WHAT LOVE WILL ACCOMPLISH.
“This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty; “how I came to be such a simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and more of an astonisher to me. Icanlearn, and Iwill! There’s Bridget told me yesterday there wasn’t time to make a pudding before dinner. I had my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I didn’t know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I’m no more mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it, too; and there’s Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!) couldn’t find an eatable thing on the dinner-table yesterday. He loves me too well to say anything, but he had such an ugly frown on his face when he lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is:
“‘One must eat in matrimony,And love is neither bread nor honey,And so, you understand.’”
“‘One must eat in matrimony,And love is neither bread nor honey,And so, you understand.’”
“‘One must eat in matrimony,And love is neither bread nor honey,And so, you understand.’”
“‘One must eat in matrimony,
And love is neither bread nor honey,
And so, you understand.’”
“What on earth sent you over here in this dismal rain?” said Kitty’s neighbour, Mrs. Green. “Just look at your gaiters.”
“Oh, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying her “rigolette,” and throwing herself on the sofa. “I don’t know any more about cooking than a six weeks’ kitten; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect Irishnonchalance; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the days grow short, the bills grow long, and I’m the most miserable little Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, baking, and roasting; take me into your kitchen now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as if I could roast Chanticleer and all his hen-harem!”
“You don’t expect to take your degree in one forenoon?” said Mrs. Green, laughing immoderately.
“Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don’t whirl off its axle. I’ve locked up my guitar, and my French and Italian books, and that irresistible ‘Festus,’ and nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down that embroidery, there’s a good Samaritan, and descend with me into the lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower-bath,” and she rolled up her sleeves from her round white arms, took off her rings, and tucked her curls behind her ears.
Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her resolution; each day added a little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavour her first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? What if she did “baste” a turkey with saleratus instead of salt? What if she did season the stuffing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper? Rome wasn’t built in a day;—cooks can’t be manufactured in a minute.
Kitty’s husband had been gone just a month. He was expected home that very day. All the morning the little wife had been getting up a congratulatory dinner in honour of the occasion. What with satisfaction and the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid’s. How her eyes sparkled, and what a pretty little triumphant toss she gave her head when that big trunk was dumped down in the entry! It isn’t a bad thing, sometimes, to have a secret even from one’s own husband.
“On my word, Kitty,” said Harry, holding her off at arm’s length, “you look most provokingly ‘well-to-do’ for a widow ‘pro tem.’ I don’t believe you have mourned for me the breath of a sigh. What have you been about? who has been here? and what mine of fun is to be prophesied from the merry twinkle in the corner of your eye? Anybody hid in the closet or cupboard? Have you drawn a prize in the lottery?”
“Not since I married you,” said Mrs. Kitty; “and you are quite welcome to that sugar-plum to sweeten your dinner.”
“How Bridget has improved,” said Harry, as he plied his knife and fork industriously; “I never saw these woodcocks outdone, even at our bachelor club-rooms at —— House. She shall have a present of a pewter cross, as sure as her name is McFlannigan, besides absolution for all the detestable messes she used to concoct with her Catholic fingers.”
“Let me out! let me out!” said a stifled voice from the closet; “you can’t expect a woman to keep a secret for ever.”
“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green?” said Harry, gaily shaking her hand.
“Why, you see, ‘Bridget has improved;’i. e.to say, little Mrs. Kitty there received from my hands yesterday a diploma, certifying her Mistress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having spent every morning of your absence in perfecting herself as a housekeeper. There now, don’t drop on your knees to her till I have gone. I know very well when three is a crowd, or, to speak more fashionably, when I am ‘de trop,’ and I’m only going to stop long enough to remind you that there are somewivesleft in the world, and that Kitty is one of ’em.”
And now, dear reader, if you doubt whether Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for all her trouble, you’d better take a peep into that parlour, and while you are looking, let me whisper a secret in your ear confidentially. You may be as beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame de Stael, but you will never reign supreme in your liege lord’s affections till you can roast a turkey.