FRANK CROSSE had only been married some months when he first had occasion
to suspect that his wife had some secret sorrow. There was a sadness and
depression about her at times, for which he was unable to account. One
Saturday afternoon he happened to come home earlier than he was expected,
and entering her bedroom suddenly, he found her seated in the
basket-chair in the window, with a large book upon her knees. Her face,
as she looked up at him with a mixed expression of joy and of confusion,
was stained by recent tears. She put the book hastily down upon the
dressing-stand.
‘Maude, you’ve been crying.’
‘No, Frank, no!’
‘O Maude, you fibber! Remove those tears instantly.’ He knelt down
beside her and helped. ‘Better now?’
‘Yes, dearest, I am quite happy.’
‘Tears all gone?’
‘Quite gone.’
‘Well, then, explain!’
‘I didn’t mean to tell you, Frank!’ She gave the prettiest, most
provocative little wriggles as her secret was drawn from her. ‘I wanted
to do it without your knowing. I thought it would be a surprise for you.
But I begin to understand now that my ambition was much too high. I am
not clever enough for it. But it is disappointing all the same.’
Frank took the bulky book off the table. It was Mrs. Beeton’s _Book of
Household Management_. The open page was headed, ‘General Observations
on the Common Hog,’ and underneath was a single large tear-drop. It had
fallen upon a woodcut of the Common Hog, in spite of which Frank solemnly
kissed it, and turned Maude’s trouble into laughter.
‘Now you are all right again. I do hate to see you crying, though you
never look more pretty. But tell me, dear, what was your ambition?’
‘To know as much as any woman in England about housekeeping. To know as
much as Mrs. Beeton. I wanted to master every page of it, from the first
to the last.’
‘There are 1641 of them,’ said Frank, turning them over.
‘I know. I felt that I should be quite old before I had finished. But
the last part, you see, is all about wills, and bequests, and homeopathy,
and things of that kind. We could do it later. It is the early part
that I want to learn now—but it _is_ so hard.’
‘But why do you wish to do it, Maude?’
‘Because I want you to be as happy as Mr. Beeton.’
‘I’ll bet I am.’
‘No, no, you can’t be, Frank. It says somewhere here that the happiness
and comfort of the husband depend upon the housekeeping of the wife.
Mrs. Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world.
Therefore, Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most comfortable
man. But why should Mr. Beeton be happier and more comfortable than my
Frank? From the hour I read that I determined that he shouldn’t be—and
he won’t be.’
‘And he isn’t.’
‘Oh, you think so. But then you know nothing about it. You think it
right because I do it. But if you were visiting Mrs. Beeton, you would
soon see the difference.’
‘What an awkward trick you have of always sitting in a window,’ said
Frank, after an interval. ‘I’ll swear that the wise Mrs. Beeton never
advocates that—with half a dozen other windows within point-blank range.’
‘Well, then, you shouldn’t do it.’
‘Well, then, you shouldn’t be so nice.’
‘You really still think that I am nice?’
‘Fishing!’
‘After all these months?’
‘Nicer and nicer every day.’
‘Not a bit tired?’
‘You blessing! When I am tired of you, I shall be tired of life.’
‘How wonderful it all seems!’
‘Does it not?’
‘To think of that first day at the tennis-party. “I hope you are not a
very good player, Mr. Crosse!”—“No, Miss Selby, but I shall be happy to
make one in a set.” That’s how we began. And now!’
‘Yes, it is wonderful.’
‘And at dinner afterwards. “Do you like Irving’s acting?”—“Yes, I think
that he is a great genius.” How formal and precise we were! And now I
sit curling your hair in a bedroom window.’
‘It _does_ seem funny. But I suppose, if you come to think of it,
something of the same kind must have happened to one or two people
before.’
‘But never quite like us.’
‘Oh no, never quite like us. But with a kind of family resemblance, you
know. Married people do usually end by knowing each other a little
better than on the first day they met.’
‘What _did_ you think of me, Frank?’
‘I’ve told you often.’
‘Well, tell me again.’
‘What’s the use when you know?’
‘But I like to hear.’
‘Well, it’s just spoiling you.’
‘I love to be spoiled.’
‘Well, then, I thought to myself—If I can only have that woman for my
own, I believe I will do something in life yet. And I also thought—If I
don’t get that woman for my own, I will never, never be the same man
again.’
‘Really, Frank, the very first day you saw me?’
‘Yes, the very first day.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, day by day, and week by week, that feeling grew deeper and
stronger, until at last you swallowed up all my other hopes, and
ambitions, and interests. I hardly dare think, Maude, what would have
happened to me if you had refused me.’
She laughed aloud with delight.
‘How sweet it is to hear you say so! And the wonderful thing is that you
have never seemed disappointed. I always expected that some day after
marriage—not immediately, perhaps, but at the end of a week or so—you
would suddenly give a start, like those poor people who are hypnotised,
and you would say, “Why, I used to think that she was pretty! I used to
think that she was sweet! How could I be so infatuated over a little,
insignificant, ignorant, selfish, uninteresting—” O Frank, the
neighbours will see you?’
‘Well, then, you mustn’t provoke me.’
‘What _will_ Mrs. Potter think?’
‘You should pull down the blinds before you make speeches of that sort.’
‘Now do sit quiet and be a good boy.’
‘Well, then, tell me what you thought.’
‘I thought you were a very good tennis-player.’
‘Anything else?’
‘And you talked nicely.’
‘Did I? I never felt such a stick in my life. I was as nervous as a
cat.’
‘That was so delightful. I do hate people who are very cool and assured.
I saw that you were disturbed, and I even thought—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I thought that perhaps it was I who disturbed you.’
‘And you liked me?’
‘I was very interested in you.’
‘Well, that is the blessed miracle which I can never get over. You, with
your beauty, and your grace, and your rich father, and every young man at
your feet, and I, a fellow with neither good looks, nor learning, nor
prospects, nor—’
‘Be quiet, sir! Yes, you shall! Now?’
‘By Jove, there _is_ old Mrs. Potter at the window! We’ve done it this
time. Let us get back to serious conversation again.’
‘How did we leave it?’
‘It was that hog, I believe. And then Mr. Beeton. But where does the
hog come in? Why should you weep over him? And what are the Lady’s
Observations on the Common Hog?’
‘Read them for yourself.’
Frank read out aloud: ‘“The hog belongs to the order Mammalia, the genus
_sus scrofa_, and the species _pachydermata_, or thick-skinned. Its
generic characters are a long, flexible snout, forty-two teeth, cloven
feet, furnished with four toes, and a tail, which is small, short, and
twisted, while, in some varieties, this appendage is altogether
wanting.”—But what on earth has all this to do with housekeeping?’
‘That’s what _I_ want to know. It is so disheartening to have to
remember such things. What does it matter if the hog _has_ forty-two
toes. And yet, if Mrs. Beeton knew it, one feels that one ought to know
it also. If once I began to skip, there would be no end to it. But it
really is such a splendid book in other ways. It doesn’t matter what you
want, you will find it here. Take the index anywhere. Cream. If you
want cream, it’s all there. Croup. If you want—I mean, if you don’t
want croup, it will teach you how not to get it. Crumpets—all about
them. Crullers—I’m sure you don’t know what a cruller is, Frank.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I. But I could look it up and learn. Here it is—paragraph
2847. It is a sort of pancake, you see. That’s how you learn things.’
Frank Crosse took the book and dropped it. It fell with a sulky thud
upon the floor.
‘Nothing that it can teach you, dear, can ever make up to me if it makes
you cry, and bothers you.—You bloated, pedantic thing!’ he cried, in
sudden fury, aiming a kick at the squat volume. ‘It is to you I owe all
those sad, tired looks which I have seen upon my wife’s face. I know my
enemy now. You pompous, fussy old humbug, I’ll kick the red cover off
you!’
But Maude snatched it up, and gathered it to her bosom. ‘No, no, Frank,
I don’t know what I should do without it. You have no idea what a wise
old book it is. Now, sit there on the footstool at my feet, and I will
read to you.’
‘Do, dear; it’s delightful.’
‘Sit quiet, then, and be good. Now listen to this pearl of wisdom: “As
with the commander of an army, so it is with the mistress of a house.
Her spirit will be seen through the whole establishment, and, just in
proportion as she performs her duties thoroughly, so will her domestics
follow in her path.”’
‘From which it follows,’ said her husband, ‘that Jemima must be a perfect
paragon.’
‘On the contrary, it explains all Jemima’s shortcomings. Listen to this:
“Early rising is one of the most essential qualities. When a mistress is
an early riser, it is almost certain that her house will be orderly and
well managed.”’
‘Well, you are down at nine—what more do you want?’
‘At nine! I am sure that Mrs. Beeton was always up at six.’
‘I have my doubts about Mrs. B. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
I should not be very much surprised to learn that she had breakfast in
bed every morning.’
‘O Frank! You have no reverence for anything.’
‘Let us have some more wisdom.’
‘“Frugality and Economy are home virtues without which no household can
prosper. Dr. Johnson says, ‘Frugality may be termed—’”
‘Oh, bother Dr. Johnson! Who cares for a man’s opinion. Now, if it had
been Mrs. Johnson—!’
‘Johnson kept house for himself for years—and a queer job he made of it.’
‘So I should think.’ Maude tossed her pretty curls. ‘Mrs. Beeton is all
right, but I will not be lectured by Dr. Johnson. Where was I? Oh
yes—“‘We must always remember that to manage a little well, is a great
merit in housekeeping.”’
‘Hurrah! Down with the second vegetable! No pudding on fish days.
_Vive la bière de Pilsen_!’
‘What a noisy boy you are!’
‘This book excites me. Anything more?’
“Friendships should not be hastily formed, nor the heart given at once to
every newcomer—”’
‘Well, I should hope not! Don’t let me catch you at it! You don’t mind
my cigarette? Has Mrs. Beeton a paragraph about smoking in bedrooms?’
‘Such an enormity never occurred to her as a remote possibility. If she
had known you, dear, she would have had to write an appendix to her book
to meet all the new problems which you would suggest. Shall I go on?’
‘Please do!’
‘She next treats conversation. “In conversation, trifling occurrences
such as small disappointments, petty annoyances, and other everyday
incidents, should never be mentioned to friends. If the mistress be a
wife, never let a word in connection with her husband’s failings pass her
lips—”’
‘By Jove, this book has more wisdom to the square inch than any work of
man,’ cried Frank, in enthusiasm.
‘I thought that would please you. “Good temper should be cultivated by
every mistress, as upon it the welfare of the household may be said to
turn.”’
‘Excellent!’
‘“In starting a household, it is always best in the long-run to get the
very best articles of their kind.”’
‘That is why I got you, Maude.’
‘Thank you, sir. We have a dissertation then upon dress and fashion,
another upon engaging domestics, another about daily duties, another
about visiting, another about fresh air and exercise—’
‘The most essential of any,’ cried Frank, jumping up, and pulling his
wife by the arms out of her low wicker-chair. ‘There is just time for
nine holes at golf before it is dark, if you wilt come exactly as you
are. But listen to this, young lady. If ever again I see you fretting
or troubling yourself about your household affairs—’
‘No, no, Frank, I won’t!’
‘Well, if you do, Mrs. Beeton goes into the kitchen-fire. Now remember?’
‘You are sure you don’t envy Mr. Beeton?’
‘I don’t envy a man upon earth.’
‘Then why should I try to be Mrs. Beeton?’
‘Why indeed?’
‘O Frank, what a load off my mind! Those sixteen hundred pages have just
lain upon it for months. Dear old boy! come on!’
And they clattered downstairs for their golf-clubs.