I am upper housemaid to the family that live at No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville. I have been requested by Mr. Wilkey Collings, which I takes the liberty of here stating is a gentleman born and bred, and has some consideration for the feelings of servants, and is not above rewarding them for their trouble, which is more than you can say for some who ask questions and gets short answers enough, gracious knows, to tell what I know about them. I have been requested to tell my story in my own langwidge, though, being no schollard, mind cannot conceive. I think my master is a brute. Do not know that he has ever attempted to poison my missus,—which is too good for him, and how she ever came to marry him, heart only can tell,—but believe him to be capable of any such hatrosity. Have heard him swear dreadful because of not having his shaving-water at nine o’clock precisely. Do not know whether he ever forged a will or tried to get my missus’s property, although, not having confidence in the man, should not be surprised if he had done so. Believe that there was always something mysterious in his conduct. Remember distinctly how the family left home to go abroad. Was putting up my back hair, last Saturday morning, when I heard a ring. Says cook, “That’s missus’s bell, and mind you hurry or the master ’ill know why.” Says I, “Humbly thanking you, mem, but taking advice of them as is competent to give it, I’ll take my time.” Found missus dressing herself and master growling as usual. Says missus, quite cairn and easy-like, “Mary, we begin to pack to-day.” “What for, mem?” says I, taken aback. “What’s that hussy asking?” says master from the bedclothes quite savage-like. “For the Continent—Italy,” says missus. “Can you go, Mary?” Her voice was quite gentle and saintlike, but I knew the struggle it cost, and says I, “With you, mem, to India’s torrid clime, if required, but with African Gorillas,” says I, looking toward the bed, “never.” “Leave the room,” says master, starting up and catching of his bootjack. “Why, Charles!” says missus, “how you talk!” affecting surprise. “Do go, Mary,” says she, slipping a half-crown into my hand. I left the room, scorning to take notice of the odious wretch’s conduct.
Cannot say whether my master and missus were ever legally married. What with the dreadful state of morals nowadays and them stories in the circulating libraries, innocent girls don’t know into what society they might be obliged to take situations. Never saw missus’s marriage certificate, though I have quite accidental-like looked in her desk when open, and would have seen it. Do not know of any lovers missus might have had. Believe she had a liking for John Thomas, footman, for she was always spiteful-like—poor lady—when we were together—though there was nothing between us, as cook well knows, and dare not deny, and missus needn’t have been jealous. Have never seen arsenic or Prussian acid in any of the private drawers—but have seen paregoric and camphor. One of my master’s friends was a Count Moscow, a Russian papist—which I detested.
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