Without my diary, I doubt--pray let me express it in the grossest
terms!--if I could have honestly earned my money. With my diary, the
poor labourer (who forgives Mr. Blake for insulting her) is worthy
of her hire. Nothing escaped me at the time I was visiting dear Aunt
Verinder. Everything was entered (thanks to my early training) day by
day as it happened; and everything down to the smallest particular,
shall be told here. My sacred regard for truth is (thank God) far above
my respect for persons. It will be easy for Mr. Blake to suppress what
may not prove to be sufficiently flattering in these pages to the person
chiefly concerned in them. He has purchased my time, but not even HIS
wealth can purchase my conscience too.* * NOTE. ADDED BY FRANKLIN BLAKE.--Miss Clack may make her
mind quite easy on this point. Nothing will be added,
altered or removed, in her manuscript, or in any of the
other manuscripts which pass through my hands. Whatever
opinions any of the writers may express, whatever
peculiarities of treatment may mark, and perhaps in a
literary sense, disfigure the narratives which I am now
collecting, not a line will be tampered with anywhere, from
first to last. As genuine documents they are sent to me--and
as genuine documents I shall preserve them, endorsed by the
attestations of witnesses who can speak to the facts. It
only remains to be added that "the person chiefly concerned"
in Miss Clack's narrative, is happy enough at the present
moment, not only to brave the smartest exercise of Miss
Clack's pen, but even to recognise its unquestionable value
as an instrument for the exhibition of Miss Clack's
character.
My diary informs me, that I was accidentally passing Aunt Verinder's
house in Montagu Square, on Monday, 3rd July, 1848.
Seeing the shutters opened, and the blinds drawn up, I felt that it
would be an act of polite attention to knock, and make inquiries. The
person who answered the door, informed me that my aunt and her daughter
(I really cannot call her my cousin!) had arrived from the country
a week since, and meditated making some stay in London. I sent up a
message at once, declining to disturb them, and only begging to know
whether I could be of any use.
The person who answered the door, took my message in insolent silence,
and left me standing in the hall. She is the daughter of a heathen old
man named Betteredge--long, too long, tolerated in my aunt's family.
I sat down in the hall to wait for my answer--and, having always a few
tracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially
applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was dirty, and
the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of returning good for
evil raised me quite above any trifling considerations of that kind. The
tract was one of a series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of
dress. In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, "A Word With
You On Your Cap-Ribbons."