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!