for some seconds.
Presently however, in spite of all obstacles she scurries on ahead, and stops short with a joyful self-satisfied bark, in front of a dark object which is half sitting, half lying in a bed of partially melted snow under the hedge—an object which upon closer inspection proves to be a slight curly-headed boy, clad in heather-colored jacket and knicker-bockers. His cap has fallen off, and his eyes are nearly closed, as he leans back on his cold couch, with an expression of half-conscious suffering on his young face.