The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield (read e book .TXT) 📖

of one blessed thing in his favour, while she…Ah!…He stopped dead, folded his arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers.

And in spite of her position, her father’s wealth, the fact that she was an only child and far and away the most popular girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her cleverness—cleverness!—it was a great deal more than that, there was really nothing she couldn’t do; he fully believed, had it been necessary, she would have been a genius at anything— in spite of the fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they’d as soon let her go all that way as…In spite of every single thing you could think of, so terrific was his love that he couldn’t help hoping. Well, was it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of looking after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn’t perfect—just love? How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and murmured to it, “I love her, I love her!” And just for the moment he was with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep. Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear like a baby’s, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. Then she woke up and said, “Have I been asleep?” and he answered, “Yes. Are you all right? Here, let me—” And he leaned forward to…He bent over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, “Well, I can only try my luck, that’s all.”

But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately. Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater and all that. She—she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had been moments, many of them, in Reggie’s life, before Uncle Alick died and left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow’s only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She wasn’t only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and the governor’s relations before Reggie had won his first trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, “Dear, what is Life but Love?” his only vision was of the mater, tall and stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at her heels…

The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie.

“You are not going out, Reginald?” she asked, seeing that he was.

“I’ll be back for tea, mater,” said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands into his jacket pockets.

Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped.

“I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last afternoon,” said she.

Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater’s. Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny’s porcelain eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little beggars; they were getting it!

“And where are you going, if your mother may ask?” asked the mater.

It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor’s. Then only he noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!—another drummed on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel Proctor’s—here it was already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. He’d meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can’t be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, and started it pealing wildly, as if he’d come to say the house was on fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the big room, shadowy, with some one’s parasol lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up—or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at the dentist’s; he was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself saying, “Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me…” That pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, “I’m so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting. There’s only me to entertain you, Reggie.”

Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered out, “As a matter of fact, I’ve only come…to say good-bye.”

“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her grey eyes danced—“what a very short visit!”

Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “to be laughing like this. I don’t know why I do. It’s just a bad ha—habit.” And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. “I really must conquer it, it’s too absurd,” said she.

“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I can’t imagine anything more—”

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing; it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far as he was concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing.

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn’t herself know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal sounded, even while she cried, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.” It was a mystery…

Now she tucked the handkerchief away.

“Do sit down,” said she. “And smoke, won’t you? There are cigarettes in that little box beside you. I’ll have one too.” He lighted a match for her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl ring she wore. “It is to-morrow that you’re going, isn’t it?” said Anne.

“Yes, to-morrow as ever was,” said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn’t the word for it.

“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he added.

“Yes—isn’t it?” said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so small in that immense chair. Reginald’s heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. “I feel you’ve been here for years,” she said.

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this idea of going back,” be said.

“Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo,” sounded from the quiet.

“But you’re fond of being out there, aren’t you?” said Anne. She hooked her finger through her pearl necklace. “Father was saying only the other night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.” And she looked up at him. Reginald’s smile was rather wan. “I don’t feel fearfully lucky,” he said lightly.

“Roo-coo-coo-coo,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You mean it’s lonely.”

“Oh, it isn’t the loneliness I care about,” said Reginald, and he stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. “I could stand any amount of it, used to like it even. It’s the idea of—” Suddenly, to his horror, he felt himself blushing.

“Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!”

Anne jumped up. “Come and say good-bye to my doves,” she said. “They’ve been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don’t you, Reggie?”

“Awfully,” said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves instead.

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly bowing and bowing. “You see,” explained Anne, “the one in front, she’s Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laugh again. Away she runs, and after her,” cried Anne, and she sat back on her heels, “comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing…and that’s their whole life. They never do anything else, you know.” She got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. “When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what they will be doing…”

Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. “Anne, do you think you could ever care for me?” It was done. It was over. And in the little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured slowly, “No, never in that way.”