Whatever the opinion of the unthinking many on the subject of honest
work as related to the happiness of the individual, there can be but one
just conclusion as to the effect of continued idleness, whether it be
illustrated in the person of the perennially tired gentleman who
frequents our back doors at certain seasons of the year, or in the
refined woman who has emptied her hands of all rightful activities.
At the end of her first week's experience with her new maid Elizabeth
found herself for the first time in her wholesome, well-ordered life at
a loss for something to do. When Miss McMurtry stated that she would
take full charge of Mrs. Brewster's menage she meant what she said, and
Elizabeth's inexperienced efforts to play the role of mistress, as she
had conceived it, met with a civil but firm resistance on the part of
the maid.
"Yes, Mrs. Brewster, I had expected to wipe up the dining-room floor
this morning, after I have finished my kitchen work," she would announce
frostily, in response to Elizabeth's timid suggestion. "I have my
regular days for things, an' I don't need to be told. I've already
spoken to the janitor's boy about the rugs, an' you'll please to leave
some money with me to pay him. Just put it on the kitchen dresser." And
"No, madam, I shall not have time to make an apple-pie this morning; I
generally order pastry of the baker when it's called for. Yes, Mrs.
Brewster, those were baker's rolls you had on the breakfast-table. I
ordered the man to stop regularly. You prefer home-made bread, you say?
I'm sorry, but I never bake. It is quite unnecessary in the city."
The young woman's emphasis on the last word delicately conveyed her
knowledge of Mrs. Brewster's country origin, and her pitying disapproval
of it.
Miss Tripp, to whom Elizabeth confided her new perplexities, merely
laughed indulgently. "You mustn't interfere, if you want Annita to stay
with you," she counselled. "Just keep religiously out of your kitchen,
my dear, and everything will go on peacefully. We never think of such a
thing as dictating to Marie, and we're careful not to make too many
suggestions. Of course you don't know what a perfectly _dreadful_ time
people are having with servants here in town. My _dear_, I could tell
you things that would frighten you! Just fancy having your prettiest
_lingerie_ disappear bit by bit, and your silk stockings worn to rags,
and not _daring_ to say a word!"
"I have lost two handkerchiefs since Annita came," said Elizabeth
doubtfully.
"Oh, _handkerchiefs_, nobody expects to keep those forever. Really, do
you know when I treat myself to a half dozen new ones I conceal them
from Marie as long as I possibly can, for fear she'll decide I have too
many."
Elizabeth's artlessly inquiring gaze provoked another burst of well-bred
merriment. "You dear little innocent, you _do_ amuse me so! Don't you
see our good Marie doesn't propose to encourage me in senseless
extravagance in laundry; you see there is no telling to what lengths I
might go if left to myself, and it all takes Marie's time. No, I don't
pretend to know what she does with them all. Gives them to her
relations, perhaps. She _couldn't_ use them all, and I give her a half
dozen at Christmas every year. Why, they're all that way, and both Marie
and Annita would draw the line at one's best silk stockings, I am sure.
We think Marie _perfectly honest_; that is to say, I would trust her
with everything I have, feeling sure that she would use her discretion
in selecting for herself only the things I ought not to want any longer.
_They know_, I can tell you, and they despise parsimonious people who
try to make their old things do forever. You may as well make up your
mind to it, my dear, and when you are fortunate enough to secure a
really good, competent servant like Annita, you _mustn't_ see _too_
much."
Just why Elizabeth upon the heels of this enlightening conversation
should have elected to purchase for herself two new handkerchiefs of a
somewhat newer pattern than the ones she had lost was not entirely clear
even to herself.
There had been a new, crisp bill in her purse for a number of weeks
nestling comfortably against the twin gold pieces her father had given
her on the day of her wedding. Sam had put it there himself, and had
joked with her on her economical habits when he had found it unbroken on
what he laughingly called her next pay day. "Seriously, though, little
wife of mine, I never want you to be out of money," he had said; "if I
am cad enough to forget you mustn't hesitate to remind me. And you need
never feel obliged to tell me what you've done with it."
This wasn't the ideal arrangement for either; but neither husband nor
wife was aware of it, nor of the fact that in the small, dainty purse
which lay open between them lurked a possible danger to their common
happiness. Elizabeth had been brought up in the old-fashioned way, her
wants supplied by her careful mother, and an occasional pocket-piece by
her overworked father, who always referred to the coins transferred
from his pocket to her own as "money to buy a stick of candy with." The
sum represented by the twin gold pieces and the crisp bills appeared to
contain unlimited opportunities for enjoyment. A bunch of carnations for
the dining table and a box of bonbons excused the long stroll down
Tremont Street, during which Miss Tripp carried on the education of her
protegee on subjects urban without interruption.
"If I had only thought to stop at the bank this morning," observed Miss
Tripp regretfully, "I should simply have insisted upon your lunching
with me at Purcell's; then we might have gone to the matinee afterward;
there is the dearest, brightest little piece on now--'Mademoiselle
Rosette.' You haven't heard it? What a pity! This is the very last
matinee. Never mind, dear, I sha'n't be so thoughtless another day."
"But why shouldn't I--" began Elizabeth tardily; then with a deep blush.
"I have plenty of money with me, and I should be so happy if you would
lunch with me, and----"
"My dear, I couldn't _think_ of it! I _mustn't_ allow you to be
extravagant," demurred Miss Tripp. But in the end she yielded prettily,
and Elizabeth forthwith tasted a new pleasure, which is irresistibly
alluring to most generous women.
That evening at dinner her eyes were so bright and her laughing mouth so
red that her young husband surveyed her with new admiration. "What did
you find to amuse you to-day in this big, dull town?" he wanted to know.
"It isn't dull at all, Sam, and I've had the loveliest time with
Evelyn," she told him, and added a spirited account of the opera seen
with the unjaded eyes of the country-bred girl. "I've never had an
opportunity to go to theatres and operas before," she concluded, "and
Evelyn thinks I ought to see all the best things as a matter of
education."
"I think so too," beamed the unselfish Sam, "and I hope you'll go often
now that you have the chance."
"I may as well, I suppose, now that I have Annita," Elizabeth said.
"It's dreadfully dull here at home when you are gone. I've nothing to do
at all."
Sam pinched her pink ear gently as the two strolled away from the table.
"How does the new kitchen mechanic suit you?" he asked. The meat had
been overdone, the vegetables watery and the coffee of an indifferent
colour and flavour, he thought privately.
"Why, she seems to know exactly what to do, and when to do it,"
Elizabeth said rather discontentedly, "and she's very neat; but did you
like that custard, Sam? I thought it was horrid; I'm sure she didn't
strain it, and it was cooked too much."
"Since you put it to me so pointedly, I'm bound to confess that the
present incumbent isn't a patch on the last lady who cooked for me,"
confessed her husband, laughing at the puzzled look in her eyes.
"Oh, you mean me! I'm glad you like my cooking, Sam. I should feel
dreadfully if you didn't. But about Annita, I am afraid she won't allow
me to teach her any of the things I know; and when I said I meant to
make a sponge-cake this morning, she said she was going to use the oven.
But she wasn't, for I went out and looked afterward. Then she said right
out that she wasn't used to having ladies in her kitchen, and that it
made her nervous."
"Hum!" commented the mere man; "you'd better ask your father to
prescribe for the young person; and in the meanwhile I should frequent
'her kitchen' till she had gradually accustomed herself to the idea."
"She would leave if I did that, Sam."
"There are others."
"Not like Annita," objected Elizabeth, with the chastened air of a
three-dimensioned experience. "You've no idea of the dreadful times
people have with servants here in Boston. And, really, one oughtn't to
expect an angel to work in one's kitchen for twenty-two dollars a month;
do you think so, Sam?"
Her uplifted eyes and earnest lips and rose-tinted cheeks were so
altogether charming as she propounded this somewhat absurd question
that Sam said, "Speaking of angels puts me in mind of the fact that I
have one right in hand," and much more of the good, old-fashioned
nonsense which makes the heart beat quicker and the eyes glow and
sparkle with unreasoning joy when the heart is young.
Half an hour had passed in this agreeable manner when Elizabeth
bethought herself to ask, "What had I better do about the butcher's and
grocer's slips, Sam dear? Annita says that in all the places where she
has worked they always run bills; but if we aren't to do that----"
"And we're not, you know; we agreed about that, Elizabeth?"
"Yes, of course; but Annita brought me several when I came in to-day; I
had forgotten all about them. Do you think I ought to stay at home every
day till after the butcher and grocer and baker have been here?
Sometimes they don't call till after twelve o'clock."
This was manifestly absurd, and he said so emphatically. The result of
his subsequent cogitations was an order to Annita to leave the slips on
his desk, where they would be attended to each evening. "Mind," he said,
"I don't want Mrs. Brewster annoyed with anything of the sort."
"Indeed, sir, I can see that Mrs. Brewster has not been used to being
worrited about anything, an' no more she ought," the young woman had
replied with an air of respectful affection for her mistress which
struck Sam as being no less than admirable. It materially assisted him
in his efforts to swallow Annita's muddy coffee of a morning and her
leaden puddings at night. All this, while Elizabeth light-heartedly
entered upon what Miss Tripp was pleased to call her "first Boston
season."
There was so much to be learned, so much to be seen, so much to enjoy;
and the new gowns and hats and gloves were so exactly the thing for the
matinees, teas, card-parties and luncheons to which she found herself
asked with unlooked-for cordiality. She could hardly have been expected
to know that her open sesame to even this circle without a circle
consisted in a low-voiced allusion to the sidereally remote Mrs. Van
Duser, "a connection by marriage, my dear."
It was on a stormy afternoon in late February when Dr. North,
unannounced and disdaining the noisy little elevator, climbed the three
flights of stairs to his daughter's apartment and tapped lightly on the
corridor door. His summons was answered by an alert young woman in a
frilled cap and apron. Mrs. Brewster was giving a luncheon, she informed
him, and could see no one.
"But I am Mrs. Brewster's father, and she'll want to see me," the good
doctor had insisted, sniffing delicately at the odours of salad and
coffee which floated out to him from the gingerly opened door. "Go tell
your mistress that Dr. North is here and would like to see her."
In another minute a fashionable little figure in palest rose-colour had
thrown two pretty lace-clad arms about his neck. "Oh, you dear, old
darling daddy! why _didn't_ you let me know you were coming? Now I've
this luncheon party, with bridge after it, and I can't-- But you must
come in and wait; I'll tuck you away somewhere--in my bedroom, or----"
"I can't stay, Bess--at least not long. I've a consultation at the
hospital at three. But I'll tell you, I'll be back at five; how'll that
do? I've a message from your mother, and----"
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders distractedly. "They won't go a minute
before six," she said; "but come then--to dinner. Be sure now!"
The doctor was hungry, he had had no lunch, and despite the warmth of
his welcome there was a perceptible chill about his aging heart as he
slowly made his way down the stairs.
"I'm afraid I'll not be able to make it," he told himself; "my train
goes at six-fifty, and--bless me! I've just time for a bite at a
restaurant before I'm due at the hospital."