the pretty lady came to call the very next week. mrs trevor and betty were busy sewing in the upstairs workroom when the maid brought up the card, and the first sight of it brought no enlightenment.
“mrs gervase vanburgh! goodness! what a fine name! who can she be? do you know who it is, mother?”
“not in the least, dear. one of the neighbours, perhaps. we will go down and see.”
betty smoothed her hair before the looking-glass, and then as carefully fluffed it out, shook her skirt free from the little ends of thread which would stick to the rough blue cloth, and followed her mother to the drawing-room, for now that she was over seventeen it was mrs trevor’s wish that she should learn to help in social duties. half-way downstairs inspiration dawned. “i believe it’s the pretty lady! jill said she was coming!” she whispered breathlessly. the pleasant expectation brought a flush into her cheeks, and an added animation into her eyes, so that it was in her most attractive guise that she entered the drawing-room in her mother’s train.
yes! it was the pretty lady and no one else, prettier than ever in her very smartest clothes, sitting in orthodox fashion, on a stiff upright chair, card-case in hand, and discussing the weather and the advantages and disadvantages of the neighbourhood with the sedateness of an old married woman; yet ever and anon as she glanced at betty there was a something in her face,—a smile, a tremble, a momentary uplifting of the eyebrow,—which bespoke an unspoken sympathy. “we understand each other, you and i!” it seemed to say. “this is only a pretence. the real business will begin when we are alone, but—don’t i do it well?” betty twinkled back, and was content to wait her turn, knowing that it would surely come.
yes, mrs vanburgh said, she and her husband had only lately returned to their town house. they had a little place in the country, and spent a great deal of time with an old uncle who was an invalid, and very fond of young society. no! she did not care for town life, but for her husband’s sake she made the best of it for a few months in the year. the days seemed very long when one was obliged to turn on the lights before four o’clock. oh yes, she was fond of reading—sometimes! but one seemed to need some more active occupation. she did a good deal of wood-carving. did miss trevor go in for wood-carving? would she care to take it up? it would be so very nice to have a companion, and all the tools were lying in readiness just across the road.
“thank you so much. i’d love it!” cried betty, all pink with excitement and pleasure. “i take a few classes still—music and french—but my afternoons are mostly free. i could come any time.”
“to-day?” queried the pretty lady, raising her pretty eyebrows eagerly. “now? come back with me and have tea, and i’ll show you my carvings, and you can decide what you will try first.”
it was all very irregular and unconventional, because, of course, the proper thing would have been for mrs vanburgh to have waited quietly until mrs trevor had returned her call, and even for a judicious period after that, before sending a formal invitation. nevertheless mrs trevor had not the heart to interfere. she remembered her own youth, and the rapture which it had then afforded her to be able to do things at once; she saw the radiance in betty’s face, and realised that her visitor was only a girl herself, so that when betty turned towards her a flushed, appealing face, she smiled indulgently, and said, “certainly, dear! it is very kind of mrs vanburgh to ask you. run upstairs and put on your hat.”
betty lost no time in taking advantage of this permission, and in ten minutes’ time the extraordinary thing came to pass, that she and the pretty lady were walking along the square, chatting together as if they had been friends of years’ standing.
mrs vanburgh paused upon the threshold to give some instructions to the servant, then escorted betty straight upstairs to a big, bare room on the third floor, which she described as her “lair.”
“no one ever sits here but myself, and i can make as much mess as i like. it’s lovely!” she explained, and forthwith turned on the electric light, and poked up the fire, for the atmosphere was distinctly chilly. it was certainly not a tidy apartment, no one could have said that for it, but it was extremely interesting from a girl’s point of view. the wood-carving bench occupied the place of honour before the window; but there were evidences that the owner possessed more hobbies than one, for a piece of copper was in process of being beaten into a pattern of pomegranates and leaves, a work-table was littered with odds and ends, and on an old black tray was a weird medallion portrait of a gentleman, manufactured out of plasticine, a lump of which lay by its side.
young mrs vanburgh held out the tray towards betty with a dramatic gesture.
“that’s my husband! let me introduce you—mr gervase vanburgh—miss trevor! would you believe, to look at him there, that he is quite the handsomest man you ever beheld?”
betty looked at the grey profile, and sniggered helplessly.
“i’m afraid i never should!”
“no, it’s horrid! i’m just beginning modelling, and it’s not a success. i suppose it’s because i can’t draw well enough. what is wrong, do you think?”
“everything!” betty felt inclined to say, but politely compromised by pointing out the most flagrant offences.
“the ear is on a level with the mouth. the eye is perched upon a mound, instead of being in a hollow; he has no nostril, and oh! water on the brain! he must have, with all that bump in front!”
“goodness! what a critic! you might be one of my very own sisters!” cried mrs vanburgh, laughing. she looked at the profile scrutinisingly. “there’s one comfort—it can soon be altered. there! i’ll take a bit off his head. it’s the neatest shape in the world really. i don’t think i am born to be a sculptor. for one thing, i should never have the patience to clean my nails. this plasticine gets into all the nooks and crannies, and simply won’t come out!”
betty had no sympathy to spare for nails. she was too much occupied in considering another problem. mrs vanburgh looked almost as young as herself, and was far more spontaneous and lively in manner; it seemed impossible to imagine her the mistress of this stately house, and the wife of the handsomest man in the world! there was all the natural awe of the unmarried for the married girl in her voice as she said—
“it is so strange to hear you talk of your husband. you don’t look a bit married. doesn’t it feel very—queer?”
mrs vanburgh laughed happily.
“it feels very—nice! i have only one trouble in life, and that is that i am too happy. yes, seriously, it does trouble me! it’s so difficult not to grow selfish when one is always petted, and praised, and considered first of all. i want to be of some use in the world. my husband says i am of use to him, and of course that’s my first duty, but it’s not enough. when i was married a dear old lady wrote me a letter, and said that marriage often became ‘the selfishness of two,’ and i do feel that it is true. it’s no credit to be good to someone who is dearer than yourself, and giving a few subscriptions is no credit either when you are rich; it was a very different matter when you scraped them out of your dress allowance. i’ve thought over heaps of things that i could do, and at last i’ve decided—sit down, and i’ll tell you all about it! this is the comfiest chair. it’s so nice getting to know you first, because you can help. ages ago i read a story by sir walter besant, katherine regina was the name, i think. i forget what it was about, and all about it, except that one character was a poor governess living in a dreary london ‘home,’ knowing nobody, and having absolutely nowhere to go in her leisure hours, because of course she could not afford entertainments. one day she had a desperately miserable fit, and said to one of her companions—i always remembered those words—‘is there no woman in all the length and breadth of this great city who has a thought for us, or who cares enough for us to open the house to us for a few hours a week?’ i made up my mind then and there, that if i ever lived in a city and had a home of my own, i would share it with homeless people. i asked my husband if i might have an ‘at home’ every saturday afternoon, and he said i could ask everyone i liked, so long as i did not expect him to put in an appearance. so!”—she clasped her hands excitedly, and her eyes flashed—“this very week i drove round to three separate governesses’ homes and left cards of invitation—‘mrs gervase vanburgh will be at home every saturday afternoon between november 12 and december 20 from three to seven o’clock, and will be pleased to see any ladies who may care to call upon her.’ what do you think of that for a start?”
betty stared in amazement. “governesses! three homes! three to seven! how dreadful! what will you do with them?”
“oh! i’ve lots of plans. i’ll have a scrumptious light, cakey tea in the drawing-room, and in the dining-room a sort of cold high-tea as they have in the north, with chickens, and ham, and potted shrimps, and sandwiches, and all sorts of good things for those who can stay until six, and sit down to a regular meal. and i’ll have nice books and magazines in the library, and easy-chairs drawn up to the fire; and up here, anyone who likes can practise wood-carving, or copper beating, or any of my little hobbies. i’ll throw open the whole house, and let each one do what she likes best; and you shall help me! i’ve got another girl coming on saturday, and between the three of us we ought to be able to manage. i don’t ask you to come, you see,—i command! i need your help.”
betty hesitated between pride and dismay.
“i can’t imagine myself entertaining a party of govies! i am still under their thrall, remember. you are emancipated, so it’s different for you. but i’ll come, of course i’ll come. how many visitors do you expect?”
“that’s just what cook asked, and i hadn’t a notion what to say. i don’t suppose we shall have many the first time. only the enterprising spirits will come, but when they go back and say what a good time they have had, the numbers will increase. do you think perhaps—twenty altogether?”
“say a dozen!” said betty, and nan’s face lengthened with disappointment.
“only a dozen? oh, surely there must be more than that! just think; there are three homes, and i expect forty or fifty living in each. i am quite sure there will be twenty. i shall provide for twenty-five, to be on the safe side.”
she bent forward to poke the fire once more, and betty’s eyes roamed to the white overmantel, which was divided into five panels, each of which contained a vignette portrait of a girl’s head, printed in a delicate shade of brown. she had seen much the same kind of thing in furniture warehouses again and again, but in this case the pictured faces lacked the pretty prettiness which was the usual characteristic, and were unmistakably portraits of living people. she looked at her hostess with an eager question.
“your sisters?”
“yes; isn’t it lovely? they clubbed together and gave it to me for a wedding present. it feels a little bit as if they were here, to look up from my work and see their faces. that’s the eldest—maud; my maud! she and i were always together. she is married, and has a dear little girl. that’s lilias, the next eldest—the beauty of the family.”
“ah!” sighed betty enviously, “she is pretty. how lovely to be like that! is she married too?”
“no.”
“engaged?”
“no.”
“how funny! i should have thought she would have been married the first of all. didn’t everyone fall in love with her at first sight?”
“yes, i think they did, but at second sight they seem to have preferred maud and—me?”
mrs vanburgh did not seem disposed to discuss her sister’s love affairs. she pointed to the next portrait, that of a dark, interesting-looking girl with hair parted down the middle and smoothed plainly down, in marked contrast to her sister’s curls and pompadours.
“that’s elsie! she has views, and objects to being like the common herd. she writes articles for papers, not in them, abusing everything that is, and praising up everything that isn’t. gervase, my husband, says she will do very well when she learns sense. she is a dear old raven, and i miss her croak more than you would believe. that’s agatha. she’s just—agatha! a good-natured dear, always terribly in earnest about the smallest thing. christabel is the baby, which means the head of the family. she is coming out next year, and means to outshine us all. i will tell you lots of stories about the girls and the jolly times we had at home, and soon i hope you will meet some of them here. sisters are such comforts, aren’t they?”
betty mumbled an inarticulate something which might have been an assent or the reverse, and a servant entering with a tea-tray, the conversation turned to less personal topics. there was never any lack of anything to say, however, for, strangers as they were, the two girls chattered away without a break until the clock struck six, at which sound betty leapt from her seat like another cinderella, and turned hastily towards the door.
“six! oh, and i had pam’s music-lesson at half-past five! how awful of me to forget! you were so interesting, and i was enjoying myself so much. i must fly!”
“it’s no use, i’m afraid. you can’t put the clock back. there’s one comfort—pam will forgive you! that’s the little one, i suppose, with the kitten face. i must get to know her soon.”
mrs vanburgh tripped downstairs by betty’s side, and shook hands with the geniality of a lifelong friendship.
“remember saturday!” she cried. “three o’clock punctually, and bring all your stores of small talk with you, for the first half-hour.”
betty ran across the darkened street and let herself into her own house, aglow with pleasurable excitement. life looked quite a different thing in the last few hours, wherein a friend and a vocation had alike sprung into being. after all, it was a delightful old world! she would never grumble again, since at any moment such delightful surprises might arise.
the door swung open. how cold and grey the hall appeared after the glowing richness of mrs vanburgh’s carpets and hangings! betty made a little grimace at the linoleum, and lifting her eyes was suddenly aware of a wrathful figure confronting her from the threshold of the dining-room—jill, standing with arms akimbo, flushed cheeks, and flashing eyes.
“so you have deigned to come back, have you? what business had you to go to tea with her at all, i should like to know? she’s my friend! i knew her first! what right had you to go poking yourself forward?”
“i didn’t poke. she asked me! mother can tell you that she did. i’m going again on saturday.”
jill’s wrath gave way to an overwhelming anxiety.
“and me? and me? i am sure she asked me too.”
“no, she didn’t. it’s a grown-up party. she’ll ask you another time with pam. she said she wanted to know pam.”
it was the last straw to be classed with pam, a child of eight summers! jill stuttered with mortified rage.
“s–neak! just like you! mark my word, elizabeth trevor, i’ll be even with you about this!”
