Читать книгу Lassie Come-Home - Eric Knight - Страница 5
ОглавлениеAn Evil-tempered Old Man
The Duke of Rudling stood by a rhododendron hedge and glared about him. He lifted his voice again.
“Hynes!” he roared. “Hynes! Where has that chap got to? Hynes!”
At that moment, with his face red and his shock of white hair disordered, the Duke looked like what he was reputed to be: the worst-tempered old man in all the three Ridings of Yorkshire.
Whether or not he deserved this reputation, it would seem sufficient to say that his words and actions earned it.
Perhaps it was partly due to the fact that the Duke was exceedingly deaf, which caused him to speak to everyone as if he were commanding a brigade of infantry on parade, as indeed he had done, many years ago. He had also a habit of carrying a big blackthorn walking stick, which he always waved wildly in the air in order to give emphasis to his already too emphatic words. And finally, his bad temper came from his impatience with the world.
For the Duke had one firm belief: which was that the world was going, as he phrased it, “to pot.” Nothing ever was as good these days as it had been when he was a young man. Horses could not run so fast, young men were not so brave and dashing, women were not so pretty, flowers did not grow so well, and as for dogs, if there were any decent ones left in the world, it was because they were in his own kennels.
The people could not even speak the King’s English these days as they could when he was a young man, according to the Duke. He was firmly of the opinion that the reason he could not hear properly was not because he was deaf, but because people nowadays had got into the pernicious habit of mumbling and snipping their words instead of saying them plainly as they did when he was a young man.
And, as for the younger generation! The Duke could—and often would—lecture for hours on the worthlessness of everyone born in the twentieth century.
This last was curious, for of all his relatives, the only one the Duke could stand (and who could also stand the Duke, it seemed) was the youngest member of his family, his twelve-year-old granddaughter, Priscilla.
It was Priscilla who came to his rescue now as he stood, waving his stick and shouting, beside the rhododendron hedge.
Dodging a wild swish of his stick, she reached over and pulled the pocket of his tweed Norfolk coat. He turned with bristling moustaches.
“Oh, it’s you!” he roared. “It’s a wonder somebody finally came. Don’t know what the world’s coming to. Servants no good! Everybody too deaf to hear! Country’s going to pot!”
“Nonsense,” said Priscilla.
She was indeed a very self-contained and composed young lady. From her continued association with her grandfather, she had grown to consider both of them as equals—either as old children or as very young grownups.
“What’s that?” the Duke roared, looking down at her. “Speak up! Don’t mumble!”
Priscilla pulled his head down so that she could speak directly into his ear.
“I said, Nonsense!” she shouted.
“Nonsense?” roared the Duke.
He stared down at her, then broke into a roar of laughter. He had a curious way of reasoning about Priscilla. He was convinced that if Priscilla had pluck enough to answer him back, she must have inherited it from him.
So the Duke felt in a much better temper as he looked down at his granddaughter. He flourished his long white moustaches, which were much grander and finer than the kind of moustaches that men manage to grow these days.
“Ah, glad you turned up,” the Duke boomed. “I want you to see a new dog. She’s marvellous! Beautiful! Finest collie I ever laid my eyes on.”
“She isn’t so good as the ones they had in the old days, is she?” Priscilla asked.
“Don’t mumble,” roared the Duke. “Can’t hear a word you say.”
He had heard perfectly well, but had decided to ignore it.
“Knew I’d get her,” the Duke continued. “Been after her for three years now.”
“Three years!” echoed Priscilla. She knew that was what her grandfather wanted her to say.
“Yes, three years. Ah, he thought he’d get the better of me, but he didn’t. Offered him ten pounds for her three years ago, but he wouldn’t sell. Came up to twelve the year after that, but he wouldn’t sell. Last year offered him fifteen pounds. Told him it was the rock-bottom limit—and I meant it, too. But he didn’t think so. Held out for another six months, then he sent word last week he’d take it.”
The Duke seemed pleased with himself, but Priscilla shook her head.
“How do you know she isn’t coped?”
This was a natural question to ask, for, if the truth must be told, Yorkshiremen are not only knowing about raising dogs, but they are sometimes alleged to carry their knowledge too far. Often they exercise devious secret arts in hiding faults in a dog: perhaps treating a crooked ear or a faulty tail carriage so that this drawback is absolutely imperceptible until much later, when the less knowing purchaser has paid for the dog and has taken it home. These tricks and treatments are known as “coping.” In the buying and selling of dogs—as with horses—the unwritten rule is caveat emptor—let the buyer beware!
But the Duke only roared louder when he heard Priscilla’s question.
“How do I know she isn’t coped? Because I’m a Yorkshireman, too. Know as many tricks as they do, and a few more to boot, I’ll warrant.
“No. This is a straight dog. Besides, I got her from Whatsisname—Carraclough. Know him too well. He wouldn’t dare try anything like that on me. Indeed not!”
And the Duke swished his great blackthorn stick through the air as if to defy anyone who would have the courage to try any tricks on him. The old man and his grandchild went down the path to the kennels. And there, by the mesh-wire runs, they halted, looking at the dog inside.
Priscilla saw, lying there, a great black-white-and-golden-sable collie. It lay with its head across its front paws, the delicate darkness of the aristocratic head showing plainly against the snow-whiteness of the expansive ruff and apron.
The Duke clicked his tongue, in signal to the dog. But she did not respond. There was only a flick of the ear to show that the dog had heard. She lay there, her eyes not turning toward the people who stood looking at her.
Priscilla bent down and, clapping her hands, called quickly:
“Come, collie! Come over here! Come see me! Come!”
For just one second the great brown eyes of the collie turned to the girl, deep brown eyes that seemed full of brooding and sadness. Then they turned back to mere empty staring.
Priscilla rose.
“She doesn’t seem well, Grandfather!”
“Nonsense!” roared the Duke. “Nothing wrong with her. Hynes! Hynes! Where is that fellow hiding? Hynes!”
“Coming sir, coming!”
The sharp, nasal voice of the kennelman came from behind the buildings, and in a moment he hurried into sight.
“Yes, sir! You called me, sir?”
“Of course, of course. Are you deaf? Hynes, what’s the matter with this dog? She looks off-color.”
“Well, sir, she’s a poor feeder,” the kennelman hurried to explain. “She’s spoiled, Hi should say. They spoils ’em in them cottages. Feeds ’em by ’and wiv a silver spoon, as ye might say. But Hi’ll see she gets over it. She’ll take her food kennel way in a few days, sir.”
“Well, keep an eye on her, Hynes!” the Duke shouted. “You keep a good eye on that dog!”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir,” Hynes answered dutifully.
“You’d better, too,” the Duke said.
Then he went muttering away. Somehow he was disappointed. He had wanted Priscilla to see the fine new purchase he had made. Instead, she had seen a scornful dog.
He heard her speaking.
“What did you say?”
She lifted her head.
“I said, why did the man sell you his dog?”
The Duke stood a moment, scratching behind his ear.
“Well, he knew I’d reached my limit, I suppose. Told him I wouldn’t give him a penny more, and I suppose he finally came to the conclusion that I meant it. That’s all.”
As they went together back toward the great old house, Hynes, the kennelman, turned to the dog in the run.
“Hi’ll see ye eat before Hi’m through,” he said. “Hi’ll see ye eat if Hi ’ave to push it down yer throat.”
The dog gave no motion in answer. She only blinked her eyes as if ignoring the man on the other side of the wire.
When he was gone, she lay unmoving in the sunshine, until the shadows became longer. Then, uneasily she rose. She lifted her head to scent the breeze. As if she had not read there what she desired, she whimpered lightly. She began patrolling the wire, going back and forth—back and forth.
She was a dog, and she could not think in terms of thoughts such as we may put in words. There was only in her mind and in her body a growing desire that was at first vague. But then the desire became plainer and plainer. The time sense in her drove at her brain and muscles.
Suddenly, Lassie knew what it was she wanted. Now she knew.
