Scene from the Play paul daingerfield submits to inspection. Act IScene from the PlayPaul 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 manœuvered 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?"
Scene from the Play olivia hears of her father's critical illness Act IIScene from the PlayOlivia hears of her father's critical illnessAct 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.
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—"
"But I should be so glad to have you offer me advice, sir. It is one of the few things a gentleman may offer a girl in my position and she accept with a clear conscience."
For the first time Crane looked at her with suspicion. Her tone and look were demure in the extreme. He decided to go on.
"Well, then," he said, "if I were you I would not have a gentleman, especially such an impulsive one, hanging about, unless you are engaged to him with the consent of your family."
She raised her chin, without lifting her eyes.
"It's not the consent of our families that's lacking," she remarked.
"Oh, he's asked you to marry him?"
"Almost every day, sir, until to-day."
"And to-day he didn't?"
"To-day he said he wouldn't marry me, if I were the last woman in the world."
"And what did you think about that?"
"I thought it wasn't true, sir."
Crane laughed aloud at this direct answer.
"And it sounds to me as if you were right, Jane-Ellen," he said. "But, at the same time, I can't see for the life of me why, if you don't mean to marry him, you let him kiss you."
"If you please, sir, it's not always possible to prevent. You see I'm not very large."
Crane looked at her, and had to admit that the feat would be extremely easy. She hardly came to one's shoulder; almost any man—Hastily putting aside this train of thought, he said in a more judicial tone:
"You know your own affairs best. Is the young man able to support you?"
"Yes, sir, very comfortably."
"And yet you don't consider marrying him?"
"No, sir. I don't love him."
Matters had suddenly become rather serious.
"You would rather work for your living than marry a man you don't love?" Crane asked, almost in spite of himself.
For the first time the cook looked up, straight at him, as she answered:
"I think I would rather die, sir."
This time it was Crane's eyes that dropped. Fortunately, he reflected, she could not have any idea how sharply her remark had touched his own inner state. How clearly she saw that it was wrong to do just what he was contemplating doing—to marry for prudence, rather than for love. He found himself speculating on the genesis of the moral sense, how it developed in difficulties rather than in ease. That was why he could learn something on the subject from his cook. Here was a girl working for her living, working hard and long, for wages which though he had once, he remembered, told Reed they seemed excessive, now appeared to him the merest pittance; certainly it seemed as if all the hardships of such a life would be smoothed away by this suggested marriage, and yet she could assert clearly that she would rather die than make it; whereas he, with nothing very much at stake, had actually been contemplating for several months the making of just such a marriage—He was interrupted by her respectful tones:
"Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes," he answered in a voice that lacked finality. "I suppose that's all, except if that fellow comes bothering you any more, let me know, and I'll tell him what I think of him."
Jane-Ellen lifted the corner of her mouth in a terrible smile.
"Oh," she said, "I don't think he'll come bothering any more."
"You're very optimistic, Jane-Ellen."
"I beg your pardon, sir, those long words—"
"Very hopeful, I meant. He'll be back to-morrow."
"Not after what I said to him."
"Well, Jane-Ellen, if you have really found the potent thing to say under such circumstances, you're a true benefactor to your sex."
She looked at him with mild confusion.
"I'm afraid I don't rightly understand, sir."
He smiled.
"It was my way of asking you what you had said to him that you imagined would keep him from coming back."
"I told him I had only pretended to like him, all these years. People, particularly gentlemen, don't like to think you have to pretend to like them."
Crane laughed aloud, wondering if the girl had any idea how amusing she was. In the pause that followed, the sound of a deep masculine voice could be heard suddenly under their feet. The office was immediately above the servants' sitting-room, and it was but too evident that a visitor had just entered.
Crane looked at the cook questioningly, and she had the grace to color.
"Why, did you ever, sir," she said. "There he is, this very moment!"
"Shall I go down and forbid him the house?" asked Burton, and though he spoke in fun, he would have been delighted to act in earnest.
"Oh, no, sir, thank you," she answered. "I am not going back to the kitchen."
This reminded her employer of the extreme difficulty he had experienced in seeing his cook at all.
"Why did you try and get out of seeing me, Jane-Ellen?" he said. "You knew about what I had to say, I suppose?"
"I had a notion, sir."
"And were you afraid?"
At this question, the cook bent her head until a shadow fell upon it, but Crane had a clear impression that she was laughing, so clear that he said:
"And may I ask why it is a comic idea that a servant should be afraid of her employer?"
The cook now raised a mask-like face and said most respectfully:
"No, sir, I was not exactly afraid," and, having said this, without the slightest warning she burst into an unmistakable giggle.
Nobody probably enjoys finding that the idea of his inspiring terror is merely ludicrous. Crane regarded his cook with a sternness that was not entirely false. She, still struggling to regain complete gravity at the corners of her mouth, said civilly:
"Oh, I do hope you'll excuse my laughing, sir. The fact is that it was not I who tried to avoid seeing you. It was Smithfield's idea."
"Smithfield!" cried Crane.
"Yes, sir. He had the notion, I think, that you might be very severe with me, sir, and Smithfield is peculiar, he has a very sensitive nature—"
"Well, upon my word," cried Crane, springing to his feet, "that is exactly what Smithfield says about you. It seems to me I have a damned queer houseful of servants."
The cook edged to the door.
"Perhaps it seems so, sir," she said. "Will that be all for to-night?"
"Yes. No," he added hastily, "I have one more thing to say to you, Jane-Ellen, and it's this. Don't make the mistake of fancying that I have taken this whole incident lightly. I don't. It really must not happen again. Understand that clearly."
"You mean if that gentleman came back, you would dismiss me, sir?"
"I think I would," he answered.
"Even if it weren't my fault?"
"Was the fault entirely his, Jane-Ellen?"
"Ask him, sir."
"You know much more about it than he does. Was the fault entirely his?"
The cook wriggled her shoulders, crumpled her apron and seemed unwilling to answer a direct question directly. At last an idea occurred to her. She looked up brightly.
"It was the ice-cream, sir," she said. "I was trying to teach him how to freeze ice-cream slowly. It ought to be done like this." And bending over an imaginary freezer, she imitated with her absurdly small hand the suave, gentle, rotary motion essential to the great American luxury.
As he stood looking down on her, it seemed to Crane extraordinarily clear how it had all happened, so clear indeed that for a second it almost seemed as if he himself were in the place of the culprit whose conduct he had just been condemning.
He stepped back hastily.
"No, Jane-Ellen," he said, "it was not all his fault. Of that you have convinced me."
She stretched out her hand to the door.
"Will that be all, sir? The cook, you know, has to get up so very early in the morning."
He tried to counteract the feeling of pity and shame that swept over him at the realization that this young and delicate creature had to get up at dawn to work for him and his guests. The effort made his tone rather severe as he said:
"Yes, that's all. Goodnight."
"Good night, sir," she answered, with her unruffled sweetness, and was gone.
He stood still a moment, conscious of an unusual alertness both of mind and emotion. And that very alertness made him aware that at that moment there was a man in his kitchen against whom he felt the keenest personal animosity. Crane would have dearly liked to go down and turn him out, but he resisted the impulse, which somehow savored of Tucker in his mind. And what, by the way, had Tucker been doing in the kitchen? And Smithfield, why had Smithfield tried to interfere with his seeing the cook? He found plenty of food for reflection.
Among other things he had to consider his return to the drawing-room. Looking at his watch he observed that a longer time had elapsed since he left it than he had supposed. There would be comments, there would be attempted jokes from Tucker. Well, that would be easily met by a question as to Tucker's own interest in the culinary art. Mrs. Falkener's methods of attack were not subtle, either. But Cora—he wished Cora would not just look at him as if he had done something cruel.
But, as is so often the way when we prepare ourselves for one situation, quite another one turns up. The three were not sitting, awaiting his return. The drawing-room was empty except for Mrs. Falkener, who was reading when he entered, and instead of betraying a conviction that he had been too long away, she looked up and said chattily:
"Well, did you reduce the young woman to order?"
"That is a good deal to expect from an unaided male, isn't it?" said Burton, very much relieved.
"Ah, it depends on the male, my dear Burton. You, I imagine, could be very terrifying if you wished to be. What did the young woman do? Weep, protest, declare that it had all taken place quite without her consent?"
Burton smiled. He had no intention whatsoever of sharing his recent experiences with Mrs. Falkener.
"Ah," he said, "I see you know your own sex thoroughly. Where are Tuck and your daughter?"
"Solon is taking a turn on the piazza; he hopes it will make him sleep better; and Cora was tired and has gone to bed." Mrs. Falkener sighed. "Cora doesn't seem very well to me."
"I'm sorry to hear that," returned Crane. "I thought she was looking very fit this evening." He spoke more lightly than he felt, however, for something portentous in Mrs. Falkener's tone struck him with alarm.
"Sit down, Burton," said she, sweeping her hand toward a cushioned stool at her side. "I want to say something to you."
Crane found himself obeying, with his hands between his knees, and his toes turned in, like a school boy who has forgotten his lesson; then, becoming aware of this pose, he suddenly changed it—crossed one leg over the other, as he had done in the office a few minutes before.
In the meantime, Mrs. Falkener was saying:
"The truth is, I'm afraid that we must cut our visit short, delightful as it promises to be."
"Oh, Mrs. Falkener, we're not making you comfortable. What is it?"
"No, Burton, no." Mrs. Falkener held up her hand. "You are making us perfectly comfortable—at least, in all essentials. And who minds roughing it now and then for a week or so? It's good for us," she added playfully. "The housemaid is not—but no matter."
"What has the housemaid done?" asked Crane with what semblance of interest he could summon, but as he spoke his heart went out in sympathy to every hotel and boarding-house keeper in the world. "Good heavens," he thought, "suppose my living depended on my pleasing them, what a state I should be in!" Aloud he said: "What has Lily been doing?"
"Nothing, nothing. Lily means well, I'm sure, in spite of her lackadaisical ways. It is quite a privilege, I assure you, to be waited on by such an elegant young lady. She hooked me up wrong twice this evening, and when I not unnaturally objected, she stuck a pin in me. Oh, by accident, I'm sure. No, I have no fault to find with Lily, whatsoever."
"I'm glad to hear that," said Crane, punctuating his sentence to allow himself to indulge in a half-suppressed yawn. "Who is it, then? Not Smithfield? Or the boy?"
"Oh, I should never have anything to do with that boy," said Mrs. Falkener, bridling. "Oh, never in the world. I think he's half-witted. I saw him stick out his tongue at Solon this evening."
Crane laughed, though he knew he ought not to.
"Did Solon see?"
"No. The boy contrived it so that Solon had just looked away."
"Well, then, perhaps he's not half-witted, after all," said Burton. "It occurs to me that perhaps that is the only reply to a good deal that Solon says."
"I'm devoted to Solon," replied Mrs. Falkener, drawing herself up, "and I must say you ought to—"
"I am, I am," said Crane, hastily, "but I am at the same time able to understand why Brindlebury possibly isn't. But come, Mrs. Falkener, if it isn't these servants that are driving you away, what is it?"
"I don't know how to explain it," said Mrs. Falkener. "It's not really clear to me, myself. I'm sure I don't want to be unkind, or to hurt any one's feelings, least of all yours, my dear Burt." And she leaned over and laid her hand on his. Crane gave it a good brisk squeeze and returned it to her lap as if it were too dear for his possessing; and she went on: "I own I am anxious about Cora. She is very deep, very reserved; she tells me nothing, but she is not happy, Burton."
"I'm sorry for that," said Crane, in a very matter-of-fact tone. He got up and went to a table where the cigarettes were. The profound male instinct of self-preservation was now thoroughly awake, and he knew exactly what he was in for. Only, he noted, that if he had had this interview with Mrs. Falkener before he had seen the cook, he might quite easily have been persuaded that, in the absence of any more definite vocation, he had been created to make Cora Falkener's life tolerable to her. As it was, he saw perfectly that altruism was no sound basis for matrimony.
"You don't understand what it is to be a mother, Burt."
Crane admitted with a shake of his head that he didn't.
"But I have an instinct that this is not the best place for Cora."
"Well, if you were a man, Mrs. Falkener," said Crane, "I should say that that instinct was the result of being poorly valeted. It must be a bore for women to have a wretched maid like Lily. Don't you think that if I found some one a little more competent that you and Cora would feel you could put in at least a week or so with us? The hunting is really going to be good, and Cora does enjoy hunting."
Mrs. Falkener refused to lighten the tone of the conversation. She shook her head.
"No," she said, "no. I'm afraid even a good maid would not help. In fact, to speak plainly, my dear Burton—"
But at this moment the door opened and Tucker came in. His hair was somewhat rumpled by the wind, his hands were still in his pockets as he had had them during his constitutional on the front porch, and his eyes, contracted by the sudden light, looked almost white.
"Well," he said, "are you enjoying this musical party downstairs?"
All three listened in silence, and could hear the strains of "Home, Sweet Home" coming from below.
"They have a phonograph and they are singing in parts," said Tucker, as if this somehow made it worse.
"If we got Miss Falkener down, we might do something ourselves," said Crane, but there was nothing frivolous in his manner when he rang and told Smithfield there was too much noise downstairs.
Smithfield begged pardon and had not a notion it could be heard upstairs. Crane said the boy's, Brindlebury's, tenor carried some distance, and, Mrs. Falkener and Tucker having gone, he added that the house could be shut for the night.
Then he went to the table, and his eye fell again upon the miniature in the pearl frame. He took it up. There was no doubt about it, there was an extraordinary likeness to Jane-Ellen. He smiled to himself. How very charming she would look, he thought, in a mauve ball dress.
Raising his eyes, he found Smithfield looking at him with an expression he did not thoroughly like.
ON the stroke of seven o'clock the next morning, Burton came downstairs with that exactness which even the most careless man can display in regard to his favorite sport. The rigors of the cub-hunting season being over, the meet did not take place until eight.
Cora was not yet ready for breakfast, and Crane went to fill his cigarette case before starting.
The drawing-room was still dark and in disorder. Crane lit a match to find his way to the table where the tobacco was kept. It was the same table on which had lain the miniature of the lady in the mauve ball dress; and as he held up his lighted match, his eyes sought once more that enchanting pearl circle. The flame died down and burned his fingers before his eyes had encountered what they were looking for. He lit a second match, and then a candle, before he could assure himself that the miniature was really gone.
He sprang into the hall and called: "Smithfield!" with a violence that had little respect for late sleepers.
Smithfield came hurrying out of the dining-room.
"Where's the miniature that used to be on this table?"
"The what is it, sir?"
"The miniature, a picture in a pearl frame."
Smithfield looked thoughtful.
"And what was it a picture of, sir?"
"Of a lady."
"In a black lace cap, and she with white hair, sir?"
"No," said Crane, "she was young and lovely, in a ball dress and a wreath. You must remember it. It was here yesterday."
Smithfield shook his head blankly.
"No, sir," he said, "I can't rightly say that I remember it, but I'll inquire for it."
Crane swore with an uncontrollable irritation—irritation at Smithfield for being so stupid, irritation that he himself had been so careless as to leave the picture about among a houseful of unknown servants.
He was not distracted even by the sight of Cora coming downstairs, looking very workmanlike in her habit with her hat well down over her brows, and her boots, over which Brindlebury had evidently expended himself, showing off her slender feet.
They breakfasted alone; but Burton's mind ran on the loss of the miniature, and he did not really recover his temper until he had mounted Cora, found all the straps of her skirt, adjusted her stirrup, loosened the curb for her, and finally swung himself up on his own hunter, a big ugly chestnut.
The meet was near-by and they were going to jog quietly over to it. They took a short cut across the lawn, and at the sight of the turf, at the smell of the fresh clear morning, the horses began to dance as spontaneously as children will at the sound of a street organ. Crane and Cora glanced at each other and laughed at this exhibition of high spirits on the part of their darlings.
No horseman is proof against the pleasure of seeing one of his treasured animals well shown by its rider; and the Irish mare had never looked as well as she now did under Cora's skilful management. He told her so, praising her hands, her appearance, her understanding of the horse's mind; and she, very fittingly, replied with flattery of the mare and of Crane's own remarkable powers of selection.
They were getting on so well that Burton found himself saying earnestly:
"You really must stay on as long as I do, Cora. Don't let your mother take you away, as she wants to."
The girl's surprise actually checked the mare in her stride.
"My mother is thinking of going away?" she cried.
Well, of course, he wanted her to stay, wanted her, even, to want to stay, but somehow he did not want her to be so much terrified at the thought of departure, did not want her black eyes to open upon him with such manifest horror at the bare idea of departure.
He suggested sending the horses along a little, and they cantered side by side on the grass at the roadside. Crane kept casting the glances of a lover, not at Cora, but at the black mare, as she arched her neck to a light touch on the curb, so that the sunlight ran in iridescent colors along her crest.
Presently they saw two horsemen ahead of them, one of them in that weather-stained pink that, to hunting eyes, makes the most beautiful piece of color imaginable against the autumn fields.
"That's Eliot, the Master," cried Crane. "The hounds must be just ahead. He's a nice old fellow; let's join him. I can't make out who the other one is—no one who was out the last time we hunted."
The canter had given Cora a color. She looked straight before her for a moment, and then she said:
"I think I recognize that other man."
"Who is it?"
"Some one I should like you to know, Burt. His name is Lefferts."
The lane was now too narrow for four to ride abreast. Crane drew Eliot to his side. He wanted to ask him about the Crosslett-Billingtons, for since the disappearance of the miniature, he had made up his mind to investigate the references of his staff. But strange to say, Eliot had never heard of the Billingtons, of their collection of tapestry, or their villa at Capri. He wished to talk of the Revellys.
"A great loss they are to the county, Crane, though, of course, we gain you. I wonder where they are. Gone North, I heard, though I thought I saw one of the boys out the morning of the day you came. The Revellys will hunt anything, from a plow-horse to a thoroughbred. Hard up, you know. Glad they consented to rent their house. Didn't suppose they ever would. Too proud, you know. They have things in it of immense value. Portrait of the grandfather, Marshall Revelly. Second in command to Stonewall Jackson at one time. I'd like to have you know them. Paul, the elder brother, is a man of some ability; may make his mark. And the younger daughter, Miss Claudia Revelly—" Do what he would, Eliot's voice changed slightly in pronouncing the name. "—Miss Claudia is one of our great beauties, the recipient of a great deal of attention. Why, sir, last summer, when Daniel W. Williams, the Governor-elect of this State, saw Miss Claudia at—"
But the story, in which, to be candid, Crane did not take a great deal of interest, was interrupted by Cora who pushed her mare forward in order to attract Crane's attention and to introduce him to her companion.
The young man was extraordinarily good-looking. His eyes were a strange greenish-brown color, like the water in the dock of a city ferry; his skin was ivory in hue and as smooth as a woman's, but his hands and a certain decisiveness of gesture were virile in the extreme.
"We ought to have a good run," said Crane, in order to say something.
"If any run can be good," answered the young man.
"You don't like hunting?"
"I hate anything to do with horses," answered Lefferts, plaintively. "You must admit they are particularly unintelligent animals. If they weren't, of course they wouldn't let us bully them and ride them about, when they could do anything they wanted with us. No, I only do it because she," he nodded toward Miss Falkener, "makes me."
Cora, looking very handsome, laughed.
"He's a poet," she said.
"Is that why he has to hunt?" asked Crane, and he wondered if poetry had anything to do with the excellence of the young man's coat and boots.
"Yes, poets have to be athletic nowadays. It's the fashion, and a very good one, too."
"There are other forms of athletics I don't hate nearly as much," Lefferts went on to Crane, "swimming, for instance, and sailing, and even walking isn't so bad. It doesn't need so much preparation, and getting up early in the morning, and all that sort of thing."
"Fortunately, I know what's best for him," said Cora.
"She makes me think she does," said the poet, still plaintively.
Crane wanted to ask Cora where and how she had acquired this rather agreeable responsibility, but he had no opportunity before they were off.
He and Cora started together, less, perhaps, from chivalry on Burton's part than because of his desire to watch the performance of the mare, but in the course of the run they became separated, and he finally jogged home alone.
He dismounted in the stable-yard and stood watching one of the grooms loosening the saddle-girths, while he and the head man discussed the excellent conduct of his own horses as compared with the really pitiable showing of other people's, and debated whether the wretched deterioration in a certain Canadian bay horse ridden that day by the Master of Hounds was owing to naturally poor conformation on the part of the horse, or deplorable lack of judgment on the part of the rider.
In the midst of these absorbing topics, Crane suddenly became aware that Smithfield was waiting for him at the gateway. He stopped short in what he was saying.
"You wanted to speak to me, Smithfield?"
"When you've finished, sir."
Crane had finished, he said, and turned in the direction of the house with the butler at his side.
"There's been a terrible disturbance at the house, sir, since you went out this morning."
"Oh, my powers!" cried Burton. "What has been happening now?"
Smithfield was stepping along, throwing out his feet and resting on the ball of his foot with the walk that Mrs. Falkener had so much admired.
"Well, sir," he said, "the trouble has been between Mr. Tucker and Brindlebury."
Crane groaned.
"I don't defend the boy, sir. I fear he forgot his place."
"Look here, Smithfield," said Crane, "candidly, now, what is the matter with all of you? You know you really are a very queer lot."
Thus appealed to, Smithfield considered.
"Well, sir," he said, "I think the trouble—as much as any one thing is the trouble—is that we're young, and servants oughtn't to be young. They should be strong, healthy, hard working, but not young; for youth means impulses, hopes of improvement, love of enjoyment, all qualities servants must not have." The man spoke entirely without bitterness, and Crane turning to him said suddenly:
"Smithfield, what do you think about class distinctions?"
For the first time, Smithfield smiled.
"I think, sir," he said, "that if they were done away with, I should lose my job."
"Well, by heaven, if I were you, then," cried Crane, with unusual feeling, "I'd get a job that wasn't dependent on a lie, for if I believe anything it is that all these dissimilarities between rich and poor, and men and women, and black and white, are pretty trivial as compared with their similarities. It's my opinion we are all very much alike, Smithfield," and Crane, as he spoke, was astonished at the passion for democracy that stirred within him.
"That, sir," replied Smithfield, "if you forgive my saying it, is the attitude toward democracy of some one who has always been at the top. There must be distinctions, mustn't there, sir, and you would probably say that the ideal distinction was along the line of merit—that every one should have the place in the world that he deserves. But, dear me, sir, that would be very cruel. So many of us would then be face to face with our own inferiority. Now, as things are, I can think that it's only outside conditions that are keeping me down, and that I should make as good or even better a master, begging your pardon, than you, sir. But under a true democracy, if I were still in an inferior position, I should have to admit I belonged there, which I don't admit at all now, not at all."
"But how about my not admitting that I'm a master?" said Crane.
"In one sense, perhaps you are not, sir," answered Smithfield. "For, after all, some training is necessary to be a servant, particularly a butler, but for the exercise of the functions of the higher classes, no training at all seems to be required. Curious, isn't it, sir? Utterly unskilled labor is found only among the very rich and the very poor."
The conversation had brought them to the house, without the case of Brindlebury having been further discussed. Suddenly realizing this, Crane stopped at the foot of the steps.
"Now, what is it that's happened?" he asked.
Smithfield showed some embarrassment.
"I'm afraid, sir," he said, "that some rather hot words passed. In fact—I do so much regret it, sir, but I fear Brindlebury actually raised his hand against Mr. Tucker."
It was a triumph of self-control that not a muscle of Burton's face quivered at this intelligence.
"If that is true," he said, "the boy will have to go, of course."
"I had hoped you might wish to hear both sides, sir."
"No," answered Crane. "I might hear what Brindlebury had to say, or I might understand without hearing, or I might know that I should have done the same in his place, or, even, going a step farther, I might think him right to have done it, but the fact remains that I can't keep a servant who strikes a guest of mine. That's a class distinction, Smithfield, but there it is."
Smithfield bowed.
"If I might suggest, sir, perhaps you do not understand rightly how Mr. Tucker—"
"Nothing like that, Smithfield. Tell the boy to go, go this afternoon. Pay him what's right and get him out." He ran up the steps, but turned half-way and added with a smile: "And you know there really isn't anything you could tell me about Mr. Tucker that I haven't known a great deal longer than any of you have."
He went in. Tucker and Mrs. Falkener were sitting side by side in the drawing-room, with that unmistakable air of people who expect, and have a right to expect, that they should be given an opportunity to tell their troubles. The only revenge that Crane permitted himself, if indeed revenge can be used to describe so mild a punishment, was that he continued to ignore their perfectly obvious grumpiness.
"Well," he said, "you look cozy. Hope you've had as good a day as we have."
Tucker opened his mouth to say "We have not," but Crane was already in full description of the run, undaunted by the fact that neither of his listeners, if they were indeed listeners, could be induced to manifest enough interest in his story to meet his eye.
"I'm glad some one has enjoyed the day," said Tucker, as Crane paused to light a cigarette. He laid an unmistakable emphasis on the words "some one."
Crane patted him on the shoulder.
"Thanks, Tuck," he said; "I believe that's true. I believe you are glad. Yes, we had a good day—three foxes, and your daughter, Mrs. Falkener, went like a bird. She's a wonderful horsewoman—not only looks well herself, but makes the horse look well, too."
At this Mrs. Falkener's manner grew distinctly more cheerful, and she asked:
"And, by the way, where is Cora?"
Tucker, annoyed at the desertion on the part of his ally, pressed his hand over his eyes and sighed audibly, but no one noticed him.
"I took a wrong turn in search of a short cut and lost the rest of them," said Crane. "But she'll be back directly. She's perfectly safe. She was with Eliot, our neighbor, and a fellow named Lefferts, whom she seemed to know."
"Lefferts!" cried Mrs. Falkener. "That man here! O Burton, how could you leave my daughter in such company? O Solon, you remember I told you about that man!"
Tucker nodded shortly. He wasn't going to take any interest in any one's grievances until his own had been disposed of.
"What's the matter with Lefferts?" said Crane. "He's staying with Eliot, and they asked us all over to lunch to-morrow. Shan't we go?"
"No, nowhere that that young man is," cried Mrs. Falkener, who seemed to be a good deal excited by the news. "He's an idler, a waster. Why, Burton," she ended in a magnificent climax, "he's a poet!"
"So Cora told me."
"He affects to be devoted to Cora," her mother went on bitterly, "and follows her about everywhere, without the slightest encouragement on her part, I can assure you, but I have known him to take a most insolent tone about her. The very first time I ever saw him, he was sitting beside me at a party, and I said, as Cora came across the room with that magnificent walk of hers, 'She moves like a full-rigged ship, doesn't she?' He answered: 'Or rather, more like a submarine; you never know where she'll pop up next. Yes, there's a sort of practical mystery about Cora very suitable to modern warfare.' He called her Cora behind her back, but not to her face, be sure. And very soon a poem of his appeared in one of the magazines—'To My Love, Comparing Her to a Submarine.' I thought it most insulting."
"And what did Cora think?" asked Crane.
"She hardly read the thing through. Cora is far too sensible to pay much attention to poetry."
"But poets are different, I suppose," answered Crane. Personally, he was pleased with the submarine simile.
"No, nor poets, either," said Mrs. Falkener tartly, and rising she hurried away to see if by some fortunate chance her errant daughter had returned without letting her know.
Left alone, Crane decided to give his friend his long-desired chance.
"Well, Tuck," he said, "you look in fine form. What have you been doing since I went away?"
"I have not had a very agreeable day," said Tucker, in a voice so low and deep that it was almost a growl.
"No? Not a return of your old dyspepsia, I hope," said Crane.
Tucker shook his head impatiently.
"At breakfast," he said, "I heard from Mrs. Falkener, who had heard from her daughter, that you had observed the loss of the miniature that used to lie on this table. Such things cannot be taken lightly, Burton. The owners might put almost any price on an article of that kind—wretched as it was, as a work of art—and you would be forced to pay. You see, it could not be replaced. I thought it my duty, therefore, to send for each of the servants and question them on the subject."