Highland cot, for Frank himself must "open out" at last, and many astrange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, otherspathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at "spinning a yarn,"as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: herequired a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount ofencouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like allsailors, he was shy.
"There's where you have me," Frank would say. "I am shy; there's nogetting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I'm amusingyou, then I could go on as long as you like."
I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at mytable, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes,and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sitsFrank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy bythe peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointingtowards the blaze, lie the "twa dogs," and Ida crouched beside them, herfair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.
When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest oldlandlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion,and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had beenlistening somewhere in the gloom behind us.
The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands wasa combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delightedwith everything, more particularly with her own little room, halfbedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF--brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty.
Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful andgrand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased.
"When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath--"
So sings Byron. Well, _he_ had some kind of training to this species ofprogression. Ida had none. _She_ was a young Highlander from the veryfirst day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract,nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid ofIda.
Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.
Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossianused to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face forminutes at a time. I've often thought of this since.
Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian wentbounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to thelake's side, then it was Ossian's turn to be jealous, for in the days ofhis youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of hisbreed excel.
Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and thegloom.
There was nothing romantic about Ida's illness and death. She sufferedbut little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just fadedaway, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barqueglided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.
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Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was oversuccumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom seesin England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstormunless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at theend.
The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than thesefew words about my dear friend's death. Alas! how few true friendsthere are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us,seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as Ibade him good-bye at my garden gate.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
THE LAST.
"Once more farewell! Once more, my friends, farewell!"
Coleridge.
I have never mentioned Frank's dog, this for the simple reason that Ihope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her.
Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too.So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it issufficient to say that she was Frank's dog--and I myself never yet sawthe dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master,whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much ofhim.
Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. She _liked_ but few. _We_were among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that shewas, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had oneaction which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have beentaught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on hisknees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast,just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain forhalf an hour at a time, if not disturbed.
When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws onthe edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remainfor an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was toFrank!
When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady whohad a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she neverforgot her master.
She died only a few months ago. Her owner--she, may I say, who held herin trust--brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. Iprescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W--she could onlynurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie's breath came veryshort and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her facethat spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W--was in the house I took theopportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank's dog'shead and whispering, "Good-bye."
I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may haveguessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, weare only too fond of calling "the lower animals."
I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief,but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto.
I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend,the Rev J.G. Wood [Note 1].
Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whoseverses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have Inot another supporter in you?
Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had solong lain dormant in her blood.
We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off untilthe very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitudewas invariably expressed in her looks.
There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did notforestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to havedone so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my otherbooks, or ask them of any one who has ever _loved_ a faithful dog, andfully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost humanamount of wisdom and sagacity.
The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling theinevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they gotold and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not _if theanimal had loved me and been my friend_.
Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he everforgot Aileen Aroon--poor simple Sable.
I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and Idid not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watchingthe movements of my man and myself.
A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there,Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that Ihad never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder,blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to lifeand him.
In his last illness, poor Nero's mattress and pillow were placed in acomfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times;and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, andhe was instantly content.
I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nineo'clock. It was a night in bleak December, 'twixt Christmas and the NewYear. When I went to the poor patient's room I could see he was justgoing, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last shortstrug
gle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes wereturned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped onmy knee, and he was gone.
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Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook,where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendronsbloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero'sgrave--a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, andnear it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, withthe words--"Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end."
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Note 1. Author of "Man and Beast." Two volumes. Messrs. Daldy andIsbister.
Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Page 59