At Home with the Jardines Part 8

At first we believed her and hurried to get ready, but as ten, twenty, thirty minutes pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mventing 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-gla.s.s, wedding-linen graced it at every turn, for Mary always decorates for us as for a banquet.

Never has the fragrant odour of soup a.s.sailed 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 appet.i.te 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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."