05 Whiteoak Heritage

by Mazo de La Roche

  The room that pleased Pheasant most was the guest room with its pink silk bedspread and curtains that Mrs. Stroud herself had made. She said that no one had yet slept in the room. Perhaps Pheasant would come and spend the night with her. The chocolate was the best Pheasant had ever tasted, the cups the prettiest she had ever seen. Pheasant sat very straight, conversing sedately. She told Mrs. Stroud as much of her life as she thought not derogatory to herself. She stayed and stayed, till at last Mrs. Stroud suggested that they go next door and see the baby.

  They had chosen an opportune time. Chris was giving him a bath for they had just come back from the stables and he was, as she said, dirty as any stableboy.

  But now he was clean and pink! He stood, naked and jubilant, his silvery hair on end. He never knew when he was going to be washed or fed, and, when either blessing descended on him, accepted it with unquestioning joy.

  The wild disorder of this house, its gypsy-like casualness, was as thrilling to Pheasant as the charm and order of Mrs. Stroud’s. She felt that a new world had opened up before her. She saw new possibilities in life. Only the hour before she had thought Mrs. Stroud the most lovely woman and the kindest she had ever met. She still thought her the kindest and was sure no one else had such a smile. But the sight of Chris Cummings in her khaki shirt and breeches, bathing Tod, filled her with a new admiration. She watched every movement of her lithe body, the bony competent hands, with intensest interest. Even the way her hair, the same colour as Tod’s, was licked back behind her ears and curled by her jawbone in a drake’s tail, was charming.

  Chris accepted her presence with matter-of-fact friendliness. She produced a bag of chocolate caramels, passed it round, popped one into Tod’s mouth, then put a clean cotton garment on him and lighted a cigarette. She felt like hell, she said, for she had had a bad fall that morning.

  “Renny Whiteoak says,” she observed, “that there’s a way of falling so that you don’t hurt yourself. I wish I could find it out.”

  Mrs. Stroud disapproved of such language in front of the child. She shook her head smilingly at Chris, then said:

  “Why don’t you get him to show you?”

  “He’s promised to, next time he’s thrown.”

  “From what I hear,” said Pheasant, “he’s broken pretty nearly all his bones at different times.”

  “What do you think of Eden’s riding?” asked Mrs. Stroud. She never could resist bringing the conversation round to him.

  “He has good hands but he’s terribly impetuous and he hasn’t been brought up to control himself, so you can’t expect him to control a horse.”

  She put an old magazine into Tod’s hands. “There, look at that,” she said. “I’ve got to lie down for a bit.”

  He accepted the magazine with interest though it was worn almost to rags with his handling.

  Mrs. Stroud and Pheasant rose and said goodbye.

  “You will come and see me again, won’t you, dear?” asked Mrs. Stroud as they parted.

  “Oh yes, I’ll come often,” said Pheasant. She ran all the way home, feeling that she must pour out the story of this meeting to someone. But when she was inside the door, smelled the familiar musty smell of the house, and heard Mrs. Clinch’s movements in the kitchen, she did not know whom to tell. Not Maurice, surely, as he passed her in the hall with a casual nod. There was really no one. She went out again, but this time slowly. She found the old pony in the field by the stream and put her arms about his neck for companionship.

  After this she went often to see Mrs. Stroud. Sometimes there was no answer to her knock. Then she would go to the other house, but often found no one there either. Then she would walk around the two houses, looking in at the windows, longing to be inside. Once Jim Dayborn caught her looking into Mrs. Stroud’s living room. He laughed and exclaimed:

  “So, you’ve got on to the racket too!”

  “What racket?”

  “That she doesn’t open her door to others when she has her favourite visitor inside.”

  “Is Mr. Ernest Whiteoak her favourite visitor, then?”

  “Mr. Ernest Whiteoak! Why?”

  “Because I saw him sitting on the sofa beside her just now.”

  Dayborn sneered.

  “So — she’s more than one string to her bow!”

  Pheasant did not feel surprised or hurt when Mrs. Stroud did not answer her knock. Without doubt she had seen her coming up the path and naturally she would not want a child about when she was having serious conversation with a gentleman friend. Pheasant had got the expression “gentleman friend” from Mrs. Clinch, and admired it. When she could not get into either house she would go home and return two hours later.

  She was never listless or lonely now. She had new ideas in her head and she was constantly turning them over, like a small bird turning the eggs in her nest so that they may come to perfect maturity.

  By degrees these vague ideas formed themselves into a definite plan. She made up her mind that, since Meg Whiteoak would not marry Maurice, and, as she herself had not the power of making him happy, she must find a wife for him. She believed there were two ready to her hand, if only she could choose the right one.

  At first her mind dwelt with most pleasure on Mrs. Stroud. She pictured her standing at Maurice’s side in the chancel of the little church, being married by Mr. Fennel, saying “I will” in her deep moving voice. She found a prayer book and read the marriage service. Much of it puzzled her but she was pleased to find that the real object of marriage was the having of children. Mrs. Stroud and Maurice would have lots of children, little brothers and sisters for her. She would make Vaughanlands into a new place, gay, airy, and full of children. Pheasant loved Mrs. Stroud. Yet, for some odd reason, she did not completely trust her. Deep down in her heart she resented Mrs. Stroud’s not answering her knock when she had more interesting visitors. At first she had not minded this. Jim Dayborn had planted the seed of distrust.

  She found her thoughts turning more and more often to Chris Cummings. She was young and men liked young women, Pheasant knew. She had a lovely face. She had Tod. Above all, she had Tod. When Pheasant thought of having him in the house she felt weak, as though her bones had turned to something yielding.

  She had a great admiration for Mrs. Clinch’s perspicacity. She thought she would cautiously sound her on the subject. It was one of Mrs. Clinch’s very deaf days and Pheasant was finally driven to shout — “Which do you most admire, Mrs. Stroud or Mrs. Cummings?”

  Mrs. Clinch did not hesitate for a moment. She shouted back, almost angrily — “What a question!”

  “But which do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Like best?”

  Mrs. Clinch gave a snort. “Like that jockey that goes about cursing and swearing in men’s clothes! Not me! Mrs. Stroud’s a real lady. She’s a newcomer who is a credit to the neighbourhood. She’s been too kind to that pair, and if they don’t run off without paying their rent you can call me Davy.”

  Mrs. Clinch’s objection to being called Davy was so intense that, when she used the expression, Pheasant never had anything more to say. She made up her mind to ask Maurice himself if he had any preference.

  By this time she was so excited that she could not rest till she had made a decision. She sought out Maurice who was putting up a screen door at the side entrance. As soon as he stopped hammering she asked, her voice trembling in her earnestness:

  “Maurice, which do you most admire, Mrs. Stroud or Mrs. Cummings?”

  He stared at her, then, with no more hesitation than Mrs. Clinch had shown, replied:

  “Mrs. Cummings, of course. If you mean looks.”

  “Well, which would you say has the best nature?”

  With equal promptitude he answered:

  “Mrs. Cummings. I don’t like the other one’s ears.”

  “But one shouldn’t judge another person by their ears, should one?”

  “I do — in this case.”

  H
e began to hammer again, talking under his breath to the door.

  “You’re screwing it on the wrong side,” she said gently.

  He stared at it dismayed. “So I am!” He picked up a screwdriver and began to take out the screws.

  “It’s a disconcerting thing, Pheasant, to discover that you can’t do anything right.”

  “Oh, I think you do everything right, that is, almost everything.”

  He gave his unexpected, boyish smile. “Do you? That’s splendid!”

  “Mrs. Cummings” — now she was in for it — “admires you very much.”

  “Does she now!”

  “Yes, she thinks you’re very reliable.”

  “I’ll be getting conceited.” He began to put in the screws afresh.

  “She wants to ask your advice about an important matter.”

  “I’d hate to think anyone would be advised by me.”

  “This is a peculiar matter that only you can help her in. Would you see her by the rose trellis at moonrise tonight, if she came over?”

  “Blast the thing! It goes on better the wrong way than the right.”

  “Would you see her, Maurice?”

  “Certainly. But it’s funny she’d want to see me.”

  “Will you be waiting for her, by the rose trellis just at moonrise?”

  “If she’s set on it.” If the screws would not go in with the help of the screwdriver he would hammer them in. He began.

  Pheasant did not delay. She ran all the way to the field that lay between Vaughanlands and the paddock where the schooling was done. She crossed the field cautiously, making sure that none of the women of the Whiteoak family was an onlooker. Only Scotchmere and two stablemen and Piers were there. She came up slowly.

  She mounted the lowest rung of the gate and hung over it, watching. Chris Cummings was mounted on Launceton, followed by Renny on the chestnut mare. They were moving in a long swinging gallop at the far end of the paddock. They rose, one after the other, as though lifted by some serene, detached power, and took two gates in succession. They came thudding along the track toward her. She raised herself upright on the gate, holding her breast open to absorb the rushing vitality of their passing. She felt the wind from their swift bodies. She smelled the clean horses and their polished leather. She stared into the faces of the riders, thinking how set and courageous they looked. Chris encouraged Launceton and he galloped ahead, easily out-distancing the chestnut.

  “Isn’t he a clinker?” asked Piers who had come up behind her.

  “Yes. But the chestnut’s carrying a far heavier weight.”

  “She’s not in the same class with him. He’s going to win the Grand National. You’ll see.”

  They stood waiting till the schooling was over. Renny called Piers and sent him to his office for something. Chris strolled over to Pheasant. This was just what she wanted. Everything was being made easy for her. She felt the elation of controlling other people’s destinies.

  Chris was mopping her forehead with a handkerchief. She still felt the exuberance of the gallop. She threw her arm about Pheasant’s shoulders, exclaiming:

  “Isn’t he wonderful! I could face the devil after a gallop on him!”

  “You do not need to face the devil,” returned Pheasant gravely. “It’s only Maurice you’ve got to face.”

  Chris looked blank. “Maurice? Oh yes, your father! What’s the matter with him?”

  “Nothing. He only wants to see you about a very important matter.”

  “Does he want me to break in a colt for him?”

  “Goodness, no. This is just something between yourselves. He’s got to have your help to do it and you’ve got to have his help to do it.”

  “It sounds thrilling. When do we begin?”

  “Tonight. By the rose trellis, in our garden, at moonrise. He’ll be waiting for you there. He’s sorry that he can’t ask you into the house but Mrs. Clinch doesn’t like visitors, and anyhow it’s much nicer out there. I wonder if you’d mind wearing that pink dress. Mrs. Clinch doesn’t approve of breeches on a girl.”

  “Gosh, she sounds a Tartar!”

  “Will you come?” repeated Pheasant. “It’s terribly important to all of us. But please don’t mention my name. Just say you were walking that way and thought you’d come in. He’ll know what you mean.”

  A groom was leading out another horse. Renny shouted to Chris.

  The horse was standing on his hind legs, pawing the air.

  “Coming!” shouted Chris.

  “Will you be there tonight?” gasped Pheasant.

  “Yes, I’ll be there.” She ran across the paddock.

  Pheasant lingered to watch her mount the balky colt.

  But she had now won him over. He cantered down the paddock in well-mannered fashion enjoying the newly acquired discipline. Pheasant thought — “There she rides, little knowing what’s going to happen tonight.”

  She had hallucinated herself by her own imaginings and was now convinced that nothing could prevent Chris and Maurice from falling in love “by the rose trellis in the moonlight.” She felt a power within herself and, as she walked back across the fields, she took long strides and held her head high. Of her own will she was changing their lives. The day would come when Mrs. Clinch would no longer be able to say of Maurice “poor young man!” Instead, people would be saying — “How happy Maurice Vaughan looks since his marriage and how that daughter of his has improved! She’s not like the same child. It is said that she takes entire charge of her little brother.”

  She went into the garden that, next to Maurice, had once been the pride of her grandmother’s life but was now uncared for. The grass had grown long, weeds choked the paths, the picket fence was sagging. But great clumps of peonies, whose roots had not been separated in the last ten years, were heavy with blooms. Sweet-scented phlox attracted the hummingbirds. At the end of the garden there was a locust tree in flower, its blossoms festooned along the boughs in perfumed chains. This tree sang with the hum of bees, and its flowers constantly trembled from their plundering.

  Close beside the locust tree was the rose trellis, over which a hardy climbing rose sprawled, unpruned. Already this year’s shoots, finding no tendril hold on the overcrowded trellis, were pushing their way through the grass or thrusting outward towards an imaginary support. The roses grew in clusters, were pink, and had an old-fashioned sentimental perfume.

  Pheasant hastened to this spot as to a banquet prepared, standing first at one end of the trellis and then at the other to savour the different aspects of the background for the moonlight meeting.

  She knew the time of moonrise from Mrs. Clinch’s almanac. Shortly before that hour she retired to her room. It was a little earlier than usual but no one noticed that. She knelt by the window where she could, by stretching her neck, get a fairly good view of the garden. Maurice passed beneath and, looking up, asked:

  “Is that girl really coming here tonight?”

  “Oh yes. I saw her this morning and she said she could scarcely wait till the time.”

  “What do you suppose she wants of me?”

  “She didn’t say. She said she wanted me to keep out of the affair and not have my name mentioned by either party.”

  “Hm. She sounds a bit unhinged.”

  He moved on.

  The moon rose, deep gold beyond the fir trees, just past its first quarter. It was gaining the power to throw strong shadows, and Maurice, as he stood waiting, noticed the meticulous shadow of a rose cluster on the stone flagging beside the trellis. He had lighted a cigarette and was drawing its last inhalation as Chris Cummings appeared at the end of the path and came toward him, slim and purposeful in her pink dress.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Cummings,” he said rather stiffly.

  “Good evening.”

  They looked at each other warily, neither one wishing to open the conversation.

  He held out his cigarette case. “Have a cigarette?”

  “Thanks.” She t
ook one and he lighted it for her. In the flare of the match her face looked charming. He said:

  “Well, I’m here, you see.”

  “Yes, and I’ve come, as you may have noticed.”

  They smoked in expectant silence.

  Then — “It’s a nice old garden,” she said.

  “It was nice in my mother’s time. But it’s been neglected. I shall have it put in order one of these days.”

  After another pause she said — “Well, I suppose we may as well begin.”

  “Yes, it’s about time.”

  “Supposing you go first.”

  Maurice gave a short laugh. “I don’t feel equal to it. It’s up to you.”

  “You do want something of me, don’t you?”

  “I thought it was you who wanted to see me.”

  She said, with some embarrassment — “I’ll take on any thing you have in mind provided —” She hesitated.

  “Provided what?”

  “Well, — I don’t do anything for nothing.”

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “Just what sort of fellow do you think I am, Mrs. Cummings?”

  “At the moment I think you’re rather a queer egg.”

  “You’re evidently used to a more impulsive type.”

  “I’m used to a man who knows his own mind. What do you think I came here for?”

  “That’s what I’m waiting to find out. Why won’t you tell me?”

  She made an exasperated sound. “We seem to be all muddled up. I thought you wanted to see me. That’s why I’ve come.”

  “I thought —” He stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder. Renny Whiteoak was coming toward them across the grass.

  “Hello, Maurice!” he exclaimed, then drew up in astonishment. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to find anyone with you. I’ll come again.”

  “No, don’t go.”

  Chris added — “Please, don’t go.”

  He laughed. “Well, if I were in your shoes I shouldn’t want a third party about. You’ve no idea how romantic you look.”