"One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perthshire. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief.
"Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.
""Dinna ye fash yersel," Geordie," he said to his herdsman, "or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he"ll nae harm bairns nor doggies."
"In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced.
"Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he pa.s.sed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much.
"Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his "hackles" up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.
"The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose, courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes later my protector.
"I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord"s farm and have the bull taken away on the following day.
"Now, the gra.s.s of the paddock being particularly tender and sweet, it was the custom for the "hill ponies" to graze at night in company with the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so, without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old cart-mare who had been running there with a foal was discovered to be so terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull"s horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the delinquent.
""The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one," said our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorkshire my escape; "and, saving your ladyship"s presence," he added, "bulls are as given to tantrums as young females."
[Sidenote: George"s Tricks]
"When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks," continued Lady Constance, "but, like a village boy, he "was hard to learn;" and the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates, and receive as a reward some t.i.t-bit. Sometimes he would do this without any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest who did not share with us our canine love."
It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children"s appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, "Rory Bean," so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike"s pony in the "Heart of Midlothian."
"Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told that she must not go downstairs to her G.o.dmamma with a dirty face, resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too.
"So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast, sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being washed; but in spite of all the child"s efforts the nose remained as black as ever. My little girl"s verdict, "that mastiffs is the best nursery dogs," was for a long time a joke amongst our friends.
"For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would consent to be driven in one. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive in a "growler," and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would often jump in and refuse to be taken out.
"When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wishing to seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear "a gentleman at large."
"On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she was knocked over by a hansom--not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be possible.
"The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a dashing hansom had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker"s shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things, and never appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, "Rory Bean," a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased--even in the streets of the metropolis.
[Sidenote: Lost in London]
"I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who told us Rory had run out and could not be found.
"Fortunately, we were not dining out that night, and so, as quickly as possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager of the Dogs" Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving descriptions of the missing favourite.
"Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of "Rory Bean," black face and perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean"s last season in London.
"A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean had a nave way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual pa.s.ser-by that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity.
Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size.
"They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule, quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race, they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can frighten anybody.
"I remember on this particular occasion that I was interested in my book, and that when Rory had barked round me I had refused to play with her. For some time she had lain down quietly beside me, when suddenly an old gentleman came into view. He held in his hand a stick, with which he meditatively struck the pebbles of the pathway as he walked along.
"At the sight of him Rory jumped up. She could not resist this particular action on his part, which she considered a special invitation to come and join in a good romp. To my consternation, before I could prevent her, I saw her barking and jumping round the poor frightened old gentleman, in good-natured but ominous-looking play.
"Seeing that he was really alarmed, I rushed off to his rescue, seized my dog and apologised. Wishing at the same time to say something that might somewhat condone her conduct, I said: "I am very sorry, sir, but you see she is only a puppy," and pointed to Rory.
"This was not quite a correct statement, as my four-footed friend was at that time about two years old, and measured nearly thirty inches from the shoulder, but, as the old man seemed really frightened and muttered two ugly words in connection with each other, "Hydrophobia" and "Police," I was determined to do all I could to rea.s.sure him and smooth down his ruffled plumes.
"However, my elderly acquaintance would not be comforted, and I heard him muttering to himself as he retired from the square, "Puppy indeed!
Puppy indeed!"
"Bean"s death was very sad. Two years ago we left her in Yorkshire whilst we went to London. We heard of her continually whilst we were away, and she seemed very flourishing although growing old, till one day I got a letter to say that the old dog was suddenly taken very ill and could hardly move. The servants had taken her to a loose box, given her a good clean bed of straw, and were feeding her with such delicacies as she could be prevailed upon to take.
[Sidenote: Rory"s Last Welcome]
"I had a sad journey home, thinking of the sufferings of my trusty old friend. I shall never forget her joy at seeing me once more. The poor faithful creature could not walk, but crawled along upon her stomach to meet me when I entered the loose box, filling the place with her cries of joy. She covered my hands with kisses, and then laid her head upon my knees whilst I sat down beside her. She whined with a sort of half-sorrow, half-pleasure--the first that she could not get up and show me round the gardens as was her wont, the second that she was happy to be thus resting in the presence of her beloved mistress. Around her lay a variety of choice foods and t.i.t-bits, but she was in too great pain to feed except from my hands.
"Poor dear Bean! she looked at me out of her great solemn eyes. Those dear loving eyes; with only one expression shining in them--a daily, hourly love--a love in spite of all things--a love invincible.
"During those last few days of her life Rory could not bear to be left alone. Her eyes followed me tenderly round and round the stables wherever I went. Although constantly in great pain, I shall never forget her patience and her pathetic conviction that I could always do her some good, and she believed in the miracle which I, alas! had no power to perform. The veterinary surgeon who attended her said she was suffering from sudden paralysis of the spine, and that she was incurable. This disease, it appears, is not very rare amongst old dogs who have lived, not always wisely, but too well."
"Do tell us about some other dogs," cry the children as I cease speaking. I search my memory, and then turn to the group of little faces that are waiting expectantly for me to begin, and continue:
"Amongst the various breeds of dogs that I have come across personally, I know of none more faithful than the little fox-terrier is to his first devotion. He is a perfect little bantam-c.o.c.k to fight, and never so happy as when he is in a row. "The most unredeemed thing in nature," was a true remark I once heard made of one; and yet there is no dog more devoted to his master, or more gentle to the children of his own household.
"I remember a little white terrier of my mother"s, a celebrated prize-winner, and of the old Eggesford breed, called "Spite." Before I married she was my special dog, and used to sleep in my room. For years afterwards, although a general pet, whenever I returned to my old home she would prefer me to every one else, and, when old and blind, would toddle up the polished oak staircase to my room, in spite of being terribly afraid of slipping through the carved bannisters. She never forgot me or wavered when I was with her in giving me the first place in her affections.
"I have heard that the first of this noted strain was given many years ago to my father as a boy by "Parson Jack." It seems that the terriers of Parson Russell were noted in the days when the manners and customs of the parsons of the West were "wild and furious."
"A parson of the "Parson Froude" type called upon him one evening in the dusk, to say that he had brought his terrier to fight "Parson Jack"s" in a match.
"My father"s old friend, as I have often heard him tell the story to my mother, sent down word that he would not fight his dog because he "looked upon dog-fights as beastly sights," but if his brother clergyman would come upstairs, they would clear the tables, and he would take his jacket off, and they would have some rounds, and see which was the best man, and he who won should keep the other"s dog.
[Sidenote: "Parson Jack"]
"When the fight was fought and won, and when "Parson Jack" came off victorious, he claimed the other terrier.
""And don"t yu goe for to think, my dear," he would add, turning to one of us children, as he ended the story, and speaking in broad Devonshire, as he often did when his heart kindled at the memory of the county in the old days--"don"t yu goe for tu think as my having a set-tu zhocked the people in my parish. My vulk were only plazed to think as parsan was the best man of the tu, and if a parsan could stand up like a man in a round in they days, er was all the more likely to zuit "em in the pulpit on Zundays."
"Once every year "Parson Jack" used to come and dine and sleep at my old home to keep his birthday, in company with my father and mother. At such times we as children used to come down to dessert to hear him tell stories in his racy way of Katerfelto, of long gallops over Exmoor after the stag, or of hard runs after the little "red rover" with Mr.
Fellowes" hounds."
"What dogs have you now?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton.
"Amongst others, a large St. Bernard," is my reply--"Bathsheba, so called after Mr. Hardy"s heroine. Not that she has any of that young lady"s delicate changes and complications of character, nor is she even "almighty womanish."