Chapter XV: Up a Tree

What did Bryda do when her little playmate was in such trouble? Quite as miserable as if she herself were the criminal, she stood still for a few minutes in the garden path. Would there be any chance of coaxing Hayes to forgive Beppo? That was not very likely. Mr. Hayes, with a face that was simply one frown all over, had walked off in the other direction, and his very back frowned as she looked after him. No, she could not appease Hayes; but some one else might persuade him that Beppo was not guilty. Who could do this? Should Bryda go indoors and tell the grannies all about it? That would not be of much use. It would take so long to make them understand; and perhaps even then they would not wish to interfere. Uncle Jack? He had gone out. Cousin Salome would be very sorry; but she could not come out and talk to Hayes.

There was old Roger!

Bryda would run off to him and soon get him to come up with her and talk to the angry Hayes. But she must be quick; she did not know how soon Hayes might carry out his threat of coming back to punish the poor little prisoner.

Bryda firmly believed he was innocent. She did not understand why Mr. Hayes said he had confessed to having stolen the peaches; if he had done so she was sure it was from fright.

"And I am sure Hayes' face was enough to frighten any one," she said to herself.

Without stopping to think any more, off Bryda ran to the village, as fast as her feet could carry her.

She did not go by the shrubbery walk, but down the lane that led from the bottom of the garden past Farmer Veitch's house.

This farm was about halfway between the garden and the village, and Bryda, out of breath, walked slowly as she passed it. To her great terror she heard behind the hedge a low, deep growl. That was Farmer Veitch's bulldog, and he was known to be savage.

Poor Bryda was not as brave as she used to be, since her adventure with the bull, and this low growl made her start violently. Well, if the gate was only shut the bulldog might growl on till to-morrow behind it, and she would be quite safe.

But no, the gate was open just a little way--quite enough to let a bulldog through--even a pretty big one, as this was; and in another moment the animal was at Bryda's heels, sniffing at her, and still growling in a horrid, savage way that was worse than a torrent of barks, and showing those white teeth of his that could give such dreadful bites.

Poor Bryda's courage quite gave way. To run was no use, the dog could run faster. Screaming would no doubt make him bite her at once, instead of taking his time about it. It was as bad as the adventure with Paddy; and what made it worse was that Bryda was strictly forbidden to go into this lane at all, because there had been some infectious illness at Farmer Veitch's. A bull_dog_ seemed as bad as a bull.

Should she try the power of the human eye? She had heard various stories of people who had subdued savage dogs by simply gazing at them fixedly till the brute nature quailed before the human intellect.

But that must require wonderful courage; and probably it would not answer at all if the gazer were to look at all afraid. And poor little Bryda was simply terrified.

At this moment she caught sight of a tree close to her that had low branches, most convenient for climbing. Dogs cannot climb trees, and the cats know it--just as cats cannot fly, and the birds know it, and act accordingly.

In another moment, with a breathless spring and scramble Bryda was up in the tree. The dog sprang at her, and tore a large piece of her frock, but she was unhurt; and you may suppose she felt glad that there was only a bit of stuff in the sharp white teeth instead of a bit of herself!

She lost a shoe, too, in the scramble; and the dog scratched it and snuffed at it. Breathless, torn as to garments, with one shoeless foot, she climbed up a little higher, so as to be quite safe, and looked down at the dog.

Of course he would go away now there was no chance of biting her. And then she would jump down and run for her life to the village. From her secure height she grew bold, and spoke valiantly to the dog.

"Poor fellow! good dog, then! Go home, sir! Go to kennel! Home, sir!"

The dog only growled the more, but did not go away at all. He did not seem to care to go home. Well, then, perhaps he would like to hunt cats, after the cruel fashion of dogs?

"Hunt!" went on Bryda. "Good boy! Cats! Puss, puss! Cats! After them! catch them, good dog!"

But this bulldog was a strange animal. He did not seem to care for cats; but curled himself round at the foot of the tree, and kept his eye on Bryda, who was really almost as much a prisoner as Beppo.

Really, this was dreadful--when Bryda was in such a hurry, too! Perhaps she would not be in time to save Beppo. Where were all the people of the farm? She would call loudly to them: "Mrs. Veitch! Farmer!"

Directly she began to call, the dog jumped up barking, and sprang at her. True, he could not quite reach her, but he came dreadfully close, and his barks were enough to drown her calling.

By and by, however, the farmhouse door opened, and an old woman looked out. She was the only person near, for it was harvest, and all the men were busy, and all the women binding sheaves with them. Her dim eyes caught sight of a figure in the tree, and when Bryda called again to her she laughed and shook her fist.

"Ay, ay!" she said. "Young thieves from the village arter farmer's apples! Well, you bide there a bit, it'll gie ye something to remember."

So saying, and laughing to herself over this capital punishment for apple-stealers, she went back into the house and shut the door.

So there was Bryda, like Mahomet's coffin, hung between the sky and earth; and there she sat, feeling very angry with the old woman, very much vexed about Beppo, and very much afraid of the dog.

That amiable animal made himself a sentinel, and declined to move. No scolding, no coaxing on Bryda's part, had any effect. There he was and there he meant to be; and Bryda sat on a branch, swinging her long black legs, and wishing she had wings, so that she might fly away from all her present troubles.

She might have been rather amused but for two things that much distressed her. One was Beppo's peril, and the other the knowledge that the grannies would be vexed at her being in the lane at all, when she had for such a good reason been forbidden to go there.

At last she felt so downhearted that she was very much inclined to cry, but that she would not do, because the horrible dog would see her, and probably he would feel pleased. So there she remained.

"I wonder where Bryda is?" said grandmother. She had been waiting ever so long for her knitting, for which she had sent her granddaughter to the garden.

"I hope she is not in mischief," said Mr. Seymour.

"Most likely she forgot," said Uncle Jack, who had come in again. "I will go to the garden and look for the little puss."

In the garden he did not see Hayes, but met Jim Dawson, and asked if he had seen Miss Bryda. Jim told him that she had gone down the lane, and off he went in pursuit.

You may suppose Bryda was glad to hear his firm steps on the hard ground, and to call to him as he came down the lane without fear of his going off and leaving her.

But Uncle Jack, though he sent the dog off and helped her down, suppressed any inclination he may have had to laugh, and asked for grandmother's knitting very gravely. Nor did he seem to think that Beppo's threatened punishment justified her disobedience.

"If he stole the fruit he deserved to be punished, and you ought not to try and screen him, Bryda. You may be sure Hayes would be careful not to punish him else. He has boys of his own."

So Bryda, very downhearted, walked by his side back to the house. He would not interfere, nor let her go on to Roger, and all she could do was to fetch the knitting, and hope the grannies would forgive her disobedience.

Perhaps the reason why Bryda, with the best intentions, got into trouble when she least expected, was because she did not stop to think, but went off in a great hurry to carry out her plans.

By the time she reached the garden, three quarters of an hour, or perhaps an hour, had passed. She went straight to the tool-house. Beppo was not there. She called, and no one answered; the gardeners had gone to their dinner, so Bryda, rather slowly and sadly, went in to get ready for her own.