Leaving the workmen to carry out the necessary decorations at Pastimes, Charmion and I adjourned to London to buy carpets and curtains, and a score of necessary oddments. We found it a fascinating occupation, and grew more and more complimentary to each other as each day passed by.
“Charmion, you have exquisite taste! That’s just the shade I had chosen myself.”
“You have a perfect eye for colouring, Evelyn. I always know that your choice will be exactly my own.”
Sometimes we saw the humour of these self-satisfied compliments, sometimes we were so busy and engrossed that we accepted them open-mouthed. I suppose in every mind personal preference is magnified into the standard of perfection, and all the arguing in the world will fail to convince A that he is—artistically speaking—colour-blind, or B that her drawing-room is a bazaar of trumpery odds and ends! All the more reason to be thankful that we agreed. We were convinced that our taste was unique; but supposing for one moment that it was bad, we should at least share a comfortable delusion!
The oak entrance hall was to be ornamented with old delft. The curtains and chair coverings were to be of the same shade of blue. The parquet floor was to be supplied with rugs of warm Eastern colours. Exactly the right shade of violet-purple had been found for the drawing-room, and I should be ashamed to say how many shops we ransacked for the chair coverings, until at last we found the identical pattern to satisfy our demands. Certainly I should be ashamed to confess what we paid for the piece. Charmion was appallingly extravagant! That was another discovery which I had made in the last days. It seemed as if she found a positive satisfaction in paying abnormal prices, not with the purse-proud bombast of the nouveau riche, but rather with the almost savage relief of a slave who shakes off a few links of a hated chain. I was a little alarmed at the total to which our purchases amounted; but I comforted myself with the thought, nothing new would be required for a long, long time, and that, if I found my income running short, I could always retire to my flat, and live on a figurative twopence under Bridget’s clever management.
Charmion had heard all about the flat by this time, and had hurt my feelings by treating the whole proposal as a ridiculous joke. She made no attempt to dissuade me—had we not agreed never to interfere in each other’s doings?—but she laughed, and said, “Dear goose,” and arched her fine brows expressively as she asked how long a lease I proposed to take, “Or, rather, I should say, how short?”
Now I had myself inclined to a short lease with the option of staying on, but opposition stiffened my back, and I there and then decided to go and look at several possibilities which I had hitherto put aside as impracticable because they had to be taken for a term of three to five years. Bridget would go with me—dear, lawless, laughter-loving Bridget, who entered into the play with refreshing zest. Bridget had the real characteristic Irish faculty of looking upon life as an amusing game, and the more novel and unorthodox the game was, the better she was pleased. “Sure it’s your own face! It’s for you to do what you please with it!” was the easy comment with which she accepted my proposed disguise. She undertook to do most of the work of the flat without a qualm, and shed an easy tear of emotion over the sorrows and difficulties which it was to be my mission to reduce. “Oh, the poor creatures! Will they be starving around us, Miss Evelyn, and the little children crying out for bread?”
“N–not exactly that,” I explained. “I want to work among gentlefolk, Bridget—poor gentlefolk, who suffer most of all, because they are too proud to ask for help. But they will probably be short of time, and service, and probably of strength, too, and when I get to know them, they will let me help them in these ways, though they would not accept my money—”
Bridget looked sceptical.
“I wouldn’t put it past them!”
I laughed, and dropped the subject.
“Oh, well, time will show. Meantime you understand, don’t you, Bridget, that they are not cheerful places that we are going to see? Cheerful positions in London mean big rents, and I mean to live among people who have to count every penny several times over, and try hard to make it into a sixpenny bit. You and I will have sunshine and light at Pastimes—you won’t mind putting up with dullness for part of the year?”
“What would be the good of minding? You’d go, whether or not, now you’d got your head set!” returned Bridget bluntly. She added after a pause, “And besides, we’ll be getting our own way. I’m thinking we shall be glad of the change. It’s not as much as a thought of your own will be left to you, with Mrs Fane by your side.”
“You are entirely wrong, Bridget, and it is not your place to make remarks about Mrs Fane. Please don’t let me hear you do it again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” murmured Bridget, turning instantly from a friend into an automaton, as was her custom on the rare occasions when I hardened myself to find fault. The words were submissive enough, but her manner announced that she had said her say, and would stick to it, though Herself, poor thing, must be humoured when she took the high horse. As usual, I retired from the conflict with a consciousness of coming off second best!
The next day I told Charmion that I was “engaged,” and true to our delightful agreement, she asked no questions, but quietly disappeared into space. Then, with a ponderous feeling of running the blockade, I put on wig and spectacles and the venerable costume which had been provided for the occasion. Appropriately enough, it had originally belonged to an aunt—Aunt Eliza, to wit—who had handed it to me in its mellowed age, to be bequeathed to one of my many protégées. It was brown in colour—I detest brown, and it cordially detests me in return—and by way of further offence the material was roughened and displayed a mottled check. The cut was that of a country tailor, the coat accentuating the curve of Aunt Eliza’s back, while the skirt showed a persistent tendency to sag at the back. When I fastened the last button of the horror and surveyed myself in the glass, I chuckled sardonically at the remembrance of heroines of fiction whose exquisite grace of outline refused to be concealed by the roughest of country garments. Certainly my grace did not survive the ordeal. What good looks I possessed suffered a serious eclipse even before wig and spectacles went on, and as a crowning horror, a venerable “boat-shaped” hat (another relic of Aunt Eliza) and a draggled chenille veil.
Bridget was hysterical with enjoyment over the whole abject effect, but I descended the stairs and passed through the great hall of the hotel with a miserable feeling of running the blockade. Suppose I met anyone! Suppose anyone knew me! Suppose—I flushed miserably at the thought—Charmion herself was discovered sitting in the hall, and raised her lorgnon to quiz me as I passed by!
I need not have troubled. Not a soul blinked an eye in my direction. If by chance a wandering glance met mine, it stared past and through me as though I were impalpable as a ghost. My disguise was a success in one important respect at least—there was no longer anything conspicuous about me; I was just a humble member of society, one of the throng of dun-coloured, ordinary-looking females, who may be seen by the thousand in every thoroughfare in the land, but who, as a matter of fact, are not seen at all, because no one troubles to look. By Bridget’s side I passed through the streets of London as through a desert waste.
Half an hour’s journey by tube brought us to the first of the flats on my list. It was also the first specimen of its kind which Irish Bridget had ever seen, and the shock was severe. I found myself in the painful position of expecting “a decent body” to live in a kitchen two yards square, with a coal “shed” under the table on which she was supposed to cook, and to sleep in a cupboard, screened in merciful darkness, since, when the electric light was turned on, the vista seen through the grimy panes was so inimitably depressing that one’s only longing was to turn it off forthwith!
“Preserve us! Indeed, if it was to die in it we were trying, it would be easy enough, but I’m thinking we’d make a poor show of living, Miss Evelyn! And used to the best as we are, too,” said poor Bridget dolefully.
I sprang a good ten pounds in rent at the sound of her pitiful voice, and ran my pencil through every address below that figure.
Ten separate flats did we visit in the course of that day, and it was a proof of what Aunt Emmeline would call my stubbornness that I came through the ordeal without wavering. Regardless of Bridget’s appealing eyes, I led the way forward, always affecting a buoyant hope that our next visit would be successful, while mentally I was holding a Jekyll and Hyde argument with my inner self, as follows:—
“Impossible to live in such warrens!”
“Other people manage to live in them all the year round!”
“But, as Bridget says, I have been used to the best.”
“Quite time, then, that you take your share of the worst!”
“My health might suffer—”
“You have a good chance to recruit.”
“I might lose my looks—”
“Disagreeable—but the world would go on, even if you did. Incidentally, you might improve the looks of other women!”
“It would be awfully dull!”
“At first—yes! Not when you get into stride. Helping other people is the most exhilarating of tonics.”
“I have never lived in a town. I should feel cramped, prisoned, stifled for air.”
“But think how you would feel when the day came to return to Pastimes! Wouldn’t that first hour in the garden be glorious enough to repay you for all the exile?”
Bridget’s wheedling voice broke in on my argument:—
“Miss Evelyn, dear, I’ve been thinking—wouldn’t it be a duty-like, to be having a bit of sun? Seems like we could wrestle along a bit better if we faced the right way!”
Poor dear! Above all the drawbacks, it was the darkness of the interiors of those small flats which most perplexed the good countrywoman: the passages lighted only through the ground glass panels of bedroom doors; the windows shadowed by walls of other buildings, which towered up at but a few yards’ distance; the kitchens staring blankly into a “well,” ornamented with the suggestive spirals of a fire-escape.
“If we could maybe face somewhere where there was a bit of green!” pleaded the eloquent Irish voice. “Sure the leddies and gentlemen you are meaning to help—you’ll be more likely to find them in the place you’d choose yourself, if you were settling in earnest?” Bridget rolled an eye at blocks E, F, and G of a colossal pile of buildings which stretched their inky length over the two blocks of a narrow thoroughfare. “Cast your eye over them window curtains!” said she scathingly. “Ye can tell what’s inside without troubling to look. A dirty, idle set that will sponge on you, and laugh behind your back!”
I looked, and shuddered, and was thankfully convinced. In my efforts not to aim too high, my standard had fallen impossibly low, and Bridget’s keen common sense had been right in prophesying that I was more likely to find a congenial type of people in a neighbourhood which appealed to my own taste.
No sooner said than done! I escorted Bridget to a restaurant, and fed her and myself with lots of good hot food, and then straightway hired a taxi, and drove back to the agents to demand addresses of flats a little further afield, which should have at least a modicum of light and air.
It appeared that I had demanded the thing above all others for which tens of thousands of other women were already clamouring!
“Everybody wants a cheap flat in an open and airy situation. For one that is to let we have a hundred applicants. Of course, if you are prepared to pay a long price—”
“But I am not.”
“Quite so. Otherwise I have some fine sites in Campden Hill. Lift. Central heating. Every convenience.”
“Seventy pounds is the utmost—”
“Quite so. Then we must rule out Campden Hill, or Hampstead, or Kensington.” The agent switched over the leaves of his book, ran his finger down a list, and hesitated, frowning. “There is one vacancy which might suit—a small block of flats on the borders of Hammersmith. The postal address is Kensington. I don’t know if you are particular as to address?”
“Not a bit.”
“Ah!” The agent evidently thought small beer of me for the admission. “Most ladies are. In this case we can ask an extra five pounds a year because of the Kensington address, and the class of tenants is much better than in the adjoining blocks a few hundred yards off, where the postal address is Hammersmith.”
Bridget coughed in an impressive fashion which was intended to say, “Better class! Hark to that now! That’s the place for us!” As for me, I was torn between amusement at the rank snobbery of it all, and a tender pity for the pathos that lay behind! Poor strugglers, clinging on to the fringe of society, squeezing out the extra pounds so badly needed for necessities, for—what? The satisfaction of seeing a certain word written on an envelope, or of impressing a shop assistant with its sound. In some cases no doubt there were deeper reasons than snobbishness, and it was thought of them which supplied the pathos. Some careworn men and women had weighed that extra rent in the balance, and had considered that it was “worth while,” since a good address might prove an asset in the difficult fight for existence, or perchance some loved one far away had vicariously suffered in past privations, and might be deluded into believing in a false prosperity by the high-sounding address. My ready imagination pictured the image of an invalid mother contentedly informing her neighbours: “My daughter has moved to Kensington. Yes! Such a charming neighbourhood. The gardens, you know. And the royal palace!” Five pounds a year might be worthily expended on such a gain as this!
Well, there seemed nothing for it but to prospect Weltham Mansions at once, so we chartered yet another taxi, and hurried off without delay to have daylight for our inspection. We drove for miles, through streets at first wide and handsome, then growing ever dingier and more “decayed”. Is there anything in the world more depressing than a third-rate English suburb? I can imagine being poor contentedly in almost every other land—in India, for instance, I know of impecunious couples who have lived in two tents beneath two mango trees with comfort and enjoyment, but it takes a super Mark Tapley to enjoy poverty in London!
We had left the gardens a long way behind before at long last we reached a block of dull red buildings, the various doorways of which were decorated with different letters and numbers. A 1 to 40—C 41 to 80—D 81 to 120—etcetera, etcetera. The windows were flat, giving a prison-like effect to the exterior, and I was just saying devoutly to myself, “Thank goodness, that’s not—” when the taxi stopped, and my eyes caught the fateful letters carved on a dull grey stone!
It was Weltham Mansions, and there were two flats to be let. The porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to a crow’s nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was described as the “sub-basement,” which, being interpreted, meant that the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. Now I had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly—let me confess—because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and appropriate to my new rôle. Also, to be able to walk in and out, without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which I had yet seen. Why? Not because of the rooms themselves, for they were ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the floor of the area to the street railings was of grass, closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny, sprouting leaves of—yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no doubt about it, for both Bridget and I recognised them in one lightning glance—primroses! Some former tenant who loved the country had planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and grown, and multiplied. When spring came the owner of that basement flat would have a primrose bank between herself and the world outside those high railings. She had also a strip of cement area in which she could place tubs filled with soil which would provide blossom for later days. The exposure was south, and the railings were high, so that the tiny garden would be assured of sun and security. The soot would fall, and the dust lie thick, but there would be colour and life, and on the air faint wafts of perfume.
We went back to the porter’s room to hear the particulars of the lease, and on my way I stopped to read the list of names printed on little slides on a mahogany board. There were forty in all, and they were as illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down the list, I came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. I stood reading the few words over and over, actually spelling the letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt about it—the words plainly printed for every one to see—
“Number 32. Mr Wenham Thorold.”
Well, talk about fate! There are some circumstances under which one realises at once that it is useless to struggle. This was one! I turned to the porter with an air of resignation.
“I will take the flat. Please prepare the necessary papers, and send them to me to sign.” Then I gave him my new name. After due deliberation I had determined to be “Miss Mary Harding,” as Wastneys is unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. Miss Mary Harding, of a basement flat!