CHAPTER II

Every one was very kind to me. Dazed as I was, I appreciated that.

I felt no overwhelming grief. Papa had never loved me, I knew that

well enough. If he had, I might have loved him in return. No, there

had not been love between us, but we had belonged together, and I

had looked after him, and had secretly admired his learning and

his uncompromising devotion to science. And it hurt me that Papa

should have died just when the interest of life was at its height

for him. I should have felt happier if I could have buried him in

a cave, with paintings of reindeer and flint implements, but the

force of public opinion constrained a neat tomb (with marble slab)

in our hideous local churchyard. The vicar’s consolations, though

well meant, did not console me in the least.

It took some time to dawn upon me that the thing I had always

longed for—freedom—was at last mine. I was an orphan, and

practically penniless, but free. At the same time I realized the

extraordinary kindness of all these good people. The vicar did his

best to persuade me that his wife was in urgent need of a companion

help. Our tiny local library suddenly made up its mind to have an

assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called upon me, and after

making various ridiculous excuses for failing to send in a proper

bill, he hummed and hawed a good deal and suddenly suggested that

I should marry him.

I was very much astonished. The doctor was nearer forty than

thirty, and a round, tubby little man. He was not at all like the

hero of “The Perils of Pamela,” and even less like a stern and

silent Rhodesian. I reflected a minute and then asked him why he

wanted to marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good deal, and he

murmured that a wife was a great help to a General Practitioner.

The position seemed even more unromantic than before, and yet

something in me urged towards its acceptance. Safety, that was what

I was being offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home. Thinking it

over now, I believe I did the little man an injustice. He was

honestly in love with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented him

from pressing his suit on those lines. Anyway, my love of romance

rebelled.

“It’s extremely kind of you,” I said. “But it’s impossible. I could

never marry a man unless I loved him madly.”

“You don’t think——?”

“No, I don’t,” I said firmly.

He sighed.

“But, my dear child, what do you propose to do?”

“Have adventures and see the world,” I replied, without the least

hesitation.

“Miss Anne, you are very much of a child still. You don’t

understand——”

“The practical difficulties? Yes, I do, doctor. I’m not a

sentimental schoolgirl—I’m a hard-headed mercenary shrew! You’d

know it if you married me!”

“I wish you would reconsider——”

“I can’t.”

He sighed again.

“I have another proposal to make. An aunt of mine who lives in

Wales is in want of a young lady to help her. How would that suit

you?”

“No, doctor, I’m going to London. If things happen anywhere, they

happen in London. I shall keep my eyes open and you’ll see,

something will turn up! You’ll hear of me next in China or

Timbuctoo.”

My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa’s London solicitor. He came

down specially from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist

himself, he was a great admirer of Papa’s works. He was a tall,

spare man with a thin face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as I

entered the room and, taking both my hands in his, patted them

affectionately.

“My poor child,” he said. “My poor, poor child.”

Without conscious hypocrisy, I found myself assuming the demeanour

of a bereaved orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was benignant,

kind and fatherly—and without the least doubt he regarded me as a

perfect fool of a girl left adrift to face an unkind world. From

the first I felt that it was quite useless to try to convince him

of the contrary. As things turned out, perhaps it was just as well

I didn’t.

“My dear child, do you think you can listen to me whilst I try to

make a few things clear to you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Your father, as you know, was a very great man. Posterity will

appreciate him. But he was not a good man of business.”

I knew that quite as well, if not better than Mr. Flemming, but I

restrained myself from saying so. He continued:

“I do not suppose you understand much of these matters. I will try

to explain as clearly as I can.”

He explained at unnecessary length. The upshot seemed to be that

I was left to face life with the sum of £87, 17s. 4d. It seemed a

strangely unsatisfying amount. I waited in some trepidation for

what was coming next. I feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to

have an aunt in Scotland who was in want of a bright young

companion. Apparently, however, he hadn’t.

“The question is,” he went on, “the future. I understand you have

no living relatives?”

“I’m alone in the world,” I said, and was struck anew by my likeness

to a film heroine.

“You have friends?”

“Every one has been very kind to me,” I said gratefully.

“Who would not be kind to one so young and charming?” said Mr.

Flemming gallantly. “Well, well, my dear, we must see what can be

done.” He hesitated a minute, and then said: “Supposing—how would

it be if you came to us for a time?”

I jumped at the chance. London! The place for things to happen.

“It’s awfully kind of you,” I said. “Might I really? Just while

I’m looking round. I must start out to earn my living, you know?”

“Yes, yes, my dear child. I quite understand. We will look round

for something—suitable.”

I felt instinctively that Mr. Flemming’s ideas of “something

suitable” and mine were likely to be widely divergent, but it was

certainly not the moment to air my views.

“That is settled then. Why not return with me to-day?”

“Oh, thank you, but will Mrs. Flemming——”

“My wife will be delighted to welcome you.”

I wonder if husbands know as much about their wives as they think

they do. If I had a husband, I should hate him to bring home

orphans without consulting me first.

“We will send her a wire from the station,” continued the lawyer.

My few personal belongings were soon packed. I contemplated my hat

sadly before putting it on. It had originally been what I call a

“Mary” hat, meaning by that the kind of hat a housemaid ought to

wear on her day out—but doesn’t! A limp thing of black straw with

a suitably depressed brim. With the inspiration of genius, I had

kicked it once, punched it twice, dented in the crown and affixed

to it a thing like a cubist’s dream of a jazz carrot. The result

had been distinctly chic. The carrot I had already removed, of

course, and now I proceeded to undo the rest of my handiwork. The

“Mary” hat resumed its former status with an additional battered

appearance which made it even more depressing than formerly. I

might as well look as much like the popular conception of an orphan

as possible. I was just a shade nervous of Mrs. Flemming’s

reception, but hoped my appearance might have a sufficiently

disarming effect.

Mr. Flemming was nervous too. I realized that as we went up the

stairs of the tall house in a quiet Kensington Square. Mrs. Flemming

greeted me pleasantly enough. She was a stout, placid woman of the

“good wife and mother” type. She took me up to a spotless

chintz-hung bedroom, hoped I had everything I wanted, informed me

that tea would be ready in about a quarter of an hour, and left me

to my own devices.

I heard her voice, slightly raised, as she entered the drawing-room

below on the first floor.

“Well, Henry, why on earth——” I lost the rest, but the acerbity of

the tone was evident. And a few minutes later another phrase

floated up to me, in an even more acid voice:

“I agree with you! She is certainly _very_ good-looking.”

It is really a very hard life. Men will not be nice to you if you

are not good-looking, and women will not be nice to you if you are.

With a deep sigh I proceeded to do things to my hair. I have nice

hair. It is black—a real black, not dark brown, and it grows well

back from my forehead and down over the ears. With a ruthless hand

I dragged it upwards. As ears, my ears are quite all right, but

there is no doubt about it, ears are _démodé_ nowadays. They are

like the “Queen of Spain’s legs” in Professor Peterson’s young day.

When I had finished I looked almost unbelievably like the kind of

orphan that walks out in a queue with a little bonnet and a red

cloak.

I noticed when I went down that Mrs. Flemming’s eyes rested on my

exposed ears with quite a kindly glance. Mr. Flemming seemed

puzzled. I had no doubt that he was saying to himself, “What _has_

the child done to herself?”

On the whole the rest of the day passed off well. It was settled

that I was to start at once to look for something to do.

When I went to bed, I stared earnestly at my face in the glass.

Was I really good-looking? Honestly, I couldn’t say I thought so!

I hadn’t got a straight Grecian nose, or a rosebud mouth, or any

of the things you ought to have. It is true that a curate once told

me that my eyes were like “imprisoned sunshine in a dark, dark

wood”—but curates always know so many quotations, and fire them

off at random. I’d much prefer to have Irish blue eyes than dark

green ones with yellow flecks! Still, green is a good colour for

adventuresses.

I wound a black garment tightly round me, leaving my arms and

shoulders bare. Then I brushed back my hair and pulled it well down

over my ears again. I put a lot of powder on my face, so that the

skin seemed even whiter than usual. I fished about until I found

some old lip-salve, and I put oceans of it on my lips. Then I did

under my eyes with burnt cork. Finally, I draped a red ribbon over

my bare shoulder, stuck a scarlet feather in my hair, and placed

a cigarette in one corner of my mouth. The whole effect pleased me

very much.

“Anna the Adventuress,” I said aloud, nodding at my reflection.

“Anna the Adventuress. Episode I, ‘The House in Kensington’!”

Girls are foolish things.