which streamed in above them showed a dreary state of confusion: the
writing-table was covered with a sheet and put away in a corner, the
chairs were piled up on the centre table, the carpet had been taken up
and rolled under the sideboard, and there was a faint warm smell of flue
and dust and putty in the place.
He pattered out again, feeling puzzled and a little afraid, and went up
the bare stone staircase to find Hilda in one of the upper rooms,
perhaps in the nursery.
But the upper rooms, too, were all bare and sheeted and ghostly, and,
higher up, the stairs were spotted with great stars of whitewash, and
there were ladders and planks on which strange men in dirty white
blouses were talking and joking a great deal, and doing a little
whitewashing now and then, when they had time for it.
Their voices echoed up and down the stairs with a hollow noise that
scared him, and he was afraid to venture any higher. Besides, he knew by
this time somehow that Hilda, her father and mother, all the friends he
had counted upon seeing again, would not be found in any part of that
house.
It was the same house, though stripped and deserted, but all the life
and colour and warmth had gone out of it; and he ran here and there,
seeking for them in vain.
He picked his way forlornly down to the hall again, and there he found a
mouldy old woman with a duster pinned over her head and a dustpan and
brush in her hand; for, unhappily for him, the family, servants and all,
had gone away some days before into the country, and this old woman had
been put into the house as caretaker.
She dropped her brush and pan with a start as she saw him, for she was
not fond of dogs.
'Why, deary me,' she said morosely, 'if it hasn't give me quite a turn.
However did the nasty little beast get in? a-gallivantin' about as if
the 'ole place belonged to him.'
Dandy sat up and begged. In the old days he would not have done such a
thing for any servant below a cook (who was always worth being polite
to), but he felt a very reduced and miserable little animal indeed just
then, and he thought she might be able to take him to Hilda.
But the charwoman's only idea was to get rid of him as quickly as
possible.
'Why, if it ain't a Toby dawg!' she cried, as her dim old eyes caught
sight of his frill. Here, you get out; you don't belong 'ere!'
And she took him up by the scruff of the neck and went to the front
door. As she opened it, a sound came from the street outside which Dandy
knew only to well: it was the long-drawn squeak of Mr. Punch.
'That's where he come from, I'll bet a penny,' cried the caretaker, and
she went down the steps and called over the gate, 'Hi, master, you don't
happen to have lost your Toby dawg, do you? Is this him?'
The man with the drum came up--it was Jem himself; and thereupon Dandy
was ignominiously handed over the railings to him, and delivered up once
more to the hard life he had so nearly succeeded in shaking off.
He had a severe beating when they got him home, as a warning to him not
to rebel again; and he never did try to run away a second time. Where
was the good of it? Hilda was gone he did not know where, and the house
was a home no longer.
So he went patiently about with the show, a dismal little dog-captive,
the dullest little Toby that ever delighted a street audience; so
languid and listless at times that Mr. Punch was obliged to rap him
really hard on the head before he could induce him to take the slightest
notice of him.
But in spite of all this, he made the people laugh; most, perhaps, at
night, when the show was lit up by a flaring can of paraffin, and he sat
with his feet in Punch's coffin, howling dolefully at the melancholy
strains of Jem's pipes, which Dandy always found too much for his
feelings.
* * * * *
It was winter time, about a fortnight after Christmas, and the night was
snowy and slushy outside, though warm enough in the kitchen of a big
Belgravian house. The kitchen was crowded, a stream of waiters and
gorgeous powdered footmen and smart maids was perpetually coming and
going; in front of the fire a tired little terrier, with a shabby frill
round his neck, was basking in the blaze, and near him sat a little
dirty-faced man with a red beard, who was being listened to with some
attention by a few of the upper servants, who were enjoying a moment's
leisure.
'Yes,' he was saying, 'I've been in the purfession a sight o' years now,
but I don't know as I ever heard on a Punch's show like me and my mate's
bein' engaged for a reg'lar swell evenin' party afore. It shows, to my
mind, as public taste is a-coming round--it ain't quite so low as
formerly.'
The little man was Jem; and he, with his partner Bob, and Dandy, were
in the house owing to an eccentric notion of its master, who happened to
have a taste for experiments.
He agreed with many who consider that some kind of amusement in the
intervals of dancing is welcome to children; but it was one of his ideas
too that they must be getting a little bored by the inevitable lecture
with the dissolving views, and find a conjuror (even after seeing him
several times in a fortnight) as a rule more bewildering than amusing;
although as a present-producing animal, the last has his compensations.
He was curious to see whether the drama of Punch and Judy had quite lost
its old power to please. He could easily have hired an elegant and
perfectly refined form of the entertainment from some of the fashionable
toy-shops or 'universal providers,' only unfortunately in these improved
versions much of the original fun is often found to have been refined
away.
So he had decided upon introducing the original Mr. Punch from his
native streets and in his natural uncivilised state, and Jem and Bob
chanced to be the persons selected to exhibit him.
'Juveniles is all alike,' observed the butler, who, having been
commissioned to engage the showmen, condescended to feel a fatherly
interest in the affair; ''igh or low, there's nothing pleases 'em more
than seeing one party a-fetching another party a thunderin' good whack
over the 'ead. That's where, in my opinion, all these pantomimes makes a
mistake. There's too much bally and music 'all about 'em and not 'arf
enough buttered slide and red-'ot poker.'
'There's plenty of 'ead whackin' in _our_ show,' said Jem, with some
pride, 'for my partner, you see, he don't find as the dialogue come as
fluid to him as he could wish for, so he cuts a deal of it, and what
ain't squeakin' is mostly stick--like a cheap operer.'
'Your little dog seems very wet and tired,' said a pretty housemaid,
bending down to pat Dandy, as he lay stretched out wearily at her feet.
'Would he eat a cake if I got one for him?'
'He ain't, not to say, fed on cakes as a general thing,' said Jem drily,
'but you can try him, miss, and thankee.'
But Dandy only half raised his head and rejected the cake languidly--he
was very comfortable there in the warm firelight, and the place made him
feel as if he were back in his own old kitchen, but he was too tired to
be hungry.
'He won't hardly look at it,' said the housemaid compassionately. 'I
don't think he can be well.'
'Well!' said Jem. '_He's_ well enough; that's all his contrariness, that
is. The fact is, he thinks hisself a deal too good for the likes of us,
he do--thinks he ought to be kep' on chickin in a droring-room!' he
sneered, wasting his satire on the unconscious Dandy.
'I tell you what it is, miss: that there dawg's 'art ain't in his
business--he reg'lar looks down on the 'ole concern, thinks it _low_!
Why, I see 'im from the werry fust a-turnin' up his nose at it, and it
downright set me against him. Give me a Toby as takes a interest in the
drama! The last but one as we had, afore him, now, _he_ used to look on
from start to finish, and when Punch went and 'anged Jack Ketch, why,
that dawg used to bark and jump about as pleased as Punch 'isself, and
he'd go in among the crowd too and fetch back the babby as Punch pitched
out o' winder, as tender with it as a Newfunland! And he warn't like the
general run of Tobies neither, for he got quite thick with the Punch
figger--thought a deal on 'im, he did--and if you'll believe me, when I
'ad to get the figger a noo 'ead and costoom, it broke the dawg's
'art--he pined away quite rapid. But this 'ere one wouldn't turn a 'air
if the 'ole company went to blazes together!'
Here Bob, who had been setting up the show in one of the rooms, came
into the kitchen, looking rather uneasy at finding himself in such fine
company, and Dandy was spared further upbraidings, as he was called upon
to follow the pair upstairs.
They went up into a large handsome room, where at one end there were
placed rows of rout seats and chairs, and at the other the homely old
show, seeming oddly out of place in its new surroundings.
Poor draggled Dandy felt more ashamed of it and himself than ever, and
he was glad to get away under its ragged hangings and lie still by
Bob's dirty boots till he was wanted.
And then there was the sound of children's voices and laughter as they
all came trooping in, with a crisp rustle of delicate dresses and a
scent of hothouse flowers and kid gloves, that reached Dandy where he
lay: it reminded him of evenings long ago when Hilda had had parties,
and he had been washed and combed and decked out in ribbons for the
occasion, and children had played with him and given him nice things to
eat--they had generally disagreed with him, but now he could only
remember the pleasure and petting of it all.
He would not be petted any more! Presently these children would see him
smoking a pipe and being familiar with that low Punch. They would laugh
at him too--they always did--and Dandy, like most dogs, hated being
laughed at, and never took it as a compliment.
The host's experiment was evidently a complete success: the children,
even the most _blases_, who danced the newest valse step and thought
pantomines vulgar, were delighted to meet an old friend so unexpectedly.
A good many had often yearned to see the whole show right through from
beginning to end, and chance or a stern nurse had never permitted it.
Now their time had come, and Mr. Punch, in spite of his lamentable
shortcomings in every relation of life, was received with the usual
uproarious applause.
At last the hero called for his faithful dog Toby, as a distraction
after the painful domestic scenes, in which he had felt himself driven
to throw his child out of window and silence the objections of his wife
by becoming a widower, and accordingly Dandy was caught up and set on
the shelf by his side.
The sudden glare hurt his eyes, and he sat there blinking at the
audience with a pitiful want of pride in his dignity as Dog Toby.
He tried to look as if he didn't know Punch, who was doing all he could
to catch his eye, for his riotous 'rootitoot' made him shiver nervously,
and long to get away from the whole thing and lie down somewhere in
peace.
Jem was scowling up at him balefully. 'I know'd that 'ere dawg would go
and disgrace hisself,' he was saying to himself. 'When I get him to
myself, he shall catch it for this!'
Dandy was able to see better now, and he found, as he had guessed, that
here was not one of his usual audiences--no homely crowd of loitering
errand boys, smirched maids-of-all-work, and ragged children jostling
and turning their grinning white faces up to him.
There were children here too--plenty of them--but children at their best
and daintiest, and looking as if untidiness and quarrels were things
unknown to them--though possibly they were not. The laughter, however,
was much the same as he was accustomed to, more musical perhaps, and
pleasanter to hear, but quite as hearty and unrestrained--they were
laughing at _him_, and he hung his head abashed.
But all at once he forgot his shame, though he did not remember Mr.
Punch a bit the more for that; he ran backwards and forwards on his
ledge, sniffing and whining, wagging his tail and giving short piteous
barks in a state of the wildest excitement. The reason of it was this:
near the end of the front row he saw a little girl who was bending
eagerly forward with her pretty grey eyes wide open and a puzzled line
on her forehead.
Dandy knew her at the very first glance. It was Hilda, looking more like
a fairy princess than ever.
She knew him almost as soon, for her clear voice rang out above the
general laughter. 'Oh, that isn't Toby--he's my own dog, my Dandy, that
I lost! It is really; let him come to me, please do! Don't you see how
badly he wants to?'
There was a sudden surprised silence at this--even Mr. Punch was quiet
for an instant; but as soon as Dandy heard her voice he could wait no
longer, and crouched for a spring.
'Catch the dog, somebody, he's going to jump!' cried the master of the
house, more amused than ever, from behind.
Jem was too sulky to interfere, but some good-natured grown-up person
caught the trembling dog just in time to save him from a broken leg, or
worse, and handed him to his delighted little mistress; and I think the
frantic joy which Dandy felt as he was clasped tight in her loving arms
once more and covered her flushed face with his eager kisses more than
made up for all he had suffered.
Hilda scornfully refused to have anything to do with Jem, who tried hard
to convince her she was mistaken. She took her recovered favourite to
her hostess.
'He really is mine!' she assured her earnestly; and he doesn't want to
be a Toby, I'm sure he doesn't: see how he trembles when that horrid man
comes near. Dear Mrs. Lovibond, please tell them I'm to have him!'
And of course Hilda carried her point, for the showmen were not
unwilling, after a short conversation with the master of the house, to
give up their rights in a dog who would never be much of an ornament to
their profession, and was out of health into the bargain.
Hilda held Dandy, all muddy and draggled as he was, fast in her arms all
through the remainder of the performance, as if she was afraid Mr. Punch
might still claim him for his own; and the dog lay there in measureless
content. The hateful squeak made him start and shiver no more; he was
too happy to howl at Jem's dismal pipes and drum: they had no terrors
for him any more.
'I think I should like to go home now,' she said to her hostess, when
Mr. Punch had finally retired. 'Dandy is so excited; feel how his heart
beats, just there, you know; he ought to be in bed, and I want to tell
them all at home so much!'
She resisted all despairing entreaties to stay, from several small
partners who felt life a blank after she had gone--till supper came; and
so her carriage was called, and she and Dandy drove home in it together
once more.
'Dandy, you're very quiet,' she said once, as they bowled easily and
swiftly along. 'Aren't you going to tell me you're glad to be mine
again?'
But Dandy could only wag his tail feebly and look up in her face with an
exhausted sigh. He had suffered much and was almost worn out; but rest
was coming to him at last.
As soon as the carriage had stopped and the door was opened, Hilda ran
in, breathless with excitement.
'Oh, Parker, look!' she cried to the maid in the hall, 'Dandy is
found--he's here!'
The maid took the lifeless little body from her, looked at it for a
moment under the lamp, and turned away without speaking. Then she placed
it gently in Hilda's arms again.
'Oh, Miss Hilda, didn't you see?' she said, with a catch in her voice.
'Don't take on, now; but it's come too late--poor little dog, he's
gone!'
_ACCOMPANIED ON THE FLUTE._
A TALE OF ANCIENT ROME.
[Illustration: T]
The Consul Duilius was entering Rome in triumph after his celebrated
defeat of the Carthaginian fleet at Mylae. He had won a great naval
victory for his country with the first fleet that it had ever
possessed--which was naturally a gratifying reflection, and he would
have been perfectly happy now, if he had only been a little more
comfortable.
But he was standing in an extremely rickety chariot, which was crammed
with his nearer relations and a few old friends, to whom he had been
obliged to send tickets. At his back stood a slave who held a heavy
Etruscan crown on the Consul's head, and whenever he thought his master
was growing conceited, threw in the reminder that he was only a man
after all--a liberty which at any other time he might have had good
reason to regret.
Then the large Delphic wreath, which Duilius wore as well as the crown,
had slipped down over one eye and was tickling his nose, while--as both
his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre, the other with a laurel
bough, and he had to hold on tightly to the rail of the chariot whenever
it jolted--there was nothing to do but suffer in silence.
They had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red all
over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining and
splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether becoming,
and particularly, whether he would ever be able to get it off again.
But these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with the
honour and glory of it! Was not everybody straining to catch a glimpse
of him? Did not even the spotted and skittish horses which drew the
chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his vermilioned features? As
Duilius remarked this, he felt that he was, indeed, the central
personage in all this magnificence, and that, on the whole, he liked
it.
He could see the beaks of the ships he had captured, bobbing up and down
in the middle distance; he could see the white bulls destined for
sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the thing, and
redeeming the procession from any monotony by occasionally bolting down
a back street, or tossing on their gilded horns some of the flamens who
were walking solemnly in front of them.
He could hear, too, above five distinct brass bands, the remarks of his
friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise at the
smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine enthusiasm; and he
caught the general purport of the very offensive ribaldry circulated at
his own expense among the brave legions that brought up the rear.
This was merely the usual course of things on such occasions, and a
great compliment when properly understood, and Duilius felt it to be so.
In spite of his friends, and the red paint, and the familiar slave, in
spite of the extreme heat of the weather and his itching nose, he told
himself that this--and this alone--was worth living for.
And it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would only
last a day: he could not go on triumphing like this for the remainder of
his natural life--he would not be able to afford it on his moderate
income; and yet--and yet--existence would fall woefully flat after so
much excitement.
It may be supposed that Duilius was naturally fond of ostentation and
notoriety, but this was far from being the case; on the contrary, at
ordinary times his disposition was retiring and almost shy; but his
sudden success had worked a temporary change in him, and in the very
flush of triumph he found himself sighing to think that, in all human
probability, he would never go about with trumpeters and trophies, with
flute-players and white oxen, any more in his whole life.
And then he reached the Porta Triumphalis, where the chief magistrates
and the Senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited Roman-nosed
chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the approach of the
procession, and caused some of their riders to dismount, with as much
affectation of method and design as their dignity enjoined and the
nature of the occasion permitted.
There Duilius was presented with the freedom of the City and an address,
which last he put in his pocket, as he explained, to read at home.
And then an AEdile informed him in a speech, during which he twice lost
his notes and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the grateful
Republic, taking into consideration the Consul's distinguished services,
had resolved to disregard expense, and on that auspicious day to give
him whatever reward he might choose to demand--'in reason,' the AEdile
added cautiously, as he quitted his saddle with an unexpectedness which
scarcely seemed intentional.
Duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality, and, like
everyone else favoured suddenly with such an opportunity, was quite
incapable of taking complete advantage of it.
For a time he really could not remember in his confusion anything he
would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean to ask for
money.
At last he recalled his yearning for a Perpetual Triumph, but his
natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find courage to ask
for more than a fraction of the glory that now attended him.
So, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were exceedingly
kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion, he would
like--if they had no objection--he would like a flute-player to attend
him whenever he went out.
Duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well; but, on second
thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there were many
difficulties connected with the proper management of such an animal; the
Consul, from what he had seen that day, felt that it would be imprudent
to trust himself in front of the bull--while, if he walked behind, he
might be mistaken for a cattle-driver, which would be odious. And so he
gave up that idea, and contented himself with a simple flute-player.
The Senate, visibly relieved by so very unassuming a request, granted it
with positive effusion; Duilius was invited to select his musician, and
chose the biggest, after which the procession moved on through the Arch
and up the Capitoline Hill, while the Consul had time to remember things
he would have liked even better than a flute-player, and to suspect
dimly that he might have made rather an ass of himself.
* * * * *
That night Duilius was entertained at a supper given at the public
expense; he went out with the proud resolve to show his sense of the
compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of intoxication. The
Romans of that day only drank wine and water at their festivals, but it
is astonishing how inebriated a person of powerful will can become--even
on wine and water--if he only gives his mind to it. And Duilius, being a
man of remarkable determination, returned from that hospitable board
particularly drunk; the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him
to bed, though he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and
lulled him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of
the time.
So that the Consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad headache
and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found reason to
congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so invaluable an
attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry little ways of making
him useful about the house.
As the subsequent history of this great naval commander is examined with
the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is impossible to be
blind to the melancholy fact that, in the first flush of his elation,
Duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste that must have gone
far to undermine his popularity, and proved a source of much
gratification to his friends.
He _would_ use that flute-player everywhere--he overdid the thing
altogether: for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and
leave the flute-player in the hall, tootling to such an extent that at
last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny themselves to
him.
When he attended worship at the temples, too, he would bring the
flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could assist the
choir during service; and it was the same at the theatres, where
Duilius--such was his arrogance--actually would not take a box unless
the manager admitted his flute-player to the orchestra and guaranteed
him at least one solo between the acts.
And it was the Consul's constant habit to strut about the Forum with his
musician executing marches behind him, until the spectacle became so
utterly ridiculous that even the Romans of that age, who were as free
from the slightest taint of humour as a self-respecting nation can
possibly be, began to notice something peculiar.
But the day of retribution dawned at last. Duilius worked the flute so
incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon exhausted,
and then he was naturally obliged to blow them all through once more.