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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 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!..." |
