The Camerons of Highboro Part 17

"Compliments! A fellow doesn't have to praise up his cousin, does he?

It just struck me, all of a sudden, that you look pretty fit."

"Thanks. I'm feeling as fit as I look. Out with it, Stan; what do you want?"

"Why, nothing," said Stannard, "nothing at all. Shall I take out those husks, Lot?"

"Delighted. The pigs eat 'em." Her eyes held a quizzical light. "If you're trying to rattle me so I shall forget something and spoil my dinner, you can't do it."

"What do you take me for?" He departed with the husks, deeply indignant.

In five minutes he was back. "When are you going home?"

"I don't know. Not just yet. Your mother has too many house parties."

"That won't make any difference."

"Oh, yes, it does! Her house is full all the time."

"Shucks! Have you asked her if there's a room ready for you?"

"Indeed I haven't! I wouldn't think of imposing on a busy hostess."

"I might say something about it," he suggested slyly.

"You will do nothing of the kind."

"Oh, I don't know! I'm going home myself day after to-morrow."

Hastily Elliott set down the kettle she had lifted. "Are you? That's nice. I mean, we shall miss you, but of course you have to go some time, I suppose."

"It won't be any trouble at all to speak to Mother."

"Stannard," and the color burned in her cheeks, "will you _please_ stop fiddling around this kitchen? It makes me nervous to see you. I nearly burned myself in the steam of that kettle and I'm liable to drop something on you any time."

"Oh, all right! I'll get out. Fiddling is a new verb with you, isn't it?"

"Yes, I picked it up. Very expressive, I think."

"Sounds like the natives."

"Sounds pretty well, then. Did I hear you say you had an errand somewhere?"

"No, you didn't. You merely heard me say that finding myself _de trop_ in my fair cousin's company, I'd get out of range of her big guns.

Never expected to rattle you, Lot."

"I'm not rattled."

"No? Pretty good imitation, then. Oh, I'm going! Mother's ready for you all right, though; says so in this letter. Here, I'll stick it in your ap.r.o.n pocket. Better come along with me, day after to-morrow.

What say?"

"I'll see," said Elliott, briefly.

He grinned teasingly, "Ta-ta," and went off, leaving turmoil behind him.

The minute Stannard was out of the door Elliott did a strange thing.

Reaching with wet pink thumb and forefinger into the depths of the blue ap.r.o.n pocket, she extracted the letter and hurled it across the kitchen into a corner.

"There!" she cried disdainfully, "you go over there and _stay_ a while, horrid old letter! I'm not going to let you spoil my perfectly good time getting dinner."

But it was spoiled: no mere words could alter the fact. Try as she would to put the letter out of her mind and think only of how to do a dozen things at once one quarter as quickly and skilfully as Laura and Aunt Jessica did them, which is what the apparently simple process of dishing up a dinner means, the fine thrill of the enterprise was gone.

Laura came in to help her and Elliott's tongue tripped briskly through a deal of chatter, but all the while underneath there was a little undercurrent of uneasiness and anxiety. Wouldn't you have thought it would delight her to have the opportunity of doing what she had so much wished to do?

"What's this?" Laura asked, spying the white envelop on the floor; "a letter?"

"Oh, yes," said Elliott, "one I dropped," and she tucked it into the pocket of the white skirt that had been all the time under the blue ap.r.o.n, giving it a vindictive little slap as she did so. Which, of course, was quite uncalled for, as if any one was responsible for what was in the letter, that person was Elliott Cameron. The fact that she knew this very well only added a little extra vigor to the slap.

And all through dinner she sat and laughed and chattered away, exactly as though she weren't conscious in every nerve of the letter in her pocket, despite the fact that she didn't know a word it said. But she didn't eat much: the taste of food seemed to choke her. Her gaze wandered from Mother Jess to Father Bob and back, around the circle of eager, happy, alert faces. And she felt--poor Elliott!--as though her first discontent were a boomerang now returned to stab her.

"This is Elliott's dinner, I would have you all know," announced Laura when the pie was served. "She did it all herself."

"Not every bit," said Elliott, honestly; but her disclaimer was lost in the chorus of praise.

Father Bob laid down his fork, looking pleased. "Did you, indeed? Now, this is what I call a well-cooked dinner."

"I'll give you a recommend for a cook," drawled Stannard, "and eat my words about tightening my belt, too."

"Some dinner!" Bruce commented.

"Please, I'd like another piece," said Priscilla.

"Me, too," chimed in Tom. "It's corking."

Laura clapped her hands. "Listen, Elliott, listen! Could praise go further?"

But Mother Jess, when they rose from the table, slipped an arm through Elliott's and drew her toward the veranda. "Did the cook lose her appet.i.te getting dinner, little girl?"

"Oh, no, indeed, Aunt Jessica! Getting dinner didn't tire me a bit. I just loved it. I--I didn't seem to feel hungry this noon, that was all."

Mother Jess patted her arm. "Well, run away now, dear. You are not to give a thought to the dishes. We will see to them."

At that minute Elliott almost told her about the letter in her pocket, that lay like a lump of lead on her heart. But Henry appeared just then in the doorway and the moment pa.s.sed.

"Run away, dear," repeated Aunt Jessica, and gave the girl a little push and another little pat. "Run away and get rested."

Slowly Elliott went down the steps and along the path that led to the flower borders and the apple trees. She wasn't really conscious of the way she was going; her feet took charge of her and carried her body along while her mind was busy. When she came out among a few big trees with a welter of piled-up crests on every side, she was really astonished.

"Why!" she cried; "why, here I am on the top of the hill!"