She gave such of her waking hours, as were not devoted to roasting and boiling, to the calculation of chances, and her sleeping hours to the dreaming of dreams, about £20,000: and by certain combinations, she had come to the conclusion, that No. 26,666 was the fortunate number, in the great scheme, then presented to the public.
Molly avowed her purpose, and demanded her wages, which, after severely berating her, for her folly, were handed over, and the identical ticket was bought. With the hope of being the first to inform her, after the drawing, that her ticket was a blank, her old master noted down the number, in his tablets.
In about seven weeks after this occurrence, the old gentleman, while reading the newspaper, in one of the public offices, came upon the following notice—“Highest prize! £20,000. No. 26,666 the fortunate number, sold at our fortunate office, in one entire ticket, Skinner, Ketchum, & Clutch, and will be paid to the lucky proprietor, after the 27th current.”
The old gentleman took out his tablets; compared the numbers; wiped his spectacles; collated the numbers again; resorted to the lottery office; and, upon inquiry there, became satisfied, that Molly Moodey had actually drawn £20,000.
A new code of sensations came over the spirit of his dreams. He hastened home, oppressed by the heat and his emotions. He bade Molly lay aside her mop, and attend him in the parlor, as he had something of importance to communicate.—“Molly,” said he, after closing the doors—“I find a partner absolutely necessary to my happiness. Let me be brief. I am not the man to make a fool of myself, by marrying a young flirt. I have known you, Molly, for many years. You have what I prize above all things in a wife, solid, substantial qualifications. Will you have me?”
Taken thus by surprise, she gave a striking evidence of her self-possession, by requesting leave of absence, for a moment, to remove a kettle of fat, which she was trying out, lest it should boil over. She soon came back, and turned her eye—she had but one—with great respect, upon her old master—said something of the difference of their stations—and consented.
The old gentleman’s attachment for Molly appeared to be very extraordinary. Until the wedding-day, which was an unusually early one, he would not suffer her to be out of his sight. The day came—they were married. On their way from church—“Molly,” said the bridegroom, “whereabouts is your ticket, with that fortunate number?”—“Oh,” she replied, “when I came to think of it, I saw, that you were right. I thought, ’twas quite likely it would draw a blank. Crust, the baker, offered me what I gave for it, and a sheet of bunns, to boot, and I let him have it, three weeks ago.”—“Good God,” exclaimed the poor old gentleman—“£20,000 for a sheet of bunns!”
The shock was too much for his reason; and, in less than six weeks, Molly was a widow. She attended him, with great fidelity, to the last moment; and his dying words were engraven upon her heart—“Twenty thousand pounds for a sheet of bunns!”
How true to reality are the gay words of Tom Moore—
“In wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal.”