Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 723

Then Deborah beckoned to the men, and bid them bear the dying woman in and lay her on a bed. And then Deborah, with Marjory on the other side, sat down beside her. She seemed almost gone; the breath came labouring. But the breeze that swept in at the open windows seemed to revive her. It blew on the long white locks straggling across the brow; on those glazing eyes, so dark, sunken, piteous – eyes that burned up again, and sought Deborah's face as the embers of a dying fire flicker up and throw into the room an unexpected light.

'My girl,' she said, 'if Kate had been like thee! Hark! I hated, an' yet I always loved thee! Thou'dst ne'er ha' treated me like a dog. An', ah me! I loved her like my soul!'

'Grandmother,' answered Deborah sweetly and with a clear utterance, that pierced to the dying ears, 'my mother loved you. Only the other day I heard that great as she was, she never forgot you, even in her dreams. Day and night she thought of you; but her promise to her husband kept her from you, though she pined to see you once again. Oh, be merciful then! Forgive her! You are going now to meet again. O forgive her! that God may let ye meet in heaven!'

The great eyes stirred not from Deborah's face. 'Shall I win to heaven, lass? Speak to me o' heaven.' And Deborah described to her that beautiful place, that land glorious with promise and with bliss, that 'eye hath not seen, nor heart of man conceived.' The dying gipsy listened with her soul in her eyes. Then said she, very faintly: 'I am goin'. O Jesus, let me come! O Kate – my Kate!' Then, with wonderful sudden life and fire: 'Hi! you, my lass! Where's the boy? the rogue – "wild Charlie" they called him. Where's he?'

'In Ireland. Gone to fight for the Irish, grandmother.'

She laughed exultantly. 'Why, I tell thee why —his mother was Irish, an' he knew it. Mad boy, mad boy!'

Deborah laid her white hand on the old brown trembling hand, and smiled. She watched to see again and again a strange look of Charlie in that faded face and those large and wistful eyes. A great new-born love was flooding Deborah's heart for the dying vagrant. But death was taking the wanderer away. 'O Jesus, let me come!' Deborah heard her say again.

The fire died out; the flame sank low; the embers of life just smouldered, nothing more… The fresh wind blew in vain on the wild gipsy face. She was gone.

Scarcely had Katharine Shaw been laid in her grave when Sir Vincent Fleming became very ill – so ill, that Deborah despatched a letter post-haste to Mistress Margaret Fleming, begging her to make known the fact to Charlie at once. But Mistress Fleming had started for Dublin; and this is how it befell. One morning a letter came to her. She often received such; but this one had cost her a laugh and a cry of joy. Just as she was in the perusal, old Jordan entered, and stared in wonderment at the glorious happiness of her face. 'Why, my maid,' he said, 'what hast got there? It's naught but paper, is it?'

'No, dad; but something writ upon it. Father,' she said, and rose and slid the beautiful arm around his neck, 'haven't I been a good daughter to thee? Proud and pursed up with mine own conceit, the lads o' the village have always called me. But, father, "Mistress Dinnage" has been a good daughter unto thee?'

'Ay, ay, lass, thou hast! What wouldst be comin' at? What ails thee now, Mistress?'

'Why, I come to ask thy blessing on me. Don't look scared, father; no shame will ever fall on thee through Mistress Dinnage. But I will out with it, for I can never beat about the bush. Father, I am Charles Fleming's lawful wife!'

Jordan seized his child by the shoulders, and his old grotesque visage grew dignified and terribly stern in its earnestness as he almost shrieked: 'Not – not unbeknown to the Master – an' Mistress Deborah?'

'Unbeknown that we are wedded, but not that we love, father. Mistress Deborah has known and wished it long; and Sir Vincent – he has seen us twice together, father, when we were walking secretly, an' has smiled on us. Mistress Deborah has heard him say a hundred times that he would fain, if he had wealth, have for his daughter-in-law an "honest poor man's child." So father, dear father, ye must not be angered.'

'Child, child! thou'st done wrong in keepin' it hid. Married? What —married? Honestly?'

'Ay,' was the proud answer. 'Charles Fleming and Margaret Dinnage went to Daxford Church, and were wed; we came out man and wife. Ask Master Rawdon. Father, he's in Ireland; but it's kept secret from all but Mistress Deborah. He's gone soldiering, father; and in this letter he asks me to go. Father, I am his wife!'

'Ay, an' Jordan's daughter, Meg,' said the old man brokenly. 'I'm a'most dazed. And thou'rt goin' to leave the old man alone – alone!'

'Only for a little time, father – a little, little time; for soon Charlie, when all the trouble's over, will come home to Enderby. It's all arranged between Lady Deb and me. A fine home-comin' it'll be, an' it please thee, Master Dinnage! Father, I won't go for long, dear. But o' nights, thinkin' o' Charlie, I well nigh go distraught. There is danger, father, as thou know'st! Hundreds o' men are slain. I must be there. I must go, dear; but I won't be long.'

'Go, go!' muttered Jordan irefully. 'Thou'dst allus the bit atween thy teeth, Mistress Dinnage; so had thy poor dear mother. Go along! I've no need o' thee; yon brave young fellow hath. Thou'lt be killed next, girl, killed, ay, an' wus than killed, at the hands o' the wild Irish. But, go, go! I don't want thee here.'

Anger, pride, and sorrow struggled fiercely in the brave old heart; but 'Mistress Dinnage' knew how to take him. 'Father,' she said, sorrowfully regarding him, with her head slightly on one side, and her hands playing nervously with her apron, in her earnest pleading, 'if thou wert newly wed, an' so parted from mother by land an' sea – an' she in trouble, needin' thee sore – thou'dst wade through fire an' water, only to win to her. My heart is broke in twain 'tween thee both – one half is at home with thee, an' the other gone to Charlie. Though I don't speak or cry, my heart is wounded with every man that's killed, an' trouble wears me sore. Think of mother, my father! Think when thou wert first wed, what it would be for one to part thee – think o' it, an' bid me go!'

So Mistress Margaret won the day.

OUR INDIAN PETS

Among the many, many good things swept from India by the great Mutiny storm was the time-honoured order of Griffs – that is, officers under a year's service in the country. Every regiment owned one or two members, and in large stations they were usually to be found by the half-dozen. They were generally the life of the station, and in every way were our prime pets. What would Mrs General and Mrs Brigadier have done without their griffs to patronise and make use of in various ways, such as filling up sudden vacancies at their dinner-tables, or helping to fill their ball-rooms? Griffs invariably started Indian life with the three animals which are also included in the list of 'our Indian pets' – namely the horse or his humble representative the pony, the dog, and the monkey. No griff considered his establishment complete without these three animals; there would be a general uniformity among the monkeys; but a collection of griff horses, ponies, and dogs formed a rare aggregation of screws and curs of all sorts, sizes, and colours.

There is a peculiar charm about Indian life which is rarely seen at home, and that is the compactness and domesticity of each establishment. In each household the master, and if he is married, his wife and children, is in direct contact with his servants and his animals; all are housed near him; and the daily morning stroll leads him from the stables to the farm-yard, then to the garden, and so home by the tree beneath which the monkey is chained, the dogs being in close attendance. The horses are brought up to be fed under their master's eye, and generally receive a crust of bread, a biscuit, or a chupátee (an unleavened wheaten cake like a pancake; the 'unleavened bread' of Scripture) from his or his wife's hands; the dogs have the free run of the house, and at their stated hours have their meals under some one's eyes; while the farm-yard is under the direct charge of the mistress, who fusses about among the cows, looks after the eggs and chickens, and makes over the victims selected for the table. Then on the march we are in still closer contact with our servants and animals; for a few steps only separate us from all. Emerging from the tent, a few paces to the rear bring us to the cook's tent, and behind or beside it is that belonging to the servants. Behind them are our horses and dogs, the latter generally tied up during the day and loose at night.

So it happens that in cantonments, and more especially on the march, we are virtually monarchs of all we survey; and I well remember that in the pleasant days of my griffinage, on the occasion of my first march, I felt quite patriarchal as I sat in the tent-door with all my earthly belongings around me; the bearer (valet) and the other servants attending to their various duties, my dear Caboolee horse Tom dozing in the sunshine, my faithful setter Belle lying at my feet, and my monkeys Jacko and Moony busy with their own affairs.

And now to 'our Indian pets;' and I purpose passing some of mine in pleasant review; but in doing so I shall not record anything remarkable, or what any kind observer of animals and their habits cannot fully indorse.

One of my first purchases was a horse we called Tom, a gray, thoroughbred, thick-necked, and sturdy Caboolee, for whom I paid ninety rupees (nine pounds); and right valuable did he turn out. I bought him in 1854, rode him from one end of the presidency to the other, through the Mutiny, and up to 1866, when I pensioned him. In 1869 he was attacked by black cancer, and at length I was sorrowfully obliged to put an end to his existence, to save him from a cruel, lingering death. There was nothing about him externally different from other thoroughbred Caboolees; but being made a great pet of, his mental abilities shone more remarkably, especially under daily observation. For instance, he had a strong sense of the comic. If I spoke to him when mounted, he would turn his head as much as he could and look at me; or he would take a cake or bit of sugar-cane out of my stretched-out hand, and munch it as he went along; or if I tickled one ear with my cane, he would unmistakably present the other ear to be similarly treated. He was a great thief, and I had great difficulty in restraining him from plunder when riding through crops. He was very fond of my wife's horse Punch, and neither would be stabled apart from the other; and it was most amusing to watch their nose-rubbings across the stall partition. Much, however, as he loved Punch, he would never allow him to precede him in the walk or canter, nor would he move until the dogs had been let loose and had jumped up to his nose. He knew his name perfectly, and would trot up to me when called, from any part of the field. He carried me unflinchingly through the Mutiny until wounded, and thought nothing of our weary rides of between thirty and forty miles a night.

On one memorable occasion we were escaping from a threatened attack, and I had dismounted to look at the girths; a shot from the rear elicited the exclamation: 'I wonder where that bullet has gone to;' and I again mounted, but had hardly gone two paces when Tom began to limp. I got off at once, and then found that the bullet had struck him just outside the off-knee, had run round under the skin, and lodged in front. I tried to cut it out then and there; but the horse was too restive, and I again mounted, but only to find the poor brute getting more and more lame. I was now well behind, and the rest of our party urged me to come on. As I still lagged, they cried out to abandon the horse, as we were being pursued. This I grudgingly did, and trudged on hurriedly to join our party; having done this, I looked back, and saw poor old Tom hobbling after me. I could not stand this, so brought him on at once. When we reached comparative safety some days after, I extracted the bullet.

I have already mentioned Punch my wife's horse. He was ridden as a charger through the battle of Gujrát in January 1849, and with his rider, had a remarkable escape from a shell, which exploded between his rider's foot and his own off-shoulder. The wound inflicted left a scar, into the hollow of which you could thrust half a fist. He was a perfect lady's horse, and quite free from vice, possessing a gentle and affectionate disposition. He was fonder of Tom than Tom was of him, and used to exhibit great anxiety when, in his opinion, his friend was longer absent from his stall than usual, his return to which was greeted by a loud neigh of welcome. I have never seen so gentle or loving a horse. He quite understood the difference between adults and children, and would allow the latter to take all kinds of liberties with him, and was perfectly aware how to behave when they mounted him, as they always did when he returned from the morning or evening ride. He was a darling horse, and like true friends, his and Tom's best qualities came out under trial. Both had suddenly to exhibit their best points when the Mutiny broke out, and both behaved nobly. When Tom was disabled, I rode Punch, and during these weary days and nights he fully understood his position; many a time had we to snatch an hour or two of sleep when we could on the bare road; I would lie down with the bridle round my arm, and he would sleep standing beside me. One morning we broke down together, and both fell asleep while progressing, being rudely awoke by finding ourselves in a large roadside bush. Poor old Punch was subject to a disorder which eventually carried him off in November 1864, in the twenty-third year of his age. Unlike Tom, he was hale and hearty to the last. Peace to the memory of these two humble and faithful friends! Several horses have subsequently been in my stables, and I might narrate something about each, did time and space allow, but none of them ever took our affections so completely as did Tom and Punch; they were our first and best equine loves.

Let me pass some of my dogs in review; and how tender are the memories which some of their names recall! Dear old Belle, an English brown and white setter, leads the way: she was too old for active service, had been left in the country by her former master, and had passed from one hand to the other, getting thinner and thinner with each change. When I got her she seemed to think a new master a matter of course, and accepted the change without emotion; but when she saw that she had really found a permanent master and a comfortable home, then all her pent-up affection welled forth, and she seemed to feel that she could not shew enough of it. She was my constant and faithful companion in the early years of my service, and I felt her loss keenly when carried off by distemper, which on that occasion killed all my dogs. Her last acts were to lick my hand and feebly wag her tail as I bent over her prostrate form.

Belle number two comes on the scene: a small black and white spaniel, which I had as a pup. She was specially noted for an intimacy she struck up with another dog Topsy, and a cat; and the romps of the three were most amusing, but at the same time most destructive to a bed of melons they always selected for their invariable game of Hide-and-seek. The gardener protested in vain against their romps, though he allowed that Belle effectually protected the melon-bed from the jackals at night. She accompanied me in our flight in the Mutiny; but, poor little thing, was lost on the road. Topsy was a great pet; a very singular-looking little animal of a mixed breed, very peppery, full of life, and immensely affectionate. Her peculiarities were – intense antipathy to jackals, whose howl she would at once imitate if you called to her: 'Jackals, Tops;' and the clear manner in which she articulated grand-mam-má-á-á, if you interrupted her growling with your finger. She accompanied her mistress to England as a co-refugee from the Mutiny, and was made much of in consequence, returning to this country only to die prematurely, dear little Tops.

Rosie! Rosie! Here is a small liver and white smooth terrier, very affectionate, and noted for her antipathy to musk-rats and squirrels; the former she invariably killed, and the latter she tried hard to, but rarely succeeded, as they were too agile, and always got up the nearest tree. I have had to drag her away from the foot of a palm-tree, at which she had been sitting all the morning watching a squirrel. Her first litter consisted of one pup, about which she made an immense fuss, and was inclined to resent a great liberty I took with her. I found one day a starving outcast kitten, and bringing it home, put Rosie on her side, and told her to be kind to it. The kitten ravenously seized a teat; and Rosie was very uneasy, not quite making out the animal which was draining her, and evidently suspecting it to be a squirrel. After a day or two she took to the stranger; and the kitten at once made itself quite at home; rather too much so, for she would claw at the pup most unmercifully, while it yelled complainingly, the mother not knowing what to make of the arrangement. But the tables were turned as soon as the pup got its teeth and legs; and then it fiercely maintained its rights, and there used to be regular scrimmages over a favourite teat; Rosie looking on in blank amazement, and wincing under the scratches of her strange pup. The three pulled on together in a way; but there was never much love lost among them.

My monkeys Jacko and Moony I bought as a griff at Umballah for the large sum of one rupee. They were just emerging from babyhood, and so required some care and looking after. I never taught them anything; for such education, as with dogs, always necessitates more or less severity; but I carefully cultivated the talents they possessed. The looking-glass was always a standing joke. Either monkey would cautiously approach its image, making the usual recognition grimaces, which of course were duly returned; then it would sit close up to the glass, and now and then look sideways at the reflection; or it would put a hand behind the glass, as if feeling for the other monkey. If I seized the hand, a fight with the glass at once ensued, which I kept up with my hand, and then suddenly dropped the glass. The amazement of the monkey at the sudden disappearance of its adversary was most ludicrous to behold.

Moony was very fond of a delicacy well known in India as mango-fool. The spirit of mischief induced me one day to add a teaspoonful of spirits of wine to her daily saucer of mango-fool, and for the first and last time in my life I saw an intoxicated monkey; her antics and attempts to keep the perpendicular were most absurd. She certainly attempted to dance and clap her hands, but ultimately was obliged gradually to subside and yield to the soporific influence of the spirits. As a great treat I used occasionally to loosen both monkeys and let them scamper up a large tree. At first they appreciated my kindness and came down at call to be tied up for the night; but the sweets of liberty were too great, and they gradually began to be tardy in their descent, and at last Moony preferred to spend the night in the tree. To prevent the return of such behaviour, I bombarded Moony next day with my goolél or pellet-bow (a weapon with which in those days I was remarkably skilful), and soon brought her to my feet. Both monkeys were familiar with the goolél, for I often harmlessly tested their agility by shelling them with it; but Moony now learned for the first time the punishment it could inflict; and ever thereafter, if I merely called out (when she hesitated to descend) to the bearer: 'Goolél lao' (Pellet-bow bring), she would hurry down the tree repentant. This story savours somewhat of the American colonel and opossum; but it is strictly true.

Moony had her first young one when about fifteen months old; and the fuss she made with it, and the fierce affection she exhibited, were interesting to behold. Her babe was still at the breast when the Mutiny broke out. Among the ruffians who burned my bungalow was one who provoked her in some way or other. She attacked him at once, but was killed by one blow of a láthee (stout bamboo staff), her young one sharing her fate. Jacko escaped in the confusion, and became a vagrant.

A native gentleman once presented me with a black gibbon (Hylobates agilis), called by the natives from its yell, Hookoo or Hoolook. Its tremendous teeth and unearthly yell impressed me unfavourably, and I kept it in confinement, much against my will, as it always seemed so gentle. The poor brute soon died. Some time after, when staying with a dear and congenial friend at Alipore, near Calcutta, I became acquainted with a second gibbon, which was quite tame, and allowed to be at large. We at once exchanged confidences, and the poor creature's loving affection for me became quite overpowering. So thoroughly did I trust it, that I allowed my boy of three years of age to play with her, and the way the two rolled over on the turf was most amusing to behold. The agility of the animal was simply marvellous. I have seen it go round the large house hanging by its finger-tips to the cornice beading which went round. To run up the rain-pipes was as easy to it as a ladder would be to a man; in fact, it could go anywhere and everywhere, and so often vexed us by its depredations. It found out where my boy's milk was kept, and helped itself in this strange fashion. Its great length of arm prevented it from drinking direct from the vessel, as monkeys do, the arms always intervening between the vessel and the animal's mouth; so she was obliged to sit at some distance from the vessel, and scoop out its contents with her fingers, letting the milk drop from them into her mouth. She did not drink from the hollowed hand, but let the fingers drip the liquid into the mouth. One day the gibbon had annoyed my friend by eating some of his papers, and in the afternoon we were conversing together in his study, when suddenly it appeared, and sidled up to me. With a half-angry laugh, my friend made a gesture as if to throw a book at it, and exclaimed: 'Get out, you mischievous brute.' She accordingly got out, in her silent mysterious manner, and we went on talking. We then adjourned to the roof for a view, and I drew my friend's attention to the gibbon, which was timidly surveying us from behind a distant chimney. Playfully shaking his fist at her, we walked together to the opposite end of the roof and leaned over the parapet. Presently I saw the gibbon stealing quietly towards us along the parapet. As soon as she saw that she was observed, she boldly ran up to me, threw her long arms around me, and nestled into my breast. Could I resist such an appeal for forgiveness and protection? We were both much touched by it, and winked at many of her subsequent misdoings.

So much for our principal pets: minor ones are cats, pigeons, parrots, cockatoos, minas, squirrels, and the mongoose. I might devote an article to each of these animals; but time and space warn me to stop.

THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE

CHAPTER X. – ONLY TWO LETTERS!

At length the day for the party arrives. A hundred or more invitations have been accepted, and much expectation and curiosity is evoked at Seabright about the coming grand entertainment. Lady Dillworth's eagerness intensifies, and doubts spring up in her mind. What if the charade should prove a failure after all? She is nervous at having to sing in character, and angry with herself for her trepidation. She even tells Walter of her cowardice; and after the last rehearsal, as he goes away, she implores him to help her as much as he possibly can.

'Do, do come early, and manage everything, for I feel as if I were going to break down in the very midst. Recollect, the whole responsibility of making it a success rests on you.'

Walter promises all she requires; but Katie is not convinced, and her doubts increase as the time draws near.

The morning of that day does not begin auspiciously. A fierce storm has been raging for many hours. When the Admiral glances over the newspapers at breakfast, his face becomes grave as he reads down the long list of disasters and wrecks. Presently the footman hands him a letter, and then his face becomes still graver.

'Anything wrong, Herbert?' asks her Ladyship.

'A ship aground on the Short Reefs,' replies he shortly.

'O dear, how dreadful! What is the name of the ship, Sir Herbert?' asks Liddy clasping her hands, and opening her eyes very wide.

'The Daring; and unless they get her off at the top of spring-tide, I fear she will go to pieces on the rocks.'

The Admiral drinks his coffee quickly, and prepares to leave the room.

'Where are you going, Herbert? You haven't taken half a breakfast.'

'I can't stay, Kate; for I must give orders about sending off help to the Daring.'