Mary Lane’s Higher Education
By Marguerite Stables
MRS. LANE dropped down on the door-step and fanned herself with her apron. “It does beat all,” she said, aloud to herself, “how trifling these heathens are. Here I am paying seven dollars a week to this miserable Chinaman to do nothing but the cooking, and now if he doesn’t slip off without a word and leave me to do all the work.”
“Don’t bother about it, mamma,” answered Mary Lane, with an abstracted air, “pingo, irregular, we can eat, pingere, anything. It’s too hot to worry, pinxi, pinctum.”
Mary meant to be kind, but as she hunched her shoulders over her book again, her mother’s trials were entirely out of her mind. But for once in her life the overworked woman’s patience forsook her. “I’ve got to bother,” she said, wearily, “what with a houseful of city boarders, and this being quarterly conference and the ministers coming here to dinner, and that heathen away. I can’t let it go, I’ve got to bother.” Then she arose and walked away quickly so her plaints should not disturb her daughter’s studying.
A few moments later a gentle knock was heard at the door, and—“Mamma says she would like to have screens put into her windows, Mrs. Lane,” said a crisp-looking young girl who put her head into the door, “and the water won’t run upstairs, and we need more—why, what in the world is the matter?” she finished abruptly, for poor Mrs. Lane had put down her pitcher, looking as if this was the last straw.
“Everything is the matter,” the tired woman answered, and motioned the girl into the hall to explain that all her troubles seemed to have culminated that morning and that the ministers were to be there for dinner.
“Can’t you get any one to help you?” the girl asked, looking inquiringly through the door at Mary.
“No, she’s too busy studying; I wouldn’t have her stop preparing for her Latin examination for anything; she is going to have a higher education, you know,” she added, with a touch of pride.
The youthful summer boarder looked down at the tired little woman with a bright smile. “Oh, Mrs. Lane, I’m coming right in to help you, myself,” she said; “I just love to do things in the kitchen, honestly I do,” commencing to take off her rings and rolling up her sleeves, as she saw Mrs. Lane had not fully grasped what she had said.
“No, you must not stay in this hot place,” the woman said, noticing the stiff collar and freshly starched duck skirt; “and, besides,” she continued, to herself, as she remembered how some of her boarders, last summer, had tried to have a candy-pull and had set the house on fire, “I can’t be bothered now showing her. I know how these city girls work.”
But by this time the “city girl,” unconscious of Mrs. Lane’s thoughts, had one of the latter’s big kitchen aprons tied around her waist and was waving a wooden spoon by way of punctuating her orders.
“Now, Mrs. Lane, I’m the new hired girl, Blanche is my name, and although I have no recommendation from my last place to give you, I assure you I am honest and willing. You don’t know how I just love to get a chance to fuss around a kitchen; it is such a change from the grind of—” Here the potatoes boiled over and she flew to take off the lid.
The morning wore away much more peacefully for Mrs. Lane than it had begun. Many steps were saved her by the “new girl’s” watchfulness, and there were even several bursts of merry laughter from the buttery, which dispelled more clouds than the real assistance did.
“I may not be so skilled in making bread and doing the useful things,” Blanche apologized, “for I have taken only the ‘classical course’ in cookery. Nettie and I spent last summer down at Aunt Cornelia’s while the rest of the family were in Europe, and she told us we could do whatever we pleased, and what do you suppose we chose? I chose puttering around the kitchen, and Nettie took to hoeing the weeds out of the vegetable garden. And it was such fun!”
The ministers came earlier than they were expected, and Mrs. Lane was hurried out of the kitchen to put on her good dress, with a pledge to secrecy as to the force in the culinary department.
By dinner-time, the Chinaman, having unexpectedly put in his appearance, was waiting on the table as if nothing had happened, but Mrs. Lane was too nervous and apprehensive at first even to notice how different the table looked. There were roses everywhere, a gorgeous American Beauty at each place, and the fish globe in the centre of the table was full of them; but they were all of one variety. Mrs. Lane thought secretly that when the larkspurs and hollyhocks were so fine it did seem a pity not to mix a few in just to give it a little style. She had grave doubts as to the salad when she saw it brought on, although she was bound to admit the yellow-green lettuce looked very pretty, garnished with the bright red petals; but when she tasted it she was reassured. She could not make out what it was made of, but she only hoped it seemed as palatable to every one else as it did to her.
The boarders were all delighted with this new departure, and attributed it to the presence of the ministers, consequently they warmed toward them with a friendliness born of gratitude, and the ministers in their turn did their utmost to return the graciousness and courtesy of the boarders, till the board might have been surrounded by a picked number of congenial friends, so beautifully did everything progress. “Brother” Mason eyed the array of forks and spoons at his plate somewhat suspiciously, wondering if he had them all and was expected to pass them along, but Blanche clattered hers so ostentatiously that he noticed she had the same number and was satisfied.
The success of the next course was due to Mrs. Lane, for the “new girl” explained to the mistress that meats and vegetables did not come in the “classical course.” “Brother” Hicks talked so volubly about foreign missions that Mary did not notice that even the currant jelly was made to do its part in developing the color scheme of the table and that it matched the roses as exactly as if it had been made after a sample. But when the cake was brought in and set before her to be cut she thought at the first glance it was another flower piece, but she saw the quick, approving glance shot from her mother to Miss Blanche, and suspected the new boarder might have suggested its design. It was set on the large, round wooden tray used to mash the sugar in. Even the frosting was tinted an American Beauty pink, and around its base a garland of the same glowing roses. Through the jumble of irregular verbs and the rules for indirect discourse the secret suddenly dawned upon her. It was the city girl who walked with her head so high and wore such beautiful dresses who had made the dinner such a success, while she—but that was different, she was preparing for college.
Mrs. Lane was complacent and happy the remainder of the evening and less tired than she had been for many days, and when the ministers took their leave of her the Presiding Elder said, “I shall remember this evening and the beautiful repast you have given us for a long time to come, Sister Lane.”
“I SHALL REMEMBER THE BEAUTIFUL REPAST FOR A LONG TIME TO COME, SISTER LANE,” SAID THE PRESIDING ELDER
Blanche’s bright eyes sparkled with fun, and Mary, although she could not have told why, felt just a bit uncomfortable. “Isn’t it interesting to know that our English words transfer and translate come from the same root?” she said, presently, in her own mind trying to vindicate herself for not helping her mother.
“Oh, don’t,” broke in Blanche, laughingly, “talk about the dirty old roots under ground when we have these glorious flowers that grow on top.”
It had grown too dark for any one to see the pity in Mary’s smile for this frivolous city-bred girl who wasted her time on amusements and learning a little chafing-dish cooking, and didn’t even know what a Latin root was.
Blanche’s mother was kept in her room the next day with a headache, so Blanche’s time was divided between taking care of her invalid and lending a hand to Mrs. Lane till she could get another cook. Mrs. Lane had never expected Mary to help her; knowing how hard her own life had been, she was trying to fit her for a teacher, but as she watched Blanche flying about the house, setting the table, rolling out her cheese straws, running up and down to her mother’s room with a patch of flour on her curly hair, and singing gayly about her work, her tired eyes followed the young girl wistfully. It would be worth a great deal, she admitted, to have a daughter like that, even if she had not a word of Latin in her head. But, of course, the higher education could not be interfered with by the old-fashioned way of bringing up a daughter, and Mary took to books.
“I am going to college this fall if I pass the entrance examinations,” Mary announced at the lunch table, with just a touch of superiority in her tone. She could not have explained just why she felt so resentful toward the city girl.
“Are you going East, or will you stay out here on the coast?” Blanche asked, as if it were the most every-day thing to go to college.
“I have not decided yet, for I shall be the only girl anywhere around here who has gone to college,” she answered, nibbling one of Blanche’s cheese straws with an evident relish.
“Have another,” Blanche interrupted, passing her the plate with a hand that showed two burns and a slight scald. “We used to serve them with tamales when our friends came down from town to the trial foot-ball games.”
“Why, I thought you lived in San Francisco?” Mary said, looking up in surprise.
“I do,” Blanche answered, “but I’ve been down at Stanford the last four years, and have just finished this last semester.”
Mary’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “Why,” she began, incredulously, “I thought you—you—” She did not like to say she had thought that the sunny-faced girl before her had no appreciation of education because she liked to do useful, domestic things, too.
“You thought I could do nothing but cook?” Blanche finished, laughingly.
But Mary did not answer. Blanche Hallsey was certainly not much older than she, and yet, with all her college education, she had been in the kitchen all that hot morning, kneading bread and scouring silver for Mrs. Lane.
“If you decide to go to Stanford, I can write to some of the girls to look out for you,” Blanche went on, for she had not noticed Mary’s attitude of superiority the last few days.
“Oh, would you, please?” Mary Lane pleaded, in a tone that would have greatly surprised her mother had she heard it, for not even she guessed how the fear of going among strangers for the first time in her life had been haunting her diffident little girl.
It was several days, however, before Mary, with her forehead puckered into knots over the “ablative absolute,” could bring herself to knock at Miss Hallsey’s door, and ask for a little assistance.
But that was the beginning of the end of Mary Lane’s priggishness, and the first step toward a higher education in the true sense of the word. She passed her entrance examinations with honors, due, perhaps, to the patient coaching she received during the rest of the summer from Blanche Hallsey. She learned, too, besides irregular verbs, a great many other things fully as useful, topping off with what the college girl called “a classical course in cookery.”