old horridan went on beatin the poor girl till she was quite exosted, and fell down on the sophy, puffin like a poppus.
“For shame, Mary,” began old Shum; “for shame, you naughty gal, you! for hurting the feelings of your dear mamma, and beating your kind sister.”
“Why, it was because she called you a—”
“If she did, you pert miss,” said Shum, looking mighty dignitified, “I could correct her, and not you.”
“You correct me, indeed!” said Miss Betsy, turning up her nose, if possible, higher than before; “I should like to see you erect me! Imperence!” and they all began laffin again.
By this time Mrs. S. had recovered from the effex of her exsize, and she began to pour in HER wolly. Fust she called Mary names, then Shum.
“Oh, why,” screeched she, “why did I ever leave a genteel famly, where I ad every ellygance and lucksry, to marry a creatur like this? He is unfit to be called a man, he is unworthy to marry a gentlewoman; and as for that hussy, I disown her. Thank heaven she an't a Slamcoe; she is only fit to be a Shum!”
“That's true, mamma,” said all the gals; for their mother had taught them this pretty piece of manners, and they despised their father heartily: indeed, I have always remarked that, in famlies where the wife is internally talking about the merits of her branch, the husband is invariably a spooney.
Well, when she was exosted again, down she fell on the sofy, at her old trix—more screeching—more convulshuns: and she wouldn't stop, this time, till Shum had got her half a pint of her old remedy, from the “Blue Lion” over the way. She grew more easy as she finished the gin; but Mary was sent out of the room, and told not to come back agin all day.
“Miss Mary,” says I—for my heart yurned to the poor gal, as she came sobbing and miserable down stairs: “Miss Mary,” says I, “if I might make so bold, here's master's room empty, and I know where the cold bif and pickles is.” “Oh, Charles!” said she, nodding her head sadly, “I'm too retched to have any happytite.” And she flung herself on a chair, and began to cry fit to bust.
At this moment who should come in but my master. I had taken hold of Miss Mary's hand, somehow, and do believe I should have kist it, when, as I said, Haltamont made his appearance. “What's this?” cries he, lookin at me as black as thunder, or as Mr. Phillips as Hickit, in the new tragedy of MacBuff.
“It's only Miss Mary, sir,” answered I.
“Get out, sir,” says he, as fierce as posbil; and I felt somethink (I think it was the tip of his to) touching me behind, and found myself, nex minit, sprawling among the wet flannings and buckets and things.
The people from up stairs came to see what was the matter, as I was cussin and crying out. “It's only Charles, ma,” screamed out Miss Betsy.
“Where's Mary?” says Mrs. Shum, from the sofy.
“She's in Master's room, miss,” said I.
“She's in the lodger's room, ma,” cries Miss Shum, heckoing me.
“Very good; tell her to stay there till he comes back.” And then Miss Shum went bouncing up the stairs again, little knowing of Haltamont's return.
… …
I'd long before observed that my master had an anchoring after Mary Shum; indeed, as I have said, it was purely for her sake that he took and kep his lodgings at Pentonwille. Excep for the sake of love, which is above being mersnary, fourteen shillings a wick was a LITTLE too strong for two such rat-holes as he lived in. I do blieve the famly had nothing else but their lodger to live on: they brekfisted off his tea-leaves, they cut away pounds and pounds of meat from his jints (he always dined at home), and his baker's bill was at least enough for six. But that wasn't my business. I saw him grin, sometimes, when I laid down the cold bif of a morning, to see how little was left of yesterday's sirline; but he never said a syllabub: for true love don't mind a pound of meat or so hextra.
At first, he was very kind and attentive to all the gals; Miss Betsy, in partickler, grew mighty fond of him: they sat, for whole evenings, playing cribbitch, he taking his pipe and glas, she her tea and muffing; but as it was improper for her to come alone, she brought one of her sisters, and this was genrally Mary—for he made a pint of asking her, too—and one day, when one of the others came instead, he told her, very quitely, that he hadn't invited her; and Miss Buckmaster was too fond of muffings to try this game on again: besides, she was jealous of her three grown sisters, and considered Mary as only a child. Law bless us! how she used to ogle him, and quot bits of pottry, and play “Meet Me by Moonlike,” on an old gitter: she reglar flung herself at his head: but he wouldn't have it, bein better ockypied elsewhere.
One night, as genteel as possible, he brought home tickets for “Ashley's,” and proposed to take the two young ladies—Miss Betsy and Miss Mary, in course. I recklect he called me aside that afternoon, assuming a solamon and misterus hare, “Charles,” said he, “ARE YOU UP TO SNUFF?”
“Why sir,” said I, “I'm genrally considered tolerably downy.”
“Well,” says he, “I'll give you half a suffering if you can manage this bisness for me; I've chose a rainy night on purpus. When the theatre is over, you must be waitin with two umbrellows; give me one, and hold the other over Miss Buckmaster: and, hark ye, sir, TURN TO THE RIGHT when you leave the theater, and say the coach is ordered to stand a little way up the street, in order to get rid of the crowd.”
We went (in a fly hired by Mr. A.), and never shall I forgit Cartliche's hacting on that memrable night. Talk of Kimble! talk of Magreedy! Ashley's for my money, with Cartlitch in the principal part. But this is nothink to the porpus. When the play was over, I was at the door with the umbrellos. It was raining cats and dogs, sure enough.
Mr. Altamont came out presently, Miss Mary under his arm, and Miss Betsy following behind, rayther sulky. “This way, sir,” cries I, pushin forward; and I threw a great cloak over Miss Betsy, fit to smother her. Mr. A. and Miss Mary skipped on and was out of sight when Miss Betsy's cloak was settled, you may be sure.
“They're only gone to the fly, miss. It's a little way up the street, away from the crowd of carridges.” And off we turned TO THE RIGHT, and no mistake.
After marchin a little through the plash and mud, “Has anybody seen Coxy's fly?” cries I, with the most innocent haxent in the world.
“Cox's fly!” hollows out one chap. “Is it the vaggin you want?” says another. “I see the blackin wan pass,” giggles out another gentlmn; and there was such a hinterchange of compliments as you never heerd. I pass them over though, because some of 'em were not wery genteel.
“Law, miss,” said I, “what shall I do? My master will never forgive me; and I haven't a single sixpence to pay a coach.” Miss Betsy was just going to call one when I said that; but the coachman wouldn't have it at that price, he said, and I knew very well that SHE hadn't four or five shillings to pay for a wehicle. So, in the midst of that tarin rain, at midnight, we had to walk four miles, from Westminster Bridge to Pentonwille; and what was wuss, I DIDN'T HAPPEN TO KNOW THE WAY. A very nice walk it was, and no mistake.
At about half-past two, we got safe to John Street. My master was at the garden gate. Miss Mary flew into Miss Betsy's arms, while master begun cussin and swearing at me for disobeying his orders, and TURNING TO THE RIGHT INSTEAD OF TO THE LEFT! Law bless
