The Garden Party and Other Stories - Katherine Mansfield [74]
‘But, my darling, if you love me,’ thought Miss Meadows, ‘I don’t mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like.’ But she knew he didn’t love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word ‘disgust,’ so that she couldn’t read it! Soon Autumn yields undo Winter Drear. She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. Passes away. The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper… to vanish…
Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows.
‘Well, Monica, what is it?’
‘Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,’ said the little girl, gasping, ‘Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, ‘I shall put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.’ But they were too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.
The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace tie. ‘Sit down, Miss Meadows,’ she said very kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. ‘I sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you.’
‘A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?’
Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. ‘I hope it’s not bad news,’ she said, no more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.
‘Pay no attention to letter must have been mad bought hat-stand today Basil,’ she: read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram.
‘I do hope it’s nothing very serious,’ said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.
‘Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,’ blushed Miss Meadows. ‘It’s nothing bad at all. It’s’ – and she gave an apologetic little laugh – ‘it’s from my fiancé saying that… saying that – ’ There was a pause. ‘I see,’ said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then – ‘You’ve fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss Wyatt.’ She got up. She half ran towards the door.
‘Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,’ said Miss Wyatt. ‘I must say I don’t approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death,’ explained Miss Wyatt, ‘or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know.’
On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.
‘Page thirty-two, Mary,’ she said, ‘page thirty-two,’ and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: ‘Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two.’
We some here To-day with Flowers o’erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-co Congratulate…
‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Miss Meadows. ‘This is awful. This is dreadful.’ And she beamed at her girls. ‘What’s the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you’re singing. Use your imaginations. With Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot. And Congratulate.’ Miss Meadows broke off. ‘Don’t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. Congratulate. Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!’
And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other voices – full, deep, glowing with expression.
The Stranger
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern.