SERVANT.
A fortnight later, and Christie was off. Mrs. Flint had briefly
answered that she had a room, and that work was always to be found in
the city. So the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid hopes
among her plain gowns, and filling every corner with happy fancies,
utterly impossible plans, and tender little dreams, so lovely at the
time, so pathetic to remember, when contact with the hard realities of
life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the frost of disappointment
nipped all our morning glories in their prime. The old red stage
stopped at Enos Devon’s door, and his niece crossed the threshold after
a cool handshake with the master of the house, and a close embrace with
the mistress, who stood pouring out last words with spectacles too dim
for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the trunk, slammed the door, mounted his
perch, and the ancient vehicle swayed with premonitory symptoms of
departure.
Then something smote Christie’s heart. “Stop!” she cried, and springing
out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat. Straight up to
him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily, though her face
was full of feeling:
“Uncle, I’m not satisfied with that good-bye. I don’t mean to be
sentimental, but I do want to say, ‘Forgive me!’ I see now that I might
have made you sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make you love me
more. It’s too late now, but I’m not too proud to confess when I’m
wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask your pardon; I thank you for all
you’ve done for me, and I say good-bye affectionately now.”
Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but it
did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead sister’s
eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was a reproach.
Conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad to
own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank
expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily.
“I like that, Kitty, and think the better of you for’t. Let bygones be
bygones. I gen’lly got as good as I give, and I guess I deserved some
on’t. I wish you wal, my girl, I heartily wish you wal, and hope you
won’t forgit that the old house ain’t never shet aginst you.”
Christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then bestowing another
warm hug on Aunt Niobe, as she called the old lady in a tearful joke,
she ran into the carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of the
place.
Christie found Mrs. Flint a dreary woman, with “boarders” written all
over her sour face and faded figure. Butcher’s bills and house rent
seemed to fill her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless cooks and
saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill voice; and an
incapable husband to burden her shoulders like a modern “Old man of the
sea.”
A little room far up in the tall house was at the girl’s disposal for a
reasonable sum, and she took possession, feeling very rich with the
hundred dollars Uncle Enos gave her, and delightfully independent, with
no milk-pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no humdrum district
school to imprison her day after day.
For a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set about finding
something to do. Her wish was to be a governess, that being the usual
refuge for respectable girls who have a living to get. But Christie
soon found her want of accomplishments a barrier to success in that
line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than of the ornamental
branches, and wished their little darlings to learn French before
English, music before grammar, and drawing before writing.
So, after several disappointments, Christie decided that her education
was too old-fashioned for the city, and gave up the idea of teaching.
Sewing she resolved not to try till every thing else failed; and, after
a few more attempts to get writing to do, she said to herself, in a fit
of humility and good sense: “I’ll begin at the beginning, and work my
way up. I’ll put my pride in my pocket, and go out to service.
Housework I like, and can do well, thanks to Aunt Betsey. I never
thought it degradation to do it for her, so why should I mind doing it
for others if they pay for it? It isn’t what I want, but it’s better
than idleness, so I’ll try it!”
Full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that purgatory of
the poor, an intelligence office. Mrs. Flint gave her a recommendation,
and she hopefully took her place among the ranks of buxom German,
incapable Irish, and “smart” American women; for in those days foreign
help had not driven farmers’ daughters out of the field, and made
domestic comfort a lost art.
At first Christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and watched with
interest the anxious housewives who flocked in demanding that rara
avis, an angel at nine shillings a week; and not finding it, bewailed
the degeneracy of the times. Being too honest to profess herself
absolutely perfect in every known branch of house-work, it was some
time before she suited herself. Meanwhile, she was questioned and
lectured, half engaged and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so
worried that she began to regard herself as the incarnation of all
human vanities and shortcomings.
“A desirable place in a small, genteel family,” was at last offered
her, and she posted away to secure it, having reached a state of
desperation and resolved to go as a first-class cook rather than sit
with her hands before her any longer.
A well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties seemed things to
be grateful for, and Christie decided that going out to service was not
the hardest fate in life, as she stood at the door of a handsome house
in a sunny square waiting to be inspected.
Mrs. Stuart, having just returned from Italy, affected the artistic,
and the new applicant found her with a Roman scarf about her head, a
rosary like a string of small cannon balls at her side, and azure
draperies which became her as well as they did the sea-green furniture
of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers tripped over coral and
shells, grew sea-sick looking at pictures of tempestuous billows
engulfing every sort of craft, from a man-of-war to a hencoop with a
ghostly young lady clinging to it with one hand, and had their
appetites effectually taken away by a choice collection of water-bugs
and snakes in a glass globe, that looked like a jar of mixed pickles in
a state of agitation.
[Illustration: MRS. STUART.]
Madame was intent on a water-color copy of Turner’s “Rain, Wind, and
Hail,” that pleasing work which was sold upsidedown and no one found it
out. Motioning Christie to a seat she finished some delicate sloppy
process before speaking. In that little pause Christie examined her,
and the impression then received was afterward confirmed.
Mrs. Stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think herself a queen of
society. She assumed majestic manners in public and could not entirely
divest herself of them in private, which often produced comic effects.
Zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or Aspasia indignant at the price of
eggs will give some idea of this lady when she condescended to the
cares of housekeeping.
Presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if a new servant were
no more than a new bonnet, a necessary article to be ordered home for
examination. Christie presented her recommendation, made her modest
little speech, and awaited her doom.
Mrs. Stuart read, listened, and then demanded with queenly brevity:
“Your name?”
“Christie Devon.”
“Too long; I should prefer to call you Jane as I am accustomed to the
name.”
“As you please, ma’am.”
“Your age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“You are an American?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Stuart gazed into space a moment, then delivered the following
address with impressive solemnity:
“I wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-conducted person who
knows her place and keeps it. The work is light, as there are but two
in the family. I am very particular and so is Mr. Stuart. I pay two
dollars and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on Sunday, and
no followers. My table-girl must understand her duties thoroughly, be
extremely neat, and always wear white aprons.”
“I think I can suit you, ma’am, when I have learned the ways of the
house,” meekly replied Christie.
Mrs. Stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned the paper with a
gesture that Victoria might have used in restoring a granted petition,
though her next words rather marred the effect of the regal act, “My
cook is black.”
“I have no objection to color, ma’am.”
An expression of relief dawned upon Mrs. Stuart’s countenance, for the
black cook had been an insurmountable obstacle to all the Irish ladies
who had applied. Thoughtfully tapping her Roman nose with the handle of
her brush Madame took another survey of the new applicant, and seeing
that she looked neat, intelligent, and respectful, gave a sigh of
thankfulness and engaged her on the spot.
Much elated Christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary articles,
bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet (lent her
rent-free owing to a profusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and
at two o’clock introduced herself to Hepsey Johnson, her fellow
servant.
Hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race written
in her face, with its melancholy eyes, subdued expression, and the
pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. She received Christie with
an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with an account of
the duties she would be expected to perform.
A long and careful drill enabled Christie to set the table with but few
mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the order of
performances. She had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she
called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and Hepsey, who
was hurrying away to “dish up,” said:
“It’s de marster. You has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it
done bery spry.”
Christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentleman, who appeared
to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if blown, shook
himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said all in one breath:
“You’re the new girl, are you? Well, take my umbrella and pull off my
rubbers.”
“Sir?”
Mr. Stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of
the astonishment of his new maid, impatiently repeated his request.
“Take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes. Don’t you see
it’s raining like the very deuce!”
Christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt
down and removed a pair of muddy overshoes, took the dripping umbrella,
and was walking away with her agreeable burden when Mr. Stuart gave her
another shock by calling over the banister:
“I’m going out again; so clean those rubbers, and see that the boots I
sent down this morning are in order.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Christie meekly, and immediately afterward
startled Hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen
floor, and indignantly demanding:
“Am I expected to be a boot-jack to that man?”
“I ’spects you is, honey.”
“Am I also expected to clean his boots?”
“Yes, chile. Katy did, and de work ain’t hard when you gits used to
it.”
“It isn’t the work; it’s the degradation; and I won’t submit to it.”
Christie looked fiercely determined; but Hepsey shook her head, saying
quietly as she went on garnishing a dish:
“Dere’s more ’gradin’ works dan dat, chile, and dem dat’s bin ’bliged
to do um finds dis sort bery easy. You’s paid for it, honey; and if you
does it willin, it won’t hurt you more dan washin’ de marster’s dishes,
or sweepin’ his rooms.”
“There ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. Do you think it’s
right to ask it of me?” cried Christie, feeling that being servant was
not as pleasant a task as she had thought it.
“Dunno, chile. I’se shore I’d never ask it of any woman if I was a man,
’less I was sick or ole. But folks don’t seem to ’member dat we’ve got
feelin’s, and de best way is not to mind dese ere little trubbles. You
jes leave de boots to me; blackin’ can’t do dese ole hands no hurt, and
dis ain’t no deggydation to me now; I’s a free woman.”
“Why, Hepsey, were you ever a slave?” asked the girl, forgetting her
own small injury at this suggestion of the greatest of all wrongs.
“All my life, till I run away five year ago. My ole folks, and eight
brudders and sisters, is down dere in de pit now; waitin’ for the Lord
to set ’em free. And He’s gwine to do it soon, soon!” As she uttered
the last words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from Hepsey’s
face, and the solemn fervor of her voice thrilled Christie’s heart. All
her anger died out in a great pity, and she put her hand on the woman’s
shoulder, saying earnestly:
“I hope so; and I wish I could help to bring that happy day at once!”
For the first time Hepsey smiled, as she said gratefully, “De Lord
bress you for dat wish, chile.” Then, dropping suddenly into her old,
quiet way, she added, turning to her work:
“Now you tote up de dinner, and I’ll be handy by to ’fresh your mind
’bout how de dishes goes, for missis is bery ’ticular, and don’t like
no ‘stakes in tendin’.”
Thanks to her own neat-handed ways and Hepsey’s prompting through the
slide, Christie got on very well; managed her salver dexterously, only
upset one glass, clashed one dish-cover, and forgot to sugar the pie
before putting it on the table; an omission which was majestically
pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a first offence.
By seven o’clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and Christie dropped
into a chair quite tired out with frequent pacings to and fro. In the
kitchen she found the table spread for one, and Hepsey busy with the
boots.
“Aren’t you coming to your dinner, Mrs. Johnson?” she asked, not
pleased at the arrangement.
“When you’s done, honey; dere’s no hurry ’bout me. Katy liked dat way
best, and I’se used ter waitin’.”
“But I don’t like that way, and I won’t have it. I suppose Katy thought
her white skin gave her a right to be disrespectful to a woman old
enough to be her mother just because she was black. I don’t; and while
I’m here, there must be no difference made. If we can work together, we
can eat together; and because you have been a slave is all the more
reason I should be good to you now.”
If Hepsey had been surprised by the new girl’s protest against being
made a boot-jack of, she was still more surprised at this sudden
kindness, for she had set Christie down in her own mind as “one ob dem
toppin’ smart ones dat don’t stay long nowheres.” She changed her
opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new expression on her
face, as Christie took boot and brush from her, and fell to work
energetically, saying as she scrubbed:
“I’m ashamed of complaining about such a little thing as this, and
don’t mean to feel degraded by it, though I should by letting you do it
for me. I never lived out before: that’s the reason I made a fuss.
There’s a polish, for you, and I’m in a good humor again; so Mr. Stuart
may call for his boots whenever he likes, and we’ll go to dinner like
fashionable people, as we are.”
There was something so irresistible in the girl’s hearty manner, that
Hepsey submitted at once with a visible satisfaction, which gave a
relish to Christie’s dinner, though it was eaten at a kitchen table,
with a bare-armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of burnished
dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle.
After this, Christie got on excellently, for she did her best, and
found both pleasure and profit in her new employment. It gave her real
satisfaction to keep the handsome rooms in order, to polish plate, and
spread bountiful meals. There was an atmosphere of ease and comfort
about her which contrasted agreeably with the shabbiness of Mrs.
Flint’s boarding-house, and the bare simplicity of the old home. Like
most young people, Christie loved luxury, and was sensible enough to
see and value the comforts of her situation, and to wonder why more
girls placed as she was did not choose a life like this rather than the
confinements of a sewing-room, or the fatigue and publicity of a shop.
She did not learn to love her mistress, because Mrs. Stuart evidently
considered herself as one belonging to a superior race of beings, and
had no desire to establish any of the friendly relations that may
become so helpful and pleasant to both mistress and maid. She made a
royal progress through her dominions every morning, issued orders,
found fault liberally, bestowed praise sparingly, and took no more
personal interest in her servants than if they were clocks, to be wound
up once a day, and sent away the moment they got out of repair.
Mr. Stuart was absent from morning till night, and all Christie ever
knew about him was that he was a kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and very
conceited man; fond of his wife, proud of the society they managed to
draw about them, and bent on making his way in the world at any cost.
If masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they are studied,
criticised, and imitated by their servants, they would take more heed
to their ways, and set better examples, perhaps. Mrs. Stuart never
dreamed that her quiet, respectful Jane kept a sharp eye on all her
movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, envied her
accomplishments, and practised certain little elegancies that struck
her fancy.
Mr. Stuart would have become apoplectic with indignation if he had
known that this too intelligent table-girl often contrasted her master
with his guests, and dared to think him wanting in good breeding when
he boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or laid plans to lure
some lion into his house. When he lost his temper, she always wanted to
laugh, he bounced and bumbled about so like an angry blue-bottle fly;
and when he got himself up elaborately for a party, this disrespectful
hussy confided to Hepsey her opinion that “master was a fat dandy, with
nothing to be vain of but his clothes,”—a sacrilegious remark which
would have caused her to be summarily ejected from the house if it had
reached the august ears of master or mistress.
“My father was a gentleman; and I shall never forget it, though I do go
out to service. I’ve got no rich friends to help me up, but, sooner or
later, I mean to find a place among cultivated people; and while I’m
working and waiting, I can be fitting myself to fill that place like a
gentlewoman, as I am.”
With this ambition in her mind, Christie took notes of all that went on
in the polite world, of which she got frequent glimpses while “living
out.” Mrs. Stuart received one evening of each week, and on these
occasions Christie, with an extra frill on her white apron, served the
company, and enjoyed herself more than they did, if the truth had been
known.
While helping the ladies with their wraps, she observed what they wore,
how they carried themselves, and what a vast amount of prinking they
did, not to mention the flood of gossip they talked while shaking out
their flounces and settling their topknots.
Later in the evening, when she passed cups and glasses, this
demure-looking damsel heard much fine discourse, saw many famous
beings, and improved her mind with surreptitious studies of the rich
and great when on parade. But her best time was after supper, when,
through the crack of the door of the little room where she was supposed
to be clearing away the relics of the feast, she looked and listened at
her ease; laughed at the wits, stared at the lions, heard the music,
was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by the gentility of the
whole affair.
After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, for there was
an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely
wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his part
to play he managed to do it with spirit. Night after night the wag told
his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled, the pretty
women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly discussed by
the elect precious, and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing costumes, sailed to and
fro in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred up the lions he
had captured, till they roared their best, great and small.
“Good heavens! why don’t they do or say something new and interesting,
and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and poetry, and cosmos?
The papers are full of appeals for help for the poor, reforms of all
sorts, and splendid work that others are doing; but these people seem
to think it isn’t genteel enough to be spoken of here. I suppose it is
all very elegant to go on like a set of trained canaries, but it’s very
dull fun to watch them, and Hepsey’s stories are a deal more
interesting to me.”
Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilettanteism through
the crack of the door for some months, Christie left the “trained
canaries” to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted
herself to Hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life so
bitterly real that she never could forget it.
[Illustration: HEPSEY.]
Friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for Hepsey had a
motherly heart, and Christie soon won her confidence by bestowing her
own. Her story was like many another; yet, being the first Christie had
ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of one who had
suffered and escaped, it made a deep impression on her, bringing home
to her a sense of obligation so forcibly that she began at once to pay
a little part of the great debt which the white race owes the black.
Christie loved books; and the attic next her own was full of them. To
this store she found her way by a sort of instinct as sure as that
which leads a fly to a honey-pot, and, finding many novels, she read
her fill. This amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled the silent
house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was the joy of her life.
Hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her book when the day’s
work was done, and once a heavy sigh roused Christie from the most
exciting crisis of “The Abbot.”
“What’s the matter? Are you very tired, Aunty?” she asked, using the
name that came most readily to her lips.
“No, honey; I was only wishin’ I could read fast like you does. I’s
berry slow ’bout readin’ and I want to learn a heap,” answered Hepsey,
with such a wistful look in her soft eyes that Christie shut her book,
saying briskly:
“Then I’ll teach you. Bring out your primer and let’s begin at once.”
“Dear chile, it’s orful hard work to put learnin’ in my ole head, and I
wouldn’t ’cept such a ting from you only I needs dis sort of help so
bad, and I can trust you to gib it to me as I wants it.”
Then in a whisper that went straight to Christie’s heart, Hepsey told
her plan and showed what help she craved.
For five years she had worked hard, and saved her earnings for the
purpose of her life. When a considerable sum had been hoarded up, she
confided it to one whom she believed to be a friend, and sent him to
buy her old mother. But he proved false, and she never saw either
mother or money. It was a hard blow, but she took heart and went to
work again, resolving this time to trust no one with the dangerous part
of the affair, but when she had scraped together enough to pay her way
she meant to go South and steal her mother at the risk of her life.
“I don’t want much money, but I must know little ’bout readin’ and
countin’ up, else I’ll get lost and cheated. You’ll help me do dis,
honey, and I’ll bless you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if I
ever gets her safe away.”
With tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and both hands stretched
out to the poor soul who implored this small boon of her, Christie
promised all the help that in her lay, and kept her word religiously.
From that time, Hepsey’s cause was hers; she laid by a part of her
wages for “ole mammy,” she comforted Hepsey with happy prophecies of
success, and taught with an energy and skill she had never known
before. Novels lost their charms now, for Hepsey could give her a
comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing she found in them, because
truth stamped her tales with a power and pathos the most gifted fancy
could but poorly imitate.
The select receptions upstairs seemed duller than ever to her now, and
her happiest evenings were spent in the tidy kitchen, watching Hepsey
laboriously shaping A’s and B’s, or counting up on her worn fingers the
wages they had earned by months of weary work, that she might purchase
one treasure,—a feeble, old woman, worn out with seventy years of
slavery far away there in Virginia.
For a year Christie was a faithful servant to her mistress, who
appreciated her virtues, but did not encourage them; a true friend to
poor Hepsey, who loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and
affection a solace for many griefs and wrongs. But Providence had other
lessons for Christie, and when this one was well learned she was sent
away to learn another phase of woman’s life and labor.
While their domestics amused themselves with privy conspiracy and
rebellion at home, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart spent their evenings in chasing
that bright bubble called social success, and usually came home rather
cross because they could not catch it.
On one of these occasions they received a warm welcome, for, as they
approached the house, smoke was seen issuing from an attic window, and
flames flickering behind the half-drawn curtain. Bursting out of the
carriage with his usual impetuosity, Mr. Stuart let himself in and tore
upstairs shouting “Fire!” like an engine company.
In the attic Christie was discovered lying dressed upon her bed, asleep
or suffocated by the smoke that filled the room. A book had slipped
from her hand, and in falling had upset the candle on a chair beside
her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hanging on the wall,
and a greater part of Christie’s wardrobe was burning brilliantly.
“I forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and see what the
deceitful creature has done with her private candle!” cried Mrs. Stuart
with a shrillness that roused the girl from her heavy sleep more
effectually than the anathemas Mr. Stuart was fulminating against the
fire.
Sitting up she looked dizzily about her. The smoke was clearing fast, a
window having been opened; and the tableau was a striking one. Mr.
Stuart with an excited countenance was dancing frantically on a heap of
half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. He had not only drenched
them with water from bowl and pitcher, but had also cast those articles
upon the pile like extinguishers, and was skipping among the fragments
with an agility which contrasted with his stout figure in full evening
costume, and his besmirched face, made the sight irresistibly
ludicrous.
Mrs. Stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed to have left her
dignity downstairs with her opera cloak, for with skirts gathered
closely about her, tiara all askew, and face full of fear and anger,
she stood upon a chair and scolded like any shrew.
The comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little hysterical with
the sudden alarm, Christie broke into a peal of laughter that sealed
her fate.
“Look at her! look at her!” cried Mrs. Stuart gesticulating on her
perch as if about to fly. “She has been at the wine, or lost her wits.
She must go, Horatio, she must go! I cannot have my nerves shattered by
such dreadful scenes. She is too fond of books, and it has turned her
brain. Hepsey can watch her to-night, and at dawn she shall leave the
house for ever.”
“Not till after breakfast, my dear. Let us have that in comfort I beg,
for upon my soul we shall need it,” panted Mr. Stuart, sinking into a
chair exhausted with the vigorous measures which had quenched the
conflagration.
Christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the probable cause of
the mischief, and penitently promised to be more careful for the
future.
Mr. Stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but Madame was
inexorable, for she had so completely forgotten her dignity that she
felt it would be impossible ever to recover it in the eyes of this
disrespectful menial. Therefore she dismissed her with a lecture that
made both mistress and maid glad to part.
She did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal Mr. Stuart paid
Christie her wages with a solemnity which proved that he had taken a
curtain lecture to heart. There was a twinkle in his eye, however, as
he kindly added a recommendation, and after the door closed behind him
Christie was sure that he exploded into a laugh at the recollection of
his last night’s performance.
This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part of
her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated wardrobe,
and, making Hepsey promise to report progress from time to time,
Christie went back to Mrs. Flint’s to compose her mind and be ready à
la Micawber “for something to turn up.”