University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
GOING TO SERVICE.

Early Monday morning, before her father or the
children were awake, Lucy, with her basket in
hand, and her mother's last blessing cheerfully
spoken, set out for Mrs. Broadson's. In fulfilment
of her promise to Mrs. Ardley, she called at that
lady's house to acquaint her with her decision.
Before she had half finished her sentence to the
waiter who opened the door, he said, “Ah, I understand,
you are the girl Mrs. Ardley gave me
the message for. She says that, as all things are
not quite to your mother's mind here, she'll make
your wages four dollars and a half, if you'll stop
with us.”

“I cannot—I promised Mrs. Broadson.”

“Oh, that's nothing; the ladies don't half the
time keep their promises with us, and it is presuming-like
to set out to be better than they—and
Mrs. Ardley bid me tell you an engagement did
not matter till you began at the place.”

“Good-morning,” said Lucy, abruptly, a little
shocked at this new exposition of moral obligation,
and yet secretly wishing she could honestly have
got that additional half dollar for her poor mother.
If we knew the temptation the poor resisted, surely
we should have more sympathy and more respect
for them. The waiter thought Lucy a “silly

child,” but inferred, from his own experience, that
she would “soon learn better!”

As Lucy went up Mrs. Broadson's steps she
passed a girl about her own age, with a shabby
bandbox under her arm, such as the improvident
poor usually use to contain all their goods and
chattels. Lucy perceived the girl had been weeping,
and thought that she eyed her askance; but
she soon forgot her in the novelty of her situation.

She was admitted by a Polish waiter, who spoke
but few words, and those broken English. It was
still early; but Mrs. Broadson, a stirring, notable
woman, was in her breakfast-room, ready to receive
the new-comer, to give her “a right start,” as
she said. Mrs. Broadson, it may be recollected,
was the wife of a man who had, by speculating,
suddenly gained a fortune, and, like too many who
thus emerge into a new element in our country, she
required (but had not) a new organization to fit her
for it. “The sun and fortune” do not “make all
insects shine.”

Mrs. Broadson had been accustomed to grubbing
all her life—her domestic labours were now limited
to getting the greatest possible service for the least
possible compensation.

“Ah, here you are, child,” was her greeting to
Lucy; “I am glad you have kept your engagement
—servants can't be too particular about that—run
up to the attic—there you'll see Biddy's room—I
told your mother you should sleep with Biddy.
Leave your basket there, and come back to me.”

Lucy went with that sad feeling so natural in
exploring a strange house, and she sprang forward
as if she had met a friend when she saw Bridget's

face in her little cold attic. But how strangely
altered was that face to her! Instead of the hearty
kindness with which she had greeted her on Saturday
evening, she averted her head, and replied
grudgingly to Lucy's cordial “Good-morning!
Where shall I set my basket?” asked Lucy.

“Where you can find a place—the hole is full
enough already.”

“I will set it outside, then,” said Lucy; and, suppressing
a sigh of disappointment, she returned to
Mrs. Broadson.

“You've taken a time to go up stairs, child
—but you are a stranger yet—you should move
quick—I always do—a great deal of time is saved
by quick movements. To be sure there's very
little to do in my house, but then everybody ought
to keep busy—I always do—I feel, and so does
Mr. Broadson, as if it was very extravagant to keep
three servants just for us two, and therefore it's
your duty, child, to be as industrious and saving as
possible—it's a great chance to get such a place
as you have here, where there's only two; you
must think of that, and you must not expect, as
some servants do, to have everything on your table
that we have on ours—I don't calculate to have you
eat butter—I don't touch it myself—(the lady was
forbidden it by her physician)—and I don't allow it
to Jaboski—nor tea, Lucy, nor coffee—the doctors
thinks them unhealthy nowadays—to be sure,
Bridget has them, but then she's a woman—besides,
as there's only two of us, we have enough left for
her.” Bridget, as Mrs. Broadson well knew, was
sufficiently apprized of her rights not to suffer herself
to be defrauded of them. “I expect you to get up

very early in the morning—I always do; and when
you sit down in the evening, come to me for some
sewing—it's bad to be idle—I never am. Now,
while Mr. Broadson and I am at breakfast, put the
parlour in perfect order; you must be very smart,
for as there are only two of us, we soon despatch
our breakfast; another thing, child, you should
yourself eat quick—I always do. As soon as you
have swallowed your breakfast, come to me for
further directions.”

“Can I warm my hands before I go in that cold
room, ma'am?”

“Are you used to having your rooms warmed at
home to work in?”

“We have but one, and that always feels warm.”

“Your work will warm them—it's a bad habit
to keep running to the fire—I never do.” Jaboski
was then summoned, and made to understand that
the cleaning materials were to be delivered over
to Lucy. Jaboski promptly obeyed the order,
secretly rejoicing that his labours were to be
abridged, and little dreaming that Broadson and his
wife, a thrifty pair, had resolved upon the economical
expedient of employing a young girl in order
to let him off in the morning to perform a porter's
task at the warehouse of “Broadson & Co.” In
this mode that safe speculation of the penny saved
was achieved, and the show, without the expense
of a man-servant, kept up, while the porter had but
the house-servant's wages. So far from perceiving
this was dishonest, Mrs. Broadson valued herself
particularly on her clever expedient. “Why,”
she would say to her acquaintance, “don't you
get German servants—I do—get them before they

know a word of the language, and find out the abominable
wages and ways of our servants—I have
had several at half price, the best servants I ever
had. As they can't speak English, and are utter
strangers in the land, they are glad to put up with
anything they can get in a decent family. It is a
little difficult making them understand; but as there
are only two of us, I and Mr. Broadson, we get
along very well—to be sure, after a while they
learn the language, and then they are just as ungrateful
as any of the rest, and will go as soon as
they can better themselves!” Strange that these
ungrateful beings should obey the instincts of all
animal creation. The horse and the cow will
take to the best pasture provided the fence is down;
and, thanks to a kind Providence, there are no impassable
fences in our Northern land to secure involuntary
service, and to retain the human animal
against his will and interest in any man's steril
pasture.

Lucy sat down to her first meal away from home
with Jaboski. The frugal fare allowed by Mrs.
Broadson was certainly luxurious compared to that
of her own home; but the voices of mother and
children were ringing in her ears; Jemmie's pensive
smile seemed wanting for her, and even the
accustomed sound of her father's chiding voice
would have pleasantly broken the mournful silence.
Bridget did not appear; Lucy was wondering at this,
when, before she had had time to swallow, even at
steamboat rate, that miracle of the deglutition art,
she heard the summons of Mrs. Broadson's bell,
and hastened up stairs. “Why, what's the matter
now?” said Mrs. Broadson: “your eyes are as red
as ferrets.”

Lucy was ashamed of her irresolution, and, glad
to attribute her red eyes to that which had in part
caused them, she said, “The kitchen smokes
badly, ma'am.”

“You'll get used to that, child—all kitchens
smoke[1] —I am glad it is not home-sickness—it is
too ridiculous to be home-sick for such places as
you live in—I'm never home-sick.”

“Neither should I be,” thought Lucy, “if I had
such a dismal home as this.” Mrs. Broadson then
proceeded to give her directions for her morning
work; and Lucy soon found there was no advantage
in the truth of that eternal vaunt of Mrs. Broadson,
“there are but two of us, I and Mr. Broadson,”
for the woman employed all the mind she
had in contriving to keep Lucy's feet and hands
busy. As if the necessary labour of tending the
street-door, rubbing brasses, furniture, and knives,
going of errands, setting tables, &c., &c., were not
enough, Mrs. Broadson must have her carpets
swept with a short handbrush; and poor Lucy, accustomed
to consider despatch the soul of business,
spent an hour every day on her knees brushing off
the carpets, Mrs. Broadson the while expatiating
on the great economy of cleaning carpets in this
fashion. “There is no dust raised,” she said;
“the fine parts of the carpet are not swept off—
there is nothing worn.”

“Nothing but my clothes, ma'am,” said Lucy,
showing a hole she had worn through her thin but
well-saved frock.

“That old thing!—that's nothing—you should
not mind wearing out old clothes, child—I never
do.”

“I have none but old clothes, ma'am.”

“Oh, well, you'll soon earn more.”

“But my earnings,” thought Lucy, “must go to
something more important than buying me clothes.”
Lucy, however, was strong and industrious, and accustomed
to constant labour; Mrs. Broadson's incessant
demands would not have exhausted her
patience; she could even smile when bid to open
the windows of the spare room, and dust it, and
shut them up again, and rub over with the soft
brush the silver that was rubbed yesterday, knowing
that the same process would be to go over to-morrow,
the silver meanwhile remaining in “inglorious
rest” upon the pantry shelf. But when
Sunday came, then came a hard trial to Lucy—
she had looked forward to it as the jubilee—the
day when she was to go out free.

“What time to-day can I be spared to go home,
Mrs. Broadson?” she asked.

“La, child, you speak as if your going home
was a matter of course—your mother made no stipulation
about that.”

“We thought everybody had a part of Sunday.”

“Oh, no—you are greatly mistaken—Bridget
has every Sunday afternoon; I allow her great privileges.”
As may be imagined, Bridget had stipulated
for her “privileges.” “Every other Sunday
she has the whole day—to-day I expect you to
cook the dinner—I can't possibly spare you.”

“But if I get the dinner cooked, and everything

done, can't I just go and see how they all are, and
Jemmie.”

“Jemmie! who is he?”

“Jemmie!—Jemmie is the youngest.”

“Not to-day, child—we had best begin as we
are going on. Mr. Broadson and I always go to
church all day—that we consider duty. Go to your
work, child,” continued Mrs. Broadson, seeing
Lucy stand as if the question were not settled,
“next Sunday will soon be here.”

“Soon it may be to you, Mrs. Broadson—but it
won't be soon to Jemmie, lying all the time in his
basket-cradle, with nothing to think of but when I
am coming. I promised him, Mrs. Broadson, and
I must go—”

“You can't go, and there's an end on't.”

The thought of Jemmie nerved Lucy's resolution,
and she answered modestly but firmly, “I
must go, if I never return.”

“I suppose you know the consequences of going
and not returning, child. I never pay any wages
to anybody that leaves me within the month.”

“What shall I do? what ought I to do?” thought
Lucy; “mother must have the money to pay her
rent—I can live without seeing them—but Jemmie!
but mother.” “Oh, Mrs. Broadson,” she burst
forth, “let me go—please—Jemmie will be looking
at the door, and listening till I come.”

“He must take it out in listening, child—I must
begin as I mean to go on—I always do—so just
go to your work, and think no more about it.”

How easy to give the command! how impossible
to obey it! Lucy did go to her work, but her
thoughts went home. Bitterly did she regret having

given a promise to Jemmie that she could not
perform without violating a paramount duty to her
mother—that duty, after a little reflection, she resolved
to fulfil; still she hankered after her little
dependant Jemmie, and tear followed tear as her
imagination presented the struggle of expectation
and disappointment on his loved countenance.

Bridget observed her emotion—she rarely spoke
to her, seldom even looked at her, but now she
said, “What frets ye, child?”

It was kindly spoken, and Lucy poured out her
griefs. “If that's all,” said Bridget, “I'll mind
the house while you run home after dinner.”

“But Mrs. Broadson has forbidden me.”

“And won't she be at church, and none the
wiser?”

“I had rather not go so, Biddy; but if you will
be just so good as to let me speak to her—”

“Take your own way, child—it's all one to me.”

Mrs. Broadson acceded to her petition. Bridget's
name was a potent one. She well knew the
cause of Bridget's late sulkiness. She felt the importance
of propitiating her; and, eager to profit by
the first sympton of returning good-humour, she
said, “Oh, yes, if Biddy is willing, you can change
days with her—but remember, next Sunday I must
hear no dinging about this home business.”

The “run” home that Bridget had proffered,
Lucy knew was no equivalent for the next Sunday's
half day; but further negotiation was out of
the question, and the poor child, like the weaker
party in all treaties, took what she could get. The
first free moment found her on her way home, and
soon after, for she went quick “as the thoughts of

love,” she was kneeling by Jemmie, with her arms
round his neck, and replying to his “Oh, Lucy!
I was afraid you never, never would come,” “I
was afraid so too—and I find, Jemmie, I can't
come home every Sunday.”

“Then I shall grow old before I see you, Lucy;
it seems a year since last Monday morning.”

Lucy used her best rhetoric to make Jemmie
acquiesce in her prolonged absence. It was but
a forced submission to the inevitable.

“I know you would come if you could, Lucy,
and that seems hardest of all.”

“That's true!” exclaimed the father—“it is a
shame to make you a slave to people's whims; but
I told you how it would be beforehand.”

“We can never, in any situation, my dear Lucy,”
said her mother, “be independent of others—but
as you have only five minutes, tell us how you get
on.” Lucy was preresolved not to distress her
mother with any complaints, and her answer was
guarded and rather unsatisfactory. Poor Mrs. Lee
guessed the meaning of this reserve; but, hoping for
a favourable reply to one question, she said, “I am
sure, Lucy, you find that Biddy a pleasant woman
to live with?”

“Mother, that is the one thing I wanted to speak
with you about. I know Biddy is good—she is so
very kind to Judy Phealan, an orphan girl that
comes there; she's good, too, to Jaboski; and to-day
she was very obliging to me; but ever since I went
there she has had something against me; she does
not speak to me if she can help it; we sleep together,
but she never even puts her hand over me.
It is not natural for an Irish person, you know,

mother—they are so warm-hearted—what can be
the reason?”

“I can't guess—some foolish superstition, perhaps.
But persevere, my child; good will certainly,
in the long run, overcome evil.”

“I will try my best, mother. I must go now.
Good-by, Jemmie. If you only feel as much better
as I do for just this little visit, you'll kiss me and
not shed one tear. Good-by, father! I hope,
mother, you won't look quite so pale when I come
home next time. Give my love to the girls when
they come from Sunday-school,” and away she
ran, without shedding a tear—till she was out of
sight.