CHAPTER IV.

A CHANGE.

FOR three or four weeks, moved by Elvira's energetic remonstrances, and stimulated also by the necessity of earning the means of paying for a new frock and hat, Abbey did a good deal better. Mrs. Ward began to have hopes of making something of her, after all, and was able with a clear conscience to tell Aunt Phœbe Ray (when she called to inquire about the matter) that she thought Abbey was improving.

Mrs. Jenkins began to feel her heart in some degree relieved from one of its many burdens. And her husband was so gratified with the report from Abbey, that he made her a present of a very pretty summer hat,—"to encourage her," as he said.

Unluckily Abbey was not a person to be benefited by this sort of encouragement. As Elvira said, "the more you did for her, the more you might." The same present made to Elvie herself caused her to work all the harder and take all the more pains to please.

In Abbey's case, she had lost one spur to exertion. Moreover, she at once began to think that, as her father had given her a hat, perhaps he would give her a frock also, or, if he did not, perhaps somebody else would. Mrs. Frost had two or three times given Elvie outgrown or worn dresses of Miss Priscilla's, which she—being a little creature, and as handy as she was little—had made over and remodelled into nice dresses, as good as new. Abbey knew Mrs. Ward had a whole trunkful of Comfort's old things, and "perhaps" she would give her some of them. Abbey could not for her life see why such "pieces of good luck," as she called them, should not happen to her as well as to Elvira.

It was not long before Mrs. Ward began to find things more out of joint about the kitchen than ever. She happened to be ill and confined to her room for a few days. And dreadful were the sights and the smells which met her disgusted senses when she could be about the house once more. Kettles and spiders set away unwashed, and rusted in consequence; the tea-kettle with the handle blackened and loosened; the nice thick metal teapot with part of its nose melted off against the hot stove; and the sink in a very offensive state.

Poor Mrs. Ward! She had never seen so much dirt in her house since she had one to take care of. She went to work with energy to clear up and clean out, and she tried to make Abbey help her; but this was harder than to do the work herself. Abbey was serenely unconscious that any thing was wrong, and looked on with calm wonder, not unmixed with amusement, as Mrs. Ward pulled out pans and basins, scraped dishes, and put dish-towels to soak. Presently came an inquiry, "Where is my dish-cloth?"

"I don't know what you mean," sail Abbey. "Here is 'mine,'" (producing a dripping wad, of most questionable appearance, from one corner of the sink.)

"'That' a dish-cloth!" said Mrs. Ward, surveying it with unspeakable disgust. "You don't mean to say you wash dishes with that thing! Where is the cloth I gave you just before I was sick?"

"This is it."

[Illustration: _Abbey; or, Taking it Easy._ "'That' a dish-cloth!"]

Mrs. Ward folded her hands, sat down on the nearest chair, and looked round her in despair.

"What has happened to that table, that the leaf is turned round to the wall?"

"Oh, the leaf is broken. It has been loose ever since I came here to live."

"I have never known it, if it was. How did you break it?"

But Abbey declared that she did not break it. It had always been so, she repeated, ever since she came into the house. She had never seen any cork to the kerosene-can, either. She was quite sure there never had been any.

"And what has become of the kerosene? Surely all that kerosene has not been used up in the course of a week. The can was filled only last Saturday."

Abbey at first did not know any thing about that, either. But she presently acknowledged that she had "spilt" some of it. This was not true. She had used the kerosene, but she dared not tell how.

At this moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Ward went to attend to it.

"Dear me! What a fuss!" said Abbey to herself, as she began slowly to wash up the dishes Mrs. Ward had piled upon the table. "And now I have got all these dishes to wash, and I shall not get through till noon. How I do hate to live with such fussy people, who will never let one have a minute's peace of one's life!"

That she herself was to blame for any part of the "fuss" she complained of, never entered Abbey's head. For all she cared, dirty dishes might have gone on accumulating till there was not a clean one left in the house. If she had wanted one to use at the moment, she would have washed it, or used it without washing, just as it happened. The condition of the sink never disturbed "her" senses, so long as space remained to pour away any thing else.

How people could make themselves uncomfortable about such things was something she could not understand. It appeared to her a very oppressive act in Mrs. Ward to give her so much additional work to do in cleaning the things she had left dirty; but Mrs. Ward was "particular" and "fussy," and there was no help for it.

Mrs. Ward's visitor proved to be her sister-in-law, Mrs. Powell, who lived a long way off, quite on the other side of the city, and had come to spend the day. Mrs. Powell was a small, wiry little woman, with (as they say) not an inch to spare about her, with sharp blue eyes which looked as if they had been made on purpose to spy out dust in corners and under tables, and there was a general air of business and despatch about her.

Mrs. Powell was a born housekeeper. Even Mrs. Ward was hardly neat enough to suit her ideas. Not a speck of dirt, not a particle of grease, could repose in peace under her vigilant eyes; no "catch-alls" or "shut-holes" could enjoy existence anywhere in her domains. Nevertheless, Mrs. Powell had the name of being a very pleasant person to live with, among the girls whom she and her neighbours employed. True, she got a good deal of work out of them, and she would have every thing done exactly right; but she did not fret or find fault unjustly, and she never kept her girls waiting for their wages.

"Well, Maggie, and how do you do?" said Mrs. Powell, as she settled herself in a very straight-backed, low chair, which Mr. Ward always called "Dorcas," after his favourite sister. "Seems to me you look rather tired and worn out. You don't get fairly rested yet, I see. You ought to have a good, responsible girl,—one who can take some charge of things and give you a chance to be mistress of your time a little while,—to look after the garden, or perhaps take a little journey. That's what you want. Some one like my Rebecca, now!"

"A girl!" said Mrs. Ward, with a deep sigh. "Don't say any thing about it, Dorcas. I have had a girl six weeks, and she has nearly been the death of me. I have never worked so hard in all the time I have kept house as during the time Abbey has been here. I have not been down-stairs before for two days, and you ought to see the kitchen."

"Who is she?" asked Mrs. Powell.

"Why, Abbey Jenkins. Her sister, a year younger, has been with Mrs. Frost for a year, and she likes her very much. And Mrs. Jenkins herself is a very neat, capable woman; but Abbey is a trial."

"Perhaps she will improve," observed Mrs. Powell. "I suppose she is quite young and has never lived out before. I often pity young girls going to a strange place. Every thing is new to them, and they are found fault with,—which confuses them all the more."

"That's not the case with Abbey, I can assure you. She cares no more about being found fault with than that stove. Nothing ever puts her out in the least degree. If I could once see her roused to be vexed or ashamed, I should have some hope of her. She has spoiled more things since she came into the house than her board and wages are worth twice over, but she thinks it is very strange I can make any fuss about it, or be disturbed because she has killed both my poor Comfort's rose-bushes by throwing the slops on them." And poor Mrs. Ward—worn out and discouraged, and more than half sick—put down her head on the arm of the couch, and fairly cried.

"Poor dear! You are no more fit to be at work than a baby," said Mrs. Powell, compassionately. "There! Don't cry. I don't wonder, though, I am sure. If there is any thing that does vex me, it is these indifferent people, who will burn your house down by accident and then wonder how you can care any thing about it. I wish I had her a little while! I'd teach her!" added Mrs. Powell, energetically.

"I am sure I wish you had, if you can do any thing with her," said Mrs. Ward, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "I should have sent her home three weeks ago and more, if I had not felt so sorry for her mother. They are poor, hard-working people, with a crippled son who has never walked a step and is a great sufferer, and two or three younger children. Mrs. Jenkins begged me to do just what I liked with Abbey, and to teach her to work; but I don't think I am a good hand to teach girls."

"Well, really, Maggie, I must say, candidly, that I don't think you are," said Mrs. Powell, frankly. "You have not patience with their mistakes, and you are apt to take hold and do things yourself, rather than wait upon them. And, besides, you are not enough of a driver. Well, don't trouble yourself any more just now, my dear. After all, it is part of the discipline of life, you know. I think a way may be contrived to give you rather easier times: in short, a way 'must' be contrived," said the little woman, striking her needles into her ball with great energy, and winding up her work in a decided way. "You must have a rest; and that is all about it."

"I am sure I should be glad to have one. I don't know how it is, but I believe I am losing my energy, or something. I never felt so before. Every thing is a burden to me."

"Why, child, you are tired out. Such a year as the last is enough to use up anybody. It is not only the actual work of taking care of a sick person, but the strain upon one's nerves and feelings, that tells. I'm sure it was a wonder to me and everybody, the way you kept up all through; but there is a limit to every one's strength finally, and now you have reached the limit of yours. Let us go out and look at the garden. My early peas are up two inches high."

"I will go up-stairs and find my hood," said Mrs. Ward. "I want to consult you about making a new verbena-bed."

"She must have rest, and that is all about it, or she will go after poor Comfort in less than a year," said Mrs. Powell, looking after her sister-in-law. "Well, well," she added, nodding at her reflection in the glass as she tied on her bonnet, "we will see. I have a notion in my head; but I won't say any thing till I have talked to Rebecca."

About a week after this visit, Mrs. Powell made her appearance once more. She found Mrs. Ward scrubbing a tin basin, and Abbey looking on with an air of calm observation.

"So that's the way you show your girl, is it?" said Mrs. Powell. "Clean the pan yourself, and let her stand and look on. But never mind. Let her finish it now, and you come into the parlour. I want to talk to you. How do you do? How hot your hands are!—A great deal too hot to be scrubbing pans."

"I know it; but I can't help it, Dorcas."

"Well, I am going to help it, right off," said Dorcas, energetically,—"if you are willing to consent to my proposition. You must stop working. And you never will stop unless you have some one who can work for you: that is clear."

"Well?" said Mrs. Ward. "What then?"

"Just this. I propose to take your Abbey for three or four months, and let you have my Rebecca for the same time. I believe I can teach the girl, if any one can; it won't be by letting her stand and look on while I scour tins, I promise you. And as for Rebecca, if you can find any thing to do while she is in the house, you will be smart, that's all I can say."

"But, Dorcas, I can't let you make such a sacrifice. Rebecca is a perfect treasure. I hardly ever saw her equal. And you don't know what an incapable creature Abbey is."

"Yes, I do: I can see it all over her," interrupted Mrs. Powell. "As for sacrifices, we won't talk of them between sisters. I have not forgotten my own long fever, when my poor baby died, four years ago." And the tears glistened in the little woman's eyes for a moment. "Besides, I want more exercise. I am growing too fat."

"Yes: you look like it. But I hardly feel as though it would be fair,—though I confess it would be a great relief; for my strength seems to go every day. What does Rebecca say?"

"Oh, she is willing. You know you are a great favourite of hers. The question is, what the other girl will say. Call her in, and let's have a talk with her."

Abbey came in, calm as a summer's morning.

Mrs. Powell explained the arrangement to her in few words, ending with, "I shall expect you to do more work than you do here, so I shall give you two shillings a week more. So you can choose between going with me at that rate, or going home. You can ask your mother about it, and let me know directly."

"You had better run home now, Abbey," said Mrs. Ward. "Your father will have come to his dinner by this time."

Abbey departed, and at the end of an hour came back, accompanied by her mother. Mrs. Jenkins talked the matter over with the two ladies, and it was finally concluded that the exchange should be made the next Monday.

"I feel as though I had a thousand pounds' weight taken off my shoulders," said Mrs. Ward, when they were once alone. "But I am afraid you have not the least idea of what you are undertaking. I believe I have—or had—a tolerable temper; but, really, Abbey tries me beyond endurance."

"I am stronger than you,—in health, I mean," said Mrs. Powell. "Your present irritability is more a matter of nerves than any thing else. And, besides, I presume Abbey's misdeeds trouble you more that they will me. You have always had your house to yourself, to manage just as you pleased, and with no one to interfere with your plans and calculations. I have always been obliged to keep help, such as I could get, and I have learned that it does not answer to be too set in my own ways. But, anyhow, I have no choice in the matter, that I see. I should not feel it right to deprive the child of one place without providing her with another, and it is easier to try her myself than to find any one else willing to undertake her. Besides, I have, perhaps, rather a conceit of my ability in the way of teaching."

"Don't you find it very hard to get people to obey directions?" asked Mrs. Ward.

"Almost impossible. I set a man to digging in the garden, tell him exactly where to begin and where to leave off, and, having something else to attend to, go and leave him. Ten to one that, when I come back, I shall find he has begun in the wrong place and dug up the very thing I told him to leave untouched. It is the same with girls. When I once get one so trained that she can do as she is told, I feel as though I had won the day."

"And yet people say that a housekeeper ought to be able to direct a girl in getting dinner, without looking into the kitchen!" said Mrs. Ward.

"People are very fond of laying down the law to others, and talking about what they don't understand," said Mrs. Powell. "It is so much easier than finding out the truth by experiment. But I am heartily glad I have carried my point this time. I shall not grudge my trouble in the least, if I can only see you getting rested, and like yourself once more."

Mrs. Powell spoke sincerely; but she had little notion of what her sacrifice was to cost.