The Garden Party, and Other Stories
quite herself that afternoon. Not that she’d said anything, of course;
she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping
herself up and asking me if it was cold—and her little nose looked...
pinched. I didn’t like leaving her; I knew I’d be worrying all the
time. At last I asked her if she’d rather I put it off. “Oh no, Ellen,”
she said, “you mustn’t mind about me. You mustn’t disappoint your young
man.” And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself.
It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder... then she dropped
her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself—a thing
she never did. “Whatever are you doing!” I cried, running to stop her.
“Well,” she said, smiling, you know, madam, “I shall have to begin to
practise.” Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went
over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I
couldn’t keep myself in, and I asked her if she’d rather I... didn’t
get married. “No, Ellen,” she said—that was her voice, madam, like I’m
giving you—“No, Ellen, not for the _wide world_!” But while she said
it, madam—I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn’t know I
could see her—she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear
mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, _madam_!
When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky
little brooch he’d given me—a silver bird it was, with a chain in its
beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the
thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word.
“There you are,” I said. “Take them all back,” I said, “it’s all over.
I’m not going to marry you,” I said, “I can’t leave my lady.” White! he
turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood,
all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the
door—believe me or not, madam—that man _was_ gone! I ran out into the
road just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed
in the middle of the road... staring. People must have laughed if they
saw me....
... Goodness gracious!—What’s that? It’s the clock striking! And here
I’ve been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped
me.... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady’s feet, every
night, just the same. And she says, “Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and
wake early!” I don’t know what I should do if she didn’t say that, now.
... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were
to.... But, there, thinking’s no good to anyone—is it, madam? Thinking
won’t help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up
sharp, “Now, then, Ellen. At it again—you silly girl! If you can’t find
anything better to do than to start thinking!...”