CHAPTER I.
t is no good, we can never manage it,” cried Cecilly, half crying, throwing on the floor, as she spoke, the book she had been studying for the last half hour.
“Well, Cecilly, it is no good spoiling the book. That won’t help us,” I said, picking it up and smoothing its ruffled pages.
“It is just as silly as the others,” Cecilly continued, starting up and walking quickly up and down the room. “These people did not put a majolica sink in their dining-room, or embroider their dish-cloths, but they spent fifty pounds in having water laid on to every bedroom, bought a new cooking-stove, and every other contrivance advertised for saving labour. If we had fifty pounds to spend to save ourselves trouble, we need not do without the servants. I see we shall have to give up the idea after all. Jack is right; we can never manage.”
“Don’t say that,” I cried, for Cecilly had been the originator of the idea, and last evening had fought most hopefully every objection the boys had raised against our carrying out our plan of doing without servants.
It was only six months ago that the first shadow had fallen on our bright happy home. Our dear father had been suddenly struck down by illness, an illness which had seemed but slight at first, but which, as the weeks went by, grew graver day by day, till there came a long, long night when we waited in silent grief for the summons to bid him our last farewell. But God in His mercy heard our broken-hearted prayers, and gave him back to us and life.
His recovery was fearfully low and tedious, and no one was surprised to learn that the only hope for his recovery was for him to pass the winter abroad. It had been very difficult to find the means to take him away, but they were found. At first the change did wonders, but the improvement did not last, and in every letter we could read the anxiety mother was trying to hide from us.
The day before the one of which I write the first bright report had reached us.
“Father is really better,” mother wrote, but even as we gave our shout of joy, Jack read these words: “but the improvement comes too late—our funds are nearly exhausted, and we must soon turn our faces homewards. The doctors say if only he could stay on for another few months, they are certain of his recovery. But that cannot be, and God knows what is best for us always.” Again and again we asked ourselves what it was possible for us to do to keep him in Cannes, but there seemed no way. Cecilly had found a few pupils for music when dear father had first been ill, and she had left no stone unturned in trying to get more, but in vain. I too had sought for employment, but beyond going to read to an old lady two afternoons in each week, I had been unable to find any. Jack was in a solicitor’s office, and already was filling up every spare hour with extra work, while Bob and Phil were still at school. Everything of value our home possessed had already been parted with for the journey, so that it was no wonder we cried out in despair.
“Can’t we give up meat?” Bob asked at dinner that evening. “Kitty is always moaning over the butcher’s bill.”
“Is it likely you can give up meat,” Jack answered crossly, and I said—
“We might, but the servants would not.”
Then it was that Cecilly had cried out, “Send the servants away. I am sure we could manage without them.”
Jack was as indignant with Cecilly as with Bob, but she would not be quieted.
“Listen to me and hear reason,” she cried. “We must have money somehow, and here is a way of getting it, or saving it, which is the same thing. Cook’s wages are £20 a year, Ann’s are £16. So in three months we should save £9. Nine hard sovereigns—not counting their keep. Oh, Kitty, what is their keep?”
“Quite ten shillings a week each, not counting their washing,” I answered.
“And we should save the kitchen fire, except when we are cooking,” said Cecilly.
“And the gas,” said Phil. “They flare it away at every burner. I turned it out myself in the scullery last night.”
“We should be able to live much more economically, of course,” I said. “One dinner instead of the two we always have to cook now, must be a saving in every way. Oh, Cecilly, what a splendid idea yours is.”
“It is all rubbish,” said Jack. “Is it likely mother and father would allow you girls to turn into slaves?”
But Cecilly would not be silenced, and if she had her will would have rushed off into the kitchen and dismissed the servants there and then. She was up quite early and off to the stores to buy two or three books she had seen advertised on the subject of “How to manage without servants.” But, as I have said before, the authors had all been able to spend the servants’ wages for a year in labour-saving contrivances. Poor Cecilly had been so excited and hopeful the evening before that she could not endure facing all the difficulties the morning laid before her.
“Jack is right. We cannot manage,” she cried again, and then burst into a flood of tears.
I was vainly trying to cheer her when the door opened and our dear old friend Mrs. Travers, whom we all call Aunt Jane, entered.
“Oh, my dears,” she cried, in dismay, “you have bad news from your mother!”
I hastened to reassure her, while Cecilly cried out—
“Yes, the news is bad, Aunt Jane. He will never be well again, and we can’t help him.”
Then I told her mother’s words, and all about our idea that had come to nothing.
“Why should your idea come to nothing?” she asked, and when we both asked her at once if she really thought we could manage, and she answered, “If you can face plenty of hard work, of course you can,” Cecilly rushed at her to hug her in her joy. “Sit down, you scatter-brain,” said the dear old lady, “and we will then talk seriously. There can be no doubt that you will save considerably if you do send away the servants, but the necessary work you will find very hard, far harder than you can yet imagine, especially at first. I speak from experience, my dears, for my early married days were spent in Canada, and there I learnt to use my hands. I have known many girls and women as gentle and refined as any English lady, doing the entire work not only of a house, but helping husband, brother or father with poultry or dairy as well. And if our sisters in the Colonies can do without hired help, why can’t we here? There is nothing so healthy as housework. Have your windows open while you work, and there will be no need for any more bicycle rides. The question is, Are you really prepared for hard work? Can you face the early rising, the spoiling of pretty white hands, a good many backaches, and a great many irksome duties?”
“Of course we can!” we cried at once. “If only we can give father this chance, we will face anything!”
“Then, my dears, the first thing is to give the servants notice.”
“Luckily, Aunt Jane, Ann is going; she is only staying on till we knew when mother would be back.”
“And I know of a place that would suit cook beautifully,” said Cecilly.
“That’s well,” said Aunt Jane, “they are easily disposed of. When they are gone, you must find a little girl.”
“No, no!” we both called out. “We will do everything ourselves.”
“Hear me out, my dears,” said Aunt Jane quietly, “and then raise your objections. I say you must have a girl just for one hour in the morning to clean the boots.”
“Oh, I had forgotten the boots!” sighed Cecilly.
“I would have said a boot-boy, but a girl can clean your doorsteps, for you must not do that.”
“Why not?” asked Cecilly. “I see nothing to be ashamed of in any work.”
“Neither do I, my dear; but your mother would object to that, I am sure, and as you must have someone for the boys’ boots, the someone may as well clean your steps.”
“Why can’t the boys clean their own boots?” Cecilly began, but I stopped her, for I saw Aunt Jane was looking vexed at her interruptions, and I knew mother would not like the boys to do such work while they were going to school among other boys.
“Next,” continued Aunt Jane, “I should advise you to do away with your kitchen range and have a gas stove.”
“No, dear Aunt Jane,” I pleaded. “We must not spend anything to save ourselves.”
“I am not asking you to spend anything, my dear, excepting a few shillings. The gas company will let out on hire any stove for a small sum, I believe about one shilling and eightpence a quarter. There will be the cost of setting it, but that will soon be paid for by the saving in coals. A gas stove can be turned off as soon as you no longer require it, so is economical in every way. I know I must not add that it will save you much work, both in cleaning and lighting, though that is the truth.” We laughed as we told her we were quite lazy enough to be saved any labour, and she continued, “I will tell you another plan to lighten your work. Take up all the heavy carpets possible, especially in the bedrooms. A stained floor with rugs you can shake is far easier to keep clean as well as being more healthy.”
“But we should have to have the floors stained,” said Cecilly. “And every shilling will be wanted for father.”
“I think you must spare one or two of them to buy a bottle or so of stains,” replied Aunt Jane, smiling. “Stain them, and then polish them by degrees with beeswax and turpentine. I had an oak staircase once that I treated in that way, and it looked beautiful. Of course, if you have mats and rugs, so much the better, but strips of carpet with the ends fringed out do very nicely. What you will find most irksome is the continual washing up. Take my advice and leave your evening dinner things till the next morning. I know it is far nicer to get them washed up overnight, but you must remember that your first duty is to make home bright for the boys. When dinner is over, put away all domestic duties and make the evenings as bright with music and suchlike as you do now. Now I must be going, and will only add this piece of advice. When you speak to cook and Ann, tell them the reason you are parting with them. They are both kind-hearted girls and will, I am sure, help you in getting ready to do without them, and doubtless will be able to give you good advice too.”
“I hope Jack won’t be very vexed,” sighed Cecilly.
“Never mind Jack,” said Aunt Jane. “He is too sensible to be really vexed.”
“Poor Jack,” I said. “You know, Aunt Jane, how very friendly and kind Mr. Marriott has always been to him. Now, although he has been goodness itself in finding him extra work after office hours, we can all see he does not approve of the friendship between Jack and Cynthia. Cynthia comes to us in the daytime as much as ever, but very rarely in the evening when Jack is home.”
“Mr. Marriott is quite right, my love. The way they are bringing up their daughters makes marriage with any but a rich man out of the question.”
“Oh, Aunt Jane, Cynthia is the sweetest girl,” we both cried, while Aunt Jane answered—
“The sweetest of girls can make the worst of wives.”
After bidding our kind old friend good-bye, we went at once to the kitchen to tell our tale to cook and Ann. As Aunt Jane had predicted, they received our news with the greatest kindness, and immediately offered to help us in every way.
“You had better come into the kitchen every day while I am here, and let me teach you the young gentlemen’s favourite dishes, Miss Kitty,” cook said, and Ann, who was leaving because she had been so rude to Cecilly, sat down and cried because she could not bear to think of us having to “so bemean” ourselves.
(To be continued.)