Part 7 (2/2)
Elizabeth said rather discontentedly, ”and she's very neat; but did you like that custard, Sam? I thought it was horrid; I'm sure she didn't strain it, and it was cooked too much.”
”Since you put it to me so pointedly, I'm bound to confess that the present inc.u.mbent isn't a patch on the last lady who cooked for me,”
confessed her husband, laughing at the puzzled look in her eyes.
”Oh, you mean me! I'm glad you like my cooking, Sam. I should feel dreadfully if you didn't. But about Annita, I am afraid she won't allow me to teach her any of the things I know; and when I said I meant to make a sponge-cake this morning, she said she was going to use the oven.
But she wasn't, for I went out and looked afterward. Then she said right out that she wasn't used to having ladies in her kitchen, and that it made her nervous.”
”Hum!” commented the mere man; ”you'd better ask your father to prescribe for the young person; and in the meanwhile I should frequent 'her kitchen' till she had gradually accustomed herself to the idea.”
”She would leave if I did that, Sam.”
”There are others.”
”Not like Annita,” objected Elizabeth, with the chastened air of a three-dimensioned experience. ”You've no idea of the dreadful times people have with servants here in Boston. And, really, one oughtn't to expect an angel to work in one's kitchen for twenty-two dollars a month; do you think so, Sam?”
Her uplifted eyes and earnest lips and rose-tinted cheeks were so altogether charming as she propounded this somewhat absurd question that Sam said, ”Speaking of angels puts me in mind of the fact that I have one right in hand,” and much more of the good, old-fas.h.i.+oned nonsense which makes the heart beat quicker and the eyes glow and sparkle with unreasoning joy when the heart is young.
Half an hour had pa.s.sed in this agreeable manner when Elizabeth bethought herself to ask, ”What had I better do about the butcher's and grocer's slips, Sam dear? Annita says that in all the places where she has worked they always run bills; but if we aren't to do that----”
”And we're not, you know; we agreed about that, Elizabeth?”
”Yes, of course; but Annita brought me several when I came in to-day; I had forgotten all about them. Do you think I ought to stay at home every day till after the butcher and grocer and baker have been here?
Sometimes they don't call till after twelve o'clock.”
This was manifestly absurd, and he said so emphatically. The result of his subsequent cogitations was an order to Annita to leave the slips on his desk, where they would be attended to each evening. ”Mind,” he said, ”I don't want Mrs. Brewster annoyed with anything of the sort.”
”Indeed, sir, I can see that Mrs. Brewster has not been used to being worrited about anything, an' no more she ought,” the young woman had replied with an air of respectful affection for her mistress which struck Sam as being no less than admirable. It materially a.s.sisted him in his efforts to swallow Annita's muddy coffee of a morning and her leaden puddings at night. All this, while Elizabeth light-heartedly entered upon what Miss Tripp was pleased to call her ”first Boston season.”
There was so much to be learned, so much to be seen, so much to enjoy; and the new gowns and hats and gloves were so exactly the thing for the matinees, teas, card-parties and luncheons to which she found herself asked with unlooked-for cordiality. She could hardly have been expected to know that her open sesame to even this circle without a circle consisted in a low-voiced allusion to the sidereally remote Mrs. Van Duser, ”a connection by marriage, my dear.”
It was on a stormy afternoon in late February when Dr. North, unannounced and disdaining the noisy little elevator, climbed the three flights of stairs to his daughter's apartment and tapped lightly on the corridor door. His summons was answered by an alert young woman in a frilled cap and ap.r.o.n. Mrs. Brewster was giving a luncheon, she informed him, and could see no one.
”But I am Mrs. Brewster's father, and she'll want to see me,” the good doctor had insisted, sniffing delicately at the odours of salad and coffee which floated out to him from the gingerly opened door. ”Go tell your mistress that Dr. North is here and would like to see her.”
In another minute a fas.h.i.+onable little figure in palest rose-colour had thrown two pretty lace-clad arms about his neck. ”Oh, you dear, old darling daddy! why _didn't_ you let me know you were coming? Now I've this luncheon party, with bridge after it, and I can't-- But you must come in and wait; I'll tuck you away somewhere--in my bedroom, or----”
”I can't stay, Bess--at least not long. I've a consultation at the hospital at three. But I'll tell you, I'll be back at five; how'll that do? I've a message from your mother, and----”
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders distractedly. ”They won't go a minute before six,” she said; ”but come then--to dinner. Be sure now!”
The doctor was hungry, he had had no lunch, and despite the warmth of his welcome there was a perceptible chill about his aging heart as he slowly made his way down the stairs.
”I'm afraid I'll not be able to make it,” he told himself; ”my train goes at six-fifty, and--bless me! I've just time for a bite at a restaurant before I'm due at the hospital.”
CHAPTER IX
A loving letter from his daughter followed Dr. North to Innisfield. In it Elizabeth had described her disappointment in not being able to see more of her darling daddy. They had waited dinner for him that night, she said, and Sam was dreadfully put out about it. ”He _almost_ scolded me for not bringing you right in. But how could I, with all those women?
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