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A Bad Habit
by
“Mamma gave me a drawing-slate on my birthday,” I replied, “but Joseph bothered me to lend it to him, and now he’s broken the glass. It is so tiresome! But it’s always the way if you lend things.”
“What makes you think that it is always the way if you lend things?” my godmother gently inquired.
“It seems as if it was, I’m sure,” was my answer. “It was just the same with the fish-kettle when cook lent it to the Browns. They kept it a fortnight, and let it rust, and the first time cook put a drop of water into it it leaked; and she said it always was the way; you might lend everything you had, and people had no conscience, but if it came to borrowing a pepperpot–“
My godmother put up both her long hands with an impatient gesture.
“That will do, my dear. I don’t care to hear all that your mother’s cook said about the fish-kettle.”
I felt uncomfortable, and was glad that Lady Elizabeth went on talking.
“Have you and Joseph any collections? When I was your age, I remember I made a nice collection of wafers. They were quite as pretty as modern monograms.”
“Joseph collected feathers out of the pillows once,” I said, laughing. “He got a great many different sorts, but nurse burned them, and he cried.”
“I’m sorry nurse burned them. I daresay they made him very happy. I advise you to begin a collection, Selina. It is a capital cure for discontent. Anything will do. A collection of buttons, for instance. There are a great many kinds; and if ever some travelled friend crowns your collection with a mandarin’s button, for one day at least you won’t feel a grievance worth speaking of.”
I was feeling very much aggrieved as Lady Elizabeth spoke, and thinking to myself that “it seemed so hard to be scolded out visiting, and when one had not got into any scrape.” But I only said that “nobody at home ever said that I grumbled so much;” and that I “didn’t know that our servants complained more than other people’s.”
“I do not suppose they do,” said my godmother. “I have told you already that I consider it a foible of ill-educated people, whose interests are very limited, and whose feelings are not disciplined. You know James, the butler, Selina, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, godmamma!”
I knew James well. He was very kind to me, and always liberal when, by Lady Elizabeth’s orders, he helped me to almonds and raisins at dessert.
“My mother died young,” said Lady Elizabeth, “and at sixteen I was head of my father’s household. I had been well trained, and I tried to do my duty. Amid all the details of providing for and entertaining many people, my duty was to think of everything, and never to seem as if I had anything on my mind. I should have been fairly trained for a kitchen-maid, Selina, if I had done what I was told when it was bawled at me, and had talked and seemed more overwhelmed with work than the Prime Minister. Well, most of our servants had known me from babyhood, and it was not a light matter to have the needful authority over them without hurting the feelings of such old and faithful friends. But, on the whole, they respected my efforts, and were proud of my self-possession. I had more trouble with the younger ones, who were too young to help me, and whom I was too young to overawe. I was busy one morning writing necessary letters, when James–who was then seventeen, and the under-footman–came to the drawing room and wished to speak to me. When he had wasted a good deal of my time in describing his unwillingness to disturb me, and the years his father had lived in my father’s service, I said, ‘James, I have important letters to write, and very little time to spare. If you have any complaint to make, will you kindly put it as shortly as you can?’ ‘I’m sure, my lady, I have no wish to complain,’ was James’s reply; and thereon his complaints poured forth in a continuous stream. I took out my watch (unseen by James, for I never insult people), and gave him five minutes for his grievances. He got on pretty fast with them. He had mentioned the stone floor of his bed-room, a draught in the pantry, the overbearingness of the butler, the potatoes for the servants’ hall being under-boiled when the cook was out of temper, the inferior quality of the new plate-powder, the insinuations against his father’s honesty by servants who were upstarts by comparison, his hat having been spoilt by the rain, and that he never was so miserable in his life–when the five minutes expired, and I said ‘Then, James, you want to go?’ He coloured, and I really think tears stood in his eyes. He was a good-hearted lad.