Читать книгу Lassie Come-Home - Eric Knight - Страница 9

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If Mrs. Carraclough thought that everything was settled, she was mistaken, for the next day Lassie was at the school gate, keeping her faithful tryst, waiting for Joe.

And again Joe brought her home. On his way, he planned to fight for his dog. To him the course was simple. He felt that when his parents saw the dog’s faithfulness, they would relent and let her stay with them again, and thus reward her. But he knew it would not be easy for him to persuade them.

Slowly he walked up the path with the dog and opened the door. Everything in the cottage was as it had been before—his mother getting the evening meal ready, his father brooding in front of the fire as he did for hours these days since there was no work.

“She’s—she’s come home again,” Joe said.

All his hopes fled at his mother’s first words. There was no surrender in them.

“I won’t have it. No, I won’t have it,” she cried. “Ye can’t bring her in—and it’s no use begging and plaguing me. She’s got to go right back! Right this minute!”

The words cascaded over Joe. In the strict bringing-up of his Yorkshire home, with its stern kindness, it was rare that he “answered back,” as the saying is, to his parents. But this time he felt he must try, must make them understand.

“But Mother, just a little while. Please, just a little while. Let me keep her just a little while!”

He felt that if he could only keep her there a short time, the hearts of his parents would soften. Perhaps Lassie felt that, too, for as Joe talked she walked in and went to her accustomed place on the hearth rug. As if she knew the talk was of her, she lay down, turning her eyes from one to another of the humans who usually spoke so quietly, but whose voices now were harsh.

“It’s no use, Joe. The longer ye keep her here, the harder it’s going to be to take her back. And go back she must!”

“But Mother—Father, look, please. She doesn’t look well. They don’t feed her right. Don’t you think ...”

Joe’s father got up and faced his son. The man’s face was blank and emotionless, but his voice was full of understanding.

“That won’t work this time, Joe,” he said, ponderously. “Ye see, lad, it’s no use. We maun take her back right after tea.”

“No! Ye’ll take her back this very minute,” Mrs. Carraclough cried. “If ye don’t, ye’ll have that Hynes round here again. And I won’t have him walking into my house as if he owned it. Now put on your cap and go this very minute.”

“She’ll only come back again, Mother. Don’t ye see, she’ll only come back again. She’s our dog ...”

Joe stopped as his mother sank down in a chair in a movement of weariness. She looked at her husband, and he nodded, as if to say Joe was right.

“She comes back for the lad, ye see,” the father said.

“I can’t help it, Sam. She’s got to go,” Mrs. Carraclough said slowly. “And if it’s the lad she comes back for, then ye must take him with ye. Let him go with ye, and he must put her in the kennels and tell her to stay. Then if he bid her rest there, happen she’d understand and be content, and not run away home any more.”

“Aye, there’s sense to that,” the man said, slowly. “Get thy cap, Joe, and come wi’ me.”

Miserably Joe got his cap, and the man made a soft whistling sound. Lassie rose obediently. Then the man, the boy, and the dog left the cottage. Behind him, Joe could hear his mother’s voice still going on, but full of weariness, as if she would soon cry from her tiredness.

“If she’d stay, then happen we could have a little peace and quiet in the home, though heaven knows there’s not much chance of that these days, things being what they are ...”

Joe heard her voice trail away as silently he followed his father and Lassie.

“Grandfather,” Priscilla said, “can animals hear things that we can’t?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Of course,” the Duke roared. “Take a dog, now. Hears five times as well as a human being. For instance, my silent dog whistle. It isn’t silent, really. Makes high frequency sounds, but we don’t hear them. No human can. Dog hears them, though, and comes running. That’s because ...”

Priscilla saw her grandfather start and then begin waving his blackthorn stick menacingly as he went down the path.

“Carraclough! What’re ye doing there with my dog?”

Priscilla saw down the path a great, tall, village man and beside him a sturdy boy, who stood with his hand resting lightly on the mane of a collie. She heard the dog growl softly, as if in protest at the menacing advance of her grandfather, and then—the low voice of the boy quieting the dog. She followed her grandfather toward the strangers.

Sam Carraclough, seeing her coming, lifted his cap and poked his son to do likewise. This was not in any sense a servile gesture, but because many of the rough village people prided themselves in being well brought-up and conducting themselves with politeness.

“It’s Lassie,” Carraclough said.

“Of course it’s Lassie,” the Duke boomed. “Any fool can see that. What’re ye doing with her?”

“She’s run away again, and I’m bringing her back to you.

“Again? Has she run away before?”

Sam Carraclough stood silent. Like most of the village people, his mind moved very slowly. From the Duke’s last words, he realized that Hynes had not told of her previous escape. And if he answered the Duke’s question, he felt that in some way he would be telling tales on Hynes. Even though he disliked Hynes, he could not tell on him, for, as he phrased it in his own honest mind, he “wouldn’t like to do a man out of his job.” Hynes might be discharged, and jobs were hard to get these days. Sam Carraclough knew that.

He solved his problem in a typical Yorkshire way. Stubbornly he repeated his last words.

“I’m bringing her back—that’s all.”

The Duke stared at him menacingly. Then he lifted his voice even louder.

“Hynes! Hynes! Why does that man always run away and hide every time I want him? Hynes!”

“Coming, sir—Coming,” came the nasal voice.

Soon Hynes came hustling from behind the shrubberies beside the kennels.

“Hynes, has this dog broken away before?”

Hynes squirmed uneasily.

“Well, sir, hit’s this way ...”

“Did she or didn’t she?”

“In a way, sir, she did—but Hi didn’t want to disturb Your Grace about ’er,” Hynes said, fingering his cap nervously. “But Hi’ll jolly well see she doesn’t get away again. Can’t think ’ow she did it. Hi wired hup all the places she dug underneath, and Hi’ll see ...”

“You’d better!” the Duke shouted. “Utter nincompoop! That’s what! I begin to think ye’re an utter nincompoop, Hynes! Pen her up. And if she breaks out again, I’ll—I’ll ...”

The Duke did not finish explaining what dire things he intended to do, but instead went stumping away in an evil temper without so much as a “thank you” to Sam Carraclough.

Priscilla somehow felt that, for she started to follow her grandfather but then halted. She turned and, standing quietly, watched the scene he had left. Hynes was stirring angrily.

“Hi’ll pen ’er hup,” he muttered. “And if she hever gets away again, Hi’ll ...”

He did not finish the sentence, for as he spoke he made as if to grasp Lassie’s mane. But he never reached the dog, for Sam Carraclough’s heavy, hobnailed boot trod on Hynes’s foot, pinning him to his position. The man spoke slowly.

“I brought my lad wi’ me to pen her up this time,” he said. “It’s him she runs home for, and so he’ll pen her up and bid her stay.”

Then the cumbrous Yorkshire voice lifted, as if Sam Carraclough had just noticed something.

“Eigh, now I’m sorry. I didn’t hardly notice I were standing on thy foot. Come along, Joe, lad. Unlatch the kennel for us, Hynes, and we’ll put her in.”

Priscilla, standing still beside the aged evergreens, saw the dog come through from the kennel to the run. As the boy came by the wire, she lifted her head and then walked to him. The collie pressed against the wire, and for a long moment the boy stood there, his fingers reaching through the mesh to touch the coolness of the dog’s nose. The man ended the silence.

“Come on, Joe, lad. Now get it over with. There’s no use stretching it out. Bid her stay—tell her we can’t have her coming home no more.”

Priscilla saw the boy by the kennels look up at his father and then glance around, as if there would be some help coming from somewhere.

But there was none. There was no help anywhere for Joe, and he swallowed and started to speak, his words coming slowly, in a low tone, but getting faster and faster as he spoke.

“Stay here and bide happy, Lassie,” he began, his voice hardly audible. “And—and don’t come home no more. Don’t run away no more. Don’t come to school for me no more. Stay here and let us be—because—ye don’t belong to us no more and we don’t want to see thee—ever, again. Because tha’s a bad dog—and we don’t love thee no more, and we don’t want to see thee. So don’t plague us and come running home—and stay here forever and leave us be. And—and don’t never come home again!”

The dog, as if it understood, walked to the far corner of the kennel and lay down. The boy turned savagely and started away. And because it was hard for him to see where he was going, he stumbled. But his father, who was walking beside him with his head very high and his gaze straight ahead, caught him by the shoulder and shook him and said roughly:

“Look where tha’s going!”

Joe trotted beside his father, who walked quickly. He was thinking that he would never be able to understand why grownups were so hard-hearted just when you needed them most.

He ran beside his father, thinking that, and not understanding that the man wanted to get away from the sound that followed them—the sound of a collie, barking bravely, calling to her master not to desert her. Joe did not understand that.

And there was another who found many things hard to understand. It was Priscilla, who came closer to the run where the collie now stood, her eyes fixed unmovingly to the spot where she had last seen her master turn the corner down the path, her head lifting with the signal bark.

Priscilla watched the dog until Hynes came from the front of the kennels. She called to him.

“Hynes!”

“Yes, Miss Priscilla?”

“Why does the dog run home to them? Isn’t she happy here?”

“Why, bless yer ’eart, Miss Priscilla, of course she’s ’appy—a fine kennel like she’s got. She just runs ’ome because they’ve trained ’er to do it. That’s the way they do—steal ’em back and sell ’em to somebody else before ye could say Bob’s yer uncle.”

Priscilla wrinkled her nose in thought.

“But if they wanted to steal her back, why did they return her themselves?”

“Now just ye don’t worry yer pretty ’ead about it,” Hynes said. “Hit’s just ye can’t trust none o’ them down in that village. They’re always hup to tricks, they are—but we’re too smart for ’em.”

Priscilla thought a while.

“But if the boy wanted his dog back, why did they ever sell her in the first place? If she was my dog, I wouldn’t sell her.”

“Of course ye wouldn’t, Miss Priscilla.”

“Then why did they?”

“Why did they? Because yer grandfather paid ’em a bloomin’ good price for ’er, ’e did. That’s why. A bloomin’ good price. ’E’s too easy on ’em, that’s what. If Hi ’ad my way—Hi’d make ’em step round a bit. That Hi would, indeed!”

Satisfied with his solution, Hynes turned to the dog, which still stood, barking its signal.

“Quiet, now. Gwan—down wiv yer! In yer kennel and lie down. Gwan!”

As the dog made no sign of having heard him, Hynes strode nearer and lifted his hand in a striking gesture.

Slowly Lassie turned, and from her chest sounded a bass rumbling, and the lips crept upward so that the great teeth shone whitely. Her ears drew back, and the mane on her neck rose slowly. The rumbling growl sounded louder.

Hynes halted, and he rolled his tongue between his gaping front teeth.

“Oh, so ye’d get nawsty, would yer?” he said.

Then Priscilla walked before him.

“Look out, Miss Priscilla. Hi wouldn’t go too near if Hi were you. She’d just as leaf take a bite out o’ yer as look at yer, if Hi knows dogs. Which Hi do! But Hi’ll ’ave the fine lady stepping around afore Hi’m through with ’er, that Hi will. So you keep away from ’er, Miss.”

And Hynes turned away. For a long time Priscilla stood. Then slowly she walked to the wiring. She put her fingers through so that they were close to Lassie’s head.

“Come here, then, girl,” she said, softly. “Come to me. Come on! I wouldn’t hurt you. Come on!”

The dog’s growling subsided, and she sank to the ground. For one second her great brown eyes met the blue ones of the girl. Then the dog ignored her, and with a sort of suffering aristocratic majesty, lay in the pen. Her eyes did not blink, and her head did not turn. She lay there, staring steadily at the spot where she had last seen Sam Carraclough and his son.