"Only the envy was, that it lasted not still, or, now it is past,
cannot by imagination, much less description, be recovered to a
part of that spirit it had in the gliding by."
--Jonson's _Masque of Hymen_.
Sigurd was related to Vigi only by the line of Scandinavian literature.
The Lady of Cedar Hill was enjoying the long summer daylights and
marvelous rainbows of Norway, when word reached her that her livestock
had been increased by the advent of ten puppies, and back there came
for them all, by return mail, heroic names straight out of that
splendid old saga of _Burnt Njal_.
But this is not the beginning of the story. Indeed, Sigurd's story
probably emerges from a deeper distance than the story of mankind.
Millions of glad creatures, his tawny ancestors, ranged the Highlands,
slowly giving their wild hearts to the worship of man, and left no
pedigree. The utmost of our knowledge only tells us that Sigurd's sire,
the rough-coated collie Barwell Ralph (pronounced R[=a]fe), born
September 3, 1894, was the son of Heather Ralph, a purple name with
wind and ripples in it, himself the son of the sonorous Stracathro
Ralph, whose parents were Christopher, a champion of far renown, and
Stracathro Fancy; and of lovely Apple Blossom, offspring of Metchley
Wonder and Grove Daisy. Ralph's mother of blessed memory was Aughton
Bessie; her parents were Edgbarton Marvel, son of that same champion
Christopher and Sweet Marie, and Wellesbourne Ada, in proudest Scotch
descent from Douglas and Lady.
Sigurd's mother, Trapelo Dora, born May 16, 1900, was also a sable and
white rough collie. Her sire, Barwell Masterpiece, son of Rightaway and
Caermarther Lass, had for dashing grandsires Finsbury Pilot and
Ringleader, and for gentle grandams, Miss Purdue and Jane. Her mother,
Barwell Queenie, came of the great lineage of Southport Perfection and
numbered among her ancestors a Beauty, a Princess and a Barwell Bess.
Those ten puppies, poor innocents, had something to live up to.
But their sire, Ralph, cared nothing for his distinguished progenitors,
not even for that prize grandmother who had sold for eight hundred
pounds, in comparison with the Lady of Cedar Hill, whom he frankly
adored. His most blissful moments were those in which he was allowed to
sit up on the lounge beside her, his paw in her palm, his head on her
shoulder, his brown eyes rolling up to her face with a look of liquid
ecstasy. He had been the guardian of Cedar Hill several years when Dora
arrived. Shipped from those same Surrey kennels in which Ralph uttered
his first squeal, her long journey over sea and land had been a
fearsome experience. When the expressman dumped a travelworn box,
labeled _Live Dog_, in the generous country house hall, and proceeded
with some nervousness to knock off the slats, the assembled household
grouped themselves behind the most reassuring pieces of furniture for
protection against the outrush of a ferocious beast. But the delicate
little collie that shot forth was herself in such terror that even the
waiting dish of warm milk and bread, into which she splashed at once,
could not allay her panic. From room to room she raced, hiding under
sofas and behind screens, finding nothing that gave her peace, not even
when she came up against a long mirror and fronted her own reflection,
another scared little collie, which she tried to kiss with a puzzled
tongue against the glass. Then in sauntered the lordly Ralph, whose
indignant growl at the intruder died in his astonished throat as Dora
confidingly flung herself upon him, leaping up and clinging to his
well-groomed neck with grimy forelegs quivering for joy. Ralph was a
dog who prided himself on his respectability. Affronted, shocked, he
shook off this impudent young hussy, but homesick little Dora would not
be repelled. Here, at last, was something she recognized, something
that belonged to her lost world of the kennels. Let Ralph be as surly
as he might, he had her perfect confidence from the outset, while the
winsome Lady of Cedar Hill had to coax for days before Dora would make
the first timid response to these strange overtures of human
friendship.
As for Ralph, he decided to tolerate the nuisance and in course of time
found her gypsy pranks amusing, even although she treated him with
increasing levity. As he took his prolonged siesta, she would frisk
about him, biting first one ear and then the other, till at last he
would rise in magnificent menace and go chasing after her, his
middle-aged dignity melting from him in the fun of the frolic, till his
antics outcapered her own.
Dora's wits were brighter than his. If the Lady of Cedar Hill, after
tossing a ball several times to the further end of the hall, for them
to dash after in frantic emulation and bring back to her, only made a
feint of throwing it, Ralph would hunt and hunt through the far corners
of the room, while Dora, soon satisfying herself that the ball was not
there, would dance back again and nose about the hands and pockets of
her mistress, evidently concluding that the ball had not been thrown.
Or if a door were closed upon them, Ralph would scratch long and
furiously at its lower edge, while Dora, finding such efforts futile,
would spring up and strike with her paw at the knob.
The date made momentous by the arrival of the ten puppies was August
20, 1902. The Lady of Cedar Hill, home from the Norland, found Dora
full of the prettiest pride in her fuzzy babies, while Ralph, stalking
about in jealous disgust, did his best to convey the impression that
those troublesome absurdities were in no way related to him. This was
not so easy, for they, one and all, were smitten with admiration of
their august father and determination to follow in his steps. No sooner
did Ralph, after casting one glare of contempt upon his family, stroll
off nonchalantly toward the famous Maze, the Mecca of all the children
in the neighboring factory town, than a line of eager puppies went
waddling after. Glancing uneasily back, Ralph would give vent to a
fierce paternal snarl, whereat squat on their stomachs would grovel the
train, every puppy wriggling all over with delicious fright. But no
sooner did Ralph proceed, with an attempt to resume his careless
bachelor poise, than again he found those ten preposterous puppies
panting along in a wavy procession at his very heels.
Only one of the puppies failed to thrive. Fragile little Kari,
inappropriately named for one of the most terrible of the Vikings, died
at the end of three months. But Helgi and Helga, Hauskuld and
Hildigunna, Hrut, Unna and Flosi, Gunnar and Njal, waxed in size,
activity and naughtiness until, in self-defense, the Lady of Cedar Hill
began to give them away to her fortunate friends. Joy-of-Life was
invited over to make an early choice. As Wellesley is not far from
Cedar Hill, whose mistress she dearly loved, she went again and again,
studying the youngsters with characteristic earnestness. They were
nearly full-grown before she drove me over to confirm her election. The
dogs were called up to meet us, and the lawn before the house looked to
my bewildered gaze one white and golden blur of cavorting collies.
"Are they all here?" I asked, after vain efforts to count the heads in
that whirl of perpetual motion.
"All but the barn dog," replied the Lady of Cedar Hill. "He is kept
chained for the present, until he gets wonted to his humble sphere, but
we will go down and call on him."
He saw us first. An excited bark made me aware of a young collie,
almost erect in the barn door, tugging madly against his chain. The
Lady of Cedar Hill, with a loving laugh, ran forward to release him.
His gambol of gratitude nearly knocked her down, but before she had
recovered her balance he was too far away for rebuke, romping,
bounding, wheeling about the meadow, such a glorious image of wild
grace and rapturous freedom that our hearts gladdened as we looked.
"But he is the most beautiful of all," I exclaimed.
"Oh, no," said the instructed Lady of Cedar Hill, "not from the
blue-ribbon point of view." And she went on to explain that Njal, the
biggest of the nine, was quite too big for a collie of such
distinguished pedigree. His happy body, gleaming pure gold in the sun,
with its snowy, tossing ruff, was both too tall and too long. His
white-tipped tail was too luxuriantly splendid. The cock of his shining
ears was not in the latest kennel style. His honest muzzle was a trifle
blunt. He was, in short, lacking in various fine points of collie
elegance, and so, while his dainty, aristocratic brothers and sisters
were destined to be the ornaments of gentle homes, Njal was relegated
to a life of service, in care of the cattle, and to that end had been
for the month past kept in banishment at the barn.
But Njal had persistently rebelled against his destiny. He declined to
explore the barn, always straining at the end of his chain in the
doorway, watching with wistful eyes the frolics of his mother, hardly
more than a puppy herself, with her overwhelming children. She seemed
to have forgotten that Njal was one of her own. He would not make
friends with the dairymen nor with the coachman, and though he showed
an occasional interest in the horses, he utterly ignored the cows and
calves whose guardian he was intended to be. Even now, in defiance of
social distinctions, he dashed into the house, which, as we came
hurrying up behind him, resounded with the reproachful voices of the
maids.
"Njal, get out! You know you're not allowed in here."
"Njal, jump down off that bed this minute. The impudence of him!"
"Njal, drop that ball. It doesn't belong to you. Be off to the barn."
The maids, aided by Njal's brothers and sisters, who struck me as
officious, had just succeeded in chasing him out as we came to the
door, but he flashed past us, tail erect, enthusiastically bent on
greeting his glorious sire, who was majestically pacing up to
investigate this unseemly commotion.
"Poor Njal! Even more than the rest, he idolizes his father," said the
Lady of Cedar Hill, as Ralph met his son with a growl and a cuff.
Crestfallen at last, Njal trotted back to his mistress and stood gazing
up at her with great, amber eyes, that held, if ever eyes did, wounded
love and a beseeching for comfort. She stroked his head, but bade one
of the maids fetch a leash and take him back where he belonged.