The Garden Party, and Other Stories
“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I
can’t imagine anything more—”
But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing;
it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever
since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie
wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t
matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might
begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far
as he was concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence,
Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her
face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing.
Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn’t herself
know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her
cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft
peal sounded, even while she cried, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.” It
was a mystery....
Now she tucked the handkerchief away.
“Do sit down,” said she. “And smoke, won’t you? There are cigarettes in
that little box beside you. I’ll have one too.” He lighted a match for
her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl
ring she wore. “It is to-morrow that you’re going, isn’t it?” said
Anne.
“Yes, to-morrow as ever was,” said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of
smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn’t the word for it.
“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he added.
“Yes—isn’t it?” said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the
point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she
looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so small in that immense
chair. Reginald’s heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice,
her soft voice, that made him tremble. “I feel you’ve been here for
years,” she said.
Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this idea
of going back,” he said.
“_Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo_,” sounded from the quiet.
“But you’re fond of being out there, aren’t you?” said Anne. She hooked
her finger through her pearl necklace. “Father was saying only the
other night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.”
And she looked up at him. Reginald’s smile was rather wan. “I don’t
feel fearfully lucky,” he said lightly.
“_Roo-coo-coo-coo_,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You mean it’s
lonely.”
“Oh, it isn’t the loneliness I care about,” said Reginald, and he
stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. “I could stand
any amount of it, used to like it even. It’s the idea of—” Suddenly, to
his horror, he felt himself blushing.
“_Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!_”
Anne jumped up. “Come and say good-bye to my doves,” she said. “They’ve
been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don’t you, Reggie?”
“Awfully,” said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French
window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at
the doves instead.
To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove
house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One
ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly
bowing and bowing. “You see,” explained Anne, “the one in front, she’s
Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs
forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her
laugh again. Away she runs, and after her,” cried Anne, and she sat
back on her heels, “comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and
that’s their whole life. They never do anything else, you know.” She
got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove
house. “When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be
sure that is what they will be doing....”
Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word.
For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to
tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. “Anne, do you
think you could ever care for me?” It was done. It was over. And in the
little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light,
the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and
Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then
slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured
slowly, “No, never in that way.” But he had scarcely time to feel
anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the
steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the
lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced
Reginald. “It isn’t that I’m not awfully fond of you,” she said. “I am.
But”—her eyes widened—“not in the way”—a quiver passed over her
face—“one ought to be fond of—” Her lips parted, and she couldn’t stop
herself. She began laughing. “There, you see, you see,” she cried,
“it’s your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one
really would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie
that cats wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid,
please!”
Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. “There’s no question of
forgiving you,” he said quickly. “How could there be? And I do believe
I know why I make you laugh. It’s because you’re so far above me in
every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were
to—”
“No, no.” Anne squeezed his hand hard. “It’s not that. That’s all
wrong. I’m not far above you at all. You’re much better than I am.
You’re marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I’m none of
those things. You don’t know me. I’m the most awful character,” said
Anne. “Please don’t interrupt. And besides, that’s not the point. The
point is”—she shook her head—“I couldn’t possibly marry a man I laughed
at. Surely you see that. The man I marry—” breathed Anne softly. She
broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled
strangely, dreamily. “The man I marry—”
And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger
stepped in front of him and took his place—the kind of man that Anne
and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from
nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one
long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere....
Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily.
“Do you?” said Anne. “Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid
about it. It’s so hard to explain. You know I’ve never—” She stopped.
Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. “Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I
can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very
beginning.”
He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. “I’ve never known
anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve never felt so happy with
anyone. But I’m sure it’s not what people and what books mean when they
talk about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I
feel. But we’d be like... like Mr. and Mrs. Dove.”
That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that
he could hardly bear it. “Don’t drive it home,” he said, and he turned
away from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener’s
cottage, with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of
transparent smoke hung above the chimney. It didn’t look real. How his
throat ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. “I must be getting along
home,” he croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran
after him. “No, don’t. You can’t go yet,” she said imploringly. “You
can’t possibly go away feeling like that.” And she stared up at him
frowning, biting her lip.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Reggie, giving himself a shake. “I’ll...
I’ll—” And he waved his hand as much to say “get over it.”
“But this is awful,” said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in
front of him. “Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry,
don’t you?”
“Oh, quite, quite,” said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes.
“How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it’s all very well for
Mr. and Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real life—imagine it!”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again
Anne stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment,
this time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was
going to cry.
“Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?” she wailed. “Why
do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so aw-awful?”
Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. “I can’t help it,” he
said, “I’ve had a blow. If I cut off now, I’ll be able to—”
“How can you talk of cutting off now?” said Anne scornfully. She
stamped her foot at Reggie; she was crimson. “How can you be so cruel?
I can’t let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy
as you were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that,
it’s so simple.”
But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly
difficult.
“Even if I can’t marry you, how can I know that you’re all that way
away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you’re
miserable, and that it’s all my fault?”
“It’s not your fault. Don’t think that. It’s just fate.” Reggie took
her hand off his sleeve and kissed it. “Don’t pity me, dear little
Anne,” he said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink
arches, along the garden path.
“_Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!_” sounded from the veranda.
“Reggie, Reggie,” from the garden.
He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she
gave a little laugh.
“Come back, Mr. Dove,” said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across the
lawn.
The Young Girl
In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue
eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time—pinned
up to be out of the way for her flight—Mrs. Raddick’s daughter might
have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick’s timid,
faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she
believed it, too; but the daughter didn’t appear any too pleased—why
should she?—to have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she
was bored—bored as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy
old saints for _croupiers_ and crowns to play with.
“You don’t mind taking Hennie?” said Mrs. Raddick. “Sure you don’t?
There’s the car, and you’ll have tea and we’ll be back here on this
step—right here—in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She’s not
been before, and it’s worth seeing. I feel it wouldn’t be fair to her.”
“Oh, shut up, mother,” said she wearily. “Come along. Don’t talk so
much. And your bag’s open; you’ll be losing all your money again.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Raddick.
“Oh, _do_ come in! I want to make money,” said the impatient voice.
“It’s all jolly well for you—but I’m broke!”
“Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!” I saw Mrs. Raddick
pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors.
Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a
very broad, delighted smile.
“I say,” he cried, “there’s an English bulldog. Are they allowed to
take dogs in there?”
“No, they’re not.”
“He’s a ripping chap, isn’t he? I wish I had one. They’re such fun.
They frighten people so, and they’re never fierce with their—the people
they belong to.” Suddenly he squeezed my arm. “I say, _do_ look at that
old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?”
The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black
velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly,
slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She