“YOU ask me how I lost my foot? You I see that dog?”—an unattractive
beast lying before the fire—“well, when I tell you how I came by him you
will know how I lost it;” and he then related the following story:—
I was in Westmoreland with my wife and children for a holiday and we had
brought our dog with us, for we knew he would be unhappy with the
strangers to whom we had let our house. The weather was very wet and our
lodgings were not comfortable; we were kept indoors for days together,
and my temper, always irritable, became worse. My wife never resisted me
when I was in these moods and the absence of opposition provoked me all
the more. Had she stood up against me and told me I ought to be ashamed
of myself it would have been better for me. One afternoon everything
seemed to go wrong. A score of petty vexations, not one of which was of
any moment, worked me up to desperation. I threw my book across the
room, to the astonishment of my children, and determined to go out,
although it was raining hard. My dog, a brown retriever, was lying on
the mat just outside the door, and I nearly fell over him. “God damn
you!” said I, and kicked him. He howled with pain, but, although he was
the best of house-dogs and would have brought down any thief who came
near him, he did not growl at me, and quietly followed me. I am not
squeamish, but I was frightened directly the oath had escaped my lips. I
felt as if I had created something horrible which I could not annihilate,
and that it would wait for me and do me some mischief. The dog kept
closely to my heels for about a mile and I could not make him go on in
front. Usually the least word of encouragement or even the mere mention
of his name would send him scampering with delight in advance. I began
to think of something else, but in about a quarter of an hour I looked
round and found he was not behind me. I whistled and called, but he did
not come. In a renewed rage, which increased with every step I took, I
turned back to seek him. Suddenly I came upon him lying dead by the
roadside. Never shall I forget that shock—the reproach, the appeal of
that poor lifeless animal! I stroked him, I kissed him, I whispered his
name in his ear, but it was all in vain. I lifted up his beautiful broad
paw which he was wont to lay on my knee, I held it between my hands, and
when I let it go it fell heavily to the ground. I could not carry him
home, and with bitter tears and a kind of dread I drew him aside a little
way up the hill behind a rock. I went to my lodgings, returned towards
dusk with a spade, dug his grave in a lonely spot near the bottom of a
waterfall where he would never be disturbed, and there I buried him,
reverently smoothing the turf over him. What a night that was for me! I
was haunted incessantly by the vivid image of the dead body and by the
terror which accompanies a great crime. I had repaid all his devotion
with horrible cruelty. I had repented, but he would never know it. It
was not the dog only which I had slain; I had slain Divine faithfulness
and love. That _God damn you_ sounded perpetually in my ears. The
Almighty had registered and executed the curse, but it had fallen upon
the murderer and not on the victim. When I rose in the morning I
distinctly felt the blow of the kick in my foot, and the sensation lasted
all day. For weeks I was in a miserable condition. A separate
consciousness seemed to establish itself in this foot; there was nothing
to be seen and no pain, but there was a dull sort of pressure of which I
could not rid myself. If I slept I dreamed of the dog, and generally
dreamed I was caressing him, waking up to the dreadful truth of the
corpse on the path in the rain. I got it into my head—for I was
half-crazy—that only by some expiation I should be restored to health and
peace; but how to make any expiation I could not tell. Unhappy is the
wretch who longs to atone for a sin and no atonement is prescribed to
him!
One night I was coming home late and heard the cry of “Fire!” I ran down
the street and found a house in flames. The fire-escape was at the
window, and had rescued a man, his wife and child. Every living creature
was safe, I was told, save a dog in the front room on the ground-floor.
I pushed the people aside, rushed in, half-blinded with smoke, and found
him. I could not escape by the passage, and dropped out of the window
into the area with him in my arms. I fell heavily on _that_ foot, and
when I was helped up the steps I could not put it to the ground. “You
may have him for your pains,” said his owner to me; “he is a useless cur.
I wouldn’t have ventured the singeing of a hair for him.” “May I?” I
replied, with an eagerness which must have seemed very strange. He was
indeed not worth half a crown, but I drew him closely to me and took him
into the cab. I was in great agony, and when the surgeon came it was
discovered that my ankle was badly fractured. An attempt was made to set
it, but in the end it was decided that the foot must be amputated. I
rejoiced when I heard the news, and on the day on which the operation was
performed I was calm and even cheerful. Our own doctor who came with the
surgeon told him I had “a highly nervous temperament,” and both of them
were amazed at my fortitude. The dog is a mongrel, as you see, but he
loves me, and if you were to offer me ten thousand golden guineas I would
not part with him.
LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR {180} TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND A FRAGMENT
FROM MY AUNT’S DIARY.
January 31, 1837.
MY DEAREST CHILD,—It is now a month since your father died. It was a
sore trial to me that you should have broken down, and that you could not
be here when he was laid in his grave, but I would not for worlds have
allowed you to make the journey. I am glad I forced you away. The
doctor said he would not answer for the consequences unless you were
removed. But I must not talk, not even to you. I will write again soon.
Your most affectionate mother,