From _Cranford_.
Mrs. Forrester related a curious little fact to Lady Glenmire—an anecdote
known to the circle of her intimate friends, but of which even Mrs.
Jamieson was not aware. It related to some fine old lace, the sole relic
of better days, which Lady Glenmire was admiring on Mrs. Forrester’s
collar.
“Yes,” said that lady, “such lace cannot be got now for either love or
money; made by the nuns abroad they tell me. They say that they can’t
make it now, even there. But perhaps they can now they’ve passed the
Catholic Emancipation Bill. I should not wonder. But, in the meantime,
I treasure up my lace very much. I daren’t even trust the washing of it
to my maid” (the little charity school-girl I have named before, but who
sounded well as “my maid”). “I always wash it myself. And once it had a
narrow escape. Of course, your ladyship knows that such lace must never
be starched or ironed. Some people wash it in sugar and water; and some
in coffee, to make it the right yellow colour; but I myself have a very
good recipe for washing it in milk, which stiffens it enough, and gives
it a very good creamy colour. Well, ma’am, I had tacked it together (and
the beauty of this fine lace is, that when it is wet, it goes into a very
little space), and put it to soak in milk, when, unfortunately, I left
the room; on my return, I found pussy on the table, looking very like a
thief, but gulping very uncomfortably, as if she was half-choked with
something she wanted to swallow, and could not. And, would you believe
it? At first, I pitied her, and said, ‘Poor pussy! poor pussy!’ till,
all at once, I looked and saw the cup of milk empty—cleaned out! ‘You
naughty cat!’ said I; and I believe I was provoked enough to give her a
slap, which did no good, but only helped the lace down—just as one slaps
a choking child on the back. I could have cried, I was so vexed; but I
determined I would not give the lace up without a struggle for it. I
hoped the lace might disagree with her at any rate; but it would have
been too much for Job, if he had seen, as I did, that cat come in, quite
placid and purring, not a quarter of an hour after, and almost expecting
to be stroked. ‘No, pussy!’ said I; ‘if you have any conscience, you
ought not to expect that!’ And then a thought struck me; and I rang the
bell for my maid, and sent her to Mr. Hoggins, with my compliments, and
would he be kind enough to lend me one of his top-boots for an hour? I
did not think there was anything odd in the message; but Jenny said, the
young men in the surgery laughed as if they would be ill, at my wanting
a top boot. When it came, Jenny and I put pussy in, with her fore-feet
straight down, so that they were fastened, and could not scratch, and we
gave her a teaspoonful of currant-jelly, in which (your ladyship must
excuse me) I had mixed some tartar emetic. I shall never forget how
anxious I was for the next half hour. I took pussy to my own room, and
spread a clean towel on the floor. I could have kissed her when she
returned the lace to sight, very much as it had gone down. Jenny had
boiling water ready, and we soaked it and soaked it, and spread it on a
lavender bush in the sun, before I could touch it again, even to put it
in milk. But now, your ladyship would never guess that it had been in
pussy’s inside.”