'Go away, Flossie; you have done mischief enough!'
'Oh, very well, I'm going--if this is all I get for helping you. Is it
_my_ fault if you don't know your own mind, and say what you don't mean?
And if you really want your dearly beloved George back again, there's
time yet; he hasn't gone--he's in the drawing-room with mother.'
How infinitely petty her past misery seemed now! for what trifles she
had thrown away George's honest heart! If only there was a chance still!
at least false pride should not come between them any longer: so thought
Ella on her way to the drawing-room. George was still there; as she
turned the door-handle she heard her mother's clear resonant tones. 'Not
that that is any excuse for Ella,' she was saying.
Ella burst precipitately into the room. She was only just in time, for
George had risen and was evidently on the point of leaving. 'George,'
she exclaimed, panting after her rapid flight, 'I--I came to tell
you----'
'My dear Ella,' interrupted Mrs. Hylton, 'the kindest thing you can do
for George now is to let him go without any more explanations.'
Ella stopped; again her mind became a blank. What had she come for; what
was it she felt she must say? While she hesitated, George was already at
the other door; he seemed anxious to avoid hearing her; in another
second he would be gone.
She cried to him piteously. 'George, dear George, don't leave me!... I
can't bear it!'
'This is too ridiculous!' exclaimed her mother angrily. 'What is it that
you _do_ want, Ella?'
'I want George,' she said simply. 'It was all a mistake, George. Flossie
mistook---- Oh, you don't really think that I have left off caring for
you? I haven't, dear, indeed I haven't--won't you believe me?'
'I had better leave you to come to an understanding together,' said Mrs.
Hylton, not in the best of tempers, for she had been more sorry for
George than for the rupture he came to announce, and she swept out of
the room with very perceptible annoyance.
* * * * *
'I thought it was all up with me, Ella; I did indeed,' said George, a
minute or two later, his face still pale after all this emotion. 'But
tell me--what's wrong with the furniture I ordered?'
'Nothing, dear, nothing,' she answered, blushing. 'Don't think about it
any more.'
'No? But your mother was talking about it too,' he insisted. 'Come,
Ella, dear, for heaven's sake let us have no more misunderstandings! I
see now what an ass I was not to wait and let you choose for yourself;
these æsthetic things are not in my line. But I'd no idea you'd care so
much!'
'But I don't now--a bit.'
'Well, I do, then. And the house must be done all over again, and
exactly as you would like it; so there's no more to be said about it,'
said George, without a trace of pique or wounded vanity.
'George, you are too good to me; I don't deserve it. And indeed you must
not--think of the expense!'
His face lengthened slightly; he knew well enough that the change would
cost him dear.
'I'll manage it somehow,' he declared stoutly.
Would her mother help them now? thought Ella, and felt more than
doubtful. No, in spite of her own wishes, she must not allow George to
carry out his intentions.
'But you forget Carrie and Jessie,' she said; 'we shall hurt their
feelings so if we change now.'
'By Jove! I forgot that,' he said. 'Yes, they won't like it--they meant
well, poor girls, and took a lot of trouble. Still, you're the first
person to be considered, Ella. I'll try and smooth it over with them,
and if they choose to be offended, why, they must--that's all. And I
tell you what. Suppose we go and see the house now, and you shall tell
me just what wants doing to make it right?'
She would have liked to decline this rather invidious office, especially
as she felt no compromise to be possible; but he was so urgent that she
finally agreed to go with him.
As they gained Campden Hill and the road in which their house stood,
George stopped. 'Hullo!' he said, 'that can't be the house--what's the
matter with it?'
Very soon it was pretty evident what had been the matter--the walls were
scorched and streaming, the window sashes were empty, charred and wasted
by fire, the door was blistered and blackened, a stalwart fireman in
his undress cap, with his helmet slung at his back, was just opening the
gate as they came up.
'Can't come in, sir,' he said, civilly enough. 'No one admitted.'
'Hang it!' exclaimed George, 'it's my own fire--I'm the tenant.'
'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir--it's been got under some hours now. I was
just going off duty.'
'Much damage done?' inquired George laconically.
'Well, you see, sir,' said the man, evidently considering how to prepare
George for the worst, 'we didn't get the call till the house was well
alight, and there was three steamers and a manual a-playing on it,
so--well, you must expect things to be a bit untidy-like inside. But the
walls and the roof ain't much damaged.'
'And how did it happen?--the house isn't even occupied.'
'Workmen,' said the man. 'Someone was in there early this morning and
left the gas escaping somewheres, and as likely as not a light burning
near--and here you are. Well, I'll be off, sir; there's nothing more to
be done 'ere. Good-day, sir, and thank ye, I'm sure.'
'Oh, George!' said Ella, half crying, 'our poor, poor little house! It
seems like a judgment on me. How _can_ you laugh! Who will build it up
for us now?'
'Who? Why, the insurance people, to be sure! You see, the firm are
agents for the "Curfew," and as soon as I got all the furniture in I
insured the whole concern and got a protection note, so we're all right.
Don't worry, little girl. Why, don't you see this gets us out of our
difficulty? We can start afresh now without offending anybody. Look
there; there's that idiot of a plumber who's done all the mischief--a
nice funk he'll be in when he sees us!'
But Mr. Peagrum was quite unperturbed; if anything, his smudgy features
wore a look of sombre complacency as he came towards them. 'I'm sorry
this should have occurred,' he said,'but you'll bear me out that I
warned yer as something was bound to 'appen. In course I couldn't tell
what form it might take, and fire I must say I did _not_ expect. I
'adn't on'y been in the place not a quarter of a hour, watering the
gaselier in the libery--the libery as _was_, I _should_ say--when it
struck me I'd forgot my screw-driver, so, fortunately, as things turned
out, I went 'ome to my place to get it, and I come back to see the place
all in a blaze. It's fate, that's what it is--fate's at the bottom o'
this 'ere job!'
'Much more likely to be a lighted candle,' said George.
'I was not on the premises at the time, so I can't say; but, be that 'ow
it may, there's no denying it's a singler thing the way my words have
been fulfilled almost literal.'
'Confound you!' said George. 'You take good care your prophecies come
off. Why, man, you're not going to pretend you don't know that it's your
own carelessness that's brought this about! This isn't the only house
you've brought bad luck into, Mr. What's-your-name, since you've started
in business!'
'You can't make me lose my temper,' replied the plumber with dignity. 'I
put it down to ignirance.'
'So do I,' said George. 'And if I know anyone who's anxious for a little
typhoid, or wants his house burnt down at a moderate charge, why, I
shall know whom to recommend. Good-day.'
He turned on his heel and walked off, but Ella lingered behind. 'I only
just wanted to tell you,' she said, addressing the astonished plumber,
'that you have done us a very great service, and I, at least, am very
much obliged to you.' And she fluttered away after her _fiancé_.
The plumber--that instrument of Destiny--looked after the retreating
couple, and indulged in a mystified whistle.
'_'E_ comes a bullyragging of me,' he observed to a lamp-post, 'and
she's "very much obliged"! And I'm blowed if I know what for, either
way! Cracked, poor young things, cracked, the pair on 'em--and no
wonder, with such a calamity so recent. Ah, well, I do 'ope as this is
the end on it. I 'ope I shan't be the means of bringing no more trouble
into that little 'ouse--that I kin truly say!'
And--human gratitude having its limits--it is highly probable that this
pious aspiration will not be disappointed, so long, at least, as Mr. and
Mrs. Chapman's tenancy continues.
_DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG_
A TALE FOR CHILDREN
'Daisy, dearest,' said Miss Millikin anxiously to her niece one
afternoon, 'do you think poor Don is quite the thing? He has seemed so
very languid these last few days, and he is certainly losing his
figure!'
Daisy was absorbed in a rather ambitious attempt to sketch the lake from
the open windows of Applethwaite Cottage, and did not look up from her
drawing immediately. When she did speak her reply might perhaps have
been more sympathetic. 'He _eats_ such a lot, auntie!' she said. 'Yes,
Don, we _are_ talking about you. You know you eat too much, and that's
the reason you're so disgracefully fat!'
Don, who was lying on a rug under the verandah, wagged his tail with an
uneasy protest, as if he disapproved (as indeed he did) of the very
personal turn Daisy had given to the conversation. He had noticed
himself that he was not as active as he used to be; he grew tired so
very soon now when he chased birds (he was always possessed by a fixed
idea that, if he only gave his whole mind to it, he could catch any
swallow that flew at all fairly); he felt the heat considerably.
Still, it was Don's opinion that, so long as he did not mind being fat
himself, it was no business of any other person's--certainly not of
Daisy's.
'But, Daisy,' cried Miss Millikin plaintively, 'you don't really mean
that I overfeed him?'
'Well,' Daisy admitted, 'I think you give way to him rather, Aunt Sophy,
I really do. I know that at home we never let Fop have anything between
his meals. Jack says that unless a small dog is kept on very simple diet
he'll soon get fat, and getting fat,' added Daisy portentously, 'means
having fits sooner or later.'
'Oh, my _dear_!' exclaimed her aunt, now seriously alarmed. 'What do you
think I ought to do about it?'
'I know what I would do if he was _my_ dog,' said Daisy, with great
decision--'diet him, and take no notice when he begs at table; I would.
I'd begin this very afternoon.'
'_After_ tea, Daisy?' stipulated Miss Millikin.
'No,' was the inflexible answer, '_at_ tea. It's all for his own good.'
'Yes, dear, I'm sure you're right--but he has such pretty ways--I'm so
afraid I shall forget.'
'I'll remind you, Aunt Sophy. He shan't take advantage of you while
_I'm_ here.'
'You're just a tiny bit hard on him, Daisy, aren't you?'
'Hard on Don!' cried Daisy, catching him up and holding him out at
arm's length. 'Don, I'm _not_ hard on you, am I? I love you, only I see
your faults, and you know it. You're full of deceitfulness' (here she
kissed him between the eyes and set him down). 'Aunt Sophy, you would
never have found out his trick about the milk if it hadn't been for
me--_would_ you now?'
'Perhaps not, my love,' agreed Miss Millikin mildly.
The trick in question was a certain ingenious device of Don's for
obtaining a double allowance of afternoon tea--a refreshment for which
he had acquired a strong taste. The tea had once been too hot and burnt
his tongue, and, as he howled with the pain, milk had been added. Ever
since that occasion he had been in the habit of lapping up all but a
spoonful or two of the tea in his saucer, and _then_ uttering a pathetic
little yelp; whereupon innocent Miss Millikin would as regularly fill up
the saucer with milk again.
But, unfortunately for Don, his mistress had invited her niece Daisy to
spend part of her summer holidays at her pretty cottage in the Lake
District, and Daisy's sharper eyes had detected this little stratagem
about the milk on the very first evening!
Daisy was fourteen, and I fancy I have noticed that when a girl is about
this age, she not unfrequently has a tendency to be rather a severe
disciplinarian when others than herself are concerned. At all events
Daisy had very decided notions on the proper method of bringing up
dogs, and children too; only there did not happen to be any children at
Applethwaite Cottage to try experiments upon; and she was quite sure
that Aunt Sophy allowed herself to be shamefully imposed upon by Don.
There was perhaps some excuse for Miss Millikin, for Don was a
particularly charming specimen of the Yorkshire terrier, with a silken
coat of silver-blue, set off by a head and paws of the ruddiest gold.
His manners were most insinuating, and his great eyes glowed at times
under his long hair, as if a wistful, loving little soul were trying to
speak through them. But, though it seems an unkind thing to say, it must
be confessed that this same soul in Don's eyes was never quite so
apparent as when he was begging for some peculiarly appetising morsel.
He was really fond of his mistress, but at meal times I am afraid he
'put it on' a little bit. Of course this was not quite straightforward;
but then I am not holding him up as a model animal.
How far he understood the conversation that has been given above is more
than I can pretend to say, but from that afternoon he began to be aware
of a very unsatisfactory alteration in his treatment.
Don had sometimes felt a little out of temper with his mistress for
being slow to understand exactly what he _did_ want, and he had barked,
almost sharply, to intimate to the best of his powers--'Not bread and
butter, stoopid--_cake_!' So you may conceive his disgust when she did
not even give him bread and butter; nothing but judicious
advice--_without_ jam. She was most apologetic, it is true, and
explained amply why she could not indulge him as heretofore, but Don
wanted sugar, and not sermons. Sometimes she nearly gave way, and then
cruel Daisy would intercept the dainty under his very nose, which he
thought most unfeeling.
He had a sort of notion that it was all through Daisy that they were
just as stingy and selfish in the kitchen, and that his meals were now
so absurdly few and plain. It was very ungrateful of her, for he had
gone out of his way to be polite and attentive to her. When he thought
of her behaviour to him he felt strongly inclined to sulk, but somehow
he did not actually go so far as that. He liked Daisy; she was pretty
for one thing, and Don always preferred pretty people, and then she
stroked him in a very superior and soothing manner. Besides this, he
respected her: she had been intrusted with the duty of punishing him on
more than one occasion, and _her_ slaps really hurt, while it was
hopeless to try to soften her heart by trying to lick the chastising
hands--a manoeuvre which was always effective with poor Miss Millikin.
So he contented himself with letting her see that though he did not
understand her conduct towards him, he was willing to overlook it for
the present.
'What a wonderful improvement in the dear dog!' Miss Millikin remarked
one morning at breakfast, after Don had been on short commons for a
week or two. 'Really, Daisy, I begin to think you were quite right about
him.'
'Oh, I'm _sure_ I was,' said Daisy, who always had great confidence in
her own judgment.
'Yes,' continued her aunt, 'and, now he's so much better--just this one
small bit, Daisy?' Don's eyes already had a green glitter in them and
his mouth was watering.
'No, Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy, 'I wouldn't--really. He's better without
anything.'
'I wish that girl was gone!' reflected poor Don, as he went sulkily back
to his basket. 'It's enough to make a dog steal, upon my tail it is! I'm
positively starved--no bones, no chicken, only beastly dry dog-biscuits
and milk twice a day! I wish I could rummage about in gutters and places
as Jock does--but I don't think the things you find in gutters are ever
_really_ nice. Jock does--but he's just that low sort of dog who
_would_!'
Jock was a humble friend of his down in the village, a sort of distant
relation to the Dandie Dinmonts; he was a rough, long-backed creature,
as grey as a badger, and with a big solemn head like a hammer. Don was
civil to him in a patronising way, but he did not tell him of the
indignities he was subject to, perhaps because he had been rather given
to boast of his influence over his mistress, and the high consideration
he enjoyed at Applethwaite Cottage.
Now Daisy used to go up for solitary rambles on the fells sometimes,
when she generally took Don as a protector. He was becoming very nearly
as active as ever, and now there was a stronger motive than before for
pursuing the swallows--for he had a notion that they would be rather
good eating. But one morning she missed him on her way back through the
village by the lake; she was sure he was with her on the pier, and she
had only stopped to ask some question at the ticket-office about the
steamboat times; and when she turned round, Don was gone.
However, her aunt was neither angry nor alarmed. Miss Millikin was not
able to walk as much as Don wished, she said, so he was accustomed to
take a great deal of solitary exercise; he was such a remarkably
intelligent dog that he could be trusted to take care of himself--oh, he
would come back.
And towards dusk that evening Don did come back. There was a curious air
about him--subdued, almost sad; Daisy remembered long afterwards how
unusually affectionate he had been, and how quietly he had lain on her
lap till bedtime.
The next morning, when her aunt and she prepared to go for a walk along
the lake, Don's excitement was more marked than usual; he leaped up and
tried to caress their hands: he assured them in a thousand ways of the
delight he felt at being allowed to make one of the party.
After this, it was a painful surprise to find that he gave them the
slip the moment they reached the village. But Miss Millikin said he
always did prefer mountain scenery, and no doubt it was tiresome for him
to have to potter about as they did. And Master Don began to give them
less and less of his society in the daytime, and to wander from morn to
dewy eve in solitude and independence; though whether he went up
mountains to admire the view, or visited ruins and waterfalls, or spent
his days hunting rabbits, no one at Applethwaite Cottage could even
pretend to guess.
'_One_ good thing, Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy complacently one evening, a
little later, 'I've quite cured Don of being troublesome at meals!'
'He couldn't be _troublesome_ if he tried, dear,' said Miss Millikin
with mild reproof; 'but I must say you have succeeded quite
wonderfully--how _did_ you do it?'
'Why,' said Daisy, 'I spoke to him exactly as if he could understand
every word, and I made him thoroughly see that he was only wasting his
time by sitting up and begging for things. And you got to believe it at
last, didn't you, dear?' she added to Don, who was lying stretched out
on the rug.
Don pricked the ear that was uppermost, and then uttered a heavy sigh,
which smote his mistress to the heart.
'Daisy,' she said, 'it's _no_ use--I _must_ give him something. Poor
pet, he deserves it for being so good and patient all this time. One
biscuit, Daisy?'
Even Daisy relented: 'Well--a _very_ plain one, then. Let me give it to
him, auntie?'
The biscuit was procured, and Daisy, with an express intimation that
this was a very particular indulgence, tendered it to the deserving
terrier.
He half raised his head, sniffed at it--and then fell back again with
another weary little sigh. Daisy felt rather crushed. 'I'm afraid he's
cross with me,' she said; 'you try, Aunt Sophy.' Aunt Sophy tried, but
with no better success, though Don wagged his tail feebly to express
that he was not actuated by any personal feeling in the matter--he had
no appetite, that was all.
'Daisy,' said Miss Millikin, with something more like anger than she
generally showed, 'I was very wrong to listen to you about the diet.
It's perfectly plain to me that by checking Don's appetite as we have we
have done him serious harm. You can see for yourself that he is past
eating anything at all now. Cook told me to-day that he had scarcely
touched his meals lately. And yet he's stouter than ever--_isn't_ he?'
Daisy was forced to allow that this was so. 'But what can it be?' she
said.
'It's _disease_,' said her aunt, very solemnly. 'I've read over and over
again that corpulence has nothing whatever to do with the amount of food
one eats. And, oh! Daisy, I don't want to blame you, dear--but I'm
afraid we have been depriving him of the nourishing things he really
needed to enable him to struggle against the complaint!'
Poor Daisy was overcome by remorse as she knelt over the recumbent Don.
'Oh, darling Don,' she said, 'I didn't mean it--you know I didn't, don't
you? You must get well and forgive me! I tell you what, aunt,' she said
as she rose to her feet, 'you know you said I might drive you over in
the pony cart to that tennis-party at the Netherbys to-morrow. Well,
young Mr. Netherby is rather a "doggy" sort of man, and nice too.
Suppose we take Don with us and ask him to tell us plainly whether he
has anything dreadful the matter with him?'
Miss Millikin consented, though she did not pretend to hope much from
Mr. Netherby's skill. 'I'm afraid,' she said, with a sigh, 'that only a
very clever veterinary surgeon would find out what really is the matter
with Don. But you can try, my dear.'
The following afternoon Miss Millikin entrusted herself and Don to
Daisy's driving, not without some nervous misgivings.
'You're quite sure you can manage him, Daisy?' she said. 'If not, we can
take John.'
'Why, Aunt Sophy!' exclaimed Daisy, 'I _always_ drive the children at
home; and sometimes when I'm on the box with Toppin, he gives me the
reins in a straight part of the road, and Paul and Virginia pull like
anything--Toppin says it's all _he_ can do to hold them.'
Daisy was a little hurt at the idea that she might find Aunt Sophy's
pony too much for her--a sleepy little 'slug of a thing,' as she
privately called it, which pattered along exactly like a clockwork
animal in urgent need of winding up.
Don seemed a little better that day, and was lifted into the pony-cart,
where he lay on the indiarubber mat, sniffing the air as if it was doing
him good.
Daisy really could drive well for her age, and woke the pony up in a
manner that astonished her aunt, who remarked from time to time that she
knew Wildfire wanted to walk now--he never could trot long at a
time--and so they reached the Netherbys' house, which was five miles
away towards the head of the lake, well under the hour, a most
surprising feat--for Wildfire.
It was a grown-up tennis-party, and Daisy, although she had brought her
racket, was a little afraid to play; besides, she wanted to consult
young Mr. Netherby about Don, who had been left with the cart in the
stables.
Mr. Netherby, who was a good-natured, red-faced young soldier, just
about to join his regiment, was not playing either, so Daisy went up to
him on the first opportunity.
'You know about dogs, Mr. Netherby, don't you?'
'Rath-er!' said Mr. Netherby, who was a trifle slangy. 'Why? Are you
thinking of investing in a dog?'
'It's Aunt Sophy's dog,' explained Daisy, 'and he's ill--_very_ ill--and
we can't make out what's the matter, so I thought you would tell us
perhaps?'
'I'll ride over to-morrow and have a look at him.'
'Oh, but you needn't--he's here. Wait--I'll fetch him--don't you come,
please.'
And presently Daisy made her appearance on the lawn, carrying Don, who
felt quite a weight, in her arms. She set him down before the young man,
who examined him in a knowing manner, while Miss Millikin, and some
others who were not playing just then, gathered round. Don was languid,
but dignified--he rather liked being the subject of so much notice.
Daisy waited breathlessly for the verdict.
'Well,' said Mr. Netherby, 'it's easy enough to see what's wrong with
_him_. I should knock off his grub.'
'But,' cried Miss Millikin, 'we _have_ knocked off his grub, as you call
it. The poor dog is starved--literally starved.'
Mr. Netherby said he should scarcely have supposed so from his
appearance.
'But I assure you he has eaten nothing--positively nothing--for days and
days!'
'Ah,' said Mr. Netherby, 'chameleon, is he? then he's had too much
air--that's all.'
Just then a young lady who had been brought by some friends living close
by joined the group: 'Why,' she said at once, 'that's the little steamer
dog. How did he come here?'
'He is _not_ a little steamer dog,' said Miss Millikin in her most
dignified manner; 'he is _my_ dog.'
'Oh, I didn't know,' said the first speaker; 'but--but I'm sure I've
seen him on the steamer several times lately.'
'I never use the steamers unless I'm absolutely obliged--I disapprove of
them: it must have been some other dog.'
The young lady was positive she had made no mistake. 'You so seldom see
a dog with just those markings,' she said, 'and I don't think anybody
was with him; he came on board at Amblemere and went all round the lake
with us.'
'At Amblemere!' cried Daisy, 'that's where _we_ live; and, Aunt Sophy,
you know Don has been away all day lots of times lately.'
'What did this dog do on the steamer?' asked Miss Millikin faintly.
'Oh, he was so sweet! he went round to everybody, and sat up so prettily
till they gave him biscuits and things--he was everybody's pet; we were
all jealous of one another for the honour of feeding him. The second
time we brought buns on purpose. But we quite thought he belonged to
the steamer.'
Young Mr. Netherby laughed. 'So _that_ is how he took the air! I thought
I wasn't far wrong,' he said.
'Put him back in the cart, Daisy,' said Miss Millikin severely; 'I can't
bear to look at him.'
Don did his best to follow this dialogue, but all he could make out was
that it was about himself, and that he was being as usual exceedingly
admired. So he sat and looked as good and innocent and interesting as he
knew how. Just then he felt that he would almost rather they did _not_
offer him anything to eat--at least not anything very sweet and rich,
for he was still not at all well. It was a relief to be back in the cart
and in peace again, though he wondered why Daisy didn't kiss the top of
his head as she had done several times in carrying him to the lawn. This
time she held him at a distance, and said nothing but two words, which
sounded suspiciously like 'You _pig_!' as she put him down.
Miss Millikin was very grave and silent as they drove home. 'I can't
trust myself to speak about it, Daisy,' she said; 'if--if it was true,
it shows such an utter want of principle--such deceit; and Don used to
be so honest and straightforward! What if we make inquiries at the pier?
It--it may be all a mistake.'
They stopped for this purpose at Amblemere. 'Ay, Miss Millikin, mum, he
cooms ahn boord reglar, does that wee dug,' said the old boatman, 'and
a' makes himsel' rare an' frien'ly, a' do--they coddle him oop fine,
amang 'em. Eh, but he's a smart little dug, we quite look for him of a
morning coomin' for his constitutionil, fur arl the worl' like a
Chreestian!'
'Like a very _greedy_ Christian!' said his disgusted mistress. 'Daisy,'
she said, when she returned to the pony-cart, 'it's all true! I--I never
have been so deceived in any one; and the worst of it is, I don't know
how to punish him, or how to make him feel what a disgraceful trick this
is. Nobody else's dog I ever heard of made his mistress publicly absurd
in this way. It's so--so ungrateful!'
'Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy, 'I've an idea. Will you leave him to me, and
pretend you don't suspect anything? I _will_ cure him this time!'
'You--you won't want to whip him?' said Miss Millikin, 'because, though
it's all his own doing, he really is not well enough for it just now.'
'No,' said Daisy, 'I won't tell you my plan, auntie, but it's better
than whipping.'
And all this time the unconscious Don was wearing an expression of
uncomplaining suffering, and looking meekly sorry for himself, with no
suspicion in the world that he had been found out.
Next day he felt much better, and as the morning was bright he thought
that, after all, he might manage another steamer trip; his appetite had
come back, and his breath was not nearly so short as it had been. He
was just making modestly for the gate when Daisy stopped him. 'Where are
you going, sir?' she inquired.
Don rolled over instantly with all his legs in the air and a feeble
apology in his eye.
'I want you for just one minute first,' said Daisy politely, and carried
him into the morning-room. Was he going to be whipped?--she couldn't
have the heart--an invalid like him! He tried to protest by his
whimpering.
But Daisy did nothing of the kind; she merely took something that was
flat and broad and white, and fastened it round his neck with a very
ornamental bow and ribbon. Then she opened the French windows, and said
in rather a chilly voice, 'Now run away and get on your nasty steamer
and beg, and see what you get by it!'
That seemed, as far as he could tell, very sensible advice, and, oddly
enough, it was exactly what he had been intending to do. It did not
strike him as particularly strange that Daisy should know, because Don
was a dog that didn't go very deeply into matters unless he was obliged.
He trotted off at an easy pace down to the village, getting hungrier
every minute, and hoping that the people on the steamer would have
brought nice things to-day, when, close to the turning that led to the
landing-stage, he met Jock, and was naturally obliged to stop for a few
moments' conversation.
He was not at all pleased to see him notwithstanding, for I am sorry to
say that Don's greediness had so grown upon him of late that he was
actually afraid that his humble friend (who was a little slow to find
out when he wasn't wanted) would accompany him on to the steamboat, and
then of course the good things would have to be divided.
However, Don was a dog that was always scrupulously polite, even to his
fellow-dogs, and he did not like to be rude now.
'Hullo!' said Jock (in dogs' language of course, but I have reason to
believe that what follows is as nearly as possible what was actually
said). 'What's the matter with you this morning?'
Don replied that he was rather out of sorts, and was going down to a
certain lane for a dose of dog-grass.
'A little dog-grass won't do _me_ any harm,' said Jock; 'I'll come too.'
This was awkward, but Don pretended to be glad, and they went a little
way together.
'But what's that thing round your neck?' asked the Dandie Dinmont.
'Oh,' said Don, 'that? It's a bit of finery they put on me at the
cottage. It pleases _them_, you know. Think it's becoming?'
'Um,' answered Jock; 'reminds me of a thing a friend of mine used to
wear. But _he_ had a blind man tied to him. I don't see _your_ blind
man.'
'They would have given me a blind man of course if I'd asked for it,'
said Don airily, 'but what's the use of a blind man--isn't he rather a
bore?'
'I didn't ask; but my friend said he believed the thing round his neck,
which was flat and white just like yours (only he had a tin mug
underneath his), made people more inclined to give him things--he didn't
know why. Do _you_ find that?'
'How stupid of Daisy to forget the mug!' thought Don. 'I could have
brought things home to eat quietly then.--I don't know,' he replied to
Jock; 'I haven't tried.'
He meant to put it to the test very soon, though--if only he could get
rid of Jock.
'By the way,' he said carelessly, 'have you been round by the hotel
lately?'
'No,' answered Jock, 'not since the ostler threw a brush at me.'
'Well,' said Don, 'there was a bone outside the porch, which, if I
hadn't been feeling so poorly, I should have had a good mind to tackle
myself. But perhaps some other dog has got hold of it by this time.'
'I'll soon make him let go if he has!' said Jock, who liked a fight
almost as well as a bone. '_Where_ was it, did you say?'
'Outside the hotel. Don't let me keep you. It was a beautiful bone.
Good-morning,' said Don.
He did not think it worth while to explain that he had seen it several
days ago, for Don, as you will have remarked already, was a very artful
dog.
He got rid of his unwelcome friend in this highly unprincipled manner,
and strolled on to the pier full of expectation. Steamers ply pretty
frequently on this particular lake, so he had not to wait very long. The
little _Cygnet_ soon came hissing up, and the moment the gangway was
placed Don stepped on board, with tail proudly erect.
As usual, he examined the passengers, first to see who had anything to
give, then who looked most likely to give it to him. Generally he did
best with children. He was not fond of children (Daisy was quite an
exception), but he was very fond of cakes, and children, he had
observed, generally had the best cakes. Don was so accomplished a
courtier that he would contrive to make every child believe that he or
she was the only person he loved in the whole world, and he would stay
by his victim until the cake was all gone, and even a little longer,
just for the look of the thing, and then move on to some one else and
begin again.
There were no children with any cakes or buns on board this time,
however. There was a stout man up by the bows, dividing his attention
between scenery and sandwiches; but Don knew by experience that
tourists' sandwiches are always made with mustard, which he hated. There
were three merry-looking, round-faced young ladies on a centre bench,
eating Osborne biscuits. He wished they could have made it
sponge-cakes, because he was rather tired of Osborne biscuits; but they
were better than nothing. So to these young ladies he went, and, placing
himself where he could catch all their eyes at once, he sat up in the
way he had always found irresistible.
I don't suppose any dog ever found his expectations more cruelly
disappointed. It was not merely that they shook their heads, they went
into fits of laughter--they were laughing at him! Don was so deeply
offended that he took himself off at once, and tried an elderly person
who was munching seed-cake; she did not laugh, but she examined him
carefully, and then told him with a frown to go away. He began to think
that Daisy's collar was not a success; he ought to have had a mug, or a
blind man, or both; he did much better when he was left to himself.
Still he persevered, and went about, wagging his tail and sitting up
appealingly. By and by he began to have an uncomfortable idea that
people were saying things about him which were not complimentary. He was
almost sure he heard the word 'greedy,' and he knew what that meant: he
had been taught by Daisy. They must be talking of some other dog--not
him; they couldn't possibly know what he was!
Now Don was undeniably a very intelligent terrier indeed, but there was
just this defect in his education--he could not read: he had no idea
what things could be conveyed by innocent-looking little black marks.
'Of course not,' some of my readers will probably exclaim, 'he was only
a dog!' But it is not so absurd as it sounds, for one very distinguished
man has succeeded in teaching his dogs to read and even to spell, though
I believe they have not got into very advanced books as yet. Still, it
may happen some day that all but hopelessly backward or stupid dogs will
be able to read fluently, and then you may find that your own family dog
has taken this book into his kennel, and firmly declines to give it up
until he has finished it. At present, thank goodness, we have not come
to this, and so there is nothing remarkable in the mere fact that Don
was unable to read. I only mention it because, if he _had_ possessed
this accomplishment, he would never have fallen into the trap Daisy had
prepared for him.
For the new collar was, as you perhaps guessed long ago, a card, and
upon it was written, in Daisy's neatest and plainest round hand:--
I am a very Greedy little Dog, and have Plenty to eat at Home,
So please do not give me anything, or I shall have a Fit and die!
You can easily imagine that, when this unlucky Don sat up and begged,
bearing this inscription written legibly on his unconscious little
chest, the effect was likely to be too much for the gravity of all but
very stiff and solemn persons.
Nearly everybody on board the steamer was delighted with him; they
pointed out the joke to one another, and roared with laughter, until he
grew quite ashamed to sit up any more. Some teased him by pretending to
give him something, and then eating it themselves; some seemed almost
sorry for him and petted him; and one, an American, said, 'It was
playing it too low down to make the little critter give himself away in
that style!' But nobody quite liked to disobey Daisy's written appeal.
Poor Don could not understand it in the least; he only saw that every
one was very rude and disrespectful to him, and he tried to get away
under benches. But it was all in vain; people routed him out from his
hiding-places to be introduced to each new comer; he could not go
anywhere without being stared at, and followed, and hemmed in, and
hearing always that same hateful whisper of 'Greedy dog--not to be given
anything,' until he felt exactly as if he was being washed!
Poor disappointed greedy dog, how gladly he would have given the tail
between his legs to be safe at home in the drawing-room with Miss
Millikin and Daisy! How little he had bargained for such a terrible trip
as this!
I am sure that if Daisy had ever imagined he would feel his disgrace so
deeply she would not have had the heart to send him out with that
tell-tale card around his neck; but then he would not have received a
very wholesome lesson, and would certainly have eaten himself into a
serious illness before the summer ended, so perhaps it was all for the
best.
This time Don did _not_ go the whole round of the lake; he had had
quite enough of it long before the _Cygnet_ reached Highwood, but he did
not get a chance until they came to Winderside, and then, watching his
opportunity, he gave his tormentors the slip at last.
* * * * *
Two hours later, as Daisy and her aunt sat sketching under the big
holm-oak on the lawn, a dusty little guilty dog stole sneakingly in
under the garden-gate. It was Don, and he had run all the way from
Winderside, which, though he did not appreciate it, had done him a vast
amount of good. 'Oh!' cried Daisy, dropping her paint-brush to clap her
hands gleefully, 'Look, Aunt Sophy, he has had his lesson already!'
Miss Millikin was inclined to be shocked when she read the ticket. 'It
was too bad of you, Daisy!' she said; 'I would never have allowed it if
I had known. Come here, Don, and let me take the horrid thing off.'
'Not yet, please, auntie!' pleaded Daisy, 'I want him to be quite cured,
and it will take at least till bedtime. Then we'll make it up to him.'
But Don had understood at last. It was this detestable thing, then, that
had been telling tales of him and spoiling all his fun! Very well, let
him find himself alone with it--just once! And he went off very soberly
into the shrubbery, whence in a few minutes came sounds of 'worrying.'
In half an hour Don came out again; his collar was gone, and in his
mouth he trailed a long piece of chewed ribbon, which he dropped with
the queerest mixture of penitence and reproach at Daisy's feet. After
that, of course, it was impossible to do anything but take him into
favour at once, and he was generous enough to let Daisy see that he bore
her no malice for the trick she had played him.
What became of the card no one ever discovered; perhaps Don had buried
it, though Daisy has very strong suspicions that he ate it as his best
revenge.
But what is more important is that from that day he became a slim and
reformed dog, refusing firmly to go on board a steamer on any pretence
whatever, and only consenting to sit up after much coaxing, and as a
mark of particular condescension.
So that Daisy's experiment, whatever may be thought of it, was at least a successful one. |
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