Chapter: <CHAPTER>
2. THE GARDEN PARTY.

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more
perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm,
the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light
gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since
dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark
flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for
the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are
the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers
that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds,
had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though
they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave
everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me
as an honoured guest."

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed
her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green
turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly,
always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."

Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's so
delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she
loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much
better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden
path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big
tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now
that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put
it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to
look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded
so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little
girl, "Oh--er--have you come--is it about the marquee?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled
fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and
smiled down at her. "That's about it."

His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes
he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others,
they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed
to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She
mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the
bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little
fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a
thing like a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want
to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you
follow me."

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite
respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she
did quite follow him.

"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to
be in one corner."

"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen.
He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the
tennis-court. What was he thinking?

"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so
much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there.
That'll do fine."

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they
were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters
of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert
island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a
kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making
for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a
sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed
up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the
karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that--caring for
the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such
a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why
couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she
danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much
better with men like these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on
the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to
hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't
feel them. Not a bit, not an atom... And now there came the chock-chock
of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right
there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to prove
how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt,
and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her
bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like
a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the
house.

"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps,
across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and
Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.

"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at
my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing."

"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at
Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties,
don't you?" gasped Laura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister
too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to
lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch
meal--just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's
left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly
should. One moment--hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat
back. "What, mother? Can't hear."

Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that
sweet hat she had on last Sunday."

"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good.
One o'clock. Bye-bye."

Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep
breath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment
after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the
doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft,
quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the
kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there
came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved
on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air
always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops
of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of
sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too.
Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite
warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's
print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered,
careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.

"It's the florist, Miss Laura."

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray
full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies--canna
lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive
on bright crimson stems.

"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She
crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt
they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.

"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many.
Sadie, go and find mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they
lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and
I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I
shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie
had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put
her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her
mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't
do that. Here's the man."

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.

"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch,
please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, I do, mother."

In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded
in moving the piano.

"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything
out of the room except the chairs, don't you think?"

"Quite."

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper
to take these marks off the carpet and--one moment, Hans--" Jose loved
giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always
made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and
Miss Laura to come here at once.

"Very good, Miss Jose."

She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just
in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is
Weary.'"

Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that
Jose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and
enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.

     "This Life is Wee-ary,
      A Tear--a Sigh.
      A Love that Chan-ges,
        This Life is Wee-ary,
      A Tear--a Sigh.
      A Love that Chan-ges,
      And then... Good-bye!"

But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more
desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully
unsympathetic smile.

"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.

     "This Life is Wee-ary,
      Hope comes to Die.
      A Dream--a Wa-kening."

But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"

"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the
sandwiches?"

"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily.
And the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me
see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in
ten minutes."

Sadie went.

"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the
smoking-room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope.
You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and
take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this
instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father
when he comes home to-night? And--and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go
into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how
it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I
remember vividly--cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"

"Yes."

"Egg and--" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks
like mice. It can't be mice, can it?"

"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.

"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and
olive."

They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She
found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.

"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous
voice. "How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jose."

"Well, cook, I congratulate you."

Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly.

"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had
seen the man pass the window.

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their
cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook.

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and
Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the
same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive.
Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura.

"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried
back. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say."

"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma
won't know."

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea
made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were
licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes
from whipped cream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I
want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such
awfully nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand
clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was
screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be
enjoying himself; it was his story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his
very nose.

"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of
course, she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of
Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke
Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head.
Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They
were taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook,
"He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged
her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There
she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however
are we going to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you
mean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura,
don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody
expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside
the front gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to
themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house.
A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were
the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that
neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a
chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage
stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their
chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so
unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans'
chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and
a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages.
Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to
set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might
catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls
sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came
out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see
everything. So through they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,"
said Laura.

"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to
stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a
very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just
as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she
used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a
drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly.

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She
said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going
straight up to tell mother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose.

"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass
door-knob.

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a
colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was
trying on a new hat.

"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and
took off the big hat and held it on her knees.

"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told
the dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she
pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother;
they're nearly neighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder
to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've
heard of it. If some one had died there normally--and I can't understand
how they keep alive in those poky little holes--we should still be
having our party, shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat
down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.

"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat.
Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her
mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for
me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And
she held up her hand-mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she
turned aside.

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.

"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that
don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil
everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room
into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw
was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with
gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she
could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she
hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was
extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor
woman and those little children, and the body being carried into
the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the
newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided.
And somehow that seemed quite the best plan...

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready
for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a
corner of the tennis-court.

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for
words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor
in the middle on a leaf."

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him
Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie
agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she
followed him into the hall.

"Laurie!"

"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw
Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her.
"My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely
topping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him
after all.

Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the
hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked
there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving
on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the
Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to--where? Ah,
what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press
hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

"Darling Laura, how well you look!"

"What a becoming hat, child!"

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking."

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have
an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to
her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something
to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its
petals closed.

"Never a more delightful garden-party... " "The greatest success... "
"Quite the most... "

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in
the porch till it was all over.

"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the
others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes,
it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why
will you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat
down in the deserted marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."

"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took
another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened
to-day?" he said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly
ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off."

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it.

"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap
was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and
half a dozen kiddies, so they say."

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup.
Really, it was very tactless of father...

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches,
cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her
brilliant ideas.

"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor
creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the
greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to
have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready
prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the
stairs cupboard."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take
scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you
were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now--"

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her
mother.

"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No,
wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by
arum lilies."

"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.

So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"--her
mother followed her out of the marquee--"don't on any account--"

"What mother?"

No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run
along."

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog
ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the
hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after
the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man
lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped
a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons,
laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no
room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and
all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party."

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in
shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the
children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little
cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow,
crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on.
She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the
big hat with the velvet streamer--if only it was another hat! Were the
people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she
knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people
stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a
chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as
Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as
though they had known she was coming here.

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder,
she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the
woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she
walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes,
or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll
just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to
be emptied.

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered,
"Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in the passage.

"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this
basket. Mother sent--"

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her.
"Step this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura
followed her.

She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky
lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire.

"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young
lady." She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss.
You'll excuse 'er, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I--I
only want to leave--"

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed
up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed
as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean?
Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it
all about? And the poor face puckered up again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."

And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face,
swollen too, tried an oily smile.

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage.
The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the
dead man was lying.

"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she
brushed past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"--and now
her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet--"'e
looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.

There lay a young man, fast asleep--sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that
he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was
dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his
eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given
up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks
matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful,
beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing,
this marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy... All is well, said that
sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room
without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.

"Forgive my hat," she said.

And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of
the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of
the lane she met Laurie.

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Yes."

"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"

"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him.

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.

Laura shook her head. She was.

Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm,
loving voice. "Was it awful?"

"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie--" She
stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't
life--" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite
understood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.




</CHAPTER>

 "They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden party if they had ordered it " . Warm, windless, without a cloud in the sky, the Sheridan's garden party was expected to be a great success. Still at breakfast, Laura, Meg, Jose Sheridan and their mother sat discussing arrangements for the party. Mrs. Sheridan declared she was not going to make a single decision, an unfortunate announcement as the workmen had just arrived at the front gate to put up the marquee. Meg could not go outside to speak to them because her hair was wet. Jose was not dressed. Laura was nominated and she practically flew out of the house in anticipation. She loved to arrange things and felt she was better at it than everyone else. With a piece of buttered toast in her hand, Laura met the workmen in the garden. Suddenly shy and aware of how young she must look to the burly men she affected her mother's high voice and asked if they would set up the marquee on the tennis court where the band would be playing. She immediately regretted her words when one of the workmen sarcastically asked after the band. Embarrassed, Laura said it was a small band but another of the workmen smiled and his easy and friendly nature put her at ease. She took a bite of her toast. The workmen decided the marquee would look best under the karakas trees and without any invitation from Laura they set out. Only one of the workmen remained behind, a tall man, he bend down and pinched a sprig of lavender from the garden and smelled it. Laura doubted any of the men she knew, the ones she danced with or had over for Sunday dinner, would have stopped what they were doing to enjoy the scent of lavender. She thought she would get on much better with the workmen than she would men of her own social class. Someone from the house yelled to Laura that she had a telephone call. Laura ran up the path onto the veranda and into the house. There she met her father and brother, Laurie, getting ready to go to the office. She gave her brother a quick hug and then answered her call. It was her friend, Kitty Maitland. Only Laura's end of the conversation was heard and she asked Kitty to come to lunch to eat leftovers of whatever Cook had made for the garden party. Mrs. Sheridan yelled down to Laura and told her to tell Kitty to wear the same hat she wore last Sunday. Laura repeated her mother's words and said goodbye to Kitty. Returning the phone to its receiver, Laura sighed loudly and contently and listened to the beautiful silence of the house. Then all at once the house came to life, noise sounded from another room, the piano was being moved, the doorbell rang and Sadie, the maid, answered it. The florist had arrived with trays of pink lilies. At first Laura assumed there had been a mistake in the sheer number of flowers that the florist had brought but Mrs. Sheridan assured her the order was correct. She had passed by the florist the other day and ordered extra lilies for the party as a treat for herself. Meanwhile in the drawing room, Meg, Jose, and Han, their servant, had finally succeeded in moving the piano. Jose asked Hans to fetch her mother and Laura while she positioned herself at the piano. Jose hoped someone would ask her to sing at the party and wanted to practice. She sang a melancholy tune about life being weary and love that changes. When she was finished she declared herself in good voice and no one contradicted her. Just then Sadie came in and asked Mrs. Sheridan for the little flags she had made for the sandwich trays to identify what they were made of so that Cook could start preparing for the party. After some confusion as to where Mrs. Sheridan had left the flags, Laura brought them to the kitchen and she and Jose marveled over the fifteen different types of sandwiches Cook had prepared. A deliveryman came into the kitchen while the girls were still there and brought in a tray of delicious cream puffs. While Laura and Jose ate two of the fluffy pastries they overheard the deliveryman telling Sadie and Cook about the terrible death of man who lived down the lane. His horse had reared up while he was out riding and he had fallen, hit his head and died. Everyone took the news in stride; they knew the man, Mr. Scott, and he and his impoverished wife and children lived very close by. Their home was a bit of an eyesore to the Sheridans. Their lawn littered with cabbages, chickens, and old cans. They lived only a street apart from one another but were from two different worlds. Although she did not know the Scott family well, if at all, Laura was deeply upset by the news. She told Jose they had to call the party off. Jose told her that she was being stupid and that no one would expect them to cancel the garden party just because Mr. Scott died. Laura tried to appeal to her mother but Mrs. Sheridan was of the same mind as Jose. To distract her daughter, Mrs. Sheridan put a new black velvet hat with a yellow daisy trim on Laura's head but it was no use. Laura stomped off into her own room and shut the door. She looked at herself in the mirror and she saw that the black velvet hat was gorgeous and she looked beautiful in it; but she was still confused. She wanted to enjoy the party but she social obligation to help the Scotts but how? "You're being very absurd, Laura...people like that don't expect scarifies from us" her mother had said but Laura pictured the body of Mr. Scott being carried into his home while his wife and children looked on. The idea seemed so unreal, as if she were reading about in the newspaper, that Laura decided to worry about it later. There was nothing that she could do now anyway and the party would soon start. After lunch the guests started to arrive including her friend Kitty Maitland. Laurie came home soon after and Laura ran to him to tell him about the accident but he complimented her hat and she forgot all about the Scotts for the reminder of the party. Guests came in droves, couples strolled the garden path, the band played, flowers were admired, sandwiches eaten and then it was all over. The Sheridans were left alone again, at last. In the empty marquee Mr. Sheridan sat with his wife and children, eating another sandwich and telling them about Mr. Scott's accident all over again. Mrs. Sheridan thought it was very tactless of her husband but then she had the brilliant idea of sending a basket of leftover food from the party to the Scotts. She told Laura to make up a large basket and bring it down to the family. Laura protested at first. She thought it would be rude to bring leftovers to the grieving Scotts but her mother insisted they would be very appreciative for any help at the moment. Mrs. Sheridan wanted to send lilies as well but decided against it at the last moment. Laura set out down the lane and away from her own home and into the impoverished area of town where the Scott's lived. It was hard to imagine anyone living there at all but men bustled past and children played in doorways, all of them seemed to be staring at her and Laura felt a deep sense of shame for daring to wear her expensive lace dress and new hat amid such poverty. A crowd had gathered outside of the Scott house and as Laura approached the group parted to let her in. Startled by their behavior and feeling very out of place, Laura hoped to leave the basket on the doorstep and run home but a woman came to the door and ushered her inside. It was Mrs. Scott's sister. She showed Laura into the kitchen were Mrs. Scott sat crying before the fire, her face red and swollen. She seemed confused as to why Laura was there with the basket in her beautiful lace dress. Laura put the basket down and turned to leave but Mrs. Scott's sister insisted she see the body and before Laura could protest she was in the back bedroom. Mr. Scott seemed somehow more handsome in death than he had been in life. Laura was almost envious of the look contentment on his face, as if garden parties, baskets, and all of life's particularities were behind him. While the band had played and they had all laughed and socialized at the party, this man laid like "a marvel," she thought, just a road away. He seemed so happy and yet the situation was so grave that Laura felt she had to say something. "Forgive my hat" she mumbled and ran out the door. She met Laurie coming down the lane and took his arm, pressing herself against him. Laurie was surprised to see her crying. Laura said, "Isn't life..." but could not finish her thought. She repeated, "Isn't life..." again; Laurie nodded and answered, "Isn't it, darling?" .

