After this letter had been dropped into the pillar-box just in front of
the house, Ruth began to look out still more eagerly for the kitchen
cat, but days passed and she caught no glimpse of it anywhere.
It was disappointing, and troublesome too, because she had to carry the
Bath bun about with her so long. Not only was it getting hard and dry,
but it was such an awkward thing for her pocket that she had torn her
frock in the effort to force it in.
"You might a' been carrying brick-bats about with you, Miss Ruth," said
Nurse, "by the way you've slit your pocket open."
This went on till Ruth began to despair. "I'll try it one more
evening," she said to herself, "and if it doesn't come then I shall give
it up."
Once more, therefore, when she was ready to go downstairs, she took the
bun out of the dolls' house, where she kept it wrapped up in tissue
paper, and squeezed it into her pocket. Rather hopelessly, but still
keeping a careful look-out, she proceeded slowly on her way, when
behold, just as she reached the top of the last flight, a little
cringing grey figure crossed the hall below.
"It's come!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. "It's come at last!"
But though it had come, it seemed now the cat's greatest desire to go,
for it was hurrying towards the kitchen stairs.
"Puss! Puss!" called out Ruth in an entreating voice as she hastily ran
down. "Stop a minute! _Pretty_ puss!"
Startled at the noise and the patter of the quick little feet, the cat
paused in its flight and turned its scared yellow-green eyes upon Ruth.
She had now reached the bottom step, where she stood struggling to get
the Bath bun out of her small pocket, her face pink with the effort and
anxiety lest the cat should go before she succeeded.
"_Pretty_ puss!" she repeated as she tugged at the parcel. "Don't go
away."
One more desperate wrench, which gashed open the corner of the pocket,
and the bun was out. The cat looked on with one paw raised, ready to
fly at the first sign of danger, as with trembling fingers Ruth managed
to break a piece off the horny surface. She held it out. The cat came
nearer, sniffed at it suspiciously, and then to her great joy took the
morsel, crouched down, and munched it up. "How good it must taste," she
thought, "after the mice and rats."
By degrees it was induced to make further advances, and before long to
come on to the step where Ruth sat, and make a hearty meal of the bun
which she crumbled up for it.
"I'm afraid it's dry," she said; "but I couldn't bring any milk, you
know, and you must get some water afterwards."
The cat seemed to understand, and replied by pushing its head against
her, and purred loudly. How thin it was! Ruth wondered as she looked
gravely at it whether it would soon be fatter if she fed it every day.
She became so interested in talking to it, and watching its behaviour,
that she nearly forgot she had to go into the dining-room, and jumped up
with a start.
"Good-night," she said. "If you'll come again I'll bring you something
else another day." She looked back as she turned the handle of the
heavy door. The cat was sitting primly upright on the step washing its
face after its meal. "I expect it doesn't feel so hungry now," thought
Ruth as she went into the room.
The acquaintance thus fairly begun was soon followed by other meetings,
and the cat was often in the hall when Ruth came downstairs, though it
did not appear every evening. The uncertainty of this was most
exciting, and "Will it be there to-night?" was her frequent thought
during the day. As time went on, and they grew to know each other
better, she began to find the kitchen cat a far superior companion to
either her dolls or the man in the picture. True, it could not answer
her any more than they did--in words, but it had a language of its own
which she understood perfectly. She knew when it was pleased, and when
it said "Thank you" for some delicacy she brought for it; its yellow
eyes beamed with sympathy and interest when she described the delights
of that beautiful life it would enjoy in the nursery; and when she
pitied it for the darkness of its present dwelling below, she knew it
understood by the way it rubbed against her and arched up its back.
There were many more pleasures in each day now that she had made this
acquaintance. Shopping became interesting, because she could look
forward to the cat's surprise and enjoyment when the parcel was opened
in the evening; everything that happened was treasured up to tell it
when they met, or, if it was not there, to write to it on the pink
note-paper; the very smartest sash belonging to her best doll was taken
to adorn the cat's thin neck; and the secrecy which surrounded all this
made it doubly delightful. Ruth had never been a greedy child, and if
Nurse Smith wondered sometimes that she now spent all her money on
cakes, she concluded that they must be for a dolls' feast, and troubled
herself no further. Miss Ruth was always so fond of "making believe."
So things went on very quietly and comfortably, and though Ruth could
not discover that the kitchen cat got any fatter, it had certainly
improved in some ways since her attentions. Its face had lost its
scared look, and it no longer crept about as close to the ground as
possible, but walked with an assured tread and its tail held high. It
could never be a pretty cat to the general eye, but when it came
trotting noiselessly to meet Ruth, uttering its short mew of welcome,
she thought it beautiful, and would not have changed it for the
sleekest, handsomest cat in the kingdom.
But it was the kitchen cat still. All this did not bring it one step
nearer to the nursery. It must still live, Ruth often thought with
sorrow, amongst the rats and mice and beetles. Nothing could ever
happen which would induce Nurse Smith to allow it to come upstairs. And
yet something did happen which brought this very thing to pass in a
strange way which would never have entered her mind.
The spring came on with a bright sun and cold sharp winds, and one day
Ruth came in from her walk feeling shivery and tired. She could not eat
her dinner, and her head had a dull ache in it, and she thought she
would like to go to bed. She did not feel ill, she said, but she was
first very hot and then very cold. Nurse Smith sent for the doctor; and
he came and looked kindly at her, and felt her pulse and said she must
stay in bed and he would send some medicine. And she went to sleep, and
had funny dreams in which she plainly saw the kitchen cat dressed in
Aunt Clarkson's bonnet and cloak. It stood by her bed and talked in
Aunt Clarkson's voice, and she saw its grey fur paws under the folds of
the cloak. She wished it would go away, and wondered how she could have
been so fond of it. When Nurse came to give her something she said
feebly:
"Send the cat away."
"Bless you, my dear, there's no cat here," she answered. "There's
nobody been here but me and Mrs Clarkson."
At last there came a day when she woke up from a long sleep and found
that the pain in her head was gone, and that the things in the room
which had been taking all manner of queer shapes looked all right again.
"And how do you feel, Miss Ruth, my dear?" asked Nurse, who sat sewing
by the bedside.
"I'm quite well, thank you," said Ruth. "Why am I in bed in the middle
of the day?"
"Well, you haven't been just quite well, you know," said Nurse.
"Haven't I?" said Ruth. She considered this for some time, and when
Nurse came to her with some beef-tea in her hand, she asked:
"Have I been in bed more than a day?"
"You've been in bed a week," said Nurse. "But you'll get along finely
now, and be up and about again in no time."
Ruth drank her beef-tea and thought it over. Suddenly she dropped her
spoon into the cup. The kitchen cat! How it must have missed her if
she had been in bed a week. Unable to bear the idea in silence, she sat
up in bed with a flushed face and asked eagerly:
"Have you seen the cat?"
Nurse instantly rose with a concerned expression, and patted her
soothingly on the shoulder.
"There now, my dear, we won't have any more fancies about cats and such.
You drink your beef-tea up and I'll tell you something pretty."
Ruth took up her spoon again. It was of no use to talk to Nurse about
it, but it was dreadful to think how disappointed the cat must have been
evening after evening. Meanwhile Nurse went on in a coaxing tone:
"If so be as you make haste and get well, you're to go alonger me and
stay with your Aunt Clarkson in the country. There now!"
Ruth received the news calmly. It did not seem a very pleasant
prospect, or even a very real one to her.
"There'll be little boys and girls to play with," pursued Nurse, trying
to heighten the picture; "and flowers--and birds and such--and medders,
and a garding, and all manner."
But nothing could rouse Ruth to more than a very languid interest in
these delights. Her thoughts were all with her little friend
downstairs; and she felt certain that it had often been hungry, and no
doubt thought very badly of her for her neglect. If she could only see
it and explain that it had not been her fault!
The next day Aunt Clarkson herself came. She always had a great deal on
her mind when she came up to town, and liked to get through her shopping
in time to go back in the afternoon, so she could never stay long with
Ruth. She came bustling in, looking very strong, and speaking in a loud
cheerful voice, and all the while she was there she gave quick glances
round her at everything in the room. Ruth was well enough to be up, and
was sitting in a big chair by the nursery fire, with picture-books and
toys near; but she was not looking at them. Her eyes were fixed
thoughtfully on the fire, and her mind was full of the kitchen cat. She
had tried to write to it, but the words would not come, and her fingers
trembled so much that she could not hold the pencil straight. The
vexation and disappointment of this had made her head ache, and
altogether she presented rather a mournful little figure.
"Well, Nurse, and how are we going on?" said Aunt Clarkson, sitting down
in the chair Nurse placed for her. Remembering her dream, Ruth could
not help giving a glance at Aunt Clarkson's hands. They were fat, round
hands, and she kept them doubled up, so that they really looked rather
like a cat's paws.
"Well, ma'am," replied Nurse, "Miss Ruth's better; but she's not, so to
say, as cheerful as I could wish. Still a few _fancies_, ma'am," she
added in an undertone which Ruth heard perfectly.
"Fancies, eh?" repeated Aunt Clarkson in her most cheerful voice. "Oh,
we shall get rid of them at Summerford. You'll have real things to play
with there, Ruth, you know. Lucy, and Cissie, and Bobbie will be better
than fancies, won't they?"
Ruth gave a faint little nod. She did not know what her aunt meant by
"fancies." The cat was quite as real as Lucy, or Cissie, or Bobbie.
Should she ask her about it, or did she hate cats like Nurse Smith? She
gazed wistfully at Mrs Clarkson's face, who had now drawn a list from
her pocket, and was running through the details half aloud with an
absorbed frown.
"I shall wait and see the doctor, Nurse," she said presently; "and if he
comes soon I shall _just_ get through my business, and catch the three
o'clock express."
No, it would be of no use, Ruth concluded, as she let her head fall
languidly back against the pillow--Aunt Clarkson was far too busy to
think about the cat.
Fortunately for her business, the doctor did not keep her waiting long.
Ruth was better, he said, and all she wanted now was cheering up a
little--she looked dull and moped. "If she could have a little friend,
now, to see her, or a cheerful companion," glancing at Nurse Smith, "it
would have a good effect."
He withdrew with Mrs Clarkson to the door, and they continued the
conversation in low tones, so that only scraps of it reached Ruth:
"--Excitable--fanciful--too much alone--children of her own age--"
Aunt Clarkson's last remark came loud and clear:
"We shall cure that at Summerford, Dr Short. We're not dull people
there, and we've no time for fancies."
She smiled, the doctor smiled, they shook hands and both soon went away.
Ruth leant her head on her hand. Was there no one who would understand
how much she wanted to see the kitchen cat? Would they all talk about
fancies? What were Lucy and Cissie and Bobbie to her?--strangers, and
the cat was a friend. She would rather stroke its rough head, and
listen to its purring song, than have them all to play with. It was so
sad to think how it must have missed her, how much she wanted to see it,
and how badly her head ached, that she felt obliged to shed a few tears.
Nurse discovered this with much concern.
"And there was master coming up to see you to-night and all, Miss Ruth.
It'll never do for him to find you crying, you know. I think you'd
better go to bed."
Ruth looked up with a sudden gleam of hope, and checked her tears.
"When is he coming?" she asked. "I want to see him."
"Well, I s'pose directly he comes home--about your tea-time. But if I
let you sit up we mustn't have no more tears, you know, else he'll think
you ain't getting well."
Ruth sank quietly back among her shawls in the big chair. An idea had
darted suddenly into her mind which comforted her very much, and she was
too busy with it to cry any more. She would ask her father! True, it
was hardly likely that he would have any thoughts to spare for such a
small thing as the kitchen cat; but still there was just a faint chance
that he would understand better than Nurse and Aunt Clarkson. So she
waited with patience, listening anxiously for his knock and the slam of
the hall door, and at last, just as Nurse was getting the tea ready, it
came. Her heart beat fast. Soon there was a hurried step on the
stairs, and her father entered the room. Ruth studied his face
earnestly. Was he tired? Was he worried? Would he stay long enough to
hear the important question?
He kissed her and sat down near her.
"How is Miss Ruth to-day?" he said rather wearily to Nurse.
Standing stiffly erect behind Ruth's chair, Nurse Smith repeated all
that the doctor and Mrs Clarkson had said.
"And I think myself, sir," she added, "that Miss Ruth will be all the
better of a cheerful change. She worrits herself with fancies."
Ruth looked earnestly up at her father's face, but said nothing.
"Worries herself?" repeated Mr Lorimer, with a puzzled frown. "What
can she have to worry about? Is there anything you want, my dear?" he
said, taking hold of Ruth's little hot hand and bending over her.
The moment had come. Ruth gathered all her courage, sat upright, and
fixing an entreating gaze upon him said:
"I want to see my best friend."
"Your best friend, eh?" he answered, smiling as if it were a very slight
affair. "One of your little cousins, I suppose? Well, you're going to
Summerford, you know, and then you'll see them all. I forget their
names. Tommie, Mary, Carry, which is it?"
Ruth gave a hopeless little sigh. She was so tired of these cousins.
"It's none of them," she said shaking her head. "I don't want any of
them."
"Who is it, then?"
"It's the kitchen cat."
Mr Lorimer started back with surprise at the unexpected words.
"The kitchen cat!" he repeated, looking distractedly at Nurse. "Her
best friend! What does the child mean?"
"Miss Ruth has fancies, sir," she began with a superior smile. But she
did not get far, for at that word Ruth started to her feet in
desperation.
"It isn't a fancy!" she cried; "it's a _real_ cat. I know it very well
and it knows me. And I _do_ want to see it so. _Please_ let it come."
The last words broke off in a sob.
Mr Lorimer lifted her gently on to his knee.
"Where is this cat?" he said, turning to Nurse with such a frown that
Ruth thought he must be angry. "Why hasn't Miss Ruth had it before if
she wanted it?"
"Well, I believe there _is_ a cat somewhere below, sir," she replied in
an injured tone; "but I'd no idea, I'm sure, that Miss Ruth was
worritting after it. To the best of my knowledge she's only seen it
once. She's so fond of making believe that it's hard to tell when she
_is_ in earnest. I thought it was a kind of a fancy she got in her head
when she was ill."
"Fetch it here at once, if you please."
Nurse hesitated.
"It's hardly a fit pet for Miss Ruth, sir."
"At once, if you please," repeated Mr Lorimer. And Nurse went.
Ruth listened to this with her breath held, almost frightened at her own
success. Not only was the kitchen cat to be admitted, but it was to be
brought by the very hands of Nurse herself. It was wonderful--almost
too wonderful to be true.
And now it seemed that her father wished to know how the kitchen cat had
become her best friend. He was very much interested in it, and she
thought his face looked quite different while he listened to her to what
it looked when he was reading his papers downstairs. Finding that he
asked sensible questions, and did not once say anything about "fancies",
she was encouraged to tell him more and more, and at last leant her head
on his shoulder and closed her eyes. It would be all right now. She
had found someone at last who understood.
The entrance of the kitchen cat shortly afterwards was neither dignified
nor comfortable, for it appeared dangling at the end of Nurse's
outstretched arm, held by the neck as far as possible from her own
person. When it was first put down it was terrified at its new
surroundings, and it was a little painful to find that it wanted to rush
downstairs again at once, in spite of Ruth's fondest caresses. It was
Mr Lorimer who came to her help, and succeeded at last in soothing its
fears and coaxing it to drink some milk, after which it settled down
placidly with her in the big chair and began its usual song of
contentment. She examined it carefully with a grave face, and then
looked apologetically at her father.
"It doesn't look its _best_" she said. "Its paws are white _really_,
but I think it's been in the coal-hole."
This seemed very likely, for not only its paws but the smart ribbon Ruth
had tied round its neck was grimy and black.
"It's not _exactually_ pretty," she continued, "but it's a _very_ nice
cat. You can't think how well it knows me--generally."
Mr Lorimer studied the long lean form of the cat curiously through his
eye-glass.
"You wouldn't like a white Persian kitten better for a pet--or a nice
little dog, now?" he asked doubtfully.
"Oh, _please_ not," said Ruth with a shocked expression on her face. "I
shouldn't love it half so well, and I'm sure the kitchen cat wouldn't
like it."
That was a wonderful evening. Everything seemed as suddenly changed as
if a fairy had touched them with her wand. Not only was the kitchen cat
actually there in the nursery, drinking milk and eating toast, but there
was a still stranger alteration. This father was quite different to the
one she had known in the dining-room downstairs, who was always reading
and had no time to talk. His very face had altered, for instead of
looking grave and faraway it was full of smiles and interest. And how
well he understood about the kitchen cat! When her bed-time came he
seemed quite sorry to go away, and his last words were:
"Remember, Nurse, Miss Ruth is to have the cat here whenever she likes
and as long as she likes."
It was all so strange that Ruth woke up the next morning with a feeling
that she had had a pleasant dream. The kitchen cat and the new father
would both vanish with daylight; they were "fancies", as Nurse called
them, and not real things at all. But as the days passed and she grew
strong enough to go downstairs as usual, it was delightful to find that
this was not the case. The new father was there still. The cat was
allowed to make a third in the party, and soon learned to take its place
with dignity and composure. But though thus honoured, it no longer
received all Ruth's confidences. She had found a better friend. Her
difficulties, her questions, her news were all saved up for the evening
to tell her father. It was the best bit in the whole day.
On one of these occasions they were all three sitting happily together,
and Ruth had just put a new brass collar which her father had bought
round the cat's neck.
"I don't want to go to Summerford," she said suddenly. "I'd much rather
stay here with you."
"And the cat," added Mr Lorimer as he kissed her. "Well, you must come
back soon and take care of us both, you know."
"You'll be kind to it when I'm gone, won't you?" said Ruth. "Because,
you know, I don't think the servants _understand_ cats. They're rather
sharp to it."
"It shall have dinner with me every night," said Mr Lorimer.
In this way the kitchen cat was raised from a lowly station to great
honour, and its life henceforth was one of peace and freedom. It went
where it would, no one questioned its right of entrance to the nursery
or dared to slight it in any way. In spite, however, of choice meals
and luxury it never grew fat, and never, except in Ruth's eyes, became
pretty. It also kept to many of its old habits, preferring liberty and
the chimney-pots at night to the softly-lined basket prepared for its
repose.
But with all its faults Ruth loved it faithfully as long as it lived,
for in her own mind she felt that she owed it a great deal.
She remembered that evening when, a lonely little child, she had called
it her "best friend." Perhaps she would not have discovered so soon
that she had a better friend still, without the kitchen cat.