“Kitty,” said I, “we are to have company to dine with us to-day. Mr.
Smith will send home a turkey, which you must dress and cook in the
best manner. I will be down during the morning to make some lemon
puddings. Be sure to have a good fire in the range, and see that all
the drafts are clear.”
Kitty promised that every thing should be right, and I went up
stairs. In due time the marketing came home. About eleven o’clock I
repaired to the kitchen, and, much to my surprise, found all in
disorder.
“What in the world have you been doing all the morning?” said I,
feeling a little fretted.
Kitty excused herself good naturedly, and commenced bustling about
to put things to rights, while I got flour and other articles
necessary for my purpose, and went to work at my lemon puddings,
which were, in due time, ready for the oven. Giving all necessary
directions as to their baking, and charging Kitty to be sure to have
every thing on the table precisely at our usual hour for dining, I
went up into the nursery to look after the children, and to see
about other matters requiring my attention.
Time passed on until, to my surprise, I heard the clock strike one.
I had yet to dress for dinner.
“I wonder how Kitty is coming on?” said I to myself. “I hope she
will not let the puddings get all dried up.”
But, I felt too much in a hurry to go down and satisfy myself as to
the state of affairs in the kitchen; and took it for granted that
all was right.
A little while afterwards, I perceived an odor as of something
burning.
“What is that?” came instinctively from my lips. “If Kitty has let
the puddings burn!”
Quick as thought I turned from my room, and went gliding down
stairs. As I neared the kitchen, the smell of burned flour, or
pastry, grew stronger. All was silent below; and I approached in
silence. On entering Kitty’s domain, I perceived that lady seated in
front of the range, with a brown covered pamphlet novel held close
to her face, in the pages of which she was completely lost. I never
saw any one more entirely absorbed in a book. No sign of dinner was
any where to be seen. Upon the range was a kettle of water boiling
over into the fire, and from one of the ovens poured forth a dark
smoke, that told too plainly the ruin of my lemon puddings. And, to
cap all, the turkey, yet guiltless of fire or dripping pan, was upon
the floor, in possession of a strange cat, which had come in through
the open window. Bending over the still entranced cook, I read the
title of her book. It was “THE WANDERING JEW.”
“Kitty!” I don’t much wonder, now, at the start she gave, for I
presume there was not the zephyr’s softness in my voice.
“Oh, ma’am!” She caught her breath as her eyes rested upon the cat
and the turkey. “Indeed, ma’am!” And then she made a spring towards
puss, who, nimbly eluding her, passed out by the way through which
she had come in.
By this time I had jerked open the oven door, when there came
rushing out a cloud of smoke, which instantly filled the room. My
puddings were burned to a crisp!
As for the turkey, the cat had eaten off one side of the breast, and
it was no longer fit for the table.
“Well! this is fine work!” said I, in an angry, yet despairing
voice. “Fine work, upon my word!”
“Oh, ma’am!” Kitty interrupted me by saying, “I’ll run right off and
buy another turkey, and have it cooked in time. Indeed I will,
ma’am! And I’ll pay for it. It’s all my fault! oh dear! dear me! Now
don’t be angry, Mrs. Smith! I’ll have dinner all ready in time, and
no one will be any the wiser for this.”
“In time!” and I raised my finger towards the kitchen clock, the
hands of which marked the period of half past one. Two o’clock was
our regular dinner hour.
“Mercy!” ejaculated the frightened cook, as she sank back upon a
chair; “I thought it was only a little past eleven. I am sure it was
only eleven when I sat down just to read a page or two while the
puddings were in the oven!”
The truth was, the “Wandering Jew,” in the most exciting portion of
which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination. Her
mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the
rapidity of a few minutes.
“I don’t exactly comprehend this,” said my husband, as he sat down
with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at
half-past two o’clock.
“It’s all the fault of the ‘Wandering Jew!’” I replied, making an
effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification
that were in my face.
“The Wandering Jew!” returned my husband, looking mystified.
“Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage,” said I,
“strange as it may seem.” And then I related the mishaps of the
morning. For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a
hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.
Poor Kitty couldn’t survive the mortification. She never smiled
again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another
home.
CHAPTER III.
LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.
“THE oil’s out, mum,” said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty,
pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.
“It can’t be,” I replied.
“Indade, mum, and it is. There isn’t the full of a lamp left,” was
the positive answer.
“Then, what have you done with it?” said I, in a firm voice. “It
isn’t four days since a gallon was sent home from the store.”
“Four days! It’s more nor a week, mum!”
“Don’t tell me that, Hannah,” I replied, firmly; “for I know better.
I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon.”
“Sure, and it’s burned, mum, thin! What else could go with it?”
“It never was burned in our lamps,” said I, in answer to this.
“You’ve either wasted it, or given it away.”
At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and
indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to
notice.
But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect
of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one—the
only remedy was to order another gallon.
Something was wrong; that was clear. The oil had never been burned.
That evening, myself and husband talked over the matter, and both of
us came to the conclusion, that it would never do. The evil must be
remedied. A gallon of oil must not again disappear in four days.
“Why,” said my husband, “it ought to last us at least a week and a
half.”
“Not quite so long,” I replied. “We burn a gallon a week.”
“Not fairly, I’m inclined to think. But four days is out of all
conscience.”
I readily assented to this, adding some trite remark about the
unconscionable wastefulness of domestics.
On the next morning, as my husband arose from bed, he shivered in
the chilly air, saying, as he did so:
“That girl’s let the fire go out again in the heater! Isn’t it too
bad? This thing happens now every little while. I’m sure I’ve said
enough to her about it. There’s nothing wanted but a little
attention.”
“It is too bad, indeed,” I added.
“There’s that fishy smell again!” exclaimed Mr. Smith. “What can it
be?”
“Fishy smell! So there is.”
“Did you get any mackerel from the store yesterday?”
“None.”
“Perhaps Hannah ordered some?”