In about two hours, Susan came back, like a good girl, to my infinite delight, without the baby. When I asked her what on earth she had done with it, I thought I should have died with laughter; for she told me, that on her way down to Chancery Lane she had met with Mary Hooper,—who had been a fellow-servant of hers, and who is now living as nurserymaid at Mr. C—tl—n’s, the solicitor, in John Street, Bedford Row—and as she was going to take the two little Misses C—tl—n for a walk in Gray’s-inn Gardens, of course my Miss Susan must go in with her.
While she was there, she said, there were some impudent young barristers, whose chambers were on the ground floor, leaning out of one of the windows at the back, and smoking their nasty cigars, and playing the fool with the nursery maids, instead of minding their business. And as she was walking up and down, they must needs go getting into conversation with her; and pretending to admire the baby she had got in her arms, first asking her how old it was, and then declaring that they never before, in the whole course of their lives, saw such a fine boy for his age; and then inquiring whether it was her own, and a whole pack of other rubbish besides. At last one of the gentlemen, who she said had got red hair and sandy whiskers, begged to be allowed to give the dear little baby a kiss, as he was passionately fond of children. So she handed the child up to him, and no sooner had the sharp fellow got hold of it, than he refused to let her have it back again, unless she came round to their chambers and fetched it herself; whereupon Susan told him, that as he wouldn’t give the child up without it, she supposed she must. But no sooner had she got outside the gardens, than it very properly struck her, that as the gentleman was so fond of children, she might just as well leave it with him altogether, instead of letting it go to the workhouse, poor little pet!
I really thought I should have killed myself with laughing, for I remembered I had that very morning, before sending the infant round to the workhouse, sewed on again the identical strip of paper which I had found stitched on to its little petticoat body, just to show it to the workhouse authorities, and which requested the party into whose hands the poor babe fell to treat it kindly, and that its name was Alfred.
I told Susan I was very much pleased with what she had done, and I gave her five shillings, and said she might go out for a holiday as soon as she liked, adding, that she had in a very clever manner given the impudent fellows a good deal more than they sent, and in a way that not only showed she was one too many for them, but would teach them never again to go making love to the child for the sake of the maid.
When Edward came home, he was as pleased as Punch. He declared it just served the lawyers right, and was a bit of sharp practice that did Susan much credit. And then he made a very good pun upon it, for he said that he had a very great mind to go down and stick a board up in the gardens opposite the window of the young fellow to whom Susan had handed the innocent creature, with “Lambs taken in to Gray’s Inn here,” painted in large letters upon it.
CHAPTER IX.
HOW, WHAT WITH ONE THING AND ANOTHER, IT REALLY IS A MERCY THAT I WAS NOT IN MY GRAVE LONG AGO.
“For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’,
There’s little pleasure in the house,” &c.
“There’s nae luck about the House.”
Positively I was no sooner out of one scrape, than, as sure as the next day came round, I was safe to be in another. The beauty of it was, too, that my unlucky stars (and having been born under Saturn, the reader may well imagine that I’ve had no very pleasant time of it) seemed determined I should invariably be the victim of other people’s misdemeanours. For I always thought that that old quack of a Mrs. Yapp would be the death of some of us, with her filthy medicines, and so she nearly was—indeed, it’s quite a mercy that the whole house wasn’t dead and buried long ago.
I think I mentioned somewhere before, that the old hen had got four hundred a year, but positively, if it had only been five-and-twenty, she couldn’t have been stingier than she was. I never knew her give a penny away to a soul, and as for making any present to my dear little Kitty-pitty, bless you, not even so much as a mere six-and-sixpenny coral and bells did she give the angel, and which I thought was the very least she could have done, after we had been keeping her in the handsome way we had, without expecting the least return for it. If she could save a farthing she would walk her legs off; indeed, I’ve known her go miles just to get a thing a halfpenny a pound cheaper, though she must have worn out at least sixpenny-worth of shoe leather in the journey.