THE FAMILY SUPPER.--THE TWO SISTERS IN THEIR CHAMBER.
--A MISUNDERSTANDING FOLLOWED BY A CONFESSION.--WALTER’S
APPROACHING DEPARTURE AND THE CORPORAL’S BEHAVIOUR THEREON.--
THE CORPORAL’S FAVOURITE INTRODUCED TO THE READER.--THE
CORPORAL PROVES HIMSELF A SUBTLE DIPLOMATIST.
So we grew together
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition.
--Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The Corporal had not taken his measures so badly
in this stroke of artilleryship.--Tristram Shandy.
It was late that evening when Walter returned home, the little family
were assembled at the last and lightest meal of the day; Ellinor
silently made room for her cousin beside herself, and that little
kindness touched Walter. “Why did I not love her?” thought he, and he
spoke to her in a tone so affectionate, that it made her heart thrill
with delight. Lester was, on the whole, the most pensive of the group,
but the old and young man exchanged looks of restored confidence, which,
on the part of the former, were softened by a pitying tenderness.
When the cloth was removed, and the servants gone, Lester took it on
himself to break to the sisters the intended departure of their
cousin. Madeline received the news with painful blushes, and a certain
self-reproach; for even where a woman has no cause to blame herself,
she, in these cases, feels a sort of remorse at the unhappiness she
occasions. But Ellinor rose suddenly and left the room.
“And now,” said Lester, “London will, I suppose, be your first
destination. I can furnish you with letters to some of my old friends
there: merry fellows they were once: you must take care of the
prodigality of their wine. There’s John Courtland--ah! a seductive dog
to drink with. Be sure and let me know how honest John looks, and what
he says of me. I recollect him as if it were yesterday; a roguish eye,
with a moisture in it; full cheeks; a straight nose; black curled hair;
and teeth as even as dies:--honest John shewed his teeth pretty often,
too: ha, ha! how the dog loved a laugh. Well, and Peter Hales--Sir Peter
now, has his uncle’s baronetcy--a generous, open-hearted fellow as ever
lived--will ask you very often to dinner--nay, offer you money if you
want it: but take care he does not lead you into extravagances: out
of debt, out of danger, Walter. It would have been well for poor Peter
Hales, had he remembered that maxim. Often and often have I been to see
him in the Marshalsea; but he was the heir to good fortunes, though his
relations kept him close; so I suppose he is well off now. His estates
lie in--shire, on your road to London; so, if he is at his country-seat,
you can beat up his quarters, and spend a month or so with him: a most
hospitable fellow.”
With these little sketches of his cotemporaries, the good Squire
endeavoured to while the time; taking, it is true, some pleasure in the
youthful reminiscences they excited, but chiefly designing to enliven
the melancholy of his nephew. When, however, Madeline had retired, and
they were alone, he drew his chair closer to Walter’s, and changed the
conversation into a more serious and anxious strain. The guardian and
the ward sate up late that night; and when Walter retired to rest, it
was with a heart more touched by his uncle’s kindness, than his own
sorrows.
But we are not about to close the day without a glance at the chamber
which the two sisters held in common. The night was serene and starlit,
and Madeline sate by the open window, leaning her face upon her hand,
and gazing on the lone house of her lover, which might be seen afar
across the landscape, the trees sleeping around it, and one pale and
steady light gleaming from its lofty casement like a star.
“He has broken faith,” said Madeline: “I shall chide him for this
to-morrow. He promised me the light should be ever quenched before this
hour.”
“Nay,” said Ellinor in a tone somewhat sharpened from its native
sweetness, and who now sate up in the bed, the curtain of which was
half-drawn aside, and the soft light of the skies rested full upon her
rounded neck and youthful countenance--“nay, Madeline, do not loiter
there any longer; the air grows sharp and cold, and the clock struck one
several minutes since. Come, sister, come!”
“I cannot sleep,” replied Madeline, sighing, “and think that yon light
streams upon those studies which steal the healthful hues from his
cheek, and the very life from his heart.”
“You are infatuated--you are bewitched by that man,” said Ellinor,
peevishly.
“And have I not cause--ample cause?” returned Madeline, with all a
girl’s beautiful enthusiasm, as the colour mantled her cheek, and gave
it the only additional loveliness it could receive. “When he speaks,
is it not like music?--or rather, what music so arrests and touches the
heart? Methinks it is Heaven only to gaze upon him--to note the changes
of that majestic countenance--to set down as food for memory every look
and every movement. But when the look turns to me--when the voice utters
my name, ah! Ellinor, then it is not a wonder that I love him thus much:
but that any others should think they have known love, and yet not loved
him! And, indeed, I feel assured that what the world calls love is not
my love. Are there more Eugenes in the world than one? Who but Eugene
could be loved as I love?”
“What! are there none as worthy?” said Ellinor, half smiling.
“Can you ask it?” answered Madeline, with a simple wonder in her voice;
“Whom would you compare--compare! nay, place within a hundred grades of
the height which Eugene Aram holds in this little world?”
“This is folly--dotage;” said Ellinor, indignantly: “Surely there are
others, as brave, as gentle, as kind, and if not so wise, yet more
fitted for the world.”
“You mock me,” replied Madeline, incredulously; “whom could you select?”
Ellinor blushed deeply--blushed from her snowy temples to her yet whiter
bosom, as she answered,
“If I said Walter Lester, could you deny it?”
“Walter!” repeated Madeline, “the equal to Eugene Aram!”
“Ay, and more than equal,” said Ellinor, with spirit, and a warm and
angry tone. “And indeed, Madeline,” she continued, after a pause, “I
lose something of that respect, which, passing a sister’s love, I have
always borne towards you, when I see the unthinking and lavish idolatry
you manifest to one, who, but for a silver tongue and florid words,
would rather want attractions than be the wonder you esteem him. Fie,
Madeline! I blush for you when you speak, it is unmaidenly so to love
any one!”
Madeline rose from the window, but the angry word died on her lips when
she saw that Ellinor, who had worked her mind beyond her self-control,
had thrown herself back on the pillow, and now sobbed aloud.
The natural temper of the elder sister had always been much more
calm and even than that of the younger, who united with her vivacity
something of the passionate caprice and fitfulness of her sex. And
Madeline’s affection for her had been tinged by that character of
forbearance and soothing, which a superior nature often manifests to
one more imperfect, and which in this instance did not desert her. She
gently closed the window, and, gliding to the bed, threw her arms round
her sister’s neck, and kissed away her tears with a caressing fondness,
that, if Ellinor resisted for one moment, she returned with equal
tenderness the next.
“Indeed, dearest,” said Madeline, gently, “I cannot guess how I hurt
you, and still less, how Eugene has offended you?”
“He has offended me in nothing,” replied Ellinor, still weeping, “if
he has not stolen away all your affection from me. But I was a foolish
girl, forgive me, as you always do; and at this time I need your
kindness, for I am very--very unhappy.”
“Unhappy, dearest Nell, and why?”
Ellinor wept on without answering.
Madeline persisted in pressing for a reply; and at length her sister
sobbed out:
“I know that--that--Walter only has eyes for you, and a heart for you,
who neglect, who despise his love; and I--I--but no matter, he is going
to leave us, and of me--poor me, he will think no more!”
Ellinor’s attachment to their cousin, Madeline had long half suspected,
and she had often rallied her sister upon it; indeed it might have been
this suspicion which made her at the first steel her breast against
Walter’s evident preference to herself. But Ellinor had never till now
seriously confessed how much her heart was affected; and Madeline, in
the natural engrossment of her own ardent and devoted love, had not
of late spared much observation to the tokens of her sister’s. She was
therefore dismayed, if not surprised, as she now perceived the cause of
the peevishness Ellinor had just manifested, and by the nature of the
love she felt herself, she judged, and perhaps somewhat overrated, the
anguish that Ellinor endured.
She strove to comfort her by all the arguments which the fertile
ingenuity of kindness could invent; she prophesied Walter’s speedy
return, with his boyish disappointment forgotten, and with eyes no
longer blinded to the attractions of one sister, by a bootless fancy
for another. And though Ellinor interrupted her from time to time with
assertions, now of Walter’s eternal constancy to his present idol; now,
with yet more vehement declarations of the certainty of his finding new
objects for his affections in new scenes; she yet admitted, by little
and little, the persuasive power of Madeline to creep into her heart,
and brighten away its griefs with hope, till at last, with the tears yet
wet on her cheek, she fell asleep in her sister’s arms.
And Madeline, though she would not stir from her post lest the movement
should awaken her sister, was yet prevented from closing her eyes in a
similar repose; ever and anon she breathlessly and gently raised herself
to steal a glimpse of that solitary light afar; and ever, as she looked,
the ray greeted her eyes with an unswerving and melancholy stillness,
till the dawn crept greyly over the heavens, and that speck of light,
holier to her than the stars, faded also with them beneath the broader
lustre of the day.
The next week was passed in preparations for Walter’s departure. At
that time, and in that distant part of the country, it was greatly the
fashion among the younger travellers to perform their excursions on
horseback, and it was this method of conveyance that Walter preferred.
The best steed in the squire’s stables was therefore appropriated to his
service, and a strong black horse with a Roman nose and a long tail, was
consigned to the mastery of Corporal Bunting. The Squire was delighted
that his nephew had secured such an attendant. For the soldier, though
odd and selfish, was a man of some sense and experience, and Lester
thought such qualities might not be without their use to a young master,
new to the common frauds and daily usages of the world he was about to
enter.
As for Bunting himself, he covered his secret exultation at the prospect
of change, and board-wages, with the cool semblance of a man sacrificing
his wishes to his affections. He made it his peculiar study to impress
upon the Squire’s mind the extent of the sacrifice he was about to make.
The bit cot had been just white-washed, the pet cat just lain in; then
too, who would dig, and gather seeds, in the garden, defend the plants,
(plants! the Corporal could scarce count a dozen, and nine out of them
were cabbages!) from the impending frosts? It was exactly, too, the time
of year when the rheumatism paid flying visits to the bones and loins
of the worthy Corporal; and to think of his “galavanting about the
country,” when he ought to be guarding against that sly foe the lumbago,
in the fortress of his chimney corner!
To all these murmurs and insinuations the good Lester seriously
inclined, not with the less sympathy, in that they invariably ended
in the Corporal’s slapping his manly thigh, and swearing that he loved
Master Walter like gunpowder, and that were it twenty times as much, he
would cheerfully do it for the sake of his handsome young honour. Ever
at this peroration, the eyes of the Squire began to twinkle, and new
thanks were given to the veteran for his disinterested affection, and
new promises pledged him in inadequate return.
The pious Dealtry felt a little jealousy at the trust imparted to his
friend. He halted, on his return from his farm, by the spruce stile
which led to the demesne of the Corporal, and eyed the warrior somewhat
sourly, as he now, in the cool of the evening, sate without his door,
arranging his fishing-tackle and flies, in various little papers, which
he carefully labelled by the help of a stunted pen which had seen at
least as much service as himself.
“Well, neighbour Bunting,” said the little landlord, leaning over the
stile, but not passing its boundary, “and when do you go?--you will have
wet weather of it (looking up to the skies)--you must take care of the
rumatiz. At your age it’s no trifle, eh--hem.”
“My age! should like to know--what mean by that! my age
indeed!--augh!--bother!” grunted Bunting, looking up from his
occupation. Peter chuckled inly at the Corporal’s displeasure, and
continued, as in an apologetic tone,
“Oh, I ax your pardon, neighbour. I don’t mean to say you are too old to
travel. Why there was Hal Whittol, eighty-two come next Michaelmas, took
a trip to Lunnun last year--
“For young and old, the stout--the poorly,--The eye of God be on them
surely.”
“Bother!” said the Corporal, turning round on his seat.
“And what do you intend doing with the brindled cat? put’un up in the
saddle-bags? You won’t surely have the heart to leave’un.”
“As to that,” quoth the Corporal, sighing, “the poor dumb animal makes
me sad to think on’t.” And putting down his fish-hooks, he stroked the
sides of an enormous cat, who now, with tail on end, and back bowed up,
and uttering her lenes susurros--anglicae, purr;--rubbed herself to and
fro, athwart the Corporal’s legs.
“What staring there for? won’t ye step in, man? Can climb the stile I
suppose?--augh!”
“No thank’ye, neighbour. I do very well here, that is, if you can hear
me; your deafness is not so troublesome as it was last win--”
“Bother!” interrupted the Corporal, in a voice that made the little
landlord start bolt upright from the easy confidence of his position.
Nothing on earth so offended the perpendicular Jacob Bunting, as any
insinuation of increasing years or growing infirmities; but at this
moment, as he meditated putting Dealtry to some use, he prudently
conquered the gathering anger, and added, like the man of the world he
justly plumed himself on being--in a voice gentle as a dying howl,
“What ‘fraid on? come in, there’s good fellow, want to speak to ye. Come
do--a-u-g-h!” the last sound being prolonged into one of unutterable
coaxingness, and accompanied with a beck of the hand and a wheedling
wink.
These allurements the good Peter could not resist--he clambered the
stile, and seated himself on the bench beside the Corporal.
“There now, fine fellow, fit for the forty-second;” said Bunting,
clapping him on the back. “Well, and--a--nd--a beautiful cat, isn’t
her?”
“Ah!” said Peter very shortly--for though a remarkably mild man, Peter
did not love cats: moreover, we must now inform the reader, that the
cat of Jacob Bunting was one more feared than respected throughout the
village. The Corporal was a cunning teacher of all animals: he
could learn goldfinches the use of the musket; dogs, the art of the
broadsword; horses, to dance hornpipes and pick pockets; and he
had relieved the ennui of his solitary moments by imparting sundry
accomplishments to the ductile genius of his cat. Under his tuition,
Puss had learned to fetch and carry; to turn over head and tail, like a
tumbler; to run up your shoulder when you least expected it; to fly, as
if she were mad, at any one upon whom the Corporal thought fit to set
her; and, above all, to rob larders, shelves, and tables, and bring the
produce to the Corporal, who never failed to consider such stray waifs
lawful manorial acquisitions. These little feline cultivations of
talent, however delightful to the Corporal, and creditable to his powers
of teaching the young idea how to shoot, had nevertheless, since the
truth must be told, rendered the Corporal’s cat a proverb and byeword
throughout the neighbourhood. Never was cat in such bad odour: and the
dislike in which it was held was wonderfully increased by terror;
for the creature was singularly large and robust, and withal of so
courageous a temper, that if you attempted to resist its invasion of
your property, it forthwith set up its back, put down its ears, opened
its mouth, and bade you fully comprehend that what it feloniously seized
it could gallantly defend. More than one gossip in the village had this
notable cat hurried into premature parturition, as, on descending at
day-break into her kitchen, the dame would descry the animal perched on
the dresser, having entered, God knows how, and gleaming upon her
with its great green eyes, and a malignant, brownie expression of
countenance.
Various deputations had indeed, from time to time, arrived at the
Corporal’s cottage, requesting the death, expulsion, or perpetual
imprisonment of the favourite. But the stout Corporal received them
grimly, and dismissed them gruffly; and the cat still went on waxing
in size and wickedness, and baffling, as if inspired by the devil, the
various gins and traps set for its destruction. But never, perhaps, was
there a greater disturbance and perturbation in the little hamlet, than
when, some three weeks since, the Corporal’s cat was known to be brought
to bed, and safely delivered of a numerous offspring. The village saw
itself overrun with a race and a perpetuity of Corporal’s cats! Perhaps,
too, their teacher growing more expert by practice, the descendants
might attain to even greater accomplishment than their nefarious
progenitor. No longer did the faint hope of being delivered from their
tormentor by an untimely or even natural death, occur to the harassed
Grassdalians. Death was an incident natural to one cat, however
vivacious, but here was a dynasty of cats! Principes mortales,
respublica eterna!
Now the Corporal loved this creature better, yes better than any thing
in the world, except travelling and board-wages; and he was sorely
perplexed in his mind how he should be able to dispose of her safely in
his absence. He was aware of the general enmity she had inspired, and
trembled to anticipate its probable result, when he was no longer by to
afford her shelter and protection. The Squire had, indeed, offered her
an asylum at the manor-house; but the Squire’s cook was the cat’s most
embittered enemy; and who can answer for the peaceable behaviour of
his cook? The Corporal, therefore, with a reluctant sigh, renounced the
friendly offer, and after lying awake three nights, and turning over in
his own mind the characters, consciences, and capabilities of all his
neighbours, he came at last to the conviction that there was no one with
whom he could so safely entrust his cat as Peter Dealtry. It is true,
as we said before, that Peter was no lover of cats, and the task of
persuading him to afford board and lodging to a cat, of all cats the
most odious and malignant, was therefore no easy matter. But to a man of
the world, what intrigue is impossible?
The finest diplomatist in Europe might have taken a lesson from the
Corporal, as he now proceeded earnestly towards the accomplishment of
his project.
He took the cat, which by the by we forgot to say that he had thought
fit to christen after himself, and to honour with a name, somewhat
lengthy for a cat, (but indeed this was no ordinary cat!) viz. Jacobina.
He took Jacobina then, we say, upon his lap, and stroking her brindled
sides with great tenderness, he bade Dealtry remark how singularly quiet
the animal was in its manners. Nay, he was not contented until Peter
himself had patted her with a timorous hand, and had reluctantly
submitted the said hand to the honour of being licked by the cat in
return. Jacobina, who, to do her justice, was always meek enough in the
presence, and at the will, of her master, was, fortunately this day, on
her very best behaviour.
“Them dumb animals be mighty grateful,” quoth the Corporal.
“Ah!” rejoined Peter, wiping his hand with his pocket handkerchief.
“But, Lord! what scandal there be in the world!”
“‘Though slander’s breath may raise a storm, It quickly does decay!’”
muttered Peter.
“Very well, very true; sensible verses those,” said the Corporal,
approvingly; “and yet mischief’s often done before the amends come. Body
o’ me, it makes a man sick of his kind, ashamed to belong to the race of
men, to see the envy that abounds in this here sublunary wale of tears!”
said the Corporal, lifting up his eyes.
Peter stared at him with open mouth; the hypocritical rascal continued,
after a pause,--
“Now there’s Jacobina, ‘cause she’s a good cat, a faithful servant,
the whole village is against her: such lies as they tell on her, such
wappers, you’d think she was the devil in garnet! I grant, I grant,”
added the Corporal, in a tone of apologetic candour, “that she’s wild,
saucy, knows her friends from her foes, steals Goody Solomon’s butter;
but what then? Goody Solomon’s d--d b--h! Goody Solomon sold beer in
opposition to you, set up a public;--you do not like Goody Solomons,
Peter Dealtry?”
“If that were all Jacobina had done!” said the landlord, grinning.
“All! what else did she do? Why she eat up John Tomkins’s canary-bird;
and did not John Tomkins, saucy rascal, say you could not sing better
nor a raven?”
“I have nothing to say against the poor creature for that,” said Peter,
stroking the cat of his own accord. “Cats will eat birds, ‘tis the
‘spensation of Providence. But what! Corporal!” and Peter hastily
withdrawing his hand, hurried it into his breeches pocket--“but what!
did not she scratch Joe Webster’s little boy’s hand into ribbons,
because the boy tried to prevent her running off with a ball of string?”
“And well,” grunted the Corporal, “that was not Jacobina’s doing, that
was my doing. I wanted the string--offered to pay a penny for it--think
of that!”
“It was priced three pence ha’penny,” said Peter.
“Augh--baugh! you would not pay Joe Webster all he asks! What’s the use
of being a man of the world, unless one makes one’s tradesmen bate a
bit? Bargaining is not cheating, I hope?”
“God forbid!” said Peter.
“But as to the bit string, Jacobina took it solely for your sake. Ah,
she did not think you were to turn against her!”
So saying, the Corporal, got up, walked into his house, and presently
came back with a little net in his hand.
“There, Peter, net for you, to hold lemons. Thank Jacobina for that; she
got the string. Says I to her one day, as I was sitting, as I might be
now, without the door, ‘Jacobina, Peter Dealtry’s a good fellow, and
he keeps his lemons in a bag: bad habit,--get mouldy,--we’ll make him
a net: and Jacobina purred, (stroke the poor creature, Peter!)--so
Jacobina and I took a walk, and when we came to Joe Webster’s I pointed
out the ball o’twine to her. So, for your sake, Peter, she got into this
here scrape--augh.”
“Ah!” quoth Peter laughing, “poor Puss! poor Pussy! poor little Pussy!”
“And now, Peter,” said the Corporal, taking his friend’s hand, “I am
going to prove friendship to you--going to do you great favour.”
“Aha!” said Peter, “my good friend, I’m very much obliged to you. I know
your kind heart, but I really don’t want any”--
“Bother!” cried the Corporal, “I’m not the man as makes much of doing
a friend a kindness. Hold jaw! tell you what,--tell you what: am going
away on Wednesday at day-break, and in my absence you shall--”
“What? my good Corporal.”
“Take charge of Jacobina!”
“Take charge of the devil!” cried Peter.
“Augh!--baugh!--what words are those? Listen to me.”
“I won’t!”
“You shall!”
“I’ll be d--d if I do!” quoth Peter sturdily. It was the first time he
had been known to swear since he was parish clerk.
“Very well, very well!” said the Corporal chucking up his chin,
“Jacobina can take care of herself! Jacobina knows her friends and her
foes as well as her master! Jacobina never injures her friends, never
forgives foes. Look to yourself! look to yourself! insult my cat, insult
me! Swear at Jacobina, indeed!”
“If she steals my cream!” cried Peter--
“Did she ever steal your cream?”
“No! but, if--”
“Did she ever steal your cream?”
“I can’t say she ever did.”
“Or any thing else of yours?”
“Not that I know of; but--”
“Never too late to mend.”
“If--”
“Will you listen to me, or not?”
“Well.”
“You’ll listen?”
“Yes.”
“Know then, that I wanted to do you kindness.”
“Humph!”
“Hold jaw! I taught Jacobina all she knows.”
“More’s the pity!”
“Hold jaw! I taught her to respect her friends,--never to commit herself
in doors--never to steal at home--never to fly at home--never to
scratch at home--to kill mice and rats--to bring all she catches to her
master--to do what he tells her--and to defend his house as well as a
mastiff: and this invaluable creature I was going to lend you:--won’t
now, d--d if I do!”
“Humph.”
“Hold jaw! When I’m gone, Jacobina will have no one to feed her. She’ll
feed herself--will go to every larder, every house in the place--your’s
best larder, best house;--will come to you oftenest. If your wife
attempts to drive her away, scratch her eyes out; if you disturb her,
serve you worse than Joe Webster’s little boy:--wanted to prevent
this--won’t now, d--d if I do!”
“But, Corporal, how would it mend the matter to take the devil
in-doors?”
“Devil! Don’t call names. Did not I tell you, only one Jacobina does
not hurt is her master?--make you her master: now d’ye see?”
“It is very hard,” said Peter grumblingly, “that the only way I can
defend myself from this villainous creature is to take her into my
house.”
“Villainous! You ought to be proud of her affection. She returns
good for evil--she always loved you; see how she rubs herself against
you--and that’s the reason why I selected you from the whole village, to
take care of her; but you at once injure yourself and refuse to do your
friend a service. Howsomever, you know I shall be with young Squire, and
he’ll be master here one of these days, and I shall have an influence
over him--you’ll see--you’ll see. Look that there’s not another ‘Spotted
Dog’ set up--augh!--bother!”
“But what would my wife say, if I took the cat? she can’t abide its
name.”
“Let me alone to talk to your wife. What would she say if I bring
her from Lunnun Town a fine silk gown, or a neat shawl, with a blue
border--blue becomes her; or a tay-chest--that will do for you both,
and would set off the little back parlour. Mahogany tay-chest--inlaid at
top--initials in silver--J. B. to D. and P. D.--two boxes for tay, and
a bowl for sugar in the middle.--Ah! ah! Love me, love my cat! When was
Jacob Bunting ungrateful?--augh!”
“Well, well! will you talk to Dorothy about it?”
“I shall have your consent, then? Thanks, my dear, dear Peter; ‘pon my
soul you’re a fine fellow! you see, you’re great man of the parish. If
you protect her, none dare injure; if you scout her, all set upon her.
For as you said, or rather sung, t’other Sunday--capital voice you were
in too--
“The mighty tyrants without cause Conspire her blood to shed!”
“I did not think you had so good a memory, Corporal,” said Peter
smiling;--the cat was now curling itself up in his lap: “after all,
Jacobina--what a deuce of a name--seems gentle enough.”
“Gentle as a lamb--soft as butter--kind as cream--and such a mouser!”
“But I don’t think Dorothy--”
“I’ll settle Dorothy.”
“Well, when will you look up?”
“Come and take a dish of tay with you in half an hour;--you want a new
tay-chest; something new and genteel.”
“I think we do,” said Peter, rising and gently depositing the cat on the
ground.
“Aha! we’ll see to it!--we’ll see! Good b’ye for the present--in half an
hour be with you!”
The Corporal left alone with Jacobina, eyed her intently, and burst into
the following pathetic address.
“Well, Jacobina! you little know the pains I takes to serve you--the
lies I tells for you--endangered my precious soul for your sake, you
jade! Ah! may well rub your sides against me. Jacobina! Jacobina! you be
the only thing in the world that cares a button for me. I have neither
kith nor kin. You are daughter--friend--wife to me: if any thing
happened to you, I should not have the heart to love any thing else. Any
body o’ me, but you be as kind as any mistress, and much more tractable
than any wife; but the world gives you a bad name, Jacobina. Why? Is
it that you do worse than the world do? You has no morality in you,
Jacobina; well, but has the world?--no! But it has humbug--you have no
humbug, Jacobina. On the faith of a man, Jacobina, you be better than
the world!--baugh! You takes care of your own interest, but you takes
care of your master’s too!--You loves me as well as yourself. Few cats
can say the same, Jacobina! and no gossip that flings a stone at your
pretty brindled skin, can say half as much. We must not forget your
kittens, Jacobina;--you have four left--they must be provided for.
Why not a cat’s children as well as a courtier’s? I have got you a
comfortable home, Jacobina--take care of yourself, and don’t fall in
love with every Tomcat in the place. Be sober, and lead a single life
till my return. Come, Jacobina, we will lock up the house, and go and
see the quarters I have provided for you.--Heigho!”
As he finished his harangue, the Corporal locked the door of his
cottage, and Jacobina trotting by his side, he stalked with his usual
stateliness to the Spotted Dog.
Dame Dorothy Dealtry received him with a clouded brow, but the man of
the world knew whom he had to deal with. On Wednesday morning Jacobina
was inducted into the comforts of the hearth of mine host;--and her four
little kittens mewed hard by, from the sinecure of a basket lined with
flannel.
Reader. Here is wisdom in this chapter: it is not every man who knows
how to dispose of his cat!