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A. J. Dawson - Jan

A >> A. J. Dawson >> Jan




It must not be supposed that nostalgia is a modern weakness, or the
monopoly of human minds. When Finn looked out across the moonlit Downs
that night, while strolling round the house with the Master before going
to bed, nostalgia filled his heart to aching-point and clouded his mind
with its elusive, tormenting vapors as surely as ever it clouded the
brain of any human wanderer. It was the nostalgia of the wilderness, of
the life of the wild; and, as he looked out into the moonlight, Finn saw
again in fancy, the boundary-rider's lonely humpy, the rugged, rocky
hills of the Tinnaburra; a fleeing wallaby in the distance, himself in
hot pursuit. He smelt again the tang of crushed gum-leaves, and heard
the fascinating rustle which tells of the movements of game, of live
food, over desiccated twigs and leaves, in bush untrodden by human feet.

Yes, Finn tasted to the full that night the nostalgia of the wilderness.
But if it stirred him deeply, it by no means made him unhappy. Across
the Downs' shoulder there was Desdemona; and he was free, save for the
ties of affection--stronger these than any dog-chain--which bound him to
the Nuthill folk. And as for Desdemona; owing to what many fanciers
would have regarded as the reprehensible eccentricity of the owner of
Shaws, Desdemona was almost as free as Finn.




V

DESDEMONA'S WANDERINGS


A week later, even easy-going Colonel Forde was a little perturbed by
the news that Lady Desdemona had been away all night and that nobody
knew of her whereabouts. However, the bitch strolled into the house
during the forenoon, looking none the worse for her night out, and, much
to his kennelman's annoyance, the Colonel refused to have her confined
to the kennels. He did not know that Finn was schooling this blood-royal
princess in the ways of the wild; but he could see that she looked fit
as a fiddle and was obviously very much enjoying her life. And so he
turned a deaf ear to his kennelman, even when the good fellow said,
protestingly:

"You don't see such a bitch once in twenty years, sir. She's just on her
eighteenth month and she's worth taking care of."

"She certainly is, Bates," replied the Colonel, "and you must keep a
sharp lookout. Look to her each day. But, upon my word, I think she's
also worth giving a good time to. Give her her head, and I don't think
she will ever disappoint us. Thank goodness, there are no traps or
poison about here, or none that I ever heard of."

"No, it's not that, sir," persisted the kennelman; "but Desdemona she's
good enough to win in the best company, and to mother winners, too. And
you know, sir, if a dog's to do hisself justice on the bench, you can't
let him go skirmishing around the country like a gipsy's lurcher. It
sorter roughs 'em somehow. The judges don't like it, and the Fancy
don't, neither, sir. Look at the chalk an' that on her coat this
morning, sir."

"Ah well," said the Colonel, with a little laugh, "we never have bred
for the judges, Bates; nor yet for the Fancy, either; and if they can't
recognize the merits of a bitch like that because she's been living a
natural, happy sort of life, instead of a cage-life--why, then, that's
their loss, not ours, and we must chance it."

And so the kennelman shrugged his shoulders and the Lady Desdemona
continued to enjoy life, the new and wider life to which she was being
introduced by that hardened wanderer and past-master in the lore of the
wild--Finn.

It may be that Colonel Forde himself was more than a little worried
about it when, a week later, the young bloodhound disappeared one
afternoon and did not show up again next day. There had been further
communications with the house of the redoubtable champion Windle
Hercules in Hampshire. The Lady Desdemona's line of travel had been
chosen. Bates was to escort her on the nuptial journey, and all
arrangements for the wedding of the distinguished pair had been
completed. And now--"Just as if she mighter bin any tramp's cur," as
Bates feelingly put it--Desdemona had elected to stay away and to remain
away. And the news from Nuthill showed that--"That there plaguy great
wolfhound" was also on the missing list.

On the fourth day of absence, all search having proved unsuccessful, the
police were notified. Then, bright and early on the morning of the fifth
day, the Lady Desdemona walked quietly up to the kitchen door at Shaws,
followed leisurely by Finn, who, after seeing his mate welcomed with
some enthusiasm by the cook and several members of her excited staff,
turned about and loped easily away in the direction of Nuthill.

But to the experts concerned it speedily became apparent that the
alliance with Champion Windle Hercules must be indefinitely postponed.
Lady Desdemona would have none of him. It seemed she knew her own mind
very well, was perfectly calm and content, but quite determined in her
opposition to any hint of matrimonial _pourparlers_ with the admitted
champion of her race. Bates the kennelman pished and tushed, and thought
he knew all about it. The Master felt pretty sure he knew all about it.
The Colonel just smiled and said that Desdemona was young yet, and that,
for his part, he always had thought two years a better marrying age than
eighteen months.

Meantime, you could not have found a more placidly happy and contented
hound in England than the Lady Desdemona; and there were very few days
on which she did not meet Finn, either at Nuthill or at Shaws.

The beautiful early summer weeks slid by, and the young bloodhound grew
more sedate and less given to violent exercise. And then Bates succeeded
in persuading the Colonel into allowing him to kennel the Lady
Desdemona. It is true the kennel given her was pretty nearly the size of
a horse's loose box, and had a little covered outside yard of its own.
But it was a kennel, and securely inclosed. Despite the watchfulness of
Bates, Finn the wolfhound came nuzzling round its sides fairly often in
search of the prisoner.

After four days of confinement the bitch was released by Colonel Forde's
orders. For two days she had taken no food; and as she obviously fretted
when Finn was kept away from her, the wolfhound was allowed to come and
go at Shaws as he chose, and as he did at Nuthill.

Thus a week passed, and it was seen that the Lady Desdemona grew
restless and uneasy.

"Take my advice and leave them severely alone," said the Master. "Finn
will go his own way whether we like it or not. He's too old a hand to be
cajoled, and I've sworn I'll never coerce him. The bitch will be better
left to go her own way. She's got a good mate."

Bates sighed, but the Colonel agreed; and very little was said about it
when, a few days later, Desdemona passed out beyond the ken of her
friends at Shaws and Nuthill, and for the time was seen no more.

What did rather surprise the Master, however, was that after an absence
of a few hours, on the day of Desdemona's disappearance, Finn turned up
as usual in the evening at Nuthill, and spent the night on his own bed.
This fact did strike the Master as odd when he heard that nothing had
been seen at Shaws of the bloodhound.

"Evidently, then, Finn has nothing to do with her disappearance," said
Colonel Forde next day.

"Ah!" replied the Master, musingly. "I wonder!" And he thoughtfully
pulled Finn's ears, as though he thought this might extract information
regarding the whereabouts of Desdemona. But Finn, as his way was, said
nothing. He maintained in this matter a policy of masterly reserve.




VI

HOW DESDEMONA FOUND HER NEST


It would, of course, be highly interesting if one were able to map out
precisely the effect produced in Desdemona's mind by the influence of
Finn the wolfhound. One would very much like to trace the mental
process; to know exactly how much and in what manner the influence of
the wolfhound, with his experiences of life among the wild kindred of
Australia, affected the development of the highly domesticated, the
thoroughly sophisticated, young bloodhound. This one cannot pretend to
do. But, as it happens, one is able faithfully to record the Lady
Desdemona's actions and experiences; and from that record, in the light
of her previous intercourse with the Irish wolfhound, one is free to
draw one's own conclusions as to motives and inspirations.

During the course of their various absences from Shaws and Nuthill, Finn
and the Lady Desdemona very thoroughly scoured the South Downs within a
radius of a dozen miles from home. In the beginning of their longest
jaunt, which kept the pair of them five days away, Desdemona made a
discovery that greatly interested both of them.

It happened that Finn ran down and killed a rabbit, rather, perhaps,
from lightness of heart, or by way of displaying his powers to
Desdemona, than from any desire for food. And so it fell out that,
having slain the bunny, the hunter and his mate proceeded to amuse
themselves in the vicinity, leaving the rabbit lying where it had
received its _coup de grace_, at the foot of a stunted, wind-twisted
thorn-bush.

It might have been an hour later when (with appetites whetted, no doubt,
by exercise in the finest air to be found in southern England) Finn and
Desdemona forsook their play and made for the thorn-bush, with a view to
a cold rabbit supper. But a glance at the spot showed that the very
thoroughly killed rabbit was no longer there. Finn's eyes blazed for a
moment with the sort of masterful wrath he had not shown since his
dingo-leading days in the Tinnaburra. Desdemona noticed this exhibition
of lordly anger and thought it rather fine. But, being female, she was
more practical than Finn; and being a bloodhound, she had a sense of
smell by comparison with which Finn's scenting powers were as naught--a
mere gap in his equipment; and this despite the fact that the training
his wild life had given him in this respect placed him far ahead of the
average wolfhound. But by comparison with bloodhounds, the fleet dogs
who hunt by sight and speed--deerhounds, greyhounds, Irish wolfhounds
and the like--have very little sense of smell.

Now the Lady Desdemona, having no experience of wild life, did not know
in the least what had become of that rabbit. She formed no conclusions
whatever about it. But obeying one of her strongest instincts, she
picked up a trail leading in the direction opposite to that from which
Finn had overtaken the bunny, and, with one glance of encouragement over
her shoulder at Finn, began to follow this up at a loping trot. As she
ran, her delicate, golden-colored flews skimmed the ground; her
sensitive nostrils questioned almost every blade of grass, her brain
automatically registering every particle of information so obtained, and
guiding her feet accordingly. Her strong tail waved above and behind her
in the curve of an Arab scimitar. She ceased to be the Lady Desdemona
and became simply a bloodhound at work; an epitome of the whole complex
science of tracking. Finn trotted admiringly beside her, his muzzle
never passing her shoulder; and now and again when he happened to lower
his head from its accustomed three-foot level, his nostrils caught a
whiff or two of something reminiscent of long-past hunting excursions
when he was barely out of puppyhood.

The dog-folk are not greatly given to discussion. It was obvious that
Desdemona had some purpose earnestly in view. (As a fact, she herself
did not as yet know what that purpose was.) And that was enough for
Finn. The bloodhound's pace was slow, and Finn could have kept up this
sort of traveling for a dozen hours on end without really exerting
himself.

But this was not to be a long trail as the event proved, though it was
mostly up-hill. Before a mile and a half had been covered Desdemona
began to show excitement and emitted a single deep bay, mellow as the
note of an organ. Finn remarked her fine voice with sincere approval.
Like all hounds, he detested a sharp, high, or yapping cry. A few
seconds later Desdemona came to a standstill beside the stem of a
starveling yew-tree, and just below the crest of the Down. Her muzzle
was thrust into an opening in the steep side of the Down, over which
there hung a thatch of furze. But though her head entered the opening,
her shoulders could not pass it and there was wrath and excitement in
the belling note she struck as she drew back.

This was Finn's opportunity and, stepping forward, he attacked the
overhanging furze and stony chalky earth with both his powerful fore
feet. He had winded now a scent that roused him; and what is more, he
remembered precisely what that twangy, acrid scent betokened. The chalky
earth flew from under his great paws faster than two men could have
shifted it with mattocks; and, as the shelving crust was thin, it took
him no more than one or two minutes to make an opening through which
even his great bulk could pass with a little stooping.

Another moment and Desdemona had forced her way past Finn, baying
hoarsely, and was inside the cave. There followed a yowling, snarling
cry, a scuffling sound, and a big red fox emerged, low to the ground
like a cat, his brush between his legs, fight in his bared jaws, and
flight in his red rolling eyes. But fate had knocked at Reynard's door,
and would not be denied. His running did not carry him far. It is
probably somewhat disturbing to be rooted out of one's own particular
sanctuary by a baying bloodhound. But it is worse to find at one's front
door a vision of vengeance and destruction in the shape of a giant Irish
wolfhound whose kill one has purloined.

In Finn's salad days it might have meant a fight. As things were, it was
rather an execution; and though the fox died snapping, his neck was
broken before he had decided upon his line of action. As Finn flung the
furry corpse aside, Desdemona appeared in the mouth of the cave with
most of the stolen rabbit between her jaws. It was noteworthy that she
gave no heed at all to the fox. Her business as a tracker had been with
her mate's stolen kill. In the absence of Finn, Reynard would have paid
no other penalty for his theft than the loss of the rabbit. As it was,
the incident cost him his life; and he was a master fox, too, who had
ranged that countryside with considerable insolence for some years; a
terribly familiar foe in a number of neighboring farm-yards.

Neither Finn nor Desdemona ate the remains of that rabbit. For one
thing, they were not yet really hungry, and for another thing they did
not relish the musky tang left by Reynard's jaws. Apart from this (and
despite its strong scent) they were both keenly interested in the cave
which had been Reynard's home; especially Desdemona.

It seemed the bloodhound would never tire of investigating the cave,
once she had satisfied herself as to Finn fully understanding that she
alone, unaided, and with most complete success, had tracked down and
retrieved the stolen rabbit. This fact had to be clearly appreciated
before Desdemona could bring herself to lay aside the mangled rabbit.
Then she invited Finn's attention to the interior of the cave. Together
they explored its resources till Finn felt almost nauseated by the smell
of fox which filled the place. But Desdemona, with her far more delicate
sense of smell, seemed quite unaffected by this. To and fro she padded,
closely examining every inch of the place, and dragging out into the
open scores of bones and other oddments which told of its long
occupancy.

It really was a rather fascinating lair, despite its musky smell; and
its position was superb. Being on a southern slope, and just below the
crest of the highest point of Downs thereabouts, one plainly saw the
sparkle of sunlight on the waters of the Channel from the mouth of this
cave. On the other hand, an obliging cup-shaped hollow of the Downs,
some hundred yards away to the west, gave one a vista of Sussex
farm-lands extending over scores of miles; a view that many a caveless
millionaire would give a fortune to secure for his home.

Again, the extreme steepness of the particular little spur, or swelling
of the Downs, in which this cave had been formed, made it highly
improbable that the feet of man would ever come that way. The
surrounding turf had doubtless known the sharp little feet of many
hundreds of generations of sheep; but it had never known the plow. It
was the same unbroken turf which our early British ancestors knew in
these parts, and had remained unscathed by any such trifling happenings
as the Roman invasion, the Fire of London, the Wars of the Roses, or the
advent of Mr. Lloyd George. The very cave itself may easily have been
older than Westminster Abbey; and if there is a lord in the land whose
ancestral hall can boast a longer record of un-"restored" antiquity, he
may fairly claim that his forebears built most superlatively well.

At all events, the place appealed most strongly to the Lady Desdemona,
and since her heart seemed set upon it, Finn cheerfully endeavored to
forget the foxy smell, busied himself in securing a fresh, rabbit for
supper, and generally behaved as a good mate should in the matter of
helping to make a new home. And that is the plain truth in the matter of
how Desdemona found her nest.




VII

DESDEMONA FORGETS HER MANNERS


It has been recorded that, as the weeks slipped by after Desdemona's
first little term of absence from her home at Shaws, she grew daily more
sedate in her manner and less given to the irresponsible activities of
hound youth.

It was also noticed that she developed a habit of carrying off all her
best bones, or other solid comestibles, instead of despatching them
beside her dish as her sophisticated habit had always been. What was not
known, even to the astute Bates, was that the most of such eatables were
laboriously carried over close upon four miles of downland by the Lady
Desdemona, for ultimate storage in her cave, where, a little
reluctantly, she devoured some of them and stowed away others to be more
or less devoured by insects, and, it may be, by prowling stoats and
other vermin, during the bloodhound's periods of residence in her own
proper home.

Finn accompanied his mate, as a matter of course, upon most of her
pilgrimages to the cave. But, somewhat to his chagrin, he found, as time
went on, that Desdemona became less and less keen upon his company.
Latterly, in fact, she came as near as so courtly a creature could to
sending him about his business flatly, and she formed a habit of lying
across the mouth of her cave in a manner which certainly suggested that
she grudged Finn entry to the old place--a thing which ruffled him more
than he cared to admit.

As a matter of fact, the Lady Desdemona had not the faintest idea why
she should adopt this tone and manner toward her mate. She admired Finn
as much as ever; she liked him well, and had no shadow of a reason for
mistrusting him. But she had her own weird to dree; and inherited
memories and instincts far stronger than any wish or inclination of her
daily life, were just now dominating her utterly.

She was full of a vague anxiousness; a sense of impending difficulties;
a blind but undeniable determination to be forearmed against she knew
not what dangers and needs. And among other things, other vague
instincts the which she must obey with or without understanding, there
was the desire to store up food, and to preserve intact her sole command
of the privacy of her cave. If Finn had been human, he would have
shrugged his shoulders, and in private given vent to generalizations
regarding the inscrutability of females. As it was, he very likely
shrugged his great gray shoulders, but went his way without remark.

Then came the day upon which Desdemona disappeared from Shaws, and Finn,
to the Master's surprise, slept in his own proper bed at Nuthill.

The fact was he had parted with Desdemona that evening under rather
painful circumstances. In the early evening he had journeyed with her to
the cave--she carrying a large mutton-bone which she made no pretense of
offering to share with her mate--and her attitude throughout had been
one of really unaccountable chilliness and reserve. They had drunk
together--the cold nectar of a prehistoric dew-pond that lay within a
hundred yards of the cave--and Desdemona had turned away curtly and
hurried back to the cave, with never a lick or a look in Finn's
direction, as though she feared he might take the place away in his
teeth. Finn had noticed that she moved wearily, as though action taxed
her strength; yet he thought her unaccountably ready to walk away from
him.

He ran down a rabbit for his mate, and deposited it before her at the
cave's mouth in the most friendly manner. Then, before he could get time
to tear the pelt off for her, the Lady Desdemona, with a snappishness
more suggestive of a hedge-side cur than of a hound of her rank,
actually snatched away the rabbit, and with never a "Thank you," or a
"By your leave," carried it right inside the cave, dropping it there and
returning to bar the entrance, with a look in her red-hawed eyes and a
lift of her golden flews which, if not actual snarling, was, as folks
say, near enough to make no difference. At least it very plainly told
Finn he was not wanted there; and the limits of his punctilious courtesy
having now been passed, he had turned away without look or sound and
descended the Down in high dudgeon.

It was clear to Finn that his mate needed a lesson in manners, and so,
moodily, he stalked away and went hungry to bed like the illogical male
creature he was, vaguely surmising that in his discomfort there must be
something of retribution for Desdemona. Had he but known it, he had a
long line of human precedents in the matter of this particular piece of
foolishness, even to the detail of the untasted dinner-dish which he
left in the back porch when he went to bed at Nuthill.




VIII

FINN IS ENLIGHTENED


Next morning courtesy demanded that Finn should accept Betty Murdoch's
invitation to accompany her on a rather long walk. She had bills to pay
and calls to make in the village. Finn went, of course, stalking
silently beside pretty, cheery Betty. But he made a poor companion, and
Betty even told the Master at luncheon that she thought Finn was not
very well, so dull and uninterested in anything he had appeared all the
morning.

"H'm! I suspect he misses Lady Desdemona," said the Master. "Puzzling
thing, that. I can't make out why they're not together."

The fact was, Finn found the nursing of his offended dignity a wearisome
task. It was all very well to rebuke Desdemona by ignoring her
existence; but could he be quite sure that she noticed his absence or
cared about it? And in any case, whether or not it affected her, it
certainly bored him very much. He missed greatly the companionship of
his mate, and not a bit the less because she had been so rude to him the
day before.

The upshot of it was that, after disposing of a good portion of the
dinner placed in his big dish at six o'clock that evening (in the little
courtyard in which he had once held a tramp bailed up all night), he
picked up the large, succulent, and still decently covered knuckle-bone
designed for his dessert, and, carrying this in his mouth, set out for
the cave on the Downs. He probably had some small twinges of misgiving,
but endeavored to dismiss these by assuring himself that poor Desdemona
was no doubt very sorry for her ill-temper of the previous day; that she
doubtless was feeling his protracted absence keenly, and that it would
be only courteous and fair now to let bygones be bygones, and present
her with a really choice knuckle-bone by way of proving his forgiveness.

This was more or less the way in which the wolfhound's mind worked as he
ambled over the Downs that evening with his big knuckle-bone. (The cook
at Nuthill was one of Finn's most devoted admirers. In addition to the
appetizing golden-brown skin that coated it, this bone carried quite a
good deal of the short, dark-colored sort of meat which, though devoid
of juice, makes very agreeable eating, and lends itself well to canine
mastication.) And in view of this attitude of mind of his, Finn was
rather grievously disappointed by the result of his visit.

He found the Lady Desdemona uneasily prowling back and forth, and in and
out of the entrance to her cave. She perfunctorily touched Finn's nose
with her own (rather rough and hot) muzzle in greeting and, accepting
the knuckle-bone with somewhat unmannerly eagerness, carried it at once
to the rear of the cave. But when Finn made to follow her she returned
nervously to the mouth of the cave and stood there, blocking the
entrance. Most strangely stiff, preoccupied, and ill-at-ease, Finn
thought her.

"Glad to see you, and all that," her manner suggested; "but I don't much
think you'd better stay. I'm--er--busy, and--er--don't let me detain you
here."

That was the suggestion conveyed; and Finn would have been the more
angered about it, but for a vague feeling he had which he could in no
way account for--a sort of yearning desire to help his mate and do
something for her.

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