University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE SCENE CHANGES.

“Whatsoever is brought upon thee, take cheerfully,
and be patient when thou art changed to a
low estate,” was an admonition perfectly illustrated
by Lucy's mother. “Lucy's folks an't every-day
folks,” said Betsy, when she returned, to her friend
the seamstress. “I found Lucy's mother in a little
back room, as clean as hands could make it, sitting
over a few coals, sewing away for dear life, and
two bright slips of girls beside her. She turned
deadly pale when I brought Lucy in, and the girls
screamed out. `Don't be frightened, dear mother,'
said Lucy, in her quiet way; `I have been sick, but
I am getting better.' Her mother drew a cot near
the fire, and we laid Lucy on it. I saw the poor
woman was all of a nerve, but pretty soon she
kissed her child, and said, `It's a blessing to see
you, any how, Lucy.' Then I heard a slender little
voice, and I turned round and saw `our Jemmie,'
you know, bolstered up in a basket-cradle. An
angel's face he has on his crooked body. He
begged to have his cradle drawn close to her bed,
and then he took her hand, and kissed it over and
over, and said, `Oh, how glad I should be, if I was
not so sorry to see you sick, Lucy; and now you
will stay at home, and it won't be your duty to go
when you can't go, Lucy,' and so on. I declare, it

made me feel weak in the joints to hear him; so I
sat down, and `took an observation,' as the sailors
say. The father lay in bed with his eyes open,
but his wife said he did not know anything; he had
had a paralytic stroke since Lucy was at home.
They're sort o' and sort o' not poor folks; in respect
to this world, poor as the young ravens; but, in respect
to furniture for t'other, forehanded! But soul
and body must be kept together, and, if you'll join
me, we'll send a load of wood just for love to Lucy
—they'll feel better to take it so than as charity
from rich folks—to be sure, them that takes can't
enjoy themselves so much as them that gives; but
that's Scripture law, and we can't help it.”

As our business is with Lucy's domestic service,
we must pass over the interval spent at home. The
energies of youth and good nursing soon restored
her, and, through the good offices of Charles Lovett's
mother, she obtained a place at a Mrs. Simson's,
Mrs. Lovett's next-door neighbour. Mrs. Lovett
would herself gladly have taken her, but she had
just then cast upon her charities a desolate German
girl, who, on account of her utter ignorance of our
language, was unable to obtain a good place.

“As soon as Annet has learned English, and
learned our ways, she will do well enough,” said
kind Mrs. Lovett; “and, in the mean time, I can
make out with her better than others, for I am not
particular.” Never was woman less particular in
her requisitions from others, nor more exact in the
performance of every duty of humanity, than Mrs.
Lovett. She was too intent on her own performances
to watch over her neighbours, and she knew

nothing more of the Simsons than that they were
what are called respectable people.

Lucy's new mistress was from one of the Eastern
states. Her husband was a thriving mechanic,
and she was, in her little sphere, an “ambitious
woman,” what is called, in vulgar parlance, among
country housewives, a driver. She had certain
aims in life—the first was riches; the second that
her children should rise far above their parents'
level. She well understood the means of achieving
the first—the second is somewhat more difficult.
Aurelia, her eldest girl, was eighteen, with full
dark eyes, white teeth, and a profusion of brown
hair, that was dangling in half a quire of curlpapers
in the morning and depending from half a
dozen combs in the evening. She had, moreover,
a fair, pale complexion, and a very slight person,
the result of indolence, indulgence, and mismanagement.
These attributes were valued by herself
and her mother as giving her what they called “a
genteel look.” Alas for such gentility! Mrs. Simson,
reckoning an exemption from manual labour
as the first requisite for a lady (that charmed word),
permitted Miss Aurelia to dawdle about all the
morning in a greasy black silk, with a novel, or a
bit of soiled muslin embroidery in her hand, while
she was in the kitchen overworking herself and her
handmaid Lucy.

Lucy was maid of all work. She rose early and
worked late, it being an oft-repeated aphorism of
Mrs. Simson, that “young help should be up betimes.”
The natural corollary from these premises
would seem to be, that “young help should go to
bed betimes.” Not so reasoned Dame Simson.

“Young help,” she said, “should sew evenings
to make up for not turning off heavy work,” that is,
should make up in time for defect of force.

“I understood you hired for washing,” said Lucy,
the first time she saw preparation for those domestic
orgies, that were said by a wit to have been instituted
to celebrate Job's birthday—the day he
cursed.

“Did I say so? Well, I meant I hired when I did
not keep help; but I don't calculate to pay monthly
wages, and six shillings a day for washing—six
shillings is six shillings—you can't complain, child,
for I take the brunt of it.” Lucy did not complain;
but, as she toiled through the too heavy burden imposed,
she looked back with regret to Mrs. Ardley's
“odds and ends,” and even to the never-ending
trifles of vexing Mrs. Bradson.

When the washing was ended, the accessories
fell to Lucy's share—the starching, hanging out,
bringing in, sprinkling, and folding. “The heft
of the ironing I shall do myself,” said Mrs. Simson;
“you'll have nothing to do to-day, Lucy, but
make the beds, and sweep down the chambers, and
hang over the dinner, and smooth off the light things
while the pot is boiling. Oh, don't forget, though,
to rub over the knives, for he[1] is particular about
clean knives.”

Any further directions were interrupted by a call
from the stairs. “Ma, ma'n't Lucy finish sweeping
off the walk—I sha'n't be ready for dancing-school.”

“Yes, Julius—run and do it, Lucy, quick—if

he comes home and finds it not done, he'll find fault
with Julius—I don't know how I am ever to make
a gentleman of Jule if he sets him about such jobs.”
Another scream from the stairs, and a request that
“Ma” would send Lucy to do up the parlour, for
Miss Aurelia expected Mr. Smith to call. Mr.
Smith was a young spring of the law from the country,
of whom Miss Aurelia flattered herself she had
made a conquest at her dancing-master's public
the preceding evening. The mother answered in
the affirmative. “Be spry,” she said to Lucy, “and
make a fire in the grate, and polish the brasses,
and dust off the shades over the flowers, and reel
the sofy up to the fire. Aurely is very pa'ticular
when she expects her beaux—and if Mr. Smith
should stay to dinner, fix the dinner-table just as
they fix it at Miss Ardley's; and I expect you won't
eat with us, Lucy, because Aurely has feelings
about such things.”

Lucy had feelings too, but not about “such
things.” Her mother had early taught her that
feelings were given to quicken the affections and
awaken the sympathies, and not to feed pride,
vanity, and selfishness. Her feelings were no way
affected by sitting or not sitting at Mrs. Simson's
table. “Your respectability must come from your
own character and deportment, my child, and not
from the place you occupy,” her mother had said;
and Lucy, in her short experience, had seen vulgarity
at a gentleman's table, and witnessed refinement
in the lowest seat of the household.

Lucy had “feelings,” and once every day they
were called forth by her friend Charles Lovett,
who brought her tidings from home, which he always

gave, with some kind word to boot, when he
delivered the family supply of bread. It had been
Mrs. Simson's custom to send to the bakehouse in
order to avail herself of a customary deduction in
the price of a certain number of loaves; but, since
Lucy had lived with her, Charles Lovett had volunteered
to serve her at the door without an additional
charge—an offer extremely puzzling to Dame Simson,
who understood little of those considerations
that cannot be represented by dollars and cents.

The day before Lucy's first month was up, Mrs.
Simson said to her, “I see your ears are bored,
Lucy, why don't you wear ear-rings?”

“My mother bored them when I was a very
little girl, to—to please my father.”

“Then you have worn them?”

“Yes; my father never liked to see me without
them—so I always wore them at home.”

“They are dreadful pretty things, I think; don't
you, Lucy?”

“Yes, ma'am; but I think, as mother says, they
would look prettier if there was any use in them.”

“Use or no use, you would look a deal handsomer
for them—your face is the right shape, and
your neck rather long—you raly want 'em. What
have you done with yours?”

“Mother disposed of them,” replied Lucy, and
she was leaving the room to avoid telling the why
and wherefore.

“Stop, Lucy—did you ever take notice of Aurely's
ear-rings, with red drops?” Lucy had seen
them. “Well, here they are—just as good as new
—only one stone is gone and one hinge broke.
They might be repaired for a trifle—they cost four

dollars—Aurely has got two other pairs, and so she
has handed them over to me. To oblige you,
Lucy, I'll let them go at half price.”

“Thank you—I do not want them.”

“Don't want them! I know what that means;
well, rather than you should be disappointed, you
shall have them for one dollar! it won't be like
laying out money. You can take them towards
your wages.”

“I cannot take them at any price. My mother
has occasion for every penny I earn.”

Thus answered, Mrs. Simson was not ashamed
still to urge; and finally, when she despaired of putting
off her foolish girl's broken finery, she mumbled
over something of girls not fifteen asking four dollars
in cash a month; and, if she paid at that rate,
she should look out for somebody that could earn
it; and a deal of stuff that made poor Lucy feel
very uncomfortable. Mrs. Simson, however, understood
her own interests too well to part with so
faithful and capable a girl, and Lucy went on in
her second month's service. “You can't find it
pleasant there,” said her mother; “Mrs. Simson
is a vulgar, hard woman; but patience is a great
help, and in some respects she is a desirable person
with whom to serve a short apprenticeship.
She is a thorough worker. With her you are every
day qualifying yourself for the future. Your work
at Mrs. Ardley's was quite as wearing, and her
`odds and ends' would never have fitted you to
conduct business yourself. Go on, my dear child,
cheerfully. The future has always a harvest in
store for those who diligently improve the present.”
As some plants grow stronger exposed to winds and

cold, so Mrs. Lee's resolution had strengthened in
keen adversity.

Lucy's labours were interrupted by a summons
home. Her father was dead. The events that
are appointed alike to all seldom pass without
awakening sympathy. No poor widow could be
more lonely than was Mrs. Lee; but she found
friends among those who bore it steadily in mind
that “to do good and to communicate is an acceptable
sacrifice.”

“Charlie,” said Mrs. Lovett, bustling in a few
minutes after Lucy had got home, “Charlie would
not give me a minute's peace till I came over to see
how you all were—and so forth.”

The and so forth, afterward explained with an
awkwardness that had the quality of inward grace,
meant, that, at Charles's instigation, seconded by her
own generous heart, and authorized by her husband,
she came to offer to defray the expenses of
a decent funeral.

Mrs. Lee had calmly supported herself till that
moment; but such kindness from persons almost
strangers to her, such a tribute of respect to her
and her little ones in their very low estate, overcame
her, and she burst into tears. As soon as
she could regain her composure, and express her
gratitude in words, she communicated, with the
confidence that such kindness deserved, the precise
state of her affairs. She had a watch which had
been given to her husband by his mother. It had
once been very valuable, and now, though oldfashioned,
if Mr. Lovett could obtain a just price for it,
she should be able to meet the expenses of the
funeral. She did not tell how tenaciously, through

all their clamorous necessities, her husband had retained
this memorial of his mother—how, amid
the ruin of every just principle, and every other
pure and holy sentiment, that affection, which is
truly our first love and our last, had clung to him.
Neither did she communicate to any one but Lucy,
the sharer of all her thoughts, the weakness that
had assaulted her noble mind. “For a little while
I did feel, Lucy,” she said, “as if I could not part
with that watch—it is the last relic of our better
days, and a secret wish has lurked with me to have
something to show the children in future, as a proof
of what their grandparents were. So our little
pride and vanity will stick to us, Lucy! So inconsistent
are our foolish habits with our principles.
It has been my desire to conform your minds to
your situation, to make you realize that all honour
and happiness was in your own souls, and not in
anything outward; and I might have spoiled it all
by turning your eyes back to what your parents
were, instead of directing them forward to what
you should be!”

But we are lingering with Lucy's mother when
our business is with far less interesting people.
“Mourning is very expensive,” said Mrs. Simson,
when Lucy returned to her work in her usual dress;
“I conclude your mother don't feel as if she could
put you all fully into it at once?”

“No, ma'am.”

“That's well—I like to see folks prudent, and
to help 'em to be so. I've got a bombasin that I
had for my best when mother died, and it was made
over for Aurely when the baby died. I calculate

it will answer your purpose very well for Sabbath
days and so forth—go get it, Aurely.”

Aurelia did not know where it was. “She believed
she had tucked it in the rag-bag.”

Her mother uttered a philippic upon her wastefulness,
and bidding her “hunt it up,” the gown,
torn, frayed, and rusty, was soon produced. “It
don't look very smart, to be sure,” said Mrs. Simson,
evidently taken aback by its forlorn appearance;
“but when it's sponged, and turned, and made
over—I'll allow you time to do it of evenings—it will
make quite a scrumptious dress—that is, considering
it sha'n't cost you more than a dollar and a
half—only think of getting a bombasin for a dollar
and a half!”

“I am not going to wear mourning at all, Mrs.
Simson.”

“Possible!” exclaimed Mrs. Simson, holding
up both her hands, “nor your ma neither?”

“Yes, my mother will wear it, but not the children.”

Lucy's manner was so quiet and decided, that
Dame Simson's hopes of turning the penny vanished;
but suppress her spleen she could not.
“Well,” she said, “every one to their notion; but
I think, if I was ever so put to it, I should find a
way to get mourning when my folks died, especially
where it was as it was; it looks pa'ticular and wanting
of respect to go without it—looks is looks.”

Lucy would have borne this innuendo in silence
if she alone had been concerned; but her mother's
part in it made the blood mount to her cheeks, and
she said, “My mother's rule is to show your respect
by doing your duty to the living; and, afterward,

those that form wrong judgments by looks
must—” she checked her resentment and stopped.

“Must what? you may as well out with it.”

“Must answer for it themselves, Mrs. Simson.”

“Ma,” interposed Miss Aurelia, “how can you
let your help be so impudent to you?”

Master Julius stood by, and taking a different
view of the case, said, “If ma is sarcy to her help,
she must expect her help to be sarcy to her.”

But we are tired (we are sure our readers must
be) of detailing the petty abuses of a griping, vulgar
mistress. Lucy endured them patiently for
some months, and till Mrs. Simson became impatient
of regularly paying the four dollars, instead of putting
off, in part payment, some useless thing that
gave her the agreeable feeling of having got a bargain
out of the person on whom she imposed.

It happened, not half an hour after Lucy had received
her warning to look for another place, that
Charles Lovett, while delivering the bread, said,
“Mother has found a capital place for Annet, and
she leaves us next week.”

“And I leave here next week.” Charles snapped
his fingers, but said never a word. A few minutes
afterward Mrs. Lovett sent for Lucy, and engaged
her to supply Annet's place.