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Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper




"I think it very neat," was my answer.

"It's made from the same pattern with one that I had. One that I
always liked, and from which I was sorry to part."

"You sold it?" said I.

"Yes. I sent it to auction."

"Ah! Why so?"

"I discovered, this spring, that the moth had got into it."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. They showed themselves, every day, in such numbers, in my
parlors, that I became alarmed for my carpets. I soon traced their
origin to the sofa, which was immediately packed off to auction. I
was sorry to part with it; but, there was no other effective
remedy."

"You lost on the sale, I presume," I ventured to remark.

"Yes; that was to be expected. It cost sixty dollars, and brought
only thirty. But this loss was to be preferred to the destruction
such an army of moth as it was sending forth, would have
occasioned."

I changed the subject, dexterously, having heard quite enough about
the sofa to satisfy me that my bargain was likely to prove a bad
one.

All the summer, I was troubled with visions of moth-eaten carpets,
furs, shawls, and overcoats; and they proved to be only the
foreshadowing of real things to come, for, when, in the fall, the
contents of old chests, boxes, drawers, and dark closets were
brought forth to the light, a state of affairs truly frightful to a
housekeeper, was presented. One of the breadths of my handsome
carpet had the pile so eaten off in conspicuous places, that no
remedy was left but the purchase and substitution of a new one, at a
cost of nearly ten dollars. In dozens of places the texture of the
carpet was eaten entirely through. I was, as my lady readers may
naturally suppose, very unhappy at this. But, the evil by no means
found a limit here. On opening my fur boxes, I found that the work
of destruction had been going on there also. A single shake of the
muff, threw little fibres and flakes of fur in no stinted measure
upon the air; and, on dashing my hand hard against it, a larger mass
was detached, showing the skin bare and white beneath. My furs were
ruined. They had cost seventy dollars, and were not worth ten!

A still further examination into our stock of winter clothing,
showed that the work of destruction had extended to almost every
article. Scarcely any thing had escaped.

Troubled, worried, and unhappy as I was, I yet concealed from Mr.
Smith the origin of all this ruin. He never suspected our cheap sofa
for a moment. After I had, by slow degrees, recovered from my
chagrin and disappointment, my thoughts turned, naturally, upon a
disposition of the sofa. What was to be done with it? As to keeping
it over another season, that was not to be thought of for a moment.
But, would it be right, I asked myself, to send it back to auctions
and let it thus go into the possession of some housekeeper, as
ignorant of its real character as I had been? I found it very hard
to reconcile my conscience to such a disposition of the sofa. And
there was still another difficulty in the way. What excuse for
parting with it could I make to Mr. Smith? He had never suspected
that article to be the origination of all the mischief and loss we
had sustained.

Winter began drawing to a close, and still the sofa remained in its
place, and still was I in perplexity as to what should be done with
it.

"Business requires me to go to Charleston," said Mr. Smith, one day
late in February.

"How long will you be away?" was my natural enquiry.

"From ten days to two weeks," replied Mr. Smith.

"So long as that?"

"It will hardly be possible to get home earlier than the time I have
mentioned."

"You go in the Osprey?"

"Yes. She sails day after to-morrow. So you will have all ready for
me, if you please."

Never before had the announcement of my husband that he had to go
away on business given me pleasure. The moment he said that he would
be absent, the remedy for my difficulty suggested itself.

The very day Mr. Smith sailed in the steamer for Charleston, I sent
for an upholsterer, and after explaining to him the defect connected
with my sofa, directed him to have the seating all removed, and then
replaced by new materials, taking particular care to thoroughly
cleanse the inside of the wood work, lest the vestige of a moth
should be left remaining.

All this was done, at a cost of twenty dollars. When Mr. Smith
returned, the sofa was back in its place; and he was none the wiser
for the change, until some months afterwards, when, unable to keep
the secret any longer, I told him the whole story.

I am pretty well cured, I think now, of bargain-buying.






CHAPTER XXII.

A PEEVISH DAY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.





THERE are few housekeepers who have not had their sick and peevish
days. I have had mine, as the reader will see by the following
story, which I some time since ventured to relate, in the third
person, and which I now take the liberty of introducing into these
confessions.

"It is too bad, Rachel, to put me to all this trouble; and you know
I can hardly hold up my head."

Thus spoke Mrs. Smith, in a peevish voice, to a quiet looking
domestic, who had been called up from the kitchen to supply some
unimportant omission in the breakfast table arrangement.

Rachel looked hurt and rebuked, but made no reply.

"How could you speak in that way to Rachel?" said Mr. Smith, as soon
as the domestic had withdrawn.

"If you felt just as I do, Mr. Smith, you would speak cross, too!"
Mrs. Smith replied a little warmly--"I feel just like a rag; and my
head aches as if it would burst."

"I know you feel badly, and I am very sorry for you. But still, I
suppose it is as easy to speak kindly as harshly. Rachel is very
obliging and attentive, and should be borne with in occasional
omissions, which you of course know are not wilful."

"It is easy enough to preach," retorted Mrs. Smith, whose temper,
from bodily lassitude and pain, was in quite an irritable state. The
reader will understand at least one of the reasons of this, when he
is told that the scene here presented occurred during the last
oppressive week in August.

Mr. Smith said no more. He saw that to do so would only be to
provoke instead of quieting his wife's ill humor. The morning meal
went by in silence, but little food passing the lips of either. How
could it, when the thermometer was ninety-four at eight o'clock in
the morning, and the leaves upon the trees were as motionless as if
suspended in a vacuum. Bodies and minds were relaxed--and the one
turned from food, as the other did from thought, with an instinctive
aversion.

After Mr. Smith had left his home for his place of business, Mrs.
Smith went up into her chamber, and threw herself upon the bed, her
head still continuing to ache with great violence. It so happened
that a week before, the chambermaid had gone away, sick, and all the
duties of the household had in consequence devolved upon Rachel,
herself not very well. Cheerfully, however, had she endeavored to
discharge these accumulated duties, and but for the unhappy, peevish
state of mind in which Mrs. Smith indulged, would have discharged
them without a murmuring thought. But, as she was a faithful,
conscientious woman, and, withal, sensitive in her feelings, to be
found fault with, worried her exceedingly. Of this Mrs. Smith was
well aware, and had, until the latter part of the trying month of
August, acted towards Rachel with consideration and forbearance. But
the last week of August was too much for her. The sickness of the
chamber maid threw such heavy duties upon Rachel, whose daily
headaches and nervous relaxation of body were borne without a
complaint, that their perfect performance was almost impossible.
Slight omissions, which were next to unavoidable, under the
circumstances, became so annoying to Mrs. Smith, herself, as it has
been seen, laboring under great bodily and mental prostration that
she could not bear them.

"She knows better, and she could do better, if she chose," was her
rather uncharitable comment, often inwardly made on the occurrence
of some new trouble.

After Mr. Smith had taken his departure on the morning just referred
to, Mrs. Smith went up into her chamber, as has been seen, and threw
herself languidly upon a bed, pressing her hands to her throbbing
temples, as she did so, and murmuring:

"I can't live at this rate!"

At the same time, Rachel sat down in the kitchen the large waiter
upon which she had arranged the dishes from the breakfast table, and
then sinking into a chair, pressed one hand upon her forehead, and
sat for more than a minute in troubled silence. It had been three
days since she had received from Mrs. Smith a pleasant word, and the
last remark, made to her a short time before, had been the unkindest
of all. At another time, even all this would not have moved her--she
could have perceived that Mrs. Smith was not in a right state--that
lassitude of body had produced a temporary infirmity of mind. But,
being herself affected by the oppressive season almost as much as
her mistress, she could not make these allowances. While still
seated, the chamber bell was rung with a quick, startling jerk.

"What next?" peevishly ejaculated Rachel, and then slowly proceeded
to obey the summons.

"How could you leave my chamber in such a condition as this?" was
the salutation that met her ear, as she entered the presence of Mrs.
Smith, who, half raised upon the bed, and leaning upon her hand,
looked the very personification of languor, peevishness, and
ill-humor. "You had plenty of time while we were eating breakfast to
have put things a little to rights!"

To this Rachel made no reply, but turned away and went back into the
kitchen. She had scarcely reached that spot, before the bell rang
again, louder and quicker than before; but she did not answer it. In
about three minutes it was jerked with an energy that snapped the
wire, but Rachel was immovable. Five minutes elapsed, and then Mrs.
Smith fully aroused, from the lethargy that had stolen over her,
came down with a quick, firm step.

"What's the reason you didn't answer my bell? say?" she asked, in an
excited voice.

Rachel did not reply.

"Do you hear me?"

Rachel had never been so treated before; she had lived with Mrs.
Smith, for three years, and had rarely been found fault with. She
had been too strict in regard, to the performance of her duty to
leave much room for even a more exacting mistress to find fault; but
now, to be overtasked and sick, and to be chidden, rebuked, and even
angrily assailed, was more than she could well bear. She did not
suffer herself to speak for some moments, and then her voice
trembled, and the tears came out upon her cheeks.

"I wish you to get another in my place. I find I don't suit you. My
time will be up day after to-morrow."

"Very well," was Mrs. Smith's firm reply, as she turned away, and
left the kitchen,

Here was trouble in good earnest. Often and often had Mrs. Smith
said, during the past two or three years--"What should I do without
Rachel?" And now she had given notice that she was going to leave
her, and under circumstances which made pride forbid a request to
stay. Determined to act out her part of the business with firmness
and decision, she dressed herself and went out, hot and oppressive
as it was, and took her way to an intelligence office, where she
paid the required fee, and directed a cook and chamber maid to be
sent to her. On the next morning, about ten o'clock, an Irish girl
came and offered herself as a cook, and was, after sundry questions
and answers, engaged. So soon as this negotiation was settled,
Rachel retired from the kitchen, leaving the new-comer in full
possession. In half an hour after she received her wages, and left,
in no very happy frame of mind, a home that had been for three
years, until within a few days, a pleasant one. As for Mrs. Smith,
she was ready to go to bed sick; but this was impracticable. Nancy,
the new cook, had expressly stipulated that she was to have no
duties unconnected with the kitchen. The consequence was, that,
notwithstanding the thermometer ranged above ninety, and the
atmosphere remained as sultry as air from a heated oven, Mrs. Smith
was compelled to arrange her chamber and parlors. By the time this
was done she was in a condition to go to bed, and lie until dinner
time. The arrival of this important period brought new troubles and
vexations. Dinner was late by forty minutes, and then came on the
table in a most abominable condition. A fine sirloin was burnt to a
crisp. The tomatoes were smoked, and the potatoes watery. As if this
were not enough to mar the pleasure of the dinner hour for a hungry
husband, Mrs. Smith added thereto a distressed countenance and
discouraging complaints. Nancy was grumbled at and scolded every
time she had occasion to appear in the room, and her single attempt
to excuse herself on account of not understanding the cook stove,
was met by:

"Do hush, will you! I'm out of all patience!"

As to the latter part of the sentence, that was a needless waste of
words. The condition of mind she described was fully apparent.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, just as Mrs. Smith had found a
temporary relief from a troubled mind and a most intolerable
headache, in sleep, a tap on the chamber door awoke her, there stood
Nancy, all equipped for going out.

"I find I won't suit you, ma'am," said Nancy, "and so you must look
out for another girl."

Having said this, she turned away and took her departure, leaving
Mrs. Smith in a state of mind, as it is said, "more easily imagined
than described."

"O dear! what shall I do!" at length broke from her lips, as she
burst into tears, and burying her face in the pillow, sobbed aloud.
Already she had repented of her fretfulness and fault-finding
temper, as displayed towards Rachel, and could she have made a truce
with pride, or silenced its whispers, would have sent for her
well-tried domestic, and endeavored to make all fair with her again.
But, under the circumstances, this was now impossible. While yet
undetermined how to act, the street bell rung, and she was compelled
to attend the door, as she was now alone in the house. She found, on
opening it, a rough-looking country girl, who asked if she were the
lady who wanted a chamber maid. Any kind of help was better than
none at all, and so Mrs. Smith asked the young woman to walk in. In
treating with her in regard to her qualifications for the situation
she applied for, she discovered that she knew "almost nothing at all
about any thing." The stipulation that she was to be a
doer-of-all-work-in-general, until a cook could be obtained, was
readily agreed to, and then she was shown to her room in the attic,
where she prepared herself for entering upon her duties.

"Will you please, ma'am, show me what you want me to do?" asked the
new help, presenting herself before Mrs. Smith.

"Go into the kitchen, Ellen, and see that the fire is made. I'll be
down there presently."

To be compelled to see after a new and ignorant servant, and direct
her in every thing, just at, so trying a season of the year, and
while her mind was "all out of sorts," was a severe task for poor
Mrs. Smith. She found that Ellen, as she had too good reason for
believing, was totally unacquainted with kitchen work. She did not
even know how to kindle a coal fire; nor could she manage the stove
after Mrs. Smith had made the fire for her. All this did not in any
way tend to make her less unhappy or more patient than before. On
retiring for the night, she had a high fever, which continued
unabated until morning, when her husband found her really ill; so
much so as to make the attendance of a doctor necessary.

A change in the air had taken place during the night, and the
temperature had fallen many degrees. This aided the efforts of the
physician, and enabled him so to adapt his remedies as to speedily
break the fever. But the ignorance and awkwardness of Ellen,
apparent in her attempts to arrange her bed and chamber, so worried
her mind, that she was near relapsing into her former feverish and
excited state. The attendance of an elder maiden sister was just in
time. All care was taken from her thoughts, and she had a chance of
recovering a more healthy tone of mind and body. During the next
week, she knew little or nothing of how matters were progressing out
of her own chamber. A new cook had been hired, of whom she was
pleased to hear good accounts, although she had not seen her, and
Ellen, under the mild and judicious instruction of her sister, had
learned to make up a bed neatly, to sweep, and dust in true style,
and to perform all the little etceteras of chamber-work greatly to
her satisfaction. She was, likewise, good tempered, willing, and to
all appearances strictly trust-worthy.

One morning, about a week after she had become too ill to keep up,
she found herself so far recovered as to be able to go down stairs
to breakfast. Every thing upon the table she found arranged in the
neatest style. The food was well cooked, especially some tender rice
cakes, of which she was very fond.

"Really, these are delicious!" said she, as the finely flavored
cakes almost melted in her mouth. "And this coffee is just the
thing! How fortunate we have been to obtain so good a cook! I was
afraid we should never be able to replace Rachel. But even she is
equalled, if not surpassed."

"Still she does not surpass Rachel," said Mr. Smith, a little
gravely. "Rachel was a treasure."

"Indeed she was. And I have been sorry enough I ever let her go,"
returned Mrs. Smith.

At that moment a new cook entered with a plate of warm cakes.

"Rachel!" ejaculated Mrs. Smith, letting her knife and fork fall.
"How do you do? I am glad to see you! Welcome home again!"

As she spoke quickly and earnestly, she held out her hand, and
grasped that of her old domestic warmly. Rachel could not speak, but
as she left the room she put her apron to her eyes. (sic) Her's were
not the only ones dim with rising moisture.

For at least a year to come, both Mrs. Smith and her excellent cook
will have no cause to complain of each other. How they will get
along during the last week of next August, we cannot say, but hope
the lesson they have both received will teach them to bear and
forbear.






CHAPTER XXIII.

WORDS.





"THE foolish thing!" said my aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, "to get
hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their
lips but somebody is offended."

"Words are things!" said I, smiling.

"Very light things! A person must be tender, indeed, that is hurt by
a word."

"The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place."

"I don't like people who have these tender places," said aunt
Rachel. "I never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To be
ever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraid
to say this or that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can't
abide it!"

"People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This
being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?" said I. "Pain,
either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict
it causelessly."

"People who are so wonderfully sensitive," replied aunt Rachel,
growing warmer, "ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come
among sensible, good tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I
can tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every
hard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a
raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid to
swallow them whole."

Now, for all that aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a
kind, good soul, in the main, and I could see, was sorry for having
hurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge
that she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from the
self-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing her
character very well, I thought it best not to continue the little
argument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject.
But, every now and then, aunt Rachel would return to it, each time
softening a little towards Mary. At last she said:

"I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have
known that nothing unkind was intended on my part."

"There are some subjects, aunt," I replied, "to which we cannot bear
the slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt
to throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary, has, in all
probability, touched some weakness of character, or probed some
wound that time has been able to heal. I have always thought her a
sensible, good natured girl."

"And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has shown her
good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad
failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to
one's friends."

"It is, I know; but still, all of us have a weak point, and when
that is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings."

"Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to have any
thing to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt
by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not come
within the range of my sympathies."

"And yet, aunt," said I, "all have weak points. Even you are not
entirely free from them."

"Me!" aunt Rachel bridled.

"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them,
you would suffer pain."

"Pray, ma'am," said, aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she
was chafed by my words, light as they were; "inform me where these
weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie?"

"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place.
But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us."

Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a
weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness
was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation
against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply
expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and
included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred
to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was
against words, they had wounded her.

For a day or two, aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont.
I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind an
impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to
her:

"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."

"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me enquiringly.

"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I added.

"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked aunt Rachel.

"You said that she was a jilt."

"But I was only in jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean any
thing. I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish."

"You will not be surprised when you know all," was my answer.

"All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt
the poor girl's feelings."

My aunt looked very much troubled.

"No one blames you, aunt Rachel," said I. "Mary knows you didn't
intend wounding her."

"But why should she take a little word so much to heart? It must
have had more truth in it than I supposed."

"Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from Walter
Green, last week?"

"Why, no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?"

"Yes."

"They've been intimate for a long time."

"I know."

"She certainly encouraged him."

"I think it more than probable."

"Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?"
exclaimed aunt Rachel.

"This has been said of her," I replied. "But, as far as I can learn,
she was really attached to him, and suffered great pain in rejecting
his offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the most important event
of her life, and refused to make so solemn a contract with one in
whose principles she had not the fullest confidence."

"But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intend
marrying him," said aunt Rachel, with some warmth.

"She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closer
view revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she saw
these, her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true
woman, she turned from the proffered hand, even though, while in
doing so, her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing false
about Mary Lane. She could no more trifle with a lover than she
could commit a crime. Think, then, how almost impossible it would be
for her to hear herself called, under existing circumstances, even
in sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words sometimes have power to
hurt more than blows. Do you not see this now, aunt Rachel?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before," said the old lady.
"And, in future, I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty
late in life to learn this lesson--but we are never too late to
learn. Poor Mary! It grieves me to think that I should have hurt her
so much."

Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be too
guarded how we use them. "Think twice before you speak once," is a
trite, but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully,
but are too apt to forget that it has not lost its application to
ourselves.

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