Aileen Aroon, A Memoir
Page 44
engaged at home turning gooseberries intojam, and had packed Ida and me off, to be out of the way, and friendFrank himself had gone that day on some kind mission or other connectedwith boys. I never saw any one more fond of boys than Frank was; I amsure he spent all his spare cash on them. He was known all over theparish as the boys' friend. If in town Frank saw a new book suitablefor a boy, it was a temptation he could not resist. If he had beenpoor, I'm certain he would have gone without his dinner in order tosecure a good book for a boy. He was constantly finding out deservinglads and getting them situations, and the day they were going to startwas a very busy one indeed for Frank. He would be up betimes in themorning, sometimes before the servants, and often before the maids camedown he would have the fire lighted, and the kettle boiling, andeverything ready for breakfast. Then he would hurry away to the boy'shome, to see he got all ready in time for the start, and that he alsohad had breakfast. He saw him to the station, gave him much kind andfatherly advice, and, probably, in the little kit that accompanied thelad, there were several comforts in the way of clothes, that wouldn'thave been there at all if friend Frank had not possessed the kindestheart that ever warmed a human breast.
I said Frank found out the _deserving_ boys; true. But he did notforget the undeserving either, and positively twice every season whatshould Frank do but get up what he called--
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"THE BAD BOYS' CRICKET MATCH."
Nobody used to play at these matches but the bad boys and theunregenerate and the ungrateful boys. And after the match was over, ifyou had peeped into the tent you would have seen Frank, his jolly faceradiant, seated at the head of a well-spread table, and all his bad boysaround him, and, had you been asked, you could not have said for certainwhether Frank looked happier than the boys, or the boys happier thanFrank.
But I've seen a really bad boy going away from home to some situation,where Frank was sending him on trial, and bidding Frank good-bye withthe big lumps of tears rolling down over cheeks and nose, and heard theboy say--
"God bless ye, sir; ye've been a deal kinder to me than my own father,and I'll try to deserve all your goodness, sir, and lead a better life."
To whom Frank would curtly reply, perhaps with a tear in his own honestblue eye--
"Don't thank me, boy--I can't stand that. There, good-bye; turn over anew leaf, and don't let me see you back for a year--only write to me.Good-bye."
And Frank's boys' letters, how he did enjoy them to be sure!
Dear Frank! he is dead and gone, else dare I not write thus about him,for a more modest man than my friend I have yet to find.
Well, Frank was away to-day on some good mission, and that is how Idaand I were alone with the dogs. Nero, by the way, was on the sick-listto some extent. Indeed, Nero never minded being put on the sick-list ifthere was nothing very serious the matter with him, because thisentailed a deal of extra petting, and innumerable tit-bits and daintiesthat would never otherwise have found the road to his appreciative maw.As to petting, the dog could put up with any amount of it; and it is afact that I have known him sham ill in order to be made much of. Once,I remember, he had hurt his leg by jumping, and long after he wasbetter, if any of us would turn about, when he was walking well enough,and say--in fun, of course--"Just look how lame that poor dear dog is!"then Nero would assume the Alexandra limp on the spot, and keep it upfor some time, unless a rat happened to run across the road, or arabbit, or a hedgehog put in an appearance--if so, he forgot all aboutthe bad leg.
"Well, birdie," I said, "to give you anything like a complete history ofthat faithful fellow you are fondling is impossible. It would take uptoo much time, because it would include the history of the last tenyears of my own life, and that would hardly be worth recording. When mypoor old Tyro died, the world, as far as dogs were concerned, seemed tome a sad blank. I have never forgotten Tyro, the dog of my studentdays, I never shall, and I am not ashamed to say that I live in hopes ofmeeting him again.
"What says Tupper about Sandy, birdie? Repeat the lines, dear, if youremember them, and then I'll tell you something about Nero."
Ida did so, in her sweet, girlish tones; and even at this moment,reader, I have only to shut my eyes, and I seem to see and hear her oncemore as she sits on that mossy bank, with her one arm around the greatNewfoundland's neck, and the summer wind playing with her bonnie hair.
"Thank you, birdie," I said, when she had finished.
"Now then," said Ida.
"I was on half-pay when I first met Nero," I began, "and for some timethe relations between us were somewhat strained, for Newfoundlands aremost faithful to old memories. The dog seemed determined not to lethimself love me or forget his old master, and I felt determined not tolove him. It seemed to me positively cruel to let any other animal finda place in my affections, with poor Tyro so recently laid in his gravein the romantic old castle of Doune. So a good month went past withoutany great show of affection on either side.
"Advancement towards a kindlier condition of feeling betwixt us tookplace first and foremost from the dog's side. He began to manifestregard for me in a somewhat strange way. His sleeping apartment was anice, clean, well-bedded out-house, but every morning he used to findhis way upstairs to my room before I was awake, and on quietly gainingan entrance, the next thing he would do was to place his two fore-pawson the bed at my shoulder, then raise himself straight up to theperpendicular.
"So when I awoke I would find, on looking up, the great dog standingthus, looming high above me, but as silent and fixed as if he had been astatue chiselled out of the blackest marble.
"At first it used to be quite startling, but I soon got used to it. Henever bent his head, but just stood there.
"`I'm here,' he seemed to say, `and you can caress me if you choose; Iwouldn't be here at all if I didn't care just a little about you.'
"But one morning, when I put up my hand and patted him, and said--`Youare a good, honest-hearted dog, I do believe,' he lowered his great headinstantly, and licked my face.
"That is how our friendship began, Ida, and from that day till this wehave never been twenty-four hours parted--by sea or on land he has beenmy constant companion.
"He was very young when I first got him, and had only newly beenimported, but he was even then quite as big as he is now.
"The ice being broken, as I might say, affection both on his side and onmine grew very fast; but what cemented our friendship infrangibly was aterrible illness that the poor fellow contracted some months after I gothim.
"He began to get very thin, to look pinched about the face, and wearyabout the eyes, his coat felt harsh and dry, and his appetite went awayentirely.
"He used to look up wistfully in my face, as if wanting me to tell himwhat could possibly be the matter with him.
"The poor dog was sickening for distemper.
"All highly-bred dogs take this dreadful illness in its very worst form.
"I am not going to describe the animal's sufferings, nor any part ofthem; they were very great, however, and the patience with which he borethem all would have put many a human invalid to shame. He soon came toknow that I was doing all I could to save him, and that, nauseous thoughthe medicines were he had to take, they were meant to do him good, andat last he would lick his physic out of the spoon, although so weak thathis head had to be supported while he was doing so.
"One night, I remember, he was so very ill that I thought it wasimpossible he could live till morning, and I remember also sorrowfullywondering where I should lay his great body when dead, for we lived thenin the midst of a great, bustling, busy city. But the fever had doneits worst, and morning saw him not only alive, but slightly better.
"I was on what we sailors call a spell of half-pay, so I had plenty oftime to attend to him--no other cares then, Ida. I did all my skillcould suggest to get him over the after effects of the distemper, andsoon had the satisfaction of seeing him one of the most sple
ndidNewfoundlands that had ever been known in the country, with a coat thatrivalled the raven's wing in darkness and sheen.
"The dog loved me now with all his big heart--for a Newfoundland is oneof the most grateful animals that lives--and if the truth must be told,I already loved the dog.
"Nero was bigger then, Ida, than he is now."
"Is that possible?" said Ida.
"It is; for, you see, he is getting old."
"But dogs don't stoop like old men," laughed Ida.
"No," I replied, "not quite; but the joints bend more, the fore and hindfeet are lengthened, and that, in a large dog like a Saint Bernard orNewfoundland, makes a difference of an inch or two at the shoulder. Butwhen Nero was in his prime he could easily place his paws on theshoulder of a tall