Part 11 (1/2)
Paul hid himself in the bakeshop until he felt reasonably sure that his cousin had gone to bed, and then, boots in hand tiptoed shamefacedly up to the bedroom, and began to undress in the dark. But Carl was not asleep, and after listening to Paul's smothered exclamations as he struggled with wet b.u.t.ton holes and laces, could not resist a polite jibe.
”Oh,” came in interested tones from the bed, ”where did you go, cousin?”
”For a walk,” replied Paul, laconically, and a certain note in his voice warned Carl that it would be wiser not to refer to the delicate subject again.
CHAPTER VI-A REBEL IN THE HOUSE
”You take a tablespoonful of b.u.t.ter, a pound of sugar, half a teaspoonful each of cinnamon and all-spice, a pound of raisins, and a cupful of mola.s.ses,” said Aunt Gertrude timidly, reading from the yellowed pages of the century-old book of recipes, in which were traced in brown ink, and in the quaint, tremulous handwriting of old Johann Winkler himself, the secret formulas of the ”King of Bakers.” Then she closed the book.
”And now, my dear, I have to show you the rest.”
Paul submitted to his instructions meekly enough but nevertheless his aunt felt singularly at a loss with this strange pupil on her hands, and she had her own grave doubts as to whether the culinary genius of the Winklers really lay dormant in him at all.
On that bright, windy afternoon, aunt and nephew were closeted in the room off the kitchen, which was called the Mixing Room. It was here that the book of recipes was kept, and here that the bread and cakes were mixed, according to the time-honored tradition of secrecy. No one had the right of entry without Mrs. Lambert's permission, and that permission was never given while she was engaged in preparing her doughs and batters. It was a cheerful little room, snug and warm, lined with the old, well polished cupboards in which the tins of spices and dried fruits and crocks of mysterious, delicious mixtures were kept safely locked. Seated at the table, was plump, rosy, beautiful Aunt Gertrude, full of the importance of her business, but a trifle uncertain of her six-foot disciple, who, shrouded in a great white ap.r.o.n, and with his sleeves rolled up on his muscular, brown arms, stood soberly measuring out flour and sugar with hands that looked better fitted for a lumber camp.
But little by little, as the lessons progressed, Paul became less austere; and as he unbent, Aunt Gertrude regained her natural jollity; until she actually dared to tease him.
”What a frown! You will frighten all my customers away,” she said, gaily, peeping up into his swarthy face. ”You must practice how to look very cheerful.”
”Must I? Well, how is this?” And Paul promptly expanded his mouth into the empty grin of a comic mask. ”Only I can't remember to grin while I count out spoonfuls of cinnamon. It's like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.”
”In a little while you won't have to think so hard while you are measuring your ingredients. I do it by instinct,” said Aunt Gertrude, proudly. And Paul smiled at her air of naive vanity.
”Oh, _you_ are a very remarkable person, Aunt Gertrude,” he said gravely.
”Tut! You mustn't laugh at me, you impudent boy,” said Mrs. Lambert, shaking her head, and pretending to be severe. ”You must be _very_ respectful.” But she was tremendously pleased with herself for having discovered a vein of gaiety in her unsociable nephew. His slight smile, the first spontaneous expression she had seen on his face, was like a light thrown across his harsh, aquiline features, giving the first glimpse that anyone of the family had seen, into the gentler traits of his character; and Aunt Gertrude felt that she had been right in attributing his abrupt, ungracious manner to loneliness and depression.
”Now,” she said briskly, ”_I_ shall finish this first batch, just to show you how it is done, and then you must do one all by yourself. How nice it is to have you to help me! You can't think how I dislike being shut up in this room for hours every day without anyone to talk to.”
Indeed, there was nothing that Aunt Gertrude disliked more heartily than solitude and silence. Like Jane, she adored people in general, she loved chat and gossip, she loved to hear all that was going on, and could never escape too quickly to the shop, where all day long the townspeople were running in and out, always stopping for a short chat with the lively, inquisitive merry proprietress.
”You see, now, you have to knead this dough _quite_ vigorously,” was her next instruction, and turning her sleeves back from her strong, white arms, she proceeded to give a demonstration, while Paul sat by, with his elbow on the table, resting his head on one hand, and smiling at her _very_ vigorous treatment of the meek, flabby dough.
”You're certainly giving that poor stuff an awful trouncing, Aunt Gertrude. Don't you think you ought to let up a bit?”
”Not at all,” returned Mrs. Lambert, seriously, ”I never let up, once I begin.”
”What a terrible character you are, Aunt Gertrude! Here, do you want me to take a hand at it?”
”No, no,” panted Aunt Gertrude. ”Now don't interfere. Just _watch_ me.”
And again she began her pummelling with redoubled energy. The exercise brought a deep flush to her smooth cheeks; a lock of brown hair barely tinged with grey kept falling over her forehead, and she kept tucking it back with the patience of absent-mindedness.
”You can't imagine how good these cakes are, my dear. They are my very favorites, though I know I shouldn't eat so many myself. I'm afraid I'm going to be a very fat old lady.”
”Then we'll put you in the window as an advertis.e.m.e.nt.”
Aunt Gertrude thought this a huge joke.
”But what will people think when they see you, my dear? We'll have to get you fatter, too. Then people will say, 'Do you see that fine, stout, rosy, cheerful man? Well, once he was as thin as a poker. Winkler's Pastry gave him that lovely figure.'”