Newspaper Page Text
APIIIL, 1896
For Woman’s Work.
REWARD
Choose thou the right, and let not error sway
thee;
Think not a momentary gain excuse for wrong,
However dark the night, the morning will repay
thee
By bringing light and sunshine, happiness and
song.
Bor Woman's Work.
BETTY.
BY MARION HOLMES.
a name! enough to damp
■en my ambition! I’ve heard
mv mother had been very
j much taken with Miss Thack
eray’s “Elizabeth” and Jean
OS®
Ingelow’s “High Tide on the Coastof Lin
colnshire,” where a lady of the same name
was spoken of as “the sweetest woman that
e’er drew breath,” before my entrance into
the world, and determined to call her
first daughter after these charming ideals,
little thinking what a discontented young
person I was to turn out.
I cannot begin with anything about my
ancient lineage, though I believe Seymour
is considered a good name. My father,
poor man, seemed to have correlatives, no
property, no luck. He died whes I was
but six years old. I suppose he had been
good to my mother, for she always spoke
affectionately of him, and I know he had
insured his life in her favor for quite a
large sum (for him), and kept up his pay
ments, even though it was a bard struggle
to do so. At bis death, the insurance com
pany handed over a sum which, well in
vested, brought in seven hundred dollars a
year. For a few years this made us quite
comfortable mother used to say, and she
could keep one hard-working black woman;
but very soon all she could spare was laid
out on education, just for us girls who were
the oldest, and then the boys. There were
four of us fortunately healthy children.
We were brought up to do everything for
ourselves, so that soon no help was needed,
only the washing being put out, and an
old black ‘‘aunty” coming in on Saturdays
to scrub the kitchen. The most frequent
ly repeated sentences in our house seemed
to be “we cannot afford it,” or “we must be
thankful for the many blessings we have.”
Fortunately a good college had been es
tablished in Bethel (as our little town was
called) for fifty years, and there the two
boys went.
At sixteen I began to really help moth
er, though Fanny and I were still attend
ing some classes at a very good school in
the town. Oh, how 1 hated cooking and
washing dishes, and never a cent to spend
as I liked, no going to concerts or parties,
like the other girls; it all required money,
ready money. It’s queer how little bits of
metal or paper can make such a horrid dif
ference in a mortal being’s life!
Ours was a pretty town of three or four
thousand inhabitants; mountains tower
all about us, and there were exquisite
views and lovely walks, at least so Mother
thought. But these things didn’t satisfy
me. Fanny, my little round blue-eyed
sister, was just like mother—easy-going,
poetical, contented. We seldom had visi
tors, never any young men, except Jack
Wollaston, the doctor’s son; and he was
the very nicest boy in town.
I suppose I ought to describe myself.
No silken lashes swept my cheek, no clouds
of golden or raven hair adorned my head.
Jack said I had kind eyes, and I knew my
figure was tall and very straight, and I al
so knew how to dress with good effect. I
hate a dowdy girl; even if one’s dress is only
a ten cents percale, let it be jimp and trim
and fitting snugly. My hands were rather
nice, and by hook and crook I kept decent
gloves on them; my feet—well, the least
said of them the better, out of doors they
looked well enough, but I was obliged to
wear elderly slippers about the house, be
cause, in spite of hating work, I would go
at it with such a vengeance, I'wore myself
and my feet out. Mother often said, “Do
your best and leave the rest;” that we
weren’t born housemaids, and as long as
things were tolerably neat and we were all
well fed. she was content, that it didn’t do
to worry one’s self into a fever, and get
cross with all the family just for the sake
of seeing one’s self in the oiled floors; but I
would polish and rub, with linseed oil, coal
oil, turpentine, anything I could get; my
own floor was dangerously slippery; and 1
would take Mother’s neatly hemmed dus
ters and dishcloths for any kind of oily
preparation, till she would softly moan. It
was the same in the kitchen. 1 dashed at
everything, used whatever came first, took
the skirt of my dress to open a burning
hot stove, nice glass cloths to wipe a black
ened saucepan. I’m confessing all my
bad ways, but nevertheless I could do more
th»u tUree or tour people} ip half the tiipe;
nobody could set a prettier table, and I
could get up a tasty meal out of nothing.
Mother said she was often tired from my
exertions. Fanny never shirked the work,
but always liked to work under some one
else; she was always full of pleasant ta’k,
and, like Mother, made fun of any difficul
ties—saw the droll side of genteel poverty;
but I chose to think fate had dealt very
bitterly with me, and longed and longed
for riches.
Our two boys were utterly unlike:
Douglas quiet and very studious; Frank,
the merriest, most useful boy—not caring
much for books, but always ready to drive
a nail, mend a chair, stop a smoky chim
ney; a delightful boy about the house, and
managing to coax me to make him all
sorts of favorite dishes—hot rolls, corn
muffins, or beef steak pie with plenty of
under crust. I liked good things myself,
and so took the trouble to keep the table
well supplied. As for Mother and Fanny,
it they hadn’t to think of the boys, it
would be just a cup of tea and a piece of
toast from day to day. I always liked to
have something good to give Jack after
our games of chess, which we played to
gether two or three evenings of each week.
Mother never seemed to think about
marrying us off, or asking eligible young
men to the house; as long as the boys were
doing well in their studies, and she could
go to church, and visit a few old ladies, she
was happy. I had no patience with her;
I hated “the trivial round, the common
task,” and wanted a great house, loads of
money, numbers of servants, a maid to
wait on me, great dinner parties, lovely
decorated tables, to travel abroad with a
rich husband! There was no limit to my
ambition, and, strange to say, I got an un
expected glimpse of such a life at last.
One day mother got a letter from a cousin,
a wealthy woman, in New York. It ran
thus:
“My dear Frances:
“Since my husband’s death last win
ter I’ve been very lonely, having, as you
know, no children. I write to ask one of
your daughters to visit me, hoping I may
be able to introduce her into good society
where perhaps she may meet a suitable
match. In the interest of some young life
about me, I may forget my own sorrows.
“If you decide on allowing one of them
to accept my invitation, I will at once pro
vide means for an ample outfit and travel
ing expenses.
“Your affectionate cousin,
Sarah Gray.”
Mother folded the letter without a word,
till I shook her arm, and said: “Mother,
aren’t you thankful? You always say you
are thankful for mercies, and this seems a
crowning mercy, providing for me, for of
course it is I who will go.”
“I wouldn’t go tor the world,” said
Fanny, slipping her ruddy little hand into
Mother’s.
“Who is Sarah Gray?” Douglas asked,
for the letter had come by the evening
mail, the boys bringing it on their way
home from college.
“Mrs. Gray,” said my mother, “is a dis
tant cousin. We went to school together,
and she married a very rich man before
she was twenty. She came to see me once,
when you were all very small, and said she
wished she had a child of her own, but that
she c ouldn’t bear to be as poor as I was—
‘life wouldn’t be worth living’—and since
that -time I’ve heard little or nothing of
her, save at Xmas, when her business man
sends me regularly twenty-five dollars to
spend on you children.”
“Oh, I know the letter,” shouted Frank,
“we always have some kind of treat out of
it.”
“Yes,” said Fanny, “and once, Frank,
when you were bringing home the letter,
you called out to Mother that the person
who was to send it, had changed his mind
and sent it to the missionaries; you had it
hidden in your pocket. Mother had prom
ised us we should go to Barnum’s great
show, which was coming to our nearest
town, if she received her usual kind gift
from New York, so that is who it came
from.”
There was a world of talk now, a regu
lar family parliament, without which
nothing was settled in our house. Jack
came in and heard the letter, but didn’t
seem to join in our talk with his usual heart
iness. I unfolded to them my visions of
luxury, gathered I suppose from novels,
of softly stepping servants, swiftly rolling
carriages, balls, bands, flowers; but though
the others smiled at my excitement, Jack
only looked sad; he seemed to have grown
older very suddenly. When he arose to
go, I went to let him out and said, “Jack,
old boy. why are you so glum?” and he
said: “Because I despise that woman who
writes about a suitable match! Betty, 1
had hoped when I could earn enough, to
marry you myself, but you are so ambitious,
and need so much, there seems little
chance of that,” and he wrung my band
and ran down the garden path. But I
uwlo him coiqe back, ani| said; “.lack
WOMAN'S WORK.
we’ve played from childhood together; you
just like me as Frank does; you are only a
boy, and when you go out into the world
you will see somebody ever so much better
and prettier than I am.”
“I’m twenty years old, Betty, and you
are nearly eighteen, and I shall never see
anyone I like half so well;” this time he
walked swiftly away, and I returned quite
dumbfounded to the house. And yet I
felt a kind of extraordinary new happi
ness,perhaps it was the prospect of the rich
new life offered me by Mrs. Gray!
I found the others still discussing the
invitation. Frank said: “Let Betty go,
Mother; she does slave so about the
house.”
This was enough to settle the question,
for my hard manner of working distressed
mother, and Douglas added soberly, “Poor
Betty has been so unhappy at home! Let
her try a new sphere; perhaps when ‘dis
tance lends enchantment’ Bethel won’t ap
pear so desperate a place.”
Mrs. Gray’s invitation was accepted, the
money came back, and the house was full
of business. I felt so important for the
first time in my life, going from one dress
maker to the other, choosing the best ma
terials and trimmings at the shops where
I had been accustomed to look for the
cheapest.
Two poor sewing women were flooded
with dainty cambric and lace to make my
under clothing, for Mrs. Gray had written
full directions for quite a lavish outfit.
Fanny was quite glad to get my left off
garments—so little satisfied her.
At last all was ready; such excellent
trunks had been purchased, a smart rug
d one up with straps, and a good silk umbrell>.
No card-board boxes or paper bundles for
me on this journey! Somehow that last
night the dining room looked so cosy,
with its dark red paper, and cloth, and
green shaded student’s lamp, throwing a
pleasant light down on a great bunch of
yellow roses Jack had sent me!
Mrs. Gray had asked Mother to get a
maid for me, but we knew nothing of the
kind could be found in Bethel; besides, I
didn’t want anyone who had known me
in my poor home; so we informed her, and
she wrote that she would b«veone awaiting
me at the station in New York if I thought
I could travel there alone.
“I shall think of you, Betty,” said Fan
ny, “in the mornings, a maid gently tap
ping at your door, and bringing in a
fragrant cup of tea to awaken you—you
who always sprang up at dawn to
rush down stairs and make hot rolls or fix
up a nice breakfast out of nothing ‘for the
good of the family;’ how we shall miss
you! But you certainly deserve the
change.”
And it was a change! I saw Jack for a
moment at the station; then all the sordid,
poor life vanished. I sat back in the
luxurious Pullman car for the first time in
my life, and was whirled away to a new
world.
Twenty-four hours later a carriage, that
had met me with my new maid, “Ben
tham,” in it, drew up before a fine looking
house in a fashionable part of New York.
I was shown into a charming room lined
with books, and most kindly welcomed by
a fine looking woman of fifty years of age,
beautifully dressed. She looked me over
rather critically I thought, perhaps calcu
lating what chance there was of my mak
ing any mark, and gave a little thoughtful
nod as if saying, “You will do:” then she
told Bentham to take me to my room so
that I might take off my things; breakfast,
she said, would be served in fifteen min
utes.
Such a beautiful bed-room! All in pink
—even the globes of the electric lights. I
really felt anxious to do what was the
proper thing with a maid, and half feared
to take off my own gloves, but Bentham
busied herself in opening the trunks and
laying the things in the drawers and ward
robe, so I took off my hat and veil, ar
ranged my hair, and, having a well fitted
serge dress on, felt that I was all right.
Proceeding to find my way back to Mrs.
Gray, I went down the broad staircase,
carrying my back even straighter than
usual, looking with pleasure and curiosity
at the beautiful pictures and rare china
that decorated the walls; a sudden deep,
humming sound, getting louder and
louder, startled me. I saw a neat maid
beating on a queer, round thing; at the same
moment Mrs. Gray appeared, and took my
arm, saying: “Ah, the gong told you
breakfast was ready, and I hope you are
as hungry as a healthy young woman
should bei” So that was a gongl I was
determined to pretend to know everything
—to »how no rural surprise at anything
And o'n, how that breakfast table delighted
me! Tbo satin v cloth, the solid, shining
silver, lovely fliwers, dainty food, china
so thin I could see my fingers through
HI
‘fj think, my dear,” said Mrs. Gray,
•(we mqst change your name. ‘Betty’
.soupds s>» yery ahooking; what<|° you say
to Bettina.”
I felt that I wouldn’t know myself by
anything so elegant, but answered that I
would be thankful if she could change
it, for it had distressed me all mv life.
My father was supposed to have given it
to me, not feeling that Elizabeth was suf
ficiently endearing.
“I hate the name.”
“Not hate, my dear; in good society one
is never prononce— one is always gentle
and unmoved, whatever occurs—however
disastrous or agitating.
I thought to myself: “You little know
me if you think I’m going to be a wax
doll. I’ll hate and love as I please and
say what I please,” but at the same time
I felt that a gentle, firm power was over
me, swathed in all this so't iess and luxury;
this lap of luxury into which I had fallen
might perhaps have the effect of rounding
my corners.
As I sat in the library after breakfast
surrounded by the newest literature, I
thought what a joy Mother and Fanny
would take in browsing among the maga
zines. What was Fanny doing now? I
looked at a marble clock, ticking softlv on
the mantlepiece; it was ten o’clock! Fan
ny would be seeing about dinner, perhaps
putting on a piece of “white meat” to boil
with beans, and making one of her good
little puddings, made after the recipe of
“one sparse cup of sugar,’one sparse cup of
butter, etc.” Her puddings always turned
out well—she was so careful and exact,
while mine were often too dashingly made,
too liberal quantities if I kad the ma
terials. Still, they used to say at home
when I was obliged to face an almost
empty pantry, that “Betty would be sure
to turn out something good.” Well, I
would forget all those mean, poor things
now, and enjoy my new life!
The days flew by! The soft knocking
of the maid with the awakening cup of tea
began the day; p’enty of time for a
leisurely bath and toilet, Bentham trying
several new modes for doing my hair; a
dainty breakfast; it was so odd not to
know what was coming! Then driving
about to order things, or to s-e a new
picture, or attend some saint’s-day service,
lunch at two, amusing one’s self with
books or letters, then another drive, a go >r
deal dressed—Mrs. Gray complimented
me on my excellent taste—afternoon tea
somewhere or receiving callers at home
on one special day; dinner at seven with
always two or three guests, for Mrs. Gray
thought it was too soon after her hus
band’s death to either go out to large
parties or receive many guests at home.
Thus the winter glided by; I was steep
ed in bliss, but even now I sometimes
longed to jump up and turn all the furni
ture out of my room, and sweep, and
polish up, especially on rainy days. Ac
tually, sometimes at night I felt I should
like to run down to the pantry at home,
and get a “snack;” yes, I used that com
mon word in my own private mind.
I got letters from home, of course, but
they seemed so tame, and homely; in fact
I was ashamed of them, for Mother would
write of daily little humble doings, and
economies, always with a spice of fun.
She took a droll view of things that seemed
to me quite debasing and distressing.
Fanny’s were full of scenery or poetry.
I tore Mother’s up into small fragments
lest Bentham should read them and hear
of Mother’s making a currant loaf for the
boys, and inadvertently upsetting a pan of
water on the kitchen floor, or of visitors
arriving suddenly, and there not being
enough dinner napkins clean for dinner,
of Fanny having to wash out a few, and
fearing they would feel damp and warm
to the guests from their hurried ironing;
of course I knew, poor things, they had
nothing else to write about. I wrote pages
to them, of all our doings, and wanted to
send them some money; but I only had
five dollars a week for gloves, and little
incidental expenses—everything else was
provided for me.
I told Fanny in one letter how I wanted
to send some money home, but she wrote
back that Mother wouldn't like it at all;
that she had enough for all her wants, and
thought Mrs. Gray had done nobly by me.
I did manage sometimes to send a pretty
neck-tie to the boys, or a pair or two of
gloves, that I had hardly worn, to Fanny.
Bentham wouldn’t permit me to put them
on again; I wonder what she thought I
did with theml
We went to Bar Harbour the following
summer, as several of our acquaintances
were going there. Two or three gentle
men had been very attentive to me. Mrs.
Gray was particularly civil to a Mr. Scroop,
a very rich old bachelor, who had made
a fortune out of paper bags, I believe:
one of those men who start in life with
Qfty cents and make a million. He was a
dear old fellow; I quite liked him, but he
seemed to few intimate triends.
(7’q be e:>ntiniuid.)
3