A GARDEN-PARTY
Waymark received with astonishment Maud's letter from Paris. He had
seen her only two days before, and their conversation had been of the
ordinary kind; Maud had given him no hint of her purpose, not even when
he spoke to her of the coming holiday season, and the necessity of her
having a change. She confessed she was not well. Sometimes, when they
had both sat for some minutes in silence, she would raise her eyes and
meet his gaze steadily, seeming to search for something. Waymark could
not face this look; it drove him to break the suspense by any kind of
remark on an indifferent subject. He remembered now that she had gazed
at him in that way persistently on the last evening that they were
together. When he was saying good-bye, and as he bent to kiss her, she
held him back for a moment, and seemed to wish to say something.
Doubtless she had been on the point of telling him that she was going
away; but she let him leave in silence.
It was not a long letter that she wrote; she merely said that change
had become indispensable to body and soul, and that it had seemed best
to make it suddenly.
"I hope," she wrote in conclusion, "that you will see my father as
often as you can; he is very much in need of friendly company, and I
should like you to be able to send me news of him. Do not fear for me;
I feel already better. I am always with you in spirit, and in the
spirit I love you; God help me to keep my love pure!"
Waymark put away the letter carelessly; the first sensation of surprise
over, he did not even care to speculate on the reasons which had led
Maud to leave home. It was but seldom now that his thoughts busied
themselves with Maud; the unreal importance which she had for a time
assumed in his life was only a recollection; her very face was
ghostlike in his mind's eye, dim, always vanishing. If the news of her
departure from England moved him at all, it was with a slight sense of
satisfaction; it would be so much easier to write letters to her than
to speak face to face. Yet, in the days that followed, the ghostlike
countenance hovered more persistently before him than was its wont;
there was a far-off pleading in its look, and sometimes that shadow of
reproach which our uneasy conscience will cast upon the faces of those
we have wronged. This passed, however, and another image, one which had
ever grown in clearness and persistency of presentment in proportion as
Maud's faded away, glided before him in the hours of summer sunlight,
and shone forth with the beauty of a rising star against the clouded
heaven of his dreams.
Waymark's mood was bitter, but, in spite of himself, it was no longer
cynical. He could not indulge himself in that pessimistic scepticism
which had aided him in bearing his poverty, and the restless craving of
sense and spirit which had accompanied it. His enthusiasm for art was
falling away; as a faith it had failed him in his hour of need. In its
stead another faith had come to him, a faith which he felt to be
all-powerful, and the sole stay of a man's life amid the shifting
shadows of intellectual creeds. And it had been revealed too late. Led
by perverse motives, now no longer intelligible, he had reached a goal
of mere frustration; between him and the true end of his being there
was a great gulf fixed.
To Ida, in the meanwhile, these weeks of early summer were bringing
health of body and cheerfulness of mind. She spent very much of her
time in the open air. Whenever it was possible she and Miss Hurst took
their books out into the garden, and let the shadows of the rose-bushes
mark the hours for them. Ida's natural vigour throve on the
strength-giving properties of sun and breeze the last traces of
unwholesome pallor passed from her face, and exercise sent her home
flushed like the dawn.
One afternoon she went to sit with her grandfather on a bench beneath
an apple-tree. The old man had his pipe and a newspaper. Ida was quiet,
and glancing at her presently, Abraham found her eyes fixed upon him.
"Grandfather," she said, in her gentlest voice, "will you let me give a
garden-party some day next week?"
"A party?" Mr. Woodstock raised his brows in astonishment. "Who are you
going to invite?"
"You'll think it a strange notion.--I wonder whether I can make it seem
as delightful to you as it does to me. Suppose we went to those houses
of yours, and got together as many poor little girls as we could, and
brought them all here to spend an afternoon in the garden. Think what
an unheard-of thing it would be to them! And then we would give them
some tea, and take them back again before dark."
The proposal filled Mr. Woodstock with dismay, and the habitual
hardness of his face suggested a displeasure he did not in reality feel.
"As you say, it's a strange notion," he remarked, smiling very
slightly. "I don't know why you shouldn't have your own way, Ida,
but--it'll cost you a good deal of trouble, you know."
"You are mistaking me, grandfather. You think this a curious whim I
have got into my head, and your kindness would tempt you to let me do a
silly thing just for the sake of having my way. It is no foolish fancy.
It's not for my sake, but for the children's."
Her eyes were aglow with earnestness, and her voice trembled.
"Do you think they'd care for it?" asked her grandfather, impressed by
something in her which he had never seen before.
"Care for it!--Imagine a poor little thing that has been born in a
wretched, poverty-stricken, disorderly home, a home that is no home,
and growing up with no knowledge of anything but those four hateful
walls and the street outside. No toys, no treats, no change of air;
playing in the gutter, never seeing a beautiful thing, never hearing of
the pleasures which rich people's children would pine and die without
And a child for all that."
Mr. Woodstock cleared his throat and smoothed the newspaper upon his
knee.
"How will you get them here, Ida?"
"Oh, leave that to me! Let us choose a day; wouldn't Saturday be best!
I will go there myself, and pick out the children, and get their
mothers to promise to have them ready. Then I'll arrange to have one of
those carts you see at Sunday-school treats. Why, the ride here, that
alone! And you'll let me have tea for them,--just bread and butter and
a bun,--it will cost not half as much as my new dress this week, not
_half_ as much--"
"Come, come, I can't stand this!" growled out Abraham, getting up from
the seat. "I'd _give_ them the garden, for good and all, rather than
see you like that. Say Saturday, if it's fine; if not, Monday, or when
you like."
On the following morning the details were arranged, and the next day
Ida went to Litany Lane. She preferred to go alone, and on this errand
Mr. Woodstock would have found a difficulty in accompanying her. Ida
knew exactly the nature of the task she had taken in hand, and found it
easier than it would have been to the ordinary young lady. She jotted
down the names of some twenty little girls, selecting such as were
between the ages of eight and twelve, and obtained promises that all
should be ready at a fixed hour next Saturday. She met with doubts and
objections and difficulties enough, but only failed in one or two
instances. Then followed fresh talks with her grandfather, and all the
details were arranged.
There was rain on the Thursday and Friday, but when Ida drew up her
blind at six o'clock on Saturday morning, the sky gave promise of good
things. She was walking in the garden long before breakfast-time, and
gladdened to rapture as she watched the sun gain power, till it
streamed gloriously athwart cloudless blue. By one o'clock she was at
the end of Litany Lane, where the cart with long seats was already
waiting; its arrival had become known to the little ones, and very few
needed summoning. Of course there were disappointments now and again.
In spite of mothers' promises, half the children had their usual dirty
faces, and showed no sign of any preparation. Five or six of them had
nothing to put on their heads; two had bare feet. It was too late to
see to these things now; as they were, the children clambered, or were
lifted, on to the cart, and Ida took her seat among them. Then a crack
of the driver's whip, and amid the shouts of envious brothers and
sisters, and before the wondering stare of the rest of the population,
off they drove away.
"Who'd like an apple?" Ida asked, as soon as they were well clear of
the narrow streets. There was a general scream of delight, and from a
hamper by her side she brought out apples and distributed them. Only
for a minute or two had there been anything like shyness in Ida's
presence; she knew how to talk and behave to these poor little waifs.
Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to their chatter among
themselves, and recognised so many a fragment of her own past life. One
child, who sat close by her, had been spending the morning in washing
vegetables for the Saturday-night market. Did not that call to mind
something?--so far off; so far, yet nearer to her than many things
which had intervened. How they all laughed, as the big, black houses
gave way to brighter streets, and these again began to open upon
glimpses of field or garden! Not one of them had the slightest
conception of whither they were being taken, or what was to happen to
them at length. But they had confidence in "the lady." She was a
sorceress in their eyes; what limit could there be to her powers?
Something good and joyous awaited them; that was all they knew or
cared; leagues of happiness, stretching away to the remote limits of
the day's glory; a present rapture beyond knowledge, and a memory for
ever.
Mr. Woodstock stood within the gate of the garden, his hands in his
pockets, and as the vehicle came in sight he drew just a little back.
They streamed along the carriage-drive, and in a minute or two were all
clustered upon the lawn behind the house. What was expected of them?
Had an angel taken them by te hand and led them straight from Litany
Lane through the portals of paradise, they could not have been more
awed and bewildered. Trees and rose-bushes, turf and beds of flowers,
seats in the shade, skipping-ropes thrown about on the open--and there,
hark, a hand-organ, a better one than ever they danced to on the
pavement, striking up to make them merry. That was the happiest
thought! It was something not too unfamiliar; the one joyful thing of
which they had experience meeting them here to smooth over the first
introduction to a new world. Ida knew it well, the effect of that
organ; had it not lightened her heart many and many a time in the
by-gone darkness? Two of the girls had caught each other by the waist
at the first sounds. Might they? Would "the lady" like it?
Miss Hurst had come out as soon as the music began, and Ida ran to talk
with her. There was whispering between them, and pointing to one and
another of the children, and then the governess, with a pleased face,
disappeared again. She was away some time, but on her return two of the
children were called into the house. Bare-footed they went in, but came
forth again with shoes and stockings on, hardly able to comprehend what
had happened to them. Then were summoned those who had nothing on their
heads, and to each of these a straw hat was given, a less wonderful
possession than the shoes and stockings, but a source of gladness and
pride.
In the meantime, however, marvels had accumulated on the lawn. Whilst
yet the organ was playing, there appeared two men, one of them carrying
a big drum, the other hidden under a Punch and Judy show. Of a sudden
there sounded a shrill note, high above the organ, a fluting from the
bottom to the top of the gamut, the immemorial summons to children, the
overture to the primitive drama. It was drowned in a scream of welcome,
which, in its turn, was outdone by thunderous peals upon the drum.
Mr. Woodstock said little during the whole afternoon. Perhaps he
thought the more.
Tables had been fixed in one part of the garden, and as the drama of
Punch drew to an end, its interest found a serious rival in the
spectacle of piled plates of cake. But there was to intervene nearly
half-an-hour before the tea-urns were ready to make an appearance. The
skipping-ropes came into requisition outside, but in the house was
proceeding simultaneously a rather more serious pastime, which fell to
Ida's share to carry out. Choosing the little girl whose face was the
dirtiest and hair the untidiest of any she could see, she led her
gently away to a place where a good bowl of warm water and plenty of
soap were at hand, and, with the air of bestowing the greatest kindness
of all, fell to work to such purpose that in a few minutes the child
went back to the garden a resplendent being, positively clean and kempt
for the first time in her life.
"I know you'll feel uncomfortable for a little, dear," Ida said,
dismissing the astonished maiden with a kiss, "but the strangeness will
wear off; and you'll see how much nicer it is."
One after another, all were dealt with in this way, presently with a
good-natured servant-girl's assistance, as time pressed. The result was
that a transformed company sat down to tea. The feeling wore off, as
Ida said, but at first cleanliness meant positive discomfort, taking
the form of loss of identity and difficulty of mutual recognition. They
looked at their hands, and were amazed at the whiteness that had come
upon them; they kept feeling their faces and their ordered hair. But
the appetite of one and all was improved by the process.
"How I wish Mr. Waymark was here!" Ida said to her grandfather, as they
stood together, watching the feast. "He would enjoy it. We must give
him a full account to-morrow, mustn't we?"
"I forgot," replied the other. "I had a note from him this morning,
saying he thought he shouldn't be able to come."
The first shadow of disappointment which this day had brought fell upon
the girl's countenance. She made no reply, and presently went to help
one or the youngest children, who had spilt her tea and was in evident
distress.
After tea the organ struck up again, and again there was dancing on the
lawn. Then a gathering of flowers by Ida and Miss Hurst, and one given
to each of the children, with injunctions to put it in water on
reaching home, and keep it as long as possible in memory of the day.
Already the sun was westering, and Litany Lane must be reached before
dusk.
"Poor children!" Ida sighed to herself. "If they had but homes to go
to!" And added, in her thought, "We shall see, we shall see!"
Every bit as joyous as the ride out was the return to town. With
foresight, Ida made the two youngest sit on each side of her; soon the
little heads were drooping in her lap, subdued by the very weariness of
bliss. Miss Hurst had offered to accompany Ida, that she might not have
to come back alone, but Ida wanted her friends all to herself, and was
rewarded by the familiarity with which they gossipped to her all the
way.
"Hands up, all those who _haven't_ enjoyed themselves!" she exclaimed,
just as they were entering the noisy streets.
There was a moment's doubt, then a burst of merry laughter.
"Hands up, all those who would like to come again!"
All held up both arms--except the two children who were asleep.
"Well, you've all been good, and I'm very pleased with you, and you
_shall_ come again!"
It was the culmination of the day's delight. For the first time in
their lives the children of Litany Lane and Elm Court had something to
look forward to.