“Well, that is a nice piece of work, I must confess!”
This was all my husband said; but it was enough to smite me almost
to the floor. Covering my face with my hands, I dropped into a
chair, and sat and sobbed for a while bitterly.
“It can’t be helped now, Jane,” said Mr. Smith, at length, in a
soothing voice. “The coat is gone, and there is no help for it. You
will know better next time.”
That was all he said to me then, and I was grateful for his kind
consideration. He saw that I was punished quite severely enough, and
did not add to my pain by rebuke or complaint.
An attempt was made during the week to recover the coat, valued at
some twenty dollars; but the china ornament-man was not to be
found—he had made too good a bargain to run the risk of having it
broken.
About an hour after the discovery of the loss of my husband’s coat,
I went quietly down into the parlor, and taking from the
mantle-piece the china vases, worth, probably, a dollar for the
pair, concealed them under my apron, lest any one should see what I
had; and, returning up stairs, hid them away in a dark closet, where
they have ever since remained.
The reader may be sure that I never forgot this, my first and last
speculation in china ware.
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.
WAS there ever a good cook who hadn’t some prominent fault that
completely overshadowed her professional good qualities? If my
experience is to answer the question, the reply will be—_no_.
I had been married several years before I was fortunate enough to
obtain a cook that could be trusted to boil a potato, or broil a
steak. I felt as if completely made up when Margaret served her
first dinner. The roast was just right, and all the vegetables were
cooked and flavored as well as if I had done it myself—in fact, a
little better. My husband eat with a relish not often exhibited, and
praised almost every thing on the table.
For a week, one good meal followed another in daily succession. We
had hot cakes, light and fine-flavored, every morning for breakfast,
with coffee not to be beaten—and chops or steaks steaming from the
gridiron, that would have gladdened the heart of an epicure. Dinner
was served, during the time, with a punctuality that was rarely a
minute at fault, while every article of food brought upon the table,
fairly tempted the appetite. Light rolls, rice cakes, or “Sally
Luns,” made without suggestion on my part usually met us at tea
time. In fact, the very delight of Margaret’s life appeared to be in
cooking. She was born for a cook.
Moreover, strange to say, Margaret was good-tempered, a most
remarkable thing in a good cook; and more remarkable still, was tidy
in her person, and cleanly in her work.
“She is a treasure,” said I to my husband, one day, as we passed
from the dining-room, after having partaken of one of her excellent
dinners.
“She’s too good,” replied Mr. Smith—”too good to last. There must
be some bad fault about her—good cooks always have bad faults—and
I am looking for its appearance every day.”
“Don’t talk so, Mr. Smith. There is no reason in the world why a
good cook should not be as faultless as any one else.”
Even while I said this, certain misgivings intruded themselves. My
husband went to his store soon after.
About three o’clock Margaret presented herself, all dressed to go
out, and said that she was going to see her sister, but would be
back in time to get tea.
She came back, as she promised, but, alas for my good cook! The
fault appeared. She was so much intoxicated that, in attempting to
lift the kettle from the fire, she let it fall, and came near
scalding herself dreadfully. Oh, dear! I shall never forget the sad
disappointment of that hour. How the pleasant images of good dinners
and comfortable breakfasts and suppers faded from my vision. The old
trouble was to come back again, for the faultless cook had
manifested a fault that vitiated, for us, all her good qualities.
On the next day, I told Margaret that we must part; but she begged
so hard to be kept in her place, and promised good behaviour in
future so earnestly, that I was prevailed on to try her again. It
was of no use, however—in less than a week she was drunk again, and
I had to let her go.
After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and
dried roast beef to our hearts’ content; while such luxuries as
muffins, hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our
uninviting table.
My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually
afraid to show my face in the kitchen. I bore with her until
patience was no longer a virtue, and then she went.
Biddy, who took charge of my “kitchen cabinet,” a year or so
afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit.
But, alas! Biddy “kept a room;” and so many strange disappearances
of bars of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place,
that I was forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was
simply a store room for the surplussage of mine. Some pretty strong
evidence on this point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was
particularly forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never
accused her of being wanting in that inestimable virtue.
Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough. Or, I
should rather say, are musing enough to think about: they were
rather annoying at the time of their occurrence. One of these
experiences I will relate. I had obtained a “treasure” in a new
cook, who was not only good tempered and cleanly, but understood her
business reasonably well. Kitty was a little different from former
incumbents of her office in this, that she took an interest in
reading, and generally dipped into the morning paper before it found
its way up stairs. To this, of course, I had no objection, but was
rather pleased to see it. Time, however, which proves all things,
showed my cook to be rather too literary in her inclinations. I
often found her reading, when it was but reasonable for me to expect
that she would be working; and overdone or burnt dishes occasionally
marked the degree in which her mind was absorbed in her literary
pleasures, which I discovered in time, were not of the highest
order-such books as the “Mysteries of Paris” furnishing the aliment
that fed her imagination.
“Jane,” said my husband to me one morning, as he was about leaving
the house, “I believe I must invite my old friend Green to dine with
me to-day. He will leave the city to-morrow, and I may not have the
pleasure of a social hour with him again for years. Besides, I want
to introduce him to you. We were intimate as young men, and much
attached to each other. I would like you to know him.”
“Invite him, by all means,” was my reply.
“I will send home a turkey from market,” said Mr. Smith, as he stood
holding on to the open door. “Tell Kitty to cook it just right. Mrs.
Green, I am told, is a first-rate housekeeper, and I feel like
showing you off to the best advantage.”
“Don’t look for too much,” I replied, smiling, “lest you be
disappointed.”
Mr. Smith went away, and I walked back to the kitchen door to say a
word to Kitty. As I looked in, the sound of my feet on the floor
caused her to start. She was standing near a window, and at my
appearance she hurriedly concealed something under her apron.