03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  He passed through a lane, followed a path winding among scrubby cedars and alders and was on the beach. The lake spread cold and tranquil, reflecting the moon. The shingle crunched beneath his feet, and then came the sand at the water’s edge. Wavelets, rimmed with silver, spent themselves soundlessly on the beach. The dogs came to the water’s edge and drank as though in great thirst, letting their forepaws get wet. The fox terrier shivered but he would not stop drinking till the spaniels did.

  Philip thought of the countless times he had come to this spot, of how the countryside round about was as familiar to him as the face of one of his family. His brothers had gone away, his sister too, but this was where he wanted to be. This was his life. In this place he had grown up, married, begotten his children, lived his short married life and now loved … If only Mary were here with him by the lake! He would pour out all his new-found love on her — not in words, but he would make her feel it, in the very touch of his hand, in the beat of his heart, in his breast against hers. The air moved cool on his forehead. He raised his face to it and walked along the lake’s rim. If only she were here! No matter how many years they might have together he always would regret this night — the night when they should have walked together by the lake, the night when they should have watched the moon sink into the gleaming water, have walked, with fingers interlocked, along the beach. Was she really ill? Yes, he believed so, otherwise she could not have denied him this night. But a night’s rest would make her well and tomorrow he would settle everything — with his mother — with Clive. His mother — he smiled wryly when he thought of her. He did not feel as angry as he had, but he would show her who was master of Jalna.

  Adeline remained in her room reading till she heard Philip put the dogs to bed and mount the stairs. Then she went into the hall and stood there, her fingers resting lovingly on the carved grapes of the newel post till she heard his windows opened for the night. Then she went up the stairs and stood in the passage till the pencil of light under his door was gone. She stood very still now, close to his door, listening intently. She heard his steady regular breathing. She went up the stairs to the top floor.

  Very lightly she tapped on Mary’s door. There was a light inside.

  Mary’s voice came from close to the panel. “Yes? Who is there?”

  Adeline thought, “She’s expecting Philip.” She said, “May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Wakefield?”

  The door was instantly opened and Mary stood there, white-faced, defensive, scarcely seeming to breathe.

  “Thank you.” Adeline came into the room and closed the door behind her.

  They stood, tall women, eye to eye, in long white night-dresses, up to the throat, down to the wrist, Adeline’s elaborately tucked. About her shoulders she had a brilliantly coloured oriental shawl. Her hair which she had been brushing hung loose about her neck and down her back. She was a superb and deliberately picturesque figure.

  Mary’s hair hung in a single plait, she was barefoot.

  “Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak?” She found herself trembling like a leaf, already intimidated.

  “I want to know,” Adeline said, “what you mean by playing fast and loose with young Busby.”

  “I’m not playing fast and loose with him. I mean to marry him.”

  Adeline laughed. “You mean to marry him and yet you were in the arms of my son this very afternoon. Kissing him. Now I have the right to know what this means.”

  “It doesn’t — I wasn’t —”

  “Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Adeline harshly. “You were seen by one of the men — everyone knows it by now. Why, within half an hour the tale was carried to me. I’ve suspected from the first that you were no better than you should be. But carrying on with two men at the same time — one, the son of my friend — one, my own son! Good God, do you imagine you can pull the wool over everybody’s eyes? What are you trying to do? That’s what I want to know.”

  Mary backed away from her. Her brain would not act. It was in a whirl. She could find no words in which to explain.

  “Do you imagine Clive Busby will marry you after this?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary answered, in a strangled voice.

  “Perhaps you think Philip will marry you! Not he. He’s had quite enough of marriage. Are you his mistress?”

  The question was shot at her like a blow.

  “Are you his mistress?” repeated Adeline. “Come — how often has he been up to your room?”

  Mary put her hand to her throat. She wanted to scream. She was alone! She had no weapons. The figures of Clive and Philip loomed like enormous shadows in the room, Clive looking at her with hate, Philip…

  “He has been up to your room, at night, hasn’t he?”

  “Will you let me alone!” cried Mary.

  “I want an answer. Are you Philip’s mistress?”

  Mary’s fear, her hysteria, turned to rage.

  “Yes,” she answered, in rage, “I am.”

  Adeline’s jaw dropped. She had not expected any such confession. For a moment she was too astounded to speak. She looked at Mary as though seeing her for the first time.

  Mary’s trembling ceased. She stood exhilarated, like an actress taking a triumphant curtain call.

  “And do you expect,” Adeline asked quietly, “to marry Clive after this?”

  “I will not tell you anything more. What I am going to do is my own affair.” She still looked exhilarated, triumphant.

  She swept, her nightdress flowing, past Adeline, to the door and threw it open.

  “Will you please go, Mrs. Whiteoak?” she said.

  “I will not leave you till we’ve talked this thing out.” Adeline melodramatically folded her arms.

  “Go! I tell you!” Mary shouted. Her restraint was ebbing. She would have the household awake, Adeline thought.

  “Very well,” she said, “I will go but let me tell you this — so far you have called the tune, tomorrow you will pay the piper.” In the doorway she turned and added, “It was a bad day for Jalna when a hardened adventuress like you came on the scene, but — there will be reckoning tomorrow.”

  Mary shut the door behind Adeline with a bang that sounded loudly through the silent house. Adeline expected the family would be disturbed, that Ernest, at least, being the most highly strung, would appear from his room. But Ernest was far away in London, dreaming of speculations, the dazzling success of which outstripped anything he had formerly achieved.

  Adeline slowly descended the stairs. The house was very dark. She was glad when she reached her own room where the night light threw Boney’s sleeping shadow on the wall. But her coming woke him. He flew straight to her shoulder, rumpling himself in pleasure, and, in his foreign lingo, called her Pearl of the harem. She sat down by the table on which was a photograph of her husband in a velvet frame, and, with an elbow on the table and her chin in her palm she sat, lost in thought, for a long time. Never had she been more mistaken in anyone than in Mary Wakefield — Mary, with that die-away look, those large appealing eyes, to have behaved like this!

  To have faced her with a look that was almost intimidating — to have ordered her from the room! A smile of ironic admiration bent Adeline’s lips.

  “It was little sleep I had last night,” was her greeting to Augusta next morning.

  “I’m sorry for that, Mamma. You generally sleep so well.”

  “I don’t complain, but many a wakeful night I’ve had, worrying over my children. You and Edwin did well, Augusta, whether intentionally or from lack of ability, not to have any.”

  “Is it anything special, Mamma? Will you care to tell me?”

  It is enough to scandalize the countryside. Are the children with Mary Wakefield?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “As soon as I’ve had a little food to stay me, I want to see Philip.”

  “Alone, Mamma?”

  “No. I want you all to be there. Tell Philip to be waiting in the library.”

 
The children were not with Mary. They had wakened at the usual time, been the first to have breakfast, a meal which Mary almost invariably shared with them. Now, this morning, being free of restraint, they had wild spirits; Renny, although the smaller, able to run faster, leading the way, Meg panting close behind, her light brown mane flying. They were off to the pig-sty to see a new family of piglets, pink and clean, squirming beside the protective bulk of their mother.

  Philip discovered them there, long past lesson time, and sent them back to the house. Up the two flights of stairs they ran, and, on tiptoe, went into the schoolroom. Mary was not there. The door of her bedroom was shut.

  “Her headache’s worse,” giggled Meg. “She’s going to stay in bed.”

  “Hurrah!”

  “We shall have the day off.”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Let’s sneak out of the house, down into the ravine, over the bridge, through the woods, pretending we’re Indians.”

  “Hurrah!”

  “We’ll go to the Vaughans. Mrs. Vaughan bought six baskets of peaches yesterday, I heard her say.”

  “They’re putting a ring in a boar’s nose! Hodge told me. Let’s run. We may be in time.”

  They were gone and no one saw them go.

  When Adeline had had her third cup of tea she rose and sailed majestically toward the sitting-room. She seated herself in a high-backed chair, the light from the window full in her face. She could see the wild clouds of the Equinox already gathering to obscure the sun. One cloud sent down a scatter of glittering raindrops and then moved away.

  Nicholas came into the room with his tolerant look of a man-of-the-world that said nothing that might happen could surprise or upset him.

  “Good morning, Mamma,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “you slept late this morning.”

  “I did and no wonder, for I lay awake half the night worrying about the goings on in this house.”

  Nicholas blew out his cheeks. “Well, Gussie told me something was troubling you. Let’s hope it isn’t serious.”

  “Should I be lying awake if it weren’t serious?”

  “Of course not. Will you tell me what the trouble is?”

  “Wait till we all are here. Where are the others? Why don’t they come?”

  “They’re coming.”

  Augusta, Sir Edwin and Ernest now entered the room. Augusta seated herself on the sofa. Ernest, after greeting his mother, sat down beside Augusta. Sir Edwin stood hesitating.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I had better not intrude.”

  “It will be no intrusion,” returned his mother-in-law. “I want you.”

  “I am sure,” said Augusta, “that, if advice on any delicate matter is needed, yours will be most valuable.”

  “This matter,” Adeline said decisively, “is not delicate.”

  “Has this matter to do with Philip?” asked Ernest.

  “It has.”

  “And Miss Wakefield?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear me.”

  Augusta put in, “Perhaps, after all, Edwin had better go.”

  Adeline gave her sudden mordant grin. “It’s never too late to learn,” she said.

  “How true that is,” exclaimed Ernest. “Only a few years ago I knew practically nothing of the Stock Market. Now I have, you might say, its intricacies at my fingertips.” He placed the tips of his delicate fingers together and smiled complacently.

  His family looked at him with respect.

  “Where is Philip?” demanded Adeline. “Ernest, do go and find him.”

  “I hope he is in a better temper than he was last night,” said Nicholas.

  Philip’s voice came from the hall. “Anybody calling me?”

  “I think you had my message,” answered Adeline.

  He stood in the doorway. He said, “What’s all this about?” He looked his usual good-tempered self.

  “Sit down, sit down, my dear,” said his mother. “We want a few explanations from you.”

  Sir Edwin flushed. “Not I. Really not I, Philip.”

  Philip gave a short laugh. He sat down just inside the door.

  “Well, after all,” thought Sir Edwin, “it’s his house. He has a right to do as he likes in it.”

  Jake came in and sat between Philip’s feet.

  Adeline clutched her chin in her hand as a man might clutch his beard. She regarded Philip in silence for a space and then asked, “Tell me, Philip, have you considered Miss Wakefield to be a young woman of character you were willing to entrust your children to?”

  The good humour left his face. He frowned.

  “I certainly have.”

  “Shut the door, Philip.”

  He put out his hand and shut the door.

  “Yet,” she went on, “that girl became engaged to Clive Busby who is as fine a young fellow as I know, and, while preparing for her marriage to him, allowed you to go right on making love to her.”

  “I’ve scarcely spoken to her in these weeks. There’s been nothing between us.”

  “No? What about your meeting in the orchard last evening?”

  “Did Noah Binns come and tell you that?”

  “No. He told Lily Pink and she told me.”

  “Little fool.”

  “You don’t deny that there was a passionate love scene between you?”

  “Noah Binns! Passion! You make me laugh. I thought his mind rose no higher than bugs and blight.”

  Adeline fastened on the last word. “Blight! That’s what she’s been. A blight on this place. She is to marry Clive Busby next week. Yet she clasps you in her arms and —”

  “Come now,” he interrupted, “don’t tell me that Noah went into details! Or perhaps it was Lily.”

  Adeline raised her voice, her eyes blazed into his.

  “Don’t try to be funny over this, Philip. I won’t have it. And I don’t need Noah Binns to tell me what that woman is to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that she is your mistress.”

  “That’s a lie!” he shouted.

  Adeline sprang to her feet. “Do you dare tell me I lie?”

  He answered more quietly, “It’s malicious gossip, whoever is responsible for it. Mary is as virtuous as any girl living.”

  “I repeat,” said Adeline, “that she is your mistress.” She held up her hand, in a peremptory gesture. “She told me so herself.”

  A shock of consternation went through the room. Ernest rose and took a step forward, as though he would put himself between his mother and Philip who had turned startlingly pale. Nicholas tugged at his moustache, to hide the sardonic smile that hardened his lips. Augusta’s sallow face flushed deeply. Sir Edwin nibbled at some inaudible words. He took out his watch and looked at the time. Time for a row, he nibbled inaudibly, time for a row.

  “Mother,” said Philip, his voice trembling, “can you look me in the face and tell me that?”

  “I can. I went up to her room last night.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “I wanted to give her a chance to defend herself.”

  “When was this? Where was I?”

  “In bed. As I say I went up to her room —”

  “Poor little thing!” exclaimed Philip.

  “Don’t worry about her. She can look after herself. She’s an adventuress with a past behind her. Now — don’t interrupt … I asked her, quite simply, what she meant by preparing to marry young Busby and at the same time carrying on a love affair with you. She had nothing to say for herself. Then I asked her, plump and plain, if she was your mistress. She wouldn’t answer. Then I said, ‘He’s been up to your room at night, hasn’t he?’ And she said ‘Yes,’”

  “She didn’t understand you,” cried Philip.

  Adeline’s flexible lips curled in scorn. “Not understand me! Do I generally make myself clear? She understood me well enough. I repeated, ‘Are you his mistress?’ Oh, she understood! You might as well try to paint a bl
ackamoor white as to make her out virtuous.”

  “She could not have understood you,” he repeated doggedly.

  “Bring her down! I’d like to hear her deny it.”

  “I will, by God!”

  He flung open the door and leaped up the stairs, two steps at a time. Jake, thinking this was some new game, ran after him joyously barking. They could be heard ascending the second flight of stairs. Then nothing more could be heard.

  “I should like,” observed Sir Edwin, “to know what they are saying up there.”

  “You are much better not knowing,” said his wife.

  “It was I,” said Ernest, “who brought this trouble on us, and I’m very sorry about it. I never was more deceived in my life. The next time a governess is engaged, someone else can choose her.”

  “What astounds me,” said Nicholas, “is that she’d be so brazen. Tell the truth, Mamma, weren’t you surprised?”

  “I was indeed.”

  “What do you say she’ll do now?”

  “Philip’s coming!”

  All faces turned expectantly toward the door.

  Philip was alone. Augusta and Ernest looked relieved; Adeline, Nicholas and Sir Edwin disappointed.

  “She’s not there,” said Philip quickly. “She’s gone!”

  “She’s out with the children,” suggested Ernest.

  “She’s gone, I tell you! Her trunk is packed. Her portmanteau gone. The bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “Eliza has made the bed,” said Augusta.

  “No. She was up there and I asked her. She said the room was just as it is now when she went into it.” He turned to Adeline. “You have driven Mary away. God only knows what you have shocked her into doing.” His eyes were tragic. In his excitement he had run his hand through his hair. Standing erect it added to his distraught appearance.

  Adeline laughed derisively. “Me shock her? Ah, my dear, she’s not so easily shocked. She can look out for herself. But brazen as she is, she could not face us this morning after what she told me last night.”

  “I tell you she didn’t know what she was saying!”

  “Have sense, Philip,” Nicholas put in tersely. “Mary Wakefield is no ignorant schoolgirl.”

  “Indeed,” added Sir Edwin, “she seems to be a woman of strong character.”