Part 6

"There is some beefsteak—I should like a bit of that cooked for my supper, and there are the coffee and the sugar, and baby's dress. I believe that is all, wife. They will send the flour in the morning."

"You did not get the goblets then?" said his wife, a deep shade of disappointment coming over her face.

"Why, no, I could not buy them and Polly's things too, and still have the money to meet my payments. I think our glasses are good enough—too good for use, it appears," he added, looking at the cracked ones on the table.

"Mrs. Cox had beautiful goblets the last time I was there to tea," replied Mrs. Webster. "I should not have asked her here to-morrow, if I had not supposed I should have things as good as she had at home."

"Come, come, don't fret, wife: your friends, since you call them so, will take us as they find us, or leave us alone. When I get as good a salary as Cox, it will be time enough for you to spend as much as his wife. In the meantime, I want you to cook my steak, or let Polly do it. Oh! Come, take a good big piece," as his wife cut off what was a scanty allowance for one. "Enough for all round. I daresay Polly will be glad of a bit."

"Beefsteak is a very genteel dish for tea, isn't it?"

"Who cares for gentility? Not you, I think, considering the table furniture you use every day. Give the cat a bit too—here, puss, where did you come from?"

"Now, Mr. Webster, I won't have that," interposed Mrs. Webster. "I'll feed her after supper, if there is any left. Take up the baby if you can't find anything else to do. Polly, get the gridiron."

Mr. Webster was a printer, and earned good wages in the office of a daily paper. He had, when very young, married a young woman several years older than himself, with one child—the little girl to whom we have just been introduced. He was an industrious, easy, good-tempered man, very steady, and fond of his wife and children, especially of Polly, who, on her part, worshipped her step-father, and fully believed him to be the very best man in the world.

Mrs. Webster was an active, stirring woman, strong, neat, and economical, and they might have been one of the happiest families in the world, but for one circumstance. That circumstance was Mrs. Webster's intense desire to be fashionable—to make as much display on her husband's moderate salary as her friend and model, Mrs. Cox, did upon twice the sum. To this end, she pinched herself and her family in everything that did not make an outside show.

Mr. Webster loved his comfort, and would have enough to eat, such as it was, but Mrs. Webster "took it out," upon herself and Polly, who was kept at the lowest point, both of provisions and clothes when at home that she might go to church, Sunday-school, and dancing-school, in a silk frock, fine shoes, and worked skirts and drawers, and, as her mother expressed it, "look as if she was somebody." Now Polly cared nothing at all for worked skirts or silk frocks, and very little for dancing-school, but she did love books, both story-books and school-books, and she liked to be neat every day. She could not help feeling very much ashamed when her dear friend, Sarah Ann Bond, came in to see her of a morning before school, to be caught in a dirty old merino frock, worn and faded, and patched to the last degree, and shoes down at heels.

Sarah Ann had no silk dress. Her very best frock was a plaid merino, which cost two shillings and sixpence a yard: but she always wore nice calico frocks and white aprons every day, and subscribed for the 'Children's Magazine' and the 'Penny Gazette,' and she had a convenient satchel in which to carry her books to and from school. She had a nice collection of story-books, which Polly would have given all her nice frocks to possess, and she had a canary bird and a cat, and a play-house which her father had made for her out of an old cupboard.

When Polly asked for any of these things, her mother always said, either that it was too much trouble, or that she could not afford it. But she could afford to buy an expensive set of china, and a dozen of cut-glass tumblers, and a set of fine knives and forks, all of which were quite too good for family use, and never made their appearance except when she had company. And now she was out of conceit with her tumblers, because Mrs. Cox had goblets, and dissatisfied with her ivory-handled forks, because Mrs. Cox had silver ones; and she had been straining every nerve to accomplish the purchase of those very essential articles, when Mr. Webster disappointed all her calculations by subscribing for a daily paper, and buying two new frocks and a set of new and expensive school-books for Polly.

The first of these items she did not mind so much—it sounded genteel to take a daily paper, and Mrs. Cox had two, but the latter seemed perfectly useless to her mind, and she thought herself entitled to indulge in at least a week of sulkiness in consequence. Accordingly, she never spoke one word during supper except to reprove Polly, first for taking so much butter, and then for sharing her bit of steak with poor Tabby, who gratefully accepted her piece, small and gristly though it was, and purred over it as she had never done over her nice breakfasts and dinners at home.

"What a disagreeable woman," she thought to herself. "I don't see how such a nice man came to marry her." And then she remembered how often she had been sullen at home, when things did not go to please her, and how, the very day she came away, she had refused to play with dear little Miss Ella, who had always been so kind to her. And now she was far away from them all, and they would never know how much she loved them, though she had been so naughty. All her cheerfulness vanished as these thoughts passed through her mind; moreover, she was very tired and sleepy, and her side still gave her a good deal of pain; so she went and sat down under the stove, and was soon asleep.

But she was not destined to sleep long. The baby, who had been set down on the floor to amuse himself as he best could during supper-time, spied her place of refuge, and crawling to a convenient distance, he stretched out his little hand, and, grasping Tabby by the tail, attempted to pull her towards him. Suddenly aroused by this rough treatment, and by the pain it gave to her sore side, Tabby forgot both prudence and good temper, and thought only of defending herself; and extending her too-ready claws, she gave the little fellow a severe scratch on the hand. Baby screamed of course, and his mother hastened to take him up, and examine the extent of the mischief.

"There, Miss Polly, see what your fine new pet has done—scratched poor baby's hand almost off: that is always the way with cats—nasty, treacherous creatures, you can never tell when they are going to scratch. Scat, you hateful, cross thing." And opening the door, she took the broom and drove poor Tabby out into the snow, which was now falling fast, giving her a slap with the broom as a parting present.

Polly remonstrated, but her objections were met by a box on the ear, and a command to go to bed if she could not behave herself. Polly knew by experience there was no use in opposing her mother while in such a mood as this. So she washed up the dishes in silence, and then, taking a new book which Sarah Ann had lent her, she sat down to read, but was informed that there was enough to be done without wasting time over nonsensical story-books, and commanded to take her sewing till eight o'clock, when she was sent to bed in the dark.

Poor Tabby, meanwhile, after spending some time in vainly mewing at the door for admittance, began to look about her for some place of shelter for the night from the blinding snow and the keen north wind, which seemed to pierce her through and through. At last, after much searching, she found a hole in the wall under a barn, and was just crawling into it, when she was made aware that the place had another occupant, by hearing a growl, and the words, "Who's there?" from the farthest corner.

"It is only a kitten," answered Tabby, trembling both from cold and fear. "Please, do let me come in! I am so very cold."

"Come in, and welcome," said the cat who had spoken, rising and stretching himself. "There is room enough, and we can help to keep each other warm."

Tabby gladly availed herself of the permission, and snugged down by the side of her new acquaintance, who proved to be a very large and powerful Maltese cat, fat, and in good condition, but bearing the marks of more than one battle, in his scarred nose and ragged ears.

"Why, what a little thing you are!" said the big cat compassionately. "You are only a kitten, in good earnest, and you don't look like a wild one either. I should think your folks might have let you sleep in the house in such a bitter night as this."

"I only came to this house to-night," said Tabby. "At my own house, they would never have turned me out, but that is a very different place from this. I am afraid there are not many such people in the world."

"How did you come to leave your house if it was such a good one?" naturally inquired the grey cat.

"Because I was a discontented little fool, and did not know when I was well off," replied Tabby.

And in answer to some further questions, she proceeded to relate her whole history to her new friend, greatly cheered by his sympathy, and by his beginning to lick her all over as her own mother used to do.

"And what are you going to do now?" asked the grey cat, as he concluded.

"I am sure I don't know," replied Tabby, mournfully. "I have all the while been hoping to get home again, but I am afraid there is not much chance of it now. I suppose I must look-out for some place where I can have a home and be well-treated. I have learned to catch mice since I came from home, and I would do my best to be useful."

"I suppose it would be the best way for you," said the grey cat thoughtfully. "You are hardly old enough or strong enough to get your living in a barn. I prefer that way of life to any other, now that I am used to it; though I confess, on such a night as this, I cannot help longing for my old cushion by the fire."

"So you have not always lived in a barn!" remarked Tabby, in an inquiring tone.

"Oh! No, I was brought up in the house, and very much petted, till I was two years old and more. I used to have a cushion by the parlour fire, and another in the kitchen, and stayed where I pleased, and I always had a plate set down on the floor-cloth for me after dinner, besides what the cook gave me. Everybody was kind to me, and nobody could be happier than I was for those two years. Then the house was sold, and the family moved away, and there was the end of my comfort for a while."

"But I should have thought they would have taken you with them!" said Tabby. "Why didn't they?"

"Just on account of the silliest nonsense in the world," replied the grey cat. "My mistress was what is called a superstitious woman—that is, she believed in all sorts of stuff about signs, and things being lucky and unlucky—and some one as foolish as herself persuaded her that it was unlucky to move a cat. So she went away, and left me to take care of myself or to starve, whichever I liked best. I stayed about a good while, but the people that bought the place did not like cats, and drove me out whenever I attempted to make my way into the house. So at last, in despair, I took to the barns, and now that I am used to it and have learned to provide for myself, I like it very well."

"I do not think I should ever like to live in a barn," said Tabby.

"No, I daresay not. It 'is' pretty hard, especially as one has to fight one's way among the other cats, and some of them are very ugly. I think the best way for you will be to find a place in some nice family, where they want a cat to pet. How do you like the look of things here?"

"Not at all!" returned Tabby, and she described the views she had witnessed since her arrival.

"That is just the idea I had of her," said the Maltese cat, whose name, he told Tabby, was Bold. "She has such a sharp voice. Mr. Webster seems a nice man enough. I wonder why he doesn't make his wife behave herself."

"Perhaps he can't!" suggested Tabby.

"Very likely," returned the grey cat, yawning. "It is not so easy always to make people behave themselves, especially when they have not much sense to begin with. But come, Tabby, since that is your name, curl down here by me, and let us see if we can keep each other warm for the night."

Tabby was only too glad to obey, and soon forgot all her troubles and perplexities in sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE RIVER.

THE next morning Tabby was awakened early by the cold, and at first could hardly remember where she was, but the stinging of her ears and paws soon brought her to her senses. Her companion had left her side, and on going to the entrance of the hole where she had passed the night, she saw by the footprints in the new-fallen snow that he had gone to a large barn at some distance, where he was probably engaged in catching his breakfast. At first she thought she would follow him, but she reflected that she might easily miss him, and fall in with some of those evil-disposed cats of which he had spoken the night before. At another time, perhaps, this idea would not have deterred her, but she felt weak and dispirited from the fatigues of the day before, and thought she would make one more effort to ingratiate herself with the mistress of the house, at least so far as to get some breakfast, after which she thought she might feel more like resuming her travels.

She reached the house-door accordingly, and congratulating herself on finding it ajar, she slipped in quietly, and took her seat on the floor under the stove, taking care to retreat into the farthest corner, out of reach of the baby. Having established herself safely, as she hoped, she looked eagerly round for some signs of breakfast, but none were to be seen except the dirty dishes, which Polly, with the signs of recent tears on her face, was washing up at the sink. Mrs. Webster herself was in the pantry, engaged in some cooking operations, to judge from the sound of stirring and beating of eggs which issued from the open door.

"Come, Polly, have you almost finished those dishes?" said she, coming into the kitchen with a dish in her hand. "You have been long enough about them to wash every dish in the house. I want you to go up to Martin's, and get some cinnamon and some essence of lemon."

"Father said he didn't want me to go to Martin's," said Polly.

"Never mind that," returned her mother. "You are my girl and not his, and you have got to do as I say: so make haste!"

This was one of Mrs. Webster's favourite modes of "aggravation," as Polly called it. Whenever she was particularly bent upon venting her ill-humour upon the child, she reminded her that she was not the father's own daughter. The fact was, though perhaps she hardly confessed it to herself, that she was exceedingly jealous of Polly's affection for her step-father, and thought it exceedingly unnatural in the child to like him better than herself. This was one of her "peculiar trials," as she was wont to say in her confidential conversations with her dear friend, Mrs. Cox. According to her own account, Mrs. Webster had a great many peculiar trials, and no one could say that she was not extremely liberal in sharing them with her friends.

"Come, make haste," repeated Mrs. Webster impatiently. "You get lazier and lazier every day. I have a great mind to keep you at home from school the rest of the winter, and try to teach you to work. You will never be good for anything at the rate you go on."

Polly wiped the suds from her hands, and put on her bonnet without replying to this threat, which she knew to be a vain one, as her father would never consent to her being kept out of school.

"You are not going in that old frock!" exclaimed her mother. "What if Mrs. Cox should see you? Put on your green dress."

"I thought you were in such a hurry," began Polly.

But her mother cut short her answer by a smart slap on the shoulder, and an injunction not to be impudent. The fact was, Mrs. Webster was in a thoroughly bad humour. She expected her friend and model, Mrs. Cox, to tea in the evening, and had been bent upon surprising her with the elegance of her entertainment, which she had intended should be fully equal to anything Mrs. Cox ever had at home. And now not only had her husband expended the money she had destined for plated forks and goblets in clothes and school-books, but that very morning he had absolutely refused to let her have a few shillings to purchase materials for plum-cake and macaroons, declaring that the times were too hard for poor people to indulge in such luxuries, and that he must put by every halfpenny he could spare from absolute necessaries to make the payments on his house and lot. In vain she had talked and reasoned, and even cried. Mr. Webster would not be convinced, but departed with his money folded in a paper with his savings-bank book, ready to be deposited at noon.

But more annoyance was in store for her. Polly presently returned with her hands empty. "Martin says that father told him not to let any one get things there unless they brought the money."

"Your father is enough to provoke a saint," said Mrs. Webster. "I declare, if I could contrive any decent excuse, I would send to tell Mrs. Cox not to come. We shall not have anything fit to be seen—nothing but plain pound-cake and sponge-cake, without a bit of seasoning, and no preserves but raspberry jam. I would not have done it for anything, if I had not supposed we could have things decent. Mrs. Cox is so observing, too, she is sure to see everything. As for Mrs. Randall, she never seems to know what she eats."

Tears of vexation actually stood in Mrs. Webster's eyes. Polly tried to console her.

"Why, mother, I was up at Miss Augusta's one night, and went into the dining-room just before tea. They had only then bread and butter, and sponge-cake, and a little dried beef on the table—no plum-cake or preserves at all; and they had company to tea, too, I know, for I saw the ladies in the parlour; and you know Mrs. Cox herself says they are the most elegant people in town."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Webster, a little comforted, "they ought to know what's what as well as anybody, and they are as rich as Jews too. But I suppose they had very handsome table furniture."

"It was just what they use every day," persisted Polly, "for I have been there before at meal-times."

"Well, they are queer folks, those Fords," said Mrs. Webster. "I don't pretend to understand them. Everybody looks up to them, and thinks them the grandest people in town, and yet they never seem to care a bit about style or fashion, or any such thing. They are very different from the Lambs; 'they' do make a dash worth while."

"Yes, and who thinks any more of them for it?" interrupted Polly. "Mr. Lamb is not half so much of a gentleman as father or Mr. Bond, and Mrs. Lamb does not look like a lady, with all her fine clothes; and as for manners, the Miss Lambs laugh and talk so loud on the street that people turn round to look at them. I would rather be Miss Augusta Ford than Miss Lamb, any day."

"Oh! You think Miss Augusta is perfect because she is your Sunday-school teacher. I must allow, though, that she has much manners, but I cannot understand how she can run about on foot to see all sorts of people as she does. I should not think her mother would let her."

"Her mother does just so," replied Polly. "So I would not mind about the cake, mother. I daresay everything will be nice enough, and Mrs. Cox knows that father does not get as high wages as her husband."

"Don't say wages—salary sounds far better. And another thing, Polly, while I think of it, I was quite ashamed the other afternoon, when Mr. Larned asked you your name, to hear you answer 'Polly Anne' so loud that every one in the church might hear you. Why didn't you say Marianne, as I told you?"

"Because you told me yourself that I was christened Polly Anne after grandma, and I didn't want to tell a lie in the church."

"Don't be impudent!" said her mother sharply. "Come, be smart now, and clean up the fireside before you sweep, and then I want you to put down the floor-cloth."

"Hadn't I better leave the fireside till after dinner?" asked Polly.

"I am not going to get any dinner," was the reply. "Your father has taken his, and it is not worth while to cook anything just for us two.—Turn that cat out! I am not going to have her near the fire."

"It is so cold," said Polly, pityingly. "Can't I put her down stairs? There is a rat down there, I heard him the other day, and he has gnawed some potatoes."

"Well, I don't care if you do, but I won't have her here. Come, be smart now; we shan't be through to-day."

Tabby was accordingly turned out of her warm corner, where she had been trying to forget that she was hungry, and soon found herself in a damp cold cellar in company with a heap of potatoes, and a coal-box. This last object renewed her home-sick longing, which seemed to grow stronger and stronger as the chance of reaching home grew more remote.

"O mother, mother!" she said to herself. "Shall I ever see you and dear Tody again, and do you ever think of poor, naughty Tabby?"

Overcome by these sad reflections, she sat down upon the lower stair, and cried a long time, and then, somewhat relieved by having given free vent to her sorrows, she set herself seriously about finding something to eat. But hour after hour of patient watching was all in vain. Neither rat nor mouse made its appearance, nor, though she searched in every corner, could she find so much as a dry crust of bread to satisfy the cravings of her appetite. What would she not now have given, even for some of the cold potatoes she used to disdain? She returned again and again to the only rat-hole she could find, but it was of no use; and faint with hunger and misery, she could not even forget her troubles in sleep. The cellar-door was opened once or twice, but it was always shut again so quickly that she had no chance of escape, and the windows were all tightly fastened.

She had finally fallen into a doze, and was just dreaming that she was at home with her mother and Tody, eating cold chicken off a plate under the dining-room table, when she was awakened once more by the opening of the door.

"Dear me!" she said peevishly. "It seems I am not even to sleep in peace."

But as she spoke, she looked up and saw by the light of a candle, which shot through the chink, that the door had been left ajar. She hastened up the stairs, and gently pawing against it, she succeeded in noiselessly pushing it open, and found herself again in the same kitchen, which had undergone such a change that she hardly knew it again. The grate had been blacked and polished, till it shone like the ebony shelves in Miss Sophia's cabinet; full white muslin curtains were up at the windows, and a handsome green and red floor-cloth covered the dingy rag carpet. The table was set with a fine damask cloth and handsome china, and furnished with an abundance of cakes, preserves, and dried beef, which looked so tempting to Tabby's hungry eyes that she could hardly keep her paws off them. There was no one in the room but Polly, who was tending the baby and keeping an eye on the biscuits, which were baking in the oven. The door was half-opened into the parlour, and lights and voices proclaimed that Mrs. Webster's company had arrived.

"Oh!" thought Tabby. "If I could only have a little bit of that cake or some of that beef, or even a scrap of bread!"