Chapter VII: Maplehurst

It was the first day of July, and Maplehurst was in a state of great excitement, for sixteen people were coming by the afternoon train, and among them Alex., his mother and sister and cousin. Mrs. Groves, with her staff, had been there a week or more, and had carefully drilled her subordinates with regard to their duties, especially the waitresses. There were four of them, all from Boston, except Sherry,—one a saleslady, one a stenographer and one from a restaurant, who felt that she knew quite as much as Mrs. Groves, if not more, because she had been in a restaurant three or four years. But that dignitary soon set her right by telling her that waiting upon every sort of people in a restaurant or hotel was very different from waiting upon such guests as were coming to Maplehurst. Sherry had listened very respectfully to the directions, but there was a look upon her face which said that she, too, had an opinion as well as Polly, the girl No. 4. She had dined once or twice in great state at the Saltuses’ in Buford, and she remembered what she had seen and knew that in some respects it differed from Mrs. Groves’ rules, and when they were told that in no event were they to take in or out more than one dish at a time, she ventured to say, “Excuse me, Mrs. Groves, but that will take so long and necessitate a great many steps, as the kitchen is so far from the dining-room, and there is the anteroom between, and are there not different ways of serving?”

The look on Mrs. Groves’ face would have disconcerted one less self-contained than Sherry, whose expression did not change at all at the lady’s reply: “There can be but one right way. I have told you what that is, and as for _steps_, you are hired to take them if you walk miles in doing it.”

Sherry bent her head with what she meant to be a civil bow, but Mrs. Groves fancied she saw in it signs of insubordination, and resolved to hold a tight rein on No. 1, who evidently was above her business, and who looked too much like a lady, and was quite too pretty in her black dress and white apron with ruffled shoulder straps and the cap set so jauntily upon her curly hair. On her arrival at Maplehurst Mrs. Groves had found a box of caps sent by Amy Marsh, who had selected them, and for which Alex. had paid. He was shopping with his sister, who had asked his opinion with regard to different styles.

“Great guns! I don’t know about styles of caps. Must they wear them?” he said.

“Our maids do,” Amy answered. “Why shouldn’t these?”

“Oh, ah, well—er—I suppose they must if you and mother say so. But I fancy these are different,—picked, you know,” Alex. said; “salesgirls and schoolma’ams and that sort of thing, you know. Mrs. Groves writes that one is an awful high stepper. She may not take to caps. Some don’t.”

“She will take what we choose,” Amy replied, and her brother answered: “Well, then, get the most becoming and least objectionable. They are all young girls of twenty or thereabouts, and I won’t have them looking like grandmothers. How will this do?” and by chance Alex. selected the smallest and daintiest and prettiest of them all, as well as the most expensive.

But expense was nothing to him. He was always wanting a good time for himself and others, and meant to have it at Maplehurst. “A jam up good time for the whole of us, hired help and all,” he said to himself, using a bit of slang which horrified Amy, but which she forgave because he was her big, unselfish, good-natured brother, giving the good time to others, if there was but one to be had. His mother had hired Mrs. Groves, and he had left the selection of his staff entirely to her, feeling no particular interest in any except the four waitresses—his quartette he called them. He was somewhat particular about these, as he would see them three times a day. He wanted them near the same age and size and good-looking. “Not so good as to detract from the young ladies, but good,” he said to Mrs. Groves, who felt that she had filled the bill well, possibly a little too well with No. 1, who certainly was handsome, and whose manner would always be that of a lady whatever she was doing, and who would be noticed wherever she was. The quartette had come to Maplehurst on the same train and had been received by Mrs. Groves, who had assigned them their rooms, one to each, greatly to Sherry’s satisfaction. She did not mean to be proud or exclusive, but she wanted a room to herself, where she could sometimes be alone. For the rest she meant to be one with her companions,—Susie, the saleslady, Annie, the stenographer, and Polly, the restaurant waitress; Nos. 2, 3 and 4, as Mrs. Groves designated them. They were bright, good girls, glad for this outing and inclined to be very friendly with Sherry, whom they at once recognized as a little different from themselves and treated her accordingly.

Sherry had been nearly a week at Maplehurst, and had been drilled daily and made to wait upon Mrs. Groves as she was expected to wait upon the coming guests. She proved the most apt of all the girls, and for this reason was assigned to the Marsh table.

“You will have Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, and Miss Marsh, and their cousin, Miss Doane, who lives with them, and two or three more, the Saltus family later on, perhaps, and you must be very particular as the Saltuses live in even greater style than the Marshes,” Mrs. Groves had said, and at the mention of the Saltuses the hot blood had flamed into Sherry’s face and then for a moment left it very white as she wondered what they would say to find her there,—a machine, as Mrs. Groves had said she must be, never smiling, and never seeming to see or hear what was being done and giving no sign that she had ever seen them before unless they made some advances.

“Never mind. I am in it and shall go through it,” she thought with the first real twinge of regret she had felt for the _lark_ in which she was engaged.

She had been all over the house, from the basement to the attic, where she had found the chest standing just where it had stood for years. It had a great fascination for her, seeming to link her with the past of years and years ago, when her great-grandmother had come there a bride and brought it with her. Seating herself on a stool near it Sherry sat for a long time wondering what was in it, and looking through the window off upon the lovely panorama of sunshine and cloud, of steep wooded hills and the green valley, and in the distance Mount Washington, blue and hazy in the summer light. Across the road on a knoll was the little cemetery, the mass of evergreens bringing out in sharp contrast the whiteness of the marble shaft Mr. Marsh had erected to the memory of his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Crosby. The yard had a neglected look, and the fence around it was broken in some places, but that afternoon she saw men there at work and heard that Mr. Alex. had ordered a new fence to be built and the undergrowth of bush and bramble to be removed.

The next day she went to the two graves, sunken so low as to be even with the ground. The lettering on the stone was somewhat blurred by the storms which had swept along the mountain road, but she managed to read, “Frances, beloved wife of Peter Crosby, who died in her bloom, being only twenty-five years and six months old, October 10th, 18—.”

“Her name was Frances, which is the same as Fanny,” she said. “I must have been named for her,” and she began to feel a great deal of interest in the woman who had slept on the hillside so many years. “There ought to be something planted around the graves,” she thought, as she looked at the bare spot.

It would be easy to transplant some of the many rose bushes in the Maplehurst premises, and she could do it or ask to have it done, if it did not necessitate her telling why she was interested in the graves. She did not intend to tell anything about herself. Polly, No. 4, had quizzed her a good deal.

“I know you are somebody else besides a waiter like me. You are made of different stuff. Come, now, ain’t you?” she had said, but Sherry did not enlighten her. She was simply Fanny, or No. 1, and Mrs. Groves was calling her, saying it was time for the drill. “Dress parade,” No. 4 called it, saying that she had been put through her paces until she didn’t know her left hand from her right, and whether she was to pass things over the heads of the guests or in front of them. She was full of life and fun, and made faces at Mrs. Groves’ back, and mimicked her voice and manner perfectly.

“‘Now, young women,’” she would say, “or young _persons_, I suppose we are, ‘remember and pass to the left; take from the right. Never speak unless spoken to. A sociable waitress is bad form. Step softly and slow. Bring in and take out one thing at a time. Don’t stare, or seem to see anybody. Mr. Alex. is very particular to have his guests served properly.’ Mr. Alex.! I am anxious to see him. I suppose he is a great swell, but not greater than I have waited on in Boston, and who didn’t feel too big to say, ‘How are you, Polly? Mind and bring my soup hot, or tea or coffee, and get me some cream.’ I know a thing or two about a table as well as old mother Groves with her silk gown and gold glasses. Why, she was once waiter in a second-class restaurant in New York. I know it from a woman who was with her. Now she is matron of Maplehurst and feels big, but I don’t care for her. I shall say ‘good-morning’ if anybody says it to me,” and Polly executed a part of the skirt dance to finish her speech.

Naturally Nos. 1, 2 and 3 laughed at her performance, and shared her opinion of Mrs. Groves and her desire to see Alex., who had been held before them as one sure to detect the slightest departure from the deference due him and his guests from his employees. Of the four Sherry cared the least, and yet on the day when he was expected with his party she began to feel a little nervous, and to wonder what he would think of his quartette and of her. They were standing now in a row before Mrs. Groves, who was very imposing in her black satin dress, her old lace, gold-bowed spectacles, and her bunch of keys jingling at her side.

“Now, young women,” she said, “I expect you to do your best, and remember it does not matter that you are clerks,”—she would not say salesladies and stenographers and restaurant waiters,—“and—” she paused and glanced at Sherry, not knowing where to place her.

Polly, who admired Sherry greatly and styled her the Duchess, spoke up and said, “A real lady.”

Mrs. Groves frowned, and continued: “No matter what you have been, real ladies, or what, you have hired out to do certain duties, and I expect you to do them to the satisfaction of Mr. Marsh, whose orders I am carrying out. If not, you will be dismissed.”

“Who will take our places?” Polly asked; and Mrs. Groves replied, “Plenty are ready to jump at the chance. Don’t think we are dependent on you.”

Polly, who knew the difficulty there was to get help anywhere, shrugged her shoulders in a way which brought a sourer look than usual to Mrs. Groves’ naturally sour face.

“Mr. Marsh can command the best of help,” she said, “and expects the best of service, and so does his family. Mrs. and Miss Marsh are more particular than he,—that is,—more exacting. Ladies always are of their servants.”

Sherry felt for a moment as if she hated Mr. Marsh and his family, but she gave no sign of any emotion, and when, with a wave of her hand, Mrs. Groves signified that the conference was ended, she walked away with her companions and went to her room to wait for the expected arrival.