Chapter One.

Why Not?

At three o’clock this afternoon Evelyn Wastneys died. I am Evelyn Wastneys, and I died, standing at the door of an old country home in Ireland, with my hands full of ridiculous little silver shoes and horseshoes, and a Paris hat on my head, and a trembling treble voice whispering in my ear:—

“Good-bye, Evelyn darling—darling! Thank you—thank you for all you have been to me! Oh, Evelyn, promise you will not be unhappy!”

Then some mysterious hidden muscle, whose existence I had never before suspected, pulled two little strings at the corners of my mouth, and my lips smiled—a marionette smile—and a marionette voice cried jauntily:—

“Unhappy? Never! Why, I am free! I am going to begin to live.”

Then I watched a tall bridegroom in tweeds tenderly help a little bride in mole-coloured taffeta and sable furs into the waiting car, the horn blew, the engines whirled, a big hand and a little one flourished handkerchiefs out of the window, a white satin shoe danced ridiculously after the wheels, and Aunt Emmeline cried sensibly:—

“That’s over, thank goodness! The wind is sharp! Let’s have tea!”

She hurried into the house to give orders, and the old Evelyn Wastneys stood staring after the car, as it sped down the drive, passed through the lodge gates, and spun out into the high road. She had the strangest, most curious feeling that it was only the ghost of herself who stood there—a ghost in a Paris hat and gown, with long suede gloves wrinkled up her arms, and a pendant of mingled initials sparkling on her lace waistcoat. The real, true Evelyn—a little, naked, shivering creature—was skurrying after that car, bleating piteously to be taken in.

But the car rolled on quicker and quicker, its occupants too much taken up with themselves to have time to waste on dull other people. In another minute it was out of sight, but the ghost did not come back. The new Evelyn lingered upon the steps, waiting for it to return. There was such a blank, empty ache in the place where her heart used to be. It seemed impossible that that skurrying little ghost would not come back, nestle again in its own place, and warm up the empty void. But it never came back. The new Evelyn turned and walked into the house.

“Well, it has all gone off very well! Kathleen looked quite nice, though I always do say that a real lace veil is less becoming than tulle. There was a rose and thistle pattern right across her nose, and personally I think those sheaves of lilies are too large. I hope she’ll be happy, I am sure! Mr Anderson seems a nice man; but one never knows. It’s always a risk going abroad. A young Canadian proposed to me as a girl. I said to him, ‘Do you think you could be nice enough to make up to me for home, and country, and relations and friends, and associations and customs, and everything I have valued all my life?’ He said it was a matter of opinion. What did I think? I said it was ridiculous nonsense. No man was nice enough! So he married Rosa Bates, and I hear their second boy is a hunchback. You are eating nothing, my dear. Take a scone. Let’s hope it’s all for the best!”

“Best or worst, it’s done now,” I said gloomily. Basil Anderson was certainly “nice,” and, unlike Aunt Emmeline, my sister Kathleen entertained no doubt that he could fill every gap—home, country, friends, a selection of elderly aunts, and even that only sister who had so far acted as buffer between herself and the storms of life. At this very moment the mole-coloured toque was probably reclining comfortably on the tweed shoulder, and a smile was replacing tears as a big booming voice cried comfortably:—

“Evelyn! Oh, she’ll be all right! Don’t worry about Evelyn, honey. Think of me!”

Following the line of the least resistance, I took the scone and chewed it vacantly. Figuratively speaking, it tasted of dust and ashes; literally, it tasted of nothing at all, and the tea was just a hot fluid which had to be swallowed at intervals, as medicine is swallowed of necessity.

Aunt Emmeline helped herself systematically from each of the plates in turn, working steadily through courses of bread and butter, sandwiches, scone, petits fours, and wedding cake. She was a scraggy woman, with the appetite of a giant. Kathie and I used to wonder where the food went! Probably to her tongue!

“Of course,” said Aunt Emmeline, continuing her thoughts aloud, as was her disconcerting habit, “Kathleen has money, and that gives a wife a whip hand. I begged her only yesterday to stand up for herself. Those little fair women are so apt to be bullied. I knew a case. Well, mind, we’ll hope it mayn’t come to that! If she is sensible and doesn’t expect too much, things may work out all right. Especially for the first years. If anything does go wrong, it will be your fault, Evelyn, for spoiling her as you have done.”

“Thanks very much for the cheering thought,” I said snappily. Aunt Emmeline helped herself to a sandwich, and blinked with exasperating forbearance.

“Not cheerful, perhaps, but it may be useful! If you’d taken my advice. It’s never too late to mend, Evelyn.”

“Even at twenty-six?”

Aunt Emmeline surveyed me critically. She was taking stock, and considering just how young, how old, how fresh, how damaged those lengthy years had left my physical charms. I looked in a long glass opposite, and took stock at the same time. A smart young woman—oh, very smart indeed, for as Kathie had argued, if you can’t “blow” expense for your only sister’s wedding, when on earth are you going to do it? Light brown hair, “still untouched by grey,” hazel eyes with very long, very finely marked eyebrows (secretly they are the joy of my life!) good features, and a sulky expression. The old Evelyn used to be very good-looking—(she’s dead now, so I can say so, as much as I like)—this new one is good-looking too, in a disagreeable, unattractive kind of way. If you saw her dining at the next table in an hotel you would say, “Rather a fine-looking girl!” And the man with you would reply, “Think so! Too much of a temper for my fancy. Glad she don’t belong to me.” I realised as much as I looked in the glass, and that made me crosser than ever. If I had been alone, able to cry, or storm, or grizzle, or go to bed just as I liked, I could have borne it better; but fancy losing your home, and your occupation, and the only person in all the world you really loved, all in one day, and coming straight from the wreck to have tea with Aunt Emmeline!

The sandwich was finished before the inspection. A piece of scone followed.

“Of course,” said Aunt Emmeline, “you are not in your first bloom. That we can’t expect. Your colour is a little harder and more fixed” (the figure in the glass gave a spasmodic jerk. The sulky expression was pierced by a gleam of fear. “Fixed!” Good gracious! She might be talking of those old people who have little red lines over their cheek-bones in the place of “bloom”. It’s ridiculous to say I am “fixed”. It is a matter of indifference to me how I look, but I do insist on truth!) “and your air of pride and independence is unbecoming in an unmarried girl. Men like to see a girl sweet, clinging, pliant.”

“What men?”

“All men!”

“Oh! And in my case, for instance, to whom would you suggest I should proceed to cling?”

“That,” said Aunt Emmeline briskly, “is precisely what I wish to discuss.” She lifted the last morsel of scone from the plate, stared at it, and popped it into her mouth. “My dear, has it