“Please, don’t,” cried Mary. “I want them very much.”
He all but threw the book into her lap.
Philip got to his feet. “Hot, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. It is exceedingly hot driving along dusty country roads on my rounds. You are fortunate, you and Miss Wakefield, in having no duties to perform.”
He strode up the path and left them.
“You’d never think he was seventy, would you?” remarked Philip looking after him.
VII
FAMILY CIRCLE COMPLETE
FOUR SUCCESSIVE SUNDAY mornings Mary had gone to the little country church with Philip Whiteoak, and his children. As she had sat in the family pew with Renny on her right and Meg on her left and watched the people of the neighbourhood enter and take their long-accustomed places she had experienced a feeling of completeness she never before had known. In London she often had stolen out quietly on a Sunday morning so as not to disturb her father and gone to the Service. But it had been to a church in a great city where she was surrounded by strangers. Now, in the intimacy of this small but solid building, with faces with which she was growing familiar about her, she found a deep satisfaction, not so much in religion, as in a new gladness in herself.
Philip did not sit with Mary and the children but went into the vestry with Mr. Pink whose father had been rector before him, and donned a surplice. He had assisted the rector by reading the lessons. Now Mary had the opportunity to look at him unobserved, to compare him with the portrait of his father, to Captain Whiteoak’s disadvantage, to compare him with all the attractive men she ever had known, to their disadvantage. Even the slight impediment in his speech only increased her pleasure in the reading, giving her, for the moment, a kind of protective maternal feeling toward him.
On the fifth Sunday the hymn “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” was sung, and to judge by the heartiness which Mr. Pink who had a deep bass, and the choir and the congregation threw into it, all had an earnest desire to draw the attention of the Almighty to the fact that five members of the Whiteoak family, including Sir Edwin Buckley, were en route for Jalna. On either side of Mary the children raised their clear pipes. She noticed that both pronounced peril — “peryil.” Meg knew all the words but Renny only the first verse. After singing it he was silent till the last line of each successive verse when his penetrating treble joined hers in — “For those in peryil on the sea.” Mary was thankful that there were only four verses to the hymn. If there had been one more she was sure she would have disgraced herself by giving way to laughter. For some reason her emotions, gay or sad, were near to the surface in those days. She could not understand herself, for at times she would laugh almost uncontrollably at ridiculous nothings with the children which she knew was bad for discipline, and at other times, usually at night, she would discover that, for no reason at all, her eyes were full of tears.
As the time of arrival drew near, two women could scarcely have been more in their element than Mrs. Nettleship and Eliza. From morning till night they fought with dirt and disorder in a frenzy of preparation. Mary felt that never before had she known what real cleanliness could be. Carpets were taken outdoors and beaten, rugs were shaken, walls were wiped down, windows polished till they might not have been there, so transparent were they, brass and silver glittered. The drawing-room which had been swathed in dust covers because Philip used only the library, now was discovered as a handsome room. Mary stood in it alone, absorbing its unknown atmosphere, the faint smell of an Indian rug, the upholstery, the cushions on the sofa where unknown heads had lain, thinking what thoughts? The china figures on the mantelshelf, the jade monkey and the ivory elephants in the cabinet, all looked at her with an unfriendly air, as though by no possible means could they have any connection with her. There was music on the piano. The air was full of its far-off vibration. Soon the piano would come to life again but not for her, though later on she was supposed to give Meg music lessons. The ormolu clock had been wound and in its ardent ticking seemed anxious to make up for lost time. A bunch of roses, pressed tightly into a vase, already drooped a little as though unable to withstand the steady advance of the returning personalities.
All day the children were beside themselves from excitement. They could talk or think of nothing but the presents that would be brought to them. There was no use in trying to curb them. Mary wandered about, longing to hide herself somewhere in the woods but it was steadily raining, a sweet-smelling gentle rain following a night of electrical storms. Mary did not see Philip all day. She felt lost. She wandered about, looking in at the four bedrooms which had been prepared; Mrs. Whiteoak’s with its rich-coloured bedspread, the other three with snow-white counterpanes and huge, stiffly starched pillow shams. Even the spaniels were excited. The puppy, Jake, ran snuffling into each of the freshly prepared rooms and lifted his leg against a leg of the four-poster that was to be occupied by Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.
The carriage was to go to the village railway station to meet the local train which connected, though not very efficiently, with the train from Montreal. Both were late, and the evening was drawing in when the sound of horses’ hoofs told of the arrival. Renny’s cheeks were hot from excitement, Meg hopped ceaselessly from one foot to the other. Both wore their Sunday clothes. Mary too had put on one of her best dresses, a pale pink chambray, with a flounce on the skirt and frills on the elbow sleeves. She had taken pains with her hair which responded in delightful puffs and little curls.
When Philip had encountered her just before leaving to drive to the station he had started back in consternation. He should have warned her not to dress up like that! By Jove, what would his mother and the Buckleys think? But — after all, she’d been engaged in England. He’d had nothing to do with it. Mary exclaimed, excitedly, quite ready to be thrown into panic:
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Whiteoak?”
“No, no” — he smiled reassuringly — “I thought I saw a spider. But I was mistaken.”
“On me?”
“Yes. But I was mistaken. I’m in quite a rush. I’m on my way to the station.” But he lingered. Suddenly he regretted the coming of all these relatives — even his mother. It had been very pleasant, he and Miss Wakefield alone with the children. Her presence had been charming to return to. He had scarcely realized how charming. And he had never seen her look quite so lovely as at this moment — when he was about to lose her, he almost had thought. Well, certainly, things would never be the same again. Looking back over the past month he regretted lost opportunities to be alone with Mary. There had been no more reading aloud of poetry since the day when Doctor Ramsey had come upon them in the ravine. That was a week ago. But — if he chose — surely he might be read to! Who was to stop him being read to, he’d like to know? He looked truculently at Mary.
“Yes?” she enquired, her whole body expressing interrogation.
“I was just thinking.”
“Rather stern thoughts,” she suggested. She found it so hard not to be too familiar with him.
Now he smiled. “They were about you, Miss Wakefield.”
“I hope I have not given you cause to frown.”
“Some day I’ll tell you,” he answered. “But now I must be off. Picture my family kicking their heels in the railway station. By Jove, they’ll never forgive me!”
Mary looking after him thought, — “When he says ‘his family,’ he means his mother. She must be an odious old lady. I’m beginning to dislike her.”
She drew a deep breath of nervous tension. All the rooms in the house were alive now, conscious of her, antagonistic to her. She belonged nowhere, not even in her own bedroom. The children ran past her, as though they did not see her.
“Are you tidy?” she called after them. “Are your hands clean?”
They gave derisive laughs and ran on.
Jake came panting and snuffling along the passage. He ran into the room prepared for the Buckleys and again lifted his leg against the leg of the four
-poster. Again no one saw him.
Mary descended the stairs and found Eliza lighting an ornate brass oil lamp in the drawing-room. Eliza was always pleasant when Mrs. Nettleship was not about. Now she remarked:
“It seems early for lighting the lamp but Mrs. Whiteoak does like to see things cheerful-looking when she comes home.”
“No rooms could look brighter or more polished than these,” said Mary. She raised her eyes to the crystal chandelier. “Every prism glitters.”
Eliza was pleased. “I took each one off and cleaned it separately. Mrs. Whiteoak always has a good look at it when she comes home. When she has a party we light all the candles in it. And, of course, on her birthday.”
Jake lollopped down the stairs and looked into the drawing room. He raised himself on his hind legs and stood against Mary. Mrs. Nettleship came from the basement. She gave Mary and Jake looks of equal disapproval.
“I won’t have that dog about my clean rooms,” she declared and clapped her hands vindictively at the spaniel.
He uttered a yelp of horror, flinging himself past Mary and almost knocking her down. He rushed through the open front door, still yelping. Outside he spied his decorous parents and flung himself at them for protection. First he tried to push himself inside his sire’s body, then, failing that, his mother’s. Mrs. Nettleship slammed the door after him.
Nearly an hour dragged itself by. Again and again Mary took her watch from where it was tucked inside her belt and looked at its laggard face. Her own face burned. Now the lamps were needed, for it was almost dark.
Horses’ hoofs clattered on the drive.
Mary fled upstairs to her own room.
There she stood in the open doorway listening. The hall seemed full of people. Surely those few could not make all that noise. Above the talking came every now and again the sound of a laugh, almost masculine in its vitality, yet with a feminine gaiety. Later she heard luggage being carried up the stairs. She heard voices in the bedrooms below. She heard a man’s deep voice call, “Come here for a minute, Ernest.” Then the voice of the Mr. Whiteoak she had met in London replied, “All right, Nicholas. I’ll be there when I’ve put on a fresh collar.”
Mary resolutely closed her own door. She made up her mind to stay where she was till sent for. She would read, and yes — she would smoke a cigarette! Mary’s own father had introduced her to this decadent habit, and it had grown on her to such an extent that, in times of stress, she not infrequently sought its comfort. In ordinary times one a day sufficed her. She had brought several packets with her.
Now she sat down, with both windows open, so there might be a current of air to carry away the smoke. She put a cigarette between her lips and lighted it, taking care to throw the match as far as possible into the shrubbery. She inhaled gently. She took up the copy of Lady Audley’s Secret which had kept her awake for hours the night before and began to read. Either the house was quieter now or she had succeeded in isolating herself. She started when a peremptory rap came on the door. The cigarette had been finished long ago but she dashed a little good scent on her hair and collar to allay any lingering odour of tobacco.
“Miss Wakefield!” called Renny.
She opened the door.
“You’re wanted downstairs. My grandmother wants to see you. And what do you suppose she brought me? A train that winds up and runs right across the room! And a music box for Meggie! Come and see!”
He caught her by the hand, with a warmth he had never before shown and dragged her through the door.
“You smell!” he exclaimed.
“Of what?” she demanded startled.
“It’s nice,” he said, and tugged at her again.
He was still holding her hand when they entered the drawing-room. That close grasp gave her strength. Anxiously she looked about her, seeking the figure of Mrs. Whiteoak.
But there was no need to seek. Her vigorous presence caught and held the eye, though all those in the room, save one, were strongly individual, and even he, Sir Edwin, was far from insignificant, if only because of his contrast to the others. Mary had expected to see an old woman but, at sixty-eight, Adeline Whitoak might have passed for fifty had it not been for her clothes, which were of a massive cut, and the fact that she wore a lace cap with ribbons on her head. The cap was wired to give it body. It also added to her look of imperiousness. There was little of grey in her hair which still retained a hint of russet. Her handsomely-cut aquiline features, her expressive brown eyes, her fine teeth, brought an admiring shine into Mary’s own eyes. Above all, she was smiling and Mary smiled in return.
“How do you do, Miss Wakefiled.” She held out her hand and Mary’s hand was enfolded in it. Renny still gripped the fingers of the other.
“Come,” he persisted, “come and see my train.”
It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.
“I hope you are getting on well,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “I hope you are able to put some knowledge into the children’s heads.”
“I’m trying hard.” Mary’s voice was scarcely audible.
“I think I must be getting deaf.” Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her palm. “I can’t hear you.”
“I’m getting on nicely, thank you.” Now her voice came clearly and, she felt, a little too loud.
Meg spoke up. “We haven’t had lessons lately. It’s too hot.”
Her grandmother’s bright glance discovered her. “There are other things besides lessons,” she said.
“What other things?” asked Renny.
“Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?”
He gave a peal of laughter.
“Is there a party or something?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary over.
Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to sink through the floor.
Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic, though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he shook hands kindly.
“It seems quite a long while,” he said, “since I interviewed you, on behalf of my mother.”
“And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother’s eyes, I’ll be bound,” added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary.
“How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty-four.”
“H’m. That quite tallies with my son’s description of you. He said you were — youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your own teeth. Well — so have I and I’m sixty-eight.”
Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.
Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.
“Now I had better introduce you all round,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, “Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin — Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield — Mr. Whiteoak, Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.”
The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.
“Where are the children?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.
“They’ve taken their toys to the library,” answered Philip.
Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the hand toward Mary. “You’d better join ’em, she said. “They’ll be up to mischief.” Mary noticed the hand, long and supple. She saw the flash of rubies and diamonds on it.
With a little bow Mary withdrew. Scarcely was she in the hall when she heard Mrs. Whiteoak say:
“Somebody please shut that door.”
It was closed and the six people left in the drawing-room exchanged looks of untrammelled intimacy. Nicholas was the first to speak.
“A lovely creature,” he said. “A very lovely creature.” He turned to his brother Ernest. “Upon my word, Ernie, you’ve a very pretty taste in women.”
“She looked quite different in London,” replied Ernest hastily.
“Do
ubtless the climate here has rejuvenated her,” said Sir Edwin who was small and neat and mouse-coloured.
“Are we to take that remark seriously, Edwin?” asked his wife who was tall, with a massive curled fringe about her forehead and a plum-coloured dress. She spoke in a rich contralto voice.
“I offer it as the only possible explanation,” he replied. “Ernest himself says she looks different.”
“If she looked as she does now, Ernest must have been demented,” declared Lady Buckley.
“What’s the matter with her looks?” demanded Philip.
“Everything,” returned his sister. “She looks and dresses like an actress.”
It went against the grain of Adeline Whiteoak to agree with her daughter, so she ignored this remark and asked of Ernest:
“How was she different in London?”
“Well, Mamma, it’s hard to say. But there was an impalpable difference.”
“I do not engage governesses on impalpable grounds.”
“We never should have trusted Ernest,” said Lady Buckley. “He is too easily carried away by a little charm.”
Ernest replied tartly, “I am the only one of us who has not been carried away into matrimony.”
Sir Edwin giggled. “My charm was too much for Augusta, eh, Augusta?”
His wife looked at him as though she failed to discover a remnant of charm in him. She said:
“A girl like that is no companion for the children.”
“What do you want me to do?” exclaimed Philip hotly. “Turn her out because she’s pretty and wears pretty clothes? Well — I refuse. You sent her to me. She’s a damned sight nicer than the other two were.” He went on more calmly, “Wait till you’re acquainted with her before you condemn her. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Philip is right,” agreed Ernest. “Let us be patient and calm.”
This remark had no calming effect on his mother. She sprang up and swept through the length of the room. “By the Lord,” she exclaimed, “you have a way of bringing out the worst in people, Ernest.”
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