Читать книгу Cherry Square - Grace S. Richmond - Страница 5

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"Jimmy, run tell Miss Jenney to come over quick as she can be makin' it. The family'll be here this night, an' there's two days' work to do in less than wan. Hurry, Jimmy!"

Jo came flying. "What first, Mrs. O'Grady?"

"The upstairs rooms. Hang up the curtains—praises be they're fresh from me hands. Make up all the beds—there's the sheets an' blankets an' pillys in this big box that come yesterday. Tuck 'em in tight an' smooth——"

"I know. I will."

"Two thin blankets on each bed, an' a silk puff (she calls 'em) on the foot of each wan to match the room. Towels in the bathroom. Ivery room lookin' like it was new-borrn. The big room at the back'll be Mrs. Chase's—she wint over the house with me an' showed me ivery wan—an' me knowin' 'em all like a book, what with washin' an' clanin' for Miss Eldora Cherry for twinty years. The west room with the two beds for Master Bob—mind you be sayin' Master Bob, Miss Jenney."

"And you might as well begin calling me Josephine, Mrs. O'Grady."

"Howiver'll I be doin' that! Faith, thin—Josyphine—listen to this—the east room for Miss Barbara an' the one nixt the bathroom for the nurse an' baby. There's a crib Mrs. Chase sint up, an' you'll find pink baby blankets for it. I'll be in the kitchen if ye nade me. I've got to get every pot an' pan scoured for that cook—an' I hope she's a swate, r'asonable person, for I mind there'll be plenty of company. Mrs. Chase told me she wasn't havin' no company, but I know her. Flies follys the sugar, an' she can't kape folks away from her. If her two cousins, the Sturgises, don't be showin' us the light o' their countenances before the wake is gone, my name ain't Norah O'Grady."

She vanished down the back stairs, still talking.

Jo fell to work. There was nothing she liked to do in the way of housework better than the making of beds. It was a long time since she had had in her hands such material with which to make beds as these sheets and blankets which came out of the big packing case. In the large, airy rooms, with all windows open, she shook out the paired sheets of exquisitely fine linen, all hemstitched by hand, each top sheet with a monogram—S. C. C. The blankets were soft and light, of summer weight, with pale coloured borders bound with silk. As Jo tucked in her sheets, drawing them smooth and firm, she was enjoying to the full her own expertness and its results. Also—she was living over again certain past days. As she left each room she looked about it happily, delighting in its old-fashioned charm.

And soon the silent old house would be teeming with life; children's voices would resound through it; and the beautiful person in the pew Jo had once watched throughout a church service because she was the wife of the splendid person in the pulpit, would be here to become a friend—for this Jo expected her to do. She knew very well that though she was taking the place of a servant, it was easily in her power to make herself known and liked by Mrs. Schuyler Chase otherwise than as a servant.

Downstairs she helped Norah lay the table in the pleasant dining room, whose windows looked out upon the rear lawn and garden, where Norah's Jimmy was frantically weeding and trimming in the last-minute endeavour to have everything about the place look tended. The lunch-cloths and napkins and silver for the table had come out of the packing case, but the china was old blue-and-white Canton from the shelves in the corner cupboards.

"I don't know much about san'wiches," Norah said doubtfully, pushing her hair out of her eyes with her forearm, as she eyed the loaves of bread and the pots and jars of filling material hastily ordered from the grocery, all of which had been deposited upon the scrubbed kitchen table.

"I do—I'll make them, if you like," offered Jo. She could guess what Norah's sandwiches would be if she attempted them—big hearty slabs fit for a labourer's fist. "I love to make them—nice, thin little things, several different kinds."

"Do thim, now, with my blessin'."

There were innumerable matters to see to—ice for the ice-box; fresh milk from a dairy farm a mile out; wood for the fireplaces—"She'll have 'em all goin' when it's cool," Norah was sure. Flowers for the table—"She wouldn't think she could ate without flowers." Jo ran out to pick pink and yellow and orange tulips from the straggling borders of the old garden. She arranged them not only upon the dining table but in the square parlour and upon the bureau in Mrs. Chase's room. She would have lingered over this task but Norah spurred her on.

"They'll be here anny minute now. Best get on the uniform," she commanded. "She'll like ye better if she sees ye lookin' the way she's used to."

When Jo appeared Norah looked her over.

"Dark blue, not black," she commented. "Sure it looks nice, if she'll let ye wear it. An' the apron's nice, an' the cap is that becomin'! Ye look like a servant—an' ye don't! Are ye sure ye know the ways of sp'akin'? They're very partic'lar about that, I know."

"I think I can manage it," said Josephine Jenney, a gay sparkle in her eyes. "And I'm glad you think I look nice, Norah, for I'm really—now that it comes to it—just a little scared."

Norah eyed her alarmedly.

"Sure, and I was feared maybe ye'd be regrettin' your rashness," said she. "Yersilf a t'acher an' all—an' then comin' down to bein' what they call a maid, in a unyform."

"But I don't regret it. You see, I want so much to be with the sort of people these are. And I don't mind waiting on them. I should mind waiting on—well—the Gildersleeves—or the Broughtons."

Norah understood. "Ye would mind. I'll not scrub their floors. They think themselves the upper crust—an' they're not. They treat their help like the dust ben'ayth them. They're nobody at all, an' ye'll see how they'll bend their backs bowin' to Mrs. Shyler Chase, because they know she's somebody. They was that way to old Miss Cherry—an' she takin' no notice of thim, though she was that polite to thim you'd have thought she liked thim. But I know she didn't. Who could? They'd not notice me when they met me on the street. Miss Cherry'd turn aside to spake to me—an' if the Gildersleeves was lookin' on she'd turn 'way round to do it. She—— The saints an' all!"

The telephone, recently installed according to orders, was ringing.

"That's thim. Run, Miss Jenney! They're on their way."

Jo ran, calling back, "I'm Josephine—don't forget that!" And then answering demurely—"This is Cherry House."

A voice which by contrast with Norah O'Grady's strident tones sounded peculiarly pleasant to Jo's ears, replied: "This is Mrs. Chase. We are expecting to reach Cherry Hills in half an hour. Can you tell me if Mrs. O'Grady has the house ready for us?"

"Yes, Mrs. Chase. Everything is ready."

"There'll be eight of us, so I hope there are plenty of sandwiches. Please tell Mrs. O'Grady to make some coffee. We're bringing fruit. I should like to have small fires in all the fireplaces. I think that's all, and you may expect us by seven."

"Yes, Mrs. Chase."

"Ye sound like ye look," was Norah's comment. "I'm thinkin' ye'll do. Coffee, is it? An' eight people. There's hersilf an' three children—an' the nurse—an' the cook. That's six. An' she drives herself. Who's the other two? I told ye there'd be company!"

In less than the half hour the car came in—a big, shining car, full of people and luggage, with Sally Chase's capable gauntleted hand at the wheel. It was closely followed by another—a high-powered roadster driven by a bare-headed, fair-haired young man whose face was deeply tanned. With him was a girl. But Jo had no eyes just then for anybody but Mrs. Chase—her mistress! She was tingling from head to foot with the strange sensation of being actually in the employ of this lovely young woman, in the capacity of a servant. Had she done wisely? Somehow the aspect of the whole party slightly daunted her, it looked so disturbingly sophisticated even in its careless travelling clothes. And the middle-aged woman on the back seat, who must be the cook, seemed, with her solemn face and austere black, decidedly formidable as the fellow-servant she was to be. Could Josephine Jenney really bring herself to play her part as it must be played?

"Run and help with the stuff!" Norah O'Grady had commanded under her breath, and Jo obeyed. Mrs. Chase, sliding out from the driver's seat, gave her a quick, comprehensive glance.

"Are you Josephine? How nice that you could be here from the first minute! Please take those bags and that hamper. This is Mrs. Lawson, our cook, and Mary, the children's nurse—Josephine. And these are Bob and Barbara and little Schuyler. Is he fast asleep, Mary? That's great. We'll pop him into his crib and he may'nt wake till morning. Oh, and there's Mrs. O'Grady!"

There followed a busy half hour. Sally Chase, herself, reminded her new maid of a child in spite of her competent way of setting the machinery of the house running. Between agreeably given orders to her force she could be heard here and there exclaiming over the various details of the house itself, the briskly burning fires, the view from the windows, the rows of pink and white peonies budding in the garden. The young man and the girl who had leisurely followed the party into the house could also be heard laughing at her; and later, when Sally and her cousins—for so they proved to be—were consuming sandwiches with young Bob and Barbara, and Jo was serving coffee to the elders and milk to the children, the chaffing was still going on.

Jo understood perfectly that demureness in a maid is the first requisite, so she went about with downcast eyes and a composed face. But she was able to note that the man cousin was a gay, attractive youth, full of spirits, and that the girl was quite his opposite, being a languid creature, either by temperament or selection, with smooth dark hair which lay in perfect waves above her white brow, and who seemed to frown more than she smiled. Nobody except Mrs. Chase gave the quiet maid a look, except once when five-year-old Barbara dropped half an oozy chicken sandwich upon the floor, and Jo hastened to pick it up and to wipe with a fresh napkin the stain from the child's dress. Then little Barbara stared up into her face and said, smiling at her: "You look like Miss Burnett."

At which everybody smiled also, and the young man, with a quick look at Jo, said with a chuckle—"That's a compliment for somebody."

"Miss Burnett is one of Barbara's favourite friends," explained Mrs. Chase, at which Jo herself smiled, but knew better than to make reply. As a matter of fact, she had been saying to herself ever since she had seen these people come in that she must never for a moment forget her position. It would take very careful remembering not to be betrayed into speaking as she would not be expected to speak, or showing in some unexpected way that she was more accustomed to giving directions than to receiving them.

The children were sent away to bed the moment they finished eating, but the others lingered in the dining room, both the guests smoking over their coffee, while Mrs. Chase sat making lists of things to be ordered. Jo, waiting in the butler's pantry close by, as Norah had told her to do, could hear the talk.

"You'll be buried alive, Sally, in this dead little spot," prophesied Bradley Sturgis.

"I came here to be buried alive," retorted Sally Chase. "I was on the point of being buried dead in the city parish, there was so much to do. Here, without a responsibility outside of my family, I shall become more and more alive. So I shall be able to resurrect myself with no trouble at all when Schuyler comes home in October."

And she returned to her lists.

It was at this point that her other cousin, Adelaide Sturgis, began to speak. She had said practically nothing since she had come in at the door; had nibbled two of the delicate sandwiches, had drunk thirstily two cups of coffee, and had smoked three slim cigarettes from her own chaste case.

"Sally," said Adelaide, in the low slow voice which seemed to be an acquired art, since few normal young women are able so to control their desire to give expression to their thoughts, "will you let me stay here with you? I've been upstairs and picked out the room I want. Nobody seems to be going to use it."

Sally looked up, startled. "You stay, 'Laide? Why? Why should you want to?"

Bradley threw back his fair head and laughed consumedly. "There you have it in a nutshell," he said. "The eager guest, the reluctant hostess. Of course she doesn't want you, 'Laide."

"But—my dear," went on Sally, "this is no place for you. As Brad has said, it's the sleepiest little town imaginable. Unless, of course, you had somebody coming out to see you all the time, and—frankly——"

"I shouldn't have much of anybody," promised Miss Sturgis. "I'm tired to death of people. I want to stay quietly in the country and get back my complexion. I'll not bother you—if you won't object to having my breakfasts sent up."

She sat looking at her cousin, her eyes half closed between her heavy lashes, her long, thin form yielding pliantly to the high-backed dining chair in which she sat, her slender knees crossed, one foot swinging lightly. Sally sat looking back at her. Bradley, still grinning, watched them both.

"Don't take her, Sal, if you don't want to," he advised. "She says she won't have anybody coming out to see her. She can't keep 'em away and she's too lazy to try. You don't want a yawning, stretching pussy cat like her always on your hearth. You want a nice friendly barking dog like me, to gambol about the lawns and keep you jolly. Let me stay. You need a man in the house."

"I'll have neither of you. I came here to be as lonely as I like—and I like to be very lonely."

Sally was smiling, but her tone showed she meant it. Once more she returned to her lists. Then she got up and came out into the pantry where Jo waited. She stood still and looked at Jo, as if she found something about her to challenge the attention. Jo found her heart quickening a beat, so much depended upon having Mrs. Chase like her. In a moment more she actually had the assurance that she had made a favourable impression in this strange new rôle.

"I think you are going to be very nice to have about, Josephine," said Mrs. Chase in her charmingly straightforward way. "One can always tell very quickly, you know, whether one is going to like other people. If you have half as pleasant an impression of us, I know we shall get on beautifully."

"Thank you, Mrs. Chase," said Jo, and gave back the friendly smile. There was nothing patronizing about Sally Chase, or Jo would have felt it instantly, being keyed high at this critical hour. And the fact that the new maid let her reply go at that, and didn't add, as the ordinary housemaid would—"I'm sure I hope to please you, ma'am," made her new mistress feel certain of being pleased. But she was becoming even more certain that Josephine wasn't just the ordinary servant.

"I think you've never done this before, my dear," Mrs. Schuyler Chase said to herself, with conviction. "Such a beautiful, high-bred face, such a delightful voice and intonation. . . . However, as a maid for whom Norah O'Grady vouches, I must accept you and be thankful."

(From Josephine Jenney's Note-book

Family arrived—first plunge over.

Mrs. Chase very nice—a dear—as I knew she would be. Children ducks.

Cousin Adelaide very pale, mascara-y, and lip-sticky. Long legs, too thin; body too sinuous; speech too languid. Typical struggler after latest effect. She gave Josephine the maid but one look—very narrow-eyed, indolent look. Received it with shock-absorber working well. Don't mind her in the least—at present.

Cousin Bradley precisely the "Brother to Adelaide" required by drama. Description enough!

Made no errors in service or manners, though went about feeling both numb and dumb—if that can be with rapid pulse.

Cook in kitchen will be greatest trial, easy to foresee. Very much queen in her realm, with a not-too-good temper. Mrs. Chase did her best to put us on good terms with each other. Had to swallow hard when first addressed by Cook—Mrs. Lawton—after Mrs. Chase had left kitchen. "Now, get busy, Josyphine. You don't move any too quick. Why'd you leave your last place, if I may ask?"

Of course I longed to tell her she mightn't ask. But that way lies madness, so I answered that my family all went away to another country. (The dear God knows they did—a far country.)

"And didn't think enough of you to take you with 'em?"

I shook my head. Parrying Mrs. Lawton's thrusts will take all my skill at fencing.