Chapter 6

Mrs. Watson, Frank’s trusty housekeeper, had been left in charge of The Lindens, and he had sent her a telegram the evening before to tell her that they were coming. She had already engaged the two servants, so everything would be ready for them. They pictured her waiting at the door, the neat little rooms with all their useful marriage-presents in their proper places, the lamplight and the snowy cloth laid for supper in the dining-room. It would be ten o’clock before they got there, and that supper would be a welcome sight. It was all delightful to look forward to, and this last journey was the happiest of all their wanderings. Maude wanted to see her kitchen. Frank wanted to see his books. Both were eager for the fight.

But they found a small annoyance waiting for them at Woking. A crowded train had preceded them, and there was not a single cab left at the station. Some would be back soon, but nobody could tell when.

‘You don’t mind walking, Maude?’

‘I should prefer it.’

So a friendly porter took charge of their trunks, and promised to send them up when a conveyance had arrived. In the meantime they started off together down an ill-lit and ill-kept road, which opened into that more important thoroughfare in which their own villa was situated. They walked quickly, full of eager anticipations.

‘It’s just past the third lamp-post on the right,’ said Frank. ‘Now it’s only the second lamp-post. You see it will not be far from the station. Those windows among the trees are where Hale lives—my best man, you know! Now it is only one lamp-post!’ They quickened their pace almost to a run, and so arrived at the gate of The Lindens.

It was a white gate leading into a short path—‘carriage sweep’ the house-agent called it,—and so to a low but comfortable-looking little house. The night was so dark that one could only see its outline. To their surprise, there was no sign of a light either above the door or at any of the windows.

‘Well, I’m blessed!’ cried Frank.

‘Never mind, dear. They live at the back, no doubt.’

‘But I gave them the hour. This is too bad. I am so sorry.’

‘It will be all the more cosy inside. What a dear little gate this is! The whole place is perfectly charming.’

But in spite of her brave attempts at making the best of it, it could not be denied that this black house was not what they had pictured in their dreams. Frank strode angrily up the path and pulled at the bell. There was no answer, so he knocked violently. Then he knocked with one hand while he rang with the other, but no sound save that of the clanging bell came from the gloomy house. As they stood forlornly in front of their own hall-door, a soft rain began to rustle amidst the bushes. At this climax of their troubles Maude burst into such a quiet, hearty, irresistible fit of laughter, that the angry Frank was forced to laugh also.

‘My word, it will be no laughing matter for Mrs. Watson if she cannot give a good reason for it,’ said he.

‘Perhaps the poor woman is ill.’

‘But there should be two other people, the cook and the housemaid. It is just as well that we did not bring up our trunks, or we should have had to dump them down in the front garden. You wait here, dear, under the shelter of the porch, and I will walk round and see if I can burgle it.’

He tried the back, but it was as dark as the front, and the kitchen-door was locked. Then he prowled unhappily in the rain from window to window. They were all fastened. He came back to the kitchen-door, poked his stick through the glass which formed the upper panel, and then putting his hand through the hole, he turned the key, and so stumbled into the obscurity of his own hall. He passed through it, unlocked the front door, and received Maude into his open arms.

‘Welcome to your home, my own darling girl. May you never have one sad hour under this roof! What a dismal home-coming! What can I do to make amends? But good comes out of evil, you see, for in no other possible way could I have been inside to welcome you when you entered.’

They stayed in the hall in the dark some time, these wet and foolish young people. Then Frank struck a match, and tried to light the hall-lamp. There was no oil in it. He muttered something vigorous, and carried his burning vesta into the dining-room. Two candles were standing on the sideboard. He lit them both, and things began to look a little more cheerful. They took a candle each and began to explore their own deserted house.

The dining-room was excellent—small, but very snug. The Tantalus spirit-stand—stood upon the walnut sideboard, and the bronzes from the cricket-club looked splendid upon each side of the mantelpiece. Beside the clock in the centre lay an open telegram. Frank seized it eagerly.

‘There now!’ he cried. ‘Listen to this. “Expect us on Thursday evening about ten.” It was _Tuesday_ evening, I said. That’s the telegraphic clerk. We’ve come two days before our time.’

It was good to have any sort of explanation, although it left a great deal unexplained. They passed through the hall with its shining linoleum, and into the drawing-room. It was not a very good room, too square for elegance, but they were in no humour for criticism, and it was charming to see all the old knick-knacks, and the photographs of friends in their frames. A big wrought-iron and brass-work standing lamp towered up near the fireplace, but again there was no oil.

‘I think that Mrs. Watson has arranged it all splendidly,’ said Maude, whose active fingers were already beginning to reconstruct. ‘But where can she be?’

‘She must be out, for, of course, she lives in the house. But it is the absence of the servants which amazes me, for I understood that they had arrived. What would you like to do?’

‘Aren’t you hungry, Frank?’

‘Simply starving.’

‘So am I.’

‘Well, then, let us forage and see if we cannot find something to eat.’

So hand in hand, and each with a candle in the other hand, like a pair of young penitents, they continued their explorations with more purpose than before. The kitchen, into which they penetrated, had clearly been much used of late, for there were dirty dishes scattered about, and the fire had been lighted, though it was now out. In one corner was what seemed to be a pile of drab-coloured curtains. In the other, an armchair lay upon its side with legs projecting. A singular disorder, very alien to Mrs. Watson’s habits, pervaded the apartment. A dresser with a cupboard over it claimed the first attention of the hungry pair. With a cheer from Frank and hand-clapping from Maude, they brought out a new loaf of bread, some butter, some cheese, a tin of cocoa, and a bowl full of eggs. Maude tied an apron over her pretty russet dress, seized some sticks and paper, and had a fire crackling in a very few minutes.

‘Put some water in the kettle, Frank.’

‘Here you are! Anything else?’

‘Some in the small saucepan for the eggs.’

‘I believe they are “cookers,”’ said he, sniffing at them suspiciously.

‘Hold them up to the light, sir. There, they are quite bright and nice. In with them! Now, if you will cut some bread and butter it, we shall soon have our supper ready.’

‘It’s too new to cut,’ cried Frank, sawing away upon the kitchen table. ‘Besides, new bread is better in chunks. Here are some cloths and knives and forks in the dresser drawer. I will go and lay the table.’

‘And leave me here alone. No please, Frank, if I am cook, you must be scullery-maid. Get the cups down and put the cocoa in them. What fun it all is! I think it is simply _splendid_ to be mistress of a house.’

‘With one scullery-maid.’

‘And she perfectly incompetent, and much given to embracing her mistress. I must take my hat off. Get the sugar for the cocoa out of the cupboard. The kettle is singing, so it won’t be long. Do you know, Frank’—she paused, listening, with the egg-saucepan in her hands. ‘There’s a dog or something in the room.’

They had both become aware of a sort of sibilant breathing, and they looked round them in bewilderment.

‘Where is it?’ asked Maude. ‘Frank, I believe it’s a mouse.’

‘Hope for the best. Don’t frighten yourself unnecessarily. I fancy it comes from under these curtains.’ He approached them with his candle, and was suddenly aware of a boot which was projecting from them. ‘Great Scot!’ he cried, ‘there’s a woman here asleep.’

Reassured as to the mouse, Maude approached with her saucepan still clutched in her hand. There could be no doubt either as to the woman or the sleep. She lay in an untidy heap, her head under the table, and her figure sprawling. She appeared to be a very large woman.

‘Hullo!’ cried Frank, shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Hullo, you there!’

But the woman slumbered peacefully on.

‘Heh, wake up, wake up!’ he shouted, and pulled her up into a sitting position. But she slept as soundly sitting as lying.

‘The poor thing must be ill,’ said Maude. ‘O Frank, shall I run for a doctor?’

‘Wake up, woman, wake up!’ Frank yelled, and danced her up and down. She flopped about like a sawdust doll, with her arms swinging in front of her. He panted with his exertions, but she was serenely unconscious. At last he had to lower her on to the floor again, putting a footstool under her head.

‘It’s no go,’ said he. ‘I can make nothing of her. She will sleep it off.’

‘You don’t mean to say, Frank, that she is—’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘How horrible!’

‘That kettle is boiling now. Suppose we have our supper.’

‘Dear Frank, I could not enjoy my supper with that unfortunate woman lying there. O Frank, I know that you could not either.’

‘Bless her!’ said Frank bitterly, as he gazed at the inert lump. ‘I really don’t see why we should put ourselves out for her. She is quite comfortable.’

‘Oh I couldn’t, Frank. It would seem inhuman.’

‘What are we to do, then?’

‘We must put her to bed.’

‘Great heavens!’

‘Yes, dear, it is our duty to put her to bed.’

‘But look here, my dear girl, we must be practical. The woman weighs half a ton, and the bedrooms are at the top of the house. It’s simply impossible.’

‘Don’t you think, Frank, that if you took her head and I took her feet, we might get her up?’

‘Not up the stair, dear. She is enormous.’

‘Well, then, on to the drawing-room sofa,’ said Maude. ‘I could have my supper, if I knew that she was safe upon the sofa.’

So Frank, seeing that there was no help for it, seized her under the arms, and Maude took her ankles, and they bore her, bulging but serene, down the passage. They staggered exhausted into the drawing-room, and the new sofa groaned beneath the weight. It was a curious and unsavoury inaugural ceremony. Maude put a rug over the prostrate form, and they returned to their boiling kettle and their uncooked eggs. Then they laid the table, and served the supper, and enjoyed this picnic meal of their own creating as no conventional meal could ever have been enjoyed. Everything seemed beautiful to the young wife—the wall-paper, the pictures, the carpet, the rug; but to him, she was so beautiful in mind, and soul, and body, that her presence turned the little room into an enchanted chamber. They sat long together, and marvelled at their own happiness—that pure serene happiness of mere companionship, which is so much more intimate and deeper than all the transports of passion.

But suddenly he sprang from his chair. There was the sound of steps, of several steps, outside upon the gravel path. Then a key clicked, and a burst of cold air told them that the door was open.

‘It’s agin’ the law for me to enter,’ said a gruff voice.

‘I tell you she’s very strong and violent,’ said a second voice, which Frank recognised as that of Mrs. Watson. ‘She chased the maid out of the house, and I can do nothing with her.’

‘Very sorry, mum, but it’s clean agin’ the law of England. Give me a warrant, and in I come. If you will bring her to the doorstep, I will be answerable for her removal.’

‘She’s in the dining-room. I can see the lights,’ said Mrs. Watson; and then, ‘Good Lord, Mr. Crosse, what a fright you gave me! Oh dear me, that you should have come when I was out, and I not expecting you for another two days yet. Well, now, I shall never forgive myself for this.’

But all the mistakes and misfortunes were very quickly explained. The telegram was the root of the evil. And then the new cook had proved to be a violent, intermittent drunkard. She had chased the other maid out of the house, and then, while Mrs. Watson rushed for the police, she had drunk herself into the stupor in which she had been found. But now, in the nick of time, the station cab came up with the luggage, and so the still placidly slumbering culprit was carried out to it, and sent off in the charge of the policeman. Such was the first entry of Mr. and Mrs. Crosse into their home at The Lindens.

LAYING A COURSE

FRANK CROSSE was a methodical young man—his enemies might sometimes have called him pedantic,—and he loved to reduce his life to rule and order. It was one of his peculiarities. But how about this new life into which he was entering? It took two to draw up the rules for that. The little two-oared craft who put out upon that voyage have to lay their own course, each for itself; and all round them, as they go, they see the floating timbers and broken keels of other little boats, which had once started out full of hope and confidence. There are currents and eddies, low sand-banks and sunken reefs, and happy the crews who see them ahead, and trim their course to avoid them. Frank brooded over it all. He had seen something of life, for his years. He was observant and reflective. He had watched his friends who were happy, and he had watched his friends who were not. And now, as a result of all this wise cogitation, he sat down at a table one evening, with a solemn face, and a sheet of foolscap.

‘Now, Maude,’ said he, ‘I want to have a serious talk.’

Maude looked up in surprise from the linen which she was marking.

‘Oh dear!’ she cried.

‘Why “oh dear”?’

‘There’s something wrong?’

‘Nothing in the world.’

‘You looked so solemn, Frank. I thought you had been looking at the tradesman’s books. What is it, dear?’

‘Well, Maude, I have been thinking of married life in general. Don’t you think it would be a good thing if we were to make some resolutions as to how it should be conducted—some fundamental principles, as it were?’

‘Oh do, dear, do! What fun it will be!’

‘But it’s serious, Maude.’

‘Yes, dear, I am quite serious.’

‘It seemed to me, that if we could reduce it to certain rules, then, whatever came upon us in the future, we should always know exactly how to act.’

‘What are the rules, dear?’

‘Well, we can only arrive at them by talking it over between ourselves. I could not draw up a set of rules, and ask you to submit to them. That is not my idea of a partnership. But if we found that we were agreed upon certain points, then we could both adopt them by mutual consent.’

‘How charming, Frank! Do please tell me some of the points.’

‘I have a few in my mind, and I should like to hear any which you may have—any ideas, you know, how to get the very highest and best out of our life. Now, first of all, there is the subject of quarrelling.’

‘O Frank, how horrid!’

‘Dear girl, we must look into the future. We are going to live all our lives together. We must foresee and prepare for all the chances of life.’

‘But that is absurd.’

‘You can’t live all your life and never be in a bad temper!’

‘But not with _you_, Frank.’

‘Oh, I can be very aggravating sometimes. Now, my idea is this. Ill-humour passes and hurts nobody. But if two people are ill-humoured, then each excites the other, and they say ever so much more than they mean. Let us make a compact never both to be ill-humoured at the same time. If _you_ are cross, then it is your turn, and I stand clear. If _I_ am cross, you let me work it off. When either hoists the danger-signal, the other is on guard. What do you think of that?’

‘I think you are the funniest old boy—’

‘Do you agree?’

‘Yes, dear, of course I agree.’

‘Article number one,’ said Frank, and scribbled upon his paper.

‘Your turn, now.’

‘No, dear, I have not thought of anything.’

‘Well, then, here is another point. Never take each other for granted.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Never relax those attentions which one lover shows to another. Some husbands seem to forget that their wives are ladies. Some wives speak to their husbands with less courtesy and consideration than to any casual male visitor. They mean no harm, but they get into a slack way. We must not do that.’

‘I don’t think we are likely to.’

‘People get into it unconsciously. Pull me up sharply at the first sign.’

‘Yes, sir, I will.’

‘The next point that I have noted is an extension of the last. Let each strive to be worthy of the love of the other. People get slovenly and slipshoddy, as if it didn’t matter now that they were married. If each were very keen to please the other, that would not be so. How many women neglect their music after marriage.’

‘My goodness, I haven’t practised for a week!’ cried Maude.

‘And their dress and their hair’—Maude’s hand flew up to her curls. ‘My darling, yours is just perfect. But you know how often a woman grows careless. “He will love me anyhow,” she says to herself, and perhaps she is right, but still it is not as it should be.’

‘Why, Frank, I had no idea you knew so much.’

‘I have heard my friends’ experiences.—And the man too: he should consider his wife’s feelings as much as he did his sweetheart’s. If she dislikes smoke, he should not smoke. He should not yawn in her presence. He should keep himself well-groomed and attractive. Look at that dirty cuff! I have no business to have it.’

‘As if it could make any difference to me.’

‘There now! That is what is so demoralising. You should stand out for the highest. When I came to you at St. Albans, I had not dirty cuffs.’

‘You forgive me the music, Frank, and I’ll forgive you the cuff. But I agree to all you say. I think it is so wise and good. Now I’ve got something to add.’

‘Good. What is it?’

‘Each should take an interest in the other’s department.’

‘Why, of course they should.’

‘But it is not done.’

‘Why naturally, dear, you take an interest in my City work.’

‘Yes, sir, but do you take as keen an interest in my housekeeping?’

‘Perhaps I have been a little thoughtless.’

‘No, no, dear, you haven’t. You are always full of consideration. But I have noticed it with mother, and with others also. The husband pulls out his cheque-book at the end of the week or month, and he says, “Well, this is rather more than we can afford,” or “This is less than I expected,” but he never really takes any interest in his wife’s efforts to keep things nice on a little. He does not see it with her eyes and try to realise her difficulties. Oh, I wish I could express myself better, but I know that the interest is one-sided.’

‘I think what you say is quite right. I’ll try to remember that. How shall we enter it upon our list?’

‘That Interests should be mutual.’

‘Quite right. I have it down. Well, any more points?’

‘It is your turn.’

‘Well, there is this, and I feel that it is just the holiest thing in matrimony, and its greatest justification—that love should never degenerate into softness, that each should consciously stimulate the better part of the other and discourage the worse, that there should be a discipline in our life, and that we should brace each other up to a higher ideal. The love that says, “I know it is wrong, but I love him or her so much that I can’t refuse,” is a poor sort of love for the permanent use of married life. The self-respect which refuses to let the most lofty ideal of love down by an inch is a far nobler thing, and it wears better too.’

‘How will you express all that?’

‘Mutual respect is necessary for mutual love.’

‘Yes, I am sure that that is right.’

‘It sounds obvious, but the very intensity of love makes love soft and blind. Now I have another, which I am convinced that you will not agree with.’

‘Let me hear it.’

‘I have put it in this way, “The tight cord is the easiest to snap.”’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I mean that married couples should give each other a certain latitude and freedom. If they don’t, one or other will sooner or later chafe at the restriction. It is only human nature, which is an older and more venerable thing than marriage.’

‘I don’t like that at all, Frank.’

‘I feared you wouldn’t, dear, but I believe you’ll see it with me when I explain what I mean. If you don’t, then I must try to see it with you. When one talks of freedom in married life, it means, as a rule, freedom only for the man. He does what he likes, but still claims to be a strict critic of his wife. That, I am sure, is wrong. To take an obvious example of what I mean, has a husband a right to read his wife’s letters? Certainly not, any more than she has a right to read his without his permission. To read them as a matter of course would be stretching the chain too tight.’

‘Chain is a horrid word, Frank.’

‘Well, it is only a metaphor. Or take the subject of friendships. Is a married man to be debarred from all friendship and intimacy with another woman?’

Maude looked doubtful.

‘I should like to see the woman first,’ she said.

‘Or is a married woman to form no friendship with another man who might interest or improve her? There is such a want of mutual confidence in such a view. People who are sure of each other should give each other every freedom in that. If they don’t, they are again stretching it tight.’

‘If they do, it may become so slack that it might as well not be there at all.’

‘I felt sure that we should have an argument over this. But I have seen examples. Look at the Wardrops. _There_ were a couple who were never apart. It was their boast that everything was in common with them. If he was not in, she opened his letters, and he hers. And then there came a most almighty smash. The tight cord had snapped. Now, I believe that for some people, it is a most excellent thing that they should take their holidays at different times.’

‘O Frank!’

‘Yes, I do. No, not for us, by Jove! I am generalising now. But for some couples, I am sure that it is right. They reconsider each other from a distance, and they like each other the better.’

‘Yes, but these rules are for our guidance, not for that of other people.’

‘Quite right, dear. I was off the rails. “As you were,” as your brother Jack would say. But I am afraid that I am not going to convince you over this point.’

Maude looked charmingly mutinous.

‘No, Frank, you are not. I don’t think marriage can be too close. I believe that every hope, and thought, and aspiration should be in common. I could never get as near to your heart and soul as I should wish to do. I want every year to draw me closer and closer, until we really are as nearly the same person as it is possible to be upon earth.’

When you have to surrender, it is well to do so gracefully. Frank stooped down and kissed his wife’s hand, and apologised. ‘The wisdom of the heart is greater than the wisdom of the brain,’ said he. But the love of man comes from the brain, far more than the love of woman, and so it is that there will always be some points upon which they will never quite see alike.

‘Then we scratch out that item.’

‘No, dear. ‘Put “The cord which is held tight is the easiest to snap.” That will be all right. The cord of which I speak is never held at all. The moment it is necessary to hold it, it is of no value. It must be voluntary, natural, unavoidable.’

So Frank amended his aphorism.

‘Anything more, dear?’