The lady of the basement flat
by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey · English · Gutenberg #23124 · 460,856 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The lady of the basement flat
Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
Illustrator: Elizabeth Bellows
Release date: October 20, 2007 [eBook #23124]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23124
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY OF THE BASEMENT FLAT ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Lady of the Basement Flat, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.
________________________________________________________________________
The scene opens with the marriage of one of a pair of sisters, and her
departure for North America. The other sister is left feeling very much
at a loss, but she hits on the idea of renting a small London flat in a
poor area, making herself look like a very elderly woman, and finding
acts of kindness to do for her neighbours. She takes the name of Miss
Harding.
However the married sister's marriage founders, and she comes back to
England. Both the sisters rent a nice place in the country and spend a
lot of effort in decorating it. So Miss Harding has occasional spells
of living as her original young self with her sister, before returning
to her basement flat. As usual with this author, with her fascination
with illness, a child of one of the neighbours, Billie, becomes very ill
and needs roound-the-clock nursing. Miss Harding plays a big part in
this. But one day a chance remark by another of the tenants in the
block of flats makes it clear that the reason why the married sister's
marriage had foundered was no more than a misunderstanding. So Miss
Harding is able to fix her sister's problems, and Miss Harding herself
finds a husband, in her true and original identity, and so ends her
parallel existence as Miss Harding.
________________________________________________________________________
THE LADY OF THE BASEMENT FLAT, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.
CHAPTER ONE.
WHY NOT?
At three o'clock this afternoon Evelyn Wastneys died. I am Evelyn
Wastneys, and I died, standing at the door of an old country home in
Ireland, with my hands full of ridiculous little silver shoes and
horseshoes, and a Paris hat on my head, and a trembling treble voice
whispering in my ear:--
"Good-bye, Evelyn darling--darling! Thank you--thank you for all you
have been to me! Oh, Evelyn, _promise_ you will not be unhappy!"
Then some mysterious hidden muscle, whose existence I had never before
suspected, pulled two little strings at the corners of my mouth, and my
lips smiled--a marionette smile--and a marionette voice cried
jauntily:--
"Unhappy? Never! Why, I am free! I am going to begin to live."
Then I watched a tall bridegroom in tweeds tenderly help a little bride
in mole-coloured taffeta and sable furs into the waiting car, the horn
blew, the engines whirled, a big hand and a little one flourished
handkerchiefs out of the window, a white satin shoe danced ridiculously
after the wheels, and Aunt Emmeline cried sensibly:--
"That's over, thank goodness! The wind _is_ sharp! Let's have tea!"
She hurried into the house to give orders, and the old Evelyn Wastneys
stood staring after the car, as it sped down the drive, passed through
the lodge gates, and spun out into the high road. She had the
strangest, most curious feeling that it was only the ghost of herself
who stood there--a ghost in a Paris hat and gown, with long suede gloves
wrinkled up her arms, and a pendant of mingled initials sparkling on her
lace waistcoat. The real, true Evelyn--a little, naked, shivering
creature--was skurrying after that car, bleating piteously to be taken
in.
But the car rolled on quicker and quicker, its occupants too much taken
up with themselves to have time to waste on dull other people. In
another minute it was out of sight, but the ghost did not come back.
The new Evelyn lingered upon the steps, waiting for it to return. There
was such a blank, empty ache in the place where her heart used to be.
It seemed impossible that that skurrying little ghost would not come
back, nestle again in its own place, and warm up the empty void. But it
never came back. The new Evelyn turned and walked into the house.
"Well, it has all gone off very well! Kathleen looked quite nice,
though I always do say that a real lace veil is less becoming than
tulle. There was a rose and thistle pattern right across her nose, and
personally I think those sheaves of lilies are too large. I hope she'll
be happy, I am sure! Mr Anderson seems a nice man; but one never
knows. It's always a risk going abroad. A young Canadian proposed to
me as a girl. I said to him, `Do you think you could be nice enough to
make up to me for home, and country, and relations and friends, and
associations and customs, and everything I have valued all my life?' He
said it was a matter of opinion. What did _I_ think? I said it was
ridiculous nonsense. _No_ man was nice enough! So he married Rosa
Bates, and I hear their second boy is a hunchback. You are eating
nothing, my dear. Take a scone. Let's hope it's all for the best!"
"Best or worst, it's done now," I said gloomily. Basil Anderson was
certainly "nice," and, unlike Aunt Emmeline, my sister Kathleen
entertained no doubt that he could fill every gap--home, country,
friends, a selection of elderly aunts, and even that only sister who had
so far acted as buffer between herself and the storms of life. At this
very moment the mole-coloured toque was probably reclining comfortably
on the tweed shoulder, and a smile was replacing tears as a big booming
voice cried comfortably:--
"Evelyn! Oh, _she'll_ be all right! Don't worry about Evelyn, honey.
Think of _me_!"
Following the line of the least resistance, I took the scone and chewed
it vacantly. Figuratively speaking, it tasted of dust and ashes;
literally, it tasted of nothing at all, and the tea was just a hot fluid
which had to be swallowed at intervals, as medicine is swallowed of
necessity.
Aunt Emmeline helped herself systematically from each of the plates in
turn, working steadily through courses of bread and butter, sandwiches,
scone, _petits fours_, and wedding cake. She was a scraggy woman, with
the appetite of a giant. Kathie and I used to wonder where the food
went! Probably to her tongue!
"Of course," said Aunt Emmeline, continuing her thoughts aloud, as was
her disconcerting habit, "Kathleen has money, and that gives a wife a
whip hand. I begged her only yesterday to stand up for herself. Those
little fair women are so apt to be bullied. I knew a case. Well, mind,
we'll hope it mayn't come to _that_! If she is sensible and doesn't
expect too much, things may work out all right. Especially for the
first years. If anything _does_ go wrong, it will be your fault,
Evelyn, for spoiling her as you have done."
"Thanks very much for the cheering thought," I said snappily. Aunt
Emmeline helped herself to a sandwich, and blinked with exasperating
forbearance.
"Not cheerful, perhaps, but it may be _useful_! If you'd taken my
advice. It's never too late to mend, Evelyn."
"Even at twenty-six?"
Aunt Emmeline surveyed me critically. She was taking stock, and
considering just how young, how old, how fresh, how damaged those
lengthy years had left my physical charms. I looked in a long glass
opposite, and took stock at the same time. A smart young woman--oh,
very smart indeed, for as Kathie had argued, if you can't "blow" expense
for your only sister's wedding, when on earth are you going to do it?
Light brown hair, "still untouched by grey," hazel eyes with very long,
very finely marked eyebrows (secretly they are the joy of my life!) good
features, and a sulky expression. The old Evelyn used to be very
good-looking--(she's dead now, so I can say so, as much as I like)--this
new one is good-looking too, in a disagreeable, unattractive kind of
way. If you saw her dining at the next table in an hotel you would say,
"Rather a fine-looking girl!" And the man with you would reply, "Think
so! Too much of a temper for my fancy. Glad she don't belong to me."
I realised as much as I looked in the glass, and that made me crosser
than ever. If I had been alone, able to cry, or storm, or grizzle, or
go to bed just as I liked, I could have borne it better; but fancy
losing your home, and your occupation, and the only person in all the
world you really loved, all in one day, and coming straight from the
wreck to have tea with Aunt Emmeline!
The sandwich was finished before the inspection. A piece of scone
followed.
"Of course," said Aunt Emmeline, "you are _not_ in your first bloom.
_That_ we can't expect. Your colour is a little harder and more fixed"
(the figure in the glass gave a spasmodic jerk. The sulky expression
was pierced by a gleam of fear. "_Fixed_!" Good gracious! She might
be talking of those old people who have little red lines over their
cheek-bones in the place of "bloom". It's _ridiculous_ to say I am
"fixed". It is a matter of indifference to me how I look, but I do
insist on truth!) "and your air of pride and independence is unbecoming
in an unmarried girl. Men like to see a girl sweet, clinging, pliant."
"What men?"
"_All_ men!"
"Oh! And in my case, for instance, to whom would you suggest I should
proceed to cling?"
"That," said Aunt Emmeline briskly, "is precisely what I wish to
discuss." She lifted the last morsel of scone from the plate, stared at
it, and popped it into her mouth. "My dear, has it ever occurred to you
to think what you are going to _do_?"
"Aunt Emmeline, for the last months it has rarely occurred to me to
think of anything else!"
"Very well then, that's all to the good. As I said to Aunt Eliza, let
us leave her alone till Kathleen has gone. Evelyn is obstinate, and if
you interfere she will only grow more pig-headed. Let her find things
out for herself. Experience, Eliza, will do more than either you or I.
Sooner or later, even Evelyn must realise that you can't run a house,
and garden, and stable, in the same way on half the ordinary income.
Now that Kathleen is married, she naturally takes with her her own
fortune."
She looked at me expectantly, and I smiled, another stiff, marionette
smile--and said:--
"How true! Curiously enough, that fact has already penetrated to my
dull brain!"
"Now I do hope and pray, Evelyn, that you are not going to argue with
me," cried Aunt Emmeline, with a sudden access of energy which was
positively startling. "It's ridiculous saying that because there is
only one mistress instead of two, expense will therefore be halved. I
have kept house for thirty-three years, and have never once allowed an
order at the door, so I may be supposed to know. Nonsense! The rent is
the same, I suppose, and the rates, and the taxes. You must sit down to
a decent meal even if you are alone, and it takes the same fire to cook
four potatoes as eight. Your garden must be kept going, and if you do
away with one horse, you still require a groom, I suppose, to look after
the rest. Don't talk to me of economising; you'd be up to your neck in
debt before a year was over--if you weren't in a lunatic asylum with
nervous depression, living alone in that hole-in-a-corner old house,
with not a soul but servants to speak to from morning till night. You
have a nervous temperament, Evelyn. You may not realise it, but I
remember as a child how you used to fidget and dash about. Dear Kathie
sat still and sucked her thumb. I said at the time, `Evelyn is
better-looking, but mark my words, Kathie will be married first!' And
you see! It's because I love you, my dear, and you are my dear sister's
child that I warn you to beware of living alone in that house!"
"Thank you so much," I said nastily. (When people presage a remark by
saying that they only say it because they love you, you may lay long
odds that it's going to be disagreeable!) "It certainly sounds a
gruesome prospect. Not even a choice between bankruptcy and mania, but
a certainty of _both_! And within a year, too! Such a short run for
one's money! Aunt Eliza had some suggestion to make, then? And you
evidently approved. Would you mind telling me exactly what it was?"
"That is what I am trying to do, but you _will_ interrupt. Naturally,
your home is with us, your mother's sisters. You shall have the blue
room over the porch. If you wish it, we are willing that you should
bring your own pictures. The silver and valuables you can send to the
bank, and the furniture can be sold. You shall pay us five guineas a
week, and we will keep your horse, and house old Bridget if you don't
want to part from her. She can attend to your room, and sleep in the
third attic. There would be no extras except washing, and a fire in
your room. You know how we live; every comfort, but no excess. I
disapprove of excess. Eliza and I have often regretted that you and
Kathie have such extravagant ways. Early tea, as if you were old women,
and bare shoulders for dinner. You may laugh, my dear, but it's no
laughing matter. One thing leads to another. You can't wear an evening
dress and sit down to a chop. Soup and fish and an _entree_ before you
know where you are. We have high tea. You would save money on evening
gowns alone. A dressy blouse is all that is required."
Aunt Emmeline paused to draw breath, twitched, jerked, and resolutely
braced herself to say a difficult thing.
"And--and we shall welcome you, my dear! We shall be p-pleased to have
you!"
Through all her protestation of welcome, through all her effort at
warmth, the plain, unflattering truth forced its way out. To entertain
a young independent niece beneath their roof might seem to the two aunts
a duty, but, most certainly, most obviously, it would _not_ be a
pleasure! I was quite convinced that for myself it would be a fiery
trial to accept the offer; but it was a shock to realise that the aunts
felt the same!
I reviewed the situation from the two points of view, the while Aunt
Emmeline feverishly hacked at the hard sugar coating of the cake. For a
young, comparatively young woman, to go from the liberty of her own
home to share the stuffy, conventional, dull, proper,
do-nothing-but-fuss-and-talk-for-ever-about-nothing life of two old
ladies in a country town would obviously be a change for the worse; but
for the aforesaid old ladies to have their trivial life enriched by the
advent of a young, attractive, and (when she is in a good temper!)
lively and amusing niece, this should surely be a joy and a gain! But
it _wasn't_ a joy. The poor old dears were shuddering at the thought
that their peaceful routine might be spoiled. They didn't _want_ "a
bright young influence!" They wanted to be free to do as they liked--
sup luxuriously on cocoa and an _egg_, turn up black cashmere skirts
over wadded petticoats, and doze before the fire, discuss the servants'
failings by the hour, drink glasses of hot water, and go to bed at ten
o'clock.--As she hacked at the sugar crust, the corners of Aunt
Emmeline's lips turned more and more downward. My silence had been
taken for consent, and in the recesses of her heart she was saying to
herself, "Farewell! a long farewell to all our frowstings!" I felt
sorry for the poor old soul, and hastened to put her out of her misery.
"It's very good of you, Aunt Emmeline. And Aunt Eliza. Thank you
_very_ much, but I have quite decided to have a home of my own, even
though I can't afford to keep on The Clough. I am going to live in
London."
Just for one second, uncontrollable relief and joy gleamed from the
watching eyes, then the mask fell, and she valiantly tried to look
distressed.
"Ah, Evelyn! Obstinate again! Setting yourself up to know better than
your elders. There'll be a bitter awakening for you some day, my dear,
and when it comes you will be glad enough of your old aunties' help.
Well! the door will never be closed against you. However hard and
ungrateful you may be, we shall remember our duty to our sister's child.
Whenever you choose to return--"
"I shall see the candle burning in the casement window!"
She looked so pained, so shocked, that if I had had any heart left I
should have put my arms round her neck, and begged her pardon with a
kiss; but I had no heart, only something cold, and hard, and tight,
which made it impossible to be loving or kind, so I said hastily:--
"I shall certainly want to pay you a visit some day. It is very kind of
you to promise to have me. After living in London, Ferbay will seem
quite a haven of rest."
Aunt Emmeline accepted the olive branch with a sniff.
"But why London?" she inquired.
"Why not?" I replied. It was the only answer it seemed possible to
make!
CHAPTER TWO.
AUNT ELIZA SPEAKS.
It is two days after the wedding. Kathie has been Mrs Basil Anderson
for forty-eight hours, and no doubt looks back upon her spinster
existence as a vague, unsatisfactory dream. She is reclining on a
deck-chair on board the great ship which is bearing her to her new home,
and her devoted husband is hovering by her side. I can just imagine how
she looks, in her white blanket coat, and the blue hood--_just_ the
right shade to go with her eyes--an artful little curl, which has taken
her quite three minutes to arrange, falling over one temple, and her
spandy little shoes stretched out at full length. I know those shoes!
By special request I rubbed the soles on the gravel paths, so that they
might not look _too_ newly married. Quite certainly Kathie will be
throwing an occasional thought to the girl she left behind her, a "poor
old Evelyn!" with a dim, pitiful little ache at the thought of my barren
lot. Quite certainly, too, for one moment when she remembers, there
will be twenty when she forgets. Quite right, of course! Quite
natural, and wife-like, and just as it should be, and only a selfish,
ungenerous wretch could wish it to be otherwise. All the same--
I wrenched myself out of the aunts' clutches yesterday morning on the
plea of going home to tidy up. Though the wedding took place from their
house, all the preparatory muddle happened here, and it will take days
and days to go through Kathie's rooms alone, and decide what to keep,
what to give away, and what to burn outright.
The drawers were littered with pretty rubbish--oddments of ribbon, old
gloves, crumpled flowers, and the like. It goes against the principles
of any right-minded female to give away tawdry fineries, and yet--and
yet--_Could_ I bear to destroy them? To see those little white gloves
shrivel up in the flames, the high heeled little slippers crumple and
split? It would seem like making a bonfire of Kathie herself.
I tidied, and arranged, and packed into fresh parcels, working at fever
heat with my hands, while all the time the voice in my brain kept
repeating, "Now, Evelyn, what are you going to do? What are you going
to do, my dear, with your blank new life?"
To leave the old home and start afresh--that is as far as I have got so
far--but I must make up my mind, and quickly too, for this house is too
full of memories to be a healthy shelter. Kathie and I have lived here
ever since we left school, first with father, then after his death with
an old governess-companion. Since her marriage a year ago we have been
alone, luxuriating in our freedom, and soothing the protestations of
aunts by constant promises to look out for a successor. Then Kathie met
Basil Anderson, and no one was cruel enough to grudge us our last months
together.
Now I am alone, with no one in the world to consider beside myself, with
my own home to make, my own work to find, my own happiness to discover.
Does it make it better or worse, I wonder, that I am rich, and the
question of money does not enter in? Ninety-nine people out of a
hundred would answer at once that it is better, but I'm not so sure. If
I had a tiny income, just enough to ensure me from absolute want, hard
regular work would be necessary, and might be good for body and brain.
I _want_ work! I must have it if I am to keep going, but the mischief
is, I have never been taught to be useful, and I have no idea what I
could do! I can drive a car. I can ride anything that goes on four
legs. I can dance, and skate, and arrange flowers with taste. I can
re-trim a hat, and at a pinch make a whole blouse. I can order a nice
meal, and grumble when it is spoiled. I can strum on the piano and
paint Christmas cards. I can entertain a house-party of big-wigs.
I have also (it seems a queer thing to say!) a kind of genius for
simply--being kind! The poor people in the village call me "the kind
one," to distinguish me from Kathie, who, poor lamb! never did an unkind
thing in her life. But she didn't always _understand_, that was the
difference. When they did wrong she was shocked and estranged, while I
felt dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, and more anxious than ever to help
them again. Kathie used to think me too mild, but I don't know! The
consequences of sin are so terrible in themselves, that I always long to
throw in a lot of help with the blame. The people about here seem to
know this by instinct, for they come to me in their troubles and
anxieties and--_shames_, poor souls! and open their hearts as they do to
nobody else. "Sure then, most people are kind in patches," an old woman
said to me one day; "'tis yourself that is kind _all round_!"
I don't know that it's much credit to do what is no effort, and
certainly if I could choose a role in life it would be to play the part
of a good fairy, comforting people, cheering them up, helping them over
stiles, springing delightful little surprises upon them, just where the
road looked blocked! The trouble is that I've no gift for organised
charity. I have a pretty middling strong will of my own
("pigheadedness" Aunt Emmeline calls it!) and committees drive me daft.
They may be useful things in their way, but it's not my way. I want to
get to work on my own, and not to sit talk, talk, talking over every
miserable, piffling little detail. No! If I play fairy, I must at
least be free to wave my own wand, and to find my own niche where I can
wave it to the best advantage. The great, all-absorbing question
is--_where_ and _how_ to begin?
Advertisements are the orthodox refuge of the perplexed. Suppose, for
the moment, that I advertised, stating my needs and qualifications in
the ordinary shilling-a-line fashion. It would run something like
this:--
"Lady. Young. Healthy. Good appearance. Seeks occupation for a
loving heart. Town or country. Travel if required."
It sounds like an extract from a matrimonial paper. I wonder how many,
or, to speak more accurately, how _few_ bachelors would exhibit any
anxiety to occupy the vacancy. I might add "private means," and _then_
the answers would arrive in sacks, I should have the offer of a hundred
husbands, and a dozen kind homes, with hot and cold water, cheerful
society, a post office within a mile, and a golf course in the
neighbourhood. A hundred mothers of families would welcome me to their
bosoms, and a hundred spinsters would propose the grand tour and
intellectual companionship; but I want to be loved for myself, and in
return to love, and to help--
I am not thinking of marriage. Some day I shall probably fall in love,
like everyone else, and be prepared to go off to the Ural Mountains or
Kamtschatka, or any other remote spot, for the privilege of accompanying
my Jock. I shall probably be just as mad, and deluded, and happy, and
ridiculous as any other girl, when my turn comes; but it hasn't come
_yet_, and I'm not going to sit still and twiddle my thumbs pending its
approach. I'm in no hurry! It is in my mind that I should prefer a few
preliminary independent years.
Aunt Eliza drove over this afternoon to "cheer me up". She means well,
but her cheering capacities are not great. Her mode of attack is first
to enlarge on every possible ill, and reduce one to a state of collapse
from pure self-pity, and then to proceed to waft the same troubles aside
with a casual flick of the hand. She sat down beside me, stroked my
hand (I hate being pawed!) and set plaintively to work.
"_Poor dear_! I know you are feeling desolate. It's so hard for you,
isn't it, dear, having no other brother or sister? Makes it all the
harder, doesn't it, dear! And Kathie _leant_ on you so! You must feel
that your work is gone. Stranded! That's the feeling, isn't it? I
_do_ understand. But"--(sudden change to major key)--"_she_ is happy!
You must forget yourself in her joy!"
I said, "Oh! yes," and removed my hand under pretence of feeling for a
handkerchief. Her face lengthened again, and she drew a deep sigh.
(Minor.) "I always feel it is the last straw for a woman when she has to
give up her home in a time of trouble. A home is a refuge, and you have
made The Clough so charming. It will be a wrench to move all the dear
old furniture, and to leave the garden where you and Kathie were so
happy together. Wherever you look, poor dear, you must feel a fresh
stab. Associations!--so precious, aren't they, to a woman's heart?
(Major.) But material things are of _small_ value, after all, dear. We
learn that as we grow _old_! A true woman can make a home wherever she
goes--"
"I--I suppose she can."
(Minor.) "But of course the loneliness _is_ a handicap. Having no one
who needs you, no one to welcome you home. So sad! Especially in the
evenings! Solitary people are apt to grow morose. You will miss
Kathie's bright happy ways. (Quick change!) Well! Well! No one
_need_ be lonely in this world. There are thousands of suffering souls
fainting by the wayside for lack of the very help which it is in your
power to give. If I could just tell you of some cases I know!"
I pricked up my ears.
"I wish you would. I like to hear about other people's troubles!"
"My dear! Such a startling way of putting things! You don't mean it.
I know your tender heart! Of course the worst cases are in the big
cities. London, now! Every time I go to London, and travel as one is
obliged to do from one end of the city to the other, I look out upon
those endless rows and rows of streets of small houses, and at the great
towering blocks of flats at every turn, and feel _appalled_ at the
thought of the misery that goes on inside!"
"And the joy!"
"My dear, what kind of joy _can_ there be in such places?"
"Not your kind perhaps, nor mine, but real enough all the same. People
love one another, and have their own pleasures and interests. Little
clerks come home to little wives and tell of little successes. Women in
ugly houses buy some new piece of ugliness, and find it beautiful, and
rejoice. Babies toddle about--fat, pretty things, with curly mops."
She stared at me blankly.
"Curly mops! What does it matter whether their hair curls or not? Ah,
my dear, in such circumstances children are not all joy. I had a letter
from a friend the other day--Lady Templar. We were at school together.
Her nephew, Wenham Thorold, has lost his wife. Married at twenty-three.
So silly! A clergyman's daughter, without a sou. Now, of course, she
dies, and leaves him with five small children."
"Very inconsiderate!"
"Very inconvenient for the poor man! Only thirty-five, and a baby in
arms. How will it help him if its hair curls? He puts the elder
children to bed himself after his day's work. Quite pathetic to hear
of! Wouldn't he have been happier with one?"
"Possibly--for the present. Later on the five will help _him_, and he
will be glad and proud."
"Children dragged up by strangers are not always a credit and pride. I
hope these may be, but--If you'd heard my friend's tales! They live in
a flat. Quite a cheap block in some unfashionable neighbourhood. _No_
society. He has one small maid and a housekeeper to look after the
children. Most inefficient, Adela says. Holes in their stockings, and
shrieks the moment their father is out of the building!"
"What was he like?"
"He? Who? Oh, the poor father! Handsome, she said, but haggard. The
Templar nose. Poor, helpless man!"
A horrible feeling surged over me. I felt it rise, swell, crash over my
head like a flood of water--a conviction that I was listening to no
tale, but to a _call_--that Providence had heard my cry for work, and
had answered it in the person of Wenham Thorold--handsome and haggard--
in the person of little Thorold girls with holes in their stockings, of
little Thorold boys who shrieked, and a Thorold baby with problematic
hair that might, or might not, curl.
I cowered at the prospect. All very well to talk of my own way, and my
own niche, all very well to dream of fairy wands, and of the soothing,
self-ingratiating role of transforming other people's grey into gold,
while the said people sat agape, transfixed with gratitude and
admiration, _but_--how extraordinarily prosaic and unromantic the
process became when worked out in sober black and white. To mend
stockings, to stifle shrieks, to be snubbed by a cross housekeeper;
probably, in addition, to be sent to Coventry by the handsome and
haggard one, under suspicion of manoeuvring for his affections. Yes, at
the slightest interference he would certainly put me down as a designing
female, with designs on his hand. At this last thought I sniggered, and
Aunt Eliza looked severe.
"_No_ subject for mirth, Evelyn. I'm surprised! _You_ who are always
talking of wanting to help--"
"But could I help him? I will, if I can. I have money and time, and am
longing for work. Could I banish the housekeeper, and introduce a
variation by paying to take her place?"
Aunt Eliza looked at the ceiling, and informed it obviously, though
dumbly, that when nieces talked nonsense it was waste of breath to
reply. Outraged dignity spoke in her rigid back, in the thin contour of
her cheek.
"A Wastneys to speak of being a housekeeper!"
I realised that I had gone too far, for to jest at the expense of the
family pride was an unpardonable offence, so I added hastily:--
"Or I might take a flat hard by, and do good by stealth! Win the
housekeeper's heart, and then take charge of the five when she gads
forth. Some of the other tenants might need help too. In those great
big buildings, where scores of families live under one roof, there must
always be _somebody_ who needs a helping hand. It would be rather a
charming role to play good fairy to the mansions!"
Even as I spoke a flash of inspiration seemed to light up my dark brain.
My own careless words had created a picture which charmed, which
intrigued. It was as though a veil had lifted, and I caught sight of
beckoning hands. I saw before me a great, grim building, storey after
storey rising in unbroken line, the dusty windows staring into the
windows of a twin building across the road, just as tall, just as
unlovely, just as desolate. I saw a bare entrance hall, in which
pale-faced men and women came and went. I passed with them into
so-called "homes" where electric light burned day and night, and little
children played in nurseries about the size of a comfortable bed.
Everybody, as it seemed, was worn down with the burden of the inevitable
daily task, so that there was no energy left for beauty, for gaiety, for
joy. Suppose--oh, suppose there lived in that building one tenant whose
mission it was to supply that need, to be a Happiness-Monger, a Fairy
Godmother, a--a--a living bran pie of unexpected and stimulating
_helps_.
For the first moment since that motor car turned out of the gate,
bearing away the bride and bridegroom, a glow of warmth took the place
of the blank ache in the place where my heart used to be. It hurt a
little, just as it hurts when the circulation returns to frozen limbs,
but it was a wholesome hurt, a hundred times better than the calm that
had gone before. There glowed through my veins the exultation of the
martyr. Now farewell to ease and luxury, to personal desires and
ambitions. Henceforth I lived only to serve the race!
"Oh, Auntie, it's a glorious idea. Why didn't I think of it before? My
vocation is ready and waiting for me, but I should never have found it
if it hadn't been for you! Why shouldn't I take a little flat in some
unfashionable block, and play good fairy to my neighbours? A free,
unmarried woman is _so_ useful! There ought to be one in every family,
a permanent `Aunt Mary,' to lend a hand in its joys and sorrows, its
spring cleanings, and its--jams! Nowadays Aunt Marys are so scarce.
They are absorbed in their own schemes. Why shouldn't I take up the
role, and be a universal fairy to the mansions--devoting my idle time to
other people who need me, ready to love and to scold, to bake and to
brew, to put my fingers in other people's pies, leaving behind sugar for
them, and pulling out plums for myself of soothing, and comfort, and
joy!" My voice broke suddenly. I was awfully lonely, and the thought
of those figurative plums cut to the heart. The tears trickled down my
cheeks; I forgot where I was, and to whom I was speaking, and just
sobbed out all that was in my heart.
"Oh! Oh! To be needed again! To have some one to care for! That
would help--that would fill the gap--that would make life worth while."
Instinctively I stretched out my hands, in appeal for sympathy and
understanding.
"Oh, don't be silly!" said Aunt Eliza.
CHAPTER THREE.
CHARMION FANE INTERVENES.
During the next days the idea of making my home in London, and playing
fairy godmother to the tenants in a block of flats, took an
ever-deepening root in my heart. I pondered on it incessantly and
worked out plans as to ways and means.
Bridget should go with me as general factotum, for my method of living
must be as simple as possible, since the neighbours would be more likely
to confide their troubles to the ear of one who was, apparently, in the
same position of life as themselves. Smart clothing would be
unnecessary also, and a hundred and one luxuries of a leisured life. I
mentally drew up a list of things taboo, and regarded it with--let me be
honest--lingering regret. I was quite, quite willing to deny myself,
but it is folly to pretend that it didn't cost a pang. I _like_ good
clothes and dainty meals, and motor-cars, and space, and luxury, and
people to wait upon me when I'm tired, and unlimited supplies of
flowers, and fruit, and hot water, to say nothing of my own little share
of variety and fun. Down at the bottom of my heart, a lurking doubt of
myself stirred into life, and spoke with insistent voice:--
"All very well, Evelyn, but can you _keep it up_? Are you brave enough,
strong enough, unselfish enough to give up all that has hitherto made
your life, and to be satisfied with living through others? Won't the
time come when nature will rebel, and demand a turn for yourself? And
_then_, Evelyn, _then_ what are you going to do? Could you ever respect
yourself again if, having put your shoulder to the wheel, you drew back
and lapsed into selfish indifference?"
As for Aunt Emmeline, she turned on the cold tap, and kept it on at a
continuous trickle.
"Exaggerated nonsense! You always _were_ exaggerated, Evelyn, from a
child. Be kind, of course; that's only your duty, but I call it
officious and presumptuous to interfere in other people's lives. _You_
of all people! At your age! With your looks--"
"What have my looks to do with it?"
"My dear, it is not your fault, but I've said it before, and I say it
again--you are _showy_! There is something about you which makes people
stare. Dear Kathie could pass along quietly, or sit in a corner of a
room and be conveniently overlooked, but you--I am not paying you a
compliment, my dear, I consider it is a misfortune!--you _take the_
_eye_! Wherever you go, people will notice you and gossip about your
movements. At twenty-six, and with your appearance, I ask you candidly,
as aunt to niece--_do_ you consider yourself a suitable person to live
alone, and minister to widowers?"
"Well, if you put it like that, I _don't_! But what of the children who
shriek, and have holes in their stockings? Mightn't they like me better
just because I _am_ young and look nice?"
I laughed as I spoke, but Aunt Emmeline was so pleased that I showed
some glimmerings of reason, that she said suavely:--
"Wait ten years, dear! Till your hair is grey! You will age early with
those sharp features. In ten or twelve years you can do as you please."
I thought, but did not say:--
"My dear aunt, but I shall do it _now_!"
A week passed by, while I pondered and worried, and then at last came a
"lead" from without. A morning dawned when Bridget brought my letters
with my early tea, and set them down on the table by my bed.
"Four letters this morning, and only one of the lot you'll be caring to
see."
Bridget takes a deep interest in my correspondence, and always
introduces a letter with a note of warning or congratulation: "That
bothering creature is worrying at you again!"
"There's a laugh you'll be having over Master George's fun!"
"You paid that bill before. Don't be letting them come over you with
their tricks!"
It is, of course, reprehensible behaviour on the part of a maid,
presumptuous, familiar, interfering; but Bridget is Bridget, and I might
as soon command her not to use her tongue, as to stop taking an interest
in anything that concerns "Herself". As a matter of fact, I don't try.
Servility, and decorum, and a machine-like respect are to be hired for
cash at any registry office; but Bridget's red-hot devotion, her
child-like, unshakable conviction that everything that Miss Evelyn does
and says, or doesn't say and doesn't do, is absolutely right--ah, that
is beyond price! No poor forms and ceremony shall stand between Bridget
and me!
I lifted the letters, and had no difficulty in selecting the one which
would "give me joy". Strangely enough, it was written by one of the
newest of my friends, one whose very existence had been unknown to me
two years before.
We had met at a summer hotel where Kathie and I chanced to be staying,
and never shall I forget my first sight of Charmion Fane as she trailed
into the dining-room and seated herself at a small table opposite our
own. She was so tall and pale and shadowy in the floating grey chiffon
cloak that covered her white dress, she lay back in her chair with such
languor, and drooped her heavy eyelids with an air of such superfine
indifference to her fellow-men, that Kathie and I decided then and there
that she was succumbing to the effects of a dangerous operation, and--
with care--might be expected to last six or eight weeks.
We held fast to this conclusion till the next morning, when we met our
invalid striding over the moors, clad in abbreviated tweeds, and the
manniest of hard felt hats. Kathie said that she was plain. I said,
"Well, not plain exactly, but _queer_!" At dinner the same night, we
amended the verdict, and voted her "rather nice". Twenty-four hours
later she represented our ideal of female charm, and we figuratively
wept and rent our garments because she exhibited no interest in our
charming selves. An inspection of the visitors' book proved that her
name was "Mrs Fane," but that was not particularly enlightening,
especially as no home address was given.
But on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark schemes
by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the "grey lady"
entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner, stood
staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:--
"This is ridiculous! We are wasting time! We three are the only really
interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other--and we
know it! Come for a walk!" And lo! in another minute we were on the
high road, Kathie on one side, I on the other, gazing at her with
adoring eyes, while she said briskly:--
"My name is Charmion Fane. I am quite alone. No children. Thirty-two.
I don't live anywhere in particular. Just prowl round from one place
to another. If there are any other dull, necessary details that you
want to know, ask!--and get them over. Then we can talk!"
We laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own
account, and then we _did_ talk--about books, and travels, and hobbies,
and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more intimate
(or rather _conscious_ of our intimacy, for we were friends after the
first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental
outlooks.
When we came in, Kathie and I faced each other in our bedroom, almost
incoherent with pleasure and excitement.
"_Well_! What an afternoon! My dear, isn't she--" Kathie waved her
hands to express a superlative beyond the power of words.
"She is!"
"The most fascinating, the most interesting, the most original--"
"And she likes us, too! As much as we like her. Isn't it glorious?"
"She hasn't spoken to another soul. How could we have called her plain!
Evelyn, did you notice that she never spoke of her husband? She wears
grey and violet, so he has probably been dead for some years, but she
never referred to him in the slightest possible way."
"Would it be likely, Kathie, in our very first talk?"
"Yes!" declared Kathie sturdily. "Not intentionally, perhaps, but with
ordinary people it would have slipped out. `_We_ went to Italy. My
husband liked this or that.' She never advanced even as far as the
`we'. She must have been dreadfully, dreadfully fond of him!"
I wondered! The death of a beloved husband or wife is a devastating
blow; but when the memory is beautiful, time softens it into a hallowed
sweetness. It is the bitter sorrow which refuses to be healed, which
fills the heart with a ceaseless unrest. Not even to Kathie would I
express my doubts, but the conviction weighed upon me that the cloud
which hung over Charmion Fane was the remembrance of unhappiness rather
than joy!
For the next fortnight the greater part of our time was spent in
Charmion's company; generally we were a party of three, but in every day
there came a precious hour or so when I had her alone, and hugged the
secret confidence that the _tete-a-tete_ was as welcome to her as to
myself.
Everything that was to be told about my own uneventful life she knew
before many days were passed, but of her own past she never spoke. From
incidental remarks we found that she had been the godchild of a
well-known politician long since dead, and that at eighteen she had been
presented at Court, which two discoveries proved useful, as they were
enough to convince the aunts that Charmion was a safe and desirable
acquaintance.
Before she was twenty the scene had apparently shifted to America, where
she had lived for several years, and presumably--though she never said
so--had met her husband and spent her brief married life. Widowed--
childless--thirty-two. Those few words supplied all that I knew of
Charmion Fane, except the obvious facts which were patent to the eye.
She was oddly undemonstrative, and for all her charm had a manner which
made it impossible to approach one step nearer than she herself decreed.
Even when it came to the moment of saying good-bye, I could not tell
whether she wished to continue our friendship, or would be content to
let it drop as a passing incident of travel; but to my joy she held on
to my hand with a grip which was almost an appeal, and her thin,
finely-cut lips twitched once and again. She looked full into my face
with her strange eyes, the pupil large, the iris a light grey, ringed
with an edge of black, and said simply, "I'll miss you! But--it will go
on. We will always be friends." That was all, and during the two years
which had passed since that day we had met only once, for another short
summer holiday, and repeated invitations to The Clough had received the
same refusal--"I am not ready for visit-making."
Letters I had received in plenty, and she had sent Kathie a handsome--
really an extraordinarily handsome gift on her marriage, and to me the
dearest of letters, understanding everything without being told,
entering into my varying moods with exquisite comprehension. In return,
I had poured out my heart, telling her of my loneliness, my difficulty
about the next step, and now, at last, here came the reply.
I sent Bridget away, drank my tea at a gulp, and settled down to read in
luxurious enjoyment. It was a longer letter than I had yet received,
and I had a premonition that it would clear the way. But I did not
realise how epoch-making it was to prove.
"Dear Evelyn Wastneys,--I've been through it, my dear, and I know! It
doesn't bear talking of, so we _won't_ talk, but just pass on. What
next? you ask. I have been trying to solve that problem for the last
four years, and am no nearer a solution, so I can't tell you, my dear,
but I have an idea which might possibly provide a half-way house for us
both till the clouds lift.
"This summer I happened--literally happened!--upon a small country place
about two hours' rail from town. An agent would describe it as a
`desirable gentleman's residence, comprising four entertaining rooms and
eight bedrooms, glass, stabling, and grounds of four acres, artistically
laid out'. But never mind the agent; take it from me that that house is
ideal. Long, low, irregular rooms just waiting to be made beautiful; no
set garden, but a wilderness of flowers, and a belt of real woodland;
dry soil, all the sun that is to be had, and an open country-side
agreeably free from villadom. I was tempted--badly tempted, but could
not face settling down alone. Only last week the agent wrote to me
again.
"Evelyn, we fit each other; we are friends by instinct. How would you
like to take that house with me for the next two or three years, and
furnish it between us with our best `bits'?
"Understand, before we go any further--not for a moment do I suggest
that we settle down to a definite home, and a jog-trot country life. I
couldn't stand it for one, and I doubt whether you could either, but--we
suit each other, Evelyn; there's that mysterious psychological link
between us which makes it good to be together. I have a feeling that we
could put in some good times in that house!
"Financially, it would be an economy--we should save storage of
furniture, and have a convenient refuge in case of illness. The place
is cheap, and could be run with quite a small staff, and would be a
pleasant means of returning hospitalities. We could settle down for as
long as it suited us--three months, two months, a few weeks, as the case
might be--and then, when the impulse to roam came upon us, we should
simply rise up and depart. I should never ask where you were going. If
you asked me, I should not reply. Probably I should not know. On
certain months of the year the house might become the exclusive property
of one owner, when she might invite her own friends, and disport herself
as she pleased. Again, we might devote a certain period to charity, and
entertain lame dogs. There's no end to the good and the pleasure that
might be got out of that house. `Pastimes' is its name; isn't it quaint
and suggestive? And on the enclosed sheet you will behold elaborate
calculations of the sum which it would cost to run. The figures are
_over_ the mark, for I never delude myself by under-calculating in money
matters. For my own part, I can pay up, and have enough over to wander
at will. Can you do the same? If not, say no at once, and the project
is buried for evermore. You must not be tied. I refuse to be a party
to shutting you up in the depths of the country for the whole year
round. You have had enough of that. What you need now is movement, and
the jostle of other lives; but if, in addition, you can afford a
rest-house, a summer lodgment, a sanatorium for mind and body, and a
meeting-place with a friend, then pack your box, Evelyn, come and look
at Pastimes with me!
"Your friend, Charmion Fane."
I threw down the letter and seized the sheet of calculations in an agony
of eagerness. A glance at the final addition brought relief. Yes! I
could do it--pay my full share, and still have a handsome margin left
over. Once satisfied on that point, there could not be a moment's
hesitation, for it would be glorious to share a house with Charmion, and
to have her companionship for some months of each year. My whole life
was transfixed by the prospect, and yet she was right! I could not have
accepted the offer if it had meant a permanent settling down to a
luxurious country life. I was too restless, too eager for experience,
too anxious to discover my very own work, and to do it in my very own
way.
The picture of that old English house, with its panelled rooms, set in a
surrounding wealth of flowers and green, gripped hold of my imagination;
but here was an odd thing. It was powerless to banish another picture,
in which there was no rose and no blue, but only dull neutral tints--the
picture of a basement flat in a grey London road, with electric burners
instead of sun, and for view, a vista of passing feet belonging to
bodies cut off from sight.
I could not, even for Charmion, give up the prospect of that flat, and
all that it had come to mean; but--let me acknowledge it honestly--it
was balm and relief to know that I could have a means of escape, and
that at culminating moments of weariness, when everything seemed wry and
disappointing, and the whole weight of seven storeys seemed to be
pressing down on my brains, I could bang my door, turn the key, and fly
off to peace and beauty, and a healing pandering to personal tastes!
Woman is a complex character, and I am no better than my kind. I feel
it in me to be an angel of self-denial and patience for, say, the third
of the year! I know for a certain fact that I should have a bad lapse
if I tried to keep it up for the remaining thirds. Now, thanks to
Charmion, the way was made easy, and I could put my hand to the plough
without fear of drawing back.
I leapt out of bed in a tingle of excitement. Impossible to lie still
when things were happening at such a rapid rate. The sun was shining,
and, looking at a belt of trees in the distance, I could catch a faint
shimmer of green. It is perhaps the most intoxicating moment of the
year, when that first gleam of spring greets the eye, and this special
year it held an added exhilaration, for it seemed to speak of the
budding of fresh personal life.
I laughed; I sang; the depression of the last weeks fell from me like a
cloak, and I faced the future glad and undismayed. With the reading of
that letter had come an end to indecision. I now knew exactly what I
was about to do. Write to Charmion, and fix the earliest possible date
for a meeting in town. From town we would inspect Pastimes, the while I
instituted inquiries for a suitable flat. The two homes secured, I
would then return to The Clough, and divide my furniture into two
batches, send them off to their several destinations, and follow myself,
hot foot. It would take some time to put both dwellings in order, but
it would be interesting work. I love the making of interiors, and if
Pastimes must be fitted beautifully to do justice to itself, still more
would it be needful to turn the uninspiring "flat" into a haven of
comfort and cheer.
At this precise moment my prancing brought me in front of the long
mirror, and what I beheld therein brought me up with a gasp. Twenty-six
is quite a venerable age, but at moments of happiness and exhilaration
it has a disconcerting trick of switching back to seventeen. That
smiling, bright-eyed, pink-and-white-cheeked girl in the glass, with two
long pigtails of hair hanging to her waist, looked really absurdly
juvenile! Given a small stretch of imagination, you might have believed
that she was a flapper preparing for her last term at school; by no
possible mental effort could you have placed her as a douce maiden lady,
living alone in London, devoting herself to good works in a manner as
adventurous as it was unusual.
Mothers of children would insinuate that I was a child myself; troubled
matrons would purse their lips, and say, "I can't tell _you_, my dear.
You are too young." Certainly, oh, most certainly, men of all ages
would put me down as a designing minx! In vain industry, self-sacrifice
and generosity--that young face, that bright youthful colouring would
nullify all my efforts.
It was true--it was true! I looked, as Aunt Eliza had pointed out, a
dozen years too young for the part. People would stare, people would
talk, people would advise me to go back and live with my aunts, and wait
ten years.
In a frenzy of impatience I seized the two long plaits, and twisted them
now this way, now that. Astonishing the difference which hair-dressing
can make! I have read of a heroine who passed successfully as her own
twin sister by the simple device of plainly brushed hair and puritanical
garments, the sister, of course, sporting marcelle waves and Parisian
costumes. I dipped my brush in the water-jug and dragged back my own
hair in a plastered mass, clamping the plaits to my head. I looked like
a Dutch doll! Clean and chubby, and, alas! considerably younger than
before. I parted it in the middle, and glued it over my ears. I looked
like a naughty schoolgirl, who had had her hair dressed by a maiden
aunt. I piled the plaits in a coronet over my forehead; I looked like a
portrait of a Norwegian damsel dressed for her bridal. I threw down the
brush in disgust, and stamped with impatience.
No use! Not a bit of use! All the hair-dressing in the world could not
make me look old, or even approximately middle-aged. The ugliest
flannel blouse that was ever made, while it would certainly be hideously
unbecoming, could not add one year, let alone ten, to my age.
It was a bitter blow. All that morning I went about pondering the
desperate question of how to look old. Aunt Emmeline had prophesied
that I should know soon enough, "with those beaked features," but I
wanted to know _now_, not in any permanent, disagreeable fashion, but as
a kind of sleight-of-hand trick, by which I could be mature one day and
the next in blooming youth. Elderly in London, young at Pastimes. A
douce, unremarkable "body" in the basement flat, and in Surrey a lady of
leisure, rings on her fingers and bells on her toes!
Aunt Eliza would have cried once more, "Oh, don't be silly!" if I had
confronted her with such a problem. I said, "Don't be silly!" to myself
many times over in the course of that day, but I persisted in being
silly all the same. At the back of my mind lingered the conviction that
if I went on thinking long enough a solution would come.
_How could I manage to look old_? I asked the question of myself every
hour of the next few days. I asked it of everyone I met, and was
fatuously assured that I demanded the impossible; at long last I asked
it of old Bridget, whose sound common sense had come to my rescue times
and again.
"Sure, my dear, your husband will manage that for you!" was Bridget's
instant solution.
"Not the husband I shall choose!" I replied with easy assurance.
A moment's pause was devoted to the problematical Prince Charming whose
mission it would be to keep _me young_, then I asked tentatively:--
"What shall I look like, Bridget, when I am old?"
Bridget folded her arms and regarded me with a critical stare.
"Your hair will turn grey, and them fine straight brows of yours will
grow thin, or maybe fall out altogether, and leave you with none. An'
you'll wear spectacles, and have lines round your eyes. But it's
neither the grey hairs nor the specs that spoils the looks. It's not
_them_ that's the worst!"
I stared at her open-mouthed, trembling between shrinking and curiosity.
"_It's the shape of the cheeks_!" said Bridget darkly. "Yourself now,
and the ladies of your age, it's pretty, slim bits of faces you have,
going to a peak at the chin. When you're old, it runs to squares and
doubles. Look to your cheeks, miss, if you wants to keep young!" She
unfolded her arms, stretched them at full length, and comfortably folded
them again. Her broad chest heaved in a cackle of amused reminiscence.
"Sure, d'ye reminder Miss Kathleen when she play-acted the ould lady,
the last Christmas party?"
Poor old Bridget! She got the surprise of her life in my reception of
that simple question. Jumping out of my chair, dancing round, whooping
and hurraying "like a daft thing," as she afterwards described my
movements. Then to find herself at one moment enthusiastically patted
on the back, and at the next to be pushed towards the door, and exhorted
to hurry!--hurry!--to mount to the attic, and bring down the old tin
box--well, it was disconcerting, to say the least of it, and Bridget's
dignity was visibly upset. She had forgotten that all the "make ups"
which we had used for various Christmas festivals were stored away in
that old tin box, and consequently could not guess that I was fired with
an ambition to try on Kathie's disguise forthwith.
Ten minutes later I was standing before the glass and enthusiastically
acclaiming the truth of Bridget's statement, as I stared at the
reflection of a spectacled dame with grizzled eyebrows, grey hair banded
smoothly over the ears, and a bulging fullness at the base of each
cheek! It _was_ the cheeks that made the disguise! Spectacles and hair
still left the personality of the face untouched; even the bushy
eyebrows were but a partial disguise, but with the insertion of those
small india-rubber pads came an utter and radical change. That chubby,
square-faced woman was not Evelyn Wastneys. Never by any possibility
could she see forty again. So far as propriety went, she might roam
alone from one end of the world to the other. If she lived in the
largest block of flats that was ever erected, her neighbours would
regard her comings and goings with serene indifference. Admirable
woman! She did _not_ "take the eye". I met her spectacled glance with
a beam of approval.
"I have it!--I have it! I must _dress_ for the part! In London I'll be
a middle-aged aunt; in Surrey, a niece--my own niece and namesake, who,
of her charity, consents to receive some of her auntie's _protegees_ and
give them a good time!" The wildness, the audacity of the project made
to me its chief appeal. My life interest had been so sheltered, so
hedged round by convention, that at times it had seemed as though there
was a wall of division between me and every other human creature. It
was so difficult to show oneself in one's _real_ colours, to see and
know other people as they really were. But now!--oh, what a unique and
exhilarating experience it would be to taste at the same time the
romance of youth and the freedom of age, to witness the different sides
of other characters as exhibited in their treatment of aunt and niece.
That one illuminating suggestion of Bridget's has cleared the way. From
the moment of hearing there had been no real hesitation; before night
fell my plans were made, and a telegram to Charmion was speeding on its
way. A new life lay before me--a dual life, teeming with interest and
possibility. On one hand, my fate must be to some extent bound up with
that of Charmion Fane, the most interesting and, in a sense, mysterious
woman I had ever met; on the other, I was plunging into the unknown, and
transforming myself into a new personality, to meet the new
circumstances. I stared at myself in the glass and solemnly shook my
grey head.
"Evelyn, my dear, be prepared! You are going to have an adventurous
time!"
CHAPTER FOUR.
A TALK IN LONDON.
The aunts expressed a mitigated approval of Charmion's proposal. Mrs
Fane came of a good family, and was "very well left". Her married
estate, moreover, gave her the privilege of chaperonage, so that the
dual establishment might be quite a good arrangement, all things
considered, "until--"
"_Until_!" echoed Aunt Eliza eloquently, nodding coyly at me, while I
stared into space with basilisk calm. I object to references to my
problematical marriage--especially by aunts. The great "until" never
arrived for them, yet they feel quite annoyed because twenty-six has
found me still a spinster!
I made my journey to London with a sense of great adventure, Bridget
going with me in the dual role of maid and mentor. She was the only
person who was to accompany me into the new life, and experience had
proved that her sound common sense might be trusted to act as a brake on
the wheels of my own impetuosity. We stayed the morning in town, when I
interviewed a house agent, and set him on the search for suitable flats,
and then we adjourned to the West End to buy a becoming new hat. It
always soothes me to buy hats. In times of doubt and depression it is
an admirable tonic to the feminine mind. At three o'clock we left
Waterloo for our two hours' journey, and arrived at the old-fashioned
inn, which was to act as rendezvous, before half-past five.
Charmion was awaiting us in a private sitting-room, long, oak-beamed,
spotlessly clean, and a trifle musty, with that faint but unmistakable
mustiness which hangs about old rooms and old furniture. Tea was set
out on one half of the oak dining-table. The china was of the
old-fashioned white and gold order, the cups very wide at the brim and
cramped at the handle, and possessing a dear little surprise rose at the
base, which peeped out through a hoar frost of sugar as you drained the
last gulp. Charmion laughed at my delight over that rose, but I was in
the mood to be pleased, to see happy auguries in trivial happenings. I
hailed that rose as a type of unexpected joys.
Charmion was dressed in business-like grey tweeds, with a soft grey felt
hat slouched over her head. She looked very pale, very frail,
intensely, vibratingly alive. This extraordinary contradiction between
body and mind made a charm and mystery which it is difficult to express
in words. One longed to protect and shield her, to tuck her up on a
sofa, and tend her like a fragile child, at the very same moment that
mentally one was sitting at her feet, domineered by the influence of a
master mind!
I ate an enormous tea, and Charmion crumbled a piece of cake upon her
plate; then we had the things taken away, and drew up to the fire, and
toasted our toes, and looked into each other's eyes, and exclaimed
simultaneously--"_Well_?"
Hitherto we had talked on general subjects, Kathleen's marriage, the
break-up of the old home, my own journey, etcetera, but now we were free
from interruption for an hour at least, and the great subject could be
safely tackled.
"Evelyn! Do you realise that _nothing_ is settled, and that nothing
need be, unless you are absolutely, whole-heartedly _sure_?"
"I am absolutely whole-hearted about several things already. What sort
of things were _you_ thinking about?"
"Well, take the house first. It meets my ideal, but it mayn't be yours.
You must promise to give an unvarnished opinion."
"Make your mind easy! If there is one thing that I may claim to be
above all others, it is `unvarnished'. I have a brutal frankness in
expressing my own opinion. If, through nice feeling, I try to disguise
it, my manner shrieks it aloud!"
"That's all right then. I'm glad to hear it. Next comes the question
of time. We should have to take a lease of three years. I don't know
if you'd care to bind yourself for so long."
That reminded me of the aunts' "until", and I said solemnly, "Charmion,
tell me the worst. _Is_ there an eligible bachelor who owns the next
`place' ready to discover me picking his roses, or trespassing on his
side of the stream, and to make love to me forthwith? They always _do_
in books, you know, when girls go to live in country houses."
Charmion smiled her slow, languorous smile.
"I have amused myself with looking up the names of the people living in
all the big houses around: They seem uniformly made up of couples. To
the best of my belief, there is not a single man, bachelor or widower,
within many miles."
I said, "Oh!" and felt the faint, natural dismay which any human girl
would feel in the circumstances. Charmion herself was enough romance
for the present, and a precipitate "lover next door" would for the
moment have been _de trop_, but still--
My expression (unvarnished!) evidently betrayed my feelings, for
Charmion smiled, sighed, and stretched out a caressing hand.
"Let's be honest. It is foolish to set up a partnership in the dark.
Is there _anyone_, Evelyn, who may swoop down upon us at a moment's
notice, and carry you off to share _his_ house?"
"To the best of my knowledge there is not a solitary one. I'm quite
sure of one thing, and that is, that however wildly he swooped, I
wouldn't go!"
"But there must be--you are so pretty, Evelyn, and so attractive--there
must _have_ been."
"Oh yes; two. But not real lovers, Charmion, only--_pretendus_. One
was young and needy and ambitious, and thought that I should look very
well sitting at the head of his table. Incidentally, that my money
would be useful to provide the table and the things upon it. The
other--he was rather a dear, and he cared enough to give me a pang. But
he was happily married last year to a girl who is as _un_-like me in
every respect as you can possibly imagine. They are both ancient
history now."
"And you? You yourself? You have never been in love?"
If any other woman had asked me such a question there would have been
short shrift with her. Charmion herself had never before attempted such
personalities; but now, when she deemed it necessary, she spoke without
a flicker of hesitation, her grey eyes staring full into mine. It would
have seemed ridiculous to take offence.
"Once. At first sight. Quite bowled over. We met at an hotel."
She knew what I meant, made a dainty little grimace, and bent her head
in a small bow of acknowledgment, which somehow managed to look quite
regal and stately. I longed to put one or two questions in return.
Widows _have_ been known to marry again! Why should I not wish to be
reassured on my own account? Why should it be wrong for me to force
confidences, when she herself had led the way? It would _not_ be wrong;
it would be right, and prudent, and praiseworthy. The only objection
was, _I could not do it_. After that little bow of acknowledgment,
Charmion threw back her head until it rested on the high cushioned back
of her chair.
"That's settled then," she said quietly.
Her heavy lids drooped over her eyes, her fine white hands were folded
in her lap. There was in voice and manner an air of finality, which was
as impervious as a barrier of barbed wire. Not for any bribe in the
world would I have attempted to scale it.
The next morning, bright and early, we chartered a "fly," and lumbered
along two miles of country lanes, and then, suddenly turning a corner,
found ourselves at the gate of Pastimes. It was a dull, grey day, of
which I was glad, for _any_ place can look attractive in spring
sunshine. I have seen even a third-rate London square look quite frisky
and inviting with a shimmer of green over the black trees, and the
spring-cleaned windows sending out flashes of light; it's a very
different spectacle on a November afternoon. Five minutes'
acquaintanceship with Pastimes showed, however, that its predominating
quality was cheerfulness. There was a great deal of panelling on the
walls, but it was of white wood, not oak, and the old, small latticed
windows had been converted into deep bays, filled with great panes of
plate glass--a pagan proceeding from an artistic point of view, but
infinitely cheerful and healthy. There was a large central hall from
either side of which opened two rooms of medium size, facing
respectively east and west; a quaint descent of two steps led the way to
a really spacious drawing-room, through the great windows of which was a
lovely vista of velvet lawn, and a great cedar drooping its green
branches to the ground.
Parallel with the drawing-room, and also facing south, was a long
glassed-in apartment which had evidently been used to harbour plants,
garden-chairs, and impedimenta, but which revealed itself to our eyes as
an ideal sun-parlour for chilly days. Sheltered from draughts by the
outstanding walls, yet with a glass roof and frontage to catch every ray
of sun, the parlour would be an ideal refuge for spring and autumn. So
far as public rooms went, we were well off with five apartments at the
disposal of two people.
"Mine!--yours!--_ours_!" cried Charmion, waving her hands descriptively,
first towards the two smaller rooms, and then to the other three in
turn.
"In the hall we will eat; the big room shall be no ordinary formal
drawing-room, but a living-room _a deux_. The sun-parlour also we shall
share, but the `sulkies' shall be private ground, hermetically sealed
against intruders! There is a spare room upstairs which can be spared
for muddles. I have a fastidiously tidy eye. It _offends_ me to see
things scattered about, but my hands _will_ go on scattering them, so it
is necessary for my peace of mind to have a muddle-room where I can
deposit bundles at a moment's notice, and feel sure that they will not
be tidied away. Well, shall we go upstairs and see the bedrooms?"
"Where _are_ the stairs?" I asked curiously, for from no corner of the
hall was there a glimpse of staircase visible. I had not thought about
it before, but now I realised that it was just this absence which gave
that touch of comfort and privacy which is wanting in the ordinary
entrance "lounge". There was no draughty well, no galleried space
overhead, from which curious ears could overhear private confidences. I
stared round mystified, till Charmion opened yet another doorway, and
behold! there was the staircase, the oddest, curliest specimen of its
kind, mounting up and up within a narrow well, for all the world like
the steps in a church tower, except that these were wide and shallow,
and that a thick brass rod had been placed on the outer wall to act as a
banister in the case of need. Whoever had built Pastimes had plainly
believed that stairs were needed for the purpose of transit only, and
had refused to waste space on their adornment.
On the first landing were several good bedrooms, two of which possessed
big sunny balconies, facing south.
"That settles it!" I told Charmion. "If I had had any doubts before,
the balconies would have decided me, once for all. All my life I have
yearned to have a bedroom opening on to a really big balcony. I'm crazy
about balconies! Think of the happy hours one has spent on balconies in
Switzerland and Italy! To have been in a room without one would have
been to lose half the joy. And even in England--think of all the things
one can do on a balcony of one's very own. Sleep out when it is hot.
Air your mattress. Hang up your sponge. Grow your pet flowers. Dry
your hair. Cry it out quietly when you feel blue. Sentimentalise over
the railings when you feel _rose_."
Charmion's fine brows arched, her lids drooped over her eyes. I
recognised the same expression which her face had worn the night before,
when for a moment I had seemed on the point of questioning her about her
own romance. Once more I felt myself up against an impenetrable wall of
reserve, and hastily switched the conversation to the more prosaic topic
of cupboards. The very sound of a balcony bristles with romance, but
cupboards may be discussed with safety under the most lacerating
circumstances. There is something comfortably safe and stodgy about
them. And Pastimes was so rich in this respect that we spent a happy
half-hour appointing their future uses, and jotting down notes for their
improvement.
Later on we visited the gardens, beautiful even in their sleep, and
promising a very paradise for summer days. The lawns and flower beds
immediately around the house were exquisitely in order, but by far the
greater part of the grounds was uncultivated. There was a strip of
_real_ woodland, where the light filtered down through the branches of
tall old trees on to a carpet of dried leaves and bracken, through which
could be seen the close-growing green shoots which foretold a harvest of
bulbs. Later on no doubt there would be primroses and bluebells, and
when summer came, if I knew anything about it, there would be two
hammocks swinging between spreading branches, and two happy women
reposing therein. It was this _real_ country air which gave Pastimes
its chief charm.
That evening Charmion came to my room, and we sat together by the fire
and talked for three solid hours. As a rule, I get fidgety in the
evening when talk is the only amusement, but I can sit and listen to
Charmion for as long as she chooses to go on. She is--interesting! She
says things in an interesting way, and has interesting things to say. I
have met extraordinarily clever and well-informed people who are
terrible bores. Charmion would be interesting if she told one how to
make an egg flip! As I watched the delicate play of expression on the
tired face, which was yet so thrillingly alive, as I listened to the
slow soft drawl of her voice, I felt a sudden rush of thankfulness and
exhilaration.
"Charmion!" I cried suddenly, "aren't you _thankful_ to be rich?"
She flinched as though I had struck her, and turned upon me a wild-eyed
look of affront.
"Rich? Who says I am rich? Who has been talking about my affairs?
Have you--have you been making inquiries to find out what I am worth?"
I stared, deeply offended.
"I have not. Perhaps it would have been more business-like if I _had_,
but I accepted your word. I asked a simple question because at the
moment I happened to be feeling particularly thankful that I could
afford to share Pastimes with you, and I imagined that you might
possibly feel the same."
I paused, waiting expectantly for words of apology and excuse, but none
came. Charmion stared at me below knitted brows, and said shortly:--
"Yes, it is true. You ought to have business references. You shall
_have_ them! My lawyer shall write to you at once. I was a wretch to
speak so sharply, Evelyn, but--you touched a sore point! Thankful? No,
indeed! Money is a curse. The greatest handicap a woman can have. If
I had my life to live again, I should choose to be a penniless working
girl!"
She had taken off her rings and dropped them in a sparkling little heap
on her lap, the while she softly polished her long pink nails. Her
padded kimona was of pink silk, heavily embroidered with roses, her feet
were thrust into slippers of the same shade and material. A more
luxurious figure it would be difficult to imagine. I rolled an
expressive eye, and she shrugged her shoulders in response.
"Oh, of course, I am an artificial product, and the chains hold fast. I
don't take any particular interest in my appearance, but it is an
ingrained habit to go through a certain routine. It would annoy me to
have dull nails, so I polish them as you see; also, though I am dead
tired, I shall have my hair brushed for half an hour before going to
bed, and then steam my foolish face. It bores me profoundly, but it
would bore me more to feel unkempt. So far as that goes, I should do
exactly the same on twopence a week!"
"Minus a maid and appliances?"
Charmion shrugged daintily.
"Soap and water are cheap, fortunately."
"I beg your pardon! Not _your_ kind of soap. You might find even hot
water a difficulty. I imagine that girls on twopence a week have to
consider the price of boiling a kettle. Their hot water is not `laid
on'. Moreover, the poor dears must be `dead tired,' in a way which you
and I cannot even imagine."
"It is their life," Charmion said loftily.
"Excuse me--I mean to _live_! That's why I am thankful to have money,
because it gives me more scope to live thoroughly."
"Poor innocent! What a delusion. Money shuts the door of your cage. A
golden cage, excellently padded, but--_its bars shut out all the best
things of life_!"
I laughed again, for the statement was so opposed to all accepted
theories.
"_What_ best things, for example?"
"Confidence," said Charmion solemnly. "Trust in one's
fellow-creatures." She lifted her heavy lids as she spoke, and her eyes
looked into mine. In their grey depths was a blank, empty expression,
which once seen is never forgotten, for it speaks of a hurt so deep and
keen that the memory of it breaks the heart. I leapt from my seat and
wrapped Charmion in my arms.
"Oh, my dear, my dear, there is one person you can trust! Whatever
happens, Charmion, you can count on me! Darling! I know you have had
troubles. I don't ask to hear about them. I only want to be allowed to
love you, and to do all I can to help and to comfort. Never, never be
afraid to ask for anything I can do. I would put you before myself,
Charmion, if it ever came to a choice between our different interests--I
would indeed! Don't you believe it is true?"
She laid her two hands on my shoulders and smiled.
"You dear thing! I believe it is. You would sacrifice yourself for me,
and I should accept the sacrifice. It is the way we are made. You to
give, and I to demand. Let us pray, my dear, that the day may never
come when our interests do clash. Of a certainty, poor Evelyn, you
would come off worse!"
CHAPTER FIVE.
PASTIMES--AND MR MAPLESTONE.
The next morning, bright and early, we called on the house-agent to sign
and seal the agreement which should make us the happy owners of Pastimes
for a term of years agreeably elastic.
Mr Edwards was a small, dapper little man, typically house-agenty in
manner, even to the point of assuring us gravely that another tenant was
urgently in the field, and that we had secured our lease by the very
skin of our teeth.
Charmion lifted incredulous eyebrows.
"But, Mr Edwards, you wrote to me a second time, only a fortnight ago,
to say the house was still on your hands!"
"Quite so, madam. And it was. But only on Monday Mr Maplestone
motored over from Wembly. Mr Maplestone is Squire there--a very
influential gentleman in these parts. He is looking out a house for a
relative, and had only just heard that Pastimes was vacant. He drove
over, as I say, and telegraphed to his friend that the house was too
good to lose. He expected a reply this evening."
"When it will be too late!" Charmion said calmly. "You told him, of
course, that you were in treaty with another tenant?"
"I did, madam. Quite so. But"--the little man hesitated, and fidgeted
uncomfortably--"Mr Maplestone is--er--accustomed to get his own way! I
explained that I must accept a definite offer, and that you had the
first option, but I am afraid that he hardly realises--"
Charmion waved an imperial hand.
"We are not concerned with Mr Maplestone, or what he expects. Pastimes
is ours, and that settles the question. To-morrow morning Miss Wastneys
and I will meet you at eleven o'clock, to go over the house together.
It is in good order, but we shall require a little decoration and
painting here and there. You will be able to advise us how to get it
done well and quickly. When I say quickly I _mean_ quickly! Plenty of
men must be put on to begin the work and finish it in a few days' time,
not one or two who will drag on for weeks. You can get us an estimate
for time, as well as for cost."
Mr Edwards bowed, murmured, and waved his hands. He looked overcome,
poor man, as well he might, for if one would-be client demanded his own
way, the other was obviously determined to have hers. Between the two
his path was not easy! I smiled at him ingratiatingly, just to help
things along, but he took little notice of me. Obviously, in Charmion's
company I did _not_ "take the eye!"
On the way home I expressed sympathy for the disappointed Mr
Maplestone, but Charmion refused to agree.
"I don't know the man, so his pleasures and disappointments don't enter
into my sphere. Promiscuous universal sympathy is too great a tax on
the nervous system. Why should I distress myself about a man I have
never seen?"
"Not distress yourself exactly, but you might cast a kindly thought. He
will be disappointed, and the poor little agent will have a bad
half-hour."
"Now you are asking sympathy for the agent, too! Evelyn, aren't you the
least little bit in the world inclined to wear your heart on your
sleeve?"
"Charmion, aren't you the least little bit inclined to be hard?"
She agreed with unflinching candour.
"I am. It's the safer plan if one doesn't want to be hurt!"
"But--what about the other people? Mayn't they be hurt instead?"
She looked at me gravely for a moment, then with a smile which grew
gradually broad and roguish.
"We ought to strike a happy mean between us, eh, Evelyn? You are all
credulity and gush, and I refuse to disturb myself about other people,
or their affairs."
"That's not true! You disturbed yourself about me!"
"Because it affected myself. I had grown fond of you, and so you
entered into my life. Pure selfishness, my dear!"
"I don't believe it! I won't believe it! It's no good trying to
disillusion me, Charmion. I've put you on a topmost pinnacle, and it
would take a mighty effort to tumble you down!"
"Dear thing!" murmured Charmion fondly. "Well--suppose we talk of the
drawing-room walls? I'm a great believer in occupying oneself with the
next step. Revelations of character will follow in due course--I plump
for white!"
"White certainly. A warm cream white, with not a touch of blue in it.
And the prevailing colour?"
"Let's count three quickly, and then each say what we think!"
We counted, and the two words leapt crisply forth.
"Rose!" said I.
"Purple!" said Charmion. Then we looked at one another beneath puckered
brows.
"Rose lights up better!"
"Purple is more uncommon."
"Rose is more cheerful in winter!"
"Purple is restful in summer!"
It seemed for a moment as if we had reached an _impasse_, then came an
illuminating thought.
"Why not--both? They harmonise well. Purple curtains and carpet--the
plain colour, very soft and subdued, and cushions and shades of the
right rose. With our united treasures we ought to have a lovely room.
Where _are_ your things, Charmion?"
"Stored," she said shortly. "I tried a house for a few months, but it
was too lonely an experience. But I have a passion for beautiful
furniture. It has amused me to pick up good specimens here and there.
Now we shall enjoy them together! Wait till you see my Spanish leather
screen!"
"Wait till you see my Chinese cabinet!" I retorted, and we talked
"things" industriously for the next hour.
After luncheon Charmion settled herself to write business letters,
drawing a big screen round her writing-table, the better, as she
informed me, to protect herself against my chatter.
"You promise to be quiet, but in five minutes' time you begin again!
Now please to remember that to all intents and purposes I am in another
room, and that until I choose to come forth, I am dead to you and
everyone else! Do you understand? These letters positively must get
off to-night!"
"Dear me! I don't want to talk! I shall be thankful to sit by the fire
and enjoy a quiet read," I said loftily, and promptly drew up an old
arm-chair, and buried myself in the book which I had bought to while
away the hours of my journey, and then left unread, because my own
affairs were at the moment so much more absorbing than those of a
fictitious heroine. Now that my mind was more at ease, I found the
story interesting enough, and had read on for about an hour with
undisturbed enjoyment, when suddenly the door was flung open, and a
voice announced:--
"Mr Maplestone!"
I leapt up, putting up a hasty hand to smooth my ruffled hair. That was
the worst of having only one sitting-room! Visitors were hurled in upon
one without a moment's warning. Happy Charmion behind the screen! I
stared across the room and beheld a tall--very tall--thin man, with
short reddish hair and light blue, angry-looking eyes. He was dressed
in riding costume, which, so far as his figure went, became him
exceedingly well. He was probably somewhere about thirty-five, and one
glance at his tightly-set lips and firm square chin was enough to
demonstrate the truth of Mr Edwards' assertion that he was "a gentleman
who likes his own way". He had probably heard by now that for once he
was to be thwarted, and had come to tell me what he thought about it.
At this moment I forgot to be sorry for his disappointment in my
exceeding sympathy for myself! I glanced helplessly at the screen.
"Mrs Fane, I believe."
"I am Miss Wastneys. Mrs Fane is engaged. Perhaps it is something
that I--"
He laid his hat and stick on the table.
"May I have a few minutes' conversation? You will allow me to sit
down?"
"Certainly."
I pushed aside the easy-chair and seated myself on one of the six
"uprights" which were ranged about the room. It felt so much more
business-like and supporting. Mr Maplestone seated himself opposite to
me, and rested his hands on his knees.
"I am told that you have some idea of renting a house called Pastimes,
near here!"
"We have taken Pastimes. Mrs Fane and myself have this morning signed
the lease."
He waved an impatient hand.
"This morning! So I am told. Edwards has behaved very badly. I warned
him that things should not be hurried through."
"They have not been hurried. It is several months since Mrs Fane first
saw the house, and three weeks since negotiations were opened a second
time."
"I only heard this week that the house was vacant."
"And should Mr Edwards"--(the innocent inquiry of my voice was growing
more and more marked)--"was it his duty to have told you?"
His eyes sent out a flash. I could see the muscles of his hand clench
against his knee. I had scored a point, and his anger was
correspondingly increased.
"Perhaps I had better explain," he began in a tone of elaborate
forbearance. "I live at Wembly. Most of the land between here and
there belongs to me. Pastimes happens to be outside the limit, and so
it escaped my memory. I have not been over it before. I did not know
the last tenants. For the last few weeks I have been looking for a
house for my friend--a member of the family who is returning from
abroad. Invalided!"
He pronounced the last word with emphasis, staring fixedly at me the
while. I adapted my features to express polite commiseration.
"It is natural that he should wish to live within driving distance of
his friends."
"Oh, quite!"
"The moment that I saw Pastimes I knew for a sure thing that it would be
just his house--"
"I am sorry, but as he has not seen it, he can't be disappointed. There
must be other houses--"
"I have already said I have been searching round for--the--last--three--
weeks," Mr Maplestone repeated, in the carefully deliberate tone which
disguises irritation. "Nothing else will suit anything like so well."
I murmured indefinitely, and glanced at the screen. Mentally I could
see Charmion leaning back in her chair, smiling her slow fine smile,
inquisitively waiting to see just how firm or how weak I could be. I
was not inclined to be weak. There was something in the personality of
this big domineering man which roused an imp of contradiction. We sat
silent, eyeing one another across the room.
"I believe you and--er--Mrs Fane are strangers to this neighbourhood?"
"Yes! That is so."
"You have no--er--special link or attraction?"
I saw the trap, and protested blandly.
"Oh, yes! We are delighted with Pastimes. It exactly suits our
requirements."
Mr Maplestone frowned, and fidgeted to and fro, then suddenly leant
forward, straightening his face into what was obviously intended to be a
smile.
"Miss Wastneys! Will you forgive me if I am perfectly frank and honest,
and tell you exactly what is in my mind?"
"Of course I will. I am sure," I declared mendaciously, "there can be
nothing to forgive!"
He had the grace to look a trifle ashamed, but his resolution did not
waver. Not a bit! He looked straight in my eyes, and said
deliberately:--
"I want Pastimes! For the moment it has slipped through my fingers, but
a couple of hours cannot seriously affect your arrangements. On my
cousin's behalf I am anxious to take over the lease. It would be an act
of grace on your part if you would agree to this arrangement, and deal
with me as his representative!"
The audacity of it! For a moment I was silent for sheer want of breath,
but I could feel the blood rushing into my cheeks, and knew that my eyes
were sending out flashes to meet his own. My appearance must have
prepared him for my answer before it came, uttered in a very calm, very
haughty, aggravatingly deliberate tone.
"We are not in the habit of changing our plans in a couple of hours.
Pastimes suits us. It is unnecessary to look for another house. The
matter was decided this morning."
"You understand that my cousin is an invalid, and that he has a special
reason for wishing to live in this neighbourhood?"
"There are other houses. Pastimes is not the only one that is vacant."
"It is the only one that is suitable," he repeated doggedly, and there
followed a silence during which he sat back in his chair, staring at me
with the light blue eyes, which of all eyes in the world can look at
once the coldest and the most angry. If he could have done what he
wanted at that moment, he would have taken me by the shoulders and
shaken me well. To have made up his mind that a thing must be, and to
find himself thwarted by a bit of a girl--it was unsupportable!--so
unsupportable, that even now he refused to believe it could be true.
Giving himself a little shake, like a dog who rouses himself to fresh
efforts, he again made that industrious attempt at a smile, and began
slowly:--
"I am afraid I have made a bad beginning! Please forgive me if I have
seemed discourteous. When we have talked things over quietly, I have no
doubt that we shall be able to reach a satisfactory agreement."
"I'm afraid I can't see how that can be! There is only one Pastimes, so
one of us is bound to be disappointed!"
He pounced on that as if scenting a hopeful weakness.
"Exactly. Yes; but the disappointment would vary in intensity. That is
what I am anxious to point out. When Edwards told me that the tenant
was a lady I felt reassured, for it is a matter in which a woman's
kindliness and good heart--"
My eyes roved to the screen. Charmion's ears were assuredly open at
this moment, straining to hear my reply. I raised my eyebrows, and said
frostily:--
"We are speaking of a business arrangement. I am afraid that is the
only light in which we can consider the matter. We shall honourably
fulfil our part of the agreement which we have signed."
"You refuse to show any consideration for an invalid returning home--
after many years?"
"Not at all. If it is ever in our power, as neighbours, to show him any
kindness, we shall be eager to do all that is possible--short of giving
up our own house for his benefit. Would you do it yourself, Mr
Maplestone--for the sake of a stranger you had never seen?"
He stood staring at me, his cheeks bulging with the moving lumps which
show that people are swallowing down words which they dare not allow
themselves to say. With the same air of elaborate patience which he had
shown before, he explained slowly:--
"My cousin has been stationed in India. In a border regiment. He has
served his country for thirty years. Now he has had a paralytic stroke,
and is making his way home by slow stages. A man who has worked and
suffered as he has done deserves a home, and the gratitude of his
fellow-countrymen."
"There are two sides to every question, Mr Maplestone. If I chose to
go into details, I might convince you that Mrs Fane and I have our own
claims, which seem to us equally strong."
He leapt from his seat, and advanced until he stood directly facing my
chair.
"That finishes it! It is no use appealing to your feelings. Let us
make it pure business then! I offer you a hundred pounds down for the
reversion of the lease!"
So it had come to this. Bribery undisguised! I lowered my eyelids, and
sat silent, an image of outraged dignity.
"You refuse! It is not enough? Two hundred then! Three!"
Still silence. But my listening ears caught a threatening rustle behind
the screen.
"Three hundred! It is a good offer. You are not bound to this
neighbourhood. You can find other houses to suit you. Still not
enough? Name your own terms then. How much will you take?"
"A million pounds!"
The words leapt out of my mouth as it seemed of their own volition. I
was tired of this farcical bargaining, and determined to put an end to
it, once for all. I stood up and faced his blank stare of amazement,
without at least any outward shrinking.
"Surely it is useless to prolong this bargaining. It is very unpleasant
and humiliating."
Mr Maplestone set his square jaw.
"You are only one partner to this transaction. Mrs Fane is probably
your senior. If I were to see her, she might be induced to name a
more--er--shall I say reasonable (oh, the cutting sarcasm of that tone!)
figure."
"_Two_ millions."
The high clear tone struck across the room. Mr Maplestone wheeled
round and beheld Charmion standing just outside the opening of the
screen, one hand raised to rest lightly on the curved wood coping. She
might have posed as a picture of graceful, imperturbed ease, so calm, so
smiling, so absolutely unflurried and detached in both manner and
bearing did she appear. Mr Maplestone looked at her and--this was a
curious thing--at one glance realised his defeat. All my efforts at
dignity and firmness had failed to convince him, but behind Charmion's
frail, essentially feminine exterior, those keen eyes had at once
detected that strain of inflexibility which I was only slowly beginning
to realise.
It was hopeless to bandy words. The Squire knew as much, and turned to
the table to lift his hat and whip. He gave a short scornful laugh.
"The terms seem a trifle--high! I am afraid I must retire from the
bidding. Pastimes is yours. I hope"--he looked from me to Charmion,
and his expression was not pleasant to see--"I hope you may not have
cause to repent your bargain!"
We bowed. He bowed. The door opened and shut. Charmion looked at me
and shrugged her shoulders.
"A declaration of war! We have begun our campaign by quarrelling with
the most `influential gentleman in these parts!' Things are getting
exciting, Evelyn!"
I did not speak. Reaction had set in, and I felt a pang of remorse. I
did not want to quarrel with anyone, influential or uninfluential. I
was sorry I had been ungracious. I felt a pang of sympathy for the
poor, big, bad-tempered man riding homeward after his defeat.
I wondered when and how we should meet him again.
CHAPTER SIX.
HUNTING THE FLAT.
Leaving the workmen to carry out the necessary decorations at Pastimes,
Charmion and I adjourned to London to buy carpets and curtains, and a
score of necessary oddments. We found it a fascinating occupation, and
grew more and more complimentary to each other as each day passed by.
"Charmion, you have exquisite taste! That's just the shade I had chosen
myself."
"You have a perfect eye for colouring, Evelyn. I always know that your
choice will be exactly my own."
Sometimes we saw the humour of these self-satisfied compliments,
sometimes we were so busy and engrossed that we accepted them
open-mouthed. I suppose in every mind personal preference is magnified
into the standard of perfection, and all the arguing in the world will
fail to convince A that he is--artistically speaking--colour-blind, or B
that her drawing-room is a bazaar of trumpery odds and ends! All the
more reason to be thankful that we agreed. We were convinced that our
taste was unique; but supposing for one moment that it was bad, we
should at least share a comfortable delusion!
The oak entrance hall was to be ornamented with old delft. The curtains
and chair coverings were to be of the same shade of blue. The parquet
floor was to be supplied with rugs of warm Eastern colours. Exactly the
right shade of violet-purple had been found for the drawing-room, and I
should be ashamed to say how many shops we ransacked for the chair
coverings, until at last we found the identical pattern to satisfy our
demands. Certainly I should be ashamed to confess what we paid for the
piece. Charmion was appallingly extravagant! That was another
discovery which I had made in the last days. It seemed as if she found
a positive satisfaction in paying abnormal prices, not with the
purse-proud bombast of the _nouveau riche_, but rather with the almost
savage relief of a slave who shakes off a few links of a hated chain. I
was a little alarmed at the total to which our purchases amounted; but I
comforted myself with the thought, nothing new would be required for a
long, long time, and that, if I found my income running short, I could
always retire to my flat, and live on a figurative twopence under
Bridget's clever management.
Charmion had heard all about the flat by this time, and had hurt my
feelings by treating the whole proposal as a ridiculous joke. She made
no attempt to dissuade me--had we not agreed never to interfere in each
other's doings?--but she laughed, and said, "Dear goose," and arched her
fine brows expressively as she asked how long a lease I proposed to
take, "Or, rather, I should say, how _short_?"
Now I had myself inclined to a short lease with the option of staying
on, but opposition stiffened my back, and I there and then decided to go
and look at several possibilities which I had hitherto put aside as
impracticable because they had to be taken for a term of three to five
years. Bridget would go with me--dear, lawless, laughter-loving
Bridget, who entered into the play with refreshing zest. Bridget had
the real characteristic Irish faculty of looking upon life as an amusing
game, and the more novel and unorthodox the game was, the better she was
pleased. "Sure it's your own face! It's for you to do what you please
with it!" was the easy comment with which she accepted my proposed
disguise. She undertook to do most of the work of the flat without a
qualm, and shed an easy tear of emotion over the sorrows and
difficulties which it was to be my mission to reduce. "Oh, the poor
creatures! Will they be starving around us, Miss Evelyn, and the little
children crying out for bread?"
"N-not exactly that," I explained. "I want to work among gentlefolk,
Bridget--poor gentlefolk, who suffer most of all, because they are too
proud to ask for help. But they will probably be short of time, and
service, and probably of strength, too, and when I get to know them,
they will let me help them in these ways, though they would not accept
my money--"
Bridget looked sceptical.
"I wouldn't put it past them!"
I laughed, and dropped the subject.
"Oh, well, time will show. Meantime you understand, don't you, Bridget,
that they are not _cheerful_ places that we are going to see? Cheerful
positions in London mean big rents, and I mean to live among people who
have to count every penny several times over, and try hard to make it
into a sixpenny bit. You and I will have sunshine and light at
Pastimes--you won't mind putting up with dullness for part of the year?"
"What would be the good of minding? You'd go, whether or not, now you'd
got your head set!" returned Bridget bluntly. She added after a pause,
"And besides, we'll be getting our own way. I'm thinking we shall be
glad of the change. It's not as much as a thought of your own will be
left to you, with Mrs Fane by your side."
"You are entirely wrong, Bridget, and it is not your place to make
remarks about Mrs Fane. Please don't let me hear you do it again."
"Yes, ma'am," murmured Bridget, turning instantly from a friend into an
automaton, as was her custom on the rare occasions when I hardened
myself to find fault. The words were submissive enough, but her manner
announced that she had said her say, and would stick to it, though
Herself, poor thing, must be humoured when she took the high horse. As
usual, I retired from the conflict with a consciousness of coming off
second best!
The next day I told Charmion that I was "engaged," and true to our
delightful agreement, she asked no questions, but quietly disappeared
into space. Then, with a ponderous feeling of running the blockade, I
put on wig and spectacles and the venerable costume which had been
provided for the occasion. Appropriately enough, it had originally
belonged to an aunt--Aunt Eliza, to wit--who had handed it to me in its
mellowed age, to be bequeathed to one of my many _protegees_. It was
brown in colour--I detest brown, and it cordially detests me in return--
and by way of further offence the material was roughened and displayed a
mottled check. The cut was that of a country tailor, the coat
accentuating the curve of Aunt Eliza's back, while the skirt showed a
persistent tendency to sag at the back. When I fastened the last button
of the horror and surveyed myself in the glass, I chuckled sardonically
at the remembrance of heroines of fiction whose exquisite grace of
outline refused to be concealed by the roughest of country garments.
Certainly my grace did not survive the ordeal. What good looks I
possessed suffered a serious eclipse even before wig and spectacles went
on, and as a crowning horror, a venerable "boat-shaped" hat (another
relic of Aunt Eliza) and a draggled chenille veil.
Bridget was hysterical with enjoyment over the whole abject effect, but
I descended the stairs and passed through the great hall of the hotel
with a miserable feeling of running the blockade. Suppose I met anyone!
Suppose anyone _knew_ me! Suppose--I flushed miserably at the
thought--Charmion herself was discovered sitting in the hall, and raised
her lorgnon to quiz me as I passed by!
I need not have troubled. Not a soul blinked an eye in my direction.
If by chance a wandering glance met mine, it stared past and through me
as though I were impalpable as a ghost. My disguise was a success in
one important respect at least--there was no longer anything conspicuous
about me; I was just a humble member of society, one of the throng of
dun-coloured, ordinary-looking females, who may be seen by the thousand
in every thoroughfare in the land, but who, as a matter of fact, are not
seen at all, because no one troubles to look. By Bridget's side I
passed through the streets of London as through a desert waste.
Half an hour's journey by tube brought us to the first of the flats on
my list. It was also the first specimen of its kind which Irish Bridget
had ever seen, and the shock was severe. I found myself in the painful
position of expecting "a decent body" to live in a kitchen two yards
square, with a coal "shed" under the table on which she was supposed to
cook, and to sleep in a cupboard, screened in merciful darkness, since,
when the electric light was turned on, the vista seen through the grimy
panes was so inimitably depressing that one's only longing was to turn
it off forthwith!
"Preserve us! Indeed, if it was to die in it we were trying, it would
be easy enough, but I'm thinking we'd make a poor show of living, Miss
Evelyn! And used to the best as we are, too," said poor Bridget
dolefully.
I sprang a good ten pounds in rent at the sound of her pitiful voice,
and ran my pencil through every address below that figure.
Ten separate flats did we visit in the course of that day, and it was a
proof of what Aunt Emmeline would call my stubbornness that I came
through the ordeal without wavering. Regardless of Bridget's appealing
eyes, I led the way forward, always affecting a buoyant hope that our
next visit would be successful, while mentally I was holding a Jekyll
and Hyde argument with my inner self, as follows:--
"Impossible to live in such warrens!"
"_Other people_ manage to live in them all the year round!"
"But, as Bridget says, I have been used to the best."
"Quite time, then, that you take your share of the worst!"
"My health might suffer--"
"You have a good chance to recruit."
"I might lose my looks--"
"Disagreeable--but the world would go on, even if you did.
Incidentally, you might improve the looks of other women!"
"It would be awfully dull!"
"At first--yes! Not when you get into stride. Helping other people is
the most exhilarating of tonics."
"I have never lived in a town. I should feel cramped, prisoned, stifled
for air."
"But think how you would feel when the day came to return to Pastimes!
Wouldn't that first hour in the garden be glorious enough to repay you
for all the exile?"
Bridget's wheedling voice broke in on my argument:--
"Miss Evelyn, dear, I've been thinking--wouldn't it be a duty-like, to
be having a bit of sun? Seems like we could wrestle along a bit better
if we faced the right way!"
Poor dear! Above all the drawbacks, it was the darkness of the
interiors of those small flats which most perplexed the good
countrywoman: the passages lighted only through the ground glass panels
of bedroom doors; the windows shadowed by walls of other buildings,
which towered up at but a few yards' distance; the kitchens staring
blankly into a "well," ornamented with the suggestive spirals of a
fire-escape.
"If we could maybe face somewhere where there was a bit of green!"
pleaded the eloquent Irish voice. "Sure the leddies and gentlemen you
are meaning to help--you'll be more likely to find them in the place
you'd choose yourself, if you were settling in earnest?" Bridget rolled
an eye at blocks E, F, and G of a colossal pile of buildings which
stretched their inky length over the two blocks of a narrow
thoroughfare. "Cast your eye over them window curtains!" said she
scathingly. "Ye can tell what's inside without troubling to look. A
dirty, idle set that will sponge on you, and laugh behind your back!"
I looked, and shuddered, and was thankfully convinced. In my efforts
not to aim too high, my standard had fallen impossibly low, and
Bridget's keen common sense had been right in prophesying that I was
more likely to find a congenial type of people in a neighbourhood which
appealed to my own taste.
No sooner said than done! I escorted Bridget to a restaurant, and fed
her and myself with lots of good hot food, and then straightway hired a
taxi, and drove back to the agents to demand addresses of flats a little
further afield, which should have at least a modicum of light and air.
It appeared that I had demanded the thing above all others for which
tens of thousands of other women were already clamouring!
"Everybody wants a cheap flat in an open and airy situation. For one
that is to let we have a hundred applicants. Of course, if you are
prepared to pay a long price--"
"But I am not."
"Quite so. Otherwise I have some fine sites in Campden Hill. Lift.
Central heating. Every convenience."
"Seventy pounds is the utmost--"
"Quite so. Then we must rule out Campden Hill, or Hampstead, or
Kensington." The agent switched over the leaves of his book, ran his
finger down a list, and hesitated, frowning. "There is _one_ vacancy
which might suit--a small block of flats on the borders of Hammersmith.
The postal address is Kensington. I don't know if you are particular as
to address?"
"Not a bit."
"Ah!" The agent evidently thought small beer of me for the admission.
"Most ladies are. In this case we can ask an extra five pounds a year
because of the Kensington address, and the class of tenants is much
better than in the adjoining blocks a few hundred yards off, where the
postal address is Hammersmith."
Bridget coughed in an impressive fashion which was intended to say,
"Better class! Hark to that now! That's the place for us!" As for me,
I was torn between amusement at the rank snobbery of it all, and a
tender pity for the pathos that lay behind! Poor strugglers, clinging
on to the fringe of society, squeezing out the extra pounds so badly
needed for necessities, for--what? The satisfaction of seeing a certain
word written on an envelope, or of impressing a shop assistant with its
sound. In some cases no doubt there were deeper reasons than
snobbishness, and it was thought of them which supplied the pathos.
Some careworn men and women had weighed that extra rent in the balance,
and had considered that it was "worth while," since a good address might
prove an asset in the difficult fight for existence, or perchance some
loved one far away had vicariously suffered in past privations, and
might be deluded into believing in a false prosperity by the
high-sounding address. My ready imagination pictured the image of an
invalid mother contentedly informing her neighbours: "My daughter has
moved to Kensington. Yes! Such a charming neighbourhood. The gardens,
you know. _And_ the royal palace!" Five pounds a year might be
worthily expended on such a gain as this!
Well, there seemed nothing for it but to prospect Weltham Mansions at
once, so we chartered yet another taxi, and hurried off without delay to
have daylight for our inspection. We drove for miles, through streets
at first wide and handsome, then growing ever dingier and more
"decayed". Is there anything in the world more depressing than a
third-rate English suburb? I can imagine being poor contentedly in
almost every other land--in India, for instance, I know of impecunious
couples who have lived in two tents beneath two mango trees with comfort
and enjoyment, but it takes a super Mark Tapley to enjoy poverty in
London!
We had left the gardens a long way behind before at long last we reached
a block of dull red buildings, the various doorways of which were
decorated with different letters and numbers. A 1 to 40--C 41 to 80--D
81 to 120--etcetera, etcetera. The windows were flat, giving a
prison-like effect to the exterior, and I was just saying devoutly to
myself, "Thank goodness, _that's_ not--" when the taxi stopped, and my
eyes caught the fateful letters carved on a dull grey stone!
It _was_ Weltham Mansions, and there were two flats to be let. The
porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to
a crow's nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was
described as the "sub-basement," which, being interpreted, meant that
the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. Now I
had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly--let me
confess--because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and
appropriate to my new role. Also, to be able to walk in and out,
without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was
no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise
to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which I had
yet seen. Why? Not because of the rooms themselves, for they were
ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the
floor of the area to the street railings was of _grass_,
closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny,
sprouting leaves of--yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no
doubt about it, for both Bridget and I recognised them in one lightning
glance--_primroses_! Some former tenant who loved the country had
planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and
grown, and multiplied. When spring came the owner of that basement flat
would have a primrose bank between herself and the world outside those
high railings. She had also a strip of cement area in which she could
place tubs filled with soil which would provide blossom for later days.
The exposure was south, and the railings were high, so that the tiny
garden would be assured of sun and security. The soot would fall, and
the dust lie thick, but there would be colour and life, and on the air
faint wafts of perfume.
We went back to the porter's room to hear the particulars of the lease,
and on my way I stopped to read the list of names printed on little
slides on a mahogany board. There were forty in all, and they were as
illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down
the list, I came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. I
stood reading the few words over and over, actually _spelling_ the
letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt
about it--the words plainly printed for every one to see--
"Number 32. Mr Wenham Thorold."
Well, talk about fate! There are some circumstances under which one
realises at once that it is useless to struggle. This was one! I
turned to the porter with an air of resignation.
"I will take the flat. Please prepare the necessary papers, and send
them to me to sign." Then I gave him my new name. After due
deliberation I had determined to be "Miss Mary Harding," as Wastneys is
unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. Miss Mary Harding, of a
basement flat!
CHAPTER SEVEN.
HOSTILITIES?
Our removal into Pastimes--like every other removal since the time when
man began to live beneath a roof--took far longer than we expected. I
went back to Ireland to gather my possessions, and say good-bye, and
Charmion stayed in London to hurry up tradesmen, and make uninteresting
purchases of pots and pans, and dusters and door scrapers, and the other
needfuls which every house must have, but which are so dull to buy.
When I joined her in the hotel, I found her in a state of haughty
displeasure over the extraordinary delay which was attending the work at
Pastimes itself. In another person this state of mind would have found
vent in "fuming," but Charmion never fumed. She folded her hands, and
drooped her white lids, and drawled in a tone of incredulous disgust:--
"I can't understand it. I _told_ them to be quick. I expressly
stipulated that they were not to potter."
"Apparently they are not even `pottering'! They have not begun at all!"
I said grimly, as I ran my eye down the letter just received from the
"man in charge". It was the ordinary, ultra-polite, ultra-servile
production of the tradesman who has _not_ kept his word.
"Dear Madam,--Owing to a press of other work, I regret that I have not
been able to commence--"
"Commence! Odious word. It is adding insult to injury to use it. And
what can he mean? He seemed so keen about the order. Said he was so
slack that he would be able to put on all his hands!"
"I shall write and tell him to do so at once," said Charmion
magnificently, and I held my peace and let her do it, knowing that it
would be no use to object, and hoping that at least her letter might
succeed in extracting some more definite information.
It did! This was it:--
"Madam,--I beg to inform you that Mr Maplestone having rented the house
known as `Uplands,' on behalf of General Underwood, and placed urgent
orders with us for its re-decoration, we are regretfully compelled to
delay operations at Pastimes for some weeks. We are making all possible
speed with the present contract, and beg to assure you that your work
shall then be finished with all despatch.
"We have the honour to remain, etcetera."
Charmion and I looked at one another, and looked, and looked, and
looked. We were both thinking hard--thinking backward, thinking ahead.
Exactly what we thought neither of us put into words; we just sat
silently and stared, until presently Charmion rose, marched over to her
writing-table, and scribbled a few words on a telegram form. Then she
held it out for me to read:--
"Order for decorations at Pastimes cancelled herewith."
"Do you approve?"
"Er--oh, yes, of course--I suppose so. But how shall we--"
"That's easily arranged. Any town firm will be glad of the order. It
will be more expensive, but will probably be better done. In any case
we have no choice."
"It's such a tiny village. Where could the men sleep?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. That is their business, not mine. We
shan't have any difficulty about that," Charmion declared, and she was
right, for the West End firm who received our instructions waved aside
the question with smiling assurance. They were accustomed to sending
workmen all over the country. To the loneliest places. All could be
easily arranged. We were left with the impression that if it had been
our pleasure to pitch our tent in the Sahara, the frock-coated manager
would have executed our wishes with equal ease. So far, so good; but as
we left the shop Charmion turned to me, and said darkly:--
"I think, under the circumstances, it might be wise to change our minds
about employing country maids, and to engage London ones instead."
"You are afraid--"
"I am afraid of nothing, but I think it probable that the local girls
who wrote to us about situations may now be `urgently' bespoken for
service at Uplands."
"Well, he will need servants," I said feebly, and fell to thinking of
Uplands itself, and of how unfortunate it seemed that General Underwood
should be settling so near ourselves. We had noticed the house, indeed,
we could not fail to do so, as it lay a quarter of a mile along the high
road from Pastimes, on the direct route from Escott, which was Mr
Maplestone's village. It was a handsome-looking house, but painfully
prosaic, built of grey stone, unsoftened by creepers, and showing a row
of windows flat and narrow, and extraordinarily high. One could just
imagine the rooms, like so many boxes, and the hall flag-tiled, and the
house full of draughts, for the windows of the principal living-rooms
faced perversely towards the north. I hoped the poor General would
instal a heating system and a generous supply of rugs; but what chiefly
concerned me at the moment was the thought that every time--every single
time--that cross, red-headed man came over to visit his relative, he
must pass our door!
My imagination immediately conjured up half a dozen irritating
encounters. Evelyn returning home on a wet day, bedraggled, _not_ at
her best, toiling along the wet lane, and being splashed with mud by the
wheels of a giant car, from the cushioned seat of which the Squire and
his wife regarded her with lofty disdain. There _was_ a Mrs
Maplestone, and I had drawn a mental picture of her, which I felt sure
was true to life. Small, meek, rather pretty, with big brown eyes which
held a chronic expression of being rather frightened by what had just
gone before, and exceedingly anxious as to what should come next. She
would probably wear handsome furs, and a hat three seasons old.
Encounter number two represented Evelyn in her best hat and coat,
feeling rather spry and pleased with herself, until presently, clinketty
clank, round the bend of the road came the quick, staccato beat of
horses' hoofs. Mr and Mrs Maplestone cantering past in hunting kit,
which at one glimpse killed complacency and substituted disgust for the
poor fripperies of town.
Encounter number three was most obnoxious of all. It represented Evelyn
_solus_ encountering Mr Maplestone _solus_ and on foot. Approaching
him on the unsheltered road, torn by the problem, "Will he bow? Shall
_I_ bow? Will he pretend? Shall I pretend?" moving nearer and nearer,
and in a final moment of discomfort meeting the stare of blank, angry
eyes. Poor man! It must be exhausting to have such a violent temper.
I wondered what he looked like when by chance he was happy and pleased!
The West End firm got through their work in record time, and at the end
of three weeks Charmion and I took possession, and set to work at the
task of putting our house in order. Every woman delights in this work
in _prospect_; in reality, every one comes full tilt against a score of
irritating, aggravating _contretemps_ which baulk her carefully-laid
schemes.
Our _contretemps_ appeared in a very usual form. The cook and gardener,
who had been definitely engaged to meet us on our arrival, and whom we
had, therefore, not replaced in town, sent missives instead, to "hope
they didn't inconvenience, but they had changed their minds". The two
town servants who _had_ arrived were immediately plunged into woe, and,
looking into their set, dour faces, one could _hear_ the inward thought,
"Don't believe anyone ever _was_ engaged! Just one of their tricks to
get us down here to do the work alone." We left them sitting like
monuments of woe in the kitchen, and shut ourselves up in the
drawing-room to consult.
"Uplands, I conclude," said Charmion coldly.
"Oh, no! I don't believe it. He wouldn't condescend to _that_!"
"Why not? He stopped the work in the house."
"That was different! After all, he _is_ the Squire, and when it was a
case of inconveniencing him, or a stranger--a local tradesman could
hardly be expected to put us first. At least, you can _understand_ his
position."
"Does the same argument apply to local domestics?"
"It might do; but I don't believe it was used. To give a tradesman an
order for now or never, and to--to stoop to bribe a servant to break an
engagement--surely they are two different things! I do _not_ believe
Mr Maplestone would do it!"
"Well!--we shall see. In the meantime, what about dinner?"
I went back to the kitchen and talked to the Londoners, smiling
radiantly the while. I said it was upsetting, but we must expect
upsets. No one ever settled into a new house without one. I said there
would be no difficulty in getting another cook--we would telegraph for
one to-morrow; in the meantime we would just picnic, and do the best we
could. I looked from one sulky face to another, and asked
confidently:--
"Now, which of you is the better cook?"
The parlour-maid said she was a parlour-maid. She had never been
_asked_ to cook. She could make tea.
I said, "Thank you!" and turned to the housemaid.
The housemaid said she was a housemaid, and didn't understand stoves.
She had always lived where kitchen-maids were kept.
I said calmly, "Oh, well, it's fortunate that I am a woman, and can cook
for the lot of you until help comes. Perhaps you will kindly bring tea
into the hall, and then get your own as quickly as possible. I shall
require the kitchen by six o'clock."
They were horribly discomposed, and I left them murmuring vaguely in
protest, very pleased with myself and my fine womanly attitude, though
at the bottom of my heart I knew quite well that Bridget would come to
the rescue, and never a saucepan should I be allowed to touch.
As a matter of fact the good soul descended on the slackers like a
whirlwind, and the while she drove them before her, treated them to an
eloquent lecture upon the future sufferings, privations, rebellions, and
retaliations of the prospective husbands of females who had grown to
woman's estate, and yet could not cook a meal. Through the green baize
door I could hear the continuous torrent of invective, broken at first
by protest, later on by soft exclamations of surprise, and finally--oh,
the relief of that moment!--by an uncontrollable explosion of laughter.
The Cockney mind is keenly alive to humour, and when a racy Irishwoman
gets fairly started on a favourite subject, the delicious contradictions
of her denunciations are hard to beat! That laughter saved the
situation, and the domestic wheels began to move.
Charmion wrote to an emergency lady in town. I didn't see the letter,
but I diagnosed its tone. Peremptory and--lavish! Wages no object, but
speed essential, or words to that effect. Anyway, in two days' time a
married couple arrived, were pleased to approve of us, and settled down
with the air of coming to stay. She was an excellent cook, and he
seemed a rather indifferent gardener, which just suited our views. If
gardeners are experts they want their own way, insist on bedding-out,
carpet-beds, and similar atrocities. We meant to run our garden on
different lines!
Hurrah! I am so relieved. The truants have _not_ gone to Uplands. I
met the cook in the village to-day, recognised her, and tackled her to
her face. She flushed and wriggled, looked uncomfortable, but not as
penitent as I should have liked to have seen.
"Was it necessary to wait until we had actually arrived, before letting
us know that you had changed your mind?"
She stood on one foot, and drew circles on the road with the other.
"Didn't decide myself till just the last minute."
"You hadn't taken another place then? I understood from your note--"
"I'm staying on with my mother. I may go to a lady at Guildford."
Silence. One department of my brain felt an immense relief, the other
an immense exasperation.
"Then you were free all the time! Doesn't it strike you as wrong and
dishonourable to show such a want of concern for other people's
convenience?"
She muttered. I caught the sound of a few words--"_I'm not the Only
One_!" and put on my most dignified air.
"However, it is all for the best. You certainly would not have suited
us. I hope for your own sake you will learn to keep your word."
I walked on, nose in the air, aggressively complacent in appearance, but
those words rankled!
"_Not the only one_!" Now what did she mean by that? Obviously the
insinuation was meant to go home, but how and where had we been to
blame? Not in our treatment of the woman herself. We had offered good
wages, and to pay for the time she had been kept waiting; yet something
had happened which had made her willing to lose money and time, and that
something was not another place! I felt puzzled, and, at the bottom of
my heart, _worried_ about it all!
Later on I paid my first visit to the little draper's shop, and ran the
fire of a universal scrutiny from the staff. The "young ladies" knew
who I was, and were devoured by curiosity, but it was not a friendly
curiosity! Instead of the eager smiles which usually greet a new
customer, there was a pursed-up gravity, a stolid attention to business,
which was decidedly blighting. At home in Ireland every tradesman was
more or less a friend, and what they did not know of Kathie's affairs
and mine was not worth hearing.
"Pastimes, I believe!" said the sales-woman with the pasty face, when I
directed the parcel to be sent home. Was it fancy which read a note of
reproach in her intonation?
Coming home, I met General Underwood in a bath-chair, being pushed along
by a man in livery. He has white hair and a yellow face. He looks
tired and ill, and lonely and sad. I'm sure he hates the bath-chair,
and fights horribly with his doctor, who insists on fresh air. He
rolled his tired eyes at me as I passed, and said something in a low
voice to his attendant. I was misguided enough to turn my head, and
behold! the Bath-chair was tilted round so that he might look after
_me_. The man knew me by sight, and was laying bare the whole horrible
truth.
"That's her, sir! The lady from Pastimes!" I felt ruffled, and went
straight into my "sulky," where I stayed till lunch-time. We had a
delicious _souffle_, and Charmion asked no questions, and went out of
the way to be particularly sweet. I felt better every moment, and by
the time coffee arrived had quite recovered my spirits.
If the General _had_ lived in Pastimes, he would have had to use the
bath-chair just the same, and his hair would have been quite as white!
Pastimes could not have made him young! Charmion is right. I wear my
heart on my sleeve. I must learn to be more callous and matter-of-fact!
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE VICARAGE CALLS.
On Sunday we went to the Parish Church. At breakfast, Charmion seemed
silent and depressed; but, true to our agreement, I asked no questions,
and she volunteered no explanation. She said she was not going to
church, but later on she changed her mind. I think she saw that I was
disappointed, and a trifle shy at going alone, so off we went together--
Charmion a marvel of unobtrusive elegance in grey, and I "taking the
eye" in sapphire-blue--along the breezy lane, past the closed gates of
Uplands, through the shuttered High Street into the tiny square, in a
corner of which the church was nooked, with the vicarage garden
adjoining the churchyard.
The congregation was assembling from different parts, and everybody who
passed stared at us, the men stolidly enough, the women with a curiosity
which, to my mind at least, had something antagonistic in its nature.
Their pursed lips, their sidelong glances, reminded me of the assistants
in the draper's shop; of the cook who muttered that she was not "the
only one". I looked at Charmion to see if she felt the atmosphere, but
her eyes held the blank, far-off expression which marked her dark hours.
She had no attention to spare for village worthies: nothing that they
could do or think was of sufficient importance to arouse her attention.
Inside, the church was bare and uninteresting, and the musical service
poor, but the Vicar himself attracted me greatly. A plain-looking man
nearing forty, but with a most expressive and eloquent voice. He read
the service exquisitely--so exquisitely, that words which one knew by
heart seemed suddenly filled with new meaning. When the time came for
the sermon I expected great things. It seemed to me that the man who
could so wonderfully interpret the words of others, must be endued with
the gift of eloquence for himself. I even braced myself for a mental
effort, in case his argument should soar above my head. And then--a
child could have followed him! It was absolutely the simplest,
plainest, and most intimate address which I had ever heard from a church
pulpit. Incidentally, it was also the shortest!
It was ten minutes to twelve o'clock when he folded his arms on top of
the open Bible, and leant forward for a long, silent moment, looking
earnestly from side to side into the upturned faces of his hearers.
Then he began to talk--to _talk_, not to preach, speaking every word
with an inflection of the truest sincerity. The text was "Forgetting
the things that are behind, I press towards the mark," and the "talk"
ran pretty much like this:--
"How has this week gone with you, Brothers and Sisters? To some it has
brought success, to others failure. Bad weather, bad temper, lost
control, a host of tiny troubles have sprung upon us unprepared; have
worked their will, and left us discouraged and weak. Thank God for
beginnings! New years, new months, new weeks--after every twenty-four
hours, a new day, with the sun rising over a new world! Last week is
dead. All the grieving in the world cannot revive it into life. Bury
it! Remember only the lessons it has taught. Forget the things that
lie behind. _Press forward_! This week is alive. This week brings
opportunity. Live! Work! Pray! With God's grace make it the best,
the truest, the kindliest week you have ever lived."
The clock struck twelve, and the sermon was over. A bare ten minutes,
but if he had preached for an hour on end he could not have added to its
effect. The congregation listened in tense silence, as though afraid of
losing a word. One _felt_ the electric thrill of hope and courage and
high resolve which, flooded their hearts; felt it oneself; went out from
the church braced in heart and soul.
I want to know more of that man. He could help one along.
I have got my wish. He called with his wife this afternoon--the first
callers since we arrived. They were shown into the drawing-room, where
Charmion and I were lolling over our tea. There was fruit on the table,
besides a selection of cakes from town, and as we had been gardening in
the earlier part of the afternoon, and got thoroughly grubby and untidy,
we had changed into the tea-gowns which we wear in the evening when we
are too lazy to put on more elaborate clothes. They are very nice
tea-gowns, and, though I say so who shouldn't, we look exceedingly nice
in them, but to the eye of a hard-working country clergyman the whole
interior may have looked _too_ luxurious to be approved! His face
looked very grave as he shook hands.
Mrs Merrivale is a surprise. The Vicar figures on the church board as
the Reverend John C. Merrivale, but she has her cards printed, "Mrs J.
Courtney Merrivale," and she calls him "Jacky" in public. She is very
young--twenty-two or three at the most--and has a very long neck and a
pretty little face, with huge pale-blue eyes, and a minute mouth with
coral-pink lips. She is dressed in cheap clothes made in the latest
fashion, and she asks questions all the time, and doesn't wait for an
answer. When you tell her a definite fact, such as that you have been
planting tulips in the garden, she says, "Not really!" or as a change,
"Fancy!" or "Just think!" _He adores her_. Every time he meets her
eyes, his grave, strong face softens and glows in a way which makes one
feel inclined to cry. Lonely women feel so _very_ lonely at such
moments as these! She contradicts him over the most futile things, and
says, "No, Jacky, it was three o'clock, not four; I was just getting up
from my rest," and he smiles, and doesn't mind a bit.
They had tea, but refused fruit, with an air of being rather outraged by
the offer. Mrs Merrivale surreptitiously studied the details of
Charmion's tea-gown, and the Vicar and I laboured assiduously at
conversation. I had liked him so much on Sunday, and had hoped he would
be a real friend; but--things didn't go! I had a miserable feeling that
he had paid the call as a matter of duty, that he disapproved of us,
that he dreaded our influence on his precious little goose of a wife.
There was certainly a restraint in his manner. _Everybody_ seemed
restrained in this funny little place. I wonder if it was something in
the air!
Having made mental notes concerning the tea-gown, Mrs Merrivale next
turned her attention to the room, and stared around with frank curiosity
and a barely concealed envy.
"Your room looks so pretty. Jacky, that's exactly the material I wanted
for our curtains. You have beautiful china. I'm collecting, too;
but"--she gave an expressive shrug. "Of course, this room lends itself;
it is so big, and get's _all_ the sun. You remember, Jacky"--she looked
at her husband with widened eyes--"Mr Maplestone called it a `Sun
Trap'."
It seemed an innocent enough remark, but the Vicar's grave assent
implied a deeper meaning. Mrs Merrivale sighed, and elaborately
lengthened her chin.
"Uplands is so _bleak_. General Underwood feels the cold so much. All
the windows of the entertaining rooms seem to look the wrong way."
"He should have some more put in, facing the sun," Charmion suggested in
her regal way, and Mrs Merrivale looked as much aghast as if she had
suggested pulling down the whole house and building it afresh. I burst
hastily into the conversation.
"I think I met General Underwood the other day. In a bath-chair. I was
glad that he was well enough to get out. I hope he will soon be quite
well."
The Vicar said gravely:--
"He will never be well. The most that can be hoped is that he will not
grow worse rapidly. He is a fine man, and has done good service. We
are proud to have him back amongst us, but I am afraid, for his own
sake, it has been a bad move. He ought to have settled in a kindlier
climate."
"Yes, but--" Mrs Merrivale began impulsively, and pulled herself up,
and bit her red lip. "Jacky," she said hurriedly, "I'm afraid we must
go."
They went, and I felt a worm. It was plain to me now that the parish in
general, from the Vicar downward, had absorbed the idea that the strange
ladies at Pastimes had played a mean trick on their local hero, and were
not inclined to smile upon the ladies in consequence. The Vicar had
probably heard the Squire's prejudiced story direct, and from the Manor
House and the Vicarage reports had percolated, as such reports _will_
percolate, to the draper's assistants, and the man in the street, down
and down to the truant cook herself.
Now the feudal feeling still lingers in English villages, and no
self-respecting tenant chooses to range herself against the Squire. The
cook's mother, no doubt, lived in a cottage owned by the Squire, and
enjoyed perquisites of various sorts which she had no disposition to
throw away. Beside the kitchen fire there had, no doubt, been a lengthy
conference over that rumour, and the mother had said, "Don't you do it,
Mary Jane. If the ladies are across with the Squire, how'll he take it
if he hears my daughter's in their service? And half a dozen people
with their eyes on this cottage as it is. A nice thing it would be for
me if I got notice to quit!" The gardener's mother had probably
presented the same argument to him, and the good people who had eyed us
askance on Sunday morning were probably reflecting to themselves, "They
_look_ all right, but you never know! There was evidently something
_very_ unpleasant about that lease. Poor General Underwood, too. Well,
we won't be in a hurry to call. We will just wait and see!"
I felt horribly depressed, and somehow Charmion's utter indifference
made me feel worse. I do love to be liked; it would poison me to live
in an atmosphere of prejudice and suspicion, but she doesn't appear to
care. I have a curious conviction that to be socially ostracised would
be just what she would prefer. Books, the garden, my companionship--
these would supply her need. New claims would be rather a bore.
I am not made like that. I need more. I feel horribly depressed.
Charmion saw it, and spoke out before we went to bed.
"You are worrying, Evelyn. That disagreeable autocrat has succeeded in
prejudicing our neighbours against us, and it hurts you. Well, nothing
is irrevocable. Say the word, and we will leave the house to-morrow,
and put up a bill--to let!"
I jumped nearly out of my skin, with horror and amazement.
"Never! Not for the world. My pride wouldn't let me even if I wanted
to do it, and I don't--I don't! I love the house and the life with you
even more than I expected, it's only that I'm sorry about. I _do_ like
to live at peace with all men. Doesn't it worry you, Charmion, to feel
yourself unjustly accused?"
"It would have done once. At your age. Since then"--her eyes took the
blank, far-away look which always attended even the faintest allusion to
the past--"since then I have lost the power of caring. When one has
borne the one big hurt, the gnats have no power to sting."
I looked up eagerly, but she rose from her seat, pressing one hand
gently over my eyes.
"No! Don't ask me! You have been very sweet, very forbearing. One
great reason why my heart went out to you, Evelyn, was that you never
questioned, never tried to probe. Go on being patient! Some day you
shall know. I should like to tell you now, but I can't, I can't! You
must wait. Some day the impulse will come, then it may be a relief.
Till then, Evelyn, you must wait!"
CHAPTER NINE.
AN ENCOUNTER IN FORCE.
It is three months since we came to Pastimes, and until last week the
days have slipped by happily and peacefully enough, but without any
happenings worthy of record. We returned the Vicar's call, and were
asked to tea to meet ourselves, when Mrs Merrivale took the opportunity
to ask me the address of my dressmaker! Two staid dames, who lived in
small villa residences, left cards at the door, an attention which we
duly returned in kind. The important people in the neighbourhood have
left us severely alone, whirling past our gates to pay assiduous calls
on General Underwood. He is the local hero, and we are the hard-hearted
strangers who did _Something_--nobody knows precisely _what_--but
_Something_ mean, and underhand, and altogether unwomanly about a lease,
and so forced the poor dear General to endure draughts and cold rooms,
and seriously retarded his progress towards health! It's no use
pretending that I am not sorry about it, for I _am_; but all the same,
they have been happy months. Charmion has seemed so much brighter and
more contented, and that itself means much to me, and we have been as
happy as bees in our beloved garden, bullying our one man into preparing
what he considers absolutely mad effects, and working with him to keep
him up to the mark. We have flagged one path, and turfed over another,
raised some beds, and sunk others, and contrived a really glorious
hot-weather arbour, a good six yards in diameter, and open on three
sides, to secure plenty of fresh air and an absence of flies.
Charmion has hardly gone out of the gate, except to church on Sundays,
but I take a constitutional every day, and scour the country-side.
My first encounter with the Squire came off about the third week we were
here, and my imaginings were wrong in all but two unimportant points.
Mrs Maplestone wears voluminous sables and clothes of antique cut; but
they look quite charming and appropriate, for--she is antique herself!
She is the Squire's mother, not his wife. He hasn't got a wife; never
has had one, and never will. Hates all women and their ways. Avoids
feminine society, and has never been known to pay a girl five minutes'
attention in his life! Such is the village verdict as repeated to me
through Bridget, who has a _flair_ for gossip, and is one of those
wonderful people who cannot walk half a mile along a solitary country
lane, without hearing, or seeing, or mentally absorbing some interesting
item about the lives of her fellow-creatures!
Every night when she brushes my hair she recounts these items to me, and
I pretend to be uninterested, and listen with all my ears.
In any case, Mr Maplestone seems very kind and attentive to his mother.
I met them (as fancy painted!) when I was coming home from a trudge
along the damp lanes, and was looking considerably blown and
dishevelled. They were getting out of their car just outside the gates
of Uplands--a most malapropos position!--but without the least
hesitation he lifted his hat, and bowed, so that I was spared the
troubled uncertainty which I had imagined.
I can't say he looked _amiable_, but at least he was polite, and I was
so relieved that I bowed back with quite a broad smile. Mrs Maplestone
looked at me more in sorrow than in anger. I suppose she was thinking,
"So young and so unkind!" An hour later, from an upstairs window, I saw
the car whizzing homewards along the road. It did not stop at our gate.
I rather wished it would.
After that we were constantly meeting. There seemed a fate in it. If I
darted into the post office to buy a penny stamp, he was there buying
tobacco. (You _do_ buy tobacco in village post offices!) If I cut
across fields and sat on a stile to rest, he came whistling from the
opposite direction, and I had to get up to let him pass. If in leaving
the house I turned to the right, I met him advancing to the left. If I
turned to the left, behold he was striding manfully to the right! Each
meeting was the result of absolute chance, but Mistress Chance can play
curious pranks at times, and it really seemed as though she was taking a
mischievous delight in bringing about these unwished-for encounters. We
always bow ceremoniously to each other; he always frowns, and I always
smile. Theoretically I am annoyed and indignant; but at the critical
moment the comical side of the situation sweeps over me, and out flashes
the smile before I can force it back. It is so absurd to see a big
grown man sulking like a child! Quite a good thing he does not intend
to marry. His wife would have a nerve-racking time.
Well, as I said before, three months have passed by. Spring has turned
into summer, and every day the garden brings fresh, delightful
surprises. Uninteresting green sprouts burst into unexpected bloom; the
rock garden is a blaze of purple and gold; blackened stems of creepers
have disappeared beneath festoons of leaves and flowers.
Charmion and I wear muslin dresses, and eat our meals in the arbour, and
lie in hammocks in the little orchard, and rejoice in every moment of
the long sunshiny days. Down at the bottom of our hearts, I think we
both have a feeling that this is just a little rest by the way. It
won't last; we don't even wish it to last. Life is too strenuous to
pass in a summer garden; but we needed a rest and it is very, very good
for a change. We pack boxes of flowers and send them to the hospitals,
and every Saturday afternoon we invite parties of working girls from the
nearest towns. They arrive in weird garments, very loud as to colour,
and befeathered as to hats, and the village worthies look askance at
them, shrug their shoulders, and think small beer of us for entertaining
such odd guests.
For three months our lives have been indeed the "annals of a quiet
neighbourhood," and then suddenly, last week, something happened!
I said suddenly--I might have said instantaneously, without any
exaggeration. The position was this. Scene, a sloping roadway just
outside the village area. The stage set with the three principal
figures. Enter from left wing, General Underwood, reclining in his
bath-chair, being taken for a short ride by his affectionate kinsman,
Robert Maplestone. Enter from right wing, Evelyn Wastneys, bearing for
home. So far, so good. A similar encounter has happened many times
before, but this time the sight of my white-robed figure seemed to upset
the Squire's equanimity. He stopped the chair, and turned his head over
his shoulder, looking backward over the road along which he had come.
It afterwards transpired that the General's valet had been left behind
to finish some small duty, and was momentarily expected to follow. At
that moment he did appear, and involuntarily Mr Maplestone lifted his
hands to wave an imperious summons.
I have said that the road is sloping; just at this point it is very
sloping indeed, therefore the bath-chair darted forward, and spun
downward with incredible speed. I have a kaleidoscopic picture in my
brain which seems to consist of a lot of waving arms--the poor General's
arms waving for help, the Squire's arms sawing the air as he raced in
pursuit, further back in the road the valet's arms thrown to the sky in
an agony of dismay, while down towards me, ever faster and faster, spun
that runaway chair.
I had to stop it somehow! There was no one else to do it, so it was "up
to me" to do my best. There was no time to be nervous, no time even to
think. I stood braced in the middle of the road, and caught at the
steering handle as it flashed by. My weight was light, and the General
was heavy. I expected to have to hold hard, but what really happened
was startling and unexpected, for the steering handle whirled straight
round, struck me a severe blow on the arm, and--toppled me right over on
to the foot of the chair! I sat down heavily on the General's feet, and
the front wheel tore whirling streamers from the bottom of my skirt.
The chair swayed, jerked, slackened its speed; two strong hands
stretched out and checked it still further; a second pair of hands
gripped hold, and brought it to a stand.
Now came the moment when I ought to have been acclaimed, and overwhelmed
with grateful acknowledgments as an heroic rescuer, who had risked her
own life to save a feeble and suffering old man; but not at all! Quite
the contrary! No sooner was his flight safely stopped than the General
turned and roared at me with furious voice:--
"You sat on _my feet_! You are sitting on my _feet_!--I, with the gout!
Get up! _Get up_!"
Then he turned to Mr Maplestone, and roared at him:--
"What on earth did you _mean_ by letting go?"
Then Mr Maplestone turned to the valet, and roared at him:--
"Why the dickens couldn't you _come_, instead of hanging about all day?"
Then they all turned on me, and chorused, "Get up! _Get up_!" and I
tried to get up, and the caught streamers of my dress held me fast, and
I sat down heavily again--_plop_, right on top of the poor gouty feet.
The General roared more loudly than before, the two other men called
out, "Oh, oh!" and I felt as if I should go into hysterics myself. It
was a most lacerating scene.
Mr Maplestone took out his penknife and hacked at the ends of my skirt;
the valet, who was the only calm and sensible one of the party, lifted
me up, and supported me in his arms till I was set free. Then he let go
suddenly, and I was so weak and giddy that I nearly fell down a third
time. The General closed his eyes and emitted heart-rending groans, and
the valet nipped hold of the handle of the chair and made for home as
fast as he could go. I stood in the midst of my rags and tatters, and
Mr Maplestone stood by my side.
"I hope you are not hurt."
"Oh, not at all!" I said bitterly. I was aching from head to foot. To
judge from my sensations, my right arm was paralysed for life. In some
mysterious way a wheel seemed to have passed over my feet, and my toes
burned like fire. Perhaps they were broken--I could not tell. I had
likewise several scrapes and a whole army of bruises, and the skirt of
one of my nicest afternoon frocks was torn into ribbons. And not one
word of thanks or appreciation. No wonder I was riled. "Oh, not at
all. I _like_ it! I am only sorry that I have contrived to hurt
General Underwood. Perhaps you will kindly convey my apologies."
He looked at me critically. Aches don't show on the surface, and I
expect I looked rather red than pale. The only visible signs of damage
were the ends of muslin and lace which strewed the road. He looked at
them and said solemnly:--
"Your dress is spoiled! I'm afraid it was partly my fault. I had to
get you free, and it was not a moment for deliberation. I'm sorry!"
He really _sounded_ sorry, and that smoothed me down. I murmured that
it didn't matter--only a muslin dress--not his fault, while he went on
staring fixedly. Then at last he spoke, and what he said gave me an
electric shock of surprise.
"It's a good thing," he said, "it wasn't the one with the frills!"
_The one with the frills_! For a moment my mind was a whirling void; I
was too stupefied to think. Then gradually it dawned upon me that he
must be alluding to a dress the skirt of which was composed entirely of
tiers of flounces. It was a new and favourite possession, and I also
was glad that it was spared. But--why should Mr Maplestone--
I gaped at him, and said:--
"_Why_?"
And he said lucidly:--
"Well, there would have been more to catch, wouldn't there? Besides--"
He flushed, and lapsed into silence. Evidently it was inadvisable to
continue the subject.
I gathered together my jagged ends, and turned to walk homeward, rather
wondering what was going to happen when I began to move. I found I
_could_ walk, however, which proved that no bones were broken; but it
was a halting performance, and hurt more than I chose to show. If I
limped _too_ much, in common politeness Mr Maplestone would be obliged
to offer help. I had a vision of Charmion's face if she looked out of
the window and beheld us walking arm in arm up the drive!
"Why do you smile?" cried the voice by my side. There was positive
offence in the tone, and, as I looked my amazement, he continued
accusingly, "You always smile. Every time we meet. It must be an
annoyance to stumble against me wherever you go. Yet you smile! And
to-day you are hurt, and you still smile!"
"I smile at my thoughts," I said grandiloquently. "And you are wrong,
Mr Maplestone. It doesn't annoy me at all. Why should it? You are as
free to walk about as I am. I have no right to complain. And my
conscience is clear! _I_ have done nothing of which I have reason to be
ashamed."
"You mean," he cried, "you mean that?--"
Then his voice broke off sharply, and his forehead wrinkled in dismay.
"_What's that_? That mark on your arm. _Blood_?"
He pointed. I looked, and sure enough a dull red patch was spreading
over the muslin sleeve of my dress. The blow had evidently cut the
skin, and this was the result. I felt dreadfully sorry for myself, and
rather faint, and altogether considerably worse than I had done before,
as a result of beholding these visible signs of injury. So, I was
content to see, did Mr Maplestone himself. He really looked horribly
worried and distressed, and kept glancing at me with anxious eyes, as if
every moment he expected me to collapse.
But he never offered his arm! He came with me as far as the gate, and
then held out his hand in farewell. It would have been churlish to
refuse, so I put my own hand in his just for a moment.
"Don't shake it, please," I said. "It hurts." And then, because it
_did_ seem such an odd thing to say, I smiled again, a feeble watery
smile.
He dropped my hand like a hot coal, and fled.
I limped into the house and told Charmion all about it, and cried
quarts. I was mottled all over, black and blue.
CHAPTER TEN.
MRS MERRIVALE CONFESSES.
Next morning a groom came over with kind inquiries from the Hall. Mr
and Mrs Maplestone were anxious to hear if Miss Wastneys had recovered
from the shock of yesterday. Miss Wastneys returned thanks for kind
inquiries. She was suffering a good deal of pain, but her injuries were
not serious.
Recovered, indeed! When I was a mass of bruises and aches, to say
nothing of jumpy nerves. I was not inclined to make light of my
injuries to Mr Robert Maplestone.
Later on the General's valet made his appearance.
"General Underwood was anxious to hear how Miss Wastneys was this
morning. He was distressed to hear that she had been hurt."
That was more tactful! Moreover, on receiving the bulletin, the man
informed our maid that the old gentleman was rarely upset because he had
been rude to the young lady. As soon as he was able he was coming in
person to apologise.
Charmion listened quietly to the repetition of this announcement. When
the maid left the room, she turned to me as I lay on the sofa, being
very sorry for myself, and lifted inquiring brows.
"Well, Evelyn. You know what this means?"
I did, or thought I did, but prevaricated, feeling self-conscious.
"What?"
"You have cut the knot with your heroic rescue! The Squire will call;
the General will call; the neighbouring sheep will follow in their
train. We shall be graciously `forgiven' and admitted into the fold.
Our quiet, sent-to-Coventry existence is at an end."
I looked at her anxiously. From voice and manner it was impossible to
tell what she was really feeling. Above all things I wanted to please
her. But still--
"Are you sorry, Charmion? Would you be sorry? I suppose they _will_
come, but there is no necessity to receive them, if you would rather
not. After ignoring us so long, they could not complain. I will leave
it to you to decide."
"Then they shall come," she said firmly. "You've been a brick about it,
dear, but I'm not blind. I know that it has been a trial for you to be
cut off from general society. You are a sociable creature, and need
friends around you. We have had a happy _tete-a-tete_, and I've enjoyed
it thoroughly, but it couldn't go on. I should not have _allowed_ it to
go on. I am a selfish woman in many ways, but not selfish enough to
make a hermit of you at twenty-six. So!--let them all come. In any
case, we shall probably be making a move before very long, so we can't
be drawn very deeply into the rustic maelstrom!"
"_We shall be making a move_."
The words gave me a jar. My "Kensington" flat is now in order, and
ready to receive my furniture whenever I care to send it in. I am still
in love with the Pixie scheme; but, while summer lasts, and the garden
grows more beautiful every day, I want to stay here! In my own mind I
had settled down till September at least. I had believed that Charmion
was as happy as myself, but now the old restlessness sounded in her
voice. I looked at her, and saw her eyes staring wearily into space.
Oh dear, oh dear, the narcotic of the new life is already losing its
power; the grim spectre of the past is casting its shadow between us!
They have called! This afternoon, when we were having tea in the
garden, General Underwood's bath-chair appeared suddenly on the scene.
First came a crunching of gravel, and when we turned our heads to
discover the cause, the front wheel was already turning the corner of
the path, and the next moment there was the General smiling benevolently
upon us, the valet pushing the handle, and walking by his side the
Squire himself, very red in the face and puckered about the brow,
exactly like a naughty boy who is being dragged forward to say he is
"sorry."
Fortunately there was no time to consider the situation. We shook
hands, and found a chair for Mr Maplestone, and ordered more tea, and
discussed the weather in its various branches, all with the utmost
propriety, until gradually the ice thawed. Charmion is a gracious
hostess, and the General is as genial and simple in manner as most men
who have spent their lives "east of the Suez". After five minutes in
his society one understands why he is the idol of the neighbourhood. He
looks ill, poor dear, but his blue eyes are still clear and alert, and
he twinkles them at you in such a shrewd, kindly fashion.
Not a word did he say about the accident until tea was half over and I
handed him some cake, when he looked full at me, and asked slyly:--
"How is the poor arm?"
"Progressing beautifully, thank you. _And_--the poor feet?"
"Ah," he said eloquently, "that was a moment! I am ashamed of my
ingratitude; but, my dear young lady, if you could have felt--"
"I know," I said humbly. "Eight stone six. But I had no choice; and at
the worst, it was not so bad as being spilt into the road."
"Indeed, yes. I am under the impression that I owe you a great deal.
It is difficult to express--"
"Please don't!" I said hastily. "I could hardly have done less, but I
could very easily have done it in a less clumsy way; and--it's so
embarrassing to be thanked! Let us talk of something else. Would you
care to see our garden? We have worked very hard at it all spring, and
are so proud of our effects. We love showing people round!"
Then I suddenly remembered and blushed, and glanced guiltily at the
Squire, to discover that he was doing exactly the same at me, and we all
three got up in a hurry, and disputed who should push the bath-chair.
The Squire did it, of course, and Charmion and I walked one on each side
and played show-women, and the dear old man admired everything he saw,
and asked for seeds in the autumn, and offered _us_ seeds in return, and
did everything nice and polite that nice polite people do do on garden
visits.
As for the Squire, he kept on saying nothing.
Our tour ended at the gate, and when we said our final good-byes,
General Underwood explained he was not up to calling, as he was often
unable to go out, but that at any time, if we could spare half an hour
to visit _him_, it would be doing a kindness to a lonely old man. "And
will you allow me to wish you much happiness and prosperity in your
beautiful home?"
Charmion thanked him with serene unconsciousness, and the Squire and I
stared elaborately into space, so elaborately that on parting we made
two separate dives before we succeeded in finding each other's hands.
Then the valet came forward, and the little procession turned out of the
gate.
"Charmion," I said solemnly, "I feel a worm. That dear, heroic old man!
I wish we had let him have `Pastimes' ten times over."
"Mistaken heroism, my dear. He can be still more heroic at `Uplands'."
"Er--what do you think of--the other one?"
"Er--honestly, Evelyn, I don't think of him at all!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mrs Maplestone has called, and the three or four other county magnates,
none of them particularly interesting from our point of view. We are
now formally and definitely "received," and the first result has been a
violent increase of intimacy on the part of the Vicar's wife. I think
she has always "hankered" to know us, but not having enough
individuality to act for herself, she has waited for a lead before
taking the plunge.
Now it appears that she is organising a garden fete and wants us to
help. It is her own idea, and she says it is for the organ fund. I
don't want to be uncharitable, but I think it is equally designed for
the amusement and diversion of Delphine Merrivale! I am uneasy about
that girl. Nature never designed her for a clergyman's wife; she is
restless and bored, while that dear, good, fine man, who loves her so
much, is as blind as a bat, and believes that all is well. To-day she
sent for me to come to tea, and he came into the room while she was
volubly discussing various plans, which struck me as likely to cost more
money than they were ever likely to gain. When he appeared she gave a
little shrug of impatience, and for a few moments lapsed into silence,
but her self-control being soon exhausted, she took up her tale and
babbled on as enthusiastically as before.
It appears that every summer a "Sale" is held in the vicarage garden to
dispose of the articles manufactured by the "Working Party" throughout
the winter session. They consist of serviceable garments for the poor,
which are eagerly purchased by the members of the Needlework Guild, and
also of a selection of "fancy" articles which nobody wants, such as
brush and comb bags of pink and white crochet, shaving paper cases with
embroidered backs (first catch the man who uses them!) and handkerchief
sachets of white satin, on which are painted (badly) sprays of wild
roses and maidenhair fern!
The parish has always meekly assembled itself together for the fray,
paid threepence for a plain tea, and departed peacefully on its way; but
this year--_this_ year, there is to be a band, and a man to cut out
silhouettes, and ices, and strawberries and cream, and quite a variety
of excitements.
"A treasure hunt for one, at an entrance fee of a shilling a head. The
treasures to be supplied as voluntary offerings by the ladies of the
neighbourhood."
Mrs Merrivale paused and cocked an interrogative eye at me, and her
husband said gently:--
"Dear, aren't you too ambitious? Our ordinary quiet sale has done very
well until now. Why land yourself with a great deal of extra work and
fatigue, to say nothing of expense, for an altogether problematical
result!"
"Oh, Jacky," she cried deeply. "It is not problematical. We shall make
pounds and pounds. I don't mind the work. I like it. Think how lovely
it would be if we could clear off the whole debt!"
He smiled at her with the tenderest appreciation. Oh, if any man looked
at me like that, I would work my fingers to the bone to help him.
Honestly and truly, he believed that she was bracing herself to the fray
out of the purest, most disinterested motives. Never for one moment did
it occur to him that a grown woman could hanker after such ploys for her
own amusement. There is much in his unconsciousness which is beautiful,
but--there is danger, too! Surely, surely when two people live together
in such a terribly close relationship as husband and wife, before all
things it must be necessary to understand!
"Then I leave it to you, dearest," he said. "Arrange as you think best.
And now, if Miss Wastneys will excuse me, I must say good-bye. Poor
Mrs Evans is worse this afternoon. They fear that an operation may be
necessary. She has had terrible pain."
Mrs Merrivale threw out her hand impulsively. I was amazed to see that
she had grown quite white.
"Don't, Jacky--don't! You know _I_ can't bear it. _Why_ will you speak
of such things when I have begged you not?"
"I'm sorry, darling. I forgot. My mind was so engrossed." He laid his
hand on her shoulder as he passed, and said to me, in an apologetic
voice, "This poor child is so sensitive. The pain of the world wounds
her tender heart. I am inconsiderate in bringing my burdens to her."
The door shut behind him, and we stared at one another for a long tense
moment. I _knew_, and she knew that I knew, and suddenly the long
strain of pretending to be what she was not reached the snapping point,
and she spoke out in a burst of impotent irritation:--
"It's not true! I'm _not_ tender-hearted. They don't wound me at all,
all these sordid miserable details; they just irritate and disgust and
asphyxiate. Oh, I'm so tired of it all--so _tired_--and he doesn't see,
doesn't understand! He puts me on a pedestal, and burns incense at my
feet, and believes that I am as interested as himself, and all the
time--all the time I am smothered with boredom and impatience. I don't
know why I am saying all this to you. Yes, I do. I saw in your eyes
that you saw through me, and knew what I really felt. Now I suppose you
are horribly shocked?"
"Not a bit. I don't understand enough to judge you one way or another;
but I wish, as you have begun, you would tell me a little more. I'm
young myself, you see, so I should probably understand. Lots of people
tell me their secrets, and I'm always sorry, and very rarely shocked.
We all have our own faults. Why should we be so very hard on other
people because theirs are a different brand from our own?"
She stared at me with her big blue eyes.
"What are your faults?"
"Well," I laughed, "the list would take a long time! Shall we leave it
for another day? What I want to know now is, why, with your
temperament, did you come to marry a country parson?"
"Because I loved him, of course," came the ready reply. "He came to
take duty in our church while our own clergyman was ill, and he stayed
in our house. He was so much older than I--fifteen years--that I never
thought of him--like that! I just thought he was a dear, and liked to
talk to him, and show him about the garden, and get him to help me in
little odd ways. He was so learned and serious and staid that all the
others were in awe of him, but I ordered him about, and made him wait on
me, and teased him because he did it so badly. It was such fun! I
enjoyed myself frightfully. Mother read me a long lecture one night,
and said Mr Merrivale would be pained to see father's daughter was such
a frivolous girl. But he wasn't. He fell in love with me instead.
Doesn't that seem queer?"
I didn't think it was queer at all. Imagination conjured up scenes in
the summer garden where the gay pretty girl had held her little court,
and queened it over the grave, silent man. It was a thousand to one on
his falling under the spell. The mischief of it was that he had
expected the marriage ceremony to convert a butterfly into a staid,
parochial wife. John Courtney Merrivale had a thousand virtues, but
imagination was not his strong point.
"I think it was extremely natural. Just what I should have expected to
happen. You are very pretty, you know, and I expect you made a charming
task-mistress. And, of course, any sane girl must have been interested
in him. But--what did you think about the life in this little place?"
"Oh! I didn't think about it at all," she said calmly. "I was so
happy, and--excited. And so busy getting my clothes, and the presents,
and arranging for the wedding. I had a lovely wedding. Eight
bridesmaids carrying rose-staves. And Jacky took me to Switzerland for
the honeymoon, and was so young and gay himself. Like a boy. I had a
perfectly glorious three months, and then--"
She paused, and the pink and white face puckered into a grimace as she
cast an expressive glance to right and left.
"We came _home_! That was the first shock, seeing all this dingy,
hideous furniture, and realising that it had to stay. Jacky likes it
because it belonged to his mother, and he thinks it would be wicked
waste to sell it for nothing, and buy new. I tried to brighten things
up, but--if you look round this room you will realise that a few new
things made the effect _worse_! I gave it up in despair, and all my
pretty cushions and embroideries, and pictures and ornaments are hidden
away in boxes in the attic."
"Oh, that's hard! You have my unbounded sympathy. I should hate to
live in uncongenial surroundings. Isn't there _any_ room in the house
you could have for your own, and furnish just exactly as you like?"
"All the rooms are full. I've given up trying to change things _now_,
but they irritate me all the same. When I've been out all the day at
meetings and guilds, it would be a rest to come home to a pretty room.
I look at those maroon curtains, and this hideous patterny carpet, and
feel all nervy and on edge; then Jacky thinks I am tired, and brings me
hot milk." She opened her speedwell blue eyes to their fullest width,
and stared at me dolefully. "Oh, Miss Wastneys, it is so strenuous to
have to live up to an ideal!"
"It would be still more strenuous to--_fall short_," I said curtly, and
she gave a start of dismay.
"Oh, goodness, yes! Anything rather than that! I wouldn't for the
world have Jacky find me out."
I felt like an aged grandam admonishing a silly child. Of course in the
long run he was bound to find out, for Delphine's discontent was
obviously increasing, and the hour was at hand when her self-control
would come to a sudden and violent end. Then there would be hasty words
and recriminations, the memory of which no after remorse could wipe
away. I was sure of it, and said so plainly, qualifying my prophecy
with a big "unless."
"Unless you can make up your mind to be honest _now_, and tell your
husband the whole truth. There is nothing to be ashamed of in being
young and needing variety in life. Tell him frankly that too much
parish gets on your nerves, and that you could do your work better if
you went away for a few weeks every three or four months. There must be
friends whom you could visit, and who would be glad to have you. After
a change of scene and occupation you would come home braced and
refreshed, and ready to make a fresh start. And you might speak about
the room at the same time. You need not suggest selling any furniture,
but just storing some of it away in an attic or cellar, so that you
could have a little boudoir of your own. Do be sensible, and tell him
to-night. He loves you. He wants you to be happy. He would
understand."
She shook her head.
"No. He would be kind and patient. He would agree at once, and never
say a word of reproach, but--he wouldn't understand. That's just it.
His whole idea of me would be shocked out of existence. He would be
disappointed to the bottom of his soul. I--I can't do it, Miss
Wastneys; but it's been a relief to grumble to you. Thank you for
letting me do it. Things have been just a little better since you and
Mrs Fane came to `Pastimes'. I haven't seen much of you, of course,
but I have enjoyed watching you. You wear such lovely clothes, and you
are young and interesting. Most of the people are so dull and settled
down. I wish you would call me `Delphine,' and come to see me as often
as you can. Just run in any time you are passing, and let me come to
you in the same way. I've been so bored. Well, never mind," she
brightened suddenly; "the fete will be a little excitement. I _am_
looking forward to that."
An idea flashed into my head. I was sorry for the girl, and intensely,
forebodingly sorry for her husband. If one could help to avert the
threatened tragedy.
"I am just wondering," I began tentatively. "Of course I can make no
definite offer without consulting Mrs Fane, but--would you like it if
we lent our grounds for the fete? The extra space might be an
advantage, and we could save you trouble by arranging for the tents and
refreshments, and perhaps organise some little stall on our own
account."
I really thought that might save a good deal of expense, and so add to
the profit of the afternoon, and also that with our wider experience we
might run the fete on more advanced lines, and so give her, as well as
the rest of the parish, a more amusing time; but to my disappointment
she flushed, and looked far from pleased.
"Oh, thanks, but--really, this is my affair! If I have all the duty and
responsibility of being the Vicar's wife, I don't see why I should give
up the fun of being hostess and arranging my own fete in my own way.
It's very sweet of you, of course, and I'm very grateful. I hope you
won't be offended."
I began to laugh.
"Offended! Why--Delphine, I was thinking entirely of you. I'm
immensely relieved, if you want the real truth. That's settled then,
and we'll give you some treasures for the Hunt. What would you like?
Make up an appropriate list and send it along. Anything you like, up
to--say five pounds!"
"Oh, you angel! Will you really?" she cried ecstatically. I had risen
this time, and she slid her hand through my arm, and accompanied me to
the door. Seen close at hand, her face looked almost child-like in its
clear soft tints. I noticed also that her blouse was very fine and
delicate, a very different thing from the cheap lace fineries which she
had worn when I first saw her. She followed the direction of my eye,
stroked down an upstarting frill, and coloured furiously. "Ah, my
blouse! Do you admire it? I wrote to town for it, to your dressmaker,
and I've ordered a lovely frock. You'll see. For once in my life I
shall be really well dressed! Seeing you and Mrs Fane has made me
discontented with my dowdy old rags!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE GARDEN FETE.
The garden fete came off yesterday, and on the surface was a roaring
success. The weather was ideal; the vicarage garden proved all that was
necessary in the way of a background, and the arrangements were so
extraordinarily complete that my practical mind was constantly
confronted with the question, "Won't this _cost_ far more than it
gains?" In a big city a charity entertainment may throw out expensive
baits with a fair chance of catching a shoal of fat and unwary fish; but
in a small village the catch can be calculated to a sou. The big fish
of the neighbourhood will heave a sigh of duteous resignation, put a
five-pound note in the purse, and start for the fray prepared to spend
it all, but not one penny more! The smaller fry carry out the same
policy with ten or fifteen shillings. The minnows take half-a-crown,
with which they pay for tea, and purchase soap at the provision stall,
reporting to their husbands at night that, after all, the money was not
wasted. The Vicar might just as well have it as the grocer. All the
attractions in the world cannot worm shillings out of a public which is
so prudent and canny that it has self-guarded itself by leaving its cash
at home!
Many times over yesterday afternoon I saw the flicker of longing in
feminine eyes as they gazed upon the tempting novelties displayed upon
the stalls, but the next moment the lips would screw, the feet pass by.
Guild garments must be bought; tea paid for; tickets bought for the
novel Treasure Hunt, wherein--with luck!--one might actually _gain_ by
the outlay. The visitors lingered to gaze at the pretty china, and
glass, and embroideries with which Delphine had filled her stall; but
the afternoon wore on, and it looked as full as ever--horribly full!
There were none of those bare, blank spaces which stall-holders love to
see. At five o'clock we marked off the odd sixpences; at six o'clock we
dropped a whole shilling, but still--hardly a sale!
Delphine looked--a vision! At the first glimpse of her in her cobweb
fineries, I was ill-bred enough to gape, whereat she blushed and said
hurriedly:--
"_Your_ dressmaker! Yes! Isn't it a duck?"
And knowing the prices which Celeste charges for ducks with such
feathers, I wondered, and--feared! Did the Vicar know? Was it possible
that with his small stipend he could afford such extravagances? Had the
silly little thing ordered, and never _asked_? Was it my fault for
having given the address? Could I have helped doing so, when I was
asked? I _had_ said she was expensive. It was some small comfort to
remember that, and Charmion would say it was no concern of mine. A
dozen such disconcerting thoughts raced through my mind, but I shook
them off, and said heartily:--
"It is lovely! _You_ are lovely! I had no idea you were such a beauty.
What does your husband say?"
Her face clouded.
"Nothing. Doesn't notice. Likes me as much in an old print. But
I--_love_ it! Oh, you don't know what bliss it is to feel `finished
off'. Everything new, good, pretty, and to match!" She gave a rapid
swirling movement of the hand to call my attention to such details as
shoes and stockings, embroidered bag, and glorified garden hat. "It's
nothing to _you_. You have had them all your life, but I have only
longed and--_starved_!"
She spoke with a passionate emphasis, which to many people would seem
out of all keeping with the subject; but I am young, and a girl, so I
understood. There are many empty-headed women in whom the craving for
pretty things is as strong as the masculine craving for drink and cards.
Circumstances have compelled these women to wear the plainest, most
useful of clothes, while every shop window shows a tantalising display
of colour and beauty, and other women not half so pretty as themselves
bloom with a borrowed radiance!
No mere man can understand the inborn feminine joy in the feel of fine
smooth fabric, nor the blending of delicate colours, the dainty ruffling
of lace. To the rich these things come as a matter of course, and the
working classes are satisfied with garish imitations; it is the poor
gentlewoman with the cultivated taste, the cultivated longing for
beauty, to whom temptation comes in its keenest form. It had come to
Delphine, and she had succumbed. I devoutly hoped and prayed that the
shock of the coming bill would prevent further extravagances!
Charmion and I took charge of the Treasure Hunt. We had given the
treasures, which were laboriously chosen with a view to suitability.
Umbrellas (lashed flat to the trunks of trees!) bags, photograph frames,
writing cases, boxes of handkerchiefs, chocolate, cigarettes, scent,
and--this was a cunning idea!--cash orders on a big London store.
There was a great rush for tickets, and the Vicar--very flurried, and
out of his element, poor man!--dragged in the Squire to help us. The
Squire had arrived with his mother an hour before, and had sat under a
cedar, drinking tea with a selection of old ladies and gentlemen,
looking as though he liked it quite well. Whenever he met my eye, he
glowered, as if to say, "How dare you look at me!" and I smiled back, as
that seemed to annoy him most. Now, as the Vicar brought him up, I
could hear his muttered protests: "Rather not! Can't _you_--isn't there
something else?" Pleasing thing, I must say, to have a man forced to
help you against his will!
Well, it was no use making a fuss before a score of curious eyes, so for
the next half-hour we stood side by side, selling tickets, explaining
the rules of the Hunt, marshalling the seekers in readiness for the
signal to start. He is capable enough, I will say that for him, and has
a patent knack of silencing garrulous questioners. It was the funniest
thing in the world to stand at the end of the lawn, and watch these
rustic backs--young, old, and fat middle-aged--all poised on one leg,
swaying to and fro, straining to be off! Excruciatingly funny to watch
the stampede, after the loud "One--two--three--and away!" The plunges,
the waddles, the skelter of flying heels! One might have thought the
gold of Klondyke was hidden in the kitchen garden. I laughed, and
laughed, in a good old Irish paroxysm of merriment, until the tears
rolled down my cheeks. Mr Maplestone stared, turned on his heel, and
stalked away.
I strolled back to the upper lawn, and the first person I saw was old
General Underwood sitting in his bath-chair, which had been drawn under
the shade of a tree, so that he might see everything, and yet be well
out of the way. He was too much out of the way, poor old dear! to judge
by his looks, and agreeably pleased to see my approach.
"Well, young lady, and how are you to-day? You look very fresh and
charming!"
"That's very nice of you, General! I do like to be admired. Isn't this
rather a dull corner for you? Wouldn't you like to be moved?"
He looked around with his old, blue eyes.
"Everyone seems to have gone. There was quite a crowd here a few
minutes ago. I sent my man to the village to post some letters."
"We can manage without him. There is a Treasure Hunt going on at the
other end of the garden. That is why this part is so empty. Mrs
Merrivale has hidden a lot of parcels among the trees and shrubs, and
everyone who pays a shilling can go and search for a treasure."
"Ha!" His face lit up with the hunting instinct, which seems dormant in
us all. "Treasures--I see! A good idea. Worth more, I presume, than
the entrance shilling?"
"Oh, much, much more." The pride of the donor sounded in my voice; then
I looked at the poor, old, tired, wistful face, and had a brilliant
idea. "General, shall _we_ go hunting--you and I? I'll push and you'll
steer, and we'll both look, and if it's a man's present, it's yours, and
if it's a woman's, it's mine, and if it's neutral, we'll toss! They've
only just started, so we're in time."
He gripped the handle involuntarily, then loosened it to say:--
"My dear, I'm too heavy. Wait till my man--"
"Nonsense! I'm as strong as a horse. Who waits is lost. To the right,
please, General. Straight down this path, and into the herbaceous
garden. _Quite_ slowly, and keep a sharp eye between the branches."
He quite chuckled with delight. Viewed from the vantage ground of a
bath-chair, a Treasure Hunt was delirious excitement, but he _was_
heavy! I remembered a sharp upward curve some way further on, and had a
vision of myself pushing, with arms extended to full length, and feet at
a considerable distance between the arms, as I have seen small
nursemaids push pram-loads of fat twins. How undignified it would be if
I slipped half-way, and the chair backed over my prone body! Then, of
course, the thing happened which I might have been sure and certain
_would_ happen under the circumstances. We came face to face with Mr
Maplestone, and the General called out:--
"Hi, Ralph! There you are. Just the man we want. Miss Wastneys and I
are hunting. Come and give a hand."
"Oh, if you have the Squire, you won't need me. I'll go off on my own,"
I cried quickly; but it was no use, the old man wanted both, and both he
would have. The Squire was to push behind; I was to take the handle and
pull in front; he himself must be free to hunt, since he was
handicapped by old eyes. He issued orders with the assurance of a
Commander-in-Chief, and we listened and obeyed.
I started by feeling annoyed and impatient, but honestly, after the
first few minutes, it was great fun. The Squire was an abominable
pusher; first he pushed too little and left all the work to me; and
then, being upbraided, he pushed too hard and tilted me into a run; then
we changed places, and he took the wrong turnings, wheeled past plain
grass beds where nothing could possibly be hidden; then we _both_ took
the back, and the General peered from side to side, and saw nothing, and
grew discouraged, and sighed, and said his luck had gone. No treasures
for him any more!
I will say for Ralph Maplestone that he is sweet to that old man! He
treats him just in the right way, as deferentially as though he were in
full health and strength, a martial figure riding gloriously to
conquest! We cheered him up between us (I did it rather nicely, too!)
and became quite friendly in the process. Two people can't join in
pushing a bath-chair and remain _de haut en bas_. The thing is
impossible. I was most nice to Ralph Maplestone, and he appeared to be
nice to me.
Suddenly, in the middle of a bush, I saw a glint of brighter green, the
tissue-paper wrapping of a treasure, and instantly my fingers gripped
the chair. Mr Maplestone would have pushed on, but I frowned and
grimaced, and he looked and saw too, and we both puffed and panted, and
demanded a rest, during which I stood elaborately at one side of the
bush, and he stood at the other, so that the old dear could hardly miss
seeing the paper.
Even then I had to give, it a surreptitious push before discovery came;
but he had no suspicions, not one, and was as pleased as a boy at the
thought that his old eyes had been sharper than our young ones. We all
took a turn at opening the parcel, and it turned out to be a vanity bag,
fitted with a mirror and other frivolities, so of course it was
presented to me, and I arranged my hair in the mirror, and powdered my
nose with the puff, just to shock them, which, by the way, it fully
succeeded in doing.
"Girls didn't do that in my day!" croaked the General.
"_All_ girls don't do it now!" grunted the Squire.
"My dear, you look far nicer without it." This was the General's second
venture. I turned to the Squire and asked solemnly, "_Do_ I?" and he
gave one quick look, and then stared past me--through me--blankly into
space.
"I am no judge," he said curtly.
Well, let me be honest! It _was_ flirtatious of me, I knew it was, and
hurried to rub off the powder, and get back to my briskest, most
business-like manner. As we had paid three entrance fees, we were
entitled to a treasure apiece, if we could find them, and I insisted
upon keeping up the search to the very last moment. It amused the
General; it amused me; I honestly believe that it amused Mr Maplestone,
as far as he was capable of being amused. He was quite human; once or
twice, as we rushed after a "scent," he was even _lively_. I began to
think he might really be quite nice.
We found one other parcel--a box of cigarettes--and then made our way
back to the lawn, where the General's valet was waiting, and took over
the chair. Delphine came up to me and slipped her hand through my arm.
"Evelyn, you have managed beautifully, but you must be dead tired and
longing for tea. I'm going to stand over you and make you rest. Stupid
of Jacky to send the Squire to help you! You'd have been happier with
anyone else, but he's so dense, so in the clouds, that he doesn't notice
these things. Evelyn, isn't it strange how he dislikes you?"
"Who? Your husband?"
"Nonsense. No. You know quite well--Mr Maplestone. At first, of
course, one can understand he was prejudiced; but _now_! And when you
have been so nice!"
"Thank you for that. I'm glad you appreciate me. Why are you so sure
the Squire does not?"
"Because," she said imperturbably, "he tells me so!"
Curiosity is a terrible thing. It's bad enough when it concerns itself
about other people, but when it comes to oneself, it's ten times worse.
I _ached_ to ask, "When?" and "Where?" and "How?" and exactly in what
words Mr Maplestone's dislike had been expressed, but pride closed my
lips, and I would not let myself go. Of course I had known before, but
I had imagined that after the chair episode--What stings is not the
dislike itself, but the putting it into words to such a confidante as
Delphine. No, let me be honest; the dislike itself _does_ sting. I
have my own petty feminine craving, and it is to be liked, to have
people appreciate and approve of me, if they do nothing more. Even
indifference is difficult to bear, but _dislike_--Well, thank goodness,
I have lived in a warm-hearted country among warm-hearted people who
have loved me for my name if for nothing else. Really and truly, I
believe this ugly, red-headed man is the first person who has ever dared
to speak openly of dislike for Evelyn Wastneys!
I pity and despise him. I wouldn't have his approval if I could.
Henceforth I shall never think of him, nor mention his name. To me he
is dead. All is over between us before anything ever began! It is
finished. This is the end. The fete ended at nine o'clock, and
Charmion and I, with the other stall-holders, went into the vicarage to
enjoy a supper of scraps. As a rule I adore scrap suppers after
everyone has gone, and the servants have gone to bed, and the guests
make sorties into the pantry, and bring out plates of patties and fruit,
and derelict meringues, and wobbling halves of jellies and creams. They
taste so _good_, eaten in picnic fashion before the fire, with a
shortage of forks and spoons, and a plate as a lucky chance. But
somehow last night things didn't go! I think perhaps there were too
many "scraps" which should by rights have been sold and paid for in good
hard cash. The Vicar was full of hospitable zeal, and evidently enjoyed
pressing the good things upon his guests, but there was something in
Delphine's pale glance which checked merriment. She had had her fun,
the interest of planning, the excitement of playing hostess to the
country-side, the satisfaction of knowing herself to be the
best-dressed, most admired woman present, and of queening it over women
who had hitherto patronised herself. Poor little butterfly! she had
enjoyed her hour, but now the sun had gone down, and she was counting
the cost. The treasurer added up the coins handed in from the various
stalls and announced the total. There was a little pause.
"Ah!" said the Vicar slowly. "More than last year, but not so much as
we hoped. How will it work out, dear, after paying expenses?"
"Oh, Jacky, I'm _tired_! Can't we have supper in peace, before worrying
about money!" she cried pettishly.
Not another word was said.
When we were driving home, Charmion gave me a shock.
"I rather like Mrs Maplestone," she said dreamily. "She is stiff and
conventional, and it has never even occurred to her that anyone can
disagree with her views, and still have a glimmering of right, but, at
least, she is sincere. If one could burrow deep enough beneath the
surface, she'd be worth knowing."
"I don't like people who have to be burrowed. Life is too short. And I
am perfectly certain that I should shock her into fits. Personally, I
don't intend to take the trouble of excavating!"
"That's unfortunate, for she wishes to know you. She has invited us to
dinner next Wednesday to meet some friends."
"Charmion! You didn't accept?"
"Certainly I did. Wasn't it your express desire to be sociable, and to
know your neighbours?"
"Oh, not them--not there! It's pleasant knowing a few people, but one
is at liberty to choose. I think you might have consulted me!"
In the soft dusk she laughed, and stretched out a caressing hand.
"Tired, dear, and--cross? I thought you'd be pleased. Why and
wherefore? Tell me the truth?"
"Oh, don't be so tiresome, Charmion. Of course I am tired. I've been
on my feet all day long. Cross! Why should I be cross? Only--I don't
choose to accept hospitality from that man. I tell you plainly I won't
go."
She bowed her head, deliberately, once and again.
"Oh, yes, Evelyn, you will! I gave you your choice, and having made it
you will play fair. I should have preferred to remain peacefully at
Coventry, but having taken the first step at your request, I don't
propose to allow you to force me into society _alone_."
What could I say? What was it _possible_ to say? There is no way out
of it. I shall just have to go!
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A REVELATION.
The Vicar has called to tell us that Delphine has made up her accounts,
and that the fete has cleared fifty pounds more than the smaller affair
last year. He seemed pleased and proud, and I was delighted, too, and
immensely relieved, because I had really been horribly afraid there
would be no profit at all! Curious to think where all the money came
from to pay heavy expenses, and still clear so much! It just shows how
small sums add up. I asked if Delphine were very pleased, and he
hesitated, and said:--
"She seems tired. Feeling the reaction, no doubt. She worked so hard."
An imp of curiosity tempted me to see if he were really as blind as he
appeared.
"She made a splendid hostess. And didn't she look charming, too? I am
sure you were proud of her in that lovely new frock!"
His eyes softened with a deep _glowey_ look, which was reserved for
Delphine alone.
"I am always proud of her. She always looks charming; but the dress--I
am afraid I must plead guilty. I know nothing about her dress."
"Really? Truly? You couldn't tell what it was like?"
"Not for a thousand pounds!"
I stared at him, frowning.
"If I had a husband I should _like_ him to know. I should be furious if
I made a special effort, and he didn't even notice that I had anything
new."
He smiled with a forbearing air.
"Surely not! I think better of you, Miss Wastneys. Dress is altogether
unimportant."
"Not to me. Not to your wife. There are some women to whom it is the
greatest temptation in life."
He looked outraged, disgusted, and changed the subject with a resolute
air, but I was glad that I had spoken. A husband can be too unworldly,
and lost in the clouds. It would be the best thing in the world for
Delphine if he _did_ notice, and that in more ways than one!
In the afternoon Charmion and I called at the vicarage to congratulate
Delphine, and found her distinctly the worse for wear. Pale,
heavy-eyed, and inclined to snap, a very different creature from the
radiant butterfly of three days ago. She was glad to see me, however, I
was someone to snap at, which was what she wanted most at the moment,
and she worked off quite a lot of steam, hectoring me about things I
might have done better, or not done at all, and impressing on me _for_
future occasions that I should be less independent, and take more
advice. She likewise informed us, quite incidentally and "by the way,"
that Mrs Ross had disliked my hat and Mrs Bruce had asked if Charmion
were anaemic--such a colourless skin!--and Mrs Someone Else thought it
so "queer" that we should live together! Altogether she behaved like a
spoiled, ill-tempered child, but she looked so young and worried and
pretty through it all, that on the whole I felt more sorry for her than
myself. As for Charmion, she smiled, with an air of listening from an
illimitable distance, which I can quite understand has an exasperating
effect on people who do not understand and care. It exasperated
Delphine now. I saw the blue eyes flash, and the pink lips set, with a
peevish desire to "hit back!"
"Mrs Bruce said her family know the Fane family quite well. They come
from the same county. She was telling them about you, but, of course,
not knowing your husband's Christian name made it difficult. She
thought it so queer to have your own Christian name printed on your
cards--"
"Did she?" said Charmion blandly.
"It is an American custom," I put in hastily. "I should do the same if
I had such a fascinating name."
"I wouldn't!" Delphine said--"it's so queer. Unless, of course, one's
husband had a hideous name--Elisha, or Jonathan, or something like that.
Even then one might leave it out."
"I shouldn't dream of marrying anyone called Elisha."
"What was--is--your favourite man's name?"
"Jacky," said Charmion naughtily.
Delphine's eyes flashed.
"Was that your husband's name?"
"Oh no."
The pink lips opened to ask a further, more definite question, but it
died unsaid. The steady gaze of Charmion's eyes prevented that. She
would be a bold woman who could defy that silent challenge!
We made our escape, and walked home in silence. Charmion seemed very
depressed, and went to bed at nine o'clock. Next time I see Delphine
Merrivale, I shall tell her plainly that I will--not--have Mrs Fane
annoyed with questions about the past!
Last night we dined at the Hall. Last night things happened. We
started feeling quite festive and excited, for, after a strictly
domestic life for nearly five months, it becomes quite thrilling to dine
in another house, and to eat food which one has not ordered oneself. As
we drove along the lanes, we amused ourselves like schoolgirls, guessing
what we "would have," and who would "take us in". Charmion, as the
married woman, would obviously fall to the Squire. I hoped I should be
at the other end of the table, with a partner who was sweet tempered and
appreciative. Bridget had come back from posting a letter, bearing the
thrilling news that the Squire's car had been to the station to meet a
party of guests. Two fine, upstanding ladies, and a gentleman with a
figure like a wooden Noah in the Ark. The shoulders of him!--that
square you might have cut them with a knife! It was refreshing to know
that we were to meet people who did _not_ live within a radius of five
miles. I rather hoped those shoulders would fall to my share!
They did. He is an American. I might have guessed that by the
description, and one of the "fine upstanding ones" is his bride, and
they have been "doing" England for a few weeks, before starting on a
year's honeymoon in the East. The explanation of their appearance at
the Hall is that they "chanced" to have met the Squire years ago in
America, and wished to renew the acquaintance. So things came about!
Mr Elliott is an interesting man, and, like all Americans, loves to
talk about his own country. He was pained and shocked to hear I had
never crossed the Atlantic, until I told him that half myself, in the
person of an only sister, had gone in my place. I was just going to add
that Charmion also had spent a great part of her life in the States,
when--something stopped me--one of those mysterious impulses which, at
times, lay a finger on our lips, and check the coming words.
Charmion sat on one side of the Squire, Mrs Elliott on the other. I
was half-way down the table, sandwiched in between a dozen comfortable,
middle-aged worthies, who were all intimate friends, if not actually
related to each other, and their conversation, though interesting to
themselves, was not thrilling to an outsider. I saw the American's
quick eye dart from one to the other, and hoped he was not classifying
the company as typical English wits! The dinner itself was long, heavy,
and unenterprising; a Victorian feast, even to the "specimen glass"
decorations. One rose and one spray of maidenhair, in a tall thin
glass, before each separate diner. Charmion and the Squire talked and
laughed together, and seemed quite happy. She is a lovely creature when
she is animated; there is a dainty charm about every movement which
makes her seem of a different clay from human creatures. Even to see
Charmion _eat_ is a beautiful thing!
All the same, that dinner was a trial of patience, and I was thankful
when it was over. In the old-fashioned way, we left the men to their
smoke, and wandered through the drawing-room into a big domed
palm-house, which in its fragrant dimness, with the giant palms reaching
to the very roof, looked much more inviting than the drawing-room with
its glaring incandescent lights.
The American bride attach
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