Chapter V: A Brave Deed

ANNIE WILMOT, passing quickly indoors at her father's bidding, did not catch the ominous words which had reached his ears. And believing that he wished her not to see the cause of the uproar, she went dutifully to the dining-room at the back, without one glance through a front window.

Mr. Wilmot, stepping out of his gate, had not resolved what to do. His immediate object was to take a glance, and then to beat a retreat. There would be time for this, he knew. It was not his intention to place himself recklessly in danger by meeting a mad dog in full career,—if the creature were really mad. He had his doubts on this head.

Once in the road, he cast two quick glances—first to right, then to left. Then, instead of retiring, as he might have done, he stood still. For on the right, running along the road straight towards him, was the dog, wearing every appearance of madness in the semi-exhausted stage: and on the left, about halfway between himself and the nearest cottage, were three little unconscious children, sitting by the roadside, never dreaming of danger.

If Mr. Wilmot could reach the little ones before the dog, that would be the utmost he might accomplish. And how, then, could he hope to save all three?

They were getting frightened, poor mites! The shouts had aroused them: and one small creature tottered to her feet; another, catching sight of the dog, set up a wail.

Mr. Wilmot was not looking at them now. He had walked to the middle of the road, and he stood there, facing the poor mad brute, quite calm and cool. Not the slightest sign of flurry or fear showed in his manner. The men behind redoubled their shouts, but this was of little use.

The dog drew near, came close, and snapped at the man in his path.

With one sharp swerve, Mr. Wilmot avoided the bite. The next instant the dog was in his grasp, lifted off the ground, and held out at arm's length. It was a desperate feat. No man less powerfully made could have done the same. One hand gripped firmly the back of the dog's neck, the other held its back, not far from the tail.

A fearful struggle followed, but Mr. Wilmot did not yield. "Quick!" was the one word he uttered; and a butcher's man, rushing up with a sharp knife, put the creature to an instant death.

"Thanks," Mr. Wilmot said, as he dropped the dead body.

"Sir, I don't believe there's another man in the village would have dared do that!" the butcher's man exclaimed.

"I am bodily strong," said Mr. Wilmot. "Have the creature taken away at once, and buried deep. The less handling of it the better. Anybody been bitten?"

The men who had gathered round hoped not. They had done their best to warn everybody, and to drive it out of the more frequented streets. But one young girl had had a narrow escape.

"Better see to those children; they are frightened," said Mr. Wilmot.

He did not go to them himself, as he would usually have done. One or two thought the severe struggle and exertion had been somewhat too much for "the Parson." He looked pale, as he nodded farewell, and went indoors.

Annie came to meet him. "Father, was anything the matter?"

"A mad dog, dear. The poor thing is killed now."

"And nobody hurt?"

"The men hoped not. One girl had a very narrow escape; but I did not hear particulars."

Annie shuddered. "How dreadful!" she said. "You didn't help to kill him, father? You didn't put yourself in any danger?"

"Not unnecessarily. The actual killing was done by the butcher's man. A happy thing that he was there. My dear, I have a little business to attend to in the town; but I shall not be gone long."

"Do ask if anybody is hurt, father."

"Yes, dear."

Mr. Wilmot gave her his usual smile, and entered the study, shutting the door. A different expression came over his face then. He lighted a light, and looked at his left wrist, just under the coat-sleeve.

Yes, he had felt the touch of a tooth there, in the instant's sharp scuffle, before he obtained command of the mad animal. It was hardly more than a short red scratch, just deep enough to have drawn blood. Nothing to look at; but Mr. Wilmot knew what it might portend!

He glanced at his watch. "The doctor will be in now. Better so; he will do it more thoroughly than I could myself."

Without a word to Annie, he was gone. It was close upon ten o'clock when he reappeared.

"Not quite tired out, waiting for me, my child?" he asked cheerfully.

"Where have you been all this time?" asked Annie.

"I had a little business matter to attend to; and since then I have been to see a new family, just come to Littleburgh—the Dunns. The eldest girl had a most narrow escape to-day. She was saved by Mrs. Stuart's son."

"Young Stuart! How nice of him! Father, there have been several people here, asking after you. They all say you were so brave,—saving some poor little children. Was it true? Did you really catch up the dog by its neck and back, without letting it touch you? How could you? O father, it was frightfully dangerous!" And she hid her face on his shoulder.

"I am very strong, Annie. God has not given me my bodily strength for nothing."

"But if the creature had bitten you! Oh, father!"

"If so, my child, it would have come in the way of my duty."

"But such a death!" And she shivered.

"All who are bitten do not die of hydrophobia, dear. And even if that were to be the end, it would still be God's will. Heaven would be none the less fair for one having reached it by a fiery chariot. But come, I think we have talked long enough of this. It is time for Prayers."

Annie clung to him still. "I can't help thinking!" she said. "It seems so frightful. If anybody had been bitten, how soon would he be safe?"

"The disease generally develops in a few days or weeks. It might even be as long as a year; but this is rare. Not longer, I believe."

"Then one would not feel sure till after a whole year! What a frightful year that would be! Oh, I am so glad nobody in Littleburgh has to look forward to it!"

"Time for Prayers now, Annie;" and his clear-cut pleasant face, only a shade paler than usual, smiled down on her. "Will you ring the bell?"

Annie obeyed, and the servants filed in, looking rather excited with the stories they had been hearing. Mr. Wilmot read a psalm, in place of the usual portion, and in his prayer he offered up earnest thanks for the many lives spared that day.

Then Annie said good-bye, and went off to bed, and Mr. Wilmot moved into his study.

A change once more passed over his face change from calm cheerfulness to deep depression. He leant back in the easy-chair, placed a hand over his eyes, and was silent.

The lamp burnt on by his side, and the house sank into profound stillness. All but himself had retired to rest.

Nearly an hour passed, and he had not stirred. The striking of the clock on the stairs aroused him. Eleven strokes, in slow musical succession.

Mr. Wilmot stood up, and went to the window. He drew aside one of the curtains, pulled up the blind, and gazed steadfastly at a starlit sky.

"If it is Thy will, O my Father!" he uttered aloud. "Thy will, not mine. If it be Thy will! Father, I am ready."

A faint gleam passed over the upturned face.

"I would not choose for myself. Only fulfil Thy will in me—glorify Thy Name. If Thou wiliest so to call me home—I am Thy servant,—Thy child."

Then a pause, and the head was bowed.

"Willing in heart, yet the flesh is weak. I cannot trust myself. Willing to go with Thee to death; yet, for Christ's sake, if possible, let this cup pass from me—if possible!"

Again he lifted his face.

"Father, I commend myself—spirit, soul, and body—into Thy hands. I am Thine. I desire only to have Thy will wrought in me, through me. I dare not choose. I am ready, Father,—ready, O my Lord and Master,—ready to do or bear Thy will, to know no will but Thine. I roll my burden upon Thee. Thou wilt comfort me."

And with a smile upon his pale lips, he passed upstairs to his bedroom, there to fall peacefully asleep, and to dream of the "Everlasting Arms."