The Garden Party and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield - HTML preview

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