heaven. I don't really like you and I never did--not since we were
children."
"You'll be sorry for saying that, when you're calmer."
"I may be sorry for saying it, but I'll think it as long as I live."
"I pity the man who marries you, my girl. You've a bitter tongue."
"You'd marry me to-morrow, if you could."
"I would not."
"You would."
"Not if you were the last woman in the world."
[Illustration: _Scene from the Play_ PAUL DAINGERFIELD SUBMITS TO
INSPECTION. _Act I_]
"Good night."
"Good-by."
The culprit seized his hat and rushed away through the shadows before
Tucker had time to think out the dignified rebuke that he had intended.
There was a pause. He was conscious that an opportunity had slipped from
him. He knew now what he ought to have said. He should have asked the
young fellow--who was clearly a gentleman, far above Jane-Ellen in
social position--whether that was the way he would have treated a girl
in his own mother's drawing-room, and whether he considered that less
chivalry was due to a working girl than to a woman of leisure.
Though his great opportunity was gone, he decided to do whatever
remained. After a short hesitation he descended a flight of steps at one
end of the piazza. The kitchen opened before him, large and cavernous.
Two lamps hardly served to light it. It was red tiled; round its walls
hung large, bright, copper saucepans, and on shelves of oak along its
sides were rows of dark blue and white plates and dishes.
Tucker was prepared to find the cook in tears, in which case he had a
perfectly definite idea as to what to do; but the disconcerting young
woman was moving rapidly about the kitchen, humming to herself. She held
a small but steaming saucepan in her hand, which was, as Tucker swiftly
reflected, a much better weapon than the handle of an ice-cream freezer.
"Good evening, Jane-Ellen," he said graciously.
"Good evening, sir."
She did not even look in his direction, but bent witch-like over a
cauldron.
"I wished to speak to you," he said, "about that little incident of this
morning. You must not think that I am by nature cruel or indifferent to
animals. On the contrary, I am a life member in the Society for
Prevention of Cruelty to them. I love animals." And as if to prove his
words, he put out his hand and gently pulled the ears of Willoughby, who
was asleep in a chair. Cats' ears are extraordinarily sensitive, and
Willoughby woke up and withdrew his head with a jerk.
Willoughby's mistress, on the other hand, made no reply whatsoever;
indeed it would have been impossible to be sure she had heard.
"How different she is," thought Tucker, "in the presence of a man she
really respects, and recognizes as her superior. All the levity and
coquetry disappear from her bearing."
"I was truly sorry," he went on, drawing nearer and nearer to the range,
"to have been the occasion--"
"You had better be careful, sir," she said, still without looking at
him, "these sauces sometimes boil over." And as she spoke she put a
spoon into the pan, and the next instant Tucker felt a small but burning
drop fall upon his hand. He started back with an exclamation.
"I am truly sorry, sir," she said, "to have been the occasion--"
He glanced at her sharply. Was she conscious of repeating his own
phrase? She seemed to be wholly absorbed in her task. He noticed how
prettily the hair grew at the back of her neck, how small and well
shaped were her ears. His manner became even more protecting.
"I am an older man than your employer--" he began.
"Yes, indeed, sir."
He decided not to notice the interruption.
"I am older and have seen more of life. I understand more, perhaps, of
the difficulties of a young, and I must say, beautiful woman,
Jane-Ellen--"
"Why must you say that, sir?" Her eyes fixed themselves on his.
"Because it is the truth, my dear child." He again approached the range,
but as a fountain instantly rose from the sauce he retreated and
continued: "I would like, if any little troubles in the household arise,
to know that you look upon me as a friend, both you and Willoughby." (He
thought it not amiss to introduce the comic note now and again.) "I have
some influence with Mr. Crane. I should be glad to do you a good turn."
"You can do me one now, sir."
"Pray, tell me what it is."
"You can go away and let me get the dinner."
"You want me to go?"
"The kitchen is no place for gentlemen."
Tucker laughed tolerantly.
"Did you think so ten minutes ago?"
For the second time she looked in his direction, as she asked quickly:
"What do you mean?"
"Your last visitor was not so respectful."
She had put down the saucepan now, and so he approached and tried to
take her hand.
Perhaps this is as good a time as any other to describe the sensation of
taking Jane-Ellen's hand. The ordinary mortal put out an ordinary hand,
and touched something, something presumably flesh and blood, but so
light, so soft, so pliant, that it seemed literally to melt into the
folds of his palm, so that even after the hand had been withdrawn (and
in this instance it was instantly withdrawn) the feeling seemed to
remain, and Tucker found himself staring at his own fingers to see if
they did not still bear traces of that remarkable contact.
It was just at this moment that Brindlebury entered the kitchen and
said, in a tone which no one could have considered respectful, that the
motor was coming up the drive.
Tucker was more apt to meet an awkward situation--and the situation was
slightly awkward--by an additional dignity of manner rather than by any
ill-considered action.
"Ah," he now observed, "in that case I think I must go and meet it."
"I think I would, if I were you," replied the boy, and added to the
cook, in case there was any mistake about his meaning: "It seems to me
there are too many men in this kitchen in the course of the day."
"Well, goodness knows they're not here to please me," said Jane-Ellen.
Tucker, who understood that this reply had to be made, wished,
nevertheless, that she had not made it with such a convincing sincerity
of manner. He turned and left the kitchen, and, as he went up the piazza
stairs, became aware that the boy was following him.
He stood still at the top, therefore, and asked with that hectoring tone
which many people think so desirable to use with servants:
"What's this? You wish to speak to me?"
The boy hardly troubled to approximate civility as he answered:
"Yes; I just wanted to tell you that Jane-Ellen is my sister."
Tucker laughed with indulgent good humor.
"Indeed," he said. "Well, I cannot confess, Brindlebury, to taking a
very deep interest in your family relations."
"It's this much interest, that I don't want you going into the kitchen
to talk to her."
"Tut, tut," said Tucker. "I think I shall have to report you to your
employer."
"And I may have to report you."
This was so beyond the bounds of convention that Tucker thought best to
ignore it. He merely turned on his heel and walked into the house,
where, in the hall, he found the two Falkener ladies taking off their
coats.
Mrs. Falkener was all graciousness. She was engaged in unwinding a veil
from her face, and as she freed her nose from its meshes she said
briskly:
"And how is the housekeeping going? How is your staff working?"
Crane got them into the drawing-room, where tea was waiting. Mrs.
Falkener spoke to him, but she cast a secret glance of question at
Tucker. Under most circumstances he would have replied by raising his
eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders, closing his eyes, or conveying in
some manner the true reply to her demand. But now he merely looked into
his teacup, which he was diligently stirring. He found himself uncertain
what to do. He had no intention of mentioning the afternoon's incidents
to Crane. He did not wish, he told himself, to tell on a poor young
woman, and perhaps deprive her of her job. Besides, it is very difficult
to tell a story in which you have been an eavesdropper, and tell it with
any sort of flourish and satisfaction. The geography of the balcony was
such that he would have to confess either to having leaned as far over
the rail as possible, or else to having been in the kitchen. But the
insolence of the boy Brindlebury put a new face on the matter. He
deserved reproof, to say nothing of the fact that he might tell in a
mistaken desire to protect his sister from annoyance. To tell any of
this to Mrs. Falkener was to put a weapon in her hands which she would
not fail to use to get Jane-Ellen out of the house within twenty-four
hours. Tucker's first idea was that he did not wish Jane-Ellen to leave
the house.
But, as he sat stirring his tea, another thought came to him. Why should
she not leave, why should she not become his own cook? Crane, after all,
only offered her employment for a few weeks, whereas he--He decided that
it would be better for Crane to get rid of her; he decided, as he put it
to himself, to be perfectly open with his friend. If Crane turned her
out, then he, Tucker, would be there, helpful and ready, like the
competent middle-aged hero of the drama, whom she herself had so well
described.
He joined but little in the conversation round the tea-table, and Mrs.
Falkener, watching him narrowly, feared from his gravity that something
serious had happened, that the situation was worse than she had
imagined. What, she wondered, had occurred in the last twenty-four
hours? What had those evil women with manicured nails accomplished in
her absence? She manoeuvered two or three times to get a word with
Tucker, but he seemed unconscious of her efforts.
When at last they all agreed it was time to dress for dinner, Tucker
laid a detaining hand on his host's arm.
"Could I have just a word with you, Burt?" he said.
Crane always felt like a naughty child when his friend spoke to him like
this.
"Wouldn't later do?" he asked. "I want to get a bath before dinner, and
if we keep it waiting we may spoil some of those wonderful dishes that
star-eyed beauty in the kitchen is preparing for us."
"It is about her I want to speak to you."
Both ladies and Crane turned instantly at these words. Then the
Falkeners with a strong effort of self-control left the room, and the
two men were alone.
"Well, what is it?" said Crane, rather sharply.
Tucker was now all suavity.
"I'm afraid, after all," he began, sitting down and swinging one leg
over the other, "that you won't be able to keep that young person. I'm
afraid Mrs. Falkener was right. Women know these things at a glance."
"What things?"
"Why, I mean that in spite of her good dinner, I'm afraid your cook,
Burt, is not--Well, I'd better tell you just what is in my mind."
"Surely, if you can," said his host and client.
"I went out for a little while about dusk on the back piazza, which you
know is just above the kitchen, and a conversation below is audible
there. At first I did not pay much attention to the murmur of voices,
but gradually I became aware that some one was making love to
Jane-Ellen--"
"Who was it?" asked Crane. "That wretched boy? That smug butler?"
"Alas, no," said Tucker. "If it had been one of the other servants I
should not have thought it much harm. Unhappily, it was a young
gentleman, a person so much her social superior--Well, my dear fellow,
you get the idea."
"No one you knew, of course?"
"I never saw him before."
"How did you see him at all?"
This was the question that Tucker had been anticipating.
"Why, to tell you the truth, Burt," he said, "when I realized what was
going on, I thought it my duty for your sake to find out. I looked over
the railing--and just at the psychological moment when he kissed her."
Crane was tapping a cigarette thoughtfully on the palm of his hand, and
did not at once answer. When he did, he looked up with a smile, and
said:
"Lucky dog, is what I say, Tuck."
"I don't think," answered his friend, "that that is quite the right
attitude for you to assume."
"What do you think I should do?"
"Dismiss the girl."
Another pause.
"Or," added Tucker, magnanimously, "if you shrink from the interview, I
shall be very glad to do it for you."
Crane looked up.
"No, thank you," he said. "I think you have done quite enough. I should
not dream of imposing upon you further." He walked to the bell and rang
it. Smithfield appeared.
"Tell the cook I want to see her," he said.
After a brief absence Smithfield returned.
"I beg pardon, sir," he said, "but the cook says if she leaves dinner
now it will be spoiled, and won't after dinner do?"
Crane nodded.
"You know," said Tucker when they were again alone, "it is not always
necessary to tell servants why you are dispensing with their services.
You might say--"
Much to his surprise, Crane interrupted him with a laugh.
"My dear Tuck," he said, "you don't really suppose, do you, that I am
going to dismiss that peerless woman just because you saw an
ill-mannered fellow kiss her? I shall administer a telling rebuke with a
slight sketch of my notions on female deportment. It would take more
than that to induce me to send her away. Indeed, I was thinking of
taking her North with me."
This was a serious suggestion, but Tucker could think of no better way
to meet it than to raise his eyebrows; and Crane went off whistling to
dress for dinner.
He whistled not only going upstairs, but he whistled in his bath and
while he was shaving. The sound annoyed Tucker in the next room.
"It almost seems," he thought, "as if he were glad to see the woman
again on any terms." And yet, he, Tucker, knew that she considered Crane
quite a commonplace young man--not at all like a hero in the third act.
The way Crane had taken his suggestions was distressing. Tucker did not
feel that he thoroughly understood what was in the younger man's mind.
His first intention to tell Mrs. Falkener nothing began to fade. It
would have been all very well if Burton had been sensible and had been
willing to send the cook away and he, Tucker, had been able to engage
her, to ignore the whole matter to Mrs. Falkener. Indeed, it would have
been hard to explain it. But, of course, if Burton was going to be
obstinate about it, Mrs. Falkener's aid might be absolutely necessary.
"After all," he thought, "candor is the best policy among friends."
He dressed quickly and was not mistaken in his belief that Mrs.
Falkener would have done the same. She was waiting for him in the
drawing-room. They had a clear fifteen minutes before dinner.
"Now tell me, my dear Solon," she said, "just what you think of the
situation."
"I think badly of it."
"Yes," said Mrs. Falkener, not yet quite appreciating the seriousness of
his tone. "I do, myself. That idiotic housemaid, Lily--I could have told
him that name would never do--hooked me twice wrong, and left my
daughter's dirty boots on top of her best tea-gown."
"Ah, if incompetence were all we had to complain of!"
"The cook?"
"Is perfection, as far as cooking goes. But in other respects--Really, my
dear Mrs. Falkener, I am in doubt whether you should let your daughter
stay in this house--at least, until Burton comes to his senses."
"You must tell me just what you mean."
Tucker decided to tell the story reluctantly.
"Why, it happened this afternoon, Burton was away with his horses, and
quite by accident I came upon his pretty cook in the arms of a strange
young man, a person vastly her social superior, one of the young
landholders of the neighborhood, I should say. Seemed to assume the most
confident right to be in Burton's kitchen--a man he may know in the
hunting field, may have to dinner to-morrow. I don't know who he is, but
certainly a gentleman."
"How very unpleasant," said Mrs. Falkener. "Did the woman take in that
you had detected her?"
"Yes, and seemed quite unabashed."
"And now I suppose you are hesitating whether or not to tell Burton?"
Tucker was naturally cautious.
"And what would you advise?"
"It is your duty to tell him at once, and get such a person out of the
house."
"You think if I told him, he would dismiss her?"
"I am confident he would, unless--"
"Unless?"
[Illustration: _Scene from the Play_ OLIVIA HEARS OF HER FATHER'S
CRITICAL ILLNESS _Act II_]
"Unless he has himself some interest in her."
"Ah," said Tucker, with a deep sigh, "that's the question."
At this moment Miss Falkener, looking very handsome in a
sapphire-colored dress, came in. She, too, perhaps, had expected that
somebody would be dressed a little ahead of time for the sake of a few
minutes' private talk. If so, she was disappointed.
"Ah, Cora," said her mother brightly, "let us hear how the piano sounds.
Give us some of that delightful Chopin you were playing last evening."
Cora, to show her independence of spirit, sat down and began to play
ragtime, but neither of her auditors noticed the difference.
"You mean," whispered Mrs. Falkener, "that you have reason to suppose
that Crane himself--?"
"Why, to be candid, my dear lady," replied Tucker, "I did tell him. You
may have noticed I seemed a trifle abstracted at tea time. I was
considering what it was best to do. Well, when you left us, I told him.
What do you think he said? 'Lucky dog.' That was all. Just 'lucky dog.'"
"Meaning you?"
"No, no, meaning the fellow who had been kissing the cook."
"Dear me," said Mrs. Falkener, "how very light minded."
"It shocked me--to have him take it like that. And he would not hear of
dismissing her. He intends merely to reprove her, so he says. But what
reproof is possible? And the most alarming feature of the whole
situation is that, to my opinion, he is looking forward to the
interview."
"The woman must be sent out of the house immediately," said Mrs.
Falkener with decision. "I wonder if higher wages would tempt her?"
"I see your idea," answered Tucker. "You think I ought to offer a
position. I would do more than that to save Burt."
"A position as cook, you mean?"
"Why, Mrs. Falkener, what else could I mean?"
"Oh, nothing, Solon, I only thought--"
The friends were still explaining away the little misunderstanding when
Crane came down, and dinner was announced.
Mrs. Falkener, with of course the heartiest wish to criticize, was
forced to admit the food was perfection. The soup so clear and strong,
the fried fish so dry and tender, even the cheese soufflé, for which she
had waited most hopefully, turned out to be beautifully light and
fluffy. Having come to curse she was obliged to bless; and her praise
was delightful to Crane.
"Yes, isn't she a wonder?" he kept saying. "Wasn't it great luck to find
any one like that in a place such as this? Tuck, here, keeps trying to
poison my mind against her, but I wouldn't part with a cook like that
even if she were a Messalina."
Mrs. Falkener, who couldn't on the instant remember who Messalina was,
attempted to look as if she thought it would be better not to mention
such people in the presence of her daughter.
"Tuck's an inhuman old creature, isn't he, Mrs. Falkener?" Crane went
on. "I don't believe he ever had a natural impulse in his life, and so
he has no sympathy with the impulses of others."
Tucker smiled quietly. It came to him that just so the iron reserve of
the middle-aged hero was often misinterpreted during the first two acts
by more frivolous members of the cast.
As they rose from table, Miss Falkener said:
"It's such a lovely night. Such a moon. Have you seen it, Mr. Crane?"
"Well, I saw it as we drove over from the station," returned Crane, a
trifle absently. He had become thoughtful as dinner ended.
"Do you think," said Cora, "that it would be too cold to take a turn in
the garden? I should like to see the old box and the cedars by
moonlight."
"Not a bit. Let's go out. I have something to do first, but it won't
take me ten minutes. But," he added, "you must not catch cold and get
laid up, and miss the run to-morrow. I'm going to put you on a new Irish
mare I've just bought." And they found themselves talking not about the
garden, but the stable.
In the midst of it Smithfield came into the drawing-room with the
coffee, and Crane said to him, in a low tone:
"Oh, Smithfield, tell the cook I'll see her now, in the little office
across the hall."
Smithfield looked graver than usual.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but the cook was feeling tired and has gone
up to bed, sir."
Crane was just helping himself to sugar.
"She cooked this coffee, didn't she?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"She can't have been gone very long then."
"About five minutes, sir."
"Go up and tell her to come down," said Crane.
He turned again to Miss Falkener and went on about the past performances
of the Irish mare, but it was quite clear to all who heard him that his
heart was no longer in the topic.
Smithfield's return was greeted by complete silence.
"Well?" said Crane sharply.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Smithfield, "Jane-Ellen says that she is very
tired, and that if the morning will do--"
"The morning will not do," answered Crane, with a promptness unusual in
him. "Go up and tell her that if she is not in my office within ten
minutes, I'll come up myself."
Smithfield bowed and withdrew.
Silence again descended on the room. Mrs. Falkener and Tucker were
silent because they both felt that thus their faces expressed more
plainly than words could do that this was just about what they had
expected. But Cora, who was young enough to understand that anger may be
a form of interest, watched him with a strangely wistful expression.
After what seemed to every one an interminable delay, Smithfield entered
again. He looked pale and graver than any one had ever seen his
habitually grave countenance.
"Jane-Ellen is in your office now, sir," he said.
Crane rose at once and left the room followed by Smithfield.
V
JANE-ELLEN was standing in the office, with her hands folded, and an
expression of the utmost calm upon her face. Crane came in quickly and
would have shut the door, but for the fact that Smithfield was
immediately behind him.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said firmly, sliding into the room, "but I must
look to the fire."
Crane frowned.
"The fire's all right," he said shortly.
But Smithfield was not to be put off his duties, and began to poke the
logs and sweep the hearth until peremptorily ordered to go.
When the door finally closed behind him, Crane stood silent a moment
with his hand on the mantelpiece. The whole tone of the interview, upon
which it now occurred to him he had rushed somewhat too hastily, would
be decided by whether he spoke standing up or sitting down. His feelings
were for the first, his intellect for the latter position.
His intellect won. He sat down in a deep chair and crossed his legs. As
he did so, the cook's eyes, which had hitherto been fixed on the
carpet, now raised themselves to the level of his neat pumps and black
silk socks. He was aware of this, but did not allow himself to be
disconcerted.
"I suppose you can guess why I sent for you, Jane-Ellen," he said.
"The dinner was not satisfactory, sir?"
"I doubt if you could cook an unsatisfactory dinner if you tried," he
returned. "No, the trouble is over something that happened an hour or so
before dinner."
"You did not approve, perhaps, of that gentleman, Mr. Tucker, coming
into the kitchen? But, indeed, I could not help that."
"Oh," said Crane, "so Tucker was in the kitchen, was he?"
"Yes, sir, until Brindlebury told him the motor was coming with the
ladies."
"No," said Crane, "the difficulty is over a former visitor of yours. I
think it my right, even my duty to prevent anything happening in this
house of which I disapprove, and I do not approve, Jane-Ellen, of
strangers coming into my house and kissing the cook."
He looked at her squarely as he said this, but her eyes remained fixed
on his feet as she replied docilely:
"Yes, sir. Perhaps it would be better for you to speak to the young man
about it."
"Ah," returned her employer, as one now going over familiar ground, "you
mean to imply that it was not your fault?"
She did not directly answer this question. She said:
"I suppose in your class of life a gentleman would not under any
circumstances kiss a young lady against her will?"
"Well," answered Crane, with some amusement, "he certainly never ought
to do so. And by the way, one of the points about this incident seems to
be that the young man in question had the appearance of being a
gentleman."
"He certainly considers himself so."
There was a pause, then Crane said, seriously:
"I don't want to interfere in your concerns further than I have to, or
to offer you advice--"