“It’s you who are cruel, Mary.” He spoke with a childlike appeal, deliberately putting it in his voice and his eyes, she thought, and steadied herself to answer:
“If you loved me you kept your love well hidden. There have been weeks when you have scarcely looked in my direction.”
“I was happy just to feel that you were under the same roof. I thought you …”
“Tell the truth,” she interrupted wildly. “You did not give me a second thought. You were satisfied with your fishing — the life you lead — and no wonder. I don’t think I’ve ever known a man more happily placed. You’ve everything.”
“I have an indolent nature. I’m willing to let things take their course.”
“Then, let them take their course. You know what it is.”
“Good Lord God!” he shouted, “am I to lose you without raising my hand to prevent it?”
“It’s too late.”
He could see the beat of her heart, in her throat.
“That means,” he said, more quietly, “that you did — perhaps still do — love me.”
She looked into his eyes, without speaking.
“Can you love two men, Mary?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“It’s impossible! Or it’s not the same sort of love. I think you feel affection, kindness toward Clive. I think you love me … But you don’t feel kindness toward me, Mary.”
“What kind of love do you feel for me,” she cried, “when a few scornful remarks from your mother were enough to make you shun me for weeks?”
“I think you shunned me too. I think we both were a little shy. We’d felt an emotion we weren’t prepared for.”
“Perhaps.” She hesitated and then brought out what had so rankled in her mind. “I’ve wondered what emotion you felt when you drove Miss Craig home, with her head on your shoulder.”
He was so disconcerted that he was for a moment comical, then he made a grimace.
“Discomfort,” he said. “Acute discomfort. Nothing more. I swear I said nothing that should have made her feel sentimental and by the time we were round the bend in the road she was sitting up properly. Muriel has never had any real attraction for me, but, all the while you’ve been at Jalna, Mary, my love for you has been taking a greater hold on me. You have heard of entertaining an angel unawares. I’ve done that with my love for you.”
“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t say such things.” She shook her head from side to side as though looking at some object that moved her to pity. And she repeated, “It’s too late.”
“Now I’m conscious,” he continued, as though she had not spoken, “all through me, of how much I love you.”
She stepped swiftly past him into the orchard. Then, facing him, said:
“I can’t treat Clive like this. I can’t listen to such words from another man. Do you think I have no loyalty in me?”
“Then, you’re going to marry him?”
“Yes.”
He followed her and put his arm about her.
“I won’t let you.”
“Nothing can stop me. I’ve promised.”
“You don’t love him.”
“I love him dearly.”
“Not as you do me.” Both his arms were about her and he held her close to him. The enchantment she had felt in his touch, on the night of the dance, now flowed through her, intensified to the point of ecstasy. The oriole, his plumage gilded by the sun’s last rays, may have felt so, as he poured out his song.
Philip bent his face to hers whispering, “My dearest, sweetest, Mary … My darling one … I won’t let you go … You can’t make me … Kiss me, Mary.”
She returned his kisses.
“There’ll be a moon tonight, Mary,” he said. “We’ll go out in the moonlight together.”
“No.” She put her hands on his chest and would have pushed him from her but he would not let her go.
For an enchanted moment they were as still as though turned to stone. Then Philip was roused by clumping steps on the orchard path. He released her and they saw a farm labourer, Noah Binns, drawing near, his dinner pail swinging in his hand, his pleased grin showing black and broken teeth, though he was still young.
Noah Binns’ little pig’s eyes were fixed on them in curiosity but, to show that his mind was occupied by other affairs, he remarked:
“Bugs is breedin’”
“Bugs! What bugs?” asked Philip.
“Tater bugs. Where there was one, there’s ten.”
He clumped on.
Mary and Philip stood looking after him. Their moment was broken. They didn’t know what to say. Then Mary gave a little laugh. “What a strange creature! Every time I meet him he says something about bugs or worms or rot or decay.” She laughed nervously.
“He enjoys thinking of life like that … He saw us, Mary.”
“Does that mean he’ll tell?”
“Of course. But it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters terribly to me, as I’m going to be married so soon. People will talk. But I needn’t mind. I’m going far away.”
“Mary, are you being deliberately cruel?”
“I’m trying to put this afternoon behind me.”
“You can’t! No more than I can. It would be there between you and Clive, if you were to marry him … But you can’t marry him … It wouldn’t be fair to him, Mary, loving me as you do.”
She had turned her face away from him but now she looked into his eyes. “What has just passed,” she said, “was only a little moment in our lives.”
“It has made everything different,” he said, “I knew I loved you but — now I know you love me.”
“You loved me!” she cried. “Then why in God’s name didn’t you say so?”
“I was a fool … I was willing to drift along.”
“Now it’s too late.”
“Mary,” he took her hand and drew her back into the shed where the air was heavy with the smell of apples. “Let’s talk this over. It’s not too late. No one can keep us apart.”
She suffered herself to be led. Her eyes were wide and shining with tears. They were tears of pity for him and for herself. Each one was the haven the other had sought. What was either but a fragile being whose life might, at any moment, be engulfed? She raised her face to his and put her arms about his neck.
And, though, at the moment there was no strength in her, power from her passed through him like a flame. He felt capable of sweeping her up in his arms, away from the very face of the earth. He kissed her hands, the little hollow of her throat, her lips.
“Now let me go,” she said, and he did not restrain her.
She followed the orchard path, crossed the field where the old pear tree stood whose fruit now shone like gold. The windows of the house shone too, flaming in the sunset. But, as she drew near it, the sun sank behind the pine wood and the house stood in chill twilight. She met no on in the passages. The sound of Nicholas’ playing on the piano came from the drawing-room. Mary went straight to her own room.
XVI
THE STORM
NOAH BINNS PLODDED on. His boots had so many times been wet through and dried in the oven that they no longer seemed to be made of leather but of some rough and corrugated wood. Their toes turned stiffly upward, their laces dangled as he clumped over the road. Every now and again he gave out a “Whew” of relish.
He saw Lily Pink coming toward him along the quiet road. She carried a bottle of blackberry cordial, a present from her mother to Adeline Whiteoak. She smiled gently at Noah Binns and enquired about his mother’s rheumatism.
“It’s no better, thank you, and it’ll get worse, as I keep a’tellin’ her.”
“But that’s not a cheerful way to talk to her. My father says you should always comfort a sick person.”
“That’s your father’s business, Miss, to comfort the sick and bury the dead. He’s paid for it. I’m not.”
Lily looked at him blankly, unable to find anything to say.
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“Would you be going in the direction of Jalna?” he asked.
“Yes,” She answered coldly. What business was it of his?
“Then, Miss, I advise you to keep away from the apple-packin’ shed.”
“Why!”
Noah shook his dinner pail up and down, listening to the rattle of the tin cup inside, as though the sound afforded him sensuous pleasure. Then he answered, “There’s love-makin’ goin’ on by the shed.”
Lily drew back from him in horror.
“What — why —” she stammered.
He grinned at her discomposure. “Don’t mind — don’t mind — it’s all over now, I guess. I guess you’d be safe goin’ that way now.”
She stood fascinated.
Noah went on, “I guess the boss has a right to make love to the governess, or whatever they call her, if he wants to, but she’s been traipsin’ through these woods steady with that there Mr. Busby, hasn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” answered Lily, fiercely. She left him and hurried in the direction of Jalna but took the path outside the orchard.
Noah Binns looked after her reflectively. “Dang it all,” he said to himself, “what’s she fussed up about? I’ve got a right to say what I saw, haven’t I? If she’d seen the bugs I have, she might get fussed up. Ten where there was one!”
Lily stood in the porch waiting. She had not allowed herself to think, after she had left Noah Binns, for fear she would not have the courage to go on. Now she stood clutching the bottle of blackberry cordial as pink-cheeked Eliza opened the door.
“Mother sent this,” she said, “please give it to Mrs. Whiteoak.”
“Is that Lily Pink?” called Adeline’s voice from inside.
“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak.” Eliza drew back and Lily stepped into the hall.
“Come into my room. I want to see you.”
Lily went down the hall to Adeline’s room. The door was open and she was seated before her dressing-table. She had on a wide flounced cambric petticoat, with rows of lace insertion, and a many-gored low-cut “corset cover”. So, all in white, with her hair down and shoulders bare, she had a festive air about her. Boney was perched on the head of the bed. When he saw Lily he opened his beak and screamed, yet with a jocular air:
“Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Shaitkan ka butcka!”
“Shall I come in?” asked Lily. “Will he mind?”
“No. He’ll not mind. Come right in. My, what a good colour you’ve got! I like to see a young girl with a bright complexion. One doesn’t often see it in this country. Ireland’s the place for that. Look at our little Renny. He’s peaches and cream. But what will he be in twenty years? Weatherbeaten. What’s that you have in the bottle?”
“Blackberry cordial. Mother sent it. It’s good to have when winter comes and there are coughs about.”
Adeline was delighted. She took off the white napkin that wrapped the bottle, held the bottle to the light to admire the colour of the cordial, uncorked it and savoured a sip.
She smacked her lips. “Ha, that’s good. There’s nothing better for the throat. Thank your mother a thousand times … And now I have something for you.”
From a drawer of her dressing-table she produced a small blue velvet box and from it a gold thimble.
“Now give me your hand.” She took Lily’s right hand and placed the thimble on its middle finger. “It was given me by my godmother when I was just your age.”
“But Mrs. Whiteoak, you shouldn’t part with it!”
“Ah, I’ve never been one to sew much. I used to do embroidery when I was young. But now my bit of mending is all I trouble about and a silver thimble is good enough for that.”
Lily’s face glowed. She threw both arms about Adeline’s neck and hugged her. She murmured incoherent thanks. Then suddenly she broke down and clung to her shaken by sobs.
“Well, well, well, now — whatever is the matter with you, Lily?”
She clasped the girl close, her bare arms enfolding her, her body giving off a pleasant scent of Windsor soap, her starched petticoat crackling.
“I don’t know.” But she went on sobbing.
Adeline patted her back. “Tut, tut, now, that’s enough. You’re not into any sort of trouble, are you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Lily … It’s no love affair, is it?”
“No!” she cried hoarsely.
“Then, in God’s name, what is it?”
“It’s … it’s that governess. Mary Wakefield.”
Adeline held her closer. “Whisper to me. What is it she’s done?”
“She’s bad! That’s what she is! Bad.”
“What do you know, my dear? Come, we’ll just sit here quietly on my bed and you’ll tell me.”
Lily stumbled to the bed and sat down leaning heavily against Adeline.
Out of her distorted mouth she sobbed, “I wish I hadn’t said anything.”
“Ah, but ’twas right that you should. It will do you good to clear your mind of what’s troubling you. Besides, Miss Wakefield lives in my house and teaches my two innocent grandchildren. It’s my right to know what she’s been up to.”
Lily sat up and wiped her eyes with the hand on which the gold thimble still shone.
“It’s a shame,” she said, “that I should go on like this just after having such a lovely present given me.” Through blurred eyes she examined the thimble.
“Come, come,” Adeline was growing impatient, “what’s all this about, Lily?”
“Mrs. Whiteoak, she’s engaged to Clive Busby, isn’t she?”
Adeline’s brows shot up. “Well — and who told you that?”
“Oh, I know it’s a secret. But Clive told Violet Lacey. He made her promise not to breathe a word of it but he was so happy he couldn’t help telling her.”
“And she told you?”
“Yes, and I promised not to tell and I haven’t except to you and I guess you know already.”
“I do. Now, what has she done?”
“I don’t know … I really don’t … But as I was coming here just now I met Noah Binns and he told me, with a hateful smile, not to come past the shed where they keep the barrels and crates at the far end of the orchard and naturally I asked why and he said — oh, I can’t repeat it!”
“Now Lily, don’t be silly. Go on.”
“He said not to come past that place because there was love-making going on there. He said it was Mr. Whiteoak and Mary Wakefield. I don’t know what he meant, do you?” Lily’s eyes were avidly bright, as they looked into Adeline’s.
Adeline smiled. “Noah Binns’ sort have nasty minds. You mustn’t listen to them, Lily. As for my son — he knows of the engagement and he’s as pleased as I am. He was probably making arrangements with her about the children. Is that all Noah said?”
“He said she’d be traipsing through the woods with Clive and now she was in the orchard making love to Mr. Whiteoak. It was the way he said it. He leered.”
“Ah, well, he’s a nasty fellow and I think I’ll have a word with him. Now you run along, my dear…” She talked to Lily of other things.
When the door had shut behind her, Adeline stood motionless for a space, a very different person from the comforting, kindly woman who had kissed the girl good-bye. Her brows were drawn into a black frown, her lips compressed.
“So … that’s what she’s like,” she thought. “A bitch — a wanton! Just what I thought that night I caught her dancing like a fille de joie with my Philip. She’s got the two of them on strings — young fools that they are! And she’s had me on a string — old fool that I am!” Then she said aloud, but softly, “What’s to be done?”
Her anger at the thought that Mary had deceived her burned even more hotly than the thought of her playing with two men. She wondered how she could face her calmly at the supper table. But perhaps that silly girl, Lily, had worked herself up over nothing. Yet why had Noah Binns warned Lily not to go through the orchard? Why had he leered? Adeli
ne had never seen so much as a half-smile on his face. And he seemed a decent fellow. Mr. Pink thought well of him. If only it had been she who had met him instead of Lily!
Mary did not appear at the supper table. She had complained of a headache, Eliza said.
Emotion made Adeline hungry. Never had cold lamb, thick slices of dark red tomatoes with plenty of vinegar and sugar on them, tasted better. All the while she was seething inside. Her daughter and her two elder sons were conscious of this and expected an explosion at any moment. But none came. She finished the meal as she had begun it, in affable description of her visit with Maggie Rutherford. It gave opportunity for her power of mimicry and wit.
It was a wonder she could be lively with Philip facing her from the other end of the table in sombre silence. After supper she played backgammon with Sir Edwin. At the usual time she said good night to her family with the exception of Philip who had taken the dogs for a walk, and retired to her room. Philip had sent a message to Mary by Meg saying he wished to see her. The child had returned with word that Mary was not well and was lying down and would it be all right if she saw him in the morning. “And she really does look ill, Papa,” Meg had said, feeling something in the air. Philip had muttered, “Very well, Meggie. Tell Miss Wakefield I’ll see her first thing in the morning.” He felt baffled. For a moment he had a mind to go to her, but, with family and children about, how could they two have privacy? He would have to wait till morning. But it was now that he wanted her with him. Now, out in the moonlight, he’d make her forget the very existence of Clive Busby.
He could not bear to be near the house or even in his own woods. He turned through the gate to the road that led to the lake. The moon was just past its first quarter but capable of throwing distinct black shadows on the silent road. In all of the two miles he met no vehicle but, in a field, two horses came and looked at him over the fence. The three spaniels and the fox terrier trotted continuously on and off the road, in and out of ditches, snuffed at the openings into burrows, flattened themselves to get under fences into fields, where they ran about with noses to the ground, but always reappeared. There was no need to whistle to them. They would not lose him. They were too joyous in his return.
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