_KUBAN_
That evening we stuck to our work, like Britons, and got all the ricks
combed down so well, and topped up ready for thatching, that the weather
was welcome to do what it pleased, short of a very heavy gale of wind.
Not a mowing-machine, nor a patent haymaker, had been into our meadows,
nor any other of those costly implements, which farmers are ordered by
their critics to employ, when they can barely pay for scythe and rake.
All was the work of man and horse, if maids may be counted among the
men--for, in truth, they had turned out by the dozen, from cottage, and
farm, and the great house itself, to help the poor gentleman who had
been rich, and had shown himself no prouder then than now.
For about three weeks, while the corn began to kern, and Nature wove the
fringe before she spread the yellow banner, a man of the farm, though
still wanted near at hand, might take a little change and look about him
more at leisure, and ask how his neighbours were getting on, or even
indulge in some distractions of his own. Now, in summer, a fellow of a
quiet turn, who has no time to keep up his cricket, and has never heard
of golf,--as was then the case with most of us,--and takes no delight in
green tea-parties, neither runs after moths and butterflies, however
attractive such society may be, this man finds a riverbank, or, better
still, a fair brook-side, the source of the sweetest voices to him. Here
he may find such pleasure as the indulgence of Nature has vouchsafed to
those who are her children still, and love to wander where she offers
leisure, health, and large delights. So gracious is she in doing this,
and so pleased at pleasing us, that she stays with us all the time, and
breathes her beauty all around us, while we forget all pains and
passions, and administer the like relief to fish.
Worms, however, were outside my taste. To see a sad creature go
wriggling in the air, and then, cursing the day of its birth, descend
upon the wet storm of the waters, and there go tossing up and down,
without any perception of scenery--this (which is now become a very
scientific and delicate art in delusion of trout) to me is a thing below
our duty to our kin. A fish is a fellow that ought to be caught, if a
man has sufficient skill for it. But not with any cruelty on either
side; though the Lord knows that they torment us more, when they won't
bite on any conditions, than some little annoyance we may cause
them--when we do pull them out--can balance.
Certain of the soundness of these views, if, indeed, they had ever
occurred to me, but despairing to convince my sister of them,--for women
have so little logic,--I fetched out a very ancient fly-book, with most
of the hackles devoured by moth-grubs, and every barb as rusty as old
enmity should grow. Harold never fished; he had no patience for it; and
as for enjoying nature, his only enjoyment was to improve it. Tom
Erricker, who was lazy enough to saunter all day by a river, while he
talked as if examiners were scalping him, not an atom did he know of any
sort of fishing, except sitting in a punt, and pulling roach in, like a
pod of seedy beans upon a long beanstick. Therefore was everything in my
book gone rusty, and grimy, and maggoty, and looped into tangles of
yellow gut,--that very book which had been the most congenial love of
boyhood. If I had only taken half as well to Homer, Virgil, Horace, I
might have been a Fellow of All Souls now (Bene natus, bene vestitus)
and brought my sister Grace to turn the heads of Heads of Houses, in the
grand old avenue, where the Dons behold the joys that have slipped away
from them.
But perhaps I should never have been half as happy. To battle with the
world, instead of battening in luxury, is the joy of life, while there
is any pluck and pith. And I almost felt, as a man is apt to feel, when
in his full harness, and fond of it, that to step outside of it, even
for a few hours, was a bit of self-indulgence unworthy of myself.
However, I patched up a cast of two flies, which was quite enough, and
more than enough, for a little stream like the Pebblebourne, wherein I
had resolved to wet my line.
This was a swift bright stream, as yet ungriddled by any railway works,
and unblocked by any notice-boards menacing frightful penalties. For
although the time was well-nigh come when the sporting rights over
English land should exceed the rental in value, the wary trout was not
yet made of gold and rubies; and in many places any one, with permission
of the farmers, was welcome to wander by the babbling brook, and add to
its music, if the skill were in him, the silvery tinkle of the leaping
fish. And though all this valley was but little known to me, a call at a
lonely farm-house on the hill, a mile or two further on than Ticknor's
Mew, made me free of the water and them that dwelled therein.
Now why should I go to this Pebblebourne, rather than to some other
Surrey stream, fishful, picturesque, and better known to anglers? Partly
I believe through what Robert Slemmick said, and Farmer Ticknor after
him, and partly through my own memories. There can be no prying air, or
pushing appearance about a gentle fisherman, who shows himself intent
upon the abstract beauties of a rivulet, or the concrete excellence of
the fish it holds. My mother liked nothing better than a dish of trout,
my father (though obliged to be very careful about the bones) considered
that fish much superior to salmon, ever since salmon had been propagated
into such amazing rarity. So I buckled on a basket, which would hold
some 50lb., took an unlimited supply of victuals, and set forth to clear
the Pebblebourne of trout.
My mother had no supper except toasted cheese that night, although I
returned pretty early; neither did my father find occasion to descant
upon the inferiority of salmon. And the same thing happened when I went
again. I could see great abundance of those very pleasing fish, and they
saw an equal abundance of me. They would come and look at my fly, with
an aspect of gratifying approval, as at a laudable specimen of clever
plagiarism, and then off with them into the sparkles and wrinkles of the
frisky shallows, with a quick flop of tail, and yours truly till next
time. And yet I kept out of sight and cast up-stream, and made less mark
than a drop of rain on the silver of the stream.
I was half inclined to drop any third attempt, having daintily treated
some meadows of brook, without any token of fish to carry home, or of
human presence to stow away in heart, although I had persisted to the
very door, which had swallowed that fair vision, in the twilight of the
May. Her little shrine and holy place I never had profaned, feeling that
a stranger had no business there; neither could I bring myself to hang
about in ambush, and lurk for the hour of her evening prayer and hymn.
But my dear mother seemed to lose her fine faith in my skill; for ladies
are certain to judge by the event; moreover to accept a beating lightly
was entirely against my rules. So I set forth once again, saying to
myself--"the third time is lucky. Let us have one more trial."
On that third evening of my labour against stream, I was standing on the
bank, where the bridle-track came through, and packing up my rod, after
better luck with fish, for I had found a fly which puzzled them, and had
taken a good dozen--when who should come up gambolling round my heels,
and asking, as it seemed to me, for a good word, or a pat, but that
magnificent and very noble dog who had reviewed, and so kindly approved
of me, from the battlements near the upper door? "What is your name, my
stately friend?" I said to him, not without some misgivings that he
might resent this overture. But he threw up his tail like a sheaf of
golden wheat, and made the deep valley ring, and the heights resound,
with a voice of vast rejoicing, and a shout of glorious freedom.
But was it this triumph that provoked the fates? While the echoes still
were eddying in the dimples of the hills, a white form arose on the
crest of the slope some fifty yards behind us. A vast broad head, with
ears prickled up like horns of an owl, and sullen eyes under patches of
shade, regarded us; while great teeth glimmered under bulging jowls, and
squat red nostrils were quivering with disdain. It was _Grab_, Farmer
Ticknor's savage bull-dog; and hoping that he would be scared, as most
dogs are, when they have no business, by the cast of a stone, I threw a
pebble at him, which struck the ground under his burly chest. He noticed
it no more than he would heed a grasshopper, but began to draw upon us,
as a pointer draws on game, with his wiry form rigid, and his hackles
like a tooth-brush, and every roll of muscle like an oak burr-knot.
I drew the last loops of my line through the rings, and wound up the
reel in all haste, and detaching the butt of my rod stood ready, for it
looked as if he meant to fly at me. But no, he marched straight up to my
noble friend, with blazing eyes fixed on him, and saluted him with a
snarl of fiendish malice. Clearly my dog, as I began to consider him,
had no experience of such low life. He was a gentleman by birth and
social habits, not a coarse prize-fighter; so he stood looking down with
some surprise at this under-bred animal, yet glancing pleasantly as if
he would accept a challenge to a bout of gambols, as my lord will play
cricket with a pot-boy. Nay, he even went so far as to wag his courtly
tail, and draw his taper fore-legs, which shone like sable, a little
beneath the arch of his body, to be ready for a bound, if this other
chap meant play. _Grab_ spied the mean chance, and leaped straight at
his throat, but missed it at first, or only plunged his hot fangs into a
soft rich bed of curls. My dog was amazed, and scarcely took it in
earnest yet. His attitude was that of our truly peaceful nation--"I
don't want to fight, but, by Jingo, if I must, it won't be long before
this little bully bites the dust."
"At him, _Grab_, at him, boy! Show 'un what you be made of! Tip 'un a
taste of British oak. Give 'un a bellyful. By the Lord in Heaven, would
you though?"
I stretched my rod in front of Ticknor, as he appeared from behind a
ridge, dancing on his heavy heels at the richness of the combat, and
then rushing at the dog, my friend, with a loaded crab-stick, because he
had got the bull-dog down and was throwing his great weight upon him. He
had tossed him up two or three times as if in play, for he seemed even
now not to enter into the deadliness of the enemy.
"Fair play, farmer!" I said sternly. "It was your beast that began it.
Let him have a lesson. I hope the foreign dog will kill him."
No fair-minded person could help perceiving the chivalry of the one, and
bestiality of the other; while the combat grew furious for life or
death, with tossing and whirlings, and whackings of ribs, and roars of
deep rage on the part of my friend, while the other scarcely puffed or
panted, but fought his fight steadily from the ground, and in deadly
silence.
"Furriner can't hurt 'un much," said the farmer, as I vainly strove to
get between them; "made of iron and guttaperk our _Grab_ is. I've been
a'biding for this, for two months. I sent 'e fair warning, Master
George, by that fellow Slemmick, that you might not lose it. Fair play,
you says; and I say the very same. Halloa! our _Grab_ hath got his hold
at last. Won't be long in this world for your furriner now. Well done,
our _Grab_! Needn't tell 'un to hold fast."
To my dismay, I saw that it was even so. My noble foreign friend was
still above the other, but his great frame was panting and his hind-legs
twitching, and long sobs of exhaustion fetching up his golden flanks.
The sleuth foe, the murderer, had him by his gasping throat, and was
sucking out his breath with bloody fangs deep-buried.
"Let 'un kill 'un. Let 'un kill 'un!" shouted Farmer Ticknor. "Serve 'un
right for showing cheek to an honest English dog--"
But I sent Ticknor backwards, with a push upon his breast, and then with
both hands I tugged at his brutal beast. As well might I have striven,
though I am not made of kid gloves, to pull an oak in its prime from the
root-hold. The harder I tugged the deeper went the bulldog's teeth, the
faster fell the gouts of red into his blazing eyes, and the feebler grew
the gasps of his exhausted victim. Then I picked up my ashen butt and
broke it on the backbone of the tyrant, but he never even yielded for
the rebate of a snarl. Death was closing over those magnificent brown
eyes, as they turned to me faintly their last appeal.
A sudden thought struck me. I stood up for a moment, although I could
scarcely keep my legs, and whipping out of my waistcoat my brother's
patent box, I touched the spring and poured the whole contents into the
bloody nostrils of that tenacious beast. Aha, what a change! His grim
set visage puckered back to his very ears, as if he were scalped by
lightning; the flukes of his teeth fell away from their grip, as an
anchor sags out of a quicksand, he quivered all over, and rolled on his
back, and his gnarled legs fell in on the drum of his chest, while he
tried to scrub his squat nose in an agony of blisters. Then he rolled on
his panting side, and sneezed till I thought he would have turned all
his body inside out.
As for me, I set both hands upon my hips, though conscious of some pain
in doing so, and laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks. My
enjoyment was becoming actual anguish when the pensive Ticknor stooping
over his poor pet inhaled enough of the superfluous snuff to send him
dancing and spluttering across the meadow, vainly endeavouring between
his sneezes to make an interval for a heartfelt damn.
But suddenly this buffoonery received a tragic turn. From the door in
the ivied wall came forth a gliding figure well known to me, but not in
its present aspect. The calm glory of the eyes was changed to grief and
terror, the damask of the cheeks was blurred with tears, the sweet lips
quivered with distress and indignation.
"Ah, _Kuban, Kuban_, Daretza, Dula, _Kuban_!" This, or something like
this, was her melancholy cry, as she sank on her knees without a glance
at us, and covered that palpitating golden form with a shower of dark
tresses, waving with sobs like a willow in the breeze.
"Ah, _Kuban, Kuban_!" and then some soft words uttered into his ear, as
if to speed his flight.
I ran to the brook and filled my hat with water, for I did not believe
that this great dog could be dead. When I came back the young lady was
sitting with the massive head helpless on her lap, and stroking the soft
dotted cheeks, and murmuring, as if to touch the conscience of Farmer
Ticknor, "Ah, cruel, cruel! How men are cruel!"
"Allow me one moment," I said, for she seemed not even to know that I
was near. "Be kind enough to leave the dog to me. I may be able yet to
save his life. Do you understand English, Mademoiselle?"
[Illustration: "_'Allow me one moment,' I said._"]
"His life, it is gone?" Another sob stopped her voice, as she put her
little hand, where she thought his heart must be. "Yes, sir, I
understand English too well."
"Then if you will be quick, we may save his life yet. I am used to dogs;
this noble fellow is not dead; though he will be very soon, unless we
help him. There is a wound here that I cannot bind up with anything I
have about me. Bring bandages and anything long and soft. Also bring
wool, and a pot of grease, and a sponge with hot water, and a bowl or
two. I will not let him die, till you come back!"
"If that could be trusted for, when would I come back?" She glanced at
me, having no time to do more, with a soft thrill of light, such as hope
was born in; and before I could answer it she was gone, leaving me
unable to follow with my eyes; for it was the turning-point of _Kuban's_
life--if that were the name of this high-souled dog. The throttling was
gone, and the barbed strangulation, and devil's own tug at his windpipe;
but the free power of breath was not restored, and the heart was
scarcely stirring. Lifting his eyelids, I saw also that there was
concussion of the brain to deal with; but the danger of all was the
exhaustion.
Luckily in the breast-pocket of my coat was a little silver flask with a
cup at the bottom, Tom Erricker's present on my last birthday. I had
filled it with whiskey, though I seldom took spirits in those young
days, but carried this dram in case of accidents, when fishing. Instead
of dashing cold water out of my hat on the poor dog's face, as I had
meant to do,--which must in such a case have been his last sensation,--I
poured a little whiskey into the silver cup, and filled it with the
residue of water that was leaking quickly from my guaranteed felt. Then
I held up the poor helpless head, and let the contents of the cup
trickle gently over the black roots of the tongue. Down it went, and a
short gurgle followed, and then a twitch of the eyelids, and a long soft
gasp. The great heart gave a throb, and the brown eyes looked at me,
and a faint snort came from the flabby nostrils, and I shouted aloud,
"_Kuban_ is saved."
There was nobody to hear me, except the dog himself, and he was too weak
to know what I meant. Ticknor was gone, with that beast at his heels,
for at the end of the meadow I saw _Grab_, the British champion,
slouching along, like a vanquished cur, with his ropy stomach venting
heavy sneezes; and to the credit of his wisdom, I may add that even a
lamb in that valley ever after was sacred from a glance of his
bloodthirsty goggles.
With his long form laid between my legs, while I sat down on the sod and
nursed him, my wounded dog began more and more to recover his
acquaintance with the world, and to wonder what marvel had befallen him.
He even put out his tongue, and tried to give me a lick, and his grand
tail made one or two beats upon the ground; but I held up my hand, for
he had several frightful wounds, and he laid down his ears with a
grateful little whine. For the main point was to keep him quite still
now, until the dangerous holes could be stopped from bleeding.
So intent was I upon doing this, that before I was at all aware of it,
three or four people were around me. But I had eyes for only one, the
lovely mistress of the injured dog; while she for her part had no
thought whatever of anything, or any one, except that blessed _Kuban_.
That was right enough of course, and what else could be expected? Still
I must admit that this great fellow rose even higher in my estimation,
when he showed that he knew well enough where to find the proper course
of treatment, and was not to be misled even by the warmest loyalty into
faith in feminine therapeutics.
"He has turned his eyes away from me. Oh, _Kuban, Kuban_! But I care not
what you do, beloved one, if only you preserve your life. Do you think
that he can do that, sir, with all these cruel damages?"
Now that she was more herself, I thought that I had never heard any
music like her voice, nor read any poetry to be compared to the
brilliant depths of her expressive eyes. And the sweetness of her voice
was made doubly charming by the harsh and high tones of her attendants,
who were jabbering in some foreign tongue, probably longing to
interfere, and take the case out of my management.
"If they would not make such a noise," I said, "it would be all the
better for my patient. Can you persuade them to stand out of my light,
and let the fresh air flow in upon us? Oh, thank you, that is a great
deal better. There! I think now if we let him rest a minute, and then
carry him home, he will be all right. How clever you must be, to bring
the right things so well!"
For this bit of praise I was rewarded with a smile more lovely than I
should have thought possible, since the fair cheeks of Eve took the
fatal bite, and human eyes imbibed Satan. But she was truthful, as Eve
was false.
"Without Stepan I could have done nothing. Stepan, come forth, and
receive the praise yours. You must now take _Kuban_ in your arms, and
follow this gentleman into the fort. Understand you? He has very little
English yet. He can do everything except learn. Stepan is too strong for
that. But he has not the experience that I have. Nevertheless, he is
very good. I am praising thee, oh, Stepan. Lose not the opportunity of
thanking me."
Stepan, a huge fellow, dressed very wonderfully according to my present
ideas, stood forth in silence, and held up his arms, to show that they
were ready for anything. But I saw that a hard leather bandoleer, or
something of that kind, with a frill of leather cases, hung before his
great chest, and beneath the red cross which all of them were wearing.
"Stepan is strong as the ox," said the lady.
That he might be, and he looked it too. "Can he pull off that great
leather frill?" I asked, seeing that it would scrub the poor dog sadly,
as well as catch and jerk his bandages.
"He cannot remove it. That is part of Stepan." His young mistress smiled
at him, as she said this.
"Then put him up here," I said, holding out my arms, though not sure
that I could manage it, for the dog must weigh some twelve stone at
least, and one of my arms had been injured. Stepan lifted him with the
greatest ease; but not so did I carry him, for he must be kept in one
position, and most of his weight came on my bad arm. So difficult was my
task indeed, that I saw nothing of the place they led me through, but
feared that I should drop down at every rough spot--which would have
meant the death of poor _Kuban_. And down I must have come, I am quite
sure of that, if I had not heard the soft sweet voice behind me--"It is
too much for the kind gentleman. I pray you, sir, to handle him to the
great Stepan."
When I was all but compelled to give in, by the failure of the weak arm,
and the fear of dropping my patient fatally, a man of magnificent
appearance stood before me, and saw my sad plight at a glance.
"Permit me," he said, in a deep rich tone, yet as gentle as a woman's
voice. "This is over-trying your good will. I see what it is. I have
only just heard. I will bear him very gently. Take _Orla_ away."
For another dog was jumping about me now, most anxious to know what on
earth had befallen that poor _Kuban_, and displaying, as I thought, even
more curiosity than sympathy. But when the weight was taken from me, and
my companions went on, I turned aside with pains and aches, which came
upon me all the worse.
"I have done all I can. I am wanted no more; the sooner I get home the
better."
Thinking thus I made my way towards the black door of our entrance, now
standing wide open in the distance; and I felt low at heart through the
failure of my strength, and after such a burst of excitement.
"I am not wanted here. I have no right here. What have I to do with
these strange people?" I said to myself, as I sat for a moment to
recover my breath, on a bench near the door. "I have quite enough to do
at home, and my arm is very sore. They evidently wish to live in strict
seclusion; and as far as concerns me, so they may. If they wanted me,
they would send after me. A dog is more to them than a Christian
perhaps. What on earth do they wear those crosses for?"
I would not even look around, to see what sort of a place it was; but
slipped through the door, and picked up my shattered rod and half-filled
creel, and set off, as the dusk was deepening, on the long walk to my
father's cottage.