Kitty-Wee’s next matrimonial venture, though likewise, we grieve to say, morganatic, was very much more successful. In fact it is to it that we owe—Bunny! The name, the lineage, the very personality of Bunny’s father is wrapt in mystery; but judging by the splendour of Bunny’s black fur, it is to be conjectured that Kitty-Wee’s choice was of a dark complexion, and if not royal, at any rate of noble blood.
Two brave brothers Bunny had, but he is the sole survivor; all the more cherished. And really, even if he lacks his mother’s supreme distinction, we cannot but feel proud of him. Waggish, gentle, humorous creature that he is, he will hang round the neck of Adam, the gardener, like a boa, for a whole morning together; or stalk the dogs from tree to tree, pounce on them at unexpected moments to deliver a swinging friendly slap on Susan’s fat back, or to waltz with Arabella, or to inveigle Loki, with odd freakish sidelong gambols, into a mysterious game of his own, which, as our little Chinaman has something of the cat in him, he seems to understand.
We are very glad that Adam had Bunny to console him, for Kitty-Wee’s offspring has an odd resemblance in size and appearance to Cæsar, the late Garden Cat, much beloved, who alas! went the way of all fur ‹with a melancholy little assistance from the chemist› shortly before Bunny’s appearance in this plane.
“Oh, Miss,” said Mrs. Adam, on the Sunday that followed that Socratic tragedy, “last night was the most dreadful night we ever spent! It was the first time for thirteen years we hadn’t had a cat in the house! Oh! Miss, I thought Daddy would have broken his heart. He just sat with his head on his hand, and sighed. Really Miss Marie, I don’t know when we’ve felt so bad.”
It will be seen that Mr. and Mrs. Adam have the right feeling towards “little sister cat and little brother dog,” as St. Francis of Assisi would have called them. This suits us very well, and oddly enough, Villino Loki is a kind of paradise for things of fur and feather. Cat and dog live in a strange harmony. To see Loki kiss Bunny, or Bunny clasp Arabella round the neck, is as pleasing a sight as you could imagine. And if Kitty-Wee occasionally boxes Loki with a kind of delicate compactness, it is with her claws in. As for Juvenal, the butler, whose pantry is full of singing birds, no sense of etiquette will restrain him from public blandishments when Loki is on the scene. George, the footman, can be heard addressing him—Loki—in back passages, as “My loved one!” And Tom, the old long-haired English cat, rules the kitchen.
THE VICISSITUDES OF TOM
Tom has reached the patriarchal age of eighteen years, and is cherished by the master of the Villino. He has had many vicissitudes. He was stung by an adder during our very first summer, years ago, on these moors, and lay for a day in a coma with one paw swollen the size of a child’s arm, to be saved by doses of brandy and milk. A few years later he was caught in a trap. How he got free no one knows, but we found him crawling, piteously complaining, with a shattered leg. With the help of the cook, who followed the tradition of the establishment and was Tom’s slave, the leg was set with strips of firewood, the bone being very successfully mended. It so happened that the Master of the House had, about the same time, snapped his tendo-plantaris at tennis; and it was a sight to see them both when they stumped down the wooden passages—the master dot-and-go-one on his crutches, Thomas following in his splints, dot-and-go-three.