Mrs. Lennox came in to call on Mrs. Welles later the same day. Her Maggie had been with her now several days, and she could judge how far she was likely to be of use to her. Molly had been anxious to know the result of the experiment, for she felt deeply interested in her neighbor, and that if Maggie should prove more a trial than comfort she might perhaps have contributed by her advice to that result. After a little conversation about Mrs. Welles’s visit and her long acquaintance with Molly, the latter asked how she got on with the new inmate.
“For the first three or four days it seemed a failure, but I am hopeful now of better things; she is strong, seems willing, and I think is trying to do. At all events I almost think if she never gets beyond the point of washing dishes, taking up ashes, making fires, preparing vegetables and washing I shall be the gainer, for that drudgery left me no time for the lighter work to be properly done.”
“Oh, but if she does those things willingly, and as you tell her, she will not stop there, I think; Mrs. Framley was speaking of her sister, and says she is of thoroughly good stock, and that is a great deal. The good-for-nothing girls one meets with usually come from thriftless stock.”
“Well, I’m going to hope for the best, and as I’m not expecting too many of the cardinal virtues for a few dollars a month, perhaps I may not be disappointed; and now, my dear Mrs. Bishop, I am going to ask you to give me a few recipes of economical dishes for a family like ours. Until I talked with you, I only knew of pot-pie and Irish stew, both badly made, and though I have a cookery-book which you tell me is excellent, I never made anything come quite right out of it.”
“In justice to the cooking-book, and indeed to latter day cooking-books in general, I think, perhaps, if you’ll forgive me, that may have been because you did not know enough of the elements of cooking.”
“I certainly did not, and although I know little now, I feel so very much wiser than I did a month ago that I look back in wonder. There’s another reason why I could not use my cookery-book,—it always wanted something I had not in the house by way of flavoring; then I shut up the book and cooked in my own old way.”
“One of your American worthies, ‘Josiah Allen’s wife,’ I think, says: ‘It’s the flavorin’ as does it,’” said Mrs. Welles; “and I think fifty cents expended in flavorings a very good investment, from an economical point of view.”
“Yes, if one lives in New York one can buy all sorts of sweet herbs, and dry them. At the same time I don’t think Mr. Lennox likes them.”
“I have known many people who thought they did not like them because they had never had them properly used, or at least when properly used they enjoyed the dish without knowing that it contained herbs at all; in the same way I have known people who used Worcestershire sauce in everything, and who would even ruin clear soup by pouring it in, vow and protest they could never touch anything that had the faintest suspicion of garlic; Worcestershire sauce has more than a suspicion of garlic. I know others who will eat no pickles but Crosse & Blackwell’s, which likewise owe the subtle difference between them and all others equally to the effect of garlic; so carefully used however that only by making pickles with and without that suspicion of the malodorous herb can you see why many other pickles lack ‘just something.’”
“Well—I’m willing to be instructed, so willing that if I’d time and money I would go to New York and go through a course at a cooking-school.”
“Ah! If every young wife did that, what years of work and vexation she would save herself; it is such up-hill work teaching one’s self from books; it’s like trying to play a piece of music without having learned to count time; after months, if you knew the notes, you might, by your ear, make something out of it; but think of the toil! So it is with recipes,—without the key, how can any one cook? to be told what goes into a pot, and to ‘stew it gently’ so long, and you don’t know what gentle stewing is! You are told to put your meat in the oven and bake it ‘beautifully brown,’ and you don’t know that to brown beautifully your oven must be just so hot when it goes in, and that if you have water in your pan, it will steam, not bake; and so on.”
Molly smiled; Mrs. Welles was on her hobby.
“Yes, that’s all true, and I only wish I had the first year of my married life to go over again, before a family came in the way of my doing what I would like.”
“To revert to the question of flavorings,” put in Molly. “I found all I wanted at the grocery; they put up sweet herbs of all kinds now very nicely, in paper boxes, a box of thyme leaves (be sure and get the leaves rather than the powdered herb) or marjoram leaves cost but five cents each. Now while parsley is so plentiful and cheap I shall buy ten cents’ worth and dry it for winter.”
“I did not know parsley would dry and retain its flavor.”
“It will not if done as we dry other herbs; it must be quickly done by heat; if put in a cool oven with the door open, or in a plate-warmer, it will dry in a few hours; then it can be rubbed fine and put in a tin box. I think a box of lemon thyme, one of savory, one of marjoram, one of sage, with five cents’ worth of bay leaves,—twenty cents in all,—will give you all the herb flavorings generally called for, and last a year if you like them as sparingly used as I should use them. Spices most people have, I would almost say ‘unluckily,’ remembering how sadly too much spice mars much of our American cooking; but I will give you several recipes, and if you have difficulty with them let me know. I think perhaps when the cold weather comes in we might do a little economy together.”
“How?”
“By buying meat in large quantities, beef by the quarter, mutton by the half sheep; my family is too small to make such a way of buying wise, but you have several mouths to feed, and none would go to waste.”
Mrs. Lennox looked dubious and said:
“I used to think about it. Mr. Lennox suggested he should buy a quarter of beef, as he knew some one who did so all through the winter and found it profitable, but a lady who had also tried the plan told me there was no profit in it, for there was so much waste,—so much coarse meat that she could make no use of.”
“In that case there would be no real economy, but there need be no waste, and should be none, and no one need eat coarse food. I mean, properly prepared no part of beef need be coarse; if a piece of brisket or flank were served up as a roast, or the leg broiled, that would indeed be coarse; but each cooked in its appropriate way, they would be far from being so.”
“But the fat,—there is so much of it!”
“But what more useful than beef fat, or more wholesome? It is next to butter, I think.”
“That is true; but my friend, I know, could not use it, and said she was so thankful to see the last of that beef.”
“The only objection usually urged against it, and I think a very reasonable one, is that the family must eat beef or mutton, whichever is in the house, constantly till it is gone; but I do not see even that necessity, for in cold weather the meat will keep so well that some change can be had, and then in winter, even for my small use, I would not fear to buy half a sheep; I could make it keep a month, unless the weather broke; then I would manage to preserve it; but if I had mutton and you had beef, we could certainly change sometimes; though half a sheep used during a month would not necessitate monotony, for one could have many things between.”
“What would you do with mutton fat?”
“That, I grant, is not so available; but there is less of it, and I should try it out and make soup. The actual saving is considerable, especially in mutton. It is rare to get chops under twenty cents a pound; leg fourteen, if you buy them separately, which is the frequent way, while the half sheep can be bought in Washington Market for ten or eleven cents a pound; the latter is an outside price (a butcher would buy for less) for prime mutton, while beef hind quarter would be for buyers like ourselves thirteen or fourteen cents a pound, unless there is some temporary rise in the market, when of course one need not buy; but that is the average price in New York.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Mrs. Lennox in amazement. “I mean, how do you know what the prices are now?”
Molly laughed. “In this particular instance I made special inquiry or asked Mrs. Welles to do so; but I keep pretty well up in such matters by the Saturday editions of some of the evening papers, although I usually add a couple of cents a pound to the quotations for prime meats to allow for any difference there may be. I do it, however, only from curiosity, for I could not buy my own meat so, even if my family were large, for Mr. Bishop is not experienced enough to buy and send it out.”
“Nor is Mr. Lennox, but he has a friend who has bought so for years, and who also, when game and poultry are cheap, and I believe they often are as cheap as meat, sends that home to his wife too; and Mr. Lennox enjoys going with him, and once in a while has sent us home turkeys when they have been very low in price.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write out several recipes to use up the parts of the beef that you will not broil or roast, so that you will not be forced to eat beef exclusively in order to get rid of it before it spoils. I will do the same with the mutton.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Bishop, how can I possibly trouble you so far? What can I do for you in return?”
“I know something you can easily do. Let me have part of your beef or mutton when you get it; we’ll take turns about the prime parts,—I have as much use for coarse ones sometimes; and ask Mr. Lennox once in a while when he is buying meat with his friend and game is cheap, to send me out some. In New York prairie hens and partridges are sometimes a dollar a pair; then they are cheaper than meat to those fond of them as we are. Yet Mrs. Framley says she never knew them less than two dollars a pair here. Then the writing will not be much trouble to me, for while Mrs. Welles is here I intend to get some recipes from her; the one copy will do for both of us.”
“I’m afraid I’m getting all the good of that arrangement.”
“No, it’s a case of give and take between us. You learn cooking from me, I learn something as valuable from you.”
“You are kind enough to say so.”
After Mrs. Lennox had gone, Mrs. Welles asked what Molly meant by saying she was learning something just as valuable.
“Mrs. Lennox has the best-trained children I ever knew. They are full of fun and frolic, yet cheerfully obedient to her, and as the subject is likely to interest me, I have observed them very closely, and asked her whether they were unusually amiable or whether it was due to training. She told me she did not do much training, nor were the children specially amiable; and it is true there seems less small restriction in her family than in most others where the children are ‘regular pickles.’”
“How does she manage them?”
“I hardly think she knows herself. She says she makes few rules, and those the children hardly know of; they only know there are a few things they dare not do; but I notice they never ask her for a thing twice, and that is because she says she never denied anything she knew she might be induced to grant; so they know pleading or worrying is thrown away, and four happier children you never saw. I asked her once if her babies were as good as they are when older. She said two were no trouble; her first was a restless one for the first three months and the last was sick; but she will not believe that well babies would be cross or restless if properly managed, and she gave me her experience with the first one. Of course I know nothing from experience; I can only observe and read and think, and I, too, hope to have a good baby if it is a well one.”
“Dear me! I should not have thought Mrs. Lennox was a woman to have strongly-formed ideas on the subject.”
“No, I don’t believe she thinks so herself. I don’t even know that she has formulated her ideas. She may have acted only on instinct, but the result is charming; if you were to see her children you would say so.”
Mrs. Welles’s visit was to have been a week only; but at the end of it it seemed as if they had but just got to the point of enjoying each other, and Mr. Welles was induced to spare her for a few days longer.
“I declare, Molly, when I came here I expected to do so much, both for you and myself, and I’ve done nothing.”
“Oh, yes; just consider my entertainment, what you did to help me in that; but there’s one thing I want this very day, that is, English muffins and crumpets. I have tried once or twice from recipes in my English cook-books, but they always give the quantities for a bakery,—a peck of flour, sometimes a bushel,—and it is difficult to reduce to my small needs; besides, I know success depends on consistency, and there is very little guidance given. ‘Water to make a soft dough’ is only stated; how soft is not hinted, and the so-called English muffins in our books are very good as muffins, only they don’t happen to be the thing at all.”
“I know it is really only a question of consistency. I will make some this very day, if you have yeast in the house.”
“Yes, I am especially anxious to have them, because they are as good two days old as one, and in a little family like ours that is a great thing.”
It was Monday, and by the time the muffins had risen, washing would be over and the top of the fire free.
“We’ll go out and set them now.”
The setting was very simple, being only the making of a stiff bread-sponge. Half a cake of yeast was dissolved in a pint and a half of warm milk, into which a scant tea-spoonful of salt, two of sugar and one large one of butter warmed, were stirred. Into this as much dry, sifted flour was mixed (about three pints) as would make an exceedingly stiff batter, in fact “stiffer than batter, softer than dough” may serve as an indication of the consistency, or “almost too stiff to stir, quite too soft to knead.” When this was beaten long and hard, one third was put into another bowl and this was thinned down with warm milk to a batter that would pour slowly. This was for crumpets, the only difference between the two being in consistency. They were covered and put behind the range to rise.
“Now let me have your book, Charlotte; I have the time, and will copy out what I want; but first give me a recipe for cooking beef heart. I remember what a good dish it was, and they are only ten or fifteen cents each, and there must be at least two pounds of solid meat in one.”
“There is; the only objection is the quickness with which heart chills, and the taste of cold suet is very disagreeable. This may be obviated by careful preparation, however; here is the recipe:
“Cut off the gristle and the ‘deaf ear,’ as the tough red lobe at the top is called, if the butcher has not done it, and trim off all the fat as closely as possible; then lay the heart in boiling water for half an hour, keeping it just simmering. When thus parboiled, dry it well and fill the three holes with nice stuffing, either sage, onion and bread crumbs made with equal proportions of boiled onions and crumbs, and chopped with ten large sage leaves to the pint, which must be dried till they powder, or highly seasoned veal-stuffing made as follows:
“Veal-Stuffing.—Two ounces of beef suet, chopped very fine, four ounces of bread crumbs, one table-spoonful of chopped parsley, and half one each of thyme and marjoram, and the juice of half a lemon, half a tea-spoonful of salt, a pinch of pepper and a suspicion of nutmeg.
“Fill the heart full of whichever of these stuffings is preferred, but do not press it in tight. Skewer over the top several thin slices of fat pork, dredge it with flour, and bake it one hour and a half in a good oven. Make gravy of a cup of good soup or broth, poured into the pan in which the heart was baked, and thickened with a tea-spoonful of brown thickening. Many people like red currant jelly made hot and served with it as sauce. The platter and plates must be very hot and the heart covered as it goes to table.
“The next day it can be warmed over by cutting it into slices and gently stewing it in a rich gravy. It is nicer than venison thus prepared.”
When Molly had this written in her book she opened the one Mrs. Welles handed to her and, to select from the many there, read, before copying, the recipes that would be most useful to herself and Mrs. Lennox.
“I see you have preliminary remarks which will be valuable.”
“Yes, my mother’s experience, not my own; but she was a North-of-England woman and thought the London cured meat not worth eating.”
Under the head of general rules Molly read:
Avoid salting meat in hot weather; from October to April is the right season. If forced to do it, however, cut it up and sprinkle it with salt before the animal heat leaves it. If hung even for an hour, there is danger from flies.
In cool weather, meat should hang three or four days to get tender before eating, but be very careful it does not become frost-bitten. In very cold weather, make the salt hot before using it.
The great art in salting meat is to turn it every day carefully, rubbing salt under every flap or double part, and filling all holes with salt wherever a kernel has been cut out, or a skewer has been in.
Use as little salt as will preserve the meat, as it will leave it more juicy and tender. Two ounces of bay salt, two of coarse sugar, and three quarters of a pound of common salt is a good proportion, and is enough for ten or twelve pounds of meat. Do not put on all the salt at once; have it rolled and dried, and use half the first day, and the remainder two or three days after. Then the blood from the first salting must be drained off. Sugar preserves meat as well as salt; hence its use, for it renders less salt necessary, and meat is more tender with it. Saltpetre is only useful for reddening meat, but is apt to harden it; if wanted red, however, take half an ounce of saltpetre and one of coarse sugar; this must be rubbed in the third day after the first slight salting; the common and bay salt the next day.
A small piece—eight or ten pounds—of pork or beef will require six or seven days; a large piece may be allowed a fortnight.
Pickling meat.—Many prefer to boil the meat in water, instead of rubbing dry salt in. The proportions of this pickle are, two gallons of water, three pounds of salt, half a pound of coarse brown sugar, two ounces of saltpetre. Boil together and skim very well while boiling. Let it become quite cold before putting in the meat, which must be carefully wiped from slime or blood and any pipes or kernels removed.
All meat, while salting, should be kept closely covered.
Dutch beef.—Get a fine piece of round of beef; rub it well with one pound of coarse sugar. Do this twice a day for three days, using same sugar. When the sugar has thoroughly penetrated the meat, wipe dry, and salt with the following mixture: Common and bay salt, of each four ounces; saltpetre and sal prunel, of each two ounces; black pepper and allspice, of each one ounce. Rub well and continue to do so for a fortnight, then roll the beef tight in a cloth, sew it up, and it is ready for smoking. The smoking should be long enough to thoroughly and slowly dry the meat, but not long enough for the covering to separate.
This beef may be cut and boiled as wanted. It should be pressed with a weight till cold. This will keep two or three months after it is boiled, if it is rubbed all over with hot fat (lard or suet melted), and a layer of fat put over a fresh-cut surface. This is delicious if a piece is cut off, put to dry slowly, and grated for sandwiches.
Mutton hams.—Coarse sugar, bay salt, and common salt, equal parts, and to each pound of this mixture add, of saltpetre and sal prunel, one ounce each, of black pepper, allspice, juniper berries, and coriander seeds, all bruised, half an ounce each. Dry them all before the fire, and rub into the meat while hot. This is an excellent pickle for tongues. Smoke as any other ham. Mutton hams are usually fried or broiled in rashers, or thin slices as you would pork ham.
Worcestershire sausages.—These are made entirely of beef. Choose a fine, juicy round steak; chop it extremely fine. Allow two parts lean, one part fat, and one part bread crumbs; season pretty high with pepper and salt (and allspice if liked). Allow to each pound eight sage leaves, dried and rubbed fine, with half a salt-spoonful of knotted marjoram. Put them in skins if you can, and cook as any other sausage.
Red beef for slicing cold.—The best part for this purpose is the thin flank. Take off the skinny inside, and salt the meat for a week or ten days with the following mixture rubbed in and turned morning and night: Common salt, one pound; saltpetre and bay salt, each one ounce; coarse brown sugar, a quarter of a pound. Pound and mix, using of the mixture more or less according to the size of the meat. When salt enough, wipe the meat dry; sprinkle over it black pepper, a little powdered mace and cloves, an onion chopped fine and some parsley. Roll it up, bind it tight with a strip of muslin, and boil it slowly three hours, or longer if large. Press with a heavy weight without removing the band. When cold remove the band and cut in very thin slices as required.
“Well, I think now if Mrs. Lennox and I get meat in large quantities this winter, we shall not need to let any of it spoil for lack of ways to keep it,” said Molly, as she prepared to copy the recipes she had read.
“No; but remember that mutton will keep for six weeks in cold, dry weather, even when not frozen, if it is well floured and a little ginger is put in the crevices. If it freezes and then thaws, it will generally need cooking, but the longer you can keep it the better it will be, so that it does not taint. The outer skin may even get mouldy, but you will only scrape the skin and trim it. If very mouldy and likely to give a taste, plunge it, after scraping, into boiling water; dry it thoroughly and bake in a very sharp oven. But all meat for keeping must hang, not lie, and hang in a current of pure air.”
“Thank you for the hint. What is this? Soused mackerel?” She had turned to the end of the note-book as she spoke. “I remember eating them at your house, and how good they were; that recipe also is going down in my book.”
Soused mackerel.—Clean, but do not split, four or six fresh mackerel; boil them in water just to cover, in which are one clove, three allspice, one tea-spoonful of salt and a quarter one of pepper to each fish. Take the fish out as soon as done, and before they break lay them in a deep dish. Boil the water in which they were cooked down to half; put to it an equal quantity of vinegar (unless the latter is very strong, when one-third will do), and pour it over the fish.
Soused mackerel another way—“and that is the way I like best,” said Mrs. Welles, and Molly read: Put three or four mackerel in an earthen dish, sprinkle over each mackerel a small tea-spoonful of salt, a sixth of pepper, and allow to each two allspice and half a blade of mace and half a bay leaf; mix vinegar and water in equal proportion, and pour enough over to cover the fish; put them in a very slow oven for three or four hours. By that time the liquor will have diminished until there is only enough to serve with the fish. These fish will keep for several weeks in cold weather. If the vinegar is very strong, use less in proportion.
After luncheon, Mrs. Welles went to look at her muffins. They were hardly light, but the crumpets were so nearly ready that she put on the griddle.
“You happen to have a soap-stone griddle! that is the very thing needed for muffins, though one can manage to bake on an iron one.”
“Yes, I am promising myself inodorous buckwheat cakes this winter with that.”
It took the griddle half an hour to get thoroughly hot.
“Of course you have no crumpet-rings?”
“No; but if these are a success I shall get a few made; meanwhile, won’t muffin rings do? They are the large, old-fashioned sort.”
“We must make them do; but I can’t bear anything not to look just right. I never fancy they eat well if they do not.” Molly handed out a bundle of large old rings which Mrs. Welles greased and laid on the griddle; then, when they were hot, she poured into each batter to the depth of a quarter of an inch, drawing the griddle a little back as she did so. She did not attempt to turn them until the top was full of holes and the batter had dried; then they were turned for about three minutes; except that they were more slowly cooked, the baking was the same as for what are usually called raised muffins, and they appeared the same, but not quite so thick. They should not be more than half an inch thick when cooked. When they were done the muffins were ready to bake; the paste was like honeycomb.
“Now the whole difficulty with these is shaping them, and it requires practice. I don’t know that I shall manage it; for it is years since I made them.”
The pastry-board was put on the table, a good deal of flour spread on it, and the paste turned out very gently.
“You see, Molly, that the griddle is hot, yet not too hot.”
As she spoke she lightly cut off bits of the soft dough about the size of a duck’s egg. She could not touch them easily, for they were too soft, but they were rolled about in the flour (taking care not to press them), which was not worked into them, and they were left in a sort of bed of it. When half a dozen were done, she took one up very gingerly, tossing it gently back and forth between her floured hands, to get rid of the superfluous flour, and also because she could not let them remain in one position for fear of their sticking to her hands, yet so carefully as not to press the lightness out. When she reached the griddle she lightly dropped the muffin in as round a form as possible on it. When half a dozen were put on in the same way, they were left to swell and get round and dry-looking, before the griddle was put forward to give them a slight browning. When the top looked no longer raw, they were gently turned and left five minutes the other side. The baking took about twenty minutes, and they were over an inch thick when done.
“I know one thing,—if I make these, I will have rings made four inches in diameter expressly for English muffins, although I know the real ones are baked without rings. It can’t make much difference to the quality, and will save much trouble to unpracticed hands.”
“I think so too.”
There were a great many more muffins and crumpets than were likely to be used in their small family, and Molly said she should send some to Mrs. Lennox.
“Then pray send the directions how to eat them, or they will simply put them in the oven, and they will be like leather. When some people have offered me real English muffins, bought at Pursell’s, with the crust like leather, I have been astonished that they could like them, and thought how they would enjoy them prepared in real English fashion.”
Molly penned a little note of directions as follows:
Dear Mrs. Lennox:—I send you some English muffins and crumpets made by Mrs. Welles, who is anxious that you at least should eat them as they are eaten in her country. She scouts the idea of their being simply made hot in the oven, and is only surprised that, eaten that way, they should be as much in favor as they are. Both are to be toasted, and are better the day after they are made. The crumpets are toasted both sides until hot through, slightly browner and crisp; then butter, very little salted, must be plentifully laid in little bits on each one as it is toasted; then put it in the oven while you toast the other. When the second is done, the butter on the first will be soft enough to spread without pressure. When all are buttered, cut once through the middle.
The muffins are also toasted. They must be broken all round the edge as if you were going to split them, then toasted on both sides until the crust will crack under the thumb nail. Rip them open quickly, put a bountiful supply of butter, in small pieces, on the inside of each half; close it and put it in the oven while another is being toasted. When it comes out the butter will be melted. Never attempt to spread them first, or they will be heavy. If the butter has not spread all over, you may gently use a knife to make it even, but without pressure. When each muffin is put together again, spread a little butter on the outer crust, and cut them through the middle.
The essentials are that they should be well toasted, so as to be hot through and crisp outside, then so quickly buttered as not to get cold, and to be served very hot. There is a covered dish on purpose, called a muffineer, but lacking that, a hot bowl should be turned over them to keep them hot.
It is English fashion, for tea, to serve both muffins and crumpets. They are handed round together, a plate of each, some preferring one, some the other. At breakfast, muffins alone are usual. I just say the last to round up the matter, not that I suppose you will care one bit what the English mode of serving is, but I do think, for the sake of our digestion, we should either eat them toasted or let them alone. I send you over my receipt-book, in which I have copied some things that may be useful to both of us. You tell me Mr. Lennox writes out such things for you, and you can keep the book until he has leisure.
Yours sincerely,
Molly Bishop.
The pork hocks had been put on early for the mock brawn, and taken out and boned. The stock was now made, and Molly seasoned and prepared it in accordance with her plan. The pieces of pork, the seasoning, and the best of the beef, cut into pieces about two inches square, and of which there was about twice as much as there was pork, were put into the liquor, heated once together, and then poured into a pan. It looked rather like head cheese. When cold, it turned out in a slab. Part was sent to Mrs. Lennox with an explanation of what it was; part to Mrs. Gibbs, with the rest of the meat made into the usual hash for her; and the remainder was kept for home purposes, for both Mrs. Welles and Marta found it very relishing.
It is July, nearly a year after Mr. and Mrs. Bishop began the experiment of keeping house in Mrs. Winfield’s cottage, which has become very dear to them both, although in three months they are to leave it and go into one of their own. So charmed had Mr. Bishop, senior, become with Harry’s home that he had been a frequent visitor during the summer, and sometimes Mrs. Bishop, too, came; but society engagements took her time, and when May came, she fled with her daughters to a fashionable watering-place, and Mr. Bishop, instead of staying as usual in his city house, came out to stay with his son, and went in with him to business daily. The result was that Harry was reinstated in his father’s favor, and it seemed as if the elder gentleman was going to make amends for his past mistake; for he told Harry he would now do what he always had meant to do until he found he was bent on making a fool of himself.
“Not that your luck is anything to your credit,” he persisted; “it’s a mere fluke your getting such a wife as Molly; but you’ll come into the firm as junior at Christmas.”
This was what Harry had been brought up to expect, and the prospect that he had to give up on marrying Molly. He was grateful to his father, for after all, pleasant as life was for him even with his narrow income, it was likely to be a great deal pleasanter when he would not have to count every cent so closely.
“Yes, yes, you are one who has the luck to ‘eat his cake and have it too,’” said the old gentleman irritably; “but I’m doing it just as much for Molly and the baby as for you.”
Yes, there was a baby,—a baby just thirty-six hours old when Mr. Bishop announced his intention to the young father; and Harry carried back to Molly that evening a very glad heart. The baby was a girl, and Molly’s only shadow was that Harry did not seem to admire it so much as she thought it deserved.
“You mean to say you don’t think it’s pretty, Harry?” she had asked when she exhibited the little red, squirming thing in its nest of flannel.
Harry shook his head doubtfully. “I may see some beauty later when, when it gets into some sort of shape, and its head is screwed tighter; at present I don’t admire it, but, as Mark Twain says, ‘I’ve a certain respect for it, for its father’s sake.’”
“Oh, Harry!”
This was in the morning before he left home, and when he returned at night he went up to Molly’s room and kissed her. He thought she must certainly see the good news in his face, so accustomed was he to her reading his countenance.
“Well, Molly, don’t you want to know the news?”
“But you haven’t asked after the baby;—don’t you want to kiss it?”
“My dear Molly, your serenity told me how the baby was,—and—and I wouldn’t disturb it to kiss it.”
“You never saw such a sleeper as she is; she won’t wake, and I’ve hardly seen her eyes yet!”
“I hope she’ll continue such good habits; but now, Molly, I have great news—news I expected some time, of course, but not quite so soon.”
Then he told the news, and Molly responded only by a closer pressure of his hand.
“And that is not all; my father has decided to buy the Framley cottage and rent it to us, and says he meant to give my wife a check as a wedding present, had I married Miss Vanderpool, and now he sends it to you.”
“Oh, Harry, how good of him! how much is it? That sounds greedy; but if it is enough we can furnish with it.”
Harry opened his pocketbook and took out a check for $1,000. “You must lay this by, Molly, for yourself; you know I have $3,000 which we agreed never to touch except for some emergency; but now that my prospects are assured I prefer to furnish for you, Molly, rather than you for me.”
“What will be your income, Harry?”
“Oh, nothing very splendid, for I am only junior with a fifth interest, but it is the certainty of the future that delights me.”
“Yes, and the proof of your father’s affection.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“You remember, Harry, what we promised each other,—that even with a better income our expenses were not to be increased?”
“Not while I was on a salary, dear; but I am quite contented with the last year of our life; I want nothing grander or better, but I do want to see you in your own house furnished with your own taste, and replete with all the conveniences that will make the housekeeping you love, easy to you; and I shall insist on providing you with such assistance as will save your health and strength. But I am not anxious for style or show, and we will waste no money upon it.”
Nor did they.
Mr. Framley had built one of the handsomest houses in Greenfield, and the charming Queen Anne cottage they had hitherto lived in had been for sale. Molly had often pointed it out to her father-in-law and admired its beautiful lawn and expatiated on the fruits and kitchen garden, little supposing it would soon be her own home.
The only crumple in Molly’s rose leaves was Mrs. Bishop, senior’s, views with regard to the baby. Molly had had no babies: her mother-in-law had had eight, five of whom had lived and flourished. But Molly had known other people’s babies, and had made their experience her own, so far as observation enabled her to do it, and she had read all the good writing there was on the baby question, and, as may be expected, had her views and naturally wished to carry them out in the person of her own baby. If a woman can’t do what she likes with her own baby, when is she to do it?
But, strange to say, the dowager, Mrs. Bishop, seemed to feel the new comer was even more Harry’s baby and her own grandchild than Molly’s child, and being her first “posterity,” she was very much interested in it, and she and Mr. Bishop had come to the Greenfield hotel in order to be at hand.
Very soon Molly, with her latter-day views of baby training, and Mrs. Bishop, with her experience of eight, clashed. For days the struggle was silent, for she was Harry’s mother; and all the directions for giving anise-seed tea and gin and water, and paregoric, were quietly disregarded,—but the tug of war came when Molly refused to nurse it before the appointed hour.
“And you mean to say you will not feed that little creature till the time you think it needs it? Can you judge of a baby’s hunger?”
“Mamma, I asked the doctor to guide me, and all the best writers say”—
“There it is!” cried Mrs. Bishop, triumphantly. “You are such a theorist, Molly; but you can’t bring up a child by books, and it may cost you this one’s life or health to find that out. I am surprised a woman of your sense should not see that you can’t set up your book experience against the practical knowledge of a mother of eight.”
Molly made no reply: she could not be cruel enough to hint that three of the eight had died.
Happily for Molly and the carrying out of her views, Mrs. Lennox, who had become a very dear friend, was with her very much, and it was her nurse, an intelligent woman, who was in attendance; and between them they had been able to save Molly much anxiety. She knew that her own orders, and no one’s else, would be carried out; this otherwise would have been a terrible anxiety; for her doctor had said to her, in one of her talks with him before the birth of the child, “Half the babies’ stomachs are ruined in the first month, and the poor baby becomes a victim to colic and indigestion through that month’s mistakes. Some babies are born to it, but these are few compared with the many that are made to suffer by bad habits.”
Mrs. Bishop, senior, disapproved of the nurse, and openly derided the doctor, and audibly scorned the idea of putting a baby a fortnight old in “training” and freely told her daughter that Molly was not fit to be a mother; that she ought to have remained single and become a doctress, or screeched for woman’s rights from a platform.
The excitement of the contention on Molly had to be stopped, and, unknown to his wife, Harry, instigated by Mrs. Lennox, had to warn his mother that she must leave Molly to her own ideas, even if they were mistaken; and Mrs. Bishop had contented herself afterwards with expressing her opinions and her fears. But when, in spite of all, the baby flourished and grew fat, and seemed freer from the ills of babyhood than the average, she averred it was owing to the cast-iron constitution it had inherited from its father. She declared that “to point to Molly’s child as a proof that the new ideas of bringing up babies are better than the old is as reasonable as to point to the health and strength of the Germans as a proof that babies ought to be swaddled and bound on to boards for the first months of their lives, in order to become so strong and straight. One forgets the number who die under the process, and it is only the very strong who survive.”
And this, strangely enough, was exactly what Molly also said to herself when she heard that Harry “actually owed his life to soothing syrup,” which had enabled him to survive his teething troubles.
And so with a beautiful, healthy baby (whom, by the bye, Harry now dandles with great pride), a new house, and the delightful task of furnishing it, in these days of pretty furniture and dainty devices, we leave Molly with as bright a future before her as a loving husband, good health, good prospects and a resolve to be a good, true wife and mother could give to any woman.
Of Marta there are a few words to be said. Those of Molly’s friends who are not very often at the house consider Mrs. Bishop a very fortunate woman in having such a treasure. Molly herself thinks so; but I doubt if half those who so speak would have been satisfied with Marta’s moderate gifts. She was a treasure because she was true and faithful in everything. Her service was not better than that of any clean, strong, willing girl, under the eye of an intelligent mistress.
“But Marta was such a wonderful cook!” some would say. Marta would never be a good cook unguided; it was not in her; she had had the exceptional advantage of training under a woman who, if she had needed it, had qualified herself to teach cooking professionally; who cooked scientifically from precise rules, and who herself had very little to learn when she began with Marta, and who had patience as well as knowledge.
How few girls have such a chance! We send girls to a cooking-school to take twelve or twenty-four lessons, and we know that if they are of the right material (and if not we should hardly send them), they leave the school vastly improved, with quite different ideas from those who have been through no such training; and Marta had been at such a school daily for many months, yet, at the end of them, her accomplishments were not many. She could fry, stew, roast, and make soup to perfection. She could not be trusted to do anything that depended on flavor or taste; she never seemed to learn that one clove may be pleasant, half a dozen detestable; that herbs should only lend a vague savoriness, never be so strong as to make one feel they were partaking of marjoram soup or parsley stew. But Molly knew her limitations and knew—take her all in all—she was not likely to better herself by changing. A girl of quicker wits might have been less faithful, or, if so bright as to learn all Molly could teach, she would naturally and rightly wish to take a place as professed cook, with her thirty or forty dollars a month wages, and no washing. So Marta remained, a very devoted servant; very exasperating sometimes, but at all times valuable.
Mrs. Lennox has only one thing to say; she does not regret taking Maggie; she is no worse off in her pocket, and is better off in nerves and muscles; the tired, overworked look is no longer conspicuous. She is still overworked and overworried, but she has a strong pair of arms to call upon, and they are willing to do the appointed task which Mrs. Lennox always remembers she must otherwise have done herself. Maggie needed watching at every turn the first few months; she now knows the ways and does the work fairly well. She is no paragon, and if Mrs. Lennox had no children she would rather be without her, but when she gets out of patience she looks back and remembers how she had not even time “to think” before she came; when she did sit down her muscles ached and tingled so that even rest was a dull void, simply cessation from exertion. Mrs. Lennox now does the cooking and the sewing; Maggie does the work. She will never do more in the cooking way than boil potatoes, make mush and bread (the latter well, for she knows only one way and that is the way she does it), and burn or smoke a beefsteak. But Mrs. Lennox will soon have either to pay her more, or take another new arrival; that is inevitable.
It must not be thought that all Molly’s neighbors were as fond of her as Mrs. Lennox. No one can live up to a higher ideal than the average (even when the ideal is only cooking), without hurting some one’s corns. Several ladies disapproved of her, thought she set a very bad example by making men expect too much of their wives, and those who lived very badly on double Harry’s income felt personally injured.
But all this Molly did not know; she did not suspect that her affairs were known or discussed, but before leaving Greenfield Mrs. Winfield had spoken, with the best intentions in the world, of this young couple’s romantic marriage, and the bravery required of a young wife to face life on $100 a month, with a husband brought up, as Harry had been, in such splendor and luxury. This was naturally discussed till the story became public property, unknown to the heroine of it, who had no thought of setting an example, good or bad, or of shining brightly by comparison with less clever or energetic women; indeed, she was rather conscious of shortcomings of her own. She looked hopelessly on the piles of sewing some of her friends got through, with very many calls on their time besides, and could only comfort herself with the thought that her abilities did not lie in that direction, and that she could only do the best that was in her.
Another pleasure in store for Molly is that Mrs. Welles is soon to be her neighbor; for Mr. Welles had promised to build a house near them, in consequence of which Harry predicts that Greenfield will soon have a rival to Soyer’s celebrated symposium.