“I can’t say I do. I had so many lickings.”
“A story to give one thought,” observed Nicholas.
Sir Edwin looked admiringly at his wife. “Augusta,” he said, “has an extraordinarily analytical mind.”
Philip bit his knuckle, unable to decide whether the analogy of this anecdote tended to make his loved one appear better or worse.
The low rumble of the Indian gong that rose and fell again under the beating by Eliza, told that the Sunday dinner was served. They were a family with excellent appetites and, when they had seated themselves about the table and the four plump young ducks on the platter in front of Philip gave forth their good odour, not one present felt himself unable to eat his share. Philip was a good carver, having sat at the head of the table since his father’s death. He carved slowly but with accurate knowledge of the anatomy of the ducks, and every eye was on him.
The two children were more watchful of the faces of their elders than of the portions they were to get. Nicholas, Ernest and Sir Edwin tried to draw the conversation into impersonal channels, but when the meal was no more than half over Adeline abruptly asked of Meg:
“Did you hear the Banns read in church this morning?”
Meg raised her face in egg-like calm to Adeline’s — “Yes, Granny.”
“Did you understand what it means?”
“Yes. It means that Papa is going to marry Miss Wakefield.”
“Did you understand at the time?”
“No. Nettle told me.”
“Are you pleased?”
“No. I don’t want him to.”
“And what about you, Renny? Do you want your father to marry Miss Wakefield?”
The little boy’s high clear voice came decisively. “If it will stop her giving us lessons I do.”
Meg added, “Nettle says it’s awful to have a stepmother.”
“That woman,” growled Philip, “will leave tomorrow.”
“She’s going anyway,” said Meg smugly. “She doesn’t want to stay — not with Miss Wakefield bossing her about.”
“Not another word out of you,” Philip said sternly.
Renny piped, “In the fairy tales stepmothers turn children into birds and animals. I hope Miss Wakefield will turn me into a horse.”
A chuckle ran round the table. Philip forced a smile and exclaimed, “Then what should I do? I’d have no little boy.”
“You could ride me!” Renny cried joyfully. “And I’d go faster than any other horse and you’d never need to touch me with the whip.”
“Philip covered his son’s little hand with his. “If Miss Wakefield turns you into a horse,” he said soberly, “I will mount you and the two of us shall ride away together and never come back.”
Meg, since Philip’s reprimand, had been on the verge of tears. Now she burst into them noisily and without restraint. Her father had shown preference for Renny. Ordinarily she would have been told to leave the table, but now Adeline called her to her side, embraced her, kissed her and said, “Poor child — poor child.”
“She’s nothing of the sort,” said Philip, “and she’s behaving like a four-year-old.”
“I quite agree,” said Nicholas. “This howling for nothing is a nuisance.”
“If she is behaving without restraint,” said Adeline, “she is doing no worse than Philip.”
“I think I have shown considerable self-restraint,” he returned.
“I was taught,” Adeline went on, “by my dear father, that there is no better quality to guide you through life than self-restraint.”
“That’s the first good word I’ve ever heard you say for him,” said Nicholas.
It was plain that Nicholas had gone over to the enemy.
“If you had been more like my dear father,” Adeline retorted, “your wife might not have run off with another man.”
“Mamma!” implored Augusta. “Remember the children.”
“I do remember them and I wish there were more of them but Nicholas never got a chick. Neither have you and Edwin managed one. Now my father got eleven children and he taught them all self-restraint. My, but he was a fine man! If ever I have said a hard word about him I deserve to be punished for it. Indeed, I never really appreciated him till he was gone.”
She heaved a great sigh. “That is the way of it, with parents, and I suppose ’twill be the way with me. I’m not so young as I was.”
“I never have seen you look better than you do at the present time, Mamma,” said Ernest eagerly.
“Ah, I don’t complain.”
Eliza now brought in a peach shortcake, mounded with whipped cream, and set it in front of Adeline. Eliza’s hand shook, as she set down the dish, for she had been greatly upset by Hodge’s account of what had happened in the church.
Adeline was so impressed by Eliza’s condition that, when she took up the heavy silver fork and spoon to serve the shortcake her own hand trembled like a leaf.
“Eliza,” she said, “will you please give the dish to Lady Buckley to serve. I don’t feel able for it.”
Eliza did as she was bid, with a look of deep commiseration.
“Why, Mamma,” cried Ernest, “peach shortcake is one of your favourite dishes! Aren’t you going to have any?”
“Not today … not today,” she answered, in a small voice. “I have no appetite for this meal. But don’t worry about me. I shall just sit here quietly and enjoy the sight of your enjoyment. Meggie, go back to your chair, dear, and eat your shortcake. Renny, sit up straight and hold your fork properly. God knows I have done my best to train you in good manners, as I was trained. If I or my brothers behaved unmannerly my father would give us a clip on the ear that would send us flying.”
For a space she watched, with sad expression, the consuming of the shortcake, then she said:
“I think I shall go and lie down for a bit. I’m far from well. Boys, will one of you lend me an arm.”
Nicholas and Ernest at once sprang to her assistance. She left the room supported by their strong arms.
Augusta, with great good sense, talked cheerfully to the children, gave them second helpings and, when they finished, gave them permission to leave the table. Nicholas and Ernest returned from their mother’s room.
“How is she?” Sir Edwin asked anxiously.
“A little better,” answered Ernest. “She wants you to go to her, Philip.”
“Oh, surely she is not able to continue the discussion,” said Augusta.
“I think,” Ernest said judicially, “it will be best for Philip to go.” He reseated himself remarking, “This is going to give me indigestion.” With a resigned air he again attacked the shortcake.
Philip said, “Excuse me, Augusta,” and left the room, with a step that had more of stubbornness than conciliation in it.
“I do hope there is nothing serious wrong with your mother,” said Sir Edwin.
Nicholas finished the last of his peach shortcake, leaned back in his chair and wiped his drooping moustache.
“There is nothing serious,” he said, “beyond the fact that Mamma has the good sense to know when she’s been beaten.”
In truth she did know and, as she lay on her bed waiting for Philip, she accepted the fact without bitterness.
Now he stood in the doorway, his head bright against the dark curtains, just as his father had stood, in that same doorway, when he was a young man.
“Come closer,” she said, “come to the bedside.”
He came close and knelt down by the bed, putting his arms about her.
“Mamma,” he said, “are you ill?”
“I’m better now.” She put her long arms about him and drew him closer. He pressed his face against her breast.
“You’re my favourite,” she said. “My youngest. I can’t deny you anything. If you want to marry this girl, you must.” She gave a deep sigh of resignation and added, “Bring her home and I’ll be nice to her.”
Boney had been perching on Adeline’s ankle. Now
he walked the length of her body, picking his steps carefully. When he reached her head he sank to his breast and spread his wings as though to shield her. He uttered little clucking noises.
On the following day Philip was once more driving his chestnut mare along the road by the lake. On the seat by his side Mary sat and behind the portmanteau was stored. It was a brilliant and chill morning, with coloured leaves flying through the air like small birds, and flocks of small birds, on their southward journey, blown through the air like leaves. A steady rhythm of drumming waves sounded on the beach, and the mare, as though taking pleasure in it, kept time with the beat of her hoofs. Each separate hair of her mane and tail seemed vibrant with life.
Mary sat clutching her hat with both hands to keep it on. The wind had whipped a lovely colour into her cheeks, a colour slightly deeper than that in her lips. The effect, Philip thought, was very pretty. He remarked:
“Your lips are less red than they were, Mary dear,” he said.
She caught the under one between her teeth and gave it a little bite.
“I have a confession to make,” she said.
“Yes?” he smiled.
“I did formerly put a little paint on my lips.” She scanned his face, anxious to discover the effect of her words, then added, “But I’ll never do it again, if you like me better without it.”
“I like you as you are,” he said.
They were on their way to the Laceys, where it had been amicably arranged that Mary should stay till her marriage. It was necessary to pass Jalna on the way. At the gate Philip drew up. The whip slanted from his hand.
“Don’t look startled, Mary,” he said. “I’m not going to force you to anything you are against. But I think it would be well for you to come in now with me to meet my mother. You’ll have to do it sooner or later and the sooner you have it over with the better. In fact, I think it would please her to have you come straight to her before you go to the Laceys.”
“Oh, no — not yet! I don’t think I can.”
“Of course you can … Come, now, be a sensible girl. Mamma will like you all the better for being forthright. And remember, you have me at your side.”
Ah, she could do anything with him at her side! She could face a dozen Adeline Whiteoaks, having Philip to protect her. Yet her heart beat with painful swiftness as she nerved herself to consent.
“Very well,” she said. “I suppose you’re right. But, as for your mother liking me, I can’t picture such a thing.”
Philip himself felt a good deal of trepidation at the thought of the meeting. He felt very sorry for Mary, yet it was certain that the poor darling had made things much worse by her reckless lie. He put a hand over both hers that were tightly clasped in her lap and squeezed them.
“You’ll feel the better for it afterward,” he said.
“I hope so, for I could scarcely feel worse than I do at this moment.”
She wished the driveway had been ten times as long. She scarcely had time to collect herself when the trap stopped in front of the door, and Philip sprang out and turned to lift her down.
“I can’t!” she cried, in sudden panic.
“You can’t?”
“No.”
“Then when will you?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Very well,” he prepared to mount again into his seat. Disappointment clouded his face. “But I thought you had better pluck.”
“I will. I will!” She could not bear him to be disappointed in her. Then again that moment when she had faced Adeline in triumph, had got the best of her, flashed into her mind, hardening it to the ordeal. She almost flung herself into Philip’s arms, for fear her resolution would again fail her. He set her on her feet.
“Straighten your hat,” he said, with an appraising look. “It has too wide a brim for that wind.”
She straightened it, took herself firmly in hand and went up the steps and through the door.
Inside he kissed her. “Your house, Mary,” he said. “Welcome to it, my darling.”
She would have liked to cling to him, to obliterate herself in him, but he led her into the drawing-room and left her. She listened to his steps as he went down the hall in search of his mother. She heard Adeline Whiteoak’s voice.
She heard her steps coming from the direction of her bedroom. Philip remained behind. Was he afraid of a scene, Mary wondered, or did he think it best for them to be alone together at the meeting. She did not know. She did not care. Just to have this terrible meeting over with was all that mattered.
But how could she speak to Adeline? Her mouth was dry as a bone. She stood straight, half-defiant, half-tremulous, facing the door.
Now Adeline stood there facing her. She looked a stately figure, almost as though she had dressed for the meeting, in a royal purple tea-gown of heavy silk, with a short train, and lace on the sleeves and at the throat. All day she had moved, eaten, and spoken, like a semi-invalid. But now her natural vitality took possession of her. Three swift steps brought her to Mary. As she came she opened her arms wide and Mary found herself enfolded against her strong breast, held there, inhaling the Eastern scent that always came from Adeline because of the boxes of sandalwood in which she kept her finery.
“My child!” There was true warmth, as well as a melodramatic vibration in Adeline’s voice. “My child — all is forgiven!”
XXII
HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
RENNY WHITEOAK WAS up at six o’clock that morning. Though the month was October the day was warm as summer, yet with a finer, sweeter warmth. The bright blue of the sky was repeated in the little boy’s jersey. In his insides he felt clean as a whistle. He was slim and agile as a minnow.
On his way out to the stables he shouted, sang, and laughed without in the least knowing why. Hodge was just unlocking the heavy padlock on the main door when he arrived.
“Hullo, Hodge,” he yelled, as though Hodge were stone deaf. “I’ve come to help you with your work.”
“Fine,” said Hodge, throwing open the door with a grand gesture. “I’m in need of a helper. What wages do you ask?”
“A dollar a month.”
“Whew! I can’t pay all that.”
“Twenty-five cents a month will do,” Renny said quickly.
“All right. I’ll hire you. We’ll begin by watering them.”
Hodge tramped in his heavy boots to where the buckets were kept, Renny stretching his legs to keep step with him. When Hodge picked up a bucket Renny took one also. The horses craned their necks out of their stalls to watch them. Low whinnies of approval marked their progress to the well beyond the farthest loose-box. Hodge lifted the heavy cover and the chill smell of water came from the dark below. He let down the bucket and brought it up brimming. Drops of water clung to the curly fair hairs on his arm. He filled Renny’s bucket, Renny squatting beside him, their faces darkly glimpsed in the well below.
“Don’t you ever come monkeying about here by yourself,” warned Hodge. “You might fall in.”
“Would you save me if I fell in?”
“How the dickens would I know? I’d be off working somewhere else.”
“But, if I screamed.”
“The thing is,” said Hodge, “to keep away from it. Here — don’t you try to lift that heavy bucket! You’ll ruin yourself some day, the loads you try to lift.”
Renny grasped the handles of the bucket and carried it with Hodge. He did his best to take a full share of its weight as it was lifted to old Laura’s lips. She was the largest of the loose-boxes. She was thirty years old and had been Captain Whiteoak’s favourite. As she dipped her small, intelligent head to the bucket she gave a kind glance at Renny out of her lustrous eyes.
“She likes me,” he said. “Do you think she’ll last till I’m big enough to ride her?”
“Shouldn’t wonder. She’s a great stayer. And look at her depth through the heart.” Hodge ran a hand lovingly over her shoulder. “I’ve heard my father say that your grandfather valued
her more than any horse he’d ever owned, and he’d had a good many, what with England and India and Canada.”
“I value her too,” Renny said stoutly. “Value everything at Jalna.”
Joe, the older stableman, had brought oats and hay to the horses. Tom, a young boy, was cleaning the stalls, shovelling the manure into a barrow and wheeling it into the stable yard. Hodge was Renny’s favourite and he stuck by him. Together they set about grooming the horses. Renny’s hand was almost too small to grasp the curry-comb but he worked hard, hissing through his teeth as Hodge did. His own lively Welsh pony was bright as a polished nut when he had finished with her and Hodge commended him. The pony turned her head and nuzzled Renny, slobbering lovingly over his ear.
Renny asked of Hodge, ”Are you coming to the party this afternoon, Hodge?”
“Oh, I’ll be around, if I’m needed.”
Renny stood with his legs well apart, chewing a straw. “Do you know who the party’s for?” he asked.
Hodge scratched his head on which grew a thatch of towcoloured hair. “Well,” he answered evasively, “I couldn’t rightly say.”
“It’s for Miss Wakefield. She’d going to be my stepmother.”
“Oh … That’ll be fine — I guess.”
“Hodge, would you like to have a stepmother?”
“Why — I guess so.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 90