Bruno Part 7

CHAPTER XII

One day Julius came home with invitations for a ball in honor of the Governor, to be given in an ambitious embryo city across the lake. He had learned that the little steamer was to make an extra night-trip across on purpose to accommodate those who wished to attend, and that some of our friends had planned to go in company, and wished us to join their party. We had long intended to take the steamer trip across the lake; the Governor's ball sounded inviting, also the night crossing with our friends. We decided to accept.

The evening fell rather threatening, with flurries of wind and rain.

Still we were undaunted, and kept hoping it would clear off.

I filled Bruno's basin and platter, telling him he must take care of the house and be a good dog. He seemed to understand all about it, and stood at the window after we had locked him in, watching us go with perfect composure.

It was still twilight when we started, and we could see his eyes s.h.i.+ning through the gla.s.s, as long as the house was in sight.

The weather, meantime, had not improved, and had we not promised to go, we should certainly have given it up.

When we reached the wharf, we found that the little steamer's cabin was in the sole possession of our party, all the others having backed out on account of the weather.

We kept up each other's spirits with all sorts of absurdities, and the boat was soon ploughing a foamy track across the big waves.

As soon as we steamed out from behind a point of land that sheltered the wharf, we were met by a gale of wind that made the little steamer reel and tremble as if from the shock of a collision. The lights were all promptly extinguished, as the doors were forced open by fierce winds, while we huddled together in a corner, and laughingly reminded each other that it was a "pleasure exertion."

I shudder now whenever I think of that night, though at the time we did not know enough about the possibilities to be frightened.

How the little boat pitched and tossed! The waves washed its lower decks, again and again putting out the engine fires; we meanwhile rolling in the trough of the sea until they could be rekindled. We had expected to cross in about three-quarters of an hour, and return soon after midnight; but it was along towards the wee sma' hours when we reached the other sh.o.r.e. Then, when we heard the crew congratulating each other, exchanging experiences, and telling what they had expected to see happen to all concerned every time big waves had washed out the fire, we for the first time fully realized the risks we had taken in crossing.

We were weary enough not to be sorry that the ball was already over. We looked in at its departed glories for a few minutes; and then, finding it would be impossible to start back home before broad daylight, began to look for a lodging-place.

The town was filled with people who had driven in from the surrounding country for the ball, but we succeeded in getting two small top-story rooms in the hotel, which were vacated for us by some sort of "doubling-up" among the good-natured guests. The three men of our party took one, and we three women the other.

It was about three o'clock when we retired to our room, and while the other two slept on the one bed, I sat by the window trying to hurry the dawn; wondering what Bruno was thinking, and how we should look, a party of people clothed in evening array, returning home in broad daylight. As if we had made a night of it, surely! I chuckled to myself as I compared our plight with that of Cinderella.

We met at breakfast in the hotel dining-room, a queer-looking crowd. As we laughed at each other's appearance, it was hard for each to realize that he or she looked just as absurd; but an unprejudiced observer would have found little to choose between us. As soon as the meal was over, the three men started out to find a way to get us all home again.

Everything seemed to conspire to delay us, and it was half-past twelve at noon when we entered our own gate, the click of the latch bringing Bruno's face to the window with a series of joyful barks.

Poor fellow! His long confinement to the house, his empty plate and bowl, his joyful reception of us, and then his springing out to dash round and round the lot, filled our hearts with compa.s.sion.

As soon as his first burst of enthusiasm was over, he came in, and crept up to me with dejected ears and tail, which in his language meant "mea culpa." I asked,--

"What is it, Boonie? What's Boonie been doing?"

Still lower sank head and tail, and his knees began to weaken. I made a hasty survey of the sitting-room, and then I understood. He had slept on the lounge, a thing he was strictly forbidden to do.

"Oh, Boonie!" I cried, "you naughty dog! Judith thought she could trust you!"

At this his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor utterly dejected.

He would not rise, nor even look up, until I had forgiven and comforted him.

The next time we had to leave him alone in the house, I built a "b.o.o.by-trap," with two light chairs on the lounge, which left him looking so utterly crushed that I never had the heart to do it again.

But he never more transgressed in that way, so I felt that I had dealt wisely with him.

It was a hard necessity which forced us to shut him up when we were going where it would not do to take him. At first we had tried leaving him outside; but we found that after we had been gone awhile, his heart was always sure to fail him, and he would track us, turning up invariably just in time to cover us with confusion, his own dejected mien saying plainly,--

"I know this is against orders, but I just _had_ to do it."

He had a wonderful development of conscience. We sometimes thought that this, as well as the other mental gifts of which he showed himself to be possessed, were due to the shape of his head. His nose was very short, and his forehead unusually high and well-rounded. Of course his life as a close companion to humans and as a full member of a family circle, was calculated to foster these mental gifts; but they were surely there, to begin with. We might treat dozens of dogs just as we treated Bruno, without developing another that would compare with him. He was unique; and I shall always glory in the fact that he loved and trusted us. His was a love not to be lightly won, nor, once given, ever to be recalled.

CHAPTER XIII

In spite of our snug little home in Lemonville, we never felt quite settled there. We were not built for village life. Country life is good, and city life is good; but in a village one has all the drawbacks of both, with the rewards of neither. So it was not long before we resolved on another change.

We sold our little home furnished, packed up our books, with a few other personal belongings, and turned our faces towards St. Augustine, to investigate several openings there, of which we had chanced to hear. We were so fortunate as to be able to rent a small cottage, and at once took possession, furnis.h.i.+ng it from our trunks, only buying a few necessary articles of the plainest kind.

Just as we had settled ourselves in these temporary quarters, a matter of business came up, making necessary a return to Lemonville for a day or two. The trip was both tedious and expensive, so after some discussion we decided that Bruno and I should stay and keep house, while Julius made the trip alone "light weight."

I had some trouble in persuading Julius that I should be perfectly safe in Bruno's care. He wished us to close the cottage, and go to some one of the many pleasant boarding-places, where we had friends or acquaintances stopping. This I should certainly have done, had I been alone; but I reminded Julius how more than able Bruno was to take care of me, and how much trouble he always gave in a strange house. So he was finally persuaded that it would be best for us to stay in the cottage.

Julius left on a noon train, carrying only a small hand-bag. When he said good-by to us, he impressed this on Bruno's mind,--"Take good care of Judith."

Bruno stood at the door with me, watching him out of sight, then breathed a deep sigh, and crept off under the bed to have it out with himself alone and unseen. I busied myself picking up the articles which had been scattered in the confusion of packing, then sat down to drown thought in a book.

Towards evening I had a caller. One of our friends, who had seen Julius, bag in hand, at the station, and had thus learned that I was alone, sent a message by her little son that I was to "come right around" to their house for the night. I sent our thanks, with further message that Bruno and I had agreed to take care of each other. The child went home; then his mother came. She thought I "must be crazy" to think of staying alone. She "wouldn't do it for any money." I a.s.sured her I was not staying alone, and had some trouble to convince her that I could not possibly be more safely guarded than by Bruno. I a.s.sured her, further, that nothing would now induce me to lock up the house and leave it, for it would be impossible to know just when Julius would return; he would be sure to catch the first boat and train after his business was finished, and I would not for anything have him return to find his nest deserted.

I succeeded, at last, in quieting all of her kind objections, and was left in peace.

Darkness came on, and then Bruno lost courage. As I was preparing his evening meal, he ran to meet me as I crossed the room, and raising himself to an upright position, he rested his paws on my shoulders and gazed with mournful questioning into my eyes. I knew what he would say, and sitting down, I drew his head to my knee, and told him all about it,--that Julius would only stay a "little, little while," then he would come back and "stay--stay--stay always with us." His ears rose and fell, his forehead wrinkled and unwrinkled as I talked to him. Then he seemed comforted, and ate a good supper.

I sat reading far into the night, until the letters began to blur. Bruno sat beside me, sometimes with his head on my knee while I stroked his silken ears,--which always suggested the wavy locks of a red-haired girl,--and sometimes he lay at full length on the floor, with his head against my feet.

As midnight tolled, I closed my book, covered up the fire, and tried to go to sleep, with Bruno lying on the rug beside my bed. Whenever I stirred, he got up, and putting his forefeet on the side of the bed, reached his head over for me to stroke it. It was the first time I had ever spent a night in a house with no other humans, and Bruno seemed to enter thoroughly into my feelings.

I lay listening to the breakers booming on the outer bar, wondering how far on his journey Julius could be.

Dawn looked in at me before I fell asleep; then I knew nothing until aroused by Bruno's barks, to find that some one was rapping on the front door.

After hastily putting on a dressing-gown, I investigated through a crack made by holding the door slightly ajar, and found that the same kind friends had sent to see how I had spent the night. I gave a glowing account of our comfort and security, for my morning nap had thoroughly rested and refreshed me; then I hastened to prepare some breakfast for Bruno, meanwhile letting him out for a run in the lot.

After the small household duties were attended to, I had sat down to finish some souvenirs I was painting for one of the shops, when I heard a great din and clatter outside. Bruno, who was sitting beside me, gravely watching my work, while now and then he gave a disgusted snort as he got a good whiff of the turpentine I was using to thin my paints, started up, barking and bounding towards the closed door. I sprang to open it, and was met on the very threshold by a trembling, half-grown deer. The gate was open, showing how it had entered, and there, hesitating at the sight of Bruno and me, was a motley crowd of boys and dogs. I at once grasped the situation. Many people in St. Augustine had such pets, and I was sure this one must have escaped from the grounds of its owner, to fall into the hands of the rabble.

I hurried out to shut the gate. Most boys are more or less cruel; but Spanish boys are intensely so. When I returned to the porch, Bruno and the deer were regarding each other with mutual doubts. I settled Bruno's at once by laying my hand on his head while I stroked our gentle visitor, saying,--

"Pretty deer, Boonie mustn't hurt it!"

The deer seemed satisfied too, and to feel that danger was past. I brought water, and everything I could think of to offer it to eat. It was too warm with running to want food, though, and only took a few swallows of water. Its lovely, deep eyes suggested all sorts of romantic thoughts. Of course I quoted, "Come rest in this bosom," and "I never nursed a dear gazelle." I was sure its name should be Juanita, after the girl in the sweet Spanish song.

All day the pretty creature roamed about our little enclosure, Bruno and I attending to its wants as best we could, having had no experience in catering for such guests.

It turned quite chilly towards evening. When I had shut all the doors and built up the fire, I heard a clatter of small hoofs on the porch-floor, and there stood Juanita, looking wistfully in through the window. Bruno and I looked at each other, thoroughly perplexed. We were not prepared for such a hint. I thought afterwards it must have been taken as a baby-deer, and raised in-doors "by hand."