03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  “I understood perfectly. She accused me a second time and I said, yes, it was so.”

  “I see. And how did she take it?”

  The triumph of that moment again lit Mary’s face. She smiled her odd smile that had something of pain in it. She said, “Mrs. Whiteoak was amazed. Even while she accused me she had not believed it herself … I told that horrible lie just because I was furious … You can see what a strange sort of person I am.”

  Philip went round the rustic seat and put his arms around her. He led her back and set her down and himself beside her.

  “Mary,” he said, “I can’t pretend that I understand you but I love you more than ever and you’re coming home with me and we’re going to get married as soon as possible.”

  “And you don’t hate me for what I said?”

  “I adore you for it.”

  She relaxed her weary body against his strength. Her spirit, like a river that had found the sea, lost itself in his. She was cold, for she had not dressed herself for the wind from the lake. The warmth of his arm that pressed her to his side, had a comfort in it that seemed to her godlike. His warm hands held her chilled ones. She looked out across the silver and green expanse of the lake and, in her fancy, compared herself to a sailing ship that had delivered its cargo, and now, lightened and buoyant, spread its sails to the breeze. She wished she were a poet. If she were she could, at this moment, pour out her heart in a poem.

  XXI

  AT GRIPS

  PHILIP TURNED IN the saddle to look back at Mary, still waving to him from the gate. It was hard to tear himself away from her. He sat, turning in the saddle, to imprint her image on his memory. Yet a part of him strained toward Jalna and the announcement of his coming marriage. But first he would ride to the Rectory to acquaint Mr. Pink with the change in Mary’s prospects.

  He had ridden over this road hundreds of times but never had it been so exhilarating, so beautiful, as on this blowy late September morning, with the waves, where the lake encroached on the sandy soil, breaking almost to the road. Something should be done about this road, but on this morning he would not have it different. The gulls circled above him, their wings flashing in the sun, their tucked-up feet yellow against their breasts, like useless appendages that they would never need again. One of them winged swiftly above the smartly-trotting mare, as though in a race. The mare arched her neck and glanced in playful apprehension at the waves. Philip spoke lovingly to her and patted her neck. She was his, she was gentle, she was a female.

  Inside the white picket fence of the Rectory Lily Pink was cutting flowers for the altar tomorrow. She stood frozen, with scissors poised, when Philip appeared at the gate.

  “Oh, good morning, Lily,” he said. “Cutting the last flowers before the frost gets them, eh?”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” she answered, not able to look at him, remembering how she had carried the tale of his doings to his mother.

  Philip, at this moment, forgot all about that. He asked cheerfully, “Is your father at home?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, “writing his sermon.”

  “Oh!” Philip groaned his disappointment.

  “Could I take a message?”

  “No,” he sighed, “I’ll come again.”

  Mr. Pink had seen him through the window. He hastened to the door and shouted, “Come along in. My sermon’s done.” He was like a boy let out of school. He noticed what a pretty picture Lily and Philip and the chestnut mare and the garden flowers made. He felt thankful for this beautiful and tranquil world. “God’s in His Heaven, all’s right with the world.” He would bring that into his sermon tomorrow morning. He would say that, as long as men kept the thought of God in His Heaven watching over them, so long as they carried out the teaching of Christ in their lives, all would be well in the world. And no man living could deny that.

  “Come in!” he shouted to Philip.

  He was worried about Philip. He did not like the story that was going round, about him and Mary Wakefield. He hoped Philip had come to explain things. He led the way into his study and closed the door behind them.

  An hour later Philip, having put the mare in her stall, entered his own door.

  Renny flew down the stairs to meet him. “Papa. Papa! I’m glad to see you!”

  Philip picked him up and hugged him. A wave of good will toward everyone in the house surged through his being. As it neared Adeline, however, it wavered and did not quite envelop her. A smile, in which there was more than a hint of malice, lighted his face when he thought of her.

  Renny said, “I can turn a handspring. Come and watch me do it.”

  “It must be time for dinner,” answered Philip. At Jalna that meal was in the middle of the day.

  “Dinner!” echoed the little boy. “We had it long ago. But they’re keeping some for you in the oven.”

  “I’m glad of that. I’m as hungry as a hunter.”

  “What were you hunting? Was it Miss Wakefield? Nettle says she’s run away.”

  “That’s nonsense. She is visiting Miss Craig.”

  “It’s nice without her.”

  “Don’t you like her?” Philip asked sharply.

  “Well — she’s like all the others. Always wanting you to learn things.”

  “And learn you’d better or you’ll be at the bottom of the class when you go to school with Maurice.”

  “Granny says she’ll teach me. She’s having a nap in her room.”

  “Good. Don’t disturb her.”

  Philip ate his meal in solitude but with the first zest he had felt since the morning of Mary’s disappearance. Afterward he did not want to meet anyone but escaped through the side door with his pipe, to find his dogs and take them for a walk in the woods. He must be alone, to think of Mary and of all the happiness that lay ahead of them. He knew she shrank from the difficulties of returning to Jalna as its mistress, but he would smooth away the difficulties. One object which must be smoothed away — obliterated — was Mrs. Nettleship. Her sandy hair, her pale piercing eyes, her habit of gossip, had come to irritate him. What if she were a model of cleanliness and order, as Augusta was always reminding him? These qualities were, in truth, her most irritating. She must be got out of the way before Mary came.

  He had hated to leave her at the Craigs’, with that impossible Muriel. He would have liked to put her on his horse behind him, as they used in the old days, and enter the gates of Jalna at a gallop, in the first flush of his happiness. But his plan was to ask Mrs. Lacey to take his dear girl into her house until the wedding. She could not refuse him that.

  It ended by his going to see Mrs. Lacey that very afternoon. But first he returned to the stable and left the dogs with young Hodge, and a message for his mother that he would not be home for tea. He knew well that Mrs. Lacey would ask him to share the evening meal with them. He wanted to avoid his family till Sunday morning when he would of necessity meet them at church. After church he would tell the family what they might expect and also he would come to grips with his mother over the scene between her and Mary in Mary’s bedroom. The air must be cleared before he brought Mary to Jalna.

  He and Mrs. Lacey were closeted together for a long while. Her romantic soul made her eager to forward his love affair. At the same time she shrank from incurring Adeline’s anger. Ever since they had first met, many years ago, she had done her best to keep on the right side of Adeline and had admirably succeeded. She did not intend to risk words with her now. She told her fears to Philip and promised to talk over the matter with her husband and let Philip know the result on Monday. He had to content himself with this half promise.

  He did not drive to church on the Sunday morning but took the winding path across the fields and, for the first time in months arrived in time to put on his surplice without hurry and an urgent look from Mr. Pink. The family always arrived in a body and their progress along the aisle was a spectacle of interest to the rest of the congregation which never palled. First came Adeline, her hand r
esting on the arm of her eldest son. They were followed by the Buckleys, Augusta’s hand resting on Sir Edwin’s elegantly crooked arm. Last came Ernest with a child on either side. The appearance of the group was that of the Old World rather than the New. Though they were so closely identified with the place were they lived they retained, in a remarkable degree, the atmosphere of the land from which they had sprung.

  Adeline seldom sat herself in the pew without a moment’s fresh shock at the realization that the husband she had so loved was no longer at her side. The years did not make it easier to understand or to bear. When she rested her head against the back of the pew in front, that moment was given to him. Then she would straighten herself and raise her eyes to the stained glass window she had had erected to his memory. She would draw a deep sigh, look for the number of the opening hymn and find it in her book. She would glance down at Renny and hold the hymn book so that he might follow the words with her. Not that she needed the words. Every hymn sung in that church she knew by heart, unless, as on rare occasions, it happened that Mr. Pink in an abandon of enterprise, chose a strange one. Then her eyebrows would shoot up incredulously, she would sharply close the book, as though that were the end of it for her, and watch the singing choir, as though they were performing some strange gymnastics which she neither understood nor admired.

  As the service progressed on this particular morning she watched her son Philip with concentrated interest. What was he up to, she wondered. Ernest had told her that he had gone to the Craigs’, where Mary was. Obviously he was trying to reach some understanding with that queer girl but, if it were marriage, why was he avoiding his family? And where was he last evening? Ade-line could only conclude that he was afraid to meet her, for fear she should guess his plans and frustrate them. More likely still, Mary could not bring herself to marry him after what had happened, and small wonder!

  But Philip did look comely this morning, with his fresh colouring, his clear blue eyes, and clean surplice. He read the Lessons in a way that Adeline liked, though his brothers were very critical of his style. There was warmth in his voice and a ring of conviction that he believed in what he read. On the whole Adeline thought he would come safely through this affair. Ernest had not told her of Philip’s stubborn attitude during their brief encounter, for he felt that, all too soon, the two must settle the affair between them. He quite dreaded the thought of it and yet, considering their mettle, felt a certain exhilaration in anticipating the climax.

  But the climax was to be silent. Neither Philip nor Adeline were to utter a word when the moment came. A religious calm was to pervade the scene.

  Philip had just read the Second Lesson. He returned to his seat at one side of the chancel. His surplice, to his mother’s eyes, had a defiant swing. To Ernest it looked jaunty. Mr. Pink rose and moved with dignity to take his place. Mr. Pink’s voice was resonant and the words which now came from his mouth might well in their volume have been uttered in a cathedral, instead of in this little country church.

  “I publish the Banns of Marriage between Philip Piers Whiteoak of this Parish and Mary Wakefield of the same. If any of you know cause or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

  Philip sat imperturbable, his hands clasped on his surpliced stomach, his eyes, looking unusually large and blue, fixed on some point above the heads of the congregation. A stir ran through the congregation and a whispering, as of a gust of wind over a little field of corn. The Vaughans, in their pew, cast sidelong glances across at Adeline. Admiral Lacey’s face grew crimson. Mrs. Lacey tried vainly to look innocent. Ethel caught Violet’s hand in hers and they sat clutched. The remainder of the neighbourhood, the farmers from the surrounding country, the people from the village, young Chalk, the blacksmith, craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the Whiteoaks, or scanned Philip’s face with curiosity. There were few who had not heard the story of what Noah Binns had seen in the orchard, at a time when everybody who knew anything knew the young lady was engaged to Clive Busby.

  Nicholas’ hand went to his moustache. He tugged it, as though he would tug away the smile that flickered on his lips. Ernest took out his white silk handkerchief and blew his nose. He felt it was a moment for action of some sort and that was all he could think of doing. The slight air of offence which was Augusta’s natural expression, though it had nothing to do with her really amiable disposition, deepened. Sir Edwin nibbled at some mute declaration which a mind-reader might have interpreted as “I forbid the Banns.”

  But it was Adeline that the scrutiny of the gathering was centred. From her black figure radiated the very essence of dissent. No envelopment of black stuff could hide its angry brightness. She rose majestically to her feet.

  A thrill of fearful anticipation ran through the little church. Was Mrs. Whiteoak going to forbid the Banns? Every eye but those of Noah Binns in the last pew, was fixed on her. Noah stared, hungrily inquisitive, at Philip. He saw Philip turn pale.

  Lily Pink should by this time have been playing the opening chords of the Jubilate Deo. The congregation be rising to sing. But Lily felt paralysed. She could not make her fingers press the keys but sat sideways on the organ seat watching the progress of that noble figure down the aisle. For noble Adeline looked, however lacking in nobility her impulse may have been, with her widow’s weeds floating from her fine head, and her features composed in the very mould of displacency.

  Looking neither to right nor left she walked slowly and firmly to the door. As she reached it young Hodge who had driven her to church, sprang forward and opened it. At the same moment Lily gained control of her fingers, the organ burst forth, the congregation rose, and Adeline departed to the sound of music.

  Ernest, on seeing his mother leave the family pew, had made as though to escort her, but a look from Adeline had quelled his intention and he had resumed his seat crestfallen.

  Now the service proceeded, with a kind of tremulous intensity, as though all present were determined to keep their heads. But when it came to the sermon, Mr. Pink found it difficult to introduce, with the spirit he had intended, those beautiful lines from Browning. It was not easy to assert that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world, when Mrs. Whiteoak had vacated her pew.

  At last the Recessional hymn was sung and the congregation poured out. They gathered in knots in the churchyard to discuss what had happened. The Vaughans and the Laceys hurried away, so that the Whiteoaks would not have the embarrassment of speaking to them. Hodge had taken Adeline home and now had returned with the carriage to convey the Buckleys and the children. Nicholas and Ernest had driven together in a trap.

  Nicholas, untying the horse in the church carriage shed, asked of his brother, “Shall we wait for him?”

  “No,” answered Ernest, almost violently. “I could not possibly drive with him. But, if you wish to wait, I’ll walk home.”

  “Let him return as he came,” Nicholas said tersely, and climbed into the trap.

  As they drove out he greeted what acquaintances they met, touching his hat brim with the whip, genially, as though nothing had happened.

  But, when they were bowling along the road, on which every vehicle was carrying people home from church, Nicholas exclaimed, “Philip deserves to be thrashed for what happened this morning. It was an insult to all of us and, of course, particularly to Mamma.”

  “You’re sure Mr. Pink wasn’t aware that we knew nothing of the Banns?”

  “Pink aware! Nothing on earth would have tempted him to commit such an outrage.”

  Ernest declared solemnly, “It was enough to give Mamma a seizure.”

  “Gad, I’d hate to be in his shoes when they meet.”

  “Perhaps he won’t show his face till after dinner. He may go to the Laceys. I do hope he does. It’s a peculiar thing but disturbances during a meal give me a dyspepsia.”

  Nicholas grunted, then exclaimed, “Lord, you could hav
e knocked me down with a feather when those Banns were read!”

  “I thought Mamma was rising to forbid them.”

  “Small wonder if she had.”

  “Nothing can stop the marriage now. We shall just have to put up with it.”

  “Well, after all, she’s a very attractive girl.”

  “Nick — would you willingly have Philip bring a girl of her loose character to Jalna, to be the mother of his children?”

  “He swears she isn’t loose.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Philip’s never been a liar.”

  “He might be, to save the reputation of the woman he loves.”

  “Possibly. But I think that if Mary Wakefield had acknowledged it and it were so, Philip would not have denied it.”

  “Then what, in the name of Heaven, possessed her to say such a dreadful thing?”

  “In my opinion she wished it were so.”

  “Nick, you are a confirmed cynic.”

  They turned in at their own gate, scattering the fine gravel beneath the wheels. At the stable Hodge took charge of the horse. He looked downcast and even guilty, as though he had had a hand in the morning’s doings. He was a sensitive young man and devoted to Adeline.

  Her two sons found her seated in her own particular chair in the drawing-room. Augusta and Edwin were there also, the sympathetic audience, it appeared, to a monologue by Adeline describing her shock, her outrage, at the church.

  Nicholas bent over her and kissed her.

  “Well, old girl,” he said, “That was a dramatic exit you made. I’ve never seen anything better — not on the stage.”

  She looked pleased with herself, though sombrely.

  Ernest kissed her from the other side. He said, “I wanted to escort you but I saw that you preferred to go alone.”

  “An escort would certainly have marred the effect,” observed Sir Edwin.

  “I showed the world,” said Adeline, “what I thought of the announcement.”

  “The point is,” smiled Nicholas, “that we can’t do a thing about it.”