by T. S. Arthur
This was all my husband said; but it was enough to smite me almost
to the floor. Covering my face with my hands, I dropped into a
chair, and sat and sobbed for a while bitterly.
“It can’t be helped now, Jane,” said Mr. Smith, at length, in a
soothing voice. “The coat is gone, and there is no help for it. You
will know better next time.”
That was all he said to me then, and I was grateful for his kind
consideration. He saw that I was punished quite severely enough, and
did not add to my pain by rebuke or complaint.
An attempt was made during the week to recover the coat, valued at
some twenty dollars; but the china ornament-man was not to be
found—he had made too good a bargain to run the risk of having it
broken.
About an hour after the discovery of the loss of my husband’s coat,
I went quietly down into the parlor, and taking from the
mantle-piece the china vases, worth, probably, a dollar for the
pair, concealed them under my apron, lest any one should see what I
had; and, returning up stairs, hid them away in a dark closet, where
they have ever since remained.
The reader may be sure that I never forgot this, my first and last
speculation in china ware.
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.
WAS there ever a good cook who hadn’t some prominent fault that
completely overshadowed her professional good qualities? If my
experience is to answer the question, the reply will be—_no_.
I had been married several years before I was fortunate enough to
obtain a cook that could be trusted to boil a potato, or broil a
steak. I felt as if completely made up when Margaret served her
first dinner. The roast was just right, and all the vegetables were
cooked and flavored as well as if I had done it myself—in fact, a
little better. My husband eat with a relish not often exhibited, and
praised almost every thing on the table.
For a week, one good meal followed another in daily succession. We
had hot cakes, light and fine-flavored, every morning for breakfast,
with coffee not to be beaten—and chops or steaks steaming from the
gridiron, that would have gladdened the heart of an epicure. Dinner
was served, during the time, with a punctuality that was rarely a
minute at fault, while every article of food brought upon the table,
fairly tempted the appetite. Light rolls, rice cakes, or “Sally
Luns,” made without suggestion on my part usually met us at tea
time. In fact, the very delight of Margaret’s life appeared to be in
cooking. She was born for a cook.
Moreover, strange to say, Margaret was good-tempered, a most
remarkable thing in a good cook; and more remarkable still, was tidy
in her person, and cleanly in her work.
“She is a treasure,” said I to my husband, one day, as we passed
from the dining-room, after having partaken of one of her excellent
dinners.
“She’s too good,” replied Mr. Smith—”too good to last. There must
be some bad fault about her—good cooks always have bad faults—and
I am looking for its appearance every day.”
“Don’t talk so, Mr. Smith. There is no reason in the world why a
good cook should not be as faultless as any one else.”
Even while I said this, certain misgivings intruded themselves. My
husband went to his store soon after.
About three o’clock Margaret presented herself, all dressed to go
out, and said that she was going to see her sister, but would be
back in time to get tea.
She came back, as she promised, but, alas for my good cook! The
fault appeared. She was so much intoxicated that, in attempting to
lift the kettle from the fire, she let it fall, and came near
scalding herself dreadfully. Oh, dear! I shall never forget the sad
disappointment of that hour. How the pleasant images of good dinners
and comfortable breakfasts and suppers faded from my vision. The old
trouble was to come back again, for the faultless cook had
manifested a fault that vitiated, for us, all her good qualities.
On the next day, I told Margaret that we must part; but she begged
so hard to be kept in her place, and promised good behaviour in
future so earnestly, that I was prevailed on to try her again. It
was of no use, however—in less than a week she was drunk again, and
I had to let her go.
After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and
dried roast beef to our hearts’ content; while such luxuries as
muffins, hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our
uninviting table.
My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually
afraid to show my face in the kitchen. I bore with her until
patience was no longer a virtue, and then she went.
Biddy, who took charge of my “kitchen cabinet,” a year or so
afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit.
But, alas! Biddy “kept a room;” and so many strange disappearances
of bars of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place,
that I was forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was
simply a store room for the surplussage of mine. Some pretty strong
evidence on this point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was
particularly forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never
accused her of being wanting in that inestimable virtue.
Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough. Or, I
should rather say, are musing enough to think about: they were
rather annoying at the time of their occurrence. One of these
experiences I will relate. I had obtained a “treasure” in a new
cook, who was not only good tempered and cleanly, but understood her
business reasonably well. Kitty was a little different from former
incumbents of her office in this, that she took an interest in
reading, and generally dipped into the morning paper before it found
its way up stairs. To this, of course, I had no objection, but was
rather pleased to see it. Time, however, which proves all things,
showed my cook to be rather too literary in her inclinations. I
often found her reading, when it was but reasonable for me to expect
that she would be working; and overdone or burnt dishes occasionally
marked the degree in which her mind was absorbed in her literary
pleasures, which I discovered in time, were not of the highest
order-such books as the “Mysteries of Paris” furnishing the aliment
that fed her imagination.
“Jane,” said my husband to me one morning, as he was about leaving
the house, “I believe I must invite my old friend Green to dine with
me to-day. He will leave the city to-morrow, and I may not have the
pleasure of a social hour with him again for years. Besides, I want
to introduce him to you. We were intimate as young men, and much
attached to each other. I would like you to know him.”
“Invite him, by all means,” was my reply.
“I will send home a turkey from market,” said Mr. Smith, as he stood
holding on to the open door.
“Tell Kitty to cook it just right. Mrs.
Green, I am told, is a first-rate housekeeper, and I feel like
showing you off to the best advantage.”
“Don’t look for too much,” I replied, smiling, “lest you be
disappointed.”
Mr. Smith went away, and I walked back to the kitchen door to say a
word to Kitty. As I looked in, the sound of my feet on the floor
caused her to start. She was standing near a window, and at my
appearance she hurriedly concealed something under her apron.
“Kitty,” said I, “we are to have company to dine with us to-day. Mr.
Smith will send home a turkey, which you must dress and cook in the
best manner. I will be down during the morning to make some lemon
puddings. Be sure to have a good fire in the range, and see that all
the drafts are clear.”
Kitty promised that every thing should be right, and I went up
stairs. In due time the marketing came home. About eleven o’clock I
repaired to the kitchen, and, much to my surprise, found all in
disorder.
“What in the world have you been doing all the morning?” said I,
feeling a little fretted.
Kitty excused herself good naturedly, and commenced bustling about
to put things to rights, while I got flour and other articles
necessary for my purpose, and went to work at my lemon puddings,
which were, in due time, ready for the oven. Giving all necessary
directions as to their baking, and charging Kitty to be sure to have
every thing on the table precisely at our usual hour for dining, I
went up into the nursery to look after the children, and to see
about other matters requiring my attention.
Time passed on until, to my surprise, I heard the clock strike one.
I had yet to dress for dinner.
“I wonder how Kitty is coming on?” said I to myself. “I hope she
will not let the puddings get all dried up.”
But, I felt too much in a hurry to go down and satisfy myself as to
the state of affairs in the kitchen; and took it for granted that
all was right.
A little while afterwards, I perceived an odor as of something
burning.
“What is that?” came instinctively from my lips. “If Kitty has let
the puddings burn!”
Quick as thought I turned from my room, and went gliding down
stairs. As I neared the kitchen, the smell of burned flour, or
pastry, grew stronger. All was silent below; and I approached in
silence. On entering Kitty’s domain, I perceived that lady seated in
front of the range, with a brown covered pamphlet novel held close
to her face, in the pages of which she was completely lost. I never
saw any one more entirely absorbed in a book. No sign of dinner was
any where to be seen. Upon the range was a kettle of water boiling
over into the fire, and from one of the ovens poured forth a dark
smoke, that told too plainly the ruin of my lemon puddings. And, to
cap all, the turkey, yet guiltless of fire or dripping pan, was upon
the floor, in possession of a strange cat, which had come in through
the open window. Bending over the still entranced cook, I read the
title of her book. It was “THE WANDERING JEW.”
“Kitty!” I don’t much wonder, now, at the start she gave, for I
presume there was not the zephyr’s softness in my voice.
“Oh, ma’am!” She caught her breath as her eyes rested upon the cat
and the turkey. “Indeed, ma’am!” And then she made a spring towards
puss, who, nimbly eluding her, passed out by the way through which
she had come in.
By this time I had jerked open the oven door, when there came
rushing out a cloud of smoke, which instantly filled the room. My
puddings were burned to a crisp!
As for the turkey, the cat had eaten off one side of the breast, and
it was no longer fit for the table.
“Well! this is fine work!” said I, in an angry, yet despairing
voice. “Fine work, upon my word!”
“Oh, ma’am!” Kitty interrupted me by saying, “I’ll run right off and
buy another turkey, and have it cooked in time. Indeed I will,
ma’am! And I’ll pay for it. It’s all my fault! oh dear! dear me! Now
don’t be angry, Mrs. Smith! I’ll have dinner all ready in time, and
no one will be any the wiser for this.”
“In time!” and I raised my finger towards the kitchen clock, the
hands of which marked the period of half past one. Two o’clock was
our regular dinner hour.
“Mercy!” ejaculated the frightened cook, as she sank back upon a
chair; “I thought it was only a little past eleven. I am sure it was
only eleven when I sat down just to read a page or two while the
puddings were in the oven!”
The truth was, the “Wandering Jew,” in the most exciting portion of
which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination. Her
mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the
rapidity of a few minutes.
“I don’t exactly comprehend this,” said my husband, as he sat down
with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at
half-past two o’clock.
“It’s all the fault of the ‘Wandering Jew!’” I replied, making an
effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification
that were in my face.
“The Wandering Jew!” returned my husband, looking mystified.
“Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage,” said I,
“strange as it may seem.” And then I related the mishaps of the
morning. For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a
hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.
Poor Kitty couldn’t survive the mortification. She never smiled
again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another
home.
CHAPTER III.
LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.
“THE oil’s out, mum,” said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty,
pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.
“It can’t be,” I replied.
“Indade, mum, and it is. There isn’t the full of a lamp left,” was
the positive answer.
“Then, what have you done with it?” said I, in a firm voice. “It
isn’t four days since a gallon was sent home from the store.”
“Four days! It’s more nor a week, mum!”
“Don’t tell me that, Hannah,” I replied, firmly; “for I know better.
I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon.”
“Sure, and it’s burned, mum, thin! What else could go with it?”
“It never was burned in our lamps,” said I, in answer to this.
“You’ve either wasted it, or given it away.”
At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and
indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to
notice.
But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect
of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one—the
only remedy was to order another gallon.
Something was wrong; that was clear. The oil had never been burned.
That evening, myself and husband
talked over the matter, and both of
us came to the conclusion, that it would never do. The evil must be
remedied. A gallon of oil must not again disappear in four days.
“Why,” said my husband, “it ought to last us at least a week and a
half.”
“Not quite so long,” I replied. “We burn a gallon a week.”
“Not fairly, I’m inclined to think. But four days is out of all
conscience.”
I readily assented to this, adding some trite remark about the
unconscionable wastefulness of domestics.
On the next morning, as my husband arose from bed, he shivered in
the chilly air, saying, as he did so:
“That girl’s let the fire go out again in the heater! Isn’t it too
bad? This thing happens now every little while. I’m sure I’ve said
enough to her about it. There’s nothing wanted but a little
attention.”
“It is too bad, indeed,” I added.
“There’s that fishy smell again!” exclaimed Mr. Smith. “What can it
be?”
“Fishy smell! So there is.”
“Did you get any mackerel from the store yesterday?”
“None.”
“Perhaps Hannah ordered some?”
“No. I had a ham sent home, and told her to have a slice of that
broiled for breakfast.”
“I don’t know what to make of it. Every now and then that same smell
comes up through the register—particularly in the morning. I’ll bet
a sixpence there’s some old fish tub in the cellar of which she’s
made kindling.”
“That may be it,” said I.
And, for want of a better reason, we agreed, for the time being,
upon that hypothesis.
At the end of another four days, word came up that our best sperm
oil, for which we paid a dollar and forty cents a gallon, was out
again.
“Impossible!” I ejaculated.
“But it is mum,” said Hannah. “There’s not a scrimption left—not so
much as the full of a thimble.”
“You must be mistaken. A gallon of oil has never been burned in this
house in four days.”
“We burned the other gallon in four days,” said Hannah, with
provoking coolness. “The evenings are very long, and we have a great
many lights. There’s the parlor light, and the passage light, and
the—”
“It’s no use for you to talk, Hannah,” I replied, interrupting her.
“No use in the world. A gallon of oil in four days has never gone by
