University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
A DAY AT MRS. HYDE'S.

“Wake up, Lucy!” said a kindly voice, and
Lucy opened her eyes, and saw Susan Hyde at
her bedside wrapped in her little dressing-gown.
“Mamma told me to wake you as soon as I was
up. By the time you are dressed I shall be ready
to show you about the breakfast.”

“I am sorry,” said Lucy, when they afterward
went down stairs together, “to give you this trouble,
but I trust once showing will serve.”

“Oh! it's no trouble at all. We children have
had it all to do ever since Davis was married, three
weeks ago. The only disagreeable thing is asking
Violet, our new cook, to help bring in the table—
she is always so cross in the morning.”

“I should not think your mother would keep her
if she is so cross to you.”

“Mercy! Mamma never sends away anybody
for one fault—at least, not till she has tried, and
we have all tried, our best to cure it. When we
children get provoked, mamma reminds us of what

some good man says, that perfection bears with imperfection,
and she says she fears we have a great
many faults ourselves that we are so impatient
with others—and that makes us a little ashamed[1]
—take care, Lucy—you have not got the crumb-cloth
quite straight—mamma's eyes are just like a
plumb-line—that will do. Now ask Violet—please
—to help you in with the table.” Lucy made the
request in the humblest manner; but it was before
breakfast with poor Violet, and she was possessed
by the demon of dyspepsy, who does not always
spare the humble, though his visitations be chiefly
to the exalted. She came up stairs grumbling,
“I sha'n't stay here if they don't get a man—it's
not my work to lug in the table—I wonder what
it's dragged out for?—to have me drag it in, I suppose.”

“I am very sorry to trouble you,” said Lucy,
“but it is Mrs. Hyde's order that the table shall
not be lifted by one alone.”

“Oh, I dare say—it's easy giving orders.”

“Don't you feel as well as usual this morning,
Violet?” asked Susan.

“I feel well enough.”

“Oh! stop a minute, Violet,” called a little girl
who was coming down stairs with a bottle and
glass in her hand.

“What's wanted now?” barked out Violet.

“Nothing,” replied little Grace, taken aback,
“only mamma sent you down a glass of Congress
water, and says, if you will try it every morning
for two or three weeks, she thinks it will make you
as pleasant as anybody.”

Violet's colour mounted to the roots of her hair.
“Why, Gracie!” exclaimed Susan, “I am sure
mamma did not say that.”

Poor Grace replied, somewhat fluttered, “Well,
Susan, she said that—that is, she said—I mean—
oh, I don't know what she said—only she meant, if
Violet was as well, she would be as good-natured
as any of us.” Violet's irritability, which was
really merely symptomatic, was overcome by this
view of the case; she was the first to smile, and,
having drank the water, she thanked the little cupbearer,
and bade her thank her mother, in so
changed a tone, that one might have fancied the
water had the miraculous virtue of that prescribed
by the prophet.

When Mrs. Hyde appeared she bestowed a kind
word of approbation on Lucy for the prime order
in which she found everything. Lucy transferred
the praise to Susan, who, she said, understood a
waiter's work as well as if she were brought up to
it. Mrs. Hyde's children were “brought up” to
all the details of housewifery. Before breakfast
the family, every member of it, assembled and
joined in a common supplication and a common
thanksgiving to the Father of all.

During the meal, which was not hurried, as if the
only reason for meeting round the table were to
consume the food and enjoy that, Susan told her

father some interesting particulars she had heard
from a country lady of the best mode of rearing
and taking care of silkworms, and how much finer
and more plentiful the silk was if the worm was
well fed, and kept clean and healthy. “And don't
you think, papa,” said little Grace, “she got to
love them—love a worm—wasn't that funny?”

“No,” interposed Susan; “for how often has
papa told us we should love anything we took good
care of.”

“Well, then, Sue, I guess that is the reason
mammy loves us so well—she takes such good
care of us.”

“You have guessed pretty right, Grace,” said
her father, smiling at her modest explanation of
her mammy's tenderness; “but can you tell me,
Susan, who first found out a mode of unwinding
the silk from the cocoon?” “No, sir.” “Can
you, Gifford?” “No, sir.” “Can you, Ella?”
“No, sir.” “Nor you, mamma?” “No, sir.” A
smile went round with the negative, and as Mrs.
Hyde pronounced hers, her eye met Lucy's. She
saw the girl was listening with lively interest, that
her lips moved as if she were on the point of speaking,
but were restrained by modesty. “Do you
know, Lucy?” she asked. Instead of the monosyllable
she expected, Lucy answered, diffidently,
“I believe, ma'am, it was an Empress of China
called Lou-it-see.”[2]

“Why, who told you, Lucy?” asked Grace.
Lucy said nothing till Mr. Hyde authorized a reply

by asking where she had learned the fact. She
said her mother was trying to have her brother
learn to take care of silkworms, and that, seeing
the advertisement of a book about them, she had
purchased and read it before she sent it. “There's
an example for you, my children,” said Mr. Hyde;
“you see that, by keeping your eyes and ears open,
you may get knowledge on every hand, and communicate
it.” He then proceeded to state some
facts in relation to the varieties of the worm and
the mulberry, the extent and value of the silk product,
and the immense amount of our importation
of the manufactured article. Lucy was better
qualified by her early education than most persons
in her position to profit by such a conversation,
and it seemed to her a great privilege to have the
place of waiter in such a family.[3] She naturally
compared the scene before her to corresponding
ones; to the tête-à-tête breakfast at the Broadsons',
where the steril talk, on the part of the
husband, was of profits projected or achieved; on
the part of his helpmate, a boast of a bargain, a
pharisaical vaunt, or some improved plan of stinting
in domestic economy. The Ardleys did not
suffer so much by the comparison, for there were
the redeeming qualities of good-humour and kind
ness, and there the children's chattering, and mamma's
and papa's talk of the ball that was last evening,
and the dinner that was to be to-morrow, and
the new dress this lady wore, and the new horses
that gentleman drove, were—something better than
nothing. At the Hartells' there was worse than a
total loss of this immensely powerful engine in
domestic education, the family meeting at the social
board, for there the children were abandoned
to the vitiating influence of unprincipled servants;
the father hurried down his coffee to escape as
early as possible from the conjugal atmosphere;
and the wife, at ten or eleven, dawdled alone and
in vacuity over her distasteful breakfast. At the
Simsons' there was simply the gratification of
hungry healthy animals. To the Lovetts, “the
dear Lovetts,” Lucy recurred with pride and joy.
There she had seen, under a more homely aspect,
the same intelligence and goodness manifest in
the interchange of domestic offices, and in imagination
she—but we will not betray her; what girl
or woman does not construct a home for herself,
and weave her own golden fabric of domestic joys?

After breakfast Lucy proceeded to the duties of
her new place, instructed, whenever she needed
instruction, by her little directress Susan, who,
like the divinities of the ancient fable, interposed
at the moment of necessity, and then returned to
her own element.[4]

As we have said, Lucy entered Mrs. Hyde's
family at the moment of a general change of the
officers of her household; of course, the domestic
machine did not work without some trifling impediments
and jars. “Martha,” asked Mrs. Hyde,
“have you any objection to changing works with
Violet for a few weeks?” Martha did not appear
to comprehend. “You know I stipulated that you
were to change works whenever I requested you.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am—I calculated to be obliging,
and so forth, whenever any of the folks are sick,
and so on—but as to taking up cooking for a business—I
can't cook anything but boiled victuals—
mother could—father used to say she beat all at a
potpie and a roaster.”

Mrs. Hyde smiled at this vaunt of the mother's
skill in what our rustic folk consider the ne plus
ultra of the culinary art. “I dare say, Martha,”
she resumed, “your father thought a great deal of
your mother for her skill in these matters; and
would you not like to increase your value in some
good fellow's eyes by understanding thoroughly
plain cooking? If you mean to have a home of
your own one of these days, Martha, it will be for
your advantage, as well as for mine and Violet's,
that you should go into the kitchen for a month or
so—of course you take the cook's wages, and she
yours.” Mrs. Hyde had touched the right spring.
No American girl's perspective is without a home
and a good husband, and Martha, after premising
that she should spoil everything she touched, consented.
“Thank you, Martha,” said Mrs. Hyde,

“I trust you will spoil nothing. Our every-day
dinner is a simple affair—to-day boiled fowls, a
tongue, a beefsteak, potatoes, turnips, and a rice
pudding. My daughter Ella will give you all necessary
assistance and directions; observe them
to-day, and remember them to-morrow, Martha.”
Martha promised to do her best, and performed her
promise, but her best had many imperfections.
She was careless, prodigal, and talkative, but she
had the sterling qualities of truth, honesty, capacity,
and attachableness; and, after a thorough trial
of the patience of her instructer and of the consumers
of her productions, and after much discouragement,
some tears, and a little fretting on her part, she
acquired the art of cooking skilfully, neatly, and frugally,
and felt that she had gained knowledge which
would be wealth to her. We give her own view
of the case in one of her gossipings with Lucy
some months after. “I declare, Lucy, I would
not, if the silver money were offered to me, take a
thousand dollars for what I have learned since I
came to this house. At first I could not feel reconciled
to chopping and changing works; but
when I came to realize it was for our advantage, I
felt different, for it would be a sight easier for Mrs.
Hyde to let us go round and round in the mill just
as we were used to. It's so seldom ladies think
of anything but their own profit, that it makes us
kind o' jealous. When I came here I did not know
how to do anything well but chamber-work, and
now I would not turn my back upon the king for
any kind of plain cooking, or making broths and
gruels, and such things for sick folks, or any kind
of housework, and sewing, patching, and darning
into the bargain.”

“But, Martha, you have not made the progress
with your needle that Biddy has.”

“La, no—I guess not—because I had the start
of her at first—Miss Amy had to begin at the beginning
with her; she did not know any more
about handling a needle than you do about sailing
a ship. Never did I see anything like Miss Amy's
patience. She was copying that pictur of the
Virgin Mary, and she would lay down her brushes
without a wry look, and show Biddy how to fix on
her patch, and, by the time her brush was going
again, Biddy would get it all askew. She does it
by plummet and rule now, but she is the first Irish
person I ever saw that could put a patch on straight,
which shows it's all in teaching—they an't stupid,
but they an't privileged to use their faculties when
they are young.”

“Miss Amy is a beautiful seamstress,” said
Lucy; “she even excels my mother.”

“Oh, they all beat all!” resumed Martha. “I
don't mind our folks speaking all sorts of outlandish
lingos, and painting, and playing on the piany, and
so forth—a great many ladies that are of no use in
the world—what you may call mere ornamental
furniture, can do that; but what I respect them
for is their understanding business, so that, if Mr.
Hyde were to break to-morrow, they would be as
independent as I am.”

Some may smile at Martha's opinion that fortune
and mere accomplishments made an accidental
elevation, but we get the most accurate knowledge
of life by viewing it from every position. Lucy
took another view. “I respect them too, Martha,”
she said, “for what you do, but I love them for

being so kind to everybody—not only do they treat
us as if we belonged to them, but there is not one,
even down to Gracie, that is not teaching some
poor ignorant creature something. Did you ever
see anything prettier than Gracie teaching English
to those little German children, that they have
saved from destruction, as it were? If every family
were like this, there would be an end to poverty
and misery.”

“That's the Millennium, child! One swallow
don't make a summer.”

But we are anticipating. Violet's co-operation
was essential to the execution of Mrs. Hyde's plan
for the general good. She, like all English servants,
had been trained to one department of labour;
she had the suspicion common to foreign servants
(does it arise from experience?) that her employer
would impose on her, and she was anxious to obtain
the highest wages, being apprehensive, from
the state of her health, that she should soon be cut
off from all labour. But, after a long conversation
with Mrs. Hyde, she was convinced that that lady
had no sinister motives—that she sacrificed present
convenience to the future advantage of both employers
and employed, and she gratefully accepted
the opportunity of trying the effect upon her health
of a removal from the heat and steam of the kitchen.

Mrs. Hyde did not hire her domestics for a
month or a season, and therefore she could make
a present sacrifice for a prospective good. Neither
did she expect to retain them always. She knew
that, in this country, where avenues for progress
are open on every side, there must be changes, and
one of her objects was to qualify those she em

ployed for the happier condition that probably
awaited them—to be the masters and mistresses of
independent homes.[5] In short, that axiom of political
economy, whose illustration should be the object
of all government, was the rule of hers, “the
greatest happiness of the greatest number.”

A family fête concluded Lucy's first day at Mrs.
Hyde's. It chanced to be Clara Lane's (mammy's)
birthday. Clara had lived with Mrs. Hyde from
the time of her marriage. She had taken care of
all her children, from her firstborn to the youngling
of the flock—the present little pet and idol of the
house. Mammy had knit herself to the hearts of
the children. She had watched them by night
and by day through the diseases of childhood.
She had been patient and gentle in all their impatience
and irritability. She had overcome their
little selfishnesses by the example of her generosity
and self-denial. She had shown to all a steady
and equal kindness; in short, she had been a second
mother to them. And on her part she had been
cared for, refreshed when wearied, nursed when
sick, and, when in health, her comfort and gratification
studied; so that, though now declining from
middle life, so far from being “used up,” like most
of those who have spent a life in the service of
children, she was vigorous and cheerful, and looking
forward to a tranquil old age, when the young
plants she had trained should succour and shelter
her. This was her birthday, and Mrs. Hyde hav

ing asked her to invite her friends to tea, the little
girls busied themselves in preparing the nursery
for their reception. Each brought some little favourite
embellishment, shells, pictures, &c., from
her own apartment to deck “mammy's.”

Susan was mistress of ceremonies, and little
Grace, and Kate, a child of five years, her ministers.
They served the tea, and in due time tastefully
arranged a supper-table, on the middle of
which they placed a vase of flowers culled for the
occasion from their own cherished plants. When
the fruit, &c., was served, little Kate stole up to
Miss Lane with a plate covered by her silk apron;
and throwing off this screen, and looking archly
from the brightest, most mischievous eyes, “No
chicken-salad, no oranges, no grapes for naughty
mammy!” she said, and presented her a breast-pin
enclosing the interwoven hair of the children.
Before mammy could speak or dash off the tear
that trembled in her eye, Susan, holding the smiling
baby in her arms, repeated the following lines
composed by her sister.