TWO LITTLE BAKERS
Mara led Captain Bodine up to their little parlor and introduced him to
Mrs. Hunter, who received him most cordially, feeling that in him she
recognized a congenial spirit. He treated her with the respect and
old-time courtesy which she said was "so truly Southern." Their feelings
and beliefs touched closely at several points, yet they were very
different in their essential characteristics. Poor Mrs. Hunter had been
limited by nature and education. She could not help being narrow in all
her views; she was scarcely less able to dismiss her intense, bitter
prejudices. She was quite incapable of reasoning herself into her mental
position; it was simply the inevitable result of her circumstances, her
lot and her own temperament. Captain Bodine was a proud man, as proud
toward himself as toward others. The cause for which he and his kindred
had suffered and lost so much had been sacred, and therefore it ever would
be sacred. To change his views, to begin revising his opinions, would be
to stultify himself and to reflect dishonor on his comrades in arms who
had perished. In the very depths of his young, ardent spirit he had once
devoted himself to the South; he had listened reverently to prayers from
the pulpit that God would bless the Southern armies; he had never entered
into battle without petitions to Heaven, not that he might escape, but
that the "Northern invader" might be overcome; his uniform had been
stained with blood again and again as he held dying comrades in his arms
and spoke words of cheer. In his more limited way, he had the spirit of
"Stonewall" Jackson. It was impossible for a man with his nature and with
his memories to argue the whole matter over coolly and recognize
misleading errors. During his youth and early manhood his feelings had
been so intense as to be volcanic, and that feeling, like lava, had cooled
of into its present unchangeable forms and sombre hues. What was
bitterness and almost spite in Mrs. Hunter was a deep, abiding sorrow in
his heart, a great dream unfulfilled, a cause lofty because so idealized,
in support of which he often saw in fancy, when alone, spectral thousands
in gray, marching as he once had seen them in actual life. That all had
been in vain, was to him one of those mysterious providences to which he
could only bow his head in mournful resignation, in patient endurance. He
had no hate for the North, for he was broad enough in mind to recognize
that it saw the question from its own point of view, and, as a soldier, he
knew that its men had fought gallantly. But the North's side of the
question was not his side. He had been conquered in arms but not convinced
in spirit. While he had respect and even admiration for many of his old
foes, and malice toward none, he still felt that there was a bridgeless
chasm between them, and, by the instincts of his nature, he kept himself
aloof. If he could perform an act of kindness to a Northerner he would do
so unhesitatingly; then he would turn away with the impulse of an alien.
He had no ambitious schemes or hopes for the future; he had buried the
"lost cause" as he had buried his wife, with a grief that was too deep for
tears. He had come to value life only for Ella's sake, and he tried to do
his best from a soldier-like and Christian sense of duty, until he too
could join his old comrade in arms.
Mrs. Hunter could not comprehend such a man, and he gave to her but the
casual, respectful sympathy which he thought due to a gentlewoman who had
lost much like so many other thousands in the South. After a brief call he
hobbled away on his crutches, forgetting Mrs. Hunter and, indeed, almost
everything in the deep interest excited by Mara, the daughter of his old
friend. "Would to God," he muttered, "that Sidney Wallingford could have
lived and seen that girl look at him as she looked at me to-day."
Soon after Captain Bodine's departure, Mara pleaded fatigue and retired to
her room, promising to answer her aunt's many questions on the morrow. She
was very sad and discouraged with herself, and yet she had not the
despairing sense of the utter futility of her life which had oppressed her
when she started out in the early afternoon.
She had become so absorbed and interested by the incidents and experiences
of her visit as to be almost happy. Just as she had attained a condition
of mind which had not blessed her for months, she must meet Owen Clancy.
With a sort of inward rage and wonder, she asked herself: "Why did my
heart flutter so? Why did every nerve in my body tingle? He is nothing to
me and never can be, yet, when he passed, a spirit from heaven could
hardly have moved me more. What is his mysterious power which I cannot
eradicate? Oh, oh, was not my life hard enough before? Must I go on,
hiding this bitter secret? fighting this hopeless and seemingly endless
fight? Well, well, thank God for this day, after all. In Ella Bodine and
her father I have found friends who will occupy my thoughts and become
incentives which I did not possess before. Dear father, my own dear, dead,
soldier father, it would please you to have me do something for your old
friend."
The next morning was bright and sunny, and, after an early breakfast, Mara
was in the kitchen, with all the ingredients of the dainties she so
skilfully produced, spread out upon the tables. Ella had been asked to
come early; her father had escorted her to Mara's residence, and then gone
away on an errand of his own.
The young girl was greeted with a warmth which made her at home at once,
and proved the experiences of the previous afternoon were not the result
of mood or passing sentiment. There was a depth in Mara's eyes and a
firmness about her mouth and chin which did not indicate changing and
unreasoning "moods and tenses." In the clearer, calmer thought of the
morning all her kind purposes toward Captain Bodine and Ella had been
strengthened, and she also believed more fully that by interesting herself
in them she would find the best antidote for her own trouble.
Ella had been welcomed by Mrs. Hunter, and now, as she sat in the little
sun-lighted kitchen, there was neither past nor future to her. The present
scene, with its simple, homely details, was all absorbing.
It meant very much to the girl, for she saw how Mara was achieving
independence, and by work, too, which housekeeping for her father enabled
her to understand better than any other. Mara's pulses were also
quickened, for she understood the eager, intelligent glances of her
friend. For a few moments, Ella, as company, felt compelled to maintain
the quiet position of spectator; then overborne, she sprang up exclaiming:
"Oh, Mara, dear, do give me an apron and let me help you. I'd have such a
jolly forenoon!"
"Why, certainly, Ella, if it would give you pleasure."
The article was produced, and, with a sigh of deep content, the girl tied
it around a waist by no means waspish. Then off came the little cuffs, and
up the sleeves were rolled to the shoulder.
"Ella, what lovely arms you have! If I were a man I should be distracted
by such a pair of arms."
"Well," remarked the girl, looking at them complacently, "they'd be strong
enough to help a man that I cared sufficiently for to marry, but I haven't
seen that man yet, and I hope his lordship will keep his distance
indefinitely--till I have more time to bother with him and his
distractions."
"Is your time, then, so completely occupied?"
"It isn't occupied at all, and that's the plague of it. But I reckon it
soon will be," she added with an emphatic little nod. "Papa shall learn
that I can do something more for him than cook, and your example has fired
my ambition. I'll ransack this town till I find something to do that will
bring money. Dear old Mrs. Bodine! wasn't she perfectly enchanting
yesterday? Do you think I can be content to live in idleness on her
slender means? No, indeed. I'd buy a scrubbing-brush first. Oh, isn't this
fun?" and the flour was already up to her elbows.
"Oh, Ella, dear, I'd feel just as you do if I had a father to work for."
"Now, Mara, don't talk so, or I'll put my floury arms right about your
neck and spoil this dough with a flood of briny tears. See, the sun is
shining and there is work to be done. Let's be jolly, and we'll have our
little weep after sundown. Oh, Mara, dear, I wish I could make you as
light-hearted as I am. I used to think it was almost wicked for me to be
so light-hearted, but I don't think so any more, for I know I've kept papa
from going down into horrid depths of gloom. And then this irrepressible
spirit of fun helps me over ever so many hard places." She sprang back
into the middle of the room, and, striking a serio-comic attitude,
continued: "Here I am in no end of trouble--for me. There is a grief
preying on my vitals that would make a poet's hair stand on end should he
attempt to portray it. Were there a lover around the corner, sighing like
a furnace, I would say to him 'Avaunt! My heart is broken, and do you
think I can bother with you?' I am at odds with fate. I am in the most
deplorable position into which any human being can sink. I have _nothing
to do_. But here is a weapon by which one girl has conquered destiny," and
she brandished the roller with which she had been pressing out the dough,
"and I, too, shall find a sword which will cut all the pesky knots of this
snarled-up old world. Then when I have achieved complete and lofty victory
and independence, as you have, dear, I may say to the lover around the
corner, 'Step this way, sir. I must consider first whether you would be
agreeable to papa, and then whether you would be agreeable to me and
then'--Oh, what a little fool I am, and so many cookies to make. Please
don't send me home. I will work now like a beaver," and her round white
arms grew tense as she rolled with a vigor that would almost flatten
brickbats.
Mara stood at one side watching her with eyes that grew wonderfully
lustrous as was ever the case when she was pleased or excited. Then she
stole up behind Ella, and, putting her arm around her neck, looked into
her eyes as she asked, "Wouldn't you like to help me?"
"Of course I like to help you," said Ella, turning with surprise upon her
friend.
"Now, Ella, be frank with me. Say no if you feel no. Wouldn't you like to
help me all the time and earn money in this way?"
A slow deep flush overspread Ella's face as she stood for a moment with
downcast eyes as if oppressed with a sense of shame. Then she said humbly:
"Forgive me, Mara. I've been very thoughtless. I didn't think you would
take my ranting as an appeal to your generous heart. Believe me, Mara, I
was not hinting to you that I might share in the little you are earning so
bravely. As if you had not burdens enough already."
Mara never once removed her eyes from the girl's ingenuous face and
permitted her to reveal the unselfishness and sacred pride of her nature;
then she said gently and firmly: "No, Ella, I did not misunderstand you a
moment, and I want you to understand me. In one sense we have been
acquainted always, yet we have loved each other from personal knowledge
but a few short hours. We Southern girls need no apologies for our swift
intuitions, our quick, warm feelings. I had this on my mind as soon as
Mrs. Bodine told me about your being here, and I had quite set my heart
upon it as soon as I saw you. Ella, dear, I _need_ help; I have more than
I can do. There is business enough to support us both, and I had almost
concluded to ask Aim' Sheba to get me a helper. But what a delight it
would be to work with you!"
Ella's face had been brightening as if gathering all the sunshine in the
spring sky, and she was about to speak eagerly when Mara stopped her by a
gesture. "Wait," she said, "I did not say anything of this last evening
because I was not sure you would like the work. If you do not like it, you
must be frank to tell me so. If you do enter on it you must let me manage
all in business-like ways, for I fear that you, like Aun' Sheba, will be
inclined toward very loose accounts. You must be willing to take what I
feel that you should have, and there must be no generous insubordination.
Now you have the exact truth."
Ella's lip was quivering and her eyes were filling with gathering tears.
With a little quaver in her voice she struggled hard to give a mirthful
conclusion to the affair. "I accept the position, ma'am," she faltered,
making a courtesy, then rushed into her friend's arms and sobbed: "Oh,
Mara, Mara, you have lifted such a burden from my heart! I have had many
troubles, but somehow it seemed that I couldn't bear this one, though I
tried hard to keep the pain to myself--papa and I being dependent. And
then to have the whole trouble banished by working with you in just the
kind of work I like! Oh, Mara, darling, how can I ever thank you enough?"
"Good Lawd, honey, hab you heerd on any ob you'se folks dyin'?" and Aun'
Sheba's awed face and ample form filled the doorway, with Vilet's
wondering little visage peeping around behind her.
Ella sprang away, and, turning her back on the newcomers, mopped her face
vigorously with her floury apron.
"No, Aun' Sheba," replied Mara, smiling through her tears, for Ella's
strong emotion had unsealed the fountain of her eyes, "I've only followed
your good advice and secured just the kind of help I need, the daughter of
my father's dear old friend, Captain Bodine. I reckon you remember him."
"Well, now, de Lawd be bressed!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba, sitting down with
her great basket at her feet. "'Member him? Reckon I does. I kin jes' see
de han'-som boy as he march away wid you'se fader. An' his little Missy is
you'se helper?" and she looked curiously at Ella, who was still seeking to
gain self-control.
The girl wheeled around with a face wonderfully stained and streaked with
flour and tears, and, ducking just such a courtesy as Vilet would have
made, said to Aun' Sheba, "Yes'm. I'm the new hand. I'm a baker by trade."
Aun' Sheba's appreciation of humor was instantaneous, and she sat back in
her chair, which shook and groaned under her merriment. "Can't fool dis
culled pusson," she began at last. "You tink we doesn't keep up wid de
times, but we does. I'se had a bery int'restin' season wid ole Hannah, who
lib wid Mis' Bodine, bress her heart! She's quality yere on arth an' she
gwine ter be quality in Hebin. I knows a heap 'bout you an' you'se pa. I
knowd him 'fore you did. I'se seed him in de gran' ole house in Meetin'
Street a dinin' agin an' agin wid Marse Wallingford an' my deah Misse
Mary, den a bride, an' de gran' ole Major Buggone. Oh, Missy Mara, ef you
could ony seen de ole major, you'd a seen a genywine So' Car'liny
gen'l'man ob wat dey call de ole school. Reckon dey habn't any betteh
schools now. An' young Marse Sidney, dat's you'se fader, Missy, and young
Marse Hugh, dat's you'se fader, Missy Ella, dey was han'som as picters an'
dey drink toasts ter Missy Mary an' compliment her an' she'd blush like a
red rose; an' wen dey all 'bout ter march away Missy Mary kiss Marse Hugh
jes as ef he her own broder. Lor, Lor, how it all come back ter me! Ef de
Lawd don' bress de pa'na'ship twix' you two gyurls den I des dun beat."
Regardless of flour the two little bakers stood before Aun' Sheba with
arms around each other while she indulged in reminiscences, then Ella,
dashing away the tears that were gathering again, said brusquely, "The new
hand will have to be boss if we go on this way. Aun' Sheba, we haven't got
a blessed thing ready to put in your basket."
"Many han's make light wuck," said the old woman sententiously. "I come
yere arly dis mawnin' to gib Missy Mara a lif' kase she's been lookin'
po'ly an' I hab her on my min' anxious-like. But now, wid a larfin',
sunshiny little ting like you aroun', Missy Ella, she'll soon be as peart
as a cricket. Vilet, chile, jes wait on me an' han' me tings, an' dese two
baskets'll be filled in de quickest jiffy you eber see."
And so it turned out. Aunt Sheba was a veteran in the field. Flour, sugar
and spices seemed to recognize her power and to come together as if she
conjured. The stove was fed like the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, and the
girls' faces suggested peonies as the cake grew light and brown.
Mrs. Hunter, having finished her morning duties, entered at last and
looked with doubtful, troubled eyes upon the scene. Ella and Aun' Sheba's
mirthful talk ceased, while little Vilet regarded the tall, gray-haired
woman with awe.
"Well, times _have_ changed," said the lady, with a sort of groan. "Our
home has become little better than a bake-shop."
"Well, Missus," replied Aun' Sheba, with the graven-image expression that
she often assumed before Mrs. Hunter, "I'se know'd of homes dat hab become
wuss dan bake-shops. Neber in my bawn days hab I heerd on an active,
prosp'rous baker starbin'. Jes' you try dis cooky right fum de stove an'
see ef it doan melt in you'se mouf." And so Aun' Sheba stopped Mrs.
Hunter's lamentations and clinched her argument.