Shireen's birthday party at the Castle was going to be a very grand
affair, so Tommy and Lizzie would have told you, for they had made great
preparations for celebrating the event.
Shireen had reached the advanced age of one-and-twenty, and yet there
was but little sign that her strength was actually failing her. She did
not care to move about quite so much as she had done many years before,
and preferred, as we have seen, to take her little rambles about the
village, and visit her many friends there.
She preferred, too, the lawn to the forest on a sunny summer's
afternoon, or a seat by the low fire among her old friends, when the
wintry winds were roaring around the chimneys, and shaking doors and
windows.
But to look at Shireen, with her lovely coat, her sweet face, her wee,
short ears, and blue eyes, you would not have said she was more than
seven.
"I wonder," said Lizzie, on the morning of Shireen's birthday, "if Mrs
Cooper will come, and bring her lovely prize cat Stamboul?"
"Oh, yes, she is sure to come," was the reply. "I've just had a
letter."
So away ran Lizzie and Tom to complete the arrangements for the
afternoon and evening entertainment, for the great _coup de theatre_ was
to consist of lighting up the grounds after dark with coloured lamps,
and the flowerbeds and borders with fairy lights, and this duty devolved
upon Lizzie and her little brother.
How anxiously they scanned the sky as they hung up their lamps and their
Chinese lanterns, and how suspiciously they eyed the clouds, I need not
tell you. But twenty times, at least, Tom ran to ask his uncle if he
was quite sure it wouldn't rain. So at last Uncle Clarkson told him
that he was only a soldier, and not supposed to be able to read the
signs or the sky, and that if they wanted true information, they must go
to old Ben; they might as well bring him to luncheon. So, as soon as
everything had been completed to the entire satisfaction of the
children, off they set, and in a little more than an hour's time, they
re-appeared again, dragging Uncle Ben by his two hands on to the lawn.
Luncheon was laid in a tent erected specially for the purpose, and some
time before they all sat down, a carriage rattled up the avenue, and
Mrs Cooper herself alighted with her maid, who was carrying a
mysterious-looking parcel, which was half basket, half bird's cage, and
really was the travelling-home of Stamboul, the prize cat.
Everyone waited anxiously to see Stamboul, and when presently he stalked
forth, with his lovely red and white coat shining like satin and
floating all over him, there was a general hum of admiration.
Stamboul did not take very much notice of anyone, he gave one glance at
Shireen, then looked at the dogs. Satisfying himself, apparently, that
they were harmless, he next turned his attention to the grass, walking
gingerly over it, and shaking a fore-foot at every step, in case it
might be damp.
Then he entered the tent and disposed of himself in a straw chair, that
had a cushion to it.
Now, although the party congregated together to celebrate Shireen's
birthday was everything that could be desired, and though the feast was
fit for a queen, and the lawn and grounds after dark looked like a scene
from the "Arabian Nights," still it is more with the cats and dogs we
have to do than with Lizzie's and Tom's little human friends, or the
older human beings who sat in the tent, talking and laughing very
pleasantly indeed.
Shireen and her old friends occupied a beautifully lit up summer-house.
Even Cracker and the chameleon, who at this time was alive, were here
to-night; but Stamboul occupied the place of honour, which was a straw
chair, and he accepted the dignity with the easy grace of a prince of
the blood royal, and as if he quite merited the honour and dignity.
For some time he sat thoughtfully washing his beautiful face, and all
kept silence around him, till he should be pleased to break the silence.
"Yes, Shireen," he said at last, "I have been a prize cat now for many
years, and, indeed, I believe I am entitled to dub myself a champion.
Oh, no, Mr Warlock," he continued, smiling, "I wasn't always a prize
cat; nor have I been all my life as beautiful and fully pelaged as I am
now; indeed, I was once as plain and humble-looking as your friend Tabby
there."
Tabby winced and felt a little hurt. Certainly she did not lay claim to
any great degree of beauty; still it seemed hard she should be thus
singled out.
Even Chammy turned one eye down at her, and Dick cocked a black bead of
an optic towards her. Only Warlock gave her face a kind of consolatory
lick, as much as to say,--
"If you ain't very pretty, Tabby, you are very good, and virtue is
better, any day, than beauty."
"Well, my friends," continued Stamboul, "you may think it is very nice
to be a first-prize cat, and to be made a great fuss with, and a great
show of at exhibitions, and to be boasted about by your mistress, and
crowed over by her friends; but I can tell you a show cat's life has its
dark side as well as its light, and this, I think, you will be ready
enough to admit, when you have heard some of my adventures and
experiences."
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