The twenty-eighth of October. Coal nine dollars a ton. Mr. and Mrs.
Blackwell had made a resolution not to start the furnace until
Thanksgiving. And in the biting winds of Long Island that requires
courage.
Commuters the world over are a hardy, valorous race. The Arab commutes
by dromedary, the Malay by raft, the Indian rajah by elephant, the
African chief gets a team of his mothers-in-law to tow him to the
office. But wherever you find him, the commuter is a tough and tempered
soul, inured to privation and calamity. At seven-thirty in the morning
he leaves his bungalow, tent, hut, palace, or kraal, and tells his wife
he is going to work.
How the winds whistle and moan over those Long Island flats! Mr. and
Mrs. Blackwell had laid in fifteen tons of black diamonds. And hoping
that would be enough, they were zealous not to start the furnace until
the last touchdown had been made.
But every problem has more than one aspect. Belinda, the new cook, had
begun to work for them on the fifth of October. Belinda came from the
West Indies, a brown maiden still unspoiled by the sophistries of the
employment agencies. She could boil an egg without cracking it, she
could open a tin can without maiming herself. She was neat, guileless,
and cheerful. But, she was accustomed to a warm climate.
The twenty-eighth of October. As Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell sat at dinner,
Mr. Blackwell buttoned his coat, and began a remark about how chilly the
evenings were growing. But across the table came one of those glances
familiar to indiscreet husbands. Passion distorted, vibrant with rebuke,
charged with the lightning of instant dissolution, Mrs. Blackwell's gaze
struck him dumb with alarm. Husbands, husbands, you know that gaze!
Mr. Blackwell kept silence. He ate heartily, choosing foods rich in
calories. He talked of other matters, and accepted thankfully what
Belinda brought to him. But he was chilly, and a vision of coal bills
danced in his mind.
* * * * *
After dinner he lit the open fire in the living room, and he and Mrs.
Blackwell talked in discreet tones. Belinda was merrily engaged in
washing the dishes.
"Bob, you consummate blockhead!" said Mrs. Blackwell, "haven't you
better sense than to talk about its being chilly? These last few days
Belinda has done nothing but complain about the cold. She comes from
Barbados, where the thermometer never goes below sixty. She said she
couldn't sleep last night, her room was so cold. I've given her my old
fur coat and the steamer rug from your den. One other remark like that
of yours and she'll leave. For heaven's sake, Bob, use your skull!"
Mr. Blackwell gazed at her in concern. The deep, calculating wisdom of
women was made plain to him. He ventured no reply.
Mrs. Blackwell was somewhat softened by his docility.
"You don't realize, dear," she added, "how servants are affected by
chance remarks they overhear. The other day you mentioned the
thermometer, and the next morning I found Belinda looking at it. If you
must say anything about the temperature, complain of the heat. Otherwise
we'll have to start the furnace at once."
Mr. Blackwell's face was full of the admiration common to the
simple-minded race of husbands.
"Jumbo," he said, "you're right. I was crazy. Watch me from now on.
Mental suggestion is the dope. The power of the chance remark!"
The next evening at dinner, while Belinda was passing the soup, Mr.
Blackwell fired his first gun. "It seems almost too warm for hot soup,"
he said. "All the men at the office were talking about the unseasonable
hot weather. I think we'd better have a window open." To Mrs.
Blackwell's dismay, he raised one of the dining-room windows, admitting
a pungent frostiness of October evening. But she was game, and presently
called for a palm-leaf fan. When Belinda was in the room they talked
pointedly of the heat, and Mr. Blackwell quoted imaginary Weather Bureau
notes from the evening paper.
After dinner, as he was about to light the log fire, from force of
habit, Mrs. Blackwell snatched the burning match from him just as he was
setting it to the kindling. They grinned at each other wistfully, for
the ruddy evening blaze was their chief delight. Mr. Blackwell manfully
took off his coat and waistcoat and sat in his shirtsleeves until
Belinda had gone to bed. Then he grew reckless and lit a roaring fire,
by which they huddled in glee. He rebuilt the fire before retiring, so
that Belinda might suspect nothing in the morning.
The next evening Mr. Blackwell appeared at dinner in a Palm Beach suit.
Mrs. Blackwell countered by ordering iced tea. They both sneezed
vigorously during the meal. "It was so warm in town to-day, I think I
caught a cold," said Mr. Blackwell.
Later Mrs. Blackwell found Belinda examining the thermometer with a
puzzled air. That night they took it down and hid it in the attic. But
the great stroke of the day was revealed when Mrs. Blackwell explained
that Mr. and Mrs. Chester, next door, had promised to carry on a similar
psychological campaign. Belinda and Mrs. Chester's cook,
Tulip--jocularly known as the Black Tulip--were friends, and would
undoubtedly compare notes. Mrs. Chester had agreed not to start her
furnace without consultation with Mrs. Blackwell.
October yielded to November. By good fortune the weather remained sunny,
but the nights were crisp. Belinda was given an oil-stove for her attic
bedroom. Mrs. Blackwell heard no more complaints of the cold, but
sometimes she and her husband could hear uneasy creakings upstairs late
at night. "I wonder if Barbados really is so warm?" she asked Bob. "I'm
sure it can't be warmer than Belinda's room. She never opens the
windows, and the oil-stove has to be filled every morning."
"Perhaps some day we can get an Eskimo maid," suggested Mr. Blackwell
drowsily. He wore his Palm Beach suit every night for dinner, but
underneath it he was panoplied in heavy flannels.
* * * * *
Through Mr. Chester the rumour of the Blackwells' experiment in
psychology spread far among suburban husbands. On the morning train less
fortunate commuters, who had already started their fires, referred to
him as "the little brother of the iceberg." Mr. and Mrs. Chester came to
dinner on the 16th of November. Both the men loudly clamoured for
permission to remove their coats, and sat with blanched and chattering
jaws. Mr. Blackwell made a feeble pretence at mopping his brow, but when
the dessert proved to be ice-cream his nerve forsook him. "N-no,
Belinda," he said. "It's too warm for ice-cream to-night. I don't
w--want to get chilled. Bring me some hot coffee." As she brought his
cup he noticed that her honest brown brow was beaded with perspiration.
"By George," he thought, "this mental suggestion business certainly
works." Late that evening he lit the log fire and revelled by the blaze
in an ulster.
The next evening when Mr. Blackwell came home from business he met the
doctor in the hall.
"Hello, doc," he said, "what's up?"
"Mrs. Blackwell called me in to see your maid," said the doctor. "It's
the queerest thing I've met in twenty years' practice. Here it is the
17th of November, and cold enough for snow. That girl has all the
symptoms of sunstroke and prickly heat."