THE GARDEN PARTY MANSFIELD mm i in im i in Mm ■« i jii 1 IlLJPJlJfl WmmM IHH iiMH'l 1 fYl ■■ U vm irvi HI 1HBJ iili lin 1 1 fit. _ ■H €H -*L _M_ _■_ JL 1^-*- 11. ■H ^L^S 1 m II E$K~=^I 'l ^m^^™\. ill tf til: 1 IT\ ji nil l *— 'i lifflLj ■■i i m mum Bi 1ilJ& |ll Blli -»- m. liii tmm Is i 1 sfcSs 1 ^^ K^^^^^^^B 1 = Liol iSmmU u MM ILfJL B^^n^BB«» i . 1 r^ III III llKKHi i 1 1 j imtni 1 .1 imj THE MODERN LIBRARY OF THE WORLD'S BEST BOOK! THE GARDEN PARTY The publishers will be pleased to send, upon request, an illustrated folder setting forth the purpose and scope of THE modern library, and listing each volume in the series. Every reader of books will find titles he has been looking for, handsomely printed, in unabridged editions, and at an unusually low price. THE GARDEN PARTY BY KATHERINE MANS FI ELD MODERN LIBRARY NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. 4 Random House is the publisher of THE' MODERN LIBRARY BENNETT A. CERF • DONALD S. KLOPFER • ROBERT K. HAAS Manufactured ia the United States of America Printed by Parkway Printing Company Bound by H. Wolff PR TO JOHN MIDDLETON MURRY CONTENTS At the Bay i The Garden Party 59 The Daughters of the Late Colonel 83 Mr. and Mrs. Dove 116 The Young Girl 130 Life of Ma Parker 140 Marriage a la Mode 151 The Voyage 168 Miss Brill 182 Her First Ball 190 The Singing Lesson 201 The Stranger 211 Bank Holiday 231 An Ideal Family 237 The Lady's-maid 248 AT THE BAY VERY early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the pad- docks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the dark- ness, as though one immense wave had come rip- pling, rippling — how far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone again. . . . I At the Bay Ah-Aah ! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound of little streams flow- ing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else — what was it? — a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence that it seemed some one was listening. Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick- like legs trotted along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very ^oft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified 2 At the Bay paces by his master's side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa! Baaa !" For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then some- thing immense came into view; an enormous shock- haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubbs's shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of euca- lyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky — a bright, pure blue — was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glit- tering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket* fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, 3 At the Bay fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. "Baa ! Baaa 1" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy \ head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children . . . who lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Bur- nells' cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature !" said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, fling- ing out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the charred-looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep- 4 At the Bay dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa! Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway the soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled, and ran back agan disgusted. Then pushing, nudg- ing, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. II A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed like oil. Splish-splosh ! Splish-splosh ! The wa- ter bubbled round his legs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He'd beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and neck. "Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice came booming over the water. Great Scott 1 Damnation take it! Stanley lifted 5 At the Bay up to see a dark head bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout — there before him! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice. "Yes, very fine!" said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn't the fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, i swimming overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair 'sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. "I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he shouted. What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same — always some piffle about a dream he'd had, or some cranky idea he'd got hold of, or some rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then . . . "I dreamed I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below." You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stopped splashing. "Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm in rather a hurry this morning." "You're what?" Jonathan was so surprised — or pretended to be — that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. "All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to — to — to fool about. I want to get this over. I'm 6 At the Bay in a hurry. I've work to do this morning- see?" Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said the bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple. . . . But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated. Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in his determination to- make a job of everything. You couldn't help feel- ing he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he'd come ! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And now there came another. That was the way to live — carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, * wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way 7 At the Bay to it — that was what was needed. It was this ten- sion that was all wrong. To live — to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to whisper, "Why not?" But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long. Ill Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stan- ley appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff foliar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. "I've just got twenty-five minutes," he said. "You might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?" "Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea. "Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice, "you've forgotten the sugar." "Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the basin across. What did this 8 At the Bay mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and leaned back. "Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. "Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at Stanley. "Why should there be?" "O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather " At that moment the door opened and the threa little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray. "Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said good morning to your father?" "Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl. "Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. "Morning, mother! How's the boy?" "Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" The old woman 9 At the Bay paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. "You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has any one given my shoes to the servant girl?" "Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. "Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly. "Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was eating the banks away. But she did that every single morn- ing, and no one had said a word up till now. "Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How unfair grown-ups are! "But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't ( you, Lottie?" "I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food." Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. "Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, IO At the Bay Beryl, if you've finished, I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a minute — have you children been playing with my stick?" 1 "No, father!" "But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose. Look sharp ! The stick's got to be found." Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?" Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've made away with my stick, now!" "Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could not be real, Stanley de- cided. Would nobody sympathize with him? "Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate. Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye !" he cried. And he meant that as a punishment to her. He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the ' house, and swung down the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing had happened. The II At the Bay heartlessness of women ! The way they took it for granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his whip across the horses. "Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough to say good-bye ! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him! Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He's gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. "Gone?" "Gone!" Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She wanted, some- how, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was theirs. "No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that moment she tossed the boy up 12 At the Bay and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like chickens let out of a coop. Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless fashion. "Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too was a man and drowning was too good for them. IV "Wait for me, Isa-bel ! Kezia, wait for me!" There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on the first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide.; And when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair — then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice. "Wait for me!" "No, don't you wait for her, Kezia !" said Isabel. "She's such a little silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's jersey. ''You can use my bucket if you come with me," she 13 At the Bay said kindly. "It's bigger than yours." But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the face and breathing heavily. "Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia. "Where?" Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a moun- tain height. "Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the place. "Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot over. "Now — sort of turn round and sit down and slide," said Kezia. "But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said Lottie. She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began to beam. "I'm getting better at climbing over stiles, aren't I, Kezia?" Lottie's was a very hopeful nature. The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's bright red sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from behind, standing against the skyline, ges- ticulating largely with their spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool At the Bay and kept order with a whistle that she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she di- rected operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girls' necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a "brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out of bischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything began with a piercing* blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended with another. There were even prizes — large, rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and pinched one another's arms — they were all expert pinchers. The only time the Bur- nell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty button-hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a fuss. . . . But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties at the Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of something the lady-help called "Limonadear." And you went away in the evening with half the frill torn off your H At the Bay frock or something spilled all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Jo- sephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful. On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags was so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they were quite close. "Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discov- ered." And he showed them an old, wet, squashed- looking boot. The three little girls stared. "Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked Kezia. "Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful. "It's a find— see?" Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same . . . "There's lots of things buried in the sand," ex- plained Pip. "They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why — you might find " "But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?" asked Lottie. "Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip, "to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags." And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown like cocoa. "Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?'* 16 At the Bay said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. "Promise not to tell." They promised. "Say, cross my heart straight dinkum." The little girls said it. Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. "Now turn round!" he ordered. They turned round. "All look the same way! Keep still! Now!" And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green. "It's a nemeral," said Pip solemnly. "Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed. The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Aunt Beryl had a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as a star and far more beautiful. As the morning lengthened whole parties ap- peared over the sand-hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and cov- ered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; *7 At the Bay then the children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied they were safely in. The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn't follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scram- bled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again. 18 At the Bay "Here, mother, keep those for me, will you? 1 * Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs. Fairfield's lap. "Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe here?" "No-o," Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. "I'm undressing farther along. I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember." "Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs. Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. . . . "You look very pleased," said Mrs. Harry Kem- ber. She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. "It's such a lovely day," said Beryl, smiling down at her. "Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was long and nar- row and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long you could not understand why it 19 At the Bay did not fall. When she was not playing bridge — she played bridge every day of her life — she spent her time lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence about her house and called the servant Gladys "Glad-eyes," was disgrace- ful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent, tired voice, "I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I've got one, will you?" And Glad-eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her hus- band. . . . Here the voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, but even then! Mrs. Kember' s husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illus- tration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a 20 At the Bay man walking in his sleep. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a word out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply couldn't be told. The women he'd been seen with, the places, he'd been seen in . . . but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day. Yes, even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but cold, bloody, and still with a cigar- ette stuck in the corner of her mouth. Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders. "Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are!" "Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the other, she felt a little beauty. "My dear — why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own petticoat. Really — her underclothes ! A pair of blue cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case. . . . "And you don't wear stays, do you?" She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprang away with a small affected cry. Then "Never!" she said firmly. 21 > At the Bay "Lucky little creature," sighed Mrs. Kember, un- fastening her own. Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress all at one and the same time. "Oh, my dear — don't mind me," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why be shy? I shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other ninnies." And she gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs. Harry Kem- ber made her feel it was silly, even something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laugh- ing recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. "That's better," said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down the beach together. "Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody's got to tell you some day." The water was quite warm. It was that marvel- lous transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now the waves just reached her breast. Beryl 22 At the Bay stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. "I believe in pretty girls having a good time," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why not? Dcn't you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself." And suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how horrible I As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husand. VI In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did noth- ing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower dropped on her. Pretty — yes, if you held one of those flowers on the palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a 23 At the Bay loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught in one's hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble — or the joy — to make all these things that are wasted, wasted. ... It was uncanny. On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had the garden to her- self ; she was alone. Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden- eyed marigolds glittered; the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get over the sense of novelty and strange- ness, time to know them! But as soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a wind and she was seized and shaken; she had to 24 At the Bay go. Oh dear, would it always be so? Was there no escape? . . . Now she sat on the veranda of their Tas- manian home, leaning against her father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you and I are old enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys together. I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China." Linda saw that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they called . . . "Yes, papa." But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda's father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. "Linny's beau," he whispered. "Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Bur- nett!" Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not the Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, sensi- tive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed in people — as he believed in her, for instance — it was with his whole heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how terribly he suffered if he thought any one — she — was not being dead straight, dead sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!" 25 At the Bay He flung out the words, but his open, quivering, dis- traught look was like the look of a trapped beast. But the trouble was — here Linda felt almost in- clined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no laughing matter — she saw her Stanley so seldom. There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the dread of having children. Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life ; that was what she could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one, could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the little girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and through on each of those awful jour- 26 At the Bay neys; she had no warmth left to give them. As to the boy — well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he was mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay there . . . Linda glanced down. The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peep- ing at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. "I'm here!" that happy smile seemed to say. "Why don't you like me?" There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that Linda smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "I don't like babies." "Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't believe her. "Don't like me?" He waved his arms fool- ishly at his mother. Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. "Why do you keep on smiling?" she said severely. "If you knew what I was thinking about, you wouldn't." But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the pillow. He didn't believe a word she said. "We know all about that!" smiled the boy. Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this 87 At the Bay little creature. . . . Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far different, it was something so new, so . . . The tears danced in her eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny!" But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a tremendous effort and rolled right over. VII The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it bleached the pink con- volvulus that threaded through and through the sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. Pit-pit-pit! They were never still. Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Looking down, bending 28 At the Bay over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behind those houses — the ra- vines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and fearful tracks that led to the water's edge. Underneath waved the sea-forest — pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature wavered by and was lost. Something was happen- ing to the pink, waving trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded the faintest "plop." Who made that sound? What was going on down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun. . . . The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels. Each back window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered in a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dog Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional desperate-sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along. "What are you looking at, my grandma? Why 29 At the Bay do you keep stopping and sort of staring at the wall?" Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma's bed, and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressed so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and another even more special which she had thought would make a very nice place for a watch to curl up in. "Tell me, grandma," said Kezia. The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through. She was casting on. "I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling," she said quietly. "My Australian Uncle William?" said Kezia. She had another. 30 At the Bay "Yes, of course." "The one I never saw?" "That was the one." "Well, what happened to him?" Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted to be told again. "He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died," said old Mrs. Fairfield. Kezia blinked and considered the picture again ... a little man fallen over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. "Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?" She hated her grandma to be sad. It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight. Did it make her sad? No, life was like that. "No, Kezia." "But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things in the air. "Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn't old." Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. "It just happened," she said in an absorbed voice. "Does everybody have to die?" asked Kezia. "Everybody!" "Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. "Some day, my darling." "But, grandma." Kezia waved her left leg and 3