“ALL aboard!”
As the cars glided out of the lighted depot into the darker streets,
leading to the utter gloom of the open country, two gentlemen settled
themselves into their seats with audible sighs of satisfaction.
“Homeward bound!” said the elder, a man of fifty, hale in figure and
face, although his hair was almost white.
“For which let us be thankful!” responded his companion, heartily.
“This has been a long week to me, although a busy one—longer than a
fortnight would have been at home.”
“You may blame the twin babies for that,” said the other, smiling
indulgently at his impatience.
“_Bless_ them for it, you mean—the boys and their mother. A man may
well be impatient to get back to such treasures as are mine.”
He was a fine-looking fellow, manly in every gesture and tone,
six-and-twenty years old, the son-in-law of the gentleman beside him,
and had been for a year his law-partner.
“You are right. Emma is a good girl—a noble woman; her mother’s own
daughter for sense, discretion, and warmth of heart. There is nothing
frivolous or shallow about her. Let me see—the boys are almost three
months old, are they not?”
“Just three months to-morrow. It is marvellous what strength the
thought of them puts into my heart and arm. The cunning little rascals!
Emma writes that they grow every day. She is sure they will recognize
me on my return. I suppose you experienced papas, who have outlived the
novelty of this sort of thing, amuse yourselves vastly at our expense;
but it pleases me to believe what she says. They are very bright,
healthy in mind and body, as the children of such a mother should be.
They and I are blest beyond comparison in having her for the angel in
our house. Should it please GOD to spare our lives”—
The sentence rested on the shocked air, incomplete, never to be
finished. One terrific jar!—a crashing and splintering, and reeling,
an awful sense of falling down, down, through utter darkness, over
and over, then a blow that ended everything—surprise, consternation,
fearful questioning—in blank, black silence.
When the débris of the telescoped cars was cleared away, the two men
were found lying, as they had sat, side by side. The younger was dead.
The elder moved and groaned as he was lifted from the wreck. Papers
upon their persons established their identity beyond a doubt.
Early next morning a telegram was brought into a pretty dressing-room,
where the sunshine, peering through the vine-leaves about the window,
made dancing shadows on the floor, laughed, and leaped, and flashed
in reflection from the water in a China bath, set in the middle of
the chamber. In this splashed and crowed two baby-boys, one held by
the mother, the other by the grandmother, and between these knelt two
younger women—all four in delighted worship of the tiny cherubs. There
was a breathless hush as the youngest of the party sprang up to seize
the envelope, and tore it open.
“_Collision!_” said the missive. “_Frederick Corwin killed instantly.
Philip Hiller badly injured. Both will be sent on in next train._”
In this ghastly shape came disaster to the long-exempt household.
Life and the world had dealt so benignly and bountifully with them
heretofore, that they had insensibly learned to look upon their
possession of health, love, and happiness as assured for years and
years to come. Emma’s marriage had removed her from them but a couple
of blocks, and all concurred in the opinion that this was a charming
variety upon their former estate.
“How did we ever get along without Fred’s and Emma’s house to run
into? It is as good as having two homes,” the girls often said among
themselves.
When the twins came—bouncing, healthy boys—the excitement and joy in
one house equalled that in the other. It seemed now, indeed, that
they could ask nothing more of Heaven; that the brimming cup of bliss
was mantled all over with rose-leaves. And when “Papa and Fred” were
obliged to be absent from their homes for a week, in attendance upon
the doings of a court a hundred miles away, Emma and her babes were
transferred with much ceremony and rejoicing to her mother’s care;
given up to the petting and admiration of the doating aunties without
reservation, beyond Fred’s earnest entreaty that they would not kiss
the boys away to skeletons before he returned, and a threat to have
them protected by copper sheathing from the fate of St. Peter’s brazen
toe.
Dear Fred! the merry, handsome, stalwart brother; their only one,—who
was never to jest with them again; never again to hold wife and
babes in his embrace. Imogen and Blanche mourned for him only less
passionately than did she who had proudly and gladly borne his name.
Poor wife! she was denied the satisfaction of hearing that her name
had been the last in his thoughts and speech; that the loyal heart
had never beat more lovingly for her than in its latest throbbings;
for weeks passed before Mr. Hiller could speak at all, and then the
disjointed utterances of the palsied tongue told nothing beyond the
terrible fact that the brain had sustained serious, it might be
irreparable, damage. A paralytic cripple he would remain until the day
of his death, although this half-life might be prolonged for years,
pronounced the best medical authorities in the land, summoned without
regard to distance or expense, by the agonized wife.
Stricken, smitten of GOD, and afflicted, the four women sat them down
together in the mother’s room, a month after the double bereavement,
and took mournful but deliberate counsel together. Their affairs were
not at a desperate pass, as they already knew. There was the house in
which they lived, free of mortgage, which would bring at least thirty
thousand dollars in the market; ten thousand dollars in bank stocks and
other securities—solid, paying investments, and five thousand dollars’
worth of real estate—chiefly unimproved lots in a growing part of the
city, that might be very valuable in time, if they could be held and
the taxes paid. Fred had invested four thousand dollars in the latter
kind of property, and his life was insured for ten thousand more. If
Emma were to sell everything—furniture, lots and all—she would have
just seventeen thousand dollars with which to support herself, to rear
and educate her boys. By living upon the interest of the life-insurance
fund, and paying taxes on the real-estate for some years, she might
double the little fortune bequeathed to her, without reserve, by her
husband’s will.
“I shall not touch a cent of it, if I can help it,” she said, in sad
decision. “It shall be the father’s provision for his sons. They will
need it all, in order to educate themselves as he would have wished.
For the present I shall work for them and myself. You foresaw this
years ago, mother. I thank GOD, and thank you, that you prepared us to
meet it!”
“Amen!” said her sisters fervently. “Dark as is the day—so much darker
than we ever dreamed it would be,” added Imogen, tearfully, yet trying
to smile, “we have much to be thankful for. We are strong; we know how
to work; and there are papa and the babies, darling Fred’s sons, to
work for.”
“Papa and the babies!” Even the fond wife did not resent the
classification. The hale gentleman whose half-century of honest,
temperate life had not bowed his head or dimmed his eye; the sage,
shrewd man of business, than whom none were more respected by his
fellow-citizens, was a tremulous, timid child, who wept if his meals
were delayed one minute, or his wife, his faithful, tender nurse, were
out of his sight for an hour.
“Utterly incapable of attending to the simplest matters connected with
his business!” cried open-eyed Everybody, hovering, harpy-like, about
the human wreck. “Why, he couldn’t count one hundred to save his life.
Of course, they will get a certificate of lunacy from the court, and
sell the house, lots, and whatever they can realize anything upon; put
all they have together, and live as prudently as possible. The girls
ought to marry before long. They are pretty and popular, in spite of
their little eccentricities. It isn’t to be expected that they will
make brilliant matches now, of course; but they must bring down their
ambition to a reasonable level. Beggars mustn’t be choosers. It is
unfortunate that poor Mrs. Corwin has those two children. But they may
not live. Twins are more likely to die than other babies. And, if they
_should_ be taken, she’ll be likely to pick up another husband. Her
little property would be a consideration to some men.”
Even the true friends of the sorely-tried family wished sincerely and
aloud that “each of the dear girls had a husband to take care of her;”
recommended them warmly to the compassionate and favorable notice of
their bachelor acquaintances, and devised pious plans of matchmaking
for their relief from the inconveniences of their altered circumstances.
“The worst part of it all was that poor Emma was encumbered with the
children, who would be more and more expensive every year, and that
poor, dear Mr. Hiller would be a helpless imbecile all his life. And
what a mistake in them to refuse to treat him as such, and have him
examined by a commission who would give his family the right to dispose
of his property!”
If the Ruler of the intellects and lives of men had hearkened to these
benevolent economists, the crippled man and the brace of “unfortunate”
infants would have been taken speedily and comfortably out of this
present evil world.
“Thank heaven for the babies!” uttered Blanche, throwing her arms about
Emma’s waist. “You darling sister! I bless you for them every hour.
What should we have done through all these last fearful weeks without
them—and you? Touch their weeny teenty patrimony! Indeed you shall not!
And more than that, we’ll make it a big one by the time they are ready
to enter college.”
The mother, as chief counsellor, had her plan ready for their
consideration. The house—a large double one—was still to be occupied
by them. The front parlor was to be used for the millinery department,
and put entirely under Blanche’s care. In the back, Imogen would hold
sway; and a smaller apartment in the rear of the hall should be the
fitting and trying-on chamber. The library across the hall, adjoining
the dining-room, was to be the family parlor. In every other part of
the house things were to remain unchanged.
“Who deserves to live more comfortably and luxuriously, to rest in soft
chairs and sleep upon elastic mattresses, to have generous food served
elegantly to tempt the appetite and strengthen the body, than she who
purchases all these with her own toil?” said the strange logician whose
daughters were too used to her “queer notions” to be startled by them.
“I do not say that you will make money fast, or at once. I do contend
that, saving rent, bookkeeper’s and saleswoman’s wages, as you will do,
you ought to be able to clear your business and personal expenses the
first year—if nothing more.”
“If the customers come,” suggested Emma.
Mrs. Hiller nodded confidently. “They will come! In the beginning, out
of curiosity and the love of novelty. It will depend upon your skill
whether they continue their custom.”
All previous sensations respecting the Hillers—their odd fancies and
daring talk and levelling theories; Emma’s marriage and the birth
of her twins; the tragical death of her husband and Mr. Hiller’s
deplorable condition—faded into the realms of forgottenness before
that excited by the appearance in all the leading papers, the following
month, of an advertisement to the effect that the “Misses Hiller would
open on Tuesday, the 15th instant, at their father’s residence on Lofty
Avenue, a first-class millinery and dressmaking establishment, and
pledged themselves to use their best efforts to give satisfaction to
their customers.”
The sudden intrusion of a bee-moth into a well-regulated, honey-lined
hive might create such commotion among the inhabitants thereof as
prevailed in the “best circles” of the city when the Incredible was,
at length, developed by means of printer’s ink and paper, into the
Certain. The Hiller philosophy had wrought its legitimate fruits, said
the wise ones. Such sympathy with the lower classes, and familiarity
with their modes of thought and personal history, amounting to
fanatical imitation of their language and habits and mercenary views of
life; such bold scoffing at the ethics and usages of SOCIETY (this in
capitals half an inch long, if you please, Mr. Printer!) could have but
one sequel, and that a catastrophe.
“Be it so!” enunciated resigned Everybody, in the calm of sinless
despair. “Since the Hiller girls prefer to sink to the level of mere
working women; to fly in the face of Providence that would, if they
were more reasonable and less sentimental, endow them with property
to the amount of at least fifty thousand dollars—sixty thousand, if
poor Mrs. Corwin’s be included, with the certain prospect of fifteen
thousand more at poor Mr. Hiller’s death—if they prefer, instead of
taking the goods thus offered them and living like ladies in the
sphere to which they were born, faithful to the principles that
control refined SOCIETY—to delve and plan and accumulate, let them be
recognized forthwith as _laborers_—nothing more, and nothing less! We,
the loyal leaguers of SOCIETY, true to the traditions of our class and
age, cannot more effectually and dignifiedly exclude them from our
sacred circle than by patronizing and _paying_ them _as_ dressmakers
and milliners. They have exquisite taste. That we, being candid even
where our enemies are concerned, will admit. They have also, tact and
energy, and association with US in the past has given them just ideas
of our style and needs. While we do not budge an inch from our belief
and precept that they should have starved genteelly; lived on bread
and tea, dyed and turned and otherwise rejuvenated their friends’
cast-off dresses; shivered over pinched-in grates in winter and
sponged upon obliging acquaintances in summer—sooner than thus degrade
themselves and betray their caste for the sake of pampering their
flesh with the delicacies of the markets, and their pride by indulging
in purple and fine linen, in damask and cut-glass, in Brussels and
satin—we”—concluded breathless Everybody, “accept the situation as they
have set it before us.”
“But it is suicidal!” actually sobbed the well-wishers of the
recalcitrant trio. “_They will never marry well now!_”
“Tuesday the 15th inst.” arrived—sharp but clear November weather,
and the desecrated Hiller mansion wore its most cheerful aspect. In
the back parlor the decks had been cleared for action, as Imogen
phrased it, by removing the piano, a large sofa, and an inlaid stand
or two. Imogen’s sewing machine and chair were by the side window.
Before the embayed recess at the end of the room was a long, rather
narrow table of singular construction, the plan being her own. The
top was covered with enamelled leather, with morocco pouches at each
corner, rather larger than the pockets of a billiard-table, and deep
drawers underneath. A tape-measure and a case of scissors lay upon
this. The pictures on the walls; the carpets; the rich hangings of the
windows; the lounging-chairs set invitingly about, the easel, with its
collection of fine engravings in one corner, a _chiffonier_ loaded with
attractive articles of virtu, and a few fresh, attractive books—even
the stand of flowers in the bay-window were the same that had so often
challenged the admiration of Mrs. Hiller’s guests, as giving her
parlors “_such_ an air of home-like elegance.”
In Blanche’s realm there had been more and material alterations. In
the niches on each side of the mantel were tall, shallow cases, with
sliding glass doors. These were made of black walnut, and bright
silver-plated knobs and pegs set in the back. Beneath the doors were
drawers with handles of the same metal. An attractive array of bonnets
and hats hung in one case; of caps, and headdresses and wreaths,
bouquets, sprays of flowers in the other, these last apparently
springing from a box filled with moss set in the bottom. Opposite the
mock conservatory was a show-case, being a walnut table handsomely
carved, with a glass box on top containing ribbons arranged with a
nice regard to harmony and contrasts of colors and shades. This also
had drawers beneath with silver knobs. At one of the front windows
stood Blanche’s chair and wicker-work stand. Hanging-baskets of living
flowers swung between the curtains; a mocking-bird’s cage in the arch
dividing the rooms.
Emma was walking slowly up and down the length of the two apartments,
ready to retire, at the approach of customers, to her desk in the
fitting-room. Her sisters had insisted upon her right to seclude
herself from general observation.
“We don’t mind being made a show of! In fact, we rather like it!” the
irrepressible Blanche was saying. “But they sha’n’t come to stare at,
and whisper about you, Queenie!”
Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were red as the French poppies in the
glass case near by. Every crimp in her blonde hair seemed to stir in
the breeze of excitement that swept and swayed her merry spirit. She
flitted about from Imogen’s dominion to her own, altering, admiring,
exclaiming, like a restless humming-bird.
“I am sorry for you, too,” she ran on, “for I anticipate great fun
during the next few weeks. All the calls to-day that are not prompted
by curiosity, more or less ill-natured, will be of condolence. Don’t I
know how our dear friends will pull out eye-glass and handkerchief in
the same tug. ‘You poor, dear girls!’ Mrs. Smith will sniff. (No matter
what happens to you, whether you lose a front tooth, or your fortune,
or your life, your best wishers will call you ‘poor dear!‘) ‘Now _do_
you think—honestly, now, you know—that it was _really_ necessary for
Philip Hiller’s daughters to take this un_pre_cedented step?’”
“Miss Allfriend will kiss us all around, and drop a tear on each of
our noses, with—‘My _dear_ children! it makes my heart bleed! And
_how_ does mamma stand it?’ And Mrs. Williams will trot in, eye-glass
up—‘Bless me! bless me! I thought I should drop when I read it in
the papers! Such a shock! You can’t really conceive! Bromide and red
lavender all night, my dears! I assure you!’”
“Hold your saucy tongue!” laughed Imogen, in spite of herself, and even
Emma smiled at the spirited mimicry.
Blanche rattled away faster than ever. “I am going to be prim and
proper when they begin to come! One and all will criticise our
appointments as ‘shockingly extravagant;’ declare that ‘the like was
never seen before in store or work-room—quite out of keeping, you
know!’ and prophesy swift ruin if we keep on as we have begun. And we
won’t hint that we paid for everything, our very own selves, with the
money papa has forced upon us for the work we have done in the last
four years. It’s none of their business! nor that we have some left, to
repair losses, should we have any!”
“Dear papa! all we can do won’t bring back health and reason to him!”
sighed Emma. “Or life to”—
Her eyes filled suddenly, and she would have hastened from the room,
but Imogen caught her in her arms.
“For _their_ sakes—those who loved and believed in us—and for the
babies; we will acquit ourselves bravely, sister. There are times when
work that we must do—systematic and sustained effort for others, is
GOD’S best cure for soul-morbidness. _I_ know!”
The others exchanged a silent look over the bright head bowed on Emma’s
shoulder—a glance of blended pity and indignation. Then, Blanche pulled
back the glass door of her flower-case with needless rattle, and busied
herself with a pendant of glossy ivy.
“Another year I will devise some such plan as this for showing off my
feathers—something like an aviary—see if I don’t!”
Not one of the three ever referred, in so many words, to the fact
that handsome, accomplished Harding Walford had not entered the house
in more than a month; that his visits had slackened perceptibly in
frequency and length since it became generally known that Mr. Hiller
would never recover. He had been Imogen’s most devoted attendant for
almost a year. Her family had not doubted what would be her answer to
the declaration they saw was pending. The world reported that he had
broken a positive engagement, and ran no risk in so doing, since she
had neither father nor brother to defend her rights. But there was not,
on this account, meted out to him a formidable share of censure. He
was “the best judge of his own affairs.” He was not rich. Had he been,
he might still, with reason, hesitate to take a step that would entail
upon him such a weight of responsibility as would a connection with the
no longer prosperous Hillers, even had not Imogen’s eccentric conduct
of late, in banding with her sisters “to undermine the distinctions
of SOCIETY,” been ample excuse for his defection. He was wise in his
generation, and the applause showered upon him who doeth good unto
himself, was his due. SOCIETY always pays this sort of debt.
Only—Imogen had believed in him; and the shivering of her trust beyond
the hope of repair, was very hard to bear. So much more cruel than
the thought of being the target of gossip’s shafts, that the latter
rattled unheeded against her armor of proud rectitude that day, and
ever afterward. Desertion had stung its worst when the man she loved
had looked for the last time, with love-full eyes, into hers.
Customers did come; singly, in twos and threes, and, a little past
midday, when they had discussed the Hillers’ affairs comfortably
over their luncheon-tables, in droves. They gathered in the spacious
rooms, as Mrs. Hiller had predicted, not so much to buy or order, as
to criticise and wonder. The most comic part of the exhibition to
fun-loving, dauntless Blanche was that so many were disconcerted at
finding that they were not singular in their curiosity and the resolve
to gratify it. Hardly second to this was the ludicrous uncertainty on
the part of most of the visitors as to the proper line of conduct to
be pursued in greeting the gentlewomen so abruptly transformed into
trades-people whom they were here to scrutinize. That the cordial yet
respectful familiarity of equals was not to be thought of, now, was
the dominant impression with the majority. Yet few were so indurated
in worldliness, or so barefaced in the display of it as to attempt to
treat their late social compeers exactly as they would “quite common
persons.” The result was a combination of stiffness and patronage
totally at variance with the carriage of well-bred ease, flavored with
hauteur, they adjudged to be “the thing in the circumstances.”
The proprietors of the elegant apartments were mistresses of
themselves and the position from the beginning. With a single eye to
business, they adroitly evaded all allusion to the novelty of the
scene; received the compliments to their establishments and their
wares with smiling composure; showed the stock and took orders with
professional dexterity, and entirely ignored glances and veiled hints
of commiseration.
“Have you _no_ assistants?” queried more than one.
“At present, none,” Imogen returned, quietly. “Should our business
require it, we shall procure help, keeping everything, of course, under
our own personal supervision.”
“It is not an untried field to us, you know,” subjoined Blanche, in her
blithest tone. “Much practice has taught us swiftness and the artistic
sleight of hand that distinguishes the work of the _modiste_ from that
of the amateur.”
The rooms were quite full when a plain but handsome carriage stopped at
the door. A lady alighted with her arms full of bundles, followed by
two slender girls of eighteen and twenty, each with a parcel, although
the footman stood idly by, holding the door.
“Just like her!” murmured a spectator inside the front window, peeping
through the lace curtains. “She prides herself on her want of what she
calls false shame, and on being able to wait on herself.”
A hum ran from the tattler through the little assembly. Blanche, who
was showing a box of feathers to a customer, feigned not to hear
it; dared not to steal a look at her sister, although she longed to
know how she comported herself in view of the approaching ordeal.
She was the only one present whose eyes were not directed instantly
toward the young dressmaker as she advanced a few steps to meet the
new arrivals. Foremost in the group was the mistress of the carriage,
a stately figure, richly attired, who wore her own gray hair folded
smoothly above a pair of black brows and searching, usually severe
eyes. They softened and shone at sight of the form in deep mourning,
awaiting her pleasure, perhaps reading through the guise of lady-like
self-possession the secret trouble that fluttered heart and pulse,
while the trained features served the resolute will faithfully.
“My dear child!” she said, impulsively, holding fast to her parcels,
but bending to kiss the cheek which flushed high under the salute.
Her daughters pressed forward to bestow caresses as affectionate upon
“dear Imogen,” the family having recently returned from abroad. Their
mother allowed them no time for inquiries or condolence.
“I am very, very glad to see you looking so well and bright!” she
pursued, in a breezy, cheerful tone, neither shrill nor loud, but one
that could make itself heard whenever and by whomsoever she willed.
“I didn’t mean that my first call should be one of business, but I
suppose you wouldn’t admit me upon any other plea, in business hours.
But there’s the great Huntley wedding, week after next, you know, and
the girls haven’t enough finery to warrant their appearance there—just
from Paris, too! So we have come to cast ourselves upon your generosity
and beg you, for the sake of old times and present friendship, to make
us presentable. Unless you are too severely taxed already by the
importunate friends of whom I see so many present. How is the dear
father to-day? You must let me see him and mamma before I leave—and
Emma and the babies! You mustn’t exclude us from the other parts of
the house because you have taken to practicalities in sober, serious
earnest. We would rebel outright, and _en masse_—after having been
welcomed, during so many years, to the pleasantest home in the city!”
Imogen had led the way into the other parlor while the lady talked, and
was now undoing the wrappings of the three silk dresses, and opening
boxes of rare, fine lace on the long table. Her back was to the groups
of attentive listeners to the foregoing monologue, and the keen eyes
beside her saw her fingers shake, the long, brown lashes fall quickly
to hide the unshed tears.
“You are _very_ good!” said a gentle, grateful voice. “But I felt sure
you would be!”
“My love!” A strong and not small hand—ungloved—a superb diamond
_solitaire_, in itself a fortune, flashing on it as the guard to a
worn wedding-ring—covered the chill, uncertain fingers, busy with
paper and twine. Imogen felt the warmth and thrill of the pressure
to her very heart. “If you ever dare to say another word like that,
I’ll never forgive you! Trimmings, style, everything—we leave to you,
Imogen, my dear!” she continued, aloud. “If you can make my girls
half as _distingué_ as you are yourself in full dress, or home-dress
either, for that matter, I shall be satisfied. I always told you you
were a genius in your profession—creative, not merely imitative
genius. It was a shame that you did not give others the benefit of it
before now. It is refreshing to one who has cultivated any taste for
the æsthetic, to look about your rooms. I have lively hopes that dress
may be understood and studied as one of the fine arts among us in
time. You will be known in this generation and region, at least, as a
benefactress. We go into another room to be measured, did you say?”
She swept her daughters before her into the fitting-room, and a buzz
and rustle succeeded the silence her entrance had caused.
In Blanche’s hearing no one could comment openly upon what had passed.
But there were significant whispers and wondering looks, and by the
time the gossips reached the street, much and prolonged discussion with
regard to this episode in the history of “opening day.”
For the eccentric old lady who could afford to defy the dictate of
SOCIETY, and exercised her right, was Mrs. Horatio Harding, whose
own veins were full of old, rich Dutch blood, and whose husband was
a merchant prince, and Mr. Harding Walford was her nephew-in-law. If
she had set her mind upon making the Hiller girls the fashion, she had
carried her point triumphantly. With a sort of insolent grace, perhaps,
at which people grumbled while they obeyed her, but she had had her
way, as usual. Mrs. Horatio Harding had “opinions,” and it was not
always safe or pleasant to oppose her.
“You may not know that you have done us a great service—one for which
we can never pay you aright,” said Imogen to her at the close of “the
season’s” work. “But you have! That we have succeeded beyond our most
sanguine expectations is due, in a large measure, to the foothold you
gave us that first day. If other women who have as much influence
would use it to free, not enslave, their sex; to overcome, instead of
strengthening the prejudices that bear so hardly upon us already, what
a change would be wrought in homes where the few strive and toil, and
the many are served!”
The strong white hand with the glittering _solitaire_, was raised
threateningly.
“What did I tell you? I will not be praised for doing a simple act of
justice, especially when my heart, as well as my conscience, moved me
to it. And _you_, my sweet child, may not know that you have had a
narrow escape from marrying a man who has proved himself no more worthy
to mate with you than am I with one of the holy men of old—those of
whom the world was not worthy. But you have. That is all I shall ever
_say_ on the subject. But I think the more for my reserve when with
you. And Harding Walford knows that I do. I am not reticent in his
hearing. Don’t attempt to defend him! He has lost _you_, and that ought
to be punishment enough for one who is capable of appreciating you. Not
that he ever was.”
“I don’t want him to be punished, dear Mrs. Harding,” replied Imogen,
gently. “He only swam with the tide.”
“Precisely! and to deserve such a wife as you would make, a man ought
to be strong of soul and right of purpose. Don’t talk to me about moral
cowards! I think I was born hating them!”
Two years later, this steady friend dropped in to see the sisters on
a gloomy afternoon in February. The light from the front windows made
long, clean cuts in the clinging yellow fog without, across the rimy
pavement to the carriage, with its liveried coachman and fine horses.
Passers-by, on their way to humble homes, lifted eyelids beaded with
the icy damp, and thought how lucky were the dwellers in the stately
house; how much-to-be envied the guest who rode in state above the
mire of the common ways. Those who recognized the liveries, and knew
whose was the dwelling, pondered, more or less wonderingly, upon the
incongruity of the unabated intimacy, and speculated, perhaps, upon
the probabilities that the Harding pride would have revolted at a
matrimonial alliance between a scion of their house and one of the
“reduced” family, for all Mrs. Horatio’s show of friendship. It was
a lucky thing, decided eight out of ten of those who considered the
matter, that young Walford had not committed himself irrevocably before
the “misfortune” that showed him how near he was to the edge of the
abyss. He had made a desirable match last fall, and was now travelling
in Europe with his heiress bride.
Little cared guest or hostesses what the outside world thought or
believed respecting their intercourse. Emma’s boys were building block
houses on the back parlor floor. The three sisters were gathered about
the centre-table in the other room, talking in low voices over their
work. Mrs. Harding stopped in the doorway on seeing their grave faces,
and that they were making black _crêpe_ bonnets.
“A mourning order!” she said, in her unceremonious way. “Anybody that I
know?”
“Not an order exactly,” explained Imogen, when they had welcomed her.
“But poor Mr. Sibthorpe has gone at last, and Blanche proposed that
we should spare the widow and three unmarried daughters the expense
of bonnets and veils; so we are making them and the widow’s caps out
of work hours. We do our charity work at such odd times you know—and
together.
“You are the Blessed Three Sisters—_that_ everybody knows!” uttered
the visitor. “I don’t believe I _could_ set a stitch for that tribe of
lazy locusts! Amelia, the married one, is no better. Her husband failed
awhile ago, as you may remember, and she is too proud to help him in
the small haberdasher’s shop he has lately set up; sits at home like
a—I won’t say lady—but an idiotic automaton—”
“Who ever heard of an intellectual one?” laughed Blanche.
“No pertness, miss! I don’t pick my terms when I am excited. She sits
in the small parlor over the store, as I was saying, and curries favor
with wealthy and charitable ladies by cutting sponge and velvet into
monkey and black-and-tan terrier pen-wipers for fancy fairs. What are
the Sibthorpe’s going to do, now that the man they murdered among them
is dead?”
“His life was insured”—began Emma.
“Humph!” interrupted Mrs. Harding. “You needn’t proceed. They will eat
the insurance up to the last dollar, and by that time the boys will be
big enough to divide the women among them; to carry them bodily—their
expenses, that is—as we see ants running about with egg sacs bigger
than themselves on their shoulders. I know the old, hideous story by
heart. Drop the subject.”
“Let me give you a piece of news that will entertain you better,” said
Blanche, merrily. “One of the Payne girls—Sophia, the youngest—is going
to marry a widower with eight children—all at home.”
“Serves her right! But I am sorry for the children. Go on!”
“The happy man is a Mr. Gregorias, of Spanish extraction. He is small
and withered, and reported to be rich as cream. So Arethusa says.
The wedding dress is to be of white satin, with point lace veil and
flounces—the gift of the groom.”
“Have you undertaken the trousseau?” queried Mrs. Harding, fixing her
keen gaze upon Imogen.
“No,” she answered, coloring as she smiled. “I have declined making any
engagements for the spring. I am going abroad for a year in May, and
Blanche does not want a stranger here in my place.”
“Markham Burke _is_ the man, then! My love! I congratulate you with
all my heart. I have been on thorns all winter about you and the noble
fellow. I was afraid you had some Quixotic notions that would stand in
the way of his happiness and yours.”
“No; why should I have?” rejoined the _fiancée_, speaking quietly and
sensibly. “We are not vowed to our trades, or to celibacy. Markham says
there is no need that he, with his ample means, should let me keep up
my business. Whatever I have made, he insists upon settling upon me.
He would have had me divide it all between Blanche and Emma, but they
would not allow it.”
“I should hope not!” cried Blanche, energetically. “Two women who can
take care of themselves!’”
“Blanche will enlarge her department,” continued Imogen, “now that
I will leave her room. You should hear her plans of making a temple
of art—not of fashion alone—in these two parlors. It will be very
beautiful. She can afford to indulge her taste in these respects. She
is making money.”
“Means to be a nabob-ess before she dies—or marries,” interjected the
youngest sister.
“You are a mercenary witch,” said Mrs. Harding. “Emma, Mr. Harding
says your lots are rising in value fast, and the price of land in that
quarter of the city is sure to increase with tenfold rapidity during
the next dozen years. He would not advise you to close with the offer
made you last week, unless you need the money.”
“Thank you and him!” replied the young widow. “I am not anxious to
sell. Let it grow for the boys. It belongs to them. The rest of us
are provided for. Even for mamma there is enough and to spare. We
have never been tempted by the various straits of poverty and shabby
gentility to wish for our father’s death, that we might profit by _his_
life-insurance policy. Feeble as he is, his cheerfulness, his patience
and affection for us all, make his a very bright presence in our home.
It is a priceless comfort to us all that he is not compelled, when he
needs them most, to relinquish the home and luxuries he toiled so long
and bravely to obtain for us.”
“You can’t imagine what pride and delight he takes in the boys!”
exclaimed Blanche. “We really hope he may live to see them grown.”
“It is the story of the old storks and their young, to the life,” said
Mrs. Harding to her husband that night. “I used to think it a fable. I
believe now that it is true, out and out!”
INDEX
PAGE
EGGS 18
A hen’s nest 27
Eggs baked (_No. 1_) 20
(_No. 2_) 20
Egg cutlets 21
Eggs forcemeat 27
fricasseed 21
poached _à la Bonne Femme_ 24
poached with mushrooms 25
scalloped (_hard-boiled_) 23
(_raw_) 22
stirred 22
sur le plat 19
toasted 19
whirled 24
with anchovy toast 26
FISH 29
_Entrées and Relishes of Fish_ 29
Cold fish—what to do with 29
Cod or halibut—baked 36
(_salt_) _au maître d’hôtel_ 43
with cheese 44
scalloped 44
with egg sauce 43
44
Cutlets of halibut, cod or salmon 35
Cutlets of halibut, cod or salmon
_à la reine_ 35
Eels stewed _à l’Allemande_ 33
_à l’Americain_ 33
fricasseed 34
Fish-balls 32
Roes of cod or shad (_fried_) 29
Sauce for the above 30
Roes of cod or shad (_stewed_) 30
Sauce 30
Roes scalloped 31
Salmon, baked with cream sauce 36
cutlets _en papillote_ 38
devilled 42
in a mould 39
Sauce for the above 39
Salmon, _mayonnaise_ of 40
Dressing for above 40
Salmon, smoked (_broiled_) 42
steaks, or cutlets (_fried_) 37
steaks, or cutlets (_broiled_) 38
stewed 39
SHELL FISH.
Lobster, curried 48
devilled 49
cutlets 46
croquettes 46
fricassee 45
pudding 47
Sauce for the above 47
Lobster rissoles 45
Sauce for the above 46
Lobster scalloped (_No. 1_) 50
(_No. 2_) 50
stewed 49
Oysters, boiled in the shell 55
broiled 57
devilled 57
in batter 58
panned 53
scalloped (_No. 1_) 56
(_No. 2_) 56
stewed 58
Oyster Patés 59
pie (_cream_) 59
Turtle fricassee 52
PATÉS 68
Patés, chicken 69
70
of fish 70
Swiss 71
Paté of beef and potato 73
_de foie gras_ (_imitation_) 73
Stella 72
of sweetbreads 68
White sauce for the above 69
CROQUETTES 75
Croquettes, beef 78
chicken 77
fish 79
game 81
hominy 82
of lobster or crab 80
potato 83
rice 83
veal and ham 81
venison or mutton 78
Cannelon of veal 84
beef 85
A pretty breakfast dish 85
SWEETBREADS 86
Sweetbreads, brown, fricassee of (_No. 1_) 86
brown, fricassee of (_No. 2_) 87
white, fricassee of 88
broiled 90
larded (_fried_) 90
(_stewed_) 89
roasted 91
_sautés au vin_ 92
KIDNEYS 93
Kidneys, _à la brochette_ 96
broiled 95
fried 93
94
stewed 96
with wine 95
toasted 94
HASTE OR WASTE? 98
MEATS, INCLUDING POULTRY AND GAME 108
Calf’s brains, fried 115
on toast 116
head, a mould of 114
ragoût, or imitation turtle 112
ragoût of, and mushrooms 113
liver, _à l’Anglaise_ 108
_à la mode_ 111
_au domino_ 109
fricassee of 111
_sauté_ 110
Chickens, fried 132
whole 133
“smothered” 133
with oysters 134
or other white meat, fondu of 135
and eggs minced 129
fricassee _à l’Italienne_ 128
Fowl, devilled 125
Galantine 136
Game or poultry in savory jelly 138
Jellied tongue 137
whole 140
Meat and potato puffs 119
Mince of veal or lamb 121
Mock pigeons 117
Ollapodrida of lamb 109
Quenelles 130
131
Rabbit, brown fricassee of 122
white fricassee of 121
curried 123
devilled 124
roast 126
Rechauffée of veal and ham 131
Roast quails 127
Roulade of beef 131
mutton 132
Salmi of game 125
Scalloped chicken 119
120
beef 120
Veal cutlets 116
turnover 118
Wild duck or grouse braised 127
GRAVY 141
SALADS 146
Salad, cabbage 147
chicken 149
lobster, without oil 148
dressing 148
oyster 146
cream dressing for 151
dressing, golden 152
potato 153
VARIOUS PREPARATIONS OF CHEESE 154
Cheese biscuits 156
fingers 156
fondu 157
with macaroni 155
patés 160
pudding 161
sandwiches 161
with eggs 154
toasted 154
Cream Cheese (_No. 1_) 158
(_No. 2_) 160
Ramakins 161
POTATOES 163
Potatoes _à la Duchesse_ 166
_Lyonnaise_ 163
_à l’Italienne_ 165
fried 164
scalloped 164
stewed 163
Potato eggs 166
LUNCHEON 168
VEGETABLES 172
Baked tomatoes 174
Devilled 174
Fritters of canned corn 173
Fried egg plant 172
Mock fried oysters 172
stewed 173
BREAKFAST-ROLLS, MUFFINS, TEA-CAKES, ETC. 176
Batter or egg-bread, southern 179
bread (_No. 2_) 180
Boiled mush, to be eaten with milk 180
Brown biscuit 186
Corn-bread, Adirondack 176
loaf 177
Chrissie’s 179
cake 176
meal muffins (_raised_) 178
(_quick_) 178
Cream toast 140
Crumpets, hominy 189
Crumpets, rice 183
Excellent muffins 186
Graham gems (_No. 1_) 187
(_No. 2_) 187
(_No. 3_) 188
Milk porridge 181
Minute biscuit (_brown_) 187
Oatmeal biscuit (_for breakfast_) 181
gruel (_for invalids_) 181
Rolls, French 182
plain, light 183
tea 182
all day 184
Quick loaf 185
Rusk (_No. 1_) 188
Susie’s (_No. 2_) 189
Soda biscuit, without milk 189
Unity loaf 185
GRIDDLE CAKES 191
Cakes, buttermilk 191
Corn-meal flapjacks 192
Cakes, farina griddle 194
grandma’s 192
Graham, griddle 195
rice 193
rice or hominy 192
sour milk 191
Susie’s flannel 194
WHAT I KNOW ABOUT EGG-BEATERS 196
WHIPPED CREAM 203
_Fancy Dishes for Dessert_ 208
An almond Charlotte 214
215
Chocolate blanc-mange 219
and cream 220
custards (_baked_) 220
(_boiled_) 221
Créme du café 218
chocolat 218
thé 217
Easter eggs 210
Glacé oranges 209
Jelly, apple 231
custard 231
claret 236
lemon 233
orange 234
oranges 208
peach 232
raspberry and currant 233
strawberry 232
wine 235
Jellies, note upon 236
Macaroon basket 230
Naples sponge 213
Narcissus blanc-mange 216
Ribbon jelly and cream 209
Rockwork 221
Snow, apple (_No. 1_) 226
(_No. 2_) 226
lemon 227
orange 227
rice 228
summer 228
Syllabub 229
Trifle, an ambushed 222
apple 223
lemon 224
orange 227
strawberry 217
tipsy 216
Trifles, queen of 224
Turret cream 212
Tutti frutti jelly 234
Velvet cream 230
PUDDINGS OF VARIOUS KINDS 238
Puffs, chocolate 259
coffee cream 259
corn-meal 260
cottage 258
jam 257
lemon 258
Ristori 257
vanilla cream 259
white 260
Pudding, almond corn-starch 244
rice 239
sponge 269
apple batter 255
and batter 283
soufflé 280
arrowroot (_cold_) 242
(_hot_) 243
soufflé 281
baked apple 255
boiled apple 254
lemon 268
Boston lemon 270
orange 270
bread and raisins 249
batter 282
cocoanut 276
sponge 265
corn-meal fruit 245
cherry bread 250
custard bread 251
cherry soufflé 279
corn-meal without eggs 246
Derry 267
dishes 283
English tapioca 242
Essex 253
farina 247
farmer’s plum 274
fig 262
custard 262
263
fruit bread 248
sponge cake (_boiled_) 265
sponge cake (_baked_) 266
hasty 246
impromptu Christmas 276
lemon 271
soufflé 277
macaroni and almond 252
marrow sponge 263
nursery plum 275
orange 267
orange custard 272
peach batter 256
plain boiled (_No. 1_) 273
(_No. 2_) 273
plain macaroni 253
plain sponge-cake 264
Queen’s 271
rice-flour, hasty 247
rice with fruit 238
rusk 261
rock custard 272
rice soufflé 281
southern rice 240
sago 243
sponge-cake soufflé 279
Susie’s bread 248
steamed 251
tapioca custard 241
Wayne 208
white 261
Willie’s favorite 250
Jelly puddings 274
A very delicate soufflé 282
Léche créma soufflé 278
Peach léche créma 256
Rice méringue 240
Rosie’s rice custard 241
FRITTERS 284
Fritters, apple 287
bell 284
corn-meal 289
cream 291
curd 293
currant 286
lemon 287
light 286
peach (with yeast) 290
potato 291
rice 288
roll, or imitation doughnuts 292
rusk 285
sponge-cake 292
CONCERNING ALLOWANCES 294
(_Confidential—with John._)
RIPE FRUIT 308
Apples and jelly 313
Baked pears 313
Boiled chestnuts 314
Cocoanut frost on custard 312
Frosted peaches 310
Frosted and glacé oranges 311
Melons 314
Stewed apples 313
Tropical snow 312
Walnuts and hickory nuts 314
CAKES OF ALL KINDS 316
Cake, apple 317
_filling_ 318
a Charlotte _à la Parisienne_ 336
a Charlotte cachée 321
brown 334
Carolina, without eggs 316
Charlotte polonaise 319
_filling_ 319
chocolate 317
_filling_ 317
cocoanut and almond 330
_filling_ 330
cocoanut sponge 331
cocoanut—richer 331
coffee 332
cream rose 327
_filling_ 327
citron 335
corn-starch cup 339
currant 344
Fanny’s 321
Fred’s favorite 339
_filling_ 339
fruit and nut 341
Jeanie’s fruit 337
mother’s cup 322
Morris 326
Mont Blanc 326
_filling_ 327
molasses fruit 333
Myrtle’s 334
my lady’s 329
_filling_ 329
May’s 338
Neapolitan (yellow, pink, white,
and brown) 323
yellow 323
pink and white 323
brown 324
_filling_ 324
Newark 341
Nellie’s cup 316
“One, Two, Three” cup 340
orange 318
_filling_ 319
Orleans 325
Pompton 338
raisin 333
risen seed 335
rich almond 336
snow drift 340
_filling_ 340
Sultana 328
unity 333
white 316
wine 341
Cakes, almond—small 350
cocoanut—small 345
cream 350
custard 351
citron—small 352
Queen 352
rich drop 346
rose drop 345
snow drops 346
variegated 345
Cookies, Bertie’s 347
carraway 350
Kellogg 347
lemon 349
Montrose 348
Aunt Molly’s 348
seed 348
ginger 353
Lemon macaroons 349
Ginger-snaps 354
Fried jumbles 354
Seed wafers 353
Almond icing 322
Genuine Scotch short-bread 354
Gingerbread, eggless 343
half-cup 344
Richmond 343
sugar 343
Unity 342
TEA 356
BEVERAGES 360
A cozy for a teapot 362
A summer drink 362
Coffee with whipped cream 368
Café _au lait_, frothed 363
Soyer’s 364
Chocolate, frothed 363
milled 364
Claret cup 365
Curaçoa 371
Ginger cordial 366
Mulled ale 367
wine 368
Noyau 371
Orange cream 373
Porteree, very fine 366
Punch, milk (hot) 367
rum milk 368
clear 369
Rose syrup 372
Shrub, currant and raspberry 369
lemon 370
strawberry 370
Tea _à la Russe_ 360
iced 361
cold 361
milk punch 361
Vanilla liqueur 373
White lemonade 365
FLAVORING EXTRACTS 375
Bitter almond 376
Lemon 375
Orange 375
Vanilla 375
PRESERVED FRUITS, CANDIES, ETC. 378
Candy, peanut 383
Dotty Dimple’s vinegar 384
lemon cream 384
marbled cream 386
sugar 387
Candied lemon peel 381
Cranberries 383
Cherries, canned 381
_glacé_ 381
Chocolate caramels 385
cream drops 386
Maple syrup 382
Marmalade, apple 378
Dundee orange 380
orange 379
pear and quince 379
THE SCRAP-BAG 388
Another treasure 395
Cleansing cream 393
For cholera symptoms 389
a cough 389
chapped hands and lips 392
nausea 391
sore eyes 393
throat 389
For sudden hoarseness 388
388
Mixture for cleaning black cloth, or
worsted dresses 393
Mustard plasters 391
Parting words 398
Pumpkin flour 394
Seymour Pudding 396
Strawberry short-cake 396
To clean marble 394
Welsh rarebit 397
PRACTICAL—OR UTOPIAN? PART I 402