Shireen and her Friends: Pages from the Life of a Persian Cat

But the very heinousness of such a crime used to make me shudder and draw further back into the turret chamber. Kill Beebee’s birds! How terrible! As dreadful as if Tabby yonder were to slay poor droll Dick, of whom we are each and all so fond.

But even birds of prey used to hover high above the turret at times, and wait until Beebee threw pieces of bread towards them. Then down they would swoop as swift as arrows, and the tit-bits had not time to reach the ground before they were seized and borne away to the woods.

The woods, and the birds, and the wild flowers, these alone would have rendered our turret life an ideal one. But there was the sky also, a never-ending, ever-changing source of delight to Beebee.

We were up here in the clouds almost, for so high was the turret that often we could see little fleecy cloudlets resting over the trees in the valley far beneath. The sunrises in the east, where mountain rose o’er mountain, and hills on hills, till they hid their snowy heads in the heavens, were indescribably grand and gorgeous. Long, long before the sun itself uprose, and while the shadows of night still rested in valleys and glens, those snow-covered peaks, all jagged and toothed, were lighted up with the most delicate shades of pink and crimson, with ethereal shadows of pearly blue. Downwards and downwards the light and colour would creep, till the forests seemed to swim in a purple haze; then bars and fleeces of cloud grew before our eyes from grey to bronze, and from bronze to lake and gold, and presently the sun’s red disc shimmered over the horizon and it was day; and the whole woods awakened at once into a burst of joyous bird-music and melody.

The sunsets used to be equally lovely.

Beebee would watch the sea all day long almost. It never was lacking in charm for her, whether grey under clouds of pearl, or bright blue under a cloudless sky, or dark with trailing thunderstorms, it was always the sea; and when a ship appeared, she would clap her tiny hands for very joy, and run to procure her lorgnettes, that she might even see the sailors as they walked to and fro across the decks, or leant listlessly over the bulwarks.

“Some day, some day,” she would cry, “some day, dear Shireen, you and I will be on the ocean, and then, oh! then, at last, I shall be free. I have been by its banks, Shireen, and have heard the music of its waters. But it has a secret, a secret that it tells only to those who brave its dangers.

“‘Wouldst thou, the helmsman answered,Learn the secrets of the sea?Only those who brave its dangers,Comprehend its mystery.’

“But,” she added, still quoting the American bard: —

“‘Ah! what pleasant visions haunt meAs I gaze upon the sea!All the old romantic legends,All my dreams come back to me.“‘Sails of silk and ropes of sendal,Such as gleam in ancient lore;And the singing of the sailors,And the answers from the shore.“‘Till my soul is filled with longingFor the secret of the sea;And the heart of that great oceanSends a thrilling pulse through me.’”

Yet beautiful though the sunsets used to be they seemed ever to throw a shadow of melancholy over Beebee’s heart, and whether Miss Morgan was in the room or not, she would sit at the balcony casement in dreamy silence long after the glory of the clouds had left them, and the shades of night were falling over sea and land.

Then the stars would glimmer out, and their light appeared always to make her happy once more. The evening star was her especial favourite, not because it is the star of love, but because she called it and thought it her mother’s eye.

She would make her governess repeat to her, often over and over again, Longfellow’s beautiful lines to this star: —

“Just above yon sandy bar,As the day grows fainter and dimmer,Lonely and lovely a single starLights the air with a dusty glimmer.“Into the ocean faint and far,Falls the trail of its golden splendour;And the gleam of that single star,Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender.”

Yes, I think Beebee loved that star better even than she loved the moon that in silver radiance used to shine softly, dreamily down on the woods and wilds.

My children, continued Shireen after a pause, I dwell longer on these pleasant scenes than perhaps I ought to; for, ah! me, this was the happiest part of my existence, and now that I am old and know I must soon sleep beneath the daisies, the thought of my ideal life then cheers my heart and banishes sadness far away.

But a change came. You must know then, Warlock, that Beebee did not neglect the advice the good physician had given her, and that every day she rode out into the woods and into the forests, always with a retinue of armed servants.

Why such a retinue, did you ask, Warlock? Well, I think there were two reasons. One was that the eunuch, who was Beebee’s special guardian, had received from her father strict injunctions never to let her beyond his ken; another was that the country some distance from the palace was infested by roving banditti, and that these robbers were sometimes in the pay of dissolute nobles, and would think but little of attacking a cavalcade, if they thought themselves strong enough to overpower it, and bearing away with them a young lady as prisoner.

But Beebee had not the slightest fear for herself. Her father was bold and brave to a fault. The daughter was brave without being bold. She bore but little good-will now, however, to that fierce-eyed black guardian of hers, and when out in the forest she was mischievous enough to give him many a fright. Beebee, you must know, was a great favourite with all her father’s retainers, and she used to bribe the chief groom sometimes to saddle for her a very fleet horse, and to let Jazr the black eunuch have but a sorry one. Then she would touch her horse with her spurs of gold when far away in the forest, and laughingly calling to Jazr to follow, soon out-distance all her pursuers.

She would hide from them, and then ride home another way, and it would be eventide before Jazr abandoned the search and came back disconsolate, to be told that Beebee had been home hours and hours before.

It was during one of these wild rides that Beebee had the strange adventure I am now going to describe to you.

I myself was with her that day, and so was Miss Morgan. This lady did not love Jazr a whit more than did Beebee.

Miss Morgan had an exceedingly fleet horse that day, but somehow Jazr’s nag had gone lame, and Beebee rode on ahead, quickly followed by Miss Morgan, and both were soon far beyond the fear of any pursuit.

Instead, however, of riding homewards to-day as usual, it pleased Beebee’s fancy to turn her horse’s head towards the hills.

The poor child seemed to exult in her newly-acquired freedom. Why should she be watched and guarded as if she were a prisoner and a thief? she asked Miss Morgan.

“Why indeed?” answered that lady.

“Daughters are not so treated in Merrie England, are they, dear teacher?”

“Oh, no, Beebee, my pupil. There they have much freedom, and are looked upon as in every way the equals of man!”

“How I long to see England,” said Beebee.

Then she bent down to me and patted my head.

“Some day, Shireen,” she said, “some day. Ah! I know my freedom will come! Perhaps my prince may come. In all pretty stories and fairy-tales a prince always comes.”

She laughed lightly as she spurred on her horse, Miss Morgan following close to her heels.

But little did Beebee know that her prince had already come, and that he was at the present moment in this very forest.

“Is it not time we returned?” said Miss Morgan, after they had ridden some distance farther. “The priest’s house in the wood that we passed nearly half-an-hour ago is the last in the forest. The mountains come soon now. Behold, Beebee, the pathway is already winding upwards. Farther on we may come upon the den of a wild beast, or even worse, the haunts of some evil men!”

Beebee was accustomed to be guided by her governess in everything, so she now reined up her steed, and both stopped short, and permitted the horses to help themselves to a few mouthfuls of the long tender grass that grew abundantly all around them.

The silence in this part of the dark wild forest was a silence that the heart could feel. Except for the occasional throbbing notes of a bulbul in the distance, no sound of any kind fell upon their ears for a time.

Suddenly, however, from an adjoining thicket came a sound that caused the hearts of both young ladies to beat faster as they listened breathlessly.

Twice or thrice it was repeated.

“What can it be, Miss Morgan?” said Beebee, turning a shade paler. “It sounds like someone moaning in pain or dying agony.”

“Nay, nay, dear pupil,” answered Miss Morgan, “we must not think that. It is in all probability but the mournful croodling of some wood pigeon. Hark, there it is again.”

Once more they listened.

There could be no mistake about it now, for not only was this moaning repeated, but after it a voice was heard calling feebly for help.

“Oh, sister,” cried Beebee, now thoroughly alarmed, “it is some poor wounded man. We cannot leave him. We must fly to his assistance!”

Without adding another word Beebee pushed the branches aside and urged on her steed towards the spot from which the sounds proceeded.

Miss Morgan followed close behind.

And soon they came to a kind of green grassy glade in the forest, which, from the trampled condition of the sward, gave evidence that a fearful struggle had taken place there but very recently.

One man lay face downwards on the ground, and it was easy to see he would never need help again.

But the other, evidently an Englishman, sat half up leaning on one elbow, his other hand pressed against his side, and blood trickling over his fingers.

Beebee quickly alighted from her horse and tied the bridle to a tree.

She was a Persian, it is true, but she had a woman’s heart, and here was a fellow-creature in pain and probably dying. She did not even notice that her veil had fallen down as she quickly rushed towards the stranger and knelt pityingly at his side.

Chapter Nine

The Adventure in the Forest

“You are wounded, poor stranger,” cried Beebee compassionately. “Are you much hurt?”

She spoke in English.

“I fear I am a little,” was the faint reply. “They have attacked and robbed me, and they have slain my faithful servant, and, indeed, they left me here for dead.”

“But pray,” he continued, “save yourselves, young ladies. The bandits may quickly come again.”

This was no time for false modesty. The poor fellow was bleeding to death. But Miss Morgan had that which no English man or woman should be without. She possessed a little skill in surgery.

So with her own handkerchief, and that of Beebee’s, she quickly staunched the bleeding, then commanded her patient to lie flat upon the grass in order to lessen the force of the circulation.

“And now,” said Beebee, “what are we to do? We cannot take this poor stranger to the palace. Jazr would kill him, and father would kill me.”

Here Beebee blushingly restored her veil to its place.

“But,” she continued, “we cannot leave him thus to perish here in the wilderness. I have it, dear governess. Ride back quickly, and at once, to the house of the priest, and cause him to send immediately his servants with a litter. At the priest’s house the stranger will be safe, and the good priest himself will be well rewarded.”

“But, Beebee, my dear pupil, will you not be afraid?”

“No, no, no,” cried Beebee, and at that moment I thought my little mistress looked all a queen. She spoke to Miss Morgan impatiently, almost imperiously.

“Go immediately,” she cried, “ride as hard as you safely can. Do not fear for me. I shall be safe until you return.”

Next minute Miss Morgan mounted her horse and quickly disappeared.

The stranger seemed slightly better now, that he was no longer losing blood, and would have tried to sit up in order to talk, but Beebee held up a warning finger.

“You must rest,” she said. “Miss Morgan would be displeased were you to sit up.”

He obeyed as if he had been a child.

Although pale and sickly-looking with the loss of blood, very handsome indeed was this stranger, dark brown hair cut short, a dark moustache, well-chiselled features, and beautiful eyes, quite as blue as mine, Warlock.

“You have saved my life,” he murmured. “May I ask whom I have to thank, and who is Miss Morgan?”

“I am the only daughter of an officer of the Shah,” said Beebee. “I have no mother. I may say I have no father. He – he is travelling now to Europe with our great king. Miss Morgan is the dearest friend I have on earth; an English lady who came to me as a companion, and to teach me your beautiful language.”

“You speak it well, Miss – ”

“They simply call me Beebee.”

“May God bless and keep you, Beebee, for ever and ay. You have to-day saved my life, and I feel very grateful. A soldier should ever be ready to die. But if he is doomed to be slain he should fall in battle, with his back to the field and his feet to the foe, and not by the hand of wretched bandits, who stab men to death for a few handfuls of gold.”

“You are a soldier then? But you wear no uniform? You carry no arms?”

The wounded officer smiled feebly.

“I have been travelling for my health in your lovely country. It is not usual for British soldiers to wear uniforms or carry swords when not on duty.”

“And your name, brave soldier?”

“How know you I am brave?”

“You must be brave,” said Beebee innocently and naïvely, “because you are handsome, nay, even as beautiful as my father. Yes, you are brave, Mr – ”

“My name is Edgar.”

“It is a strange name, but somewhat musical. Edgar, I shall often think of you. I may even dream of you, but I shall dream of you and think of you as you must appear in battle leading on your men to storm a breach. But now, talk no longer lest you faint with weakness.”

“One question more, lady. You are going to have me taken to the house of a priest. But where do you yourself dwell?”

“Oh, many miles from here.”

“But will you never come to see me? My wounds may take many weeks to heal.”

“I do not know.”

Beebee’s eyes were downcast now. She was petting and smoothing my head, Warlock.

“I shall die if you do not come sometimes to see me.”

“I shall send Miss Morgan, she is English.”

“I will die if you do not accompany her.”

“Then you must live. Oh, I would not have you die on any account. Now, be still. See, I have a little book of English poems. This is ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ I will read to you.”

Beebee sat herself innocently down on the grass close beside the wounded stranger, and in her sweet musical young voice commenced to read that romantic and spirited poem, while Edgar listened, his eyes on her face, or on the portion of it visible.

She read on and on and on, and the time flew quietly, quickly past.

Presently, however, her quick ears detected the sound of horses’ hoofs, soft though their footfall was upon the long greensward.

“They come,” she cried, rising, and just at that moment the boughs were dashed aside, and Miss Morgan entered the glade, speedily followed by four or five men bearing a litter. The priest himself was with them.

“Ah!” he said in French, “one poor fellow has had his coup de grace. He has gone, I trust, to a better world than this; but you, Monsieur – ”

Me bent down and felt Edgar’s pulse, long and anxiously.

A finely-formed man was this French Catholic priest. Very tall, brown with the sun, and bearded.

“You will live,” he said. “You have youth and strength, and you shall have rest and quiet. All will combine to restore you.”

“Thank Heaven,” said Beebee.

She was bending down over me, and I noticed that she was weeping. I licked her hand, and she then took me up and embraced me.

Very gently indeed was the wounded stranger placed on that litter of soft green boughs and borne away, to the priest’s house.

This house was on the edge of the forest, built on a green brae-land at the head of a bushy dell or glen, adown which went a silver thread of a river winding in and winding out among its green banks, and forming many a rapid and cascade ere it finally disappeared and rolled on in its search for the sea.

Edgar was surprised at the comfort and even elegance of everything about the French Catholic priest’s house, and that evening, as the good man sat by his bedside, he took occasion to express his wonderment in as delicate language as he could command.

“You think it strange that I should dwell here almost alone. Ah! but, dear sir, I have a mission. I fill a niche. I think I even do good, and have taught souls to find Christ. The present Shah is tolerant of religions not his own, else would I soon be banished.

“You were surprised also, dear young sir,” he continued, “at the deftness with which I bound up your wound and dressed your bruises, but I was not always a priest. I was a surgeon. But I loved and I lost. Oh, it is a common story enough. Then I joined the priesthood and came here an exile, and almost a hermit, to cure souls and bodies. Yes, many seek my assistance, and I never refuse it. But, believe me, my dear sir, I can be just, as well as generous, and the scoundrels who attacked you and so basely murdered your servant shall not go unpunished. And now, my friend, go to sleep. You have nothing to do but get well.”

Edgar was in a burning fever next day nevertheless, and for nearly two weeks lay in bed hovering betwixt death and life.

When he recovered sufficiently to look about him, one beautiful afternoon, the evening sunshine stealing in through his window and falling on a bouquet of flowers beside him on the table, the first face he recognised was that of Miss Morgan.

She sat not far off, quietly embroidering a piece of work.

Seeing him awake and sensible, she approached his pillow smiling, and held something to his lips, which he swallowed without a murmur.

“How good you have been, dear Miss Morgan!” he murmured. “You have been near to me all the time. No, I have not been quite insensible. And Beebee, was she not here also?”

“She was. Sometimes. I myself have only come to see you now and then. We – we had a difficulty in getting away.”

“How good! How good! But the difficulty?”

“It is in the fact,” said Miss Morgan mournfully, “that my sweet young friend and pupil is sold to the Shah.”

“Sold to the Shah!” cried Edgar. “She, a mere child, so beautiful, so winning! Oh, Miss Morgan, I have dreamt of her every hour, and indeed – I – I – have got to love her. And she is gone. Oh, how horrible!”

“Nay, nay, you misunderstand me somewhat. Beebee has not gone. She is but promised to the Sultan or King. When she comes of age, or rather when she is two years older, then – she will be a slave indeed. Oh, I assure you, sir, it breaks my heart to lose her.”

At this moment the door quietly opened, and Beebee herself entered, followed by the priest-physician. She started slightly when she noticed that Edgar was now awake and sensible.

He held out his hand. It was a very thin and a very white one.

“I know all, Beebee,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, and you have come to me at great risk too. I understand what that risk has been, and I understand also Persian laws and Persian fathers. You have risked your honour and your life.”

“I could not help coming,” said Beebee innocently, “because I thought you would die. But now, we must part. We must never meet again. It is fate.”

“Must it, indeed, be so?” said Edgar gloomily.

“Indeed, I fear it must,” put in Miss Morgan.

“And I,” said Edgar. “I – am a soldier. I must try not to repine. But I cannot bear to think that we shall never meet again. I will pray that it may be otherwise, and that there may be happy days yet in store for you, Beebee – may I even say for us.”

He paused for a moment.

Beebee was silent, and weeping quietly as women-folks do, Warlock.

I had jumped up on the couch where poor Edgar lay, and was rubbing my head against his shoulder.

“This cat, Beebee,” continued Edgar, “is she very dear to you?”

“She is a friend. Poor Shireen! Sometimes when I am solitary and alone her affection and kindness is a great solace to me. But she is very young.”

She had drawn closer to the couch, and was patting my head.

“I think she loves me,” she added.

“I think,” said Edgar, touching her hand lightly, “this puss, Shireen, is a medium. Else how could you have read my thoughts?”

“Shireen is yours.”

“But I dare not deprive you of a friend so good and beautiful.”

“Nay, nay, do not speak thus. She will be a soldier’s cat.”

“On one condition only shall I accept the gift, Beebee.”

“And that condition?”

“That I may be permitted to bring her back to you at some future time. Within two years, Beebee?”

Once more he touched her hand.

“Two years,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I will be dead ere then.”

“Nay, nay, nay,” he cried, almost fiercely, “for the wrong that your parents would do you must never be accomplished.”

“Speak no more, sir. Speak no more, Edgar.”

“Adieu, Edgar. Adieu, Shireen.”

“Adieu!”

Then they led her weeping away.

Did I ever see my sweet mistress again? Was that what you asked me, Warlock? Well, I will tell you another day. For see, my master is getting up to go. No, Vee-Vee, I do not want your convoy. Go home with master, and you, too, Dick and Warlock.

“Well, good afternoon, old friend,” said Colonel Clarkson, shaking hands with Uncle Ben. “You’ll come up to-morrow evening to the Castle, won’t you?”

“That will I. Ha, your old puss is off then.”

“Yes,” said the Colonel. “She has queer ways altogether. She is going now on a round of visits. I do wish she were not so old. We shall all miss poor Shireen when she dies. Good-day.”

Dick at once flew on to his master’s shoulder. Tabby cocked her tail and trotted along by his side, and the dogs followed.

It may seem strange to some readers that a starling should become so tame, but I wish the reader to remember that Dick is a study from the real life, and not a bird of the author’s imagination.

The road homewards was about two miles in all. During the walk Dick kept on his master’s shoulder until about half-way to the castle. They were then between two hedges, and just beyond was a field of turnips. Among these Dick knew right well he would find some of his favourite tit-bits, so without saying, by your leave, to his master, he flew off over the hedge.

Colonel Clarkson waited a reasonable time, but as Dick did not reappear, he bent down towards the Tabby cat and smoothed her.

“Go, find,” he said.

In a moment the cat was off through the hedge.

The Colonel listened with an amused smile on his face. He knew right well what would happen.

Then he heard Dick’s voice, and knew that pussy had found the truant.

“Eh? Eh? What is it?” These are his very words. “Tse, tse, tse! Sugar and snails! You r-r-rascal!”

Then back flew Dick to his master. Tabby herself appeared next minute, and the journey was resumed without further incident or adventure.

Meanwhile, where was Shireen?

When Shireen left Uncle Ben’s bungalow, she kept along inside the railing for some time. It was about the hour at which the butcher’s dog came out for his evening run, and Shireen knew right well he would be revenged on her if he possibly could, so she was determined not to give him the chance. But the coast was clear, and soon she was in the village. She trotted into the blacksmith’s shop, and he had a very kindly greeting for her, Shireen was very fond of spending half-an-hour with the blacksmith. Cats like pleasant people, and he was always laughing or singing, and often beating time to his song with the hammer on a red-hot horse-shoe, while the yellow sparks flew in all directions. Besides, there was always a nice fire here, and an air of comfort in the place – to Shireen’s way of thinking. She was a high-bred cat, it is true, and a cat of ancient lineage, as we know, but she was not at all aristocratic in the choice of her friends.

Shireen left the blacksmith at last, and went to see the sick child. It is strange, but true as well as strange, that cats never fail to sympathise with human beings in grief or suffering.