came, the first letter. I guess hard times now. Nobody wants maids.
I come right queeck. I can do good work, very good. I have good
references. You got maid yet?"
"Not yet," I answered, and turned to the other woman.
According to all my theories and my training I should have chosen the
older woman. Efficiency always has been an idol of mine. It was my
slogan in my profession. It is my humiliation that I seem to have
none of it in my housework. The German woman evidently was capable of
administering my household much better than I could do it. Perhaps it
was because of this very reason that I found myself repelled by her,
and subtly drawn by the younger woman's smiling enthusiasm.
"Have you much company, and does your husband bring home friends
without notice?" The older woman's harsh tones broke in.
The questions turned the scale. From the standpoint of strict
justice, the standard from which I always had tried to reason, she was
perfectly justified in asking the questions before she took the place.
But intuition told me that our home life would be a dreary thing with
this martinet in the kitchen.
"That will not trouble you," I said, "for I do not believe I wish your
services. Here is your car fare, and thank you for coming."
The woman took the car fare with the same stolidity she had shown
through the whole interview. "I do not think I would like you for a
madam, either," she said quietly as she went out.
The Polish girl bounced from her seat as soon as the door was closed.
"She no good to talk to you like that," she exclaimed. "She old crank,
anyway. You not like her. See me--I young, strong; I cook, wash, iron,
clean. I do everything. You do notting. I cook good, too; not so much
fancy, but awful good. My last madam, I with her one year. She sick,
go South yesterday. She cry, say 'I so sorry, Katie; you been so good
to me.' I cry, too. Read what she say about me."
I could read between the lines of the rather odd letter of
recommendation the girl handed me. I had dealt with many girls of
Katie's type in my teaching days. I knew the childish temper, the
irritating curiosity, the petty jealousy, the familiarity which one
not understanding would deem impertinence, with which I would have
to contend if I engaged her. But the other applicant for my work, the
grim vision who had just left, decided me. I would try this eager girl
if her terms were reasonable--and they were.
As I preceded her into the kitchen I had a sudden qualm. I knew
Dicky's fastidious taste, and that underneath all his good-natured
unconventionality he had rigid ideas of his own upon some topics. I
happened to remember that nothing made him so nervous and irritable
as bad service in a restaurant. His idea of a good waiter was a
well-trained automaton with no eyes or ears. How would he like this
enthusiastic, irrepressible girl? It was too late now, however. I was
committed to a week of her service.
I had a luxurious afternoon. Katie in the kitchen sang softly over her
work some minor-cadenced Polish folk-song, and I nestled deep in
an armchair by the sunniest window, dipped deep into the pages of
magazines and newspapers which I had not read. I realized with a
start that I was out of touch with the doings of the outside world,
something which had not happened to me before for years, save in the
few awful days of my mother's last illness. I really must catch up
again.
I was so deep in a vivid description of the desolation in Belgium that
I did not hear Dicky enter. I started as he kissed me.
"Headache better, sweetheart?" he added, lover-like remembering
and making much of the slight headache I had had when he left that
morning. "It must be, or you wouldn't be able to read that horror." He
closed the magazine playfully and drew me to my feet.
"I am perfectly well," I replied, "and I have good news for you. We
have a maid, a trifle rough in her manner, but one who I think will be
very good."
"That's fine," Dicky said heartily. "I'd much rather come home to find
you comfortably reading than scorching your face and reddening your
hands in a kitchen."
"Say, Missis Graham!"
Katie came swiftly into the room, and I heard an exclamation of
surprise from Dicky.
"Why, Katie, wherever did you come from?"
But Katie, with a scream of fear, her face white with terror, backed
into the kitchen. I heard her opening the door where she had put her
hat and cloak, then the slamming of the kitchen door.
I looked at Dicky in amazement. What did it all mean?
He caught up his hat and dashed to the front door.
"Quick, Madge!" he called. "Follow her out the kitchen door as fast as
you can. I'll meet you at the servant's entrance! I wouldn't let her
get away for a hundred dollars!"
I obeyed Dicky's instructions, but with a feeling of disgust creeping
over me. I have always hated a scene, and this performance savored too
much of moving picture melodrama to suit me.
I hurried down the two flights of stairs and on toward the servant's
entrance. I was almost there when Katie came flying back, almost into
my arms.
"Oh, Missis Graham," she moaned.
"You kind lady. I pay it all back. I always have it with me. Don't let
him put me in prison. I work, work my fingers to the bone for you. If
you only not let him put me in prison."
Dicky came up behind us. As she saw him she shrank closer to me in a
pitiful, frightened way, and put out both her hands as if to push him
away.
"Don't be frightened, Katie," he said. Come to the house and tell me
about it."
"Bring her into the living room and get her quieted before I talk to
her," suggested Dicky, as he disappeared into his room after I had got
her upstairs.
Bewildered and displeased at this bizarre situation which had been
thrust upon me, I ushered Katie into the living room and removed her
hat and coat. She trembled violently.
I went to the dining room and from a decanter in the sideboard poured
a glass of wine and, bringing it back, pressed it to her lips. She
drank it, and the color gradually came back to her face and the
twitching of her muscles lessened.
When she was calmer I took her hands in mine and, looking her full
in the face in the manner which I had sometimes used to quiet an
hysterical pupil, I said slowly:
"Listen to me, Katie. You are not going to be put in prison. Mr.
Graham will not harm you in the least. But he wishes to talk to you,
and you must listen to what he has to say."
Her answer was to seize my hand and cover it with tearful kisses. I
detest any exhibition of emotion, and this girl's utter abandonment
to whatever grief or terror was hers irritated me. But I tried not to
show my feelings. I merely patted her head and said:
"Come, Katie, you must stop this and listen to Mr. Graham."
Katie obediently wiped her eyes and sat up very straight.
"I am all right now," she said quaveringly. "He can come. I tell him
everything."
Still very nervous but calmer than she had been, Katie remained quiet
when I raised my voice to reach Dicky waiting in the adjoining room.
"Oh, Dicky," I called, "you may come now."
Dicky drew a low chair in front of the couch where we sat.
"Tell me first, Katie," he said kindly, "why do you think I want to
put you in prison? Because of the money? Never mind that. I want to
talk to you of something else."
But Katie was hysterically tugging at the neck of her gown. From
inside her bodice she took a tiny chamois skin bag, and ripping it
open took out a carefully folded bill and handed it to Dicky.
"I never spend that money," she said. "I never mean to steal it. But
I had to go away queeck from your flat and I never, never dare come
back, give you the money. After two month, send my cousin to the flat,
but he say you move, no know where. There I always keep the money
here. I think maybe some time I find out where you live and write a
letter to you, send the money."
Dicky took the bill and unfolded it curiously. A brown stain ran
irregularly across one-half of it.
"Well, I'll be eternally blessed," he ejaculated, "if it isn't the
identical bill I gave her. Ten-dollar bills were not so plentiful
three years ago, and I remember this one so distinctly because of the
stain. The boys used to say I must have murdered somebody to get it,
and that it was stained with blood."
He turned to Katie again.
"The money is nothing, Katie. Why did you run away that day? I never
have been able to finish that picture since."
Katie's eyes dropped. Her cheeks flushed.
"I 'shamed to tell," she murmured.
Dicky muttered an oath beneath his breath. "I thought so," he said
slowly, then he spoke sternly:
"Never mind being ashamed to tell, Katie. I want the truth. I worked
at your portrait that morning, and then I had to go to the studio.
When I came back you had gone, bag and baggage, and with, the money I
gave you to pay the tailor. I never could finish that picture, and it
would have brought me a nice little sum."
My brain was whirling by this time. Dicky in a flat with this ignorant
Polish girl paying his tailor bills, and posing for portraits. What
did it all mean?
"Where did you go?" Dicky persisted.
Katie lifted her head and looked at him proudly.
"You know when you left that morning, Mr. Lestaire, he was painting,
too? Well, Mr. Graham, I always good girl in old country and here. I
go to confession. I always keep good. Mr. Lestaire, he kiss me, say
bad tings to me. He scare me. I afraid if I stay I no be good girl.
So I run queeck away. I never dare come bade. That Mr. Lestaire he one
bad man, one devil."
Dicky whistled softly.
"So that was it?" he said. "Well that was just about what that
pup would do. That was one reason I got out of our housekeeping
arrangements. He set too swift a pace for me, and that was going some
in those days."
He turned to Katie, smiling.
"You see you don't have to be afraid any more. I'm a respectable
married man now, and it's perfectly safe for you to work here. Mrs.
Graham will take care of you. Run along about your work now, that's a
good girl."
Katie giggled appreciatively. Her mercurial temperament had already
sent her from the depths to the heights.
"The dinner all spoiled while I cry like a fool," she said. "You ready
pretty soon. I serve."
She hastened to the kitchen, and I turned to Dicky inquiringly.
"I suppose you think you have gotten into a lunatic asylum, Madge. Of
all the queer things that Katie should apply for a job here and that
you should take her."
"I didn't know you ever kept house in a flat before, Dicky."
"It was a very short experience," he returned, "only three months.
Four of us, Lester, Atwood, Bates and myself pooled our rather scanty
funds and rented a small apartment. We advertised for a general
housekeeper, and Katie answered the advertisement. She had been over
from Poland only a year at a cousin's somewhere on the East side,
and she used to annoy us awfully getting to the flat so early in the
morning and cleaning our living room while we were trying to sleep.
But she was a crack-a-jack worker, so we put up with her superfluous
energy in cleaning. Then one day I discovered her standing with
a letter in her hand looking off into space with her eyes full of
misery. She had heard of some relative."
"Of course you wanted to paint her," I suggested.
"You bet," Dicky returned. "The idea came to me in a flash. You
can see what a heroic figure she was. I had her get into her Polish
dress--she had brought one with her from the old country--and I
painted her as Poland--miserable, unhappy Poland. Gee! but I'm glad
you happened to run across her. We'll put up with anything from her
until I get that picture done."
Try as I might I could not share Dicky's enthusiasm. I knew it was
petty, but the idea of my maid acting as Dicky's model jarred my ideas
of the fitness of things.
But I had sense enough to hold my peace.
VII
A FRIENDLY WARNING
I know of nothing more exasperating to a hostess than to have her
guests come to her home too early. It is bad enough to wait a meal for
a belated guest, but to have some critical woman casually stroll in
before one is dressed, or has put the final touches--so dear to every
housewifely heart--on all the preparations, is simply maddening.
I am no exception to the rule. As I heard the voices of Lillian Gale
and her husband and I realized that they had arrived at 3:30 in the
afternoon, when they had been invited for an evening chafing dish
supper, I was both disheartened and angry.
But, of course, there was but one thing to do, much as I hated to do
it. I must go into the living room and cordially welcome these people.
As I slipped off my kitchen apron I thought of the hypocrisy which
marks most social intercourse. What I really wanted to say to my
guests was this:
"Please go home and come again at the proper time. I am not ready to
receive you now."
I had a sudden whimsical vision of the faces of Dicky and the
Underwoods if I should thus speak my real thoughts. The thought
in some curious fashion made it easier for me to cross the room to
Lillian Gale's side, extend my hand and say cordially:
"How good of you to come this afternoon!"
"I know it is unpardonable," Lillian's high pitched voice answered.
"You invited us for the evening, not for the afternoon, but I told
Harry that I was going to crucify the conventions and come over early,
so I would have a chance to say more than two words to you before the
rest get here."
Harry Underwood elbowed his wife away from my side with a playful
push, and held out his hand. His brilliant, black eyes looked down
into mine with the same lazy approving expression that I had resented
when Dicky introduced me to him at the theatre.
I cudgelled my brain in vain for some airy nothing with which to
answer his nonsense. I never have had the gift of repartee. I can talk
well enough about subjects that interest me when I am conversing with
some one whom I know well, but the frothy persiflage, the light banter
that forms the conversation's stock in trade of so many women, is an
alien tongue to me.
"You are just as welcome as Mrs. Underwood is," I said heartily at
last. Fortunately he did not read the precisely honest meaning hidden
in my words.
"Come on, Harry, into my room," urged Dicky, taking him by the arm.
"I've got a special brand cached in there, and had to hide it so mein
frau wouldn't drink it up."
I suppose my face reflected the dismay I felt at this intimation that
the women would begin drinking so early. I feared for the repetition
of the experience of Friday evening. But the laws of conventions and
hospitality bound me. I felt that I could not protest. Mrs. Underwood
apparently had no such scruples. She clutched Dicky by the arm and
swung him around facing her.
"Now, see here, my Dicky-bird," she began, "you begin this special
bottle kind of business and I walk out of here. I should think you and
Harry would have had enough of this the other evening. We came over
here today for a little visit, and tonight we'll sit on either the
water wagon or the beer wagon, just as Mrs. Graham says. But you boys
won't start any of these special drinks, or I'll know the reason why."
"Oh, cut it out, Lil," her husband said, not crossly, but
mechanically, as if it were a phrase he often used. But Dicky laughed
down at her, although I knew by the look in his eyes that he was much
annoyed.
"All right, Lil," he said easily. "I suppose Madge will fall in
gratitude on your neck for this when she gets you into the seclusion
of her room. You haven't any objection to our having a teenty-weenty
little smoke, have you, mamma dear?"
"Go as far as you like," she returned, ignoring the sneers.
As I turned and led the way to my room, I was conscious of curiously
mingled emotions. Relief at the elimination of the special bottle with
its inevitable consequences and resentment that Dicky should so
weakly obey the dictum of another woman, battled with each other. But
stronger than either was a dawning wonder. From the conversation I
had overheard in the theatre dressing-room and trifling things in
Mrs. Underwood's own conduct, I had been led to believe that she was
sentimentally interested in Dicky, and that some time in the future
I might have to battle with her for his affections. But her speech to
him which I had just heard savored more of the mother laying down
the law to a refractory child than it did of anything approaching
sentiment. Could it be, I told myself, that I had been mistaken?
Our husbands looked exceedingly comfortable when we rejoined them, for
they were smoking vigorously and discussing the merits of two boxers
Mr. Underwood had recently seen. As we entered the room both men,
of course, sprang to their feet, and I had a moment's opportunity to
contrast their appearance.
Dicky is slender, lithe, with merry brown eyes and thick, brown hair,
with a touch of auburn in it, and just enough suspicion of a curl to
give him several minutes' hard brushing each day trying to keep it
down. Harry Underwood, taller even than Dicky, who is above the medium
height, is massive in frame, well built, muscular, with black hair
tinged with gray, and the blackest, most piercing eyes I have ever
seen. I was proud of Dicky as I stood looking at them, while
Lillian exchanged some merry nonsense with Dicky, but I also had to
acknowledge that Harry Underwood was a splendid specimen of manhood.
As if he had read my thoughts, his eyes caught mine and held them. To
all appearances he was listening to the banter of Dicky and his wife,
but there was an inscrutable look in his eyes, an enigmatical smile
upon his lips, as he looked at me that vaguely troubled me. His
glance, his smile, seemed significant somehow, as if we were old
friends who held some humorous experience in common remembrance. And I
had never seen him but once before in my life.
I shrugged my shoulders, ever so slightly. It is a habit of mine when
I am displeased, or wish to throw off some unpleasant sensation of
memory. I was almost unconscious of having used the gesture. But
Harry Underwood crossed the room as if it had been a signal, and stood
looking down quizzically at me.
"Little lady," he began, "you shouldn't hold a grudge so well. It
doesn't harmonize with your eyes and your mouth. They were meant for
kindness, not severity. If there is any way that I can show you I am
humbled to the dust for coming here I'll do any penance you say."
"You must be mistaken, Mr. Underwood." I strove to control my voice.
"I have no grudge whatever against you, so you see you are absolved in
advance from my penance."
"Will you shake hands on it?" He put out his large, white, beautifully
formed hand and grasped mine before I had half extended it.
I felt myself flushing hotly. Of all the absolutely idiotic things
in the world, this standing hand in hand with Harry Underwood, in a
formal pact of friendship or forgiveness or whatever he imagined the
hand-clasp signified, was the most ridiculous. He was quick enough
to fathom my distaste, but he clasped my hand tighter and, bending
slightly so that he could look straight into my eyes he said, lazily
smiling:
"You are the most charming prevaricator I know. You come pretty near
to hating me, little lady. But you won't dislike me long. I'll make a
bet with myself on that."
"Hold that pose just a minute. Don't move. It's simply perfect."
Lillian Underwood's merry voice interrupted her husband's declaration.
With clever mimicry she struck the attitude of a nervous photographer
just ready to close the shutter of his camera. Dicky stood just behind
her too, also smiling, but while Lillian's merriment evidently was
genuine, I detected a distaste for the proceedings behind Dicky's
smile, which I knew was forced.
Lillian slipped in an imaginary plate, then springing to one side
stood pretending to clasp the bulb of the shutter in her hand, while
she counted: "One, two, three, four, five--thank you!"
"Now if you will just change your expressions," she rattled on.
"Harry, why don't you take both her hands? Then if Mrs. Graham will
smile a little we will have a sentimental gem, or if she makes her
expression even a trifle more disapproving than it is I can label it,
'Unhand me, villain.'"
"I never take a dare," returned her husband, and snatched my other
hand. But I was really angry by this time, and I wrenched my hands
away with an effort and threw my head a trifle haughtily, although
fortunately I was able to control my words:
"Do you know, people, that there will be no food for you tonight
unless I busy myself with its preparations immediately? Mrs.
Underwood, won't you entertain those boys and excuse me for a little
while?"
I went into the dining room and put on the kitchen apron I had taken
off when I heard the voices of my early guests. Almost immediately
Lillian appeared arrayed in the apron I had given her. She came up to
the table and surveyed it with appraising eyes.
"I am glad of this chance to speak with you alone, for I want to
explain to you about him."
She stopped with an embarrassed flush. I gazed at her in amazement.
Lillian Underwood flustered! I could not believe my eyes.
"You are not used to us or our ways, or I shouldn't bother to tell you
this. But I can see that you are much annoyed at Harry, and I don't
blame you. But you mustn't mind him. He is really harmless. He falls
in love with every new face he sees, has a violent attack, then gets
over it just as quickly. You are an entirely new type to him, so I
suppose his attack this time will be a little more prolonged. He'll
make violent love to you behind my back or before my face, but you
mustn't mind him. I understand, and I'll straighten him out when he
gets too annoying."
The embarrassed flush had disappeared by this time. She was talking
in as cool and matter-of-fact manner as if she had been discussing the
defection of a cook.
My first emotion was resentment against my husband.
Why, I asked myself passionately, had Dicky insisted upon my
friendship with these people? Suppose they were his most intimate
friends? I was his wife, and I had nothing whatever in common with
them. Knowing them as well as he did, he must have known Harry
Underwood's propensities. He must also have known the gossip that
connected his own name with Lillian's. He should have guarded me from
any contact with them. I felt my anger fuse to a white heat against
both my husband and Lillian.
An ugly suspicion crossed my mind. Lillian Gale's absolute calmness
in the face of her husband's wayward affections was unique in my
experience of women. Was the secret of her indifference, a lack of
interest in her own husband or an excess of interest in mine? Did she
hope perhaps to gain ground with Dicky with the development of this
situation? Was her warning to me only part of a cunningly constructed
plan, whereby she would stimulate my interest in Harry Underwood?
I was ashamed of my thoughts even as they came to me. Lillian Gale
seemed too big a woman, too frank and honest of countenance for such
a subterfuge. But I could not help feeling all my old distrust and
dislike of the woman rush over me. I had a struggle to keep my voice
from being tinged with the dislike I felt as I answered her:
"I am sure you must be mistaken, Mrs. Underwood. Such a possibility as
that would be unspeakably annoying We will not consider it."
"I think you will find you will have to consider it," she returned
brusquely, with a curious glance at me "But we do not need to spoil
our afternoon discussing it."
VIII
A TRAGEDY AVERTED
It was well after 7 o'clock when the ringing of the door bell told me
that the Lesters had come. Dicky welcomed them and introduced me
to them. Mrs. Lester was a pretty creature, birdlike, in her small
daintiness, and a certain chirpy brightness. I judged that her
mentality equalled the calibre of a sparrow, but I admitted also that
the fact did not detract from her attractiveness. She was the sort of
woman to be protected, to be cherished.
"I'm afraid I shall be very dull tonight. I am so worried about
leaving the baby. She's only six months old, you know, and, I have had
my mother with me ever since she was born until two weeks ago, so I
have never left her with a maid before. This girl we have appears very
competent, says she is used to babies, but I just can't help being as
nervous as a cat."