Taking a Situation

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Sep 13, 1877

Taking a Situation.

“Well, girls,” said my uncle Barnabas, “and now what do you propose to do about it?”

We sat around the fire in a disconsolate semicircle, uncle Barnabas Berkelin sat with us erect, stiff, and rather grim. Uncle Barnabas was rich and we were poor. He was wise in the ways of the world and we were inexperienced. Uncle Barnabas was prosperous in all he did; while if there was a bad bargain to be made, we were pretty sure to be the ones to make it. Consequently, we looked up to him and reverenced his opinions.

“What do we propose to do about it?” Eleanor slowly repeated. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” said my mother, nervously; “because, Brother Barnabas, we don’t pretend to be business women, and it’s certain that we cannot live comfortably on our present income. Something has surely got to be done.”

And then my mother leaned back in her chair with a troubled face.

“Yes,” said uncle, “something has got to be done! But who’s to do it?”

And another dead silence succeeded.

“I suppose you girls are educated?” said uncle Barnabas. “I know I found enough old school bills when I was looking over my brother’s papers.”

“Of course,” said my mother, with evident pride, “their education has been most expensive. Music, drawing, use of the globes—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted uncle Barnabas; “but is it practical? Can they teach?”

Eleanor looked dubious. I was quite sure I could not. Madame Lenoir, among all her list of accomplishments, had not included the art of practical tuition.

“Humph!” grunted uncle Barnabas. “A queer thing this modern education. Well if you can’t teach you can surely do something! What do you say, Eleanor, to a situation?”

“A situation?”

“I spoke plain enough, didn’t I?” said uncle Barnabas, dryly. “Yes, a situation!”

“What sort of a situation, uncle Barnabas?”

“Well I can hardly say. Part servant, part companion to an elderly lady!” explained the old gentleman.

“Oh, uncle Barnabas, I couldn’t do that.”

“Not do it? And why not?”

“It’s too much—too much,” whispered Eleanor, losing her regal dignity in the pressure of the emergency, “like going out to service.”

“And that is precisely what it is!” retorted uncle Barnabas, nodding his head. “Service! Why, we’re all out at service, in one way or another, in this world!”

“Oh, yes I know,” faltered poor Eleanor, who, between her distaste for the proposed plan, and her anxiety not to offend uncle Barnabas, didn’t quite know what to say. “But I—I’ve always been educated to be a lady.”

“So you won’t take the position, eh?” said uncle Barnabas, staring up at a wishy-washy little water-color drawing of Cupid and Psyche, an “exhibition piece” of poor Eleanor’s which hung above the chimney piece.

“I couldn’t, indeed, sir.”

“Wages twenty-five dollars a month,” mechanically repeated uncle Barnabas, as if he were saying off a lesson. “Drive out in the carriage every day with the missus, cat and canary to take care of, modern house, and all improvements. Sunday afternoons to yourself, and two weeks, spring and fall, to visit your mother.”

“No, uncle Barnabas, no,” said Eleanor, with a little shudder. “I am a true Berkelin, and I cannot stoop to menial duties.”

Uncle Barnabas gave such a prolonged sniff as to suggest the idea of a very bad cold in his head.

“Sorry,” said he. “Heaven helps those who try to help themselves, and you can’t expect me to be more liberal-minded than Heaven. Sister Rachel,” to my mother, “what do you say?”

My mother drew her pretty little figure up a trifle more erect than usual.

“I think my daughter Eleanor is quite right,” said she. “The Berkelins have always been ladies.”

I had sat quite silent, with my chin in my hands, during all this family discussion; but now I rose up and came creeping to uncle Barnabas’ side.

“Well, little Susy,” said the old gentleman, laying his hand kindly on my wrist, “what is it?”

“If you please, uncle, I would like to take the situation,” said I with a throbbing heart.

“Brave!” cried uncle Barnabas.

“My dear children!” exclaimed my mother.

“Susannah!” uttered Eleanor, in accents by no means laudatory.

“Yes,” said I, “twenty-five dollars a month is a great deal of money, and I was never afraid of work. I think I will go to the old lady, uncle Barnabas. I’m sure I could send home at least twenty dollars a month to mother and Eleanor, and then the two weeks, spring and fall, would be so nice! Please, uncle Barnabas, I’ll go back with you when you go. What is the old lady’s name?”

“Her name?” said uncle Barnabas, “Didn’t I tell you? It’s Prudence—Mrs. Prudence.”

“What a nice name! I know I shall like her,” said I.

“Well, I think you will,” said uncle Barnabas, looking kindly at me. “And I think she will like you. Is it a bargain for the nine o’clock train to-morrow morning?”

“Yes,” I answered stoutly, taking care not to look in the direction of my mother and Eleanor.

“You’re the most sensible of the lot,” said uncle Barnabas, approvingly.

But after he had gone to bed in the best chamber, where the ruffled pillow-cases were, and the chintz-cushioned easy chair, the full strength of the family tongue broke on my devoted head.

“I can’t help it, quoth I, holding valiantly to my color. “We can’t starve. Some of us must do something. And you can live very nicely, indeed, mother, darling, on twenty dollars a month.”

“That is true,” sighed my mother from behind her black-bordered pocket-handkerchief. “But I never thought to see a daughter of mine going out to—service!”

“And uncle Barnabas isn’t going to do anything for us after all,” cried out Eleanor, indignantly. “Stingy old fellow; I should think he might at least adopt one of us! He’s as rich as Croesus, and never a chick nor a child.”

“He may do as he likes about that,” I answered, independently. “I prefer to earn my own money.”

So the next morning I set out for the unknown bourne of New York life.

“Uncle Barnabas, how shall I find where Mrs. Prudence lives?” said I as the train reached the city.

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” said he.

“Are you well acquainted with her?” I ventured to ask.

“Oh, very well, indeed!” replied uncle Barnabas, nodding his head approvingly.

We took a carriage at the depot and drove through so many streets, that my head spun round and round, before we stopped at a pretty brown stone mansion—it looked like a palace to my unaccustomed eyes—and uncle Barnabas helped me out.

“Here is where Mrs. Prudence lives,” said he with a chuckle.

A neat little maid opened the door, and I was conducted into an elegant apartment, all gilding, exotics and blue satin damask, when a plump old lady, dressed in black silk, came smilingly forward, like a sixty-year old sunbeam.

“So you’ve come back, Barnabas, have you,” said she, “and brought one of the dear girls with you. Come and kiss me, my dear.”

“Yes, Susy, kiss your aunt,” said uncle Barnabas, flinging his hat one way and his gloves another, as he sat complacently down on the sofa.

“My aunt?” I echoed.

“Why, of course,” said the plump old lady. “Don’t you know? I’m your aunt Prudence.”

“But I thought,” gasped I, in bewilderment, “that I was coming to a situation!”

“Well, so you are,” retorted uncle Barnabas. “The situation of adopted daughter in my family. Twenty-five dollars a month pocket money; the care of aunt Prudence’s cat and canary, and to make yourself generally useful.”

“Oh! uncle,” cried I, “Eleanor would have been so glad to have come if she had known it.”

“Fiddlestrings and little fishes!” illogically responded my uncle. “I’ve no patience with a girl that’s too fine to work. Eleanor had the situation offered to her and chose to decline. You decided to come, and here you stay!”

And this was the way I drifted into my luxurious home. Eleanor in the country envies me bitterly, for she has all the tastes which wealth and a metropolitan home can gratify. But uncle Barnabas will not hear of my exchanging with her. But he lets me send her liberal presents every month, and so I am happy.