Part 7 (1/2)

Whatever the opinion of the unthinking many on the subject of honest work as related to the happiness of the individual, there can be but one just conclusion as to the effect of continued idleness, whether it be ill.u.s.trated in the person of the perennially tired gentleman who frequents our back doors at certain seasons of the year, or in the refined woman who has emptied her hands of all rightful activities.

At the end of her first week's experience with her new maid Elizabeth found herself for the first time in her wholesome, well-ordered life at a loss for something to do. When Miss McMurtry stated that she would take full charge of Mrs. Brewster's menage she meant what she said, and Elizabeth's inexperienced efforts to play the role of mistress, as she had conceived it, met with a civil but firm resistance on the part of the maid.

”Yes, Mrs. Brewster, I had expected to wipe up the dining-room floor this morning, after I have finished my kitchen work,” she would announce frostily, in response to Elizabeth's timid suggestion. ”I have my regular days for things, an' I don't need to be told. I've already spoken to the janitor's boy about the rugs, an' you'll please to leave some money with me to pay him. Just put it on the kitchen dresser.” And ”No, madam, I shall not have time to make an apple-pie this morning; I generally order pastry of the baker when it's called for. Yes, Mrs.

Brewster, those were baker's rolls you had on the breakfast-table. I ordered the man to stop regularly. You prefer home-made bread, you say?

I'm sorry, but I never bake. It is quite unnecessary in the city.”

The young woman's emphasis on the last word delicately conveyed her knowledge of Mrs. Brewster's country origin, and her pitying disapproval of it.

Miss Tripp, to whom Elizabeth confided her new perplexities, merely laughed indulgently. ”You mustn't interfere, if you want Annita to stay with you,” she counselled. ”Just keep religiously out of your kitchen, my dear, and everything will go on peacefully. We never think of such a thing as dictating to Marie, and we're careful not to make too many suggestions. Of course you don't know what a perfectly _dreadful_ time people are having with servants here in town. My _dear_, I could tell you things that would frighten you! Just fancy having your prettiest _lingerie_ disappear bit by bit, and your silk stockings worn to rags, and not _daring_ to say a word!”

”I have lost two handkerchiefs since Annita came,” said Elizabeth doubtfully.

”Oh, _handkerchiefs_, n.o.body expects to keep those forever. Really, do you know when I treat myself to a half dozen new ones I conceal them from Marie as long as I possibly can, for fear she'll decide I have too many.”

Elizabeth's artlessly inquiring gaze provoked another burst of well-bred merriment. ”You dear little innocent, you _do_ amuse me so! Don't you see our good Marie doesn't propose to encourage me in senseless extravagance in laundry; you see there is no telling to what lengths I might go if left to myself, and it all takes Marie's time. No, I don't pretend to know what she does with them all. Gives them to her relations, perhaps. She _couldn't_ use them all, and I give her a half dozen at Christmas every year. Why, they're all that way, and both Marie and Annita would draw the line at one's best silk stockings, I am sure.

We think Marie _perfectly honest_; that is to say, I would trust her with everything I have, feeling sure that she would use her discretion in selecting for herself only the things I ought not to want any longer.

_They know_, I can tell you, and they despise parsimonious people who try to make their old things do forever. You may as well make up your mind to it, my dear, and when you are fortunate enough to secure a really good, competent servant like Annita, you _mustn't_ see _too_ much.”

Just why Elizabeth upon the heels of this enlightening conversation should have elected to purchase for herself two new handkerchiefs of a somewhat newer pattern than the ones she had lost was not entirely clear even to herself.

There had been a new, crisp bill in her purse for a number of weeks nestling comfortably against the twin gold pieces her father had given her on the day of her wedding. Sam had put it there himself, and had joked with her on her economical habits when he had found it unbroken on what he laughingly called her next pay day. ”Seriously, though, little wife of mine, I never want you to be out of money,” he had said; ”if I am cad enough to forget you mustn't hesitate to remind me. And you need never feel obliged to tell me what you've done with it.”

This wasn't the ideal arrangement for either; but neither husband nor wife was aware of it, nor of the fact that in the small, dainty purse which lay open between them lurked a possible danger to their common happiness. Elizabeth had been brought up in the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, her wants supplied by her careful mother, and an occasional pocket-piece by her overworked father, who always referred to the coins transferred from his pocket to her own as ”money to buy a stick of candy with.” The sum represented by the twin gold pieces and the crisp bills appeared to contain unlimited opportunities for enjoyment. A bunch of carnations for the dining table and a box of bonbons excused the long stroll down Tremont Street, during which Miss Tripp carried on the education of her protegee on subjects urban without interruption.

”If I had only thought to stop at the bank this morning,” observed Miss Tripp regretfully, ”I should simply have insisted upon your lunching with me at Purcell's; then we might have gone to the matinee afterward; there is the dearest, brightest little piece on now--'Mademoiselle Rosette.' You haven't heard it? What a pity! This is the very last matinee. Never mind, dear, I sha'n't be so thoughtless another day.”

”But why shouldn't I--” began Elizabeth tardily; then with a deep blush.

”I have plenty of money with me, and I should be so happy if you would lunch with me, and----”

”My dear, I couldn't _think_ of it! I _mustn't_ allow you to be extravagant,” demurred Miss Tripp. But in the end she yielded prettily, and Elizabeth forthwith tasted a new pleasure, which is irresistibly alluring to most generous women.

That evening at dinner her eyes were so bright and her laughing mouth so red that her young husband surveyed her with new admiration. ”What did you find to amuse you to-day in this big, dull town?” he wanted to know.

”It isn't dull at all, Sam, and I've had the loveliest time with Evelyn,” she told him, and added a spirited account of the opera seen with the unjaded eyes of the country-bred girl. ”I've never had an opportunity to go to theatres and operas before,” she concluded, ”and Evelyn thinks I ought to see all the best things as a matter of education.”

”I think so too,” beamed the unselfish Sam, ”and I hope you'll go often now that you have the chance.”

”I may as well, I suppose, now that I have Annita,” Elizabeth said.

”It's dreadfully dull here at home when you are gone. I've nothing to do at all.”

Sam pinched her pink ear gently as the two strolled away from the table.

”How does the new kitchen mechanic suit you?” he asked. The meat had been overdone, the vegetables watery and the coffee of an indifferent colour and flavour, he thought privately.

”Why, she seems to know exactly what to do, and when to do it,”