03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

He went to the door and called back. “Yes. I’m in Meggie’s room.”

  “Are the children all right?”

  “Quite all right. I’m coming down in a jiffy. The storm is over.”

  He took Renny back to his own room. Mary tucked up Meg where she lay very still, looking up at her with a cool considering gaze. Mary could see that she did not want to be kissed. She said:

  “Please, Miss Wakefield, leave the lamp burning.”

  “But it will soon be daylight.”

  “I want the lamp, please.”

  “You won’t touch it?”

  “No. I promise.”

  Mary lowered the lamp. She left the room, closing the door behind her. There was quiet. A cool breeze was blowing in at Renny’s window. A myriad drops were falling from the leaves like a slow sweet rain.

  Philip came into the passage, closing the door of Renny’s room. Mary said hurriedly:

  “I’m sorry. I must have seemed abrupt. But … the children… Not that it mattered. But — you were going to ask me something?”

  “Yes. Are you happy at Jalna? Do you —” he looked straight into her eyes — “like us? I mean the children and me.”

  She could not answer. She could find neither words nor voice to utter words.

  He persisted. “You do like the children, don’t you?”

  Her voice shook as she answered, “Yes. Oh, yes, I like them very much.”

  “Well, that’s the important thing. But I feel this about you. You’re too sensitive. By Jove, if things went wrong, you’d take it very hard. I hate to think how you’d take it.”

  She exclaimed, almost harshly, “You asked me if I liked the children and I said I did. And you asked me if I liked you and — I do. How can I help? You’re so —”

  “That’s splendid,” he interrupted. “Now you go straight to bed. You’re overwrought by the storm. You’ll feel a wreck tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” He touched her arm in a comforting gesture and went down the stairs.

  Mary could hear voices below. He had left her so suddenly she wondered if he had thought his sister was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairway. She went into her own room and closed the door.

  It was not quite dark. A moist grey twilight showed behind the trees. There was a steady drip from the leaves. Mary put her hands on the foot of the bed to steady herself. She said, as though speaking aloud to someone on the bed, “But I don’t like him. I love him … I love him.” She repeated the words over and over and felt calmer. She repeated his name.

  Then she remembered how he had cut her short. Had he seen that she was about to give herself away — say something foolish? She had a moment’s wild desire to run down the stairs and beat on the panel of his door and call out a denial. She thought of all the other people, from all the other rooms, coming forth in amazement and scorn. Most clearly she pictured Philip’s mother, mounting from her richly coloured lair like a tigress to protect her son.

  “And he cares nothing for me,” Mary thought, “no more than he cared for Miss Cox or Miss Turnbull!”

  She was shivering. She crept into bed and drew the covers over her head but she did not sleep again.

  In the morning she put on her dark blue skirt and white shirt-waist. She looked pale and wan. After breakfast she gathered the children into the schoolroom and shut the door. Meg was weary too and lolled across her copy book. Renny insisted on standing with his arm about Mary’s neck while she taught him his multiplication table. By no other means could she persuade him to be still.

  IX

  NEXT MORNING

  ADELINE WHITEOAK HAD slept well and she felt singularly refreshed. The storm had cleared the air, leaving the countryside fresh washed, with all its outlines sharp, as though etched. The shout of a man driving a team in a distant field could be distinctly heard in her bedroom.

  The thought crossed her mind as she was dressing that it was a pity women’s clothes were so cumbersome. It would be grand, she thought, to have on no more than shirt and trousers, like that fellow in the field. She grinned when she pictured what she would look like in them. Still, she would look better than most women. Thank goodness, she had never got broad across the beam or thick through the breast. With something of complacency she put herself into her long, whale-boned stays, each metal fastening snapping sharply into place. She put on a black cashmere dress. She put on a heavy gold chain and locket. As she held the locket in her hand she raised it to her lips and pressed a kiss on it. This she did every morning because of the lock of hair inside.

  The dining-room was empty for she had slept late and this rather pleased her. She liked having the first meal of the day in solitude, with only the pleasant, familiar sounds of home about her. On this morning, after an absence of months, they were particularly pleasing. Among the vines outside the window young birds were twittering as their parents fed them. A turkey gobbler let forth his boastful shout. A man was raking the gravel of the drive. Adeline smiled as she drew the large linen napkin from its silver ring and tucked one corner of it under her chin. She was not going to risk a drop of milk on the front of her dress. The porridge was delicious, cracked wheat, and cooked till it was almost transparent. As for the milk! She had not tasted any to equal it while she was away. After the porridge she had a dish of ripe raspberries, smothered in cream, two thick slices of toast well-buttered, and three cups of strong tea. As she ate, her eyes roved about the room, taking in first one object and then another, savouring their familiarity and how well they were cared for. Once her eyes rested on the two portraits, but not for long. They were too lifelike — herself and her Philip in their prime. She could look at the portrait of herself with a little appreciative smile, thinking — ha, I was like that! A handsome girl! But the two of them together, he in his fine uniform, she in her yellow satin ball-dress, brought memories too poignant to be borne. How they had loved! The paltry loves of most people were, in her opinion, scarcely to be considered. The love, for instance, of Nicholas and his wife, and young Philip and his. Not that she had never looked at another man. She wasn’t the sort of woman to fasten her feminine egotism on to one object, to stifle the loved one’s spirit by her unremitting concentration. Adeline’s nature was too lavish for that. But she had had only one great love.

  Now Eliza came into the room to see if she wished for anything.

  “Not another pot of tea, Ma’am, or a little more toast?”

  “Not a sup or bite more, Eliza. You’ll have me fat, if you keep on feeding me like this. Where’s everybody?”

  “The gentlemen have gone over to the stables, Ma’am. Lady Buckley is in her room. And the children are with Miss Wakefield.”

  “H’m … I miss Boney. Do you think Miss Pink knows I’m home?”

  “Word was sent to her. I believe he’s been keeping very well.”

  “I’m glad of that. Poor old bird. He’ll be thankful to see me.”

  Eliza agreed, though she felt no warmth of affection for the parrot. Then she exclaimed:

  “I hear wheels now. Mebbe that would be Miss Pink.”

  She hastened into the hall and then turned back to say:

  “Yes, Ma’am, it is Miss Pink and she has the bird.”

  “Show her into the library and tell her I shall be there directly.”

  Adeline energetically wiped her lips, rose, decided that she would like one more raspberry, took one from the dish and popped it into her mouth. She went through the hall where the door stood open. She could see the Pinks’ fat pony and the trap. She entered the library with a welcoming smile already on her lips.

  Lily Pink was standing in the middle of the room holding a parrot’s cage in her hand. It was she who had undertaken the care of the bird in Adeline’s absence. She was twenty but had the innocent expression of a sweet little girl of twelve. Her light brown hair was drawn back from her face into a tight bun at the back of her neck. She wore a pink dress with leg o’mutton sleeves. Her grandfather had been the first rector of the littl
e church built by Captain Whiteoak, forty years before. Her father, also a clergyman, had been a missionary in China where his children had been born. Ten years ago he had returned to take charge of the parish that had been his father’s.

  “Lily, my dear child!” exclaimed Adeline, kissing her, “I am so glad to see you. And Boney! Has he been well?”

  “Perfectly well, Mrs. Whiteoak. All the time.”

  “I’m so grateful. I couldn’t have been satisfied to leave him so long, with no one more tender-hearted than Mrs. Nettleship. Then there were the children. I was afraid they’d let him out. I can’t trust young Renny.”

  She bent her long supple body above the cage and the parrot, with a scream of joy, hopped into the doorway, climbed up the side of the cage and from the top flew to her shoulder. She turned her face to his. He pressed his beak against her nose, uttering low chuckling sounds, while his bright-plumaged body vibrated with his love for her.

  “Has he talked much?” she asked.

  “Very little, Mrs. Whiteoak. Except in anger. He’s missed you dreadfully.”

  “He talked in anger, eh? What did he say?”

  Lily blushed. “Oh, I don’t know what he said.” She could not tell her that her father had ordered her to cover the bird’s cage on his outburst of colourful language.

  Boney was the successor to the parrot Adeline had brought from India. At his death, fifteen years ago, Adeline had been so distressed that Captain Whiteoak had not rested till he had found another, similar in plumage, to comfort her. Between them they had taught him the first Boney’s vocabulary, in which he became so proficient that in time the two birds were merged into one in the minds of the family.

  Adeline moved her head gently up and down while the parrot rocked his body in sensuous enjoyment. He hated everyone but her.

  Now he spoke. “Dilkhoosa … Dilkhoosa,” he murmured caressingly. “Nur mahal … Mera lal.”

  “Is he swearing?” asked Lily.

  “Swearing? Not a bit of it. He’s making love. Oh, they know how to make love in the East, Lily. Pearl of the harem. That’s what he called me, Lily.”

  Lily Pink had a sense of shock that a woman of Adeline’s age, the mother of middle-aged sons, a grandmother, should take such obvious pleasure in these unsuitable endearments. She felt that older people should not have love words addressed to them, even by a parrot. She herself never expected to be the object of masculine endearments. For three years she had cherished a hopeless love for Philip Whiteoak which she expressed by falling into almost complete silence in his presence and avoiding his eyes.

  Now, from the side door, he entered the hall.

  “Hullo, Mamm,” he exclaimed.

  “Up already?”

  “Already! The morning’s half gone. And this is the first time you’ve sought your mother!”

  “Not at all. I’ve been in here twice before. Good morning, Lily. So you’ve brought Boney back.”

  Lily bowed and silently moved her lips. Philip kissed his mother and chucked the parrot under the beak. Boney snapped at his finger, then once again concentrated his attention on Adeline.

  “It’s glorious weather,” said Philip. “The air is marvelously cleared. What are you going to do?”

  Adeline concealed by a forced smile the sombre look she turned on him. The air is not cleared, my fine fellow, she thought, and the first thing I am going to do is to find out what you’ve been up to. She said:

  “I think I shall go to see the Laceys. Lily can you drop me at their door. Will you do that, my dear?”

  “Oh, I’d love to, Mrs. Whiteoak.”

  “Good. I’ll get my hat. But just let me give you this.” She took from her pocket a small box and out of it a pretty leather belt with a silk-lined purse attached. She fastened it about Lily’s waist.

  Philip looked on approvingly. “There’s a waist you could span,” he said.

  “She’d never let you try, would you, Lily?”

  Lily thanked Adeline for the present, while keeping her eyes resolutely turned from Philip. She was in a state of panic at the thought of being left alone with him. She followed Adeline into the drawing-room and helped to hang the parrot’s cage on its stand. It took considerable coaxing to persuade him to enter the cage, and, when Adeline, after many endearments, left him he shouted Hindoo curses after her in his disappointment.

  “I shall soon be back, my darling,” she cried, and hurried to her room to put on her hat.

  Philip stood smiling at Lily, stranded alone with him.

  “Like that thing my mother brought you?” he asked.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, but quite inaudibly.

  He fingered the purse, opened it and peeped into it.

  “Nothing in it,” he said. “Not a penny.”

  She managed to get out, “Nor ever will be. I never have any money.” Her cheeks flamed as she said it.

  “Never mind, Lily. You will. One day some millionaire will come along —”

  Adeline appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. Philip went with them to the pony trap, assisted them to climb to the seat, patted the pony, gave him a mouthful of grass. They jogged down the drive, the pony munching while green saliva dribbled from his lip. His hoofs splashed in and out of puddles, his small hard flanks glittered in the sunshine. Adeline thought how contented she would be, if only Philip behaved himself. She remarked:

  “I suppose you’ve met the children’s governess.”

  Away from Philip, Lily could talk. “Yes. I met her at Mrs. Lacey’s and Mother has had her to tea with the children. Twice I’ve met her on the road. Do you think she’s pretty, Mrs. Whiteoak? All the gentlemen are raving over her.”

  “Your father?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Admiral Lacey?”

  “Most of all.”

  “Doctor Ramsey?”

  “No. I haven’t heard him.”

  The situation seemed worse than Adeline had imagined.

  ‘Make the pony move faster, Lily,” she said. “Give him a tap with the whip.”

  Lily took the bent whip, though reluctantly, from its holder and administered a tap on his right flank. He looked over his shoulder at her.

  “Give him another,” said Adeline.

  Lily gave him one on his left flank. He stopped.

  “Come, come,” Adeline urged him. “Get up with you!”

  He looked over his shoulder at her.

  “Here — give me the whip.”

  Lily surrendered it and Adeline gave him a sharp cut.

  He walked down into the ditch, all but spilling them out.

  “He always does that if he’s touched with the whip,” said Lily.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Will he come up again if we pull him?”

  “No. We shall just have to wait here till a man arrives.”

  “I could do it myself,” said Adeline, “but I should get burrs in my skirt. Oh, you rascal!” She struck the pony’s flank again. He looked round at her out of his large, remote eyes and made as though to lie down in the ditch. Both women clambered hastily out of the trap, and at the same time Doctor Ramsey appeared on the road driving his big mare. He greeted Adeline with warmth.

  When he saw their predicament he alighted from his buggy and, with a masterful air, led the pony back to the road, the pony coming eagerly, as though this was just what he wanted.

  “What do you suppose was wrong with him,” asked Adeline, “that he should go into the ditch?”

  “He had been going into the ditch ever since I’ve known him,” said Doctor Ramsey, “and I’ve known him twenty-five years.”

  “Which way are you going, Doctor?” she asked. “If it is in the direction of The Moorings, I think I’ll go with you.”

  “That is just where I am going, for I am taking a bottle of liniment for the Admiral’s back.”

  “Is it bad then?”

  “Just a touch of lumbago. Do come with me, Mrs. Whiteoak. I’d like a chat with you.”
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br />   Adeline said good-bye to Lily and mounted to the seat beside the doctor. He flicked the mare who set off at a good pace, the pony, on his short legs, doing his best to overtake her.

  “Well,” said the doctor, looking with canny admiration into Adeline’s lively eyes, “you look none the worse for your journey.”

  “I’m all the better for it. There’s nothing like a change from the worries and responsibilities of one’s own home.”

  “True. Very true. And Lady Buckley, is she quite well?”

  Adeline disliked her daughter’s title, for she resented being in a position socially inferior to her, but Doctor Ramsey never missed an opportunity of using it, though he had called her Augusta to the day of her marriage.

  “Augusta is well enough.”

  “And Sir Edwin?”

  “If he’s ailing he hasn’t remarked on it.”

  “And Nicholas and Ernest?”

  “Fit as fiddles. Ernest is by way of becoming a rich man. He’s got a wonderful knowledge of investments.”

  “Ha! He’d better be cautious. If I had money to invest, I’d put it into property … And how did ye find everything at Jalna?”

  Adeline looked straight between the mare’s ears. “I found a pretty kettle of fish there.”

  “You did?”

  “Come,” she exclaimed, “don’t tell me that you’ve heard nothing.”

  “Nothing but praise for the young woman. Excepting from Mrs. Lacey. She seems to be quite a charmer.”

  “Well, my housekeeper had a tale to tell of her. She saw her en dishabille at her bedroom door talking to Philip, before she’d been in the house a week. She heard them kiss in the library.”

  Doctor Ramsey drew up the mare at the gate of The Moorings and gently flicked the flies from her flanks. Lily Pink and the pony passed, he hastening home to his oats, she waving and smiling.

  Now the doctor turned a sombre look on Adeline, and spoke in a deliberate tone, his Scottish accent strongly marked.

  “I said I had heard nothing but now I shall tell you what I saw.”

  Adeline sat planted firmly, a hand on either knee.

  “At the first I had trouble finding the young person. Twice I went to Jalna but she was out. On the second occasion Eliza told me that she had been seen walking in the direction of the wood. I followed her for, as the children’s grandfather, I felt I had a responsibility. I walked a long way and then I came to that wee clearing in the midst of the wood. There is a nice smooth grass there and what do you suppose I saw?”