The Lady of the Basement Flat

The Lady of the Basement Flat,
by

Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey This eBook is for the use of anyone
anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You
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Title: The Lady of the Basement Flat
Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
Illustrator: Elizabeth Earnshaw
Release Date: October 20, 2007 [EBook #23124]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY
OF THE BASEMENT FLAT ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

The Lady of the Basement Flat, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.
CHAPTER ONE.

WHY NOT?
At three o'clock this afternoon Evelyn Wastneys died. I am Evelyn
Wastneys, and I died, standing at the door of an old country home in
Ireland, with my hands full of ridiculous little silver shoes and
horseshoes, and a Paris hat on my head, and a trembling treble voice
whispering in my ear:--
"Good-bye, Evelyn darling--darling! Thank you--thank you for all you
have been to me! Oh, Evelyn, promise you will not be unhappy!"
Then some mysterious hidden muscle, whose existence I had never
before suspected, pulled two little strings at the corners of my mouth,
and my lips smiled--a marionette smile--and a marionette voice cried
jauntily:--
"Unhappy? Never! Why, I am free! I am going to begin to live."
Then I watched a tall bridegroom in tweeds tenderly help a little bride
in mole-coloured taffeta and sable furs into the waiting car, the horn
blew, the engines whirled, a big hand and a little one flourished
handkerchiefs out of the window, a white satin shoe danced
ridiculously after the wheels, and Aunt Emmeline cried sensibly:--
"That's over, thank goodness! The wind is sharp! Let's have tea!"
She hurried into the house to give orders, and the old Evelyn Wastneys
stood staring after the car, as it sped down the drive, passed through the
lodge gates, and spun out into the high road. She had the strangest,
most curious feeling that it was only the ghost of herself who stood
there--a ghost in a Paris hat and gown, with long suede gloves wrinkled
up her arms, and a pendant of mingled initials sparkling on her lace
waistcoat. The real, true Evelyn--a little, naked, shivering creature--was
skurrying after that car, bleating piteously to be taken in.
But the car rolled on quicker and quicker, its occupants too much taken
up with themselves to have time to waste on dull other people. In
another minute it was out of sight, but the ghost did not come back. The

new Evelyn lingered upon the steps, waiting for it to return. There was
such a blank, empty ache in the place where her heart used to be. It
seemed impossible that that skurrying little ghost would not come back,
nestle again in its own place, and warm up the empty void. But it never
came back. The new Evelyn turned and walked into the house.
"Well, it has all gone off very well! Kathleen looked quite nice, though
I always do say that a real lace veil is less becoming than tulle. There
was a rose and thistle pattern right across her nose, and personally I
think those sheaves of lilies are too large. I hope she'll be happy, I am
sure! Mr Anderson seems a nice man; but one never knows. It's always
a risk going abroad. A young Canadian proposed to me as a girl. I said
to him, `Do you think you could be nice enough to make up to me for
home, and country, and relations and friends, and associations and
customs, and everything I have valued all my life?' He said it was a
matter of opinion. What did I think? I said it was ridiculous nonsense.
No man was nice enough! So he married Rosa Bates, and I hear their
second boy is a hunchback. You are eating nothing, my dear. Take a
scone. Let's hope it's all for the best!"
"Best or worst, it's done now," I said gloomily. Basil Anderson was
certainly "nice," and, unlike Aunt Emmeline, my sister Kathleen
entertained no doubt that he could fill every gap--home, country,
friends, a selection of elderly aunts, and even that only sister who had
so far acted as buffer between herself and the storms of life. At this
very moment the mole-coloured toque was probably reclining
comfortably on the tweed shoulder, and a smile was replacing tears as a
big booming voice cried comfortably:--
"Evelyn! Oh, she'll be all right! Don't worry about Evelyn, honey.
Think of me!"
Following the line of the least resistance, I took the scone and chewed
it vacantly. Figuratively