ROLLO'S GRAVE
'Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave, and let him lie.
Glad did he live, and gladly die,
And he laid him down with a will.'
Rollo, now grown into a fine dog of a year old, remained Peggy's
favourite among all her numerous pets. Though she had not again tried
him for a bedfellow, he was still the companion of her walks, and the
most winsome playmate on wet days, and Peggy firmly believed that he
understood every word she said to him. He was growing clever with the
sheep, too, and Father hoped to be able to train him into a really
valuable collie, even hinting that he might in time gain a prize at the
annual sheep-dog contests which were held for the district of Gorswen
and the Welsh border. Peggy liked to see Rollo working with the sheep,
the tips of his ears twitching and his faithful brown eyes bright with
intelligence, as he cleverly sorted the lambs which Father had pointed
out from the rest of the flock, and drove them neatly into the
enclosure, coming up whimpering with pride for the praise which he knew
awaited his efforts.
One lovely April morning Peggy started off alone, on the ostensible
errand of going to pay half a crown which was owing to old Williams,
the mole-catcher, but the more real one of gathering primroses and
hunting about for birds' nests. It was seldom that she was separated
from Bobby, who was as constant as her shadow, but to-day he had
preferred to stay and work in his garden, having many designs for its
improvement, while the holidays were waning only too fast. Peggy had
whistled for Rollo, but he was not to be found, and it was only when she
was more than half-way down the pasture that he came racing after her as
hard as he could tear, nearly knocking her down in the exuberance of his
joy.
Instead of walking along the high-road, Peggy determined to take the
path through the fields which skirted the preserves belonging to Lord
Hazelford's estate, for the finest primroses grew at the edge of the
wood, and the earliest bluebells, and many a snug little nest might be
found hidden away in those quiet hedgerows. It was a glorious morning,
with the larks singing overhead and the thrushes trilling in the bushes,
and that delicious smell of the earth which we often notice in early
spring, and which makes the blood run through our veins like rising sap.
The trees were clothed with the pale, tender green of April, and a
cuckoo, the first of the year, flew out of the copse, and, cuckooing
loudly, sped over to where the larch-trees were bursting out into a
crowd of tassels. Peggy had no pocket in her dress, but she turned the
half-crown in her hand for good luck, and hoped it might answer the same
purpose. Rollo was almost as happy as his mistress. He poked his nose
into all the rabbit-burrows, he chased the birds, and dug holes for
rats, and generally behaved as if he were a puppy again, instead of a
sedate, grown-up dog, snapping at the flies, and standing over Peggy
wagging his tail in approval, while she gathered violets and
wood-anemones.
The path which Peggy was following ran along a lane with the wood on one
side and a tall hedge on the other. It was a lonely spot, for there was
not even a farmhouse in sight, and as it was only a by-road it was very
seldom frequented, even by the country people. As she swung the gate
open, and passed from the field into the lane, she saw a sight which for
a moment made her hang back doubtfully, for a tramp lay stretched out
full length asleep in the sunshine, his tattered clothes and broken
boots a strange contrast to the bed of white daisies and celandine upon
which he lay. Peggy was not generally afraid of poor people, but even in
sleep this man had an evil, hang-dog look about his face, which might
have warned many an older person to give him a wide berth. She stood for
a little while with the gate in her hand, hesitating whether to go
forward or not, then, thinking she could probably pass him quietly
without waking him, she walked on, treading on tip-toe. But he could not
have been so fast asleep as she supposed, for he sprang up as she neared
him, and casting a swift glance round to see whether she were
accompanied or alone, held out his hand, and begged for money.
'I have none to give you,' said Peggy, trying to pass him by; but he
stood over the path before her with a blustering air.
'No money! What's that in your hand?' he said roughly.
Peggy put her hand under her dress, and tried to beat a retreat to the
gate.
'Now then!' cried the man, with a horrible oath, 'none of your slinking
off! You give me what you have there, or I'll break every bone in your
body, and worse! Here! Hand it over, quick!'
He came a step nearer, but at that moment there was a rush and a rustle,
and Rollo bounded like an arrow through the gate, and flew at his
throat. The two rolled over together, and Peggy clung trembling to the
gatepost as she watched the confused heap at her feet, Rollo scratching,
snarling, and biting like a wild beast, and the tramp kicking, fighting,
and swearing in a way which made her blood go cold to hear. She was too
terrified to run away, and could only stand there, a breathless witness
of the scuffle. Now the dog had the mastery, and now the man, as each
panted and fought for his life; but at length something bright gleamed
in the sunlight, there was a cry of agony, and Rollo lay in a pool of
blood upon the grass. The tramp raised himself slowly up, and looked at
Peggy. Peggy shrieked, such a shriek of ghastly terror that it might
have been heard a mile away, and mercifully it _was_ heard, for there
was an answering call from the wood, followed by a rustle of branches
and dead leaves, and the keeper and his son burst through the thick
undergrowth, and came scrambling over the fence, almost before the echo
of her cry had died away. The tramp took to his heels, and was off down
the lane with sturdy Harry Adams racing after him, in less time than it
takes to tell it.
'After him, Hal!' yelled his father. 'Don't let the villain escape! Send
a shot through his leg if he's gaining on you! Has the brute hurt you,
Miss Vaughan?'--looking Peggy tenderly over to see that no damage was
done.
Peggy shook her head, for speech seemed almost impossible at that
moment, and she broke away from the keeper's eager inquiries to kneel
down by Rollo's side, trying vainly to staunch the crimson stream that
was draining his life away. But Rollo was beyond the reach of help now.
The poor beast made a feeble effort to raise himself up to greet his
loved little mistress; he whined, licked her hand, and with one last
affectionate glance from his rapidly-glazing eyes, rolled over on his
side--quite dead.
* * * * *
'He was a faithful friend, Peggy, for he laid down his life for you,'
said Father later on in the day, when poor Rollo's body had been carried
home to the stable, and the tramp safely lodged by Mr. Adams and Harry
in Warford Gaol, to await his trial for attempted highway robbery and
assault.
Peggy had cried till her cheeks were purple and swollen and her eyes
were only two aching slits. She took her troubles hardly, and just at
present it seemed to her as if life could never be quite the same again.
Bobby, almost equally afflicted, had the added trial of trying to
conceal his grief, for he regarded tears as unmanly, and the result was
a peculiar shortness and roughness of manner, with frequent rushings
away to the barn when his feelings overcame him. Joe, whose sympathy
could not have been more genuine if Peggy had lost a parent, hovered
about all day, trying to console the bereaved pair, with small success,
till towards evening a sudden flash of genius inspired him to suggest a
funeral, perhaps his village experience teaching him that the bustle and
preparation necessary for such a ceremony was the best safety-valve to
work off sorrow.
'We might bury him among the ruins, Miss Peggy. There's a fine place
round by the old abbot's house, where the ground is soft, and we could
dig easy; and I've a cousin in the slate-quarries at Bethogwen as has
promised many a time to cut me a little tombstone as a present, if ever
I was wantin' one, so I'll ask him to bring it next time he comes, and
put Rollo's name on it, and the day, and as how he died defendin' you;
and we'll fix it up nice, and plant flowers round, just as if it was the
churchyard.'
Peggy sat up, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her damp
pocket-handkerchief.
'He ought to be in the real churchyard,' she said chokily. 'If ever a
dog deserved the Victoria Cross and a military funeral, it's Rollo!'
'Do you think he'll go to heaven?' asked Bobby, with a suspicious gulp.
'Of course he will! I wonder you can ask such a question! Heaven
wouldn't be heaven unless we found Rollo there! We'll wrap his body in
the Union Jack, and pick all our best flowers to strew round him; and
you might fire off your old pistol over his grave, if Father will let
you have any gunpowder--a parting salute, you know, like they do for
officers,' said Peggy, cheering up a little at the thought of arranging
the obsequies.
Just at sunset the melancholy procession started off from the stable
towards the ruins. Joe and Bobby were bearers, and carried between them
the packing-case lid, draped with all the available flags that could be
found, which bore what had once been poor Rollo. Peggy followed as chief
mourner, her arms full of wreaths and flowers, and a piece of black
crape, purloined from the scrap-bag, pinned conspicuously upon her hat.
The place chosen was among the most perfect part of the old Abbey, not
so much filled up with stones and rubbish as the great refectory or the
remains of the choir. Tradition pointed it out as the abbot's house, and
that name had clung to it through all the hundreds of years since the
busy monks had lived and worked there.
'Suppose you dig just here, Joe,' cried Peggy, selecting a spot where a
blackthorn was bursting forth into a sheet of white blossom and the
primroses were yellowest and best.
Joe moistened the palms of his hands in the orthodox fashion, and
seizing the spade began to shovel away at the loose, light soil. He had
dug about three feet deep when his spade struck against a smooth, flat
stone, which, instead of coming out easily amongst the rubbish, seemed
to extend for some way underneath the surface.
'It looks like a paving-stone, for all the world,' he said, sweeping the
soil away from it with his hand. 'I'll dig out the earth all around it,
and see what it do be.'
It took Joe a considerable time to clear the stone, though Bobby went to
his aid with a trowel; but he got it free at last, and Peggy stooped
down curiously to examine it.
'There are marks on it, like letters and queer figures, but they're all
filled up with soil,' she said. 'It seems to me it's a kind of lid, and
if you dig round the edge a little more, Joe, we might lift it up. It's
rather like the cover of one of those old stone coffins in the
churchyard, only smaller. I wonder if there is anything inside?'
Joe set to work again with a will, clearing out the earth well from
under the side of the stone; then, putting his fingers beneath it, he
gave a mighty jerk of his strong arms, and up it came, nearly upsetting
him with the force of the recoil. Three eager faces peered anxiously
down into what certainly looked like the inside of a small stone coffin,
but instead of containing mouldering bones, it held a good-sized chest
of oak, bound with iron, rather rusted and crumbling, but still holding
quite firmly together.
'Lift it out, Joe!' cried Peggy, in such excitement that Rollo was
almost forgotten for the moment. 'Whatever can be inside it?'
'It bean't no light weight, Miss Peggy, whatever it be,' groaned Joe,
for it was as much as he could manage to heave the heavy chest from its
resting-place on to the grass above.
'There may be money and all sorts of treasures in it,' suggested Bobby.
'Perhaps the smugglers left it behind.'
'Nay, this be older nor smugglers,' said Joe, with a glance at the solid
workmanship and the quaint carving on the old lid, 'unless they made use
of an old thing for their own purposes. Let be, Master Bobby, I can't do
nothing with you hangin' over me like this!'
He had been fumbling with the ancient rusty lock while he spoke, and it
now broke away from the rotten woodwork. He flung back the heavy lid,
and revealed--neither gold nor jewels, nothing but a pile of
musty-looking old parchments and books. The children looked at each
other in blank disappointment.
'There might be something underneath,' said Peggy, beginning to rummage
the chest to the very bottom; but her hopes were soon dashed, for a
further search did not bring anything more to light.
'How disgusting! Who cares for old books?' exclaimed Bobby, whose heart
had been set on stolen jewels, smuggled valuables, or daggers and
firearms at the least.
'They're very funny ones, at any rate,' said Peggy, picking up one of
the despised tomes. 'Just look at the backs. They're so thick and heavy.
They seem to be made of metal of some kind, with little bits of coloured
glass stuck into them; but they're terribly tarnished and dirty. I can't
read the writing inside at all, and there are the queerest little
pictures all round the edges of the pages.'
'What be I to do with the box?' asked Joe, gazing at their find in some
perplexity. 'And be I to dig another hole for the burial, miss, or not?'
Her thoughts recalled to the melancholy occasion, Peggy flung down the
book, and her grief broke forth anew.
'We'll bury him in the old stone coffin,' she declared. 'We'll line it
with leaves and primroses, and then lay him in, and just drop on the lid
again. I'm glad he should have a real coffin, after all, and the Abbey's
almost as good as the churchyard, for Father says lots of the old monks
must have been buried here, if we could only find their graves.'
Even Ophelia could not have chosen a more flowery resting-place, for the
children covered poor Rollo with violets, primroses, and white
sloe-blossom. Joe carefully replaced the lid, and shovelled on the soil
again, heaping it up, and smoothing it with the flat of his spade, in
imitation of the village sexton.
Father had refused to allow gunpowder, so the pistol was useless, but
Peggy placed a wreath of white jonquils picked from her own garden upon
the grave, and dropped so many tears over it that I do not think any dog
could have been more truly mourned and regretted.
'You won't forget about the tombstone, will you, Joe?' she said, finding
the prospect of a monument to her pet decidedly consoling. 'I mean to
make up a nice epitaph for him, in poetry if I can manage it--something
about his being such a beauty, and then dying doing his duty, because
that would rhyme.'
'Miss Peggy,' declared Joe solemnly, 'you shall have that there little
tombstone, if I has to go without one myself. You write the words out
plain on a piece of paper, and I'll walk over to Bethogwen the very next
time I gets a holiday. You'll see my cousin will do it beautiful, havin'
worked a year in a stonemason's yard, and being fond of a dog, too. He
might even try his hand at a weepin' angel or a broken flower at the
top, but I can't promise that, not knowin' whether he's kept his tools.'
The box containing the old manuscript was carried into the loft by Joe,
and examined by Father at his leisure.
'I don't know much about this sort of thing, Peggy,' he said, 'but I
should imagine they would be mostly old records and deeds of the Abbey.
It is marvellous how well they are preserved, but the oak and the stone
combined must have kept out the air, and parchment does not decay like
paper. Valuable? Not from a money point of view, I am afraid; but no
doubt they would prove very interesting to some antiquarian who could
read them. We will keep them here until the Rector comes home again. I
expect he will be delighted to look over them some day, and will tell us
what they are all about.'
Mr. Vaughan had intended to write an account of the find to the local
newspaper, but in the hurry and worry of his affairs he forgot. The
Rector was still away, and as nobody else took any interest in such
matters, the mysterious old chest stayed neglected among the corn-sacks.
Only Peggy sometimes stole up the stone staircase, and taking one of
the strange books from its hiding-place, would pore over the quaint
pictures which bordered the pages. They fascinated her with their crude
drawing and colours still vivid and bright--saints with halos round
their heads, kneeling rapt in prayer, with folded hands, in the midst of
green fields and flowers, while the Virgin, clothed in blue and gold,
appeared with a whole company of angels from the skies above; patient
martyrs, with wan faces upturned to heaven, while their persecutors
flung stones, or heaped on the burning brands; the blessed passing into
the joys of Paradise, with the wicked writhing in the tormenting flames
below; and round all a curious illuminated bordering, where strange
faces peered out of twisting foliage, and figures of birds and animals
were intertwined with patterns of flowers or the tail of a capital
letter. What patient fingers, she wondered, had toiled over these in
days gone by, working with paint-pots and palette of gold to put the
glory of paradise on his pages? Had the world altered much in all these
years? And how little did the old artist think that his work would be
found and marvelled at when he and his order were alike forgotten, and
the very Abbey where he had lived and laboured had long since crumbled
away!
So the old chest remained in the loft, as hidden there as when it had
been buried in the earth, and Peggy came and went, never dreaming in the
time that followed that these ancient, musty relics could in any way be
bound up with the fate and fortunes of the Vaughans.