The "Vicarage Dog"
"I WANT to go round by the windmill, Elisabeth."
"I'm afraid there ain't time, Miss Hecla. We haven't got but just an
hour."
"Oh, but there is. I know there is. We can run, you know. Do please say
yes—there's a dear Elisabeth!"
Hecla looked beseechingly into her companion's round, rosy face and
honest eyes. Elisabeth was only sixteen years old, which is not really
old, though Hecla looked upon her as very much grown-up indeed. She
often wished to be sixteen herself, because she felt that then she
would be able to do whatever she liked. Elisabeth had been in Miss
Storey's service ever since leaving school at twelve years of age, and
she was a careful, dependable girl. She was devoted to Hecla, and loved
nothing better than taking the little girl out for a ramble.
"It's a good bit round by the windmill," she hesitated, pulling out her
neat metal watch, of which she was very proud, for it had been given
to her by Miss Storey on the day when she completed four years in the
house.
"We'll race," urged Hecla. "Do, please, come!"
"It's two minutes past twelve, and we haven't got but hardly an hour,
Miss Hecla."
"You said that before. Make haste. We're wasting time now—ever so much!"
"And I mustn't be one minute late. Not one minute," pursued Elisabeth
stolidly, though she began to move. "If I am, Mrs. Prue will begin
laying of the table, soon as ever the clock strikes, and then—my! I
shan't hear the end of it."
"Prue," otherwise Prudence Brown, was the servant who had been with the
Miss Storeys for thirty years past. And it was thought more respectful
for a young girl like Elisabeth to call her "Mrs. Prue."
"But we won't be late," declared Hecla. "Come along. Let's hurry."
"I don't mind starting that way, and then we'll see," Elisabeth said.
"If you won't stop to look at every single thing, we could do it, Miss
Hecla."
"Of course I won't," cried Hecla, setting off full speed.
And the next minute she came to a standstill, as a small fox-terrier,
with muddy feet, rushed up and began leaping upon her. "Trip, you sweet
dog, how nice! Trip means to come with us for a walk. He may, mayn't
he?"
"Oh dear me, what a mess he is making of your frock, Miss Hecla!"
"Down, Trip, down!" shrieked Hecla, in fits of laughter, as Trip
struggled to lick her nose. "You dear!" And she hugged him vehemently.
"Come along—come! We'll run now, won't we?" And she started again, all
unmindful of the muddy streaks down her skirt.
Elisabeth looked ruefully at those streaks, but she gave in, and
hurried after the scampering child and dog. If they only kept going at
this pace, there would be no difficulty in getting back by one o'clock.
Trip was the "Vicarage Dog," known to everybody in this small town of
Nortonbury, and a great friend of Hecla. When Chris was at school, and
when his master was busy in the study, Trip would sally forth alone in
search of amusement. Sometimes he had to be content with racing after
birds; sometimes he had the delight of a mad scramble after a cat; but
if only he could come across Hecla, he was perfectly happy.
Under no consideration might Trip be ever admitted into "The
Cottage,"—that being the name of Miss Storey's pretty little house.
Miss Storey had a great objection to dogs; partly on account of her
dear cat, partly for fear of dusty or muddy footmarks on doorsteps
and carpets. Trip was afflicted with an ardent longing to go where
Hecla was; and he had tried, times without number, to sneak into "The
Cottage" by a side entrance. But Mrs. Prue felt like her mistress, and
waged war on his kind. The moment Trip's black nose showed itself, he
was sure to be sent flying by broomstick or poker, to comfort himself
outside at a safe distance with a fury of barks.
Here in the lanes he might follow the little girl to his heart's
content; and nobody would find fault, if only he would refrain from
jumping on Hecla with those muddy paws. Elisabeth scolded him in vain;
for so soon as she began to scold, Hecla felt sure his feelings must
be hurt, and then she tried to comfort him, which made him jump on her
more vigorously than ever.
"I shall have to give you a good brushing the moment we get back,"
Elisabeth said despondingly. "And that'll take time too, Miss Hecla."
"But we won't be late," Hecla replied gaily.
Time fled fast, and one-half of the hour had slid away, as such hours
do slide, out in the sunshine and the fresh air, when she cried—
"Oh, look! There's a dear sweet little robin!" And she stopped to seize
Trip by the collar. "Look—look—just on the path. Hasn't he nice bright
eyes? No, Trip—you shan't frighten the dear little robin. Oh, you
naughty doggie!"
For Trip broke loose, and tore after the robin, which of course flew
away. Trip pursued, then vanished into a small plantation, from which
he did not come out in a hurry.
Hecla called, Elisabeth called, in vain. They tried coaxing, and they
tried scolding; but Trip was a dog who liked his own way quite as much
as little girls and boys do; and nearly ten minutes passed before it
pleased him to walk out, with an innocent face, as if much surprised
that anybody should be in a hurry.
"You bad, bad Trip, to keep us all this time!" Hecla pretended to beat
him, and then kissed the top of his head, which of course meant more
leaping up, and fresh attempts to lick her cheeks.
"And he's been and got into more wet mud, and he's making of your frock
worse than ever!" declared Elisabeth ruefully.
Wherever the sun shone, a thaw went on, and this meant many muddy
patches.
"Dear me, whatever will Mrs. Prue say?" Elisabeth again pulled out her
watch. "We've got to turn back this minute, Miss Hecla. There ain't no
time for the windmill to-day. Trip's hindered us a deal too long."
"What a pity! I do want to go round," exclaimed Hecla. "Couldn't we run
very, very fast?"
"No, we couldn't, Miss Hecla, and we ain't agoing to try. I've had
enough o' that!" Elisabeth turned resolutely round as she spoke, and
set off.
And Hecla, after one deep sigh of disappointment, started running in
advance.
Trip lagged behind, with drooping tail, very much disgusted, for he
knew that this meant going home, and he didn't want to go home.
But Hecla, whatever her faults might be, was not in the habit of
showing sulks when she could not have her own way.
"I know what I'll do," she cried suddenly. "I know what I'll do! The
quarry is only just round that corner, and I do want to see if I can't
find some snowdrops for Auntie Anne. It won't take a minute!"
She shouted the words, turning her head back; and before Elisabeth
could open her mouth to protest, she was flying at full speed round
the next turn to the right, down a little narrow lane, which led to
a small quarry, long ago disused, and now well grown over with grass
and bushes. A particularly steep path led to the bottom; and by the
time Elisabeth arrived at the edge, Hecla had rushed down this path
at break-neck pace—fortunately without any slip, or she might have
rolled the whole way—and was diving eagerly among grass and moss in the
farther corner.
Elisabeth stood waiting above, for she was not sure-footed, and she did
not care to try that path.
"Come, Miss Hecla—come!" she kept calling.
And presently Hecla rushed back, scrambling up the steep path in great
haste.
"I've got them! I've got them!" she cried, radiant with delight. "Look!
Three lovely little snowdrops! Won't Auntie Anne be glad!"
"I can't stop one moment, Miss Hecla. We're late. It was downright
naughty of you to run off there without leave. And you knowed I'd got
to get back."
Good-natured Elisabeth was for once really vexed. She took firm hold
of Hecla's hand, and they ran together till they were breathless,
slackening then for a minute, only to run again.
But their efforts were in vain. As they entered the front door, panting
and red-checked, and Hecla all over muddy marks, Mrs. Prue, with a
particularly grim face, was seen carrying an empty tray from the
dining-room. And Miss Anne came out and said—
"Elisabeth, you are not in time. You should have brought Miss Hecla
home earlier. I thought I could depend upon you. It is ten minutes past
one."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Elisabeth answered, and not one word did she utter
in self-defence.
But, though Hecla could be forgetful and careless, she could not stand
by and see Elisabeth blamed for what was her fault.
"It was me, auntie," she said. "It wasn't Elisabeth. I wanted to
get these snowdrops, and I ran into the quarry. They're for you,
auntie—because I love you."
Aunt Anne bent a little towards the child, with a soft look in her
eyes, yet she said—"I'm afraid I can't take the flowers to-day, Hecla.
I'm sorry. I should like them—but I must not."
Hecla stood still, dismayed. She partly understood.
"You may go, Elisabeth. I am glad to know that it was not your fault."
And Elisabeth disappeared.
"Dear little Hecla, don't you know that love is best shown by doing
what is right—by obeying orders? I love to know that you love me; but
I want to see you thinking first of doing rightly. And then—to have
the flowers would be so nice. But not if they made you disobey and get
others into trouble. Now you had better run upstairs and wash your
hands. After dinner you must change your frock, but there is not time
now."
Hecla was glad to hurry away, for something had made a lump creep into
her throat; and she hated that feeling of a lump. She washed her hands
in a great hurry, and tried to brush off some of the muddy streaks.
And then, to get rid more completely of the lump, she raced round and
round the room several times, and jumped on and off a chair as hard as
she could jump—never once thinking of her Aunt Millicent in the room
below. It certainly did make her feel better, though not yet happy; for
she knew that she had not done as she ought, out-of-doors; and when she
glanced towards the poor little rejected snowdrops, lying on her table,
the lump wanted to come back.
It was not surprising that, when she got downstairs, Miss Storey asked,
"What have you been doing, Hecla,—to make such extraordinary noises
overhead?"
"Oh, I only—jumped, auntie."
"Pray don't make such a noise another time."
Early dinner that day was rather a solemn meal. Miss Storey did not say
anything about the late return, as she knew that Miss Anne had already
spoken; but the usual chatter on Hecla's part was stopped, and the
little girl was made to feel herself just a little in disgrace.
As they left the table, Miss Storey said to her sister—"I think, my
dear Anne, that as Hecla has forgotten so many things to-day which she
ought to have remembered, we will put off telling her our news until
to-morrow."
"Perhaps it will be best," assented gentle Aunt Anne.
"What news, auntie?" cried Hecla. "I do love news. Oh, please tell me."
"Not to-day, Hecla. To-morrow, perhaps, if you are a good child."
"Auntie Millicent, I will be good. I'll be most dreadfully good, if
only you'll tell me."
"We shall see," said Miss Storey. "Now you must go upstairs."
After dinner, Hecla always had to lie down on her bed for an hour, as
her back was not very strong. Aunt Anne often came to read to her,
which she loved, or to talk with her, which she counted still more
delightful; but to-day for once Aunt Anne failed to appear.
So Hecla lay and pondered, kicking her legs about with impatience, as
she tried to imagine what the news could possibly be. She worried and
worried, guessed and guessed, ransacked her little brain for ideas, and
felt as if she really did not know how to wait such a tremendous length
of time as a whole afternoon and evening and night.
Was it something to do with Chris? Or was it something to do with Trip?
Or had somebody sent her a nice present? Hecla loved presents. Or was
someone coming to pay the aunts a visit? That did not happen often,
but it was nice when it did happen. Or was there to be an excursion
somewhere? What could it be?