But Wallace was not to die apart from human hands and the friends he had loved. No one saw him die; but a servant, preparing to sweep out the dining-room early one morning, found the old dog stretched stark and cold on his master’s sofa—“like a Christian,” as she protested, half awed, half scandalised. And what gave the last touch to the situation was that little lively Dick—always fond of establishing himself by his friend—was discovered lying trembling, with that consciousness of death of which a dog is supposed to be unconscious, behind Wallace, that he had not dared to disturb—the first time Wallace had frightened Dick.
I think Wallace’s master, by his own choice, helped to dig the dog’s grave; I know that the spot selected was one which had been long chosen for his last resting-place. Care was taken that Dick should not know the place, or be tempted to disturb it, when it was little thought that the terrier would soon lie by his comrade’s side. Not that Dick died of his mourning; I never heard of a dog pining to death for a fellow-dog—only for his master. I am not even aware that Dick gave great signs of missing his companion after the first few days, for dogs will be dogs after all; and undoubtedly Dick recovered the full flow of his constitutionally high spirits within a short period.
Merry Dick’s death was so much the more tragical that it was not in the course of nature; it was the result of an accident—the product of such carelessness as it is hard to forgive. The offices belonging to Dick’s master’s farm were infested with rats to such an extent that even a terrier was insufficient to keep the vermin down, and poison was employed for their destruction. A portion of strychnine passed into the keeping of a kitchen maid, who was to sprinkle it on bread and butter, to be exposed, with due precaution, near the rats’ holes. The plate of bread and butter, with the fatal powder invisible on it, was left heedlessly on a kitchen table, where it was only by the good providence of God that some man or woman—ignorant of anything unusual in the innocent-looking slices—did not eat what was intended for the rats, and perish by a horrible death.
Only poor Dick was destined to be the victim. Attending on the footsteps of his mistress as usual, he came into the kitchen, and, spying the attractive luncheon, sprang up and seized a half-slice.
“It is the poisoned bread,” cried the rash servant, observing what had happened, and thinking she had done enough when she had given the tardy warning.
Dick’s mistress snatched the perilous morsel from between his teeth and flung it in the fire. So instantaneous was the whole occurrence, that even she—never doubting that she had rescued the dog from all evil consequences—forgot the circumstances in the occupation she was engaged in.
Dick, in his usual excellent health and enjoyment of life, accompanied his mistress in a walk, with all his ordinary pleasure in the privilege. It was not till some hours later, in the bustle of guests assembling for dinner, that Dick’s master suddenly summoned his mistress from her toilet with the grievous news that Dick was dying. The little dog had been discovered rigid in a fit. So entirely was the result of what had taken place in the morning unapprehended, that it was not till various remedies had been tried in vain that Dick’s mistress suddenly recalled the episode of the poisoned bread. A clever young veterinary surgeon who was within reach came and administered antidotes, which poor little Dick, in the intervals between his paroxysms, was induced to take from the mistress who was so bitterly distressed by his fate; but all was of no avail, the dog succumbed speedily to the deadly poison, and died before the dinner guests had met.
So Dick and Wallace rest together, like true comrades, in what was once their pleasant playground.
