Chapter Four.
Philippa’s Birthday.
The three kittens were just a month old on the last day of March, and this was also Philippa Trevor’s birthday. She would have liked her birthday to be in the summer, because an out-of-doors party was so much nicer than an indoors one, but even Philippa could not arrange everything in the world as she wished. So she was obliged to put up with a birthday which came in the spring, when there were very few leaves on the trees, and the grass was generally too wet to walk on, and the sky often cold and grey. Philippa had found that she could get most things by crying for them, but still there remained some quite beyond her reach, and unmoved by her tears, and it was just these that she most wanted and wailed for when she was in a perverse mood. These were times of discomfort throughout the house, and of great distress to her mother and Miss Mervyn, for with the best will in the world they could not make the rain stop nor the sun shine, nor time go quicker. Yet, if Philippa cried herself ill, as she often did for some such unreasonable whim, it was so very bad for her.
“We must keep the child cheerful, my dear madam,” Dr Smith had said to Mrs Trevor. “The nerves are delicate. She must be amused without excitement, and never allowed to work herself into a passion, or to be violently distressed about anything. It will be well to yield to her, if possible, rather than to thwart her.”
But though he said “we,” the doctor went away, and it was those who lived with Philippa who had to carry out this difficult task. The last part of it was easy, only it did not seem to produce the desired result. Philippa was yielded to in everything, but instead of being cheerful and contented, she became more fretful and dissatisfied, had less self-control than ever, and flew into passions about the very smallest trifles. This was the case on the morning of her birthday, when there were two things which seriously displeased her. One was the weather, for, instead of being fine and sunshiny, it rained so hard that it seemed doubtful whether her little friends would come to the party. The other was, that the musical box which her mother had promised her, and which was to play twelve tunes, did not arrive as early as she expected.
“It’s all as horrid as it can be,” she said sulkily when Miss Mervyn tried to comfort her. “I don’t care a bit for the other presents if the musical box doesn’t come.—And it’s raining harder than ever. Everything’s horrid.”
“It will clear up very likely by the afternoon,” said Miss Mervyn.
“But if it does,” whined Philippa, “and if they all come, I shan’t have my musical box to show them.”
“Perhaps it will come before then,” said Miss Mervyn patiently, and at that minute a small covered hamper was brought into the room.
“A parcel from Fieldside for Miss Philippa,” said the servant.
“Then it’s not the musical box,” said Philippa, who had looked up with renewed hope.
“I wonder what it can be,” said Miss Mervyn. “Something alive, I think. Come, Philippa, let us open it.”
She cut the cord as she spoke, and Philippa advanced languidly to the table to see what the hamper contained. When the lid was lifted, however, her expression changed to one of interest and surprise, for there, on a bed of straw, its fur beautifully clean, and a blue ribbon round its neck, lay the white kitten. It yawned as the light fell on it, and looking up at the strange faces, uttered a tiny mew.
“What is that card on its neck?” said Miss Mervyn.
“‘From Maisie and Dennis, with love and good wishes,’” read Philippa, in a pleased and excited voice. For the moment the musical box had quite gone out of her head.
“I like it best of all the presents I’ve had yet,” she said, and just then Mrs Trevor came into the room.
“Look, mother!” she exclaimed.
Seizing the kitten, she rushed forward and held it up to Mrs Trevor, whose gown was trimmed with an elegant ruffle of lace down the front; in this the kitten’s sharp little claws at once entangled themselves.
“Ah, my lace!” she cried. “Take care, my love; it will scratch you.—Miss Mervyn, pray remove the creature.—Yes, very pretty, my darling. Who sent it to you?”
“Dennis and Maisie,” said Philippa, squeezing the kitten under her arm. “May I have it to sleep on my bed?”
“Ah no, dear,” said Mrs Trevor absently, examining her torn lace with a slight frown; “that’s not the proper place for kittens. Dear me, what sharp claws the little thing has, to be sure! I must let Briggs mend this at once.”
She went out of the room, leaving the question to be further argued between Miss Mervyn and Philippa.
“I’m sure Dennis and Maisie don’t have kittens to sleep with them,” said the former.
“Then you’re just wrong,” said Philippa triumphantly, “because Dennis’s dog Peter always sleeps in his room, and that’s just the same.”
The white kitten had now struggled out of her clutches, and was wandering sadly round the room in search of its old friends and relations. It seemed likely to make one more subject for dispute at Haughton Park, where from the time Philippa got up till she went to bed, there was already no end to the wrangling. Confused by finding itself in a strange land where nothing familiar met its eye, it at last took refuge under a book-case, and when Philippa looked round, it was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, my darling little kitten is lost!” she exclaimed.
Miss Mervyn, who did not like cats or any other animals, would not have been sorry if this had been the case, but Philippa was preparing to shed a torrent of tears, and this must be avoided at any cost.
“Hush, my dear,” she said, folding her gown closely round her; “we will find it. It cannot have gone far.”
Cats, in Miss Mervyn’s experience, were shy treacherous things which always hid themselves, and jumped out from unexpected places. So she now proceeded cautiously round the room, peeping into dark corners and behind curtains, as if some dangerous animal were lurking there. There was no place too small or too unlikely that she did not thoroughly examine, but it was Philippa who at last caught sight of a pair of green eyes gleaming in the darkness under the book-case.
“There it is!” she cried, and casting herself flat on the floor, she stretched out her arm and dragged it out by one leg. But she did not hold it long, for the white kitten, frightened, and quite unused to such rough treatment, put out its sharp little claws to defend itself.
“Oh!” screamed Philippa at the top of her voice. She flung the kitten from her, and stretched out her arm piteously; on it there was a long scratch, just beginning to bleed a little.
“The nasty, spiteful thing!” exclaimed Miss Mervyn. “My darling Philippa! what will your mother say? Come, my love, we will bathe it, and it will soon be better, and the savage little kitten shall be sent away.”
But Philippa would not have her arm bathed, and the kitten should not be sent away. She would show Dennis and Maisie what a bad scratch it was, and what a cross kitten they had sent her for a present, and meantime she would stand and sob.
“We’ll ask them to take it back to Fieldside, won’t we?” said Miss Mervyn soothingly; “we shall be glad to get rid of it.”
The more Miss Mervyn suggested this, the more determined Philippa was to keep it. She even began to make excuses for it between her sobs. It did not mean to scratch; it was a dear little kitten. She was very fond of it. It should not be sent away. It should stay and sleep on her bed.
At last she submitted to have her arm bathed, and discovered that it was not such a very bad scratch after all, and soon the arrival of the musical box gave her something else to think of. For the time the white kitten was forgotten, and it took the opportunity of crawling behind the curtains, where it curled itself up and went to sleep.
But though the musical box had come, the rain still continued to fall, and as there was no possibility of going out, it was settled that Philippa should play with her friends in the long gallery.
The long gallery was a very delightful place to amuse one’s self in on a rainy day. It was the only old part of Haughton which remained, and it was much prettier than the new. Six tall latticed windows stood in recesses all down one side, and facing them were dark old portraits of straight-nosed ladies with powdered hair, and gentlemen in wigs. These had the gallery all to themselves, for there were no furniture or ornaments in it, except some great china vases in the window-seats. At either end there was a high stone mantelpiece, carved all over in quaint patterns. The ceiling was oak, and so was the floor—this last very slippery, so that it was as good as ice to slide upon.
Dennis and Maisie were glad to hear that they were to go into the long gallery when they arrived, and they found all Philippa’s visitors assembled there, with the musical box tinkling out its tunes in one of the window-seats. Miss Mervyn, who felt the long gallery very cold and draughty, was there too; she had brought in a chair from the play-room, and sat shivering by the huge fireplace, where a fire had been lighted; but the children, warmed with their games, looked merry and gay.
“Let’s have a dance!” exclaimed Philippa, as the musical box began a lively waltz tune; “Dennis shall be my partner.”
All the little figures in their bright dresses went whirling down the long shining floor, two and two, skirts fluttering and hair streaming out with the rapid movement. At the end of the long gallery the musical box was quite invisible, and its little thin voice could hardly be heard.
“It’s like a fairy tune being played up in the air,” said Maisie.
The musical box finished its waltz, and almost immediately struck up a solemn march.
“Now we’re soldiers,” said Dennis, “marching to the funeral of one of our comrades killed in battle. I’m captain.”
All the games suggested by the musical box were successful: even Philippa was pleased and happy, and Miss Mervyn began to think that the party might pass off without any quarrels or disturbance. But, unfortunately, Philippa at last had an idea which led to the overthrow of this pleasant state of things. This idea was that they should join in with the musical box when it played the “Bluebells of Scotland,” and have a concert. She herself would conduct, and play the violin. One child could sing the tune, another could whistle it, another could play it on a comb, another was provided with a small drum. Every one thought it a beautiful idea, and Philippa, very much excited, mounted on the window-seat by the musical box, violin in hand, with her band disposed round her.
But alas! Instead of the sweet sounds she hoped to hear, the most terrible discords arose at the first tinkling notes of the musical box. It was wonderful that such a small band could produce such a great noise, but perhaps this was because each child wanted to be heard above the rest. The whistling, screaming, squeaking, and banging, all in different keys and different time, quite overpowered the gentle plaintive notes of the violin and the correct melody of the musical box. Miss Mervyn at the end of the room covered her ears, and Philippa dropped her bow, and exclaimed angrily: “Stop! it’s a horrid noise.”
That was easily said, but no one paid any attention to it. The band went on screaming, banging, tootling, and whistling harder than ever.
“Stop, I say!” cried Philippa again, stamping her foot. “I’m the conductor. I say stop!”
But it had no result. She threw down her violin, and shook the musical box angrily, but there was no way of stopping that either: it went steadily on, regardless that she was beside herself with rage. In another moment she would have dashed it on the floor; but, fortunately, just at that instant Mrs Trevor appeared at the door. The sight of her had more effect than all Philippa’s rage. The band suddenly stopped, the din ceased, peace was restored. Miss Mervyn took her hands from her ears, and advanced from the other end of the room. Philippa flew to her mother, and hid her face in her gown.
“What is it, my darling?” said Mrs Trevor, looking fondly at her daughter, and severely at Miss Mervyn. “Why have you been making this dreadful noise?”
Philippa poured forth her complaints. She had wanted to have a concert—a proper concert—and they had done it all wrong, and they wouldn’t stop when she told them, and—
“Poor darling,” said Mrs Trevor, stroking Philippa’s hair caressingly, “she has such a sensitive ear.—It was hardly wise, I think, Miss Mervyn,” turning to that lady, “to allow such a noise. Really, when I opened the door, it was quite like a number of cats quarrelling. Quite enough to give Philippa one of her bad headaches for the rest of the day.”
Miss Mervyn looked as if that were likely to be her own case, but she only murmured that she had thought Philippa was enjoying herself, and that she had not liked to put a stop to the children’s amusements. The band meanwhile stood disconsolate. Philippa’s face had its fretful look, and everything was rather uncomfortable. Mrs Trevor glanced round in despair, and it was at this moment that Maisie gave things a welcome turn by stealing up to her cousin’s side, and saying softly, “Where’s the white kitten?”
The kitten had been on her mind ever since she arrived: she had not seen it, and did not even know that it had been received, for in the excitement of her party Philippa had quite forgotten to thank her cousins for their present.
“Ah!” said Mrs Trevor, in a tone of relief, “the kitten, to be sure.—Take Maisie to find the kitten, my darling, and have a quiet little game together in the schoolroom. I daresay Dennis will like to stay here, and play with the others until tea-time.”
For a wonder, Philippa was quite ready to do what was proposed, and the two little girls went away together.
“Did you like it?” asked Maisie anxiously. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? And it keeps itself very white. It’s the prettiest of all the kittens—next to ours.”
“I like it very much,” said Philippa graciously, “but it scratches. Miss Mervyn says it’s a savage kitten.”
“They all scratch, you know,” said Maisie seriously, as they entered the schoolroom; “when they’re quite little, they don’t know better. You’ll have to teach it to be good.”
“How?” asked Philippa, looking round the room for the kitten, which was nowhere to be seen.
“Entirely by kindness,” said Maisie, using an expression she had seen in one of her books.
“It’s hidden itself again,” said Philippa discontentedly; “it’s always hiding itself.”
This time the kitten had found a good hiding-place, and the little girls searched everywhere in vain for a long while. At last Maisie thought of lifting the silk cover on the top of Miss Mervyn’s work-basket, and there, snugly coiled in the midst of wools, knitting, and fancy work, lay the white kitten fast asleep! This was not the worst, for it had evidently amused itself first by a game of play. All the skeins of wool were twisted up in a tangle, and a quantity of silk was wound tightly round its claws.
“There!” said Philippa, “that’s the third wrong thing it’s done to-day! It’s torn mother’s lace, and scratched my arm, and tangled up all Miss Mervyn’s wool. Now she’ll want it to go away more than ever.”
Maisie looked at the white kitten with dismay. It did not seem to have made a good beginning in its new home.
“Will Miss Mervyn be very angry?” she said. “Can’t we try to put the wool straight?”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Philippa coolly; “but it is a naughty kitten, isn’t it?”
Maisie lifted the kitten carefully out of its warm bed, and gently disentangled its claws from the silk.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t really believe it meant to be naughty. Kittens always like to play, and then, you see, it always slept in a basket, so perhaps it thought this was its own. You must give it a ball or a cork, and then it won’t want to play with the wrong things.”
Philippa generally looked down upon Maisie and thought her babyish, but she had such motherly ways with the kitten, and gave advice with so much gravity, that she now listened with respect to what she said.
“Now you take it and nurse it a little,” she continued, putting the kitten, still half asleep, into Philippa’s arms, “and I’ll try to get the wool straight. What shall you call it? We call ours ‘Darkie,’ because he’s all black, you see. Dennis wanted to call him ‘Nigger,’ but I didn’t like that, and Aunt Katharine says Darkie means just the same.”
Philippa thought of a good many names, but was not satisfied with any of them, and still less with those suggested by Maisie.
“I know,” she exclaimed at last; “I’ve got a beautiful name that just suits it. I shall call it ‘Blanche.’ That’s French for white, you know,” she added for Maisie’s instruction. Maisie did not know, for she had not begun to learn French, but she quite agreed that Blanche was a lovely name, and seemed made for the white kitten.
After much patient effort she succeeded in untwisting Miss Mervyn’s wool from most of the knots and tangles, and putting the contents of the basket into something like order.
“There!” she said; “that’s as straight as I can make it.”
“I don’t see why you took so much trouble over it,” said Philippa; “it wasn’t your fault—it was the kitten’s.”
“Well, the kitten couldn’t put it straight,” replied Maisie. “It wasn’t half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won’t be so naughty.”
She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly in Philippa’s arms.
“I hope,” she added, “it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows up.”
“It ought to be the nicest of the three,” said Philippa; “that’s very certain.”
“Why?” asked Maisie.
“Well, you see,” said Philippa, with her chin in the air, “it will have such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never be with common, low people.”
Maisie looked thoughtful.
“The grey kitten’s very nice and affectionate,” she said, “though it isn’t pretty. It won’t have advantages though, because it’s got to go and do hard work.”
“What hard work?” asked Philippa.
“It’s going to catch mice for old Sally’s Eliza,” replied Maisie, “so of course it can’t sleep in any one’s bed—it will have to be up all night. And I don’t suppose it will have meals exactly except what it picks up. And I’m sure it won’t wear a collar and a bell, because that would frighten the mice away.”
“Blanche will be better off than that,” said Philippa; “she’ll be a lady.”
“We shall be able to see, shan’t we,” said Maisie, “what sort of cats they are when they grow up. And then we can settle which is the best—Darkie, or Blanche, or the grey one.”
“What do you mean by the best?” said Philippa. “Do you mean the prettiest?”
“Oh dear, no,” said Maisie. She pondered the question for some minutes, and then added seriously: “I mean the one that’s the greatest comfort to the person it belongs to.”