The most consistently disagreeable people are not without their moments
of relenting, and Aunt Sarah came downstairs about noon of the following
day in a far better humour than she had carried to her room on her
arrival at Castle Gide. In the first place she had discovered that the
erstwhile bachelor rooms had been converted into a perfect little suite,
with the appointments of which even a luxury-loving old lady determined
to find fault with everything could hardly quarrel. During her voluntary
seclusion she had been made as comfortable and waited on as well as if
she were a rich woman in her own house, and the little dinner which had
been served to her in the privacy of her own bijou salon was far
superior to any meal that had ever been served to her before in Castle
Gide, even when she had been mistress of it. Morning tea, therefore,
found Aunt Sarah mollified, a dainty breakfast served to put her almost
into an attitude of peace and goodwill towards mankind, and a glass of
pale sherry and a dry biscuit after her toilet had been made and the
morning papers read sent her downstairs with the definite intention of
being civil to her nephew's wife, whom she had come to Castle Gide
prepared cordially to hate.
This frame of mind lasted for several hours. Lady Otterburn devoted
herself to the old lady's entertainment, and, to her husband's
unconcealed astonishment, roused more than once a grim chuckle of
amusement, as she rattled her clever Transatlantic tongue across the
luncheon-table. Aunt Sarah pleased! Aunt Sarah laughing! Aunt Sarah
allowing someone else to monopolize the conversation! He had known her
all his life, but such a spectacle had hitherto been denied him.
"My dear, you're a marvel," he said to his American countess when
luncheon was over and Aunt Sarah had retired to her own apartments,
still in high good-humour. "You bowled me over the first time we met.
That was nothing. But Aunt Sarah! I couldn't have believed it possible.
I wish I had asked all my uncles and aunts and cousins to see it."
"You don't know enough to run when you're in a hurry," replied Lady
Otterburn. "You'd find her a real beautiful woman if you all took her
the right way."
"Well, we shall see," said Otterburn. "You've had a grand success so
far, but the experience of years teaches me that seasons of calm in Aunt
Sarah's life are not lasting. Much depends on the afternoon nap."
Alas! Aunt Sarah's afternoon nap was a troubled one. It may have been
the lobster salad, of which she had eaten too largely; it may have been
the iced hock-cup, of which she had drunk too freely, that disturbed her
slumbers. Whatever it was she came down again what time the tea-table
was spread in the hall with her usual inclination to make herself
disagreeable strongly in the ascendant, and, if possible, augmented by
the reaction from her previous state of amiability. The first audacious
sally made by her hostess, which would have been received with tolerant
amusement at the luncheon-table, only drew a scandalized glare from Aunt
Sarah, and the ominous words: "I must ask you to remember in whose
presence you find yourself, if you please."
Lady Otterburn may have been surprised at this sudden change of
atmosphere, but she seemed entirely unconcerned, and took no notice of
her husband's surreptitious kick underneath the tea-table, which said as
plain as speech, "I told you so." She talked with gay wit, but gave no
opportunity for a further rebuke. But Aunt Sarah's twisted temper was
not to be softened by the most searching tact, and her next contribution
to the sociability of the occasion was the remark, "This tea is
positively not fit to drink. In my day Withers would not have dared to
keep such stuff in his shop."
"He don't keep it now," answered her hostess. "I have it bought in China
and shipped overland. It costs four dollars the pound."
"I have no doubt it is expensive," retorted Aunt Sarah, "although there
is no occasion to poke your money down my throat. It is the way it is
made. No servant can be trusted to make tea. I always have two teapots
and make it myself. I find it is never fit to drink unless I do so."
"I'd just love to have you make some for yourself," said Lady Otterburn.
"I'll ring the bell for two more teapots. It's too bad you shouldn't
have it as you like it."
[Illustration: "I'LL RING THE BELL FOR TWO MORE TEAPOTS."]
Aunt Sarah, who was secretly rather ashamed of having mistaken
caravan-borne tea for that sold by the village grocer, suffered herself
to be softened again, and became almost amiable when her hostess
insisted upon drinking from the fresh brew which was presently made, and
declared that it was a great improvement on the old.
"I think it _is_ better," admitted Aunt Sarah. "I may say that I have
never yet met anyone who could make tea as I can. You will excuse me for
having commented on yours, but, as Edward knows, I always say what I
think."
Edward did know it to his cost. But again he was astonished at the sight
of Aunt Sarah charmed back to good-humour when apparently in one of her
most relentless moods, and with further astonishment he reminded himself
that his experience did not afford a precedent for her apologizing for
any word of blame that may have fallen from her lips. But he had no time
to ponder on these things. Developments were proceeding.
"You find it a good plan always to say what you think?" asked Lady
Otterburn, sweetly.
"It is the only honest plan," replied Aunt Sarah. "If everybody would do
it instead of telling lies on all occasions, great or small, there would
be a good deal less hypocrisy in the world than there is now."
"Well, I guess you are right," said Lady Otterburn. "I guess I'll
commence right away and follow your example. And so will Edward. Now,
mind, Edward, don't you dare to say a single word that you don't mean,
and just you tell your Aunt Sarah exactly what you think as long as
she's with us. And so will I. And all the people who are coming this
evening shall be told to do the same."
"Eh? What?" exclaimed Aunt Sarah.