CHAPTER X
On wingedfeet Joyce retraced her steps and entered the diningroom she had left a few minutes before as eagerly as if it were her own home.
“I’m so glad I could come back right away,” she said. “The men have the truck all ready and said they would be along in a little while, and oh, I’m so thankful to you. Now, what can I do first?
“I could see you were a little troubled about that ham, never having tasted it cooked that way. Is there anything else we could make to help make up for the chops? Or couldn’t I go somewhere and find the butcher and ask him to let me have some more for you. I’d pay for them myself, because I really burned them up you know.”
“Well, you’re a dear child,” said the woman pleasantly. “No, you can’t find the butcher. He’s taken his wife up in the country for the afternoon, and he’s cross as two sticks anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want him to know I had been so careless, and it’s none of his business anyway. But I was thinking if there was something else I could make.”
“Well, what have you on hand? Let’s look in the refrigerator,” suggested the girl.
“Not much. There’s some cold chicken. I was saving it for Jim and he didn’t come home at noon.”
She hurried to the refrigerator and took out a bowl which Joyce examined.
“There’s half a breast and a drumstick, and bothwings. There’s the gizzard too. Why don’t we make some chicken salad. Have you any celery?”
“Yes, I bought a stalk the other day. I like the top leaves to flavor bean soup, but there isn’t much.”
“A little will do. I see you have some tomatoes.”
“Yes, Jim likes them. I say they aren’t very tasty this time of year, not worth the money, but Jim always asks for them.”
“Well, why don’t we stuff them with chicken salad? That would make a beautiful salad dish and make the chicken go farther. Didn’t I see lettuce in the garden? A few leaves will do even if it isn’t very big. And how about mayonnaise?”
“Why, I make a boiled mayonnaise, but it’s late to get it cool, isn’t it?”
“Haven’t you any oil? That makes it so much nicer.”
“Yes, Mrs. Parsons brought over a can she had left when they moved away last week. There’s pretty near a pint in it, just had a few spoonsful taken out, but I can’t make real mayonnaise. It won’t get stiff for me. It separates. And it takes so long, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I can. No, it only takes a few minutes. I know a lovely recipe. Where’s the oil? Get me some salt and pepper and mustard and eggs. I’ll have it ready in a jiffy while you cut up the celery and chicken. Then we’ll fix it and put it on the ice all ready.”
The two were soon busily at work, and the mayonnaise whipped itself into a thick, velvety, yellow mass in no time under Joyce’s skilful hand. The worried hostess was delighted, and presently a tempting platter of scarlet tomatoeswas set on the ice, filled to overflowing with the most toothsome chicken salad that ever went to a feast.
“You’re going to have creamed potatoes and new peas out of your own garden. Isn’t that wonderful? What’s for dessert? Anything I can do about that?” asked Joyce as she turned away from the refrigerator.
“Why, I’ve ordered ice cream, and I made a cake. That’s all right, I just looked at it and the icing is hardening nicely. You see I just got the telegram at three o’clock that they were coming. It went first to the other Bryants up on the hill and they were away. I ought to have got it yesterday. I wonder why that ice cream doesn’t come. They promised to have it here at four. I always order it earlier than I need it for safety. It’s twenty after four now. I believe I’ll call up to make sure.”
She went to the phone and in two or three minutes appeared in the kitchen door where Joyce was just putting on the peas, with her face the picture of dismay:
“What shall I do? They can’t send it. They say the orders have all gone out this afternoon, and mine wasn’t among them. There was some mistake.”
“Isn’t there some other place? I’ll run out and get some for you.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bryant in despair, “the other two places don’t have any fit to eat. I wouldn’t offer it to a cat! I haven’t even a pie on hand. Isn’t this simply awful!”
The poor woman sat down and dropped her tired face in her hands looking as if she were going to weep.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Bryant. There’s alwayssomething one can do. Let me think. Have you any junket tablets?”
“Why, yes,” said the despairing housekeeper, “But what is junket? An invalid’s food!”
“Wait till you see mine. It’s caramel junket, and we’ll serve it with whipped cream. You haven’t some preserved cherries or a few strawberries or something to put on the top of each dish, have you? It’s the prettiest thing you ever saw. Where is the sugar, quick? We must hurry. Have you some individual dishes that will be pretty to hold it?”
Mrs. Bryant produced some long stemmed sherbet glasses and a bottle of preserved cherries, saying dubiously:
“It’ll never cool. It’s way after four now.” But she watched the deft fingers as they manipulated the sugar over the flame, until it had reached the right perfection of caramel color and was stirred fizzing into the lukewarm milk.
“It won’t set,” said Mrs. Bryant, “mine never does except in real cold weather.”
“Oh, yes it will. I put in an extra tablet to hurry it,” said Joyce. “Now, I want some cream. Can I take it off those two bottles? It looks rich enough to whip.”
“Yes, it whips I guess,” sighed the woman, “but I never can get time for such frills. That’s why we’ve decided to sell the cow, it took so much time to tend to the milk. It’s really sold, but the man isn’t coming for it till next week.”
Joyce worked breathlessly, one eye on the clock, and all the while her heart watching for a little house to come riding down the street, yet the time went by and no houseappeared. Could it be that the men had gone back on their word, or that they had made a mistake and taken it to the wrong street, or that something had happened to the precious little structure on the way?
The junket “set” and the cream whipped in spite of the anxiety of Mrs. Bryant, and at ten minutes to five both were on the ice, and the cherries were on a plate with a fork near by to place them on their setting of whipped cream at the proper moment.
“You had better go and get ready yourself now,” said Joyce smiling, as she lifted the potatoes and poured them through the colander, setting them to steam dry for a moment before creaming them. “I’ll see to the peas, and the ham is just perfect. I’ll have it all on the platter ready to take in and keep it hot. You don’t happen to have a white apron you could lend me, do you? That is, if you want me to wait on the table.”
“Oh, will you? I’d be so glad. I’m always nervous with city folks. Yes, I’ve got an apron. I’ll throw it down the back stairs. And I’ll just run up and change now, and smooth my hair. It won’t take a minute. They ought to be here any time now. I’m real relieved. I think things are going to be all right. If you have time you might cut the cake.”
Joyce, wearied almost to the limit, yet interested in what she was doing and eager to serve one who had so served her, turned back and put all the last little touches on the table that she well knew how to put, smoothed her own pretty hair as well as she could with only the tiny comb with which her handbag was fitted, washed her face and hands at the sink, and took off the big ginghamapron Mrs. Bryant had loaned, to replace it with the white one that presently fluttered down the back stairs. She giggled to herself to think what a change had come over her life in twenty-four hours. Here she was at almost the same hour getting supper in another kitchen for an entirely different set of people, utter strangers. How strange and interesting! How wonderful to have the opportunity to thus work her way into a bit of land for her house! How kind of the Heavenly Father to fix it all for her! How good it was that she could cook, and had the ability to help in this time of need!
But there was no time to meditate. The kitchen clock was striking with a business-like clang, and the honk of an automobile horn could be heard coming down the street. Mrs. Bryant rustled down in a gray crêpe dress and her hair fluffed up becomingly. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks wore a pretty little touch of nervous color as she looked out the door.
“I think they are coming!” she said eagerly, and then Joyce glancing out behind her saw looming clumsily in the distance, blocking up the street and grown to most enormous proportions, her little vine clad office riding down behind the bright little car that was speeding rapidly toward the Bryant gate.
“Oh, Mrs. Bryant!” breathed Joyce in alarm, “My house is coming too, and you haven’t told me where to put it yet!”
“Your house?” said the preoccupied lady half impatiently, “Oh, yes. Why, put it anywhere you like for tonight. Just don’t get into the garden. You won’t haveto go out and see to it, will you? Because I can’t spare you now.”
“Only for a second,” said Joyce happily. “I’ve got to pay the men.”
“Well, wait till the meat is on the table and everything passed. Don’t forget the coffee. There they are. Now I must go.”
Joyce, starry-eyed, tired to death but smiling, began to take up the dinner and carry it into the diningroom. She could hear the hum of voices in greeting, the people going upstairs, the splashing of water as the guests made rapid toilets, and all the time her senses were listening for the coming of the truck and trying to time her actions so that she might go out and tell the men where to put the house, and yet not interfere with any of her duties as waitress.
She flew out at last while the guests were being seated and told the chief about where she thought the house should stand.
“I’ve got to go right in,” she said confidingly, “I’m helping Mrs. Bryant with a dinner. She has company, and they’re going to catch a train, but you can put it right in there between those two trees, wherever it is convenient to you. Just so it keeps out of the garden. I suppose I’ll have to get some one to fix it steady, won’t I? I’ll be out again in a few minutes if you need me for anything,” and she flew in again, and straightening her white apron entered the diningroom with a plate of hot biscuits.
Mr. Bryant was a meek, apologetic little man with a retreating chin and kind eyes. He half arose when he saw Joyce as if he thought this was another guest thathad somehow got misplaced, but Mrs. Bryant incorporated her at once into the picture with a glance that placed her as a server, and Mr. Bryant slid back into his chair, his mouth the shape of an inaudible O, and addressed himself to this new and mysterious kind of ham that looked like roast veal and cut like chicken.
The guests exclaimed with delight over their food. They said they had lived in hotels all winter and it was just wonderful to get back to home cooking again, and what wonderful ham! Was it really ham, just HAM? And how did she do it? Could she give them the recipe? And then Joyce as she came and went with relays of hot biscuits and peas and potatoes heard Mrs. Bryant tell carefully how she rubbed the mustard into the meat, etc., through all the performance just as she had done it, and finish up:
“Yes, we think it is the best way in the world to cook ham,” just as if she had been doing it that way all her life. She smiled to herself over the salad as she arranged the ice cold tomatoes on the crisp lettuce leaves. Well, it was a pretty dinner and she was proud to think she had helped make it so. The poor burnt chops were utterly forgotten now, lying in the grass at the kitchen door, and sometime within the next few hours she would get a chance to sit down, perhaps to lie down, somewhere, on the grass if nowhere else, and rest. Oh, that would be wonderful!
She took the plates out and brought in the salad, adding some crackers she had found in the pantry, and then slipped out to see what the men were doing.
“What a very superior waitress you seem to have,Aunt Mattie,” remarked a niece, eyeing the door through which Joyce had passed, “You don’t want to let me steal her and take her up to New York do you? I’d certainly give a good deal to get one that looked like that. She seems a real lady.”
“She is,” said Mrs. Bryant shortly, “She’s not a waitress at all. She’s just a neighbor who came in to help me so that I could have all my time with you instead of running out to the kitchen all the time.”
There was something innately, grimly honest about Mattie Bryant. She might claim the credit of a well-cooked ham, but she would never let a young girl who had been kind to her be treated like a servant. It wasn’t in her. She would have liked to have posed as having well-trained servants, but she couldn’t.
“A-a neighbor, did you say, mother?” asked Mr. Bryant, “Why, I don’t seem to remember her. Where does she live?”
“No, I guess you don’t, father, she’s mostly been here when you were away. She lives on this street. Cornelia, won’t you have another cup of coffee?”
And then there came a shuddering, sliding sound, and a dull, reverberating thud, that vibrated along the floor, and seemed to make the dinner table shiver a tiny bit and everybody looked up and said, “Why, what is that? An earthquake?” and only Mrs. Bryant kept her cool indifference, and went on pouring coffee. But outside the little vine covered house had slid into place between the two maples, and settled to rest exactly where it had been aimed by the three men who had put it there, and Joyce was out in the sunset fluttering three five dollarbills from her precious hoard and smiling her wistful, wild rose smile:
“I wish I could give you ten times as much,” she said, “If I only had it! You’ve been so kind.”
The old chief stood a minute and watched her as she went in, looked at the bill, half folded it to put in his pocket, thought better of it and stepped inside the building. He glanced about, fumbled a pin from the lapel of his old coat and pinned it up on the wall opposite the door. Tom watched him from a distance, squinting his eyes thoughtfully, busied himself with his dinnerpail and pickaxe till the chief was around the corner, when he slipped into the cottage, took a look around, stood thoughtful a minute and deliberately took out his own five dollar bill and pinned it beside the other. Then he went out quickly and followed his chief down the street.
Over in the kitchen Joyce, too weary to eat much supper had taken a bite and gone at the dishes pell mell. She was a swift worker and used to turning things off rapidly, but the last two days had been more strenuous than any in her short life, and now that the immediate excitement of the dinner and the house were over, she was beginning to feel that she had reached her limit.
Mrs. Bryant slipped away from her guests long enough to smile upon her, and tell her to eat a good supper, that everything was wonderful, and she couldn’t thank her enough; then went back to the parlor where the chatter of relatives long separated with many years to check up in a short time made a din almost amounting to a church social. There was the uncle who had certain jokes that he had to tell over, and the cousin who boasted, and thecousin who wanted to recount all the past, and the aunt who wanted to forget the past and dilate on her house in New York, and her place in Maine, and her winter in Florida and the trip she was going to take abroad this summer, and with it all the poor, eager little Bryants hardly got in a word. The strange young woman in the kitchen might naturally be forgotten under such circumstances, especially as they were planning to take all their guests into the city in time for the late train.
So Joyce washed out the dish towels and slipped out the back door with only the moon to light her to her little new house.