At Home with the Jardines
L >> Lilian Bell >> At Home with the JardinesMary is a character, but this theory of hers she carried to an extreme,
as you shall hear.
Owing to our respect for Mary's white hairs, the dinner-hour was as
changeable as a weathercock. We dined anywhere from seven to nine, and
soothed each other's irritation by calling ostentatious attention to the
delicacy and perfection of each dish as it came on the table. Why
shouldn't each be perfect, forsooth, when no amount of coaxing or
persuading, no amount of instructions beforehand or hints or orders could
make that cook of ours lift a finger toward dinner until we both were in
the house with hungry countenances and expectant demeanours? We even
tried telephoning her from down-town that we were on the way and would be
at home in an hour. When we came in at the end of that hour and said:
"Mary, is dinner ready?" the answer was always:
"No, dear child, but it will be in a minute."
At first we believed her and hurried to get ready, but as ten, twenty,
thirty minutes passed and no signs of soup appeared, we used to take
turns strolling carelessly into the kitchen as if to see what time it
was, to investigate the progress of dinner. If we came in at seven we
got it at eight. There was no way apparently of circumventing her. She
would have her own way.
Once the Angel said:
"Mary, didn't we telephone you that we wanted dinner just as soon as we
came in?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Well, wasn't it six o'clock when we telephoned?"
"Yes, sir, but I just thought maybe you would be delayed or the car would
run off the track or you'd stop to talk to some friends, so I wouldn't
begin to cook until I clapped my two eyes on you."
At first we used to laugh and say that it was her respect for food. Then
it worked on our tempers and grew anything but funny. It got to be
exasperating, infuriating, maddening.
"Now, Aubrey," I said, "it has come to the battle with the cook. Shall
we submit to petty tyranny or shall we strike?"
"I'll tell you what," said the Angel. "I haven't quite made up my mind
whether Mary is really amenable to kindness or whether she takes us for
suckers."
"Oh," I gasped. I had never taken myself for a "sucker" before, and even
in such good company as that of my husband it gave me a jar to hear the
possibility mentioned.
"I am convinced of one thing," he went on, "Mary has been badly spoiled,
and, while I have no objection to her ruling us in any way she likes, I
am going to compel her to obey orders when she gets them."
"Oh, be careful!" I cried.
"I'm going to. But first I am going to investigate the labyrinths of her
mind. If it is that she respects food more than she does our feelings,
I'll do one thing. If it is that kindness won't work, I'll try severity.
But I'm going to make that old woman obey me and have dinner on time."
The Angel delivered this alarming ultimatum without raising his voice and
with no more emphasis than he would use in saying:
"May I trouble you for the salt?"
I leaned back and looked at him.
"As if you could be severe with any one, you Angel!"
From which remark the knowing can easily deduce the length of time we had
been married.
It was then ten minutes to eight. We had come in at six, and at five we
had telephoned her to have dinner promptly at seven.
"I hope you had a good tea," said Aubrey, looking at the clock.
"I did. It isn't that I am hungry. I'm mad," I answered, genially.
"I am not mad. I am hungry," said Aubrey.
"Being hungry for a man is the same as being mad for a woman," I observed.
Aubrey grinned.
"Now," he said, mysteriously. "Don't eat any dinner to-night, and follow
my lead in everything."
"Don't eat any dinner!" I cried, in a whisper. "I am starv--"
"Hush," he whispered. "You said you weren't hungry."
Although we were only ten feet away from her and in plain view, Mary
struck the Roman chime of bells, by which she always announces dinner.
As we took our seats the clock struck eight. The table was a dream of
loveliness. Wedding-silver, wedding-glass, wedding-linen graced it at
every turn, for Mary always decorates for us as for a banquet.
Never has the fragrant odour of soup assailed me as it did on that
particular night. Mary hovered around, watching to see how we liked it.
We tasted it, and laid our spoons down. We talked languidly, without
noticing her.
"What's the matter with the soup?" she finally demanded when she could
stand it no longer. We looked up as if surprised.
"Why, nothing," said Aubrey. "I don't care for it. That's all. Take it
away."
"It will do nicely for to-morrow night," said Mary.
At that Aubrey dropped his entire cigarette into his and I put a spoonful
of salt into mine.
"Isn't it good, Missis?" asked Mary of me.
"I don't know," I said, wearily. "I'm too tired to eat."
"Take it away," said Aubrey again.
"My poor dear child!" cried Mary. "Too tired to eat! But eating will do
you good. Taste a bit! Try it, Missis dear!"
"No, I don't seem to care for it, and I was very hungry at seven o'clock.
Don't you remember, Aubrey, I said coming up in the elevator how hungry I
was?"
"I remember," said my husband. "But you are just like me. If you don't
have your meals at a certain time your appetite goes."
At that Mary lifted her head and looked at us through her spectacles.
Never were four more innocent eyes to be met with than ours. We looked
at her calmly until she lowered her gaze. It was not an impudent nor a
defiant look she gave us. It was a trial of wills. Our two against her
one.
She removed the soup without more ado, and brought in a broiled chicken.
Oh, oh! Shall I ever forget it! I was so hungry by that time that I
could have bitten a piece out of my plate.
Mary stood by with a face as anxious as if she were standing by the
death-bed of her child.
Aubrey lifted it with the carving-fork, looked at me, and said:
"Do you feel as if you could eat a little bit of this?"
A little bit! I felt as if I could have snatched it in my paws and run
growling to a corner to devour the whole of it and to bury the bones for
the next day.
"No," I said, wearily, leaning my head on my hand to hide my countenance.
"But you eat some, dear."
Aubrey laid down the carving-fork.
"No, I don't care for any."
"What time did you have your luncheon, dear?" I asked, anxiously.
"At half-past twelve. I had an appointment with Squires at one."
"And what did you have?" I continued, for Mary's face was expressive of
the liveliest horror.
"A club sandwich and a glass of beer."
Mary looked at the clock. It was half-past eight.
"Oh, my dear!" I said, mournfully. "It is no wonder you can't eat. Your
stomach is too exhausted to feel hunger."
Mary ran around the table for no reason at all. She took the cover off
the best silver dish. It was a dish of fresh peas cooked with onions and
lettuce. Petits pois a la paysanne! I had taught her myself! I simply
glared at it. To this day I can smell those onions!
"If I could have had those at seven o'clock," said Aubrey, sadly, "I
could have eaten every one of them. They look delicious, Mary, but I
really--no, don't urge me! Take the dinner off."
"Oh, boss dear, if you'd just take a lick at them!" implored Mary. "Just
one lick--there's a handsome man!"
Aubrey bit his lips. I was trembling on the verge of hysterical laughter.
Mary implored in vain. With our famished eyes on the peas and chicken we
saw them disappear through the swinging door. Mary in her agony was
talking aloud.
"Keep it up!" whispered the Angel. "This will fetch her! She's ready to
cry."
"Oh, but Aubrey," I moaned. "I'm ready to gnaw the napkin and eat my
slippers. Please come and tighten my belt!"
"I know now how explorers and castaways feel," murmured the Angel. "For
heaven's sake, what comes next?"
"Asparagus!" I wailed. "Fresh asparagus. I paid ninety cents for it!
And she's cooked it with her white sauce--oh!"
The door opened and Mary, with pink cheeks and dancing eyes, brought in
and deposited before me my favourite dish. Asparagus on toast. I looked
at it longingly, feverishly! I was famishing. My throat was dry and my
eyes had a savage glare. I had heard of men going mad for want of food.
I know now how they felt.
At first I could not speak. I was obliged to swallow violently.
"There!" cried Mary, triumphantly. "You can't pass that up!"
"Alas!" I sighed, shaking my head. I looked at her and felt simply
murderous. That white-haired old woman's obstinacy in not giving us our
dinner on time was the cause of all my misery. I resolved to rub it in.
Her face was a study.
"Did you ever," I said, mournfully, "see me refuse asparagus before?"
"You're never going to refuse it!" exclaimed Mary, incredulously.
"Missis! I used a pint of cream, to say nothing of the butter! Why,
it's a sin! It's a mortal sin in you not to try it! See, Missis, let me
put a little on your plate. I'll feed it to you like as if you were a
baby! I will indeed!"
"No," I said, clutching at the table-cloth to keep from falling upon that
dish of asparagus and shovelling it down my throat in huge
handfuls,--"no, I couldn't! Mary! I am too weak, really, I think I am
starving!"
I leaned back and closed my eyes. The clock struck nine.
"You've had nothing to eat all day!" cried Mary. "You had only a bite
for your lunch, and that was eight hours ago! Oh, Missis, dear! Ain't I
the mean dog! Let me make you a cup of tea! Missis dear! In the name
of God eat something! Do!"
"No," I said. "I have always been this way. If I go five minutes over
the time when I expect my dinner, I feel just this way. I can't eat."
With which astonishing lie, I leaned back as if death were already
looming up in the distance.
Mary made one more attack. Salad was the Angel's weak point as asparagus
was mine, and Mary always made a dream of beauty out of it. She scorned
"_fatiguer la laitue_" as the French do. Instead she kept it in a bowl
of water until thoroughly "awake," as she called it. Then carefully
examining each leaf separately, she tied them in a wet cloth and laid
them "spang on the ice," which course of treatment rendered them so crisp
that to cut them with a sharp salad-fork was always to get a little
dressing splashed in one's eye. Furthermore she arranged them in the
best cut-glass dish in symmetrical rows with the scarlet tomatoes tucked
invitingly in the centre. She presented us with such a dish on this
evening. Then when Aubrey (who will be remembered when he is no more,
not for his moral qualities nor for his domestic virtues, but for the
skill with which he used to mix a salad dressing) went to work and
prepared one from tarragon, vinegar, oil, Nepaul pepper, paprika, black
and cayenne pepper, to say nothing of plenty of salt,--words fail me! I
simply pass away at the recollection.
I have never been able to make up my mind whether Mary suspected us or
not. Of course we overdid the part, but it was a physical necessity. I
can go without a thing altogether, but I cannot be moderate. I really
thought I was not hungry until Aubrey told me not to eat, and that, of
course, was enough to make any woman ravenous. If he had told me "to
buck up and eat a good dinner," of course I could only have nibbled.
She broke out again, and pleaded hard for us to drink our coffee, but we
were obdurate.
Finally we got up from the table and Mary removed the cloth, muttering to
herself. I overheard some of it, but where any other cook would have
been furious at us for not eating her delicious dinner, the dear old
soul's rage was all directed against herself, and she was vituperating
herself in language which would not have gone through the mails.
But now the question was where and how to get our dinner so that Mary
would not suspect. To send her to church and forage in our own ice-box
was out of the question, for she knows to a dot how much there is of
everything, and I cannot take an olive that she does not miss it and come
and ask me if I took it, to avert suspicion from the ice-man.
Furthermore, it we both went out, she might suspect. And we had taught
her too heroic a lesson to go and spoil it by carelessness now.
"What shall we do?" murmured my husband.
"There's only one thing to do," I said, in low, even tones, with my book
before my face. "Go out and buy something ready cooked,--something which
leaves no trace,--something small enough to go into your overcoat pocket,
but oh, in the name of heaven, get enough!"
Mary came in as the outer door slammed.
"Where's boss gone?" she demanded. Perhaps it was only my guilty
conscience which made her tones sound suspicious.
"Just over to Columbus Avenue to get a paper," I said.
"Oh!"
I waited in a guilty and trembling silence for the Angel to return. What
if Mary should take it into her head to come and help him off with his
overcoat? She often did. I softly opened the outer door. If she didn't
hear him enter, all would be well.
Presently he came up. He got out of the elevator stealthily, and I met
him with my finger on my lip.
"Aren't you going to take off your hat?" I said, as he stole down the
corridor.
"Can't!" he whispered. "I've got cream puffs in it."
I only waited to ward off an attack from the rear. I put my head in at
the butler's pantry.
"Mary, I have such a headache that I am going to bed now, so be as quiet
as you can, won't you?"
"I'll come and open the bed for you right this instantaneous minute, my
poor dear child," she said, taking her hands out of the dish-water.
"No, I'll open it! I don't mind in the least," I said, eagerly.
"Not at all! Do you think I'll be letting you lift your hand when you're
sick?"
Finding that I could not prevent her, I hurried down the hall to discover
the Angel looking wildly for a place of escape--still with his hat on. I
motioned him into the bathroom, and his coat-tails disappeared therein,
just as Mary loomed into view.
It took her a full quarter of an hour to open that bed, for nothing would
do but she must unhook me. And all that time my thoughts were on the
cream puffs. I did hope that Aubrey would have sense enough to put them
on the wash-stand.
Finally I got rid of Mary, and released the Angel. He clanked as he came
in, but that was two pint bottles of beer.
I locked the door, and then he unloaded. Besides the beer and cream
puffs, he had four devilled crabs and two dill pickles, four club
sandwiches, some Roquefort cheese, and some Bent biscuits.
He was obliged to make one more dangerous pilgrimage to the front hall to
slam the door and hang up his hat and coat, otherwise Mary would have
gone out after him. We have such a competent cook.
Finally we sat down and gorged on that impossible mixture. We had only
Aubrey's pocket-knife, a paper-cutter, and a button-hook to eat with, and
rather than to stop and wash out his shaving-cup we drank out of the
bottles.
We ate until we felt the need of dyspepsia tablets, but still there was
some left. This Aubrey did up in a neat package, we raised the window,
turned out the lights, and threw it far, far out into the night. We
listened and heard it fall in a neighbour's back yard.
Now, if we had stopped there, all would have been well, but Fate tempted
us in the person of a vile and nasty little curly white dog, with a pink
skin and a blue ribbon around her neck, whose mistress used to lead her
up and down in front of our apartment-house every evening. She was a
very nasty little dog, badly spoiled, and we had longed to kick her for
six months, but her mistress was always there and we couldn't.
But oh, joy! On this particular night, she was in the back yard all
alone, yapping and whining to get indoors. Clearly this was the best
place for the empty beer bottles.
"Don't hit her, Aubrey. Just aim for the cement walk. That will scare
her to death."
The Angel seldom follows my wicked counsel, but this was the hand of
Providence. No one, who has not owned a big dog, can know how we hated
this miserable, pampered little cur.
So Aubrey took aim. The beer bottle hurtled through the air. We stepped
back and listened. It crashed on the walk, and such a series of agonized
yelps from the frightened little beast resulted as I never before had
heard. We clutched each other in silent ecstasy. Fortunately the pup's
mistress had not heard.
Emboldened by success we stole forth again, and shied the second bottle.
But that time Providence was against us, for, at the identical moment
that the bottle hit the corner of the house and flew into a million
pieces, the door opened and the dog's mistress appeared.
The crash was something awful. Nobody was hit or hurt, but the woman
shrieked and the Angel and I fell to the floor as if shot. Instantly
windows flew up, and as each head appeared the infuriated woman accused
it of having thrown the bottle. I reached for the Angel's hand as we
grovelled on the floor, and our former spirit returned as indignant
denials were followed by more indignant slamming of windows.
Finally--silence. Two hands sneaked up in the darkness and pulled our
window down.
"We could prove an alibi," I giggled, "for Mary would go on the stand and
swear that I was in bed prostrated with a headache!"
The next night the soup was on the table at five minutes before seven,
and we heard that the white dog was laid up for a week with an "_attaque
des nerfs_."
"Who would have thought," I sighed, in delight, "of the luck of fetching
Mary and that white dog both in one evening!"
CHAPTER VI
THE BEST MAN'S STORY
Trouble began to brew for the best man at my bridesmaid's dinner, but
it was all his fault. He says it was mine.
I claim, and I think that all girls will support me in this theory,
that at all wedding functions, such as teas, receptions, luncheons, and
dinners, the best man owes the maid of honour the first and most of his
attentions. It is her due, and no matter whether he likes her or hates
her; no matter if he is already in love with another girl, or sees one
there that he would like to be in love with, he belongs, for the
wedding festivities, to the first bridesmaid. It is like the girl your
hostess assigns to you at dinner,--you _must_ be nice to her.
So Cary Farquhar thought, and so I think. Artie Beguelin said:
"Then you oughtn't to have invited Flora Forsyth to the bridesmaid's
dinner."
Well, perhaps I oughtn't. But I did, because she asked to come. One
can't refuse a request of that sort. Even Aubrey admits that.
Flora was a dreamy, trusting blonde. She was an innocent appearing
little thing, and although she was just out of college, I believed she
would faint at the idea of a cigarette in a girl's fingers or any of
the mad things college girls are supposed to do when larking. She had
no sense of humour, and I simply could not think of her as up to any
mischief. That is why, when she said she had fallen in love with me, I
believed her. She knew I was to have Cary for my only attendant, but
she begged so innocently to come to the bridesmaid's dinner and to sit
with the family behind the white ribbon, that I hadn't the heart to say
no. That is why she was at the dinner, and what happened there you
shall hear presently.
Arthur Beguelin was the Angel's best man. He, too, was Aubrey's sole
attendant, for we had no ushers.
Artie was neither clever nor stupid, but that gentle, amiable cross
between the two which made him fair game for a designing girl. He was
better than clever. He was magnetic, as Cary and Flora found to their
sorrow.
His father had been enormously wealthy, but his vast property had
slipped out of his keeping, and had become involved in a lawsuit of
such dimensions and such hopeless duration that Artie might just as
well consider himself as a ward in chancery, and be done with it.
This loss of fortune, however, instead of demoralizing him, had been
his salvation. It set him to work, and made a man of him. He never
believed that he would inherit a dollar of his father's, so he prepared
to make his own way in the world, regardless of golden hopes.
But not so his friends. His prospects, hazy as they were, made him
most interesting to match-making mothers, and as his indomitable
courage made him interesting to the other and better sort, you will see
that Artie was pursued rather more than most eligible young men. This
pursuit had made him wary and cautious. Had he been more
introspective, it would have embittered him; but it shows his amiable
modesty when I assert that Artie only fought shy of the more aggressive
anglers, whose landing-nets were always in evidence, while he never
refused to swim nimbly around and even nibble at the bait of the more
tactful.
I have described him thus carefully, because it just shows how the most
wary of men can be caught napping by the right kind of cleverness, and
which was the right girl for him it took both us and him some time to
discover.
At first sight, it seemed to be Flora. As Aubrey said: "It was all off
with him from the moment he saw her." He had been the stroke in the
Yale crew during two glorious years of victory, and, like most men who
gloried in the companionship of athletic girls, he elected to fall in
love with Flora, who, the first time she met him, wanted to know the
difference between a putter and a bunker, which so tickled Artie that
he put in two good hours explaining it to her.
Cary had known Flora for some time, but two girls could not have been
more unlike. Cary was rich, courted, and flattered. She had only to
express a wish to have it granted, yet, strange anomaly, she was the
most unselfish girl I ever knew, and was always going out of her way to
be nice to people.
Flora was poor. She went to college by means of a loan from a rich
woman, and kept herself there by winning scholarships. She expected to
teach for a living, and she hated the prospect. She had to work hard
for everything she had, which was probably the reason why she was so
selfish. To be sure, she was always offering you things, but it was
either after some one else had offered first, or else she offered
things you couldn't possibly want. And as to offering to do things for
you, I never saw her equal at the formula, "I am going down-town.
Can't I do something for you?" Yet if you by any chance made the
mistake of saying, "That's awfully good of you. I _would_ like three
yards of French nainsook," in half an hour Flora would come in with the
story that she had been telephoned out to luncheon and wasn't going
down-town, or else had a headache and couldn't go, after all; or, if
she went, she did her own shopping first and came in breathless with a
"I'm so tired! I went everywhere for your French nainsook, but every
shop was just out of it. I tried _so_ hard, and now you'll think I am
just stupid and _can't_ shop."
At which you always had to comfort her and do something extra for
her, to show that you didn't blame her in the least. Whenever she
had grossly imposed upon you, Flora had a way of looking at you
with what I called the "dog look,"--a humble, faithful, adoring,
"don't-kick-me-because-I-love-you-so" look, which used to give me
what Angel calls the jiggle-jaggles, which is only another name for
twitching nerves,--either mental or physical.
However, I have noticed that these people who are always offering their
"Can't I do something for you?" never expect to be taken up. I suppose
it isn't in human nature any more to be helpful to a friend. The
answer to that question is "Thank you so much, dear, for offering, but
I really don't want a thing!" That cements the friendship.
Cary was honest, straightforward, and thoughtful. Flora was crafty,
deceitful, and brilliant, but her innocent eyes and baby ways made her
cleverness seem like that of a precocious child, so that she always
disarmed suspicion.
She deceived me so skilfully and completely that I find myself
thoroughly mixed in describing her, for at one moment I tell how she
appeared to me at first, and the next I find myself setting her forth
as I found her after Cary and Aubrey had set a trap to make me see her
in her true light. They were obliged to set a trap, for my loyalty is
of the blind, stupid sort, which will not be convinced, and all the
arguments in the world would only have made me more ardently champion
her as a friend.
You could not call Cary athletic, because she did not go in for
out-of-door sports to the exclusion of the gentler forms of amusement.
But whatever she did, she did so well that you would think she had
given most of her time to the mastering of that one accomplishment.
But here is where her cleverness showed most. It was not that she
really did everything, and did it perfectly. It was that she never
attempted anything which she had not mastered. For example, she never
played whist, because she had no memory, no finesse, and because she
played games of chance so much better. She could never settle herself
down to a multitude of details, but she could plan and execute a coup
of such brilliancy that it would make your hair stand on end. Such was
Cary Farquhar, and her most successful coup was the way she compelled
me to see Flora Forsyth in her true colours.