The first day after taking possession of my flat, I paid a visit to a
celebrated expert in theatrical "make up," and paid for his help and
advice. It is not an easy thing for a young woman to transform herself
into an old one, and I have a weakness for doing a thing well, when I
set about it. He was a delightful man! I remember him with the
liveliest appreciation. I was nervous and embarrassed, but in two
minutes he put me at my ease. From his manner you would have supposed
that my errand was as ordinary and conventional as buying a postage
stamp, while his keenness, his cleverness, his professional zest were
refreshing to behold. He stared at, and criticised my face, with as
much impersonality as if it had been a picture on the wall.
"Always look for the predominant factor--the feature, or features, which
give personality to the face. In your case they are undoubtedly the
eyebrows and the curve of the upper lip. A few judicious touches to
these will alter the whole expression to a surprising extent. A few
more lines will give age. The wig and spectacles are the refuges of the
amateur. In themselves they can do little, but with the touches I
suggest, and a deep-toned powder to darken the skin, your disguise will
be complete. You shall see--you shall see!"
He motioned to a chair before a mirror, and set to work, explaining each
detail as he went along. It was marvellous to see how beneath the sweep
of a tiny brush my youth and good looks faded and disappeared! Then he
made me wash it all off, and do the same thing for myself. Three times
over the process was repeated before I "passed" to his satisfaction. To
my relief he laughed at the idea of the india-rubber pads, and indeed
they were no longer required, but he gave me a small appliance which
could be used when I especially desired to alter my voice. Then he sent
me to a woman expert, who designed a nice little pad to round my
shoulders. I can't say that it was exactly a hilarious afternoon! And
now a month has passed by. For a whole month Mary Harding has
resolutely ignored Evelyn Wastneys, and devoted her time to the service
of others. I was just going to say "her whole thought" also, but
stopped short just in time. The plain truth is that the ignoring of
Evelyn engrosses many thoughts. She is a regular Jack-in-the-box, who
is no sooner shut in, than up bobs her head again, wailing miserably:--
"I'm lonely! I'm lonely! I want to go home!" Then Mary, the aunt,
snaps the lid more tightly than ever, but through the chink a persistent
whisper makes itself heard: "I'm lonely! I'm lonely! I want some one
to think of me."
The flat is comfortable enough, and I am well served with Bridget as
housekeeper, and a clean young orphan of seventeen to work under her and
open the door. The orphan was procured as much as a safety-guard for
myself, as an assistant to Bridget. In case anyone who knows me in my
true _role_ should by any possibility discover my hiding-place, and
appear suddenly at the door, it is better to keep Bridget in the
background, and as Emily knows me only in the character of aunt, I am
necessarily kept up to the mark in the matter of disguise.
I wear elderly clothes, tinted spectacles, and a dowdy wig, and with a
few touches alter the shape of my upper lip. That is all that is
necessary for ordinary life. The cheek pads are reserved for occasions
of special need! Emily considers me a "nice old lady, and young in my
ways". She likewise confides to Bridget that she shouldn't wonder if
I'd been quite good-looking in my day. Why did I never marry? Was it a
disappointment like?
In outdoor dress especially I look genuinely middle-aged. Young women
get up in the Tubes and offer me their seats! Volumes could say no
more.
As regards my work, I have discovered that in London it is as difficult
to get to know one's neighbours as it is to avoid knowing them in the
country. In my rustic ignorance I had imagined that all the inhabitants
of the "Mansions" would be keenly interested in the advent of a new
tenant, and curious about her personality. I imagined them talking
together about me, and saying, "Have you seen the new lady in the
basement? What does she look like? When shall you call?" but in
reality no one cared a jot. There has been another removal since I
came, and I overheard one or two comments in the hall. "Bother these
removals. They make such a mess!"
"Those tiresome vans block the way for my pram!" Not one word of
interest in the removal itself! Not one word of inquiry as to the
newcomers. So far as interest or sympathy went, each little
shut-in-dwelling is as isolated as a lighthouse. For the past few weeks
I have been haunted by a vision of myself beating an ignominious
retreat, after having altogether failed in my mission. To console
myself I began a second course of Red Cross training, to revive what I
had learnt two years before. Perhaps some day one of the tenants will
be ill, or have an accident, which will give me a chance. Watching the
stream of children coming in and out of the "Mansions," I almost found
it in my heart to wish that one of them would tumble down and break, not
his crown, but just some minor, innocent, little bone, so that his
mother could behold how promptly and efficiently I could render first
aid!
A month passed by--four long, lonely weeks. Not a line from Charmion.
Not a line from Delphine. Not a line from the big, blustering lover who
had vowed never, no, never, to give up the pursuit. With one and all,
out of sight was apparently out of mind, and I am the sort of woman who
needs to be remembered and appreciated, and who feels reduced to the
lowest ebb when nobody takes any notice. I wondered what Charmion was
doing, I wondered how Delphine was faring, I wondered--did he really
care so much? Would he go on caring? Suppose I had cared, too? Then
another long, lonely day came to an end, and I crawled into bed and
cried. Whatever my virtues may be, I am afraid I am not strong-minded!
But at the end of a month--hurrah! I started full tilt into a new and
engrossing profession, a profession which I may really claim to have
invented, and which offers a wide field for idle women. It is healthy,
moreover, and in its pursuit its followers can be of immense service to
their overtaxed sisters. The vocation is called "Pram-Pushing for
Penurious Parents," and it consists simply of taking charge of Tommy, or
Bobby, or Baby for his morning or afternoon promenade, and thereby
setting his mother free to take a much-needed rest!
The way it began was natural enough. I smiled at a pretty baby in the
hall, and the baby smiled back at me, and threw a ball at my feet. I
picked it up, and gave it back to a worried-looking little mother who
was endeavouring to arrange the wrapping in the perambulator with one
hand, while with the other she clutched firmly at the arm of an
obstreperous person of three. She smiled at me in wan acknowledgment,
and I said, "May I help?" and tucked in one side of the shawl. Two
mornings later I met the same trio returning from their morning's walk,
a third time I picked the small boy out of a puddle, and helped to wipe
off the mud. That broke the ice, and the mother began to bow to me, and
to exchange a passing word. She is a delicate creature, and has the
exhausted air of one whose life is all work and no play. One day we
walked the length of the block together, and she told me that she had
been married for four years, had had three children and lost one; that
she kept only one maid, and so had to take the children out herself. It
was tiring work, pram-pushing for four or five hours a day, but they
must have fresh air. Nowadays doctors insisted that children should
never stay in, even on wet days. She smiled mirthlessly.
"They are covered up and protected from damp. It's different for the
poor mothers!"
She coughed as she spoke, and then and there the great idea leapt into
my head. I did not disclose it; she would probably have put me down for
a baby-snatcher at once; but I made a point of meeting her on her daily
outings, and of ingratiating myself with the children, and waited
eagerly for an opportunity, which came in the shape of an increasing
cough and cold. Then I pounced.
"Why shouldn't _I_ take the children out this afternoon, and let you go
home and rest? You are not fit to push this heavy pram."
She gaped at me, amazed and embarrassed.
"You? Oh, I couldn't possibly! Why should _you_--"
"Because I should love it. I have nothing to do, and the days seem so
long. I'd be very careful."
"Oh, it's not that! I am sure you would! And the children would love
it. They are so fond of you already; but--"
"Well?"
"I couldn't! It is too much. But I do thank you all the same. It's
sweet of you to have thought of it!"
For the moment it was plainly tactless to urge her further, so I just
repeated:--
"Well, I _mean_ it! Please send for me if you change your mind," and
retreated forthwith.
Behold the reward of diplomacy. That very evening Mr Manners, the
papa, knocked at my door and requested to see Miss Harding. I was
reading comfortably, _sans_ wig and _sans_ spectacles, behind the locked
door of my bedroom. The little maid, having been repeatedly instructed
that all callers were to be shown into the drawing-room, was no doubt
elated to have an opportunity of turning precept into practice. I
arose, hastily made myself look as elderly and discreet as possible, and
sallied forth to greet him.
It was the funniest interview! He had brought down a copy of _Punch_ (a
week old), with his wife's compliments "in case I should like to see
it". That was the excuse; the real reason was obviously to survey the
extraordinary spinster of the basement flat, and discover if she were
quite mad or just innocently eccentric. I could see him peering at me
out of his tired, worried eyes, and if ever I worked hard to worm myself
into a man's good graces, I did it during the next half-hour.
I pricked my ears, listening for "clues," and when one came, I played up
to it with all my skill, agreeing with him, soothing him, hanging on his
words. He looked almost as tired as his wife; there were shiny patches
on his coat; his hair was turning white above the ears; he had the look
of a man driven beyond his strength. I made him a cup of coffee, good
coffee! over which he sighed appreciatively. I told him I liked the
smell of smoke. I offered him the _Spectator_ in exchange for _Punch_.
At the end of half an hour he was looking at me wistfully, and saying in
quite a natural, boyish voice:--
"I say, it was nailing good of you to offer to take out the kiddies to
save my wife. She was quite touched. She does need a rest, poor girl,
but, of course--"
"Don't say `of course' you cannot accept! The only `of course' is to
take me at my word. Mr Manners, may I say exactly what I think?"
He looked startled and said, "Please do!" (Mem. I must try to remember
that an impulsive manner is not suitable to grey hairs!)
"Well, it's just this; if you won't allow me to help your wife to have a
little rest now, she will be obliged to take a longer one later on!
That cough needs care. I know something about nursing, and I'm sure
that if she goes on as she is doing now, she'll break down altogether."
"I know it," he said miserably. "I've been feeling the same myself.
That was why--to-night--when she told me, I--"
"Came down to see for yourself if I could be trusted!" I said laughing.
"And what is your verdict, Mr Manners? Do I look as if I would kidnap
babies? Do I look as if I had strength enough to push a pram?"