HOUSEWIFELY CARES
The day for Mrs. Corner's departure came around all too soon. Aunt
Sarah was to have arrived the evening before, but up to the last
moment she had not come, and Mrs. Corner felt that she could not wait
since all her arrangements were made. "I am positive she will be here
to-day," she told Nan, "probably by the noon train, and the boys will
not come till to-morrow, so you will have no trouble, even if Aunt
Sarah should not come till night."
There were many tears and embraces at the last moment. Even Jean's
placidity was disturbed and when the train which held her mother, moved
out of sight, she flung herself in Nan's arms sobbing, "Oh, I didn't
want her to go, I didn't."
Jack rubbed her eyes with none too clean fists and reiterated: "I
promised I'd be good; I promised I'd be good." As for Mary Lee she
slipped an arm around her elder sister, but "Oh, Nan! Oh, Nan!" was all
she could say. Nan herself bravely kept back the tears but her feeling
of helplessness and desolation was almost more than she could bear.
Mother, who had never left them for so much as a night, gone far away
where they could not and should not reach her. No one to advise, to
comfort, to sympathize. No one to confide in. It was all blackness and
darkness without that blessed mother.
Four very sober children returned to the house to eat their dinner
alone. Even the importance of sitting at the head of the table brought
no joy to Nan, and the fact that Phil's mother had sent them over a
dish of frozen custard brought none of them any great enjoyment.
Mitty had taken advantage of the occasion to announce that she was
going to a "fessible." She informed Nan that she had asked Mrs.
Corner's consent weeks before and had been told that when the Sons and
Daughters of Moses and Aaron had their "fessible" she could go. There
was really nothing to say, and Mitty, adorned in a rattling, stiffly
starched petticoat over which as stiffly a starched pink lawn stood out
magnificently, started forth, bearing her purple parasol and wearing
her brilliant yellow hat trimmed with blue roses.
"She certainly is a sight," remarked Mary Lee, watching Mitty's exit.
"Wouldn't her feathers drop if she should get wet? Oh, Nan, I do
believe a thunder-storm is coming up. Look at that black cloud."
"Now don't begin to be scary," said Nan, coming to the window. If
there was one thing above another of which Mary Lee was scared it was
a thunder-storm; it completely demoralized her, and she would always
retire to the darkest corner, crouching there in dread of each flash
of lightning and clap of thunder. Nan scanned the sky and then said
calmly, "Well, I think it is very likely we will have a shower; we
generally do when the Sons and Daughters have their festival."
It had been a sultry day, and the low-hanging clouds began to increase
in mass, showing jagged edges, and following one another up the sky,
black, threatening, rolling forms. In the course of half an hour, the
first peal of distant thunder came to their ears and Mary Lee began
to tremble. "It seems a thousand times worse when mother isn't here,"
she complained. "It seems dreadful for us four children to be here all
alone. Suppose the lightning should strike the house."
"Then mother would be safe," said Nan, exultantly.
"But it wouldn't do her any good if we should all be killed," Mary Lee
returned lugubriously.
"Suppose it should strike the train mother is in?" said Jean in a
frightened tone.
"Oh, it couldn't," Nan reassured her. "It goes so fast that it would
get beyond the storm. The sun is probably shining bright where mother
is by this time."
This was more comforting; nevertheless Mary Lee's fears increased in
proportion to the loudness of the thunderclaps. "I'm sure we are not
safe here," she declared. "It is getting worse and worse, Nan." A
terrific crash which seemed to come from directly overhead gave proof
to the truth of her words. Jean clung to her and even Jack looked
scared. Mary Lee cowered down in the corner and covered her face.
"Come, I'll tell you what we'll do," said Nan, though by no means
unaffrighted herself; "we'll do what Aunt Sarah's grandmother used to
do; we'll all go up-stairs; it's safer there, and we'll pile all the
pillows on mother's bed--we'll pull it into the middle of the room
first--and then we'll all get on it and say hymns. There isn't any
feather-bed like they used to have, but the pillows will answer the
same purpose. Come, Mary Lee." They all rushed up-stairs, and, between
thunderclaps, gathered pillows from the different rooms, and then
established themselves upon them in the middle of the bed.
"Aunt Sarah said they never used to feel afraid when their grandmother
commenced to say the hymns, and she taught me the best one to say.
Keep still, Jack, and I'll say it." A second violent crash of thunder
drowned her words and Mary Lee threw herself prone upon her face,
calling out: "Put some pillows over me so I can't see nor hear."
"We can't; we're sitting on them," returned Nan. "You are perfectly
safe, Mary Lee. Now listen and you won't mind the thunder." And she
began the fine old hymn:
"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,
He plants His footsteps on the sea,
And rides upon the storm."
"It scares me for Him to ride upon the storm," faltered Jean.
"But you know if He is in the storm, He is right here to take care of
us," said Nan, reassuringly. Jean was satisfied. Even Mary Lee raised
her head when Nan had finished the hymn. "Now it is your turn," said
Nan. "What will you say, Mary Lee?"
"I think I like 'Jesus, Lover of My Soul,' but I don't know it very
well. Do you dare get down and bring me my hymnal, Nan? I wouldn't ask
you only I could no more leave this spot than fly."
"I don't mind, I'm sure," responded Nan readily. "I think the worst is
over anyhow." But she had scarcely returned with the book when another
loud peal sent her scrambling to her nest in the pillows and it was
some moments before Mary Lee could gain courage to sit up and repeat
the hymn, which she could not do without frequent peepings at the page
before her.
"Now Jack, it's your turn," Nan prompted.
Jack was always ready and she began and said through without faltering
the hymn beginning: "Dear Jesus ever at my side." There was a most
uplifted and saintlike expression on the child's face as, with clasped
hands, she repeated the closing lines:
"But when I sleep, Thou sleepest not,
But watchest patiently."
One would have supposed Jack to be a most lovely and angelic person,
and, in truth, for the time being, she was angelic.
Jean's turn came last. "I can't fink of anyfing but 'Jesus, tender
Shepherd, Hear Me,' and it isn't bedtime yet," she said.
"Never mind if it isn't," said Nan; "it is quite dark and that will
do very nicely." So Jean added her hymn while the storm still raged.
However, they were all comforted, and finding that the plan of Aunt
Sarah's grandmother worked so well, Nan proposed that they should not
stop but should take another round of hymns.
"It would be nicer to sing them I think," said Jack.
"So it would," the others agreed, "and then nobody would have to
remember all, for, if one should forget the hymnal will be right here."
"Let's sing 'Now the day is over,'" said Jack.
"But it isn't over," objected the literal Jean. However as this was a
general favorite, they sang it through and by that time the storm was
passing over and they felt they could safely leave the feather pillows.
"It was a splendid plan," declared Mary Lee. "Once or twice I almost
forgot to be afraid, though I do wish Unc' Landy could have been
somewhere in the house."
"I don't know how he could have helped matters," returned Nan, "though
I shouldn't have minded his being on hand. I don't believe he has gone
to the festival and very likely has been out in all the storm stopping
leaks in the barn; it's what he generally does. Gracious! what's that?"
A thundering knock at the door stopped them in their work of returning
the pillows to their places. "Who can it be?" said Nan.
"Maybe it's some one from Cousin Mag Lewis's to see if we are all
right," said Mary Lee. "I shouldn't wonder if it were Phil."
"Well, you go see."
Mary Lee ran down-stairs to the door. It was still raining a little
as the puddles in the front walk showed. The vines were dripping and
the flowers hung heavy heads. Mary Lee did not notice these things,
however, for two strange lads stood before her. She at once surmised
who they were. "Come right in," she said. "Just put your umbrellas in
that corner of the porch. I'll tell Nan you are here."
"We are Randolph and Ashby Gordon," said the boys.
"I know," returned Mary Lee, and sped up the stairs leaving the boys to
deposit their wet umbrellas on the porch. "Nan, Nan," called the girl,
"they've come, and Aunt Sarah isn't here."
"Who has come?" Nan questioned from the top of the steps.
"The boys, our cousins, Randolph and Ashby. They are at the front door."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Nan. "What did you say to them, Mary Lee?"
"I didn't say anything except to tell them where to put their
umbrellas. Come right down, please, Nan."
"Their bed isn't made or anything," said Nan, pausing to look across at
the open doorway which disclosed a room not yet in good order. "I'll
have to explain, I suppose."
She went sedately down-stairs to find the two boys standing in the
front hall. "Oh, how do you do?" she began. "We didn't expect you
to-day"--and then feeling that this was scarcely a welcoming speech,
she hesitated, blushing at not being ready for the occasion.
"I know," said the elder boy, "and we must apologize for being ahead of
time, but we found that we could get here to-day and have company all
the way. A friend of father's, one of the professors at the University,
was coming, and he insisted upon our taking the same train. I hope it
doesn't make any difference to you."
"No," Nan faltered, "only Aunt Sarah hasn't come yet and your room
isn't quite ready."
"Oh, no matter," returned the boy, courteously enough, but rather
distantly.
"You see, mother went away only this morning," Nan continued her
explanations, "and Mitty, our girl, has gone out, but if you will just
walk into the living-room and make yourselves at home, I can soon get
everything in order. I'm Nan, you know. It was Mary Lee who opened the
door and the twins are up-stairs. We had a heavy storm, didn't we?"
"We certainly did," replied Randolph, following her into the room. His
brother silently entered with him.
"Please make yourselves at home," repeated Nan.
Having established her guests, she flew up-stairs. "They're here sure
enough," she said. "You all will have to help me get the room ready;
fortunately it has been swept. Jean, get some clean towels and the
piece of soap from mother's room. I suppose we shall have to give them
soap. Jack, I wish you would get some water. No, you'd better not,"
she called. But Jack, finding a chance to help and rather liking the
task imposed upon her, was already half way down-stairs. With Mary
Lee's assistance, the bed was made and the room was soon tidy. Then
Nan returned below stairs to decide what to have for supper. She would
put the best foot forward, and, though she was racking her brains for
a proper bill of fare, she would not show her anxiety. Her own efforts
in the way of cooking had been limited, for her mother had always been
there to take the weight of responsibility. She could make tea, but
perhaps the boys didn't drink it; she would find out. She would have to
attempt either biscuits or batter bread, for, of course, cold bread was
out of the question. There was no cold meat. She would fry some bacon.
Bacon and eggs would do nicely. She would set Mary Lee to paring and
cutting up some peaches. There could be sliced tomatoes, too. If the
bread question could be settled, they would do very well. She would
bake some potatoes in case her bread was a failure. She sent Jean to
find Mary Lee and tell her to come to the kitchen and then she set to
work.
"They're just like company," was the remark with which she greeted Mary
Lee. "They don't act a bit as if they belonged to us. The little one,
Ashby, hardly opened his lips, and the other one was polite enough
but acted as if we weren't kinsfolk at all, but just strangers who
were going to take them to board. I'm going to have bacon and eggs for
supper. I wish you'd see if Unc' Landy is around anywhere; he can cut
the bacon for us. I'm afraid I could not do it well, and I shall have
to try some biscuits. I've made the fire, Mary Lee, and I wish you'd
put a few potatoes in the oven. Where's Jack? There isn't a speck of
cake in the house and they look as though they were used to having it."
"How can Jack do anything about it?" inquired Mary Lee, rolling the
potatoes into a pan preparatory to washing them.
"I'm going to send her over to Cousin Mag's to see if she has any. I'd
better write a note for Jack gets things mixed sometimes." She ran to
her room and scribbled a note to Mrs. Lewis, as the two families often
accommodated one another in this way. Having despatched Jack upon her
errand, Nan turned her attention again to the supper. Unc' Landy had
evidently been storm-stayed somewhere and had not yet returned, so the
bacon was cut rather clumsily and set over the fire to sizzle. To Mary
Lee was given the responsibility of preparing the peaches and setting
the table. Nan suggested that she put on the very best of everything.
"Oh, need we do that?" she said. "We'll have to wash them up afterward,
you know, for Mitty will not be here to do it, and it would be awful if
we were to break anything."
"Never mind," returned Nan, "I'll take the risk. We must show them that
we have nice silver and china. Go on and do as I say, Mary Lee."
Mary Lee obeyed and Nan turned to her other tasks. "I wonder how long
it takes bacon to cook," she said to herself, "and I wonder how much
flour I shall need for the biscuits. I'll have to guess at it. Dear me,
how does any one ever learn all those things?" She carefully sifted her
flour and then measured out her baking powder accurately. As she was
hesitating as to the amount of lard required, she realized that the
kitchen was full of smoke from burning bacon, and, hurrying to the
stove, she discovered that every slice was hard and black.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, "it's ruined, and I'll have to cut more; it's
such a trouble, too. I'll finish the biscuits first, for I see the
bacon will cook while they are baking." The interruption made her
forget the salt for her biscuits, and she set rather a rough, ragged
looking panful in the oven.
The next lot of bacon was cooked more successfully, though some slices
were thick at one end and thin at the other. Some were short, some were
long, quite unlike the neat curly bits which usually appeared upon
the table. Mary Lee came in as she was concluding her tasks and her
comments upon the looks of the dish did not reassure Nan.
However, she rose to the occasion. "They won't show when I've covered
them with the fried eggs," she declared. "Dear me, Mary Lee, I'll never
lift the eggs without breaking them. I'll have to let them cook more,
I reckon. Hand me the cake-turner, please; maybe I can do better with
that, and won't you look at the biscuits? They ought to be done by this
time."
Mary Lee announced that they looked done.
"Try the potatoes."
A squeal from Mary Lee followed this operation, for she squeezed one
potato too hard and it burst with a pop, burning her thumb.
Nan dressed the burn with a plaster of baking soda and dished up the
potatoes herself. "Where's Jean?" she asked.
"She put on her best frock and is in the living-room entertaining the
gentlemen," returned Mary Lee. "It's time Jack came back, don't you
think, Nan?"
"High time," returned Nan, carefully transferring the rest of the eggs
from pan to dish. "I've only broken one, Mary Lee, and the bacon is
quite covered. Everything is nearly ready, but, oh, dear, how does
any one ever do it quickly and easily? It is impossible to keep your
mind on bacon and eggs and biscuits and potatoes all at once, and how
any one remembers more than that is beyond me. There, we came near
forgetting the peaches. Get them out of the pantry, and bring some fine
sugar to put over them."
"It's getting pretty late," remarked Mary Lee, looking down the street,
"but here comes Jack at last."
"I know it's late and I expect those boys are starved, but I can't help
it; I've done my best."
"I should think you had," said Mary Lee; "you oughtn't to have had so
much."
"I'm sorry I had potatoes, for they made you burn yourself. Well,
Jack," as that young person entered the kitchen mud-stained and
tearful, "what have you been doing? What is the matter?"
Jack held out a flattened parcel. "I fell down," she sobbed, "and I
fell plumb on the cake."
"Goodness!" cried Nan. "Do see, Mary Lee, if it's fit to eat. I can't,
for my hands are all peach juice from cutting up the peaches. Did you
hurt yourself, Jack?"
"I hurt my feelings awfully, 'cause I spoiled the cake."
Mary Lee anxiously examined the contents of the parcel. The cake,
fortunately, had been sent on a tin plate, which saved it from utter
destruction. "It is quite good in places," she declared. "We'll put the
mashed pieces underneath."
Nan laughed in spite of fatigue and anxiety. "Then it will match the
dish of bacon," she said. "Never mind, Jack, you did your best and we
are much obliged to you; the cake will taste good and we girls can eat
the flat pieces. Now, are we all ready?"
"I think so," said Mary Lee, nursing her injured thumb. And the flushed
and anxious housekeeper arranged her dishes upon the carefully set
table.
"It looks beautiful," said Jack.
"I'm glad you thought of the flowers for the middle of the table, Mary
Lee," remarked Nan, who was critically examining her board. "Yes, I
think it looks very well. Now, I'll go and call them."
The meal went off fairly well in spite of the chunks of bacon and the
mashed cake. To be sure, it was rather a solemn affair. Conversation
flagged, for both boys and girls felt ill at ease. Nan was covered
with confusion when she tasted her biscuits, and was obliged to excuse
herself when she suddenly remembered the tomatoes which she had sliced
and placed on the ice and when she caught an odor of burning bread. She
rescued the last pan of biscuits just in time, only one or two having
burned at the bottom.
After supper there was the task of clearing away, and when this was
over and the last dish safely put away, it was a tired Nan who sent
her sisters off to bed and sat waiting for the boys who had gone out
to have a look at the town. There was no hope of seeing Aunt Sarah
that night, for the last train was in, and Nan curled herself up in
her mother's big chair by the window, feeling quite desperate when she
thought of breakfast without the help of either Mitty or Aunt Sarah.
After the boys had returned and Nan was at last lying by Mary Lee, the
very thought of the dear absent one sent the tears coursing down her
cheeks, so that the pillow her mother's head had so often pressed was
wet before the tired child fell asleep. It began to rain again, and all
through the night the sound of the pattering drops made Nan dream that
her mother was weeping, and longing for home and children.
[Illustration: CHAPTER VI
CONCERNING JACK]