Part 22 (1/2)

The young lady friend had wiped her eyes often, and I was very glad when they made her some hot ginger tea and packed her off to her room. They said she had a cold in her head, but I know better. It was Tom and his death that had gone to her head and made her eyes water. It was what made me cough and sneeze and wink, to keep from the womanish weakness of tears.

Good gracious! I shall have hysterics next, if I have got to hear such doleful things. I am ashamed of myself. I thought I had more dignity.

Pshaw! I was not crying. It is that horrid musk that I smell; it always makes my eyes water. I am glad my mistress never uses it, and I do wish, if people come here to be warmed and comforted and entertained, they would not wear perfume. I do despise it. I shall have to chew a lot of catmint and roll in it before I feel like myself again.

I know that when I went to Beverly I rode over that very river where Tom was buried. I am very glad I did not know it then, and I am very glad that some day I shall see all these dear people. Of course I know just how indignant some will be to read this. I think it very strange that there are so many who do not want any one to go to heaven but those they approve. They scorn the idea that G.o.d should save the creatures he has made, because they call them a lower order of beings.

I have said more than I ought to on this subject, for my mistress always says when any one begins upon it, ”We will not discuss it, if you please, for we shall not agree.” And I always like to please her and do as she says; and then, I do lose my temper and have such bad feelings that I fear I shall be counted with the bad ones, whom Dante says are shadows in the other world. And of all things I think a shadow is a ”little too thin.” I am glad my mistress cannot hear this, for she hates slang.

Some days ago a lady was here, and she started that endless subject of ”servants.” My mistress tried to turn the conversation, but it was of no use. The servant question, when one gets on it, is like a brook; it goes on forever. To be sure, I did hear a young man once say something that would stop it, and my mistress hushed him up at once; but not before I had heard it, and it sounded so forcible that I went under the bed and said it, and wondered if it would stop the women from talking about their servants. They did not say it often, as my mistress did not know I had heard it.

Always after the people who discussed their servants had gone, Miss Eleanor would say, ”Now I will read something to take away the disagreeable impression.”

It was usually d.i.c.kens, for he seems to have got at the very heart of things, and his poor are shown up with hearts, while the higher cla.s.ses are heartless oftentimes.

Of course this is only given you second-hand, but I comprehend it, else I should not repeat it.

I do dote on d.i.c.kens, and I think ”David Copperfield” is my special favorite. Aunt Betsey Trotwood seems like a real aunt to me. Dear little Dora! I was very wretched when she died, and I loved Jip. I know he would have played with me very nicely.

When Miss Eleanor read about his death, there was a lump in her throat, and Miss Milly's eyes were full of tears, and I thought it was time for me to go under the bed, not for any particular reason, only there are times when one likes to be alone.

While I am writing I would like, if possible, to correct any bad impression regarding cats and their habits. It has been said that cats will draw the breath of an infant and sometimes of older people while sleeping. I deny this, and will tell you a story which ill.u.s.trates the superst.i.tion, and was told by one of our friends.

This lady visited us one day, and while talking about me and cats in general, she said she had always thought cats were not to be trusted, and never allowed her children to play with one, for the very foolish beliefs of which I have spoken. ”But,” she said, ”I have changed my opinion, and now think a cat properly trained is a n.o.ble creature.” Then she told us this story:--

”You remember my cousin, of course, for I know you probably have visited at my uncle's. They were very fond of cats, always keeping two or three.

When my cousin was married, she took with her one of her old cat's kittens. She was quite well grown, and was called Dido. She was a great pet with my cousin's husband, and as it was his first experience of cats, he was delighted with her playfulness.

”They were fortunate in having servants who were kind to cats. Just after the first child was born one of the husband's relatives died, leaving him a large old country place--a farmhouse with a great many acres of land. He was very much pleased, for he said the country air would be good for baby and its mother, for she was very delicate since the birth of her beautiful boy.

”The house had not been occupied for some time, and was one of those old, rambling, picturesque places, a delight to lovers of the olden times. The furniture was substantial, but very severe in style.

”'You need not take the boy's ba.s.sinet,' said the father, laughing; 'for there was a cradle that looked as if it had come from Noah's Ark, and Shem, Ham, and j.a.phet, not to speak of all the two-by-twos, had been rocked in it.'

”'Oh,' said his wife, 'how lovely that will be! we can fill it with pillows, and baby will be delighted with it.'

”'Nonsense,' said her husband; 'don't go and build ”castles in the air”

out of that old cradle. It will do for Dido to sleep in; but on the whole, you had better take the ba.s.sinet and all the other folderols for Baby, else you will be homesick.'

”She decided, however, that she would take nothing with her, but enjoy all the old-fas.h.i.+oned surroundings.

”The place proved very satisfactory, and she found a nice large room leading out of hers for the baby's nursery.

”The large pointed-top mahogany cradle was duly polished and installed in the room, making a royal bed for his highness the baby. With its wealth of pillows and lace coverings it looked quite regal.

”The nurse girl was very devoted to Baby, always watching him while he slept. Dido had appropriated the baby ever since his birth, and would allow his little soft hand to take liberties with her, pulling her tail, when she would resent it in others. She spent much of her time in the house, watching the baby.

”About a week after they had settled comfortably at home they were called up from the piazza by the screams of the husband's sister, who was visiting them. All she could say was, 'That cat--that cat--has killed the baby!'