“Don't speak ill of Frederic, mamma,” says missis; “he is all kindness to me.”
“All kindness, indeed! yes, he gives you a fine house, and a fine gownd, and a ride in a fly whenever you please; but WHERE DOES ALL HIS MONEY COME FROM? Who is he—what is he? Who knows that he mayn't be a murderer, or a housebreaker, or a utterer of forged notes? How can he make his money honestly, when he won't say where he gets it? Why does he leave you eight hours every blessid day, and won't say where he goes to? Oh, Mary, Mary, you are the most injured of women!”
And with this Mrs. Shum began sobbin; and Miss Betsy began yowling like a cat in a gitter; and pore missis cried, too—tears is so remarkable infeckshus.
“Perhaps, mamma,” wimpered out she, “Frederic is a shop-boy, and don't like me to know that he is not a gentleman.”
“A shopboy,” says Betsy, “he a shopboy! O no, no, no! more likely a wretched willain of a murderer, stabbin and robing all day, and feedin you with the fruits of his ill-gotten games!”
More crying and screechin here took place, in which the baby joined; and made a very pretty consort, I can tell you.
“He can't be a robber,” cries missis; “he's too good, too kind, for that: besides, murdering is done at night, and Frederic is always home at eight.”
“But he can be a forger,” says Betsy, “a wicked, wicked FORGER. Why does he go away every day? to forge notes, to be sure. Why does he go to the city? to be near banks and places, and so do it more at his convenience.”
“But he brings home a sum of money every day—about thirty shillings—sometimes fifty: and then he smiles, and says it's a good day's work. This is not like a forger,” said pore Mrs. A.
“I have it—I have it!” screams out Mrs. S. “The villain—the sneaking, double-faced Jonas! he's married to somebody else he is, and that's why he leaves you, the base biggymist!”