CHAPTER XII.
PHIL HAS A FINGER IN THE PIE
PHIL went up to the Wigwam early next morning. Breakfast was just over,and Joyce had begun painting again. He paused an instant at the frontdoor to watch her brown head bending over the table, and the quickmotion of her deft fingers. She was so absorbed in her task that she didnot look up, so after a moment he went on around the house to thekitchen.
Mrs. Ware was lifting the dish-pan from its nail to its place on thetable, and Lloyd was standing beside her, enveloped in a huge apron,holding a towel in her hands, ready to help. Norman, beside a chair onwhich a clean napkin had been spread, was filling the salt-cellars.Jack, having carried water to the tents, was busy chopping wood.
"Good mawning!" called Lloyd, waving her towel as Phil appeared in thedoor. Mrs. Ware turned with such a cordial smile of welcome, that hetook it as an invitation to come in, and hung his hat on the post of achair.
"I want to have a finger in this pie," he announced. "I was told to stayat home yesterday, but I don't intend to be snubbed to-day.
"Wait, Aunt Emily, that kettle is too heavy for you!"
He had called her Aunt Emily since the first time he had heard Lloyd doit. "You don't care, do you?" he had asked. "It makes a fellow feel soforlorn and familyless when he has to mister and madam everybody." Shewas sewing a button on his coat for him at the time he asked her, andshe gave such a pleased assent that he stooped to leave a light kiss onthe smooth forehead where gray hair was beginning to mingle with thebrown.
Now he took the kettle from her before she could object, and beganpouring the boiling water into the pan. "Let me do this," he insisted."I haven't had a hand in anything of the sort since I was a littleshaver. It makes me think of a time when the servants were all away, andStuart and I helped Aunt Patricia. She paid us in peppermint sticks andcinnamon drops."
"You'll get no candy here," she answered, laughing. "You might as wellgo on if that's what you expect." But there was no resisting thecoaxing ways of this big handsome boy, who towered above her, and whotook possession in such a masterful way of her apron and dish-mop. Hiscoat and cuffs were off the next instant, and he began clattering thechina and silverware vigorously through the hot soap-suds.
Mrs. Ware, taking a big yellow bowl in her lap, sat down to pick oversome dried beans, and to enjoy the lively conversation which kept pacewith the rattle of the dishes. It was interrupted presently by acomplaint from Lloyd.
"Aunt Emily, he doesn't wash 'em clean! He's left egg all ovah thisspoon. That's the second time I've had to throw it back into the watah."
"Aunt Emily, it isn't so," mocked Phil, in a high falsetto voice,imitating her accent. "It's bettah than she could do huhself. She's nogreat shakes of a housekeepah."
"I'll show you," retorted Lloyd, throwing the spoon back into the panwith a splash. "I'm going to make a pie foh dinnah to-day, and you won'tget any."
"Then probably I'll be the only one who escapes alive to tell the tale.Aunt Emily, please invite me to dinner," he begged, "and mayn't I stayout here, and watch her make it?"
"Of co'se I can't help it if she chooses to ask you to dinnah," saidLloyd, loftily, when he had received his invitation, "but I mostcertainly won't have you standing around in my way, criticizing me whenI begin to cook. You can fill the wood-box and brush up the crumbs andhang these towels out on the line, if you want to, then you may go inand watch Joyce paint."
"Oh, thank you!" answered Phil. "_Such_ condescension! _Such_privileges! Your Royal Highness, I humbly make my bow!"
He bent low in a burlesque obeisance that a star actor might haveenvied, and, throwing up a saucer and catching it deftly, began to sing:
"The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts, Upon a summer day. But none could look--that selfish cook Drove every one away."
It was all the most idle nonsense, and yet, as they worked together in aplayful half-quarrel, Lloyd liked him better than she had at any timebefore. He reminded her of Rob Moore. He was big like Rob, tall andbroad-shouldered, but much handsomer. Rob had teased her sincebabyhood, and, when Phil began his banter in the same blunt, big-brotherfashion, it made her feel as if she had known him always. And yet he wasmore like Malcolm than Rob, in some respects, she thought later. Thecourteous way he sprang to pick up her handkerchief, the quick turn hegave to some little remark, which made it a graceful compliment, hisgentlemanly consideration for Mrs. Ware--all that was like Malcolm.
Phil would not be driven out of the kitchen until he had exacted apromise from Mrs. Ware that he might come the next day, and make thedessert for the morrow's dinner, vowing that, if it were not heels overhead better than Lloyd's, he would treat everybody at the Wigwam and onthe ranch to a picnic at Hole-in-the-rock.
"Prop the door open, please," called Joyce, as he went into thesitting-room from the kitchen. "I need some of that heat in here. It'schilly this morning when one sits still."
So Lloyd, moving back and forth at her pastry-making, could see theirheads bending over the table, and hear snatches of an animateddiscussion about a design he proposed for her to put on one of theprogrammes.
"Put a line from 'Call me thine own' on this one," he said, "and have acouple of turtle-doves perched up on the clef, cooing at each other, andmake little hearts for the notes."
"How brilliant!" cried Joyce. "Phil, you're a genius. Do think up somemore, for I'm nearly at my wits' end, trying to get thirty differentdesigns."
"Don't make them all so fine," he suggested. "Some of those people willget it into their heads that matrimony is all roses." He lifted hisvoice a little, so that Lloyd could not fail to hear. She was standingbefore the moulding-board now, her sleeves tucked up, and a look ofintense seriousness on her face as she sifted flour, as if pie-makingwere the most important business in the universe.
"Make the Queen of Hearts with a rolling-pin in her hand and a scowl onher face, as she will look after the ceremony, when she takes it intoher head to make some tarts. Put a bar of 'Come, ye disconsolate,' witha row of tiny pies for the notes, and the old king doubled up at the endof it, with the knave running for a doctor."
"You horrid thing!" called Lloyd, wrathfully, from the kitchen. "Yousha'n't have a bite of these pies now."
"Nothing personal, I assure you," called Phil, laughing. "I'm onlyhelping the artist." But Joyce said, in a low tone, "It _is_ a littlepersonal, because she used to be called the Queen of Hearts so much. Didyou ever see her picture taken in that character, when she was dressedin that costume for a Valentine party? It was years ago. Miss Marks madesome coloured photographs of her. You'll find one in that portfoliosomewhere, if you'll take the trouble to look through it. She's had somany different nicknames," continued Joyce. Norman was hammering onsomething in the kitchen now, so there was no need for her to lower hervoice.
"She is 'The Little Colonel' to half the Valley, and I suppose alwayswill be to her grandfather's friends. Then when she started to school,about the time that picture was taken, she was such a popular littlething that one of her teachers began calling her Queen of Hearts. Bothboys and girls used to fuss for the right to stand beside her inrecitations, and march next her at calisthenics, and she was sure to becalled first when they chose sides for their games at recess.
"Then, after she was in that play with her dog Hero, that Mary told youabout, the girls at boarding-school began calling her the PrincessWinsome, and then just Princess. Malcolm McIntyre, who took the part ofthe knight who rescued her, never calls her anything but that now. Thereshe is, as she looked in the play when she sang the dove song."
Joyce pointed with her brush-handle to another photograph in the pile.It was the same picture that Mary had showed him, the beautiful littlemedallion of the Princess Winsome, holding the dove to her breast as shesang, "Flutter and fly." The same picture which had swayed on thependulum in Roney's lonely cabin, repeating, with every tick of theclock, "For love--will find--a way!"
Phil put it beside the other photograph, and studie
d them both intentlyas Joyce went on.
"Then the other day, when her father was here, I noticed that he had anew name for her. He called her that several times, and when he wentaway, he said it in a tone that seemed to mean so much, 'Good-bye, mylittle _Hildegarde_!'"
Phil looked from the pictures on the table to the original, standing inthe kitchen wielding a rolling-pin under Mrs. Ware's direction. Themorning sun, streaming through the window, was making a halo of herhair. Somehow he found this last view the most pleasing. He saidnothing, however, only thrummed idly on the table, and hummed an oldsong that had been running through his head all morning.
"What's that you're humming?" asked Joyce, when she had worked on insilence several minutes.
Phil came to himself with a start. "I'm sure I don't know," he laughed."I wasn't conscious that I was making even an attempt to sing."
"It went this way," said Joyce, whistling the refrain, softly. "It's sosweet."
"Oh, that," said Phil, recognizing the air. "That's a song that Elsie'sold English nurse used to sing her to sleep with.
"'Maid Elsie roams by lane and lea, Her heart beats low and sad.'
She liked it because it had her name in it, and I liked it because ofthe jingle of the chorus. It always seemed full of bells to me." Hehummed it lightly:
"'Kling, lang ling, She seems to hear her bride-bells ring, Her bonny bride-bells ring.'
It must have been these bridal musicale programmes that brought it up tome, for I haven't thought of it in years."
"And that suggests something to me," answered Joyce. "I haven't usedany wedding-bells on these programmes. Now, let me see. How can I putthem on?" She sat studying one of the empty cards intently.
"Here! This way!" cried Phil. "I can't draw it as it ought to be, but Ican see in my mind's eye what you want. Put a Cupid up in each topcorner, with a bunch of five narrow ribbons, strung across from one tothe other in narrow, wavy lines, and hang the little bells on them fornotes. Then the ends of the ribbons can trail down the sides of theprogrammes sort of fluttery and graceful. Pshaw! I can't make it looklike anything, but I can see exactly how it ought to look."
He scribbled his pencil across the lines he had attempted to draw, andstarted to tear the paper in disgust, when she caught it from him.
"I know just what you mean," she cried. "And Phil Tremont, you _are_ agenius. This will be the best design in the whole lot." She wasoutlining it quickly as she spoke. "You ought to be a designer. You'dmake your fortune at it, for originality is what counts. Why don't youstudy it?"
"I did have it in mind for a week or so," answered Phil, "but I wantedmost of all to be an architect, or something of the sort. Father wantedme to study medicine, and grandfather thought I'd do better at civilengineering. But I couldn't settle down to anything. I suppose the truthof the matter was I was thinking too much about the good times I washaving, and didn't want to buckle down to anything that meant harddigging. So last year father said I wasn't getting any kind ofdiscipline, and that I had to go to a military school for it. That thereI would at least learn punctuality and order, and that military trainingwould fit me to be a good citizen just as much as to be a good soldier."
"What does he think about it now?" answered Joyce. "I beg your pardon,"she added, hastily. "I had no right to ask such a personal question."
"That's all right," answered Phil. "I don't care a rap if you do talkabout it. It's worried me a good deal thinking how cut up the old paterwill feel when he finds out about it. He thought he'd left me in suchgood hands, shut up where I couldn't get out into any trouble, and Ihated to write that they'd fired me almost as soon as his back wasturned. If I could have talked to him, and explained both sides of it,how unfair the Major was, and all that, and how we were just out for alark, with the best intentions in the world, I could have soonconvinced him that I meant all right, and he wouldn't have minded somuch. But I never was any good at letter-writing, so I kept putting itoff the first two weeks I was here. I wrote last week, but it takes amonth to send a letter and get an answer, so it'll be some time yetbefore I hear from him. In the meantime, I'm taking life easy, andworrying as little as possible."
Joyce made no reply when he paused, only bent her head a little lowerover her work; but Phil, unusually sensitive to mental influences, felther disapprobation as keenly as if she had spoken. The silence began togrow uncomfortable, and finally he asked, lightly, toying with apaper-knife while he spoke, "Well, what do you think of the situation?"
"Do you want to know honestly?" asked Joyce, her head bending stilllower over her work.
"Yes, honestly."
Her face grew red, but looking up her clear gray eyes met hisunflinchingly. "Well, I think you're the very brightest boy that I everknew, anywhere, and that it would be a very easy thing for you to makeyour mark in the world in any way you pleased, if you would only make upyour mind to do it. But it's lazy of you to loaf around all winterdoing nothing, not even studying by yourself, and it's selfish todisappoint your father when he is so ambitious for you, and it's--yes,it's _wicked_ for you to waste opportunities that some boys would almostgive their eyes for. There!"
"Whew!" whistled Phil, getting up to pace the floor, with his hands inhis pockets. "That's the worst roast I _ever_ got."
"Well, you asked for it," said Joyce. "You said for me to tell youhonestly what I thought."
"What would you have me to do?" asked Phil, impatiently, anxious tojustify himself. "A fellow with any spirit couldn't get down and beg tobe taken back to school, when he knew all the time that he was onlypartly in the wrong, and that it was unjust and arbitrary of theofficers to require what they did."
"That isn't the only school in the country," said Joyce, quietly, "andfor a fellow six feet tall, and seventeen years old, a regular athletein appearance, to wait for somebody to lead him back to his books doesseem a little ridiculous, doesn't it?"
"Confound it!" he began, angrily, then stopped, for Joyce was smiling upinto his face with a friendliness he could not resist, and there wasmore than censure in her eyes. There was sincere admiration for thehandsome boy whom she found so entertaining and companionable.
"Now don't get uppity," she laughed. "I'm only saying to you what Elsiewould say if she were here."
Phil shrugged his shoulders. "Not much!" he exclaimed. "You don't knowElsie. She thinks her big brother is perfection. She has always stood upfor me in the face of everything. Daddy never failed to let me off easywhen she patched up the peace between us. _She_ wouldn't rake me overthe coals the way you do."
Joyce liked the expression that crossed his face as he spoke of Elsie,and the gentler tone in which he said Daddy.
"All the more reason, then," she answered, "that somebody else should dothe raking. I hope I haven't been officious. It's only what I would sayto Jack under the same circumstances. I'm so used to preaching to theboys that I couldn't help sailing in when you gave me leave. I won't doit any more, though. See! Here is the design you suggested. I'vefinished it."
Mollified by her tone and her evident eagerness to leave the subject, hedropped into the chair beside her again, and sat talking until Lloydcalled them both out to admire her pies. There were two of them on thetable, hot from the oven, so crisp and delicately browned, that Lloyddanced around them, clicking a couple of spoons in each hand likecastanets, and calling Mrs. Ware to witness that she had made thementirely by herself.
"Don't they look delicious?" she cried. "Did you evah see moah temptinglooking pies in all yoah life? I wish grandfathah could have a slice ofthat beautiful custa'd with the meringue on top. He'd think Mom Beckmade it, and he'd nevah believe, unless he saw it with his own eyes,that I could make such darling cross-bahs as are on that cherry taht."
"I wish you'd listen!" cried Phil. "Don't you know that proverb aboutletting another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth?"
"I'm not praising _me_," retorted Lloyd. "I'm just praising my pies, andif they're good, and I know they're good, why
shouldn't I say so?They're the first I evah made, and I think I have a right to be proud oftheir turning out so well. Of co'se they wouldn't have been this nice ifAunt Emily hadn't showed me what to do."
"Let's sample them now," proposed Jack, who had been called in from thewood-pile to pay his respects to the pastry.
Lloyd threw herself between the table and Jack with a little scream ofremonstrance, as he advanced threateningly with a knife.
"I believe Lloyd is prouder of making those old pies than she was ofshooting the duck. Confess, now, aren't you?" he insisted.
"Yes, I am," she answered, emphatically.
"You had your picture taken with a duck," suggested Phil. "Suppose youhave one now with the pies to add to your collection. Come on and getyour camera, and I'll take a companion piece to the hunting-picture.We'll call this the 'Queen of Tarts.' Stand out back of the tent, andhold the custard pie in one hand, and the cherry tart in the other."
With the dimples deepening in her cheeks as the whole family gatheredaround to watch the performance, Lloyd took her position out-of-doors,with the white tent for a background. Holding her hands stiffly out infront of her, she stood like a statue, while Jack and Joyce each broughtout a pie, and balanced them in the middle of her little pink, upturnedpalms.
"I want to take two shots," said Phil, waiting for them to step out ofrange. "There are several blank films left on this roll. Now," heordered, when the shutter clicked after the first exposure, "hold still,we'll try another. Suppose you put the plates up on the tips of yourfingers, the way hotel waiters do. They carry things that way with suchan easy offhand grace. I always admired it."
"I should say it was offhand!" cried Jack. For Lloyd, obeying orders,clutched frantically after the cherry tart, with a shriek of dismay. Ithad refused to stay poised on her finger-tips.
"Topside down, of co'se," she wailed, as the broken plate fell in oneplace, and the pastry in another. "And the juice is running all ovah me,and the darling little cross-bahs are all in the sand!"
Phil hastily clicked the shutter again. He was sure that the second snaphad caught the tart in the act of falling, and with the third film hewanted to preserve the expression of surprise and dismay that cloudedLloyd's face. It was one of the most ludicrous expressions he had everseen.
"Pride goeth before destruction," he quoted, laughingly.
"I wish you'd hush up with yoah old proverbs, Phil Tremont," criedLloyd, half-laughing and half-angry. "It's all yoah fault, anyway. Youknew I'd spill that taht if I held it that way, and I just believe youdid it on purpose. You knew when you first saw those pies it would beuseless for you to try to make any dessert to-morrow that would half-waycome up to them, and you deliberately planned to get them out of theway, so you wouldn't have to stand the test. You were afraid you'd haveto give the picnic you promised."
"Sputter away, if it will ease your mind any," laughed Phil. "It wasworth the picnic to see your frantic grab after that tart. But honestly,Lloyd," he said, growing serious as he saw she really cared, "I'm assorry as I can be that it happened, and I'll do anything you say to makeatonement. I'll withdraw from the contest, award you the laurels, andgive the picnic, anyhow."
"There's nothing the matter with the custard pie," piped up Norman,"'cept'n you can see where Joyce's fingers jabbed into the meringue whenshe caught it from Lloyd. I think it would be safer to eat it now beforeanything else happens."
"No, we'll set mamma to guard it till the rest of the dinner is ready,"said Joyce, leading the way back to the kitchen. "If everybody will flyaround and help, we'll have it a little earlier to-day."
It was one of the jolliest meals that Phil had had in the Wigwam."Let's all go to Phoenix this afternoon," proposed Phil, when they hadgone back to the sitting-room. "We can take the films in to thephotographer, and have them developed. Joyce, you may ride my horse, andI'll get one from Mrs. Lee."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Joyce, looking wistfully through the window. "Theoutdoors never did look so tempting, it seems to me, and thoseprogrammes are getting so monotonous I can hardly make myself go back tothem. I wish I could go. But I can't shirk even for a few hours, or theymight miss getting there in time."
"Couldn't anything tempt you to go?" urged Phil.
She shook her head resolutely. "'Not all the king's horses and all theking's men' could draw me away from these programmes till they arefinished."
"No wonder she preached me such a sermon on loafing, this morning,"thought Phil, as he rode away beside Jack, with the roll of films in hispocket. "Anybody with that much energy and perseverance doesn't need togo to the School of the Bees. It makes her all the harder on the drones.And I know that's what she thinks I am."