Mrs. Nettleship was crossing the hall when Mary moved up the stairway. Mrs. Nettleship stopped stock-still by the newel post, as though examining it for the fingerprints of some criminal. Then she took the corner of her starched apron and began to polish it.
“It’s very pretty, isnt’ it?” remarked Mary, pleasantly, over her shoulder.
“It ought to be. All them grapes was done by a woodcarver in Quebec.”
“Dear me.”
Mary, accustomed to the rare and intricate carving in the medieval architecture of London, was not impressed. Something in her tone infuriated Mrs. Nettleship. It was not that she greatly admired the carving herself but she felt a growing dislike for and distrust of Mary. She straightened herself and glared up the stairway.
“What’s the matter with it?” she demanded.
Mary was too astonished to reply.
At that moment Renny, running along the passage above, cast himself on the banister and came sliding down at frightening speed. The two women instinctively drew back from his untrammelled masculinity. But, as he reached the bottom Mrs. Nettleship caught him angrily about the shoulder.
“You’re not allowed to do that!” she said vehemently. “If I tell —”
“I am allowed!” he shouted. “Grandpapa prescribed it for me.” He tore himself from her grasp and flew out through the door, giving her a daring look as he passed.
“You come back here!”
“You go to — pot!”
Mary burst out laughing. It needed no more to make Mrs. Nettleship hate her.
In the weeks that followed she did all she could to hamper Mary in her attempt to control the children. To them she made fun of Mary behind her back. She encouraged them to be late for lessons, to hide when called. Once or twice Mary had a mind to tell Philip of their behaviour and of the encouragement in it they got from the housekeeper but she could not bear to cloud for one instant the brief periods they spent alone together. She strained toward these more and more. The hours of her day became divided into three distinct periods. There was the time spent in teaching the children and looking after their clothes, the meals eaten with them, at which Philip often was present, when he good-humouredly chaffed them or, with sudden promptitude, reprimanded them and with what a quick response! Never did he embarrass her by probings into their progress, but when Renny rattled off the names of all the sovereigns of England in verse or when Meg named every cape of the British Isles, scarcely taking breath because she knew that, if she stopped, she could not continue without going back to the beginning, he was delighted.
There were the times when they were alone together, perhaps discussing the children’s lessons but more likely she listening while he told of the achievements of his horses, or of some advantageous sale he had made. She could not discover whether he bred horses for pleasure or profit. There seemed to be plenty of money for everything at Jalna. There were a number of men employed on the farm and in the stables, all well paid and seemingly well satisfied. Certainly Philip Whiteoak took life easily and, wherever he went, carried with him an atmosphere of well-being.
The third period of Mary’s day was when in solitude she wandered through the woods. In England she had known London and the seaside. Here, for the first time in her life she stood gazing up into the dark branches of pines, remnant of the virgin forest, the ground beneath her densely carpeted by their rust-brown needles. Here was silence such as Mary had never known before, a deep resin-scented silence unbroken even by bird song. In the woods where maple, oak and birch throve together the birds, in their early summer rapture, sought for supremacy in song, each trilling as though he would drown out all others. But when they flew into the pine wood they were silent and rested for a little in the coolness of these sombre boughs. They did not build their nests there.
Mary would throw herself on the ground in the deepest shadow and stare up into their pointed pinnacles lost in unframed thoughts, in the ecstasy of isolating herself from all living beings — save one. His presence came into the wood with her. Sometimes she tried to forget him but she could not. Almost always she consciously allowed her mind to dwell on his features, one by one. His hair that at the temples was as fair as hers, his tranquil eyes that could light like a mischievous schoolboy’s, his fine mouth and chin, his strong body. How terrible it would have been, she thought, if she had never come here, never seen this place — never had the image of him as companion to her solitude.
One late afternoon he came into the wood in the flesh. She was lying prone but on her breast, her cheek pressed on the pine needles. She heard a step and then saw him walking along the path, quite close to her. She had often pictured just such a scene; herself, in the loneliness of the wood, his coming upon her, startling them both. She had not permitted her imagination to go further but had allowed it to hover only on the verge of a scene of love. This dark wood should, she felt, be the setting for none but a profound emotion. When she was here she did not want to feel but just to be dreaming, on the fringe of thought. She kept very still and he passed without seeing her.
The weather turned hot, hotter than anything Mary had ever experienced. The air was vibrant with heat. Flowers came into bloom, drooped and withered before their time. Cattle and horses stood in the shade of trees switching their tails to keep off the flies. Philip declared that it was too hot for study and the children ran wild.
“I am doing nothing,” she said almost vehemently, meeting Philip in the hall, “doing nothing to earn my salary. It isn’t fair to you.”
“You’ll find plenty to do later on.” He looked curiously at the book she carried. “What are you reading?”
“Tennyson. I love his poems, don’t you?”
“I confess I don’t know much about them. My father-in-law is always quoting Burns. My mother Thomas Moore. My brother, Ernest, thinks there is no poetry worth his bothering about but Shakespeare’s. Somehow Tennyson has been overlooked.” He gave Mary his friendly smile. “Read me something of his, will you?”
She felt bewildered by the request, almost alarmed. “Oh, I’m not sure that I could find anything to interest you.”
“Of course you could.”
“I know I’d read badly.”
“But why?” Now he was laughing at her.
“I should be nervous.”
“Come now. Not with me. I’m the least critical person in the world. You say you’re not earning your salary. Here is a way to earn it. A benighted Colonial horse-dealer, sitting at your feet, yearning to hear Tennyson read.”
“Where shall we sit?” Mary asked, suddenly determined to do it.
“Come with me and I’ll show you the coolest spot hereabouts.”
He led the way across the lawn blazing in sunlight and along a path down into a ravine which by its deep shade and the sound of the stream that ran through it to the lake, gave an air of mystery to the place, so Mary thought and was constantly pleased by it. It was in truth cooler here. Philip took her hand as they descended the steep.
“Gather up your skirt,” he said. “There are brambles here.” His hand clasped hers firmly. She was conscious of the clasp of his hand through all her being.
On a mossy ledge he paused. The stream, green in the shadow, reflected the rushes, the boughs of the evergreens. A rustic bridge crossed it and under the bridge the shadow was deepest. Philip sank down at Mary’s feet with a sigh.
“What could be better than this?” he asked, looking up at her.
She sank beside him. “It’s heavenly. And so still. Except for the murmuring of the river.”
“It’s a very little river,” he said, “but I love it.”
“Jalna is beautiful.”
“It’s a pretty good place,” he agreed. “But we’ve talked about it before. Now I want to hear you read.” He settled himself expectantly, looking up into her face, his own dappled by a narrow spear of sunlight slanting through the leaves.
She opened the book. She was conscious of the trembling of he
r hands and feared her voice would do the same. To gain time she showed him the portrait of Lord Tennyson in the front, as she might have shown it to Renny.
“I think it is a noble face,” she said.
He agreed but he was admiring her slender white hands.
Presently she gathered herself together and began to read. It was easier than she had thought. He lay, resting on his elbow, very still. There was a comfort in his presence. Perhaps her voice encouraged the birds in that dim coolness, for they began to sing quietly all about.
Philip listened, but only half-attentive to the meaning, till he heard the words:
“‘No more subtle master under heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
Not only to keep down the base in man
But teach high thought, and amiable words
And courtliness, and the desire of fame
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.’”
He laid his hand on the page.
“Stop,” he said, “and then read that again.” She was confused. “That… which?” she stammered.
“You know.” He took his hand from the page and repeated the first line.
“Was I reading too fast?” she asked.
“No. I just wanted to hear it again.”
“Do you like it? Shall I go on?”
“Please, do.”
She re-read the passage and continued but less clearly. Her composure was shaken. Philip had picked up a small switch and was gently beating the ground with it as though to the rhythm of the poetry.
Neither saw Dr. Ramsey descending the opposite slope and he did not see them till he stood on the rustic bridge. If Mary’s composure had been shaken, his now suffered a tremor, as of an approaching earthquake. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Philip prone on the ground, at Miss Wakefield’s feet! She dressed, not as he had heretofore seen her but in some filmy garment, with elbow sleeves! Her body curved in a languishing attitude.
“Dear God!” muttered the doctor. “Has it come to this?”
He strode on across the bridge and mounted the path toward them with a sharp crackling of twigs. His foot dislodged a stone and it bounded down the slope and splashed into the stream. Now Philip and Mary became aware of his approach.
He was panting a little as he spoke. “I would not dream of interrupting you,” he said, “especially in such a pleasant occupation, but I had brought the volume of Robert Burns’ poems, I promised you, Miss Wakefield. Twice before I brought them but could not find you. Ah, I see you have other poetry to engross you. Never mind. I will take it away again.”
“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.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 69