Chapter VII The Secret
Such fun to have a secret!
To tell one too is fun.
But then there is no secret
That’s known to more than one.
Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she heard Aunty Stevens calling her. “Here I am,” she answered, at once sitting up.
“Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?” Ethelwyn rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.
“O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens,” she cried. “And nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any one else just makes the dough. So if you don’t feel just prezactly well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all.”
“Thank you, deary, but I’m feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together. Let me tie this apron around you.”
Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.
“O isn’t everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be Miss Dorothy’s?” said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.
“Here’s your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate.”
This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.
“Now what comes?” said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.
“A thick layer of these apples—no, just a layer of sugar and flour—then the crust won’t soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put any of these spices on that you wish.”
“I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate. I b’lieve I’ll put ’em all in,” said Ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers.
“Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the oven.”
“O isn’t it sweet?” said Ethelwyn. “Nobody can cook like you, Aunty Stevens. Nobody. I think it’s a great—great appomplishment.”
“Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a little, we’ll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn’t go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of others.”
“O goody,” said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. “Next to cooking, I love to hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it. You know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body. Well, what do you s’pose,” leaning forward impressively—“becomes of the bodies the cannibals eat?”
“Well, Ethelwyn,” said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. “I suppose it’s no harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else.”
“O yes, I should think so,” said Ethelwyn earnestly, “because they’d get dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord can manage it.”
Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea.
“O now I’m going to hear the secret,” said Ethelwyn, sitting down on the arm of the chair. “And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren’t we having a good time, Aunty Stevens?”
“Yes, we are,” said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. “And now I am going to tell you. I’m afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman. When my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but Dorothy, and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in living. The other evening when I heard you all planning for others, it occurred to me to be ashamed, for here is this house, and I am all alone in it. Why it’s the very thing for a children’s rest and training school.”
“O Aunty Stevens,” said Ethelwyn, getting up close to hug and kiss her.
“I can give the cottage, and I can manage it, and your money can fit it up, and hire teachers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ethelwyn, wildly excited. “You can teach them to make pies like mine—”
“Yes, they can be taught to do all sorts of things about a house—”
“And Dick?”
“He shall be the first one.”
“And his ’dopted aunt?”
“Yes, indeed. She can help in many ways.”
“O this is lots better than going to town. I just wish I could tell mother and Beth. Seems to me I can’t possibly wait.”
“I see Nan coming. Suppose ‘Vada should take you two down to have your luncheon on the beach.”
“The pie, too?”
“Yes, and other things, if your throat is better, so you can go.”
“O it’s all well, cured with joy, I guess. Anyway mother said I might go outdoors, you know. It was the noise and smoke in town she thought would hurt me.”
So they went off on their picnic, and did not come home until time to dress for the train that was to bring back Mrs. Rayburn and Beth.
“Well Ethelwyn,” said Aunty Stevens, meeting her, “how was the picnic?”
“The picnic as far as the pie, and other eating were concerned, was perfect, but Nan was a trial sometimes,” said Ethelwyn, sighing deeply; “she said she couldn’t possibly go home, ’count of her mother having a headache as usual, and she was as cross as a bear. I had my hands pretty full with that child. She does not give in to me like my sister—I will say that.” And Ethelwyn again sighed deeply, as she walked into the house for her bath and toilet.
When the train stopped, and Elizabeth appeared, Ethelwyn and she rushed at each other, and both began to talk at once.
“I’ve a secret that will make your eyes stick out—then I made a pie—”
“I saw the doctor that makes bone people. There was one for a sign at the pittalhos where we were—”
“Hospital, child.”
“And he was undressed, even from out of his skin; you could, see clear through him. I was scared, because I thought that the doctor would make mother and me into one, but he was nice and said he’d cure Dick. We saw his bed all white—”
“Wait till you know the secret. I saved you a piece of pie—Nan wanted it—”
“I rode up in an alligator—”
“Elevator.”
“And a man at the pittalhos said, ‘where did I get those dimple holes,’ and I said prob’ly they wasn’t fat enough to stuff it all—he laughed though at that.”
And so they chattered on until they reached home.