“A pye sat on a pear-tree,
A pye sat on a pear-tree,
A pye sat on a pear-tree,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho!”
Fancy Mrs. Berry's face as she looked in, in the midst of that Bacchanalian ditty, when she saw no less a person than the Reverend Lemuel Whey carolling it!
“Is it you, my dear?” cries Berry, as brave now as any Petruchio. “Come in, and sit down, and hear Whey's song.”
“Lady Pash is asleep, Frank,” said she.
“Well, darling! that's the very reason. Give Mrs. Berry a glass, Jack, will you?”
“Would you wake your aunt, sir?” hissed out madame.
“NEVER MIND ME, LOVE! I'M AWAKE, AND LIKE IT!” cried the venerable Lady Pash from the salon. “Sing away, gentlemen!”
At which we all set up an audacious cheer; and Mrs. Berry flounced back to the drawing-room, but did not leave the door open, that her aunt might hear our melodies.
Berry had by this time arrived at that confidential state to which a third bottle always brings the well-regulated mind; and he made a clean confession to Cutler and myself of his numerous matrimonial annoyances. He was not allowed to dine out, he said, and but seldom to ask his friends to meet him at home. He never dared smoke a cigar for the life of him, not even in the stables. He spent the mornings dawdling in eternal shops, the evenings at endless tea-parties, or in reading poems or missionary tracts to his wife. He was compelled to take physic whenever she thought he looked a little pale, to change his shoes and stockings whenever he came in from a walk. “Look here,” said he, opening his chest, and shaking his fist at Dobus; “look what Angelica and that infernal Dobus have brought me to.”
I thought it might be a flannel waistcoat into which madame had forced him; but it was worse: I give you my word of honour it was a PITCH-PLASTER!