Aileen Aroon, A Memoir Part 40

She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them.

No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn't have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea.

Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to "contribute to the harmony of the evening"--a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself.

"Me!" said Frank; "bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing."

But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the "Bay of Biscay" out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed s.h.i.+p, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the s.h.i.+vering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you.

He stopped at last, laughing, and--

"Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel," he said. "You must either sing or tell a story."

"My dear old sailor man," I replied, "I will sing all the evening if you don't ask me to tell a story."

"But," cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, "you've got to do _both_, dear."

There were more stories than mine told that night by the "ingleside" of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must "open out" at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic 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: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy.

"There's where you have me," Frank would say. "I am shy; there's no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I'm amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like."

I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, 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 sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the "twa dogs," and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy.

When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us.

The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, 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 and grand 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 of progression. Ida had none. _She_ was a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or b.u.t.terfly was afraid of Ida.

Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian.

Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I've often thought of this since.

Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake's side, then it was Ossian's turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel.

Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom.

There was nothing romantic about Ida's illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity.

Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succ.u.mbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end.

The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend's death. Alas! how few true friends there 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 I bade 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 I hope 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 is sufficient to say that she was Frank's dog--and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him.

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 she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed.

When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank!

When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master.

She died only a few months ago. Her owner--she, may I say, who held her in trust--brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W--she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie's breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W--was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank's dog's head and whispering, "Good-bye."

I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are 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 whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you?

Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood.

We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her grat.i.tude was invariably expressed in her looks.

There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has ever _loved_ a faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity.

The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not _if the animal had loved me and been my friend_.

Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon--poor simple Sable.

I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the 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 I had never seen the like of before pa.s.sed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him.

In his last illness, poor Nero's mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content.

I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o'clock. It was a night in bleak December, 'twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient's room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone.