MARY'S RECEPTION.
In the afternoon of the same day, now dreary enough, with the
dreariness naturally belonging to the dreariest month of the year, Mary
arrived in the city preferred to all cities by those who live in it,
but the most uninviting, I should imagine, to a stranger, of all cities
on the face of the earth. Cold seemed to have taken to itself a visible
form in the thin, gray fog that filled the huge station from the
platform to the glass roof. The latter had vanished, indistinguishable
from sky invisible, and from the brooding darkness, in which the lamps
innumerable served only to make spots of thinness. It was a mist, not a
November fog, properly so called; but every breath breathed by every
porter, as he ran along by the side of the slowly halting train, was
adding to its mass, which seemed to Mary to grow in bulk and density as
she gazed. Her quiet, simple, decided manner at once secured her
attention, and she was among the first who had their boxes on cabs and
were driving away.
But the drive seemed interminable, and she had grown anxious and again
calmed herself many times, before it came to an end. The house at which
the cab drew up was large, and looked as dreary as large, but scarcely
drearier than any other house in London on that same night of November.
The cabman rang the bell, but it was not until they had waited a time
altogether unreasonable that the door at length opened, and a lofty,
well-built footman in livery appeared framed in it.
Mary got out, and, going up the steps, said she hoped the driver had
brought her to the right house: it was Mrs. Redmain's she wanted.
"Mrs. Redmain is not at home, miss," answered the man. "I didn't hear
as how she was expecting of any one," he added, with a glance at the
boxes, formlessly visible on the cab, through the now thicker darkness.
"She is expecting me, I know," returned Mary; "but of course she would
not stay at home to receive me," she remarked, with a smile.
"Oh!" returned the man, in a peculiar tone, and adding, "I'll see,"
went away, leaving her on the top of the steps, with the cabman behind
her, at the bottom of them, waiting orders to get her boxes down.
"It don't appear as you was overwelcome, miss!" he remarked: with his
comrades on the stand he passed for a wit; "--leastways, it don't seem
as your sheets was quite done hairing."
"It's all right," said Mary, cheerfully.
She was not ready to imagine her dignity in danger, therefore did not
provoke assault upon it by anxiety for its safety.
"I'm sorry to hear it, miss," the man rejoined.
"Why?" she asked.
"'Cause I should ha' liked to ha' taken _you_ farther."
"But why?" said Mary, the second time, not understanding him, and not
unwilling to cover the awkwardness of that slow minute of waiting.
"Because it gives a poor man with a whole family o' prowocations
some'at of a chance, to 'ave a affable young lady like you, miss,
behind him in his cab, once a year, or thereabouts. It's not by no
means as I'd have you go farther and fare worse, which it's a sayin' as
I've heerd said, miss. So, if you're sure o' the place, I may as well
be a-gettin' down of _your_ boxes."
So saying, he got on the cab, and proceeded to unfasten the chain that
secured the luggage.
"Wait a bit, cabbie. Don't you be in sech a 'urry as if you was a
'ansom, now," cried the footman, reappearing at the farther end of the
hall. "I should be sorry if there was a mistake, and you wasn't man
enough to put your boxes up again without assistance." Then, turning to
Mary, "Mrs. Perkin says, miss--that's the housekeeper, miss," he went
on, "--that, if as you're the young woman from the country--and I'm
sure I beg your pardon if I make a mistake--it ain't my fault,
miss--Mrs. Perkin says she did hear Mrs. Redmain make mention of one,
but she didn't have any instructions concerning her.--But, as there you
are," he continued more familiarly, gathering courage from Mary's
nodded assent, "you can put your boxes in the hall, and sit down, she
says, till Mrs. R. comes 'ome."
"Do you think she will be long?" asked Mary.
"Well, that's what no fellow can't say, seein' its a new play as she's
gone to. They call it Doomsday, an' there's no tellin' when parties is
likely to come 'ome from that," said the man, with a grin of
satisfaction at his own wit.
Was London such a happy place that everybody in it was given to joking,
thought Mary.
"'Ere, mister! gi' me a 'and wi' this 'ere luggage," cried the cabman,
finding the box he was getting down too much for him. "Yah wouldn't see
me break my back, an' my poor 'orse standin' there a lookin' on--would
ye now?"
"Why don't you bring a man with you?" objected the footman, as he
descended the steps notwithstanding, to give the required assistance.
"I ain't paid as a crane.--By Juppiter! what a weight the new party's
boxes is!"
"Only that one," said Mary, apologetically. "It is full of books. The
other is not half so heavy."
"Oh, it ain't the weight, miss!" returned the footman, who had not
intended she should hear the remark. "I believe Mr. Cabman and myself
will prove equal to the occasion."
With that the book-box came down a great bump on the pavement, and
presently both were in the hall, the one on the top of the other. Mary
paid the cabman, who asked not a penny more than his fare; he departed
with thanks; the facetious footman closed the door, told her to take a
seat, and went away full of laughter, to report that the young person
had brought a large library with her to enliven the dullness of her new
situation.
Mrs. Perkin smiled crookedly, and, in a tone of pleasant reproof,
desired her laughter-compressing inferior not to forget his manners.
"Please, ma'am, am I to leave the young woman sittin' up there all by
herself in the cold?" he asked, straightening himself up. "She do look
a rayther superior sort of young person," he added, "and the 'all-stove
is dead out."
"For the present, Castle," replied Mrs. Perkin.
She judged it wise to let the young woman have a lesson at once in
subjection and inferiority.
Mrs. Perkin was a rather tall, rather thin, quite straight, and very
dark-complexioned woman. She always threw her head back on one side and
her chin out on the other when she spoke, and had about her a great
deal of the authoritative, which she mingled with such consideration
toward her subordinates as to secure their obedience to her, while she
cultivated antagonism to her mistress. She had had a better education
than most persons of her class, but was morally not an atom their
superior in consequence. She never went into a new place but with the
feeling that she was of more importance by far than her untried
mistress, and the worthier person of the two. She entered her service,
therefore, as one whose work it was to take care of herself against a
woman whose mistress she ought to have been, had Providence but started
her with her natural rights. At the same time, she would have been
_almost_ as much offended by a hint that she was not a Christian, as
she would have been by a doubt whether she was a lady. For, indeed, she
was both, if a great opinion of herself constituted the latter, and a
great opinion of going to church constituted the former.
She had not been taken into Hesper's confidence with regard to Mary,
had discovered that "a young person" was expected, but had learned
nothing of what her position in the house was to be. She welcomed,
therefore, this opportunity both of teaching Mrs. Redmain--she never
called her her _mistress_, while severely she insisted on the other
servants' speaking of her so--the propriety of taking counsel with her
housekeeper and of letting the young person know in time that Mrs.
Perkin was in reality her mistress.
The relation of the upper servants of the house to their employers was
more like that of the managers of an hotel to their guests. The butler,
the lady's-maid, and Mr. Redmain's body-servant, who had been with him
before his marriage, and was supposed to be deep in his master's
confidence, ate with the housekeeper in her room, waited upon by the
livery and maid-servants, except the second cook: the first cook only
came to superintend the cooking of the dinner, and went away after. To
all these Mrs. Perkin was careful to be just; and, if she was precise
even to severity with them, she was herself obedient to the system she
had established--the main feature of which was punctuality. She not
only regarded punctuality as the foremost of virtues, but, in righteous
moral sequence, made it the first of her duties; and the benefit
everybody reaped. For nothing oils the household wheels so well as this
same punctuality. In a family, love, if it be strong, genuine, and
patent, will make up for anything; but, where there is no family and no
love, the loss of punctuality will soon turn a house into the mere
pouch of a social _inferno_. Here the master and mistress came and
went, regardless of each other, and of all household polity; but their
meals were ready for them to the minute, when they chose to be there to
eat them; the carriage came round like one of the puppets on the
Strasburg clock; the house was quiet as a hospital; the bells were
answered--all except the door-bell outside of calling hours--with
swiftness; you could not soil your fingers anywhere--not even if the
sweep had been that same morning; the manners of the servants--_when
serving_--were unexceptionable; but the house was scarcely more of a
home than one of the huge hotels characteristic of the age.
In the hall of it sat Mary for the space of an hour, not exactly
learning the lesson Mrs. Perkin had intended to teach her, but learning
more than one thing Mrs. Perkin was not yet capable of learning. I can
not say she was comfortable, for she was both cold and hungry; but she
was far from miserable. She had no small gift of patience, and had
taught herself to look upon the less troubles of life as on a bad
dream. There are children, though not yet many, capable, through faith
in their parents, of learning not a little by their experience, and
Mary was one of such; from the first she received her father's lessons
like one whose business it was to learn them, and had thereby come to
learn where he had himself learned. Hence she was not one to say _our
Father in heaven_, and act as if there were no such Father, or as if he
cared but little for his children. She was even foolish enough to
believe that that Father both knew and cared that she was hungry and
cold and wearily uncomfortable; and thence she was weak enough to take
the hunger and cold and discomfort as mere passing trifles, which could
not last a moment longer than they ought. From her sore-tried endeavors
after patience, had grown the power of active waiting--and a genuinely
waiting child is one of the loveliest sights the earth has to show.
This was not the reception she had pictured to herself, as the train
came rushing from Testbridge to London; she had not, indeed, imagined a
warm one, but she had not expected to be forgotten--for so she
interpreted her abandonment in the hall, which seemed to grow colder
every minute. She saw no means of reminding the household of her
neglected presence, and indeed would rather have remained where she was
till the morning than encounter the growing familiarity of the man who
had admitted her. She did think once--if Mrs. Redmain were to hear of
her reception, how she would resent it! and would have found it
difficult to believe how far people like her are from troubling
themselves about the behavior of their servants to other people; for
they have no idea of an obligation to rule their own house, neither
seem to have a notion of being accountable for what goes on in it.
She had grown very weary, and began to long for a floor on which she
might stretch herself; there was not a sound in the house but the
ticking of a clock somewhere; and she was now wondering whether
everybody had gone to bed, when she heard a step approaching, and
presently Castle, who was the only man at home, stood up before her,
and, with the ease of perfect self-satisfaction, and as if there was
nothing in the neglect of her but the custom of the house to cool
people well in the hall before admitting them to its penetralia, said,
"Step this way--miss"; the last word added after a pause of pretended
hesitation, for the man had taken his cue from the housekeeper.
Mary rose, and followed him to the basement story, into a comfortable
room, where sat Mrs. Perkin, embroidering large sunflowers on a piece
of coarse stuff. She was _artistic_, and despised the whole style of
the house.
"You may sit down," she said, and pointed to a chair near the door.
Mary, not a little amused, for all her discomfort, did as she was
permitted, and awaited what should come next.
"What part of the country are you from?" asked Mrs. Perkin, with her
usual diagonal upward toss of the chin, but without lifting her eyes
from her work.
"From Testbridge," answered Mary.
"The servants in this house are in the habit of saying _ma'am_ to their
superiors: it is required of them," remarked Mrs. Perkin. But, although
her tone was one of rebuke, she said the words lightly, tossed the last
of them off, indeed, almost playfully, as if the lesson was meant for
one who could hardly have been expected to know better. "And what place
did you apply for in the house?" she went on to ask.
"I can hardly say, ma'am," answered Mary, avoiding both inflection and
emphasis, and by her compliance satisfying Mrs. Perkin that she had
been right in requiring the _kotou_. "It is not usual for young persons
to be engaged without knowing for what purpose."
"I suppose not, ma'am."
"What wages were you to have?" next inquired Mrs. Perkin, gradually
assuming a more decided drawl as she became more assured of her
position with the stranger. She would gladly get some light on the
affair. "You need not object to mentioning them," she went on, for she
imagined Mary hesitated, whereas she was only a little troubled to keep
from laughing; "I always pay the wages myself."
"There was nothing said about wages, ma'am," answered Mary.
"Indeed! Neither work nor wages specified? Excuse me if I say it seems
rather peculiar.--We must be content to wait a little, then--until we
learn what Mrs. Redmain expected of you, _and whether or not you are
capable of it_. We can go no further now."
"Certainly not, ma'am," assented Mary.
"Can you use your needle?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you done any embroidery?"
"I understand it a little, but I am not particularly fond of it."
"You mistake: I did not ask you whether you were fond of it," said Mrs.
Perkin; "I asked you if you had ever done any"; and she smiled
severely, but ludicrously, for a diagonal smile is apt to have a comic
effect. "Here!--take off your gloves," she continued, "and let me see
you do one of these loose-worked sunflowers. They are the fashion now,
though. I dare say, you will not be able to see the beauty of them."
"Please, ma'am," returned Mary, "if you will excuse me, I would rather
go to my room. I have had a long journey, and am very tired."
"There is no room yours.--I have had no character with you.--Nothing
can be done til Mrs. Redman comes home, and she and I have had a little
talk about you. But you can go to the housemaid's--the second
housemaid's room, I mean--and make yourself tidy. There is a spare bed
in it, I believe, which you can have for the night; only mind you don't
keep the girl awake talking to her, or she will be late in the morning,
and that I never put up with. I think you will do. You seem willing to
learn, and that is half the battle."
Therewith Mrs. Perkin, believing she had laid in awe the foundation of
a rightful authority over the young person, gave her a nod of
dismissal, which she intended to be friendly.
"Please, ma'am," said Mary, "could I have one of my boxes taken up
stairs?"
"Certainly not. I can not have two movings of them; I must take care of
my men. And your boxes, I understand, are heavy, quite absurdly so. It
would _look_ better in a young person not to have so much to carry
about with her."
"I have but two boxes, ma'am," said Mary.
"Full of _books_, I am told."
"One of them only."
"You must do your best without them to-night. When I have made up my
mind what is to be done with you, I shall let you have the one with
your clothes; the other shall be put away in the box-room. I give my
people what books I think fit. For light reading, the 'Fireside Herald'
is quite enough for the room.--There--good night!"
Mary courtesied, and left her. At the door she glanced this way and
that to find some indication to guide her steps. A door was open at the
end of a passage, and from the odor that met her, it seemed likely to
be that of the kitchen. She approached, and peeped in.
"Who is that?" cried a voice irate.
It was the voice of the second cook, who was there supreme except when
the _chef_ was present. Mary stepped in, and the woman advanced to meet
her.
"May I ask to what I am indebted for the honner of this unexpected
visit?" said the second cook, whose head its overcharge of
self-importance jerked hither and thither upon her neck, as she seized
the opportunity of turning to her own use a sentence she had just read
in the "Fireside Herald" which had taken her fancy--spoken by Lady
Blanche Rivington Delaware to a detested lover disinclined to be
dismissed.
"Would you please tell me where to find the second house-maid," said
Mary. "Mrs. Perkin has sent me to her room."
"Why don't Mrs. Perkin show you the way, then?" returned the woman.
"There ain't nobody else in the house as I knows on fit to send to the
top o' them stairs with you. A nice way Jemim' 'ill be in when _she_
comes 'ome, to find a stranger in her room!"
The same instant, however, the woman bethought herself that, if what
she had said in her haste were reported, it would be as much as her
place was worth; and at once thereupon she assumed a more complaisant
tone. Casting a look at her saucepans, as if to warn them concerning
their behavior in her absence, she turned again to Mary, saying:
"I believe I better show you the way myself. It's easier to take you
than find a girl to do it. Them hussies is never where they oughto be!
_You_ follow _me_."
She led the way along two passages, and up a back staircase of
stone--up and up, till Mary, unused to such heights, began to be aware
of knees. Plainly at last in the regions of the roof, she thought her
hill Difficulty surmounted, but the cook turned a sharp corner, and
Mary following found herself once more at the foot of a stair--very
narrow and steep, leading up to one of those old-fashioned roof-turrets
which had begun to appear in the new houses of that part of London.
"Are you taking me to the clouds, cook?" she said, willing to be
cheerful, and to acknowledge her obligation for laborious guidance.
"Not yet a bit, I hope," answered the cook; "we'll get there soon
enough, anyhow--excep' you belong to them peculiars as wants to be
saints afore their time. If that's your sort, don't you come here; for
a wickeder 'ouse, or an 'ouse as you got to work harder in o' Sundays,
no one won't easily find in this here west end."
With these words she panted up the last few steps, immediately at the
top of which was the room sought. It was a very small one, scarcely
more than holding the two beds. Having lighted the gas, the cook left
her; and Mary, noting that one of the beds was not made up, was glad to
throw herself upon it. Covering herself with her cloak, her
traveling-rug, and the woolen counterpane, she was soon fast asleep.
She was roused by a cry, half of terror, half of surprise. There stood
the second housemaid, who, having been told nothing of her room-fellow,
stared and gasped.
"I am sorry to have startled you," said Mary, who had half risen,
leaning on her elbow. "They ought to have told you there was a stranger
in your room."
The girl was not long from the country, and, in the midst of the worst
vulgarity in the world, namely, among the servants of the selfish, her
manners had not yet ceased to be simple. For a moment, however, she
seemed capable only of panting, and pressing her hand on her heart.
"I am very sorry," said Mary, again; "but you see I won't hurt you! I
don't look dangerous, do I?"
"No, miss," answered the girl, with an hysterical laugh. "I been to the
play, and there was a man in it was a thief, you know, miss!" And with
that she burst out crying.
It was some time before Mary got her quieted, but, when she did, the
girl was quite reasonable. She deplored that the bed was not made up,
and would willingly have yielded hers; she was sorry she had not a
clean night-gown to offer her--"not that it would be fit for the likes
of _you_, miss!"--and showed herself full of friendly ministration.
Mary being now without her traveling-cloak, Jemima judged from her
dress she must be some grand visitor's maid, vastly her superior in the
social scale: if she had taken her for an inferior, she would
doubtless, like most, have had some airs handy.