Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Part 34

"But Nero's love for other animals, and his kindness for all creatures less and weaker than himself, should surely teach our poor humanity a lesson. You would think, to see him looking pityingly sometimes at a creature in pain, that he was saying with the poet--

"'Poor uncomplaining brute, Its wrongs are innocent at least, And all its sorrows mute.'

"One day, at the ferry at Hotwells, Clifton, a little black-and-tan terrier took the water after a boat and attempted to cross, but the tide ran strong, and ere it reached the centre it was being carried rapidly down stream. On the opposite bank stood Nero, eagerly watching the little one's struggles, and when he saw they were unsuccessful, with one impatient bark--which seemed to say, 'Bear up, I'm coming'--he dashed into the water, and ploughed the little terrier all the way over with his broad chest, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of an admiring crowd.

"On another occasion some boys near Manchester were sending a Dandie-Dinmont into a pond after a poor duck; the Dandie had almost succeeded in laying hold of the duck, when Nero sprang into the water, and brought out, not the duck, but the Dandie by the back of the neck.

"I saw one day a terrier fly at him and bite him viciously behind. He turned and snapped it, just once. Once was enough. The little dog sat down on the pavement and howled piteously. Nero, who had gone on, must then turn and look back, and then _go_ back _and lick the place he had bitten_.

"'I really didn't intend to hurt you so much,' he seemed to say; 'but you did provoke me, you know. There! there! don't cry.'"

"Now then, Ida, birdie, let us have one good scamper through the pine wood and meadow, and then hie for home. Come on, dogs; where are you all? Aileen, Nero, Bob, Gipsy, Eily, Broom, Gael, Coronach? Hurrah!

There's a row! There's music! That squirrel, Ida, who has been c.o.c.king up there on the oak, listening to all we've been saying, thinks he'd better be off. There isn't a bird in the wood that hasn't ceased its song, and there isn't a rabbit that hasn't gone scurrying into its hole, and I believe the deer have all jumped clean out of the forest; the hare thinks he will be safer far by the river's brink; and the sly, wily old weasel has come to the conclusion that he can wait for his dinner till the dogs go home. The only animal that doesn't run away is the field-mouse. He means to draw himself up under a burdock leaf and wait patiently till the hairy hurricane sweeps onward past him. Then he'll creep out and go nibbling round as usual. Come."

Note 1. The poet Mortimer Collins. He came into my possession shortly after his death.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

IDA'S ILLNESS--MERCY TO THE DUMB ANIMALS.

"Then craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take but none can give; Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear, and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and n.o.ble to the strong."

E. Arnold's "Light of Asia."

It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill.

Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally hovered 'twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate sh.o.r.es and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old a.s.sociations and everything dear to it.

There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida's comforts, little thought about save the child.

Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont.

Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she wagged in quite a doleful manner.

Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida's room door.

Ida's favourite cat seldom left her little mistress's bedside, and indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it.

It was winter--a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy; and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come.

"A bit of a frost would fetch her round," he said. "I'd give ten years of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground."

The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way.

But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, "It's coming, Gordon, it's coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue glitter in the sky that I like. It's coming; we'll have the snow, and we'll have Ida up again in a month."

I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread.

"I'll be right; you'll see, I'll be right," cried Frank, exultant. "I'm an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be."

Frank _was_ right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an infinity of large ones, as big as b.u.t.terflies' wings. It was a treat to gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and interminable maze.

It was beautiful!

It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with ap.r.o.n outstretched to catch the falling flakes.

Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the child.

Frank's face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder than usual, and jollier.

"There's three inches of snow on the ground already," he remarked, joyfully. "Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my boots. That's the style."

Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement--in less than a week, in fact--Ida was able to sit up in bed.

Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before.

I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved, and she would say, with tears in her eyes--

"Play, oh, play this! I do love it."

I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the gla.s.s-houses at the Manor of D--are as large as any in the country, and the owner was my friend.

I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better than to eat them.

The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely banished.

My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His presence seemed to comfort the child.

I used to write beside her.

"What is that you are writing?" she said one day.

"Nothing much," I replied; "only the introduction to a 'Penny Reading'

I'm going to give against cruelty to animals."

"Read it," said Ida; "and to-morrow, mind, you must begin and tell me stories again, and then I'm sure I shall soon get well, because whatever you describe about the fields or the woods, the birds or the flowers I can see, it is just like being among them."

I had to do as I was told, so read as follows:--

"Mercy to the Dumb Animals.

"'I would give nothing for that man's religion whose cat and dog are not the better for it.'--_Dr Norman McLeod_.