"You thought it your duty to send for Jane-Ellen, Tuck?"
Again Tucker frowned.
"I said I sent for all of the servants. Smithfield displayed, to my mind, a most suspicious ignorance and indifference to the whole subject. The housemaid was so hysterical and frightened that if I did not know a great deal of such cases, I should suspect her—"
"And was the cook frightened?" said Crane, with a flicker of a smile.
"No," Tucker explained, "she did not appear to be frightened, but then, I may tell you that I do not suspect the cook of complicity in the theft."
"The deuce you don't!" said Crane. He found himself suddenly annoyed without reason, that Tucker should have been interviewing and questioning his servants during his absence; stirring up trouble, he said to himself, and perhaps hurting the feelings of a perfectly good cook. Suppose she had decided to leave as a result of these activities of Solon's! He found he had not been listening to the account his friend was giving of the conversation, until he heard him say:
"It seems Jane-Ellen had never been in this room before; she was very much interested in everything. I saw her looking at that splendid portrait of General Revelly, and she asked—in fact, she made me give her quite a little account of his life—"
"A little lecture on the Civil War, eh?" said Crane.
His tone was not wholly friendly and Tucker did not find it so. He colored.
"Really, Burton," he said, coldly, "in case of crime, or of theft, a man's lawyer is usually supposed to know what it is best to do."
"Possibly, but I see no point in having dragged the cook into it."
"I see even less point in treating her on a different plane from any of the other servants."
"It almost seems, Tuck, as if you enjoyed your constant interviews with her."
"That is just, I regret to say, Burton, what I was thinking about you."
"It seems to me," said Crane, "that this discussion is not leading anywhere, and might as well end."
"One moment," exclaimed the other, "my story is not finished. When it came to be the turn of that boy Brindlebury, in whom I may as well tell you I have no confidence whatever, his manner was so insolent, his refusal to answer my questions so suspicious—Well, to make a long story short, your boot-boy, Burton, attempted to knock me down, and I had, of course, to put him out of the room. The situation is perfectly simple. I must ask you either to dismiss him, or to order the motor to take me to the train."
There was a short pause, during which Crane very deliberately lit a cigarette. Then he said in a level tone:
"The boy is already dismissed. He is out of the house at this moment, probably. As to the other alternative—the ordering the motor—I will, of course, do that, too, if you insist."
But Tucker did not insist.
"On the contrary," he said, "you have done all I could desire—more, indeed, for you have evidently decided against the boy before you even heard my side of the case."
"One cannot always decide these cases with regard for eternal justice," said Crane.
Before Tucker could inquire just what was meant by this rather disagreeable pronouncement, Smithfield appeared in the doorway to say that Jane-Ellen would be glad if she might speak to Mr. Crane for a moment.
This was what Crane had dreaded; she was going to leave. His anger against Tucker flared up again, but he said, with apparent calmness, that Jane-Ellen might come in. Tucker should see for himself the effect of his meddling. Tucker suggested in a sort of half-hearted way that he would go away, but his host told him, shortly, to remain.
Jane-Ellen entered. There was no doubt but that she was displeased with the presence of a third party. She made a little bob of a curtsy and started for the door.
"I'll come back when you're alone, sir."
"No," said Crane. "Anything you have to say can be said before Mr. Tucker."
"Oh, of course, sir." But her tone lacked conviction. "I wanted to speak about Brindlebury. He is very sorry for what happened, sir. I wish you could see your way—"
"I can't," said Crane.
Jane-Ellen glanced at Tucker under her eye-lashes.
"I know, sir," she went on, "that there could be no excuse for the way he has acted, but if any excuse was possible, it did seem—" She hesitated.
"You wish to say," interrupted Burton who now felt he did not care what he said to any one, "that Mr. Tucker was extremely provoking. I have no doubt, but that has nothing to do with it."
"Really, Burton," observed his guest, "I don't think that that is the way to speak of me, particularly," he added firmly, "to a servant."
"It's sometimes a good idea to speak the truth, even to servants, Solon," returned Crane. "You are provoking, and no one knows it better than I have known it during the past fifteen minutes. But your powers of being provoking have nothing to do with the matter, except theoretically. The boy has got to go. I want him to be out of the house within an hour. That's all there is to the whole question, Jane-Ellen."
"But, oh, sir, if he is sorry—"
"I doubt very much if he is sorry."
"Oh, why, sir?"
"Because I feel sure that in his place I shouldn't be sorry in the least, except for having failed—if he did fail."
"I know it's a great liberty, sir, but I do wish you could give him another chance." Her look was extraordinarily appealing.
"What in the world is Brindlebury to you, Jane-Ellen?"
"Didn't Mr. Tucker tell you, sir? He's my brother."
"No, he didn't tell me. Did you know he was Jane-Ellen's brother, Solon?"
"Brin told him, himself, sir." She was a little overeager.
Tucker frowned.
"Yes, I believe the boy did say something to that effect. I own I was not much interested in the fact, and I can't say I think it has any bearing on the present situation."
Crane was silent for an instant. Then he said:
"No, it hasn't. He's got to go," and then he added, quite clearly, and looking at his cook very directly:
"But I am sorry, Jane-Ellen, not to be able to do anything that you ask me to do."
She looked back at him for an instant, with a sort of imperishable sweetness, and then went sadly out of the room.
Between Crane and his legal adviser no further words were exchanged.
Crane went and took out one of the motors and rushed at a high rate of speed over the country, frightening one or two sedate black mules, the only other travelers on the roads, and soothing his own irritation by the rapidity of the motion.
More and more he regretted not having been able to grant the favor Jane-Ellen had so engagingly asked, more and more he felt inclined to believe that in Brindlebury's place he would have done the same thing, more and more did he feel disposed to fasten upon Tucker all the disagreeableness of the situation.
HE did not get back until almost dinner time. The meal was not an agreeable one, though Jane-Ellen's part of the performance was no less perfectly achieved than usual. It was evident that there had been a scene between the two ladies. Cora's eyes were distinctly red, and though Mrs. Falkener's bore no such evidence, she looked more haggard than was her wont. Tucker was still feeling somewhat imposed upon, Smithfield's manner suggested a dignified rebuke, Crane felt no inclination to lighten the general tone, and altogether the occasion was dreary in the extreme.
As soon as they had had coffee, Cora sat down at the piano, and drawing Burton to her by a request for more light, she whispered:
"Won't you take me out in the garden? I have something I must say to you."
Crane acquiesced. It was a splendid, misty November night. The moonlight was of that sea-green color which, so often represented on the stage, is seldom seen in nature. The moon concealed the bareness of the garden-beds, lent a suggestion of mystery to the thickets of what had once been flowering shrubs, and made the columns of the piazza, which in the daytime showed themselves most plainly to be but ill-painted wood, appear almost like the marble portico of an Ionic temple.
The air was so still that from the stables, almost a quarter of a mile away, they could hear the sound of one of the horses kicking in its stall, and the tune that a groom was rather unskilfully deducing from a concertina.
Crane whistled the air softly as he strolled along by his companion's side, until she stopped and said with great intensity:
"I want to say something to you, Burton. I'm not happy. I'm horribly distressed. I ought not to say what I'm going to say, at least the general idea seems to be that girls shouldn't—but I have a feeling that you're really my friend, a friend to whom I can speak frankly even about things that concern me."
"You make no mistake there, Cora," he returned.
He was what is considered a brave man, with calm nerves and quick judgment; physical danger had a certain stimulating effect upon him; morally, too, he did not lack courage; though good-naturedly inclined to have everything as pleasant as possible, he was not in the least afraid to make himself disagreeable. But now, at the thought of what Miss Falkener was going to say to him, he was frankly and unmistakably terrified. Why, he asked himself? Young and timid girls could go through such scenes and, it was said, actually enjoy them. Why should he be unreasoningly terrified—terrified with the same instinctive desire to run away that some people feel when they see snakes or spiders? Why should he feel as if prison walls were closing about him?
"Two years ago, when you and I first began to see each other," Miss Falkener went on, in a voice that she kept dropping lower and lower in order to conceal its tremors, "I liked you at once, Burton. I liked you very much. But, aside from that—you know, I'm not always very happy with my mother, aside from liking you, I made up my mind in the most cold-blooded, mercenary way, that the best thing I could do was to marry you."
"Well, I call that a thoroughly kind thought," said Crane, smiling at her, as a martyr might make a little joke about the lions.
"It wasn't kind," said Cora. "It was just selfish. I supposed I would be able to make you happy, but really, I thought very little about you in the matter. I was thinking only of myself. But I've been well repaid for it—" She stopped, almost with a sob; and while she was silently struggling for sufficient self-control to continue, Crane became aware that the front door had opened, letting a sudden shaft of yellow light fall upon them through the green moonshine, and that Tucker had come out on the piazza. He was looking about; he was looking for them. Not a sound did Burton make, but if concentration of thought has any unseen power, he drew Tucker's gaze to them.
"Burton," said Tucker.
There was no answer.
"Burton!" he called again.
Miss Falkener raised her head.
"Some one called you," she said.
Then Crane's figure became less rigid, and he moved a step forward. He was saved for the time, at least.
"Want me, Tuck?" he said.
Solon came down the steps carefully. He had reached an age when the eye does not quickly adjust itself to changes of light.
"Yes," he said, "I do want to see you. I want to ask you one question. Did you or did you not assure me the boy Brindlebury had left the house?"
"I did so assure you," answered Crane, "and I had been so foolish as to hope we had heard the last of him. Smithfield told me before dinner that he left early in the afternoon."
"Smithfield lied to you. The boy is in bed in his own room at this moment."
"How do you know?"
"Go and see for yourself."
Crane was just angry enough at every one to welcome any action. Only a few seconds elapsed before he was in the servants' wing of the house. All the doors were standing open, disclosing black darkness, except one which was closed, and under this a bright streak was visible.
Crane flung himself upon this, thinking it would be locked, but evidently Brindlebury had not thought any such precaution necessary. The door at once yielded, and Crane entered.
Brindlebury, fully dressed, was lying flat on his back on the bed, with his legs crossed in the air; a cigarette was in his mouth (one of Burton's cigarettes), a reading-lamp was at his elbow, and he was engaged in the perusal of a new novel which Crane had received the day before, and had strangely missed ever since. On the floor near-by was a tray, empty indeed, but bearing unmistakable signs of having been well filled only recently.
Crane took the cigarette from Brindlebury's mouth, and the book from his hand.
"Now," he said, "I'll give you five minutes to get your things together and get out." There were no signs that packing had ever been contemplated; all Brindlebury's belongings were undisturbed.
The boy looked at Crane. He would like to have answered, but he could not think of anything to say, so he got up slowly and tried to smooth his hair which was very much rumpled.
"I'm not positive I have such a thing as a bag," he observed at length, but a little search revealed one in the closet. It was marked "B. Revelly."
"A token of respect from your late employer, I suppose," said Crane.
The boy did not answer. He was rather sulkily putting on his clothes. He was not a neat packer. A tooth-brush and some pipe tobacco, a wet sponge and some clean shirts, boots and pajamas were indiscriminately mixed.
The five minutes, unmarked by any conversation, had almost elapsed when light steps were heard in the hallway, and a voice exclaimed:
"Did you have a good dinner, honey?" and Jane-Ellen came spinning into the room, all the demureness gone from her manner.
At the sight of her employer, she stopped, and her hand went up to her mouth with a gesture expressive of the utmost horror. Brindlebury did not stop packing. He was now filling in the corners with shaving soap and socks.
His sister turned to Crane.
"Oh, sir," she wailed, "we've acted very wrongly."
"Jane-Ellen," replied Crane, "that really doesn't go. It was a good manner, and you worked it well, but it is now, if you will forgive my saying so, old stuff. I cannot look upon you as a foolishly fond sister, trying to protect an erring brother. I think it far more likely that you are the organizer of this efficient little plan to keep him here unobserved, eating my food, reading my books, and smoking, if I am not greatly mistaken, my cigarettes."
"Oh, Brin, do you take Mr. Crane's cigarettes?" said Jane-Ellen.
"Not unless I'm out of my own," said her brother.
"Without clearing his own honesty, he impugns my taste," said Crane.
It was plain that Jane-Ellen was going to make another effort to improve the situation. She was thinking hard. At last she began:
At the sight of Crane, Jane-Ellen stopped with a gesture of the utmost horrorAt the sight of Crane, Jane-Ellen stopped with a gesture of the utmost horror
"I don't defend what we've done, sir, but if you would have let me see you alone this afternoon, I was going to ask that Brindlebury might stay just for this one night. Only I couldn't speak before Mr. Tucker, I'm so afraid of him."
"There you go again," said Burton. "You're not telling the truth. You're not in the least afraid of Tucker."
"Well, not as much as I am of you, sir."
"Jane-Ellen," said Crane, "I believe you are a very naughty girl." He was surprised to find that every trace of ill temper had left him.
"I know what you mean, sir," said the cook, and this time her voice had a certain commonplace tone. "And it's true. I haven't always been perfectly honest with you, but a servant can't be candid and open, sir; you know, yourself, it wouldn't do."
"I'd like to see it tried," returned Crane.
"Well, I'm honest now, sir," she went on, "in asking you to let Brin stay. He'll apologize, I'm sure—"
"I will not," said the boy, still packing.
But his sister hardly noticed the interruption.
"He will do what I tell him when he comes to think it over, if you will only relent. Don't you think you are just a little hard on him? He is my brother, and it would make me so happy if you would let him stay."
The desire to make others happy is not a crime, yet Crane felt nothing but shame at the obvious weakening of his own resolution under the peculiarly melting voice of Jane-Ellen. He glanced at the boy, he thought of Tucker, he looked long at Jane-Ellen. Who knows what might have happened if his eyes, which he decided he must wrench away from hers, had not suddenly fallen upon a small object lying undisguised on Brindlebury's dressing-table.
It was the pearl set miniature.
All three saw it almost at the same instant. The hands of all went out toward it, but Crane's reached it first. He took it up.
"Have you any explanation to offer, Brindlebury?" he said.
"I can explain," exclaimed Jane-Ellen.
"I'm sure you can," Crane answered. "The only question is, shall I believe your explanation."
"He took it because it reminded him of me. That's the only reason he wanted it."
Crane looked from the miniature to the cook. He knew that this was also the only reason why he himself wanted it.
"Jane-Ellen," he said, "go downstairs and order the motor to come to the side door at once."
"Mr. Crane, you're not going to have Brin arrested?"
He shook his head.
"I ought to, perhaps, but I am not going to. I'm going to take him in the motor to what I consider a safe distance, and drop him."
"Just like a stray cat," gasped Brindlebury's sister.
"Cats usually come back," said the boy, with a return of his normal spirits.
"Cats have nine lives," replied Crane, significantly.
Something about the tone of this remark put an end to the conversation. Jane-Ellen obediently left the room. Brindlebury struggled frantically to strap his bulging bag, and succeeded only with the assistance of Crane.
When they went downstairs, the motor was already ticking quietly at the side door. No one was visible, except Jane-Ellen, who was wistfully watching it.
Brindlebury got in, and set his bag upright between his knees; Crane got in, and had actually released the brake, when, looking up at the cook still standing there, he found himself saying:
"Do you want to come, too, Jane-Ellen, to see the last of your brother?"
Of course she did; she looked hastily about and then turned toward the stairs, but Crane stopped her.
"No," he said, "don't go up. There's a coat of mine there in the coat closet. Take that."
Immediately she reappeared in a heavy Irish frieze overcoat he had had made that spring in New Bond Street. It was an easy fit for Crane; it enveloped Jane-Ellen completely. The collar which she had contrived to turn up as she put the coat on, stood level with the top of her head; the hem trailed on the ground, and the sleeves hung limp from below the elbows. She looked like a very small kitten wrapped up in a very large baby's blanket. But she did not allow this superfluity of cloth to hamper her movements; she sprang into the little back seat, and they started.
After about half an hour, Crane stopped the car. They were now in the outskirts of the main town of the district.
"This is where you get out," he said.
Brindlebury obeyed.
"Smithfield paid you your wages, I believe," and Burton plunged into his own pocket. "Well, there's something extra."
At this, a trembling might have been seen in the right sleeve of the frieze coat, and the next second, Jane-Ellen's hand emerged from the cuff, and Crane for the first time experienced the touch of her fingers. She pushed his hand away from her brother's.
"Don't take that money, Brin," she cried.
Brindlebury's hand dropped.
"No, of course not. What do you take me for?" he said. Then he snatched off his cap and kissed his sister good-by, and, picking up his bag, he disappeared into the darkness.
There was a moment's silence between the other two, before Crane said:
"Better get into the front seat. You'll be more comfortable."
Holding up her coat, as if it were a coronation robe, Jane-Ellen stepped in, sat down, and wrapped it carefully about her knees—a process in which Crane by the greatest effort of self-control did not join. Again the brake squeaked and the motor moved forward.
A great deal has been said about silence as a method of spiritual communion, but few of us, in social situations, at least, have the courage of these convictions. Most hostesses, on looking about a silent dinner-table, would be more apt to think that they were watching a suspension of diplomatic relations, rather than an intercommunication of souls. But there are moments for all of us when we value silence as highly as Maeterlinck himself and this, in Burton's opinion, was one of them.
The moonlight, so much more beautiful and affecting than he had found it earlier in the evening in the garden, the smooth, quick motion, the damp night air blowing against his face, made him acutely aware of the presence at his side of that small, still companion. He felt no need of speech, nor did he speculate as to her state of mind. He drove, and enjoyed life deeply.
They were nearly at home again, before he asked:
"Why was it you did not wish your brother to take what I offered him?"
"Because," she answered, in a tone of simplicity and sincerity he had never yet heard from her, "it would not have been good for him. He's young, and takes things too easily. He ought not to have money he does not work for."
"I am glad that you feel like that," he said. "I was afraid you refused to let him have it, because you were angry at me for sending him away."
He was afraid that she would relapse into her old tone of mock servility and assure him that she would never be guilty of the liberty of criticizing her employer, but she did not. She said:
"But I was not angry at you. I should not have respected you if you had done anything else."
He answered seriously:
"You knew that I was sorry not to do what you asked me to do?"
"Yes, I knew," she said.
They did not speak again.
They left the car at the garage and walked to the house. There had been failure in coöperation, for Smithfield evidently had not known of the expedition. The side door was locked, and so was the front door.
"I suppose I'd better ring," said Crane reluctantly. Somehow he was not eager to face Smithfield's cold, reproving glance.
"No, follow me," whispered Jane-Ellen.
She led him to the kitchen entrance and pointed to a window.
"I don't believe that window has had a bolt for sixty years," she said.
"And to think," returned Crane, as he gently raised it, "that before I took the house I complained of its being out of repair."
He climbed in and opened the kitchen door for her. He had a match, and she knew the whereabouts of a candle. They still spoke in whispers. There was, of course, no real reason why they were so eager to let the household sleep undisturbed, yet they were obviously united in the resolution to make no unnecessary sound.
"Wouldn't you like something to eat?" breathed Jane-Ellen.
"A good idea," he answered.
She divested herself of his coat and beckoned him to the ice-box. They had entirely ceased to be master and servant.
"Some of that chicken salad you had for dinner," she murmured, "if any of it came down. I dare say it didn't though. Smithfield's so fond of it."
Crane laughed.
"You mean he eats in the pantry?"
She nodded.
"All butlers do, and Smithfield's a little bit greedy, though you'd never guess it, would you?"
They laughed softly over Smithfield, as they spread out their simple meal on the kitchen table. Jane-Ellen showed a faint disposition to wait upon her employer, but it was easily vanquished by his assertion that he would eat nothing unless she sat down, too. A few minutes later, it was he who was doing whatever work was to be done, and she sitting with her elbows on the table watching him. There seemed, after all, nothing unnatural in this new relation.
Presently, Willoughby, hearing the sound of dishes, or smelling the chicken salad, awoke and jumped on the table.
"Do you mind him?" asked his mistress in melting tones.
Crane didn't mind him at all. He offered the cat a bit of chicken. Willoughby seemed to enjoy it, chewing it with quick little jerks of his head. And presently, he raised a paw and deflected a fork which Crane was carrying to his own mouth. Even this Crane appeared to find amusing.
Before they had finished, the kitchen clock behind them suddenly and discordantly struck once. Burton started and half turned his head, but she stopped him.
"Let's guess what time it is," she said. "Of course, it's later than half past ten. It might be half past eleven."
"Or even half past twelve."
"It could be one."
"But certainly not half past."
They looked around. It was half past.
Jane-Ellen sprang up.
"Oh, how dreadful!" she exclaimed, without, however, any very real conviction. "How terribly late, and I have to get up so early in the morning."
"It makes me desperately ashamed," said Crane, "to think you have to get up to cook for all of us and that I can sleep just as late as I want to."
She laughed.
"If you haven't anything worse to worry about than that, you're very lucky."
But he had something to worry about, and as soon as she was gone, he began to worry about it, namely, the painful and complicated situation of a man who has fallen in love with his cook.
MRS. FALKENER never came down to breakfast. At nine to the minute, her bell tinkled, and Lily staggered up to her room bearing a tray, from which, it subsequently appeared, many essentials had been forgotten; the next ten minutes were spent by the unfortunate housemaid in trips to the pantry in search of salt, powdered sugar or a tea-strainer.
Cora, however, came down and poured out coffee for the two men. She looked handsome and vigorous in this occupation, and Crane, sitting opposite to her, wondered if it were his destiny to sit so for the rest of his life. He watched her thin white hands—strong as steel, they were—moving about among the cups. He had once admired them intensely. But now he knew that hands did not have to be so firm and muscular to accomplish wonderful achievements in all sorts of ways.
At ten, Mrs. Falkener came swimming down the stairs, all suavity and brightness. The evening before, while Crane had been struggling with the problem of Brindlebury's misdeeds, she and Tucker had had another council of war. A new attack upon the cook had been planned, which they felt sure would bring to light delinquencies that even Crane could not overlook.
"Come, Burton," she said as she entered the sitting-room, "aren't you ever going to offer to show me the kitchen? You know that to an old-fashioned housekeeper like myself, it is the most interesting part of the whole house."
Such interest, Crane felt inclined to answer, was not confined to old-fashioned housekeepers. Her suggestion roused conflicting desires in him; the desire to see Jane-Ellen, and the desire to protect her from Mrs. Falkener.
"Tuck could tell us all about it," he said slyly.
Tucker, who was reading the paper, pretended not to hear, and presently Crane rang the bell.
"Tell the cook, Smithfield," he said, "that Mrs. Falkener and I are coming down to inspect the kitchen in about ten minutes."
When Smithfield had gone, Mrs. Falkener shook her finger at Crane.
"That was a mistake, my dear Burton," she said, "a great mistake. Take them unaware whenever you can; it is the only way to protect ourselves against the unscrupulous members of their class."
"Crane," said Tucker, without looking up from his paper, "wants to give the young woman plenty of time to smuggle out any superfluous young man who may be visiting her at the moment."
"Well, I'm no gum-shoe man, Tuck," Burton replied, leaving all of his hearers in doubt as to whether or not he had emphasized the word "I."
Tucker laughed sarcastically.
"No, my dear fellow," he answered, "your best friend would not accuse you of having talents along the detective line."
"Perhaps not," replied Crane. "And by the way, did I tell you that the miniature had turned up all right?"
Tucker's face fell. He had depended a good deal on the loss of the miniature as a lever to oust the whole set of servants.
"No," he said. "Where was it discovered?"
"Oh, it had just been moved," answered Crane. "It was lying on another table, when I happened to notice it." He took it out of his pocket and looked at it. "I think now, I'll keep it in my room for safety. You approve of that, don't you, Tuck?"
Tucker, who felt that in some way he was being deceived, would not answer, and in the pause Mrs. Falkener rose and said chattily,
"Well, shall we be off?"
"Coming with us, Solon?"
"No, I'm not," returned Tucker crossly.
"Didn't mean to offend you," Crane answered. "I thought you liked kitchens, too."
Downstairs, they found the kitchen empty. Jane-Ellen was standing just outside the door watching Willoughby, who was exciting himself most unnecessarily over preparations which he was making to catch a bird that was hopping about in the grass near by. The great cat crouched, all still except the end of his tail, which twitched ominously, then he rose, and, balancing himself almost imperceptibly on his four paws, seemed about to spring; then abandoning this method, too, he crept a little nearer to his victim, his stomach almost touching the earth. And then the whole exhibition was ended by the bird, who, having accomplished its foraging expedition, lightly flew away, leaving Willoughby looking as foolish as a cat ever does look.
Jane-Ellen stooped and patted him.
"You silly dear," she said caressingly.
It was Willoughby who first saw Crane. With a vivid recollection of the previous evening's feast of chicken from the salad, the cat ran to him and bumped his nose repeatedly against Crane's legs in token of fealty and gratitude. Burton felt unduly flattered. He lifted Willoughby, who instantly made himself very soft and heavy in his arms and showed every disposition to settle down and go to sleep.
Mrs. Falkener looked at him sentimentally.
"How all animals take to you, Burton, at first sight!" she said.
Crane bent over and replaced Willoughby slowly on the ground, while Jane-Ellen turned her head away for an instant. Mrs. Falkener went on:
"What a nice, bright kitchen you have, Jane-Ellen. A good range, though old-fashioned. How bright you keep your copper. That's right." She wandered away in her tour of inspection. "See, Burton, this blue plate. It looks to me as if it might have value. And this oak dresser—it must be two hundred years old." She was across the room and her back was turned. Crane and the cook stood looking at each other. "How charming, how interesting!" Mrs. Falkener continued. "And you would not believe me when I said that the kitchen was the most interesting part of the house."
"I did not disagree with that," said Crane, still looking at Jane-Ellen.
"Oh, my dear boy, you would never have come down if I had not made you."
"One doesn't always do what one wants to do," said Crane.
Mrs. Falkener turned. The kitchen had revealed none of the enormities she had expected—not even a man hidden in the kitchen closet, the door of which she had hopefully opened; but one chance still remained. The ice-box! In her time she had known many incriminating ice-boxes. She called loudly to be taken to it.
"It's this way, madame," said the cook.
Mrs. Falkener drew Crane aside.
"That," she said, "is the very best way to judge of a cook's economical powers. See how much she saves of the dishes that come from the upstairs table. Now, last night I happened to notice that the chicken salad went downstairs almost untouched."
For the first time in years, Burton found himself coloring.
"Oh, really?" he stammered. "I had an idea that we had eaten quite a lot of it."
"No," returned Mrs. Falkener firmly, "no, a good dish went down. Let us go and see."
Crane glanced at Jane-Ellen. He thought she had overheard.
They reached the ice-box; the cook lifted the lid, and Mrs. Falkener looked in. The first sight that greeted her eyes was the platter that had borne the salad she had liked so much. It was almost empty.
"Why, Jane-Ellen," she said, "where is all the rest of that excellent salad?"
At this question, Jane-Ellen, who was standing beside the chest, gave the lid a slight downward impulsion, so that it suddenly closed with a loud, heavy report, within half an inch of Mrs. Falkener's nose.
That lady turned to Burton.
"Burton," she said, with the majesty of which she was at times capable, "I leave it to you to decide whether or not this impossible young woman did that on purpose," and so saying she swept away up the stairs, like a goddess reascending Olympus.
"Look here, Jane-Ellen," said Crane, "I don't stand for that."
"Oh, sir," replied the culprit, with a return to an earlier manner, "you surely don't think I had anything to do with it?"
"Unhappily, I was watching your hand at the time, and I know that you had."
Jane-Ellen completely changed her method.
"Oh, well," she said, "you did not want her going on any more about the old salad, did you?"
"I don't want the end of my guest's nose taken off."
"It's rather a long nose," said the cook dispassionately.
"Jane-Ellen, I am seriously displeased."
At this the cook had a new idea. She extracted a very small handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it as she said:
"Yes, indeed, sir, I suppose I did utterly forget my place, but it's rather hard on a poor girl—one day you treat her as if she were an empress, and the next, just as if she were mud under your feet." She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes.
"Jane-Ellen, you know I never treated you like mud under my feet."
"It was only last night in my brother's room," she went on tearfully, "that you scolded me for not being candid, and now at the very first candid thing I do, you turn on me like a lion—"
At this point Crane removed her hands and handkerchief from before her face, and revealed the fact, which he already suspected, that she was smiling all the time.
"Jane-Ellen, what a dreadful fraud you are!" he said quite seriously.
"No, Mr. Crane," answered Jane-Ellen, briskly tucking away her handkerchief, now that its usefulness was over. "No, I'm not exactly a fraud. It's just that that's my way of enjoying myself, and you know, sometimes I think other people enjoy it, too."
"Do you think Mrs. Falkener enjoys it?"
"I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Falkener," replied Jane-Ellen, with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Burton!" called Mrs. Falkener's voice from the head of the stairs.
Crane and his cook drew slightly closer together, as if against a common enemy.
"Do you suppose she can have heard us?" he asked.
"I think she's perfectly capable of trying to hear."
Crane smiled.
"I took a great risk, Jane-Ellen, when I advised you to be candid."
"Burton!" said the voice again.
"Merciful powers!" exclaimed Crane. "She calls like Juliet's nurse."
The cook laughed.
"But you must be prompter than Juliet was."
"What do you know about Shakespeare, Jane-Ellen?"
"Moving pictures have been a great education to the lower classes, you know, sir."
He moved toward the stairs, but turned back to say,
"Good-by, Jane-Ellen."
She answered:
"'Think you that we shall ever meet again?'" and then even she seemed to feel that she had committed an imprudence and she dashed away to the kitchen.
Crane ascended the stairs slowly, for he was trying to recall the lines that follow Juliet's pathetic question, when he suddenly became aware of Mrs. Falkener's feet planted firmly on the top step, and then of that lady's whole majestic presence. He pulled himself together with an effort.
"Do you suppose that girl could have dropped that lid on purpose?" he asked, as if this were the question he had been so deeply pondering.
"I feel not the least doubt of it," returned Mrs. Falkener.
He shook his head.
"It seems almost incredible," he answered, moving swiftly across the hall toward the sitting-room, where Tucker and Miss Falkener were visible.
"On the contrary," replied the elder lady, "it seems to me perfectly in keeping with the whole conduct of this extraordinary young person." They had now entered the room, and she included Tucker and her daughter in an account of the incident.
"You know, Solon, and you, too, Cora, how easy I am on servants. I must admit, every one will confirm it, that my own servants adore me. They adore me, don't they, Cora? No wonder. I see to their comfort. They have their own bath, and a sitting-room far better than anything I had myself as a young woman. But in return I do demand respect, absolute respect. And when I am looking into an ice-box, examining it, at Burton's special request, to have that young minx slam down the lid, almost catching my nose, Solon, I assure you, almost touching my nose, as she did it!"
Tucker listened attentively, tapping his eye-glasses on his left palm. Then he said:
"And what did you do about it, Burton?"
Crane had gone to the bookcases and taken down a volume of Shakespeare. He was so profoundly immersed that Tucker had to repeat his question. This is what he was reading:
Juliet: Think you that we shall ever meet again?Romeo: I doubt it not, and all our woes shall serveFor pleasant converse in the days to come.
Juliet: Think you that we shall ever meet again?
Romeo: I doubt it not, and all our woes shall serveFor pleasant converse in the days to come.
He looked up, vainly trying to suppress a smile.
"What did I do about what, Tuck?"
"About your cook's insulting Mrs. Falkener."
Crane replaced the volume and walked to the window.
"Oh," he said, "I stayed behind a moment—"
"A moment!" said Mrs. Falkener, with something that would have been a snort in one less self-controlled.
At this instant, Crane's attention was attracted by a figure he saw crossing the grounds, and he decided to create a diversion.
"Oh, look!" he exclaimed. "Do come and see the housemaid going out for a walk. Did you ever see anything smarter than she looks?"
The diversion was of a more exciting nature than he had intended. Mrs. Falkener came to the window and uttering a piercing exclamation, she cried:
"The woman has on Cora's best hat!"
"Not really?" said Crane, but it did seem to him he remembered having seen the hat before.
"It is, it is," Mrs. Falkener went on, in some excitement. "Call her back at once. Solon, do something. Call the woman back."
Tucker, thus appealed to, threw open the window, and with an extremely creditable volume of voice, he roared:
"Lily!"
The girl started and turned. He beckoned imperiously. She approached.
"Come in here at once," he said sternly.
Mrs. Falkener sank into a chair.
"This is really too much," she said, making fluttering gestures with her hands. "Even you, Burton, will admit this is too much. Stand by me, Solon."
"Don't say even I, Mrs. Falkener," returned Crane, "as if I had been indifferent to your comfort."
"Don't be so excited, Mother," said Cora. "You know it probably isn't my hat at all. Lily has probably been copying mine."
Mrs. Falkener shook her head.
"I should know a Diane Duruy model anywhere," she said.
At this moment, Lily entered, and good temper did not beam from her countenance.
"I had permission from Smithfield to go out," she began defiantly. "Smithfield sent me over to look up a boy to replace Brin—"
"The trouble is not over your going out," said Crane.