When John Henry died there seemed to be nothing for me to do but pack
up and go back east. I didn't want to do it, but forty-five years of
sojourning in this world have taught me that a body has to do a good
many things she doesn't want to do, and that most of them turn out to
be for the best in the long run. But I knew perfectly well that it
wasn't best for me or anybody else that I should go back to live with
William and Susanna, and I couldn't think what Providence was about
when things seemed to point that way.
I wanted to stay in Carleton. I loved the big, straggling, bustling
little town that always reminded me of a lanky, overgrown schoolboy,
all arms and legs, but full to the brim with enthusiasm and splendid
ideas. I knew Carleton was bound to grow into a magnificent city, and
I wanted to be there and see it grow and watch it develop; and I loved
the whole big, breezy golden west, with the rush and tingle of its
young life. And, more than all, I loved my boys, and what I was going
to do without them or they without me was more than I knew, though I
tried to think Providence might know.
But there was no place in Carleton for me; the only thing to do was to
go back east, and I knew that all the time, even when I was
desperately praying that I might find a way to remain. There's not
much comfort, or help either, praying one way and believing another.
I'd lived down east in Northfield all my life--until five years
ago--lived with my brother William and his wife. Northfield was a
little pinched-up village where everybody knew more about you than you
did about yourself, and you couldn't turn around without being
commented upon. William and Susanna were kind to me, but I was just
the old maid sister, of no importance to anybody, and I never felt as
if I were really living. I was simply vegetating on, and wouldn't be
missed by a single soul if I died. It is a horrible feeling, but I
didn't expect it would ever be any different, and I had made up my
mind that when I died I would have the word "Wasted" carved on my
tombstone. It wouldn't be conventional at all, but I'd been
conventional all my life, and I was determined I'd have something done
out of the common even if I had to wait until I was dead to have it.
Then all at once the letter came from John Henry, my brother out west.
He wrote that his wife had died and he wanted me to go out and keep
house for him. I sat right down and wrote him I'd go and in a week's
time I started.
It made quite a commotion; I had that much satisfaction out of it to
begin with. Susanna wasn't any too well pleased. I was only the old
maid sister, but I was a good cook, and help was scarce in Northfield.
All the neighbours shook their heads, and warned me I wouldn't like
it. I was too old to change my ways, and I'd be dreadfully homesick,
and I'd find the west too rough and boisterous. I just smiled and said
nothing.
Well, I came out here to Carleton, and from the time I got here I was
perfectly happy. John Henry had a little rented house, and he was as
poor as a church mouse, being the ne'er-do-well of our family, and the
best loved, as ne'er-do-wells are so apt to be. He'd nearly died of
lonesomeness since his wife's death, and he was so glad to see me.
That was delightful in itself, and I was just in my element getting
that little house fixed up cosy and homelike, and cooking the most
elegant meals. There wasn't much work to do, just for me and him, and
I got a squaw in to wash and scrub. I never thought about Northfield
except to thank goodness I'd escaped from it, and John Henry and I
were as happy as a king and queen.
Then after awhile my activities began to sprout and branch out, and
the direction they took was _boys_. Carleton was full of boys, like
all the western towns, overflowing with them as you might say, young
fellows just let loose from home and mother, some of them dying of
homesickness and some of them beginning to run wild and get into
risky ways, some of them smart and some of them lazy, some ugly and
some handsome; but all of them boys, lovable, rollicking boys, with
the makings of good men in them if there was anybody to take hold of
them and cut the pattern right, but liable to be spoiled just because
there wasn't anybody.
Well, I did what I could. It began with John Henry bringing home some
of them that worked in his office to spend the evening now and again,
and they told other fellows and asked leave to bring them in too. And
before long it got to be that there never was an evening there wasn't
some of them there, "Aunt-Pattying" me. I told them from the start I
would _not_ be called Miss. When a woman has been Miss for forty-five
years she gets tired of it.
So Aunt Patty it was, and Aunt Patty it remained, and I loved all
those dear boys as if they'd been my own. They told me all their
troubles, and I mothered them and cheered them up and scolded them,
and finally topped off with a jolly good supper; for, talk as you
like, you can't preach much good into a boy if he's got an aching void
in his stomach. Fill _that_ up with tasty victuals, and then you can
do something with his spiritual nature. If a boy is well stuffed with
good things and then won't listen to advice, you might as well stop
wasting your breath on him, because there is something radically wrong
with him. Probably his grandfather had dyspepsia. And a dyspeptic
ancestor is worse for a boy than predestination, in my opinion.
Anyway, most of my boys took to going to church and Bible class of
their own accord, after I'd been their aunt for awhile. The young
minister thought it was all his doings, and I let him think so to keep
him cheered up. He was a nice boy himself, and often dropped in of an
evening too; but I never would let him talk theology until after
supper. His views always seemed so much mellower then, and didn't
puzzle the other boys more than was wholesome for them.
This went on for five glorious years, the only years of my life I'd
ever _lived_, and then came, as I thought, the end of everything. John
Henry took typhoid and died. At first that was all I could think of;
and when I got so that I could think of other things, there was, as I
have said, nothing for me to do but go back east.
The boys, who had been as good as gold to me all through my trouble,
felt dreadfully bad over this, and coaxed me hard to stay. They said
if I'd start a boarding house I'd have all the boarders I could
accommodate; but I knew it was no use to think of that, because I
wasn't strong enough, and help was so hard to get. No, there was
nothing for it but Northfield and stagnation again, with not a stray
boy anywhere to mother. I looked the dismal prospect square in the
face and made up my mind to it.
But I was determined to give my boys one good celebration before I
went, anyway. It was near Thanksgiving, and I resolved they should
have a dinner that would keep my memory green for awhile, a real
old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner such as they used to have at home. I
knew it would cost more than I could really afford, but I shut my eyes
to that aspect of the question. I was going back to strict eastern
economy for the rest of my days, and I meant to indulge in one wild,
blissful riot of extravagance before I was cooped up again.
I counted up the boys I must have, and there were fifteen, including
the minister. I invited them a fortnight ahead to make sure of getting
them, though I needn't have worried, for they all said they would have
broken an engagement to dine with the king for one of my dinners. The
minister said he had been feeling so homesick he was afraid he
wouldn't be able to preach a real thankful sermon, but now he was
comfortably sure that his sermon would be overflowing with gratitude.
I just threw myself heart and soul into the preparations for that
dinner. I had three turkeys and two sucking pigs, and mince pies and
pumpkin pies and apple pies, and doughnuts and fruit cake and
cranberry sauce and brown bread, and ever so many other things to fill
up the chinks. The night before Thanksgiving everything was ready, and
I was so tired I could hardly talk to Jimmy Nelson when he dropped in.
Jimmy had something on his mind, I saw that. So I said, "'Fess up,
Jimmy, and then you'll be able to enjoy your call."
"I want to ask a favour of you, Aunt Patty," said Jimmy.
I knew I should have to grant it; nobody could refuse Jimmy anything,
he looked so much like a nice, clean, pink-and-white little schoolboy
whose mother had just scrubbed his face and told him to be good. At
the same time he was one of the wildest young scamps in Carleton, or
had been until a year ago. I'd got him well set on the road to
reformation, and I felt worse about leaving him than any of the rest
of them. I knew he was just at the critical point. With somebody to
tide him over the next half year he'd probably go straight for the
rest of his life, but if he were left to himself he'd likely just slip
back to his old set and ways.
"I want you to let me bring my Uncle Joe to dinner tomorrow," said
Jimmy. "The poor old fellow is stranded here for Thanksgiving, and he
hates hotels. May I?"
"Of course," I said heartily, wondering why Jimmy seemed to think I
mightn't want his Uncle Joe. "Bring him right along."
"Thanks," said Jimmy. "He'll be more than pleased. Your sublime
cookery will delight him. He adores the west, but he can't endure its
cooking. He's always harping on his mother's pantry and the good old
down-east dinners. He's dyspeptic and pessimistic most of the time,
and he's got half a dozen cronies just like himself. All they think of
is railroads and bills of fare."
"Railroads!" I cried. And then an awful thought assailed me. "Jimmy
Nelson, your uncle isn't--isn't--he can't be Joseph P. Nelson, the
_rich_ Joseph P. Nelson!"
"Oh, he's rich enough," said Jimmy; getting up and reaching for his
hat. "In dollars, that is. Some ways he's poor enough. Well, I must be
going. Thanks ever so much for letting me bring Uncle Joe."
And that rascal was gone, leaving me crushed. Joseph Nelson was coming
to my house to dinner--Joseph P. Nelson, the millionaire railroad
king, who kept his own chef and was accustomed to dining with the
great ones of the earth!
I was afraid I should never be able to forgive Jimmy. I couldn't sleep
a wink that night, and I cooked that dinner next day in a terrible
state of mind. Every ring that came at the door made my heart
jump,--but in the end Jimmy didn't ring at all, but just walked in
with his uncle in tow. The minute I saw Joseph P. I knew I needn't be
scared of _him_; he just looked real common. He was little and thin
and kind of bored-looking, with grey hair and whiskers, and his
clothes were next door to downright shabbiness. If it hadn't been for
the thought of that chef, I wouldn't have felt a bit ashamed of my
old-fashioned Thanksgiving spread.
When Joseph P. sat down to that table he stopped looking bored. All
the time the minister was saying grace that man simply stared at a big
plate of doughnuts near my end of the table, as if he'd never seen
anything like them before.
All the boys talked and laughed while they were eating, but Joseph P.
just _ate_, tucking away turkey and vegetables and keeping an anxious
eye on those doughnuts, as if he was afraid somebody else would get
hold of them before his turn came. I wished I was sure it was
etiquette to tell him not to worry because there were plenty more in
the pantry. By the time he'd been helped three times to mince pie I
gave up feeling bad about the chef. He finished off with the
doughnuts, and I shan't tell how many of them he devoured, because I
would not be believed.
Most of the boys had to go away soon after dinner. Joseph P. shook
hands with me absently and merely said, "Good afternoon, Miss
Porter." I didn't think he seemed at all grateful for his dinner, but
that didn't worry me because it was for my boys I'd got it up, and not
for dyspeptic millionaires whose digestion had been spoiled by private
chefs. And my boys had appreciated it, there wasn't any doubt about
that. Peter Crockett and Tommy Gray stayed to help me wash the dishes,
and we had the jolliest time ever. Afterward we picked the turkey
bones.
But that night I realized that I was once more a useless, lonely old
woman. I cried myself to sleep, and next morning I hadn't spunk enough
to cook myself a dinner. I dined off some crackers and the remnants of
the apple pies, and I was sitting staring at the crumbs when the bell
rang. I wiped away my tears and went to the door. Joseph P. Nelson was
standing there, and he said, without wasting any words--it was easy to
see how that man managed to get railroads built where nobody else
could manage it--that he had called to see me on a little matter of
business.
He took just ten minutes to make it clear to me, and when I saw the
whole project I was the happiest woman in Carleton or out of it. He
said he had never eaten such a Thanksgiving dinner as mine, and that I
was the woman he'd been looking for for years. He said that he had a
few business friends who had been brought up on a down-east farm like
himself, and never got over their hankering for old-fashioned cookery.
"That is something we can't get here, with all our money," he said.
"Now, Miss Porter, my nephew tells me that you wish to remain in
Carleton, if you can find some way of supporting yourself. I have a
proposition to make to you. These aforesaid friends of mine and I
expect to spend most of our time in Carleton for the next few years.
In fact we shall probably make it our home eventually. It's going to
be _the_ city of the west after awhile, and the centre of a dozen
railroads. Well, we mean to equip a small private restaurant for
ourselves and we want you to take charge of it. You won't have to do
much except oversee the business and arrange the bills of fare. We
want plain, substantial old-time meals and cookery. When we have a
hankering for doughnuts and apple pies and cranberry tarts, we want to
know just where to get them and have them the right kind. We're all
horribly tired of hotel fare and fancy fol-de-rols with French names.
A place where we could get a dinner such as you served yesterday would
be a boon to us. We'd have started the restaurant long ago if we could
have got a suitable person to take charge of it."
He named the salary the club would pay and the very sound of it made
me feel rich. You may be sure I didn't take long to decide. That was a
year ago, and today the Doughnut Club, as they call themselves, is a
huge success, and the fame of it has gone abroad in the land, although
they are pretty exclusive and keep all their good things close enough
to themselves. Joseph P. took a Scotch peer there to dinner one day
last week. Jimmy Nelson told me afterward that the man said it was the
only satisfying meal he'd had since he left the old country.
As for me, I have my little house, my very own and no rented one, and
all my dear boys, and I'm a happy old busybody. You see, Providence
did answer my prayers in spite of my lack of faith; but of course He
used means, and that Thanksgiving dinner of mine was the earthly
instrument of it all.