terrier, though the island of Skye is one of the few places in which a
long-haired terrier is very rare. He was quite small, what his
Highland friends called 'a wee bit doggie;' he was very full of life
and courage, wonderfully plucky for his size, like the fierce little
bird whose name he bore. Like a good many little people he lacked the
dignity and repose of his big companion, and, though very
good-tempered among his friends, was quite ready to bite if beaten,
and did not take a scolding with half the gentleness and humility with
which Righ would submit to punishment, perhaps because he needed it
oftener, for he was so busy and active that he sometimes got into
scrapes. He was only three years old at the time of this story and
Righ was seven, so it was perhaps natural that Righ should be the
wiser of the two.
They lived in a beautiful house quite near the loch, and they had a
large garden to play in, and they could go in and out of the house and
do just as they liked so long as they came when they were called and
did as they were bid, and did not climb on the sofa cushions when
their feet were muddy. There were very few houses on their side the
water, and as their friends went about in boats as often as other
people go out in carriages, the dogs were used to the water, and could
swim as easily as walk, and what is more, knew how to sit still in a
boat, so that they were allowed to go everywhere with their friends
because they gave no trouble.
They had a very happy life, for there was always something going on,
which is what dogs like, and plenty of people to go walks with. Their
young masters sometimes went out with guns, and a dog, a country dog,
loves a gun better than anything in the world, because he knows it
means business in which he can help. Sometimes their mistress took
them for a walk, and then they knew that they must be on their best
behaviour, and not wander too far away from the road and have to be
whistled back, and not fight with the collies at the cottage doors,
nor chase cats, nor be tiresome in any way; they generally kept close
beside her, Righ walking very slowly so as to accommodate his big
strides to the progress of a poor human thing with only two legs, and
Speireag trotting along with tiny little footsteps that seemed to make
a great fuss and to be in a great hurry about nothing at all.
There was nothing, however, so delightful as going for walks with
their own master, the Bishop. For one thing, they generally knew he
really meant to do something worth while. Pottering about with a gun
or escorting a lady is pleasant enough, but it generally means coming
home to lunch or tea, and the real joy of a dog's walk is to feel that
you are getting further and further away from home, and that there are
miles of heather and pine-wood behind you, and yet you are still going
on and on, with chances of more hares and more squirrels to run after.
Sometimes the Bishop would stop at a shepherd's hut or a lonely
cottage under the lee of a hill, and sometimes he would sit down to
examine a flower he had gathered in the wood, but they forgave him
very good-temperedly, and could always find something to interest them
while they waited.
Righ generally sat down beside his master and stretched out his great
limbs on the heather, for he liked to think he was taking care of
somebody or something. Speireag would lie down for a minute, panting,
with his little red tongue hanging out and his hairy little paws all
wet and muddy; but he never rested for long, but would dart off,
pretending to have found a rat or a squirrel, even if none really
existed.
It was in December, 1887, the weather was raw and cold, there was ice
floating about on the loch, and the sea gulls used to come up to the
garden terrace to be fed. The young masters were away, and mistress
could only take walks along the road, there was nothing to tempt her
to a mountain scramble or a saunter in the woods. The Bishop was very
busy, and day after day the dogs would start up from the rug at the
sound of the opening of his study door upstairs, and after a minute's
anxious listening, with ears cocked and heads erect, they would lie
down again with a sigh of disappointment, for there was no sound of
approach to the hat-stand nor of whistled invitation for a walk.
Finally came a sad day when the Bishop went away, and dog-life
threatened to become monotonous. Then, one Saturday, hope revived, for
a visitor came to the house, an old friend whom they loved and trusted
as a good dog always loves what is trustworthy. He was a frequent
visitor, and had, in fact, left the house but three weeks before. He
was there for a holiday rest, and had leisure to bestow on dogs and on
long walks, which they always shared.
He was very thoughtful for them, not the sort of man who would set off
on a whole afternoon's ramble and say, when half a mile on his way, 'I
wish I'd remembered Righ and Speireag!' He always remembered them, and
thought for them; and when he fed them after dinner, would always give
big bits of biscuit to the big dog, and little bits to the little dog,
and it is not every one who has the sense for that!
Every day, and often twice a day, he took them out, down to the church
or the pier, or across the lake and up to the Pass of Glencoe, where
stern grey hills and hovering eagles and a deep silent valley still
seem to whisper together of a sad true story that happened there in
just such weather as this two hundred years ago.
These were very happy days for dogs, for they did not mind the cold,
it was only an excuse for wild scampering and racing, and they were
very grateful for their friend's return. He had been ill, but was able
to enjoy his walks and though about sixty years of age he had all
those qualities of youth which endear a man to a dog or a child. He
was brave and unselfish, and strong to love and to endure, and they
loved him without knowing why; without knowing that he had lost his
health from overwork in the service of the poor and suffering, and
among outcasts so low as to be beyond the sympathy of any heart less
loving than that of a dog or of a very good man. 'Father' Mackonochie
he was always called, and though he had never had wife or children of
his own, many a fatherless child, and many a lonely grown-up man or
woman, felt that it was quite easy and natural to call him by a name
so sacred.
On the Wednesday after he came, he took Righ and Speireag for a
glorious walk through the shrubberies and out through a gate on to the
road at the foot of the hills behind, a road that winds on and on for
many miles, the mountains rising steeply above, the lake being cold
and grey below; the bank, that slopes away from the road to the water,
in places covered with gorse and low bushes and heather, where an
enterprising dog may hunt for rats and rabbits, or rush headlong after
a pee-wit or moor-fowl as it rises with a scream at his approach and
flutters off high into the air, and then descending to within a few
feet of him, skims low before him, hopelessly far, yet tantalisingly
near.
The way was familiar to them by land or by water. Often had they
sailed up the loch in the same direction, further and further into the
heart of the mountains, the valley becoming more and more narrow, the
shores of the lake nearer and nearer to each other, till, had they
gone far enough, they would have reached the Dog's Ferry, a spot where
the water is so narrow that a dog may easily swim across. Righ, strong
swimmer that he was, had often crossed the loch near his master's
house, where the ferry boats ply, and needed no Dog's Ferry, but few
dogs made such powerful strokes in the water as he.
This day, however, they did not reach the Dog's Ferry. The afternoon
was closing in, there were streaks of gold in the dull grey sky, and
it was, the good Father thought, time to return. 'Never mind, little
man,' he said as Speireag looked reproachfully at him with wistful
brown eyes gleaming through overhanging silvery locks, 'we'll do it
to-morrow, only we must set off earlier.'
This was good news, and the little dog started home gaily, running, as
little dogs will, ten miles, at least, to every one of the road, and
tired enough when home was reached at last. Dinner was a welcome
feast, and Righ and Speireag slept sound till it was time for evening
service. They always attended chapel night and morning, and took their
places at the foot of the steps, half-way, when both were present,
between mistress in her seat and master at the place of his sacred
office. To-night, as usual, they remained perfectly quiet and
apparently indifferent to what was going on till, at the words
'Lighten our darkness,' bed-time came into immediate prospect, and
they started into expectant attitudes, awaiting the final 'Amen.'
II
The next morning, though cold, was fine and fairly bright, and the
dogs watched eagerly for signs of the promised walk. The service in
chapel was rather long this morning, for, as it was Advent, the
'Benedicite' was read, and though Righ and Speireag noticed only that
they had time for a longer nap than usual, there were some present who
will never forget, as the season comes round again each year, the
special significance of part of that song of praise--
O ye frost and cold--O ye ice and snow--O ye nights and days
O ye light and darkness, O ye mountains and hills,
O ye beasts and cattle, O ye holy and humble men of heart,
Bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!
But at last the service was over and the dogs trotted out into the
hall, and followed mistress and their friend to the front door to see
'what the weather was like.' It was not a specially pleasant morning,
but it would do for a walk, and after waiting a few minutes to have
some sandwiches cut, the only detention that could be endured with
patience, the three set out. After about six miles they were on new
ground, but on they went, the lake to the right of the road getting
narrower--on past the Dog's Ferry and still on, till the loch had
become a river, and could be crossed by a bridge.
Righ and Speireag knew, by a more certain method than looking at
clocks, that it was lunch time, half past one at least, and they never
thought of doubting that they would cross the bridge and turn
homewards along the other side the loch, and so get in about tea-time;
or, for their friend was enterprising, by a longer way also on the
further side, either of which would involve a delightful long walk,
but with just that hint of a homeward turn which, even to dogs, is
acceptable when breakfast has become a mere memory.
They accordingly followed the road on to the bridge, but as Father
Mackonochie did not overtake them, Righ, ever watchful of his friends,
turned to look back and saw him speaking to a girl, after which, to
their surprise, he whistled them back, and instead of continuing along
the road as it turned off to the right, kept straight on, though there
was now only a rough track leading through a gate into the wood
beyond.
When they had advanced a few paces into the wood, he sat down under a
tree and took out his packet of sandwiches. Righ and Speireag, sitting
close beside him, had their share, or perhaps more, for their wistful
brown eyes hungrily reminded him that they had multiplied the distance
many times over, and that an unexpected luncheon out of doors is a joy
in a dog's day, of a kind for which a man may well sacrifice a part of
his minor pleasure.
Starting off again was a fresh delight. On they went, further and
further, always climbing higher and getting deeper into the wood. To
the left, the steep mountain-side rose abruptly above them; to the
right, below the path, the river tore its way between steep banks
down, down to its home in the lake. Now and then the trees parted and
made way for a wild mountain torrent leaping from rock to rock down
the hill side, and rushing across their path to join the river below.
As they climbed further these became more frequent. Their friend could
stride across, setting an occasional foot upon a stepping-stone, and
Righ, too, could cross safely enough, long-limbed as he was, though
now and then he had to swim, and the streams were so rapid that it
needed all his strength to cross the current. Sometimes he helped
Speireag, for the brave little dog would always try to follow his big
companion, and sometimes, with an anxious bark, would give warning
that help was needed, and then the kind Father would turn back to pick
up the little dog and carry him till they were in safety.
It was very hard work, they were always climbing, and in many places
the road was polished with a thin coating of ice, but the dogs feared
nothing and kept on bravely.
The path dwindled to a mere track, and the climbing became steeper
still. The streams crossed their road still oftener, and the stones
were slippery with ice. The wood became thinner, and as they had less
shelter from the trees, great flakes of half-frozen snow were driven
against their faces. There was no thought now of hares or stags, Righ
and Speireag had no energies left for anything but patient following.
Poor little Speireag's long coat was very wet, and as it dried a
little, it became hard and crisp with frost. The long hair falling
over his eyes was matted together and tangled with briers, and his
little feet were sore and heavy with the mud that had caked in the
long tassels of silky hair. Even Righ was very weary, and he followed
soberly now instead of bounding along in front, his ears and tail
drooped, and each time he crossed the ice-cold water he seemed more
and more dejected.
As they left the wood behind them, the snow fell thick and blinding,
but just at first, as they came out into the open, it seemed not quite
so dark as under the trees. There was nothing to be seen but grey sky
and grey moor, even the river had been left behind, and only blackened
patches remained to show where, in summer, the ground was spread with
a gay carpet of purple heather and sweet bog-myrtle. They got deeper
at each step into half-frozen marsh; there was no sound or sign of
life. The dogs felt hungry and weary, and they ached with the cold and
wet. But they were following a friend, and they trusted him wholly.
Well they knew that each step was taking them farther from home, and
farther into the cold and darkness. But dog-wisdom never asserts
itself, and in trustful humility they followed still, and the snow
came down closer and closer around them, and even the grey sky and the
grey moor were blotted out--and the darkness fell.
III
It was a disappointing home-coming for the Bishop that Thursday
evening! There was no hearty handshake from waiting friend, no
rejoicing bay of big dog or extravagant excitement of little dog to
welcome him. The three had been out the whole day, he was told, and
had not yet reappeared. A long walk had been projected, but they had
been expected home long before this. When dinner-time came, and they
did not appear, two servants had been sent out with lanterns to meet
them, as the road, though not one to be missed, was dark, and some
small accident might have happened. The men were not back yet, but
doubtless the missing party would soon return.
The night was dark and stormy, and Father Mackonochie had been for
some time somewhat invalided, and as time passed the Bishop became
increasingly anxious. At length he ordered a carriage, and with the
gardener set off towards Kinloch, the head of the loch, thinking that
accident or weariness might have detained his friend, and the carriage
might be useful. On the way they met the first messengers returning
with the news that nothing could be heard at Kinloch of the missing
three, except that they had passed there between one and two o'clock
in the afternoon. The Bishop and his men sought along the road, and
inquired for tidings at the very few houses within reach, but in vain.
The night was dark and little could be done, and there was always the
hope that on their return they might find that some tidings had been
heard, that the lost friends might have come back by the other side of
the lake.
So at last they turned back, reaching home about four o'clock in the
morning. No news had been heard, and all felt anxious and perplexed,
but most believed that some place of shelter had been reached, as the
dogs had not come home. They could find their way home from anywhere,
and there seemed little doubt that, overtaken by darkness, all three
had found shelter in a shepherd's or gamekeeper's hut, perhaps on the
other side of the lake, as they had almost certainly crossed the
bridge, no one having met them on the road by which they had started.
Nevertheless all that was possible must be done in case of the worst,
and as soon as daylight returned four parties of men were despatched
in different directions, the Bishop himself choosing that which his
friend and his dogs were known to have taken the day before.
A whole day of search over miles and miles of the desolate wintry
mountains revealed but one fact, that the party had eaten their
luncheon under a tree in the wood, beyond the bridge. The squirrels
had left the sandwich paper there to tell the tale, and for the first
time it seemed likely that they had not turned homewards on reaching
the head of the lake, either by the same road they had come, or by
that on the other side of the water and through Glencoe.
One by one, the search parties came home with no tidings. No trace of
the wanderers had been seen, no bark of dogs had been heard, no help
had been found towards the discovery of the sad secret. Weary and
heartsick as all felt, no time was to be lost, every hour made the
anxiety greater, and all were ready in a very short time to start
afresh.
Again, for the second time, all through the long night they wandered
over the mountains, through the wood, and across the deer-forest
beyond. It was an awful night. Again and again were their lights blown
out; the snow lay deep in all the hollows; where the streams had
overflowed their banks, the path was a sheet of solid ice; the rocks,
polished and slippery, were climbed with utmost difficulty. At every
opening in the hills an ice-cold wind whirled down glen and corrie,
sleet and hail-stones beat against their faces, the frozen pools in
the marshes gave way beneath their feet. The night was absolutely
dark, not a star shone out to give them courage. The silence and the
sounds were alike awful. Sometimes they could hear each other's
laboured breathing as they tottered on the ice or waded through the
snow, sometimes all other sounds were lost in the shrieking of the
whirlwinds, the crackling of the ice, and the roaring of the swollen,
angry streams.
What could have happened? Even if accident had occurred, either or
both of the dogs would surely have returned, and how could even a
Highland dog, hungry and shelterless, live through such a night as
this?
Morning came again, and returning to the point, near the bridge at
which the carriage had been left, two of the parties met, and drove
home for food and dry clothing, and to learn what others might have to
tell.
There was no news, and again the same earnest friends, with many more
kind helpers, set out on their almost hopeless journey. The trackless
wilds of the deer-forest seemed the most likely field for search, and
all now, in various groups, set off in this direction.
Hour after hour passed without any gleam of hope, and even the Bishop
began to feel that everything possible had been done, and was turning
sadly homewards. A second party, a few hundreds yards behind, had
almost come to the same resolve, many of the men had been without rest
since Thursday, and even the dog, who with one of the keepers of the
deer-forest had joined the party, was limping wearily and was
exhausted by the cold and the rough walking.
Suddenly he stopped, and, with ears pricked and head erect, listened.
No one knows better than a Highlander the worth of a collie's opinion,
and more than one stopped to listen too. Not far away, and yet faint,
came the bark of a dog! Among the men was Sandy, one of the Bishop's
stablemen, who knew and loved Righ and Speireag, and his heart leapt
up as he recognised the deerhound's bay!
Away, to their left, the mountains were cleft by a narrow glen, the
sound came from the bank on the hither side. The Bishop and his party
had climbed to the further side, but a shout reached them, alert and
watchful as they were.
They turned back wondering, scarcely daring to hope. The men who had
called to them were hastening to a given point, the dog, nose to
ground, preceding them. There is no mistaking the air of a dog on
business. The collie's intentness was as different from his late
dejection as was the present haste of the men from the anxious
watchful plodding of their long search.
In another moment they came in sight of something which made them hold
back the dog, and which arrested their own footsteps. The Bishop
himself must be the first to tread on what all felt was holy ground.
There, on the desolate hillside, lay the body of Father Mackonochie,
wreathed about with the spotless snow, a peaceful expression on his
face. One on either side sat the dogs, watching still, as they had
watched through the two long nights of storm and darkness. Even the
approach of friends did not tempt them to forsake their duty. With
hungry, weary faces they looked towards the group which first came
near them, but not till their own master knelt down beside all that
remained of his old friend, did they yield up their trust, and rise,
numbed and stiff, from the posts they had taken up, who knows how long
before?
To say a few words of prayer and thanksgiving was the Bishop's first
thought, his second to take from his pocket the sandwiches he carried,
and to give all to Righ and Speireag.
A bier was contrived of sticks from a rough fence that marked the
boundary of the deer-forest, and the body was lifted from the frozen
ground on which it lay. The return to Kinloch, where the carriage
waited, was very difficult, and the bearers had to change places very
often.
Slow as was their progress, it was as rapid as Righ could manage,
numbed with cold, and exhausted with hunger. The little dog was easily
carried, and for once little Speireag was content to rest.
[Illustration: 'THE LONG VIGIL']
No one will ever know what those faithful dogs felt and endured
during those two days and nights of storm and loneliness. Those who
sought them in the darkness of that second awful night must have
passed very near the spot where they lay, sleeping perhaps, or
deafened by the storm, or even, possibly, listening anxiously with
beating hearts to the footsteps which came so near, and yet turned
away, leaving them, faithful to their post, in the night.
They in their degree, like the man whose last sleep they guarded, were
'true and faithful servants.'
* * * * *
It is pleasant to know that Righ and Speireag did not suffer
permanently for all they had undergone! They lived for five years and
a half after, and had many and many a happy ramble when the sun was
bright and the woods were green, and squirrels and hares were merry.
They could not be better cared for than they had always been, but, if
possible, they were more indulged. If they contrived to get a dinner
in the kitchen as well as in the dining-room, their friends remembered
the days when they had none, and nobody told tales. If they lay in the
sun quite across the front door, or took up the whole of the rug
before the winter fire, everyone felt that there were arrears of
warmth to be made up to them. Their portraits were painted, and in the
sculpture which in his own church commemorates Father Mackonochie's
death, the dogs have not been forgotten.
Righ was the elder of the two, and towards the end of his thirteen
years showed signs of old age and became rheumatic and feeble, but
Speireag, though three years younger, did not long survive him.
They rest now under a cairn in the beautiful garden they loved so
well; dark green fir trees shelter their grave, a gentle stream goes
merrily by on its way to the lake below, and in the crannies of the
stones of which the cairn is built, fox-gloves and primroses and
little ferns grow fresh and green.
On the cairn is this inscription:
IN MEMORY OF
15th December, 1887.
RIGH died 19th January, 1893.
SPEIREAG died 28th August, 1893.
_MONKEY TRICKS AND SALLY AT THE ZOO_
_Naturalist's Note-book._