Chapter Three.
Containing the Story of One of Aileen’s Friends

“The straw-thatched cottage, or the desert air,
To him’s a palace if his master’s there.”

Just eighteen months after the events mentioned in last chapter, as novelists say, things took a turn for the better, and we retired a little farther into the country into a larger house. A bigger house, though certainly not a mansion; but here are gardens and lawn and paddock, kennels for dogs, home for cats, and aviaries for birds, many a shady nook in which to hang a hammock in the summer months, and a garden wigwam, which makes a cool study even in hot weather, bedraped as it is in evergreens, and looks a cosy wee room in winter, when the fire is lighted and the curtains are drawn. “Ah! Gordon,” dear old Frank used to say – and there was probably a grain of truth in the remark – “there is something about the quiet contented life you lead in your cottage, with its pleasant surroundings, that reminds me forcibly of the idyllic existence of your favourite bard, Horace, in his home by the banks of the Anio.

“‘Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
    Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Patenta rure bubus exercet suis
    Solutus omni fenore,
Neque excitatur classico miles truci
    Neque horret iratum mare.’”

“True, Frank,” I replied, “at sea I often thought I would dearly love a country life. My ambition – and I believe I represent quite a large majority of my class – used to be, that one day I might be able to retire on a comfortable allowance – half-pay, for instance – take a house with a morsel of land, and keep a cow and a pony, and go in for rearing poultry, fruit, and all that sort of thing. Such was my dream.

“There were six of us in our mess in the saucy little ‘Pen-gun.’

“It was hot out there on the East Coast of Africa, where we were stationed, and we did our best to make it hotter – for the dhows which we captured, at all events, because we burned them. Nearly all day, and every day, we were in chase, mostly of slave dhows, but sometimes of jolly three-masters.

“Away out in the broad channel of the blue Mozambique, with never a cloud in the sky, nor a ripple on the ocean’s breast, tearing along at the rate of twelve knots an hour, with the chase two miles ahead, and happy in the thoughts of quite a haul of prize-money, it wasn’t half bad fun, I can assure you. Then we could whistle ‘A sailor’s life is the life for me,’ and feel the mariner all over.

“But, when the chase turned out to be no prize, but only a legitimate trader, when the night closed in dark and stormy, with a roaring wind and a chopping sea, then, it must be confessed, things did not look quite so much couleur de rose, dot a mariner’s life so merry-o!

“On nights like these, when the fiddles were shipped across the table to keep things straight – for a lively lass was the saucy ‘Pen-gun,’ and thought no more of breaking half-a-dozen wine-glasses, than she did of going stem first in under a wave she was too lazy to mount – when the fiddles were shipped, when we had wedged ourselves into all sorts of corners, so as we shouldn’t slip about and fall, when the steward had brought the coffee and the biscuits called ships’, then it was our wont to sit and sip and talk and build our castles in the air.

“‘It’s all very fine,’ one of us would say, ‘to talk of the pleasures of a sailor’s life, it’s all very well in songs; but, if I could only get on shore now, on retired pay – ’

“‘Why, what would you do?’ – a chorus.

“‘Why, go in for the wine trade like a shot,’ from the first speaker. ‘That’s the way to make money. Derogatory, is it? Well, I don’t see it; I’d take to tea – ’

“Chorus again: ‘Oh! come, I say!’

“Some one, more seriously and thoughtfully: ‘No; but wouldn’t you like to be a farmer?’ The ship kicks, a green sea breaks over her. We are used to it, but don’t like it, even although we do take the cigars from our lips, as we complacently view the water pouring down the hatchway and rising around our chairs’ legs.

“‘A farmer, you know, somewhere in the midland counties; green fields and lowing kine; a nice stream, meandering – no not meandering, but —

“‘Chattering over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
Bubbling into eddying bays.
Babbling o’er the pebbles;
Winding about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.’

“‘Yes,’ from another fellow, ‘and of course a comfortable house of solid English masonry, and hounds not very far off, so as one could cut away to a hunt whenever he liked.’

“‘And of course balls and parties, and a good dinner every day.’

“‘And picnics often, and the seaside in season, and shooting all the year round.’

“‘And I’d go in for bees.’

“‘Oh! yes, I think every fellow would go in for bees.’

“‘And have a field of Scottish heather planted on purpose for them: fancy how nice that would look in summer!’

“‘And I’d have a rose garden.’

“‘Certainly; nothing could be done without a rose garden.’

“‘Then one could go in for poultry, and grow one’s own eggs.’

“‘Hear the fellow! – fancy growing eggs!’

“‘Well, lay them, then – it’s all the same. I’m not so green as to imagine eggs grow on trees.’

“‘And think of the fruit one might have.’

“‘And the mushroom beds.’

“‘And brew one’s own beer and cider.’

“‘And of course one could go in for dogs.’

“‘Oh! la! yes – have them all about the place. Elegant Irish setters, dainty greyhounds, cobby wee fox-terriers, a noble Newfoundland or two, and a princely bloodhound at each side of the hall-door.’

“‘That’s the style!’

“‘Now, give us a song, Pelham!’

“‘What shall it be – Dibdin?’

“‘No, Pelham, give us, “Sweet Jessie, the Flower o’ Dumblane,” or something in that style. Let us fancy we are farmers. Doesn’t she pitch and roll, though! Dibdin and Russell are all very well on shore, or sitting under an awning in fine weather when homeward bound. We’re not homeward bound – worse luck! – so heave round with the “Flower o’ Dumblane.”’

“My dream has in some measure been fulfilled, my good friend Frank; I can sit now under my own vine and my own fig-tree, but still look back with a certain degree of pleasure to many a night spent on board that heaving, pitching, saucy, wee ship.”

Our new home nestles among trees not far from a very primitive wee town indeed. We have only to descend along the hill-side through the pine-trees, wind some way round the knoll, and there at our feet lies our village – Fernydale, to wit. It might just as well be called Sleepy Hollow, such a dreamy little spot it is. Not very far from a great line of rails – just far enough to subdue the roar of the trains, that night and day go whirling past in a drowsy monotone, like the distant sound of falling water. Everything and everybody about our little village looks quiet and drowsy; the little church itself, that nestles among the wealth of foliage, looks the picture of drowsiness, and the very smoke seems as if it preferred lingering in Fernydale to ascending upwards and joining the clouds. We have a mill here – oh! such a drowsy old mill! No one was ever known to be able to pass that mill without nodding. Intoxicated lieges, who have lain down to rest opposite that mill, have been known to sleep the sleep that knows no waking; and if at any time you stop your horse for a moment on the road, while you talk to the miller, the animal soon begins to nod; and he nods, and nods, and nid-nid-nods, and finally goes to sleep entirely, and it takes no end of trouble to start him off again.

Our very birds are drowsy. The larks don’t care to sing a bit more than suffices for conjugal felicity, and the starlings are constantly tumbling down our bedroom chimney, and making such a row that we think the burglars have come.

The bees are drowsy; they don’t gather honey with any degree of activity; they don’t seem to care whether they gather it or not. They are often too lazy to fly back to hive, and don’t go home till morning; and if you were to take a walk along our road at early dawn – say 11:45 a.m. – you would often find these bees sitting limp-winged and half asleep on fragrant thistle-tops, and if you poked at them with a stalk of hay, and tried to reason with them, they would just lift one lazy fore-leg and beckon you off, as much as to say, peevishly —

“Oh! what was I born for? Can’t you leave a poor fellow alone? What do ye come pottering around here at midnight for?”

Such is the hum-drum drowsiness of little Fernydale.

But bonny is our cottage in spring and summer, when the pink-eyed chestnuts are all ablaze at the foot of the lawn, when flowers bloom white on the scented rowans, when the yellow gorse on the knoll beyond glints through the green of the trees, when the merlin sings among the drooping limes, and the croodling pigeons make soft-eyed love on the eaves; and there is beauty about it, too, even in winter, when the world is robed in snow, when the leafless branches point to leaden skies, and the robin, tired of his sweet little song, taps on the panes with his tiny bill, for the crumbs he has never to ask for in vain.

It was one winter’s evening in the year eighteen hundred and seventy something, that Frank stood holding our parlour-door in his hand, while he gazed with a pleased smile at the group around the fire. It wasn’t a large group. There were Dot and Ida knitting: and my humble self sitting, book in hand and pipe in mouth. Then there were the Newfoundland dogs on the hearth, and pussy singing on the footstool, singing a duet with the kettle on the hob. And I must not forget to mention “Poll,” the parrot. Nobody knew how old Polly was, but with her extreme wisdom you couldn’t help associating age. She didn’t speak much at a time; like many another sage, she went in for being laconic, pithy, and to the point. I think, however, that some day or other Polly will tell us quite a long story, for she often clears her throat and says, “Now,” in quite an emphatic manner; then she cocks her head, and says “Are you listening?”

“We are all attention, Polly,” we reply. So Polly begins again with her decided “Now;” but up to this date she has not succeeded in advancing one single sentence farther towards the completion of her story.

Well, upon the winter’s evening in question Frank stood there, holding the door and smiling to himself, and any one could see at a glance that Frank was pregnant with an idea.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Frank, “that there is nothing needed to complete the happiness of the delightful evenings we spend here, except a story-teller.”

“No one better able than yourself, Frank, to fill the post,” I remarked.

“Well, now,” said Frank, “for that piece of arrant flattery, I fine you a story.”

“Read us that little sketch about ‘Dandie,’” my wife said.

“Yes, do,” cried Ida, looking up from her work.

If a man is asked to do anything like this he ought to do it heartily.

Dandie, I may premise, is, or rather was, a contemporary of Aileen Aroon.

Our Dandie

A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, nice close hanging ears, hair as strong and rough as the brush you use for your hair, and a face – well, some say it is ugly; I myself, and all my friends, think it is most engaging. To be sure, it is partially hidden with bonnie soft locks of an ambery or golden hue; but push those locks aside, and you will see nothing in those beautiful dark hazel eyes but love and fun. For Dandie is fall of fun. Oh! doesn’t she enjoy a run out with the children! On the road she goes feathering, here, there, and everywhere. Her legs are hardly straight, you must understand – the legs of very few Dandies are, for they are so accustomed to go down drains, and all sorts of holes, and go scraping here, and scraping there, that their feet and fore-legs turn at last something like a mole’s.

Dandie wasn’t always the gentle loving creature she is now, and this is the reason I am writing her story. Here, then, is how I came by Dandie.

I was sitting in my study one morning, writing as usual, when a carriage stopped at the door, and presently a friend was announced.

“Why, Dawson, my boy!” I cried, getting up to greet him, “what wind blew you all the way here?”

“Not a good one, by any means,” said Dawson; “I came to see you.”

“Well, well, sit down, and tell me all about it. I sincerely hope Miss Hall is well.”

“Well! yes,” he replied abstractedly. “I think I’ve done all for the best; though that policeman nearly had her. But she left her mark on him. Ha! ha!”

I began to think my friend was going out of his mind.

“Dawson,” I said, “what have you done with her?”

“She’s outside in the carriage,” replied Dawson.

I jumped up to ring the bell, saying, “Why, Dawson, pray have the young lady in. It is cruel to leave her by herself.”

Dawson jumped up too, and placing his hand on my arm, prevented me from touching the bell-rope.

“Nay, nay!” he cried, almost wildly, I thought; “pray do not think of it. She would bite you, tear you, rend you. Oh, she is a vixen!” This last word he pronounced with great emphasis, and sinking once more into the chair, and gazing abstractedly at the fire, he added, “And still I love her, good little thing!”

I now felt quite sorry for Dawson. A moment ago I merely thought he was out of his mind, now I felt perfectly sure of it.

There was a few minutes’ silence; and then suddenly my friend rushed to the window, exclaiming —

“There, there! She’s at it again! She has got the cabby by the coat-tails, and she’ll eat her way through him in five minutes, if I don’t go.”

And out he ran; and I followed, more mystified than ever; and there in the carriage was no young lady at all, but only the dear little Dandie whose story I am writing. She was most earnestly engaged in tearing the driver’s blue coat into the narrowest strips, and growling all the while most vigorously.

She quieted down, however, immediately on perceiving her master, jumped into his arms, and began to lick his face.

So the mystery was cleared up; and half an hour afterwards I was persuaded to become the owner of that savage Dandie, and Dawson had kissed her, and left lighter in heart than when he had come.

I set aside one of the best barrel kennels for her, had a quantity of nice dry straw placed therein, and gave her two dishes, one to be filled daily with pure clean water – without which, remember, no dog can be healthy – and the other to hold her food.

Now, I am not afraid of any dog. I have owned many scores in my time, and by treating them gently and firmly, I always managed to subdue even the most vicious among them, and get them to love me. But I must confess that this Dandie was the most savage animal that I had ever yet met.

When I went to take her dish away next morning, to wash and replenish it, only my own celerity in beating a retreat prevented my legs from being viciously bitten. I then endeavoured to remove the dish with the stable besom. Alas for the besom! Howling and growling with passion, with scintillating eyes and flashing teeth, she tore that broom to atoms, and then attacked the handle. But I succeeded in feeding her, after which she was quieter.

Now, dogs, to keep them in health, need daily exercise, and I determined Dandie should not want that, wild though she seemed to be. There was another scene when I went to unloose her; and I found the only chance of doing so was to treat her as they do wild bulls in some parts of the country. I got a hook and attached it to the end of a pole the same length as the chain. I could then keep her at a safe distance. And thus for a whole week I had to lead her out for exercise. I lost no opportunity of making friends with her, and in about a fortnight’s time I could both take her dish away without a broom and lead her out without the pole.

She was still the vixen, however, which her former master had called her. When she was presented with a biscuit, she wouldn’t think of eating it, before she had had her own peculiar game with it. She would lay it first against the back of the barrel, and for a time pretend not to see it, then suddenly she would look round, next fly at it, growling and yelping with rage, and shake it as she would a rat. Into such a perfect fury and frenzy did she work herself during her battle with the biscuit, that sometimes on hearing her chain rattle she would turn round and seize and shake it viciously. I have often, too, at these times seen her bite her tail because it dared to wag – bite it till the blood sprang, then with a howl of pain bite and bite it again and again. At last I made up my mind to feed her only on soil food, and that resolution I have since stuck to.

Poor Dandie had now been with us many months, and upon the whole her life, being almost constantly on the chain, was by no means a very happy one. Her hair, too, got matted, and she looked altogether morose and dirty, and it was then that the thought occurred to my wife and me that she would be much better dead. I considered the matter in all its bearings for fully half an hour, and it was then I suddenly jumped up from my chair.

“What are you going to do?” asked my wife.

“I’m going to wash Dandie; wash her, comb out all her mats, dry her, and brush her, for, do you know, I feel quite guilty in having neglected her.”

My wife, in terror of the consequences of washing so vicious a dog, tried to dissuade me. But my mind was made up, and shortly after so was Dandie’s bed – of clean dry straw in a warm loft above the stable. “Firmly and kindly does it,” I had said to myself, as I seized the vixen by the nape of the neck, and in spite of her efforts to rend any part of my person she could lay hold of, I popped her into the tub.

Vixen, did I say? She was popped into the tub a vixen, sure enough, but I soon found out I had “tamed the shrew,” and after she was rinsed in cold water, well dried, combed, and brushed, the poor little thing jumped on my knee and kissed me. Then I took her for a run – a thing one ought never to neglect after washing a dog. And you wouldn’t have known Dandie now, so beautiful did she look.

Dandie is still alive, and lies at my feet as I write, a living example of the power of kindness. She loves us all, and will let my sister, wife, or little niece do anything with her, but she is still most viciously savage to nearly all strangers. She is the best guard-dog that I ever possessed, and a terror to tramps. She is very wise too, this Dandie of mine, for when out walking with any one of my relations, she is as gentle as a lamb, and will let anybody fondle her. She may thus be taken along with us with impunity when making calls upon friends, but very few indeed of those friends dare go near her when in her own garden or kennel. We have been well rewarded for our kindness to Dandie, for although her usual residence by day is her own barrel, and by night she has a share of the straw with the other dogs, she is often taken into the house, and in spite of our residence being in a somewhat lonely situation, whenever I go from home for the night she becomes a parlour boarder, and I feel quite easy in my mind because Dandie is in the house.

“Well,” said Frank, when I had finished, “if that little story proves anything, it proves, I think, that almost any dog can be won by kindness.”

“Or any animal of almost any kind,” I added.

“Ah!” cried Frank, laughing, “but you failed with your hyaena. Didn’t you?”

“Gratitude,” I replied, smiling, “does not occupy a very large corner in a hyaena’s heart, Frank.”