was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so few–“Well–you may try the week,” she said. “I’ll show you your room. And what is your name?”
“Miss Bell.”
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER V.
When the fig growns on the thistle,
And the silk purse on the sow;
When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow–
Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will,
Art and science well combined,
Honest soul and able mind,
Servants built upon this plan,
One to wait on every man,
Patiently from youth to age,–
For less than a street cleaner’s wage!
When the parson’s gay on Mondays,
When we meet a month of Sundays,
We may look for them and find them– But Not Now!
When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend’s door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors.
Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice.
“Why, Belle! I haven’t seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!”
“That’s it–she’s ‘Bell’ too–‘Miss Bell’ if you please!”
The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a–a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground.
“I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva–and I’ll tell you all about it–as far as it goes.”
She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o’clock!”
“What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!”
Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let’s see–it’s about five now–seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn’t touched that yet. But the house is clean–_clean_! Smell it!”
She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly.
“She said that if I didn’t mind she’d give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!”
Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I’m very glad for you, Belle, dear–but–what an endless nuisance it all is–don’t you think so?”
“Nuisance! It’s slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But I don’t see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that–palace, of yours, and you didn’t have any trouble at all.”
“Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn’t get along with her at all if she didn’t. That’s her life. It was my mother’s too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs–like snails!”
“Don’t see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.”
“Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care–come and try it awhile, that’s all!”
“Not for a millionaire baby’s ransom!” answered Isabel promptly.
“Give me my drawing tools and plans and I’m happy–but this business”–she swept a white hand wearily about–“it’s not my work, that’s all.”
“But you _enjoy_ it, don’t you–I mean having nice things?” asked her friend.
“Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can’t a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don’t want to be either a captain or a common sailor!”
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You’re lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?”
Mrs. Porne flushed. “I’m sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven’t gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.”
“That’s all right, dear, there’s no very great rush. You can get at it now, can’t you–with this other Belle to the fore?”
“She’s not Belle, bless you–she’s ‘Miss Bell.’ It’s her last name.”
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well–why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.”
“Exactly. That’s what she said. “If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy–Oh she’s a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.”
“I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can’t we look over those plans again; there’s something I wanted to suggest.” And they went up to the big room on the third floor.
In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.
She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you’re not domestic!”
“I’m a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a domestic servant.–I’ll remember what you say about those windows–it’s a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone’s suggestion.
That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand.
“Did you love him so much?” she asked softly.
“Who?” was the surprising answer.
“Why–Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne.
“No–not very much. But he was something.”
Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing–but not like this. What’s happened Viva?”
“Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you’re tired, and rest till you’re crazy! Then–when a real thing happens–there’s all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant’s livery–and all the things you mustn’t do!”
Isabel put an arm around her. “Don’t mind, dear–you’ll get over this–you are young enough yet–the world is full of things to do!”
But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else–nothing in life. That’s why I married Martin Weatherstone–not for his old millions–but he really cared–and I was sorry for him. Now he’s dead. And I’m wearing this–and still mourning for the other one.”
Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.
“Oh, I’ll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor.
“Maybe if you took hold of the house–if you ran things yourself,”–ventured Mrs. Porne.
Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don’t know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her–and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy–he’s the only person that manages her! She’s utterly spoiled him–that was his father’s constant grief. No, no–let her run the house–she thinks she owns it.”
“She’s fond of you, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Porne.
“O I guess so–if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are–she said she’d stop for me.”
At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.
*
Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.
To leave home–to leave school-teaching, to leave love–and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was.
Three letters came back quickly.
Her mother’s answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding.
Her sister’s was as unpleasant as she had expected.
“The _idea!_” wrote Mrs. Susie. “A girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to–and able to earn money _respectably!_ to go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he can’t face his friends–and I’m as ashamed as I can be! My own sister! You must be _crazy_–simply _crazy!_”
It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found tears in her eyes over her mother’s letter. Her sister’s made her both sorry and angry–a most disagreeable feeling–as when you step on the cat on the stairs. Ross’s letter she held some time without opening.
She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The “hoo! hoo!” of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it.
“Dearest: I have your letter with its–somewhat surprising–news. It is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger.
“I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand.
“I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.
“In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong.
“I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and “elevate” this housework business; and to make money. I should not love you any better if you made a million–and I would not take money from you–you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me–working in strange kitchens–or offices–that is your affair.
“I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs–in my arms!
“Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear.
“Yours, Ross.”
Any time she felt like coming back?
Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter–her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time.
But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer mill: “It is right. It is right. It is right.” And then. “Help me–please! I need it.” Diantha was not “gifted in prayer.”
When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “O Edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “I’ve got such a nice girl! She’s just as neat and quick; you’ve no idea the work she’s done today–it looks like another place already. But if things look queer at dinner don’t notice it–for I’ve just given her her head. I was so tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a car-ride and have only just got back. And I _think_ the dinner’s going to be lovely!”
It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina’s ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time for.
The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them.
Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks. But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins.
On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and a short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls.
When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband.
“Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she’s nice too, and it’s all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she’s studied this thing all out, and she knows about it–statistics and things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her work beautiful, but–it doesn’t seem like having a servant at all. I feel as if I–boarded with her!”
“Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in Mr. Porne.
“O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages–I don’t have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I spoke of it and she said, ‘If I didn’t understand the business I should have no right to undertake it.”
“That’s a new point of view, isn’t it?” asked her husband. “Don’t they usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?”
“Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages–as you said.”
“Does she? What are they?”
“Why she’s so–rigid. I’ll read you her–I don’t know what to call it. She’s written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and I want you to study it, it’s the queerest thing I ever saw.”
The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made Mr. Porne open his eyes.
Thus Miss Bell; “The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.”
“Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. Its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily entrusted with the care of the employer’s goods and with knowledge of the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital importance.
“In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day.”
“Good gracious, my dear!” said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, “This young woman does appreciate her business! And we’re to be let off easy at $45.00 a month, are we”
“And feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “But you read ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a paper for the Club!”
“‘In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at $17.00 a month.”
“O come now, don’t we board her any better than that?”
“That’s what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week–she had actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know I’ve always meant to get the girl’s room fixed more prettily, but usually they don’t seem to mind. And as to food–you see she knows all about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even made some figures for me to prove it–see.”
Mr. Porne had to laugh.
“Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent. Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total–thirteen cents.”
“There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea food, just the material, cost so little. It’s the labor, she says that makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.”
“I see,” said Mr. Porne. “And in the case of the domestic servant we furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own food and waits on herself–naturally it wouldn’t come high. What does she make it?”
‘Food, average per day . . . $0.35
Room, $1.50 per w’k, ave. per day . . . .22 —–
.57
Total, per month . . . $17.10
$1.50 per day, per month . . . $45.00
“‘Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.’ Do I still live! But my dear Ellie, that’s only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here, without all this fuss!”
“I know it, Ned, but you know we think it’s awful, and we’re always telling about their getting their board and lodging clear–as if we gave’em that out of the goodness of our hearts!”
“Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money–mere primitive barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! How does she do her work–that’s the main question.”
“I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her work, and you’ll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.”
Mr. Porne read:
“Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal–breakfast two hours, dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour–six hours per day for food service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs, closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total ten hours per day.”
“That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?”
“Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!” she answered. “You know the week I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby, but then I didn’t do the things. I guess when it doesn’t take so long they just don’t do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully quick about her work. And she’s thorough. I suppose it ought to be done that way–but I never had one before.”
“She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean labors.”
“Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like a–well it’s as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.”
“Ten hours–that’s fourteen.”
“I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals.”
“Preposterous!”
“Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest–and two in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding in the electric cars!”
“That don’t look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn’t get two hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!”
“No, I know that, but he doesn’t begin so early, nor stop so late. She does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time off.”
“You seem dubious about that, my dear.”
“Yes, that’s just where it’s awkward. I’m used to girls being in all the time, excepting their day out. You see I can’t leave baby, nor always take him–and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.”
“Well–can’t you arrange with her somehow?”
“See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a dollar and a half a day–tisn’t but fifteen cents an hour–I have to pay a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra–by the hour. Or she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day–and so be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange–with baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won’t alter her plans.”
“Let her go, and get a less exacting servant.”
“But–she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things lap, and it’s a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and sure everything will be done right.”
“Well, it’s your province, my dear. I don’t profess to advise. But I assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!”
She slipped her hand into his affectionately. “It does make a difference,” she said. “I _could_ get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly $2.60 a week–but you know what they are!”
“I do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “It’s worth the money to have this thing done so well. I think she’s right about the wages. Better keep her.”
“O–she’ll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!”
“Well–keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good to last!”
They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with:
“This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks’ notice is to be given on either side, or two weeks’ wages if preferred by the employer.” It was dated, and signed “Miss D. C. Bell.”
And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added “Mrs. Isabel J. Porne,” and the contract was made.
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER VI.
THE CYNOSURE.
It’s a singular thing that the commonest place Is the hardest to properly fill;
That the labor imposed on a full half the race Is so seldom performed with good will– To say nothing of knowledge or skill!
What we ask of all women, we stare at in one, And tribute of wonderment bring;
If this task of the million is once fitly done We all hold our hands up and sing!
It’s really a singular thing!
Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could cook.
To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love–so cheerful and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home.
“It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar quality of their good fortune. “It’s not only good cooking, and good waiting, and a clean house–cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it’s not only the quietness, and regularity and economy–why the bills have gone down more than a third!”
“Yes–even I noticed that,” he agreed.
“But what I enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “When I have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and regarded him intently.
“Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby–I’m no unfeeling monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I’d had any idea of what housework was like I’d never have given up architecture to try it.”
“Lucky for me you hadn’t!” said he fondly. “I know it’s been hard for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up architecture–that’s a business a woman could carry on at home I thought, the designing part anyway. There’s your ‘drawing-room’ and all your things–“
“Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are–and there they might have stayed, untouched–if Miss Bell hadn’t come!”
“Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?”
Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!–Her name is Diantha–I’ve seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer. Anyhow I’ve got used to Miss Bell now.”
“She gets letters often?”
“Yes–very often–from Topolaya where she came from. I’m afraid she’s engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully.
“I don’t doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six months’ arrangement! Well, my dear–make hay while the sun shines!”
“I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I’ve had a seamstress in, and got all my clothes in order and the baby’s. We’ve had lot of dinner-parties and teas as you know–all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We’ve had your mother for a visit, and mine’s coming now–and I wasn’t afraid to have either of them! There’s no fault to be found with my housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that–yes, three.”
“The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy again,” said her husband, with a kiss.
“Yes–that’s one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted I can love you and baby–as–as I _do!_ Only when I’m tired and discouraged I can’t put my hand on it somehow.
He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way myself–sometimes. What’s the other?”
“Why that’s best of aIl!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again! When Baby’s asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he’s awake I’ve fixed a place where he can play–and I can draw and plan–just as I used to–_better_ than I used to!”
“And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet inquiring voice.
“It’s more because it means _both!_” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don’t you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came–and I loved you–better! Then Baby came and I loved him–best? I don’t know–you and baby are all one somehow.”
There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly. “Now stop–I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a nightmare–and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_ improvement; then I just _ached_ for my work–and couldn’t do it! And then–why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From _both_ of you!–you see, I spent five years studying–I was a _real_ architect–and it did hurt to see it go. And now–O now I’ve got It and You too, darling! _And_ the Baby!–O I’m so happy!”
“Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she’ll stay I’ll pay her anything!”
The months went by.
Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time.
Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter; rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood, establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself–with the result that they stayed pretty for surprising periods.
She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a week; and by the help of her sister’s authority succeeded in maintaining a fairly competent servant in her deserted place.
“Father was bound he wouldn’t,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right up to him, I can now I’m married!–and Gerald too–that he’d no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about your paying for the girl–but that was only showing off–_he_ couldn’t pay for her just now–that’s certain. And she does very well–a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded furiously about her sister’s “working out.”
Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all sides of the question before deciding.
“Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It’s not just the work–she misses you. By the way–so do I.” He expressed his views on her new employment.
Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “It’s hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard on me–some. But we’ll all be better off because of it, and not only us–but everybody!”
Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy.
In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants.
Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in an awed whisper.
“Just the same if not better. I don’t even order the meals now, unless I want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we’ve had to eat, and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a variety!), she’d always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she’d like to order, and she said she’d be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the table without knowing what’s going to be there.”
“But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,” said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own household.”
“Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really does it more–more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the bills are very much lower.”
“Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I wish I had her!”
Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs. Porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening when the strange Miss Bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering propositions to her to come to them. She was perfectly polite and agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments.
“What are you getting at your present place–if I may ask?” loftily inquired the great Mrs. Thaddler, ponderous and beaded.
“There is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied politely. “Mrs. Porne will not mind telling you, I am sure.”
“Hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette. “Very good. Whatever it is I’ll double it. When can you come?”
“My engagement with Mrs. Porne is for six months,” Diantha answered, “and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up. Thank you for your offer just the same.”
“Peculiarly offensive young person!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband. “Looks to me like one of these literary imposters. Mrs. Porne will probably appear in the magazines before long.”
Mr. Thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight unseen.”
Diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the proposed doubling.
“Fourteen dollars a week and found!–that’s not so bad,” she meditated. “That would mean over $650 clear in a year! It’s a wonder to me girls don’t try it long enough to get a start at something else. With even two or three hundred ahead–and an outfit–it would be easier to make good in a store or any other way. Well–I have other fish to fry!”
So she pursued her way; and, with Mrs. Porne’s permission–held a sort of girl’s club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the last three months of her engagement. It was a “Study and Amusement Club.” She gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. She gave them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously taught them to use the Public Library.
They played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted. To the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy.
Diantha studied and observed. They brought her their poor confidences, painfully similar. Always poverty–or they would not be there. Always ignorance, or they would not stay there. Then either incompetence in the work, or inability to hold their little earnings–or both; and further the Tale of the Other Side–the exactions and restrictions of the untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving.
“It’s no wages, of course–and no recommendation, when you leave like that–but what else can a girl do, if she’s honest?”
So Diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations.
The excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly “entertainments.” No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had Mrs. Porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance.
All the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she never knew called on her even more freshly. Not that she was directly responsible for it. She had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her good fortune. It was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone’s. But in a community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the fact of one woman’s having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question, was enough to give her prominence.
Mrs. Ellen A. Dankshire, President of the Orchardina Home and Culture Club, took up the matter seriously.
“Now Mrs. Porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a comfortable chair, “I just want to talk the matter over with you, with a view to the club. We do not know how long this will last–“
“Don’t speak of it!” said Mrs. Porne.
“–and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.”
“So much is involved!” said little Mrs. Ree, the Corresponding Secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines in it. “We are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home duties!”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess.
“We must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” Mrs. Dankshire announced. “It is one case in a thousand, and must be studied!”
“So noble of her!” said Mrs. Ree. “You say she was really a school-teacher? Mrs. Thaddler has put it about that she is one of these dreadful writing persons–in disguise!”
“O no,” said Mrs. Porne. “She is perfectly straightforward about it, and had the best of recommendations. She was a teacher, but it didn’t agree with her health, I believe.”
“Perhaps there is a story to it!” Mrs. Ree advanced; but Mrs. Dankshire disagreed with her flatly.
“The young woman has a theory, I believe, and she is working it out. I respect her for it. Now what we want to ask you, Mrs. Porne, is this: do you think it would make any trouble for you–in the household relations, you know–if we ask her to read a paper to the Club? Of course we do not wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity–very. You know the fine work Miss Lucy Salmon has done on this subject; and Miss Frances Kellor. You know how little data we have, and how great, how serious, a question it is daily becoming! Now here is a young woman of brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her example and influence must not be lost! We must hear from her. The public must know of this.”
“Such an ennobling example!” murmured Mrs. Ree. “It might lead numbers of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!”
“Furthermore,” pursued Mrs. Dankshire, “this has occured to me. Would it not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the–the dignity of household labor–so ably set forth?
“Isn’t it–wouldn’t that be a–an almost dangerous experiment?” urged Mrs. Ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles: “She might–say something, you know, that they might–take advantage of!”
“Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mrs. Dankshire. She was very fond of Mrs. Ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “What could she say? Look at what she does! And how beautifully–how perfectly–she does it! I would wager now–_may_ I try an experiment Mrs. Porne?” and she stood up, taking out her handkerchief.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Porne, “with pleasure! You won’t find any!”
Mrs. Dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a picture.
“I knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the cloth still white. “That,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is Knowledge, Ability and Conscience!”
“I don’t see how she gets the time!” breathed Mrs. Ree, shaking her head in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs. Dankshire’s handkerchief on her picture tops.
“We must have her address the Club,” the president repeated. “It will do worlds of good. Let me see–a paper on–we might say ‘On the True Nature of Domestic Industry.’ How does that strike you, Mrs. Ree?”
“Admirable!” said Mrs. Ree. “So strong! so succinct.”
“That certainly covers the subject,” said Mrs. Porne. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“We will. We have come for that purpose. But we felt it right to ask you about it first,” said Mrs. Dankshire.
“Why I have no control over Miss Bell’s movements, outside of working hours,” answered Mrs. Porne. “And I don’t see that it would make any difference to our relations. She is a very self-poised young woman, but extremely easy to get along with. And I’m sure she could write a splendid paper. You’d better ask her, I think.”
“Would you call her in?” asked Mrs. Dankshire, “or shall we go out to the kitchen?”
“Come right out; I’d like you to see how beautifully she keeps everything.”
The kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. Miss Bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the visitors with a serenely civil air–as of a country store-keeper.
“I am very glad to meet you, Miss Bell, very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “We have at heard so much of your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! Now would you be willing to give a paper–or a talk–to our club, the Home and Culture Club, some Wednesday, on The True Nature of Domestic Industry?”
Mrs. Ree took Miss Bell’s hand with something of the air of a Boston maiden accosting a saint from Hindoostan. “If you only would!” she said. “I am sure it would shed light on this great subject!”
Miss Bell smiled at them both and looked at Mrs. Porne inquiringly.
“I should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “I know it would be very useful.”
“Is there any date set?” asked Miss Bell.
“Any Wednesday after February,” said Mrs. Dankshire.
“Well–I will come on the first Wednesday in April. If anything should happen to prevent I will let you know in good season, and if you should wish to postpone or alter the program–should think better of the idea–just send me word. I shall not mind in the least.”
They went away quite jubilant, Miss Bell’s acceptance was announced officially at the next club-meeting, and the Home and Culture Club felt that it was fulfilling its mission.
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER VII.
HERESY AND SCHISM.
You may talk about religion with a free and open mind, For ten dollars you may criticize a judge; You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, But there’s one place where the brain must never budge!
CHORUS.
Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect!
And all its works within!
To say a word about it–
To criticize or doubt it–
To seek to mend or move it–
To venture to improve it–
Is The Unpardonable Sin!
–“Old Song.”
Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same. All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited.
So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire in “the chair” flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near it as she could.
At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her–even some opera glasses.
“She’s a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion.
“She’s a peach,” was another, “Tell you–the chap that gets her is well heeled!” said a third.
The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles.
On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty.
In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of “the right people.”
Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston A. Marrow (“one of the Boston Marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as ‘a journalist,’ who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended–led the more radical element.
Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as “conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still.
Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs. Dankshire’s generalship to keep them content with marking time.
On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question.
Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs.
In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: “The meeting will please come to order,” “We will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously through officer’s reports and committees reports to “new business.”
Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically.
“Members—and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests of The Home–those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human heart.”
A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands.
“Its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of Culture in this community. Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height”–(“proof of arboreal ancestry that,” Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)–“but in the more intimate fields of daily experience.”
“Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still–and find in this our highest honor–wives and mothers.” These novel titles called forth another round of applause.
“As such,” continued Mrs. Dankshire, “we all recognize the difficult–the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”–she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention–“domestic question.”
“We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”–(“I yawn while I’m attending–eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)–while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!–in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter.”
Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued:
“Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life.” A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman’s club.
“We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,”–Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question–The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this problem she has consented to address us–I take pleasure in introducing Miss Diantha Bell.”
Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear, short, and to some minds convincing.
She set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures–as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the “general.”
A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women.
“The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants,” said Diantha.
A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly:
“Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.”
The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter.
Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation.
“We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”–here Diantha grew solemn;–“So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety–the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate.”
A shocked silence met this statement.
“In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of ‘sleeping in’–their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.”
Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued:
“Let us now consider the economic side of the question. ‘Domestic economy’ is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him–fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste 47 per cent. of the labor.
“But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks–$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons!
“Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts.
“To what does all this lead?” asked Diantha pleasantly.
Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition.
“The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called “co-operative housekeeping.”
At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope was relit in darkened countenances.
“The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them,” said Diantha. This was of dubious import. “Why should we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone.”
Again an uncertain reception.
“Every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “Its needs are separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the home. But the separate home may be served by a common water company, by a common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith’s shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. That is the way to elevate–to enoble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service–and become world service.”
Suddenly and quietly she sat down.
Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others.
“Madam President! Madam President!” resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone–Mrs. Thaddler–no! yes–they really were both on their feet. Applause was going on–irregularly–soon dropped. Only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent.
Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward.
“Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the–we will now–the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!” And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was more aggressive.
“I wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that I was against this–unfortunate experiment–from the first. And I trust it will never be repeated!” She sat down.
Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of Diantha’s mouth.
“Madam Weatherstone?” said the President, placatingly.
Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each.
“Order!” said Mrs. Dankshire, “ORDER, please!” and rapped three times with the gavel.
“I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said Madam Weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. I trust that the–doubtless well meant–attempt to throw light on this subject–from the wrong quarter–has been a lesson to us all. No club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” And she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar.
“Madam President!” broke forth Miss Eagerson. “I was up first–and have been standing ever since–“
“One moment, Miss Eagerson,” said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, “The Rev. Dr. Eltwood.”
If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be “advanced” and was new to the place.
“Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?”
Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right.
“Ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and employed!–and gentlemen–whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”–he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire–“by your honored President.
“And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded women–and men–in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen–Miss Bell.”
He bowed again–to Miss Bell–and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself.
“Mr. Eltwood is right!” she said. “Miss Bell is right! This is the true presentation of the subject, ‘by one who knows.’ Miss Bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don’t know where we’re standing–but she knows! Housework is a business–like any other business–I’ve always said so, and it’s got to be done in a business way. Now I for one–” but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward.
“It is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!”
She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion.
But another voice was heard–for the first time in that assembly–Mrs. Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam Weatherstone, was on her feet with “Madam President! I wish to speak to this motion.”
“Won’t you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?” asked Mrs. Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high.
All sat silent, all expected–what was not forthcoming.
“I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks.”
“I second the motion,” came from all quarters.
“There is another motion before the house,” from others.
Cries of “Madam President” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor.
“I move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing tones. “Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell’s paper–and has any sense of decency–stand up!”
Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up–very informally. Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson, Miss Bell and their views.
“I move you, Madam President,” cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!”
“We hereby resign!” cried Miss Eagerson. “_We_ drop _you!_ We’ll have a New Woman’s Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head–even if it hasn’t as much money in its pocket!”
Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “Order–order,” and frantic “Motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction.
Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it.
Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the New Woman’s Club of Orchardina.
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER VIII.
Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, “We will have tea on the terrace,” it was brought them by a fourth.
“I was astonished at your attitude, Viva,” began the old lady, at length. “Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire’s fault in the first place, but to encourage that,–outrageous person! How could you do it!”
Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down.
“A sudden access of courage, I suppose,” she said. “I was astonished at myself.”
“I wholly disagree with you!” replied her mother-in-law. “Never in my life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the roots of the family.”
Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition, the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted worship of household gods.
“It doesn’t seem so to me,” she said slowly, “I was much interested and impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience, and put her case well. It has quite waked me up.”
“It has quite upset you!” was the reply. “You’ll be ill after this, I am sure. Hadn’t you better go and lie down now? I’ll have some dinner sent to you.”
“Thank you,” said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad terrace. “You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I haven’t felt so thoroughly awake in–” she drew a pink cluster of oleander against her cheek and thought a moment–“in several years.” There was a new look about her certainly.
“Nervous excitement,” her mother-in-law replied. “You’re not like yourself at all to-night. You’ll certainly be ill to-morrow!”
Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely kissing her. “Not at all!” she said gaily. “I’m going to be well to-morrow. You will see!”
She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha’s assured poise, her clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords in this woman’s nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening, windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her.
Orchardina Society, eagerly observing “young Mrs. Weatherstone” from her first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” Beside the firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin, though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.
She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon’s events. “I’m like that man in ‘Phantastes’,” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed so long in that dungeon because it didn’t occur to him to open the door! Why don’t I–?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind her. “I will!” she said at last.
Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of Diantha’s words. “Sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “And nobody doing anything!”
She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a crown. A clear red lit her checks.
She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “Have you been here long?” she asked. “What is your name?”
“No, ma’am,” said the child–she was scarce more. “Only a week and two days. My name is Ilda.”
“Who engaged you?”
“Mrs. Halsey, ma’am.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, “and I engaged Mrs. Halsey!” “Do you like it here?” she continued kindly.
“Oh yes, ma’am!” said Ilda. “That is–” she stopped, blushed, and continued bravely. “I like to work for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me–at once, please.”
Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new place, and mistress.
As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. “Whither away so fast, my dear?” he amiably inquired.
“Please let one pass, sir! I’m on an errand. Please, sir?”
“You must give me a kiss first!” said he–and since there seemed no escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six–and she ran away half crying.
Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress, and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse.
“I’m not dressed,” she said to the maid.
“Well she is!” replied Ilda, “dressed splendid. She said ‘at once, please.'”
“A pretty time o’ day!” said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before Mrs. Weatherstone.
That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter between the pages of a new magazine.
“In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?” she inquired.
“Pack, ma’am? I’m not accustomed to doing packing. I’ll send one of the maids. Is it your things, ma’am?”
“No,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “It is yours I refer to. I wish you to pack your things and leave the house–in an hour. One of the maids can help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you. Here is a check for the following month’s wages.”
Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye. This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution. “You’ve no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth. “I’ll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!”
“If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you will find that a month’s warning, or a month’s wages, was specified. Here are the wages–as to the warning, that has been given for some months past!”
“By whom, Ma’am?”
“By yourself, Mrs. Halsey–I think you understand me. Oscar will take your things as soon as they are ready.”
Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment–saw more than she cared to face–and left the room.
She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr. Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical.
When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and then from the new excitement, until dinner time.
This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor of daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes, the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home.
Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear before the purple footman who attended.
“I understood you were out, Viva,” she said politely.
“I was,” replied Viva, with equal decorum. “It is charming outside at this time in the evening–don’t you think so?”
Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing room, he broke out, “What’s this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired without notice?”
“That is what I wish to know, Viva,” said the grandmother. “The poor woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?”
“It’s a damn shame,” said Matthew.
The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how little she minded it. “The door was there all the time!” she thought to herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, “Hardly drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!”
He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, “No, there is no mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner. The terms of the engagement were a month’s warning or a month’s wages. I gave her the wages.”
“But! but!” Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in the nature of ‘interference’ and ‘presumption.’ “I have had no fault to find with her.”
“I have, you see,” said her daughter-in-law smiling. “I found her unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently. How about a little music, Matthew? Won’t you start the victrolla?”
Matthew wouldn’t. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam Weatherstone didn’t wish to hear it–had a headache–must go to her room–went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the athmosphere that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago.
As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height, and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a little. “It’s open!” said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for it she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone.
*
Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. This proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted on addressing her.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “I am not acquainted with you.”
They eagerly produced their cards–and said they were “newspaper men.”
“I see,” said Diantha, “But you are still men? And gentlemen, I suppose? I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you.”
“Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed,” wrote the reporters, and spent themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed thereby.
But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two being women.
Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The girl’s blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the door after her.
The reporters described her appearance–unfavorably this time; and they described the house–also unfavorably. They said that “A group of adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of the afternoon made her brusque entrance.” These adorers consisted of the landlady’s Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little hurried in her entrance–truth must be maintained.
Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two, lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it, all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so patiently.
“Dearest,” her swift pen flew along, “I really feel much encouraged. An impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked prosperous and reliable. ‘When you begin any such business as you have outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,’ he said, and gave me his card. He’s a lawyer–P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another big, sheepish-looking man said, ‘And me, Miss Bell.’ His name is Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind–my! ‘If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence!’–but it don’t.”
She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone’s remarks. “I liked her,” she wrote. “She’s a nice woman–even if she is rich.”
There was a knock at her door. “Lady to see you, Miss.”
“I cannot see anyone,” said Diantha; “you must excuse me.”
“Beg pardon, Miss, but it’s not a reporter; it’s–.” The landlady stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely, “It’s young Mrs. Weatherstone!”
Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. “I’ll be right down,” she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, “I beg your pardon, Miss Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?”
She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held Diantha’s hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. “I was a schoolmate of Ellen Porne,” she told the girl. “We are dear friends still; and so I feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you.”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Diantha.
“You, too,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Now I want you to come to me–right away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a New England bred school teacher myself at first, so we’re even that far. Then you took a step up–and I took a step down.”
Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. “I gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you’ll understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge for years and years, and I’ve been too lazy or too weak, or too indifferent, to do anything. I didn’t care, somehow. All the machinery of living, and no _living_–no good of it all! Yet there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up–your paper this afternoon–what Mr. Eltwood said–the way those poor, dull, blind women took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to see things now. I can’t tell you all at once what a difference it has made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you come and be my housekeeper, now–right away–at a hundred dollars a month?”
Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she suspected her nervous balance.
“The other one got a thousand a year–you are worth more. Now, don’t decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have plans ahead, for this business; but it can’t hurt you much to put them off six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at Santa Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn’t be bad practice for you–now, would it?”
Diantha’s troubled eyes lit up. “No–you are right there,” she said. “If I could do it!”
“You’ll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your business, won’t you?” her visitor went on. “And the summer’s not a good time to start a thing like that, is it?”
Diantha meditated. “No, I wasn’t going to. I was going to start somewhere–take a cottage, a dozen girls or so–and furnish labor by the day to the other cottages.”
“Well, you might be able to run that on the side,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you like; it doesn’t seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you quite frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You do me good.”
They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to the suddenness of it all. “I’m a slow thinker,” she said, “and this is so–so attractive that I’m suspicious of it. I had the other thing all planned–the girls practically engaged.”
“Where were you thinking of going?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone.
“To Santa Ulrica.”
“Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them part time. Or–how many have you arranged with?”
“Only six have made definite engagements yet.”
“What kind?”
“Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones.”
“Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls. I’m making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them to me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you’d come home with me to-night! Why don’t you?”
Diantha’s scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing.
“Put the new address in the letter,” she said, mischievously, “and come along!”
*
And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the darkness, rolled them home.
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER IX.
“SLEEPING IN.”
Men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them, Left their homes new countries to subdue; Young men seeking fortune wide have wandered– We have something new.
Armies of young maidens cross our oceans; Leave their mother’s love, their father’s care; Maidens, young and helpless, widely wander, Burdens new to bear.
Strange the land and language, laws and customs; Ignorant and all alone they come;
Maidens young and helpless, serving strangers, Thus we keep the Home.
When on earth was safety for young maidens Far from mother’s love and father’s care? We preserve The Home, and call it sacred– Burdens new they bear.
The sun had gone down on Madam Weatherstone’s wrath, and risen to find it unabated. With condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table.
That Mrs. Halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her.
Young Mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation of a sort of Roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic stepmother would furnish the amusement. They were both surprised to find her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer white, with deep-toned violets in her belt.
She ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the lovely morning–the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts ill seconded, however.
“Shall I attend to the orders this morning?” asked Madam Weatherstone with an air of noble patience.
“O no, thank you!” replied Viva. “I have engaged a new housekeeper.”
“A new housekeeper! When?” The old lady was shaken by this inconceivable promptness.
“Last night,” said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table, her color rising a little.
“And when is she coming, if I may ask?”
“She has come. I have been with her an hour already this morning.”
Young Mathew smiled. This was amusing, though not what he had expected. “How extremely alert and businesslike!” he said lazily. “It’s becoming to you–to get up early!”
“You can’t have got much of a person–at a minute’s notice,” said his grandmother. “Or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?”
“No,” said Viva. “I have wanted to get rid of Mrs. Halsey for some time, but the new one I found yesterday.”
“What’s her name?” inquired Mathew.
“Bell–Miss Diantha Bell,” she answered, looking as calm as if announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result somewhat. Like most of such terrors it was overestimated.
There was a little pause–rather an intense little pause; and then–“Isn’t that the girl who set ’em all by the ears yesterday?” asked the young man, pointing to the morning paper. “They say she’s a good-looker.”
Madam Weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. “I must say I am very sorry, Viva, that you should have been so–precipitate! This young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this–to say nothing of her scandalous ideas. Mrs. Halsey was–to my mind–perfectly satisfactory. I shall miss her very much.” She swept out with an unanswerable air.
“So shall I,” muttered Mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her; “unless the new one’s equally amiable.”
Viva Weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young man.
“I don’t _know_,” she said to herself, “but I do feel–think–imagine–a good deal. I’m sure I hope not! Anyway–it’s new life to have that girl in the house.”
That girl had undertaken what she described to Ross as “a large order–a very large order.”
“It’s the hardest thing I ever undertook,” she wrote him, “but I think I can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. Mrs. Weatherstone’s a brick–a perfect brick! She seems to have been very unhappy–for ever so long–and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just because she didn’t care enough to resist. Now she’s got waked up all of a sudden–she says it was my paper at the club–more likely my awful example, I think! and she fired her old housekeeper–I don’t know what for–and rushed me in.
“So here I am. The salary is good, the work is excellent training, and I guess I can hold the place. But the old lady is a terror, and the young man–how you would despise that Johnny!”
The home letters she now received were rather amusing. Ross, sternly patient, saw little difference in her position. “I hope you will enjoy your new work,” he wrote, “but personally I should prefer that you did not–so you might give it up and come home sooner. I miss you as you can well imagine. Even when you were here life was hard enough–but now!–
“I had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through. If I could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch–fruit, hens, anything–then we could all live on it; more cheaply, I think; and I could find time for some research work I have in mind. You remember that guinea-pig experiment I want so to try?”
Diantha remembered and smiled sadly. She was not much interested in guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in her lover and his happiness. “Ranch,” she said thoughtfully; “that’s not a bad idea.”
Her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful. Her father wrote none–“A woman’s business–this letter-writin’,” he always held; and George, after one scornful upbraiding, had “washed his hands of her” with some sense of relief. He didn’t like to write letters either.
But Susie kept up a lively correspondence. She was attached to her sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while she utterly disapproved of Diantha’s undertaking, a sense of sisterly duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. It did not, however, always make these agreeable reading.
“Mother’s pretty well, and the girl she’s got now does nicely–that first one turned out to be a failure. Father’s as cranky as ever. We are all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby Diantha had not seen) is just a Darling! You ought to be here, you unnatural Aunt! Gerald doesn’t ever speak of you–but I do just the same. You hear from the Wardens, of course. Mrs. Warden’s got neuralgia or something; keeps them all busy. They are much excited over this new place of yours–you ought to hear them go on! It appears that Madam Weatherstone is a connection of theirs–one of the F. F. V’s, I guess, and they think she’s something wonderful. And to have _you_ working _there!_–well, you can just see how they’d feel; and I don’t blame them. It’s no use arguing with you–but I should think you’d have enough of this disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!”
Diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they were far from stimulating. “It’s no use arguing with poor Susie!” she decided. “Susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery and parlor!
“Mother can’t see the good of it yet, but she will later–Mother’s all right.
“I’m awfully sorry the Wardens feel so–and make Ross unhappy–but of course I knew they would. It can’t be helped. It’s just a question of time and work.”
And she went to work.
*
Mrs. Porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness and curiosity.
“How does it work? Do you like her as much as you thought? Do tell me about it, Viva. You look like another woman already!”
“I certainly feel like one,” Viva answered. “I’ve seen slaves in housework, and I’ve seen what we fondly call ‘Queens’ in housework; but I never saw brains in it before.”
Mrs. Porne sighed. “Isn’t it just wonderful–the way she does things! Dear me! We do miss her! She trained that Swede for us–and she does pretty well–but not like ‘Miss Bell’! I wish there were a hundred of her!”
“If there were a hundred thousand she wouldn’t go round!” answered Mrs. Weatherstone. “How selfish we are! _That_ is the kind of woman we all want in our homes–and fuss because we can’t have them.”
“Edgar says he quite agrees with her views,” Mrs. Porne went on. “Skilled labor by the day–food sent in–. He says if she cooked it he wouldn’t care if it came all the way from Alaska! She certainly can cook! I wish she’d set up her business–the sooner the better.”
Mrs. Weatherstone nodded her head firmly. “She will. She’s planning. This was really an interruption–her coming here, but I think it will be a help–she’s not had experience in large management before, but she takes hold splendidly. She’s found a dozen ‘leaks’ in our household already.”