Books: Kathleen
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Christopher Morley >> Kathleen
When the Goblin left the Blue Boar on Saturday afternoon he also
made his way out to Bancroft Road; but instead of patrolling the
main street in the vague hope of catching a glimpse of Kathleen
(as did Falstaff, Priapus, and the Iron Duke), he hunted out the
hinder regions of the district. In accordance with a plan he had
concocted before leaving Oxford, he carried a little portfolio of
"art subjects," of the kind dear to domestic servants, and with
this in hand he approached the door of the basement back kitchen,
where Ethel the cook and her assistant, Mary, the housemaid, were
having a mid-afternoon cup of tea. The windings of the humbler
lanes of service, behind the Bancroft Road houses, were the
proper causeway for tradesmen, and it was easy for him to reach
the back garden gate unseen by those in front.
He knocked respectfully at the kitchen door, and Mary came to
answer.
"Good day, Miss," said the supposed pedlar. "I 'ave some very
pretty pictures 'ere which I wish you would let me show you."
Mary was a simple-minded creature, but she knew that her mistress
had strict rules about pedlars.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but Missus don't let no pedlars in the
house."
"If you please, Miss," said the artful Goblin, "I am no pedlar,
but representing a very respectable photographer, and I would
like to show you some photographs in the 'ope of getting your
order. I 'ave taken a number of orders at the nicest 'ouses along
Bancroft Road. I thought maybe you would like to 'ave a photo of
yourself taken, to send to your young man." And he opened his
case, exhibiting a sheaf of appropriate photos.
It was a slender chance, but the pedlar had a wheedling eye and a
genteel demeanour, and Mary hesitated. She called the cook, a
stout, middle-aged person, who came to the door to see what was
up. The pedlar rapidly showed the best items of his collection,
which he had selected with great care in a photographer's studio
in Oxford. Fate hung in the scales, but the two servants could
not resist temptation. They knew that Mrs. Kent and Miss Kathleen
were upstairs sewing; and the master was confined to his study
with his rheumatism. They invited the photographer into the
kitchen.
It is a psychological fact well known to housekeepers that there
is a vacant hour in the middle of the afternoon when Satan
sometimes finds a joint in the protective armour of the domestic
servant. After the luncheon dishes are washed and put away, and
before five-o'clock tea and toast are served, cook and housemaid
enjoy a period of philosophic contemplation or siesta. Even in
the most docile and kitchen-broken breast thoughts of roses and
romance may linger; dreams of moving pictures or the coming
cotillion of the Icemen's Social Harmony. Usually this critical
time is whiled away by the fiction of Nat Gould or Bertha Clay or
Harold Bell Wright. And close observers of kitchen comedy will
have noted that it is always at this fallow hour of the afternoon
that pedlars and other satanic emissaries sharpen their arrows
and ply their most plausible seductions.
The Goblin has never admitted just what honeyed sophistries he
employed to win the hearts of the simple pair in Mrs. Kent's
kitchen. But the facts may be briefly stated by the chronicler.
After getting them interested in his photos he confessed frankly
that he was an old friend of the family from Oxford. He said that
he and Miss Kathleen were planning an innocent practical joke on
the family, and asked if he could take the place of one of the
servants for that Sunday. He made plain that his share in the
joke must not be revealed to any one. And then he played his
trump card by showing them the text of the bogus telegram
recommending Miss Eliza Thick, which he had dispatched from a
branch postal office on his way through the town.
"And is Miss Josephine in the joke, too?" inquired the cook.
This question startled the Goblin, but he kept his composure and
affirmed that he and Miss Josephine had concocted the telegram
jointly in Oxford. And by a little adroit pumping he learned
"Joe's" status in the family. The cook, Ethel, admitted that she
was to go out that evening for her Saturday night off. At last
the Goblin, by desperate cunning and the exhibition of two golden
sovereigns, completely won the hearts of the maids. While they
were talking the door-bell rang, and Mary, returning from the
upper regions, announced that it was "another telegram from Miss
Joe. Missus and Miss Kathleen laughed fit to kill when they read
it," she said.
"You see?" said the Goblin. "That's the same telegram I just
showed you. It's all right; it's a joke. You don't need to worry,
cook. Mrs. Kent won't be angry with you. You let me take your
place for to-morrow, and write a little note saying you're ill
and that your friend Eliza Thick will do your work for the day."
It was arranged that the Goblin should meet Ethel at her home
that night to borrow some clothes. The cook showed him the menu
for Sunday that Mrs. Kent had sent down. This rather daunted the
candidate for kitchen honours, but he copied it in his notebook
for intensive study. Then, as it was close upon tea-time, he
packed up the photos, distributed his largesse, and retired.
Mary, the housemaid, promised to stand by him in the coming
ordeal. Both the servants felt secretly flattered that they
should be included in the hoax. The kitchen classes in England
have great reverence for young 'varsity men.
The Goblin was a canny man, and he had brought with him a wig and
certain other properties. He hunted out a little tea shop, where
he meditated over three cups of pekoe and hot buttered toast.
Then he made his way to the Public Library, where he spent
several hours over a cook-book. He was complimenting himself on
having shaken the other Scorpions off his trail when Blair looked
over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stuffed-eggs recipe
to which the Goblin was addressing himself for the fourth time.
The meeting was embarrassing, but it could not be helped. After
Blair had left him, the cook-to-be returned to his memoranda.
Mrs. Kent trusted many things to Ethel's judgment, and her
instructions as jotted down on a slip of paper included three
possibilities. "_Eggs, stuffed, devilled, or farci_," she
had written, and the Goblin was endeavouring to decide which of
these presented the least distressing responsibility. He was a
student of mathematics, and had attempted to reduce the problem
to a logical syllabus. He read over his memoranda:
THEOREM: STUFFED EGGS.
_Data_: six hard, boiled-eggs (20 minutes).
(a) Cut eggs in halves lengthwise.
(b) Remove yolks, and put whites aside in pairs.
(c) Mash yolks, and add
(1) Half the amount of devilled ham.
(2) Enough melted butter to make of consistency to shape.
("Half _what_ amount of devilled ham?" thought the
Goblin. "And where does the devilled ham come from? How
does one devil a ham? What a pity Henry James never
wrote a cook-book! It would have been lucid compared to
this. _To make of consistency to shape_--what on earth
does that mean?")
(d) Clean and chop two chickens' livers, sprinkle with onion
juice, and saute in butter--("No!" he cried, "that's _eggs
farci_. Wrong theorem!")
(d) Make in balls ("Make _what_ in balls?") size of original
yolks ("Note: remember to measure original yolks before cutting
them lengthwise").
(e) Refill whites ("Let's see, what did I fill 'em with
before?")
(f) Form remainder of mixture into a nest. ("That's a nice
little homely touch.")
(g) Arrange eggs in the nest and
(1) Pour over one cup White Sauce.
("Memo: See p. 266 for White Sauce.")
(2) Sprinkle with buttered crumbs.
("Allow plenty of time for buttering those crumbs;
that sounds rather ticklish work.")
(3) Bake until crumbs are brown.
(h) Garnish with a border of toast points and a wreath of
parsley.
Q. E. D.
"Integral calculus is a treat compared to this," he said to
himself as he reviewed the problem. "I hope they have plenty of
parsley in the house. That nest may need a little protecting
foliage. I don't see how I can make any kind of proper asylum for
those homeless, wandering eggs out of that mess." So saying, he
left the library to call upon Ethel at her home and complete his
disguise.
XI
Mrs. Kent was a deal puzzled by the bearing and accoutrements of
her substitute cook. Eliza Thick appeared on the premises about
seven o'clock, and with the aid of the housemaid breakfast went
through fairly smoothly. It was Kathleen's query about the coffee
that elicited the truth. Mary, with nervous gigglings, announced
to her mistress that Ethel was ill and had sent a substitute. The
coincidence that Josephine's nominee should turn out to be a
friend of Ethel struck Mrs. Kent as strange, and presently she
went down to interview the new kitcheneer.
Eliza Thick, a medium-sized but rather powerfully fashioned
female, generously busted and well furnished with rich brown
hair, was washing the dishes. She curtseyed respectfully as Mrs.
Kent entered the kitchen.
"Good morning," said Mrs. Kent. "You are Eliza Thick?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You brought a note from Ethel?"
"Yes, ma'am;" and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew forth
a crumpled scrap of paper.
"I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. How
did she know of you?"
"I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady is
studyin'."
"Why did you leave your place there?"
"If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made the
young ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parents
complained that it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. The
principal said I was pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered to
release me."
Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which she
tried to conceal by rattling some plates.
"Well, Eliza," said Mrs. Kent, "that will do. You must get on
with the work as best you can. Judging by the coffee this
morning, I don't think your cooking will have the same effect on
us that it did on the students at Lady Margaret Hall. We were
expecting a guest for lunch but I will have to put him off until
supper. I have written out the menu for the day. Mary will give
you any help she can."
"If you please, ma'am?" said Eliza.
"Yes?"
"Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she asked
me to deliver in person."
"A message for Miss Kathleen?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen."
"Cook said I was to give it to her personally," said the
persistent Eliza.
"How very extraordinary," said Mrs. Kent. "What did you say was
the matter with Ethel--is it anything contagious?"
"Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of--of nervous
debility, ma'am--too many white corpuscles, ma'am."
"Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we
have just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us."
"Yes, ma'am."
The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of
Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots
and pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she
took out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers,
egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in total
ignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare
and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of the
problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she began
to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggested
boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs.
By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen
to investigate.
"Good morning, Eliza."
"Good morning, Miss," said the delighted cook. "Oh, I _am_ so
happy to see you, Miss!"
"Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?"
"Yes, Miss. Er--Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the help
you can, Miss, because--er, you see, Miss, cooking for a private
family is very different from working in a college where there
are so many, Miss."
"I see. Well--what on earth are you doing to those potatoes,
Eliza?"
"Mashing 'em, Miss."
"What, with a _hammer_!"
"I washed the 'ammer, Miss."
"Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?"
"Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them done
any other way."
Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruised
tubers. "Good gracious," she exclaimed, with a ripple of
laughter. "They haven't been cooked yet!"
Eliza was rather taken aback.
"Well, you see, Miss," she said, "at the college we used nothing
but fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashioned
stoves very well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me."
"It's perfectly simple," said Kathleen. "This is the oven, and
when you want to bake anything--_Phew_!" she cried, opening the
oven door, "what _have_ you got in here?"
She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcher
with a strange-looking object protruding from it.
Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role.
"My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What a
bally sell!"
Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether to
laugh or cry.
"Look here, Eliza," she said. "They may jug hares that way at
Maggie Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what _can_ you cook? We've got
guests coming to-night. A gentleman from America is going to be
here and we must put our best foot forward."
Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion.
"Excuse me, Miss," she said, "but is that American gentleman
called Mr. Blair?"
"Yes," said Kathleen. "Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary.
How did you know?"
"I've heard of him," said Eliza. "I think I ought to warn you
against him, miss. He's--he's a counterfeiter."
"Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian,
and he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friend
of Miss Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get on
with your cooking and not worry about counterfeiters."
"Miss Kathleen," said Eliza, "I think I'd better be frank with
you. I want to tell you--"
Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick made
frantic gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too dense
to understand. The opportunity for confession was lost.
"Now, Eliza," said Kathleen, "Mary will help you in anything
you're not certain about. I'll come down again later to see how
you're getting on."
By supper time that night Eliza Thick began to think that perhaps
she had made a tactical error by interning herself in the kitchen
where there was but small opportunity for a tete-a-tete with the
bewitching Kathleen. The news that Blair was coming to the
evening meal was highly disconcerting, and the worried cook even
contemplated the possibility of doctoring the American's plate of
soup with ratsbane or hemlock. Once during the afternoon she
ventured a sally upstairs (carrying a scuttle of coal as a
pretext) in the vague hope of finding Kathleen somewhere about
the house. Unfortunately she met Mrs. Kent on the stairs, who
promptly ordered her back to her proper domain. Here Eliza found
a disreputable-looking person trying to cozen Mary into admitting
him to the house. He claimed to be an agent of the gas company,
in search of a rumoured leak. Eliza immediately spotted Priapus,
and indignantly ejected him by force of arms. In the scuffle a
dish pan and several chairs were overturned. Mary, whose nerves
were rather unstrung by the sustained comedy she was witnessing,
uttered an obbligato of piercing yelps which soon brought
Kathleen to the scene. Eliza received a severe rating, and so
admired the angry sparkle in Kathleen's eyes that she could
hardly retort.
"One other thing, Eliza," said Kathleen, in conclusion. "There
are to be two guests at supper. Mr. Carter, a curate from Oxford,
is coming, too. Please allow for him in your preparations."
"If you please, Miss," cried the much-goaded cook, "is that Mr.
Stephen Carter?"
"I believe it is," said Kathleen, "but what of it? Is he a
counterfeiter, too?"
"Miss Kathleen, I know you think it strange, but I must warn you
against that curate. Dear Miss Kathleen, he is dangerous. He is
not what he seems."
"Eliza, you forget yourself," said Kathleen, severely. "Mr.
Carter comes with an introduction from the Bishop of Oxford. I
hope that is satisfactory to you! In any case, we do not need
your approval for our list of guests. Mrs. Kent wants you to take
great care with the stuffed eggs. Those mashed potatoes made her
quite ill."
"Please, Miss, I'm dreadful worried about those eggs. The book
says to make a nest for 'em, and truly I don't know how to go
about it. The young ladies at college never ate their eggs in
nests, miss. And when I gets nervous I can't do myself justice,
Miss. I never can remember which is the yolks and which is the
whites, miss."
"Now, that will do, Eliza," said Kathleen. "You are a very
eccentric creature, but I don't think you are as stupid as all
that. What do you want? Do you expect me to come down here and
oversee all your preparations?"
"Oh, if you only would, Miss, it would be _so_ gratifying!"
Kathleen laughed, a girlish bubbling of pure mirth, which was
dreadful torment to the jealous masquerader. She departed,
leaving the cook a prey to savage resolve. "Well," thought Eliza,
"if the supper is bad enough I guess she'll just _have_ to come
down and help me. Thank goodness Blair and Carter are _both_
coming; they'll cut each other's throats, and perhaps the stuffed
eggs will win after all. As for that gas-man, he won't get into
this house unless it's over my dead body!"
XII
It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in the
kitchen when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On a
large platter the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket of
parsley and chopped celery, eked out with lettuce leaves.
Ambushed in this were lurking a number of very pallid and
bluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript stuffing bulging out of
them.
"I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss," wailed Eliza. "That's why
the stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to
stiffen 'em up?"
In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. "No,
no," she said. "We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them
upstairs."
"That's grand," said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers.
"'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a
pleasure to admire."
"Now, Eliza," said Kathleen, "you must not shout up the dumb
waiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out '_This plate's for the
parson_!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup."
"If you please, Miss," said Eliza. "That was because it
was the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I
thought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else.
Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to you
before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits
or sworn statements."
"You dish out the eggs, Eliza," said Kathleen, "and I'll send
them up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is
it ready?"
"All doing finely, Miss," answered Eliza, but as she opened the
oven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage
pudding, blackened and burnt to carbon.
"A great success," said the bogus cook, but holding it on the
other side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. "Here,
I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold." She
hurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter before
Kathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft.
"That smelt a little burnt, cook," said Kathleen.
"Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss."
Kathleen was in the pantry, with her nose up the dumb-waiter
shaft, sniffing the trail of the cottage pudding and wondering
whether she ought to recall it for inspection, when Eliza,
turning toward the back door, saw the gas-man on the threshold.
The cook's mind moved rapidly in this emergency. She knew that if
Priapus found himself face to face with Kathleen, dangerous
exposures would follow at once.
"Mary," she whispered to the maid, who had just come down from
upstairs, "run tell the Mistress the gas-man is here again. I'll
send him down the cellar." And while Kathleen was still in the
pantry and before the pseudo gas-man could demur, Eliza seized
him by the coat and hurried him across the kitchen to the cellar
door. She opened this and pointed downstairs. The bewildered
gas-man disappeared down the steps and Eliza closed the door and
turned the key.
"Now, Miss," said Eliza. "I have something very serious to say to
you--"
Just at that moment she saw the clerical black of the Reverend
Mr. Carter coming down the kitchen stairs.
"--and that is, we'd best get this fruit up without delay," and
seizing a large bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, she passed
it to Kathleen and backed her into the pantry again. Kathleen
unsuspectingly pushed the fruit up the dumb waiter and meanwhile
it took no more than an instant for Eliza to take the curate by
the arm, motion him to silence, and push him toward the cellar
door.
"He's down there," she whispered, and Carter innocently followed
his fellow Scorpion. Again Eliza closed the door and turned the
key.
"Well, Eliza," said Kathleen, "I don't think you're much of a
cook, but you're a willing worker."
"Miss Kathleen," said the cook, who was now more anxious than
ever to cleanse her bosom of much perilous stuff, "are you very
down on practical jokes?"
"Practical jokes? Why, yes, Eliza. I think they are the lowest
form of humour. Good gracious! I do believe we've forgotten the
coffee! Have you got it ready?"
"Yes, Miss; yes, Miss; right here," said Eliza, bustling to the
stove. "But don't you think, miss, that a frank confession atones
for a great deal?"
"Really, Eliza, you are the most priceless creature! I don't
wonder Joe was taken with you! Hush! There's the front-door bell;
what do you suppose that is?"
They both listened, Kathleen at the dumb-waiter shaft and Eliza
at the kitchen door. Eliza started to say something, but Kathleen
waved her to be quiet. A heavy step sounded on the stair, and the
agitated Mary appeared, followed by a huge policeman. Eliza, of
course, recognized the Iron Duke, but the gas-light and the
disguise prevented the latter from knowing his fellow venturer.
"What on earth is the matter?" said Kathleen.
"Please, Miss," said the blue-coat, "your mother said there's a
gas-man down here and I've been sent by headquarters to take him
in charge. I think he's a sneak thief."
"There's no such person here, officer," said Kathleen.
Eliza still kept her sovereign wits about her. She advanced to
the policeman, and whispering mysteriously "He's in here," took
his sleeve and led him to the cellar door.
"He's down there," she repeated; "put the cuffs on him, quick!"
She opened the door, and the doubtful policeman, hypnotized by
her decision, stepped on to the cellar stairs. The door closed
behind him, and again Eliza turned the key.
"What does all this mean?" demanded Kathleen, angrily. "Has
everybody gone daft? Eliza, ever since you came into the house,
there has been nothing but turmoil. I wish you would explain. Why
have you sent the policeman into the cellar?"
"There's three dangerous counterfeiters down there, Miss," said
Eliza. "I want to tell you the truth about this, Miss Kathleen,
before that American gets down here--he's bound to be here soon.
He's the worst of the lot."
"Open that door at once!" said Kathleen, stamping her foot. "I
don't know what on earth you mean by counterfeiters, but if there
are any down there, let's have them up, and see what they have to
say."
The dining-room bell rang, and Mary instinctively hurried
upstairs. At the same moment Blair ran down, three steps at a
time, and bounded into the kitchen. He started when he saw Eliza.
"Are you all right, Miss Kent?" he asked, anxiously. "I've been
so worried about you. Is that gas-man still here? I think I can
smell gas escaping. Can I help in any way?"
"What you smell is a burnt cottage pudding," replied Kathleen.
"There's a policeman in the cellar, I wish you'd call him up. I
have a great mind to ask him to take Eliza in charge. I don't
think she's quite right."
Blair looked at Eliza closely.
"I agree with you, Miss Kathleen," he said. "She looks like a bad
egg to me--a devilled egg, in fact. Which is the cellar door,
cook?"
Eliza saw her chance.
"Right here, sir," she said, taking hold of the door knob. She
swung the door open.
"Looks very dark," said Blair. "I can't quite see the step. Where
is it?"
Eliza, eager to add this last specimen to her anthology in the
cellar, stepped forward to point out the stairway. With one lusty
push Blair shoved her through the door, and banged it to. He
turned the key in the lock and thrust it into his pocket.
"Miss Kent," he said, "I'm afraid you must think us all crazy. If
you will only let me have five minutes' uninterrupted talk with
you, I can explain these absurd misadventures. Please, won't you
let me?"