Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

Chapter Seven.

Only a Dog

Poor little Fairy Mary, the favourite pet of Aileen Aroon, went the way of all rats at last. She was not killed. No cat took her. Our own cats were better-mannered than to touch a pet. But we all went away on a summer holiday, and as it was not convenient to take every one of our pets with us, Mary was left at home in charge of the servants. When we returned she was gone, dead and buried. She had succumbed to a tumour in the head which was commencing ere we started.

I think Aileen missed her very much, for she used to lie and watch the empty cage for an hour at a time, thinking no doubt that by-and-by Fairy Mary would pop out of some of her usual haunts.

“Dolls” was one of Aileen’s contemporaries, and one that she had no small regard for. Dolls was a dog, and a very independent little fellow he was, as his story which I here give will show.

There was a look in the dark-brown eyes of Dolls that was very captivating when you saw it. I say when you saw it, because it wasn’t always you could see it, for Dolls’ face was so covered with his dishevelled locks, that the only wonder was that he could find his way about at all.

Dolls was a Scotch terrier – a real Scotch terrier. Reddish or sandy was he all over – in fact, he was just about the colour of gravel in the gloaming; I am quite sure of this, because when he went out with me about the twilight hour, I couldn’t see him any more than if he wasn’t in existence; when it grew a little darker, strange to say, Dolls became visible once more.

Plenty of coat had Dolls too. You could have hidden a glove under his mane, and nobody been a bit the wiser. When he sat on one end, gazing steadfastly up into a tree, from which some independent pussy stared saucily down upon him, Dolls looked for all the world like a doggie image draped in a little blanket.

Dolls had a habit of treeing pussies. This, indeed, was about the only bad trait in Dolls’ character. He hated a pussy more than sour milk, and nobody knew this better than the pussies themselves. Probably, indeed, they were partly to blame for maintaining the warfare. I’ve seen a cat in a tree, apparently trying her very best to mesmerise poor Dolls – Dolls blinking funnily up at her, she gazing cunningly down. There they would sit and sit, till suddenly down to the ground would spring pussy, and with a warlike and startling “Fuss!” that quite took the doggie’s breath away, and made all his hair stand on end, clout Master Dolls in the face, and before that queer wee specimen of caninity could recover his equanimity, disappear through a neighbouring hedgerow.

Now cats have a good deal more patience than dogs. Sometimes on coming trotting home of an evening, Dolls would find a cat perched up in the pear-tree sparrow-expectant.

“Oh! you’re there, are you?” Dolls would say. “Well, I’m not in any particular hurry, I can easily wait a bit.” And down he would sit, with his head in the air.

“All right, Dolls, my doggie,” Pussy would reply. “I’ve just eaten a sparrow, and not long ago I had a fine fat mouse, and, milk with it, and now I’ll have a nap. Nice evening, isn’t it?”

Well, Master Dolls would watch there, maybe for one hour and maybe for two, by which time his patience would become completely exhausted.

“You’re not worth a wag of my tail,” Dolls would say. “So good-night.” Then off he would trot.

But Dolls wasn’t a beauty, by any manner of means. I don’t think anybody who wasn’t an admirer of doormats, and a connoisseur in heather besoms could have found much about Dolls to go into raptures over, but, somehow or other, the little chap always managed to find friends wherever he went.

Dolls was a safe doggie with children, that is, with well-dressed, clean-looking children, but with the gutter portion of the population Dolls waged continual warfare. Doubtless, because they teased him, and made believe to throw pebbles at him, though I don’t think they ever did in reality.

Dolls was a great believer in the virtues of fresh air, and spent much of his time out of doors. He had three or four houses, too, in the village which he used to visit regularly once, and sometimes twice, a day. He would trot into a kitchen with a friendly wag or two of his little tail, which said, plainly enough, “Isn’t it wet, though?” or “Here is jolly weather just!”

“Come away, Dolls,” was his usual greeting.

Thus welcomed, Dolls would toddle farther in, and seat himself by the fire, and gaze dreamily in through the bars at the burning coals, looking all the while as serious as possible.

I’ve often wondered, and other people used to wonder too, what Dolls could have been thinking about as he sat thus. Perhaps – like many a wiser head – he was building little morsels of castles in the air, castles that would have just the same silly ending as yours or mine, reader – wondering what he should do if he came to be a great big bouncing dog like Wolf the mastiff; how all the little doggies would crouch before him, and how dignified he would look as he strode haughtily away from them; and so on, and so forth. But perhaps, after all, Dolls was merely warming his mite of a nose, and not giving himself up to any line of thought in particular.

Now, it wasn’t with human beings alone that this doggie was a favourite; and what I am now going to mention is rather strange, if not funny. You see, Dolls always got out early in the morning. There was a great number of other little dogs in the village besides himself – poodles, Pomeranians, and Skyes, doggies of every denomination and all shades of colour, and many of these got up early too. There is no doubt early morn is the best time for small dogs, because little boys are not yet up, and so can’t molest them. Well, it did seem that each of these doggies, almost every morning, made up its mind to come and visit Dolls. At all events, most of them did come, and, therefore, Dolls was wont to hold quite a tiny levée on the lawn shortly after sunrise.

After making obeisance to General Dolls, these doggies would form themselves into a conversazione, and go promenading round the rose-trees in twos and twos.

Goodness only knows what they talked about; but I must tell you that these meetings were nearly always of a peaceable, amicable nature. Only once do I remember a conversazione ending in a general conflict.

“Well,” said Dolls, “if it is going to be a free fight, I’m in with you.” Then Dolls threw himself into it heart and soul.

But to draw the story of Dolls to a conclusion, there came to live near my cottage home an old sailor, one of Frank’s friends. This ancient mariner was one of the Tom Bowling type, for the darling of many a crew he had been in his time, without doubt. There was good-nature, combined with pluck, in every lineament of his manly, well-worn, red and rosy countenance, and his hair was whitened – not by the snows of well-nigh sixty winters, for I rather fancy it was the summers that did it, the summers’ heat, and the bearing of the brunt of many a tempest, and the anxiety inseparable from a merchant skipper’s pillow. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes, that put you mightily in mind of the monks of old. And when he gave you his hand, it was none of your half-and-half shakes, let me tell you; that there was honesty in every throb of that man’s heart you could tell from that very grasp.

Yes, he was a jolly old tar, and a good old tar; and he hadn’t seen Dolls and been in his company for two hours, before he fell in love with the dog downright, and, says he, “Doctor, you want a good home for Dolls; there is something in the little man’s eye that I a sort of like. As long as he sails with me, he’ll never want a good bed, nor a good dinner; so, if you’ll give him to me, I’ll be glad to take him.”

We shook hands.

Now this was to be the last voyage that ever that ancient mariner meant to make, until he made that long voyage which we all must do one of these days. And it was his last too; not, however, in the way you generally read of in stories, for the ship didn’t go down, and he wasn’t drowned, neither was Dolls. On the contrary, my friend returned, looking as hale and hearty as ever, and took a cottage in the country, meaning to live happily and comfortably ever after. And almost the first intimation I received of his return was carried by the doggie himself, for going out one fine morning, I found Dolls on the lawn, surrounded as usual, by about a dozen other wee doggies, to whom, from their spellbound look, I haven’t a doubt he was telling the story of his wonderful adventures by sea and by land, for, mind you, Dolls had been all the way to Calcutta. And Dolls was so happy to see me again, and the lawn, and the rose-trees, and vagrant pussies, and no change in anything, that he was fain to throw himself at my feet and weep in the exuberance of his joy.

Dolls’ new home was at H – , just three miles from mine; and this is somewhat strange – regularly, once a month the little fellow would trot over, all by himself, and see me. He remained in the garden one whole day, and slept on the doormat one whole night, but could never be induced either to enter the house or to partake of food. So no one could accuse Dolls of cupboard love. When the twenty-four hours which he allotted to himself for the visit were over, Dolls simply trotted home again, but, as sure as the moon, he returned again in another month.

A bitter, bitter winter followed quickly on the heels of that pleasant summer of 187 – . The snow fell fast, and the cold was intense, thermometer at times sinking below zero. You could ran the thrushes down, and catch them by hand, so lifeless were they; and I could show you the bushes any day where blackbirds dropped lifeless on their perches. Even rooks came on to the lawn to beg; they said there wasn’t a hip nor a haw to be found in all the countryside. And robin said he couldn’t sing at all on his usual perch, the frost and the wind quite took his breath away; so he came inside to warm his toes.

One wild stormy night, I had retired a full hour sooner to rest, for the wind had kept moaning so, as it does around a country house. The wind moaned, and fiercely shook the windows, and the powdery snow sifted in under the hall-door, in spite of every arrangement to prevent it. I must have been nearly asleep, but I opened my eyes and started at that– a plaintive cry, rising high over the voice of the wind, and dying away again in mournful cadence. Twice it was repeated, then I heard no more. It must have been the wind whistling through the keyhole, I thought, as I sunk to sleep. Perhaps it was, reader; but early next morning I found poor wee Dolls dead on the doorstep.

Chapter Eight.

A Tale Told by the Old Pine-Tree

Bonnie Berkshire! It is an expression we often make use of. Bonnie Berks – bonnie even in winter, when the fields are robed in starry snow; bonnie in spring-time, when the fields are rolling clouds of tenderest green, when the young wheat is peeping through the brown earth, when primroses cluster beneath the hedgerows, and everything is so gay and so happy and hopeful that one’s very soul soars heavenwards with the lark.

But Berks I thought never looked more bonnie than it did one lovely autumn morning, when Ida and I and the dogs walked up the hill towards our favourite seat in the old pine wood. It was bright and cool and clear. The hedges alone were a sight, for blackthorn and brambles had taken leave of their senses in summer-time, and gone trailing here and climbing there, and playing all sorts of fantastic tricks, and now with the autumn tints upon them, they formed the prettiest patches of light and shade imaginable; and though few were the flowers that still peeped through the green moss as if determined to see the last of the sunshine, who could miss them with such gorgeous colour on thorn and tree? The leaves were still on the trees; only whenever a light gust of wind swept through the tall hedge with a sound like ocean shells, Ida and I were quite lost for a time, in a shower as of scented yellow snow.

My niece put her soft little hand in mine, as she said – “You haven’t forgotten the manuscript, have you?”

“Oh! no,” I said, smiling, “I haven’t forgotten it.”

“Because,” she added, “I do like you to tell me a story when we are all by ourselves.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but this story, Ida, is one I’m going to tell to Aileen, because it is all about a Newfoundland dog.”

“Oh! never mind,” she cried, “Nero and I shall sit and listen, and it will be all the same.”

“Well, Ida,” I said, when we were seated at last, “I shall call my tale – ”

“We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was no rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemed to glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horses could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for the rattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her for one of Dickens’s phantom mails. It was a bitter winter’s morning. The driver’s face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his fear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the folds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad on the desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster in appearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to believe that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, his body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attempted to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the eighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come down if only for a few moments.

“The landlord, – remember, reader, I’m speaking of the far north, where mail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still visible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome the coach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that it was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for mulled porter and soft biscuits became general.

“Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come down that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses’ heads.

“Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn’t seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black, feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses’ noses – here, there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver was a humane man, and pulled up at once.

“‘I’ve driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o’ that fraternity,’ he said; ‘some o’ them’s continually gettin’ in the road at the wrang time. Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a’ the warld like a young warlock.’

“Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the recipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, who was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been badly crushed.

“‘Now,’ cried the guard, ‘I’ll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha’ll gie an auld sang for him? He is onybody’s dog for a gill of whuskey.’

“‘I’ll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,’ said a quiet-looking farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once, and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his purchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before the door of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the little creature’s wounded paw.

“Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was yet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life’s history.

“Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended, and regularly fed, ‘Blucher,’ as he was called, soon grew up into a very fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to his master, than for any large amount of good looks.

“One day the farmer’s shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped up in the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of a field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought up on the bottle by the farmer’s little daughter, and as time wore on grew quite a handsome fellow.

“The lamb was Blucher’s only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucher wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb’s head pillowed on the dog’s neck, or vice versa, just as the case might be. Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the country; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased and happy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they had been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems, in his capacity of chaperon to his young friend, led the poor lamb into mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the daily habit of leading ‘Bonny’ to different cabbage gardens, showing him how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any injury or committing a crime. ‘At all events,’ he might reason with himself, ‘it isn’t I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn’t poor Bonny have a morsel when he seems to like it so much?’

“But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their gardens by the ‘twa thieves,’ as they were called, became so numerous, that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher, moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only one we loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for he still had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave him, especially when the farmer’s calling took him anywhere abroad.

“About one year after Bonny’s demise, the farmer began to notice a peculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it, thinking that no doubt time – the poor man’s physician – would cure it. Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laid about half-past six. Well, one dark December’s day, at the accustomed hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some time little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the night grew darker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious.

“‘Here comes father at last,’ cried little Mary, the farmer’s daughter.

“Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight, there wasn’t a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher now attracted Mary’s attention. He never had much affection for her, or for any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones, as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those strange people, who hate dogs, would have understood him. Mary did, anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow, keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his shoulder to her, saying plainly enough, ‘Don’t you think you could manage to run just a leetle faster?’ Through many a devious path he led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest Blucher brought the daughter to the father’s side.

“He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down by that dreadful disease – paralysis. But for the sagacity and intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher’s work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary kneeling down by her father’s side, than he started off home again at full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more, accompanied by two of the servants.

“The rest of this dog’s history can be told in very few words, and I am sorry it had so tragic an ending.

“During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could seldom, if ever, be prevailed on to leave his master’s bedside, and every one who approached the patient was eyed with extreme suspicion. I think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with Blucher, and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying, I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half frightened at a dog he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and would do him an injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great haste to her father’s bedside. Most incautious haste as it turned out, for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest Blucher was condemned to death. I think, taking into consideration his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master, he might have been forgiven just for this once.

“That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness I do not doubt, for they have erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his life, and although fifty years have passed since its erection, it still stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies.”

Chapter Nine.

Tea on the Lawn, and the Story of a Starling

“Sit down, Frank,” said I; “my wife and Ida will be here presently. It is so pleasant to have tea out of doors.”

“Yes,” said Frank, “especially such tea as this. But,” he added, fishing a flower-spray from his cup with his spoon, “I do not want jasmine in mine.”

“Good wine needs no bush,” I remarked.

“Nor good tea no scent,” said my friend.

“Although, Frank, the Chinese do scent some of their Souchongs with jasmine, the Jasminum Sambuc.”

“Oh! dear uncle,” cried Ida, “don’t talk Latin. Maggie the magpie will be doing it next.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the pie called Maggie, who was very busy in the bottom of her cage. I never, by the way, heard any bird or human being laugh in such a cuttingly tantalising way as that magpie did.

It was a sneering laugh, which made you feel that the remark you had just made previously was ridiculously absurd. As she laughed she kept on pegging away at whatever she was doing.

“Go on,” she seemed to say. “I am listening to all you are saying, but I really can’t help laughing, even with my mouth full. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Well, Ida dear,” I said, “I certainly shall not talk Latin if there be the slightest chance of that impudent bird catching it up. Is this better?

“And now,” said my wife, “what about the story?”