CHAPTER V
A sparrowcame and sat upon one of my window-boxes as I was at breakfast this morning, chirping loudly for some reason or other as though it were summer instead of one of those very early days of spring which seem to have dropped by accident from the lap of a generous Providence.
Possibly it was the bright yellow of the crocuses, now in bloom, which attracted him. A day when his ancestors lived in trees instead of upon sooty house-tops was no doubt dimly stirring in his semi-consciousness. He almost persuaded me that his chirping was a song, so much lusty energy did he throw into it. It was only when I came to listen carefully that I realized there were but two notes to his compass. Truly he made the most of them. Doubtless it was a lesson to me to make the most of such shallow compass as is mine. If it were, I did not learn of it. My mind had been made up for some time now and, as soon as Moxon had cleared away, I sat down at my desk and wrote a letter:
My dear Bellwattle,—I want to make you a fitting present in gratitude for my visit to Ballysheen. Don't attempt to ask me why I have left it so long as this, contenting myself with the mere letter of thanks such as one writes to any hostess. For you were not any hostess and therefore have every justification for asking why, until now, I have treated you so differently. Believe me, I did not think of you when I wrote as of any guest to any hostess, nor of Cruikshank as to any host. I have never forgotten one moment on those cliffs or in that garden, for it seems to me, as I look back upon it, that in those few short weeks, you made me familiar with a wonderful attitude towards life which I would give a great deal to be able to adopt myself. However, that, as you know, is impossible, needing as it does such addition to the personal equation as can never enter into the sum of my experience.What attitude is available to me under the circumstances, I confess myself absolutely unable to determine. I am one of those unfortunate individuals who, even in the midst of such lively surroundings as these, are of a solitary nature, yet loathe nothing so much as their own company. The little bones which I have had to pick with Providence are so dry by this—you do not know it, but I am forty-four—that to sit alone and worry at them now would be beyond human endurance. Occasionally in bed in the early morning or at night when I am left alone and my man Moxon has retired, I find myself speculating upon what niche in God's gallery of human beings I have been meant to fill. So far as I can see there is not one. And then, in accordance with all human nature, I try to shift the blame upon some shoulders other than my own. Circumstance, that my mother should have died when she did—my father, that he has never brought me up to any profession—then last of all, inevitably myself, that I have taken advantage of the allowance he is making me, spending my money upon easy travelling all over the world which is an education in its way, but fits no man for the real exigencies of life. He could learn more in a cobbler's shop in the Mile End Road. There is as much wisdom as cure in the washing in Jordan. The thing to one's hand is no doubt the thing for one's grasp.This is mere preliminary, just to show you that I shall never come into occupation of Cruikshank's little cottage in the hollow. Imagine Providence and myself sitting there alone of the long winter nights with a few dry bones upon the table between us! I could not bear such company as that. No—if I am to cut a niche for myself anywhere, it must be in that room in God's gallery, where, as I heard a man say the other day, you will find thehoi polloi. I will give you the whole of his sentence, for Cruikshank's benefit if not for yours. He was describing the disadvantages of a new club."What I'm afraid will happen," he said, "is this. You'll get all thehoi polloithere. There'll be nothingrecherchéabout it at all. Plebeian—that's what it'll be and, if there's one thing I hate more than another it is that jarring sound of thevox populi."Show this to Cruikshank and he will explain why he is amused. This man had evidently travelled for his education.I hope this letter is not too egotistical, a hope based doubtless upon the fact that I know it is. And in a sense, I mean it to be. I entertain a foolish desire that you should appreciate my point of view, so that if at any time you might hear news of me of one sort or another you would be able to apply this confession as a key to the understanding of what you had heard.And now, after all this preamble, I come to the real reason of my letter, the statement with which I began. I want you to accept a gift in token of my gratitude for all your kindness to me in Ballysheen. I want you to take care of Dandy as your own.Since those few weeks in Ireland, I have fancied that he has missed the country most terribly, the walks upon those glorious cliffs he had with you, the rambles with both of us when the whole breadth of the earth was his, full of romance, full of adventure, full of rabbits—those hundreds of rabbits you saw that morning, when I saw but two. But most of all, I imagine that he misses that playground of his—your garden—for I remember the very first morning before breakfast, after you had taken him out for a walk, he came to me and, in his own manner, told me what he thought of it all. He raced a dozen times round one of your beds at an angle of forty-five. If you don't know what I mean by an angle of forty-five, ask Cruikshank. He will explain it to you by means of trigonometry which I know will please you.That, at any rate, was the expression of all he felt about the country on his first morning in Ballysheen. Remember, it was round the beds he raced—not over them. His interest in flowers is too great for him ever to destroy them. I know this by the way he watched me when I planted the snowdrops and crocuses in my window-boxes. I say this to reassure you.So far as his habits are concerned, I don't think I can tell you anything but what you do not know already. We give him two meals of dog's biscuits every day. He does not like them broken up on a plate, preferring rather to have them thrown to him whole. But Moxon, who I am sending with him for safe conduct, will explain all this.Write as soon as you can and let me know that he has arrived safely. Tell me, moreover, if you will, that you are not inconvenienced by this unexpected arrival in your family.God bless you. I add this, not only because I like the phrase, but because I believe in its efficaciousness for those who merit it. Lastly, give my love to Cruikshank and tell him that when he sets to the making of his new garden in the hollow, he must fill it with sweet peas. I wanted to grow them in my window-boxes, but was told it was out of the question.Good-bye—YoursA.H. Bellairs.
My dear Bellwattle,—I want to make you a fitting present in gratitude for my visit to Ballysheen. Don't attempt to ask me why I have left it so long as this, contenting myself with the mere letter of thanks such as one writes to any hostess. For you were not any hostess and therefore have every justification for asking why, until now, I have treated you so differently. Believe me, I did not think of you when I wrote as of any guest to any hostess, nor of Cruikshank as to any host. I have never forgotten one moment on those cliffs or in that garden, for it seems to me, as I look back upon it, that in those few short weeks, you made me familiar with a wonderful attitude towards life which I would give a great deal to be able to adopt myself. However, that, as you know, is impossible, needing as it does such addition to the personal equation as can never enter into the sum of my experience.
What attitude is available to me under the circumstances, I confess myself absolutely unable to determine. I am one of those unfortunate individuals who, even in the midst of such lively surroundings as these, are of a solitary nature, yet loathe nothing so much as their own company. The little bones which I have had to pick with Providence are so dry by this—you do not know it, but I am forty-four—that to sit alone and worry at them now would be beyond human endurance. Occasionally in bed in the early morning or at night when I am left alone and my man Moxon has retired, I find myself speculating upon what niche in God's gallery of human beings I have been meant to fill. So far as I can see there is not one. And then, in accordance with all human nature, I try to shift the blame upon some shoulders other than my own. Circumstance, that my mother should have died when she did—my father, that he has never brought me up to any profession—then last of all, inevitably myself, that I have taken advantage of the allowance he is making me, spending my money upon easy travelling all over the world which is an education in its way, but fits no man for the real exigencies of life. He could learn more in a cobbler's shop in the Mile End Road. There is as much wisdom as cure in the washing in Jordan. The thing to one's hand is no doubt the thing for one's grasp.
This is mere preliminary, just to show you that I shall never come into occupation of Cruikshank's little cottage in the hollow. Imagine Providence and myself sitting there alone of the long winter nights with a few dry bones upon the table between us! I could not bear such company as that. No—if I am to cut a niche for myself anywhere, it must be in that room in God's gallery, where, as I heard a man say the other day, you will find thehoi polloi. I will give you the whole of his sentence, for Cruikshank's benefit if not for yours. He was describing the disadvantages of a new club.
"What I'm afraid will happen," he said, "is this. You'll get all thehoi polloithere. There'll be nothingrecherchéabout it at all. Plebeian—that's what it'll be and, if there's one thing I hate more than another it is that jarring sound of thevox populi."
Show this to Cruikshank and he will explain why he is amused. This man had evidently travelled for his education.
I hope this letter is not too egotistical, a hope based doubtless upon the fact that I know it is. And in a sense, I mean it to be. I entertain a foolish desire that you should appreciate my point of view, so that if at any time you might hear news of me of one sort or another you would be able to apply this confession as a key to the understanding of what you had heard.
And now, after all this preamble, I come to the real reason of my letter, the statement with which I began. I want you to accept a gift in token of my gratitude for all your kindness to me in Ballysheen. I want you to take care of Dandy as your own.
Since those few weeks in Ireland, I have fancied that he has missed the country most terribly, the walks upon those glorious cliffs he had with you, the rambles with both of us when the whole breadth of the earth was his, full of romance, full of adventure, full of rabbits—those hundreds of rabbits you saw that morning, when I saw but two. But most of all, I imagine that he misses that playground of his—your garden—for I remember the very first morning before breakfast, after you had taken him out for a walk, he came to me and, in his own manner, told me what he thought of it all. He raced a dozen times round one of your beds at an angle of forty-five. If you don't know what I mean by an angle of forty-five, ask Cruikshank. He will explain it to you by means of trigonometry which I know will please you.
That, at any rate, was the expression of all he felt about the country on his first morning in Ballysheen. Remember, it was round the beds he raced—not over them. His interest in flowers is too great for him ever to destroy them. I know this by the way he watched me when I planted the snowdrops and crocuses in my window-boxes. I say this to reassure you.
So far as his habits are concerned, I don't think I can tell you anything but what you do not know already. We give him two meals of dog's biscuits every day. He does not like them broken up on a plate, preferring rather to have them thrown to him whole. But Moxon, who I am sending with him for safe conduct, will explain all this.
Write as soon as you can and let me know that he has arrived safely. Tell me, moreover, if you will, that you are not inconvenienced by this unexpected arrival in your family.
God bless you. I add this, not only because I like the phrase, but because I believe in its efficaciousness for those who merit it. Lastly, give my love to Cruikshank and tell him that when he sets to the making of his new garden in the hollow, he must fill it with sweet peas. I wanted to grow them in my window-boxes, but was told it was out of the question.
Good-bye—YoursA.H. Bellairs.
As soon as I had sealed the letter and addressed it, I sent for Moxon.
"I've got a commission and a journey for you, Moxon," said I, when he came in. He bent his head, saying nothing until he had heard what it was.
"I want you to take Dandy," I continued, "and leave him in the care of Mrs. Townshend in Ballysheen. Can you get what few things you'll need ready in time to catch the night train to Fishguard this evening?"
For a while he stood there and looked at me as though I had said not one single word which he was capable of understanding. His jaw did not exactly drop, but there was all that expression about his face as if it might at any moment.
"Don't you follow me?" said I.
"Yes, sir—"
"Well?"
"How long are you going to leave Dandy there, sir?"
"Oh—for good. I am making a present of him to Mrs. Townshend."
The poor man looked bewildered. I could see he had so much to say, yet was endeavoring his utmost to recollect his place lest he should speak all there was in his mind.
"What's troubling you?" I asked.
"I can't quite understand it, sir," he replied, frowning heavily, as he tried to impress it upon his mind. "Dandy—he's such a companion to you, sir—to both of us, if I may be permitted to say so. He's like a person about the house. The way he runs for his biscuits—the way he sits up for you when you go out to supper. What I mean to say, sir, he's more than a dog if he is less than a 'uman being. Why—I've seen him, sir, of a night before you've come in, go down to the hall at about a quarter-past twelve when I suppose he'd thought it was half-past—I've seen him go down to the hall door and stand there listening to the sound of every footstep as came along the street. To every sound he'd prick up his ears, expecting it was you. Well—you've seen him, sir, when you've come in of an evening. What I mean to say—I don't think you'd—"
I got up quickly from my chair.
"All right, Moxon," said I. "I'm quite aware of all this. Can you be ready to catch the night train to Fishguard?"
He did not answer. He just bent his head and left the room.
Perhaps it was for ten minutes that I leant on the mantelpiece staring down into the fire. At last I stood up. It was no good. My mind was made up. I stamped the letter to Bellwattle and went out to find Dandy.
He was there in the hall, where Moxon gives the illusion of life to his biscuits, and Moxon was bending over him, saying something. I did not hear a word he said, and at my approach, he got up quickly and walked away, but something I saw made me hesitate more than I had hesitated for the past three weeks. There were tears in his eyes.
"Are you going to blame me?" said I to Dandy—then I picked him up in my arms and carried him into my room. There I told him everything. I reminded him of that first morning in Ballysheen, how readily he had gone out with Bellwattle for a walk, never missing me at all. I brought back to his mind those little white jerky behinds of the rabbits which, when they move, so excite all his proclivities for sport.
"You get none of that sort of thing here," said I.
I tried at last to read him a lecture on the psychology of dogs, explaining how a kind master or mistress and all the stretch of an open country will soon ease their minds of all regret.
"And you know how kind Bellwattle is," I added.
"You remember how she kissed you when you went away. But I suppose you're accustomed to that sort of thing from ladies. It's the rabbits you're less likely to forget."
"I knew a dog," said he, "who died of loneliness when his master left him."
"Ah—but you won't be lonely," I answered, quickly. "You'll miss me a bit—but you won't be lonely. Why I might call a thousand times when you were after a rabbit and you wouldn't come back."
"Yes—but then I knew you thought I wouldn't catch it."
I think I persuaded him though that my knowledge of a dog's psychology was quite right, and for the rest of that evening we sat together. We had tea together. He likes his weak and out of the slop bowl.
But at last came Moxon to catch his train.
"Is Dandy ready, sir?" he asked.
"Quite," said I. It was a short word.
I fastened the chain on to his collar for the last time and patted his head.
"Good-bye, old man," said I, and then Moxon, who is a man of much sense, took him out of the room as I walked across to my desk and picked up a bill to read.
The moment they were in the hall, I laid the bill back on the desk and listened. The hall door was opened. It was closed. I half walked to the window; then stopped. What was the good?
A moment later I heard a bark in the street. I do not know, but I suppose after all I must be a sentimentalist. It seemed to me to say—"Good-bye."
Anyhow, I knew by that I was alone.