The study door burst open and one end of Elizabeth--the articulate
end--was jerked into view.
'Wot will you 'ave for lunch, 'm?' she demanded breathlessly. 'Lamb or
'am?'
Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction writing I looked up a
little dazed. 'Lamb or 'am,' I repeated dully, 'lamorram? Er--ram, I
think, please, Elizabeth.'
Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day, I returned
to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of
Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her
pretext for entering--that of dusting the roll-top desk with her
apron--was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to
dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place.
Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen
with a sigh.
'I yeerd from my young man this morning,' she began. A chill
foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)
'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.
[Illustration: 'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.]
''Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers,' she
corrected with dignity. 'Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from
London to Manchester.'
There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on
a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.
'If 'e goes to Manchester, there I goes,' she went on; 'I suppose I'd
quite easy get a situation there?'
'Quite easy,' I acquiesced in a hollow voice.
She went out leaving me chill and dejected. Not that I thought for a
moment that I was in imminent danger of losing her. I knew full well
that this was but a ruse on the part of the young man to disembarrass
himself of Elizabeth, and, if he had involved the entire Amalgamated
Society of Boilermakers in the plot, that only proved how desperate he
was.
I have very earnest reasons for wishing that Elizabeth could have a
'settled' young man. You see, as I have previously explained, she
never retains the same one for many weeks at a time. It isn't her
fault, poor girl. She would be as true as steel if she had a chance;
she would cling to any one of them through thick and thin, following
him to the ends of the earth if necessary.
It is they who are fickle, and the excuses they make to break away from
her are both varied and ingenious. During the War, of course, they
always had the pretext of being ordered to the Front at a moment's
notice, and were not, it appears, allowed to write home on account of
the Censor. Elizabeth used to blame Lloyd George for these defects of
organization. Even to this day she is extremely bitter against the
Government.
In fact, she is bitter against every one when her love affairs are not
running smoothly. The entire household suffers in consequence. She is
sullen and obstinate; she is always on the verge of giving notice. And
the way she breaks things in her abstraction is awful. Elizabeth's
illusions and my crockery always get shattered together. My rose-bowl
of Venetian glass got broken when the butcher threw her over for the
housemaid next door. Half a dozen tumblers, a basin and several odd
plates came in two in her hands after the grocer's assistant went away
suddenly to join the silent Navy. And nearly the whole of a dinner
service was sacrificed when Lloyd George peremptorily ordered her young
man in the New Army to go to Mesopotamia and stay there for at least
three years without leave.
Those brief periods when Elizabeth's young men are in the incipient
stages of paying her marked attention are agreeable to everybody.
Elizabeth, feeling no doubt in her rough untutored way that God's in
his Heaven and all's right with the world, sings at her work; she shows
extraordinary activity when going about her duties. She does unusual
things like remembering to polish the brasses every week--indeed, you
have only to step in the hall and glance at the stair rods to discover
the exact stage of her latest 'affair.' I remember once when one
ardent swain (who she declared was 'in the flying corpse') got to the
length of offering her marriage before he flew away, she cleaned the
entire house down in her enthusiasm--and had actually got to the
cellars before he vanished out of her life.
You will now understand why I was dejected at the perfidy of the
follower belonging to the Boilermakers' Society. I saw a dreary period
of discomfort ahead of me. Worst of all I was expecting the Boscombes
to dinner that very week. They had not before visited us, and Henry
was anxious to impress Mr. Boscombe, he being a publisher. It is
surprising, when you come to think of it, how full the world is of
writers trying to make a good impression on publishers. Yet no one has
met the publisher who ever tries to make a good impression on any one.
I will not elaborate the situation as it stood. All I can say is that
there is no earthly possibility of making a good impression on any
living thing if Elizabeth is in one of her bad moods. And it would be
no use explaining the case to Mrs. Boscombe, because she has no sense
of humour; or to Mr. Boscombe, because he likes a good dinner.
Finally, the Domestic Bureau failed me. Hitherto they had always been
able to supply me with a temporary waitress on the occasion of dinner
parties. Now it appeared these commodities had become pearls of great
price which could no longer be cast before me and mine (at the modest
fee of ten shillings a night) without at least fourteen days' notice.
The Bureau promised to do its best for me, of course, but reminded me
that women were scarce. I asked, with bitterness, what had become of
the surplus million we heard so much about. They replied with
politeness that, judging from the number of applications received, they
must be the million in search of domestics.
Returning home from the Bureau, I found Elizabeth studying a time-table.
'I see it's a 'undred and eighty-three miles to Manchester,' she
commented, 'an' the fare's 15s. 5 1/2d.'
'That's an old time-table you've got,' I hastened to remark, 'it is now
L2 13s. 7 1/2d.--return fare.'
'I shan't want no return ticket,' said Elizabeth grimly.
Sickening outlook, wasn't it?
* * * * * *
The day of my dinner-party dawned fair and bright, but Elizabeth was
raging. Things got so bad, in fact, that about mid-day I decided I
must telephone to the Boscombes and tell them Henry had suddenly been
taken ill; and I was just looking up the doctor's book to find
something especially virulent and infectious for Henry, when Elizabeth
came in. Amazing to relate, her face was wreathed in smiles.
'They've sent from the Domestic Boorow,' she began.
'What!' I exclaimed, 'did they get me a waitress after all?'
She smirked. 'They've sent a man this time. A footman 'e was before
the War, but 'e didn't take it up again arter 'e was demobbed. Just
now, bein' out of a job 'e's takin' tempory work and-----'
'He seems to have told you quite a lot about himself already,' I
interposed.
She smirked again. 'I 'adn't been talkin' to 'im ten minutes afore 'e
arsked me wot was my night out. 'E isn't arf a one.'
'It seems he isn't,' I agreed. And I sent up a silent prayer of
thankfulness to Heaven and the Domestic Bureau. 'But what about the
Amalgamated boilermaker?'
'Oh, 'im!' She tossed her head. ''E can go to--Manchester.'