Marten Beverley and his wife Grizel confronted each other across the
breakfast table. Only the night before they had returned from a
protracted, wedding tour, to take possession of their new home. Each
was superbly, gloriously happy, but there was a difference in their
happiness. Martin was not tired of play, but the zest for work was
making itself felt, and he looked forward with joy to the hours at his
desk which would give extra delight to the play to follow. Grizel faced
work also, but faced it with a grimace. How in the world to settle
down, and to be practical, and keep house?
"Here beginneth the second volume!" she chanted dolefully across the
breakfast table. "The happy couple return from their honeymoon, and
settle down! ... Martin! I don't _want_ to settle down. Why should
one? It's out of date, anyhow, to have a second volume. Nowadays
people live at full pressure, and get it over in one. Let's go on being
foolish, and irresponsible, and taking no thought for our dinner. It's
the only sensible plan. And it would prevent so much disappointment!
I'm a daisy as a honeymoon wife, but I'm _not_ a typical British
Matron."
"You don't look it!" said Martin, and thrusting his hands in his
pockets, tilted back in his chair and sat staring across the table, his
eyes alight with admiration. A fire blazed in the grate, but Grizel's
morning robe suggested the height of summer. It was composed of some
sort of white woollen material, which showed glimpses of a delicate pink
lining. She wore a boudoir cap too, a concoction of lace and pink
ribbon at once rakish and demure. Martin was certain that she looked a
duck, what he was uncertain about was the suitability of such plumage
for the mistress of a small _menage_. Had he not kept house for eight
years with a sister who had visited the larder every morning, and kept a
stern eye on stock-pot and bread-pan, clad in the triggest of blouses,
and the shortest of plain serge skirts! His eyes twinkled with
amusement.
"Is it your intention to visit the scullery in those garments, may I
ask?"
Grizel tilted in her turn, and returned his stare with an enchanting
smile. She looked young and fresh, and adorably dainty; an ideal bride
_deluxe_.
"In the first place," she said, dimpling, "what precisely is, and does--
a scullery?"
"A scullery, my child, is an apartment approximate to, and an accessory
of, a kitchen. It is equipped with a sink, and is designed for the
accommodation of pots and pans, brushes and brooms. Likewise boots, and
er--uncooked vegetables. Every mistress of a small establishment visits
the kitchen and scullery at least once in the twenty-four hours."
Grizel considered the subject, thoughtfully rubbing her nose.
"Why vegetables?"
"Why not?"
"_With_ brushes and boots?"
"It seems unsuitable, I grant. But they do. I've seen them when I've
been locking up. On the floor. In a wooden box. Carrots and turnips,
and potatoes in their skins."
Grizel straightened herself determinedly, and attacked her breakfast.
"I shall _never_ visit the scullery!" she said firmly. "It would spoil
my appetite. Thank you so much for warning me, ducky doo!"
"Not at all. It was an exhortation. The cook will expect it of you.
So shall I. You must kindly remember the sink."
"I take your word for it. Suppose there is? What in the name of
fortune has it to do with me?"
"It's your sink, Madam. Part of your new-found responsibilities. I
don't wish to harrow your susceptibilities, but it might not be kept
clean. It is for you to see that it is."
"You should have told me that afore, Laddie!" warbled Grizel
reproachfully. "Nobody never warned me I should have to poke about
sinks! And I won't neither. It's a waste of skilled labour. Aren't
there lots of sanitary kind of people who make their living by that sort
of work? Let's have one to look after ours!"
"Every morning?"
"Why not? Every evening too, if you like."
Martin burst into a roar of laughter, and stretched a hand across the
table.
"You're a goose, Grizel; an impracticable little goose. I'm afraid we
shall never make a Martha of you." Then suddenly his face fell, and the
caressing touch strengthened into a grasp. "You shouldn't have to do
it," he cried sharply. "It isn't fair. You've been a miracle of
generosity to me, darling, but when it comes to facing the stern
realities of life, I wonder if I ought to have let you do it."
"You couldn't help yourself," Grizel said calmly. "I asked you, and you
couldn't for shame say no. Give me back my hand, dear. I want it, to
go on eating. I do love having breakfast with you in our very own
house, and I must make it last as long as possible, as I shan't see you
again for four whole hours. ... What shall we do after lunch?"
"Er--generally--if I'm in the mood--I go on writing till five o'clock."
Martin spoke with hesitation, as though fearing a reproach, and Grizel
narrowed her eyes, and smiled; a slow, enigmatical smile, but spoke not
one rude word. She had quite decided that Martin should not be in the
mood!
"On Wednesday and Thursday I'm to be At Home!" was her next irrelevant
remark. "We put fifteenth and sixteenth on our cards, and now that
we've stayed away a week longer than we intended, the fell date is upon
us before we can breathe. Do you suppose many people will come?"
Martin's shrug was eloquent.
"Every adult feminine creature who can crawl on two legs from a radius
of five miles around, will crawl to the door. Hundreds of 'em! And
with luck three or four males."
"I could find it in my heart to wish it were t'other way round!
However! never say die... There'll be no time to finish the
drawing-room! I'll have to receive the surging mobs in the sitting-room
upstairs. Let's pray the chairs will go round!"
"Couldn't the drawing-room be got ready with a rush?"
"Why in the world should we bother to rush?"
"They'll be disappointed if you don't. The drawing-room is part of the
show. The whole neighbourhood is speculating about it now, and
wondering if it's blue or pink. A house with a closed drawing-room is
like a play without the star. Do you realise, darling, that they'll
expect to be shown all over the house?"
"Let them expect, if it pleases them to do it, but they _won't_! Let me
catch anyone trying it on!" cried Grizel sharply, and the gay eyes sent
out a flash of fire. "My own little home!--it shall _not_ be turned
into a peep-show for a flock of curious women to criticise and quiz.
I'll give them tea, and I'll give them cake, I'll talk pretty, and put
on a tea-gown which will scare 'em into fits, but show them over the
house--_I will not_! Let's pretend the sitting-room _is_ the
drawing-room, and all will be peace and joy."
"It would leak out afterwards, and they'd feel defrauded. Half of them
will never enter the house again, darling; you won't care to pursue the
acquaintance, and it will end with an exchange of calls; but you're
rather an exceptional kind of bride, remember, and these good ladies
don't get too much amusement out of life. It would be kind of you to
give them an afternoon out! Not, of course, if it bothers _you_, but
surely the maids--"
Grizel crossed the room to the fire, and stretched a small pink,
silk-quilted shoe towards the blaze.
"If you're going to be moral, and appeal to my better feelings, you'd
better be off to your work! I detest people who air their principles at
breakfast... For two straws I'll stay in bed, and say I'm over-tired
with my journey, and can't see anyone at all. I will, too, if you
hector me any more, or I'll show 'em into the dining-room, and have a
sit-down tea, round the big table, with shrimps, and cold ham, and
potted beef..."
"They'd put it down as the latest society craze, and adopt it when they
wished to be smart... You will be one of the fashion leaders of the
neighbourhood, whether you like it or not, so you'd better take heed to
your ways. You and Lady Cassandra."
"Humph!" Grizel's eyes showed their most impish gleam. "Yes! I'm
building great hopes on Cassandra. It's dull keeping all the fun to
oneself. With her help, if she's the right sort, I'll make things hum!"
Martin told himself that it was waste of time to say any more for the
moment. Whatever he said, Grizel would contradict; whatever he
proposed, she would reject; and as what she said would have no bearing
whatever on her future conduct, the wisest plan seemed to be to kiss her
several times over, talk delicious nonsense for a couple of minutes, and
then to retire precipitately to his study. The which he proceeded to
do.
Left to herself, Grizel strolled into the half-furnished drawing-room
and seated herself on a packing box to survey the scene. Two rooms had
been thrown into one, and the windows lowered, to allow a wide view of
the garden, and so increase the feeling of space. The furniture was a
selection from the collection of antiques which she had inherited from
her aunt. Several old cabinets stood ranged along the wall ready to be
put into position, and filled with treasures still unpacked. In a
corner were rolled the old Persian rugs which would be spread over the
parquet floor. At the end of five minutes' scrutiny Grizel's quick
brain had put every article into its place, and her quick eye had seen
the completed whole, and found it good. She decided to get it finished
before lunch, and give Martin a surprise, and rang the bell to summon
the staff to her aid.
The parlourmaid appeared with alacrity. It was like living in a
novelette, to attend a bride who wore pink and white fineries in the
morning, and looked as if she had never done a hand's turn in her life.
She entered on the day's duties with a refreshing feeling of excitement.
"Please 'Um, the fish-man's called."
"Oh! has he? I can't attend to him now. Parsons!--your name is
Parsons, isn't it?--would you kindly remember that my name is not `'Um.'
It is just as easy to say Madam, and sounds far better. I want you and
Marie, and cook, to come here at once, and I'll tell you what I want
done to this room."
"At--at once, Madam?"
"Certainly, at once."
"Before I clear away?"
"What do you want to clear away?"
"The breakfast things, Madam. And,--and the fish-man can't wait."
"Tell him to call again then, later on."
"He's on his rounds, Madam. He only calls the once."
"The fishmonger be--" Grizel coughed audibly, remindful of
responsibilities towards the young. It was borne in upon her that the
moment which she had dreaded was upon her, and could no longer be
escaped. The fish-man was waiting, could not wait, could not return; it
therefore behoved the mistress of the household to repair to the kitchen
and interview the cook. She rose from the packing case, gathered her
skirts around her, and turned to the door.
"Kindly go and tell Mrs Mason that I am coming!"
Mrs Mason was on duty beside the kitchen table. Having heard from
Parsons' lips a bated account of her lady's splendour, she also was
setting forth on the day's duties with a flavour of excitement. Spread
out neatly in rows were the remains of last evening's repast. Cold
fish, cold cutlets, dishevelled chicken, half-eaten sweets. Grizel, who
had never before been called upon to interview food in _deshabille_,
turned from the sight with a shudder.
"You can use those up in the kitchen." The cook acquiesced, and
concealed her complaisance.
"And what would you like for the room?"
"In future," said Grizel firmly, "I should like the menu for the day
drawn out, ready to be submitted to me every morning."
"I have never been uzed--" began the cook, then her eyes met those of
her mistress, and to her own amazement she found herself concluding
lamely, "Of course if you wish it, 'Um, I must try! ... The fish-man is
waiting for horders."
"_Au diable avec le poissonnier_!" ejaculated Grizel _sotto voce_. She
leant back against the corner of the dresser, the tail of her white robe
folded round in front, displaying the small pink shoes to cook's
appraising eyes. Her eyes roamed here and there over the kitchen, but
studiously avoided the provisions on the table. From the region of the
back door sounded a whistle, impatient and peremptory. The cook glanced
around, glanced back at the pink and white figure standing with head on
one side, leisurely regarding the arrangement of brass on the
mantelpiece, and was goaded into the extreme course of making a
suggestion.
"P'raps... soles!"
"Oh, certainly!" cried Grizel swiftly. "Soles."
The cook ambled slowly towards the back door. Returning a moment later,
she folded her arms, and continued tentatively: "The grocer'll be next.
I ordered in the usuals yesterday--but there'll be a few extras.--I
wanted to ask, 'Um, if you allowed lard?"
"Madam," corrected Grizel sweetly, and pursed her lips, as though in
deliberation. To herself she was declaiming desperately: "Now may the
powers preserve me, ... one slip, and I am undid! What on earth does
she mean by cornering me like this? I must temporise, and lure her on."
... She stroked her nose, and said judicially:
"Of course--it depends!"
"Most ladies do," affirmed the cook. "If they're particular. It's
difficult to get it the same with dripping."
Grizel had a flash of inspiration. Lard was the superlative, dripping
the positive; naturally, then, all plain cooks angled for the former,
and all British Matrons insisted on the latter. She put on a severe air
and said firmly:
"Not if your pans are perfectly clean!" and was so overjoyed at her own
aptness, that she was ready to allow anything under the sun.
Nevertheless, the detective instinct having been born in her heart, she
was resolved, as she mentally phrased it, to track lard to the death.
Cook was staring open-eyed, a faint misgiving mingled with the former
complaisance. When a mistress began talking of keeping pans clean, she
was not so green as had been expected! Her lips set in obstinate
fashion.
"Some ladies," she said, "are so fussy about the colour. You can't help
getting it darker with dripping."
Grizel felt hopelessly that she had lost the scent. It was a desperate
position, face to face with her enemy, defenceless, yet aware that an
instant's failure must lead to wholesale debacle. "I can't tackle her
alone," she told herself desperately. "I must--I must have a
confederate!" and throwing principle to the winds, in a flash of thought
she created a fictitious Emily, and wove around her a suitable family
history. Faithful servant, perfect cook, expert dripping-er, rent by
marriage from a sorrowing mistress, now slumbering in a village grave!
With a voice imbued with the sacredness of the remembrance, she
pronounced firmly: "Emily did! She _always_ got it white."
"Oh, _rolled_!" cried the cook. The corners of her lips gave a slight
expressive twitch before she added in automatic fashion. "Yes, 'Um--
Madam,--I quite understand." She crossed the floor and took down a
slate from its nail, while Grizel made a mental note. "Lard.--Its Use
and Abuse.--Differentiate from dripping.--Why darker? Under what
circumstances should it be forbidden or allowed?"
"Soles," said the cook firmly. "And soup?"
"Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple
dinner--soup, fish, an entree, one solid course, sweets--lots of cream,
please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of
course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you'll arrange all that.
That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu
ready."
The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would
require a "rise," if they expected a party dinner every night. If
Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have
rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her
dumb.
"Soles," she repeated stolidly. "And soup. What kind of soup?"
"_Clear_!" said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly
she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed
diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched
her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but
cook cut short her retreat.
"Entree, you said, Ma'am. What kind of entree? And there's lunch. And
breakfast. To-morrow's breakfast. Would it be bacon?"
Grizel waved an impatient hand.
"Bacon certainly. And er--omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual
things one _does_ have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish,
please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of
fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We've discussed
everything, I think." She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered
face. "And I'm sure," she added daringly, "you'll manage splendidly
with dripping!"
In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie
the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in
a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a
passage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin's sanctum.
Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole.
"Martin!"
A voice from within answered with would-be sternness:
"Go away!"
"Martin... I'm sorry! Just _one_ moment... Something I _must_ ask
you.--Most important..."
"Go on, then... What is it?"
"_What--Is--Lard_?"
The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold.
"You goose! What on earth are you talking about?"
"That's just it. I don't know. And how on earth am I to find out!
I've been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or
don't I, and why should I not, and for goodness' sake _how_ does it
differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and
middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly.
I thought I'd better find out at once."
"Yes, but you mustn't come running to me for such information. I've got
to buy the lard, remember, and I shan't be able to afford it, if I'm
interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine..."
"Then she'd have a reprieve, and I'd have done a good deed. You can't
seriously have begun yet, and this is so deadly important. You might
spare five minutes to instruct your poor wife."
Grizel perched herself on the corner of the table, and tilted the
boudoir cap at a beguiling angle. Martin stood with his back to the
fire and adopted a professorial air.
"Lard," he said sententiously, "is a substance compounded of a whitey
grease, contained for the purposes of trade in balloons or bladders of
skins--"
Grizel's face showed a network of horrified lines.
"How exceedingly disagreeable! I shall certainly _not_ allow it... And
what is dripping?"
"Dripping is, er--brown! So called because it drips from the meat in
the process of cooking. It is inferior to lard, and aspires to no
bladder, but lives in odd receptacles, such as jam jars. It is supposed
to supply an unconquerable temptation to a plain cook, and there are
fiends in the shape of men, who are said to spend their life tempting
cooks to sell the dripping. Katrine used to see dripping in the eye of
every unknown man who opened the gate. I never heard her make any
allegations about lard. Does that distinction afford you any
illumination?"
Grizel sighed, and turned to the door with an air of resignation.
"Well, good-bye, my loved one! Be very good to me, for you won't have
me long. If I've got to order meals, I shall never be able to eat them.
I foresee that. I never heard so much about grease in my life. Is
there nothing decent one could use instead?"
Martin hesitated.
"I believe--sometimes--butter!"
Grizel waved a triumphant hand.
"Of course! Butter! Why couldn't you have said that before? Nice,
clean, fresh butter. I'll tell her I allow _nothing_ else. What a fuss
over nothing! ... Martin, you're wearing a green tie. I've never seen
you in green before... Darling! you're adorable in green..."