"Please, 'm, may I go for my 'olidays a week come Thursday?" asked
Elizabeth. She was evidently labouring under some strong excitement, for
she panted as she spoke and so far forgot herself in her agitation as to
take up the dust in the hall instead of sweeping it under the mat.
"But you promised to go on your holiday when we have ours in September," I
protested, aghast. (You will shortly understand the reason of my dismay.)
"I don't see how I can possibly manage--"
"I'm sorry, 'm, but I _must_ take 'em then," interposed Elizabeth with a
horrid giving-notice gleam in her eye which I have learnt to dread. "You
see, my young man is 'avin' 'is 'olidays then an'--an'"--she drew up her
lank form and a look that was almost human came into her face--"'e's arsked
me to go with 'im," she finished with ineffable pride.
I am aware that this is not an unusual arrangement amongst engaged couples
in the class to which Elizabeth belongs; nevertheless I felt it was the
moment for judicious advice, knowing how ephemeral are the love-affairs of
Elizabeth. No butterfly that flits from flower to flower could be more
elusive than her young men. Our district must swarm with this fickle type.
"Do you think it right to go off on a holiday with a stranger?" I began
diffidently.
"'Im! 'E isn't a stranger," broke in Elizabeth. "'E's my young man."
"Which young man?"
"My _new_ young man."
"But don't you think it would be better if he were not such a new young
man--I mean, if he were an old young man--er--perhaps I ought to say you
should know him longer before you go away with him. It's not quite the
thing--"
"Why, wot's wrong with it?" demanded Elizabeth, puzzled. "All the girls I
know spends their 'olidays with their young men, an' then it doesn't cost
them nothink. That's the best of it. But it's the first time I've ever been
arsked," she admitted, "an' I wouldn't lose a charnce like this for
anythink."
Further appeal was useless, and with a sigh I resigned myself to the
inevitable; but when, ten days later, Elizabeth departed in a whirl of
enthusiasm and brown paper parcels I turned dejectedly to the loathsome
business of housework.
It is a form of labour which above all others I detest. My _métier_ is to
write--one day I even hope to become a great writer. But what I never hope
to become is a culinary expert. Should you command your cook to turn out a
short story she could not suffer more in the agonies of composition than I
do in making a simple Yorkshire pudding.
My household now passed into a condition of settled gloom. My nerves began
to suffer from the strain, and I came gradually to regard Henry as less of
a helpmate and more of a voracious monster demanding meals at too frequent
intervals. It made me peevish with him.
He too was far from forbearing in this crisis. In fact we were getting
disillusioned with each other.
One evening I was reflecting bitterly on matters like washing-up when Henry
came in. Only a short time before we should have greeted each other
cordially in a spirit of _camaraderie_ and affection. Now our conversation
was something like this:--
_Henry (gruffly)._ Hullo, no signs of dinner yet! Do you know the time?
_Me (snappily)._ You needn't be so impatient. I expect you've gorged
yourself on a good lunch in town. Anyhow it won't take long to get dinner,
as we are having tinned soup and eggs.
_Henry._ Oh, damn eggs. I'm sick of the sight of 'em.
You can see for yourself how unrestrained we were getting. The thin veneer
of civilisation (thinner than ever when Henry is hungry) was fast wearing
into holes.
The subsequent meal was eaten in silence. The hay-fever from which I am
prone to suffer at all seasons of the year was particularly persistent that
evening. A rising irritability engendered by leathery eggs and fostered by
Henry's face was taking possession of me. Quite suddenly I discovered that
the way he held his knife annoyed me. Further I was maddened by his manner
of taking soup. But I restrained myself. I merely remarked, "You have
finished your soup, I _hear_, love."
Henry, though feeling the strain, had not quite lost his fortitude. My
hay-fever was obviously annoying him, but he only commented, "Don't you
think you ought to see a doctor about that distressing nasal complaint, my
dear?" I knew, however, that he was longing to bark out, "Can't you stop
that everlasting sniffing? It's driving me mad, woman."
How long would it be before we reached that stage of candour? I was
brooding on this when the front-door bell rang.
"You go," I said to Henry.
"No, you go," he replied. "It looks bad for the man of the house to answer
the door."
I do not know why it should look bad for a man to answer his own door,
unless he is a bad man. But there are some things in our English social
system which no one can understand. I rose and went to open the front-door.
Then my heart leapt in sudden joy. The light from the hall lamp fell on the
lank form of Elizabeth.
"You've come back!" I exclaimed.
"I suppose you didn't expect to see me inside of a week," she remarked.
"I didn't; but oh, Elizabeth, I'm so glad to see you," I said as I drew her
in. Tears that strong men weep rose to my eyes, while Henry, at this moment
emerging from the study, uttered an ejaculation of joy (it sounded like
"Thank God!") at the sight of Elizabeth.
"An' 'ow 'ave you got on while I've bin away?" she inquired, eyeing us both
closely. "Did every think go orf orl right?"
I hesitated. How was I to confess my failures and muddling in her absence
and hope to have authority over her in future? Would she not become still
more difficult to manage if she knew how indispensable she was? I continued
to hesitate. Then Henry spoke. "We've managed admirably," he said. "Your
mistress has been wonderful. Her cooking has absolutely surprised me."