University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT.

THE housekeeping establishment of Eva Henderson,
née Van Arsdel, was in its way a model of taste,
order, and comfort. There was that bright, attractive,
cosy air about it that spoke of refined tastes and hospitable
feelings—it was such a creation as only the
genius of a thorough home-artist could originate. There
are artists who work in clay and marble, there are artists
in water-colors, and artists in oils, whose works are on
exhibition through galleries and museums: but there are
also, in thousands of obscure homes, domestic artists, who
contrive out of the humblest material to produce in daily
life the sense of the beautiful; to cast a veil over its
prosaic details and give it something of the charm of a
poem.

Eva was one of these, and everybody that entered
her house felt her power at once in the atmosphere of
grace and enjoyment which seemed to pervade her
rooms.

But there was underneath all this an unseen, humble
operator without whom one step in the direction of poetry
would have been impossible; one whose sudden withdrawal
would have been like the entrance of a black
frost into a flower-garden, leaving desolation and unsightliness
around: and this strong pivot on which the
order and beauty of all the fairy contrivances of the
little mistress turned was no other than the Irish Mary
McArthur, cook, chambermaid, laundress, and general
operator and adviser of the whole.

Mary was a specimen of the best class of those
women whom the old country sends to our shores. She
belonged to the family of a respectable Irish farmer, and
had been carefully trained in all household economies
and sanctities. A school kept on the estate of their
landlord had been the means of instructing her in the
elements of a plain English education. She wrote a good
hand, was versed in accounts, and had been instructed in
all branches of needle-work with a care and particularity
from which our American schools for girls might take a
lesson. A strong sense of character pervaded her family
life—a sense of the decorous, the becoming, the true and
honest, such as often gives dignity to the cottage of the
laboring man of the old world. But the golden stories
of wealth to be gotten in America had induced her parents
to allow Mary with her elder brother to try their
fortunes on these unknown shores. Mary had been fortunate
in falling into the Van Arsdel family; for Mrs. Van
Arsdel, though without the energy or the patience which
would have been necessary to control or train an inexperienced
and unsteady subject, was, on the whole, appreciative
of the sterling good qualities of Mary, and liberal
and generous in her dealings with her.

In fact, the Van Arsdels were in all things a free,
careless, good natured, merry set, and Mary reciprocated
their kindliness to her with all the warmth of her Irish
heart. Eva had been her particular pet and darling.
She was a pretty, engaging child at the time she first
came into the family. Mary had mended her clothes,
tidied her room, studied her fancies and tastes, and petted
her generally with a whole-souled devotion. “When
you get a husband, Miss Eva,” she would say, “I will
come and live with you.” But before that event had
come to pass, Mary had given her whole heart to an
idle, handsome, worthless fellow, whom she appeared to

love in direct proportion to his good-for-nothingness.
Two daughters were the offspring of this marriage, and
then Mary became a widow, and had come with her
youngest child under the shadow of “Miss Eva's” roof-tree.

Thus much to give back-ground to the scenery on
which Aunt Maria entered, on the morning when she took
the omnibus at Mrs. Van Arsdel's door.

Eva was gone out when the door-bell of the little
house rang. Mary looking from the chamber window
saw Mrs. Wouvermans standing at the door step. Now
against this good lady Mary had always cherished a
secret antagonism. Nothing so awakens the animosity
of her class as the entrance of a third power into the family,
between the regnant mistress and the servants; and
Aunt Maria's intrusions and dictations had more than
once been discussed in the full parliament of Mrs. Van
Arsdel's servants. Consequently the arrival of a police
officer armed with a search warrant could not have been
more disagreeable or alarming. In an instant Mary's
mental eye ran over all her own demesne and premises—
for when one woman is both chambermaid, cook and laundress,
it may well be that each part of these different
departments cannot be at all times in a state of absolute
perfection. There was a cellar table that she had been
intending this very morning to revise; there were various
short-comings in pantry and closet which she had intended
to set in order.

But the course of Mrs. Wouvermans was straight and
unflinching as justice. A brisk interrogation to the awe-struck
little maiden who opened the door showed her
that Eva was out, and the field was all before her. So
she marched into the parlor, and, laying aside her things,
proceeded to review the situation. From the parlor to
the little dining-room was the work of a moment; thence

to the china closet, where she opened cupboards and
drawers and took note of their contents; thence to the
kitchen and kitchen pantry, where she looked into the
flour barrel, the sugar barrel, the safe, the cake box, and
took notes.

When Mary had finished her chamber work and came
down to the kitchen, she found her ancient adversary
emerging from the cellar with several leaves of cabbage
in her hands which she had gathered off from the offending
table. In her haste to make a salad for a sudden
access of company, the day before, Mary had left these
witnesses, and she saw that her sin had found her out.

“Good morning, Mary,” said Mrs. Wouvermans, in
the curt, dry tone that she used in speaking to servants,
“I brought up these cabbage leaves to show you. Nothing
is more dangerous, Mary, than to leave any refuse
vegetables in a cellar; if girls are careless about such
matters they get thrown down on the floor and rot and
send up a poisonous exhalation that breeds fevers. I
have known whole families poisoned by the neglect of
girls in these little matters.”

“Mrs. Wouvermans, I was intending this very morning
to come down and attend to that matter, and all the
other matters about the house,” said Mary. “There has
been company here this week, and I have had a deal to
do.”

“And Mary, you ought to be very careful never to
leave the lid of your cake box up—it dries the cake. I
am very particular about mine.”

“And so am I, ma'am; and if my cake box was open
it is because somebody has been to it since I shut it. It
may be that Mrs. Henderson has taken something
out.”

“I noticed, Mary, a broom in the parlor closet not
hung up; it ruins brooms to set them down in that way.”

By this time the hot, combative blood of Ireland rose
in Mary's cheek, and she turned and stood at bay.

“Mrs. Wouvermans, you are not my mistress, and this
is not your house; and I am not going to answer to you,
but to Mrs. Henderson, about my matters.”

“Mary, don't you speak to me in that way,” said Mrs.
Wouvermans, drawing herself up.

“I shall speak in just that way to anybody who comes
meddling with what they have no business with. If you
was my mistress, I'd tell you to suit yourself to a better
girl; and I shall ask Mrs. Henderson if I am to be overlooked
in this way. No lady would ever do it,” said
Mary, with a hot emphasis on the word lady, and tears
of wrath in her eyes.

“There's no use in being impertinent, Mary,” said
Mrs. Wouvermans, with stately superiority, as she turned
and sailed up stairs, leaving Mary in a tempest of impotent
anger.

Just about this time Eva returned from her walk with
a basket full of cut flowers, and came singing into the
kitchen and began arranging flower vases; not having
looked into the parlor on her way, she did not detect the
traces of Aunt Maria's presence.

“Well, Mary,” she called, in her usual cheerful tone,
“come and look at my flowers.”

But Mary came not, although Eva perceived her with
her back turned in the pantry.

“Why, Mary, what is the matter?” said Eva, following
her there and seeing her crying. “Why, you dear
soul, what has happened? Are you sick?”

“Your Aunt Maria has been here.”

“Oh, the horrors, Mary, Poor Aunt Maria! you
mustn't mind a word she says. Don't worry, now—don't
—you know Aunt Maria is always saying things to us
girls, but we don't mind it, and you mustn't; we know

she means well, and we just let it pass for what it's
worth.”

“Yes; you are young ladies, and I am only a poor
woman, and it comes hard on me. She's been round
looking into every crack and corner, and picked up those
old cabbage leaves, and talked to me about keeping a
cellar that would give you all a fever—it's too bad. You
know yesterday I hurried and cut up that cabbage to help
make out the dinner when those gentlemen came in and
we had only the cold mutton, and I was going to clear
them away this very morning.”

“I know it, Mary; and you do the impossible for us
all twenty times a day, if you did drop cabbage leaves
once; and Aunt Maria has no business to be poking about
my house and prying into our management; but, you see,
Mary, she's my aunt, and I can't quarrel with her. I'm
sorry, but we must just bear it as well as we can—now
promise not to mind it—for my sake.”

“Well, for your sake, Miss Eva,” said Mary, wiping
her eyes.

“You know we all think you are a perfect jewel,
Mary, and couldn't get along a minute without you. As
to Aunt Maria, she's old, and set in her way, and the
best way is not to mind her.”

And Mary was consoled, and went on her way with
courage, and with about as much charity for Mrs. Wouvermans
as an average good Christian under equal provocation.

Eva went on singing and making up her vases, and
carried them into the parlor, and was absorbed in
managing their respective positions, when Aunt Maria
came down from her tour in the chambers.

“Seems to me, Eva, that your hired girl's room is
furnished up for a princess,” she began, after the morning
greetings had been exchanged.

“What, Mary's? Well, Mary has a great deal of
neatness and taste, and always took particular pride in
her room when she lived at mamma's, and so I have
arranged hers with special care. Harry got her those
pictures of the Madonna and infant Jesus, and I gave the
bénitier for holy water, over her bed. We matted the
floor nicely, and I made that toilet table, and draped her
looking-glass out of an old muslin dress of mine. The
pleasure Mary takes in it all makes it really worth while
to gratify her.”

“I never pet servants,” said Mrs. Wouvermans,
briefly. “Depend on it, Eva, when you've lived as long
as I have, you'll find it isn't the way. It makes them
presumptuous and exacting. Why, at first, when I blundered
into Mary's room, I thought it must be yours—it
had such an air.”

“Well, as to the air, it's mostly due to Mary's perfect
neatness and carefulness. I'm sorry to say you wouldn't
always find my room as trimly arranged as hers, for I
am a sad hand to throw things about when I am in a
hurry. I love order, but I like somebody else to keep it.”

“I'm afraid,” said Aunt Maria, returning with persistence
to her subject, “that you are beginning wrong with
Mary, and you'll have trouble in the end. Now I saw
she had white sugar in the kitchen sugar-bowl, and there
was the tea caddy for her to go to. It's abominable to
have servants feel that they must use such tea as we do.”

“Oh, well, aunty, you know Mary has been in the
family so long I don't feel as if she were a servant; she
seems like a friend, and I treat her like one. I believe
Mary really loves us.”

“It don't do to mix sentiment and business,” said
Aunt Maria, with sententious emphasis. “I never do.
I don't want my servants to love me—that is not what I
have them for. I want them to do my work, and take

their wages. They understand that there are to be no
favors—everything is specifically set down in the bargain
I make with them; their work is all marked out. I
never talk with them, or encourage them to talk to me,
and that is the way we get along.”

“Dear me, Aunt Maria, that may be all very well for
such an energetic, capable housekeeper as you are, who
always know exactly how to manage, but such a poor
little thing as I am can't set up in that way. Now I
think it's a great mercy and favor to have a trained girl
that knows more about how to get on than I do, and
that is fond of me. Why, I know rich people that would
be only too glad to give Mary double what we give, just
to have somebody to depend on.

“But, Eva, child, you're beginning wrong—you ought
not to leave things to Mary as you do. You ought
to attend to everything yourself. I always do.”

“But you see, aunty, the case is very different with
you and me. You are so very capable and smart, and
know so exactly how everything ought to be done, you
can make your own terms with everybody. And, now I
think of it, how lucky that you came in! I want you to
give me your judgment as to two pieces of linen that
I've just had sent in. You know, Aunty, I am such a
perfect ignoramus about these matters.”

And Eva tripped up stairs, congratulating herself on
turning the subject, and putting her aunt's busy advising
faculties to some harmless and innocent use. So, when
she came down with her two pieces of linen, Aunt Maria
tested and pulled them this way and that, in the approved
style of a domestic expert, and gave judgment at
last with an authoritative air.

“This is the best, Eva—you see it has a round
thread, and very little dressing.”

“And why is the round thread the best, Aunty?”

“Oh, because it always is—everybody knows that,
child; all good judges will tell you to buy the round
threaded linen, that's perfectly well understood.”

Eva did not pursue the inquiry farther, and we must
all confess that Mrs. Wouverman's reply was about as
satisfactory as those one gets to most philosophical inquiries
as to why and wherefore. If our reader doubts
that, let him listen to the course of modern arguments on
some of the most profound problems; so far as can be
seen, they consist of inflections of Aunt Maria's style of
statement—as, “Oh, of course everybody knows that,
now;” or, negatively, “Oh, nobody believes that, now-a-days.”
Surely, a mode of argument which very wise
persons apply fearlessly to subjects like death, judgment
and eternity, may answer for a piece of linen.

“Oh, by-the-by, Eva, I see you have cards there for
Mrs. Wat Sydney's receptions this winter,” said Aunt
Maria, turning her attention to the card plate. “They
are going to be very brilliant, I'm told. They say nothing
like their new house is to be seen in this country.”

“Yes,” said Eva, “Sophie has been down here urging
me to come up and see her rooms, and says they depend
on me for their receptions, and I'm going up some day
to lunch with her, in a quiet way; but Harry and I have
about made up our minds that we sha'n't go to parties.
You know, Aunty, we are going in for economy, and
this sort of thing costs so much.”

“But, bless your soul, child, what is money for?”
said Aunt Maria, innocently. “If you have any thing
you ought to improve your advantages of getting on in
society. It's important to Harry in his profession to be
seen and heard of, and to push his way among the notables,
and, with due care and thought and economy, a person
with your air and style, and your taste, can appear as
well as anybody. I came down here, among other

things, to look over your dresses, and see what can be
done with them.”

“Oh, thank you a thousand times, Aunty dear, but
what do you think all my little wedding finery would do
for me in an assemblage of Worth's spick-and-span new
toilettes? In our own little social circles I am quite a
leader of the mode, but I should look like an old last
night's bouquet among all their fresh finery!”

“Well, now, Eva, child, you talk of economy and all
that, and then go spending on knick-knacks and mere
fancies what would enable you to make a very creditable
figure in society.”

“Really, Aunty, is it possible now, when I thought
we were being so prudent?”

“Well, there's your wood fire, for instance; very
cheerful, I admit, but it's a downright piece of extravagance.
I know that the very richest and most elegant
people, that have everything they can think of, have
fallen back on the fancy of having open wood fires in
their parlors, just for a sort of ornament to their rooms,
but you don't really need it—your furnace keeps you
warm enough.”

“But, Aunty, it looks so bright and cheerful, and
Harry is so fond of it! We only have it evenings, when
he comes home tired, and he says the very sight of it
rests him.”

“There you go, now, Eva—with wood at fifteen dollars
a cord!—going in for a mere luxury just because it
pleases your fancy, and you can't go into society because
it's so expensive. Eva, child, that's just like you. And
there are twenty other little things that I see about here,”
said Aunt Maria, glancing round, “pretty enough, but
each costs a little. There, for instance, those cut flowers
in the vases cost something.”

“But, Aunty, I got them of a poor little man just setting

up a green-house, and Harry and I have made up
our minds that it's our duty to patronize him. I'm
going up to Sophie's to get her to take flowers for her
parties of him.”

“It's well enough to get Sophie to do it, but you
oughtn't to afford it,” said Aunt Maria; “nor need you
buy a new matting and pictures for your servant's room.”

“Oh, Aunty, mattings are so cheap; and those pictures
didn't cost much, and they make Mary so happy!”

“Oh, she'd be happy enough any way. You ought to
look out a little for yourself, child.”

“Well, I do. Now, just look at the expense of going
to parties. To begin with, it annihilates all your dresses,
at one fell swoop. If I make up my mind, for instance,
not to go to parties this winter, I have dresses
enough and pretty enough for all my occasions. The
minute I decide I must go, I have nothing, absolutely
nothing, to wear. There must be an immediate outlay.
A hundred dollars would be a small estimate for all the
additions necessary to make me appear with credit.
Even if I take my old dresses as the foundation, and use
my unparalleled good taste, there are trimmings, and
dressmaker's bills, and gloves, and slippers, and fifty
things; and then a carriage for the evening, at five dollars
a night, and all for what? What does anybody get
at a great buzzing party, to pay for all this? Then Harry
has to use all his time, and all his nerves, and all his
strength on his work. He is driven hard all the time
with writing, making up the paper, and overseeing at
the office. And you know parties don't begin till near
ten o'clock, and if he is out till twelve he doesn't rest
well, nor I either—it's just so much taken out of our
life—and we don't either of us enjoy it. Now, why
should we put out our wood fire that we do enjoy, and
scrimp in our flowers, and scrimp in our home comforts,

and in our servant's comforts, just to get what we don't
want after all?”

“Oh, well, I suppose you are like other new married
folks, you want to play Darby and Joan in your chimney-corner,”
said Aunt Maria, “but, for all that, I think
there are duties to society. One cannot go out of the
world, you know; it don't do, Eva.”

“I don't know about that,” said Eva. “We are going
to try it.'”

“What! living without society?”

“Oh, as to that, we shall see our friends other ways.
I can see Sophie a great deal better in a quiet morning-call
than an evening reception; for the fact is, whoever
else you see at a party you don't see your hostess—she
hasn't a word for you. Then, I'm going to have an
evening here.”

“You an evening?”

“Yes; why not? See if I don't, and we'll have good
times, too.”

“Why, who do you propose to invite?”

“Oh, all our folks, and Bolton and Jim Fellows; then
there are a good many interesting, intelligent men
that write for the magazine, and besides, our acquaintances
on this street.”

“In this street? Why, there isn't a creature here,”
said Aunt Maria.

“Yes, there are those old ladies across the way.”

“What! old Miss Dorcas Vanderheyden and that
Mrs. Benthusen? Well, they belong to an ancient New
York family, to be sure; but they are old as Methusaleh.”

“So much the better, Aunty. Old things, you know,
are all the rage just now; and then there's my little
Quaker neighbor.”

“Why, how odd! They are nice enough, I suppose,

and well enough to have for neighbors; but he's
nothing but a watchmaker. He actually works for
Tiffany!”

“Yes; but he is a very modest, intelligent young man,
and very well informed on certain subjects. Harry says
he has learned a great deal from him.”

“Well, well, child, I suppose you must take your own
way,” said Aunt Maria.

“I suppose we must,” said Eva, shaking her head
with much gravity. “You see, Aunty, dear, a wife must
accommodate herself to her husband, and if Harry thinks
this is the best way, you know—and he does think so,
very strongly—and isn't it lucky that I think just as he
does? You wouldn't have me fall in with those strong-minded
Bloomer women, would you, and sail the ship
on my own account, independently of my husband?”

Now, the merest allusion to modern strong-mindedness
in woman was to Aunt Maria like a red rag to a
bull; it aroused all her combativeness.

“No; I am sure I wouldn't,” she said, with emphasis.
“If there's anything, Eva, where I see the use of all my
instructions to you, it is the good sense with which you
resist all such new-fangled, abominable notions about the
rights and sphere of women. No; I've always said that
the head of the woman is the man; and it's a wife's duty
to live to please her husband. She may try to influence
him—she ought to do that—but she never ought to do it
openly. I never used to oppose Mr. Wouvermans. I was
always careful to let him suppose he was having his own
way; but I generally managed to get mine,” and Aunt
Maria plumed herself and nodded archly, as an aged
priestess who is communicating to a young neophyte
secrets of wisdom.

In her own private mind, Eva thought this the most
terrible sort of hypocrisy; but her aunt was so settled

and contented in all her own practical views, that there
was not the least use in arguing the case. However,
she couldn't help saying, innocently,

“But, Aunty, I should be afraid sometimes he would
have found me out, and then he'd be angry.”

“Oh, no; trust me for that,” said Aunt Maria, complacently.
“I never managed so bunglingly as that.
Somehow or other, he didn't exactly know how, he found
things coming round my way; but I never opposed him
openly—I never got his back up. You see, Eva, these
men, if they do get their backs up, are terrible, but any
of them can be led by the nose—so I'm glad to find that
you begin the right way. Now, there's your mother—
I've been telling her this morning that it's her duty to
make your father go back into business and retrieve his
fortunes. He's got a good position, to be sure—a respectable
salary; but there's no sort of reason why he
shouldn't die worth his two or three millions as well as
half the other men who fail, and are up again in two or
three years. But Nellie wants force. She is no manager.
If I were your father's wife, I should set him on
his feet again pretty soon. Nellie is such a little dependent
body. She was saying this morning how would she
ever have got along with her family without me! But
there are some things that even I can't do—nobody but
a wife could, and Nelly isn't up to it.”

“Poor, dear little mamma,” said Eva. “But are you
quite sure, Aunt Maria, that her ways are not better
adapted to papa than any one's else could be? Papa is
very positive, though so very quiet. He is devoted to
mamma. Then, again, Aunty, there is a good deal of
risk in going into speculations and enterprises at papa's
age. Of course, you know I don't know anything about
business or that sort of thing; but it seems to me like a
great sea where you are up on the wave to-day and down

to-morrow. So if papa really won't go into these things,
perhaps it's all for the best.”

“But, Eva, it is so important now for the girls, poor
things, just going into society—for you know they can't
keep out of it, even if you do. It will affect all their
chances of settlement in life—and that puts me in mind,
Eva, something or other must be done about Alice and
Jim Fellows. Everybody is saying if they're not engaged
they ought to be.”

“Oh, Aunty, how exasperating the world is! Can't a
man and woman have a plain, honest friendship? Jim
has shown himself a true friend to our family. He came
to us just in all the confusion of the failure, and helped us
heart and hand in the manliest way—and we all like him.
Alice likes him, and I don't wonder at it.”

“Well, are they engaged?” said Aunt Maria, with an
air of statistical accuracy.

“How should I know? I never thought of asking.
I'm not a police detective, and I always think that if my
friends have anything they want me to know, they'll tell
me; and if they don't want me to know, why should I ask
them?”

“But, Eva, one is responsible for one's relations.
The fact is, such an intimacy stands right in the way
of a girl's having good offers—it keeps other parties off.
Now, I tell you, as a great secret, there is a very fine man,
immensely rich, and every way desirable, who is evidently
pleased with Alice.”

“Dear me, Aunty! how you excite my curiosity.
Pray who is it?” said Eva.

“Well, I'm not at liberty to tell you more particularly;
but I know he's thinking about her; and this
report about her and Jim would operate very prejudicially.
Now shall I have a talk with Alice, or will you?”

“Oh, Aunty dear, don't, for pity's sake, say a word to

Alice. Young girls are so sensitive about such things.
If it must be talked of, let me talk with Alice.”

“I really thought, if I had a good chance, I'd say
something to the young man himself,” said Aunt Maria,
reflectively.

“Oh, good heavens! Aunty, don't think of it. You
don't know Jim Fellows.”

“Oh, you needn't be afraid of me,” said Aunt Maria.
“I am a great deal older and more experienced than you,
and if I do do anything, you may rest assured it will be
in the most discreet way. I've managed cases of this
kind before you were born.”

“But Jim is the most peculiar”—

“Oh, I know all about him. Do you suppose I've
seen him in and out in the family all this time without
understanding him perfectly?”

“But I don't really think that there is the least of
anything serious between him and Alice.”

“Very likely. He would not be at all the desirable
match for Alice. He has very little property, and is
rather a wild, rattling fellow; and I don't like newspaper
men generally.”

“Oh, Aunty, that's severe now. You forget Harry.”

“Oh, well, your husband is an exception; but, as a
general rule, I don't like 'em—unprincipled lot I believe,”
said Aunt Maria, with a decisive nod of her head.
“At any rate, Alice can do better, and she ought to.”

The ringing of the lunch bell interrupted the conversation,
much to the relief of Eva, who discovered with
real alarm the course her respected relative's thoughts
were taking.

Of old she had learned that the only result of arguing
a point with her was to make her more set in her own
way, and she therefore bent all her forces of agreeableness
to produce a diversion of mind to other topics. On

the principle that doctors apply mustard to the feet, to
divert the too abundant blood from the head, Eva started
a brisk controversy with Aunt Maria on another topic,
in hopes, by exhausting her energies there, to put this
out of her mind. With what success her strategy was
crowned, it will remain to be seen.