Chapter Three.

Charmion Fane Intervenes.

During the next days the idea of making my home in London, and playing fairy godmother 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 space, 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 hitherto 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 pass 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 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,