It's a singular thing that the commonest place
Is the hardest to properly fill;
That the labor imposed on a full half the race
Is so seldom performed with good will--
To say nothing of knowledge or skill!
What we ask of all women, we stare at in one,
And tribute of wonderment bring;
If this task of the million is once fitly done
We all hold our hands up and sing!
It's really a singular thing!
Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new
acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his
time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of
contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could
cook.
To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love--so cheerful
and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home.
“It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar
quality of their good fortune. “It's not only good cooking, and good
waiting, and a clean house--cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it's
not only the quietness, and regularity and economy--why the bills have
gone down more than a third!”
“Yes--even I noticed that,” he agreed.
“But what I enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “When I
have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned
forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her
hands, and regarded him intently.
“Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby--I'm no unfeeling
monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I'd had any idea of what
housework was like I'd never have given up architecture to try it.”
“Lucky for me you hadn't!” said he fondly. “I know it's been hard
for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up
architecture--that's a business a woman could carry on at home I
thought, the designing part anyway. There's your 'drawing-room' and all
your things--”
“Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are--and there
they might have stayed, untouched--if Miss Bell hadn't come!”
“Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?”
Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could
give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first
name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was
shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!--Her
name is Diantha--I've seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer.
Anyhow I've got used to Miss Bell now.”
“She gets letters often?”
“Yes--very often--from Topolaya where she came from. I'm afraid she's
engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully.
“I don't doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six
months' arrangement! Well, my dear--make hay while the sun shines!”
“I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I've had a seamstress in, and got
all my clothes in order and the baby's. We've had lot of dinner-parties
and teas as you know--all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We've
had your mother for a visit, and mine's coming now--and I wasn't
afraid to have either of them! There's no fault to be found with my
housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that--yes,
three.”
“The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy
again,” said her husband, with a kiss.
“Yes--that's one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted
I can love you and baby--as--as I _do!_ Only when I'm tired and
discouraged I can't put my hand on it somehow.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way
myself--sometimes. What's the other?”
“Why that's best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again!
When Baby's asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he's awake I've
fixed a place where he can play--and I can draw and plan--just as I used
to--_better_ than I used to!”
“And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet
inquiring voice.
“It's more because it means _both!_” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don't
you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came--and I loved
you--better! Then Baby came and I loved him--best? I don't know--you and
baby are all one somehow.”
There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly.
“Now stop--I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a
nightmare--and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_
improvement; then I just _ached_ for my work--and couldn't do it! And
then--why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From
_both_ of you!--you see, I spent five years studying--I was a _real_
architect--and it did hurt to see it go. And now--O now I've got It and
You too, darling! _And_ the Baby!--O I'm so happy!”
“Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she'll stay I'll
pay her anything!”
The months went by.
Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne
household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and
happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time.
Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter;
rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the
afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the
town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood,
establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber
gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed
and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself--with the result that
they stayed pretty for surprising periods.
She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a
week; and by the help of her sister's authority succeeded in maintaining
a fairly competent servant in her deserted place.
“Father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right
up to him, I can now I'm married!--and Gerald too--that he'd no right to
take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about
your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't
pay for her just now--that's certain. And she does very well--a
good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded
furiously about her sister's “working out.”
Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all
sides of the question before deciding.
“Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in
as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It's not just the work--she
misses you. By the way--so do I.” He expressed his views on her new
employment.
Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them
away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim
courage. “It's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard
on me--some. But we'll all be better off because of it, and not only
us--but everybody!”
Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in
comment and grew green with envy.
In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in
domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved
the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety
was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops
and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at
dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new
friends among the servants.
“Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in
an awed whisper.
“Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now, unless I
want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat,
and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used
to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a
variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had
had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she'd like to order,
and she said she'd be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the
table without knowing what's going to be there.”
“But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,”
said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own
household.”
“Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really
does it more--more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the
bills are very much lower.”
“Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I
wish I had her!”
Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs.
Porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening
when the strange Miss Bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering
propositions to her to come to them. She was perfectly polite and
agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments.
“What are you getting at your present place--if I may ask?” loftily
inquired the great Mrs. Thaddler, ponderous and beaded.
“There is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied
politely. “Mrs. Porne will not mind telling you, I am sure.”
“Hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette.
“Very good. Whatever it is I'll double it. When can you come?”
“My engagement with Mrs. Porne is for six months,” Diantha answered,
“and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up.
Thank you for your offer just the same.”
“Peculiarly offensive young person!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband.
“Looks to me like one of these literary imposters. Mrs. Porne will
probably appear in the magazines before long.”
Mr. Thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight
unseen.”
Diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon
as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the
proposed doubling.
“Fourteen dollars a week and found!--that's not so bad,” she meditated.
“That would mean over $650 clear in a year! It's a wonder to me girls
don't try it long enough to get a start at something else. With even two
or three hundred ahead--and an outfit--it would be easier to make good
in a store or any other way. Well--I have other fish to fry!”
So she pursued her way; and, with Mrs. Porne's permission--held a sort
of girl's club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the
last three months of her engagement. It was a “Study and Amusement
Club.” She gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in
simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. She gave
them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously
taught them to use the Public Library.
They played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted.
To the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most
natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy.
Diantha studied and observed. They brought her their poor confidences,
painfully similar. Always poverty--or they would not be there. Always
ignorance, or they would not stay there. Then either incompetence in the
work, or inability to hold their little earnings--or both; and further
the Tale of the Other Side--the exactions and restrictions of the
untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of
endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their
receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common
enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving.
“It's no wages, of course--and no recommendation, when you leave like
that--but what else can a girl do, if she's honest?”
So Diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations.
The excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly
“entertainments.” No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had
Mrs. Porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance.
All the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she
never knew called on her even more freshly. Not that she was directly
responsible for it. She had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy
friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her
good fortune. It was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone's. But in a
community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in
the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the
demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the
fact of one woman's having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question,
was enough to give her prominence.
Mrs. Ellen A. Dankshire, President of the Orchardina Home and Culture
Club, took up the matter seriously.
“Now Mrs. Porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a
comfortable chair, “I just want to talk the matter over with you, with a
view to the club. We do not know how long this will last--”
“Don't speak of it!” said Mrs. Porne.
“--and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.”
“So much is involved!” said little Mrs. Ree, the Corresponding
Secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines
in it. “We are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home
duties!”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess.
“We must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” Mrs.
Dankshire announced. “It is one case in a thousand, and must be
studied!”
“So noble of her!” said Mrs. Ree. “You say she was really a
school-teacher? Mrs. Thaddler has put it about that she is one of these
dreadful writing persons--in disguise!”
“O no,” said Mrs. Porne. “She is perfectly straightforward about it, and
had the best of recommendations. She was a teacher, but it didn't agree
with her health, I believe.”
“Perhaps there is a story to it!” Mrs. Ree advanced; but Mrs. Dankshire
disagreed with her flatly.
“The young woman has a theory, I believe, and she is working it out. I
respect her for it. Now what we want to ask you, Mrs. Porne, is this: do
you think it would make any trouble for you--in the household relations,
you know--if we ask her to read a paper to the Club? Of course we do not
wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity--very. You know
the fine work Miss Lucy Salmon has done on this subject; and Miss
Frances Kellor. You know how little data we have, and how great, how
serious, a question it is daily becoming! Now here is a young woman of
brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her
example and influence must not be lost! We must hear from her. The
public must know of this.”
“Such an ennobling example!” murmured Mrs. Ree. “It might lead numbers
of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!”
“Furthermore,” pursued Mrs. Dankshire, “this has occured to me. Would it
not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more
intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the--the
dignity of household labor--so ably set forth?
“Isn't it--wouldn't that be a--an almost dangerous experiment?” urged
Mrs. Ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles:
“She might--say something, you know, that they might--take advantage
of!”
“Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mrs. Dankshire. She was very fond of Mrs.
Ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “What could she say? Look
at what she does! And how beautifully--how perfectly--she does it! I
would wager now--_may_ I try an experiment Mrs. Porne?” and she stood
up, taking out her handkerchief.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Porne, “with pleasure! You won't find any!”
Mrs. Dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and
passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a
picture.
“I knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the
cloth still white. “That,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is
Knowledge, Ability and Conscience!”
“I don't see how she gets the time!” breathed Mrs. Ree, shaking her head
in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs.
Dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops.
“We must have her address the Club,” the president repeated. “It will do
worlds of good. Let me see--a paper on--we might say 'On the True Nature
of Domestic Industry.' How does that strike you, Mrs. Ree?”
“Admirable!” said Mrs. Ree. “So strong! so succinct.”
“That certainly covers the subject,” said Mrs. Porne. “Why don't you ask
her?”
“We will. We have come for that purpose. But we felt it right to ask you
about it first,” said Mrs. Dankshire.
“Why I have no control over Miss Bell's movements, outside of working
hours,” answered Mrs. Porne. “And I don't see that it would make any
difference to our relations. She is a very self-poised young woman,
but extremely easy to get along with. And I'm sure she could write a
splendid paper. You'd better ask her, I think.”
“Would you call her in?” asked Mrs. Dankshire, “or shall we go out to
the kitchen?”
“Come right out; I'd like you to see how beautifully she keeps
everything.”
The kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. Miss
Bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the
visitors with a serenely civil air--as of a country store-keeper.
“I am very glad to meet you, Miss Bell, very glad indeed,” said Mrs.
Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “We have at heard so much of
your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! Now would you be
willing to give a paper--or a talk--to our club, the Home and Culture
Club, some Wednesday, on The True Nature of Domestic Industry?”
Mrs. Ree took Miss Bell's hand with something of the air of a Boston
maiden accosting a saint from Hindoostan. “If you only would!” she said.
“I am sure it would shed light on this great subject!”
Miss Bell smiled at them both and looked at Mrs. Porne inquiringly.
“I should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “I know it
would be very useful.”
“Is there any date set?” asked Miss Bell.
“Any Wednesday after February,” said Mrs. Dankshire.
“Well--I will come on the first Wednesday in April. If anything should
happen to prevent I will let you know in good season, and if you should
wish to postpone or alter the program--should think better of the
idea--just send me word. I shall not mind in the least.”
They went away quite jubilant, Miss Bell's acceptance was announced
officially at the next club-meeting, and the Home and Culture Club felt
that it was fulfilling its mission.