The Garden Party - Katherine Mansfield (the beach read .txt) 📗

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 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 any one—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!…”