never quarrel at breakfast is the first maxim for commuters and their wives. partings in anger mean day-long misery for both, and generally involve telephone calls later in the day, and a box of chocolate-coated maraschino cherries carried home on the 5.18. marriage (say the philosophers) is a subdivision of the penal code, dedicated to the proposition that men and women are created equal. but the studious observer of matrimonial feints and skirmishes sees very little to verify that daring surmise.
harry bennett sipped his breakfast coffee grimly. its savour had departed: for ninety seconds earlier mrs. bennett had fled upstairs in a flush of anger and tears. in five minutes he would have to run for the train; and what man can soothe an outraged wife in five minutes? he ate his toast without relish, gazing sourly on the blue-and-white imitation copenhagen china, the pretty little porcelain marmalade pot, and the big silver coffee-urn.
the desperate inequality of married life pierced his heart. why should he have to accept in silence tart remarks uttered by his wife, while the least savagery of his own was cause for tears?
he rushed upstairs to say a few consoling words. the bedroom door was locked. compassion fled, and he growled furiously through the panels. then he ran hotly for the train.
it seems unreasonable: but the lives of human beings are not guided by reason. harry had come to the conclusion that the silver coffee-urn was at the bottom of all their squabbles.
before elaine addison surrendered herself into his capable hands, there had been a competitor for the honour of surrounding her with sectional bookcases, linen closets, potted hydrangeas, and the other authentic trappings of a home.
aubrey andrews was the rival warrior. he was the kind of man who always has a lot of crisp greenbacks in a neat leather bill-fold. harry's hard-earned frogskins were always crumpled in a trousers pocket this may seem trivial, but it distinguishes two totally different classes of men. aubrey was tall, dark, well groomed; he played billiards and belonged to expensive clubs. it was supposed that his wife would be beyond the reach of financial worries. he kept a horse and easy office hours.
harry—well, harry was no aristocrat. he worked hard for what he got, and didn't get much. he was neither tall, nor dark, nor well groomed. but he was a fine, lovable, high-minded chap, and to everyone's surprise, including his own, he got elaine.
tennyson had a good deal to do with it, i think. harry still read tennyson, although that excellent poet is no longer fashionable, and kept on repeating what tennyson said about elaine. and finally elaine could not help saying, “my lancelot!” and melting into his arms.
aubrey gave them a magnificent silver coffee-urn for a wedding present, and presently enlisted for service, first on the mexican border and then in france, where he became a heroic and legendary figure, surrounded in elaine's mind by the prismatic glamour of girlhood days.
that coffee-urn was a stunner! it was far the handsomest thing in the little suburban house, except, of course, elaine herself. beneath its shining caldron sat an alcohol lamp that rendered a blue flame and kept the coffee hot. elaine's initials—her maiden initials—were engraved upon it, and those of the donor: e. a. a. a. the hand of the insidious silversmith had twined the a's together very gracefully.
every time he looked at it, harry felt subconsciously irritated, although he hardly realized why.
it stood on the little mission sideboard, outshining everything else in the pretty dining room. it was elaine's particular pride, and was used only on special occasions. often it was brought out for the little celebrations that young married couples have every now and then. and, curiously enough, these celebrations very often ended in tears. the polished dazzle of those silver curves was only too apt to suggest to elaine's radiant little beauty-loving heart other handsome wares she would like to have, or unlucky comparison of the relative beauty of the wedding presents sent by her friends and his; or harry would make some blunt remark about his not being able to give her all that some other husband might have.
alas! something of the sardonic spirit of the black-browed aubrey seemed to radiate from his urn. can a coffee-um hypnotize? grotesque as it appears, little by little they realized that the innocent piece of silver was marring many an otherwise happy hour.
all the way to town in the smoking car, harry's mind rotated savagely about their absurd tiff.
let's see, how was it? he had said: “i'm sorry, dearest; i shall have to be rather late tonight. the head of my department is away, and i've got an extra lot of work to do.” she said: “oh, dear—oh, dear! then we sha'n't be able to go to the theatre, shall we?” he said: “we can go next week, brownie.” she said: “something horrid always happens when we have this coffee-urn on the table.”
(n. b. right here, when the danger topic was introduced, he should have put on an extra soft pedal. but did he? not a bit. as soon as the urn was mentioned his eyes began to flash.)
“well,” he said, “don't let's have it on so often!” she said: “any one might think you were jealous of it. it's the only handsome piece of silver i've got.”
here he did make one honest effort to steer away from danger:
“i'm awfully sorry about to-night, honey, but the work's just got to be done.” she said: “why didn't you let me know sooner you were going to work late? i could have arranged to go and see mother.” he said: “oh, well, everything i do is always wrong, anyway! i suppose if i could buy you a roomful of silver like that old tureen, you wouldn't mind.”
and after that it was not far to the deluge. all conducted according to the recognized technique of quarrelling, passing through the seven stages of repartee outlined by touchstone, which should never be forgotten by those happily married:
1 the retort courteous
2 the quip modest
3 the reply churlish
4 the reproof valiant
5 the counter-check quarrelsome
6 the lie with circumstance
7 the lie direct
all day both mr. and mrs. bennett were unpleasantly conscious of their undigested altercation lying black and gloomy in the back of their minds. at lunch-time he tried to call her on the telephone; but the wire did not answer. indeed, she had gone to spend the day in town with friends, and was to go to dinner and the theatre with them. she left no message for harry, and gave the cook permission to go out overnight.
about nine o'clock he got home tired and eager to resume their usual blissful companionship. the house was dark and untenanted. in a rage, he threw away the box of candy he had brought, and got himself some bread and cheese from the ice-box.
in the dining room his eye fell upon the coffee-urn. he swore at it. just then elaine called him up, and in a cool, distant voice told him that she had decided to spend the night in town with her mother.
the next morning elaine came home about ten o'clock, humming a merry little air as she walked down the quiet suburban street. she and harry had patched things up over the telephone at breakfast-time.
the sun was shining brightly, and she was planning a specially nice dinner for poor harry that evening. after all, it wasn't the dear boy's fault that he had to work so hard. it was horrible of her to run off and desert him that way. tonight she would show him how much she loved him. they would have ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and meringues and chicken salad; and she would buy him a cigar and hide it in his napkin. and the old coffee-um should go back in the glass cabinet.
the cook, with a very grave face, opened the front door.
“heavens, emily, what's the matter?” cried mrs. bennett.
“burgled!” said emily, tragically. “someone's been an' bruk in the dining-room winder. footpads, i guess.”
mrs. bennett gave a little shriek of dismay she ran to the dining room.
one window stood an inch or two open, and one of the panes was broken. she glanced round the room. nothing was disarranged, but her glance fell on the sideboard.
the coffee-urn was gone!
“well,” she said, “that's very extraordinary. mr. bennett slept here last night, and he's a light sleeper. he always locks the windows before he goes to bed. is anything else missing?”
“the apple pie's gone out o' the ice-box,” said emily.
“oh, well, that's mr. bennett, i'm sure,” said elaine. “i'll call up the police right away, and see if they can do anything. my nice coffee-urn! why, it's the finest thing we had in the whole house.”
before the police arrived, mrs. bennett herself took a careful look round the outside of the house. she found nothing unusual except a cigar butt lying on the ground near the broken window. she picked it up gingerly. a section of the gilt band still adhered to the wrapper. she could read the name, florona. she carried the fragment into the cellar and threw it into the ash-can.
two policemen arrived shortly, examined everything, and asked innumerable questions. mrs. bennett gave them a careful description of the coffee-urn. they departed, promising to do everything possible to trace it. they said that a piece of silver so large and unusual would not be hard to locate with the aid of the pawnbrokers. then mrs. bennett went upstairs to think.
it seemed very strange that the thieves should take the urn and nothing else, when there were other pieces of silver beside it on the sideboard. she called up harry, who was horrified to learn of the loss. he had slept right through the night without hearing a sound. he offered to come home if he could do anything to help; but she would not hear of it.
that night mrs. bennett had a special little dinner waiting for her husband: his favourite soup, a tender steak, fried potatoes, ice cream with hot chocolate sauce. and after dinner they discussed the theft of the urn.
“i don't understand how it was that you didn't hear anything,” said elaine. “you generally sleep so lightly. did you sit up late?”
“no,” he said; “i sat in the dining room until about ten, eating cheese and apple pie, and smoking a cigar. then i went to bed——”
“oh, you just reminded me!” cried elaine. “i bought you a nice cigar to smoke after your dinner, and i forgot to give it to you.”
from the mantelpiece she gave him a cigar with a florona band.
“why, isn't that nice!” said he, “that's the kind i always smoke. i didn't think you knew one brand from the other.”
“i know more than you think, old man,” she said.
when harry came home the next night, he brought a bulky parcel with him.
“i'm awfully sorry about the urn, brownie,” he said. “i went to see the detectives to-day, and they think there's very little chance of getting it back; so i brought you this to take its place.” she opened the package. it was a big china coffee-jug of rose-and-white porcelain, flagrantly out of harmony with her silver and blue china.
“honey,” she said, “i think it's just lovely. it's ever and ever so much nicer than that old urn.”
a week later, in the afternoon, the local chief of police called up mrs. bennett.
“come down here to the police station,” he said. “we've found your coffee-pot. the most extraordinary thing you ever heard of. we found it buried in a haystack, back of webster's barn. why any one should leave it there is more than i know. the thief must have been frightened and hid it. will you come down and identify it?”
mrs. bennett hastened down to the police station. there on the sergeant's table stood the famous urn, the pride of her heart. there was no doubt about it: the initials were there—it was hers. tarnished and spotted by exposure, it was still the handsomest piece of silver she had ever seen. involuntarily she gave a cry of delight. then she hesitated. after all, compared to harry's happiness and hers, what was a silver urn?
“oh, captain,” she said, “i'm so disappointed. that's not mine! it's very much like it, but it isn't mine.”
