The fame of me has gone abroad. I have been observed taking the
Manners' infants in and out, and the result has been a simultaneous
increase of interest, and--loss of prestige. Number 22, like Mrs
Manners, pushes her own "pram," but there the resemblance ends. She is
a healthy, full-blown young woman, smartly--and unsuitably--attired in
the very latest fashion of Kensington High Street. She wears large
artificial pearls round her neck, and wafts a strong odour of lily of
the valley perfume. Never for the fraction of a second did it occur to
me to offer to relieve _her_ of any of her duties; but she cast a
pale-blue eye at me, and wove her own little schemes. One afternoon, as
I was tucking the coverings round Baby Margaret's feet, she came up to
my side, and said in an exceedingly casual manner:--
"Oh, good afternoon. You are Miss Harding? I was just wondering--have
you any engagement for the mornings?"
I looked at her calmly, and said I had. Several! Most householders
had. She jerked her head, and said impatiently:--
"I didn't mean that. You take Mrs Manners' children out, I see. I
might be glad of a little help myself. It's such a bore pram-pushing
every day. How much do you charge?"
It is difficult to look haughty through blue spectacles, and while I was
trying, it occurred to me that it was a waste of time. It was a plain
business question. She did not mean to be insulting, so I smiled
instead--rather feebly, I confess--and said:--
"I don't charge. Mrs Manners is not well. It is a pleasure to me to
take charge of the children, so that she may have a little rest."
She "begged pardon" hastily, and with repetition, staring the while with
incredulous eyes. Quite evidently she considered me a benevolent
lunatic, and marked me down as a useful prey. I might not be willing to
push her pram, but--The very next evening a small servant knocked at the
door with Mrs Lorrimer's compliments, and could Miss Harding lend her a
fresh egg? (Her name is Lorrimer, and the children are called Claudia,
Moreen, and Eric, and look it.) A fortnight has passed since that
encounter, and the tale of her indebtedness to me is now as follows:--
One egg.
A cup of sugar.
Two lemons.
"A bit of butter, as we're run out."
A box of matches and a candle.
"One scuttle of nice cobbles, please. We have only slack left."
Three stamps.
"Just a pinch or two of tea, as we forgot to order over Sunday."
Bridget opines that it will go from bad to worse, and recommends putting
a foot down. Gossip from the "Well" has it that if you "give in to
them, they'll take the very dinner off the table". When it comes to
that point, I shall certainly stamp hard; but in the meantime I let
things slide. I suspect Mrs Lorrimer of being too much engrossed in
herself to trouble about such a detail as providing meals for her
spouse. Without my aid he would probably have eaten his pancakes
without any lemons, and feasted on dry bread by a smouldering fire. I
like myself in the _role_ of an unknown benefactor!
Number 19, who lives directly overhead, does not borrow my food or hire
my services, but she does something far worse. Whenever I dare to poke
a fire, or play on the piano, or shut a window, or let a door bang, as
any ordinary domestic door is bound to bang in the course of a windy
day, rap, rap, rap comes a premonitory knocking on the floor, as if to
say, "Inconsiderate and selfish worm! How dare you attend to your own
comfort at the expense of your neighbours overhead? Have the goodness
to be quiet at once!" It's awfully unfair, because when they stoke
their anthracite stoves, or throw their boots on the floor at 1 a.m.
over my sleeping head, I could only retaliate by climbing to the top of
my wardrobe, and knocking the whitewash off my own ceiling. Such are
the ironies of life for the tenants of basement flats.
Besides the shoe-dropping, I am often kept awake at night by the sound
of angry voices. I sadly fear that Mr and Mrs 19 do not live together
in the peace and harmony which could be desired. Subjects of dissension
seem generally to arise about 10 p.m., and thereafter deep masculine
growls and shrill feminine yaps alternate until the small hours. On
these occasions I make up my mind never, never to marry. Especially a
bad-tempered man. Especially _one_ bad-tempered man! But, of course,
that question was settled long ago.
Hurrah! I am getting on. A most exciting thing has happened. The
Manners know Mr Thorold, and last night, when I was sitting with then
after dinner (by request!) he came in to call, and we were introduced.
He is a delicate, wearied-to-death, and wish-I-were-out-of-it-looking
man, but when he smiles or gets interested his face lights up, and he is
handsome and interesting. He looked profoundly bored at finding me
installed by the fire, but thawed later on, and asked my advice on
various domestic problems which lie heavily on his soul.
"My housekeeper has such sensitive feelings. If I find fault, or even
mildly suggest an improvement, she collapses into tears, and the
children have a poor time of it for the rest of the day. Sometimes I
think I must send her away, but I might get some one worse; and I am
busy in the city, and have no time to look round."
I did not feel capable of giving advice on this subject, but said
soothingly:--
"I wish you would allow the little girls to come to tea with me
sometimes. I have seen them coming in and out, and have longed to know
them. I'm fond of children, and Mrs Manners will tell you that I can
be trusted."
His face lit up; he actually beamed.
"It is good of you! They get so few changes. It would be the greatest
treat! If I may I'll bring them myself next Saturday."
Shades of Aunt Eliza! For a moment I felt quite guilty; then I raised
my eyes to the Chippendale mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and
beheld the douce figure of Miss Harding with a Paisley shawl draped over
her black silk shoulders, and I breathed again, and said primly that I
should be very pleased, and were the dear little ones allowed currants,
or were they limited to plain sponge cake? He said impatiently:--
"Oh, poor kiddies! Anything you like. If they're ill afterwards, it's
worth it. I'm afraid I am not much of a disciplinarian, Miss Harding.
Life takes that _role_ out of one's hands. Let them be happy--that's
what I ask."
His face puckered; he looked so sad, so helpless, so baffled, poor, big,
helpless thing, that my heart just ached for him. Aunt Eliza was
right--Evelyn Wastneys is _not_ a suitable person to play good fairy to
good-looking widowers! If this one looked particularly helpless and
harassed for an hour at a stretch, and then asked her to marry him on
Tuesday week, she would not have the strength of mind to say no, however
much she dreaded the prospect. As he is a susceptible, appealing type
of a man, and tired to death of that housekeeper, and Evelyn has--she
really has!--a "way with her," it would probably have come to that in
the end. But Evelyn Harding may serenely do her best. She will never
be put to the test.
The little girls are called Winifred and Marion. They have long pale
faces, long fair hair, and charming dark-lashed eyes. Winifred looks
delicate, and has an insinuating little lisp; Marion, when amused, has a
deep, fat chuckle, which makes one long to hug her on the spot. They
are badly dressed, badly shod, their stockings lie in wrinkles all the
way up, but they look thorough little ladies despite of all, and "behave
as sich". They came to tea on Saturday, and we had hot scones, and jam
sandwiches, and cake, and biscuits, and a box of crackers containing
gorgeous rings and brooches and tie-pins and bracelets, and of the whole
party I honestly believe "Father" enjoyed himself the most. He had four
cups of tea, and ate steadily from every plate; and we all played games
together afterwards, in the most happy, domestic fashion. Quite
evidently he is a home lover, a man whose deepest interests will always
centre round his own fireside.
Poor little dead wife! It seems sad that she should be taken away,
while unhappy women like Mrs 19 live on and on. If the issues of life
and death were in mortal hands, how differently we should arrange
things! I know at this moment half a dozen weary old creatures whose
lives are no pleasure to themselves or to anyone else, but they live on,
while the young and the happy fall by the way. Oh, how many mysteries
there are around us! How wonderful, how absorbingly interesting it will
be, when the time comes, to hear the explanation of all that seems so
tangled to our present understanding! When I realise how uncertain life
is, I am all in a tingle to be up and doing, to make myself of real,
real use while I am still here. A married woman has her work cut out to
make a home; a real happy home is as big an achievement as any one can
wish, but when one is single and lonely--
Pause to shed a few self-pitying tears. Pause to wonder if it might not
be better to make a man happy rather than to live alone, even if one
were not really in love?
Pause to decide. Certainly not! Don't be weak-minded. A grave
injustice to him, as well as to yourself.
Pause to dream of Charmion and Kathie, and feel lone and lorn because
they don't write.
Grand decision. Always to be kind and considerate. To write regularly
to lonely friends. Never to wax cross or impatient, neglect a duty, nor
fail to render a service. To devote special attention and lavish
special sympathy on spinsters in basement flats.
The orphan came into the room just as I was in the full flush of my
resolutions. I snapped her head off, and found fault for five minutes
on end. She departed--in tears.
Three weeks have passed by. I have written to Charmion, a letter full
of love, and without one complaining word. I have written to Kathie,
taking an interest in all the details of her new life; I have written to
Delphine, dropping words in season. I have worked hard for the Red
Cross classes. I have wheeled out the small Manners, and dispensed
various teas to Winifred and Marion Thorold. I have met their father
several times at the Manners' flat, and have likewise--low be it
spoken--received two evening calls from him in my own domain. He says
it is such a comfort to find a kind, motherly woman with whom to talk
over his difficulties! He hesitates to trouble Mrs Manners, who is
already overworked. Winifred holds one shoulder a little higher than
the other. Does that mean anything wrong with the spine? Ought she to
lie down flat? Billie, the curly two-year-old, is always catching cold.
Do I think his perambulator gets damp in the basement store-room? The
grocer's bill was nineteen shillings last week. In "my girl's time" (I
love to hear him say "My girl!") it was never above thirteen. Miss
Brown, the housekeeper, is hinting that she needs a holiday. It would
be a relief to be rid of her, but--who would take charge while she was
away?
"Why not make it a general holiday? Lend me the little girls, farm out
the babies to relations, throw off responsibilities, and have a real
laze yourself. You know you would love it!" I said. "Haven't you a
man friend who would take you away?"
"Oh, rather. The best of fellows. We were boys together. He's had a
stiff time, too, so he understands. Miss Harding, what a brick you are!
Will you really take the girls? I say"--his face lit up with the
boyish smile--"it would be a chance to buy them some clothes. Would you
do it? Miss Brown has no taste. It's been one of my trials. My girl
was so dainty. A pretty hat apiece, and a frock, and stockings to
match--that wouldn't break the bank, would it? Do you think five
pounds--"