I wired to Charmion, “Return at once. Urgently needed,” and her reply came back with all possible speed, “Meet me Euston—Thursday”. I knew she would come! She would imagine that the need was mine, and, bless her! would speed night and day to my aid. And what would she find? My reeling brain refused to realise the dramatic scenes which lay ahead!
After much cogitation I determined to close the flat, and take a small suite of rooms at an hotel for the next week. Under the circumstances, it would be a relief to be among strangers, and away from interested neighbours who might take it into their heads to pay a call at the most crucial moment, to say nothing of the orphan and her friends in adjoining flats, who would be exercised about the strange doings in the basement flat!
So it was as Evelyn Wastneys that I sallied to Euston on that eventful Thursday, and a somewhat tired and sleepy Charmion was obviously a trifle disappointed to find that she was not to be taken “home.”
“I have had such a dose of hotels!”
“Darling, you talked of my ‘dreary little flat!’”
“And you wrote back that it was a bower! It has suited you—it is easy to see that, and your mad scheme has been a success. You were very vague in your reports; gave me no particulars.”
“You didn’t want letters. For a long time you didn’t write at all.”
“Oh, well! Now we can talk. You must tell me all your adventures. You look well—very well! What’s the trouble, Evelyn?”
“I never said it was trouble.”
She looked at me sharply, fearfully. Instead of being reassured, my answer seemed to have excited her fears.
“Not trouble! Then—Evelyn! what is it? Tell me quickly. Don’t quibble! Are you in love—engaged?”
“Don’t be absurd. I’ve been Miss Harding, remember! Wait till you see me! I had lessons in making up, and I really look the part. In love, indeed!”
But I knew that my colour was mounting, I could feel the burn of it in my cheeks. Charmion’s lips twitched, and her dear eyes grew misty and sad.
“It’s hateful of me, but—I don’t want to lose you! I’d be a lonely soul!”
I put my hand over hers, but said nothing. Her words had saddened me, for they accurately described my own feelings.
“You are well—there is no trouble—you are not in love. Then what was the urgent need?”
“Are you sorry to be here?”
“Yes! if you are going to prevaricate and hedge. I’ve thrown every plan to the winds to come tearing back. The least you can do—”
“I know!—I know! And I will—after dinner. Give me till eight o’clock, to enjoy you, and to calm my nerves. It’s good news, but—it upsets our plans. I needed you here to talk over and to arrange. Can’t you leave business, and just be ‘homey’ with me for an hour or two, after all this time?”
She laughed. How good it was to hear that soft, low laugh, and to feast my eyes on her exquisite self! Even after a two days’ journey Charmion looked elegant. I believe she would look well groomed on a desert island. Some women seem born with this gift. It wasn’t given to me. I can be untidy on the slightest provocation!
“Indeed I can. There’s any amount of chit-chat to get through, apart from serious problems. You have done me out of my Paris shopping, Evelyn, but I’ve a box full of trophies for you all the same. Wherever I went, I picked up some token to prove that I remembered you all the time.”
“Oh! cheers! cheers!” I cried fervently. “That’s a good hearing! It is more blessed to give than to receive, but now and then, as a variety, it is refreshing to have an innings one’s self!”
She laughed at that, gripped my arm, and said:—“Oh, Evelyn, you are a dear! It’s good to be with you. It’s good to be back.” And we chatted in great contentment for the rest of the drive.
There were several hours to spare before dinner. I made Charmion take a bath, and then go really and truly to bed, until seven o’clock, when I woke her and issued orders for her prettiest, most becoming frock, grey, of course, a mist of silver and cloudy gauze. When she came into the little sitting-room she looked fresh and radiant—younger than I had ever beheld her. Looking at her, I was suddenly reminded of a line in one of dear Robert Louis Stevenson’s beautiful prayers—“Cleanse from our hearts the lurking grudge!” How can any immortal being, made in God’s own image, expect to be happy and healthful while he or she is cherishing bitter grudging feelings against a fellow-man? Charmion’s battle had been a long, up-hill fight, but it was won at last. The sign of victory was in her face. Now for the victor’s crown!
Dinner was cleared away. The waiter placed coffee on a small table and disappeared. Charmion piled up the cushions at one end of the sofa, nestled against them, and said smilingly:—
“Now! I’ve been very patient, but not another moment can I wait. There’s an air of mystery about you, Evelyn, a muffled excitement which intrigues me vastly. Oh! you’ve tried very hard! you kept up the chatter, but it’s been hard work. Your thoughts have strayed; half the time you have not heard my replies. Your eyes are dark and big—dilated, like an excited child’s! If you had not denied it so stoutly, I should feel convinced that there was a man—”
“My dear, this concerns you, not me. Charmion, can’t you guess? It is wonderful, wonderful news. Can’t you imagine whom it is about? You told me your story, but not his name—your name! When I heard it, it conveyed nothing to me. When I met him—”
She held out her hands, as if to ward off a blow. After all my fencing, the great news had come blurting out, without preface or preparation. White as a sheet, she stared at me with anguished eyes.
“Met! You? Edward? You have met, and—spoken?”
“I know him well. He is a close friend, almost a brother of the man whose child was ill, and whom I helped to nurse—another tenant in the flats. I think I mentioned him—a darling child. We thought he would die. We grew intimate, comforting one another, waiting day after day—”
“You mentioned me? He recognised the name?”
“No! I was Miss Harding. Evelyn and her life were things apart. I have never spoken of them to my neighbours. It was pure chance—pure Providence!”
“But he knows? You have told him. He knows I am here?”
“Not yet. You had to know first, and to hear—to read his defence; but he is to know to-night. His friend will tell him. It will break your heart, Charmion, for you have done him a wrong, and have wasted all these years; but it will fill you with joy as well, for at last you can believe—you must believe in his loyalty. It is there for you to see, in a letter to his friend, received just before you were married. Mr Thorold has kept it—he gave it to me, so that you might see it with your own eyes.”
But still she sat motionless, half paralysed, it would appear, by the suddenness, the unexpectedness of the revelation, making no effort to take the letters which I held out. I put them into her hand, speaking in slow, gentle tones:—
“Read, darling—read! There are two letters, for Mr Thorold has drafted out the substance of his own reply. He feels that much of the responsibility lies on his shoulder. It is such a joy to him—such a joy!—to feel that he has this chance to ‘make good’. It’s not a dream, darling—it’s true! The long, long nightmare is over; read your letters and—wake up!”
I pressed the envelope into her slack hands, kissed her cold cheek, and hurried from the room. She must be alone when she read those healing words; even the dearest friend would be an intruder at that moment!
My own heart was beating at express speed as I descended the stairs, and walked along the corridors which led to the drawing-room. I did not hurry, but rather intentionally lingered by the way. The great mirrors on the walls reflected a bright-eyed, eager girl, whom even at this engrossed moment it was a pleasure to recognise as myself. I am so tired of the reflection of old Miss Harding!
In a far corner of the room the two men were waiting. Mr Thorold came quickly forward. I nodded, and he took his friend by the arm, and led him towards the door. Edward Hallett’s face was fixed—tense with emotion. He glanced neither to right nor to left—was oblivious of the outer world. Mr Thorold was to lead him to the room where Charmion sat, close the door, and leave them face to face. Hardly would she have finished reading the letters than her husband would stand before her. Oh, what a meeting—what a meeting! What a rolling away of the stone! Thank God for giving me my share in bringing it about!
Wenham Thorold came back, and sat by my side. We were both shaking with excitement, but we talked resolutely to pass the time. I asked him if Mr Hallett had been told of my dual personality, and he smiled, and said:—
“Oh, yes, he was interested—as much interested as he could be in anything outside! But not surprised! He and I were constantly puzzled by your extraordinary youth! The get-up was excellent, but your manner, your movements—they did not belong to an elderly woman. Circumstances favoured you, of course! You were naturally quiet and reserved on our first meeting, and then Billy’s illness cast a gloom over us all. Every one seems older in a period of anxiety; but as soon as the cloud lifted your vitality asserted itself.” He looked at me anxiously. “This—this reunion will make a difference to your life? It will take away your friend.”
“Yes, it will. My friends all go,” I said a little bitterly. “I am trying not to think of myself, but only to rejoice for her; but it is hard!”
“That house in the country! You shared it together? Couldn’t you make it your home instead of the flat? It would be more—suitable. This fairy godmother scheme is possible for a few months, with a home in the background, to which you can return at any moment, but now that you will be alone, you are too young. It does not seem right. Couldn’t you”—he looked at me apologetically—“carry on the same work in the country in your own name? Make the house a country resort for lame dogs who need a rest, for example? There would be plenty of applicants.”
“It’s impossible! I can’t explain. I can never return to ‘Pastimes’ alone.” I spoke shortly. The subject was difficult. So far, I had not thrashed it out even in thought. Mr Thorold shot a quick, keen glance. Instinctively, I knew where his thoughts were wandering. He was thinking of the bluff country Squire who had been so kind to his own little girls, remembering that he came from the same neighbourhood; that Evelyn Wastneys and he had been friends.
The stupid colour flamed in my cheeks. I made haste to turn the conversation from myself.
“It will make a difference to you, too. You will miss your friend!”
“Yes, but—I have borne the great loss, Miss Wastneys; I can spare him gladly, to his joy. When one has known the completeness of a real marriage, and then been left alone, it would be impossible to grudge—My friends urge me to marry again; my girl herself said she wished it. If I had been less completely happy, I might have done it for the children’s sake. As it is, I can never put another in her place. But I need a woman in my life. I feel that—but I want a mother, a sister, not a wife. Can’t you evolve a real Miss Harding, who will look after me and my poor bairns?”
It was an hour later when the message came summoning us to return to the sitting-room. The two were standing to receive us—glorified beings, exalted above the earth. Oh, I can’t write about it! We clung together. They spoke glowing words of love and thanks and appreciation; they looked past us into each other’s eyes. It was wonderful, wonderful; but, oh, it made me feel desperately, desperately lonely!