ELIZABETH GOES ON HOLIDAY.
"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."
I blessed Henry (the devil!) in that moment. "Thank you, dear," I murmured.
Then Elizabeth spoke and there was a note of relief in her voice. "Well, I'm reerly glad to 'ear that, as I can go off to-morrer after all. I 'aven't been for my 'oliday yet, like."
"What do you mean?" I gasped.
"Well, you see, 'm, my young man didn't turn up at the station, so I went and stayed with my sister-in-law at Islington. She wants me to go with 'er to Southend early to-morrer, but I thort as 'ow I'd better come back 'ere first and see if you reerly could manage without me, for I 'ad my doubts. 'Owever, as everythink's goin' on orl right I can go with an easy mind."
I remained speechless. So did Henry. Elizabeth went out again into the darkness. There was a long pause, broken only by my hay fever. Then Henry spoke. "Can't you stop that everlasting sniffing?" he barked out. "It's driving me mad, woman."
