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Lady of the Basement Flat

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Four.</h3> <h4>It’s a Queer World.</h4> Edward Hallett and—Charmion! Charmion and—Edward Hallett! The combination of those two names struck me dumb. Oh, it was madness—the most inconceivable, the most preposterous madness. And yet, and yet—the more I thought, the more the links seemed to “fit in”. He was of the right age, the right nationality: the few words of description which had fallen from her lips applied accurately to his appearance. I went home, and sat in stunned silence, staring into space. I went to bed and lay awake for hours, still pondering, still puzzling. I rose in the morning, and wandered about the flat like a lost dog, unable to work, unable to rest, unable to eat. By evening I was in such a state of nerves that it seemed impossible to endure the suspense a moment longer. The prospect of another wakeful night gave the final touch to my impatience. I scribbled a note to Mr Thorold, begging him to come down at once, and sent the orphan upstairs to deliver it. He came at once; quite anxious and perturbed. Was I ill? Had I had bad news? Was there anything he could do? I motioned him to a chair, and began vaguely:— “Not bad news—at least—a shock! I’ve had a shock! It has distressed me terribly! I couldn’t sleep. It was Mr Travers. I was reading to him again yesterday, and he said something about Mr Hallett. It appears that he knew him years ago.” Mr Thorold’s face hardened. I had seen him in almost every phase of sadness and anxiety, but never with that flash in the eye, that sternness of the lips. His voice was cold and sharp. “Travers? Indeed! And what had Travers to say? Nothing good, if I know the man.” “He—he spoke of Mr Hallett’s wife—” “And you were not aware that he had a wife? It is an old story, Miss Harding; an old sore. Is it necessary to tell one’s whole life history to—er—an—” “An acquaintance? No, no—of course not. Don’t think me presumptuous and inquisitive. I should never have mentioned it, if I had not a reason—a good reason. Have I ever seemed to pry into your affairs?” He softened at that. “Never! Never! You have been all that is tactful—all that is kind. I do trust you, Miss Harding, but this affair of Hallett’s gets me on the raw. He has suffered tortures. I have seen his suffering, and I can’t help feeling bitter against that woman. She—left him! That’s what you heard, I suppose?” “Yes. And so soon! It was a tragedy indeed. Mr Thorold, will you answer just one question? It can do no harm; it can give away no secrets. What was her Christian name?” He looked at me keenly for a moment, and then said quietly:— “Charmion.” I lay back in my chair, and shut my eyes. Never in my life have I fainted, but I think I must have come very near it then. Everything turned black; for a moment my very heart seemed to stop. Mr Thorold’s voice sounded far away, as he cried anxiously:— “You are ill—faint! I’ll open the window—give you more air.” Then with an eagerness which could not be suppressed, “You know her? Hallett’s wife? Is it possible? You have met her; or—have you only heard—” His anxiety made his voice shake. He was as much overcome as I was myself. “For six years,” he added tragically—“six years he has searched the world—.” “I—I know a Charmion. She left her husband. It may be a coincidence, but it seems strange. She had good cause—” “Oh, I don’t deny it. Enough to alienate any woman. I don’t wonder at her going—at first—but, it was cruel to give him no chance to explain.” “It was about money. He pretended to love her for herself, to know nothing about her fortune, and afterwards—a letter came. That is my Charmion’s story. Is it his?” “Yes! yes! this is a wonderful thing! That the discovery should have come through you, and that you should have appealed to me of all people—the only man on this side who can tell you the truth! Is it coincidence, Miss Harding?” I clasped my hands to still their trembling. “Better than coincidence! It is Providence. We have prayed for them, you and I, for the friends we love most, and now—now it seems as if through us—Oh, Mr Thorold, explain! Explain! You believe in him still, yet you confess that he was wrong. What ‘explanation’ can he give!” “I love Hallett,” he said solemnly, “like a brother—more than a brother! I believe him to be, at this moment, the best man I know. We were at school together. He was the only son of a wealthy man. Until he was twenty-one he was brought up in an atmosphere of such luxury as we in England can hardly imagine. Americans are fond of going ‘one better’ than the rest of the world. In some cases the extravagance of their moneyed classes amounts to profligacy. Hallett’s father was a notorious example for many years, then—just as Edward came of age, there was a colossal smash; he lost everything, practically fretted himself to death, left the lad to fight his own way. “To expect the boy to understand economy after such an upbringing was preposterous. He literally did not understand the value of money. He got into debt, more and more deeply into debt, as the years went on. I am not defending him as blameless; of course, he should have pulled up, faced the worst, and started afresh; but I do say that it was a hard test, and that he had many excuses.” I nodded. Ideas of economy, like most other ideas, are comparative. I have never known fabulous riches, but I should manage badly as a poor woman. Up to this point I could sympathise with Edward Hallett. Mr Thorold continued eagerly:— “Well! just when matters were at their worst, a casual acquaintance happened to speak of a young English heiress, and it occurred to Edward for the first time that marriage might cut the knot. He arranged to meet the girl—it was a deliberate plan. Ah! I see you have heard her story; but what she evidently did not, would not, understand, was, that when they did meet, he fell in love with her for herself! She was his mate, his ideal, the one woman in the world who had power to awake his best self; to make him selfless, and in earnest about life. He was overcome with shame at the remembrance of his own scheming. At one time he believed it to be his duty to punish himself by leaving her without saying a word, but his passion was too strong, and circumstances hurried on the marriage. Her aunt died—” “Yes. She told me. Oh, but why did he pretend? Why didn’t he tell her that he knew about the money?” His face fretted into lines. He looked terribly distressed. “Ah! that hits me hard. He wrote to me, Miss Harding—we had kept up a correspondence at intervals since our school days—and he had an exaggerated faith in my advice. His conscience was torturing him. He put the whole case to me. Should he tell her—should he confess? He hated the idea of marrying under false pretences. On the other hand he hated, as any lover would hate, to lower her opinion, perhaps to plant the seeds of future suspicions. Her silence as to her own wealth seemed to show that she had dreaded a mercenary love, that it was sweet to her to feel that he was in ignorance. He guessed that she was storing up the news as a sweet secret to be revealed to her husband. Well, as I say, he put the whole case before me, and I—I advised him to keep silent. He had wronged her in intent, but not in deed, for no man could love more deeply, more disinterestedly than he then loved her. Every word proved that. It was a wonderful letter, written straight from the heart—” I interrupted in breathless haste:— “Have you got it? Did you keep it? Can you find it now?” To my unspeakable relief he nodded his head. “I can. It’s not often that I keep letters, but this was an exception. I was naturally anxious about giving the right advice. I put the letter in my pocket-book, to read and re-read. Then, just the day before the wedding, I caught a chill, was in bed for a month with pleurisy. The first news I heard on getting up was—that she had gone! At once I thought of the letter, and was thankful I had kept it; I locked it away in my safe. I felt that some day, when she was found—Later on I wrote to her lawyers, and tried to bully them into giving me her address. I meant to send it to her myself, and force her to believe. But they swore that they knew no more than I did myself. Liars!” “No! It was true. She was ill for months; in bed! absolutely cut off—” “Ah, well!” He shrugged helplessly. “We were all at cross purposes, it seems. I believed that they were lying, and would continue to lie. I never tried them again. But the letter is there in my safe, and it is his best witness, Miss Harding. Where is she? How do you come to know her?” “She’s in Italy. She’s coming home. To me. She’s my friend. We—we live together. Not here, but in the country. We share a house—” He stared. I realised how incongruous the arrangement must appear. I realised something else, too, and that was that the time had come when to this man, at least, Miss Harding must show herself in her true colours. Charmion must hurry home. I must wire to demand her presence. Happiness was waiting for her, and not one day, one hour, should the darling wait in ignorance. The dreary little flat was about to become the scene of blissful reconciliation; of a new radiance of life and hope. It was not conceivable that I could mar the sacredness of such a time by masquerading in an assumed character. As Mr Thorold was bound to know, it would simplify arrangements if he knew at once! I jumped up; tingling with excitement, almost too impatient to speak. “Mr Thorold—this is a most adventurous afternoon! I have something to tell you about myself. It will explain how it comes about that Charmion and I—Wait for me here for a quarter of an hour. I’ll come back,—but there is something I must do first. You’ll understand when I come back. Please wait!” I hurried out, rang for Bridget, ordered her to get rid of the orphan, and come back to help. The wardrobe was pulled from beneath the bed, off came spectacles and wig, my face was washed free from the disfiguring marks, my hair was coiled, a dainty blue gown slipped over my head. The quarter of an hour grew into a half, the sound of pacing footsteps sounded through the wall. I laughed, slipped my feet into satin slippers, and threw open the drawing-room door. He had his back towards me at that moment; he wheeled round, started, stared, made a curious jerking bow. His face showed no sign of recognition, only surprise and a veiled impatience. “Mr Thorold, I believe?” I said smiling. His forehead knitted into lines; he stared more closely. “Billy’s father, I believe?” I said, smiling more broadly. “The man who ate up my sandwiches!” “Oh! you—you—you minx!” he gasped loudly. Oh! it was gloriously amusing! Edward Hallett and Charmion were nowhere for the moment; he could do nothing but gasp and stare, walk round me, examine me from one point of view and then another, gasp and exclaim again. “You—; you are Miss Harding! Miss Harding was you! Am I dreaming, or is this real life? How did you do it? Why did you do it? But your mouth is a different shape! This beats anything I ever knew! You used to look round-shouldered. Why? Why? Why? How could you be so mad?” Then I made him sit down, and told him the whole story from the beginning; and, like every one else, he disapproved violently at first, and then, by slow degrees, came round to my own point of view. Like Bridget, he wanted to know why I couldn’t play fairy godmother to the “Mansions” with my own face; but when I asked him if I could have done so much for him, he acknowledged hastily that I could not. His expression, half horrified, half shy, spoke more eloquently than his words. “No! you see it would not have worked. Old Miss Harding had a pull over Evelyn Wastneys. My name is Evelyn Wastneys, by the way, but that is a secret between us for the moment. And I am Charmion Fane’s friend, just as you are Edward Hallett’s, and the good, good God is going to give us the joy of seeing them happy together again. Mr Thorold! they have both been to blame, they have both had a share in spoiling their own lives—we won’t give them another chance! You and I, as staid, level-headed outsiders, are going to stage-manage their reconciliation.” “How are we going to manage it?” “Listen!” I said. “Listen!” It’s a queer world. It’s a very queer world! People have said so before, but I wish to say it again, to shout it aloud at the pitch of my voice. Hardly had I changed back into Miss Harding, and finished my evening meal, when a knock came to the door, and there entered Mrs Travers. Furious! She had returned from her day in the country; had seen her husband that afternoon; had heard from his lips what I had dared to think and to say! If she had been defending a homing dove, she could not have been more outraged, more aflame. She wished me to understand, once and for all, that for the future no communication, no acquaintance of any kind was possible between us. She would pass me by in the street without a glance. Oh, very well! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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