Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

Light on the subject.

“The oil’s out, mum,” said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty, pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.

“It can’t be,” I replied.

“Indade, mum, and it is.  There isn’t the full of a lamp left,” was the positive answer.

“Then, what have you done with it?” said I, in a firm voice.  “It isn’t four days since a gallon was sent home from the store.”

“Four days!  It’s more nor a week, mum!”

“Don’t tell me that, Hannah,” I replied, firmly; “for I know better.  I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon.”

“Sure, and it’s burned, mum, thin!  What else could go with it?”

“It never was burned in our lamps,” said I, in answer to this.  “You’ve either wasted it, or given it away.”

At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to notice.

But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one—­the only remedy was to order another gallon.

Something was wrong; that was clear.  The oil had never been burned.

That evening, myself and husband talked over the matter, and both of us came to the conclusion, that it would never do.  The evil must be remedied.  A gallon of oil must not again disappear in four days.

“Why,” said my husband, “it ought to last us at least a week and a half.”

“Not quite so long,” I replied.  “We burn a gallon a week.”

“Not fairly, I’m inclined to think.  But four days is out of all conscience.”

I readily assented to this, adding some trite remark about the unconscionable wastefulness of domestics.

On the next morning, as my husband arose from bed, he shivered in the chilly air, saying, as he did so: 

“That girl’s let the fire go out again in the heater!  Isn’t it too bad?  This thing happens now every little while.  I’m sure I’ve said enough to her about it.  There’s nothing wanted but a little attention.”

“It is too bad, indeed,” I added.

“There’s that fishy smell again!” exclaimed Mr. Smith.  “What can it be?”

“Fishy smell!  So there is.”

“Did you get any mackerel from the store yesterday?”

“None.”

“Perhaps Hannah ordered some?”

“No.  I had a ham sent home, and told her to have a slice of that broiled for breakfast.”

“I don’t know what to make of it.  Every now and then that same smell comes up through the register—­particularly in the morning.  I’ll bet a sixpence there’s some old fish tub in the cellar of which she’s made kindling.”

“That may be it,” said I.

And, for want of a better reason, we agreed, for the time being, upon that hypothesis.

At the end of another four days, word came up that our best sperm oil, for which we paid a dollar and forty cents a gallon, was out again.

“Impossible!” I ejaculated.

“But it is mum,” said Hannah.  “There’s not a scrimption left—­not so much as the full of a thimble.”

“You must be mistaken.  A gallon of oil has never been burned in this house in four days.”

“We burned the other gallon in four days,” said Hannah, with provoking coolness.  “The evenings are very long, and we have a great many lights.  There’s the parlor light, and the passage light, and the—­”

“It’s no use for you to talk, Hannah,” I replied, interrupting her.  “No use in the world.  A gallon of oil in four days has never gone by fair means in this house.  So don’t try to make me believe it—­for I won’t.  I’m too old a housekeeper for that.”

Finding that I was not to be convinced, Hannah became angry, and said something about her not being a “thafe.”  I was unmoved by this, however; and told her, with as much sternness of manner as I could assume, that I should hold her responsible for any future waste of the article; and that if she did not feel inclined to remain on such terms, she had better go.

“Dade, thin, and I’ll go to onst,” was the girl’s spirited answer.

“Very well, Hannah.  You are your own mistress in this respect,” said I, coolly.  “I’m not in the least troubled about filling your place; nor fearful of getting one who will waste a gallon of oil in four days.”

Hannah retired from my presence in high indignation, and I fully expected that she would desert my house forthwith.  But, no; unlike some others of her class, she knew when she had a good place, and had sense enough to keep it as long as she could stay.

In due time she cooled off, and I heard no more about her getting another place.

“There’s that fishy smell again!” exclaimed my husband, as he arose up in bed one morning, a day or two afterwards, and snuffed the air.  “And, as I live, the fire in the heater is all out again!  I’ll have some light on this subject, see if I don’t.”

And he sprung upon the floor, at the same time hurriedly putting on his dressing gown and a pair of slippers.

“Where are you going?” said I, seeing him moving towards the door.

“To find out where this fishy smell comes from,” he replied, disappearing as he spoke.

In about five minutes, Mr. Smith returned.

“Well, if that don’t beat all!” he exclaimed, as he re-entered the chamber.

“What?” I very naturally enquired.

“I’ve found out all about that fishy smell,” said he.

“What about it?  Where does it come from?”

“You wouldn’t guess in a month of Sundays!  Well, this is a great world!  Live and learn!”

“Explain yourself, Mr. Smith.  I’m all impatience.”

“I will; and in a few words.  The fire was out in the heater.”

“Yes.”

“And I very naturally took my way down to where I expected to find our lady at work in the re-kindling process.”

“Well?”

“Sure enough, there she was, kindling the fire with a vengeance.”

“With what?” I asked.  “With a vengeance?”

“Yes, with a vengeance to my pocket.  She had the oil can in her hands, and was pouring its contents freely into the furnace, in order to quicken combustion.  I now understand all about this fishy smell.”

“And I all about the remarkable disappearance of a gallon of oil in four days.  Kindling the fire with dollar and forty cent oil!”

“Even so!”

“What did you say to her, Mr. Smith?”

“Nothing.  But I rather think she’ll not want me to look at her again, the huzzy!”

“Kindling fire with my best sperm oil!  Well, I can’t get over that!”

Something in this wise I continued to ejaculate, now and then, until my astonishment fairly wore itself out.

I didn’t consider it worth while to say any thing to Hannah when I went down stairs, thinking it best to let the look my husband spoke of, do its work.  By the way, I don’t much wonder that she was frightened at his look—­for he can—­But I forgot—­I am speaking of my husband, and he might happen to read this.

Of course, Hannah’s days in my house were numbered.  No faith was to be placed in a creature who could so shamefully destroy a useful article placed in her hands.  If she would burn up the oil, it was but fair to infer that she would as remorselessly make way with other things.  So I parted with her.  She begged me to let her stay, and made all sorts of promises.  But I was immovable.

Whether I bettered myself in the change, is somewhat doubtful.