II
Brecky stamped up the wooden steps and across the veranda, opened the front door with his latchkey, and entered the house. It was colder in there than it was outside. The place wasn’t designed for winter occupation, and there was no means for heating it. Moreover, its construction was flimsy, and a wind like that now blowing found its way in without trouble, and went moaning through the hall, rattling the doors and windows.
He passed through the dining room. It was entirely dark, but there was no fear of running into anything, for all the tables were drawn back against the walls and the chairs piled on them. He pushed open the swinging doors into the pantry, and another door, and was suddenly in a different world, warm, light, filled with delightful savors.
“Ah!” he said, with a sigh.
He slipped off his overcoat, cap, and rubbers, and went over to the stove, holding out his numb hands to its welcome heat. Then he turned and kissed his wife, absent-mindedly, almost without looking at her, in spite of the fact that she was well worth looking at.
“Did Mullins come about those sash cords?” he asked.
“No—no one came. I haven’t seen a soul all day,” she answered; but he missed the significance of her tone.
She hurried back and forth with steaming dishes, and at last informed him, rather curtly, that his dinner was ready. He sat down at once and ate with good appetite, but in silence and abstraction, because he had to think about those sash cords. At last he finished and leaned back in his chair, ready for the amenities of life.
“Well, Kathleen!” he said. “You’re one fine little wife!”
He was innocently oblivious of his wife’s state of mind. It hadn’t occurred to him that she kept on existing and thinking when he wasn’t there. His remark was a match to dry straw.
“A fine little cook, I guess you mean!” she said with sudden asperity. “That’s your idea of a wife!”
He laughed.
“Well!” he said. “They kind of go together, don’t they?”
“Looks like it,” she said; “only some cooks get paid.”
It was his habit to ignore remarks like that. Women, he considered, were often fanciful and “touchy.” It was better to leave them alone at such times. He lighted a big cigar, deliberately took his mind off his wife and all domestic concerns, and began to meditate on his business.
But the perverse creature continued to exist and to speak.
“I didn’t start out in life to be a cook,” she said, in an ominously calm and reasonable tone. “I’m glad enough to do it for your sake, Johnny; but I’d like you to remember that I’m not used to this kind of life.”
“Yes, yes!” he said soothingly, and continued to smoke and stare at the fire.
“You never even look at me!” she cried suddenly.[Pg 44]
“Yes, but I do!” he protested. “Sure I do!”
He looked at her then, with a smile, and saw that she was crying.
“For the Lord’s sake, what’s the matter?” he asked, with despairing good nature. “I’ll look at you for an hour, if you like; only don’t cry, that’s a good girl!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and went on crying. He swore under his breath, and, getting up, went around the table and put his arm about her.
“Come now!” he said. “You’re as pretty as a picture, and you know I love you.”
“Yes!” she said. “You want to make it up quickly and forget all about me!”
He couldn’t help laughing at the woman’s cleverness.
“Well!” he said. “If I do think such a lot about this business, who’s it for? Don’t be silly! It’s all for you.”
“It isn’t! It’s because you like it. You’d go on with it just the same if I was dead!”
He was a little in doubt what to do. Should he ignore her, and let her get over her inopportune temper alone? Or should he wheedle her?
He was really annoyed. He thought it all rather touching and feminine. They were all like that—wanted a man to spend his time making love and playing the fool; and yet, if he didn’t provide all they wanted, or thought they wanted, they’d nag him to death. He kissed her again.
“We’ll go in to the city some day next week,” he said. “We’ll take in a show, and all that. That’s what you need.”
“It isn’t! What I need is some one to talk to. You never want to listen to me. You never ask me what I’ve been doing.”
“But there’s nothing you could do,” he answered innocently, “except cooking and sewing and—”
He was really surprised at her outbreak, she was usually so cheerful and equable. He looked at her flushed and furious face, the tears still in her eyes, and an unpleasant conviction came to him that this was going to be serious—and lasting.
“You come in,” she went on, “and you sit down and eat your dinner, and the only thing you can find to say to me is to call me a cook!”
“I said you were a fine little cook,” he began ingratiatingly. “Nothing wrong in that, is there? Why, I’m proud of you, Kathleen! Only this afternoon I was telling Sawyer how you could cook.”
“Well, you’d just better find something else to praise me for!” she cried. “I’m something more than a cook, and the sooner you learn it the better!”
He was astounded and somewhat shocked at her violence—dismayed, too. He had an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t handle this situation adequately. So, according to his habit, he decided to go away, believing, as many other people believe, that if he weren’t in the situation, there would be no situation. But his cool deliberations were upset. Moreover, his cigar was out, and he didn’t like relighted cigars.
He got the books in which he was trying to work out a new idea of hotel bookkeeping, but he couldn’t do a thing. He couldn’t put out of his mind the image of that girl, that provoking and beloved girl, with her angry, rosy little face and her eyes full of tears.
“Women!” he thought savagely.
No denying, though, that she was a wonderful wife and companion. She had never complained before, she had never failed him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her get up and begin carrying the dishes over to the sink. He thought he would help her, and then he thought he wouldn’t. It would be weakness.
Still, it would do no harm to conciliate her. Perhaps, if he did, his working mood would return. He watched her for a few minutes longer, bending over the dish pan. Then he got up, went over to her, and, putting an arm about her, drew her close against him.
Then a devil entered into him.
“Why, you silly kid!” he said, kissing her. “You’re the best little cook!”
She turned and gave him a smart box on the ear.
He was so astounded that he couldn’t speak. He stared at her flushed and furious face, his own perfectly blank. Then, very slowly, the color began to rise in his lean cheeks.
He was a man slow to anger, a man of self-control and sang froid; but when his temper was aroused, it was a bad one. His wife was secretly horrified at what she had done. She hadn’t meant to do it. She knew he was only trying to be funny. She was ashamed and alarmed.
“What made you do that?” he asked slowly.[Pg 45]
“Because I’m sick and tired of being called a cook, that’s why!” she answered valiantly.
“Well, you’d better apologize!” he said.
“Well, I won’t!” she answered promptly. “I’m glad I did it. I’m just sick and tired of—of all this—shut up here alone all day long!”
“All right!” said Brecky. “All right!”
She looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she began, very deliberately, to dry her hands. He turned away and walked back to his books, but she saw that his hands were clenched, and she knew that he was filled with fury. She was elated, and she was sorry.
He began figuring, but he grasped his pencil so fiercely that it broke, and he had to get up and look for another.
He saw Kathleen standing before the little mirror she had hung up on the wall, dressed in her fur coat and engaged in pinning on her hat.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Putting on my hat,” she answered calmly.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
He smiled.
“Well, good-by!” he said.
Taking the key out of the lock, he went out of the kitchen, slamming and locking the door behind him.
“She can stay in there and think it over!” he said to himself.