Our Novelettes.

Western Star, Issue 987, 3 October 1885, Page 1 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes.

THE HAD T.H ELP. “My dear Nell, I have never heard anything more absurd or ridiculous an my life,” says my husband. reaching across the break-fast-table and helping himself for the fourth time to the hot buttered toast. “ Ridiculous!” echo I, letting the lid of the tea pot fall with a snap. •* Nothing of the kind, when you come to think of it. What is there absurd in trying to get rid of half the work in' the house, and securing a pleasant companion for myself? It is not at all too lively, I can toll you, being alone here all day.” “Can’t you have another try at the old plan, if you find it too much for you by yourself?” “ Jack, Jack, how often have I told you within, the last week that inside these doors another servant shall never enter—not if I have to kill myself with the work?” Isay heroically. My husband looks up from his rapidlyemptying plate, smiles sceptically across his tea-cup at the notion of the fine, plump young woman sitting opposite being ever likely to work herself to death, and remarks—- “ Nell, Nell, how often have I told you within the last week that this thing which you propose will bring you no end of trouble and misery ? If you won’t have another servant, struggle a little longer by yourself. It is not so very hard, is it dear ?” “Of course,” cry I, rapidly losing my temper, “ as usual, like a man, you think there is nothing to be done. No doubt the floors all sweep themselves, and the fires light of their own accord, and the beds get made and the dinners get cooked without any one ever having to give them a thought. It’s all very well for'you, but I’m sick of it. I have never done auch things before, and my hands are getting ruined, and I won’t have anything more to Ho with it. The whole place may go to the dogs, as far as I am concerned 1” I windup furiously. We have been married Jack and l—exactly seven weeks. One of us extremely handsome ; we adore one another madly ; we have been exceptionally happy, and now we are on the brink of a quarrel.. Rive weeks before,, when we had completed our wedding-tour, Jack brought me home to the dearest, sweetest little house that ever delighted the heart of a J'oung bride, complete in every detail of furnishing, wellstocked with all that the most exacting housekeeper could require, with a lovely garden and lawn, a great weeping lime, under which Jack and I could have our tea in the evenings, a small greenhouse, and lastly; a tall, prim, middle-aged Irish general servant, “highly recommended by her last mistress, who is in town at present,” and hired for us by Jack’s horrid, prim old maiden aunt, who lives in a horrid prim old cottage, opposite the postoffice. ! ‘ ■ ■ , ' 1, .

Bridget, or “ Brudgit,” as the general servant called herself, from the first day took p, violent dislike to me—whether from my total want of knowledge of everything cjunected with housekeeping, or a private intuition that I was a young person impossible to get on with, I cannot 'tell, but certain it is that at the end of a week we were at deadly warfare with each other. Jack, who still regarded me through the glamour of his adoring love as nothing short of perfection, insisted on laying all the blame on her shoulders, arid showing her the door, which called down on my devoted head the unending wrath *of the old aunt. With the next maid we had no better success ; and in another week she shared the fate of the first. The third, an out-and-out thief, after wringing the necks of half-a-dozen of our beat laying hens and selling them—after making away with no end of house linen and silver spoons—saved us the trouble of discharging her by taking herself off at the end of a fortnight. That was three weeks ago ; and ever since I have been trying hard and faithfully to “do” general servant. Never was an effort crowned with a greater failure. To give an adequate idea of the frightful messes which, with the aid of a cookery-book, were concocted and set before my long-suffer-ing and patient husband, who never uttered a word of complaint, but bravely and manfully each day tried to persuade me that he had never eaten so heartily in his life, by partaking of everything with an assumption of eagerness and relish j to describe my agonising efforts to' light the fires with wet wood, the destruction of Jack’s boots by polishing them with black load, and the ruin of every knife in the house, which are all now so many saws through my skilful knack of cleaning them—all this and many other calamities would take a lifetime. ,

One day, a week ago, I was up at the glebe paying a visit to Mrs Brownrigg,;the parson’s wife; who had, like myself, just been having what she called a “heart scalding” with servants, but now had found peace and con* eolation and delightful companionship through a lady who for a certain salary did half or more of the duties of a servant, and was con* sidored and treated as one of the family. This person cailed herself a lady-help. Being sick to death of failure' day after day, and hating housework more than I ever bated anything before, I immediately deter* mined to try Mrs Brownrigg’s plan, if Jack would give his consent, and, if he would not, to try it without. 1 Having learnt that the parson’s wife procured her lady-help through advertising in one of the London papers, I went home, planning in my own mind an attractive and enticing advertisement, offering to any nice, young, and competent lady all the comforts of a home and a salary onethird larger than that given Joy the Brownriggs. When I proposed it that evening to Jack, after having given him a more than usually outrageous dinner, he pooh-poohed it, and made such fun of me as almost to completely dishearten me. But the next evening, fortified by another visit to the glebe, and a renewed assurance of the comfort and delight of a lady-help, I suggested it again,' meeting, however, with no better success. Ever since, at intervals, I have renewed the subject, determined to have Jack’s consent, if 1 cad get it, and equally determined to have a ladyhelp, if I can’t, and have completely failed to make him see matters from my point of view. Utterly worn out with many failures, and heartily sick of being a servant, I make on this morning one more effort to bring my husband round. We are exactly at the same point as when I proposed the innovation a week ago, Wo finish our breakfast in silence. My husband leaves the room, and returns, in a few minutes, ready to go his office for the day. Yery cross and angry, X collect the broakfast-things, and put them on the tray, making an awlul clatter. Presently he comes over to mo, takes one of my hands in his, pushes back the brown hair from my face, and says—- “ Does'not my little girl know that anything I consider good lor her, or that in any way will tend to make her happy, I will do for herP” I shrug my shoulders.

"That is all very fine,” I say, looking down, “ but the very first thing I ask for you want me pot to have.”

“Yes, dear, but such a tiling J hardly consider good for you. Supposing that you did as you suggest—get a young lady to come and live with you—and supposing that I should fall in love with her and she with me—where would you be then P” At this awful suggestion my indignation knows no bounds. If this is the strength of his love for me, I have reason to mistrust every glance he besrows away from me. “ Indeed I am sure she would nothing of the kind. Rut .you don't care how I have to slave from njorning till night!” I cry, beginning to sob. "Ido my best, and nothing ever comes right. I am .never idle for one moment; and the only result are dinners that would poison any one in the world but yourself—and yet you won’t let me have any one to set me right, and—and-^—” Here I break down utterly. lam sobbing piteously—the tears are pouring holly over my cheeksi —T scrub my face with my pockethandkerchief till I make my eyes quite red. At this affecting spectacle my husband is completely overcome. “ My darling Nell,” he says, taking me into his arms, “ I had no idea your heart was so altogether sot on it., But, if you think that any young unmarried person can- resist the charms of your poor old husband and set you right, perhaps we might try for a short time. We cannot have anything worse than those servants were.”. ,

“ And you are sure you will like it ?” say I, drying my eyes and {rapidly regaining my good spirits now that I am gaining my point. “ The question is whether you like it. But I must be off, my love ; we will have a long chat over it this evening,” he says, as he takes my poor little plain face between his hands, looks lovingly down, and kissess it twice. “By the way,” he adds, “ don’t empty the pepper-box into the gravy to-day, and it will be all right.” And he goes out and leaves me. .... . ‘

That such a husband does not exist in the whole wide world, I assure myself. I watch him from the window as, tall and straight, lie steps along the gravel-walk to the gate. Young, strong, handsome, whatever did he see in the little rosy-faced, dowerless girl ho hes married that ho should find her wor*diy of his great, immeasurable love and all the good things he lavishes on her ? As I stand and* watch, a great and mighty thankfulness fills my heart. 1 For the first time I go to my work with a right good will, light and joyous of hbart, and determined to«do better than ever. I polish the*grates with a result that amazes me; I sweep the floors and dust the fnrniture with a zest that would defy competition with the briskest housemaid that ever wisked a duster; and at half-past twelve o’clock I sit down to the piano in the drawing room, with tidy hair and a fresh muslin dress,, flushed, hot, unutterably happy, having nothing more to do till the dread hod? foi? cooking the dinner,' and sing myself out of breath.* I sew a little, I read a little, I garden a little, and then ! cook a great deal; and when my husband returns at six o’clock I reward him with a more' astounding repast than evd?, which he partakes of with his usual good temper, and assurances that I am getting to be a better cook every day; and I smile back at him, knowing that he does not believe it any more than I do myself. ; Then we stroll out into the garden and form our plans, and when we return Jack writes a beautiful advertisement for, the Times, while I get tea;.-and.then we walk to the post-office and post it, and I am delighted and perfectly contented, and, because I am, so is he'. "• ; # * ’ ■'. For four days we hear nothing of the .advertisement, and I am in depths of despair, when the fifth morning brings us .two letters. In a transport of delight I tear them open. The firat is from a lady who encloses hop photogragh and says she can meet all my requirements, can give the highest references, and most satisfactory information as to birth, parentage, aud connections j has lived with one lady whom she was obliged to leavd from ill health, but is now perfectly strong; is a capital cook, and a most economical manager, and is thirty-seven iyears of age; will'-be pleased to hear from Mrs John Huddarfc at her earliest convenience, and, if she can come to an arrangement, will be able to enter upon her duties at once. 1 ■ ' : v “I must have some one that is young," I say, handing the carte to Jack, who sees at a glance that she will not do., “By Jove, thirty-seven!” he says, scanning it attentively, and 'breaking into a laugh. “ Poor soul, she will never see fifty again 1” “ A photograph does make one look older, you know, Jack." • “Perhaps—but not so much as in this ease. I am afraid we shall have to decline her with thanks, my love.” • The next letter is worse. The lady is a widow, would require a private sitting-room, could not undent iko any cooking at all, but is handy and useful about a house. “Never mind,” says Ja)k, when he had perused it, seeing my dejected face aud eyes full of tears j “ if we keep on advertising we must sooner or later come across some one who will do.” ' 1

But somehow I do not gather any grains of comfort in looking forward to the indefinite time when I may hope to get what I .want. I never could look at things in the same cheerful way as Jack. With a heart as heavy as it was light heretofore, I resume my daily duties, and blunder through them With more than ordinary stupidity. By the time Jack comes home, I am a little more cheerful. Who could meet his smiling face and loving embrace with suoh a doleful countenance as mine Iris been all day ? In spite of myself, I have to smile back at him, and a ray of pity darts through my heart as I think of the villianbus ragout that itf steaming on the dinner-table, and I feel a sharp pang of regret that I have not attempted something plainer and more digestible to set before my poor hungry husband. “Well, my darlingf” ho says, as we attack our unpalatible provender. “ I see by your face that this day Jjas brought you nothing! but I have great hopes for the night post. I have always found it better than the morning one, I never got a letter from you in the morning, Nell.” “Did you notP But that was because there was only ope post in the day in that horrid little Irish, village.” “ One post at night, you mean.” “ But I did write to you when in London.” « Only twice, and both. were night letters.” “ Ah, vf el!, may be you are rignt! I can’t say, for my part, that I think to-night will bring anything or the morning either.” But, as usual, Jack is right and I am wrong. The night post does bring something —something most satisfactory too~a letter from a young lady aged twenty-four, who delights in housework of every kind—references unexceptionable, &c. and is living only eight miles from us, and signs herself “ M. Heriot." When it arrives, 4 Jack is out—he has gone to post his letters ; but so impatient am X to secure her at once that I write appointing to meet her the next day at five o’clock at her own residence ; and then, to make everything comfortable by the time my husband returns, I put away my desk, clear the table of the litter of papers that are sirowii over it, cavry them into the kitchen, sad throw them cm the fire, As loop w thsf

are burnt, I remember that, with my usual stupidity, I have, amongst the others, desdestroyed the lady-help’s letter, and cannot show it to Jack.

As I ruefully contemplate the blackened remains, my husband lets himself in with his latch-key, and comes to me. “ Never mind, dear,” he says, when I have told him. “You have as gnod as got her—that is the main point—no matter about the letter being gone.” And then we assure ourselves that we have found a treasure, and that all our worries are at an end. Jack will not come with me to see her. He says she might be put out at the appearance of so handsome and imposing a gentleman coming to engage her; bo will reserve himself as a pleasant surprise for her when she comes. And so the next day my husband sends a fly for me from the hotel—the very same fly that brought us, bride and bridegroom, home six weeks before. As I travel along the dusty lanes, under the summer trms, my heart is full of gladness. I foresee an end to all my troubles, and a bright vista of happy days stretches before me. No more hideous, digestion-destroying meals for Jack! I shall leave all (he, cooking to the lady-help, until such time, under her instruction, as she shall deem me fit to resume it. No more gashes in, the knives! I shall leave them all to her also..- As she says she is; fond of work, it would be a pity not to give her plenty to do.

The fly stops, I get out and ascend the steps of a respectable lodging house in a respectable street, and am shown up to the first floor, and announced by a servant. I enter, and confront the lady-help. How am Ito describe her ? How can I give the faintest idea .Of the marvellous fairness of the girl who stands up to receive me?

Tall, and slender, graceful and lovely—all this I see .as I stand and gaze in astonished irrepressible'admiration, until she calls me. to my senses by offering me a chair. A'Will you not sit down?” she says;in a sweet, low voice. “ I hope you are uot tired with your long drive.” ■ Intake the proffered seat, but for the life of mo *c mnot [remove my eyes from her face. Where have I seen other such scarlet lips? Where [have I seen other such violet'eyes—only without the world of woe that hers are full of? Somewhere—surely somewhere'! Our interview is short js she has nothing more' jto tell me than she has already written, and I have little to say to her. We come to an agreement almost at ouoa. She is to come in a week, and remain for a month, certainly j if at the end of-that time we do not get on together, she is to go her way, and there will be'no harm done. This, at Jack’s request, is njy Arrangement, and she agre ss, though protesting' that she is sure to get oawith me. Then I take my leave and return homewards, Jack meets me on the little bridge Just outside the town, about half a mile from home; and' here I alight and discharge the fly; and together we stroll in the summer twilight. ; I teil him all ray news; and then he tells me all his—news which makes all my ieoeattrduble as naught when compared with this. ’ • '

In my absence, "he has received a telegram from his father'in London, calling him away on 'most - important and < urgent business, which will keep him from me for six or Seven weeks at least. *■ •: ,ii l ♦

i The greatness of this calamity drives everything else out'of my head, and crushes ine completely. No sooner have we closed the gates of our garden behind us, than I fall to weeping. All Jack’s , assurances that the time' will seem nothing as it goes by, that the delight of having him back again will amply compensate me for' his absence now, fail utterly to comfort me.

Hitherto I have always grudged the six pr ; seven hours he has to be away from me during the day ; bijt mow that period seems as nothing in comparison with the days and nights during yvhioh; I shall never set eyes ou him. V .' k , 7 _ , . , " My darling little Nell,*’ ha says, as I sob out my heart on hifl shoulder, “ I had n'o idea you would mind it so much,; but you cannot want "to keep me more than I want to stay, dear.” 4.■ ;r

"Don’t go—don’t !” I cry, in my ( unreason* ing grief. " Write and make any excuse you like—only don’t leave me here all by myself.” For answer he strokes'my soft brown hair and kisses me softly; We are standing under an aeaoia-tree in our own garden, and there is no eye near to see us.' The young June moon is creeping slowly up the blue arch of the sky/and sends down through the branches a feeble glimmer p£ pale light. I raise my face from my husband’s shoulder and make another piteous and fruitless appeaU “If it were possible at any sacrifice, on my part, I would not think of going, or. making you unhappy for one' moment—you know that, do you not, my darling F But I have thought over it in every possible way, and 1 find there is nothing left tor me but to go. You will have yo.uranew companion,' bo; you will not be altogether 'by yourself,” he goes oh, as we enter the house; “ and 1: shall expect to find a'faultless dinner-ready for me —all cooked by your own hands too—on the day that I come back.” ,v ' S • s

But I am inconsolable. Let him make as little of the matter as he may. it does not alter the fact that I am goiiig to lose him, and that it is the greatest calamity that could befall me...,- f;] 1 - ! ri-

“ What do I qare for companions ?” I cry, with a fresh burst of tears. . “ What do I care for anything in the world so long as I have not you with me ?”• , s ’% But not all the meanings and groanings and passions of tears wherewith I enliven the intervening days and nights are of any avail to keep him; and so the morning of the day on which I expect Miss Herriot, and pf Jack’s departure, 1 dawns. v " We are standing in the porch uttering our last good-bye. To my mind the interval might just as well be si* years.;as six weeks; what, matters it how long or how ettert the time is ? The greatness of the calamity does not consist so much in the measure of days or weeks as in the fact that I am going tO lose him. , 1 ■,

The fly is at the door i Jack’s portmanteau, which I hare had the sorry pleasure pf, packing, is on the top j the driver, most kindly and considerately, has turned his back on Us, and is looking after his trappings with more care than I suppose he has ever bestowed on them before. Utterly regardless of him, I throw myself into my husband’s arms, and lift a miserable woe-begone face for one more kies. My cheeks are swollen, and are as red as the ribbon at my throat, and my eyes are nearly closed from sore and bitter weeping; I have implored him to telegraph from every station along the line to tell me that he is safe. 1 have besought hm, with many tears, to get into a carriage that communicates 1 with the guard, so that, in ease of his getting shut up with a madman or robber, he ran stop the train at once. All the horrors that can possibly befall him present themselves in grim succession to my min'd}-but all I succeed in getting from him is a promise that he will telegraph the instant he gets to London, while he assures me that he is physically a match for any robber or lunatic that ever was born. At last all is said. He has left himself bub fifteen minutes to catch the train, •whan he ought to have had flve»and-twenty j to do it comfortably. , >