Retrieved by Judy from a life of shame, her master had become a
respectable character, and the year afterwards found work as a carpenter
in an adjoining town, which compelled him to migrate from our village.
How to dispose of his dog was the question. His lodgings were situated
in a crowded street, through which a continuous stream of the vehicles
most dreaded by Judy, bicycles included, was passing literally by night
and day. Garden he had none—only a small paved court-yard, tenanted in
the main by children and cats, Judy’s natural enemies, while the nearest
field was two miles off. It was clearly impossible to transfer her to
such surroundings. Her future was settled thus. She was left in his old
rooms under special charge of the landlady, and every evening when his
day’s work was done, wet or fine, winter or summer, her master walked out
to console her for the long hours of his absence.
Such affection might have satisfied a reasonable dog. But Judy was
distinctly unreasonable. She remembered—none better—how in former times
she was with him all the day, and sometimes, when she willed to have it
so, all the night as well. _Now_ she was left to her own devices, and
only caught a hurried glimpse of him in the evening when she was too
sleepy to enjoy it. Besides, when he left her at the garden gate, she
was strictly enjoined not to follow him—a prohibition which, while it
whetted her curiosity, was also regarded as a direct insult, viewed in
the light of former days, and the unrestricted licence that had been
accorded to her then.
So Judy put on her considering cap. “He can’t go far,” she said, “else
he could never leave me so late and get home in time for bed. And I’m
sure he doesn’t drive or travel by train, else his boots would never be
so muddy when he comes here at seven. So it’s clear that he walks. And,
in that case, a dog of the feeblest intelligence can follow in his
track.”
Accordingly, on a wet and windy evening, when bicyclists were not likely
to be abroad, a little wistful-eyed face peered out into the road,
growing bolder and bolder as her master receded from view, but ever and
again hurriedly withdrawn whenever he turned upon her with a threatening
hand. Then he vanished behind a hill, and Judy felt that her opportunity
was come. But a mob of children ran by with sticks in their hands, and
Judy slunk back in alarm. As soon as these had passed, she made another
attempt. But horror of horrors! a bicyclist scorched by, and back she
shrank again into the friendly shade. At last the road was empty and
silent. The most careful inspection to the right hand and to the left
could find no sign of life, and the keenest ears with which ever dog was
gifted failed to detect a sound.
“Now or never,” said Judy, and with tail erect, and her tiny snub nose
well to ground on the scent, she rushed out into the night.
* * * * *
An hour later a man was sitting down to his supper in the adjoining town,
cursing the noise of the street in which he lived, with its wrangling
women and screaming children, and cabs and drays coming home for the
night, when a little dog whined and scraped at his door, and Judy rushed
in, mud-stained and panting and panic-stricken with fear.
It was probably the fright that killed her; it may have been some injury.
Her master never knew.
Only a brief friendship, measured by the standard of time. But perhaps
what Southey says is true, and “love is indestructible”—even the love
that bound these two.