“What a ridiculous scene!” exclaimed Chris, at last breaking the silence.
“Why was he angry?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I can.”
“You seem to have rather a fantastic mind. Your message to me, for instance. You beg me to come here and when I arrive you ask me what I want.”
“I didn’t send for you, Mrs. Cummings.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
“Pheasant told me...”
“Pheasant told me.”
“What?”
“That you most particularly wanted to consult me about something.”
“She told me you particularly wanted to see me. I thought it was something about a horse.”
“She’s a mischievous little fool. I must apologize for her. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s all right. Just like a kid.”
“I don’t see anything funny in it.”
“She probably does. She certainly had us. Well, I’ll be off. Goodbye, Mr. Vaughan. Don’t be cross to her.”
“She deserves a whipping.”
“I forgive her, so I think you might. It was worse for me.”
“No, no.”
“What will Renny Whiteoak think of me?”
“I’ll explain.”
They separated, she turning at a tangent from the direction Renny had taken, Maurice going toward the house. He stopped beneath Pheasant’s window.
“Are you awake?” he called.
There was no answer.
“I’ll have something to say to you tomorrow.”
Trembling behind the window curtains she was conscious of the anger in his voice.
XII
BY THE LAKE
WHEN CHRIS CUMMINGS set out to return by a different path she had but one desire, to escape a meeting with Renny on the way home. Better explain the ridiculous affair by daylight. There was a strain of malice in her that made the prospect of his passing a night of chagrin, possibly of sharp jealousy, not unpleasing to her. He had caused her hours of troubled sleeplessness. Now let him suffer.
She would go through the main gate, she thought, and skirting Vaughanlands on the side farthest from Jalna, return home by way of the back road. It was a lovely evening. She would enjoy the solitary walk. Tomorrow she and Renny would laugh together over the child’s prank. She hoped Maurice would not be furious with her.
But, when she reached the road, a wayward impulse made her hesitate. The road lay white between the dark pines and spruces, inviting in its emptiness. The air was heavy with the scent of newly mown hay. Puffs of warm air rose from secret places as though the earth, turning in its first sleep, had exhaled its warm and scented breath. There had been a strong wind the day before and a distant murmur told that the lake was still disturbed.
She had had no more than glimpses of it in passing. Now she had a sudden wish to be alone by it. In England she had lived near the sea. She had a craving for an expanse of moving water. When she had seen the lake it had stretched glassy and impersonal, blinding blue beneath a fierce sun or a dim pewter under a clouded sky. Tonight it was alive and moving sonorously on its shores. She wanted to be beside it and give herself up to thought. She was not often enough alone. There was something in her nature that needed solitude. She walked quickly down the road. She knew that the lake lay two miles away.
What if Renny were walking beside her? What if there were nothing to hinder their friendship, their love?
She had the road to herself. It had branched off and ended abruptly in a small field. She passed through a sagging wooden gate and entered on a sandy path that barely kept its contour among the crowding bushes. Suddenly she was past these. The path had ended. She was on the beach alone. She had a sense of achievement as she saw the unmarked stretch of it. Her feet sank in its warmed depth. The lake was agitated rather than tumultuous, spending itself in broken waves on the submissive sand. The moonlight was less bright than it had been. A cloud shaped like a waterfowl had the sky to itself, as she the beach. Behind it the moon was hidden, though its light illumined the sky, silvered the waves that lay beyond the cloud, and gave a gleaming breast to the fantastic shape of the bird.
She felt herself as adventuring far beyond the two miles she had traversed. Jalna, with all its activities, human and equine, lay far behind. Renny took his place with them, irrevocably bound up with them.
The house where she lived seemed far away; Mrs. Stroud no more than a stranger; Jim — she turned her head as though in pain at the thought of him — seemed far away. Even Tod, sleeping in his cot, was no longer her child but a being who had clung to her and now suddenly had relaxed his grasp and let her go. She stretched out her arms like the wings of a bird and drew in deep breaths of the cool night air. The scent of the clover and the hay was gone. The air had the smell of the lake, of the sparse vegetation that grew along the edge of the shore.
She took off her shoes and stockings and carried them that they might not be injured by the sand. Her toes curled with the delicious sense of freedom as she walked along the lake’s verge. She walked on and on, her thoughts becoming tranquil, then scarcely thoughts at all. She felt like a child again. She walked with one foot on the sand and the other in the water, enjoying both at once.
At last she reached a place where private grounds came down to the beach. She turned back, but now she walked with both feet in the water, holding her skirt above her knees. The moon and the cloud had parted company, the moon already beginning to bend toward the horizon; the cloud, estranged from it, elongating the bird’s neck, opening its beak as though in a despairing cry. Gazing upward, Chris forgot to be careful of the waves and found herself holding up a drenched skirt.
She gave an exclamation of dismay. Now the dress would have to be laundered. But what of that! The feel of the water against her thighs had been worth it. A desire to swim in the lake took possession of her.
She ran across the sand and, hiding among the bushes, quickly pulled off her clothes. She felt reckless and very young. She ran back across the sand and out into the waves. They were too powerful to swim against. They were rowdy playfellows, rolling over her, dashing up behind her, striving to pull her from her feet. She played and struggled with them, thinking that this was as good fun as riding Launceton. Here were a dozen wild horses careering about her, never to be broken in. She gave herself up to her joy in them.
She waded out to her armpits, facing the long, cool green sweep of the waves. She jumped up, as each one swept over her, keeping her head above them, throwing out her arms across their foam-flecked arch. Then, on the largest that had yet risen against her, she turned and threw herself, and was carried on its crest to the shore. This was the wildest play of all. She lay on the beach panting, getting back her breath. She wanted to do it all over again.
She ran, exulting in the waves, liberated from the chains of living. Again and again she ran out into the lake and rode landward on a wave. “Once more,” she thought, “a little farther still.” But the sand beneath her declined and she lost her footing. She cried out in terror.
A voice shouted: “It’s all right. I’m here!”
She saw Renny running toward her. His face, in the moonlight, looked white as his shirt. He was at her side and had her in his arms.
“It’s all right,” he repeated.
She relaxed against his shoulder.
“I wasn’t really in trouble,” she said.
“What?” he shouted.
“I wasn’t drowning,” she shouted in return.
A wave broke against them, submerging them. She looked up into his face, laughing. “It’s fun.”
His lips moved but she did not hear his answer. His wet shirt clung to him like seaweed.
“This becomes you,” she said loudly.
“What?”
She put both arms about his neck and said into his ear — “You look like a triton or faun or something.”
Again he said something sh
e could not hear.
Again a green wall submerged them. He drew her toward the shore. Waist-high she moved away from him. There was a lull in the agitation of the waves that, in contrast to the former sonorous roar, was almost silence. Rising so, out of the troubled lake, she was a figure of enchantment, gleaming marble-white in the moonshine.
“Why did you come?” she asked.
“I followed you.”
“But you went the other way.”
“All ways are mine in this place.”
“Why did you follow me?”
“I wanted you to explain.”
“About going to meet Vaughan?”
“Yes.”
“It was nothing. A trick of his child’s. I haven’t the slightest interest in him, or he in me.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Yes.”
She shivered. “I’m going in.”
His arms tightened about her. He asked:
“What do you want me to do?”
“Leave me.”
He bent his head to look into her eyes. He drew a finger along the curve of her lips, over the curve of her chin, to her throat.
“Is there nothing more you want than that?” he asked.
She answered almost angrily, catching his hand in hers and withdrawing it from her lips:
“You’re making me love you!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you to!”
“Very well.” He released her with a renunciatory gesture. She remained standing where she was, then asked:
“If I had not screamed, what would you have done?”
“Stayed where I was till I saw you safe on shore.”
“I think that’s rather nice of you.”
“I’ll go off then. You can follow when you’re ready. I want to see you safely home.”
She turned passionately to him:
“Renny! Kiss me!”
His face lighted. He held out his hands to her. She came close to him. The waves were subsiding about them. A pocket of warm air, mysteriously released, enveloped them. She raised her face to his in delicious anticipation. His arms drew her close. He had kissed her before lightly — not like this! Other men had kissed her — not like this! ...
He went ahead of her up the sand. He stretched his length beside a sand hummock, pillowing his head on his arm, his back toward her. He waited.
After a time she came to him and knelt behind him. She bent over him and put her lips to his cheek. She said:
“You look as though you’d been drowned — cast up by the waves.”
He turned over on his back and smiled up at her. He put both arms about her.
It was past midnight when they left the beach. Long ago the moon had sunk. The few stars gave little light but the sky was of a luminous dark blue. The path, and then the road, lay clear before them. The night was warm. Tomorrow would be hot.
“I wish I hadn’t to go back,” she said.
“I wonder what your brother would say if you didn’t.” There was a pause. Then she said in a low voice:
“Jim’s not my brother.”
“What is he to you, then?”
“He’s my husband and — I don’t love him!”
In his astonishment he stopped stock-still.
“Jim your husband! But why have you kept it secret?”
“Because it paid us to. He has a friend in England. She’s done a lot for him. She paid his way out here and gives him a small allowance, but she gives it on condition that he doesn’t marry. If she heard he was married, the allowance would stop.”
“But you can’t keep this deception up for ever.”
“He’s always expecting her to die. She’s not young and she’s delicate. He’s sure she’ll leave him her money.”
“What a position!”
“Yes — but you can get used to anything.”
“Did you know about this when you married him?”
“No. He told me we must keep our marriage secret for a few months because his family would disapprove. In reality his family wouldn’t care a damn. They’re a heartless lot. It’s only this Mrs. Gardiner who cares…. I don’t love Jim, but I’m sorry for him. I guess, in his own queer way, he needs me. I’m someone to quarrel with…. I’ve never loved anyone but you…. I think Tod knows everything — all about Jim and me. He looks at us so queerly sometimes, as though his soul were all clear and pure and he knew ours were murky.” She spoke with passion, then moved quickly along the road.
“This staggers me,” said Renny.
“Does it make you like me less?”
“Nothing can do that. If I live to be as old as my grandmother I shall never forget this night…. I think you’re adorable, Kit.”
She stretched out her hand and caught his. So linked, they continued their walk. They passed the gates of Jalna. The dark bulk of the house could be glimpsed beyond the trees. The house had a secret air, yet not withdrawn. It was as though it waited, not for the first time in its history, to receive a night-wandering Whiteoak under its roof.
XIII
WANING SUMMER
THIS YEAR SUMMER moved in majesty. Sunrises were radiant, noontides dazzling, sunsets spectacular. Rain, when it did come, fell in a grand downpour. The crops thrived, ripened, were reaped, as orderly as pictures in a book. Colts, calves, and piglets flourished like weeds. There was no devastating heat, no killing drought. In the orchards the trees bent beneath their weight of fruit. The cherries especially, Richmond and Montmorency, were prolific. So much so that, with an abundance in other districts, prices fell. It was scarcely worth the time to pick the cherries. The trees were red with them. Maggie the cook bottled them, made jam of them, even cherry brandy. Still there was great waste of the fruit. The only one who worried over this was Piers. It hurt him to see the ground red with the glossy spheres. He filled baskets and took them to all his friends. He told the village boys to come and help themselves, but they climbed the trees and broke branches and he had the blame.
Wragge had never lived so well in his life. In truth, as he told the cook, he had not known such food existed as he got at Jalna. When he looked at her round red face, her round red arms and clean capable hands, he could have shed tears of joy at the thought of her potentialities in the way of cherry pie, whipped cream, salad dressing, sage stuffing and chocolate soufflé. But she had a violent temper. Already she had threatened to give notice. What if he should lose her! He made up his mind to marry her. Of course she had not all the qualities he desired in a wife. But what woman had? Certainly, in the lottery of marriage, she would be far from a blank. Out of his second month’s wages he bought her a bangle bracelet.
His chagrin was deep when she rejected him. What did she want! An Adonis? A millionaire? The shock of it, combined with too much cherry brandy, went to his liver. He had a violent bilious attack. Then he had fresh evidence of Maggie’s worth. She fed him delicate broth and orange custard.
Perhaps it was seeing him prostrate, looking more dead than alive, that went to her heart. At any rate when he was about again, though still subdued, she astonished him by remarking almost casually:
“Well, I don’t mind if I do.”
He turned his head from blowing on the silver teapot he was polishing.
“Do wot?”
“’Ave yer.”
“’Ave me! Ow?”
“In ’oly wedlock.”
“Maggie!” He set down the teapot and took her rapturously in his arms. “You’ve made me the ’appiest man on earth!”
Dinner was late that day.
On the whole, the family were pleased with the proposed marriage. Lady Buckley, however, disliked Wragge. The sight of him in a livery much too large for him which had belonged to a quite exemplary butler of former days, greatly irritated her. His impudent face combined with his obsequious manner was, in her opinion, a disgrace to Jalna.
Wragge did not trouble about Lady Buckley, as she was returning to England in the early
autumn, but he did set about winning the approval of Meg. He discovered that she liked to pose as having little or no appetite at table but enjoyed a tray carried to her room. Maids had chafed at doing this. Wragge behaved as though it were an honour. He would arrange chicken sandwiches, ripe raspberries lying on their own green leaves, a few pansies in a tiny vase, with an instinct for the appetizing.
He made himself useful in a hundred ways. To be called from the job he was doing, to another, did not fluster him. He had learned to hate monotony in the War. He soon discovered that in this house many things went on beneath the surface. Every item of smallest interest sent him hurrying down the basement steps to repeat the same to his betrothed. She, from being phlegmatic when she was not in a temper, became as avid for gossip as he. Their life was so full of interest that there was not time for more.
It was arranged that their marriage should take place after Lady Buckley’s departure. Renny was to give the bride away.
In these months Ernest varied between pleasure in his acquaintance with Mrs. Stroud, irritation at the responsibility of pushing it to the point where Eden should be undone and still keeping it within the bounds of safety. He was of an indolent temperament and it irked him to rival a being so full of youthful energy as Eden. Also there was something underhand in the situation which he shrank from. Eden trusted him. What if that trust should turn to anger and even hatred! On the other hand, he was doing his best to save the boy from an entanglement injurious to him.
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 15