The Lady of the Basement Flat. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

longing for work. Could I banish the housekeeper, and introduce a variation by paying to take her place?”

      Aunt Eliza looked at the ceiling, and informed it obviously, though dumbly, that when nieces talked nonsense it was waste of breath to reply. Outraged dignity spoke in her rigid back, in the thin contour of her cheek.

      “A Wastneys to speak of being a housekeeper!”

      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 rôle 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 passed 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 Godmother, 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 rôle, 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.

       Table of Contents

      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