"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk is
long, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked a
little serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in consequence
of my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite, and if I had
taken some food then, it would have done me good. I thought, as I stood
at the door, waiting to be let in, that I would ask for a cracker or a
piece of bread and butter; but, when I met you, and saw how sober you
looked, my heart failed me."
"Why, Mary!" said Mrs. Wykoff. "How wrong it was in you!"
"May be it was, ma'am; but I couldn't help it. I'm foolish sometimes;
and it's hard for us to be anything else than what we are, as my Aunt
Hannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with the dull pain in
my side, and the sick feeling that always comes at such times, and
worked on hour after hour. You looked in once or twice during the
morning to see how I was getting on, and to ask about the trimming for
a dress I was making. Then you went out shopping, and did not get home
until half past two o'clock. For two hours there had been a gnawing at
my stomach, and I was faint for something to eat. Twice I got up to
ring the bell, and ask for a lunch; but, I felt backward about taking
the liberty. When, at three o'clock, I was called to dinner, no
appetite remained. I put food into my mouth, but it had no sweetness,
and the little I forced myself to swallow, lay undigested. You were
very much occupied, and did not notice me particularly. I dragged on,
as best I could, through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if I
would drop from my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearly
seven o'clock when I put up my work and went down. You said something
in a kind, but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I would
have a second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice of
bread half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach home
that night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon as
possible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock, when a
coughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my side. It was
near daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so heavily for two
hours that I was all wet with perspiration when I awoke. On trying to
rise, my head swam so that I had to lie down again, and it was late in
the day before I could even sit up in bed. Towards evening, I was able
to drink a cup of tea and eat a small piece of toast and then I felt
wonderfully better. I slept well that night, and was still better in
the morning, but did not think it safe to venture out upon a day's
work; so I rested and got all the strength I could. On the third day, I
was as well as ever again."
Mrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and bent
down over her sewing. For some time, she remained without speaking.
"Life is too precious a thing to be wasted in this way," said the lady,
at length, speaking partly to herself, and partly to the seamstress.
"We are too thoughtless, I must own; but you are not blameless. It is
scarcely possible for us to understand just how the case stands with
one in your position, and duty to yourself demands that you should make
it known. There is not one lady in ten, I am sure, who would not be
pleased rather than annoyed, to have you do so."
Miss Carson did not answer.
"Do you doubt?" asked Mrs. Wykoff.
"For one of my disposition," was replied, "the life of a seamstress
does not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve--or, to speak more
correctly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's household
arrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is, to adapt
myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anything
by my presence."
"Even though your life be in jeopardy?" said Mrs. Wykoff.
"Oh! it's not so bad as that."
"But it is, Mary! Let me ask a few more questions. I am growing
interested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How many
families do you work for?"
After thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of ladies,
she replied--
"Not less than twenty."
"And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?"
"Yes."
"Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their various
home arrangements?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Getting your dinner at one o'clock to-day, and at three or four
to-morrow?"
Miss Carson nodded assent.
"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the next
occasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has dined."
Another assenting inclination of the head.
"One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on the
next cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which is
little less than poison to your weak lungs."
"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff," replied Miss
Carson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. "How could it be otherwise? No
house-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the
accommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself to
them, and do it as gracefully as possible."
"Even at the risk of her life?"
"She will find it easier to decline working in families where the order
of things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any change. I
have been obliged to do this in one or two instances."
"There is something wrong here, Mary," said Mrs. Wykoff, with
increasing sobriety of manner. "Something very wrong, and as I look it
steadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for, after what
you have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be remedied. One
thing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without remonstrance, the
hurt you suffer, there will be no change. People are indifferent and
thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard for
others--especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them."
"We cannot apply the remedy," answered Miss Carson.
"I am not so sure of that."
"Just look at it for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. It is admitted, that, for
the preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and that food
should be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at home, my habit
is to eat breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and supper at six. To-day,
such is the order of my meals; but to-morrow, I leave home at half past
six, and sit down, on an empty stomach to sew until eight, before I am
called to breakfast. After that, I work until two o'clock, when I get
my dinner; and at seven drink tea. On the day after that, may be, on my
arrival at another house where a day's cutting and fitting is wanted, I
find the breakfast awaiting me at seven; this suits very well--but not
another mouthful of food passes my lips until after three o'clock, and
may be, then, I have such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that I
cannot eat. On the day following, the order is again changed. So it
goes on. The difference in food, too, is often as great. At some
houses, everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence,
of easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasy
cooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them,
disorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. The
seamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her own
special benefit, would soon find herself in hot water. Think a moment.
Suppose, in going into a family for one or two days, or a week, I
should begin by a request to have my meals served at certain
hours--seven, one and six, for instance--how would it be received in
eight out of ten families?"
"Something would depend," said Mrs. Wykoff, "on the way in which it was
done. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do not
think the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied that,
in your case, with the signs of poor health on your countenance, the
mild request to be considered as far as practicable, would, in almost
every instance, receive a kind return."
"Perhaps so. But, it would make trouble--if no where else, with
servants, who never like to do anything out of the common order. I have
been living around long enough to understand how such things operate;
and generally think it wisest to take what comes and make the best of
it."
"Say, rather, the worst of it, Mary. To my thinking, you are making the
worst of it."
But, Mrs. Wykoff did not inspire her seamstress with any purpose to act
in the line of her suggestions. Her organization was of too sensitive a
character to accept the shocks and repulses that she knew would attend,
in some quarters, any such intrusion of her individual wants. Even with
all the risks upon her, she preferred to suffer whatever might come,
rather than ask for consideration. During the two or three days that
she remained with Mrs. Wykoff, that excellent lady watched her, and
ministered to her actual wants, with all the tender solicitude of a
mother; and when she left, tried to impress upon her mind the duty of
asking, wherever she might be, for such consideration as her health
required.
The Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear "bright and
early" at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far from
being a bright morning. An easterly storm had set in during the night;
the rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily. A chilliness
crept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from her bed, soon
after the dull light began to creep in drearily through the half closed
shutters of her room. The air, even within her chamber, felt cold,
damp, and penetrating. From her window a steeple clock was visible. She
glanced at the face, and saw that it was nearly seven.
"So late as that!" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and commenced
dressing herself in a hurried, nervous way. By the time she was ready
to leave her room, she was exhausted by her own excited haste.
"Mary," said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving down
stairs, "you are not going out this morning."
"Oh, yes, ma'am," she answered, in a cheerful voice. "I have an
engagement for to-day."
"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully. Wait
an hour or two until it holds up a little."
"Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant! I can't stop for a trifle of rain."
"It's no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary. You'll get
drenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!"
"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannot
disappoint her." And Miss Carson kept on down stairs.
"But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary. Wait
just for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea. The water is
boiling."
Mary did not wait. It was already past the time when she was expected
at Mrs. Lowe's; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable on that
account, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its attendant aversion
to food. So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant's concerned importunities,
she went forth into the cold driving storm. It so happened, that she
had to go for nearly the entire distance of six or seven blocks, almost
in the teeth of the wind, which blew a gale, drenching her clothes in
spite of all efforts to protect herself by means of an umbrella. Her
feet and ankles were wet by the time she reached Mrs. Lowe's, and the
lower parts of her dress and under-clothing saturated to a depth of ten
or twelve inches.
"I expected you half an hour ago," said the lady, in a coldly polite
way, as Miss Carson entered her presence.
"The morning was dark and I overslept myself," was the only reply.
Mrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary's clothing and
feet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress, not
a human being, that was before her--a machine, not thing of sensation.
So she conducted her to a room in the third story, fronting east,
against the cloudy and misty windows of which the wind and rain were
driving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the air of this room. Mrs.
Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her shoulders; but Mary, after
removing her bonnet and cloak, had no external protection for her chest
beyond the closely fitting body of her merino dress. Her feet and hands
felt very cold, and she had that low shuddering, experienced when one
is inwardly chilled.
Mrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress. There were the materials to
make half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the little
Misses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and cutting a
body pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending the operation,
and embarrassing Mary at the start with her many suggestions. Nearly an
hour had been spent in this way, when the breakfast bell rang. It was
after eight o'clock. Without saying anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and the
child they had been fitting, went down stairs. This hour had been one
of nervous excitement to Mary Carson. Her cheeks were hot--burning as
if a fire shone upon them--but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet,
sent the blood in every returning circle, robbed of warmth to the
disturbed heart.
It was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. As
she arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side; so
sharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or three
times, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs. She was, at
the same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness across the
chest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given place soon
after her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of the stomach
for food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went down stairs,
that unless something to tempt the appetite were set before her, she
could not take a mouthful. There was nothing to tempt the appetite. The
table at which the family had eaten remained just as they had left
it--soiled plates and scraps of broken bread and meat; partly emptied
cups and saucers; dirty knives and forks, spread about in
confusion.--Amid all this, a clean plate had been set for the
seamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and dignified, at the head
of the table.
"Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?"
"Coffee."
It was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with tin,
and sweetened to nauseousness. Mary took a mouthful and swallowed
it--put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely refused to
unclose and admit another drop. So she sat the cup down.
"Help yourself to some of the meat." And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish,
which, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the table
bearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now, lying beside
the bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of chilled gravy, was
the fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of it was enough for Miss
Carson; and she declined the offered delicacy.
"There's bread." She took a slice from a fresh baker's loaf; and spread
it with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the butter
plates. It was slightly sour. By forcing herself, she swallowed two or
three mouthfuls. But the remonstrating palate would accept no more.
"Isn't the coffee good?" asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in her
voice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second mouthful.
"I have very little appetite this morning," was answered, with an
effort to smile and look cheerful.
"Perhaps you'd rather have tea. Shall I give you a cup?" And Mrs. Lowe
laid her hand on the teapot.
"You may, if you please." Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew
was occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in
the hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had the
merit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but it was
little more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with milk. She
drank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with her still wet
feet and skirts to the sewing-room.
"Rather a dainty young lady," she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the waiter,
as she left the room.
The stitch in Mary's side caught her again, as she went up stairs, and
almost took her breath away; and it was some time after she resumed her
work, before she could bear her body up straight on the left side.
In her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, Mary
Carson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest or
refreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the
disordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food set
before her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly appetite.
She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention, and then
returned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she re-entered,
seemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room.
The stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but the
dull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation. Still,
she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience and
industry, that, considering her actual condition, was surprising. Mrs.
Lowe was in and out of the room frequently, overlooking the work, and
marking its progress. Beyond the producing power of her seamstress, she
had no thought of that individual. It did not come within the range of
her questionings whether she were well or ill--weak or
strong--exhausted by prolonged labor, or in the full possession of
bodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent through which a certain
service was obtained; and beyond that service, she was nothing. The
extent of her consideration was limited by the progressive creation of
dresses for her children. As that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss
Carson; but penetrated no deeper. She might be human; might have an
individual life full of wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities;
might be conscious of bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was in
a region so remote from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no
intelligence thereof reached her.
At six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and shawl,
went down stairs, intending to return home.
"You're not going?" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She spoke
in some surprise.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home."
"What time is it?" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. "Only six o'clock. I
think you're going rather early. It was late when you came this
morning, you know."
"Excuse me, if you please," said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I am
not very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up."
Mrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress, who
kept on down stairs, and left the house.
The rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were quite
wet again by the time she reached home.
"How are you, child?" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary came
in.
"Not very well," was answered.
"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?"
"I'm afraid that I have."
"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get very
wet?"
"Yes."