On the farther bank from me the trees rose thickly again, and shut out the view, and cast their black shadows on the sluggish, shallow water.
As I walked down to the lake, I saw that the ground on its farther side was damp and marshy, overgrown with rank grass and dismal willows.
The water, which was clear enough on the open sandy side, where the sun shone, looked black and poisonous opposite to me, where it lay deeper under the shade of the spongy banks, and the rank overhanging thickets and tangled trees.
The frogs were croaking, and the rats were slipping in and out of the shadowy water, like live shadows themselves, as I got nearer to the marshy side of the lake.
I saw here, lying half in and half out of the water, the rotten wreck of an old overturned boat, with a sickly spot of sunlight glimmering through a gap in the trees on its dry surface, and a snake basking in the midst of the spot, fantastically coiled and treacherously still.
Far and near the view suggested the same dreary impressions of solitude and decay, and the glorious brightness of the summer sky overhead seemed only to deepen and harden the gloom and barrenness of the wilderness on which it shone.
I turned and retraced my steps to the high heathy ground, directing them a little aside from my former path towards a shabby old wooden shed, which stood on the outer skirt of the fir plantation, and which had hitherto been too unimportant to share my notice with the wide, wild prospect of the lake.
On approaching the shed I found that it had once been a boat-house, and that an attempt had apparently been made to convert it afterwards into a sort of rude arbour, by placing inside it a firwood seat, a few stools, and a table.
I entered the place, and sat down for a little while to rest and get my breath again.
I had not been in the boat-house more than a minute when it struck me that the sound of my own quick breathing was very strangely echoed by something beneath me.
I listened intently for a moment, and heard a low, thick, sobbing breath that seemed to come from the ground under the seat which I was occupying.
My nerves are not easily shaken by trifles, but on this occasion I started to my feet in a fright—called out—received no answer—summoned back my recreant courage, and looked under the seat.
There, crouched up in the farthest corner, lay the forlorn cause of my terror, in the shape of a poor little dog—a black and white spaniel.
The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it and called to it, but never stirred.
I moved away the seat and looked closer.
The poor little dog's eyes were glazing fast, and there were spots of blood on its glossy white side.
The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is surely one of the saddest of all the mournful sights which this world can show.
I lifted the poor dog in my arms as gently as I could, and contrived a sort of make-shift hammock for him to lie in, by gathering up the front of my dress all round him.
In this way I took the creature, as painlessly as possible, and as fast as possible, back to the house.
Finding no one in the hall I went up at once to my own sitting-room, made a bed for the dog with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell.
The largest and fattest of all possible house-maids answered it, in a state of cheerful stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a saint.
The girl's fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad grin at the sight of the wounded creature on the floor.
"What do you see there to laugh at?" I asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of my own.
"Do you know whose dog it is?"
"No, miss, that I certainly don't."
She stooped, and looked down at the spaniel's injured side—brightened suddenly with the irradiation of a new idea—and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, "That's Baxter's doings, that is."
I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears.
"Baxter?" I said.
"Who is the brute you call Baxter?"
The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever.
"Bless you, miss!
Baxter's the keeper, and when he finds strange dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots 'em.
It's keeper's dooty miss, I think that dog will die.
Here's where he's been shot, ain't it?
That's Baxter's doings, that is. Baxter's doings, miss, and Baxter's dooty."
I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot the housemaid instead of the dog.
Seeing that it was quite useless to expect this densely impenetrable personage to give me any help in relieving the suffering creature at our feet, I told her to request the housekeeper's attendance with my compliments.
She went out exactly as she had come in, grinning from ear to ear.
As the door closed on her she said to herself softly,
"It's Baxter's doings and Baxter's dooty—that's what it is."
The housekeeper, a person of some education and intelligence, thoughtfully brought upstairs with her some milk and some warm water.
The instant she saw the dog on the floor she started and changed colour.
"Why, Lord bless me," cried the housekeeper, "that must be Mrs. Catherick's dog!"
"Whose?" I asked, in the utmost astonishment.
"Mrs. Catherick's.
You seem to know Mrs. Catherick, Miss Halcombe?"
"Not personally, but I have heard of her.
Does she live here?
Has she had any news of her daughter?"
"No, Miss Halcombe, she came here to ask for news."