ELLIOTT ACTS ON AN IDEA
Six weeks later a girl was busy in the sunny white kitchen of the
Cameron farm. The girl wore a big blue apron that covered her gown
completely from neck to hem, and she hummed a little song as she moved
from sink to range and range to table. There was about her a delicate
air of importance, almost of elation. You know as well as I where
Elliott Cameron ought to have been by this time. Six weeks plus how
many other weeks was it since she left home? The quarantine must have
been lifted from her Uncle James's house for at least a month. But the
girl in the kitchen looked surprisingly like Elliott Cameron. If it
wasn't she, it must have been her twin, and I have never heard that
Elliott had a twin.
Though she was all alone in the kitchen--washing potatoes, too--she
didn't appear in the least unhappy. She went over to the stove, lifted
a lid, glanced in, and added two or three sticks of wood to the fire.
Then she brought out a pan of apples and went down cellar after a roll
of pie crust. Some one else may have made that pie crust. Elliott took
it into the pantry, turned the board on the flour barrel, shook flour
evenly over it from the sifter, and, cutting off one end of the pie
crust, began to roll it out thin on the board. She arranged the lower
crust on three pie-plates, and, going into the kitchen again, began to
peel the apples and cut them up into the pies. Perhaps she wasn't so
quick about it as Laura might have been, but she did very well. The
skin fell from her knife in long, thin, curly strips. After that she
finished the pies off in the pantry and tucked all three into the
oven. Squatting on her feet in front of the door, she studied the dial
intently for a moment and hesitatingly pushed the draft just a crack
open. If it hadn't been for that momentary indecision, you might have
thought that she had been baking pies all her life. Then she began to
peel the potatoes.
[Illustration: "I'm getting dinner all by myself"]
So it was that Stannard found her. "Hello!" he said, with a grin.
"Busy?"
"Indeed, I am! I'm getting dinner all by myself."
He went through a pantomime of dodging a blow. "Whew-ee! Guess I'll
take to the woods."
"Better not. If you do, you will miss a good dinner. Mother Jess said
I might try it. Boiled potatoes and baked fish--she showed me how to
fix that--and corn and things. There's one other dish on my menu that
I'm not going to tell you." And all her dimples came into play.
"H'm!" said Stannard, "we feel pretty smart, don't we? Well, maybe
I'll stay and see how it pans out. A fellow can always tighten his
belt, you know."
"Aren't you horrid!" She made up a face at him, a captivating little
grimace that wrinkled her nose and set imps of mischief dancing in her
eyes.
Stannard watched her as with firm motions she stripped the husks from
the corn, picking off the clinging strands of silk daintily.
"Gee, Elliott!" he exclaimed. "Do you know, you're prettier than
ever!"
She dropped him a courtesy. "I must be, with a smooch of flour on my
nose and my hair every which way."
He grinned. "That's a story. Your hair looks as though Madame
What-'s-her-name, that you and Mater and the girls go to so much, had
just got through with you. I've never seen you when you didn't look as
though you had come out of a bandbox."
"Haven't you? Think again, Stan, think again! What about your Cousin
Elliott in a corn-field?"
Stannard slapped his thigh. "That's so, too! I forgot that. But your
hair's all to the good, even then."
"Stan," warned Elliott, "you'd better be careful. You will get in too
deep to wade out, if you don't watch your step. What are you getting
at, anyway? Why all these compliments?"
"Compliments! A fellow doesn't have to praise up his cousin, does he?
It just struck me, all of a sudden, that you look pretty fit."
"Thanks. I'm feeling as fit as I look. Out with it, Stan; what do you
want?"
"Why, nothing," said Stannard, "nothing at all. Shall I take out those
husks, Lot?"
"Delighted. The pigs eat 'em." Her eyes held a quizzical light. "If
you're trying to rattle me so I shall forget something and spoil my
dinner, you can't do it."
"What do you take me for?" He departed with the husks, deeply
indignant.
In five minutes he was back. "When are you going home?"
"I don't know. Not just yet. Your mother has too many house parties."
"That won't make any difference."
"Oh, yes, it does! Her house is full all the time."
"Shucks! Have you asked her if there's a room ready for you?"
"Indeed I haven't! I wouldn't think of imposing on a busy hostess."
"I might say something about it," he suggested slyly.
"You will do nothing of the kind."
"Oh, I don't know! I'm going home myself day after to-morrow."
Hastily Elliott set down the kettle she had lifted. "Are you? That's
nice. I mean, we shall miss you, but of course you have to go some
time, I suppose."
"It won't be any trouble at all to speak to Mother."
"Stannard," and the color burned in her cheeks, "will you _please_
stop fiddling around this kitchen? It makes me nervous to see you. I
nearly burned myself in the steam of that kettle and I'm liable to
drop something on you any time."
"Oh, all right! I'll get out. Fiddling is a new verb with you, isn't
it?"
"Yes, I picked it up. Very expressive, I think."
"Sounds like the natives."
"Sounds pretty well, then. Did I hear you say you had an errand
somewhere?"
"No, you didn't. You merely heard me say that finding myself _de trop_
in my fair cousin's company, I'd get out of range of her big guns.
Never expected to rattle you, Lot."
"I'm not rattled."
"No? Pretty good imitation, then. Oh, I'm going! Mother's ready for
you all right, though; says so in this letter. Here, I'll stick it in
your apron pocket. Better come along with me, day after to-morrow.
What say?"
"I'll see," said Elliott, briefly.
He grinned teasingly, "Ta-ta," and went off, leaving turmoil behind
him.
The minute Stannard was out of the door Elliott did a strange thing.
Reaching with wet pink thumb and forefinger into the depths of the
blue apron pocket, she extracted the letter and hurled it across the
kitchen into a corner.
"There!" she cried disdainfully, "you go over there and _stay_ a
while, horrid old letter! I'm not going to let you spoil my perfectly
good time getting dinner."
But it was spoiled: no mere words could alter the fact. Try as she
would to put the letter out of her mind and think only of how to do a
dozen things at once one quarter as quickly and skilfully as Laura and
Aunt Jessica did them, which is what the apparently simple process of
dishing up a dinner means, the fine thrill of the enterprise was gone.
Laura came in to help her and Elliott's tongue tripped briskly through
a deal of chatter, but all the while underneath there was a little
undercurrent of uneasiness and anxiety. Wouldn't you have thought it
would delight her to have the opportunity of doing what she had so
much wished to do?
"What's this?" Laura asked, spying the white envelop on the floor; "a
letter?"
"Oh, yes," said Elliott, "one I dropped," and she tucked it into the
pocket of the white skirt that had been all the time under the blue
apron, giving it a vindictive little slap as she did so. Which, of
course, was quite uncalled for, as if any one was responsible for what
was in the letter, that person was Elliott Cameron. The fact that she
knew this very well only added a little extra vigor to the slap.
And all through dinner she sat and laughed and chattered away, exactly
as though she weren't conscious in every nerve of the letter in her
pocket, despite the fact that she didn't know a word it said. But she
didn't eat much: the taste of food seemed to choke her. Her gaze
wandered from Mother Jess to Father Bob and back, around the circle of
eager, happy, alert faces. And she felt--poor Elliott!--as though her
first discontent were a boomerang now returned to stab her.
"This is Elliott's dinner, I would have you all know," announced Laura
when the pie was served. "She did it all herself."
"Not every bit," said Elliott, honestly; but her disclaimer was lost
in the chorus of praise.
Father Bob laid down his fork, looking pleased. "Did you, indeed? Now,
this is what I call a well-cooked dinner."
"I'll give you a recommend for a cook," drawled Stannard, "and eat my
words about tightening my belt, too."
"Some dinner!" Bruce commented.
"Please, I'd like another piece," said Priscilla.
"Me, too," chimed in Tom. "It's corking."
Laura clapped her hands. "Listen, Elliott, listen! Could praise go
further?"
But Mother Jess, when they rose from the table, slipped an arm through
Elliott's and drew her toward the veranda. "Did the cook lose her
appetite getting dinner, little girl?"
"Oh, no, indeed, Aunt Jessica! Getting dinner didn't tire me a bit. I
just loved it. I--I didn't seem to feel hungry this noon, that was
all."
Mother Jess patted her arm. "Well, run away now, dear. You are not to
give a thought to the dishes. We will see to them."
At that minute Elliott almost told her about the letter in her pocket,
that lay like a lump of lead on her heart. But Henry appeared just
then in the doorway and the moment passed.
"Run away, dear," repeated Aunt Jessica, and gave the girl a little
push and another little pat. "Run away and get rested."
Slowly Elliott went down the steps and along the path that led to the
flower borders and the apple trees. She wasn't really conscious of the
way she was going; her feet took charge of her and carried her body
along while her mind was busy. When she came out among a few big trees
with a welter of piled-up crests on every side, she was really
astonished.
"Why!" she cried; "why, here I am on the top of the hill!"
A low, flat rock invited her and she sat down. It was queer how
different everything seemed up here. What looked large from below had
dwindled amazingly. It took, she decided, a pretty big thing to look
big on a hilltop.
She drew Aunt Margaret's letter out of her pocket and read it. It was
very nice, but somehow had no tug to it. Phrases from a similar letter
of Aunt Jessica's returned to the girl's mind. How stupid she had been
not to appreciate that letter!--stupid and incredibly silly.
But hadn't she felt something else in her pocket just now? Conscience
pricked when she saw Elizabeth Royce's handwriting. The seal had not
been broken, though the letter had come yesterday. She remembered now.
They were putting up corn and she had tucked it into her pocket for
later reading and then had forgotten it completely. Luckily, Bess need
never know that. But what would Bess have said to see her friend
Elliott, corn to the right of her, corn to the left of her, cobs piled
high in the summer kitchen?
Bess's staccato sentences furnished a sufficiently emphatic clue. "You
poor, abused dear! Whenever are you coming home? If I had an aëroplane
I'd fly up and carry you off. You must be nearly _crazy_! Those
letters you wrote were the most TRAGIC things! I shouldn't have been a
bit surprised any time to hear you were sick. _Are_ you sick? Perhaps
that's why you don't write or come home. Wire me _the minute you get
this_. Oh, Elliott darling, when I think of you marooned in that awful
place--"
There was more of it. As Elliott read, she did a strange thing. She
began to laugh. But even while she laughed she blushed, too. _Had_ she
sounded as desperate as all that? How far away such tragedies seemed
now! Suppose she should write, "Dear Bess, I like it up here and I am
going to stay my year out." Bess would think her crazy; so would all
the girls, and Aunt Margaret, too.
And then suddenly an arresting idea came into her head. What
difference would it make if they did think her crazy? Elliott Cameron
had never had such an idea before; all her life she had in a perfectly
nice way thought a great deal about what people thought of her. This
idea was so strange it set her gasping. "But how they would _talk_
about me!" she said. And then her brain clicked back, exactly like
another person speaking, "What if they did? That wouldn't really make
you crazy, would it?" "Why, no, I suppose it wouldn't," she thought.
"And most likely they'd be all talked out by the time I got back, too.
But even if they weren't, any one would be crazy to think it was crazy
to want to stay up here at Uncle Bob's and Aunt Jessica's. Even
Stannard has stayed weeks longer than he needed to!"
When she thought of that she opened her eyes wide for a minute. "Oho!"
she said to herself; "I guess Stan did get a rise out of me! You were
easy game that time, Elliott Cameron."
She sat on her mossy stone a long time. There wasn't anything in the
world, was there, to stand in the way of her staying her year out, the
year she had been invited for, except her own silly pride? What a
little goose she had been! She sat and smiled at the mountains and
felt very happy and fresh and clean-minded, as though her brain had
finished a kind of house-cleaning and were now put to rights again,
airy and sweet and ready for use.
The postman's wagon flashed by on the road below. She could see the
faded gray of the man's coat. He had been to the house and was
townward bound now. How late he was! Nothing to hurry down for. There
would be a letter, perhaps, but not one from Father. His had come
yesterday. She rose after a while and drifted down through the still
September warmth, as quiet and lazy and contented as a leaf.
Priscilla's small excited face met her at the door.
"Sidney's sick; we just got the letter. Mother's going to camp
to-morrow."
"Sidney sick! Who wrote? What's the matter?"
"He did. He's not much sick, but he doesn't feel just right. He's in
the hospital. I guess he can't be much sick, if he wrote, himself.
Mother wasn't to come, he said, but she's going."
"Of course." Nervous fear clutched Elliott's throat, like an icy hand.
Oh, poor Aunt Jessica! Poor Laura!
"Where are they?" she asked.
"In Mumsie's room," said Priscilla. "We're all helping."
Elliott mounted the stairs. She had to force her feet along, for they
wished, more than anything else, to run away. What should she say? She
tried to think of words. As it turned out, she didn't have to say
anything.
Laura was the only person in Aunt Jessica's room when they reached it.
She sat in a low chair by a window, mending a gray blouse.
"Elliott's come to help, too," announced Priscilla.
"That's good," said Laura. "You can put a fresh collar and cuffs in
this gray waist of Mother's, Elliott--I'll have it done in a
minute--while I go set the crab-apple jelly to drip. And perhaps you
can mend this little tear in her skirt. Then I'll press the suit.
There isn't anything very tremendous to do."
It was all so matter-of-fact and quiet and natural that Elliott didn't
know what to make of it. She managed to gasp, "I hope Sidney isn't
very sick."
"He thinks not," said Laura, "but of course Mother wants to see for
herself. She is telephoning Mrs. Blair now about the Ladies' Aid. They
were to have met here this week. Mother thinks perhaps she can arrange
an exchange of dates, though I tell her if Sid's as he says he is,
they might just as well come."
Elliott, who had been all ready to put her arms around Laura's neck
and kiss and comfort her, felt the least little bit taken aback. It
seemed that no comfort was needed. But it was a relief, too. Laura
_couldn't_ sit there, so cool and calm and natural-looking, sewing and
talking about crab-apple juice and Ladies' Aid, if there were anything
radically wrong.
Then Aunt Jessica came into the room and said that Mrs. Blair would
like the Ladies' Aid, herself, that week; she had been wishing she
could have them; and didn't Elliott feel the need of something to eat
to supplement her scanty dinner?
That put to rout the girl's last fears. She smiled quite naturally and
said without any stricture in her throat: "Honestly, I'm not hungry.
And I am going to put a clean collar in your blouse."
"What should I do without my girls!" smiled Mother Jess.
It was after supper that the telegram came, but even then there was no
panic. These Camerons didn't do any of the things Elliott had once or
twice seen people do in her Aunt Margaret's household. No one ran
around futilely, doing nothing; no one had hysterics; no one even
cried.
Mother Jess's face went very white when Father Bob came back from the
telephone and said, "Sidney isn't so well."
"Have they sent for us?"
He nodded. "You'd better take the sleeper. The eighty-thirty from
Upton will make it."
"Can you--?"
"Not with things the way they are here."
Then they all scattered, to do the things that had to be done. Elliott
was helping Laura pack the suit-case when she had her idea. It really
was a wonderful idea for a girl who had never in her life put herself
out for any one else. Like a flash the first part of it came to her,
without thought of a sequel; and the words were out of her mouth
almost before she was aware she had thought them.
"You ought to go, Laura!" she cried. "Sidney is your twin."
"I'd like to go." Something in the guarded tone, something deep and
intense and controlled, struck Elliott to consternation. If Laura felt
that way about it!
"Why don't you, Laura? Can't you possibly?"
The other shook her head. "Mother is the one to go. If we both went,
who would keep house here?"
For a fraction of a second Elliott hesitated. "_I_ would."
The words once spoken, fairly swept her out of herself. All her little
prudences and selfishnesses and self-distrusts went overboard
together. Her cheeks flamed. She dropped the brush and comb she was
packing and dashed out of the room.
A group of people stood in the kitchen. Without stopping to think,
Elliott ran up to them.
"Can't Laura go?" she cried eagerly. "It will be so much more
comfortable to be two than one. And she is Sidney's twin. I don't know
a great deal, but people will help me, and I got dinner this noon. Oh,
she must go! Don't you see that she must go?"
Father Bob looked at the girl for a minute in silence. Then he spoke:
"Well, I guess you're right. I will look after the chickens."
"I'll mix their feed," said Gertrude; "I know just how Laura does
it--and I'll do the dishes."
"I'll get breakfasts," said Bruce.
"I'll make the butter," said Tom. "I've watched Mother times enough.
And helped her, too."
"I'll see to Prince and the kitty," chimed in Priscilla, "and do, oh,
lots of things!"
"I'll be responsible for the milk," said Henry.
"I'll keep house," said Elliott, "if you leave me anything to do."
"And I'll help you," said Harriet Gordon.
It was really settled in that minute, though Father Bob and Mother
Jess talked it over again by themselves.
"Are you sure, dear, you want to do this?" Mother Jess asked Elliott.
"Perfectly sure," the girl answered. She felt excited and confident,
as though she could do anything.
"It won't be easy."
"I know that. But please let me try."
"And there are the Gordons," said Mother Jess, half to herself.
"Yes," echoed Elliott, "there are the Gordons."
When the little car ran up to the door to take the two over to Upton
and Mother Jess and Laura were saying good-by, Laura strained Elliott
tight. "I'll love you forever for this," she whispered.
Then they were off and with them seemed to have gone something
indispensable to the well-being of the people who lived in the white
house at the end of the road. Elliott, watching the car vanish around
a turn in the road, hugged Laura's words tight to her heart. It was
the only way to keep her knees from wabbling at the thought of what
was before her.