NEVER quarrel at breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their
wives. Partings in anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally
involve telephone calls later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated
maraschino cherries carried home on the 5.18. Marriage (say the
philosophers) is a subdivision of the penal code, dedicated to the
proposition that men and women are created equal. But the studious
observer of matrimonial feints and skirmishes sees very little to verify
that daring surmise.
Harry Bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. Its savour had
departed: for ninety seconds earlier Mrs. Bennett had fled upstairs in
a flush of anger and tears. In five minutes he would have to run for the
train; and what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? He ate
his toast without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation
Copenhagen china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big
silver coffee-urn.
The desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. Why should
he have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the
least savagery of his own was cause for tears?
He rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. The bedroom door was
locked. Compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels.
Then he ran hotly for the train.
It seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by
reason. Harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was
at the bottom of all their squabbles.
Before Elaine Addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there
had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional
bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic
trappings of a home.
Aubrey Andrews was the rival warrior. He was the kind of man who always
has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. Harry's
hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket This may
seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men.
Aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to
expensive clubs. It was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach
of financial worries. He kept a horse and easy office hours.
Harry--well, Harry was no aristocrat. He worked hard for what he got,
and didn't get much. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed.
But he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's
surprise, including his own, he got Elaine.
Tennyson had a good deal to do with it, I think. Harry still read
Tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and
kept on repeating what Tennyson said about Elaine. And finally Elaine
could not help saying, “My Lancelot!” and melting into his arms.
Aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present,
and presently enlisted for service, first on the Mexican border and then
in France, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in
Elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days.
That coffee-urn was a stunner! It was far the handsomest thing in the
little suburban house, except, of course, Elaine herself. Beneath its
shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept
the coffee hot. Elaine's initials--her maiden initials--were engraved
upon it, and those of the donor: E. A. A. A. The hand of the insidious
silversmith had twined the A's together very gracefully.
Every time he looked at it, Harry felt subconsciously irritated,
although he hardly realized why.
It stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in
the pretty dining room. It was Elaine's particular pride, and was used
only on special occasions. Often it was brought out for the little
celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. And,
curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. The
polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to
Elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she
would like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the
wedding presents sent by _her_ friends and _his;_ or Harry would make
some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some
other husband might have.
Alas! Something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed Aubrey seemed
to radiate from his urn. Can a coffee-um hypnotize? Grotesque as it
appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of
silver was marring many an otherwise happy hour.
*****
All the way to town in the smoking car, Harry's mind rotated savagely
about their absurd tiff.
Let's see, how was it? He had said: “I'm sorry, dearest; I shall have to
be rather late tonight. The head of my department is away, and I've
got an extra lot of work to do.” She said: “Oh, dear--oh, dear! Then
we sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” He said: “We can go
next week, Brownie.” She said: “Something horrid always happens when we
have this coffee-urn on the table.”
(N. B. Right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have
put on an extra soft pedal. But did he? Not a bit. As soon as the urn
was mentioned his eyes began to flash.)
“Well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” She said: “Any one
might think you were jealous of it. It's the only handsome piece of
silver I've got.”
Here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger:
“I'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be
done.” She said: “Why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to
work late? I could have arranged to go and see Mother.” He said: “Oh,
well, everything I do is always wrong, anyway! I suppose if I could buy
you a roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.”
And after that it was not far to the deluge. All conducted according
to the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven
stages of repartee outlined by Touchstone, which should never be
forgotten by those happily married: