"I don"t know. They might as well be underground as in some of those close, crowded shops. And their bedrooms can"t be much to compare, certain. I"m afraid they like the crowds best. If they wanted to, and would work in, and try, they might contrive. Things fix themselves accordingly, after a while. Somebody"s got to begin. I can"t help thinking about it."
Desire smiled.
"Your thinking may be a first sign of good times, little Bel," she said. "Think on. That is the way everything begins; with a restlessness in some one or two heads about it. Perhaps that is just what you have come down from New Hampshire for."
"I don"t know," said Bel again. She began a good many of her reflective, suggestive little speeches with that hesitating feeler into the fog of social perplexity she essayed. "They"re just as bad up there, now. They all get away to the towns, and the trades, and the stores They won"t go into the houses; and they might have such good places!"
"You came yourself, you see?"
"Yes. I wasn"t contented. And things were particular with me. And I had Aunt Blin. I don"t want to go back, either. But I can see how it is."
"Things are particular with each one, in some sort or another. That is what settles it, I suppose, and ought to. The only thing is to be sure that it is a _right_ particular that does it; that we don"t let in any wrong particular, anywhere. For you, Dorothy, I don"t believe shop-life is the thing. You have found it out. Why not change at once? There is the machine at home, and Ray is going to be busy in Neighbor Street. Won"t her work naturally come to you?"
"There isn"t much of it, and it is so uncertain. The shops take up all the bulk of work nowadays; everything is wholesale; and I don"t want to go into the rooms, if I can help it. I don"t like days"
work, either. The fact is, I want a quiet place, and the same things. I like my own machine. I would go with it into a family, if I could have my own room, and be nice, and not have to eat with careless, common servants in a dirty kitchen. Mother would spare me,--to a real good situation; and I would come home Sundays."
"I see. What you want is somewhere, of course. Wouldn"t you advertise?"
"Would _you_?"
"Yes, I think I would. Say exactly what you want, wages and all. And put it into some family Sunday paper,--the "Christian Register," for instance. Those things get read over and over; and the same paper lies about a week. In the dailies, one thing crowds out another; a new list every night and morning. See here, I"ll write one now.
Perhaps it wouldn"t be too late for this week. Would you go out of town?"
"_Wouldn"t_ I? I think sometimes that"s just what ails me; wanting to see soft roads and green gra.s.s and door-yards and sun between the houses! But I couldn"t go far, of course."
Desire"s pencil was flying over the paper.
""Wanted; a permanent situation in a pleasant family, as seamstress, by a young girl used to all kinds of sewing, who will bring her own machine. Would like a room to herself, and to have her meals orderly and comfortable, whether with the family or otherwise.
Wages"--What?"
"By the day, I could get a dollar and a quarter, at least; but for a real good home-place, I"d go for four dollars a week."
""Wages, $4.00 per week. A little way out of town preferred." There!
There are such places, and why shouldn"t one come to you? Take that down to the "Register" office to-morrow morning, and have it put in twice, unless stopped."
"Thank you. It"s all easy enough, Miss Ledwith. Why didn"t I work it out myself?"
"It isn"t quite worked out, yet. But things always look clearer, somehow, through two pairs of eyes. Good-night. Let me know what you hear about it."
"She"ll surprise some family with such a seamstress as they read about," said Bel Bree, on the door-step. "I should like to astonish people, sometime, with a heavenly kind of general housework."
"That was a good idea of yours about the Sunday paper," said Sylvie, as she and Hazel and Desire went back into the library to put away the books. "But what when the common sort pick up the dodge, and the weeklies get full of "Wanteds"? Nothing holds out fresh, very long."
"There _ought_ to be," said Desire, "some filtered process for these things; some way of sifting and certifying. A bureau of mutual understanding between the "real folks,"--employers and employed. I believe it might be. There ought to be for this, and for many things, a fellowship organized, between women of different outward degree. And something will happen, sooner or later, to bring it about. A money crisis, perhaps, to throw these girls out of shop-employment, and to make heads of households look into ways of more careful managing. A mutual need,--or the seeing of it. The need is now; these girls--half of them--want homes, more than anything; and the homes are suffering for the help of just such girls."
"Why don"t you edit a paper, Desire? The "Fellowship Register," or the "Domestic Intelligencer," or something! And keep lists of all the nice, real housekeepers, and the nice, real, willing girls?"
"That isn"t a bad notion, Hazie. Your notions never are. May be that is what is waiting for you. Just cover up that "raised Switzerland,"
will you, and bring it over here? And roll up the "Course of the Rhine," and set it in the corner. There; now we may put out the gas.
Sylvie, has your mother had her fresh camomile tea?"
The three girls bade each other good-night at the stairs; just where Desire had stood once, and put her arms about Uncle t.i.tus"s neck for the first time. She often thought of it now, when they went up after the pleasant evenings, and came down in the bright mornings to their cheery breakfasts. She liked to stop on just that step. n.o.body knew all it meant to her, when she did. There are places in every dwelling that keep such secrets for one heart and memory alone.
Yes, indeed. Sylvie was very happy now. All her pretty pictures, and little brackets, and her mother"s stands and vases in the gray parlor, were hung with the lovely, wreathing, fairy stems of star-leaved, blossomy fern; and the sweet, dry scent was a perpetual subtle message. That day in the train from East Keaton was a day to pervade the winter, as this woodland breath pervaded the old city house. Sylvie could wait with what she had, sure that, sometime, more was coming. She could wait better than Rodney. Because,--she knew she was waiting, and satisfied to wait. How did Rodney know that?
It was what he kept asking his Aunt Euphrasia in his frequent, boyish, yet most manly, letters. And she kept answering, "You need not fear. I think I understand Sylvie. I can see. If there were anything in the way, I would tell you."
But at last she had to say,--not, "I think I understand Sylvie,"--but, "I understand girls, Rodney. I am a woman, remember.
I have been a girl, and I have waited. I have waited all my life.
The right girls can."
And Rodney said, tossing up the letter with a shout, and catching it with a loving grasp between his hands again,--
"Good for you, you dear, brave, blessed ace of hearts in a world where hearts are trumps! If you ain"t one of the right old girls, then they don"t make "em, and never did!"
CHAPTER XXI.
VOICES AND VISIONS.
Madame Bylles herself walked into the great work-room of Mesdames Fillmer & Bylles, one Sat.u.r.day morning.
Madame Bylles was a lady of great girth and presence. If Miss Tonker were sub-aristocratic, Madame Bylles was almost super-aristocratic, so c.u.mulative had been the effect upon her style and manner of constant professional contact with the elite. Carriages had rolled up to her door, until she had got the roll of them into her very voice. Airs and graces had swept in and out of her private audience-room, that had not been able to take all of themselves away again. As the very dust grows golden and precious where certain workmanship is carried on, the touch and step and speech of those who had come ordering, consulting, coaxing, beseeching, to her apartments, had filled them with infinitesimal particles of a sublime efflorescence, by which the air itself in which they floated became--not the air of shop or business or down-town street--but the air of drawing-room, and bon-ton, and Beacon Hill or the New Land.
And Madame Bylles breathed it all the time; she dwelt in the courtly contagion. When she came in among her work-people, it was an advent of awe. It was as if all the elegance that had ever been made up there came floating and spreading and shining in, on one portly and magnificent person.
But when Madame Bylles came in, in one of her majestic hurries!
Then it was as if the globe itself had orders to move on a little faster, and make out the year in two hundred and eighty days or so, and she was appointed to see it done.
She was in one of these grand and grave accelerations this morning.
Miss Pashaw"s marriage was fixed for a fortnight earlier than had been intended, business calling Mr. Soldane abroad. There were dresses to be hurried; work for over-hours was to be given out. Miss Tonker was to use every exertion; temporary hands, if reliable, might be employed. All must be ready by Thursday next; Madame Bylles had given her word for it.
The manner in which she loftily transmitted this grand intelligence, warm from the high-born lips that had favored her with the confidence,--the air of intending it for Miss Tonker"s secondarily distinguished ear alone, while the carriage-roll in her accents bore it to the farthest corner in the room, where the meekest little woman sat basting,--these things are indescribable. But they are in human nature: you can call them up and scrutinize them for yourself.
Madame Bylles receded like a tidal wave, having heaved up, and changed, and overwhelmed all things.
A great buzz succeeded her departure; Miss Tonker followed her out upon the landing.
"I"ll speak for that cashmere peignoir that is just cut out. I"ll make it nights, and earn me an ostrich band for my hat," said Elise Mokey.
One spoke for one thing; one another; they were claimed beforehand, in this fashion, by a kind of work-women"s code; as publishers advertise foreign books in press, and keep the first right by courtesy.
Miss Proddle stopped her machine at last, and caught the news in her slow fashion hind side before.
"We might some of us have overwork, I should think; shouldn"t you?"