The key to Betsy's heart

WHILE Betsy was busy at school, the education of Van did not come to a standstill. But, alas! his new lessons were not in the path of virtue. The little Prince roamed the white world over, all through the short winter days, as far as his legs would take him afield. He made many friends, with a royal disregard for social standing, as other princes have been known to do, and before spring came he had fallen into the hands of,—yes, of thieves,—for they stole from him his good name and his character.

In the big Hospital there were many attendants, who, having hours off duty, liked nothing better than to amuse themselves with young Van, whose beauty and bright, active ways had made him the darling of the whole Hill-Top. Now, besides those attendants, there were, around the building, many, many cats—cats of all descriptions; pet cats a few, and roving, wild cats a-many. There were whole families of cats that had come up as the flowers of the field, who toiled and spun not, and who held themselves accountable to no one, man or woman. They were a sad, bad lot, that stole and laid waste the cupboards of the Hospital. Nobody loved them and they loved nobody. They had no manners or morals, and were simply a band of robbers.

Now, on an evil day, some of the young men decided that it would be a good and useful thing to train Van as a slayer of cats as well as a catcher of rats. Spring was coming on, and a new lot of kittens had appeared on the scene, when, out behind the buildings, where Dr. Johns could not see them, a number of attendants smuggled Van, one day, and turned him loose where the cats were thickest.

They cheered him on and encouraged him in every way possible, and he, being by birthright a sporting gentleman, and the natural enemy of all small animals, required very little training to make him an expert “catter.” He needed no coaxing. He still remembered that old yellow Tommy that he had treed in his infancy. Betsy and Mrs. Johns had laughed at that. It would certainly be a delight to them if they could see him wipe a whole family of good-for-nothing kittens off the map. There was not even the memory of a reproof to restrain him.

Those were wild, wicked days that followed, and those lawless attendants applauded his misdeeds. First the kittens disappeared, then the middle-sized cats followed, though these were a swifter lot, and he had to stalk and catch them unawares. Then, for he was a man-grown now, he tried the big old cats. If he could get them by the backs of their necks it was all over with them; but they grew wary, and the biggest ones would fight back, with claws and teeth, leaving many a scar of battle on his brown head, that caused Betsy to wonder.

Still, it was rare sport to chase these veterans, and Van’s days abroad were one long series of crimes. Home he would go at night, and sleep the sleep of an angel in his basket in the kitchen. In the morning he would be off to kill, kill, kill.

He did not stop at the Hill-Top. There were neighbors who had cats. These he found, and many a happy family was made desolate. Soon, instead of being a well-behaved little dog, beloved by all, he became a hated ruffian. Many a time it was only the name on his collar that saved him from being shot. For he wore a collar now, with a brass plate, which announced to those who could read as they ran, that he was owned by Dr. Johns, of the big Hospital.

It was a long time before the family knew of his sins, and when it finally came out it nearly broke the heart of Betsy, and made Dr. Johns look very grave indeed, and wonder if he had not done right in objecting to his coming.

It was a warm April day, nearly a year since Van had come to the Hill-Top to live. He was taking his peaceful daily walk, with Betsy for company, and they wandered down into the flower garden, where the pansies were beginning to bloom in the cold-frames. Three pretty kittens were frisking on the gravel walk, and Betsy stopped to play with them.

Piff! Right under her nose Van caught one, and had shaken the life out of it before she knew what had happened. He laid it proudly at the feet of her whose approval he desired.

“Van! Van! What are you doing? You bad dog!”

Betsy’s voice had never sounded like that before. To his surprise she caught him by the collar, and before he could get at kitten number two, she had given him a sound whipping.

This was most unexpected. He had thought to see her in ecstasies of delight, as she was when he had killed that first mouse. Now, how was this? One person had taught him something, and another was punishing him for it. Van was quite bewildered. Tail down, he went home with his mistress, ashamed and heart-broken over the first severe punishment he had received at her hands.

However, it remained like this—he was grown up, and no longer a baby and a coddled house-pet; he was not to be ruled by any one in petticoats. Betsy might know rules for house manners, but what could she know of the outside world! He would abide by the teachings of men, as behooved the son of royalty. Betsy’s little whippings were not much, anyway!

So, although he went home in a very subdued way, with his head drooping and his bark silent, he was in no way minded to continue in obedience. The bad way was so much more to his liking, too. Do not men, and good men, go out with guns, and shoot and kill innocent birds and squirrels, for the mere sport of it? It is a gentleman’s sport—to kill. Pity that it should be so! So we cannot too severely blame a little dog for following the instincts that grown men indulge in and are never whipped for.

Everything seemed to be against Vanny-Boy’s being a good dog. Mary the cook, and Treesa, could not be bribed into punishing the winsome, fascinating sinner. There was no one to do it but Betsy, and she hated to worse than anybody. But she loved the little Prince too well to let him go on lightly in his wicked ways.

One evening, when it was just beginning to be cat-time—every one knows that this is at twilight, when the cats, who love darkness, shake themselves out of their day naps, and prowl about after mice and rats—Van escaped through the kitchen door, and was off on a marauding expedition.

It was a lovely night, with a rising moon, and a soft, still air that carried scents and sounds wonderfully; a night simply perfect for cats, ay, and for dogs, too, thought Vanny-Boy, as he scampered over the wide lawn toward the Hospital buildings. The birds in the nests were giving their last sleepy chirps and tucking their heads under their wings. Soon everything was still, save for a chorus of frogs that chirped and boomed the whole night through in the distant ponds.

Van sniffed the air.—Rat! He took the trail, but it ended at a barred cellar window.

Sniff! Sniff! Surely that was Cat! Van doubled back, and followed Kitty’s scent,—through the big gate, across the road and through the fence into the clover meadow beyond. Here it was very still. Overhead the policemen fireflies were lighting home the laggard bees from their day’s toil, and lending their lantern rays to the operatic performances of a cloud of young mosquitoes.

Under the daisies and clover-heads stole the black cat. There were rustlings and scurryings among the field mice, I can tell you. A meadow lark flew off and left her four white eggs until the enemy had safely passed. But, oh, Pussy, even as you were hunting your prey, there was one following of whom it were best to be always wary!

Sh! Sh! There went a little field-mouse right under Pussy’s nose. She jumped, she had him—almost! Just then a brown and white streak whizzed through the grasses, gave one leap over the clover-tops, and—no—he, too, missed. She was too quick for him; but, without intending to, he had saved the life of the field-mouse, who scuttled off in one direction as fast as Pussy in another.

There followed a sharp race. Pussy was big and strong, and had she had time to turn and show her claws, she might have fended for herself. But Van was almost upon her—there was nothing for it but flight. Through the clover, first the black, then the white flew past; under the fence, across the road, through the gate, over the Hospital lawn, back to where they had started. There, right ahead, stood a friendly maple tree; one spring—and Pussy was safe! Vanny-Boy stood barking at the foot, as he had barked at the yellow cat a year ago.

Pussy stopped on the first limb, turned around, breathed a few times, to see if she still could, and looked down at Van, a thing to be scorned and flouted. He could not climb trees—not he! Ha, ha! I am sure the cat must have laughed, just like that.

That surely was a disappointment to Van. He leaped vainly against the tree-trunk; he ran around it in circles; he barked and barked.

Dr. Johns in the house looked up at Mrs. Johns, who was reading aloud.

“Surely that is Van barking so loudly. I fear he will disturb the patients.”

“That’s his bark, sure,” said Betsy, dropping her work. “I’ll go out and fetch him.”

Now Betsy said that as if she were going out to bring in an ordinary, obedient little dog. It was easy to say.

She took down the whistle that she used to call him. It sounded clear and shrill across the lawn. There was no result. Van’s loud and insistent barking did not change its tone one whit.

“Here, Van! Here, Van! Come here, Vanny-Boy!”

More barking, and a little louder and fiercer.

“Van!”—this was very stern—“Come here, I say!”

More barking; then a sound of sniffling and rustling, as if Pussy had gone down one tree and scuttled up another.

Betsy sighed, put up the whistle and took down the whip, and started in the direction of the tumult. Under the tree she stopped and waved the whip, with menace in her eye, which it was too dark for Van to see, even if he had been looking at her.

Van flitted to the far side of the tree, and barked as vigorously as if she were not there. Betsy started around after him; Van took the other half of the circle; Betsy cut across to close in on him; Van leaped to one side, dodged the whip-lash, and darted to the base of the tree, as if he would make that cat come down before the fun was spoiled.

In vain. Pussy understood that Betsy was on her side, and stood her ground, or, rather, she stayed climbed, looking down in silent amusement on the interesting spectacle below.

Round and round the tree went Van, with Betsy after him, the whip almost swinging to him, he always just ahead, or doubling so quickly that she could not catch him.

“Wow, wow, wow!”

“Come here, I say!”

“Wow, wow, wow!”

Van was having the last word every time, for Betsy was almost breathless. The poor patients must have had a hard time of it trying to sleep that evening.

“I will not give up my cat!” barked Van.

“Come here this instant!” called Betsy.

“Not if I know it! you can’t catch me!” barked Van.

“I’ll get you yet, you young rascal!” panted Betsy.

“My! but this is the best fun ever!”

“Just you wait till I get you. Then we’ll see!”

“I can tire her out and get the cat, too,” thought Van, as he gave vent to a perfect chorus of mad barks.

“I’ll get him if it takes all night,” said Betsy, gritting her teeth. She could no longer run, so she sat with her back against the tree, prepared to spend the night there if necessary.

Not so wise was Van. He continued barking and circling and tearing the night into shivers, while his adversary rested and got her second wind.

Now Betsy was up and at him again. Van was tiring a bit; he looked around for help. He gave up hope of getting the cat.

Not far away on the grass by the kitchen door sat Mary, enjoying the sweet air, and, I suspect, enjoying also the row that was going on under the maple tree. Mary was his friend; Mary would protect him. To her he flew.

But Betsy’s ideas were different. She knew that something must be done and done quickly, or her little Prince would become a nuisance and a disgrace to his royal name. She had tired him out in his excitement, and now the whip did its work, while Van stood silently, taking his punishment like a man and a gentleman. Silently he crawled into his basket until the smarting was over, and his little heart beat less violently and he could think. He had sinned in haste; now there was leisure for repentance. His dear mistress had been angry with him, and with good cause. He had certainly given her a chase, and a wild one, and he deserved his punishment. Moreover, she had not come to say good-night to him as usual. Queer!

The door of Betsy’s room opened a crack; a little dog with sad eyes looked up into her face as she sat on her couch, braiding her hair; an appealing nose was laid on her knee.

“Van, are you sorry?”

That was not the voice of an angry mistress, only a grieved one. There was hope. He burrowed his muzzle in her hand as she stretched it toward him; he whined a little note of love and pleading, as a smile broke across her face; he jumped upon the couch and looked straight into her eyes, coaxing for the forgiveness that was now so near at hand. With apologetic little grunts he worked the muscles of his face, as if he were trying to speak in her own language, and tell her that he would try very hard to be good. Only, she must forgive him when the heart of the hunter in him beat too high for reasoning.

“A little patience, oh, Betsy, my mistress. I will try; oh, I will try to be a good dog.”

But it was hard to remember when the voices of his ancestors called to him. Once when the wayward little Prince had been more than usually exasperating, Dr. Johns undertook to chastise him. Solemnly and deliberately he went through with the disagreeable duty, Van, as always, crouching quietly and without a sound. He took it like a soldier. A cur might howl for mercy, might even lick the hand that hurt him, but not a prince of the blood. When the whipping was over he walked silently away, climbed into his basket, curled up, and began to lick the places that stung. There he thought it over, and later he bobbed up as serenely as if he had quite forgotten or forgiven the injury done him.

If Betsy thought that her uncle was going to help her in the matter of Van’s training, she was to be disappointed. The very next day, as she stood in the door of the honeysuckle porch, waiting for Dr. Johns to come home for lunch, she saw him on the walk, with Van capering about him.

What did that gray-haired back-slider do but sit down on the step, take Van’s bonny brown head in his two hands, look straight into his fearless eyes, and say,

“Vanny-Boy, I’ll never, never whip you again as long as I live, no matter how bad you are. I’d be ashamed to do it. I’m a great big man, and you are so little and so pretty!”

Betsy stole softly away that Dr. Johns might not know that she had overheard these promptings of his gentle heart. But she knew now that she had not one soul to help her; for Mrs. Johns had long ago washed her hands of any part in Van’s up-bringing, and spoiled him like the others. She also knew that if she ever succeeded in making Van as good as he was brave and fearless, she would have to win the fight single-handed. She said to herself, sadly,

“Aunt Kate has to teach me manners, because I belong to her now, and I’ve got to teach Van, because he belongs to me. I’m going to do my duty.”