When the fig growns on the thistle, And the silk purse on the sow;When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow--Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will, Art and science well combined, Honest soul and able mind, Servants built upon this plan, One to wait on every man, Patiently from youth to age,--For less than a street cleaner's wage!
When the parson's gay on Mondays, When we meet a month of Sundays, We may look for them and find them--But Not Now!
When young Mrs.Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors.
Mrs.Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice.
"Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long.It must be the new maid!""That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!"The visitor looked puzzled."Is she a--a friend?" she ventured, not sure of her ground.
"I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes."She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel."She arrived at about quarter of ten.I engaged her inside of five minutes.She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!""What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!"Mrs.Porne laughed unblushingly."There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours.We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop.She hasn't touched that yet.But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!"She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly.
"She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!"Mrs.Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest."I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?""Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least," Mrs.Porne answered."But I don't see why you should mind.I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.""Oh yes, she runs it.I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't.That's her life.It was my mother's too.Always fussing and fussing.Their houses on their backs--like snails!""Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.""Its twenty, I think.But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!""Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!" answered Isabel promptly.
"Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this business"--she swept a white hand wearily about--"it's not my work, that's all.""But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?" asked her friend.
"Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar.Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!"Mrs.Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly."You're lucky, you have other interests," she said."How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?"Mrs.Porne flushed."I'm sorry, Viva.You ought to have given it to someone else.I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days.
No help, and the baby, you know.And I was always dog-tired.""That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush.You can get at it now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?""She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name."Mrs.Weatherstone smiled her faint smile."Well--why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.""Exactly.That's what she said."If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.""I like her looks," admitted Mrs.Weatherstone, "but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest." And they went up to the big room on the third floor.
In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman.She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.
She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her."And you say you're not domestic!""I'm a domestic architect, if you like," said Isabel; "but not a domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's a good idea," and she made a careful note of Mrs.Weatherstone's suggestion.
That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand.
"Did you love him so much?" she asked softly.
"Who?" was the surprising answer.
"Why--Mr.Weatherstone," said Mrs.Porne.
"No--not very much.But he was something."Isabel was puzzled."I knew you so well in school," she said, "and that gay year in Paris.You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing--but not like this.What's happened Viva?""Nothing that anybody can help," said her friend."Nothing that matters.What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss.Dress and entertain.Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy!
