Part 36 (1/2)
”One year we all went up to a shooting-lodge in Perths.h.i.+re. In the paddock before the house there was a bull. I complained of our neighbour, for I thought he had an evil eye, and might some day do the children some mischief.
”Our landlord, however, would not listen to my complaints.
”'Dinna ye fash yersel,' Geordie,' he said to his herdsman, 'or take notice of what the women-folk say. It is a douce baistie, and he'll nae harm bairns nor doggies.'
”In spite of this, one afternoon I had occasion to cross the meadow, when suddenly I turned round and saw the bull running behind me. He bellowed fiercely as he advanced.
”Happily, when he charged I was able to spring aside, and so he pa.s.sed me. But I saw that the wall at the end of the field was several hundreds yards off, and I felt, if the bull turned again to pursue me, my life would not be worth much.
”Then I saw my faithful George standing sullenly beside me, all his 'hackles' up, and waiting for the enemy with an ominous growl.
”The bull again turned, but my dog met him, and something of the inherited mastiff love of feats in the bull-ring must have awoke within him, for when the bull came after me the old dog flew at his nose, courageously worried him, and fairly ended by routing him. In the meantime I slipped over the loose stone wall, and ran and opened the gate at the bottom of the field, through which trotted a few minutes later my protector.
”I told my story when I returned to the house, and the keeper promised me that he would speak to the bailiff at our landlord's farm and have the bull taken away on the following day.
”Now, the gra.s.s of the paddock being particularly tender and sweet, it was the custom for the 'hill ponies' to graze at night in company with the cows and the bull. The horses and cattle had hitherto done so, without causing any damage to each other; but the morning after my adventure one of the ponies was found gored to death, and an old cart-mare who had been running there with a foal was discovered to be so terribly injured that she had to be shot. It was noticed that the bull's horns were crimson with blood, so there could be no doubt who was the delinquent.
”'The more you know of a bull, the less faith you can put in one,' said our old cowherd to me one day when I recounted to him in Yorks.h.i.+re my escape; 'and, saving your ladys.h.i.+p's presence,' he added, 'bulls are as given to tantrums as young females.'
[Sidenote: George's Tricks]
”When George was young we tried to teach him some tricks,” continued Lady Constance, ”but, like a village boy, he 'was hard to learn;' and the only accomplishment he ever acquired was, during meals, to stand up and plant his front paws upon our shoulders, look over into our plates, and receive as a reward some t.i.t-bit. Sometimes he would do this without any warning, and he seemed to derive a malicious pleasure in performing these antics upon the shoulders of some nervous lady, or upon some guest who did not share with us our canine love.”
It had now come to my turn to contribute a story, and in answer to the children's appeal I told them that I would tell them all that I could remember of my old favourite mastiff, ”Rory Bean,” so-called after the Laird of Dumbiedike's pony in the ”Heart of Midlothian.”
”Rory was a very large fawn mastiff, with the orthodox black mask. I remember my little girl, when she was younger, having once been told that she must not go downstairs to her G.o.dmamma with a dirty face, resolved that if this was the case Rory must have a clean face too.
”So the next day, on entering the nursery, I found she had got some soap and water in a basin, and beside her I saw the great kindly beast, sitting up on her haunches, patiently waiting whilst her face was being washed; but in spite of all the child's efforts the nose remained as black as ever. My little girl's verdict, 'that mastiffs is the best nursery dogs,' was for a long time a joke amongst our friends.
”For several years we took Rory up to London, but her stay there was always rather a sad one, for when out walking the crossings in the streets were a great source of terror to her. No maiden-aunt could have been more timid. She would never go over by herself, but would either bound forward violently or else hang back, and nearly pull over her guide. She had also a spinsterly objection to hansoms, and never would consent to be driven in one. On the other hand, she delighted in a drive in a 'growler,' and, if the driver were cleaning out his carriage, would often jump in and refuse to be taken out.
”When Rory followed us in London she had a foolish habit of wis.h.i.+ng to seem independent of all restraint, and of desiring to appear 'a gentleman at large.'
”On one unfortunate occasion, whilst indulging in this propensity, she was knocked over by a hansom--not badly hurt, but terribly overcome by a sense of the wickedness of the world, where such things could be possible.
”The accident happened in Dover Street. Rory had strayed into the gutter after some tempting morsel she had espied there, and a das.h.i.+ng hansom had bowled her over. She lay yelping and howling and pitying herself intensely. My companion and I succeeded in dragging her into a baker's shop, where she was shown every kindness and consideration, and then we drove home in a four-wheeler. Rory was not much hurt, but for many days could hardly be induced to walk in the streets again. She seemed to be permeated with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all things, and never appeared able to recover from her surprise that she, 'Rory Bean,' a mastiff of most ancient lineage and of the bluest blood, should not be able to walk about in safety wherever she pleased--even in the streets of the metropolis.
[Sidenote: Lost in London]
”I recollect we once lost her in London. She made her escape out of the house whilst we had gone for a ride in the park. When we returned from our ride, instead of hearing her joyous bark of welcome, and seeing her flop down in her excitement the last four steps of the staircase, as was her wont, we were met instead by the anxious face of the butler, who told us Rory had run out and could not be found.
”Fortunately, we were not dining out that night, and so, as quickly as possible, we sallied forth in different directions to find her. The police were communicated with, and a letter duly written to the manager of the Dogs' Home at Battersea, whilst my husband and I spent the evening in wandering from police-station to police-station, giving descriptions of the missing favourite.
”Large fawn mastiff, answers to the name of 'Rory Bean,' black face and perfectly gentle. I got quite wearied out in giving over and over again the same account. However, to cut a long story short, she was at last discovered by the butler, who heard her frantic baying a mile off in the centre of Hyde Park, and brought her back, and so ended Rory Bean's last season in London.
”A few days before this escapade I took out Rory in one of the few squares where dogs are still allowed to accompany their masters. Bean had a nave way, when bored, of inviting you or any casual pa.s.ser-by that she might chance to see, to a good game of romps with her. Her method was very simple. She would run round barking, but her voice was very deep, as of a voice in some subterranean cavern; and with strangers this did not invariably awaken on their side a joyous reciprocity.
Somehow, big dogs always ignore their size.
”They have a confirmed habit of creeping under tiny tables, and hanker after squeezing themselves through impossible gaps. Being, as a rule, quite innocent of all desire to injure any member of the human race, they cannot realise that it is possible that they in their turn can frighten anybody.