Smiling, radiant, and in her prettiest evening gown--a felicitous blend
of refinement and simplicity that the most abjectly Sarah-Jane mind
would scarcely dare to think of as a confection--my brave Letitia met me
as I returned from the sordid bread-and-butter struggle to sweet
domesticity. And I could see that the dove of peace had temporarily
descended upon my miniature household. It was Letitia of the honeymoon;
Letitia of Ovid and Cicero; Letitia, the provocative, the mutinous, the
delightful! It was no longer the Letitia of tinted Anna Carter, and
bleary Mrs. Potzenheimer, and the delicatessen dinner! I heaved a sigh
of relief as she kissed me affectionately.
"They're here, Archie," she said jubilantly, as I walked into her parlor
with elastic step, "and I had no trouble at all. Mrs. McCaffrey received
me most respectfully--she was her own best reference--and I made my
decision quickly. She has been here about an hour, and took possession
of the kitchen as though she were not a bit ashamed of it."
"Tell me all, dear," I asked hopefully, as I began to struggle into my
evening clothes all laid out on the bed for me by Letitia.
"There's nothing to conceal," declared Letitia amiably. "I was sorry you
put it into my head to ask about her husband. You remember, dear, you
insisted that he must be good and dead. And you see, I am clay in your
hands, Archie. Poor woman! She showed me a picture of his tombstone, in
an elegant gold frame, and then burst into tears. He was forty-eight,
and his name was Michael."
"And she spoke of him as Mike?" I interrupted.
"How _did_ you guess?" cried Letitia. "Yes, she did. How she cried, poor
soul! He was a drunkard, but very kind to her. I suppose there _are_
really good drunkards, Archie, as well as bad ones. We only hear of the
bad ones, yet surely some natures must be improved by alcohol.
Evidently, Mr. McCaffrey's was. He drank himself to death and, in his
last moments of delirium tremens, she heard him say brokenly, 'You can
always cook for a living, Birdie.'"
"Birdie!" I exclaimed, dropping my collar-button.
"Oh, I was very firm, Archie. I was, indeed. I quite realized the
indignity, the indelicacy of such a name for a cook. And it was not a
pet name used exclusively by her husband. She was christened Birdie, and
she showed me dozens of letters, all addressed to Mrs. Birdie
McCaffrey. I thought it best to start in a determined way, and I told
her that my husband was a dreadful crank."
"Letitia!"
"I just _said_ it, Archie, as I thought it would carry weight. I
insisted that you would never, never call her Birdie, as you were rather
old-fashioned. At first she was indignant when I suggested that we call
her Mary, and she actually asked me how you would like it if she called
you Tom. That was insolent, and I snubbed her quickly. I think I did the
novel-heroine's act. I drew myself up to my full height and rustled away
from her. She came to her senses and compromised on her second name,
which is Miriam--Birdie Miriam McCaffrey. Miriam isn't so bad, is it,
Archie? It's a bit Biblical, and has a sort of 'sound the loud timbrel'
flavor. But I've come to the conclusion that regular cooks' names are
not possible in New York, and Miriam might be worse. It's much better
than Hyacinth, or Guinevere, or Ermyntrude. Imagine calling out
'Ermyntrude, bring in the pie.' So you must really stretch a point,
Archie, and offer no objections to Miriam."
"Am I such a dreadful tyrant, Letitia?"
"You silly boy," she exclaimed laughing, "don't you think it for a
moment, dear. But with cooks, a tyrannical husband always sounds well.
I must confess that I made you out to be most overbearing, arrogant,
autocratic, and even insulting at times. You don't mind, dear. I thought
it best. A man in the house, nowadays, means nothing. Men are so weak.
But a bully--"
"I wish you wouldn't, Letitia," I said irritably, "I don't fancy being
held up as a bully. Where's the sense? And where's the fun?"
"I was not thinking of fun, dear. Please be docile, Archie, and leave
household matters to me. You won't regret it. Of course, I know that you
are not a bully, but my cooks must think that you are one, until they
find out what a meek, good-natured, foolish, old fossil of a silly old
husband you are."
With which she knotted my tie for me, shook me by my shoulders, and led
me into the drawing-room.
"The child!" I exclaimed. "You've forgotten the child. Tell me about
it."
There was no need to do so. Hardly had I spoken when the defunct Michael
McCaffrey's legacy to posterity joined us in the drawing-room. It was a
mouse-colored little brat, with hair that looked like blankets, watery
eyes that seemed to be edged with pink tape, a sticky face and hands,
the dirtiness of which would probably be called picturesque in Italy,
and in somebody else's drawing-room, and the delightful aspect of those
dear little things that play about the gutters of the east side. Its
nose was disgusting, and when I say that I do not refer to the shape of
the organ. The child ran up immediately to a green velvet ottoman and
began affectionately rubbing it the wrong way with the sticky hands.
"Ga-ga!" it said. "Ga-ga! Ga-ga!"
"Come away!" I cried, scenting the ruin of the ottoman.
"Come here, dear," said Letitia gently, but the child paid not the
slightest heed. "I hadn't seen it before, Archie, as it was playing in
the street when I called on Mrs. McCaffrey. It isn't--it isn't"--in a
disappointed tone--"it isn't a bit cute."
"Ga-ga! Ga-ga!" shouted the brat.
"Mrs. McCaffrey must not allow the child to run wild," I said sternly.
"We can't do with it in the drawing-room, Letitia. It must stay with its
mother. You must insist upon that. It is certainly not an ornament to a
room. A little cold water and some soap--"
"I wonder if it is a boy or a girl," mused Letitia, as she pulled the
hands of the brat from the green velvet ottoman to which they stuck.
"Mrs. McCaffrey didn't tell me. How _can_ I find out?"
"Ask Miriam," I said sarcastically. "She ought to know."
"You can always tell whether cats are gentlemen or ladies by the shape
of the head," Letitia went on irrelevantly, "but children are puzzles.
This dirty little thing looks like a boy, Archie. I'm quite sure that it
can't be a girl. I forgot to ask, and we really ought to know, don't you
think?"
At that moment a loud voice was heard calling, "Letitia! Letitia!" And
then: "Letitia! Where on earth is Letitia?" For a minute after there was
dead silence. Letitia flushed, and an expression of violent anger dawned
upon her face. I was too amazed to say anything. After what my wife had
told me of Mrs. McCaffrey's bitter antipathy to a change of name, this
looked like revenge. She undoubtedly proposed to show Letitia that she
had no intention of changing _her_ name. The child ran quickly to its
mother, and we were left alone, in a tumult of astonishment.
"You must go and veto that, instantly, Letitia," I asserted gravely.
"Stop it at once, before--before she calls me Archie. She'll do it. I
know she will."
"You go," pleaded Letitia in fervent tones. "Do it for me, Archie. I've
done so much."
"No," I declared relentlessly, "I will not interfere in household
matters. You have asked me not to do so. You can tell her again that I
am a bully, and a tyrant, and anything you choose. It sounds well, you
know. You can put it all down to me, and inform her that if she dares to
use your Christian name again she can depart to No. 33 Sixth Avenue, up
one flight--or two flights--or any number of flights."
Letitia scarcely waited until I had finished my chaste remarks. She flew
out of the room as though she had been shot, with the evident intention
of striking while the iron was heated. I closed the door because I had
no desire to hear. Perhaps it was an act of cowardice on my part, but,
after all, Letitia herself absolved me from implicating myself in these
matters. She had asked me to leave everything to her, and I had no
intention of thwarting her in this instance.
She returned presently, looking completely relieved. There was even a
smile upon her lips.
"How silly we were, Archie!" she said, sinking into a chair, "and how
ready we were to think the worst of a poor, hard-working woman. She
wasn't calling me at all. She heard the child in the drawing-room, and
was calling the child. It _is_ a girl, Archie, and its name is Letitia."
"Letitia!" I gasped. "That beastly, sticky, obnoxious little imp is
named Letitia?"
"Is it such a fearful name?" she asked quickly. "I can't say you are
complimentary, Archie. Of course, Mrs. McCaffrey didn't know that the
child was going to be 'beastly,' 'sticky,' and 'obnoxious' when she
called it Letitia. How should she? I felt quite amused, as it is such a
strange name to have selected. And yet, it is not at all an
extraordinary name when you come to think of it. I know several
Letitias, and I have read of many more."
"Do be sensible, my girl," I said, trying to be patient. "Surely you
must see that we can't have this woman calling Letitia all over the
house, when it happens to be the name of the mistress."
"But what's to be done?" she asked. "If you are going to suggest that I
ask Mrs. McCaffrey to change her daughter's name to Eliza, or Susan, or
Sarah--well, I simply decline. Nothing on earth would induce me to do
it. I made her consent to be known as Miriam, instead of Birdie, which
was quite an undertaking. No more of it for me, thank you. I've finished
juggling with these baptismal arrangements. You are most unreasonable.
What difference can it make? As long as I don't mind, I can't see why
you object. And--and--if there must be a change of name, I'd sooner
change mine. Yes, I would, Archie. You can call me Sarah, or Eliza, or
Susan, if you like. But I will _not_ ask Mrs. McCaffrey to forego the
pleasure of calling her own child by its own legitimate name."
"I certainly shall _never_ call you Eliza, Letitia," I protested
indignantly, "I loathe all those names. If you had been called Eliza, or
Sarah, or Susan--or even Kate--I wouldn't have married you. I feel very
strongly on the subject. Please don't suggest such ridiculous things."
"Well," said Letitia, and the tears rose to her eyes, "can't you--can't
you--address me as 'dear,' or 'love,' as much as possible? You are
awfully fond of calling me 'my girl,' you know. It would simplify
matters so much, if you could do this, Archie. Please do. It can't be
difficult, as you do it so frequently, and now when you know that it is
really necessary--"
"It seems such a dreadful shame to give up the name of Letitia, which is
charming, just for the sake of this woman's squalid little cub. It's an
outrage. I'm surprised at you, my girl."
"There! You said 'my girl,'" she cried triumphantly. "Now, wasn't it
easy?'
"I didn't know I said it," was my stern rejoinder, "and I assure you
that I don't intend to make any point of it. I shall do as I choose and,
anyway, if that brat is kept out of sight and hearing--and that you must
insist upon--we shall not be seriously inconvenienced. The lower
classes to-day are simply impossible. They--"
"Hush, Archie!" said Letitia earnestly. "You forget that there are no
lower classes. You are in the United States, and not in England. Try and
remember that Michael McCaffrey's child is just as suited to the name of
Letitia, as is the wife of Archibald Fairfax, a gentleman who is still
silly enough to tack an 'Esq.' to his name."
"Dinner's on table," said a rich, Hibernian voice at the door, and we
guiltily stopped short. Mrs. McCaffrey stood there eying me
contemplatively, and even from the cursory glance she was able to take,
I felt perfectly sure that she instantly realized the fact that
Letitia's stories of the bully and tyrant that dominated the household,
were undoubted myths. She was a large lady, neatly dressed. Indications
seemed to point to her possession of what is popularly known as a
"temper." And perhaps the late Mr. Michael McCaffrey was fully aware of
what he was doing when he drank himself to death.
It was a cozy little dinner of barley soup, very appetizing; a tender
chicken, ably accompanied with parsley sauce; vegetables, and a fruit
pie. But its enjoyment was effectually marred by the circumstance that
Miriam was accompanied to the dining-room by Letitia, who was growing
peevish, and whose "Ga-ga!" simply got on my nerves. It was most
discouraging. Tugging at cook's apron incessantly, Letitia junior was an
irritating obstruction. We could scarcely hear ourselves talk for the
perpetual "Ga-ga!" in the kitchen, and out of it. It was all that the
cub could say. Mrs. McCaffrey would exclaim indulgently, "Be quiet,
Letitia!" And then, for a moment, my wife would look at her in
amazement, while I bit my lip in vexation. I was unable to decide as to
whether Anna Carter's delicatessen dinner, without "Ga-ga!" was superior
or inferior to Mrs. McCaffrey's comfortable meal with it. It was a nice
point, and one that called for a deft and finely calculated judgment.
"I've got two Letitias now to wait on, I see," said cook pleasantly, as
she brought in the pie, while the child looked at it covetously and said
"Ga-ga!"
"And if you could manage to keep one of them in the kitchen, my good
woman," I plucked up courage enough to say, "we should appreciate it."
This was a mistake on my part. A few seconds later, doleful sounds
proceeded from Mrs. McCaffrey's region. We heard her slapping the child,
and alluding to it as a plague, and--that settled Letitia.
"Now see what you've done," she said, casting indignant glances at me.
"You have positively driven the poor mother to abuse her own child. You
are countenancing cruelty. I couldn't stand it for a moment, Archie. The
child has done nothing. It has merely followed cook into this room,
which was quite natural. It has said nothing."
"Pardon me," I interrupted, in vexation, "it has said 'Ga-ga!' It has
said 'Ga-ga!' persistently, and while you may consider that enlivening,
Letitia, I don't. If I had a child of my own, nothing on earth would
induce me to allow it to say 'Ga-ga!' It is most disheartening."
"Well, I shall teach it to say something prettier," Letitia declared. "I
admit that 'Ga-ga!' isn't cunning, all the time. Once or twice, perhaps,
it is not amiss. In the meantime, if Mrs. McCaffrey slaps little
Letitia--my namesake, isn't she, Archie?--out of the house she goes. I'd
sooner she ill-treated big Letitia. And you are so tender-hearted that I
wonder you can sit there so quietly--like a--like a--monster--"
Letitia rose and went into the kitchen. I fancied that I heard her
kissing Mrs. McCaffrey's cub, but I could not be sure--and preferred
_not_ to be sure. It was a point upon which I desired no illumination.
It was one of the many things that it is better not to know. Sullenly, I
finished my dinner alone, while Letitia talked with cook. It seemed like
an endless conversation. These kitchen interludes began to pall upon
me. Letitia was either putting a cook to bed or discussing maternity
with her. There seemed to be no escape from this preposterous condition
of affairs. If I had slapped Letitia, Mrs. McCaffrey would probably have
been up in arms about Christian principles. However, it was like the
case of my old Oxford servant, before mentioned, who was such a
Christian that he used to beat his wife punctually at ten o'clock every
night. Not that she minded in the least. My own opinion is that she
liked it, as Mrs. McCaffrey's child probably did. In this, as in many
other matters, there is no accounting for taste.
I went moodily to the drawing-room and smoked viciously. I made "rings,"
and watched them dissolve in the atmosphere. I contrasted what was, with
what should be. The scene lacked the placid picture of Letitia reading
Cicero beneath the rosy lamplight. Letitia was haranguing a cook and her
husband was temporarily forgotten. No wonder that I felt bitter, and
brooded over the unsolved enigma known as the "servant question."
When Letitia joined me, she led in the dirty brat by the hand. The
juvenile McCaffrey had evidently been washed. There was a line round its
neck that showed the limit of the operation. It had a sugar stick in
its mouth, which mercifully excluded "Ga-ga!" from utterance. Letitia
seemed rather thoughtful, and came up to me gently.
"I'm sorry if I spoke harshly," she said, kissing me, "but--but--things
do seem to go so wrong, dear, don't they? I told Mrs. McCaffrey never to
touch her child again, and I asked her about her Christian principles."
"Good!" I exclaimed savagely.
"She was rather surprised, and a trifle impertinent, and thought that
ladies without children should not offer advice to mothers. From a few
remarks that she let drop unconsciously, I couldn't help thinking,
Archie, that she has had other children--plenty of them--dozens--"
"Let us hope that they are dead," I said, in the quietude of despair.
"Anyway, they don't matter, do they, as they are not here? Certainly,
Archie, I don't see why she shouldn't have had other children. Letitia
doesn't look to me like a first-born. She suggests the end of a long
scale--the culmination of a series. I don't know why. It doesn't concern
us, though. I have offered to take care of the child this evening as
Mrs. McCaffrey is going to see a sister who lives in Tremont. I
couldn't well refuse, could I? We are not going out."
"Oh, hang it!" I cried. "An evening of 'Ga-ga!' You might have
considered _me_. It is all very well to think so much of Mrs. McCaffrey.
But, of course, _I_ haven't a sister in Tremont, and _I've_ got to stay
in and face the music."
"Archie! Archie!" Letitia pleaded, "you are getting to be a regular old,
discontented, married man. You are beginning to talk to me as though--as
though I irritated you, and you couldn't stand me. Oh, dear! I should
never, never have thought that merely on account of a cook--"
"Of three cooks!" I insisted.
Letitia turned away from me, looking miserable, and my heart smote me.
The only thing to do was to make the best of it, after all. I had a
particular objection to degenerating into an ogre-husband, and probably
I had been exceedingly cross. Yet this situation was not due to Letitia
any more than it was to me. It was due to the probably noisome Mr.
McCaffrey, now defunct. He was responsible for the abominable child, and
had gone peacefully to his rest without a qualm. Even cook, herself, was
powerless. Domesticity was not all beer and skittles. So I smiled, and
tried to look pleasantly at the brat. It was not an easy task,
especially when I heard the front door shut and realized that the
cook-parent was on her way to Tremont, and our fate was "Ga-ga!" until
bed did us part. The child was eating the sugar sticks avidly, and was
refreshingly tranquil and silent. I took up an evening paper, hoping for
the best; Letitia made a feint at Ovid with one eye on the juvenile
McCaffrey.
This did not last long. The brat grew restless and wandered
disconsolately around the room, leaving traces of sticky fingers
everywhere. Letitia merely pretended to read; I could see that. She
followed the child around with one eye, but said nothing, probably
unwilling to disturb me. Poor Letitia! The idea that she was frightened
of me was appalling. I could never endure that. I tried to lose myself
in absorbing stories of fires, and abductions, and murders. The murders
seemed particularly lively--almost sporty. Then I made up my mind to be
good-natured and was even planning a game of hide-and-seek, or
blindman's-buff, or hunt-the-slipper with Letitia and the McCaffrey cub,
when my good intentions were shattered.
The child began to yell. It put its finger in its mouth and shouted.
Great tears rolled down its cheeks. Its face was distorted. It threw
itself down on the tiger-head and commenced to kick. The room was
filled with this alarming demonstration. Letitia rose, her face white; I
stood up suddenly, aghast at the din.
"Great goodness!" cried Letitia in consternation. "It is a fit, I
think--or a convulsion--or a paralytic stroke. What's to be done,
Archie? Suppose--suppose--it dies before Mrs. McCaffrey gets back? Oh,
if I were only a mother, I should know what to do. Why--I wonder why I'm
not a mother!"
We were both kneeling beside the child, who was still shouting blue
murders. Letitia lifted it up and held it upon her lap. I don't know
what I did. I fancy I stroked a head--but I don't know whether it was
Letitia's or the child's. To add to the complexity of the situation the
front-door bell rang, and I was obliged, in this cookless emergency, to
go to the door. Mrs. Archer had called to know what was the matter, and
to ask if she could be of any assistance. She followed me into the
drawing-room, and, as well as I could, I explained the case. Letitia,
herself, was almost hysterical and was unable to greet the newcomer, or
to introduce me formally to her sister victim in the Potzenheimer
incident.
"There's nothing at all the matter with the child," declared Mrs. Archer
authoritatively, after a cursory examination. "It's just fractious,
Mrs. Fairfax. See--how all the time, it is pointing to that cabinet with
the little Indian ivory ornaments in it. It is merely crying for the
ornaments. Just try it. I bet that if you open that cabinet all this
agony will cease."
For a moment I thought our neighbor was joking. The obstreperous
lamentations, the blood-curdling howls, the violent convulsions of
distress could only have proceeded from dire physical anguish. Letitia,
upon whose forehead the beads of perspiration stood in horrid salience,
put the child down, and in a frenzied manner rushed to the little
mahogany inlaid cabinet with the glass doors. The key was in the lock
and she turned it quickly. The door flew open, revealing a little ivory
doll, a wheel-barrow, a pagoda, a horse, a chess-table, a group of
animals, three Indian gentlemen in summer garb, and a whole stand of
pretty little Indian treasures that an uncle of mine had once bought in
Calcutta.
The screams of the child suddenly ceased. The flux of tears was
instantly stayed. The wild moans no longer rent the atmosphere. It got
up on its feet, in the twinkling of a double bedpost, as it were, and
with a whoop of joy, scampered to the ivory collection.
"Ga-ga!" it cried. "Ga-ga!"
"Oh, Mrs. Archer!" almost sobbed Letitia in an ecstasy of gratitude--and
to my horror she kissed the stranger on both cheeks (and she had never
been introduced)--"you've saved us--you've saved us! Oh, I thought it
was dying--that perhaps the candy had poisoned it--and that when cook
returned, all we should have to hand her would be a corpse."
"A very badly brought up child, Mrs. Fairfax," was Mrs. Archer's solemn
comment. "What it really needed was a good spanking."
"Oh, no," exclaimed Letitia, "never. Corporal punishment is so
detestable, and so uncivilized. And for a mere baby! The mother slapped
it while we were at dinner, and I gave her a piece of my mind."
"Well, now you are going to give the child several pieces of your
collection," Mrs. Archer said airily--she seemed to be a most sensible
and worthy woman--"and, of course, if you don't mind, it is all right.
Personally, I never believe in spoiling children. But--well I am so glad
it is nothing more than temper, dear Mrs. Fairfax, and dear Mr. Fairfax.
I fancied that perhaps a murder was being committed, and although Mr.
Archer warned me not to implicate myself in such matters--he is a very
suspicious man, is Mr. Archer--I felt that common decency necessitated
my giving you any assistance that lay in my poor power."
Mrs. Archer discreetly withdrew, and I mixed a glass of weak
whisky-and-water for Letitia, who was still quite limp from the fray. We
were both of us inordinately thankful, for what had seemed like a
tragedy was averted.
"Only to think," remarked Letitia, haply restored to serenity, "that I
know so little about children. I positively don't deserve to have any.
This is really an experience, Archie, isn't it? Such a terrible
commotion all hushed up by a few ivory trifles."
We looked at the cabinet. It had been rifled of its contents. The "few
ivory trifles" were all over the floor. The tiny wheel-barrow had been
robbed of its wheels; the pagoda was even then in process of smash; the
dainty little chess-table had a leg missing. But the McCaffrey cub was
joyous and smiling, and as we approached it, called out "Ga-ga!"
"Uncle Ben said they were very valuable, Letitia," I remarked rather
wearily. "One or two of them, he told me, could never be duplicated. The
work is very fine and artistic."
"Ga-ga!" cried the brat, as it tore off another leg from the
chess-table. "Ga-ga!"
"It _is_ rather cute when it's pleased," Letitia declared, smiling in
spite of the devastation. "Any way, Uncle Ben's present has been very
useful, Archie. Nobody ever really looked into that cabinet, and it is
in a dark corner of the room. I can put in a few little oddments from
the five-and-ten-cent store, and they will look very well behind glass,
and we can always say that Uncle Ben brought them to us from Bombay--or
was it Calcutta?"
We sat there placidly and watched the ruthless destruction of the Indian
treasures, anxious that they should not pall upon the McCaffrey darling.
Letitia, I am quite certain, was prepared to break up the piano and give
the pieces to the cub to play with, if necessary. But peace seemed more
than usually delightful. Only once did another outbreak appear possible.
It was when, at eleven o'clock, Letitia suggested that the child be put
to bed. A mournful howl was wafted from the cabinet, and we decided to
take no risks.
Just before midnight, Mrs. McCaffrey was sighted by Letitia at the
window, and a delightful sense of security became ours.
"I shall tell her," said Letitia, before opening the door, "that we have
had a fearful time, and have been beside ourselves, so to speak."
And as the amiable Hibernian came in, and we delivered over the child to
her, Letitia explained the situation, adding that we had been horribly
alarmed and distressed.
"Oh, it's nothing," said Mrs. McCaffrey indulgently. "Letitia's often
taken like that. She has a bad temper, like her father. Don't pay any
attention to her again, Mrs. Fairfax. Just let her howl. She won't mind
it."