"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.