Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

Chapter Thirty Three.

A Short, Because a Sad One

“Now,” said Frank one evening to me, “a little change is all that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life.”

“I think you are right, Frank,” was my reply; “change will do it – a few weeks’ residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?”

“I’ll go with you like a shot,” said this honest-hearted, blunt old sailor.

“What say you, then, to the Highlands?”

“Just the thing,” replied Frank. “Just the place —

“Bravo! Frank,” I cried; “now let us consider the matter as practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will – get the tickets.”

And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived.

He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to each of them.

We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls —

A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the Castle itself to Greyfriars’ Bobby’s monument, and the quiet corner in which he sleeps.

Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I’m not sure that it wasn’t at the back of the north wind; at all events, there was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a Scotch mist prevailed – that is, the rain came down in streams as solid and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the prospect of having us.

She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them.

No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn’t have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea.

Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to “contribute to the harmony of the evening” – a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself.

“Me!” said Frank; “bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing.”

But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the “Bay of Biscay” out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you.

He stopped at last, laughing, and —

“Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel,” he said. “You must either sing or tell a story.”

“My dear old sailor man,” I replied, “I will sing all the evening if you don’t ask me to tell a story.”

“But,” cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, “you’ve got to do both, dear.”

There were more stories than mine told that night by the “ingleside” of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must “open out” at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at “spinning a yarn,” as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy.

“There’s where you have me,” Frank would say. “I am shy; there’s no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I’m amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like.”

I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes, and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the “twa dogs,” and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.

When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us.

The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF – brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty.

Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased.

So sings Byron. Well, he had some kind of training to this species of progression. Ida had none. She was a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of Ida.

Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.

Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I’ve often thought of this since.

Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake’s side, then it was Ossian’s turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel.

Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom.

There was nothing romantic about Ida’s illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.

Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end.

The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend’s death. Alas! how few true friends there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us, seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I bade him good-bye at my garden gate.

Chapter Thirty Four.

The Last

I have never mentioned Frank’s dog, this for the simple reason that I hope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her.

Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank’s dog – and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him.

Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. She liked but few. We were among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed.

When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank!

When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master.

She died only a few months ago. Her owner – she, may I say, who held her in trust – brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W – she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie’s breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W – was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank’s dog’s head and whispering, “Good-bye.”

I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling “the lower animals.”

I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto.

I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev. J.G. Wood8.

Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you?

Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood.

We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks.

There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has ever loved a faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity.

The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not if the animal had loved me and been my friend.

Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon – poor simple Sable.

I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself.

A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him.

In his last illness, poor Nero’s mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content.

I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o’clock. It was a night in bleak December, ’twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient’s room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone.

Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero’s grave – a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words – “Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end.”

1

The subject of this memoir was called ‘Sable’ before she came into my possession. She is well remembered by all lovers of the true Newfoundland, as Sable One of the show benches, and was generally admitted to be the largest and most handsome of her breed and sex ever exhibited. – The Author.

2

“The Cruise of the Snowbird” published by Messrs Hodder and Stoughton, Paternoster Row.

3

It is probable that the edges of razors, etc, are destroyed by a sort of acid deposited there by the cockroaches, similar to that which exudes from the egg; however, there is no gainsaying the fact.

4

Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh. – The Author.

5

“Friends in Fur.” Published by Messrs Dean and Son, Fleet Street, London.

6

The poet Mortimer Collins. He came into my possession shortly after his death.