STARTLED!
When once Lucy’s work began at the Institute her days were very full.
She rose early, gave her simple household orders, and prepared Hugh
for the Kindergarten, where she left him while she held her classes.
Hugh took his lunch with him, for he stayed at the Kindergarten rather
longer than the other children, so as to wait till his mother fetched
him. Lucy had explained her peculiar position to the Kindergarten
governess, a Miss Foster, and that lady had readily entered into this
arrangement.
It was a great relief to Lucy to find that Hugh was soon quite happy
among his new surroundings, returning home with plenty of wonders to
tell, and being always eager for next day’s start. Miss Foster often
came to the door to see Lucy and to deliver over her pupil. She was
loud in praise of the little boy, confiding to Lucy that his state
of mental development was so different from that of too many of her
pupils. They had generally been left so much in the care of servants
and nurses.
“A little one who is generally in the company of its mother, or
of somebody who really cares for it, may be said to enjoy all the
advantages of kindergarten from its very cradle,” she remarked. “Its
education has been going on happily and unconsciously all the while.
Its little brain and hands have found occupation in imitating the work
or doings it sees. It is not left to gape and stare at the things
around—all wonders to it—but it is encouraged to ask questions, and it
gets its questions cheerfully and patiently answered.”
“I suppose that is a very important item,” said Lucy.
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Foster. “A careless nurse may often answer
a question, but she does this snappily, perhaps with a hasty shake
or a cross remark that the child is ‘a silly, little worrit.’ That
encourages no further inquiry, and the baby-mind often closes over
ridiculously wrong impressions, which can only confuse and blur its
mind and all its processes.”
Lucy smiled.
“Yes,” she answered, “I can understand that, for children generally
want a second answer to explain the first. I remember Hugh once asked
me as we walked past some burial ground what it was used for. I told
him ‘to put people’s bodies in when they die.’ He said ‘Oh!’ and
walked along quietly, but looking puzzled. I felt sure he had some
afterthought, so I said, ‘You have learned what a burial ground is now,
Hughie, haven’t you? To put people’s bodies in when they die.’ Hughie
snuggled up to me and whispered the confidential question, ‘If they
only put their bodies there, what do they do with their heads?’ What
an idea he would have carried away if his second question had not been
drawn out!”
Miss Foster laughed.
“Such things occur constantly,” she said. “I daresay we have all heard
the story of the little girl who said she liked to go to church when
they sang the hymn about the bear. No? Well, it runs that she made
this remark to her mother, who was more interested in her child’s
preferences than it is likely any servant would have been. So she
asked, ‘Which hymn is that, my dear?’ ‘Oh, the one about the bear that
squints.’ ‘The bear that squints!’ said the mother, surprised, and
knowing at once that something was wrong. ‘What does this mean?’ She
could not ask the child to show the hymn, for she could not yet read.
But instead of saying ‘Don’t be silly!’ she pursued the inquiry. ‘What
makes you think there is anything about a bear that squints?’ ‘Oh, I’ve
heard you sing it often,’ replied the child. ‘You sing “the consecrated
cross-eye bear!”’”
They both laughed.
“That may be apocryphal,” commented Miss Foster, “but if so it is a
fable which covers a great deal of fact.”
“It need not be apocryphal,” returned Lucy. “A distinguished preacher
once told me that as a child he learned the lines—
“‘Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.’
Surely a beautiful image, and one which to the adult mind it seems
impossible to misunderstand. But from the standpoint of the child,
accustomed himself constantly to sit on people’s knees, the idea
presented itself differently. He fancied that it was the saint’s
sitting on Satan’s knees which caused Satan’s agitation! It never
occurred to him that there could be any other meaning, and his puzzle
was not over any doubt on that head, but only concerning what, in such
a circumstance, was the cause of Satan’s dismay, for he knew that if he
himself sat on anybody’s knees, he was rather in that person’s power,
and could be easily got rid of. He went on saying and singing that hymn
for years, the wonderment always recurring. He told me that the truth
did not dawn on him till he was a grown youth attending theological
classes. Then he said it came with such a lightning-flash that it
nearly made him cry out in chapel!”
“There is even a more serious aspect of this kind of misunderstanding,”
said Miss Foster, “which may really lead to a wrong stratum of
character if children are not encouraged to speak out and show how they
take things. Grown-up people sometimes say hasty or playful words which
no other ‘grown-up’ would take literally, but children do. It often
seems to me as if, though the little folk are themselves ready to ‘make
believe’ to any extent, yet they cannot credit any ‘make believe’ in
others. Let me tell you a story in illustration.
“A friend has lately bought a house, on whose staircase is a beautiful
stained glass window; but its value is rather spoiled for her by the
fact that in its centre are the initials of the late owners of the
house, not interesting people in any way, but very commonplace folk who
made money by speculations. One day a little boy-visitor was admiring
the window, and asked about the initials. My friend explained them to
him, and then, turning to another visitor, laughingly said, ‘We must
get somebody to throw a stone through that pane.’ Presently she noticed
that the little boy kept very closely to her side, and by-and-by he
whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, I can hit very well. I’ll throw a stone at
that window. I’ll do it to-day if you like.’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said,
‘that would never do at all. We must get it done properly some other
time.’ He was disappointed, but said no more then. When he was taking
leave, however, he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, when do you want that stone
thrown? You’ll ask me, won’t you? You won’t let anybody else do it?’
Now if he had not been a child accustomed to free speech, he might have
taken that lady’s jest in earnest and have thrown the stone, which
would likely have missed its aim and done incalculable mischief. Mrs.
Gray would have quite forgotten her remark. Overwhelmed by his failure
and by censures unaccountable to him which would have fallen upon
him, he would, according to all the precedents of childish criminals,
have ‘reserved his defence,’ and he would have been set down as a
mischievous monkey, if not a malignant little wretch, for making such
return for pleasant hospitality.”
“I suppose too,” said Lucy, “that every time we let a child talk a
matter out and help it to follow the explanations we give, we are
really unconsciously training its mind to think out things for itself,
and not to rest content at any point where it is not really satisfied.”
“Exactly so,” answered Miss Foster. “The facts which a child learns are
always of little importance compared with the exercise of its mind in
grasping them. That is why learning anything by rote is useless save
as an exercise of memory, and that explains, too, why some people who
are said to have ‘no book-learning’ are far keener observers and arrive
at more judicious conclusions than do pedants. The plainer folk have
probably learned to use their minds upon the work of their hands. It is
with minds as it is with bodies: unless the digestion is in order, food
does not nourish, is not assimilated, and only results in disease. So
though there is more ‘knowledge’ in the world to-day than ever before,
and though it is more widely distributed, yet at every turn the public
mind—with its violent prejudices, its unreasonable fluctuations, and
its inability to look below any surface conclusions that are offered to
it—proves that the Hebrew prophet’s complaint ‘that the people do not
consider’ is as true as ever it was. Probably in face of present day
opportunities and issues it is even truer. I often think that it will
remain so till parents take more interest in their children’s society
before they are eight years old.”
“I hear that many school children have so many home lessons that they
can’t have much time for home talk,” said Lucy.
“That is so,” consented Miss Foster, “and in my opinion, during the
regular school age home lessons ought to be almost unknown. All the
time at home is needed for home society and home usefulness if the
child is to have a good all-round development. The worst cases I have
known of this kind of loss and defect have been among the children of
modish women, who had ‘social duties’ which they preferred to walking
out and talking with their little ones. If women can’t have patience
and pleasure in their own children, why should they expect it in their
nursemaids? And they don’t get it. I have often seen children dragging
along, silent, listless, gaping, with an irritable or indifferent
nurse, and a few minutes after I have met ‘mamma’ driving out to pay
her calls.”
“I am always so sorry for widows who have to leave their children to
others simply that they may discharge other duties to their children
themselves,” observed Lucy. “A woman cannot at once play with her
babies and earn their bread. I’m afraid we don’t think enough about
the hardships which beset some lives. Perhaps they seldom press on our
attention till we feel a touch of them ourselves.”
“I think a crèche is a very useful form of charity,” answered Miss
Foster, “provided that rules are carefully made not to encourage
married women to think of becoming wage-earners as if that was the
proper thing when their husbands can and should be working for them.”
Lucy smiled a little sadly.
“I am not thinking only of the class who can be helped by a crèche,”
she said. “I was thinking of another type of widowed women who uphold
their homes by being authors or artists, or by managing shops or
businesses. They are forced to leave their children so much under other
influences, and it is so sad if, after bravely playing a father’s part
for years, it ends in the disappointment of their mother-heart and the
frustration of their best hopes.”
“Ay, I quite agree with you!” cried Miss Foster heartily, “and I
congratulate you warmly on being one of those whose light affliction,
lasting but a little while, suffices to open new and wider sympathies.
I hope you are always getting the best news of Mr. Challoner?” she
added. For Lucy had told the little teacher how she was placed at the
present time.
“The very best of news, thank you,” Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship
letter had been followed by others, posted at various ports, and all
telling the same good tidings of revived health and strength. Indeed,
the very last letter had hinted that the improvement was so marked and
so stable that Charlie was sorely tempted to shorten his absence and
return home by steamer. He wrote that he had suggested this to Grant,
who “seemed very much cut up about it, but had raised no difficulty.”
In reply to that letter Lucy had written at once, urging her husband
not to think of such a thing. The better he was, the better reason was
there for carrying through the original plan. “Because the foundation
is so good, there is the brighter prospect in building on it,” she
said. And besides, Lucy confided to Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife,
in writing to her, had said that the fee for Charlie’s trip would just
enable her husband to pay off the last of his father’s debts, which he
had honestly taken upon himself. “And when they have brought us such
good luck in enabling you to take this voyage,” wrote Lucy, “we must
not spoil any good luck that our share in the matter may have brought
them. Let us be wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing back a sneaking
hope that Charlie might even have started homeward before he could get
her reply to his letter. “In that case we must pay the Grants all the
same,” she reflected, “though I am afraid they would not take it.” Then
she proved to herself the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie by still
resolutely withholding the story of her domestic changes, which she
had meant to tell him at this time when she had pulled through so far.
But if she did so, it might add the last link to the yearning that was
pulling him home, and she would do nothing to strengthen a temptation
whose force was revealed in her own heart.
She walked home rather soberly after her little conversation with the
Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it strengthened her in the resolutions
she had formed and had steadily carried out. But she could not refuse
to know that she was living under considerable strain. Her teaching
at the Institute was strenuous and exacting. Apart from the mental
exertion, she was on her feet all the time. By the time she reached
home, she was thoroughly exhausted, and was really fit for nothing but
a nap, or at least an afternoon’s repose on the sofa, half dreaming
over some simple book. But there could be no such rest for her. For
this was the only time when Hugh could have a walk, and so off they
went together. She often wondered whether he noticed that she was not
quite so lively as she used to be, not so ready for a run, or so good
at a game of ball. But a little child takes much on trust. Then they
came home to tea, which generally refreshed her considerably. After
that, Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his picture books, or his
“transparent slate,” while she did all the household mending. Jane
Smith never put a finger to this, not because she refused to do so, but
because when she attempted it on one occasion, she ruined a pair of
fine grey woollen hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a slightly-worn
heel together with coarse white worsted, showing that she had not the
most rudimentary idea of what darning should be.
Now this is just the kind of household work for which it would be
a waste of time and power to hire help, especially in such a small
family. Then as the washing was no longer done at home, Lucy had
to prepare the account for the laundry, and to see that the things
were sent home correctly, which as they scarcely ever were, led to
correspondence and general worry.
By the time all these inevitable little tasks were accomplished, it
was generally time for Hugh to go to bed. After that Lucy was free. Of
course, in the winter nights, painting was impossible. But through the
art dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening for pen-and-ink sketches, and
it was this eventide that she had hoped to give to this work. She could
reckon on about two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to rest early.
She soon found out, however, that leisure is of little avail for such
pursuits if energies and spirits are exhausted beforehand.
Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her
vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think
how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she
might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking
widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible
catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so
plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her
work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any
sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth
Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up
askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy
herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired.
Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always
fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the
poor animal had thriven well under her brief _régime_, till that day of
disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that
pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up
mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own
care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,”
but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.”
That was Jane Smith all over. She took her wages and did her work, but
it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without
any heart.
There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The
kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and
inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round
everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing
the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the
very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know
how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy
generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court
slumber.
Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour
after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not
being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever
present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really
far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any
thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.
Jane’s lover, the young carpenter, came regularly once a week, and
stayed about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw him once or twice, when
household business took her to the kitchen, during his visits. He
looked a dull, decent young man, with a shock of red hair and a smooth
boyish face. He sat close beside the fire, even when the spring
evenings had grown warm. Lucy addressed him with a cheerful “Good
evening,” and made one or two slight remarks about the weather, to
which he made little response save a movement of the lips, and a glance
towards the area-window. He did not rise when Lucy entered the kitchen,
but that rudeness seemed due only to shyness or slowness, for he always
rose a few minutes afterwards and remained standing for the rest of
her stay. Altogether, Lucy decided that he was not very bright; he was
by no means one of those young working men who come to the front at
evening colleges and clubs, and are the moving spirits of their trades’
union. All the more, he seemed a fit enough match for Jane, who would
have been indeed a hopeless drag on the life of any rising man.
Sitting in her dining-room, Lucy could hear through its floor the
sound of the voices in the kitchen, though the words, of course, were
inaudible. The conversation of these courting evenings did not seem
very lively. Jane said a few words, and the gruffer voice replied with
a monosyllable, and then there would be a long pause, and presently the
performance would be repeated.
But one evening a week or two after Easter, the conversation seemed to
have grown much livelier. It was the man who had the most to say, and
he spoke faster and in a higher key than before.
“Is he waking up at last?” thought unsuspicious Lucy, “or is it
possible that they have had a little tiff, and that he is defending
himself or scolding her? Perhaps he does not like her new bonnet.”
For Lucy had seen Jane go out on the previous Sunday evening in fresh
and gorgeous spring attire, her neat brown dress and black jacket
crowned by an incompatible hat, round whose crown pink, green and blue
roses, feathers and rosettes “screamed” loudly at each other. Lucy had
thought to herself that her mother, in the old days, would at once have
“put her foot down” on such headgear, but Lucy’s own sense of fairness
rebelled against any arbitrary interference with a girl’s taste in
dress (when going about her own business) simply because the girl was
in her wage-paid service at other times.
“I have seen Florence in hats I have liked as little, though they
were different,” thought Lucy. “I know many mistresses can’t bear
their servants to copy their style of dress—dear mother would have
regarded it as an unpardonable impertinence—but I should be only too
proud and happy if my servants would copy mine! Pollie was turning in
that direction—with just a few extra bows and flowers, and silk velvet
ribbon where I put modest braid!”
But next week, when the courting evening came round, the hitherto
silent lover was again voluble. Even sounds of laughter arose—a thing
unprecedented! Lucy was always watchful to hear the kitchen door
close and the manly step mount the area steps at the precise hour she
had named. She had never had any reason to complain on this score.
The carpenter had taken his departure with painful punctuality. But
to-night, the nearest church-clock chimed nine, and the chat in the
kitchen went gaily on. Presently Lucy looked at her watch—it was
half-past nine. She hated to begin fault-finding for any trifling
accidental lapse. Still it was time the supper-tray was brought up.
She had her hand on the bell when there was quite a lively stampede
in the kitchen, the area door closed with a hilarious bang, fleet
feet mounted the area steps as if by two at a time, and the area gate
clanged to the sound of a merry whistle.
Jane, with the supper-tray, seemed more alert than usual, almost
officious in her endeavour to do of her own accord little things of
which Mrs. Challoner generally had to remind her.
Next week, when the same evening came round, and the kitchen voices
were again audible, it chanced that Lucy found she had left her
housekeeping book on the kitchen dresser. She thought to herself that
she would not ring for it, but would fetch it herself, and so take
opportunity of keeping in touch with the domestic idyll whose new
developments were beginning to interest her.
But when she opened the kitchen door she started and almost cried out.
(_To be continued._)
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
UNDER no circumstances whatever should bread be thrown away. Some
can be baked hard in the oven, and then crushed with a rolling-pin
and put away in a glass bottle or tin to use when frying chops or
fish. Delicious puddings can be made also by soaking stale bread and
crusts in milk, and beaten up when quite soft with eggs and mixed with
raisins, candied peel and some spice, and baked. These can be eaten
either hot or cold.
THIN clean paper should never be thrown away, but kept in a kitchen
drawer, for wiping out saucepans and frying-pans, and wiping butter off
knives, to save cloths being cut by the latter.
VERY early potatoes are often very unwholesome, having been forced by
the aid of chemicals and not grown naturally.
SEPARATE days should be arranged for cleaning the silver and brass
articles in a house, and separate cloths and dusters used for them.
A HARD broom should be kept in every coal-cellar to sweep up the loose
coal each time coal is fetched, otherwise it is taken up on the shoes
and carried over the house.
SOILED linen should never be kept in bedrooms, but in a basket outside
on a landing, or in the bath-room.
IT is a pity to throw away clean paper-bags. They should be kept
together and given to some small tradesman who will be glad to use them
again. Old newspapers should be given to some poor invalid who will be
glad of something to read, or sent to the workhouse or hospital.
THE plug in a lavatory basin should not be left out, as it is liable to
let sewer gas into the house.
FLOWERING plants and their seeds should be planted with the growing and
not with a waning moon.
AFTER cooking is done, the dampers of a kitchen range should be shut in
to save the coals.
CULTIVATE the grace of thoughtfulness for others. This is invaluable
in a household, and makes the wheels go round smoothly. Want of
consideration for others, and thoughtlessness, is the source of much
trouble.
GAME and fowl bones should never be given to pet dogs. They cannot
digest them, and such bones have been the cause of painful deaths.
A FRUITFUL source of friction between the servants of a household is
the unauthorised use of each other’s dusters, brooms, etc. To avoid all
such unpleasantness, the cook and housemaid should have a completely
independent and distinct set of things, and kept in different places;
they should also be of a different colour or pattern, so as to be
easily identified by the owners. The cloths should be returned clean
each week to whoever presides over the linen cupboard, and fresh ones
given out. It is bad economy and worse management to use the same
cloths over and over again.
[Illustration]
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.