“That footman I’ll have, if I die for it,” I exclaimed, as I jumped into bed, and turned my back round to the side Mr. Sk—n—st—n usually sleeps upon.
Next day I caught my gentleman out so nicely, the reader don’t know; and I led him such a dance the reader can’t tell. Well, the fact is, I didn’t feel quite myself, so I thought I might as well, as it was a very fine morning, pop on my beautiful white lace bonnet and my sweet imitation Shetland shawl, (they had only just come in then, though drat it! they, have got as vulgar as vulgar can be lately, and what I’m to do with mine I really don’t know, for, like a ninny, I thought it too good to wear every day, at first; however, as I wouldn’t be seen in it now for the whole world, perhaps I’d better make a great favour of it, and give it to my own dear mother).—Well, as I was saying, I strolled very comfortably down to Regent-street, just to take a passing glance at some of the lovely new dresses in the shops, that I should like to buy if I could only afford the money; and as it was, I was as near as two pins going in and getting two or three of the most expensive, and sending the bill in to Mr. Edward, just as a lesson to him for the future—but the worst of it is, I’ve always been too considerate for him by half, and he is so violent at times. So I went strolling on until, I declare, if I wasn’t right at the bottom of Waterloo-place before I knew where I was, and felt myself so warm and faint for want of something, that I said to myself, I may as well, now I’m here, just step on to Farrance’s and treat myself to a lemon ice or so out of the housekeeping; for, as I very truly observed, it would be a hard matter if I couldn’t get a trifle like that out of the weekly expenses at home; and besides Mr. Edward need be none the wiser, for nothing was easier than to put it down in the book under the head of “Charities;” and really, when I came to think of it, I positively blushed to remember that for weeks and weeks past I hadn’t put down so much as a farthing for that noblest of all the nine virtues.
Well, when I got to Farrance’s, who should the first person that I clapt eyes upon be, but my Mr. Edward himself, seated like a prince at one of the little marble tables, with two large sixpenny oyster patties before him, gormandizing away like a pig, as he is. So I crept up to him, and, pretending I had seen him through the window, I said, in a low voice, “So you are going to the workhouse, are you, my fine gentleman. Pretty workhouse, indeed! I never saw such a workhouse. And you can’t afford to have a footman to eat the very bed from under you, can’t you? Of course you can’t, if you come here every day, as now I plainly see you do, stuffing yourself with oyster patties, and such like indigestible extravagances, when I’m sure a round or two of cold toast, nicely done up in an old newspaper, would do very well for your luncheon, sir, and then there would be no occasion for your poor, dear, overworked wife to go slaving her life out to save you the expense of another servant, as you know she does. Augh! I can’t bear such gluttony.—Here, waitress,” I exclaimed, “bring me a lemon ice and a Bath bun or two, with a few almond cakes, if you please.” And then I went on, scolding him for his disgusting greediness, and eating by turns, until, I declare, when the time came for that selfish pig of an Edward to pay, and the young woman at the counter asked me what I had had, if I hadn’t to tell her that I had taken two lemon waters, and three of those, (pointing to the Bath buns;) and two of those, (pointing to the raspberry puffs;) and two more of those, (pointing to the gooseberry tarts;) and, let me see—yes, I think, either three or four of those, (pointing to the almond cakes,)—though, between ourselves, I was certain I had eaten at least six of the hollow delicious things, for I’m very fond of them; but, of course, all pastry cooks know very well that ladies never can, or, at least, never will tell them exactly to a paltry penny cake or two what they have had, and, the people in the shop take good care to increase the price of their articles accordingly.
When that precious beauty of a Mr. Edward came home that evening, I wasn’t going to be such a stupid as to let the capital discovery I had made drop in a minute; so all dinnertime I went on apologizing that I had got none of the oyster patties for him, which he seemed so partial to; and asking him whether they allowed such delicacies in the workhouse he was going to in such a hurry, and saying a whole troop of other nice tantalizing, knagging things, until I made him so wild, that he went on in such a way, and said such unwarrantable things to me, and kept on vowing that I should not have the footman I wanted, in such a frightful manner, that at last bang went the door to again, and up stairs I bounced to bed, saying, “I’ll soon let you see whether I’ll have the footman or not, my fine Turk; for if I’m not as ill as ill can be, until I have a man-servant safe in the house, why my name’s not Sk—n—st—n.”
All that night through I had the spasms so bad, that I took good care Mr. Edward didn’t have a wink of sleep; and next morning, just as he was shaving himself, and promising, that if I wanted an extra servant, I might have a parlour-maid (like his impudence, indeed!) I had such a violent attack of hysterics, that any one, to have heard my screams, (and I’m sure they must have been audible at least a hundred villas off,) would have thought that Mr. Sk—n—st—n was ill-treating me. Just before he went down stairs, I called him to the bedside, and told him I was convinced I had got violent Neuralgia—brought on by my over-exertions about the house, and most likely I should never entirely get rid of it to my dying day. “Do you feel in pain, then, my love?” he said. “Where is it? Tell me, my duck.” “Of course I did,” I answered; and throwing up the whites of my eyes, and biting my lip, as if in great agony, I begged him, “Not to duck me, as he was the cause of it all, and that he might thank his stars that his ill-treatment hadn’t so completely shattered my nerves as to have brought on St. Vitus’s dance,”—and so it certainly would, only, to tell the reader the truth, I didn’t know the step of that most frightful of all dances; and I recollect when my aunt R—msb—tt—m had it very severely, it seemed to me much more difficult to manage than the double-shuffle in the College Hornpipe, so that as for keeping that up all about the house for a whole week, why it was more than I chose to do.
As the reader may well imagine, I had our medical adviser round pretty soon, for I knew Mr. Edward hated doctors’ bills, and Mr. J—pp would be sure to agree with me, it was Neuralgia, as your doctors always say it is that, when they can’t exactly make out what it is that ails a lady. So when he came round, he told Edward great care must be taken of me, and I was to be kept quite quiet, and free from all annoyance, as I was suffering from as severe an attack of the nerves as he ever recollected to have met with in the whole course of his extensive practice, adding, that it wasn’t to be wondered at, as it was very prevalent among the ladies of the nobility and gentry just then; and that, indeed, he was attending several persons of quality at that time for the very same thing. After this, he sent me round some very nice sweet draughts, and some of the most delicious tinctures I think I ever tasted in the whole course of my life, which used to make me feel so beautiful and “tippy” afterwards, my lady readers can’t tell.
All that week I had my breakfast in bed, and what made me enjoy it more than anything else was, I knew Mr. Edward hated to pour out his own tea, and butter his own toast of a morning, because it interfered with his filthy newspaper. Only the worst of breakfasting in bed is, that bother take it! the crumbs will get all over the sheets, and if one happens to have dry toast, they are so hard, and do scrub a poor body so, that really one might just as well lie upon sand-paper for the comfort of the thing; and drat it, do what you will, you can’t get them out of the bed again, until the things are taken off and well shaken.
When I went down stairs, after the fourth day, I laid myself upon the sofa, and was too ill to eat a thing; though Mr. Edward would come to my side, and beg and pray of me just to take a mouthful for his sake. But no! I told him, with a sigh, I was too weak to take anything beyond a cup of tea and a little dry toast (for, of course, after the couple of good large mutton chops that I took good care to have in the middle of the day, I hadn’t much of an appetite left for dinner, especially as I wouldn’t let my gentleman have any thing particularly nice—saying to myself, “If we can’t afford a footman—I’m sure we can’t afford dainties!”)
And so I went on with my severe attack of Neuralgia, getting worse and worse, and making my grand Turk breakfast by himself, and dine by himself—and get out of bed at all hours of the night to give me my delicious tinctures, and never even condescending to speak to him, unless it was to tell him, with a sigh, how ill and weak I felt,—and that I knew it was all owing to my over-exertions about the great big house,—and continually reminding him too that he had only himself to blame for it, as I had given him fair warning of what would be the consequence of his unfeeling meanness,—and then asking him quietly whether it wasn’t better now to pay the money for a footman, instead of seeing his poor, dear, fond, foolish wife suffering so acutely as she was, and having to pay, at least, double or treble as much in those horrid doctor’s bills for her,—and so I went on, I say, until, upon my word, one Monday evening (for I remember Mr. Edward had the boiled knuckle of veal cold for dinner which I’d given him hot on the Sunday), I was lying on the sofa groaning away, and my gentleman was seated by me after dinner, looking quite repentant, and asking me whether I thought Mr. J—pp was doing me good, and a whole troup of other civil things, when I said—with a sigh that seemed to cut him to the quick, thank goodness!—“It’s too late now, Edward dear; I told you I was sinking fast, but you wouldn’t believe it then, and now I feel satisfied that I sha’n’t trouble you with my presence here much longer.” “For Heaven’s sake! Carry, my love, don’t go on in that way!” he exclaimed, pressing my hand between his two palms. “Is there anything I can get for you, dearest?” “That footman I spoke to you about,” I replied, “perhaps might have relieved me at one time; but now”—I added, as if in pain, “there is no hope. You will be kind to my little darling toodle-loodle-lumpty, when its poor dear mother’s no more, and take care when the little trot grows up that she’s not killed in this great big house for want of a footman.” Here that Edward gave two or three pathetic snivels, and commenced feeling for his pocket-handkerchief. So as I saw he was beginning to melt, I continued, in a low, solemn voice, “When I am gone, promise me, Edward—you wont marry again—and you will put upon my tombstone that I was a ‘TENDER AND AFFECTIONATE WIFE,’ and ‘UNIVERSALLY REGRETTED’—and now I come to think of it, Edward dear, it would look charming if you were to add those beautiful lines of ‘Affliction sore long time I bore,’ and wind up with ‘she fell a martyr to the want of a footman,’ brought in nicely somehow.” This, I’m proud to say, was a severe homethrust; and on looking at my fine gentleman, if I didn’t see a beautiful little tear in the corner of each of his eyes; and thank goodness, by staring as hard as ever I could at one of the roses in the carpet, and drawing the air in up my nose, I was lucky enough to squeeze out two or three tears myself—so that at last I worked upon the hard-hearted monster’s feelings in such a way, that he turned round and told me if I thought a footman would be any relief to me, for goodness sake to get one, only I was not to give way to low spirits as I did. But I merely answered, “No, thank you, dearest, dearest Edward; you must not go to any expense to please me in my last moments—you cannot afford it.” “Do not say so, dear Carry,” he answered, “you must and shall have one!” “No, no,” I replied, groaning as if in severe agony; “you cannot afford it, and I will not listen to it.” “What!—not to please your own Edward, my lamb,” he said, in a low voice, putting his lips close to my ear. “To please her own Edward,” I returned, with affection, “his lamb will do anything;” and then throwing my arms round his neck, I put an end to that awkward business.
“Ha, ha! Mr. Edward, my fine gentleman,” I couldn’t for the life of me help exclaiming to myself, whilst I was kissing him, “I said I’d have a footman, if I died for it, and a footman I’ve got, and the best of it is, too, I’ve made a favour of accepting what I wanted—and what is so delightful to a poor dear married lady as that?”