hated Altamont like the foul feind. She put all kind of bad things into the head of poor innocent missis; who, from being all gayety and cheerfulness, grew to be quite melumcolly and pale, and retchid, just as if she had been the most misrable woman in the world.
In three months more, a baby comes, in course, and with it old Mrs. Shum, who stuck to Mrs.' side as close as a wampire, and made her retchider and retchider. She used to bust into tears when Altamont came home: she used to sigh and wheep over the pore child, and say, “My child, my child, your father is false to me;” or, “your father deceives me;” or “what will you do when your pore mother is no more?” or such like sentimental stuff.
It all came from Mother Shum, and her old trix, as I soon found out. The fact is, when there is a mistry of this kind in the house, its a servant's DUTY to listen; and listen I did, one day when Mrs. was cryin as usual, and fat Mrs. Shum a sittin consolin her, as she called it: though, heaven knows, she only grew wuss and wuss for the consolation.
Well, I listened; Mrs. Shum was a-rockin the baby, and missis cryin as yousual.
“Pore dear innocint,” says Mrs. S., heavin a great sigh, “you're the child of a unknown father and a misrable mother.”
“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
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