Part 1 (2/2)
Certainly, it was the most wonderful bakeshop in the world.
Now, no one but a true Winkler had ever been intrusted with the precious recipes for those spiced fruit cookies, or those rich snow-cakes, those golden breakfast-rolls, or those plum-puddings which have immortalized the name. And in view of the importance which such a family must have in the eyes of all who respect supremely excellent baking, a short history of its affairs may be admitted here.
It is hardly necessary to say that it prospered for no Winkler had ever been born lacking the virtue of wise thriftiness, or the ability to make small savings bring in generous increase. At the same time, the shop was never moved from the spot where it had first been opened, nor was any attempt ever made to give it a more pretentious appearance.
The corner stone which old Johann Winkler had laid himself with so much pride bore the date, ”A.D. 1789.”
A good many generations of little Winklers had grown up in the shelter of the quaint old house; and a good many generations of little townspeople had stuffed their round stomachs with those incomparable spice-cakes and ginger-nuts, had loitered hungrily around the tempting show-window, and had scrawled caricatures on the walls and the worn stone steps.
The business had been inherited in a direct line from father to son; until the day when Uncle Franz Winkler had gone to sea, and left his domestic patrimony in the hands of his sister.
This sister was no other than the jolly Gertrude, once the prettiest, most blooming maiden in Frederickstown; who, in the course of time married one Peter Carl Lambert, a grave, practical-minded young man; and this grave, practical-minded young man (who, as the years went on became more and more grave, not to say, severe, and more and more practical) was no other than the father of all the young Lamberts, a portion of whose history is going to be the subject of this story.
Mr. Lambert was, himself, the owner of a moderately prosperous business, dealing in the whole-sale and retail distribution of hay and grain; but at the some time he had no inclination to allow his wife's inheritance to decline, and while he managed his own affairs, Gertrude and Grandmother Winkler continued in charge of the bakery, which under his shrewd supervision became more flouris.h.i.+ng than ever.
On one point and only one did husband and wife find cause for dissension. It had become a tradition in the family, as has already been said, that no one but a Winkler had ever possessed the magical recipes for those cakes and pies which had no rivals. Now, since the outrageous and even impious conduct of Uncle Franz, the question had risen, who should be regarded as the heir to the business and the name? For there were no more Winklers. Gertrude wanted her only son, Carl, to be her heir, although he was a Lambert. But Mr. Lambert had other ideas for the youth, and the hope that his son would, by becoming a professional man, take a step up in the world, was dear to his heart. Furthermore, Carl himself, a calm, phlegmatic and determined boy, shared his father's views. He had announced his intention of becoming a lawyer.
So matters stood. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. But these family difficulties had no place in Jane's mind as she took her time to wash and dress on that October morning. What engrossed _her_ thoughts was the concocting of a feasible plan to avoid the distasteful prospect of going to school.
The sun had fully risen now, and already the frosty air had been softened by its genial warmth. She opened her window again, and leaned out, looking critically from east to west with the gaze of an old seaman, calculating the possibilities of the weather.
There was not a cloud in the sky. Never before, it seemed to her, had the heavens displayed such a vast expanse of deep, untroubled blue. A light, fresh wind rustled through the hazel-nut tree whose boughs touched her window; and sent a few of the ruddy, copper-colored leaves drifting lazily down to the uneven brick pavement below.
Across the square, she could see the broad, open door of Mr. Lambert's warehouse, where already two men in blue s.h.i.+rts were at work tossing a fresh wagon-load of corn husks into the well-filled loft. Early to bed and early to rise was the motto of the industrious folk of Frederickstown, one and all. Wagons covered with white canvas hoods, and filled with tobacco, others, overflowing with pumpkins, celery, apples and cranberries-all the rich autumn produce of the fertile farming country beyond the town-were rumbling over the cobblestones in a picturesque procession, on their way to the market-place. And the well-known smell of the rimy vegetables was to the adventuresome Jane an almost irresistible call to the open.
Her meditations were soon cut short by a final summons-and this in the firm cold tones of Mr. Lambert himself-to breakfast.
”Jane! Coming? Or must I fetch you?”
”Jiminy!” said Jane, and banging down the window she fled, clattering down the old wooden staircase like a whirlwind.
In the large, sunny room, which served nearly all purposes, the family had gathered for breakfast; Granny Winkler at one end of the table-a miniature old lady with a frilled cap,-Mr. Lambert at the other end, Carl at his right and flaxen haired Elise at his left, Mrs. Lambert with one twin beside her and another facing her. Jane's chair, between Elise and Lottie was still conspicuously empty.
A door at the right of the dining room opened into the bakeshop, and a second door at the back led to the kitchen, from which the exquisite odors of the day's outlay of fresh cakes and bread were already issuing.
The big, bright room, with its cas.e.m.e.nt windows opening onto the small garden hemmed in by high brick walls, with its pots of geraniums, and Chinese lilies,-which were Elise's special care-its immaculately dusted cupboards on whose shelves gleamed rows of solid old German pewter ware, was the scene in which the Lambert's, great and small, carried on a large part of their daily affairs. In one corner stood Mr. Lambert's squat, business-like desk, where every evening, from nine to ten, he went over his accounts. At the round table in the center, the family ate their meals, and at night, the children prepared their lessons, while Grandmother Winkler, seated in her padded rocking chair, read her Bible, or nodded over her knitting.
When Jane made her unceremonious entry, the family was seated, and, with their heads bent reverently over their plates of steaming porridge, were reciting grace in unison.
Mrs. Lambert, glancing up, made her a sign to take her place as inconspicuously as possible; and accordingly just before Mr. Lambert raised his head, she slipped into her chair.
Her father eyed her for a moment with uncertainty and displeasure; but this morning he had another matter on his mind of greater importance than that of reprimanding incorrigible Jane. Moreover, he had made it a rule, always, if possible, to avoid unpleasantness at meals, owing to the unfavorable effects upon the digestion. Consequently, after a brief, cold stare at his daughter, whose s.h.i.+ning morning face was as bland as if her conscience were completely innocent of guilt, he said, solemnly,
”Good morning, Jane.”
And Jane said, beaming at him, ”Good morning, Papa,” and rose to kiss his cheek, and then to give her mother a hug that left the plump, smiling, dimpling Gertrude quite breathless.
”Sit down now, you bad child,” whispered Mrs. Lambert, patting Jane's ruddy cheek, ”and don't talk. Your father is going to.”
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