Читать книгу White Banners - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 4

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For quite fifteen minutes Hannah had the kitchen to herself. She was much perplexed. The girlish blonde had been so pleasantly kind—and then had suddenly gone into a panic of desire to get her out of the house. That would be because her husband was a brute. The pretty thing was clearly frightened about something, and undoubtedly that was it. Hannah thoughtfully stroked her chin with the back of her hand and wondered what she ought to do—stay and help get dinner and put the disordered kitchen to rights, in payment for her food, or take her quarter and vanish.

While she debated, half-intelligible wisps of conversation drifted through from the living-room where the nervous and distraught girl-wife was pouring out her story. Occasionally his soft voice offered a soothing comment. He wasn't a brute. Hannah continued to peel her apples. The situation was clearing up. She smiled and shook her head a little, compassionately, eavesdropping without compunction on the private talk, occasional phrases of which were becoming audible. They were stony-broke, their credit was exhausted, they were going to have another baby, they couldn't take on any more obligations—all this in the harassed voice of the lovely blonde—and here was this hungry person out in the kitchen peeling her own apples with the unquestionable expectation that her services would be recognized and rewarded.

"But"—the man was saying reassuringly—"you need help, Marcia, and if she wants to do something for you, in return for your kindness, why not let her?"

"But we can't afford it, Paul."

"Why can't we? We've been in tight corners before."

Now they were just going around and around, getting nowhere. The apples were all peeled. Having intruded this far into their family complications, Hannah felt that a little more impudence on her part would not be likely to alter her status very much, so she decided to go to the basement and do something about the fire before it went out, if indeed it had not already done so. Then, if they were agreed that she mustn't stay and help, in return for the food she had eaten, they could say so—and she would go. She sincerely hoped they would not insist on this, for it was plain to be seen that the young woman was almost at the end of her physical resources.

The first door she tried unlatched with much difficulty, but when it did consent to let go it was generous enough, unexpectedly disgorging a great many of the larger articles which the shallow closet contained—an ironing-board, two brooms, a mop, and the long handle of a carpet-sweeper bounding violently out to assault her, attended by a covey of dust-cloths. The eruption caused a deal of racket and for a little while there was no sound of talk in the house. Then his father called Wallie to come back here, and Hannah coaxed the things into their lair again, all but the umbrella which had opened in flight and couldn't be closed without risk of a compound rib fracture.

She tried the other door. The stairs to the basement, now that Hannah had located them, were pitch-dark at the top, though a feeble yellow light glowed from one of the rooms in the cavern below. Just inside the door there was an electric bulb which did not respond when she turned the button. Groping her way cautiously down the narrow steps she found the furnace-room by the aid of the almost extinct lamp which presumably had been burning all day. The coal supply was low, but there was plenty of everything else in the dingy room. Hannah vigorously shook down the ashes and clinkers, opened the draughts and shovelled in a small quantity of coal, thinking it indiscreet to offer the fire very much nourishment until it was feeling better. While she waited for signs of its resuscitation there was time to glance about. She shook her head and whispered, "Tsch, tsch".

It was none of her business, of course, but there was a battered trunk with no lock, no hasps and one handle, a broken chair, a pile of magazines, a bicycle with two flat tyres and a mildewed seat, a roll of old rugs and strips of carpet, a three-legged card-table, a hobby-horse with one ear, one rocker and no tail, a tall filing-cabinet, and a serviceable but very grimy office desk on which reposed two high stacks of old books covered with soot, a pile of folded chintz draperies, a gilt clock, a half-dozen flowerpots with earth in them, an unstrung tennis racquet, one roller-skate, and a cracked cut-glass berry-bowl containing three hickory nuts, a bunch of rusty keys, a doorknob, a spool of white silk thread, a monogrammed belt-buckle, five dominoes, a box of fish-food, a tooth-brush, and a small gift copy of Sartor Resartus. Hannah threw in another shovelful of coal and wondered what they would be thinking overhead when they heard all the noise she was making.

Retracing her steps upstairs, she decided to carry on with the pie. Pulling open the flour-bin in the kitchen cabinet, she was pleased to find it nearly half full. It contained also the flour-sifter, a couple of little tin dies for cutting cookies, a rolling-pin, and a lead pencil which must have got in by accident. Hoping to be equally successful in locating the other ingredients for the pie, Hannah went to the refrigerator, taking pains to avoid the sluggish stream which ambled aimlessly across the pantry floor and whose headwaters, she knew, had their origin in an overflowing pan beneath the icebox.

Opening the door she found a tin bucket filled with lard. Excellent luck, thought Hannah. There was a plentiful supply of almost everything. The refrigerator was stuffed to capacity; four quart milk-bottles, all partly used, but one which was empty, a highly ornamental glass jar with a few slices of cold tongue, the skeleton of a rib roast from which most of the choice meat had been cut, two asparagus tips in a saucer, a few stalks of discouraged celery, one candied sweet potato holding forth alone in a large bowl with the smugness of an old settler, three half-used glasses of jelly, and, side by side, a pound of unwrapped butter and a slice of Roquefort cheese. Hannah removed the cheese.

There was also a neat paper parcel. She argued with herself for a moment and opened it—four French lamb chops. Then she took the can of lard to the kitchen-cabinet where operations were resumed on behalf of the apple pie. She was stooping over to light the gas in the oven when masculine footsteps commanded her attention. The man was in his middle thirties, slender, a little over average height, and very good-looking.

"How do you do," he said pleasantly. "Mrs Ward tells me—I am her husband, by the way—"

"I thought you might be," replied Hannah, unperturbed. "I knew she was expecting you."

"Mrs Ward has been just a bit upset. You see—" He hesitated for an instant.

"Yes, I know," assisted Hannah companionably. "It's her condition. What with two little children on her hands and nobody to help her and another baby expected soon, she naturally would be nervous."

"Of course," he agreed. "But the point is that Mrs Ward feels embarrassed over your remaining here to offer your services in this way. She says you have been earning your living by selling something and we are keeping you from it. We both appreciate your kindness, but—to put the matter frankly—Mrs Ward doesn't want you to do anything further. She feels that we cannot afford to have kitchen help just now."

"If you don't mind, Mr Ward," rejoined Hannah, plying the rolling-pin energetically, "I'll keep right on with this pastry, so it won't get tough. Pardon me for interrupting."

"Well—that was about all I had meant to say. We are greatly obliged for what you have done, and if we were able we should gladly keep you on, but—as I have tried to point out—we can't afford it."

Hannah pinched the pie all the way around with an experienced thumb and, holding it on a level with her eyes, deftly trimmed the edge.

"I know you can't," she said, and then added, lowering her voice confidentially, "and I know why."

He bridled a little at that, lighted a cigarette with an impatient gesture, and replied, clipping his words, "At least—it's no responsibility of yours."

"I'm not so sure about that," countered Hannah. "I got into your mess by accident and through no fault of mine. I was blown into your house by the blizzard. Your wife was very kind to me. I've been awfully knocked about lately, Mr Ward, and she seemed to realize it. She is a darling. And then I found myself out here in your kitchen—and I just can't leave her in this dreadful state. I should worry myself to death about her."

"Dreadful state?" he echoed woodenly.

Hannah pursed her lips and smiled a maternal reproof.

"Don't pretend you didn't know. This hand-to-mouth way you people live—everything at loose ends—spending so much and getting so little for it." Hannah felt that she had burned most of her bridges now and might as well speak her mind plainly. "That sweet girl ought to be having good care—especially now. She shouldn't be doing her own work—and she's doing it the hardest way there is. I don't wonder she's discouraged and nervous, the way this house is run. I hope I haven't offended you, but it's true."

He had been scowling darkly through Hannah's speech, but her last conciliatory remark was so genuinely sympathetic that his face cleared a little.

"I know," he admitted, with a rueful sigh, "we aren't very good at it."

Hannah teased him with a sisterly grin.

"I'll bet you mean," she drawled, "that your wife isn't very good at it. Men always think that. But you left the furnace lamp on all day, I notice, and you've been buying kindling all tied up in cute little bundles when the basement is running over with loose boards and broken boxes enough to supply you for the winter. It isn't all her fault, I can tell you."

"Did I say it was?" he grumbled.

Hannah made no reply to that, being occupied at the moment by her task of regulating the oven. He sauntered to the door and stood there indecisively.

"Wouldn't you like to empty that refrigerator pan while you're here?" asked Hannah, as if he were fifteen and she was his mother. "That's really a man's job, you know. It's heavy."

He complied good-naturedly enough, dragging the loathsome thing out and slopping a great puddle of slimy water on the floor. Hannah had anticipated this and was already at his elbow with the mop.

"Sorry," he muttered, trying to balance his burden on the way to the sink. "It's always full, no matter how often you empty it."

"You could remedy that in half an hour if you wanted to," scoffed Hannah, unwrapping the expensive chops. "Bore a hole in the floor, put in a tin funnel, and run a piece of hose down to a big bucket in the cellar."

"And then the bucket would always be running over down there."

Hannah glanced up and chuckled as she replied, "Well—I don't think that would matter much. You aren't very particular how the cellar looks." She raised her eyebrows so drollishly when she added, "I was down there," that he laughed a little in spite of his determination to be firm with her. The sound of it brought Marcia to the doorway, her wide, blue eyes full of inquiry.

"If it's something funny—" she began, with as much dignity as she could muster.

"If you will set the table now, Mrs Ward," interjected Hannah, quite unruffled, "I'll have your dinner ready in a few minutes."

Marcia turned away frankly annoyed, followed by Paul, who said, when they had reached the dining-room: "She isn't a bad sort, dear. Bit of a character, I should say. No end amusing. Why not let her help you to-night if she wants to? To-morrow you can tell her to go."

"To-morrow? You mean she is to stay here all night?"

"Why not? She doesn't seem dangerous. And there's a bed. She's probably clean—don't you think?" He grinned broadly. "I gather that she's almost as fastidious as we are, judging from some comments she made about our cellar."

"She didn't dare!" spluttered Marcia.

"Dare? You don't know our Hannah very well. She as much as said—"

"That I was the worst housekeeper in the world, I suppose."

"No, no, darling; nothing about you. She thinks you're wonderful."

"Yes—aren't I?" muttered Marcia derisively. "So—she's to sleep in the guest-room. I suppose. In that case, I'd better lay a place for her at the table." She began taking the silver from the buffet.

Hannah, who had been significantly rattling dishes in the pantry, came in at this juncture with a trayful, and, noting the preparations for three places, inquired, "Does little Wallie eat at the table?"

"In his high-chair," replied Marcia, still grim.

"Then we'll not need these," said Hannah, restoring the extra silver to the buffet-drawer. "I shall be serving the table."