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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dmother, 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.

CHAPTER THREE.

CHARMION FANE INTERVENES.

During the next days the idea of making my home in London, and playing fairy G.o.dmother to the tenants in a block of flats, took an ever-deepening root in my heart. I pondered on it incessantly and worked out plans as to ways and means.

Bridget should go with me as general factotum, for my method of living must be as simple as possible, since the neighbours would be more likely to confide their troubles to the ear of one who was, apparently, in the same position of life as themselves. Smart clothing would be unnecessary also, and a hundred and one luxuries of a leisured life. I mentally drew up a list of things taboo, and regarded it with--let me be honest--lingering regret. I was quite, quite willing to deny myself, but it is folly to pretend that it didn't cost a pang. I _like_ good clothes and dainty meals, and motor-cars, and s.p.a.ce, and luxury, and people to wait upon me when I'm tired, and unlimited supplies of flowers, and fruit, and hot water, to say nothing of my own little share of variety and fun. Down at the bottom of my heart, a lurking doubt of myself stirred into life, and spoke with insistent voice:--

"All very well, Evelyn, but can you _keep it up_? Are you brave enough, strong enough, unselfish enough to give up all that has. .h.i.therto made your life, and to be satisfied with living through others? Won't the time come when nature will rebel, and demand a turn for yourself? And _then_, Evelyn, _then_ what are you going to do? Could you ever respect yourself again if, having put your shoulder to the wheel, you drew back and lapsed into selfish indifference?"

As for Aunt Emmeline, she turned on the cold tap, and kept it on at a continuous trickle.

"Exaggerated nonsense! You always _were_ exaggerated, Evelyn, from a child. Be kind, of course; that's only your duty, but I call it officious and presumptuous to interfere in other people's lives. _You_ of all people! At your age! With your looks--"

"What have my looks to do with it?"

"My dear, it is not your fault, but I've said it before, and I say it again--you are _showy_! There is something about you which makes people stare. Dear Kathie could pa.s.s along quietly, or sit in a corner of a room and be conveniently overlooked, but you--I am not paying you a compliment, my dear, I consider it is a misfortune!--you _take the_ _eye_! Wherever you go, people will notice you and gossip about your movements. At twenty-six, and with your appearance, I ask you candidly, as aunt to niece--_do_ you consider yourself a suitable person to live alone, and minister to widowers?"

"Well, if you put it like that, I _don't_! But what of the children who shriek, and have holes in their stockings? Mightn't they like me better just because I _am_ young and look nice?"

I laughed as I spoke, but Aunt Emmeline was so pleased that I showed some glimmerings of reason, that she said suavely:--

"Wait ten years, dear! Till your hair is grey! You will age early with those sharp features. In ten or twelve years you can do as you please."

I thought, but did not say:--

"My dear aunt, but I shall do it _now_!"

A week pa.s.sed 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 succ.u.mbing 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 st.u.r.dily. "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 pa.s.sed, but of her own past she never spoke. From incidental remarks we found that she had been the G.o.dchild 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.