Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Part 21

I didn't know what they all meant then, but I do now, for, mind you, I will soon be twenty years of age. But I got great fun on that table. I tried the gold rings on my nose, and the earrings on my toes, and I knocked off the lid of a powder-box, and scattered the crimson contents all abroad. Then I had a fearful battle with a puff which I unearthed from another box. During the fight a bottle of ylang-ylang went down.

I didn't care a bit. Crash went a bottle of flower-water next. I regarded it not. I fought the puff till it took refuge on the floor.

Then I paused, wondering what I should do next, when behold! right in front of me and looking through a square of gla.s.s, and apparently wondering what _it_ should do next, was the ugliest little wretch of a kitten ever you saw in your life--I marched up to it as brave as a b.u.t.ton, and it had the audacity to come and meet me.

"'You ugly, deformed little thing,' I cried, 'what do you want in my lady's room?'

"'The same to you,' it seemed to say, 'and many of them.'

"'For two pins,' I continued, 'I would scratch your nasty little eyes out--yah--fuss-s!'

"'Yah--fuss-s!' replied the foe, lifting its left paw as I lifted my right.

"This was too much. I crept round the corner to give her a cuff. She wasn't there! I came back, and there she was as brazen as ever. I tried this game on several times, but couldn't catch her. 'Then,' says I, 'you'll catch it where you stand, in spite of the pane of gla.s.s!'

"I struck straight from the shoulder, and with a will too. Down went the gla.s.s, and I found I had been fighting all the time with my own reflection. Funny, wasn't it?

"When mistress came home there was such a row. But she was sensible, and didn't beat me. She took me upstairs, and showed me what I had done, and looked so vexed that I was sorry too. 'It is my own fault, though,' she said; 'I ought to have shut the door.'

"She presented me with a looking-gla.s.s soon after this, and it is quite surprising how my opinion of that strange kitten in the mirror altered after that. I thought now I had never seen such a lovely thing, and I was never tired looking at it. No more I had. But first impressions _are_ so erroneous, you know.

"My dear mother is dead and gone years ago--of course, considering my age, you won't marvel at that; and my young mistress is married long, long ago, and has a grown family, who are all as kind as kind can be to old Tom, as they facetiously call me. And so they were to my mother, who, I may tell you, was only three days in her last illness, and gave up the ghost on a file of old newspapers (than which nothing makes a better bed), and is buried under the old pear-tree.

"Dear me, how often I have wondered how other poor cats who have neither kind master nor mistress manage to live. But, the poor creatures, they are so ignorant--badly-bred, you know. Why, only the other day the young master brought home a poor little cat he had found starving in the street. Well, I never in all my life saw such an ill-mannered, rude little wretch, for no sooner had it got itself stuffed with the best fare in the house, than it made a deliberate attempt to steal the canary. There was grat.i.tude for you! Now, mind, I don't say that _I_ shouldn't like to eat the canary, but I never have taken our own birds-- no--always the neighbours'. I did, just once, fly at our own canary's cage when I was quite a wee cat, but I didn't know any better. And what do you think my mistress did? Why, she took the bird out of the cage and popped me in; and there I was, all day long, a prisoner, with nothing for dinner but seeds and water, and the canary flying about the room and doing what it liked, even helping itself to my milk. I never forgot that.

"Some cats, you know, are arrant thieves, and I don't wonder at it, the way they are kicked and cuffed about, put out all night, and never offered food or water. I would steal myself if I were used like that, wouldn't you, madam? But I have my two meals a day, regularly; and I have a nice double saucer, which stands beside my mirror, and one end contains nice milk and the other clean water, and I don't know which I like the best. When I am downright thirsty, the water is so nice; but at times I am hungry and thirsty both, if you can understand me--then I drink the milk. At times I am allowed to sit on the table when my mistress is at breakfast, and I often put out my paw, ever so gently, and help myself to a morsel from her plate; but I wouldn't do it when she isn't looking. The other day I took a fancy to a nice smelt, and I just went and told my mistress and led her to the kitchen, and I got what I wanted at once.

"I am never put out at night. I have always the softest and warmest of beds, and in winter, towards morning, when the fire goes out, I go upstairs and creep (singing loudly to let her know it is I) into my mistress's arms.

"If I want to go on the tiles any night, I have only to ask. A fellow does want to go on the tiles now and then, doesn't he? Oh, it is a jolly thing, is a night on the tiles! One of these days I may give you my experience of life on the tiles, and then you'll know all about it-- in the meantime, madam, you may try it yourself. Let it be moonlight, and be cautious, you know, for, as you have only two feet, you will feel rather awkward at first.

"Did I ever know what it was to be hungry? Yes, indeed, once I did; and I'm now going to tell you of the saddest experience in all my long life.

You see it happened like this. It was autumn; I was then about five years of age, and a finer-looking Tom, I could see by my mirror, never trod on four legs. For some days I had observed an unusual bustle both upstairs and downstairs. The servants, especially, seemed all off their heads, and did nothing but open doors and shut them, and nail up things in large boxes, and drink beer and eat cold meat whenever they stood on end. What was up, I wondered? Went and asked my mistress. 'Off to the seaside, p.u.s.s.y Tom,' said she; 'and you're going too, if you're good.'

I determined to be good, and not make faces at the canary. But one night I had been out rather late at a cat-concert, and, as usual, came home with the milk in the morning. In order to make sure of a good sleep I went upstairs to an unused attic, as was my wont, and fell asleep on an old pillow. How long I slept I shall never know, but it must have been far on in the day when I awoke, feeling hungry enough to eat a hunter. As I trotted downstairs the first thing that alarmed me was the unusual stillness. I mewed, and a thousand echoes seemed to mock me. The ticking of the old clock on the stairs had never sounded to me so loud and clear before. I went, one by one, into every room.

Nothing in any of them but the stillness, apparently, of death and desolation. The blinds were all down, and I could even hear the mice nibbling behind the wainscot.

"My heart felt like a great cold lump of lead, as the sad truth flashed upon my mind--my kind mistress had gone, with all the family, and I was left, forgotten, deserted! My first endeavour was to find my way out.

Had I succeeded, even then I would have found my mistress, for cats have an instinct you little wot of. But every door and window was fastened, and there wasn't a hole left which a rat could have crept through.

"What nights and days of misery followed!--it makes me shudder to think of them even now.

"For the first few days I did not suffer much from hunger. There were crumbs left by the servants, and occasionally a mouse crept out from the kitchen fender, and I had that. But by the fifth day the crumbs had all gone, and with them the mice, too, had disappeared. They nibbled no more in the cupboard nor behind the wainscot; and as the clock had run down there wasn't a sound in the old house by night or by day. I now began to suffer both from hunger and thirst. I spent my time either mewing piteously at the hall-door, or roaming purposelessly through the empty house, or watching, watching, faint and wearily, for the mice that never came. Perhaps the most bitter part of my sufferings just then was the thought that would keep obtruding itself on my mind, that for all the love with which I had loved my mistress, and the faithfulness with which I had served her, she had gone away, and left, me to die all alone in the deserted house. Me, too, who would have laid down my life to please her had she only stayed near me.

"How slowly the time dragged on--how long and dreary the days, how terrible the nights! Perhaps it was when I was at my very worst, that I happened to be standing close by my empty saucer, and in front of my mirror. At that time I was almost too weak to walk; I tottered on my feet, and my head swam and moved from side to side when I tried to look at anything. Suddenly I started. Could that wild, attenuated image in the mirror be my reflection? How it glared upon me from its gla.s.sy eyes! And now I knew it could not be mine, but some dreadful thing sent to torture me. For as I gazed it uttered a yell--mournful, prolonged, unearthly--and dashed at me through and out from the mirror. For some time we seemed to writhe together in agony on the carpet. Then up again we started, the mirror-fiend and I. 'Follow me fast!' it seemed to cry, and I was impelled to follow. Wherever it was, there was I. How it tore up and down the house, yelling as it went and tearing everything in its way! How it rushed half up the chimney, and was dashed back again by invisible hands! How it flung itself, half blind and bleeding, at the Venetian blinds, and how madly it tried again to escape into the mirror and shivered the gla.s.s! Then mills began in my head--mills and machinery--and the roar of running waters. Then I found myself walking all alone in a green and beautiful meadow, with a blue sky overhead and birds and b.u.t.terflies all about, a cool breeze fanning my brow, and, better than all, _water_, pure, and clear, and cool, meandering over brown smooth pebbles, beside which the minnows chased the sunbeams. And I drank--and slept.

"When I awoke, I found myself lying on the mat in the hall, and the sunlight shimmering in through the stained gla.s.s, and falling in patches of green and crimson on the floor. Very cold now, but quiet and sensible. There was a large hole in my side, and blood was all about, so I must have, in my delirium, _torn the flesh from my own ribs and devoured it_. [Note 1.]

"I knew now that death was come, and would set me free at last.

"Then the noise of wheels in my ears, and the sound of human voices; then a blank; and then some one pouring something down my throat; and I opened my eyes and beheld my dear young mistress. How she was weeping!

The sight of her sorrow would have melted your heart. 'Oh, p.u.s.s.y, p.u.s.s.y, do not die!' she was crying.

"p.u.s.s.y didn't die; but till this day I believe it was only to please my dear mistress I crept back again to life and love.

"I'm very old now, and my thoughts dwell mostly in the past, and I like a cheery fire and a drop of warm milk better than ever. But I have all my faculties and all my comforts. We have other cats in the house, but I never feel jealous, for my mistress, look you, loves me better than all the cats in the kingdom--fact--she told me so."

Note 1. Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh.--The Author.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"GREYFRIARS' BOBBY"--"PEPPER"--THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG.

"Alas! for love if this were all, And nought beyond on earth."

"A good story cannot be too often told," said Frank one evening.

"Well, I doubt that very much," said my wife; "there is a probability of a good story being spoiled by over-recital."

"I'm of the same opinion," I a.s.sented; "but as I intend the story of 'Greyfriars' Bobby' to be printed in my next book, I will just read it over to you as I have written it."

I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby's antecedents, and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted the kindly notice of the good and n.o.ble William Chambers, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so much desired.

What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago, runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who the stranger was, or whence he came.

The following account of Bobby is culled from the _Animal World_ of the second of May, 1870:--

"It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:--More than eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time, and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well, and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls, being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a handsome collar, with bra.s.s nails, and an inscription:--'Greyfriars'

Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.' He has long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as the procession solemnly pa.s.ses, who shall say that the ceremony enacted over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and impressive tones which consigned his master's body to ashes and dust.

All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby, trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their tombs a living monument of honour like this!--testifying through long years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in marble (the work of men's hands), but in the flesh and blood of _a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust_--in the devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly he gravitates to one yard of earth only--in the determination of a sentinel _who means to die at his post_.

"I hear they say 'tis very lung That years hae come and gane, Sin' first they put my maister here, An' grat an' left him lane.

I could na, an' I did na gang, For a' they vexed me sair, An' said sae bauld that they nor Should ever see him mair.

"I ken he's near me a' the while, An' I will see him yet; For a' my life he tended me.

An' noo he'll not forget.

Some blithesome day I'll hear his step; There'll be nae kindred near; For a' they grat, they gaed awa',-- But he shall find _me_ here.

"Is time sae lang?--I dinna mind; Is't cauld?--I canna feel; He's near me, and he'll come to me, An' sae 'tis very weel.

I thank ye a' that are sae kind, As feed an' mak me braw; Ye're unco gude, but ye're no _him_-- Ye'll no wile me awa'.

"I'll bide an' hope!--Do ye the same; For ance I heard that ye Had ay a Master that ye loo'd, An' yet ye might na see; A Master, too, that car'd for ye, (O, sure ye winna flee!) That's wearying to see ye noo--.

Ye'll no be waur than me?"

In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted, viz, "a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who means to die at his post." These words were in a sense prophetic, for Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master's remains lie buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows.

The following interesting letter is from Bobby's guardian, Mr Trail, of Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I take in publishing it _in extenso_:--

"In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars concerning the little dog:--"