Читать книгу "Good-Morning, Rosamond!" - Constance Lindsay Skinner - Страница 9

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Ding-dong.

The last stroke of eleven drummed softly through the thick leafage of the orchard. Rosamond sped down the path, as sure-footed as if she wore no other heels, or soles either, than the ones she had come into the world with, and by which Mother Earth had held little Rosamond Cort of the Poplars Vale farm in close acquaintance until the fancy butter-pats had reduced poverty and inspired ambition.

She executed faithfully the commissions she had given herself. After having entranced “Dollop’s Drugs” via telephone, by sending him to inform Bella Greenup—the lady of his heart—that her culinary art was in requisition, she called for the number of that important gentlewoman, whose nature—as Mrs. Lee had said—epitomized Roseborough.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Witherby.”

“Who is it? Oh, of course; it is Mrs. Mearely.” The answer came back in rather high accents and the over-emphasized impressiveness that commonly garnishes the slim utterances of self-importance. “I was saying to Corinne not five minutes ago—actually, my dear Mrs. Mearely, not five minutes ago, or ten at the most—‘I think I shall drive round to Mrs. Mearely’s this afternoon.’ Yes! that is exactly what I said to Corinne not five moments ago.”

“How—er—remarkable! Then it is fortunate I rang up; because I shall be out all afternoon and would be so disappointed if I returned to find that I had missed you.”

“Indeed? Where are you going?”

“Ah! you may well ask what I am going to do.”

“What? What? A secret? (Be quiet, Central, I’m talking.)”

“A beautiful secret, but I’m going to tell you about it now. It is Mrs. Lee’s secret and she has asked me to let you know of it first. If she had a telephone she would be telling you about it now herself. However, she said that she felt sure you would allow me to be her messenger.”

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Mearely!”

“One of Professor Lee’s old pupils—oh, of years ago—is coming back to Roseborough to-morrow morning. Yes. Oh, very unexpected. A tremendous surprise! And Mrs. Lee is inviting you and Roseborough to breakfast at eleven to-morrow in her garden to help her welcome the prodigal home.”

“Oh! How exciting! But who is he?”

“His name is Falcon—Jack Falcon.”

“Oh! no one I ever knew, evidently. Jack Falcon?”

“Yes, Falcon is the name—one of them; the other, of course, being Jack.”

“Falcon?—Jack? Stop!” (dramatically—as if Mrs. Mearely were running from the instrument at the other end.) “Isn’t that the man who literally decamped from Roseborough years ago?”

[“Waiting?” Maria Potts, the Central, always intoned her official query at brief intervals through Mrs. Witherby’s telephonic monologues and delighted to cut her off, which she always did, as soon as the conversation ceased to interest Miss Potts herself.]

“Yes—er—that is—I understand he did leave Roseborough some years ago,” Rosamond answered.

“Falcon? Yes. I’m sure that is the name. We never encouraged the Lees to talk about him after he went away, though they, no doubt, would have liked to make us believe he was doing well. They were idiotic about him when he was here. (Be quiet, Central!) How extraordinary of Mrs. Lee to be giving a breakfast to that person! While he lived in Roseborough, he ignored Roseborough; and he ran away from it just as soon as ever he could.”

Rosamond saw—or heard, rather—that hers was not to be so easy a task. She summoned all her diplomacy and continued:

“It is because of all this that Mrs. Lee is calling on you to help her. She feels—er—dependent on your generous heart to mellow the heart of Roseborough. It seems that Mr. Falcon has come to a realization of what Roseborough and—er—incidentally, Professor and Mrs. Lee—did for him.”

“Well! I should hope so,” Mrs. Witherby broke in—it was always difficult for her to remain silent and allow another to talk—“but I certainly doubt it. Why, I’ve seen him climb a thorn hedge to avoid meeting me on the highway. I have always made it a point to stop the boys, especially when I saw them dawdling about the countryside, and say a few pointed words to them about wasted opportunities. (Be quiet, Central!) But I don’t believe I ever once caught that uncouth, hedge-leaping youth. I can’t imagine him coming to any good.”

“Life—the years—age, you know—have greatly changed him. He has come to feel that, but for his training here in Roseborough, he could never have made his” (she elongated the next two words) “great success.”

“What’s that? What’s that you say?” Mrs. Witherby shook the instrument in her excitement. “Success? What success?”

(“Waiting?”)

(“Be quiet, Central! Be quiet, I say!) What success?”

“You are to hear all about that this evening. I told Mrs. Lee I should ask you and the girls and the Wellses, the Judge, Mr. Andrews, and Dr. Frei—and Wilton, of course—to come in for cards and a little supper. My sister has disappointed me. So I shall be all alone, unless you come. I shall coax Mrs. Lee to come, too, for an hour—though she never goes anywhere in the evening. Then—with that inimitable tact and sympathy of yours—you can lead her to tell us all about Mr. Falcon’s achievements in Europe.”

“In Europe? Good gracious!”

“Yes. Of course, I only gathered odds and ends about it, because Mrs. Lee is so retiring and seemed to feel that to tell of the old pupil’s honours might appear vain on her part. …”

“Oh, dear Mrs. Lee! Why should she feel so? If this Mr. Falcon has won honours abroad, Mrs. Lee can hardly consider his return in a personal light. I consider it entirely a Roseborough matter.”

“There! Do you know I felt that you would? I told Mrs. Lee so. Isn’t that remarkable?”

“Did you? Did you? My dear Mrs. Mearely! But don’t you yourself consider that it is a Roseborough matter?”

“I do. Yes—I do.” Her tone was judicial. “However, I won’t say anything more to Mrs. Lee about that. I will trust it all to your tact and sympathy, when you see her this evening, here. Won’t that be best?” Sweetly.

“Oh, entirely! Oh, yes! Oh, certainly! Leave it absolutely in my hands. Dear Mrs. Lee! I always know exactly how to manage her. In fact, my dear Mrs. Mearely, I sometimes say that that is my one great gift; (Will you be quiet, Central?)—er—my one great gift is managing people, especially in emergencies.”

“All Roseborough admits that, Mrs. Witherby. It is a wonderful gift; but not your only one, I’m sure. So we can rely on you this afternoon to carry the breakfast invitation to those of our dear friends who have no telephones? That means, chiefly, the Gleasons, the Montereys, and the Pelham-Hews.”

“And the MacMillans, and the Grahams.”

“Yes, and the Wattses. If only they all had telephones, I could spare you the trouble. Really they ought to have them put in, for their friends’ sakes.”

“Ah! now, there I don’t agree with you! No, I really do not agree. The telephone is a little luxury, like electric lights—and—er—modern plumbing—to which those are entitled who can afford them, and whose heads will not be turned by possessing them. Like ourselves, dear Mrs. Mearely. But what is permissible luxury in one home is wicked extravagance in another. (Maria Potts! If you say ‘Waiting’ to me again while I am talking, I shall report you!) If persons in the MacMillans’ straitened circumstances were to have a telephone put in, I think all Roseborough would resent it. I am convinced that I should! And when one knows—as we all do—that the Gleasons can hardly manage to keep their boy at Charleroy College! As for the Pelham-Hews, with their small income and those seven simpering girls on their hands! Well, I, for one, dare not imagine what all Roseborough would say if we heard, to-morrow, that they were piping water to the second floor—and wallowing in enamelled tubs! No, my dear Mrs. Mearely. In the Witherby home a stationary bath-tub is a refinement; in the Pelham-Hew home it would be an immorality.”

It was at this point that Miss Potts deliberately disconnected “Roseborough one-eight” from “Roseborough two-one” and turned deaf ears to the latter’s indignant demand for “the manager at Trenton.”

Rosamond came to the door sill of the living-room again and drew a deep breath of the breeze-stirred fragrance which enveloped Villa Rose on this perfect midsummer morning. She sighed.

“Oh, Roseborough, couldn’t you make a milady of the little butter girl from Poplars without making her—Milady Prevaricator? What is it—you, there, Mr. Golden Sun, who sees everything; you, shining old heart-searcher, tell me—what is it makes so many poor humans twist and trick when it is their blessed privilege to speak the plain truth? Did you laugh long ago, Mr. Sun, when you saw the little, barefoot butter girl birched for telling fibs?—and did you know that some day she would put on silk stockings and satin shoes and have to learn to use something called ‘tact’—first, because the rod of a certain fine gentleman’s sarcasm was merciless toward any feeling that frankly revealed itself, and secondly, because—marvel of marvels!—most people, it seems, prefer deceit? Heigh-ho! How the old pool in the south meadow is shining among its reeds at this very moment!”

She laughed, and the wistful shadow which had darkened her eyes disappeared.

“At any rate, I’ve managed Mrs. Witherby so that dear Mrs. Lee can continue to believe in the beneficent spirit of Roseborough. Roseborough will open its arms to her Jack Falcon instead of tearing off his hair—that is, if he still has hair. B’r’r’r, but I am a-weary of old men!”

She gathered up her breakfast dishes, and took them into the kitchen. The kitchen closet yielded a blue-checked all-over apron of Amanda’s. Rosamond literally dropped herself into it at the neck. She pinned it up in front so that she could not fall over it. The back she did not bother about but let it trail. After washing the dishes, she set about the cake-making. This was not so simple as she had expected. It appeared presently that, in a few years of miladying, one could forget even such native feminine knowledge as pints, pecks, and egg calculations.

“This is absurd!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “I can’t have forgotten! Why, I made much better cakes than Mrs. Greenup does. I shall have to find a cook book.”

A thorough search of every shelf and drawer in Amanda’s domain yielded naught in literature but a few almanacs, and a tract entitled “Howl, Sodom!” This last, she knew, belonged to Jemima, who had surreptitiously attended a revival in Trenton Waters during the spring and had been roundly scolded for it by her elder sister, for whom the Church of her fathers was sufficient. Mrs. Mearely surmised that Jemima had hidden this leaflet of grace in the clove pot because no cranny of her bedroom was safe from Amanda’s prying.

“Horrid nonsense!” She dropped it into the stove. “There! I’m not going to have that Howl Jemima stuff in my kitchen. No cook book? Of course, not! His Friggets’ boast that they never even measure anything, because they are such born cooks! What shall I do?”

She spent five minutes in dark despair. Then a light broke upon her. It was a light with humour in its flash, evidently, for she giggled.

“Now, I wonder if there is a cake recipe in the old cook book written by that Portuguese woman, Countess Lallia of Mountjoye, who catered to the Prince of Paradis so attractively that she never lost his affection?”

She was soon rummaging recklessly among the old volumes on the lowest shelf of the glassed bookcase. Each book or collection of leaves was in a leather binding and bore a tag, telling its name, date, and presumed history in Mr. Hibbert Mearely’s fine flourish. Memoirs, missals and Latin parchments of all sorts and sizes—some said to have been in popes’ and princes’ pockets—were tumbled out on the floor, while irreverent Mrs. Mearely hunted for information on practical cakemaking to serve Mr. Falcon’s palate.

“Ah ha!” she cried, gleefully. “Here it is!” She scrutinized the tag attached to some sheets of parchment in a green leather binding (stamped with the Mearely crest). The parchment bore characters in black India ink and each page was ornamented by a coloured margin of very badly painted fishes, birds, bunches of fruit, and other delicacies. There was even one little creature on a platter which may have represented a stuffed suckling pig, or a mulatto baby au jus, with its mouth pouting with prunes. The countess, by her own confession, had wantonly tossed toxic and gaseous particles together and then dared indigestion to murder love. Most of her gluttonous recipes bore this introductory note:—

And upon thys day, beinge of ambitious mynde to pleasure the gracious appetyte of milorde, the Prince of Paradis withe delicate dyshes of newe raptures, I didde herewythe devyse and prepare and with myne owne handes styrre the essences thereof, thys—“puddynge,” “sauce,” “souppe,” or whatever it might be.

So well had his fair one pleasured, devysed, and styrred to feed Dom Paradis’s earthly appetite that it was easy to believe the last legend of their love; namely, that, in dying, he had left her his jewelled belt—no doubt as a grateful remembrance from the princely “tummy” it had adorned though not restrained, and which she had kept so well lined.

“Contessa, if love and greed kept pace in your little affair, your hearts must have been overflowing with sweet spices and goo; for you smothered your food in them. I think a plain, boiled potato would have been a chastening experience for you both.”

Rosamond was sitting on the floor, tailor fashion, in the centre of a scattered ring of tagged leather cases and books of all sizes, with the countess’s illuminated parchments spread on her knees. She turned several pages of death-defying sauces, before she came upon the welcome phrase “I didde devyse a cake”—or “a goodlie heartes cake”—as Contessa Lallia y Poptu de Sillihofo Sanza Mountjoye preferred to describe it.

Wrote the Countess:

On thys day, beinge the same of a most warme myd-summere day, I dydde persuade milorde husbande to waite upon his highness and so to goe forthe and dydde sende unto milorde the Prince of Paradis, who is in alle weatheres mye beloved kinsmanne and friende in exile, to come unto me to taste of a cake. …

“Oh, you wasteful woman, to use all those eggs!” exclaimed Rosamond, in reading the list of ingredients. “You must have passed over the first-born of the hen houses of Mountjoye like the destroying angel over the Egyptians. A piece of butter as big as milord’s fist, she says; that is, half to three quarters of a pound. Figs, raisins—so ‘thatte they dydde cover mye two handes.’ That’s the way Amanda measures—by hand. All born cooks do. Contessa, I believe this is the original Lady Baltimore cake—except that it is ever so much richer, and peppered with spice and ground perfumes, which I shall omit with the ‘oil of beaten milk,’ which is merely melted butter. No wonder he died, your Dom Paradis. You oiled his goings for him, and slid him down where all breakers of the commandments go. You were not only a Portuguese, you were a Portu-grease.”

She read on and presently repeated the lines aloud with little murmurs of laughter.

Thys cake dydde so pleasure mye deare Dom Paradis thatte he therewythe expressed a greate love for mye person; whych he dydde declare to be beauteouse beyonde compare, and manny tymes dydde kysse me, and wysh milorde the Earl myght nevere return, and dydde suddenlye falle into a greate jealousie, and beseech me to vowe thatte I would no cakes make for Mountjoye, and dydde aske and importune me to saye if he be stille so younge and handsome thatte I do love him, I beinge twentie yeares youngere than milorde Dom Paradis. Then sayde I thatte I would bathe and dresse mye hearte for hys delights, but at this he cryde oute and would not and—when he had eaten alle my love-cake—Mountjoye dydde enter.

“Twenty years younger! and was Mountjoye old, too? Poor Contessa! You and I both, it seems, must cater—and caker—for old men. Oh, Mr. Falcon, when you bite into my modified edition of the Contessa’s ‘love-cake,’ I pray you, fall not in love with me!”

When she had popped her cake into the oven, tossed off Amanda’s apron, and stepped outside to cool her cheeks in the breeze, the sun stood directly over the rose garden and twelve o’clock was ringing from the tower by the river.

“Noon! half my Wonderful Day has gone, and I haven’t even set out on the adventures I planned at nine.” She thought this over for a few moments, and concluded that, so far as this morning was concerned, it had been a question of choice between her own day and Mrs. Lee’s, and that Mrs. Lee’s had won because it was actual—one of age’s realities—and her own was only a dream. Then, reversing all this wisdom, she added hopefully, “But I still have this afternoon!”

She walked across the garden and leaned her elbows on the rough stone wall that formed Villa Rose’s front defense. Portulacca and canary creeper ran over the stone displaying their bright green foliage and little blossoms attractively against the granite gray. Farther along, the wall rose to a man’s height and ragged robins and rose ramblers wantoned over it merrily, always a-hum and a-twitter with bees and wrens.

“That looks like Mr. Andrews,” she thought, surveying a small cart, drawn by a fat, stocky, black pony wending upward. The road was steep and one could not keep travellers in sight for long at a time. She decided to wait until he drew near, in order to give him his invitation for the evening card game.

Forgetting her lilac-bud silk and her Irish lace petticoat; forgetting the blush from the cook stove, which still mantled her modest brow, forgetting that the strains of the gay minuet issuing from her lips, with the words of salutation to herself, were being carried to the ears of the gentleman in the cart; all innocently, she waited.

It was important that he should not pass without seeing her, since he could save her the trouble and delay of telephoning to several of the desired breakfast guests whom he would see on the round of his duties. Mr. Andrews was the treasurer of the Widowers’ Mite Society of St. Jephtha’s, which paid the sexton’s salary, and this was his day for collecting from his associates. Mrs. Mearely, preferring to arrest attention by a gesture rather than by a shout, plucked a rose-bud from the bush nearest her, and threw it; well aimed, it struck the brim of the gentleman’s straw hat and dropped into the cart in front of him. He looked up, startled, and heard a glad young voice chanting:

“Oh, Mr. Andrews! I am waiting for you.”