Brenda's Ward Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  ANGELINA'S COUP

  The first occasion for Angelina to make herself spectacularly usefulcame on the Saturday after New Year's, when Mrs. Stratford invitedPriscilla and Mrs. Tilworth to dine. The latter had already shown Mrs.Stratford some little courtesies, such as she felt were due Mrs. Blair'scousin. On account of Martine's growing fondness for Priscilla, Mrs.Stratford was anxious to have the two households on more intimate terms.Lucian and Robert Pringle were also coming home to dinner, and althoughMrs. Tilworth was the only outsider, on her account a certain amount offormality had been planned for this little dinner for six.

  At about four o'clock on the afternoon Angelina knocked at the door ofMartine's room. Her face wore its most solemn expression.

  "Why, Angelina, what is the matter? You look as if you had been drawnthrough a keyhole."

  Angelina at first did not reply.

  "There, there, speak out! Is it anything very dreadful?"

  Martine rose from her little desk, where she had been writing a letterto her father, and as she took a step or two toward the door, Angelinaspoke.

  "That depends on how you look on it; it's only that the cook's gone."

  "Gracious! you don't mean it. But perhaps she has only gone for awalk--"

  "Oh, no, Miss Martine. I fear that she's gone for good and all. I'vebeen down to her room, and not a vestige of her possessions remains."Angelina, even in a crisis, had to use long words. "In fact I may saythat I heard her trunk being carried away about two o'clock. There itwent, thumpity, thump down the stairs--those expressmen are so careless,and I was quite unaware whose trunk it was, or I might have reported itto your mother. But when the luncheon dishes were washed, the cookfollowed the trunk; at least she is nowhere in sight now, and not athing done about this evening's dinner. It's the dinner, and not thecook that disturbs me," explained Angelina.

  "The dinner! I should say so," responded Martine. "We must get word toMrs. Tilworth at once. She's the fussiest old--I mean she's a veryparticular person, and mother wishes everything to be just so when shedines here."

  "Of course, Miss Martine. Every guest of Mrs. Stratford's should receivethe greatest consideration." Angelina's manner was respectful in theextreme.

  "Dear me!" Martine's perplexity showed itself in her wrinkled forehead."I certainly don't know what's to be done. Mamma and Mrs. Tilworth wereto come home together from a meeting in Brookline. Mrs. Tilworth isalways taking people to meetings of some kind. Poor mamma didn't want togo, but she couldn't get out of it. There's no way of getting word tothem until nearly dinner time. Mrs. Tilworth would think it awfully rudeto uninvite her. The only thing is to let her come, and then we can allgo out to a hotel or something, and she'll call that very shiftless."

  Martine was really excited. She knew Mrs. Tilworth's opinion of peoplewho lived in apartments, and she had had a thrill of pleasantanticipation at the idea of Mrs. Tilworth's finding everything ashomelike in their apartment as within the four walls of a detachedhouse.

  To have to go outside to a hotel would indeed be ignominious--fromMartine's present point of view.

  "Do you think Mrs. Stratford is strong enough to go to a hotel todinner, after being out all the afternoon? I certainly shouldn't adviseit."

  Angelina spoke with all the impressiveness of one in authority.

  "You make me think of a trained nurse, Angelina. But what in the worldare we to do?"

  "Come with me," cried Angelina, and Martine, following her to thekitchen, noticed as she turned her head that there was a twinkle inAngelina's eye.

  "Perhaps there's something in the refrigerator," thought Martine;"refrigerators always are full of things that can be warmed over. Wemight call it 'luncheon' instead of 'dinner,' and tell Mrs. Tilworththat's the way we do in Chicago. She will believe anything about Westernpeople."

  A glance at the refrigerator did not greatly encourage Martine. Therewere a quantity of cold potatoes, and a great roast of beef for theirSunday dinner, as well as eggs, bacon, milk, and butter.

  "How frightfully unattractive it all looks--and smells," cried Martine,slamming the door. "I never could be a good cook, for I hate the sightof raw food. But what _were_ we to have for dinner to-night? What _are_we to have now? You wouldn't have brought me out here if you hadn't someplan. It's half-past four, and if anything's to be done, it ought to bedoing now."

  "Oh, if you request me to take hold," said Angelina, "I shall be onlytoo happy to accept your orders in your mother's place. Come, see!" andremoving a cloth that had covered the kitchen table, she showed Martinean inviting array of vegetables and two pairs of small chickens.

  "First of all the dessert," she began.

  "Before the soup?" asked Martine. Then remembering that if she stood inher mother's place it would be undignified to trifle with Angelina, shewaited for the latter to disclose her plans.

  "What I mean is this," continued the latter; "you can telephone to thecreamery for ice-cream and cake. The cook had orders to make somethingwith a long name, but that's impossible now. Then the black coffee--yourbrother loves to potter with that electric coffee machine--and there'splenty of crackers and cheese."

  "And finger bowls, too," said Martine, laughing, "that will finish thedinner. But how shall we begin? If we begin dinner well, it won't matterhow it ends."

  "Well, there's no trouble about oysters, now, is there? And thesoup--well, instead of the potage something or other that we were goingto have, it'll be bouillon with croutons, and a sprig of parsley on top;that always looks foreign, and with my Spanish seasoning, Mrs. Tilworthwill never know it's plain extract of beef. It won't take me a minute toprepare the minced fish, and you can put it in these little shells tobake when the oven is hot. The salad won't be any trouble, just tomatoon a leaf of lettuce. The chickens can be broiled, and there's only onevegetable to boil besides the potatoes. The other things like celery andradishes only need to be put on attractively."

  "But what about these lobsters?"

  "Oh, yes, that's an idea of my own. They were meant for salad. But if Iwere you, as long as you've got such a big chafing-dish, I'd have alobster Neuberg. Mrs. Tilworth will expect something out of theordinary, and a lobster Neuberg at dinner is very unexpected."

  "And very good to eat, and I'll let Robert Pringle cook it at thetable."

  "Yes, Miss Martine, only I'll prepare the sauce first, so much dependson that."

  "You're a genius," said Martine; "but who'll wait on table?"

  "Why, I will, Miss Martine, if you'll set it now. I'll have my handsfull until dinner is served, and don't tell your mother about the cookuntil dinner's over. She'll be surprised that the dinner is differentfrom what she ordered. But she won't find anything to be ashamed of."

  Seldom, indeed, had Martine worked harder than in the hour succeedingher discovery of the cook's departure. In setting the table she mademany little mistakes that Angelina gently but firmly corrected. But athalf-past five, just before her mother came home, she surveyed thefinished whole with pride, and then hurried away to her room to changeher dress as she heard some one opening the door.

  "Oh, Lucian," she cried, "if mother asks for Angelina, please say she'sbusy just now; keep Mrs. Tilworth amused until dinner. I wonder whyPrissie's so late."

  "I'm not late," and in a moment Priscilla was with her. "I came inwithout ringing, as the door was partly open."

  To Priscilla Martine explained the secret of the dinner.

  "Angelina will wait on table, though I don't see how she'll manage. Butif there's any chance to help things on, you'll do so, won't you?"

  "With pleasure," replied Priscilla, not realizing just what her promisemight involve.

  As it happened the dinner went on very smoothly from beginning to end,at least almost to the end. Mrs. Tilworth was in her most amiable frameof mind, even condescending to smile at some of the inane jokesperpetrated by the two Sophomores. This was doubtless due to her havinga soft spot in her heart for boys in general, as her only
son had diedwhen he was six years old.

  Mrs. Stratford, it is true, looked somewhat mystified at Angelina'soccasional long absences in the kitchen. But at these moments Martineand Priscilla managed to introduce interesting subjects for discussion,whereby their elders were diverted from observing the remissness oftheir waitress.

  Before the dessert, however, the wait was suspiciously long. Mrs.Tilworth, in an aside, had just been complimenting Mrs. Stratford on herdaughter's ease of manner, when looking up she saw Martine gesticulatingand frowning, apparently at Priscilla. A moment later Priscilla haddashed from the room through the door into the kitchen.

  "What's up?" asked Robert.

  "What's down?" added Lucian, as a tremendous crash fell on their ears.

  "Oh, it's nothing," responded Martine, reddening. She felt Mrs.Tilworth's keen eye upon her and wished that Priscilla had acted lessimpulsively. Mrs. Stratford fanned herself nervously. There weredisadvantages, she began to think, in apartment housekeeping with alimited staff.

  In the meanwhile what had happened? When Angelina went to the kitchenfor the ices and cakes, a sorry sight presented itself to her.

  The cover of the freezer had been left off,--she had meant it to be buta moment, and not the half hour that had really passed. Through hercarelessness, not only had the ices begun to soften, but some of thesalt and coarse ice from the freezer had drifted in.

  In her efforts to repair the damage, much time had passed beforePriscilla appeared. Then Priscilla, in her effort to help, had takenhold of one side of the heavy tin to lift it to the table. The edge wasslippery, the tin glided from between Priscilla's fingers, and as itcrashed back into the tub of ice, a stream of pink and green stickinessspurted over her new blue gown.

  "No matter about me," cried poor Priscilla, as Angelina began to mop offthe gown. "I must go back to the dining-room. I can hold my handkerchiefover the spots. The dinner mustn't be spoiled. My aunt is so critical."

  "But there's no dessert. What will they think?" and Angelina looked thepicture of despair. For to her no festivity was complete without thefinishing touch of pink and white ice-cream.

  "I will explain," began Priscilla. "Isn't there anything to come but theices?"

  "Oh yes, cakes and fruit and coffee and cheese." Angelina had alreadyrecovered her spirit. "I'll hurry in and attach the coffee machine tothe electric light; that will divert them, while you make theexplanations. It wouldn't be proper for me in my capacity of waitress tosay a word."

  So Priscilla, hastening back, explained that the ices had met a mishap,and she wondered if they all wondered what her part had been in themisadventure. No one, however, attached as much importance as Angelinadid to the loss of the ices. The coffee machine diverted them all. EvenMrs. Tilworth was interested in watching the water bubble in the crystalglobe.

  Of them all Priscilla alone was disturbed. She realized, when too late,that she must have misunderstood her friend's signals, and that it hadbeen Martine's duty, and not hers, to go to the kitchen. Moreover, shedreaded the merited reproof from her aunt when the spots on her skirtshould be discovered.

  Mrs. Stratford was amused rather than displeased when Martine, after thedeparture of their guests, explained the whole matter.

  "I realized that something strange was going on, and though Angelinacovered herself with glory so far as the cooking was concerned, shecertainly did not appear an expert waitress. Then, my dear, if you hadonly given me a hint of the situation, I need not have perjured myselfto Mrs. Tilworth. She thought everything so exquisitely seasoned that Itold her all about the cook, how she had lived at Dr. Gostar's and laterat Mrs. Rowe's. I admitted that the menu was a little different fromwhat I had expected, but still--"

  "Excuse me, mamma--but why do you suppose the cook left?"

  To this question Mrs. Stratford had no answer.