Chapter: <CHAPTER>
15. 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!... "

</CHAPTER>

 Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door . Ellen, the household maid, enters the room of her Lady's guest, who she calls "madam. " Ellen asks if madam would like a cup of tea and nonchalantly begins the one-sided conversation that makes up the story of "The Lady's Maid." Unprompted Ellen tells madam that she always makes a cup of tea for her Lady each night before bed. Her Lady is a devote woman whose spends each night on her knees praying. She stubbornly refuses to use a cushion, despite her lumbago pain, and her tea is usually served cold. Ellen had just come from tucking her Lady into bed and told the madam that when she looked upon her Lady's peaceful face she remembered how her Lady's mother had looked in her coffin. Ellen had done up her Lady's mother's hair and had placed purple pansies by her neck and thought she was the sweetest looking corpse. "Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference" . Her Lady's mother had taken ill the previous year. She had been elderly and had started to lose her memory. Ellen often found her wandering the house looking for something she that she could never find. She died of a stroke. Ellen pauses to listen to madam's question and replies that she has no family, her mother died of consumption when Ellen was four. Her grandfather had taken her in at first. He worked in a hairdresser's shop and Ellen would sit under the table and do her doll's hair while her grandfather worked. Her grandfather took special pride in Ellen's hair and was devastated when young Ellen cut it all off. He burned her fingers with red hot tongs from the fireplace as a punishment and Ellen, frightened of her grandfather's raging temper, ran away. She lived with her disabled Aunt, the upholsterer, for a time before her Lady found her and took her into service. Her Lady dressed Ellen in collars and cuffs to signify her station as a maid. One day, when Ellen was about thirteen, she was asked to take her lady's nieces to ride the donkeys at a nearby fair. Ellen wanted desperately to ride the donkeys too but knew it would be inappropriate. Instead she watched her Lady's nieces as they rode the donkeys. Later that night in bed, when the rest of the house slept, Ellen cried out "I do want a donkey-ride" while everyone else slept. Answering a question by madam, Ellen replies that she had thought of marrying at one time. She had a fiance named Harry when she was younger who owned a flower shop. Ellen dreamed of making a home for them in the little apartment above the shop where she would decorate the window that overlooked the street from their apartment. She had fantasized about decorating that window for holidays with seasonal flower arrangements but stopped herself from saying too much. Ellen had ended the relationship not long before she and Harry were to be married. She felt guilty for wanting to leave her Lady and thought no one else could take care of her properly. One day, Ellen noticed her lady was not her usual self and had a pinched look about her nose. Watching her Lady in the mirror as Ellen cleaned, she asked several times if her Lady wanted Ellen to postpone the wedding which was quickly approaching. Each time Ellen asked, her Lady said no but Ellen watched her in the mirror and when her Lady bent to pick up a fallen handkerchief, Ellen rushed over to her and picked it up. Ellen was very upset to see her Lady so distressed and it broke her heart when her Lady said she would have to learn how to pick up her own handkerchief now that Ellen was leaving. Ellen ended her engagement to Harry later that same day. Harry came to the door and she gave him her engagement ring, the letters he had written her, and a charm that she adored. Ellen told him she could not leave her Lady and shut the door on him. When she opened it a few moments later, Ellen was surprised to see that Harry was gone. She ran down the street looking for him but stopped short, standing there in her apron and house-shoes and said to madman "people must have laughed if they saw me" . The sound of a clock striking the new hour alerted Ellen to the time. She tucked the madam into bed just as she would her Lady and said she did not know what she would do if something were to happen to her Lady. She chides herself for her thoughts and said "...-you silly girl! If you can't find anything better to do than to start thinking!"

