Brenda's Ward Part 9

"She _is_ worth watching," he said. "Each of us must keep an eye on her."

CHAPTER VI

ANGELINA'S COUP

The first occasion for Angelina to make herself spectacularly useful came on the Sat.u.r.day after New Year's, when Mrs. Stratford invited Priscilla and Mrs. Tilworth to dine. The latter had already shown Mrs.

Stratford some little courtesies, such as she felt were due Mrs. Blair's cousin. 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 although Mrs. Tilworth was the only outsider, on her account a certain amount of formality had been planned for this little dinner for six.

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

"Why, Angelina, what is the matter? You look as if you had been drawn through 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 letter to her father, and as she took a step or two toward the door, Angelina spoke.

"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 a walk--"

"Oh, no, Miss Martine. I fear that she's gone for good and all. I've been 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 say that I heard her trunk being carried away about two o'clock. There it went, thumpity, thump down the stairs--those expressmen are so careless, and I was quite unaware whose trunk it was, or I might have reported it to your mother. But when the luncheon dishes were washed, the cook followed the trunk; at least she is nowhere in sight now, and not a thing done about this evening's dinner. It's the dinner, and not the cook that disturbs me," explained Angelina.

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

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

"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 were to come home together from a meeting in Brookline. Mrs. Tilworth is always taking people to meetings of some kind. Poor mamma didn't want to go, but she couldn't get out of it. There's no way of getting word to them until nearly dinner time. Mrs. Tilworth would think it awfully rude to uninvite her. The only thing is to let her come, and then we can all go out to a hotel or something, and she'll call that very s.h.i.+ftless."

Martine was really excited. She knew Mrs. Tilworth's opinion of people who lived in apartments, and she had had a thrill of pleasant antic.i.p.ation at the idea of Mrs. Tilworth's finding everything as homelike in their apartment as within the four walls of a detached house.

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

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

Angelina spoke with all the impressiveness of one in authority.

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

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

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

A glance at the refrigerator did not greatly encourage Martine. There were a quant.i.ty of cold potatoes, and a great roast of beef for their Sunday dinner, as well as eggs, bacon, milk, and b.u.t.ter.

"How frightfully unattractive it all looks--and smells," cried Martine, slamming the door. "I never could be a good cook, for I hate the sight of 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 some plan. It's half-past four, and if anything's to be done, it ought to be doing now."

"Oh, if you request me to take hold," said Angelina, "I shall be only too happy to accept your orders in your mother's place. Come, see!" and removing a cloth that had covered the kitchen table, she showed Martine an 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 in her mother's place it would be undignified to trifle with Angelina, she waited for the latter to disclose her plans.

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

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

"Well, there's no trouble about oysters, now, is there? And the soup--well, instead of the potage something or other that we were going to have, it'll be bouillon with croutons, and a sprig of parsley on top; that always looks foreign, and with my Spanish seasoning, Mrs. Tilworth will never know it's plain extract of beef. It won't take me a minute to prepare the minced fish, and you can put it in these little sh.e.l.ls to bake when the oven is hot. The salad won't be any trouble, just tomato on a leaf of lettuce. The chickens can be broiled, and there's only one vegetable to boil besides the potatoes. The other things like celery and radishes 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 I were you, as long as you've got such a big chafing-dish, I'd have a lobster Neuberg. Mrs. Tilworth will expect something out of the ordinary, and a lobster Neuberg at dinner is very unexpected."

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

"Yes, Miss Martine, only I'll prepare the sauce first, so much depends on 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 hands full until dinner is served, and don't tell your mother about the cook until dinner's over. She'll be surprised that the dinner is different from what she ordered. But she won't find anything to be ashamed of."

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

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

"I'm not late," and in a moment Priscilla was with her. "I came in without 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. But if there's any chance to help things on, you'll do so, won't you?"

"With pleasure," replied Priscilla, not realizing just what her promise might 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 frame of mind, even condescending to smile at some of the inane jokes perpetrated by the two Soph.o.m.ores. This was doubtless due to her having a soft spot in her heart for boys in general, as her only son had died when he was six years old.

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

Before the dessert, however, the wait was suspiciously long. Mrs.

Tilworth, in an aside, had just been complimenting Mrs. Stratford on her daughter's ease of manner, when looking up she saw Martine gesticulating and frowning, apparently at Priscilla. A moment later Priscilla had dashed from the room through the door into the kitchen.