I declare even I—vexed as I was—could hardly give it the girl as she deserved, and I felt inclined to do. But, really, her utter want of even common comprehension did seem to me so pitiable, that I couldn’t bring myself to do more than tell her that I should have that pot of jam out of her next quarter, as sure as she was born—though as, luckily for her, she hadn’t wasted any flour, I should look over her shameful, idiotic conduct once more—giving her this warning, that if she didn’t contrive to cram some more brains into her head for the future, she must look out for another situation.
I’m certain my fair readers will allow that some little credit was due to me for the command I had over my temper throughout this trying occasion—especially when I tell them that do what I would, I never could keep the fleas out of that Carlo’s beautiful coat, so that no wonder my little cherub of a Kitty was so restless the night after that dog had been rolled up in one of her blankets. When I went to dress her in the morning, I declare if the beautiful white skin of the angel wasn’t covered all over with large red spots, for all the world like the sixpenny wooden horse I had bought her for a toy. Nor did the annoyance stop here, for, being accustomed to take the little thing into our bed of a morning, to play with her—goodness gracious me! if Edward and myself were not quite as much tormented with the nasty lively irritating things, as even little Kitty had been, so that really and truly we couldn’t for the life of us get what I call a nice comfortable night’s rest for weeks afterwards.
Even if I had felt inclined to bear with the miserable girl’s wretched stupidity, still her abominable love of gossiping was quite enough to make any respectable, quiet, well-disposed lady, like myself, take her by the ears and bundle her into the streets. Though, of course, her chattering gossip wasn’t to be wondered at, for we all know that empty barrels make the greatest noise, and her head was so empty, that I declare she would make noise enough for fifty women, and talk fourteen to the dozen any day; for, without exaggeration, her tongue was so long that it was impossible for her to keep it between her teeth. If the butcher-boy came with the joint, there she would stand gossiping at the area-gate, wasting her own time and the boy’s too. When the baker brought the bread, it was just the same; or even if it was that little chit from the green-grocer, it made no difference to her. Though what the dickens an empty-headed thing, like she was, could have to say to them all, I never could make out. While as for the servants in the neighbourhood, I declare she was bosom friends with the whole street. If I didn’t keep my eye upon her every moment of the day, off she’d be, out in the garden, chattering away over the wall, either with the housemaid at the Tomlins’s, on the right, or with the cook at the Allen’s, on the left, or with that impudent monkey of a footman at the Simmons’s, at the back. And as for a morning, when she was pretending to be cleaning down that door-step, I do think, if I had to ring once, I had to ring a dozen times for Edward’s hot water to shave with. Of course, she couldn’t hear the bell—how could she?—when she was gossiping away with the next doors, putting a lot of tales about the neighbourhood, all against me, as I felt convinced she was? For positively the maids on both sides of us knew just as much about my affairs as I did myself; and I’m sure, that even if she had lived at the Tomlins’s or the Allen’s, she couldn’t have known more of their secrets; for often and often she has stood for better than half an hour telling me a pack of things about them, that, of course, they wouldn’t have liked anybody to know. I used to think it was very strange, and couldn’t for the life of me make out how it was things that I fancied nobody in the world but Edward and myself were acquainted with, could come round to me in the way they did. Until one fine morning, a little bird whispered in my ear, that it was that beauty of an Emma of mine, who, instead of sweeping round the area-railings, was pulling my character to pieces, and vilifying me to the first of the neighbours’ maids that she could lay hold of, saying Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did this, Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did that, or Mrs. Sk—n—st—n did the other,—(of course, there’s no necessity for me to go repeating what the good-for-nothing minx actually did say of me,)—so that, at last it really came to this—if even Edward and I had a word or two together about any little trifling matter, off the good news went—“There’s been another row at the Sk—n—st—ns’,” right up to the York and Albany; and “There’s been another row at the Sk—n—st—ns’,” right down to Cumberland Market.
I only wanted to catch the beauty in the fact; for I don’t like listening to what other people say, and so determined to wait quietly until I could overhear her telling her fine stories myself. As I expected, it wasn’t long before I pounced upon her very nicely, and then it was, oh dear me, who would have thought it! For the very morning after that affair of the “dog in a blanket,” I thought my lady was a long time hearth-stoning the step, and I just put my head very quietly out of the window, and there sure enough she was, with those two idle sluts of maids, from both the next doors, all three of them in their night-caps, with their hair like door-mats, and their gowns all open behind, and their brooms in their hands, sweeping away, as a make-believe, just for a minute, and then laying their heads together, and standing gossiping for at least five—then off again for a bit more sweeping—and then back again for a bit more scandal. This was just what I wanted, so rubbing my hands with glee, I popped on my flannel dressing-gown, and stole down
The Morning Gossip.
stairs, as silently as a black-beetle. When I came to the passage, I slipped behind the door, and heard them going on so nicely, no one can tell!
“Did you hever hear of sitch wulgarity, Miss Ginger? honly to think of her calling on a common jam pudden, a dog in a blanket!” said that minx of an Emma of mine.