'I MADE SURE OF THAT,' SAID ROLF
We heard it—the surprise I mean—almost before we heard the wheels of the fly from Kirke, bringing the visitor that was expected. For the drive from the lodge is on well-rolled gravel, and as there had been a few showers lately, it was soft, and you scarcely hear a carriage coming in that case.
But what we did hear, as we stood about waiting to welcome Rolf cordially, was a sharp, clear little voice, not talking, but—barking, and then, almost at the same moment, we caught sight of the fly, as it reached the turn at which anything coming up the drive could be seen from the Hut.
'I do believe,' I exclaimed, turning to Taisy,—'I do believe he has got a dog!'
Taisy shook her head.
'I don't know of it if he has,' she said; 'and I don't think he would have brought one without asking if he might.'
Taisy looked a little frightened. She felt somehow as if she were rather responsible for Rolf, especially on account of the gypsy affair!
'It may be a dog belonging to the flyman,' I went on; 'though in that case it would probably be running alongside, and it doesn't sound as if it were.'
Our doubts were soon set at rest.
When the fly drew up, not at the front—there was no place for carriages there, but on a piece of level ground a little towards the back on one side—out sprang our visitor—a tall, fair boy, a good bit taller than Geordie, with nice blue eyes and a very sunny look about him, altogether. And—in his arms he held—as if very much afraid of losing it—the dearest, duckiest, little rough-haired terrier you ever saw!
Rolf—for of course it was Rolf—looking just a trifle shy, for which we—Geordie and I—liked him all the better—turned at once to Taisy, as if to a sort of protector. But he could not hold out his hand, as it was all he could do with both hands to keep the frightened doggie from escaping there and then from his grasp.
'How funny!' I thought. 'Why doesn't he let him go? He wouldn't want to run away from his own master!'
'I can't shake hands, Taisy—but how are you?' Rolf by this time was saying: 'Will you introduce me to your cousins? This little beggar—I declare he's as slippery as an eel, in spite of his coat.'
We needed no introduction—we all pressed round him to look at the terrier.
'Is he so nervous?' said Taisy. 'Has the railway frightened him?'
'Oh no, I don't think so. He was just as bad before we got into the train. It's just strangeness' was the rather puzzling reply.
'"Strangeness,"' Taisy repeated, while Geordie and I looked up in surprise,—'strangeness, with his own master holding him?'
Rolf gave a funny little laugh, and grew rather red.
'Oh, but,' he said, 'you see, he doesn't know I'm his master, and I don't want him to. It isn't worth while. I—I only bought him this morning from the keeper at Millings—you know Millings?'—Taisy nodded; it was a place near Lady Emmeline's. 'I asked him to be on the lookout for one as soon as I knew about coming here. I thought he'd suit Miss Lanark, as you once said something about her wanting a really nice little dog,' and he smiled at me in his frank, boyish way.
It was quite true! Rolf must have a good memory, for it was fully six months ago that I had once said in writing to Taisy that papa had given me leave to have a dog of my very own if I could get a good-tempered, well-bred one, and that she must let me know if she came across a personage of the kind. For, though it seems odd that, living in the country, we had never had a pet of the kind, it was the case. I think papa and mamma had rather discouraged it, till we were old enough to treat a dog well and not to risk being ill-treated by him!
Since getting papa's leave to have one of my own I had almost forgotten about it, so many important things and changes had happened.
But for a moment or two I forgot everything but my delight. The wee doggie was so sweet—so just exactly what I had pictured to myself as the perfection of a pet.
'Oh, thank you, thank you!' I exclaimed, holding out my arms, in which Rolf carefully deposited the little creature, not very sorry, I fancy, at the bottom of his heart to make him over to me, for he must have been rather a tiresome travelling companion.
'He's a young dog, but full-grown,' Rolf said; 'and very affectionate and good-tempered. I made sure of that. And he's really a lady's dog—his mother belonged to a lady near Millings, and that has been his home. She only sold him because she couldn't keep so many. He's a bit timid, they say, or rather nervous—but plucky too; if any one tried to hurt you he'd go for them, the keeper said. But it may take him a day or two to settle down.'
It scarcely looked like it—already the little round, rough head was nestling against me, and the nice little cold, black nose rubbing my fingers approvingly, while Taisy and George pressed up to me to see him.
'What's his name, Rolf?' asked the former. Geordie did not speak; I think for a minute or two he was feeling just a little jealous—or envious rather of Rolf—as he had not been able to give me a dog, when he saw how delighted I was. But he was too good and unselfish to let this feeling last, and when the terrier gave him a friendly lick in return for a patronising little pat, Dods's kind heart was completely won.
'His name,' Rolf repeated thoughtfully; 'I'm afraid I forgot to ask. But he'll soon get used to any name. It's often more the tone than the actual sound that a dog notices.'
'I know,' said Taisy in her quick way; 'call him "Rough." It's not very uncommon perhaps, but it would suit him—his coat—so well, and it is rather like "Rolf" too.'
We had just decided this when mamma's voice, coming towards us from the Hut, made us turn round.
'What are you all about?' she asked. 'I heard the fly come some minutes ago. Welcome to Eastercove, Rolf,' she went on, holding out her hand, which our visitor was now able to take. 'I hope you have had a pleas—— Oh! so you have brought your dog,' and she looked a very little startled; 'take care, Ida. Is he quite good with strangers?'
'Oh, but,' I began, and then I suddenly remembered that without mamma's leave I had no right to accept Rolf's gift. 'He's mine—my own dog,' I went on; 'that's to say if you will let me have him. You know papa said I might have a dog,' I added pleadingly; 'though of course it is different now. And he is quite good-tempered and gentle.'
'Yes,' Rolf repeated; 'I made sure of that.'
They were the first words mamma had heard him speak. He had not had a chance of thanking her for her 'welcome,' nor she of finishing her sentence about his journey, so taken up had we all been by Master Rough! But at least it had had the good effect of setting us all at our ease.
Then I went on to explain about Rolf's having remembered what Taisy had told him ever so long ago about my wish to have a dog—by the bye, it was lucky that I had not already got one! That possibility had never struck Rolf; he had only been turning over in his mind what he could do to please us, whom he thought very kind to 'take him in,' and mamma turned to him in the pretty way she does, which always makes people like her.
'It was very good of you,' she said,—'very good and thoughtful,' and she too patted the new pet—very gently; mamma is a little afraid, perhaps wisely so, of strange dogs—so that in her case he thought a wag of his tail sufficient notice of her attention instead of a lick, for which omission, if mamma had known of it, she would have been grateful! 'Do you think,' she went on, turning to us three, 'that among you, you can look after him properly and prevent his getting into any trouble, or straying away in the woods?'
'And getting shot by mistake for a rabbit?' said Geordie. 'He is so like one!'
We all laughed at this; for nothing in dog shape, little dog shape, at least, could be less like a bunny than Rough, though perhaps it was not very respectful of Dods to joke at mamma's fears. But she did not mind, and by this time we were all feeling quite at home with Rolf, and he with us. So we went in together to tea, where he and the two little ones had to be introduced to each other, and Rough exhibited to Denzil and Esmé's admiring eyes. He had fallen asleep in my arms, feeling happy and comfortable again, and probably thinking I was his old mistress restored to him after some dreadful doggie nightmare of separation.
'Mamma need not say, "Among you, will he be looked after?"' I thought to myself. 'The darling will have looking after enough from his owner—myself. I only hope the little ones won't tease him, or interfere with him, even out of kindness.'
That first evening of Rolf's visit left a very pleasant remembrance, and it was only a beginning of many happy days.
He seemed to bring with him just what we needed (though Taisy had done a good deal, rather of the same kind). It prevented our getting too much taken up with our own affairs, or becoming too 'old-fashioned,'—Geordie and I especially—as Hoskins called it, and I don't know that there is a better word to express what I mean.
He was so thoroughly a boy, though the very nicest kind of boy—not ashamed of being a 'gentleman,' too, in lots of little ways, which many boys either despise, or are too awkward and shy to attend to. I don't mean to say that he was the least bit of a prig—just the opposite. He often forgot about wiping his feet, and was rather particularly clever at tearing his clothes, but never forgot to open the door for mamma and us girls, or to tug at his old straw hat or cap when he met us! Or more important things in a sense—such as settling mamma's 'boudoir,' as we got into the habit of calling Miss Trevor's present, in the best place; and seeing that her letters were taken in good time to the lodge for the postman, and things like that.
And looking back upon those days now that I am so much older, I can see that he must have had a good deal of 'tact' of the truest kind, as mamma says it really means care for other people's feelings, not to make dear old Geordie at all jealous,—actually, indeed, to take away the touch of it which Dods did feel at the beginning.
Before a couple of days had passed, all the boys were the best of friends. Of course, I made Rolf leave off calling me anything but 'Ida,' and to Esmé he was quite a slave. Rather too much so. He spoilt her, and it was the only thing Taisy and I were not quite pleased with him for, as it did make her much more troublesome again at her lessons.
But there came a day when even he got very, very vexed with Esmé. I think I must tell the story. She won't mind even if she ever reads this, for she is much more sensible now, and often says she wonders how we all had patience with her.
It had to do with Rough, my doggie.
Dogs, as I daresay you, whoever you are, know, if you have had much to do with them, are not always fond of children, or perhaps I should say, are not fond of all children. They hate fidgety, teasing ones, who will pull and pinch them for the fun of making them snap and snarl, or who won't let them have a peaceful snooze on the hearthrug, if they themselves—the tiresome children, I mean—are inclined for noisy romping. If I were a dog, I should do more than snap and snarl in such a case, I know!
Esmé was not as bad as that. She was a kind-hearted little girl, and never meant to hurt or worry any one. But she was a terrible fidget, and very mischievous and thoughtless. It would have been better for her perhaps to have had a rather less free life than ours at the Hut was. There was no one whose regular business it was to look after her. Out of lesson hours she might do pretty much as she liked. Mamma knew she would never do anything really naughty, or that she thought so, anyway, and we trusted a good deal to the boys, who, even little Denzil, were so particularly steady-going, and whom she was generally with.
But after Rolf came, he and George naturally went about together a good deal, just as Taisy and I did, and I don't think any of us realised how completely Esmé had the upper hand of Den.
If I was to blame about her, by not keeping her more with Taisy and myself, I was well punished for it by the fright she gave us, as you will hear.
It was rather a hot day for the time of year—still only spring. We four elder ones had gone for a good long ramble in the farther off woods, taking our luncheon with us, and for some reason—I think I was, in my own mind, a little afraid of Rough's getting trapped or some mischance of the kind—I had left my doggie at home, as safe as could be, I thought, for he was under Hoskins's care, and she was nearly as fond of him as I myself.
He would have been far safer, as it turned out, if we had taken him with us.
Esmé must have been 'at a loose end' that afternoon, from what she told me afterwards. Denzil had got some little carpentering job in hand—he was rather clever at it, and at dinner-time, Esmé, as well as he, told mamma about it—so she was quite happy, thinking they had got good occupation, and that there was no fear of any 'idle hands' trouble.
But Miss Esmé, as was her way, got very tired of handing Den the nails and tools and things he wanted, and of watching his rather slow progress, and told him she must really go for a run.
'All right,' said Denzil; 'but don't go far.'
He told us this part of it himself, when he came in for some blame in having 'let' Esmé' get into mischief. This sounds rather hard upon him, doesn't it, considering he was fully a year younger than she? but, as I have explained, he was such a solemn old sober-sides, that we had all got into the way of treating him as if he were the responsible one of the two.
'No,' Esmé replied, she would not go far; nor did she.
She strolled about—I can see her now as she must have looked that afternoon—her hands behind her back, her black legs—she was a tall little girl for her age—showing rather long and thin beneath her big, brown Holland overall, her garden hat tilted very much to the back, her lovely goldy hair in a great fuzz as usual, and her bright hazel eyes peering about for something to amuse herself with.
As ill-luck would have it, she found the 'something' in the shape of my poor darling Roughie!
Hoskins had allowed him to go out with a bone to the front of the Hut, where he was lying very comfortably in the sunshine, on a mat, which he considered his own property. He had left off nibbling at the bone, and was half or three-quarters asleep.
Now when Esmé is—no, I must in fairness say 'was,' she is so different now—in one of her idle yet restless humours, it irritated her somehow to see any one else peaceful and quiet, even if the some one else was only a dog.
'You lazy little beggar,' she said to Rough. I don't really know that she said those very words, but I am sure it was something of the kind, and so I think I may 'draw on my imagination' a little in telling the story. 'You lazy little beggar, why don't you get up and go for a run? You are getting far too fat.'
And—she told me this herself—she gave him a 'tiny' kick, not so as to hurt him—that I quite believe, but dogs have feelings about other things than being actually hurt in their bodies. He had been blinking up at her good-naturedly, though he was not, as I said, very fond of her. Nor was she of him.
But now, at the kick, or 'shove,' I think she called it, he gave a slight growl. And no wonder—it was not the sort of thing to sweeten even a sweet-tempered dog's temper—when he was doing no harm and only asking to be left alone in peace. Esmé, however, declared that it was the growl that made her wish to tease him.
She put her hand into the pocket of her blouse, meaning to take out her handkerchief to 'flick' him a little and make him wake up. But in this pocket, unluckily, besides the handkerchief were some nails and screws and such things which she had put there for convenience while being supposed to 'help' Denzil, by handing them to him as he wanted them. And when she touched them, they rattled and jingled, thoroughly rousing poor Roughie, who opened his eyes and growled again, this time more loudly, and Esmé, delighted, rattled and jingled, and again he growled.
Then a wicked idea came into her head.
She had heard of naughty boys tormenting cats in a certain way.
'It can't hurt him,' she thought; 'it will only make him run, which is good for him.'
SHE FASTENED THE ONE END OF THE STRING ROUND HIS POOR LITTLE BODY.
And she darted into the Hut, and through it to Rolf's tent, where, as I said, there was a small compact cooking stove, and among the things belonging to it a small but strong tin kettle. Esmé looked at it. I believe she was more afraid just then of damaging the kettle than of harming the dog!
Still she lifted it and considered for a moment.
'No,' she thought, 'it's quite light; it can't hurt him. And it won't hurt it either. I'll only put a few nails in,' and out she ran again to the front, where my poor pet was settling down for another nap, hoping, no doubt, that Miss Esmé had gone for good.
By ill-luck, her other pocket held a good piece of stout string. She sat down and quietly tied up the kettle, so that the lid was secure, having first dropped into it enough nails and screws to make a woful clatter, but taking care that no jingle should be heard as yet. It is wonderful how careful a careless child can be if bent on mischief!
Then speaking for once most gently and caressingly to Roughie, who was so surprised that he lay quite still, she fastened the other end of the string to his tail, and round his poor little body too. 'I didn't want his tail to be pulled off,' she said afterwards—fortunately, for his tail might have been badly hurt.
Then when all was ready, she got up cautiously, and walking away a few steps, called Rough very sweetly. But he was rather suspicious; he first got up and stretched himself—there was a faint jingle—poor wee man, he looked behind him—no, Esmé was not there; he moved, more jingle and rattle, again she called, and he, beginning to be frightened, turned towards her, on which the cruel little thing 'shoo'ed' him away. She described it all perfectly. And then the idea must have seized him of escaping by flight from the unseen terror. He ran—of course the noise got worse; he ran faster, and it grew louder—faster still—oh, my poor Roughie!—louder still, Esmé laughing—at first, that is to say—to herself, till his doggy wits began to desert him, and a sort of nightmare agony must have seized him.
And then—too late—the naughty girl saw what she had done.