The Rich Mrs Burgoyne | Page 4

For comfort, being, as I
am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean
handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!--We must run glittering like
a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; The wealthiest man
among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain
living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good
old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. And pure religion
breathing household laws. --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
CHAPTER I
"Annie, what are you doing? Polishing the ramekins? Oh, that's right.
Did the extra ramekins come from Mrs. Brown? Didn't! Then as soon
as the children come back I'll send for them; I wish you'd remind me.
Did Mrs. Binney come? and Lizzie? Oh, that's good. Where are they?
Down in the cellar! Oh, did the extra ice come? Will you find out,
Annie? Those can wait. If it didn't, the mousse is ruined, that's all! No,
wait, Annie, I'll go out and see Celia myself."
Little Mrs. George Carew, flushed and excited, crossed the pantry as
she spoke, and pushed open the swinging door that connected it with

the kitchen. She was a pretty woman, even now when her hair, already
dressed, was hidden under snugly pinned veils and her trim little figure
lost under a flying kimono. Mrs. Carew was expecting the twenty-eight
members of the Santa Paloma Bridge Club on this particular evening,
and now, at three o'clock on a beautiful April afternoon, she was almost
frantic with fatigue and nervousness. The house had been cleaned
thoroughly the day before, rugs shaken, mirrors polished, floors oiled;
the grand piano had been closed, and pushed against the wall; the
reading-table had been cleared, and wheeled out under the turn of the
stairway; the pretty drawing-room and square big entrance hall had
been emptied to make room for the seven little card-tables that were
already set up, and for the twenty-eight straight-back chairs that Mrs.
Carew had collected from the dining-room, the bedrooms, the halls,
and even the nursery, for the occasion. All this had been done the day
before, and Mrs. Carew, awakening early in the morning to uneasy
anticipations of a full day, had yet felt that the main work of
preparation was out of the way.
But now, in mid-afternoon, nothing seemed done. There were flowers
still to arrange; there was the mild punch that Santa Paloma affected at
card parties to be finished; there was candy to be put about on the
tables, in little silver dishes; and new packs of cards, and pencils and
score-cards to be scattered about. And in the kitchen--But Mrs. Carew's
heart failed at the thought. True, her own two maids were being helped
out to-day by Mrs. Binney from the village, a tower of strength in an
emergency, and by Lizzie Binney, a worthy daughter of her mother; but
there had been so many stupid delays. And plates, and glasses, and
punch-cups, and silver, and napkins for twenty-eight meant such a lot
of counting and sorting and polishing! And somehow George and the
children must have dinner, and the Binneys and Celia and Annie must
eat, too.
"Well," thought Mrs. Carew, with a desperate glance at the kitchen
clock, "it will all be over pretty soon, thank goodness!"
A pleasant stir of preparation pervaded the kitchen. Mrs. Binney,
enormous, good-natured, capable, was opening crabs at one end of the

table, her sleeves rolled up, and her gingham dress, in the last stage of
age and thinness, protected by a new stiff white apron; Celia, Mrs.
Carew's cook, was sitting opposite her, dismembering two cold roasted
fowls; Lizzie Binney, as trim and pretty as her mother was shapeless
and plain, was filling silver bonbon-dishes with salted nuts.
"How is everything going, Celia?" said Mrs. Carew, sampling a nut.
"Fine," said Celia placidly. "He didn't bring but two bunches of sullery,
so I don't know will I have enough for the salad. They sent the cherries.
And Mrs. Binney wants you should taste the punch."
"It's sweet now," said Mrs. Binney, as Mrs. Carew picked up the big
mixing-spoon, "but there's the ice to go in."
"Delicious! not one bit too sweet," Mrs. Carew pronounced. "You
know that's to be passed around in the little glasses, Lizzie, while we're
playing; and a cherry and a piece of pineapple in every glass. Did
Annie find the doilies for the big trays? Yes. I got the bowl down;
Annie's going to wash it. Oh, the cakes came, didn't they? That's good.
And the cream for coffee; that ought to go right on ice. I'll telephone
for more celery."
"There's some of these napkins so mussed,