The mansion of Helen Mason was a treasure house of art in pictures,
draperies, furniture, bric-à-brac, and all those distinguishing
characteristics of wealth and culture. In one particular it was somewhat
unique; everything was genuine, from the old masters to the spoons. The
fair mistress of the house hated pretence, and although an ardent
believer in the divine right of kings, she recognized none of them in a
tinsel crown. The child of wealthy and aristocratic parents, in whom the
old noblesse oblige had taken deep root, she had grown to look upon her
station in life as the outgrowth of a certain fixed law which bestows
upon men the positions for which they are best fitted. If there were
suffering, struggling mortals on planes far below hers in social
advantages, no doubt the sufferings arose principally from their efforts
to fit themselves into niches for which they were not made. It seemed
singular to her undisturbed mind that there should be such a seething
discontent among the masses. Why couldn’t people be satisfied to go the
way they were called? Why were they trying all the time to subvert
society and make one fairly afraid of her life with these horrible
physical force movements and plots and counterplots of all kinds? It was
so much better every way for people to learn contentment. She believed
the doctrine was too little preached, and she meant to speak to her
pastor, the white high-bred rector of St. Paul’s, about it. He must
really exert his influence over these misguided people who were so
clamorous for places for which they were not destined. Believing as she
did in the doctrine of every man to his place, she strove with a zeal of
a prophet in her own little domain to make that place the best of its
kind. Her servants were accordingly well lodged, fed, and paid, albeit
they were trained to their duties with the precision of a martinet.
Haughty, imperious in some things, while childishly dependent in others,
she was at the same time a good mistress, and by no means unfriendly to
her dependents. She intended to accord them the rights of their class,
as she exacted a reverent homage for the privileges of her own; but she
was far from admitting that those rights could in any way transcend the
limits of a certain material consideration. The finer qualities of the
soul, such as innate delicacy of perception and the instinctive
appreciation of true refinement, could not be theirs by reason of the
stamp of poverty and the millstone of low association which precluded
cultivation. It was a theory of hers that only generations of wealth and
leisure could produce the highest types, and she had consequently a
great scorn for the nouveaux riches of modern society and their
blundering attempts to imitate English customs and cockney “fads.” As a
rule her servants were loyal and obedient, and she was wise enough to
see that her little investment in humanity yielded usurious interest
which she was by no means disposed to undervalue. She had been proud of
having the best-equipped home, the most perfectly-trained servants, and
the most noted chef in the city. It was, therefore, with no little
trepidation that she awaited the coming of Lizzette and Elsie, and
contemplated yielding the dominion of her kitchen to “that young thing.”
Mr. Mason had laughed at her when she recounted the result of her
attempt to secure Lizzette, and had said, by way of administering
comfort to her perturbed spirit: “That is just about as quixotic as
women’s schemes usually are. My word for it, she will not have been
three days in the house before the present discomfort will be
intensified, and we shall end by having to order our meals from the
caterer.”
It was now nearing the hour of ten, and she was impatient to settle
details with Lizzette and feel the troublesome experiment partially off
her hands. As she sat idly tapping one foot against the brass fender of
the blue-tiled grate in her morning-room, she was a fair type of the
cultured, self-poised, well-dressed woman of society. Her face was
chiefly remarkable for a pair of keen gray eyes, with heavy black lashes
and straight brows. The remaining features were nondescript, with a
colorless skin and dark brown hair handsomely coiffured, for setting. A
keen, cold, somewhat intellectual face had been Elsie’s thought on first
seeing her, and she felt sure that she should hate her. She felt the
same conviction sweep over her now as she and Lizzette stood in the
presence of the mistress of the magnificent home.
“Be seated,” she said, motioning them to seats. “I presume Lizzette has
informed you that I am a strict disciplinarian and require the most
perfect obedience. If that is rendered you will not find me a hard
mistress.”
“I should not have come if I had not expected to obey orders,” replied
Elsie. “My only fear is that my inexperience may try your patience.”
“As to that I shall hold Lizzette responsible; and now, while Lizzette
will at once post you in regard to matters below stairs, I will give you
our hours for meals, and shall expect you to report to me promptly every
morning at ten o’clock to receive orders for the day. Lizzette will at
present do my buying; but you must of course go with her until you have
familiarized yourself with prices and materials. Here is to-day’s menu,
which by the way, as to the main dishes, I always prepare myself. You
may have noticed as you came through the house that the maids are in
uniform. I shall expect you to wear one, and you will find your
allotment of white aprons, caps, and kerchiefs in this basket. Here,
Lizzette, you may as well invest yourself in one, too.”
“Helas! zese new idées vill do for la jeune fille like Elsie. Mais, ze
brown face of Lizzette Minaud look not so well from under ze white cap.
Still I obey ze mistress!”
“Just as you always did,” laughed Mrs. Mason, pressing an electric
button, which almost immediately brought a maid to the door.
“Show Elsie, our new cook, to her room. Stay with me, Lizzette. I wish
to speak with you.” Elsie picked up her satchel and basket and followed
the maid, who eyed her curiously, but vouchsafed no word. “Here,” she
said sententiously, opening a door of a roomy, comfortable bedroom on
the third floor.
Elsie hastily entered and closed the door behind her. Then dropping
satchel and basket, she threw herself on the floor beside them and cried
out: “O Meg, Meg, Meg, how hard life is away from you and your serene
courage! How lovely all our theories are until we have to put them into
practice. I shall hate that woman, I know. Dear me! this won’t do. I
shall have a red nose. Now let’s see how I look in the new prison garb,”
and volatile Elsie bounded to her feet, and speedily invested herself in
the white muslin cap with its narrow frill and the accompanying kerchief
and apron.
“Not so bad, after all,” she said, as she eyed herself in the glass, and
a roguish dimple nestled in her cheek as she viewed the picture. It was
pretty enough to tempt the vanity of the Quaker maiden she resembled.
The dainty frill above the black rings of hair, the fichu folded
smoothly across her breast, and the long apron with its big pockets,
seemed exactly fitted to the piquant face and slender form. “Well,
there’s some satisfaction in not looking like a fright,” she said as she
descended the stairs.
The morning-room door stood open and Mrs. Mason and Lizzette could
scarcely repress a start of surprise as the dainty maiden stepped upon
the threshold. “She look like ze picture of ze old time,” exclaimed
Lizzette. Mrs. Mason made no reply as she handed Elsie a memorandum-book
and pencil, which with keys to pantry and store-room were to be
suspended at her belt.
“Now you are equipped, I believe, and Lizzette will take you in charge.
I wish you the best of success.”
When the two had departed, Mrs. Mason stood where they had left her with
downcast eyes gazing into the grate. “What a lovely face,” she mused.
“So full of fire and strength and—well, yes, I suppose I must admit
it—refinement! She looked like a queen in masquerade as she stood in the
doorway. But then nature indulges in freaks of that kind sometimes.
Lizzette tells me they were always as poor as church mice. What an
absurdity I am perpetrating in putting her in my kitchen; but my old
brown Lizzette is always as good as her word, and we shall see what will
come of it.”
The force of servants in the Mason household consisted of James, the
English-looking butler, of whom Elsie was secretly afraid, because his
gaze of admiration was so open; William, the coachman; Martha and Mary,
the two house-maids; and Jenie, the little kitchen-maid of twelve years.
They all knew Lizzette, who, being a privileged character about the
Mason mansion, was free to do pretty much as she liked, and when, in
response to her call, they gathered in the below-stairs parlor, which
also served them for dining-room, they received Elsie with unction.
“It hain’t a bad place, miss,” said James patronizingly. “I’ve been with
the family five years, and I can’t say as I’ve ’ad a ’ard time by no
means.”
“I should say not,” laughed Martha. “James thinks as he owns the hull
place.”
“Ceptin’ you,” added Mary.
“I wouldn’t own such poor property, no’ow,” said James with offended
dignity.
“That ain’t me,” exclaimed William with a sly chuckle. “I’ve just been
a-dyin’ to own both on you girls for months.”
“Oh, you horrid Mormon,” chorused the girls; “you’ll be wanting the new
cook too, next.” The blood flamed into Elsie’s cheeks and an ominous
sparkle gleamed for a moment beneath the downcast lids; but, with a
struggle that was only noticed by Lizzette, she raised her eyes to
William’s round, honest face.
“I think we shall all grow to be good friends; but you must be very
patient with me until I have learned the ways here.”
The sweet face, the timid, deprecating manner, the ladylike voice, awoke
varying emotions in the breasts of Elsie’s little audience. “You bet,”
exclaimed William hastily.
“Oh, of course,” said James, and then stopped confusedly as he
recollected how near he had been to saying “Madam!”
Martha and Mary looked at each other and sniffed. “Stuck up,” they
whispered as they passed out to their various duties; but little Jenie
slipped her hand into Elsie’s and said simply, “I like you.”
“Courage, ma chere,” whispered Lizzette; “now we haf nosing but ze
dinner to sink of.”
In recounting the day’s experience afterward to Margaret, Elsie always
alluded to Lizzette as her “colossal spinal column;” for in reality
Lizzette was the main director and executor of the day’s work. Elsie
obediently followed directions; but her native force and ingenuity
seemed to have deserted her, which made even Lizzette a trifle doubtful
of the wisdom of her experiment. But when everything was finally made
snug for the night, and Lizzette was leaving for home, Elsie said
bravely, though tears stood under the curved lashes, “I shall do much
better to-morrow. Tell Margaret I’ve got the ‘hang’ of the ship’s
tackle, and to-morrow she’ll sail.”
“Nevair fear,” said Lizzette lightly, as she imprinted a kiss on either
rosy cheek, and steadily ignored the trembling drops in the dark eyes.
“Eet sall be ze brave capitaine on ze deck, too.”
The next morning, with the edge of strangeness somewhat blunted, Elsie
was able to send up the breakfast in excellent style, and Mrs. Mason was
therefore prepared to receive her with a manner a trifle less severe
than that of the day before.
“Your breakfast was well prepared,” she said as Elsie stood before her,
note-book and pencil in hand, to receive orders. “If the dinner is as
satisfactory I shall feel no further uneasiness.”
“I shall endeavor to improve as I become accustomed to things, and I
shall hope to satisfy you in every way. I love to cook, and the kitchen
is so admirably appointed that what has hitherto been a mere passion I
may be able to elevate into the great art that Lizzette calls it.”
“Lizzette is an enthusiast.”
“It takes enthusiasm to succeed in anything, and it is because I love my
work that I expect to please you.”
Mrs. Mason looked at Elsie curiously. How quietly, yet with what
seemingly unconscious dignity, she uttered those few well-chosen words.
If she had been mistress instead of servant they could not have been
better expressed or more charmingly enunciated. There could be no
question of efficiency with such intelligence; but oh, there was the
fear, always oppressing one so with these “lady helps,” that she would
get above her business. So to Elsie’s little burst of confidence she
said coldly, “As long as you keep strictly to your line of duty I shall
be satisfied.”
“You have nothing to fear on that score, Mrs. Mason. I know my place as
‘Elsie the cook.’ Have you any further orders?”
“Nothing more to-day.”
Mrs. Mason smiled triumphantly as she watched the blood deepen in
Elsie’s cheeks as she left the room. “The girl is as proud as Lucifer;
but it is not a usual pride, I must confess.”
At the close of the week Elsie found that her end of the domestic
machinery was running quietly and smoothly. She had already made friends
with the other servants, who, while recognizing the air of
self-respecting womanhood that would neither give nor permit low jests
or rude actions, could not fail to be drawn by the simplicity of her
manner and her frank, straightforward way of looking at things.
Insensibly the loud-voiced talk and rude horse-play formerly in vogue
among them began to disappear. James’ ostentatious display of knowledge
gradually weakened before Elsie’s clear eyes and plain questions;
William left his stable-talk at the door, together with his coat and
boots, and came to his meals in patent-leather pumps, velveteen
roundabout, and hair saturated with patchouli. The house-maids had less
gossip of the upper regions to retail, and Jenie’s smutty frock was
invariably replaced by a clean one at meal-time.
“Ze leetle witch,” exclaimed Lizzette to Margaret. “She haf got zere
necks under her heel so quick! And ze funny part ees zey know eet not at
all.”
“I doubt if Elsie does,” replied Margaret. “For after all it is only the
power of judiciously exhibited self-respect.”