The Garden Party, and Other Stories
through it. _Dre-ear!_” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the
music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one
crescendo. _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure._ Breaking on the
first word of the last line, _Passes._ And then on the word, _Away_,
you must begin to die... to fade... until _The Listening Ear_ is
nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as you
like almost on the last line. Now, please.”
Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. _Fast! Ah, too
Fast._ “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but
disgust—” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say
their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their
engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged.
The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been
as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been
a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from
church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond
of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa.
_Passes away from the Listening Ear._
“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! Once
more!”
_Fast! Ah, too Fast._ The older girls were crimson; some of the younger
ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one
could hear the willows whispering, “... not that I do not love you....”
“But, my darling, if you love me,” thought Miss Meadows, “I don’t mind
how much it is. Love me as little as you like.” But she knew he didn’t
love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word “disgust,”
so that she couldn’t read it! _Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear._
She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the
Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to
disappear somewhere. _Passes away._ The voices began to die, to fade,
to whisper... to vanish....
Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the
aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver
bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before
Miss Meadows.
“Well, Monica, what is it?”
“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, “Miss
Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.”
“Very well,” said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, “I shall
put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.” But they were
too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.
The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps.
The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up.
She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in
her lace tie. “Sit down, Miss Meadows,” she said very kindly. And then
she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. “I sent for you
just now because this telegram has come for you.”
“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?”
Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew
out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. “I hope it’s not
bad news,” she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it
open.
“Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand
to-day—Basil,” she read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram.
“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, leaning
forward.
“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,” blushed Miss Meadows. “It’s nothing
bad at all. It’s”—and she gave an apologetic little laugh—“it’s from my
_fiancé_ saying that... saying that—” There was a pause. “I _see_,”
said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then—“You’ve fifteen minutes more
of your class, Miss Meadows, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Wyatt.” She got up. She half ran towards the door.
“Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,” said Miss Wyatt. “I must say I
don’t approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school
hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death,” explained Miss
Wyatt, “or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good
news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know.”
On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the
music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.
“Page thirty-two, Mary,” she said, “page thirty-two,” and, picking up
the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile.
Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: “Page thirty-two,
girls. Page thirty-two.”
We come here To-day with Flowers o’erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-oo Congratulate . . .
“Stop! Stop!” cried Miss Meadows. “This is awful. This is dreadful.”
And she beamed at her girls. “What’s the matter with you all? Think,
girls, think of what you’re singing. Use your imaginations. _With
Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot._ And
_Congratulate._” Miss Meadows broke off. “Don’t look so doleful, girls.
It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. _Congratulate._ Once more.
Quickly. All together. Now then!”
And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other
voices—full, deep, glowing with expression.
The Stranger
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to
move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled
water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming
and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see
little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on
the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the
edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook’s apron
or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder
on to the bridge.
In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed
very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick
gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded
umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf
and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between
the sheep-dog and the shepherd.
But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There
wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them.
“Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might
have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little
signalling. _Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless._ Or: _A welcome
awaits you. All is forgiven._ What? Eh?”
Mr. Hammond’s quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and
confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old
chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them,
that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously
excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous
fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them.
They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people—— Those old chaps
over by the gangways, too—fine, solid old chaps. What chests—by Jove!
And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his
pockets, rocked from heel to toe.
“Yes, my wife’s been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to
our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as
far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I’d better come and fetch her
back. Yes, yes, yes.” The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched
anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was
unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the
twentieth—fiftieth—hundredth time he made the calculation.
“Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor’s launch went off.
Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is
to say, the doctor’s been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two
hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!” He gave a queer little
half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. “But I think we should
have been told if there was anything up—don’t you, Mr. Gaven?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don’t think there’s anything to—anything to
worry about,” said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of
his shoe. “At the same time—”
“Quite so! Quite so!” cried Mr. Hammond. “Dashed annoying!” He paced
quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and
Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. “It’s getting quite dark, too,” and he waved
his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the
decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like
a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother’s
hand.
“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed.
“I expect you do,” said Mr. Hammond. “I expect all these ladies want
their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all
in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in
the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just
like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward
would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for
her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her,
watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while
she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board.... But now he was
back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop
hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and
down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t
disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the
shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her
tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.
“Here, Jean!” he said. “Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung
the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her,
steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart.
“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her.
“Oh, don’t worry about _Jean_, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. Scott.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a
little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?”
“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of
his felt hat.
But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. “Lo-ok,
Mr. Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!”
By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A
bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into
the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper.
And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr.
Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it
was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came
striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.
“Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr. Scott. “I’ll hold her.” He was just in
time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old
Captain Johnson.
“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken
pity on us at last.”
“It’s no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson,
staring at the liner. “You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain’t yer?”
“Yes, yes!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master’s side.
“Mrs. Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!”
With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the
air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark
water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the
harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he
raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and