"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!"