The Mynns' Mystery

“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.”