Chapter 24 Sir Edward Medlington - 1

CHAPTER XXIV
SIR EDWARD MEDLINGTON
One cool, sharp afternoon, when the second summer of our stay in the country was drawing to a close, I found myself all alone over at Gringo’s house. All the dogs were away somewhere, so finding no one in the orchard to gossip with me, I made up my mind to run down to the village and call on Mrs. Waverlee.
It was just about five o’clock, and she had a nice English fashion of always having afternoon tea. When the maid brought in the tea things, there was always a blue bowl for Patsie’s tea, and a pink one for any caller he might have. There was quite a nipping wind that afternoon, and the thought of that pink bowl nearly full of weak tea, with four lumps of sugar, and plenty of cream in it, just warmed the cockles of my heart, so off I trotted for the village.
Mrs. Waverlee was at home sitting by the fire, and looking very sweet and pretty but rather tired, for she taught away a good deal of strength every morning. Her whole soul was in her work for the children.
She patted me very kindly, when I ran into her dainty drawing-room, and invited me to lie down on the rug before the fire.
Then she leaned back—not in her rocking-chair, for[276] she hadn’t one in her house—but in a big chintz-covered arm-chair that fairly swallowed up her slender figure. She was gazing intently at a large oil painting that stood in the almost loving embrace of another big chair, placed in a good light from a window. Paper and wrapping stuff lay on the floor, and I guessed that the picture had just arrived.
While she sat staring at it, her little maid ushered in another caller. This time it was Mr. Bonstone. He spoke nicely to her in his short manner, said “Hello! Boy,” to me, then stood leaning against the mantel, watching her pour out a cup of tea for him. As he approached the little table to take it from her, his eye fell on the painting.
He didn’t say anything, but his look said, “Ah! she has been getting a family picture from England.”
I have already remarked that Mrs. Waverlee was a bit of a clairvoyante. She saw he was interested, and she said in her distinct, delicate way, “It is my father, taken with my boy when we were last in England.”
Mr. Bonstone was slowly wiggling his spoon back and forth in his cup to dissolve the sugar. As she spoke, his eye kindled. Something in the portrait aroused his attention. Then his hand stopped moving the spoon.
“Your father,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” she repeated simply, “my dear father.”
Most American women would have vouchsafed some more information, seeing that his curiosity was aroused, but she was a regular Englishwoman, and could talk sweetly for hours, and tell you nothing.
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At last, Mr. Bonstone took the initiative, and said, “May I ask his name?”
“Medlington,” she said, “Sir Edward Medlington.”
He said nothing. He was as reticent as she was, but both their eyes spoke. I saw there was something underneath his interest.
He drank his tea, ate an English muffin, drew some papers from his pocket, and talked over some business with her about Neighbourhood Hall; then he took up his hat. Before he said good-bye, he went over and stood silently before the big picture.
Mrs. Waverlee began to speak. She had become very friendly with him and his wife, and she did not wish to appear ungracious. Then I think underneath it all, was a feminine desire to know why he was interested in this picture.
“My father was in the army,” she said, “as a young man. During an Egyptian campaign, he lost a leg. A change came over him during hospital life, and he left the army and entered the church.”
Mr. Bonstone looked spellbound, and murmured something about noticing that the tall man in the painting, holding the little boy by the hand, had on clerical dress.
“My mother died when I was a baby,” Mrs. Waverlee continued, “and my father brought me up, and has always been very, very dear to me. I expect him here shortly to visit me.”
“Your father was not an only son, was he?” asked Mr. Bonstone.
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“No, he had a younger brother who came to America.”
“He is not living, is he?” asked Mr. Bonstone in an almost inaudible voice.
“No,” she said with a side glance at him. “He died some years ago. We don’t know whether he left any children.”
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Bonstone, and he held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” she said calmly, but their eyes met, and he grew a furious red.
“My love to Stanna,” she said, following him as he hurried to the door. “Thank you for all your kindness to me. If you had belonged to my own family, you could not have been kinder.”
He made some sort of an inarticulate reply, and she came back to the painting. Then she repeated Mr. Bonstone’s questions. “Your father is not an only son,” and “He is not living, is he?”
“Why negatively,” she said, “unless he knew the answers? He is the son of my uncle who quarrelled with his father, and ran away to America with his barmaid wife. I feel the relationship, and I also recognise family traits.” Her face grew a beautiful pink. “A good man, and my own cousin. Now I am not without relatives in this new country. Thank God! It will be a good thing for my boy. But I must not acknowledge this relationship, until it will be welcome to this odd man.”
All this was intensely interesting to me, and I too turned a fresh attention to the painting. It was not[279] difficult to recognise little Egbert as he had appeared a few years ago. The tall old man was handsome and commanding in appearance, and yet his face was the essence of gentleness as he held the boy’s two small hands. “Won’t Gringo be excited,” I thought, and I was just about to whine for the door to be opened so I could run away to him, when my dear mistress appeared.
“Well, Boy, you too are here,” she said kindly as she came in, then she began talking to Mrs. Waverlee about the latest news, which was something that affected me deeply and painfully.
“There is to be a new kind of a dog-show in New York,” she said, “a dog-hero show. All dogs exhibited must have done something noteworthy, or they cannot be entered. You, Boy, are to go on account of the service you rendered our hostess. Gringo will be there, also King Harry and Walter Scott.”
“Is it to be a show for thoroughbreds alone?” asked Mrs. Waverlee.
“No, breeding has nothing to do with it. It is all inner worth—dogs who have saved persons from burning or carried messages, or who have shown great intelligence. In fact, I believe the mongrels will predominate.”
“When does it begin?” enquired Mrs. Waverlee.
“Next week.”
My heart sank within me. Oh! how I dreaded a dog-show. When I was a young dog, I had been exhibited several times, and every time I suffered tortures. It was not so bad in the day time, when my[280] owners were about, and everybody was watching the men who took care of the dogs; but at night it was terrible. All the dog-owners went home, and the men who were left in charge, invariably drank and either quarrelled, played cards or slept, and dogs would get caught in their chains and nearly strangle. Oh! that wretched drink—how much misery it causes. Then the men would tell lies about watering and feeding us, and many a dog suffered the tortures of hunger and thirst. There were a few conscientious attendants, but very few.
I dreaded intensely going through this again—indeed my sufferings at a dog-show were responsible for my wandering life, for it was after being exhibited seven times in one spring, that I ran away from my first home with a dog-fancier.
Another thing I dreaded in connection with the forthcoming dog-show was, that everybody would find out how valuable I was, and attention would be drawn to me as a desirable dog to steal. Mr. Granton knew that my points were good, but he had never chanced to meet any one who could tell him just how good they were. He didn’t know a very doggy set of men.
Well, the day came, and I was entered at the show, and the thing itself was not half as bad as I thought it would be. These dogs were all very much beloved by their owners, and were not held on account of their value as dogs, but as heroes and dog friends to mankind. I was uneasy, for I hated being taken from my nice home and being deprived of my liberty, but I underwent no actual suffering. For there was no[281] drink there, and Louis, who was very fond of King Harry, slept both nights the show lasted, curled up in the straw in the big box-place our good bloodhound occupied. So we did not suffer.
Gringo was furious at having to go. He hated notoriety, and he hated being taken away from Mr. Bonstone; and Mr. Bonstone was just as upset as he was, but there was no help for it. The show was for charity, and to acquaint New York with the actual value of the dog heroes of the country—dogs who had risked their lives to save human beings from harm.
The dog who took first prize was a little mongrel who had so little thoroughbred in him, that nobody could tell in which class of dogs his ancestors had started. He had saved five hundred hotel guests from death by fire. The hotel was a regular fire-trap, and he had barked and raged when he smelt the smoke, till he drew attention to the dreadful danger, and every one got out while the hotel burnt to the ground.
Gringo got third prize. I was surprised to hear how many events the modest old dog had been in. He was chained next to me, and his remarks on the show were killing. He loathed vain dogs—these fellows who adore shows, and when the travelling boxes are brought out, bark with excitement, and on arriving, bask all day long in popular approval.
I had honourable mention. Gringo thought I would get a prize, but when I looked round the show, I said, “Some of these fellows here will ride rough-shod over me. It’s amazing what a sum of fidelity to the human race they represent.”
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The event of the show to me was, as I had anticipated, the finding out of my value. I was adjudged the best dog of all breeds shown, and my value was placed at seven thousand dollars. How I regretted this. Coarse, sporty looking men, who bestowed not a glance on the noble animals who had saved precious lives, came and stood before me with their beefy faces alight with interest. Most unfortunately, however, it was not the sporting class that took the keenest interest in me. Those men were rough but honest. Two young men of the white-faced, putty-looking class that master and Mr. Bonstone dread so much to handle, made me tremble.
They did not come up and stand before me, to admire me and ask questions. They stood a long way off, and they got a boy to go and ask an attendant particularly where I lived. I knew I should have trouble with them some time in the future, and I vowed that they would be pretty clever to catch me napping. Both days I was at the show, they came several times to stare at me surreptitiously, and the second day, they brought another fellow of their own class with them.
I tried not to worry, and repeated to myself something that master often murmurs when he is putting on his shoes to go down town. “Where are the worries I had this time last year? Gone with the snows of winter, and the roses of summer. Therefore, why worry over the worries of to-day?”
The pleasantest thing about the show was, of course, the twice-a-day visits of our owners. The second day, Mr. Bonstone approached our bench accompanied by[283] Mrs. Waverlee, Egbert and a tall old gentleman who limped quite a bit.
“Wooden leg,” muttered Gringo. “It’s the boy’s grandfather.”
I had told Gringo of his master’s interest in the portrait of the old baronet. He was as keenly interested as I was, and with me, concluded that Mrs. Waverlee was correct. Mr. Bonstone was her cousin.
“Why don’t they out with it?” said the old dog—“I hate secrets.”
Well, they did out with it this day. A dog-show seemed a strange place for a recognition between a noble Englishman and his long-lost nephew, but stranger things than that have happened.
Sir Edward had arrived two days before, and Mr. Bonstone had not seen him until he met him coming into the show with Mrs. Waverlee and Egbert.
Gringo and I stared at them. “My poor boss,” said the old dog, “his eyes are eager. He’d like to have relatives like other folks.”
Mrs. Waverlee was sweetly self-possessed. No one would have guessed that she was very much excited, and was watching her father and Mr. Bonstone surreptitiously.
I have forgotten to say that Walter Scott was chained the other side of Gringo and King Harry, and the three grown-up persons and the boy were fondling us alternately.
Mr. Bonstone was delighted that he would be able to take Gringo away that evening. “Only a few hours more, kid,” he said in a low voice as he softly rubbed[284] his hand over Gringo’s rose ears. A seal ring, his only ornament, for he hated even a breast pin, caught the old baronet’s eye. Now he had evidently noticed no familiar resemblance in this man, but he could not help recognising the ring on which was engraved the family crest.
He didn’t say anything. He was a very well set-up, self-possessed old gentleman, and very English. He simply turned a little pale, and said, “May I look at that ring?”
Mr. Bonstone nodded, and taking it off, handed it to him.
“This old man’s father was a tartar,” Gringo whispered to me. “It’s rough on him to remember how he and the young brother who had pluck enough to run away were bullyragged.”
Mr. Bonstone stood fondling Gringo’s head, and looking calmly at his relative.
“Good blood,” muttered Gringo. “Do you notice, Boy, that the quality don’t shriek and tear their hair over great events. They’re quiet as the grave.”