BY BELL.
"WHY is it, Mrs. Clark, that you always take the part of servants? You speak as if you thought them possessed of sensibilities as refined as ours."
"Why should they not have such feelings?" inquired Mrs. Clark.
"Their education is so different."
"Does education always give sensibility? Do you not think it possible for those that must work for a living to be possessed of it?"
"I should suppose they might do something that would not expose them to the contempt that is shown to such as are 'girls in the kitchen.' Why, even the higher servants despise them."
"Would it not be better if all were considerate enough not to contemn any one? Then there would be no danger of wounding sensibilities that are none the less acute because they are found in the breast of a servant." Mrs. Clark said this softly, and with a slight quiver, perceptible only when you looked at her.
I was sitting by the window for the sake of the light. Sarah Marshall, who was spending a week with Isabel Clark, was chatting as usual when Mrs. Clark came in with a neighbor, who was telling of the impudence of a servant who, when she was accused of falsehood, replied, "There is none of my father's family that can lie."
"Did she lie?" innocently inquired Sarah.
"No, it was found she told the truth; but then, it was her independent manner that was so offensive."
"Do you not think servants ought to have independence enough to defend themselves from an unjust accusation?" asked Mrs. Clark.
"Her saying so proved nothing; we found out the truth ourselves. If she had waited, she would not have lost her place. I am sorry for her, I am sure. If you do not want her, I do not know what will become of her. Her family are quite destitute."
"Do you not need her help?"
"Oh, yes; but, then"——
"You are satisfied of her innocence, you say; why not have her come back to you?"
"That would be too humiliating. I never give my servants a chance to triumph over me in that way."
The visitor departed, and the conversation was continued, as at the commencement of the story.
Mrs. Clark was a lady. It was not necessary to inquire who her ancestors were, to be sure of that; yet it was not her dress, or manner, or voice, or sentiments, either of them, alone, but harmony and appropriateness in everything she said or did, that left with you that impression. In her presence you never thought whether she was handsome or well-dressed, but, on leaving her, you would be more than ever in love with moral beauty.
In the evening, we girls—I call myself one of them, though so much older—were sitting round the fireplace in the pleasant room; it was just fit for dreaming or story-telling, at twilight, when Sarah referred to the conversation of the morning, wondering if Mrs. Hart had conquered her pride, or poor Anna had found a place.
"I have always pitied servants," said she; "it seems that they ought to know their place; yet, if they are unjustly accused, it is hard if they must lose a home when they defend themselves."
"For my part," said Isabel, "I like to see ladies know their places, as well as servants. What right has any one to charge another with falsehood, and expect them to be silent under the false charge, merely because they have agreed to give them the labor of their hands for a paltry sum counted out to them on Saturday night? Anna was educated to thoughts and habits of strict integrity, and I do not wonder at her proud retort."
Isabel had been indignant all day, but had controlled her lips till now; her eyes flashed as she spoke, and, when she was done, she went to the piano and played several spirited airs with even more spirit than was necessary; then, turning to us, said—
"Did mother ever tell you her history?"
"No," said Sarah.
"Nor you, Miss Bell?"
"Never."
"She wrote it out for me a year ago. I will read it to you, if you wish."
Now, I had often wished to know her earlier life, but did not think it right for Isabel to read to us what was probably written for her alone; so I ran up stairs, where Mrs. Clark was engaged with the younger children, and told her what Isabel proposed doing, inquiring if it met her approbation.
"I wrote it," said she, pleasantly, "as a lesson for my daughter; but I am willing others should be benefited with her."
Feeling that I had wronged Isabel by supposing she would do anything improper, I returned to the parlor just as she was ready to read the following:—
The first dream of my life was to be a school-teacher. The first morning of my going to school, the sweet lady who was teaching in our district took me on her lap, and asked me if I did not wish to become a school-teacher. I felt that to be like her would be pleasant; and so, from that time, it was the acme of my ambition to become what Polly Frazier was—pleasant name it is, even now—and I was careful about this, and I learned that, because it was necessary for a teacher to know such things. My parents and instructors encouraged the idea, and it was with me a settled purpose. I hardly know how young I was when I learned that, to teach successfully, I must govern well. I desired not to rule merely, but to instruct; and, when my teacher would let me hear the little ones read, how tearfully happy I was if I succeeded in giving them a new sound, or right pronunciation!
Thus time passed with me until I was twelve, when my father came from an eastern State to Pennsylvania. Soon after, by one of those great wrongs, where no one is to blame, my father lost the little property he brought with him to this part of the country, and a family of eight was dependent on what he could earn at his trade. Money was scarce and provisions dear, and you may judge of my feelings when my father came home every day more and more tired, and our resources became day by day more and more reduced; for, though my mother was a good manager, yet there are limits beyond which it is impossible to manage at all.
If I could only do something! I thought it over at night, but said nothing. I knew I was not prepared to teach even children, or, at least, no one would think I was, and that was all the same, for all the good it would do me, and I must give up the thought of it, at least for the present.
I could not tell you all the day-dreams I had about the one thing, how I could help my father. At last I found a way to help myself, and thus help him, by reducing the number of mouths at home, and also adding something to a wardrobe that was becoming quite scanty.
I became acquainted with a girl some years older than myself, who was "working out." She earned seventy-five cents a week. I had done nearly all of the kinds of work at home that were expected of her; why, then, could I not obtain as much? I saw no reason why I should not. True, girls of my own age had but fifty cents, but then they never washed or ironed, except coarse clothing, while I could do all, except the finest.
"Where there is a will, there is a way;" so I soon was from home trying my best. I need not tell you how much I was disappointed in some things; but, as yet, I saw no reason why my main object could not be accomplished. I was the more encouraged to hope this, as it was evident the people were satisfied with my endeavors, and said I "was as much help as those who were four or five years older."
I had been there six weeks before anything was said about my pay. The family sewing was done for the winter, and they did not keep help only at times, so I was not needed; and, as a matter of ceremony, I was asked "what I expected a week." I had all along thought they would not hesitate to give me as much as older girls received, inasmuch as they had often said I was as much help. I even thought they would have the delicacy to give me that amount without the ceremony of asking how much I expected. The manner of asking me, however, made me think that perhaps I had over-estimated my services, and I rather hesitatingly said five shillings would do.
How they stared at me! I then found that, for all I had done more than was expected of my age, I had my pay in praise; something I did not value, only as it helped me to forward my main design. Still, fifty cents a week and my board was better than doing nothing at home, so I submitted to what was inevitable. Thus passed the years until I was sixteen. In the interval, I had managed to attend school three months. I helped about house mornings and evenings, and stayed at home Mondays to wash. At some places I was permitted to read or study, if I could get the usual work out of the way; besides, I kept a book or paper by me, and thus picked up and pondered over many thoughts that would have escaped me, if I had had the opportunity of reading as much as I wished; for, during this time, I used to get as hungry for mental food as ever woodcutter did for physical aliment. The kind of reading I had made me earnestly desire to attend school. Philosophical, chemical, or botanical allusions were often made, and I could only half understand what I read, even with the help of the dictionary.
A change of employment offered, which I eagerly accepted, as it brought back my old dreams of the pleasure I should enjoy as a school-teacher. An assistant was required in the village school. I was too eager to get the place to inquire about the remuneration, and I enjoyed myself too well to think about it much; but I took for granted that I should have a dollar a week, and consequently should be able to attend the academy the next winter. I was disappointed when, at the close of the term, I found I was to be allowed only seventy-five cents, or what I was able to get as a "hired girl," though I boarded at father's. I had some time to study, or the disappointment would have been even greater. By working for my board, I found I could attend the district school.
The reputation I acquired as a teacher of the lady I assisted, was the means of my being employed in an adjoining district; but, as much as I desired the situation, and as much as I loved teaching, and wished to do my duty, I always considered that school a failure. Not that any one complained of me, for the pupils improved; but everything became too mechanical, and, while they learned their lessons well, their minds seemed to rest, not expand, and I did not know how to remedy the evil. Still, I loved my school, and set myself to learn why I had failed.
As I studied myself, I was more than ever conscious of my deficiencies in mental cultivation, and of a hungering after mental food. Every chance I had for study I improved. I was too conscious of a want of preparation for teaching to offer myself as a teacher, so I must do what I could.
Just then an incident occurred that roused more pride than I had supposed I possessed. One Sabbath, in the interval between the morning and afternoon service, a lady came to me, and, in a manner intended to be very kind, said—
"Are you going to attend the examination of teachers on Saturday?"
"I have not decided. I am not engaged as a teacher."
"Well, never mind, go. If you cannot pass examination so well as Samantha and the rest, go; it will do you good."
Samantha was her daughter, and had always been at school, and consequently ought to have known more than she did; but opportunity does not always make scholars any more than want of opportunity prevents others from becoming such. Now, I had been at school with Samantha, and knew that, if she could bear examination as fitted for a teacher, I could; and I resolved to attend, and, if opportunity was given, I also would be examined with the rest. And I did, and have that certificate now.
No opportunity offered for teaching, however; in fact, I hardly desired one, until I had more chance for improvement myself. I made my arrangements, as I thought, for attending school the next winter; but winter came, and the next summer passed, and still I was as far from what I so earnestly desired as ever. I could not pay my board, and I could not always get a place where I could work mornings and evenings for it; my clothes would be worn; so, with one thing and another, it seemed impossible that I should ever be anything but a drudge. Not that my pride rebelled against doing the kind of work I did, but so constant and ceaseless and unsympathizing a round of duties left no time for thinking except of what was just about me.
The elasticity of spirits that had sustained me heretofore was failing me; for, worn with labor, I felt my mind, as it were, contracting upon itself, and felt, if I could not break from the bondage, I should be miserable enough. For that I could see no way. Now I had a dollar a week, and I must earn it. My employers seemed to consider it treason against them if I so much as looked into a book. From early in the morning until ten, eleven, and often until the "small hours," I must labor; and, if I so much as made myself a garment, I was charged for it, as if it had been hired for me. I submitted to many impositions rather than contend about them, though I questioned with myself if it was to last always. It did not last always. I will relate one incident that occurred, and pass on to pleasanter days.
A glass dish that was cracked about half way across, I accidentally finished breaking. I went immediately to the sitting-room, and explained how it was done. Mrs. —— did not appear displeased at what I had done; told me not to mind; it was an old dish; she had expected for some time it would come apart; there was enough more; told me what one to use in place of it. There was also considerable conversation on the impropriety of fretting if anything was accidentally broken; and she ended by saying, "I make it a point never to reproach my girls if an accident occurs."
I left the room, feeling grateful that such was her practice, and thinking how pleasant it would be if all could think so, not only about accidents, but other things, and be careful not to "break the bruised reed." I thought, too, that though many persons did not seem to sympathize with those who labor for them, it was more in seeming than real. This incident showed me that our feelings were regarded.
A few days after this, Mrs. —— came into the kitchen to make some preparation for company, and when she wanted a dish inquired about that one. I thought it strange if she had forgotten it, and reminded her of its being broken.
"Yes, and I think very carelessly broken, too."
A very expressive remark, I thought, after her boasted forbearance, and it stung none the less that the dart was unexpected.
My long-desired wish was gratified, and I was spending the winter at the academy, and among friends who took an interest in my welfare, and assisted me whenever they could. The prospect was fair before me of my being able to prepare for what I had wished from childhood. Still, envy and contempt had a shaft or two, but they generally flew too high or too low, for I knew a man would "be a man for a' that."
A little boy said to me one day, tauntingly: "Mother says you can't be a schoolma'am anyhow; anybody as has allus been a servant don't know 'nough. I sha'n't go to school to you."
"Ah, you think you would not like to come then?" said I, pleasantly.
"If mother would let me."
Then, looking up to me in a confiding way, he asked: "Is it bad to be a servant?"
Heaven bless the child! thought I, as I kissed his face, sweet now with gentle thoughts; why must such hearts be poisoned with bitter and contemptuous thoughts?
It was nearly spring when a party was made by one of the principal families of the village. Some of the pupils of the academy were to leave before the term expired, and it was intended as a compliment to them. Some of the villagers had begun to think the habits of our village too primitive, and that "hired girls," farmers' sons, and apprentices, should no longer be invited to the village gatherings. To this party I was among the uninvited. I was too proud, too independent, too much intent on my studies to resent it, and intended not to notice it. One does not like to be the subject of deliberate neglect; but all I meant to do about it was to prepare myself for the future, and I resolved my future should be such that they and their descendants would be proud to associate with me.
A young gentleman, a favorite in the village, boarding at the same place, asked permission to attend me to the party. His favorite girl was a particular friend of mine, and he had been escort to both on a previous occasion, but now she was out of the village. Without telling him I could not go, and for what reason, I endeavored to put him off to go alone, or find another lady, saying, "I must learn my lessons; I did not like to be out late."
He knew that, but had resolved I should go this time, as I had successfully excused myself before. He protested I was studying too much; a social evening would do me good; said he would come home as soon as I said, after nine o'clock. Thus he endeavored to overrule all my objections and excuses.
There was no real reason why I should not go with him, only the one why I should not go at all. I did not intend to tell him I had such an one, but he gave me no peace until I told him I could not go, and why.
"No invitation!" repeated he, in astonishment; "how is that?"
"Excuse me; I must keep my suspicions to myself."
He sat thoughtfully a few moments, then, starting up as if a new thought occurred to him, said—
"I understood they were not intending to invite 'hired girls;' but why should they slight you? You are as much a pupil at the academy as any one there."
"Yes, but I work for my board, and next summer I shall probably be 'hired girl' again."
"Well," said he, pleasantly, "we can have a party here."
I protested against his staying on my account.
"Yes, yes, they made me promise to come, but I insisted on qualifying it with 'providential,' and I consider this I have learned quite in that light. Nay, speak not, I command you. I shall not go. I only wish Mary was at home. However, we can have a pleasant evening here, and no thanks to the 'codfish aristocracy.'"
The next day, inquiry was made after Mr. ——, and why he did not attend the party; but he gave them no more satisfaction than they were entitled to. Afterward I was invited whenever there was a party; I did not care about going always, though I was glad to have my right to an invitation unquestioned, as, according to my definition of respectable, a man or woman either was so who could conscientiously respect himself.
The next summer, and for years, until my marriage, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my schools were not failures. Though I had anticipated so long, the enjoyment was equal to the anticipation.
Here Mrs. Clark's history of her days of trial ceased.
"Why did she not write more of her school-teaching life?" I asked. "I should like to hear her account of it; I am sure it would be interesting."
"It is," said Isabel; "she has related many incidents to me that are very amusing, and some pathetic. I will ask her to tell you about them some time. This she wrote for me to correct some very foolish notions I had acquired at Mrs. W.'s school. Who would think, after seeing mother, that work must necessarily degrade any one? You know Burritt says: 'If a man thinks at his work, his thoughts are strong,' and mother exemplifies it; her thoughts are also gentle."
Again Isabel resorted to the piano, but this time it was accompanied by a gentle evening hymn.
JULY, 1730.
Extracts from the Diary of my Greatgrand-mother.
Five o'clock.—Got up an hour before my usual time to distil surfeit-water. Said my prayers. Finished one of my father's new shirts. Mem. To send to town for some currants, raisins, and ratafia water.
Six.—Some poor women came for medicine to my mother; gave out of the store-room several doses, and a pint of sack. Mem. To carry two shillings to Tom, the carpenter's wife, who is ill.
Seven.—Breakfasted. A card has come from Mr. Jenkins, to let us know he will do himself the pleasure of dining with us. The match debated during breakfast. My father says, if he finds him a man of good morals, he'll not differ as to the settlements. I am ordered never to be alone with Mr. J. until all the writings are drawn.
Eight.—Read the Psalms and chapters for the day. Taught little Jemmy his catechism. Mem. Betsey has marked J. in her sampler to-day: that stands for Jenkins.
Nine.—Darn some old point-lace tuckers. Do some clear-starching and ironing for next week.
Ten.—Go see the carpenter's wife. Her family in very great want. Give them a shilling from my own pocket-money.
Eleven.—Sit down to my cross-stitch. A shepherdess the subject, for an urn-rug.
Twelve.—My mother orders me to make a custard-pudding, to show Mr. Jenkins what I can do. Orders me to wear my best gown at dinner, and only two patches. Mem. I mean to appear in my new hoop and laced stomacher. Mr. J. is a man of figure, so will look to my appearance.
One.—Too much ratafia water in the pudding. Mr. J. praised some hare of my potting. I begin to like him vastly well, but must not let him perceive it. Mem. Our currant wine just out. Mislaid the key of the corner-cupboard. Thinking of Mr. J.
Two.—Miss T. and her lover stepped in to tea. Promise her receipt for pickling mushrooms. Mem. Mrs. Hart's receipt for burns very good. Must have it in the house. Garlick syrup excellent for coughs.
Eight.—Supper. My brother tells me Mr. Jenkins is very wild. Mem. Never to see his face again!
SATURDAY, MARCH, 1778.
Notes from my Grandmother's Pocket Diary.
Two o'clock.—Arrived this moment in town. We have been three days coming from S—— in our own coach. Just put off my riding-dress, and huddled on my green gown, to get to the milliner's, mercer's, &c. Overjoyed to be in town; so have no appetite for my dinner.
Four.—Going out with Miss Tendrill. She tells me coque de perle necklace and ear-rings are much in vogue. Mem. To teaze my mother until she gets them for me. Arrive at Truefit's. N. B. Truefit the first modeste in the world. Ordered a cane hat, lined with cerulean blue Persian, trimmed with blonde lace and ribbons, for walking in the Park, and making morning calls. Mem. Must bespeak two pairs of white leather shoes, with red heels, and bindings to correspond. Advised to have a Saint Teresa of sarsnet and blonde lace, as 'tis the latest mode. Ordered it at once. Mem. Blonde lace ruffles, with a large slope, vastly genteel. Uneasy till I get them.
Eight.—Go home, fearing I may miss Mr. Cleveland. He advises, as my shoulders are rather round, that my stays be made high behind. He says 'tis quite the thing to have them so. I have desired they should be cut low before, as it shows the chest off to advantage.
Sunday. Eleven o'clock.—Had no rest last night, anticipating the pleasure of the week to come. Too late for church. I shall dress time enough for a ride in the Park.
One.—Miss Wyndham has called for me. Go to Mrs. Emerson, to engage her to matronize us to an assembly to-morrow night. Mr. —— walked up to speak to us. An acquaintance of Miss Wyndham. A fine well-made man; improves on better acquaintance. He took great notice of me, and told Miss W. I was a prodigious fine girl. Miss W. jealous, and anxious to return home; he offered to escort us. Miss W. complained of headache, and would not speak. I improved the opportunity, by chatting away merrily to Mr. —— all the way home. Mem. To get a green Persian calash, same as Miss Wyndham's. Mr. —— praised it, so I won't be outdone.
Seven.—Mr. —— invited to dinner by my mother. I engrossed all his attention. He is very rich.
Eleven.—Desired Mary to waken me at two in the morning, to have my hair dressed. It will be done in about four hours.
Monday. Two in the morning.—Crumpe just arrived. Read Damon and Ella, whilst my head is being operated on. A sweet book!
Seven.—My hair finished. Mem. Crumpe the first hair-dresser in Europe. Only 463 black pins in it. No other could have accomplished it with less than 470.
Eleven.—Out shopping with Mrs. Emerson. Take the round of the fashionable milliners. Bespeak a grenadier cap of blonde lace, with a Mary Stuart peak. Saw a lovely clouded lute-string at Ball and Campbell's. Resolved to have it. 'Tis very much genteeler than Miss Wyndham's.
Twelve.—Had a glance at Mr. ——. They say half the reigning belles are dying for love of him. Charming creature! Mem. To dance the first minuet with him to-night, if possible.
One.—Much fatigued from tumbling over silks, &c. Tried on my new negligée. Mem. Must not go to the assembly until ten. Country hours will not do here.
Tuesday. One.—Paid so many visits yesterday before the assembly, that I was tired and out of sorts. Mr. —— danced with Miss Wyndham half the night. Well, to be sure, what taste some people have! She looked downright frightful. Her fortune is a large one; that covers all defects, I suppose. I am mortified, have a bad headache, and wish our stay in town was at an end. I have just heard that Mr. —— proposed for Miss Wyndham last night. I shall cut her acquaintance most certainly.
DECEMBER, 1820.
Leaves from my Mother's Journal.
Tuesday, Dec. 2.—The boxes containing my trousseau have just arrived. My cousin Annie and I busy unpacking them. Annie to be my bridesmaid. How brilliant her color is to-day: she looks very lovely, and will grace our wedding. Of course, dear Edward is charmed with her, for my sake. My wedding-dress is of white lace, gored on the hips, and quite tight down to the knee, where small flowers, headed with thick wadded rolls of white satin, commence. The body is just one finger deep in front, and a little deeper behind. The dress is made low, for the ball on the evening of the wedding; and with it has come a white flowered satin spencer, covered with small white tassels on the front, and with a stiff standing collar, which looks very stylish. My hat is composed of blonde and satin, and has six full ostrich feathers in it, three at each side, the two end ones being very long, so as to fall gracefully on the shoulders. Madame Lion has sent, amongst other things, a blue cloth pelisse, trimmed with sable; the price of it is thirty-five guineas. Edward made Annie try on some of my things to see how he liked them. Strange that it was not me he wished to see them upon! Dear Edward, how thoughtful he is—he made me retire to my room very early, saying I looked fatigued. Annie did not follow me until twelve o'clock, and seemed flushed and slightly agitated on entering the room. She says I look so pale I should wear a little rouge. 'Tis a fashion I never yet adopted.
Wednesday, Dec. 3.—Papa and dear Edward all day in the study, closeted with Mr. Grabb, our attorney, arranging about settlements. To-morrow I shall be the happy bride of him whom I adore. Guests arriving all day. I saw Annie coming out of the shrubbery with dear Edward, before the dinner-bell rang. What could they have gone there for? The hour late, too, for walking, and the evening cold and damp.
Twelve o'clock.—Just retired to my room for the night. Take one more peep at my wedding-dress, laid on the sofa, and now retire to dream of the happy morn fast approaching.
Here the manuscript ceases; for, when morn came—that morn so longed for—Edward was missing; and, stranger far, Annie was nowhere to be found, and was sought for in vain. The faithless pair had eloped together, and the following day were united at Gretna Green. Long did my poor mother pine and mourn her sad fate. But at length brighter days arose for her; and in my dear and honored father she found what she had long searched for—a congenial, loving, and honest heart.
M. E. H.
I HEARD the other day an anecdote which justifies the remark that "truth is often stranger than fiction." An old woman, a short time ago, on her death-bed, called her nephew, who was also her heir, and revealed to him that, eight years before, she had gone to Paris to receive some money which was due to her—a sum of fourteen thousand francs received in bank-notes; she wrapped them up in an old newspaper, and placed them, with different other things, on the mantle-piece of the room of the inn where she was staying, while she sat down to write to her husband, to tell him she had received the money. The letter written, she determined that, instead of trusting it to any one, she would put it herself in the post; and accordingly left the hotel for the purpose. On going out, she left her key with her porter, with directions to light a fire in her room at eight o'clock. Towards half-past seven, whilst at the house of one of her acquaintances, it suddenly occurred to her that she had left her bank-notes on the mantle-piece at the hotel. She immediately returned in search of them, went up to her room, where the fire was lighted according to her directions; but the packet of bank-notes had disappeared. She rang. A young girl answered the bell; of whom she demanded who had lighted the fire. It was the girl herself. The owner of the bank-notes asked if she had seen them. She answered in the negative. At last the master of the hotel was called, and the affair related to him. It then was proved that the only person who entered the room was the girl who lighted the fire. The master of the house had confidence in the girl's honesty; but, as appearances were certainly against her, the whole affair was placed in the hands of the police, and the girl arrested. She was condemned, on her trial, to three years' imprisonment; but the money was not found after the expiration of the three years. The girl came to the house of the owner of the unlucky bank-notes, reproached her as the cause of her ruin and dishonor. The old lady was touched: it occurred to her, suppose, after all, the woman was innocent! Her guilt had never been satisfactorily proved; nor had the strictest searches been able to discover what she had done with the money she was accused of taking. At the time of her arrest she had been on the point of marrying an honest workman; and now she would have the greatest difficulty in placing herself in service again. Instigated by the desire to repair, as far as in her lay, the injury she might have caused this young woman, the old lady determined to take her into her service, and try her; and never had she cause to regret having done so. She now revealed all to the nephew, and expressed her full belief in the innocence of her servant, and desired them always to retain her in the family, and not to reveal her secret. The next day the old lady died, leaving about two hundred thousand francs to her nephew.
The nephew came a short time ago to Paris, to pass a few months of the winter season; he went to an hotel in the Rue du Helder, where he established himself very comfortably. One evening, after returning home, he heard, in the room adjoining that in which he was, the sound of voices and laughter; evidently his neighbors were in high glee. Overhearing some words, his curiosity was piqued, and he approached the partition, in order to hear more distinctly; (and yet there are some men who pretend to say that it is only women who are curious!) In this laudable attempt, our hero discovered that there had formerly been a door of communication between the room he occupied and that in which his gay neighbors were enjoying themselves. The hole where the lock had been was filled up with sealing-wax, so that there was no chance of seeing through that: but his curiosity was excited, and in looking about he saw that there had been a space at the top of the door, which was stuffed up with old paper. He pulled it out, and his curiosity was gratified with a view of his next-door neighbors. His efforts being thus crowned with success, he went to bed, and fell asleep.
The next morning, wishing to remove the proofs of his curiosity, he took the packet of old newspapers, with the intention of replacing them, when, in so doing, out fell the fourteen billet de mille francs, evidently those of his aunt. The master of the house was called. He remembered perfectly the circumstance. The servant was sent for; she recognized the room. The young man offered to make public reparation, and establish her innocence; but the poor woman preferred letting all the affair rest in oblivion. The story was forgotten, she said: why revive it? The young man handed her over the billets, which had been the cause of so much sorrow to her. After all, they were hardly earned.
A STORY FOR HOUSEKEEPERS.
BY H. D. R.
"YOU must have help, that is certain," said Mr. Harding, as he laid a letter which he had been reading upon the breakfast-table, and began to sip his coffee. "With all this company upon your hands, and warm weather coming on, it would be madness for you to try to get along alone."
"That is true," sighed Mrs. Harding; "but the question is, where to get it. The whole vicinity has been searched over and over, and there is not a girl to be had."
"One must be had," replied her husband, in a determined tone. "Eight or ten visitors, more or less, for the summer, will kill you outright." And he cast a troubled glance at the pale face and slender form of his wife.
"Well, how shall we get help, then?" asked Mrs. Harding, half laughing in the midst of her vexation. "The days are gone by when girls apply for places."
"Yes, there is no way but to go after them. If my troublesome rheumatism would just leave me for a few days, you should have two girls. But as it is, wife, I see no way but for you to go yourself with Walter for driver."
Mrs. Harding laughed to think how she would look driving about the country for "help," and would almost have preferred to try her hand alone; but her husband's troubled countenance and the necessities of the case decided her, and she said—
"I have almost no faith in the undertaking, but am willing to try, and if I fail I shall be no worse off than now. But where shall I go?"
Mr. Harding thought a moment, and then said—
"I have heard that there are girls enough on Seccombe Plains."
"How far is that?"
"Only twelve or fifteen miles. It is only four or five miles from Cousin Harriman's."
"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Harding, well pleased with the suggestion. "I will spend the night with Cousin Clarissa, and start from there in the morning."
After dinner, the same day, Walter brought the carriage round to the door, and Mrs. Harding started off, infinitely amused with her errand, though with no very sanguine hopes of success.
The next morning, Mrs. Harriman gave her guests an early breakfast, and by seven o'clock they were ready to commence their search. It was a lovely morning in early June. The sun had not been up long enough to kiss the glistening dew from the grass, and the thousand songsters of grove and forest had not quite finished their matin song. Everything looked bright with hope; and hope beat higher, a great deal higher in Mrs. Harding's breast than it had done the day before. The whole world looked so beautiful that it seemed almost wicked to doubt, and they rode on over the retired hills towards Seccombe Plains, feeling almost as sure of the "bird" as though they had her "in hand."
After riding two or three miles, they approached a small unpainted cottage which stood upon a very high bank upon the right. A single glance showed them that two or three men were at the back door, evidently just starting for the fields.
"Stop when you get against the house, Walter; I mean to inquire here," said Mrs. Harding, as they drew near. But the next moment two of the men disappeared round the corner of the shed, while the third, a very oily-looking man, with an enormous width of collar, came leisurely along in front of the house.
"Do you know where I could find a girl to do housework, sir?" asked Mrs. Harding, leaning forward in her carriage, and addressing the man.
"Wal, yes," said he of the broad collar; "I've got a darter'd be glad to go; but she ain't to home. She went to work to the Falls last week, but she ain't a gwine to stay but three or four weeks. If she was to home, she'd be glad to go."
"Do you know of any others who go out?" said Mrs. Harding, who thought there was but little prospect of getting his daughter Sally.
"Not as I knows on," said Mr. of the broad collar. "You couldn't wait three or four weeks, I s'pose."
"No," was the reply; and she laid her hand upon Walter's arm, as a signal to drive on.
"We came pretty near getting a girl that time," said Walter, laughing.
"Quite as near as was best for us. It is well that Sally is gone, I dare say," replied his mother, with a smile.
Patient toiling brought them at last up a long, rugged hill, upon the other side of which spread out Seccombe Plains.
"Here is a house; shall we inquire here?" said Walter, pointing to a rude little house or hovel which stood upon the hill-top, upon a level spot which was covered with large granite boulders and unsightly brush.
"Yes," said his mother, as she espied a man coming round the corner of the house. "It can do no harm to inquire."
"Can you tell me of any girls in the vicinity who go out to work?" sang out Mrs. Harding to the slovenly-looking man, who had no idea of drawing nearer.
"What? I didn't hear."
The question was repeated, and the sound of a stranger's voice brought three or four barefooted, uncombed juveniles to the door, and the mother's head to the window.
"Can you tell this woman where she can find a gal to do housework?" said the man, addressing his better half.
"Why, yes; there's gals enough, but I can't seem to think on 'em," said the woman, with a perplexed look. "P'raps she could get one of Smithson's gals. He has got two that go out to work."
"Would they make good help?" asked Mrs. Harding.
"Fust rate. One on 'em worked for me a spell last winter, and she did well."
Mrs. Harding thought that was no great recommendation; but she simply thanked her, and asked if she could tell of any others.
"Wal, I don't think of any; but there's enough on 'em a leetle farther on, at Mapleton."
"How far is that?"
"Six miles beyond the Plains."
Mrs. Harding thanked her informer, and they drove on down the long steep hill, at the foot of which lay the insignificant village of Seccombe Plains.
"We have heard of one girl, mother," said Walter, looking very bright. "Perhaps she will be just the one for us."
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Harding, doubtfully.
"We shall feel pretty grand if we can carry back a good girl."
Mrs. Harding laughed, and said something about "counting chickens before they were hatched;" but just then they found themselves at the foot of the long hill, and directly opposite a low farm-house, the mistress of which was out, broom in hand, sweeping the little footpath which led to the road.
Mrs. Harding inquired if she knew of any girls for housework.
"Where do you want 'em to go?" asked the woman, whose curiosity was at once awakened.
"Only about fifteen miles," was the evasive reply.
"Well, I don't know of any," replied the woman, looking a little disappointed. "I don't think there's such a thing to be had anywhere round here."
"I was told that Mr. Smithson has daughters who go out to work."
"Well, you couldn't git 'em, I know. They go a little right round here, but they wouldn't go off so far. Their folks wouldn't hear a word to 't," said the woman, with a flourish of her broom.
"Will you have the kindness to tell me where they live? I think I will try them."
"Oh, yes, I'll do that! You must go back to the saddler's shop, and then turn square round to your left, and it is the first house on the right."
"How far is it?"
"I should say about a mile and a half, or such a matter. It's the third house on the right."
Mrs. Harding expressed her thanks, and old Dobbin was whirled round the corner instanter, and they were in full pursuit of the Smithsons.
"Here's the house, mother; this is the third," said Walter, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking farm-house, which stood upon quite a bluff upon the right. Everything about the premises looked very neat. The bright green grass grew clear up to the front door of the cottage, which, with the closed curtains in the "foreroom," gave a particularly staid, go-to-meeting-like aspect to the front. A narrow footpath wound round to the back door, which was evidently the only approved mode of entrance. Mrs. Harding alighted and took the well-worn path to the back door, and knocked. "Come in," called out a shrill voice within. Obeying the summons, she saw before her a very tidy-looking matron, with a very white bleached cotton cap upon her head, holding in her hand a lace or muslin article of the same sort, which she was spatting and pulling, evidently with the intention of "doing it up." The aspect of the kitchen was very inviting. The morning work was all out of the way, and the polished stove and very white unpainted floor were really charming.
"I have called to see if one of your daughters would go out to work," said Mrs. Harding, with hope fast rising in her breast, for she felt that she had at last come to the right place.
"Well, I don't know; they go out sometimes. Where do you want them to go?" asked the woman, with a glance of curiosity at the stranger.
Mrs. Harding mentioned the name of the town and the distance, adding that she should have a large family through the season, and wished some one to cook and do general work.
"I don't know what they'd say to it. They can do as they've a mind to. But they ain't good for much, nohow," said the mother, who continued to spat and pull her muslin vigorously.
"How old are they?"
"The oldest is seventeen this month, and t'other is two years younger."
At this moment the door opened, and in walked a coarse overgrown girl, munching a piece of pie, and staring boldly at the stranger.
"Do you want to go out to work, Emmeline? Here's a woman that wants you," said the mother, the moment she made her appearance.
"Yes," said the girl, in coarse tones, without relaxing her stare.
Mrs. Harding's heart sank within her. She saw, at a glance, that the great, coarse, unmannered girl would be more care than help. She hardly knew how to make an honorable retreat in the case; but after a slight cross-examination of the capabilities of the girl, she expressed her belief that she was too young for her hard work, and bowed herself out, leaving both mother and daughter looking quite disconcerted.
"Is she going?" whispered Walter, as his mother approached the carriage.
A shake of the head answered him.
"Oh, dear, where shall we go now?"
"Straight before us, Walter; you must not give up for trifles," said his mother, laughing good-humoredly, notwithstanding the uneasiness that was creeping upon her own heart.
"Where?" said Walter, still desponding.
"I don't know; we'll see. Don't you know that we are out seeking our fortunes, Wally?"
They drove on, and soon met an elderly-looking man in a rickety old wagon, drawn by a limping gray horse.
"Can you tell me, sir," said Mrs. Harding, laying her hand upon Walter's arm as a sign to stop, "can you tell me where I can find a girl to do housework?"
"That is a pretty difficult thing to find, ma'am," replied the old man, in a respectful tone. "Let me see," and he looked down for a moment, thoughtfully. "Yes, there's Susan Lovejoy you might get, and she would make good help. She is a first rate girl."
"How old is she?" inquired Mrs. Harding, as the vision of the coarse girl munching her pie flitted before her.
"Oh, she's old enough," replied the man, with a smile, "she's old enough. I should think she might be thirty or thereabouts. They call her one of the best."
Away they went over the hills, some three or four miles, and at length old Dobbin was reined up before Mr. Lovejoy's door. It was a substantial-looking farm-house set in the midst of a green field, surrounded by a stone wall, its only opening being a formidable farm-yard gate, fastened to a post by a piece of rope. The premises were guarded by a noisy dog, who rushed out the moment he heard the sound of wheels, and ran barking towards the carriage. Mrs. Harding, however, pushed open the gate, and quickly made her way to the house. A pale, fresh-looking matron was bustling about the kitchen; and standing at a spinning-wheel, near the door, was a girl in a tidy-looking dark calico, whom she knew, at a glance, was the object of her search.
She at once made known her errand.
"Oh, no," was the response of the girl; "I couldn't possibly go. I don't see who ever thought I would."
"I was recommended to come here," replied Mrs. Harding, who liked the looks of the girl, and was determined to plead her cause with all her might. "I was told that you went out, and very likely would go now."
"Who told you so?"
"An old gentleman whom I met three or four miles back."
"With a gray limping horse?"
"Yes, I should think so."
"It must have been old Mr. Cartwright, mother; I don't see what made him think so."
"Could I not induce you to go?" asked Mrs. Harding, bringing her back to the main point, and entering very fully into the circumstances of the family. "I will give you good wages. Two dollars a week, if you say so."
"Well, I couldn't go nohow. They can't spare me."
"Could not you go for a few weeks?" asked Mrs. Harding, anxiously. "Six or eight weeks would do me a great deal of good. You shall be well paid, if you will go. You may set your own price."
"No, I couldn't possibly go," said the girl, with a tantalizing smile. "I ain't obliged to work out, and I can't go."
Mrs. Harding looked and felt disappointed, but she made her way out, not knowing where to go. She felt that she was on a hopeless errand, and was half disposed to turn her face homeward. But, on second thought, she concluded to try a little longer, and they rode on, making fruitless inquiries here and there. At length she recollected that some one had told her that there were plenty of girls in Mapleton. In an instant, old Dobbin was headed that way, despite Walter's sinking spirits, and they rode along drinking in the perfume of a thousand flowers, and charmed into something like hope by the harmonies which float upon the breezes of early summer.
"I will inquire here," said Mrs. Harding, as they neared an old-fashioned house some two or three miles beyond the Plains; and, suiting the action to the word, she sprang lightly from the carriage and ran up to the door and knocked. After knocking till her fingers were sore, for neither bell nor knocker graced the panel, she heard steps of some one who came stubbing leisurely along to the door. The face which presented itself was coarse and greasy, and the untidy dress of the owner strongly suggestive of yellow snuff.
"Do you know of any girls for housework?" said Mrs. Harding, hardly expecting any available information.
"Don't b'l'eve there's such a thing to be found in ten mile. Folks can't git gals when they're sick, and dun no where well folks can find 'em. S'pect they'll have to do their own work; at any rate, they orto."
"But well people sometimes have more work than they can do, and then they need help," returned Mrs. Harding, in a tone of remonstrance.
"Wal, gals round here won't go where they're looked down on. They'd rather do sunthin' else than work for folks that's too grand to eat with them," said the woman, with a look which indicated that she thought the stranger one of the aristocracy.
"Then you cannot tell me of any one?" interrupted Mrs. Harding, intending to cut short the uncivil harangue.
"No; not unless Betty Symonds would go; but, then, she wouldn't, I know," replied the woman, who seemed a little softened, now that she had given vent to her spleen against the "grand folks."
"And where does she live?" asked Mrs. Harding, who, like a "drowning man, caught at every straw."
"Up't the next housen; but she won't go; I know as well as I want to, eanamost."
Mrs. Harding was soon ushered into Betty Symonds's best parlor. It was a long narrow room, with two small windows, and partially carpeted with bits of rag carpeting and large braided mats of domestic manufacture. A white homespun towel covered the stand between the windows, upon which stood a cracked tea-pot, over which straggled long branches of petunia, which were under the necessity of lying down, because there was nothing to hold them up.
Betty was soon heard approaching, and she came in dressed in quite a striking manner. Her gay, large-figured calico was decorated with three deep flounces. Large gold ear-rings were in her ears, and rings, which glowed with great yellow and red stones, adorned the hands which were damp with dish-water. To Mrs. Harding's inquiry she replied, in loud tones—
"I don't kalkilate to work out. I ain't obleeged teu. And I mean to go to Boston a visiting soon as haying is over."
Great as were Mrs. Harding's necessities, she felt little inclined to urge Betty Symonds to live with her, and on they were soon jogging towards Mapleton.
"Where are you going now, mother?" asked Walter, looking quite blue.
"Oh, I don't know, Wally. I am almost discouraged."
"Do let us go home, mother; we shall not find a good girl."
"We may; we will try a little longer," said Mrs. Harding, trying to be cheerful.
As they rode into Mapleton village, they met a man of whom Mrs. Harding ventured to inquire.
"Oh, there is girls enough," he replied, cheerfully. "You've just come by a house where there are three."
"How far back is it?" asked Mrs. Harding, eagerly.
"Oh, a mile or so. You can see it from here, just beyond that hemlock grove," said the man, pointing back.
Dobbin was again turned, and put in rapid motion towards the house. There she found a great corpulent woman knitting quietly by the window; but the girls were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Harding stated her errand briefly, but earnestly.
"My gals are gone," said the woman, coldly. "One's gone to Lowell, and t'other went yesterday to work at the Meadows."
"Have you not another that would go?"
"No," was the gruff reply of the woman, who did not even deign to look up.
"It's just so everywhere," said Walter, as he caught the hopeless expression of his mother's face when she came out. "They are all just gone or going, or else 'ain't obleeged to work out.' I wish some of them had to."
"Oh no, that is wrong, Wally. I would not have a domestic unless it would be for her interest to serve me as well as for mine. But I do believe these uncultivated girls sometimes stand very much in their own light in refusing to go where they might be learning something valuable, and be really improving themselves, as well as helping those who need."
"Well, I am sick of this," said Walter, half laughing, and almost half crying. "I am tired and hungry. Cannot we have some dinner?"
His mother assured him that they would stop for dinner soon. In the mean time, they continued their inquiries. One girl who, they were assured, was at home spinning, and who intended to engage out for the season, they found had started the day before for Boston in search of a place. At another house, a sweet-looking girl, blue-eyed and fair, with her white arms bare almost to the shoulders, had her trunk already packed for Lowell. She "could not go." One pale mother had three daughters, one of whom was at the academy, a second in the paper-mill, and the third she must keep to assist herself. One stout, healthy girl, whom Mrs. Harding urged to the very verge of decency, preferred to stay at home to knit for the merchants at one dollar per pound. And one woman, with very yellow skin and snapping black eyes, wouldn't "have her girls go where folks were so grand. They were as good as anybody, and better than some who sot themselves up to be so smart."
It was two hours past noon when our tired, worn-out travellers drove up to a small tavern to dine. As they sat at table, a new thought struck Mrs. Harding. She would inquire of the table-girl.
"No, ma'am," replied the girl to her question, with a smile and a shake of the head. "We can't get girls enough here to do our work. Most all the girls here go to the factory. There was a man along last week, who had been up country to get a lot of girls, and he had engaged sixteen hundred to go to a new factory in Lowell. He pays them so much a head, and takes them down by the lot, just like cattle to the market."
"Shall you go home now, mother?" asked Walter, when the girl had left the room.
"Certainly I shall; and I can see no other way but to do my own work at present."
It was a late hour in the evening when Mrs. Harding and her son drove up to their own door. Mr. Harding, notwithstanding his rheumatism, laughed heartily as they rehearsed the incidents of the day. He still insisted, however, that it was because they had taken an unfortunate direction, and that, if they should take a different route, they would surely be more successful.
"No," said Mrs. Harding, laughing; "I can assure you I have had enough of it. All I get for my day's labor is the privilege of getting my own supper. I can get along alone, and must."
"Ah, you will think differently, wife, when the Wallaces and Pinkertons get here. It will be no trifling affair to play the parts of lady and housemaid, hostess and table-girl, with so many visitors on your hands."
Mrs. Harding, however, kept up good courage. The expected guests, some eight or ten, including the babies, arrived. By making extra preparations before their arrival, she managed to get along comfortably for a few days; but the cake and tarts could not always last where there were so many mouths, the house would not keep in order, and the care and labor of meeting the wants of her large family pressed every day, she thought, with greater weight upon her.
"I can tell you, Ellen, I will not consent to this another day," said Mr. Harding to his wife, as he met her burning face one day in the kitchen, just as dinner was ready for the table. "Why, you look as if you had baked yourself as well as the mutton," he added, laughing.
"Pray, how will you help it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Harding.
"I will go myself for help. I do believe I can find somebody who can tend the roast and wash the dishes."
"Don't be too positive, Mr. Harding; remember your good wife's experience," interposed Mrs. Pinkerton, with an arch shake of the finger and a roguish twinkle of the eye.
"Well, one thing is certain," replied Mr. Harding, laughing, "I shall not come back till I find one, extraordinaries excepted. So, when you see me driving up, you will see some one else."
Old Dobbin was duly harnessed next morning, and Mr. Harding, full of hope, started off "bright and early," while the whole family, guests and all, ran down to the gate to wish him success and a pleasant ride.
One, two, three days passed, but he did not return, and Mrs. Harding began to cast uneasy glances down the street, and to watch and listen every time she heard carriage-wheels.
"He will be as good as his word, Ellen," said her sister, Mrs. Pinkerton. "When he does come, you will have help; that is a comfort."
"Perhaps," cried little Anna Pinkerton, "he cannot find a girl, and then he will never come back."
Just then, however, a step was heard in the hall, and the next moment the parlor door was darkened by his tall form. There he stood, but alone.
"Where is your girl?" asked Mrs. Harding, anxiously.
"I left her to come in the cars. She will be here in three days."
"Oh, did you get one, then?" asked his wife and two or three others, in a breath.
"To be sure I did; but I had hard enough work to find her. My experience was almost as romantic as yours, wife."
"Do give us your history," said Mrs. Pinkerton, after Mr. Harding was settled, and quietly sipping his tea.
"Well," said Mr. Harding, with a self-satisfied air, for he had actually engaged a girl, "one experiences wonderful alternations of hope and fear in this business, I can assure you. I have made as many as fifty calls, and inquiries without number. I rode over frightful hills and almost impassable roads, and met with many discouraging receptions; but I was determined to succeed, and I did."
Mr. Harding's history of his "girl hunt" kept his family chatting, laughing, and wondering till a late hour. But we spare the reader the details of his ride.
The day that the new girl was expected was damp and cloudy. The sun scarcely showed itself all the morning, and, now and then, a heavy mist or slow drizzling rain added to the discomfort and gloom. Late in the morning, a lumbering old stage-coach came rattling up to Mr. Harding's door, and from it alighted a girl, evidently somewhat over twenty years of age, with a very dark, sallow complexion and large coal-black eyes, which seemed made on purpose to look everything through. Notwithstanding the dull, uncomfortable morning, she was dressed in a flounced lawn with a white ground. A gold pencil dangled at her side, and she flaunted the largest of gold hoops in her ears, and an enormous piece of red glass in her breast-pin.
"Can that be the new girl?" asked Mrs. Pinkerton, as the stranger whisked up the gravel-walk and pulled the bell.
"The very one," answered Mr. Harding, who caught a glimpse of her figure at the door.
Zilpah Ann Swain, for such was her euphonious appellative, was soon ushered into the kitchen, where Mrs. Harding was busy with the dinner, and quietly seating herself at the window, without offering her aid, she fixed her staring black eyes upon Mrs. Harding's red, weary face, and followed her through all the evolutions of getting up dinner.
"I am very glad you have come to-day," said Mrs. Harding, attempting to be a little social. "I have friends with me, and need very much some one to take care of the kitchen."
"Well, I thought I'd come a spell, jest to accommodate; but I told Mr. Harding I wouldn't be boun' to stay. I ain't obleeged to work out, if I ain't a mind teu," replied Zilpah Ann, her black eyes flashing with independence.
It was soon evident that Zilpah Ann came simply as "help." She had not the slightest idea of taking charge of the kitchen, or of relieving her mistress by going on independently in any department of the work. The morning after her arrival, Mrs. Harding gave her special directions about sweeping the front stairs and hall, and the brick walk which led to the gate. She was to go through a certain process every morning. But her work was so badly done that Mrs. Harding determined to speak to her about it.
"Zilpah Ann," she said, as she passed through the hall one morning, about one week after her arrival, "I wish you to be particular to sweep the corners of the stairs clean. You will find the small brush better for that purpose."
"I guess I know how to sweep, Miss Harding," exclaimed the surprised Zilpah Ann, starting up from her work and throwing the full fire of her eyes upon Mrs. Harding's calm face. "I don't want nobody to tell me how to sweep out corners. I knows some things, if I hain't got so much l'arnin' as some folks."
"Oh, yes, I presume you do know how. I only wished to remind you of the corners; I am very particular about having them swept clean, and the walk, too. You will remember that, Zilpah Ann."
"I didn't come here to be a nigger nor a sarvent, Miss Harding, I'll let you know," exclaimed Zilpah Ann, dropping her broom in a passion and bolting to her room. Half an hour afterwards, she appeared at the parlor door with her bonnet on, and her bandbox in her hand, and demanded to be carried to the depot. The Hardings let her go without a word of remonstrance. They had had "help" enough for one week, and Mrs. Harding went about her work alone again, with a feeling of positive relief.
"What do you think of girl-hunting now, brother Harding?" asked Mrs. Pinkerton, as they sat round the tea-table, making themselves merry with the trials and helps of the week.
"Oh, I call it an unprofitable business," exclaimed Mr. Harding, with a hearty laugh. "I rode three days in a broiling sun after Zilpah Ann, paid her fare fifty miles, bore with her help for a week, and received nothing for my pains. It is just like chasing your own shadow, or 'hunting a needle in a haymow.'"