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!"

This was not a very good thought for a hungry kitten to cherish in sight of a well-furnished table; and the said table being left for the moment without any guard, she mounted upon a chair and carefully abstracted a small piece of beef, which she thought would not be missed. She had hardly jumped down with her prize, and secreted herself behind the closet-door, before Mrs. Webster entered the room. Tabby shrunk into the smallest possible compass, and was careful not to make the least particle of noise in devouring her morsel, which seemed, from its smallness, to increase her hunger, as it certainly did her thirst.

Mrs. Webster cast a vigilant eye upon the table, altered the arrangement of things a little, and then proceeded to take the biscuits out of the oven and to make tea. This done, she washed her hands, settled her very handsome silk dress and head-dress a little, and invited the ladies who were her guests to sit down. Polly did not make her appearance, but stayed in the bedroom to tend the baby, and Mr. Webster had not come in. Indeed, he rather avoided his wife's tea-parties, for he did not particularly like her fine friends, and could not help thinking that they sometimes amused themselves at her attempts to be genteel, in which conjecture he was perfectly right, at least so far as regarded Mrs. Cox.

"I had a call from one of your neighbours the other day, Mrs. Webster," said Mrs. Cox, as she was buttering her biscuit.

"From one of my neighbours?" repeated Mrs. Webster. "Who could it be? I did not know that there was any one here who visited you."

"Neither more nor less than Mrs. Bond, the policeman's lady," replied Mrs. Cox, laughing heartily. "Only think how honoured I felt!"

"You don't mean to say that woman actually came to call on you!" said Mrs. Webster, in a tone intended to express the utmost surprise at the said woman's audacity.

"She certainly did. I thought she came on an errand at first, of course, and waited patiently to find out what she wanted, not dreaming, of course, that she intended a visit. I did not even ask her to sit down, but she helped herself to a chair, and sat talking as freely as you please. Presently there was a ring at the door, and in walked Mrs. Lamb. I felt ashamed enough, I can tell you, especially as Mrs. Bond never offered to go, but sat talking in her calico frock and hood, as composedly as if she were the grandest lady in the land. However, I took care to tell Mrs. Lamb, after she had gone, that she was only a poor person who had come on an errand."

"I suppose you will hardly return her visit," said Mrs. Webster, and both the "ladies" laughed, as though the idea was a very ridiculous one. "She is always running in here," continued Mrs. Webster, "and, I am sorry to say, my Marianne has got up a wonderful intimacy with her oldest daughter. I have tried to break it up, but find it difficult, as they go to school together, and are in the same class in Sunday-school. I think it has a very unfavourable effect upon Marianne's manners."

"I never allow 'my' children to associate with 'common' children," said Mrs. Cox, drawing herself up. "There are only two families in the street that I permit them to play with at all. I should not think I was performing the duties of a parent if I allowed them to form improper associations."

"I saw your Fred out in the barn with Tom Bond the other day," said the other lady, who had hitherto been rather silent. "They were amusing themselves with stoning a kitten that was making its way through the snow—at least Fred was, for I did not see Tom throw anything. I think the Bond children very nice well-trained little things, for my part."

"I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Randall," said Mrs. Cox, colouring, and looking extremely offended. "My Frederick is too obedient to his parents' commands to form improper associations, and he and his brothers have been particularly enjoined to avoid any intimacy with the Bonds."

"I think I shall take some more decided steps to break off Marianne's intimacy with them," remarked Mrs. Webster; "and I certainly shall discourage Mrs. Bond's running in here as often as she does. It is very disagreeable."

"What a mean woman!" thought Tabby. "Just as if I did not hear her send Polly over there to borrow things, at least three times this morning."

But if even Tabby's indignation was roused, we may be sure Polly's was to the boiling-point. She could only find relief by talking to herself.

"Yes, it is all very well to talk about breaking off with the Bonds. I wonder who went over to Mrs. Bond's yesterday to get her to cut out a cap for Tommy, and stayed all the morning, though Mrs. Bond's baby was sick, and she was just as busy as she could be washing? And who sends to her for all sorts of things every day in the week? I should think they would be ashamed."

But Mrs. Cox was again holding forth in her oratorical tones:

"Yes, we always dine late—at four o'clock. I would not dine a moment earlier on any account. Mr. Cox comes home from the counting-house at that time, and I always intend to have my dinner ready, and of the best quality. We usually have soup. Mr. Cox is exceedingly fond of soup and dessert;" which Mrs. Cox pronounced "desert," as though she had meant a sandy waste. "Mr. Cox says he enjoys his dessert more than all the rest of his dinner. Mrs. Lamb dines at six o'clock, but as Mr. Cox is obliged at present to return to the counting-house at five, that hour is not convenient for him."

"There she goes!" said Polly. "I never saw Mrs. Cox in the world that she did not say something about dinner. I must say, I don't think it is very genteel to talk so much about eating and drinking."

Mrs. Webster now offered her guests a bit of the smoked halibut which she had been reserving for this grand occasion. Mrs. Randall accepted it, and expressed herself fond of it, but Mrs. Cox declined.

"I never eat such things at tea," she said in her emphatic and decided manner. "Relishes for tea are entirely out of fashion, quite out of date in fact, and so are warm biscuits. They are considered by many very unwholesome, and Mr. Cox never eats them at tea. This bread and butter is all the go," she concluded elegantly. "Mrs. Lamb has this bread and butter."

"Well, I call that polite!" thought Tabby. "Just after she has been eating them!"

Poor Mrs. Webster! The want of the goblets and silver forks was nothing to this. After she had taken such pains to provide nice light biscuits, and had cut her dried beef so thin, and cooked her halibut to a turn, to be told upon a Mrs. Lamb's high authority, indorsed by a Mrs. Cox, that relishes were out of fashion, and that nobody ate hot rolls! She felt herself reduced to the level of a nobody at once.

"Indeed, I think the biscuits are very nice," said quiet Mrs. Randall, helping herself to another, "and so is the fish. What signifies whether things are fashionable or not, so long as they are good and convenient?"

But Mrs. Webster was not to be consoled by one who held such views as these, and applied herself to Mrs. Cox with the intention of gaining such further information as should prevent her making such fatal mistakes in future.

"And for breakfast, Mrs. Cox? What do you think about breakfast?"

"Oh! Hot rolls for breakfast by all means, and toast and eggs."

"I like that woman," said Tabby to herself. "I wish I knew where she lived, and I would go there to-morrow. As for that other woman, she is just fit to be the mother of that hateful boy who threw the apple at me."

"Much she knows about gentility!" was Polly's comment. "Mrs. Bond is as good as she is, any day, and ten times as much of a lady. I should like to know why she should not call on Mrs. Cox if she wants to do so, though why she should I can't imagine. And for mother to talk so about her, when she is for ever sending there for things, and getting Mrs. Bond to do things for her, and to help her about her work! I would not ask favours of people that I was ashamed of associating with, for my part."

Polly's soliloquy was interrupted by a call to supper, and having at last succeeded in getting the baby to sleep, she laid him on the bed, sitting by him a few moments to pat and hush him; for she loved her little brother dearly, and never grudged the time she spent in tending him.

Meanwhile Tabby was left alone in the kitchen. The table was still standing, with its attractive-looking plates of meat and cakes, and the cellar-door was open. The temptation was too much for Tabby. She sprang upon the table, and Mrs. Webster, coming in from the other room, was just in time to see Tabby finish a drink out of the cream-jug, and seize the piece of fish in her mouth. She sprang forward, but the four feet were too nimble for her two, and puss and fish vanished through the cellar-door.

"What a naughty kitten!" some of my young readers will doubtless exclaim. "I don't care what becomes of such a little thief."

It is doubtless very naughty to steal, but let me ask you one question: Were you ever in all your life very hungry? I daresay you have been hungry enough to have your dinner or supper taste very good to you, but did you ever go without food till your head turned round with giddiness, and ached as though it would split, and your limbs trembled, and your eyes seemed full of black and green spots, and there was a pain in your stomach as though a rat was gnawing through it? Unless you have experienced a sensation like this, you can hardly form a correct estimate of the temptation presented to poor Tabby, who had been almost entirely without food for thirty-six hours. Suppose you had eaten nothing since yesterday morning at breakfast, and had been more than half that time out of doors, with the thermometer below zero! And then suppose that, under such circumstances, you had been left alone in the room with a piece of cake, what do you suppose would become of the cake?

I am not saying that it was not wrong for Tabby to steal. It was very wrong, and very short-sighted besides; for Polly had fully intended to divide her supper with the kitten, in which case not only would she have fared better, but she would have escaped the consequences of her theft, which, as we shall see, very nearly cost her her life. Some misgivings, indeed, passed through Tabby's own mind, as she was devouring her prize behind the pork-barrel, whither she had fled for safety.

"I know mother would say I ought not to have taken it," she said to herself, "but I was so hungry, it seemed as though I could not wait another minute. Well, they will not do anything to me to-night, because of the company, and to-morrow I will surely find some way of escape."

But Tabby reckoned without her host. Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Randall took their leave about half-past seven; and no sooner were they gone, than Mrs. Webster went down to the cellar, armed with broom and candle, drove Tabby from her place of refuge, and after more than once chasing her round the cellar, seized her by the back of the neck, and despite her struggles and scratches, bore her to the upper air. Tabby mewed piteously, and Polly cried and expostulated, but all in vain.

Mrs. Webster carried her to the fence, and shouted "David!"

A rough-looking man, with a pipe in his mouth, made his appearance from the next house, which was not much more than a hut.

"Here, I want you to take this cat, and throw her over the bridge. I will give you an old bag to tie her in, and be sure you put a good heavy stone in it. Do it directly, and I will give you sixpence."

The bag was produced and handed to David, who promised to execute the command, and poor Tabby soon found herself enveloped in a warm, ill-smelling old bag, and going she knew not whither, or rather, alas she knew too well. In all her previous adventures, she had never given up the expectation of reaching home, and seeing all her dear friends again, but now hope itself seemed to forsake her. Her head whirled round. All sorts of confused thoughts and images passed through her mind: the happy home she had deserted so wilfully; the kind and self-sacrificing mother whom she had rewarded with such base ingratitude, though she had so carefully tended her, and never thought she could do too much for her; the dear little brother, who loved her in spite of her unkindness to him.

She seemed to see herself a little helpless being, unable to move a limb in her own defence, or even to get her eyes wide open, and her good mother watching and guarding her with the tenderest solicitude. Then when she began to creep out of her basket, and play about with Tody, how careful her mother was to keep her out of danger, and how many hours she had spent in amusing her, and teaching her the use of her limbs; how she had always given her the best morsels on their common plate, and how much pains she had taken to teach her to catch mice for herself. Remembrances of Ella and Marian and all their kindness, of Tessy's affection and Agnes Warrington's cruelty, mingled with these reflections, and all seemed confusedly mixed up with Carlo's bark and the neighing of horses, with the conversation she had lately heard, and the sobs and entreaties of Polly, interceding with her hard-hearted mother for the life of her favourite. In the midst of it all, she heard a rushing sound—knew that the river was near—felt a sudden shock, and a swift descent, and lost all consciousness as the cold waters closed over her head, apparently for ever.