CHAPTER I

I shall never forget my first sight of Isobel Rivers—a somewhat foolish
remark, in view of the fact that I have never forgotten any glimpse I
have ever had of her. I don’t think I have even forgotten any word that
she has ever said to me. Nay, more, I do not believe I have forgotten
any word that I have ever said to her.

It was, as was most fitting, one of those truly glorious English spring
mornings when one is consciously glad to be alive, and unconsciously
aware that God’s in His Heaven and all’s well with the world.

I was on a visit to the home of my maternal grandmother at Brandon Regis
and had that morning walked out from the big old house which was half
farm and half manor, where my yeoman ancestors had lived since Domesday
Book, or before.

I suppose it was the utter glory of that lovely morning, and not a
premonition that this was to be an epochal day in my life, that made me
feel so joyously exalted.

I had walked a mile or so, in the direction of Brandon Abbas, and was
seated on a gate that opened into one of those neat and tidy English
fields that always look to me as though they were tended rather by
parlour-maids than by agricultural labourers. I was whistling merrily,
and probably quite tunelessly, when a dog-cart, its small body perched
high on big spidery wheels, came smartly round a bend in the high-hedged
narrow lane to which my face was turned.

On the front seat were two boys, extraordinarily alike, as I saw when
the horse was brought to an extremely sudden stand-still at my gate.
Back to back with these obvious twins, sat a boy and a girl, the boy an
unmistakable younger brother of the twins, and the girl younger still.

They were an astoundingly handsome quartette, and the girl’s face was
the loveliest I had ever seen.

It is still the loveliest I have ever seen.

I will not attempt to describe her, as it is foolish to attempt the
impossible. I can only say that the face was typically Anglo-Saxon in
its fair loveliness of pale golden hair, large, long-lashed eyes of
corn-flower blue, perfect complexion and tender mouth, faultless and
sweet.

The boy who was driving the restless and spirited horse, addressed me in
a form of words, archaic and unusual.

“Prythee, gentle stranger, seated pensive on thy gate, and making day
hideous with shrill cacophony….”

“Doesn’t look coffiny to me,” interrupted his twin.

“Nor too blooming gentle,” said the boy behind him.

“And I am _sure_ he was making day delightful and wasn’t a bit s’rill,
and he isn’t a stranger now we’ve talked to him,” said the girl.

“Good-morning Madam, and gentlemen,” said I, stepping down and raising
my cap to the lovely little maiden who had spoken in my defence.

“Have it your own way, pups,” cried the first speaker, as the three boys
gravely and gracefully returned my salute. “He’s not a stranger within
our gate, nor on it, now; he is making day beautiful with uninstrumental
and unearthly music….”

“Do you mean an unearthly row?” asked his twin.

“No, vulgarian; I meant heavenly music. Music such as ne’er was heard on
earth before—let’s hope!… But what’s all this got to do with the dog?
The dog may be dying while we trifle thus—dying of a broken heart.”

“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things, Beau,” begged the little girl.

“Nothing dreadful about that,” replied the boy called Beau, manfully
checking the horse’s obvious desire to bolt. “Compliment to the dog.
D’you mean to suggest that the callous brute is _not_ by now dying of a
broken heart?”

“Spare a father’s feelings,” requested his twin, and wiped away a tear.
“It’s _my_ dog…. And what we want to know, Sir, if you could be quiet
for one second, is—er—have you seen a dog?”

“Often,” I replied, trying to enter into the light inconsequent spirit
of this joyous charming band.

“Where?” they inquired simultaneously.

“Oh, Wyoming, Texas, Oregon, Nevada….”

“Nirvana?” inquired the owner of the dog. “Then dogs do go there. Good.”

“California,” I continued. “Boston, New York, Paris, London, Brandon
Regis….”

“He’s getting ‘warm,’ ” said Beau.

“Brandon Abbas?” prompted his twin.

“I’m not certain,” I replied. “I rather think I did, though….” And
here the little girl broke in.

“Oh, do stop talking nonsense, Beau and Digby and John….”

“Not talking at all,” said John, through whose arm the girl’s hand was
tucked.

“Well _do_, then, and say something sensible,” was the feminine reply,
and she turned to me.

“We’ve lost our dog, and he can’t have been in _all_ those funny places
you said. Have you seen her here? Will you help me find her—for I do
love him so?”

“Why, _of course_ I will,” I said, and added impulsively, “I’d do
anything you asked me. _I’ll_ find him if he or she is alive.”

And the twins on the front seat, promptly assisted by John, thereupon
simultaneously chanted what appeared to be a family _cliché_.

“_Oh—isn’t—he—a—nice—boy….
He—must—come—and—play—with—us…. Won’t—Auntie—be—pleased…._”

“What’s the dog like?” I inquired of the one whom they called Digby.
“What breed, if any? And what sex?” as there seemed to be a variety of
opinions on this point.

“Sex? Oh—er—she’s a bitchelor—feminine of bachelor, you know,”
replied Digby…. “As to what she’s _like_,” he continued, “that’s a
difficult question to answer. She’s rather like…. No, she isn’t….
She isn’t a bit like a giraffe, really…. No…. She’s rather like—a
dog. Yes…. She is…. And she is one of these new Andorran
Oyster-Hounds….”

“Oh, good! That’s helpful,” I said appreciatively, while four pairs of
bright young eyes summed me up. I was being weighed, and most earnestly
I hoped I should not be found wanting.

“An idea,” I exclaimed. “What name does she answer to?”

“She never answered _me_,” replied Digby, and turning to his twin
inquired, “Did she ever back-answer you, Beau?”

“Never a cheep out of her,” was the reply. “Not a word. Sulky beggar.”

“Not at all,” contradicted John, “merely respectful…. Reserved,
taciturn chap…. Strong silent dog.”

“Well, she always answers _me_, anyhow,” asserted the little girl
warmly. “She always _smiles_…. He has a most lovely smile,” she added,
turning to me.

“Now we’re getting on,” I declared. “I’m to search for a dog that is
very like a dog and answers with a smile…. Now what is the likeliest
way to win her smile? What shall I call her when I see her?”

“Call her home,” said Digby.

“I don’t know _what_ you’ll call her when you see her,” said Beau. “Have
you a kind nature and a gentle tongue?… You must tell us later what
you _did_ call her when you saw her…. Especially if you called her it
in American.”

“Darned gosh-dinged gol-durned dod-gasted smell-hound?” suggested Digby.

“I’ve never heard the expressions,” I replied, “but I’ll try to remember
them if you think them appropriate…. But to get back to the dog.”

“It’s what we want to do,” replied Digby, “or to get her back to us. You
don’t know the state I’m in…. Am I out in a rash?”

“No. In a dog-cart,” said Beau, “and you won’t be in that long, when we
start playing chariots…. Well, good-bye, old chap. Thanks awfully. I
hope you haven’t bored us—I mean we haven’t….”

“Stop, stop, Beau,” cried the little girl, turning round and thumping
the boy’s broad back. “He’s going to be a search-party and we haven’t
told him what he wants to know, yet…. I think he’s most awfully kind
and nice…. And we ought to help him to …”

“Oh, _yes_, Beau,” said Digby in a tone of deep reproach, “when he’s in
such trouble about a dog…. Of course we must help him. Now let’s see,”
he continued. “It’s got four canine teeth.”

“I should think all a dog’s teeth are canine,” observed John judicially.

“And five toes on his fore-feet.”

“That makes twenty,” remarked Beau.

“And four on each hind one…. He wags his tail from left to right; not
right to left…. You get the idea, don’t you? Like a pendulum. Or an
Aberdonian his head, when asked to subscribe.”

“But hasn’t she a _name_?” I interrupted.

“A _name_?” replied Digby. “Now that’s an idea. That’s really helpful.
Oh, yes, I know she’s got a name because I was at the christening—but
I’ve clean forgotten most of it…. What’s her name, Beau?”

“Well—I always call him Jasper Jocelyn Jelkes, but I think of her as
Mrs. Denbigh-Hobbes of The Acacias, Lower Puffleworth.”

“Oh, do stop rotting,” begged John, and turning to me assured me that
the dog’s name was Simply-Jones, though generally addressed as Mr.
Featherstonehaugh—whereat the little girl was moved to climb down on to
the step at the back of the cart, and jump to the ground. Coming round
to where I stood, she seized my arm and proceeded to lead me down the
lane.

“Come away from those sillies, American Boy,” she said, “and I’ll just
tell you all about it, and you _will_ find her for me, won’t you? She is
Digby’s dog, but it’s me she loves, and I know she’s grieving and
sorrowing like anything, for she has such a nice loving nature and a
good heart. Her name is Joss and she’s middle-sized and middle-aged and
sort of middleish altogether—not exactly a spaniel nor a terrier nor a
hound, but just a dog, and if you call ‘_Joss, Joss, Joss, Joss,
Jossie!_’ in a kind sweet voice, rather high, she’ll run to you and
smile like anything. You’ll know her by her smile. You _will_ find her,
won’t you? Our home’s at Brandon Abbas—Auntie is Lady Brandon.”

“If she’s alive on this earth, I’ll find her,” I said.

“Isobel! _Hi!_ Isobel!! _Isobel!!!_ Come on, if you want to be
Boadicea,” came borne on the breezes, and with a “_Thank_ you, nice
American Boy,” and a smile that went straight to my heart—and also to
my head—Isobel turned and scampered back.

Later, while searching the world for Joss, I had another glimpse of this
party.

The dog-cart driven at a reckless gallop across a great lawn-like field,
contained a boy and a girl, both wearing fencing-masks, the girl, armed
with a bow and arrow, returning the fire of two presumed Roman soldiers
who, with javelin and arrow, assailed the chariot, skilfully driven and
controlled by a charioteer.

I was relieved to observe that the horse was apparently accustomed to
these martial exercises, and that the chariot came round in a graceful
curve before reaching the ditch-and-hedge at the end of the field.

§2

Being a strictly truthful person, I cannot say that I found Jasper
Jocelyn Jelkes, _alias_ Joss, for it was really she who found me. What
her business may have been, I do not know, but she was visiting at High
Gables, my grandmother’s house, when I returned for lunch.

As I emerged from the shadows of the avenue, I beheld a very nondescript
dog sunning herself on the lowest of the white steps of the porch, and
smiling, most positively smiling, with extreme fatuity and foolishness,
at my Grandmother’s tiny Pekinese, a microscopic by-product of the
dog-industry, which found no favour in my sight. Lifting up my voice to
the level of the hope that rose in my heart, I invoked the smiling
caller, in the very tones and accent in which I had been instructed, and
in the most mellifluous and wooing way at my command. The excellent
Joss, for such, beyond peradventure of a doubt, her conduct proved her
to be, lolloped straightway to my feet and sitting on end, smiled and
smiled and was not a villain, I felt sure.

“Joss!” I cried, patting that smiling head. “_Dulce ridentem Lalagem
amabo_; grinning idiot; Minnehaha, Laughing Water; I’m _very_ pleased to
meet you…. You shall lead me, gentle Jossie, like a blind man’s dog,
straight to Brandon Abbas, to the house of Aunty, to those delightful
boys and to—Isobel. Are you a bit of a card, Jossie? For my
visiting-card you shall be….”

Oh, to be seventeen again! Seventeen, on a most glorious English spring
day, the day on which you have first encountered the very loveliest
thing in all the world—that is to remain, for ever, the very loveliest
thing in all your world.