Part 35 (2/2)
”The 'nasty sneak,' as my nephew Harry called her when he heard the story, was almost able before I could stop her to fulfil her wicked intentions. Happily, his lords.h.i.+p was unconscious of her inhospitable purpose, and when I caught her up only said: 'Poor little dog! don't trouble, Mrs. Hamilton, I am not at all nervous about dogs.'
[Ill.u.s.tration: AT THE SHOW.]
”Another time I remember taking Snap to a meeting got up to further the interests of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
”All went well till a clergyman rose and addressed the meeting, when Snap jumped up also, barking ferociously, and tried to bite him. She was carried out struggling and yelping with rage.
”'Yon tyke can't do with a parson,' is the dictum of the villagers when they see her go by with me. Snap is very faithful, very crotchety, distrusting nearly everybody, greeting every fresh acquaintance with marked suspicion, and going through life with a most exalted and ridiculous notion of her own importance, and also of that of her master and mistress.”
”Snap's dislike to the clergy reminds me,” said Colonel Hamilton, ”of a story I heard the other day from my friend Gordon, the artist: You must know that last year the county gave old Vaughan of Marshford Grange, for his services as M.F.H., a testimonial. 'Old V.,' as he is known, has the hereditary temper of all the Vaughans--in fact, might vie with 'Our Davey' of Indian fame. Gordon, as you know, was selected by the Hunt Committee to paint the picture, and he went to stay at the Grange.
”The day after his arrival he went down to breakfast, but found n.o.body there but the old squire seated at his table, and by him a favourite large lean white bull terrier.
”'Bob,' he declared, looked at him out of the corner of his evil eye, and therefore it was with some trepidation that he approached the table.
”'Swear, man, swear, or say something that he'll take for swearing,'
exclaimed his host. 'If Bob takes you for a parson he'll bite you.' The explanation of this supposed hostility on Bob's part to the clergy consisted in the known and open warfare that existed between Vaughan and his parson.
”Some forty years before, the Squire had given his best living to his best college friend, and ever since there had been internecine war as a consequence.
”Poor Gordon was that curious anomaly, an artist combined with the pink of spinsterly propriety; and he could see no humour in the incident, but always declared that he felt nervous during his visit at the Grange lest Bob's punis.h.i.+ng jaws should mistake his antecedents and profession.
”But now, Lady Constance, it is your turn, as the children say.”
”I have a very clever old dog at home,” said Lady Constance, turning to the children, ”called 'Sloe.' She was, in her youth and prime, a most valuable retriever, but now is grown too old to do much but sleep in the suns.h.i.+ne. Eddie and Molly were given some time ago two pretty young white rabbits. They looked like b.a.l.l.s of white fluff, and were the prettiest toy-like pets you can imagine. One night, unfortunately, they escaped from their protecting hutch.
”Sloe is one of those dogs that cannot resist temptation, and although she has often been whipped and scolded for ma.s.sacring rabbits, never listens to the voice of conscience. In fact, she hardly seems as if she could help doing so, and appears to think, like the naughty boy of the story, that, in spite of the beating, the fun was too great to forgo.
[Sidenote: Sloe and d.u.c.h.ess]
”Sloe is always loose, but has a kennel to sleep in at nights in the stable-yard. Opposite to her kennel is chained another dog--a retriever--'d.u.c.h.ess' by name, a lovely dog of a soft flaxen colour. This dog on this occasion, it so happened, had not yet been unchained.
”Sloe disappeared amongst the shrubberies, and found there her innocent victims. The poor little things were soon caught, and breathed their last in her ferocious jaws. When Sloe had killed them she did not care to eat them, and, strange to say, she determined not to bury them, but resolved that it should appear that the murder had been committed by her companion, and that d.u.c.h.ess should bear the blame.
”It is said that she is jealous of her companion sharing the favour of her master, and so decided upon doing her a bad turn.
”Prompted probably by this evil thought, she carried her victims one after the other into d.u.c.h.ess's kennel and left them there. The coachman, who was up betimes cleaning his harness, saw her do this. After which the old sly-boots retired to her own lair and went to sleep as if nothing had happened.”
”Did you ever owe your life to a dog?” inquired Colonel Hamilton, turning to Lady Constance.
”Oh, yes, I did once,” was her reply.
”Some years ago I was given a large dog--half bloodhound and half mastiff. To women and children he was very gentle, but he had an inveterate dislike to all men. There was nothing he would not allow a baby to do to him. It might claw his eyes, sit on his back, tap his nose, scream in his ears, and pull his hair; and 'George,' for such was his name, would sit and look at me with a sort of broad good-natured smile.
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