At Home with the Jardines
L >> Lilian Bell >> At Home with the JardinesI loved Considine for the way he looked at my Angel after that speech
and the way he moved toward him and took his hand in his big, soft,
strong grip.
"I can't stand it!" he declared, standing up. "I'm going. I wouldn't
live in New York if they'd give me the town. I'm going back to my five
hundred acres and get in the middle of it with a revolver, and I'll
shoot anything that approaches!"
But when they had all gone something like dismay seized us.
"He has so much more money than we have," I wailed, "and if _he_ can't
do anything where do we come in, I'd like to know!"
The Angel paced up and down thoughtfully with his hands behind his
back,--an attitude conducive to deep meditation in men, I have observed.
"I think I have it," he said, finally. "Considine is too impulsive.
He was not firm enough. Now I got an important letter from the agents
to-day, saying that they could do nothing about the noise of the
children. In the lease it expressly mentions them. I shall simply
hold back the rent and see what that produces!"
I was filled with admiration at the Angel's firmness.
The result was speedily produced, such as it was. Jepson called. He
called often. Then we began to get letters, and finally they
threatened us with eviction. It made me feel quite Irish.
Then one day the owner and the agents and their lawyer called, and we
discussed the matter. They were affable at first, but as the noise
from the Gottlieb apartment grew more boisterous, their suavity
departed, for they realized that our grievance was a substantial one,
yet they declared they could do nothing.
"But it is in the lease," we protested. Then they delivered themselves
of what they really had come to say.
"My dear sir," said the owner, "that lease and those rules can never be
enforced in this city. They simply don't hold--that's all."
"Very well," I said, triumphantly. "If the clauses upon which we took
the apartment do not hold, then neither does the clause regarding the
payment of the rent obtain."
They all three broke in together with hysterical eagerness:
"Ah, but that does hold. You must know that, madam."
"The rent clause is the only clause which the law backs up, is it? We
have no redress against your getting us here under false pretences?"
They looked at each other uneasily. Then their masculinity asserted
itself. What? To be thus browbeaten by a woman? They looked
commiseratingly at the Angel for being saddled with such a wife.
They stood up to go. I looked expectantly at Aubrey.
"Gentlemen," he said, quietly. "You have heard the noises from the
surrounding apartments to-day, and you have admitted that they were
extraordinary. I declare them not to be borne. If then, you cannot
mitigate the nuisance, this apartment will be at your disposal from the
first of February."
They smiled patronizingly. The lawyer even laid his hand on the
Angel's shoulder. He should have known better than that.
"My dear fellow," he said, benevolently. "You are liable for the whole
year's rent--until next October. You will see by your lease."
Aubrey shook his hand off haughtily.
"Provided the lease is signed," he said, quietly. "Will you gentlemen
have the goodness to find my signature on this lease? I haven't even
returned it to your office."
They examined it with dropped jaws. They had not even the strength to
hand it back to him. Between them it fell to the floor,--the lease
whose only binding clause was the one regarding the payment of the rent.
"From the first of February," repeated the Angel, politely.
"But my dear sir," protested the lawyer, recovering first. "Let us see
if we cannot adjust this little difficulty. You sign the lease, for we
cannot rent such an apartment as this in midwinter. We would lose
eight months' rent if you gave it up now, and I will myself personally
see Mr. Gottlieb in regard to his children's noise. It really is
abominable."
"We shall move this month," said Aubrey. "From the first of February
this apartment is yours."
"You are very stiff about it," said the owner. "Why not be reasonable?"
"I am perfectly reasonable," said Aubrey, gently. "I have listened for
an hour to the justice you administer to a tenant with a signed lease.
My reason is what is guiding me now."
He rose as he spoke and moved toward the door.
They glared at us both as they went out.
Aubrey sat and figured for a few moments in silence.
"It has cost us quite a little," he said at last, "to learn that such
as we cannot live in New York. We will go into the country where the
right to live, and to live this side of insanity, is guaranteed, not by
a lease, but by the exact centre of five acres of ground."
"I have always wanted to!" I cried, with enthusiasm. "We will be
commuters."
"We will commute," said Aubrey, pausing to let the fire-engines go by,
"when necessary."
CHAPTER VIII
MOVING
So we began our search for the Quiet Life and the spot wherein to live
it. It must be out-of-town, yet not so far but that the Angel and I
could get to town for an occasional feast of music or the theatre.
We asked those of our friends who were commuters to exploit the glories
of their own particular towns, but to our minds there was always some
insuperable objection.
So one day I took down the telephone-book and looked over the names of
the towns. Jersey was tabooed on account of its mosquitoes, and both
Aubrey and I cared nothing for the seashore. But the Hudson, with its
beauty and the delight of its hills rising in such a profusion of
loveliness back of it, seemed to draw us irresistibly.
"Anything within an hour of New York," said Aubrey.
The telephone-book should answer. I resolved to read until I got a
"hunch." That is not good English, but with me it is good sense, which
is better.
Finally I found a number--97 Clovertown--Bucks, Miss Susan. Peach
Orchard. The hunch was very distinct. I could fairly see my
note-paper with Peach Orchard, Clovertown, stamped on it, for I
instantly made up my mind that Susan must be asked to rent Peach
Orchard for a term of years and go abroad. I felt sure that Europe
would do her good. The more I thought of these names, the more sure I
felt that we had arrived.
My next step was to look feverishly through the Clovertown names for a
real estate agent. I found one, and without saying a word to the
Angel, I called him up.
"Hello, Central. Give me Long Distance. Hello, Long Distance. Give
me sixty-five Clovertown, please! Yes! All right. Is this Close and
Murphy? Well, this is New York. I want to ask you if Peach Orchard is
to let. What? I say, I would like to know if Miss Bucks would like to
let Peach Orchard? She would? Well, how large is it? Four? Oh,
five? Is there a good house on the place? And a stable? That's nice.
I see. Yes. Well, I would like to see it to-day if I could, but it is
snowing here. Not snowing there? Well, we might try. What time does
a train leave 125th Street? In forty minutes? Well, my husband and I
will be on that train. Oh, that's very nice. Our name is Jardine--Mr.
and Mrs. Aubrey Jardine. Yes, I understand. Very well. Good-bye."
I hung up the receiver, and rushed into the dining-room.
"Hurry with luncheon, Aubrey!" I said. "I've rented a place in
Clovertown, and we go out to take possession to-day. We leave in forty
minutes!"
Aubrey looked up with interest.
"I heard you at the telephone. You are a crazy little cat," he said,
but I could see that he was charmed. We love to do crazy things.
"He's going to meet us at the station with a carriage," I explained as
I struggled into my coat with Mary's help, and Aubrey pawed madly
around in the dark closet for overshoes for both of us.
Mary flew about like a distracted hen until she saw us safely started.
Most people would have gone mad at our erratic proceedings, but nothing
ever disturbed Mary's equanimity. In fact, crises fairly delighted
her. In an emergency she rose to the heights of Napoleon.
Finally we started, caught the train, and arrived. The gallant Mr.
Close met us, true to his word, and in five minutes we were on our way
to Peach Orchard.
As we drove into the grounds, Mr. Close clapped his hand to his
forehead with an exclamation.
"What is it?" I said, with a sinking heart.
"I've forgotten the key!"
"Never mind," I said, blithely. "We can easily get in through a
window. My husband used to be a burglar."
It never occurred to me that the poor man would take such an idiotic
remark seriously, so we neither of us looked at him until we had
examined every door and window to find if haply one had been left
unlocked. Nor did we notice that we were doing all the work until
Aubrey selected the back hall window as the loosest, and opening his
knife--the wickedest looking pocket-knife I ever saw, by the way--he
proceeded deftly to turn the lock of the window and then to raise it.
I was so proud of his cleverness that I turned to ensure the admiration
of Mr. Close also, but the look I encountered froze the smile on my
lips and the words on my tongue, for the good man was viewing both
Aubrey and me with the liveliest horror and distrust.
Aubrey turned also at my sudden silence, and the light dawned upon us
both in the same instant.
Mr. Close had the grace to look quite sheepish to see us both sit down
abruptly on the top step and shriek with laughter. But I am sure, in
my own mind, that he dismissed the idea of burglars in favour of
lunatics.
But Peach Orchard was well named, for the old house was set down in the
very midst of it. Trees were everywhere, and, indeed, they grew so
close to the house, and they were so tall, that we could not see the
house properly. The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close and
it looked for a moment as if we would have to come again, when on a
shelf, good Mr. Close, whose business instincts were keener than his
sense of humour, found an old lamp with about three inches of oil in
it. A feverish search for matches resulted in the discovery that his
match-box was empty, and Aubrey's held only one.
Right here, let me ask just one question of all the smokers all over
the world. Why is it, that, needing them more than you need anything
else on earth,--home or friends or wife or mother or money or position
or religion or your hope of heaven,--why is it that you never have any
matches?
Aubrey's one, which he had been saving, as he told me afterward, to
light a cigarette on the return drive, proved friendly, and the lamp
smoked instead. Armed with this rather unsatisfactory torch, we
explored, and as we went up and down, in and out of the queer old
place, built a hundred years ago (Mr. Close said!), we decided to take
it, and most unwisely said so, thereby paying, as usual, the top price
for something which we could have got at a bargain if we had waited.
But such is the perennial foolishness and precipitancy of the Jardines.
Evidently Mary had humoured our going out to Clovertown that afternoon
as one of our mad excursions only, and had not fathomed the possibility
of our deciding to live there, for when we came home and gaily
announced that we had rented Peach Orchard, Mary's jaw fell and her lip
pouted sulkily.
This lasted during dinner. We could both see that she intended us to
notice it and question her, and when the coffee had been served and we
said she might go, she saw that she must open the ball herself, so she
fingered her apron and said:
"Missis, I shall be sorry not to go with you to Clovertown, but of all
the towns along the Hudson, that is the one I can't bear to go to!"
"Why, Mary?" I said, for the first time in my life suspecting her of
the tricks which we afterward came to know were a part of her.
"Because my oldest sister was killed by the railroad right at the
station at Clovertown, and I was the one to take her away!"
For about the ten thousandth time Mary held the trump. I felt crushed.
I could fairly picture the scene, and I knew that no one could face
such harrowing memories. As I gazed at her and she saw I was touched,
tears began to gather in her eyes, brim over and run down her pink
cheeks. I felt fairly faint and sick to think of parting with Mary.
Then something told me to probe the matter.
"When was your sister killed, Mary?" I said.
"Just twenty-two years ago come Washington's Birthday, Missis dear,"
whimpered Mary, with her apron at her eye.
I began to laugh heartlessly.
"And wasn't that the sister you fought with and hated--the one you have
told me a dozen times you were glad to know was dead?" I went on.
Mary nodded, rather sheepishly. I saw she was weakening, so I became
firm.
"Now, Mary," I said, and it was the first time I ever had spoken
sternly to her, "put that apron down, and don't let me hear another
word about your not going to Clovertown. Of course you are going! Any
grief, no matter what, could be cured in twenty-two years,--let alone a
grief which never was a grief. And you did _not_ see her after she was
dead--you told me you wouldn't go. And what made you the maddest was
having to pay the funeral expenses when she had a husband who could
have paid them if he would only work. So now, you can just stop those
onion tears," I said, marching haughtily toward the door, followed
somewhat sheepishly by the Angel, who longed to turn back and mitigate
my sternness.
The longing finally conquered him.
"Besides, Mary," he said, pacifically, turning back at the door, "we
couldn't possibly get along without you. You are absolutely necessary
to us. Who, I ask you, would do up my white waistcoat and duck
trousers if _you_ left?"
Mary beamed at this seductive flattery, and bridled visibly.
"Tell me all about it, Boss dear," she said.
And in so doing she and we both forgot that she had suggested going,
and nothing more was ever said about it.
Seldom can I look back, however, and recall an instance when we
obtained more feverish and thrilling joy than from those next few days
when we mentally improved and furnished Peach Orchard.
With what excitement did we lay rugs and place furniture in our mind's
eye! How we appealed frantically to each other to decide whether there
were three or four windows in the library, and with what complacency
did we discover that, owing to a shrewd forethought of my own in
furnishing the smoking and living rooms in our apartment with similar
curtains, we now had enough for the great, light, airy sitting-room at
Peach Orchard.
Then we took a long breath and fell with fresh avidity into the subject
of improvements. Mr. Close was of the opinion that Susan would do
nothing--could do nothing rather, as she had a consumptive brother who
must live in the Adirondacks, and her resources were few. Therefore,
we recklessly decided that if she would give us an option on the place
for another year, we would make the improvements ourselves. Fools!
Yet why fools! Never have we so enjoyed spending money, and as Anthony
Hope says that "economy is going without something you want, for fear
that sometime you'll want something which probably you won't want," we
felt upheld and strengthened in the knowledge that we were never, by
any means, economical.
But the Angel was prospering. Those who frankly predicted that we
would starve or be divorced were now glad to sit at our well-set table
and smoke the Angel's good cigars and sip his excellent wines. And
feeling that we might branch out a _little_, we promptly branched out a
great deal, and nearly went to smash in consequence.
But God watches over children and fools, and we were saved, and sped
upon our way in a manner so like a special dispensation of Providence
that no lesson was learned to teach us to be more careful next time.
In fact, it encouraged us in our recklessness, for in our darkest hour
the Angel's first play was accepted, and, being staged, was so
instantaneously a success that he gave up novels altogether and began
to devote himself to the drama. He devoted to it, I mean to say, all
the time he could spare from the improving of Peach Orchard.
Those days, the first of our prosperity and the first of our
housekeeping in a real house, were the happiest we had ever known.
Susan had been persuaded to let the place for a term of years with an
option to buy, so we felt as if we owned it already. But that is a
peculiarity of the Jardines.
We tore out the old plumbing, we put in two new bathrooms. We made a
laundry out of the storeroom. We cut doors and threw rooms together
which never had associated before, and we turned all the windows which
gave upon the porches into doors, so that we could step out-of-doors at
will. We ordered our porch screened entirely, and planned to furnish
it as a study for Aubrey. We put paper-hangers, painters, gas,
telephone, and electric men at work all over the house, and made them
promise, yea, even swear, to finish their work by a certain time.
But, having, as we thought, learned wisdom by experience, we put no
faith in their promises, but engaged Mr. Close in person to go every
day to superintend things.
As the day drew near to move we became most agitated as to ways and
means. It seemed a gigantic task to crate and barrel everything and
move from one town to another, and while we discussed hiring a car,
Mary interrupted.
"Excuse me, Boss and Missis dear, for putting in my two cents, but you
surely aren't thinking of sending all the furniture by freight, when
vans are so much more convenient?"
"Vans?" we cried. "Will vans move us thirty miles?"
"Fifty, if you like," said Mary, promptly.
"From one town to another?"
"From one State to another, and without taking the pins out of the
cushions or the sugar out of the bowls."
At once the idea of the sugar-bowls and pincushions fascinated me. I
begged Aubrey to investigate, and he agreed with enthusiasm to do it
the very next day.
"If I might suggest," said Mary again, "all Boss will have to do is to
telephone to two or three different companies to come and estimate the
cost. He won't have to run after 'em any farther than the telephone."
We followed her suggestion, and to our delight discovered that all she
said was true and more. They agreed to insure against breakage,
thieves, and fire; to pack all the stuff in vans one day, take them to
their warehouse for the early part of the night, and start at one
o'clock for Clovertown,--agreeing to make the whole distance, unload,
place the furniture, and unpack the china before leaving that night.
We need not lift a hand. All we had to do was to go to a hotel for one
night, and take a train for Clovertown the next morning.
It was almost too easy. I reflected what "moving" meant to people who
live in small towns where such conveniences do not exist. Verily, New
York might be noisy, but she was a city of superb conveniences. Only
Paris excels her in her purveying shops, for in Paris one can buy the
wing of a chicken only, and that just around the corner, while in New
York one must buy at least the whole fowl (and pay the price of a house
and lot in Louisville, let me pause to remark!), but in justice I must
also add that such luxuries are also "just around the corner."
By implicitly following Mary's advice we saw everything safely placed
in the vans and move majestically from our door. Then we betook
ourselves to the Waldorf, with our "glad rags," as Jimmie had
commanded, in our suit-cases, and dined in state, and went to Weber and
Fields afterward. Jimmie wanted me to hear Weber persuade Lillian
Russell to invest in oil.
Now at that, the Angel and Mrs. Jimmie simply smiled indulgently.
While Jimmie and I reeled in our seats and clutched each other's
sleeves and shrieked (in as ladylike a manner as we could), while tears
poured down our cheeks and our ribs cramped and our breath failed.
That is the way Jimmie and I enjoy things. That is also why we can
stand it to travel in the same party, and not come home hating each
other.
But all the time, even in the midst of the fun, my mind turned lovingly
toward the warehouse where our precious furniture reposed, safely
packed in those huge red vans.
Jimmie noticed my preoccupation, and said:
"If you could take your mind off coal-scuttles long enough, I would
like to ask you what you thought of Prince Henry? Aubrey says you met
him last week."
"We did, we met him the same day we bought the ice-box," I answered.
"Ye gods!" growled Jimmie, in deep disgust. "Think of remembering a
royal prince by the day you bought the ice-box!"
"What most impressed you, dear?" inquired Mrs. Jimmie, sweetly.
"The price!" I answered, cheerfully. "It was a slightly damaged
article, so we got it for less than half the original cost of it. You
know I do love a bargain, Mrs. Jimmie."
"I meant the prince, dear," said Mrs. Jimmie.
"However, if she prefers to discuss ice-boxes," said Jimmie, politely,
"by all means, let us bring the conversation down to her level. It
will not be the first time I have had to do it."
"I don't care!" I said, stoutly. "It was far more interesting than
seeing the prince. This, you must remember, was our _first_ ice-box.
The other one was built into the apartment, and we didn't own it."
"I do wish Bee could hear you!" jeered Jimmie. "Gee, but you will be a
trial to Bee."
"I always have been," I said. "She got mad at me just before I was
married about a thing as foolish as anything _I_ ever heard of. I had
calls to pay, and I asked Bee to go with me. She said she'd go if I'd
get a carriage, so I said I would, and told her to order it. But it
seems that all the good ones were engaged for a funeral, and they sent
us a one-horse brougham with the driver not in livery. We didn't
notice it until we opened the front door. Then Bee sailed in. 'Why
are you not in livery?' she demanded. 'I shall certainly report you to
Mr. Overman. He ought to be ashamed to send out a driver without a
livery!' 'If you please, ma'am,' said the man, 'I'm Mr. Overman, and
rather than disappoint you ladies, as all my men are out, I thought I'd
drive you myself.' Well, that was too much for even Bee. So she
thanked him, and in we got. The first house we went to was that of a
haughty society dame of whose opinion Bee stood much in awe.
Personally, I thought her an illiterate old bore. She was newly rich,
and laid great emphasis upon such things as maids' caps, while tucking
her own napkin under her chin at dinner. She followed us to the door
in an excess of cordiality which amused me, considering everything, and
there, to our horror, we saw poor old Overman half-way under the horse,
examining one of its hoofs! Poor Bee! I gave one look at her face and
giggled. That was enough. She was so enraged that she wouldn't pay
another call. She took me straight home as if I were a bad child, and
the next day I paid my calls alone."
"And yet," said Jimmie, musingly, "can you or any of us ever forget the
night that Bee did the skirt dance in Tyrol?"
"Dear Bee!" said Mrs. Jimmie, softly. "How charming she is!"
"Yet she wouldn't approve of your going to Clovertown," said Jimmie.
"She hates the bucolic. Idyls and pastorals are not in it with our rue
de la Paix Bee. I'll bet she will never come to see you at Peach
Orchard."
"Let us hope for the best," said Aubrey. "It is dangerous to prophesy."
"We're going to keep a cow, Jimmie!" I said, rapturously.
"Well, don't gurgle about it. You act as if keeping a cow put the
stamp of the Four Hundred on you. Did Mary say you might?"
"Mary has given her consent," said Aubrey. "But I'm wondering how that
old woman will behave with other servants. Of course she was all right
while there was no one else and she was boss of the ranch, but we must
have two or three now at Peach Orchard, and she is so jealous, I wonder
if she will let us live with her!"
Well might we have wondered. Trouble began the very next day. As we
went out on the train I noticed that Mary had on her best dress and
hat. She had no bag with her, so I wondered how she meant to "settle"
in such clothes. The Angel and I had on our worst.
I comforted myself with the reflection that there would not be very
much dirty work to do. This would in reality be a kid-glove moving,
for Mr. Close had telephoned the day before that everything was ready
for us to move in. I had even sent a cleaning woman for floors and
windows.
I had taken the precaution to bring a few silver knives, forks, and
spoons in my bag. Then as we got off the train I stopped at a grocery
and bought a loaf of bread, a tin of devilled ham, one of sardines,
some butter, and a dozen eggs, so we were at least sure of our luncheon.
We jumped out of the carriage almost before it had stopped, and, while
Aubrey paid the man, I ran up the steps and into the house.
Such a sight of confusion met my eyes! The old paper was piled in the
middle of each floor, and not a new strip on any wall. One ceiling
only in the whole house was finished. Not a hardwood floor had been
laid. The lumber was piled in the hall. Not a chandelier was up. The
ragged wires projected from their various holes in ceilings and walls.
Where was my cleaning woman? Where were our workmen? Above all, where
was the perfidious Mr. Close?