The Garden Party, and Other Stories
“What do you say, father?”
“Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at
them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated.
“But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs.
Teddie Walker.”
“It will look so _very_ out of the picture.”
“Don’t you feel well, dear?”
“You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles _for_?”
“But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered.
“Very well! Very well!” Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that
little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room....
There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though
everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water
can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little
red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old
Mr. Neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched
out his legs, and made his little evening joke, “Dress him up,
Charles!” And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward
to take the pin out of his tie.
H’m, h’m! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very
pleasant—a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis
court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would
begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear
Marion’s voice ring out, “Good for you, partner.... Oh, _played_,
partner.... Oh, _very_ nice indeed.” Then Charlotte calling from the
veranda, “Where is Harold?” And Ethel, “He’s certainly not here,
mother.” And Charlotte’s vague, “He said—”
Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he
took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard
over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and
spectacle case.
“That will do, my lad.” The door shut, he sank back, he was alone....
And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights
that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were
like a spider’s—thin, withered.
“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.”
But if that were true, why didn’t Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why
was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no
good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old
spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the
dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates,
the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!
Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window
shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the
big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away
sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long
time. He’d been forgotten. What had all this to do with him—this house
and Charlotte, the girls and Harold—what did he know about them? They
were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his
wife. His wife!
... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped
sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were
round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice
breathed, “Good-bye, my treasure.”
My treasure! “Good-bye, my treasure!” Which of them had spoken? Why had
they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. _She_ was his
wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a
dream.
Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his
hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, “Dinner is on the
table, sir!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said old Mr. Neave.
The Lady’s Maid
_Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door._
... I hope I haven’t disturbed you, madam. You weren’t asleep—were you?
But I’ve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup
over, I thought, perhaps....
... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She
drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on
when she kneels down and I say to it, “Now you needn’t be in too much
of a hurry to say _your_ prayers.” But it’s always boiling before my
lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and
they’ve all got to be prayed for—every one. My lady keeps a list of the
names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to
see us and my lady says afterwards, “Ellen, give me my little red
book,” I feel quite wild, I do. “There’s another,” I think, “keeping
her out of her bed in all weathers.” And she won’t have a cushion, you
know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something
dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I’ve tried to cheat her; I’ve
spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did it—oh, she gave me
such a look—holy it was, madam. “Did our Lord have an eiderdown,
Ellen?” she said. But—I was younger at the time—I felt inclined to say,
“No, but our Lord wasn’t your age, and he didn’t know what it was to
have your lumbago.” Wicked—wasn’t it? But she’s _too_ good, you know,
madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen—saw her lying back, her
hands outside and her head on the pillow—so pretty—I couldn’t help
thinking, “Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her
out!”
... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did
her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just
to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies.
Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them.
I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, “Now, if only the pansies
was there no one could tell the difference.”
... Only the last year, madam. Only after she’d got a
little—well—feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never
dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was—she
thought she’d lost something. She couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t
settle. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her
everywhere,—on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And
she’d look up at you, and she’d say—just like a child, “I’ve lost it,
I’ve lost it.” “Come along,” I’d say, “come along, and I’ll lay out
your patience for you.” But she’d catch me by the hand—I was a
favourite of hers—and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.”
Sad, wasn’t it?
... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last
words she ever said was—very slow, “Look in—the—Look—in—” And then she
was gone.
... No, madam, I can’t say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you
see, it’s like this, I’ve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of
consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept
a hair-dresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a
table dressing my doll’s hair—copying the assistants, I suppose. They
were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the
latest fashions and all. And there I’d sit all day, quiet as quiet—the
customers never knew. Only now and again I’d take my peep from under
the table-cloth.
... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and—would you
believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits,
like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was _furious_! He caught hold
of the tongs—I shall never forget it—grabbed me by the hand and shut my
fingers in them. “That’ll teach you!” he said. It was a fearful burn.
I’ve got the mark of it to-day.
... Well, you see, madam, he’d taken such pride in my hair. He used to
sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it
something beautiful—big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember
the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny
grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done.... But he always
took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the
fright I’d made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know
what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and
out, I don’t know how far I didn’t run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a
sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out.
People must have laughed when they saw me....
... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn’t bear the
sight of me after. Couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my
aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand
on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping
her I met my lady....
... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don’t remember
ever feeling—well—a child, as you might say. You see there was my
uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and
cuffs from the first. Oh yes—once I did! That was—funny! It was like
this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her—we were at
Sheldon at the time—and there was a fair on the common.
“Now, Ellen,” she said, “I want you to take the two young ladies for a
ride on the donkeys.” Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each
had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on.
So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They
were the first I’d seen out of a cart—for pleasure as you might say.
They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue
bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big
girls—older than me, even—were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all
common, I don’t mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don’t know
what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes—so
gentle—and the soft ears—made me want to go on a donkey more than
anything in the world!
... Of course, I couldn’t. I had my young ladies. And what would I have
looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day
it was donkeys—donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst
if I didn’t tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went
to bed—I was sleeping in Mrs. James’s bedroom, our cook that was, at
the time—as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys,
jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes.... Well,
madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to
be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I
could, “_I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!_” You
see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they
knew I was only dreaming. Artful—wasn’t it? Just what a silly child
would think....
... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But
it wasn’t to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and
across from where we was living. Funny—wasn’t it? And me such a one for
flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and
out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I
(his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be
arranged—and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn’t believe it, madam,
the flowers he used to bring me. He’d stop at nothing. It was
lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I’m not exaggerating! Well, of
course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was
all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange....
Oh, how I’ve done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course,
madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I’ve done it for
Christmas—motto in holly, and all—and I’ve had my Easter lilies with a
gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I’ve hung—well, that’s
enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the
furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn’t