She turned to him passionately. “Why should you explain Mr. Whiteoak to me? He’s nothing to me. Nothing. If I said I hated him I spoke foolishly. I take these violent dislikes. The truth is I dislike the whole family. So much indeed that I feel I must leave and find a new post. There’s something in that house I can’t endure.”
“Mary, is all this true?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re really going to leave Jalna?”
“Yes.”
“Then come to me, Mary darling. I’ll love you so dearly you won’t be able to help loving me back. Do say yes.”
Looking into his face she felt that she could learn to love him. Her feeling for him was almost love. Surely a deeper kindness was in her than many a woman brought to her marriage. He would take her to a new free life, far from this place, from these people whom she never wanted to set eyes on again. Oh, she was so lonely! Loneliness cried out in her. And here was a man who loved her truly and unselfishly. She might go through life and never meet such another. His love, his nearness overpowered her. She could not speak but she stretched out her hand to clasp his.
XIV
CONGRATULATIONS
SHE SLEPT MORE peacefully than she had for many nights. She gave herself up to sleep as a wave-tossed boat sinks into the soft sand of the shore. Her sleep was deep and she dreamed her favourite dreams, the childish dreams she did not want to be woken from. There was the one in which she was back in school and had won all the best prizes, and the other students and visitors looked at her in astonishment and admiration because she never did win prizes, being always too much confused by the examination papers. Then there was the one in which she, at will, rose from a crowded street and floated above the heads of the people who stopped whatever they were doing, to gaze up at her. Sometimes she would perch on a gable and wave down at them, sometimes hide behind a chimney-pot. Always she ended on the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, while traffic, buses, carts, drays, carriages, horses of all sorts, flower-sellers, porters, beggars, gentlemen in top-hats, stood spellbound. Yet all through her dreams was the suspicion that people were laughing at her.
Not through all the night did she dream of Philip Whiteoak or Clive Busby or even dream that she was quite grown up.
Very early she was awakened by the clangour of the turkey gobbler’s voice on the lawn beneath her window. Never before had he brought his family there at such an hour. Now he put forth all the power in his breast to rouse the world, to defy if for the sake of those in his train.
Mary got up, wrapped a blanket about her and went to the window. She wanted to look out on this new day, with this new feeling in her heart, and discover what it was like. She saw the turkey-cock, his head on one side, staring at the east where the light was clearest above the tree tops.
But all colours were quiet excepting the wattles of the cock, which were bright red. He shook his head and tossed them, eyeing his seven wives, his many sons and daughters. The air was so cool and fresh it felt like frost. The sun now began to appear above the blackness of the trees. The vast sky filled with light. It was a mackerel sky and like the scales of a fish the countless small clouds took on brightness. The bed of geraniums rivaled the turkey-cock’s wattles.
Now he dropped his burnished wings with a metallic sound and moved slowly in a circle. The tassel-like appendage above his beak, his wattles, grew fiery red. The tips of his wings scored the dew-grey grass. He eyed the circle about him with potential fury. His eldest son shook his plumage, half dropped his wings but drew them up again. The hen turkeys uttered little wavering cries.
Mary drank in the pure air, scented with pine. She huddled the blanket about her, feeling herself safe inside it, as the kernel of a nut inside the shell. She lived only in the upper part of her mind, keeping one chamber of it locked away. In that chamber was the figure of Philip Whiteoak. The walls would narrow on it, day by day, till at last it was obliterated.
The sunlight, with a little warmth in it, now fell full on her face and her hair. It gave her strength, as sunlight always did. She began to make her plans for the day. She would seek out Mrs. Whiteoak and tell her she wished to leave. She knew how gladly that news would be received. She would beg to be allowed to leave as soon as possible. Clive would come and tell Philip how eager he was for an early marriage. He could not remain much longer in the East. He wanted to take Mary back with him as his wife.
She thought of the flat sweep of the prairies, the wooden house, with the stiff new furniture, the piano, a few small shrubs growing in the shelter of the house, the unfenced waving grain, the half-wild horses, the thriving cattle, all so young and full of hope. Clive himself, with his shoulders always between her and the roughness of life, his kind hands. Perhaps she would have his children. But she drew away from the thought of that. It was too great a leap forward. The chasm that separated this day from those to follow, was enough. She lay almost indolently across the sill, preparing herself … When the children’s lessons are over I will go straight to Mrs. Whiteoak and say I hope she will not find it an inconvenience if I leave. I will ask her if she can possibly let me go quite soon. I will stand looking straight into her eyes and talk coolly to her. If she asks me my reason I will say I am engaged to be married. I will let that sink in for a moment before I say anything further … then I’ll say it’s to Clive Busby. She’ll be pleased, and God knows I’m sorry to please her … And he, what will he think? Let him think what he likes! It is nothing to me.
The turkey-cock had led his family down to the ravine, and from there his gobble-gobble came, vibrant with his own importance. What treasures were down there, in the cool shadow, waiting to be ravaged by vigorous beaks? The stream could be heard faintly murmuring its way through the ravine, weakened by drought. There was farewell in its murmur. She had loved it. And she had loved the little bridge that spanned it, and the trees that shouldered each other down to the brink of the stream.
Now it was good-bye to them all.
She rose, folded the blanket and began to dress. Deliberately she kept her face set and cold, like a marble wall she erected against the people in this house. All but the children. She felt a sudden pity for them. What an unsympathetic stepmother Muriel Craig would be! The children were nicer than usual this morning. They were quieter, as though they felt something different about her, and Meg looked at her with a critical air, as though she wore a new garment.
Mary made the lessons as easy as possible for them, and put them in a good humour, giving them a feeling of proficiency. They sat up straight, beaming at their books and at her.
“How nice you are this morning,” observed Renny, his eyes on her face, as though he would wrench her niceness from her and examine it.
“I thought I always was nice.”
He gave his high treble laugh. “Not you. You’re often as nasty — as nasty as I am.”
“Which is saying a good deal.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you can be pretty nasty.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose, as he had seen Miss Turnbull do. “I considah,” he said, “that I do it only for your good.”
On a sudden impulse Mary put an arm about him and hugged him. How responsive he was! His wiry little body was galvanized into an answering embrace. Meg looked on disapprovingly. She said:
“Nettle thinks it’s silly for a boy to hug his governess.”
There it is, thought Mary, antagonism on every side! How glad I shall be to leave! She rose, went to the window and looked at the sky, as though for freedom. The room became unreal to her. She felt herself already on her way.
The children were clamouring to be off to their ponies. She dismissed them and went slowly down the stairs.
The character of the sunlight had changed in these last days. Now it gilded all it touched with the ruddy tinge of autumn. The light form the stained glass window in the hall lay in rich-coloured patches. As Mary reached the last steps a green light was cast on he
r face and for a moment she looked like a drowned woman. She stood listening, her hand on the carved grapes of the newel post. In front of her stood the hat rack, with one of Philip’s hats on it, a soft, rather battered hat that, more than once, had been romped with by Jake. She turned her eyes from it.
From the sitting-room came the sound of a pen moving scratch-ily over paper. She went to the door and saw Adeline Whiteoak seated at the writing desk. Unobserved Mary looked in on her.
She had never been more impressed by her air of distinction. She had always thought that the lace cap, wired to a peak on the forehead, added to it, but now the cap had been left off and the shape of her head disclosed, and the way her hair grew. Her shoulders were beautiful, so were her hands, Mary thought. A frown bent her brows as her sharp pen dug and sputtered on the notepaper. She looked up and saw Mary.
“Miss Wakefield,” she said, “have you such a thing as a new pen nib? If I don’t remember to put mine away each time I have written a letter, one of my sons comes along, uses it and leaves it wrecked.”
“Yes, I have one. I’ll get it for you right away.”
“No. Not now. This letter is finished and a pretty sight it is. But this afternoon I’d be greatly obliged for a new nib.”
“Mine are stubs, I’m afraid.”
“I can use any sort. This is one Nettle gave me and I must say it reflects her temper.”
Mary stepped inside the room. “Mrs. Whiteoak, may I speak privately to you?”
“Yes. Of course. Come in and shut the door.” Her brown eyes were narrowed by curiosity, her lips firm, as though she expected trouble.
“I want to tell you,” Mary said slowly, “that I should like to leave.”
“To leave? Why?”
“Because —” Mary’s colour rose and she ended quickly, “because I’m going to be married.”
“To be married! Ha —”
“I am rather wondering if it might be possible for me to leave rather soon. Of course, I don’t wish to inconvenience you or Mr. Whiteoak but if I could —”
“May I ask whom you are going to marry, Miss Wakefield?”
“Mr. Busby.”
Adeline’s face relaxed into a look of profound relief. It seemed too good to be true. The scheme she had so spontaneously adumbrated on the night of the dance now was presented to her clearly defined, complete. She raised her eyes, shining with good will, to Mary’s flushed face.
“Miss Wakefield,” she said. “I am really pleased because I don’t know another young couple whom I think are so well matched. Clive Busby is manly, strong, ambitious, and has an affectionate nature. I’ve known his father and his grandfather before him. All fine men. You need have no fear. On your side you will give him the comeliness, the taste, his nature craves for. My dear, you have shown your good sense. I congratulate you, and Clive too. I will write to my friend Isaac Busby and congratulate him on his future daughter-in-law.”
She rose and took Mary’s hand for a moment. They looked into each other’s eyes. Then Mary asked:
“What about the length of notice I should give? I believe that usual time is three months but —”
Adeline snapped her fingers. “The usual time doesn’t count in this house. I want to help you all I can. I shall be frank and tell you it’s even more for the sake of my old friend’s son than for you. I know he wants to get back to his ranch. He must get back. And I’ll see to it that he can take his bride with him.”
“Yes?” Mary was trembling with eagerness. She could not be off too soon to please her. To go far from this house, to make a new life for herself, to tear the thought of Philip Whiteoak from her heart.
“How soon then?” she asked.
“As soon as you life.” She sat down, slapped the flat of her hand on the letter she had been writing, and showed her still fine teeth in a smile. “By a curious coincidence this letter is to an aunt of Clive’s. She’s always begging me to go and pay her a little visit. I’ve told her I’ll go the day after tomorrow. I’ll be able to take her the good news. While I am away, which will be less than a week, you can make your preparations. When I return we’ll have the wedding. Is that too soon?”
“I — well, I suppose I can do it.”
“You’ll not want a trousseau, going to the prairies, will you?”
“Oh, no.”
“You’ll not want a large wedding, I take it.”
“Heavens, no.”
“You shall be married in this house. My son, Mr. Nicholas Whiteoak, will be pleased to give you away. We must invite the Vaughans, the Laceys, the Pinks, just the near neighbours. I want you to let me buy you a good warm muskrat coat. It is the thing for the prairies. Not that it’s terribly cold there but it’s sharp. Very exhilarating. I’ve always wanted to go there myself. When my husband and I came out to this country, I think we might have gone straight to the West, but my dear father was against it.”
Mary was bewildered. All she could say was, “Oh, thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Not at all. It’s little enough I’m doing for you. I have only one favour to ask. Keep this secret till my return. If the children get wind of it you’ll never be able to control them again. If my daughter, Lady Buckley, is told, she’ll interfere with all our plans. She’ll insist on your giving the usual three months’ notice. Much better keep it to ourselves. Tell Clive that, will you?”
Mary eagerly assented. The children’s curiosity, Lady Buckley’s interference, were evils to be avoided. To leave Jalna unnoticed, to go as she had come, that was what she wanted.
When Adeline was alone she sat motionless for a time, her lips parted in a pleased smile. She took up the letter she had written and read it with a judicial air. Then, frowning at the scratchiness of the pen, she added a post-script. “Maggie dear, I find I can arrange the little visit with you after all so Philip and I will arrive some time late tomorrow.”
She carried the letter to the stables where Philip was examining the strained tendons in the leg of a favourite horse. He straightened himself and smiled at her.
“How’s the leg?” she asked.
“Coming along well.”
“Splendid.” He knew he was back in her favour by the way she returned his smile.
The mare turned her eyes on him and nibbled his sleeve.
“She’s a sweet creature,” said Adeline.
“She is, and I love her.”
“Do you love your mother enough to come on a little visit with her? I’ve been promising to go see Maggie Rutherford — that was Maggie Busby — for many a long day and at last I’ve made up my mind to do it. Her place isn’t above thirty miles from here but hard to get at by train. Will you drive me there, Philip?”
“Gladly, but I can’t stay.”
Adeline drew in a deep sigh. “Ah, well, I’ll not go then. I’d planned this little jaunt, just by ourselves, because what with my being away in Ireland and your being so busy, I seem to have seen very little of you. But ’tis of no account to anyone but myself. I’ll just tear up this letter and write another declining the invitation.
“No, no. You mustn’t do that, Mamma. I’ll drive you there and go back for you, at the end of your visit.”
“What! Drive a hundred and twenty miles for the sake of a little visit? Let’s say no more about it. I’ll go by train, though there’ll be a two-hours wait at some god-forsaken junction. But I don’t mind. Yes, I’ll go by train, even if it does bring on the pain in my back.”
“But I thought that pain was quite gone, Mamma.”
“Ah, it comes and it goes.”
“Do you think the long drive may be bad for it?”
“No. It’s the jolting of the train that plays the mischief.”
“Then I’ll drive you there and stay with you,” he exclaimed warmly, though not altogether without thought of self. He would not at all mind going away for a week. He found himself being drawn inexorably into spending more and more time with Muriel Craig. Now there were the riding lessons
he had promised her. There were the urgent invitations from her father. Everywhere he went he seemed inevitably to meet her. It was as though there were a plot to throw them together. He liked her, he admired her, but, since the moment when she had allowed her head to droop to his shoulder, there had been qualifications to his regard. She was too easy. His wife had been a woman of reserves. She had never given herself away and, though she had not always been easy to get on with and her caresses had been sparingly given, when they had been given they were worth the waiting for. It seemed strange that one of so much character should have left two children who bore no resemblance to her, either in face or nature. Yet he could imagine a gentle girl like Mary having a son the image of her. Why had the thought of Mary come into his head, he wondered. He saw little of her nowadays and, when he did see her, he was conscious of a change in her. What was it? A coldness? A shrinking?
His mother’s lips were on his. His forehead tied itself into a knot, as he tried to think of two things at once and could think of nothing. Adeline was saying:
“You’ll be glad you came. Why it’s years since you visited there with me. Do you remember?”
They went through the orchard, arm in arm. Adeline ate a red harvest apple while they made their plans, which horses they would drive, the route they would follow, what presents she should take her friends. This was the way she liked it to be — an excursion undertaken with gusto, carried though with leisure and ceremony.
At the time appointed she and Philip set out behind a well-groomed pair of bays, with the rest of the family watching the departure with admiration, for Adeline, to show off, had taken the reins herself and handled the restive pair with ease, if a little flaunt-ingly. The long “weeds” of her widow’s bonnet were lifted above her shoulders by the breeze and added a note, at once sombre and elegant, to her appearance.
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