MRS. POWELL.
ABBEY soon found she had fallen into very different hands from Mrs.
Ward's or her mother's. Mrs. Powell was not only skilful at all sorts
of work herself, but she possessed the rather uncommon talent of making
other people work. And Abbey soon discovered that she could no more
stand still in that lady's kitchen than she could upon the steps of a
treadmill.
Breakfast was on the table every morning exactly at seven o'clock.
Abbey's business was to get up and make the fire, sweep out and dust
the kitchen and sitting-room, set the table, and have every thing ready
for Mrs. Powell to cook the breakfast. Mrs. Powell attended to the
cooking. Miss Maria dusted the parlours, and Miss Margaret attended to
the plants and birds,—of which Mrs. Powell had a great many. One of the
young ladies taught in a public-school, and the other acted as clerk in
a large fancy-store down town; and both must be early at their posts.
Breakfast on the table, Abbey must go up-stairs, empty the slops and
take the clothes off the beds. So it was all day. Every hour had its
appropriate duty, as exactly as every pan and plate had its place in
the pantry. There was no chance of shirking. If Abbey left her dishes
half washed, she must wash them over, even if she had to make up the
fire again on purpose. If she did not sweep clean, she had to sweep
over again. Mrs. Powell never did her work after her, even when it
would have saved herself a great deal of time and inconvenience.
"It would be a good deal easier for me to do this than to call you
away from your dishes," said she, one day when Abbey had left various
accumulations of dust in the corners of the stairs. "But I want you
to learn to work well while you are about it. I did just so by my own
girls, and you see now how nicely and easily they do every thing.
It will be worth every thing to you to learn the best way of doing
house-work while you are young."
But Abbey did not care any thing about learning the best way of doing
things. All she cared for was to get on with the least possible trouble
at the time. She might have seen that the true way to save herself
trouble was to do her work well in the beginning. But this cost her
a little present pains, and the smallest inconvenience at hand was
enough to overbalance any profit in the future. She persisted in trying
to shirk, till Mrs. Powell began to lose patience, and to think more
decided measures necessary to overcome Abbey's laziness.
She had called Abbey every morning at half-past five. And every morning
Abbey had answered, "Yes, ma'am," and turned over for another nap, so
that she must be called a second time.
"Now, I will tell you once for all, Abbey," said Mrs. Powell, one
morning when she had the fire to kindle herself (Abbey not making her
appearance till half-past six), "the next time you serve me in this
way, you will not find the consequences very agreeable to yourself."
Mrs. Powell spoke with considerable decision, with a "snap" of her blue
eyes, and a movement of her head which looked a little dangerous.
The next morning Abbey was up in good season, and also the next, but
the third morning was dark and rainy. Abbey had lain awake a long
time the night before, reading an old magazine which she found in the
garret, and she was very sleepy: so she turned over and went to sleep
again. This time she slept a good deal longer than she meant to, and
awoke with something of a start.
She sat up in bed, and listened. There was no rattling at the stove,
as she would have heard had Mrs. Powell been making the fire herself.
The house was all quiet. She could hear nothing but the singing of the
birds in the parlour.
"I believe I am awake the first of any one, after all," thought Abbey,
as she hurried to dress herself. She found her mistake when she went
down-stairs into the kitchen. The fire was out, the stove brushed
up, every thing was put away, and Mrs. Powell was out weeding in the
garden. She looked at the clock. It wanted a quarter to eight.
"Just like her,—the hateful thing!" said Abbey to herself. "She
wouldn't call me, and of course she wouldn't save any thing for me."
Abbey explored the safe and the pantry. There was nothing to be had
except dry bread. Even the butter was put away in the lock-up cupboard,
and the key was not to be found. She gave up the search, and went out
to Mrs. Powell in the garden.
"I don't see what I am to do for my breakfast," said she, in an
aggrieved tone.
"I don't know, I am sure," answered Mrs. Powell, who was busy with her
strawberries.
"I can't find any thing but bread, and there is no coffee nor any
thing," continued Abbey, just ready to cry.
"Isn't there? Then I don't see but you will have to go without,"
replied Mrs. Powell, carefully pulling out a long bindweed from her
raspberries. "There was plenty of every thing at breakfast time,
I assure you. And the coffee was remarkably good, as well as the
fish-balls."
"You might have called me," said Abbey, sullenly.
"I did call you; but, Abbey, I can tell you one thing," said Mrs.
Powell, rising up and collecting her tools: "I shall never call you
again. You can get up in the morning just as well as I can, if you only
make up your mind to it. If I were to offer you a dollar every morning
that you were up in time, you would be ready to rise with the sun. I
have been willing to call you so far, that you might form the habit;
but you have had plenty of time for that, and you must not expect me to
do so any more. It is just as easy for you to get up as for Maria or
Margaret. It ought to be easier; for you have nothing to keep you up
after nine o'clock. Now remember, this is the last time."
"I want my breakfast," said Abbey, beginning to cry.
"Well, go and get it, then. There is plenty of nice bread, and I will
give you some butter for once; but as for any thing else, you must wait
till dinner-time. Come, now, let us have no crying over it. Do you
hear?"
Poor Abbey! She thought no one was ever so badly used before. She was
by no means so good-natured as she had been at Mrs. Ward's. There is
a species of sloth in the South American forests, which, even when
first taken, will travel with the greatest docility in any required
direction, so long as it is allowed to take its own time; but the
moment it is hurried, it turns fiercely upon its captors and fights
with tooth and claw.
It was somewhat so with Abbey. She could not stand being driven.
Allowed to take her own pace,—to be as lazy as she pleased, to shirk
whatever she did not like to do, and slight all she pretended to
do,—and no one could be more amiable. But this precise regularity and
punctuality, this neatness and order, was in the last degree irksome.
She could not say that she had too much to do. She had several hours to
herself every day, when she could employ herself as she pleased; and
she generally chose to lie on the bed and dream of what she would do if
she were only rich and had a carriage and servants, and a maid to wait
upon her, and several fine young men in love with her, to take her to
the theatre and to balls.
But when she worked, she was obliged to work and, above all, fast. The
greatest and most ingenious dawdler in the world could not have dawdled
under the vigilant eye of Mrs. Powell. Abbey began to find her life
intolerable, and to consider in her own mind whether there was any
means of escaping from it.
"Come! Hurry, Abbey," said Mrs. Powell, coming into the pantry, where
Abbey was slowly munching her bread-and-butter. "I want you to go over
to Mrs. Ward's on an errand for me, and, if you are smart, you will
have time to run home and see how your sister is. Here: you may take
her this bowl of jelly. It will be good to mix in water for her to
drink. Get on your hat, and be ready when the car comes along. There
will be one in just twelve minutes."
Of course Abbey was not ready at the end of the twelve minutes, missed
her car, and had to wait for another.
"What is the matter? Why don't you put your hat on?" asked Mrs. Powell.
"I can't find it anywhere."
"Where did you put it when you wore it last?"
"I put it away," said Abbey.
"If you had put it in its place, it would no doubt have been in its
place," said Mrs. Powell. "You have a closet and shelves, which no one
meddles with but yourself. But I cannot have you spend all the morning
hunting for it. Put on that old black one of Maria's. Now take this
note, and the basket which stands in the press, over to Mrs. Ward's,
and bring back what she gives you. You will have plenty of time."
Abbey did her errand at Mrs. Ward's, and, with her basket full of
strawberry plants, she turned towards home. She was overtaken at the
gate by Elvira.
"Why, what brings you home at this time of day?" asked Elvira, in some
alarm as the thought presented itself that Abbey, had left her place
again. "You have not come home for good, have you?"
"No such luck," said Abbey, peevishly. "I only wish I had a home to
come to, so that I need not be made a slave of all my days!"
"I was in hopes you would like Mrs. Powell," said Elvie. "Every one
gives her such a good name. And Mrs. Rebecca says no one need wish for
a better place."
"No one need wish for a better place!—To be driven like a slave from
morning till night!" said Abbey. "I hate living out. I don't see why I
should have to work for a living, any more than Mrs. Campion, or Mrs.
Frost, or Miss Priscilla."
"Because they are well off and we are poor; that is all," said Elvira.
"Besides, they 'do' work. Miss Priscilla practises hours every day,
and sews and knits a great deal. She has just finished a whole suit of
clothes, all through, for a little girl at the Coloured Asylum,—cutting
and fitting and all. Moreover, Abbey, I don't see why it is any worse
for you to work than it is for father and mother and me."
"Oh, well, you don't mind it. I believe you really love to dust and
sweep and poke over sewing."
"I like to do what I do, 'well,'" said Elvira. "I don't deny that. But
I like to do a great many things much better than to sweep and dust,
though. I like to work in the garden, and to do the embroidery Mrs.
Frost is teaching me, and I should dearly love to go to school again.
But, Abbey, you did not like going to school any better than working
out. You used to complain of Miss Morse all the time."
"Because she was so partial. She liked every one in the school better
than she did me. But I suppose there is no help for it, I must just go
on slaving and slaving to the end of my days. And now Tot must go and
get sick, to mend the matter; as if Harry was not enough for one house!"
"Abbey, for shame!" exclaimed Elvira, with flashing eyes. "As if the
poor child could help being sick! You are the last one who ought to
find fault with her; for the doctor says it is very likely she hurt
her head when she fell down-stairs that time. And that was all your
carelessness, too,—leaving a cup on the stairs, of all places."
"Nonsense!" said Abbey,—turning pale, however. "That was almost two
months ago."
"She has never been well since," said Elvira. "She has always
complained of her head, and been dull and heavy, ever since it
happened. I think you ought to be ashamed."
"I don't care. I don't think you ought to talk so to me, Elvie. I am
the oldest. But I did not come home to quarrel, or be scolded at,
either. As for the cup, I just put it on the stairs for a minute, while
I went for the broom. And then I went up the other way, and forgot it.
I don't see that I was to blame about that. Tot ought to have seen what
she was about."
"There is no use in talking," said Elvira, struggling to regain the
command of her temper. "You and I never do see things alike. Where did
you get your new hat?"
"It isn't mine. It is Maria's old one," replied Abbey. "I couldn't find
mine. But I mustn't stay any longer now. Just take this bowl in, will
you? There is some jelly in it for the young one."
"Oh, Abbey, you won't go away without coming in to see Totty?"
exclaimed Elvira. "What will mother say?"
"If there is time," said Abbey, rather reluctantly.
She could not help feeling uncomfortable at the idea that she had any
thing to do with Totty's sickness. And this feeling made her unwilling
to meet her mother or see the child.
But at that instant, Mrs. Jenkins appeared at the door and called her,
and Abbey had no choice but to go in.
She was almost startled out of her indifference when she saw how thin
and wan her mother looked, and observed the change in Totty since she
had seen her last. No one could be kinder than Abbey when it cost her
no trouble. She was very willing now to sit down on the bedside and
tell Totty her favourite tales over and over, till the child fell
asleep.
"You must not stay any longer now, Abbey; but come again as soon as you
can," said her mother. "How well you look! I am so glad you have a good
place! It is a comfort to me, in the midst of all my other troubles,
that you and Elvie are so well provided for."
"Yes, wonderfully well provided for," thought Abbey; but even she
was ashamed to make any complaint of her place, under present
circumstances. She turned to the window, where Harry, bolstered up in
his arm-chair, was busily employed over some fine work.
"What in the world are you doing, Harry? Making tatting, of all things
in the world! What funny work for a boy!"
"If you had to sit still and do nothing as much as I do, you would be
glad of any thing in the shape of work," said Harry. "Mrs. Campion
brought me this work, and showed me how to do it. I have made one
already, and Mrs. R. paid me four dollars for it. It is a trimming for
a baby's petticoat. Mrs. Campion said the one I made was as handsome as
her Sister's Irish lace."
"Margaret Powell is in Mrs. R.'s store," said Abbey. "She works
splendidly. You ought to see the rug she is making. She says it will be
worth fifty dollars when it is done."
"What stitch is she doing it in?" asked Elvira, very much interested.
"I don't know. I never noticed the stitch."
"If I were you, I would watch her, and learn all her stitches," said
Elvira. "I have learned ever so many of Mrs. Frost."
"Yes: that would be a very good thing for you," added Mrs. Jenkins.
"Every such thing comes into use sooner or later. And now so much
embroidery is in fashion, you might make it very profitable."
"If you knew how much I have to do, you would not say any thing about
my learning embroidery stitches," said Abbey, with a weary air. "I am
driven to death as it is."
"Yes, you look like it," said Harry, laughing. And even his mother
could not help joining, as she looked at Abbey's fat cheeks. "You are
going into a consumption directly: that is plain to be seen."
"Of course 'you' don't think there is any thing the matter, Harry,"
said Abbey. "Nobody in the family must presume to have any thing to
complain of in your presence. I suppose sickness always does make
people selfish."
"Abbey!" said her mother, reprovingly.
"Oh, never mind her," said Harry, though his pale face flushed a
little. "It is only Abbey, and we know her ways. There! Isn't that
pretty?" he added, spreading out his work on his knee.
"Beautiful!" said his mother. "But don't work too long, my dear."
"Oh, I am not tired," said Harry. "I can work longer at it than at any
thing I ever tried to do."
Abbey would fain have lingered a little, but her mother would not
allow it, and she went on her way, not much comforted but somewhat
aroused, by her visit at home. Could it really be possible that she was
accountable for Totty's illness? Her mother had said nothing about it,
and she would fain have dismissed the matter as one of Elvie's notions;
but she could not resist the conviction which forced itself upon her
own mind that Totty really had been ailing more or less ever since the
accident, and she could not but remember the sound with which the back
of the child's head came in contact with the door at the foot of the
stairs.
It was not a pleasant thought, certainly, and, to get rid of it, Abbey
began to look in at the shop-windows as she passed along. There was
nothing very particular to see, till she came to a jeweller's window,
in which was a great display of watches and ornaments, and at which she
lingered, choosing which of all these fine things she would buy if she
only had money enough, till she heard the clock strike twelve.
"There, now! I shall be late, and be scolded again. Every thing is
against me today; but, luckily, there is the car."
Abbey congratulated herself on her good luck. She had pulled out two
or three more of the old magazines over which she had already lost so
much time, from a heap of such things in Mrs. Ward's garret: and she
directly became so absorbed in her study that she did not notice which
way she was going, till the conductor called out, "Union Street!" and
she found she had come half a mile and more out of her way. There was
no help for it but to sit still. The car would take her home in time,
though by the longest route, and she would gain nothing by going back.
It was nearly one when she arrived at Mrs. Powell's door, and became,
for the first time, aware that she had left her basket behind her.
"There! Now there will be another fuss!" said Abbey, in an injured
tone. "Oh, dear! I do wish I could ever have any peace or comfort!"