Part 9

First of all it is necessary to explain that, on the night of my story, there were very few gentlemen in camp. The Commander-in-Chief wished to visit a military station close by, but did not think it necessary to move the whole encampment thither, especially as there were difficulties about water; so the tents were pitched in a favourable spot, and in the afternoon His Excellency, with most of the officers at the head of departments, rode over to dine and sleep at the neighbouring fort, intending to make their inspection early the following morning, and join the camp during its march to the next ‘ground’—all of which plan was successfully carried out; but it is of what befell me during the night that I must tell you.

You will remember there were only four ladies in camp, and, as it happened, each of us was bereft of her husband by this arrangement about the fort. We agreed to dine together, and a very pleasant evening we had, separating as early as usual to allow of a good sleep before five o’clock the next morning. It must have been about nine that I was sitting before my toilet glass reading, whilst my ayah was slowly and sleepily brushing my hair. I had particularly enquired about the fastening of the tent, going myself round the outer verandah to see that no one was inside its shelter; the ayah and I were carefully shut up within the canvas walls, as if we had been wild birds anxious to fly away. Nevertheless, I had a disagreeable feeling that some one was watching me; I suddenly looked up, and there, sure enough, reflected in the glass, saw a pair of bright eyes fixed on mine. The rest of the face I could not see, for the curtain of scented grass which formed the door between my bedroom and the outer part of the verandah, was lined with crimson cotton to about the height of an ordinary person; so only by standing on tiptoe could a tall man even peep over this lining. I exclaimed in Hindoostanee, ‘Ayah! there’s a man in the tent.’ The ayah’s first care was to veil her face most carefully, as she was of very high caste, and then she slowly glided away, with many exclamations of ‘A bad fellow, a thief,’ to call the watchman. I ventured into the verandah, but no trace of an opening could I see. When the watchman appeared, he had to call the kelasses, and it took them at least five minutes to pull up the pegs which fastened the tent-door curtain securely down. The most careful search on all sides failed to find the supposed thief, or even any crevice by which he could have got in, so I had to be satisfied with the watchman’s assurance that, when _he_ was the guardian, no harm _could_ come near me. I confess that I kept the ayah up a long time, but at last she looked so sleepy that I was obliged to dismiss her, and sat on the edge of my bed, wondering whether it was fancy that had shown me those bright gleaming eyes in the looking-glass. At last I collected the two or three little trinkets which lay on the table, and as I was placing them under my pillow, looked again towards the grass curtain: there were the eager, wild-looking eyes, and a strip of dusky brown could also be plainly seen. I sprang up, and with a loud call to the ayah (which, however, failed to awaken her) pushed aside the curtain; all was darkness and silence. I took the little lamp in my hand, and carefully searched the whole tent: there certainly was no one in it. I was sleepy and tired, and could not keep awake any longer, so I got into bed, leaving the lamp burning on the dressing-table close to my head.

It must have been about one o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by the loud beating of some one’s heart quite close to my ears. Even before I was thoroughly awake I remembered the watching eyes of the night before, and did not make a sound, only opening my eyes a little. I saw on the opposite wall the shadow of a man at the head of my bed, bending over me, and with one arm under my pillow gently drawing away the lockets and watch I had placed beneath it for safety. Although I am really a dreadful coward, I did not feel in the least frightened upon this occasion. My first thought was how I should triumph over the old watchman who scouted the idea of danger, and my next was the wild idea that I could take the thief captive myself. I made up my mind what I should do, and then suddenly sat up in bed, putting out my right arm and clutching firm hold of the dressing-table so as to imprison the man behind it, whilst with my left hand I caught his arm as tightly as I could, and shouted in Hindoostanee, in French, as well as in English, for help. My ayah awoke directly, but did not get up; she lay still and screamed at the pitch of her voice; but, alas! my strength was not sufficient to keep my captive for a moment. He did not seem in the least disconcerted at the outcry, nor was he rough; he very gently but firmly moved my arm, which I fondly hoped was going to prove a barrier, shook himself free from the other detaining hand, paused to blow out the nightlight, and was gone ages before the valiant watchman had come to my assistance. Our cries had awakened a young aide-de-camp sleeping near, who immediately volunteered his services. He returned to his own tent for his revolver, and whilst he and the watchman were searching outside for the robber, I heard the report of a pistol, which awakened the whole camp. This was followed by loud yells and howls of pain, and my new ally ran past me with a very pale and scared face, saying, ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’ve shot your watchman—I’m going for the doctor;’ and so he had, but fortunately only in the leg. As the poor man was creeping softly round the tent, he came plump upon Captain N——, who was also prowling about. My brave watchman, supposing it was the robber, instantly took to his heels, and my hasty aide-de-camp promptly discharged his revolver at the retreating figure, and with much too good an aim. The great riddle, however, still remained unanswered, ‘How did the robber get in or out of the tent?’ but it was soon solved in an absurd way. My tent was soon half full of people who came to know what was the matter, and whilst I was explaining the position in which I saw the man, one of my auditors suddenly fell _through_ the tent, disappearing as if by magic. He had leaned against the canvas wall, and it had opened from top to bottom. There was the secret door! A sharp knife had made a clean cut from roof to carpet, and as the thief slipped through, the canvas closed behind him, leaving no trace of his passage. The kelasses were the only sufferers by this adventure, for they were not given the customary ‘backsheesh’ when the camp broke up a few days later, as there was a strong suspicion that they knew more of the intended robbery than they chose to acknowledge. They came to implore my intercession, bearing trays of sweetmeats and wreaths of flowers to propitiate me; but I could not follow their line of defence at all, and my endeavours to get the edict, which had deprived them of their present, revoked, proved fruitless.

_ABOUT DOGS._

The worst of a pet dog is that one gets so fond of it. When old age, or accident, or disease deprives you of your faithful friend, your unfailing sympathiser, you ‘go heavily as one that mourneth;’ and cold hard people, who have never known of what true and noble affection dogs are capable, wonder that you can be so silly as to fret after a dog. But if any children who read these pages have ever had a dog of their very own, they will understand exactly what I mean. Dogs do not forget us, why should we be ashamed of preserving a tender recollection of them? If it were possible for the gates of the grave to unclose, and its silent inmates to come back to this busy world of ours, who would stop to greet them, who would welcome their return more ecstatically than the dog they had fed and befriended? Whenever I hear a person say, ‘I don’t like dogs,’ I distrust that person, and I would not choose him for my own friend. Whenever I see anyone, big or little, child or grown-up man, deliberately cruel to a dog, I detest them. Of course there is a great difference between pampering a dog until you ruin both its health and temper, making it a plague to everyone, and being careful and considerate of your dog-friend, seeing that it has enough food and water, warmth, and, above all, exercise. People say a dog loves best the person who feeds it. I have not found this to be the case, unless with a greedy little beast: the finest and best dogs are most attached to those who take them out for a walk or a run; and I always think, that what shows the real nobility of a dog’s nature is, that if they do you a service they love you better than ever afterwards.

It is not, however, about dogs in general that I am going to write, but of my own particular friends. They have not always been my private property, for I have a large circle of acquaintances among dogs; and no compliment which anyone in the world could pay me would flatter me half so much as a poor half-starved homeless cur following me in the street. One of my dearest and most faithful friends came to me in that way: he was benighted on a large desolate common, near a cottage I had just visited; and ‘Luck’ (for so he was christened on the spot) attached himself to my side, insisted on accompanying me home, and never left me from that time till his death, five years later. He was a large, handsome, black water-spaniel, and had evidently strayed for a long distance; he was footsore and travel-stained; his coat was torn and ragged, and his bones were sticking through his skin. For the first night he slept in the stable, and had for supper only stale odds and ends of bread soaked in boiling skim-milk, for I was afraid to give him too much to eat at first. The next morning he had a bath with plenty of soap and warm water, and I cut off all the tangled hair of his coat. He spent the remainder of that day on an old rug by the kitchen fire, and it was nearly a week before he could run about gaily, for he was evidently an old dog when this terrible misadventure befell him. Talk of the gratitude of human beings, it was nothing to Luck’s gratitude, which lasted as long as his life; and he was a wise dog, for he profited by the experience of those dreadful wintry days, and took very good care never to stray or run away again. For the first three months after he gave himself to me, I sought diligently for his rightful owner, but never found anyone to claim him.

My little sister Jessie, whose acquaintance you have already made in the stories about Jamaica, was still more devoted to dogs than I am; and one of my most distinct childish memories is of a dreadful fright she gave us all. I must tell you about it. We were living in the country, and I well remember the long bright summer’s day on which I went through such agonies of suspense and fear. About an hour after breakfast, when my lessons were over, our dear, nice little governess prepared to take us out for a walk. Jessie had been sent to play in the garden a few moments before, whilst I lingered over a refractory sum which would not prove itself. At last it came right and I was released; but, when Miss Lewis called Jessie to join us, no Jessie was to be found. One of the servants had seen her leave the house, and that was the only news of the little girl whom we all loved and petted so much. The garden, grounds, and even the fields were thoroughly searched before Miss Lewis could make up her mind to alarm Mamma, who was in very delicate health. Oh! how well I remember the actual sickness which came over me when Mamma asked, with a trembling voice, ‘Have you examined the well.’ Now this well was a most peculiar one. In the centre was the ordinary brick round hole with a powerful windlass over it, but on each side extended a large deep cistern with only a very narrow brick coping. We knew these cisterns were full of water, for there had been heavy rain lately, and it was quite possible for a small child to drown itself in either of them. Mamma wished me to remain with her; but I could not endure to be quiet, so I set off with the others to this dangerous place. It was the work of half an hour at least to convince ourselves that Jessie was neither in the well nor the cisterns, and I was nearly frantic with misery whilst the search was going on.

A messenger on horseback was despatched for my father, who was absent, and on his arrival the servants were divided into regular parties to examine every possible hiding-place. An old man who attended to the cows had attracted my attention early in the day by wiping his eyes constantly with his sleeve whilst he was looking about, and saying to himself, ‘pooty little dear.’ To this sympathising individual I immediately attached myself, and holding tight on to his horny hand wandered for miles hither and thither all day. I had an instinctive feeling that old Jim would not scold Jessie if we discovered her, whereas any of the others would be sure to lecture her well all the way to the house.

At last sunset came and Jim proceeded to collect the cows and drive them to a ruinous old shed to milk them. I still followed him closely, and as the first cow leisurely entered her stall I heard a sweet little voice say, ‘Oh, don’t walk on me, please!’ There was Jessie, buried in hay, hungry and tired, but with an air of patient endurance nursing tenderly in her arms half-a-dozen pointer puppies! She had discovered that old Juno had increased her already numerous progeny during the night, and she had spent the whole day in what she called ‘helping her to take care of all ‘dem babies.’ We asked her if she had heard our calls, and she said, ‘Yes, but de babies were asleep, and I couldn’t wake ’em by saying where I was.’ Poor little Jessie, she could not understand what suffering she had caused us, and thought Nurse very hard-hearted for refusing to permit her to resume her duties the next day. The matter was referred to the authorities, but when Nurse hinted, as delicately as so elegant a personage could, at the number of fleas which pervaded the little girl’s clothes, it was decided at once in the negative, much to old Juno’s relief probably.

We had dogs of all sorts and sizes during our childhood, and, as well as I can remember, the ugliest were always the best beloved. If any particularly hideous mongrel was condemned to death, Jessie and I invariably interceded for it, and when we gained our point, watched over and tended it with the greatest care, stoutly maintaining its beauty and talent against all detractors. At last, one happy day, when we were both nearly grown up, we were each given a real Carthagena dog. What little beauties they were, something like a Maltese poodle, only smaller. They were as white as little puff-balls, with lovely silky hair; they never grew any bigger than they were when we got them, and their health was excellent. Every morning we washed them in a basin, dried them in the sun, combed their coats till they shone like floss silk, and trimmed the hair off their delicate little feet. The last touch to their toilettes was to put on a little collar of either blue or scarlet ribbon or velvet. Whenever we had any pocket money, it all went in new collars for ‘Caprice’ and ‘Chico.’ Caprice was so called because he had a natural rosette of black fluff on his forehead amid his snowy locks, whilst Chico (or little darling) was about the size of a sixpenny toy-lamb. They both slept all day in my work-basket on the table out of harm’s way. They were fed entirely on biscuit and milk, and Caprice lived to a good old age, but Chico’s fate was appalling, and cost both Jessie and me many bitter tears.

I must tell you here that Jessie had another pet dog, a fierce Cuban bloodhound: it was kept chained up all day and only loosed at night as a safeguard to the house and grounds. ‘Turk’ was a splendid animal, but ferocious to everyone except Jessie. I never could get over my uneasiness when I saw him leaping on her, licking her cheek, or mumbling her little hand affectionately. Jessie always fed him herself, and declared his bad temper was much exaggerated. One summer evening we had been out to a little party given at a house near ours, and had walked home; it was a lovely, soft, moonlight night, and, the moment the garden gate was opened, Turk bounded up to us with the sternest intentions of expelling or killing us all on the spot. However, Jessie induced him to forego these resolutions for the present, and he accompanied us to the hall door, which was quickly opened by our maid. Close upon her footsteps trotted tiny Chico, uttering sleepy little barks. Turk had never seen his small rival, and the instant he perceived that Chico was really a living, moving dog (for at first he must have thought that he was a toy), he bounded upon the poor little beastie. Before Jessie could stop him, we heard a yelp and a snap; Turk had bitten Chico in two! It was a dreadful moment, for Jessie’s despair is not to be described, and Turk saw no reason why he should not finish his supper, and looked up in Jessie’s horrified face with a self-satisfied air, as much as to say, ‘Thus perish all intruders.’ This tragedy had one good result in Turk’s banishment, for Jessie could not bear to see the murderer of Chico; so the bloodhound was sent away to a distant friend, where he became the terror of all the evildoers in the neighbourhood.

I think Punch, a great tawny mastiff, was Turk’s successor. He distinguished himself by keeping a bishop at bay. You see he was no respecter of persons, and, as the bishop happened to have on papa’s shoes whilst his own boots were being dried, Punch sternly refused to allow his lordship to leave the room. We waited and waited for more than an hour; luncheon was getting cold; still the poor bishop remained in my father’s dressing-room, whither he had been conducted; and at last he was discovered, very tired and hungry, but unable to stir. Punch was lying down in front of the chair (fortunately he permitted the poor man to sit down) with his head resting on his own forepaws, and keeping an unwearying watch on the shoes; they were not to be taken out of the room on any terms, and even Jessie had great difficulty in making him understand that it was all right.

Punch was very fond of the water, and would go into a river after a stick as well as if he had been a retriever. Upon one occasion I was sitting in the verandah teaching my youngest sister, a tiny little trot of about six years old, to work. It was a distasteful employment, and the seam appeared quite endless to both of us. You must not be shocked if I tell you, it was a little night-dress of her own that Laura was employed upon. It had been finished very successfully, as we thought; but this unfortunate seam was badly done, and had to be unpicked and neatly sewn again. At last the finishing stitches were put in, and with a sigh of relief Laura jumped up. At this unlucky moment Punch appeared, evidently in the mood for a game of play, and the idea occurred to Laura to dress him up in her garment. Of course I ought to have prevented it, but I satisfied my conscience by a very feeble remonstrance, and aided and abetted this piece of mischief. Punch certainly looked exquisitely ridiculous with his forepaws through the sleeves, and, when we buttoned the little collar securely round his throat, both Laura and I were too much amused at his appearance to think of the consequences to her newly-finished work. Suddenly Punch—who up to that time had been as grave as a judge—gave a mighty bound, knocking Laura over and nearly upsetting me, and, like a flash of lightning, he tore down the garden walk, leapt a low hedge, and we heard a great splash. We rushed after him. There was Punch, still in his white robe, swimming about in the brook. How absurd the effect was no words of mine can tell you. In a few moments he was out again on the other side, rolling on the bank, tearing about the field trying to get rid of the wet clinging calico. It was no use; the stuff was new, and would not tear easily. Into the brook again he plunged, and at last scampered away to the stable, where he succeeded in tearing off his clothing. It was all very well whilst it lasted, and Laura and I laughed till we cried; but we felt very foolish when it came to the point of going into the house, and announcing that no work was forthcoming.

[Illustration: _Punch’s toilet._—p. 180]