The Garden Party - Katherine Mansfield (the beach read .txt) š
- Author: Katherine Mansfield
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āYouāre tired again,ā said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked his beard, Marionās lips brushed his ear.
āDid you walk back, father?ā asked Charlotte.
āYes, I walked home,ā said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs.
āBut why didnāt you take a cab?ā said Ethel. āThere are hundred of cabs about at that time.ā
āMy dear Ethel,ā cried Marion, āif father prefers to tire himself out, I really donāt see what business of ours it is to interfere.ā
āChildren, children?ā coaxed Charlotte.
But Marion wouldnāt be stopped. āNo, mother, you spoil father, and itās not right. You ought to be stricter with him. Heās very naughty.ā She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she saidāeven if it was only āJam, please, fatherāāit rang out as though she were on the stage.
āDid Harold leave the office before you, dear?ā asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again.
āIām not sure,ā said Old Mr. Neave. āIām not sure. I didnāt see him after four oāclock.ā
āHe saidāā began Charlotte.
But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.
āThere, you see,ā she cried. āThatās what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Donāt you agree?ā
āGive it to me, love,ā said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. āVery sweet!ā she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. āBut I shouldnāt have the train.ā
āNot the train!ā wailed Ethel tragically. āBut the trainās the whole point.ā
āHere, mother, let me decide.ā Marion snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. āI agree with mother,ā she cried triumphantly. āThe train overweights it.ā
Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. They were tooā¦tooā¦But all his drowsing brain could think of wasātoo rich for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he?
āI shanāt dress to-night,ā he muttered.
āWhat do you say, father?ā
āEh, what, what?ā Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at them. āI shanāt dress to-night,ā he repeated.
āBut, father, weāve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker.ā
āIt will look so very out of the picture.ā
āDonāt you feel well, dear?ā
āYou neednāt make any effort. What is Charles for?ā
āBut if youāre really not up to it,ā Charlotte wavered.
āVery well! Very well!ā Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-roomā¦
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, āDress him up, Charles!ā And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie.
Hām, hām! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasantā 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 Marionās voice ring out, āGood for you, partnerā¦Oh, played, partnerā¦Oh, very nice indeed.ā Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, āWhere is Harold?ā And Ethel, āHeās certainly not here, mother.ā And Charlotteās vague, āHe saidāā
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.
āThat will do, my lad.ā The door shut, he sank back, he was aloneā¦
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 spiderāsāthin, withered.
āYouāre an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.ā
But if that were true, why didnāt 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. Heād been forgotten. What had all this to do with himāthis house and Charlotte, the girls and Haroldāwhat did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife!
ā¦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, āGood-bye, my treasure.ā
My treasure! āGood-bye, my treasure!ā 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, āDinner is on the table, sir!ā
āIām coming, Iām coming,ā said old Mr. Neave.
15. THE LADYāS MAID.
Eleven oāclock. A knock at the doorā¦I hope I havenāt disturbed you, madam. You werenāt asleepāwere you? But Iāve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhapsā¦
ā¦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, āNow you neednāt be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers.ā But itās always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and theyāve all got to be prayed forāevery 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, āEllen, give me my little red book,ā I feel quite wild, I do. āThereās another,ā I think, ākeeping her out of her bed in all weathers.ā And she wonāt 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. Iāve tried to cheat her; Iāve spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did itāoh, she gave me such a lookāholy it was, madam. āDid our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?ā she said. ButāI was younger at the timeāI felt inclined to say, āNo, but our Lord wasnāt your age, and he didnāt know what it was to have your lumbago.ā Wickedāwasnāt it? But sheās too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seenāsaw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillowāso prettyāI couldnāt help thinking, āNow you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!ā
ā¦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, āNow, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.ā
ā¦Only the last year, madam. Only after sheād got a littleāwellāfeeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her wasāshe thought sheād lost something. She couldnāt keep still, she couldnāt settle. All day long sheād be up and down, up and down; youād meet her everywhere,āon the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And sheād look up at you, and sheād sayājust like a child, āIāve lost it, Iāve lost it.ā āCome along,ā Iād say, ācome along, and Iāll lay out your patience for you.ā But sheād catch me by the handāI was a favourite of hersāand whisper, āFind it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.ā Sad, wasnāt it?
ā¦No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said wasāvery slow, āLook inātheāLookāināā And then she was gone.
ā¦No, madam, I canāt say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, itās like this, Iāve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresserās shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my dollās hairācopying 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 Iād sit all day, quiet as quietāthe customers never knew. Only now and again Iād take my peep from under the tablecloth.
ā¦But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors andāwould 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 tongsāI shall never forget itāgrabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. āThatāll teach you!ā he said. It was a fearful burn. Iāve got the mark of it to-day.
ā¦Well, you see, madam, heād taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautifulābig, 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 doneā¦But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright Iād made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round
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