THE FIRST JOURNEY
At the end of July Rosamond was taken home by somebody who was
travelling up to Yorkshire. Her mother was not very well and wanted
her. In fact, for the whole of August Auntie May was always worrying
about Beatrice, Rosamond's mother, who was her twin-sister. She said
she couldn't quite make out from Beatrice's letters what was the matter
with her, or if it was serious or no, and though she paid several
visits to big country houses in August she did not enjoy them. We were
left to the care of Mary, who was becoming a very excellent cat's-maid,
and so mother told Auntie May whenever she came home, and that,
although she never could love Mary as much as she loved Auntie May, she
had not wanted for anything during her absence.
At last Beatrice's letters got so scanty and muddly that Auntie
May said she must go and see her and find out for herself. So she
telegraphed to Tom, her brother-in-law, that she was going down to
Crook Hall on Thursday, whether they wanted her or not.
The answer came back, and puzzled Auntie May very much:
'_Do--want--you--bring--kitten._'
'_Bring kitten?_ Why should I? Beatrice doesn't want to keep kittens
because she has so many dogs. What can it mean? This is some game of
Rosamond's, I'll be bound. I'll _not_ take a kitten.'
But the more she thought over it, the more she felt that Tom wouldn't
have put _Bring Kitten_ unless he wanted one. He is a man who doesn't
talk any more than he need, and it was he who had sent the telegram off
himself. Beatrice wanted the kitten for some reason or other, there was
not a doubt of it, or Tom wanted Beatrice to have a kitten. She began
to think she _would_ take a kitten.
'I will take the strongest,' she said. 'Petronilla, which do you
consider your strongest kitten?'
Mother answered, 'Frederick B. Nicholson, as you call him,' but of
course Auntie May couldn't understand her. She sat down by the basket,
where we still spent most of our time, and talked to us about ourselves.
'Freddy's nose is too long--makes him rather snipe-faced--but his paws
are broad and magnificent, and his eyes golden. Zobeide, your tail is
a weeny-weeny bit too thin and drawn out at the tip, and your ears too
pointed and long. You, Loki, have got a tolerably neat little chubby
face of your own, but your ears are not tufted, and your nose, if you
were human, would be an impertinent snub. Still, you are going to be
a fluffy cat, one can see that, and invalids--if poor Beatrice really
is an invalid--prefer fluffiness. I think I'll take you, Loki. No,
Fred, not you, indeed, you pertinacious darling, for you always go for
one's eyes, you are such a dangerous cat, without a single atom of
self-control. So, Loki, you may as well say goodbye to your mother and
make the most of her, for she just won't know you when you come back.
Get him ready for me, Petronilla, by to-morrow morning, will you?'
'So Beatrice is an invalid!' said mother, after she had gone. 'It is
bad for you, my child. But now listen attentively to your mother, and
perhaps she may tell you how to avoid any bad effects. If they put you
on the patient's bed, keep as near the foot as you can; don't lie near
her or take her breath. I always believe in giving invalids a very wide
berth. I remember once that my old mistress, Miss Jane Beverley, was
very ill, and I had kept away as much as I could. She did not want me
either; she didn't _really_ love cats. One day, however, I was curious
to know how she was going on and I ventured into her sick-room, though
it was a foolish thing to do. From what I observed myself, I concluded
that she was on the high road to recovery. We know better than They do.
It is the air that blows from people that are not going to get better
that tells us about it. No such airs came from her. I leaped on to the
bed and went right up to her face and stroked her chin. You should have
heard her old nurse:
'"Bless us, ma'am," she almost screamed, "you're going to get well. The
cat's taken to you again!"
'She was an unusually skilled nurse to know this principle that is so
strong in cats, and let her judgment be swayed by it.'
'And did Miss Beverley get well?' asked Zobeide.
'Of course--till next time. They die, you know, like us, in the end.'
Next morning came, and Auntie May was very sad and serious. I believe
she was quite frightened about her sister. She had a basket lined, with
torn-up bits of paper in it, brought in for me, and at the very last
moment I was put into it by Mary. Mother came and sniffed at me as I
lay inside, and advised me not to go and get all the skin off my face
trying to pick at the walls of the basket to open it, but lie still and
try to sleep, and eat a little grass the first chance I got on arriving
at Crook Hall.
Then Mary came back into the room hastily. They have got so into the
habit of telling us things that she said to mother as she took me up,
'Cab's at the door!' She carried me down, and I suppose it was Auntie
May who took hold of me, for I heard Mr. Graham kiss her several times,
and I suppose he wouldn't kiss Mary, though he says she is a very good
servant. We went out of the door, for I felt the rush of fresh air
against the sides of the basket, and I sniffed, and then I felt so
terribly strange that I am ashamed to say I did give one long 'Miau!'
as I was carried across the pavement to the cab. I saw nothing, of
course, but mother had explained to me all the probable stages of my
journey.
There began the strangest, weirdest series of noises I had ever heard
then, though I have, I am sorry to say, heard them many a time since.
Howling, rushing, grating, bumping, rolling, trotting, whistling,
screeching, hitting--and spitting, if I may say so. We seemed to be
always going up and down stairs. I mewed a few small mews, and Auntie
May spoke to me through the walls of the basket and said, 'Hush! hush!'
very gently, and I hushed, and only grunted to inform her how I felt.
Then at last all was still, except for a curious rushing noise that
never stopped. The rocking motion that went with it was very pleasant
and soothing, and made one feel quite stupid. Suddenly I felt Auntie
May's hand slide into the basket, which I licked and lay down against.
I was quite easy in my mind after that, but getting more and more
stupefied every minute. Presently she opened the lid of the basket and
I sat up and looked about.
We seemed to be in a small, plain, unfurnished house, with nothing in
it but seats and a hat-rack. A large man, far bigger than Auntie May's
little papa, was sitting opposite her and reading a sheet of enormous
printed paper. In the other corner was a lacy black woman. When the
basket was opened she jumped and frightened me, and Auntie May said,
'Sit still, nervous little cat!'
'Oh, what a darling!' the woman exclaimed. 'May I just touch it?' She
did touch me, but Auntie May held my hind paws firmly down in the
basket. She needn't have bothered, I don't go to strangers.
'Mightn't he jump out? Aren't you awfully nervous about him?' cackled
the black woman. 'Isn't he a sweet colour? He is like that new grey
pastel shade they brought out in Paris last year. Teuf-Teuf, they
called it--something to do with the automobiles? Why don't you call him
Teuf-Teuf? Such a sweet name for a cat!'
'Because somehow he happens to have a name already,' Auntie May said,
extra sweetly, because she was so bored by the lady and wanted to read
her novel.
'Why doesn't he have a yellow ribbon round his dear neck? A yellow
ribbon would look so sweet--so like Velasquez' scheme of colouring!'
'I never allow my cats to wear horse-collars,' said Auntie May, 'for
fear of spoiling their ruffs. I think I _must_ put you in again,
darling, for I want to read. You won't mind, will you, for I will leave
you my hand to lick!'
So down went the lid on me, and the lady in the corner calmed down,
though she still chirped occasionally like the birds in the square
garden in the mornings.
The rushing and the rocking stopped suddenly, and I heard a voice call
out 'Darlington!'
'Oh, how sweet!' said the lady in the corner. 'And what are you going
to do with your darling cat?'
'Put him on the rails!' said Auntie May, quite rudely. '_Good_ morning!'
But we did not catch our train; it had gone. We had missed the
connection. '_Tant pis!_' Auntie May said (which means 'All the
worse!'). 'We will go and put an ornamental frill round something.'
That meant _eat_, as I found soon enough. She opened the basket and
turned me out on to a marble tablecloth, very cold to the feet, and
gave me a saucer full of milk. I don't like eating off anything white,
for that always means getting banged. Auntie May's way of preventing
kittens from stealing off tables is to associate eating off anything
white in their minds with a whipping. However, in this case it was
she herself who put me up to it. When we had done (Auntie May ate
a couple of sponge-cakes) we went to another room where a woman in
grey was sitting over the fire knitting, and Auntie May talked to an
old gentleman with black silk gaiters and a black silk pinafore like
Rosamond's, who turned out to be the bishop of the town near where
Beatrice lived. It was all delightful, except that people kept opening
the door of the room and looking in and going away again, making me
jump every time, and the bishop too. I _am_ a nervous little cat, as
Auntie May told the black lady, and I am to Fred as a carthorse is to a
racehorse. After we had sat there for what seemed a long time, a guard
put his head in at the door and said, as if it didn't particularly
matter, 'Anybody here for the four-fifteen?'
It did matter, and everybody jumped up except the grey-haired woman,
who went on knitting. Auntie May popped me into the basket, and
fastened the lid safely; the bishop offered to carry me, but she would
not let him. I was relieved, and I think by the sound of his voice he
was relieved too. I did not mew, for it would only distress her and
disgrace her before her new friend. Besides, I was full, and you have
no idea what a difference it makes. I curled round and determined to
take no notice of any sort of noise. Even when Auntie May prodded me
with her finger kindly, I wished she would not, for I felt too stupid
to mew, and just wanted to be let alone for the rest of the journey.
Besides, I felt rather sick. They should not fill one up with milk like
a bottle and then shake one about. I wished I had refused it at the
time.
The train slowed down, and the bishop said, 'Can I be of assistance to
you in any way?'
'Thank you very much,' Auntie May said, 'but Tom, my brother-in-law,
will meet us. There he is!'
Then, I think, she forgot all about the bishop, for she said to some
one at the carriage window, in a fearfully excited voice, 'Oh, Tom, how
is she? I _have_ brought a kitten--'
Tom did not answer, but I fancy he shook his head, or something that
didn't seem hopeful, for Auntie May squeaked, 'Oh dear!' in not at all
her usual voice.
Tom seemed only business-like. 'Where's your ticket? Hand it over. Had
you to take a dog ticket for this little brute?'
'_Tom!_'
'All right. Come on!'
They did not say a word to each other till we had walked a little way
and stood about a little, and Auntie May had taken a step up with me
and sat down. And then the rolling and rocking began again. I was
nearly dead with fuss and different ways of travelling. But I listened
to what was said.
'She hardly knew us yesterday,' he was saying. He had a deep big voice,
much louder than May's father's voice, but then Mr. Graham is an artist
and Tom Gilmour is a sportsman, and is always calling to things across
bogs and moors to follow him or come to heel, so mother told me. He
went on, choking rather:
'It was a sort of faint. She got quite cold, and the nurse said,
"_Anything_ to rouse her, sir! I wish she had a pet, sir!" And I was
sending for you anyhow, and so I said, "Would a kitten do?" and the
woman said, "Might try it, sir." So I sent that message to you, "_Bring
a cat!_" Pretty comic, wasn't it? Ho, ho!'
It was a melancholy sort of cackle, but Auntie May cried out:
'Oh, Tom, how can you laugh with Beatrice in such a state?' She began
to cry herself and rock about in the carriage.
'Better to laugh than cry with an invalid any day,' said Tom. 'And I
tell you what, May, my dear, if you are going to be a hysterical muff,
you had much better not have come down at all. You will do Beatrice
more harm than good. Stow it, can't you? Good Lord, now there's the
wretched brute in the basket beginning to caterwaul!'
I was _not_ caterwauling, only trying to tell Auntie May to be quiet
and that Tom was quite right. But one is so easily misunderstood.
However, Auntie May got sensible all at once, and thanked Tom for
speaking sharply to her, and said she meant to do Beatrice good, not
harm, and would he like to see the little kitten, and she had chosen
the prettiest, and so on.
'If you like you can let the beast out,' he said roughly. 'I look upon
all cats as vermin myself. I know I shoot 'em pretty quick when they
come into the garden. They are so beastly destructive, you know, worse
than rabbits even. Here, yank him out and let's see the little beggar.'
So out I came, and I at once crawled all over his nice great knees,
covered with thick lovely wool that I could pick up with my claws in
handfuls and not be missed. My claws were little and the stuff was
thick, not like the clothes of Auntie May's friends, male and female.
The men squirm when I get on their knees and try to bear it, but the
women jump up and squeak the moment you touch them. They have only got
one coating probably under their thin muslin gowns, being ridiculously
under-furred. But Tom only grinned and said:
'Go it, little un! You can't hurt _me_. Beatrice's knitted stockings
will stand a good deal. Poor darling! I only wish I knew whether she
would ever knit me any more of them!'
'Now _you_ mustn't be depressed!' said Auntie May, patting his knees.
She was awfully fond of Tom I could see, and he of her, though he
abused her all the time, and laughed at her novels and her editors and
publishers, and her life in London generally, so different from his and
Beatrice's. I was very eager to see Beatrice, because she was Auntie
May's sister and Rosamond's mother, but I was not allowed to until
after supper, mine and Auntie May's. We had it with Tom alone, and he
hardly said a word all dinner, though the nurse came down and told us
that Beatrice was much better and hadn't fainted at all that day, and
had eaten quite a fair meal at seven.