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[Illustration: _Scene from the Play_ THE INSPECTION OF THE SERVANTS.
_Act I_]
COME OUT
OF THE KITCHEN
_A ROMANCE_
BY
ALICE DUER MILLER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
PAUL MEYLAN
AND
SCENES FROM THE PLAY
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1916, by
The Century Co.
Copyright, 1915, by
International Magazine Company
(HARPER'S BAZAR)
_Published, April, 1916_
COME OUT
OF THE KITCHEN!
I
THE window of Randolph Reed's office was almost completely covered by
magnificent gold block lettering. This to any one who had time and
ability to read it--and the former was more common in the community than
the latter--conveyed the information that Reed dealt in every kind of
real estate, from country palaces to city flats. The last item was put
in more for the sake of symmetry than accuracy, for the small Southern
town contained nothing approaching an apartment house.
From behind this pattern of gold, Reed peered eagerly one autumn
afternoon, chewing the end of a frayed cigar, and listening for the
sound of a motor. He was a stout young man, of an amiable though
unreadable countenance, but like many people of a heavy build, he was
capable of extreme quickness of movement. This was never more clearly
shown than when, about four o'clock, the wished for sound actually
reached his ears. A motor was approaching.
With a bound Reed left the window, and, seated at his desk, presented in
the twinkling of an eye the appearance of a young American business man,
calm and efficient, on an afternoon of unusual business pressure. He
laid papers in piles, put them in clips and took them out, snapped
rubber bands about them with frenzied haste, and finally seizing a pen,
he began to indite those well-known and thrilling words: "Dear Sir:
Yours of the 15th instant received and contents--" when the motor drew
up before his door.
It was an English car; all green and nickel; it moved like an expert
skater on perfect ice. As it stopped, the chauffeur dropped from his
place beside the driver. The driver himself, removing his glasses,
sprang from the car and up the office steps, slapping the pockets of his
coat as he did so in a search which soon appeared to be for cigarettes
and matches.
"Sorry to be late," he said.
Reed, who had looked up as one who did not at once remember, in his vast
preoccupation, either his visitor or his business, now seemed to recall
everything. He waved the newcomer to a chair, with a splendid gesture.
"Doubtless the roads," he began.
"Roads!" said the other. "Mud-holes. No, we left Washington later than I
intended. Well, have you got the house for me?"
Reed offered his client a cigar.
"No, thank you, prefer my cigarette if you don't mind."
Reed did not mind in the least. The real estate business in Vestalia was
never brilliant, and several weeks' profits might easily have been
expended in one friendly smoke.
His client was a man under thirty, of a type that used to be considered
typically American--that is to say, Anglo-Saxon, modified by a century
or so of New England climate and conscience. His ancestors had been
sailors, perhaps, and years of exposure had tanned their skins and left
their eyes as blue as ever. His movements had the gentleness
characteristic of men who are much with horses, and though he was
active and rather lightly built, he never was sudden or jerky in any
gesture. Something of this same quietness might be detected in his
mental attitude. People sometimes thought him hesitating or undecided on
questions about which his mind was irrevocably made up. He took a
certain friendly interest in life as a whole, and would listen with such
patience to an expression of opinion that the expresser of it was often
surprised to find the opinion had had no weight with him, whatsoever.
He stood now, listening with the politest attention to Reed's somewhat
flowery description of the charms of the Revelly house--charms which
Crane himself had examined in the minutest detail.
"Never before," exclaimed the real estate agent, in a magnificent
peroration, "never before has the splendid mansion been rented--"
"Ah," said Crane with a smile, "I believe you there."
"Never been offered for rent," corrected the real estate agent, with a
cough. "Its delightful colonial flavor--"
"Its confounded dilapidation," said the prospective tenant.
"Its boxwood garden, its splendid lawns, its stables, accommodating
twenty-five horses--"
"Yes, if they don't lean up against the sides."
Reed frowned.
"If," he remarked with a touch of pride, "you do not want the house--"
The young man of the motor car laughed good-temperedly.
"I thought we had settled all that last week," he said. "I do want the
house; I do appreciate its beauties; I do not consider it in good
repair, and I continue to think that the price for six weeks is very
high. Have the owners come down?"
Reed frowned again.
"I thought I made it clear, on my part," he answered, "that Mr. and Mrs.
Revelly are beyond the reach of communication. They are on their way to
Madeira. Before they left they set the price on their house, and I can
only follow their instructions. Their children--there are four
children--"
"Good heavens, I don't have to rent them with the house, do I?"
exclaimed the other frivolously.
The real estate agent colored, probably from annoyance.
"No, Mr. Crane," he answered proudly, "you do not, as far as I know,
have to do anything you do not wish to do. What I was about to say was
that the children have no authority to alter the price determined by
their parents. To my mind, however, it is not a question of absolute
value. There is no doubt that you can find newer and more conveniently
appointed houses in the hunting district--certainly cheaper ones, if
price be such an object. But the Revelly family--one of the most
aristocratic families south of Mason and Dixon's, sir--would not be
induced to consider renting under the sum originally named."
"It's pretty steep," said the young man, but his mild tone already
betrayed him. "And how about servants?"
"Ah," said Reed, looking particularly mask-like, "servants! That has
been the great difficulty. To guarantee domestic service that will
satisfy your difficult Northern standards--"
"I am fussy about only two things," said Crane, "cooking and boots. Must
have my boots properly done."
"If you could have brought your own valet--"
"But I told you he has typhoid fever. Now, see here, Mr. Reed, there
really isn't any use wasting my time and yours. If you have not been
able to get me a staff of servants with the house, I wouldn't dream of
taking it. I thought we had made that clear."
Reed waved his impatient client again to his chair.
"There are at this moment four well-recommended servants yonder in the
back office, waiting to be interviewed."
"By me?" exclaimed Crane, looking slightly alarmed.
Reed bowed.
"I wish first, however," he went on, "to say a word or two about
them. I obtained them with the greatest difficulty, from the
Crosslett-Billingtons, of whom you have doubtless often heard."
"Never in my life," said Crane.
Reed raised his eyebrows.
"He is one of our most distinguished citizens. His collection of
tapestry, his villa at Capri--Ah, well, but that is immaterial! The
family is now abroad, and has in consequence consented, as a personal
favor to me, to allow you to take over four of their servants for the
six weeks you will be here, but not a minute longer."
Crane leaned back and blew smoke in the air.
"Are they any good?" he asked.
"You must judge for yourself."
"No, you must tell me."
"The butler is a competent person; the skill of the cook is a
proverb--but we had better have them come in and speak to you
themselves."
"No, by Jove!" cried Crane, springing to his feet. "I don't think I
could stand that." And he incontinently rushed from the office to the
motor, where three mummy-like figures on the back seat had remained
immovable during his absence.
Of these, two were female and one male. To the elder of the women, Crane
applied, hat in hand.
"Won't you give me the benefit of your advice, Mrs. Falkener," he said.
"The agent has some servants for me. The wages and everything like that
have all been arranged, but would you mind just looking them over for me
and telling me what you think about them?"
To invite Mrs. Falkener to give her advice on a detail of household
management was like inviting a duck to the pond. She stepped with a
queen-like dignity from the car. She was a commanding woman who swam
through life, borne up by her belief in her own infallibility. To be
just, she was very nearly infallible in matters of comfort and domestic
arrangement, and it was now many years since she had given attention to
anything else in the world. She was a thorough, able and awe-inspiring
woman of fifty-three.
Now she moved into Reed's office, with motor-veils and dusters floating
about her, like a solid wingless victory, and sat down in Randolph
Reed's own chair. (It was part of her philosophy never to interview a
social inferior until she herself was seated.) With a slight gesture of
her gloved hand, she indicated that the servants might be admitted to
her presence.
The door to the back office opened and the four candidates entered. The
first was the butler, a man slightly younger in years than most of
those careworn functionaries. He came forward with a quick, rapid step,
turning his feet out and walking on his toes. Only Mrs. Falkener
recognized that it was the walk of a perfect butler. She would have
engaged him on the spot, but when she noted that his hair was parted
from forehead back to the line of his collar and brushed slightly
forward in front of his ears, she experienced a feeling of envy and for
the first time thought with dissatisfaction of the paragon she had left
in charge of her own pantry at home.
She did indeed ask him a question or two, just to assure herself of his
English intonation, which, it must be owned, a residence in the South
had slightly influenced. And then with a start she passed on to the next
figure--the cook.
On her the eyes of her future employer had already been fixed since the
door first opened, and it would be hardly possible to exaggerate the
effect produced by her appearance. She might have stepped from a
Mid-Victorian Keepsake, or Book of Beauty. She should have worn
eternally a crinoline and a wreath of flowers; her soft gray-blue eyes,
her little bowed mouth, her slim throat, should have been the subject of
a perpetual steel engraving. She was small, and light of bone, and her
hands, crossed upon her check apron (for she was in her working dress),
were so little and soft that they seemed hardly capable of lifting a pot
or kettle.
Mrs. Falkener expressed the general sentiment exactly when she gasped:
"And you are the cook?"
The cook, whose eyes had been decorously fixed upon the floor, now
raised them, and sweeping one rapid glance across both her employer and
the speaker, whispered discreetly:
"Yes, ma'am."
"What is your name?"
And at this question a curious thing happened. The butler and Reed
answered simultaneously. Only, the butler said "Jane," and Reed, with
equal conviction, said "Ellen."
Ignoring this seeming contradiction, the cook fixed her dove-like glance
on Mrs. Falkener and answered:
"My name is Jane-Ellen, ma'am."
It was impossible for even as conscientious a housekeeper as Mrs.
Falkener to be really severe with so gentle a creature, but she
contrived to say, with a certain sternness:
"I should like to see your references, Jane-Ellen."
"Oh, I'm sure that will be all right, Mrs. Falkener," said Crane
hastily. He had never removed his eyes from the face of his future cook.
But Jane-Ellen, with soft gestures of those ridiculous hands, was
already unfolding a paper, and now handed it to Mrs. Falkener.
That lady took it and held it off at arm's length while she read it.
"And who," she asked, turning to Reed, "is this Claudia Revelly? Mrs.
Revelly, I suppose?"
"Why, no," answered Reed. "No, as I told you, Mrs. Revelly is in Madeira
with her husband. This is one of the Miss Revellys."
"Humph," replied Mrs. Falkener. "It is a flattering reference, but in my
time the word 'recommend' was spelled with only one 'c.'"
The cook colored slightly and flashed a glance that might have been
interpreted as reproachful at Reed, who said hastily:
"Ah, yes, quite so. You know--the fact is--our Southern aristocracy--the
Revellys are among our very--However, there can be no question whatever
about Jane-Ellen's ability. You will, I can assure you from personal
experience, be satisfied with her cooking. Mrs. Crosslett-Billington--"
"Humph!" said Mrs. Falkener again, as one who does not mean to commit
herself. "We shall see. Let the housemaid come a little forward."
At this a young woman advanced; she bore a certain resemblance of
feature to the butler, but entirely lacked his competent alertness.
"This young woman looks to me sullen," Mrs. Falkener observed to Crane,
hardly modulating her clear, dry tone of voice.
Crane betrayed his embarrassment. He wished now that he had not invited
his elderly friend's coöperation.
"Oh," he said, "I'm sure it will be all right. It must be a trifle
annoying to be looked over like this."
"The best way to settle this sort of thing is at the start," replied
Mrs. Falkener, and turning to the housemaid, she asked her her name.
"Lily," replied the young woman, in a deep voice of annoyance.
"Lily," said Mrs. Falkener, as if this were a most unsuitable name for a
housemaid, and she looked up at Crane to confirm her opinion, but he was
again looking at the cook and did not notice her.
"Well, Lily," continued the elder lady, as if she made a distinct
concession in making use of such a name at all in addressing a servant,
"do you or do you not want to take this place? There is, I suppose,
nothing to compel you to take it if you do not want. But now is the time
to say so."
Lily, with a manner that did seem a little ungracious, replied that she
did want it, and added, on receiving a quick glance from the butler,
Smithfield, "Madame."
"Well, then," said Mrs. Falkener, becoming more condescending, "we shall
expect a more pleasant demeanor from you, a spirit of coöperation.
Nothing is more trying for yourself or your fellow servants--"
Reed moved forward and whispered in Mrs. Falkener's ear:
"It will straighten out of itself, my dear madame--nothing but a little
embarrassment--a _grande dame_ like yourself, you understand me, a
tremendous impression on a young woman of this sort--"
Mrs. Falkener interrupted him.
"What is the name of the boy in the corner?" she asked.
At this, a round-faced lad of perhaps eighteen sprang forward. The most
striking items of his costume were a red neckerchief and a green baize
apron and leggings, giving to his appearance a slight flavor of a
horse-boy in an illustration to Dickens.
"I, ma'am," he said, with a strong cockney accent, "am the Useful Boy,
as they say in the States."
"He's very good at doing boots," said Reed.
"Boots," cried the boy, and kissing his hand he waved it in the air with
a gesture we have been accustomed to think of as continental rather
than British, "a boot, particularly a riding-boot, is to me--"
"What is your name?" Mrs. Falkener asked, and this time the severity of
her manner was unmistakable.
It did not, however, dampen the enthusiasm of the last candidate.
"My name, ma'am," he replied, "is B-r-i-n-d-l-e-b-u-r-y."
"Brindlebury?"
"Pronounced, 'Brinber'--the old Sussex name with which, ma'am, I have no
doubt you, as a student of history--"
Mrs. Falkener turned to Crane.
"I think you will have trouble with that boy," she said. "He is inclined
to be impertinent."
Crane looked at the boy over her head, and the boy, out of a pair of
twinkling gray eyes, looked back. They both managed to look away again
before a smile had been actually exchanged, but Crane found himself
making use for the third time of his favorite formula:
"Oh, I think I'll find him all right."
Mrs. Falkener, remembering the pitiable weakness of men, again waved her
hand.
"They may go now," she said to Reed, who hastily shepherded the four
back again into the back office. When they were alone, she turned to
Crane and said with the utmost conviction:
"My dear Burton, none of those servants will do--except the butler, who
appears to be a thoroughly competent person. But those young women--they
may have been anything. Did you not observe that their nails had been
manicured?"
Crane stammered slightly, for the fact had not escaped him, in
connection, at least, with one of the young women.
"Don't--don't cooks ever manicure their nails?" he said. "It seems
rather a good idea to me."
Reed, who was once more approaching, caught these last words.
"Ah," he said, "you were speaking of the manicuring of servants'
nails--"
Mrs. Falkener gave him a severe look.
"I was advising Mr. Crane not to engage any one but the butler."
"Indeed, how very interesting," said Reed. "Your judgment in the matter
is very valuable, madame, I know, but perhaps you do not sufficiently
emphasize the difficulties of getting any servants at all in this part
of the country. In fact, I could not undertake, if these are not
engaged--"
"Well, I could," said the lady. "I could telegraph to New York to my own
intelligence office and have three really competent people here by
to-morrow evening."
For a moment Reed looked profoundly distressed, and then he went on:
"Exactly, I have no doubt, madame. But what I was about to say was that
I could not undertake to rent the Revelly house to a staff of unknown
Northern servants. You see, these two young women have been practically
brought up in the household of Mrs. Crosslett-Billington--an old family
friend of the Revellys--and they know they would take care of things in
the way they are accustomed to--"
"Of course, of course, very natural," said Crane. "I quite agree. I'm
willing to give these people a chance. Of course, Mrs. Falkener, I
don't know as much about these things as you do, but it's only for a few
weeks, and as for their nails--"
"Oh, I can explain that," cried Reed; "in fact, I should have done so at
the start. It's an idiosyncrasy of Mr. Billington's. He insists that all
the servants in the house should be manicured, particularly those who
wait on table, or have anything to do with touching the food."
Mrs. Falkener compressed her lips till they were nothing but a seam in
her face.
"Humph!" she said again, and without another word she turned and swept
out of the office.
Left alone, the two men stood silent, without even looking at each
other, and finally it was Crane who observed mildly:
"Well, you know, they are a little queer in some ways--"
"Take my word for it," said Reed, earnestly, "you will make no mistake
in engaging them all--except that boy, but you can manage him, I have no
doubt. As for the cook, you will be surprised. Her cooking is famous in
three counties, I assure you."
An instant later, the lease was duly signed.
When the motor was safely on its way back to Washington, Mrs. Falkener
gave her companions on the back seat the benefit of her own impression.
One was her daughter, a muscular, dark-eyed girl, who imagined that she
had thoroughly emancipated herself from her mother's dominance because
she had established a different field of interest. She loved out-of-door
sport of all kinds, particularly hunting, and was as keen and competent
about them as her mother was about household management. The two
respected each other's abilities, and managed to lead an affectionate
life in common.
The man on the back seat was Solon Tucker--Crane's lawyer, by
inheritance rather than by choice. He was a thin, erect man, with a
narrow head and that expression of mouth at once hard and subtle that
the Law writes on so many men's faces. His mind was excellently clear,
his manner reserved, and his invariable presupposition that all human
beings except himself were likely to make fools of themselves. He had,
however, immense respect for Mrs. Falkener's opinions on any subject
except law--on which he respected nobody's opinions but his own, least
of all those of judges; and he believed that nothing would so
effectively lighten his own responsibilities in regard to Crane as to
marry him to Mrs. Falkener's daughter, an idea in which Mrs. Falkener
cordially agreed.
"You must make a point of staying with him, Solon," she was now
murmuring into that gentleman's rather large ear, "if, as I fear, he
actually takes this house. You have never seen such an extraordinary
group of servants--except the butler. Do you suppose it could be a plot,
a blackmailing scheme of some sort? The cook--Well, my dear Solon, a
pocket Venus, a stage ingénue, with manicured nails! He was determined
to engage her from the first. It seems very unsafe to me. A bachelor of
Burton's means. You must stay by him, Solon. In fact," she added, "I
think we had better both stay by him. Poor boy, he has no idea of taking
care of himself."
"He can be very obstinate," said his lawyer. "But I fancy you exaggerate
the dangers. You are unaccustomed to any but the very highest type of
English servant. They are probably nothing worse than incompetent."
"Wait till you see the cook!" answered Mrs. Falkener portentously.
Tucker looked away over the darkening landscape.
"Dear me," he thought to himself. "What a mountain she makes of a
mole-hill! How every one exaggerates--except trained minds!"
In Tucker's opinion all trained minds were legal.
II
ON the following Monday, late in the afternoon, the old Revelly house
was awaiting its new master. Already hunters, ponies, two-wheeled carts,
an extra motor, to say nothing of grooms, stable-boys, and a tremendous
head coachman, had arrived and were making the stable yards resound as
they had not done for seventy years. But they had nothing to do with the
household staff. They were all to be boarded by the coachman's wife who
was installed in the gardener's cottage.
The house, with its tall pillared portico and flat roofed wings, lost
its shabby air as the afternoon light grew dimmer, and by six o'clock,
when Crane's motor drew up before the door, it presented nothing but a
dignified and spacious mass to his admiring eyes.
No one but Tucker was with him. He had had some difficulty in avoiding
the pressing desire of the two Falkener ladies to be with him at the
start and help him, as they put it, "get everything in order." He had
displayed, however, a firmness that they had not expected. He had been
more embarrassed than he cared to remember by Mrs. Falkener's assistance
in the real estate office, and he decided to begin his new housekeeping
without her advice. He would, indeed, have dispensed with the
companionship even of Tucker for a day or two, but that would have been
impossible without a direct refusal, and Burton was unwilling to hurt
the feelings of so true and loyal a friend, not only of his own but of
his father before him.
The dignified butler and the irrepressible boy, Brindlebury, ran down
the steps to meet them, and certainly they had no reason to complain of
their treatment; bags were carried up and unstrapped, baths drawn,
clothes laid out with the most praiseworthy promptness.
Tucker had advocated a preliminary tour of inspection.
"It is most important," he murmured to Crane, "to give these people the
idea from the start that you cannot be deceived or imposed upon." But
Crane refused even to consider such questions until he had had a bath
and dinner.
The plan of the old house was very simple. On the right of the front
door was the drawing-room, on the left a small library and a room which
had evidently been used as an office. The stairs went up in the center,
shallow and broad, winding about a square well. The dining-room ran
across the back of the house.
When Tucker came down dressed for dinner, he found Crane was ahead of
him. He was standing in the drawing-room bending so intently over
something on a table that Tucker, who was not entirely without
curiosity, came and bent over it, too, and even the butler, who had come
to announce dinner, craned his neck in that direction.
It was a miniature, set in an old-fashioned frame of gold and pearls. It
represented a young woman in a mauve tulle ball dress, full in the skirt
and cut off the shoulders, as was the fashion in the days before the
war. She wore a wreath of fuchsias, one of which trailing down just
touched her bare shoulder.
"Well," said Tucker contemptuously, "you don't consider that a work of
art, do you?"
Burton remained as one entranced.
"It reminds me of some one I know," he answered.
"It is quite obviously a fancy picture," replied Tucker, who was
something of a connoisseur. "Look at those upturned eyes, and that hand.
Did you ever see a live woman with such a tiny hand?"
"Yes, once," said Crane, but his guest did not notice him.
"The sentimentality of the art of that period," Tucker continued, "which
is so plainly manifested in the poetry----"
"Beg pardon, sir," said Smithfield, "the soup is served."
Crane reluctantly tore himself from the picture and sat down at table,
and such is the materialism of our day that he was evidently immediately
compensated.
"By Jove," he said, "what a capital purée!"
Even Tucker, who, under Mrs. Falkener's tuition, had intended to find
the food uneatable, was obliged to confess its merits.
"I say," said Crane to Smithfield, "tell the cook, will you, that I
never tasted such a soup--not out of Paris, or even in it."
"She probably never heard of Paris," put in Tucker.
Smithfield bowed.
"I will explain your meaning to her, sir," he said.
Dinner continued on the same high plane, ending with two perfect cups of
coffee, which called forth such eulogies from Crane that Tucker said
finally, as they left the dining-room:
"Upon my word, Burt, I never knew you cared so much about eating."
"I love art, Tuck," said the other, slapping his friend on the back. "I
appreciate perfection. I worship genius."
Tucker began to feel sincerely distressed. Indeed he lay awake for
hours, worrying. He had counted, from Mrs. Falkener's description, on
finding the servants so incompetent that the house would be impossible.
He had hoped that one dinner would have been enough to send Crane to
the telegraph office of his own accord, summoning servants from the
North. He had almost promised Mrs. Falkener that when she and her
daughter arrived the next afternoon, they would find a new staff
expected, if not actually installed. Instead he would have to greet her
with the news that the pocket Venus with the polished nails had turned
out to be a _cordon bleu_. That is, if she were really doing the
cooking. Perhaps--this idea occurred to Tucker shortly before
dawn--perhaps she was just pretending to cook; perhaps she had hired
some excellent old black Mammy to do the real work. That should be
easily discoverable.
He determined to learn the truth; and on this resolution fell asleep.
The consequence was that he came down to breakfast rather cross, and
wouldn't even answer Crane, who was in the most genial temper, when he
commented favorably on the omelette. In fact, he let it appear that this
constant preoccupation with material details was distasteful to him.
Crane, as he rose from the table, turned to Smithfield:
"Will you tell the cook I'd like to see her," he said. "I'm expecting
some ladies to stay, this afternoon, and I want to make things
comfortable for them. Be off, Tuck, there's a good fellow, if this sort
of thing bores you."
But wild horses would not at that moment have dragged Tucker away, and
he observed that he supposed there was no objection to his finishing his
breakfast where he was.
Smithfield coughed.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but if you could tell me
what it is you want, I would tell the cook. She has a peculiar nature,
Jane-Ellen has, sir; has had from a child; and, if you would forgive the
liberty, I believe it would be best for you not to interview her
yourself."
Tucker looked up quickly.
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Crane.
"She is very timid, sir, very easily affected by criticism--"
"Good heavens, I don't want to criticize her!" cried Crane. "I only want
to tell her how highly I think of her."
"In my opinion, Burton," Tucker began, when an incident occurred that
entirely changed the situation.
A very large elderly gray cat walked into the room, with the step of one
who has always been welcome, and approaching Tucker's chair as if it
were a familiar place, he jumped suddenly upon his knee and began to
purr in his face.
Tucker, under the most favorable circumstances, was not at his best in
the early morning. Later in the day he might have borne such an
occurrence with more calm, but before ten o'clock he was like a man
without armor against such attacks. He sprang to his feet with an
exclamation, and drove the cat ahead of him from the room, returning
alone an instant later.
"It is outrageous," he said, when he returned, "that our lives are to be
rendered miserable by that filthy beast."
"Sit down, Tuck," said Burton, who was talking about wines with the
butler. "My life is not rendered in the least miserable. The champagne,
Smithfield, ought to go on the ice--"
Tucker, however, could not distract his mind so quickly from the thought
of the outrage to which he had just been subjected.
"I must really ask you, Burton," he said, "before you go on with your
orders, to insist that that animal be drowned, or at least sent out of
the house--"
"Oh, I beg, sir, that you won't do that," broke in Smithfield. "The cat
belongs to the cook, and I really could not say, sir, what she might do,
if the cat were put out of the house."
"We seem to hear a vast amount about what this cook likes and doesn't
like," said Tucker, dribbling a little more hot milk into his half cup
of coffee. "The house, I believe, is not run entirely for her
convenience."
It is possible that Crane had already been rendered slightly inimical to
his friend's point of view, but he was saved the trouble of answering
him, for at this moment the cook herself entered the room, in what no
one present doubted for an instant was a towering rage. She was wearing
a sky blue gingham dress, her eyes were shining frightfully, and her
cheeks were very pink.
At the sight of her, all conversation died away.
The butler approaching her, attempted to draw her aside, murmuring
something to which she paid no attention.
"No," she said aloud, pulling her arm away from his restraining hand, "I
will not go away and leave it to you. I will not stay in any house where
dumb animals are ill-treated, least of all, my own dear cat."
It is, as most of us know to our cost, easier to be pompous than
dignified when one feels oneself in the wrong.
"Pooh," said Tucker, "your cat was not ill-treated. She had no business
in the dining-room."
"He was kicked," said the cook.
"Come, my girl," returned Tucker, "this is not the way to speak to your
employer."
And at this, with one of those complete changes of manner so
disconcerting in the weaker sex, the cook turned to Crane, and said,
with the most melting gentleness:
"I'm sure it was not you, sir. I am sure you would not do such a thing.
You will excuse me if I was disrespectful, but perhaps you know, if you
have ever loved an animal, how you feel to see it brutally kicked
downstairs."
"Preposterous," said Tucker, carefully indicating that he was addressing
Crane alone. "This is all preposterous. Tell the woman to keep her cat
where it belongs, and we'll have no more trouble."
"It hasn't troubled me, Tuck," answered Crane cheerfully. "But I am
curious to know whether or not you did kick him."
"The question seems to be, do you allow your servants to be insolent or
not?"
Crane turned to the cook.
"Mr. Tucker seems unwilling to commit himself on the subject of the
kick," he observed. "Have you any reason for supposing your cat was
kicked?"
"Yes," said Jane-Ellen. "The noise, the scuffle, the bad language, and
the way Willoughby ran into the kitchen with his tail as big as a fox's.
He is not a cat to make a fuss about nothing, I can tell you."
"I beg your pardon," said Crane, who was now evidently enjoying himself,
"but what did you say the cat's name is?"
"Willoughby."
Burton threw himself back in his chair.
"Willoughby!" he exclaimed, "how perfectly delightful. Now, you must
own, Tuck, prejudiced as you are, that that's the best cat name you ever
heard in your life."
But Tucker would not or could not respond to this overture, and so Crane
looked back at Jane-Ellen, who looked at him and said:
"Oh, do you like that name? I'm so glad, sir." And at this they smiled
at each other.
"Don't you think you had better go back to the kitchen, Jane-Ellen?"
said the butler sternly.
In the meantime, Tucker had lighted a cigar and had slightly recovered
his equanimity.
"As a matter of fact," he now said, in a deep, growling voice, "I did
not kick the creature at all--though, if I had, I should have considered
myself fully justified. I merely assisted its progress down the kitchen
stairs with a sort of push with my foot."
"It was a kick to Willoughby," said the cook, in spite of a quick effort
on Smithfield's part to keep her quiet.
"O Tuck!" cried Crane, "it takes a lawyer, doesn't it, to distinguish
between a kick and an assisting push with the foot. Well, Jane-Ellen,"
he went on, turning to her, "I think it's not too much to ask that
Willoughby be kept in the kitchen hereafter."
"I'm sure he has no wish to go where he's not wanted," she replied
proudly, and at this instant Willoughby entered exactly as before. All
four watched him in a sort of hypnotic inactivity. As before, he walked
with a slow, firm step to the chair in which Tucker sat, and, as before,
jumped upon his knee. But this time Tucker did not move. He only looked
at Willoughby and sneered.
Jane-Ellen, with the gesture of a mother rescuing an innocent babe from
massacre, sprang forward and snatched the cat up in her arms. Then she
turned on her heel and left the room. As she did so, the face of
Willoughby over her shoulder distinctly grinned at the discomfited
Tucker.
Not unnaturally, Tucker took what he could from the situation.
"If I were you, Burt," he said, "I should get rid of that young woman.
She is not a suitable cook for a bachelor's establishment. She's too
pretty and she knows it."
"Well, she wouldn't have sense enough to cook so well, if she didn't
know it."
"It seems to me she trades on her looks when she comes up here and makes
a scene like this."
"Beg pardon, sir," said Smithfield, with a slightly heightened color,
"Jane-Ellen is a very good, respectable girl."
"Certainly, she is," said Crane, rising. "Nothing could be more obvious.
Just run down, Smithfield, and ask her to send up a menu for to-night's
dinner." Then, as the man left the room, he added to his friend:
"Sorry, Tuck, if I seem lacking in respect for you and your wishes, but
I really couldn't dismiss such a good cook because you think her a
little bit too good-looking. She is a lovely little creature, isn't
she?"
[Illustration: Jane-Ellen sprang forward and snatched the cat from
Tucker's knee]
"She doesn't know her place."
Crane walked to the window and stood looking out for a minute, and then
he said thoughtfully:
"If ever I have a cat I shall name it Willoughby."
"Have a cat!" cried Tucker. "I thought you detested the animals as much
as I do."
"I felt rather attracted toward this one," said Crane.
III
HIS household cares disposed of, Crane went off to the stables. It was a
soft hazy autumn morning, and though he walked along whistling his heart
was heavy. These changes in background always depressed him. His mother
had been dead about two years, and at times like this he particularly
missed her. She had always contrived to make domestic difficulties not
only unimportant, but amusing. She had been pretty and young, both in
years and spirit, and had had the determining influence on her son since
his childhood.
His parents had married early and imprudently. The elder Crane, stung by
some ill-considered words of his wife's family, had resolved from the
first to make a successful career for himself. Shrewd, hard and
determined, he had not missed his mark. Burton's earliest recollections
of him were fleeting glimpses of a white, tired, silent man seldom, it
seemed to him, at home, and, by his gracious absences, giving him,
Burton, a sort of prior claim on all the time and all the attention of
his mother.
As he grew older and his father's fortune actually materialized, he
began to see that it had never given pleasure to his mother, that it had
first taken her husband's time and strength away, and had then changed
the very stuff out of which the man was made. He had grown to love not
only the game, but the rewards of the game. And Burton knew now that
very early his mother had begun deliberately to teach him the supreme
importance of human relationships, that she had somehow inculcated in
him a contempt not, perhaps, for money, but for those who valued money.
Under her tuition he had absorbed a point of view not very usual among
either rich or poor, namely that money like good health was excellent to
have, chiefly because when you had it you did not have to think about
it.
Both her lessons were valuable to a young man left at twenty-five with a
large fortune. But the second--the high delight in companionship--she
had taught him through her own delightful personality, and her death
left him desperately lonely. His loneliness made him, as one of his
friends had said, extremely open to the dangers of matrimony, while on
the other hand he had been rendered highly fastidious by his years of
happy intimacy with his mother. Her wit and good temper he might have
found in another woman--even possibly her concentrated interest in
himself--but her fortunate sense of proportion, her knowledge in
every-day life, as to what was trivial and what was essential, he found
strangely lacking in all his other friends.
He thought now how amusing she would have been about the manicured maid
servants, and how, if he and she had been breakfasting together, they
would have amused themselves by inventing fantastic explanations,
instead of quarreling and sulking at each other as he and Tucker had
done.
Tucker had been his father's lawyer. It had been one of the many
contradictions in Mrs. Crane's character that, though she had always
insisted that as a matter of loyalty to her husband Tucker should be
retained as family adviser, she had never been able to conceal from
Burton, even when he was still a boy, that she considered the lawyer an
intensely comic character.
She used to contrive to throw a world of significance into her
pronunciation of his name, "Solon." Crane could still hear her saying
it, as if she were indeed addressing the original lawgiver; and it was
largely because this recollection was too vivid that he himself had
taken to calling his counselor by his last name.
He sighed as he thought of all this; but he was a young man, the day was
fine and his horses an absorbing interest, and so he spent a very happy
morning, passing his hand along doubtful fetlocks and withers, and
consulting with his head man on all the infinity of detail which
constitutes the chief joy of so many sports.
At lunch, he appeared to be interested in nothing but the selection of
the best mount for Miss Falkener--a state of mind which Tucker
considered a great deal more suitable than his former frivolous interest
in cats. And soon after lunch was over he went off for a ride, so as to
get it in before he had to go and meet his new guests.
A back piazza ran past the dining-room windows. It was shady and
contained a long wicker-chair. The November afternoon was warm, and here
Tucker decided to rest, possibly to sleep, in order to recuperate from a
disturbing night and morning.
He contrived to make himself very comfortable with a sofa pillow and
extra overcoat. He slept indeed so long that when he woke the light was
beginning to fade. He lay quiet a few moments, thinking that Mrs.
Falkener would soon arrive and revolving the best and most encouraging
terms in which he could describe the situation to her, when he became
aware of voices. His piazza was immediately above the kitchen door, and
it was clear that some one had just entered the kitchen from outdoors.
And he heard a voice, unmistakably Jane-Ellen's, say:
"Stranger, see how glad Willoughby is to see you again. Just think, he
hasn't laid eyes on you for all of three days."
Tucker could not catch the answer which was made in a deep masculine
voice, but it was easy to guess its import from the reply of Jane-Ellen.
"Oh, I'm glad to see you, too."
Another murmur.
"How do you expect me to show it?"
A murmur.
"Don't be absurd, Ranny." And she added quite audibly: "If you really
want proof, I'll give it to you. I was just thinking I needed some one
to help me freeze the ice-cream. Give it a turn or two, will you, like a
dear?"
It was obvious that the visitor was of a docile nature, for presently
the faint regular squeak of an ice-cream freezer was heard. His heart
was not wholly in his work, however, for soon he began to complain.
Tucker gathered that the freezer was set outside the kitchen door, and
that the visitor now had to raise his voice slightly in order to be
heard in the kitchen, for both speakers were audible.
"Yes," said the visitor, "that's the way you are. You expect every one
to work for you."
"Don't you enjoy working for me, Ranny? You've always said it was the
one thing in the world gave you pleasure."
"Humph," returned the other grimly, "I don't know that I am so eager to
freeze Crane's ice-cream."
"And Mr. Tucker's, don't forget him."
"Who the deuce is Tucker?"
The listener above sat up and leaned forward eagerly.
"Tucker," said Jane-Ellen, "is our guest at present. He's my favorite
and Willoughby's. He has what you might call a virile, dominating
personality. Please don't turn so fast, or you'll ruin the dessert."
"How did you ever come in contact with Tucker, I should like to know.
Does he come into the kitchen?"
"Not yet."
"How did you see him at all?"
"Owing to his kicking Willoughby down the stairs."
"And you mean to say you stood for that? Why, my dear girl, if any one
had told me--"
"Cruel, perhaps, Ranny, but the action of a strong man."
"I think it's a great mistake," said the masculine voice in a tone of
profound displeasure, "for a girl situated as you are to have anything
to do with her employer and his guests. What do you know about these
fellows? How old is this Tucker?"
"Oh, about forty, I should think."
The listener's eyes brightened by ten years.
"What does he look like?"
"Oh, people are so difficult to describe, Ranny."
"You can describe them all right when you try."
"Well," ... Tucker's excitement became intense ... "well, he looks like
the husband on the stage with a dash of powder above the ears, who wins
the weak young wife back again in the last act."
With a long deep breath, Tucker rose to his feet. He felt like a
different man, a strong, dangerous fellow.
"Dear girl," said the masculine voice below him, "you're not going to
let this man make love to you."
"Oh, Ranny, he's never tried. He's much too dignified and reserved."
"But if he did try, you would not let him?"
"You, if any one, ought to know that it isn't always easy to prevent."
"I don't know what you mean by that. You've always prevented me, as
often as you wanted to."
"Often, but not as often as that. There, Ranny, do get on with the
ice-cream. That terrible old woman is coming to stay this evening with
her daughter, and you may be sure she'll have us all turned out if
everything isn't just right."
"Crane is supposed to be engaged to the daughter," said the male voice.
"Well, I don't envy him his mother-in-law."
"What do you think of Crane?"
There was a pause. At first Tucker feared he might have missed the
answer, but presently the question was repeated.
"I asked you what you thought of Crane."
"Oh, I've seen a good many young men of that type in my time," was the
reply.
"How strange women are," remarked the ice-cream maker, who had now once
again settled down to work. "I should have thought Crane just the man
to attract women, well built, good-looking, a splendid horseman--"
"Would you say good-looking?" asked the cook. Tucker had been putting
exactly the same question to himself.
But the speaker did not intend to answer it, he went on with his own
train of thought: "And here you go into raptures over an old fellow, old
enough to be your father--"
"Should you say I went into raptures?"
"You talk as if you were prepared to make an idol of the man."
A pleasant laugh greeted this statement. Tucker grew grave. He did not
feel that he thoroughly understood the cause of that laugh, but he took
refuge in that comfortable and all-embracing theory that women were
fond, unaccountable creatures, particularly when deeply moved.
Another explanation was offered by the man below.
"I believe you are just trying to tease me, Jane-Ellen."
"_Trying_, Ranny?"
"You know very well you can always do whatever you like with me." The
voice deepened with emotion.
"Oh, dear me, no, I can't."
"Why not?"
"I can't keep you turning steadily at that crank. Here, let me show you
how it ought to be done."
Tucker knew that she had come out of the kitchen. By leaning over the
railing he could see the kitchen door.
He leant over.
The space before the entrance was paved in large square flagstones; here
an ice-cream freezer was standing, and over it bent a young man of a
somewhat solid build, but with the unmistakable manner and bearing of a
gentleman. He straightened himself as Jane-Ellen came out, and watched
her closely as she grasped the handle of the freezer; but it seemed to
the spectator above that he watched her with other emotions than the
sincere wish to learn the correct manner of freezing.
Tucker looked straight down upon her, upon the part in her light brown
hair, upon her round little arms, for her sleeves were rolled up above
the elbow, as she said didactically:
"It ought to be a steady, even--"
But she got no further, for her pupil without a word, stooped forward
and gathering her into his arms, kissed her.
IV
THERE was no doubt whatsoever in the mind of the spectator that this
caress, provoked or unprovoked, was not agreeable to its recipient. The
young man was large and heavy and she was minute and probably weak, but
the violence of her recoil was sufficient to free her within a second.
"'Her strength,'" thought Tucker, "'was as the strength of ten,'" and he
hoped it was for the reason alleged by the poet.
She stood an instant looking at her visitor, and then she said, in a
tone that no well-trained dog would have attempted to disobey:
"Go away. Go home, and please don't ever come back."
Tucker was deeply moved. It is to be feared that he forgot Mrs.
Falkener, forgot his plans for his friend's protection, forgot
everything except that he had just heard himself described as a hero of
romance by a girl of superlative charms; and that that girl had just
been the object of the obviously unwelcome attentions of another. He
recognized that the stern but sympathetic husband on the stage would
instantly have come to the rescue of the weak young wife in any similar
situation, and he determined on the instant to do so; but he found a
slight difficulty in making up his mind as to the particular epigram
with which he should enter. In fact, he could think of nothing except,
"Ah, Jane-Ellen, is the ice-cream ready?" And that obviously wouldn't
do.
While, however, he hesitated above, the dialogue below rushed on,
unimpeded.
"The truth is," said the young man, with the violence of one who feels
himself at least partially in the wrong, "the truth is you are a cold,
cruel woman who thinks of nothing but her own amusement; you don't care
anything about the sufferings of others, and in my opinion Lily is worth
ten of you."
"Then why don't you go and kiss Lily?"
"Because Lily isn't that sort. She wouldn't stand it."
This reply not unnaturally angered the cook.
"And do you mean to say I stand it? I can't help it. I'm so horribly
small, but if I could, I'd kill you, Randolph, and as it is, I hate you
for doing it, hate you more than you have any idea."
"You know very well it's your own fault. You tempted me."
"How could I know about your silly lack of self-control?"
"You've always pretended to like me."