So with a quick turn of the faucets, and a fling of the soap, she rubbed out the necessary napkins, and while they were soaking for a minute, hunted out the electric iron and set it heating. Up the stairs again to her dinner to watch the chops and turn the lights under the vegetables a little lower, breathlessly down again, such a wild scramble! Quarter to seven it was when she came up again with the three neatly ironed napkins in her hand and wildly flew into the diningroom to finish setting the table. The sweet potatoes were browning in their sugar bath and she had to watch them closely that they did not burn. It meant flying back and forth continually—and oh, there were the olives, the ice water, and cream for the coffee. Would the dinner ever be ready and served? And where was her apron?
The last five minutes were a nightmare. She could hear the front door open and the voice of the two gentlemen as they entered. Which one would be Mr. Powers? The gruff, deep one, or the high falsetto? And then came the awful minute when she donned the new white apron, and came to sign to Mrs. Powers that all was ready. The clock in the living room was chiming seven with silvery tones as she signalled her readiness, and she thought she saw a look of surprise and relief in the languid eye of the hostess, but she stayed not to make further discoveries. She would have her hands full for the next few minutes without knowing whether the lady was pleased or not.
“Surely He shall deliver thee—”
What was it that Bible verse said that ran through her head with every pulsation of her racing blood? Why should a Bible verse come so persistently into her mind just now when she was too busy to think about anything? “Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence”—that was it. The snare of the fowler was the little things that caught one. Well, He had delivered her. He had helped her to smile instead of to be annoyed. Was she winning out? Dinner was on time anyway.
CHAPTER XVII
The guests were eating away at the fruit cup with a relish. It was delicious, Joyce knew, for she had tasted it when it was finished. She was hot and thirsty and she longed for some of it now, but there was none left. She had filled the glasses as full as possible. She heard one of the guests say how delicious it was, and the hostess reply in her languid drawl that it wasn’t what it ought to be, that she had a new maid, and she was sure she didn’t know whether they were to have anything fit to eat or not. She was brand-new, and green, and what was worse, she was literary. “Fancy, Clement,” and the lady turned to the tall man with the deep, growling voice and her laugh rang out, “fancy, she wants me to recommend her to you as a teacher in the High School! Isn’t that the limit?”
Joyce was just coming in to take the glasses and replace them with the bouillon cups filled with a delicious concoction that came out of that mixture of bones and meats and vegetables with the addition of a bit of tomato, onion, celery top and parsley, and she stopped short in the pantry with flaming cheeks and quick tears in her eyes, and then stepped hastily back into the kitchen and paused in dismay. What should she do? How could she face that tableful of hateful people with their laughter still upon their lips?
There before her stood the kitchen door wide open to a garden and a path that led around the house to the gate. She could walk out and leave this impossible woman to her fate. Let her get up and serve her own guests, and wash her own dishes afterwards and keep her own ten dollar bill, yes, and her school positions too. There were other people in the world—and the tears rolled down her hot, angry cheeks.
“Surely He shall deliver thee,—Surely—Surely—”
It rang in her ears like a voice, a reminder.