I now perceived that there was no escape for me; for though the looking-glass might mean any one in the family, and the coffin was quite as near Edward as myself, still, alas! there was no mistaking the winding-sheet, for it pointed right at me, and said, as plainly as it could speak, “Caroline Sk—n—st—n, beware!” so that, when I put the looking-glass, and the coffin, and the winding-sheet together, I wished anybody but myself would stand in my shoes, for it was clear that I had already got one foot in the grave.
All this took such a hold of my mind, and I could see the linger of fate pointing at me so plainly, that I declare I hadn’t courage to eat anything for weeks, and so lost, by my foolish fears, many excellent good dinners; for, indeed, I derived my chief nourishment from common penny buns—and which really had so little in them to satisfy me, that I declare I have very often eaten as many as fourteen a day—though in the end I really found that I was falling away rapidly; for my fair readers must be fully aware that it is utterly impossible to keep body and soul together with penny buns. And I declare I had such a surfeit of the puffy blown-out things, that really I have never been able to bear the sight of them since.
And thus I went on, starving myself to death by inches, until one day, Edward, having won a cause, dined at Westminster with the witnesses; and then if a dog in the street didn’t keep howling and crying all the evening, like anything—just opposite our house. When my husband returned, he let out, quite by accident, whilst I was asking him about what they had given him for dinner, that there were thirteen at table! This completely quieted my fears, for I now plainly saw that all the dreadful omens pointed at my husband and not at myself, while the simple fact of the dog howling all the time the thirteen were at dinner, completely convinced me that I was destined before long to wear weeds.
The next day—as I now saw Fate had singled out its victim, and that my dear Edward, and not myself, was doomed to be the melancholy martyr of Miss Norah’s poisonous designs—I thought I might as well make a good dinner for the first time these three weeks—though, with my usual prudence, I determined to get some favourite dish for my poor husband, so that he might enjoy it all to himself, and so that I might not be called upon to partake of the same food as he did. But, that day, thank goodness, Edward delighted me by bringing home one of his country agents, a Mr. Fl—m—ng, to dinner with him; so I at once saw that, as I carved, I should have an opportunity of trying the effect of the different dishes upon the visitor before allowing my dear husband to peril his precious life by partaking of them. For as I had to choose whether Edward, who is a tolerably good husband, or Fl—m—ng, who is far from a profitable agent, should fall a victim to Norah’s spite, of course I could not help preferring the lesser evil, and sacrificing my guest in order to save my spouse. So I took good care, all through dinner, that directly my Edward expressed a wish to taste such and such a dish, to prevail upon Mr. Fl—m—ng to try some of the same before I allowed my husband to touch it, in order that I might observe what effect it had upon him, poor man, before helping my dear Edward. But with all my care, nothing would satisfy my self-willed husband, of course, but some of the very veal cutlets that I’d had cooked for myself, and which I’d made a point of not asking Mr. Fl—m—ng to touch, in order that I might have them all to myself; so that there was I obliged, after all, to make my dinner off potatoes and cheese.
Indeed, all that week—which, thank heavens, was to be the last of Norah Connor’s stay with us—I took care always to have a friend to dinner; so that, by this innocent ruse de guerre, I might keep my husband at least out of danger. And so, thank goodness, I did; though, as it turned out, I had only been starving myself upon penny buns, and trembling at every meal for the life of Mr. Sk—n—st—n, all to no good at all; for I verily believe now, from the way in which Norah parted with us, and the sorrow she showed at so doing, that the poor woman really was too much attached to us by half ever to dream of putting an end to us in so unfeeling a manner.
When the day came for her to go, I declare the poor thing was dreadfully cut up, and cried like a child; for she said she knew what I had suspected her of, and told me, in quite a touching way, that “maybe her timper was warrm, but still, by the powers, it wasn’t Norah that would iver in cowld blood harrm the hair of my head, and that she wouldn’t have tould me she was Cornwall, sure, hadn’t she known that to say she came from Ould Ireland was like taking the blissed brid from her mouth, and sartin to make me and my counthry people turn our backs upon her, for sure and weren’t the Saxons always puttin’ at the bottom of their adver-tyze-mints, No Irish need apply.”
We parted the best of friends, and I gave the poor, honest, hard-working, open-hearted creature, either five shillings or half-a-crown (I can’t exactly say which now), though I’m nearly certain it was the larger sum, and for a quarter-of-an-hour at least she stood on the door-step and did nothing but call me her mavourneen, and macree, and a quantity of other outlandish names, and kept invoking blessings on my head, and sobbing away as though she really had got, as Edward said a heart to break.
CHAPTER VII.
OF MY PRETTY MAID, AND THOSE DREADFUL SOLDIERS WHO WOULD COME TURNING HER HEAD, AND PREVENTING THE POOR THING DOING HER WORK.
“Heigho! heigho! I’m afraid,
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.”
“Young Susan had lovers so many, that she,” &c.