Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny

by de la Roche, Mazo

  The two young women giggled.

  Dr. Ramsey turned abruptly to Philip. “I’ve been to your house,” he said, “to have a look at the governess but she was off somewhere. I hope she’s not one of the sort that is always gadding.”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Philip. “She’s only been with us three days.”

  “Is it possible,” exclaimed Mrs. Lacey, “that you, the children’s grandfather, haven’t seen her yet?”

  “I have not yet been invited.”

  “Come back with me,” said Philip, “and I’ll put her through her paces.”

  “Philip, you are disgraceful,” declared Mrs. Lacey. “But you must be prepared for one thing, Doctor Ramsey, and that is to see her in the gayest clothes, though her father has been dead only a few months.”

  Philip pushed out his lips. “All her clothes aren’t gay,” he said. “She was dressed very simply this morning.”

  “I should hope she would be.” Mrs. Lacey spoke with a little asperity. “Teaching two children their multiplication tables is scarcely a time for fancy dress.”

  “Come now, Mrs. Lacey, don’t be hard on the girl. That’s not like you.”

  Philip patted her knee and she took his hand with a coy look and held it a moment. She was more flirtatious than either of her daughters.

  “What like is she?” asked the doctor.

  “Tell him what you called her when you first came, Philip,” cried Ethel. “I dare you to.”

  “What was that?” asked Dr. Ramsey, sharply.

  “Come and see for yourself, sir.”

  “Why have an English governess?” asked Ethel.

  “Much better have a good Scotswoman,” said the doctor. “That is what I have always advocated.”

  “Why not a Canadian?” asked Ethel.

  “They don’t seem to go in for governessing,” answered Philip. “But I do think it would be a good idea. I think we have clung too much to Old Country ways in our neighbourhood.”

  Now the Admiral spoke. “The Whiteoaks, the Vaughans, the Laceys and the others who first settled here, promised each other to preserve their British principles, culture and —”

  “Prejudices,” put in Philip.

  “Very well. Prejudices. Prejudices against making a fetish of material progress — against all the hurry-scurry after money that goes on in the big American cities. They wanted to lead contented peaceful lives and teach their children to fear God, honour the Queen, fight for her if necessary. In short, behave like gentlemen.”

  “I’m not setting myself up to criticize you, sir. I only mean that this country is growing and it’s bound to grow in a new way. Why, we’ve got a population of about five millions. We can’t go on modelling ourselves on the Old Land. Now you went into the Royal Navy as a youth —”

  “There was no Canadian Navy and the sea was in my blood.”

  “I know. But the consequence is that you’re just as English as your father was. You married an English-woman.”

  “Oh, Philip, do you hold that against me?” Mrs. Lacey gave him a charming smile.

  “Never.” He smiled back. “But this is an English household, with two English daughters.”

  “We were born here,” said Ethel.

  “I love Canada,” said Violet.

  Philip ignored them. “Now there’s my mother. She’s just as Irish as she ever was. God knows she can’t help it! And my sister and two brothers live in England. When they come to Jalna they expect to see my children brought up exactly like children in England. It can’t be done. I think that, as time goes on, the people of this country will probably be a good deal Americanized.”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Admiral Lacy.

  Mrs. Lacey turned to the doctor who sat gazing at the ceiling with his arms folded.

  “What are your feelings about all this, Dr. Ramsey?” she asked.

  Without taking his eyes from the ceiling he declaimed, in sonorous tones:

  “‘My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here:

  My heart’s in the Highland’s a-chasing the deer.”

  VI

  GETTING BETTER ACQUAINTED

  LEAVING DR. RAMSEY in the sitting-room Philip ran upstairs to look for Mary and the children. At the foot of the second flight of stairs he stopped and listened. Then he called softly:

  “Meggie!”

  All was silent above. He went up and looked into the children’s rooms. They were empty. He went to the door of Mary’s room and tapped.

  “Miss Wakefield!” he called low.

  “Yes?” Her answer came quickly but she did not open the door.

  “Look here, my father-in-law’s downstairs and he’s anxious to meet you. He’s a stickler for convention — going into mourning and that sort of thing. I wonder if you could find a dark-coloured dress to put on. I hate to bother you, but you know what the Scotch are. I think we’d better make a good impression, don’t you?”

  There was a tone of a conspirator in his voice that filled Mary with a delighted eagerness to do his will. She said:

  “Thank you so much for telling me. If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll show you what I have.”

  Mary had lived in an unconventional atmosphere in London with her father. Now, slipping into a dressing gown she opened the door a little way and stood before Philip holding up a dark blue skirt in one hand and a white blouse in the other. He scarcely saw the garments. His eyes were held by the pearl-like whiteness of her arms and neck, the V-shaped bit of chest exposed.

  “Splendid,” he said. “Will you get into them then and come right down?”

  Philip did not know and could not learn how to behave toward a governess, any more than Mary knew how to behave like one. She gave a happy little laugh.

  “I’ll be down before you can count ten,” she promised.

  He turned away and almost ran into Mrs. Nettleship, her arms full of the children’s clothes freshly laundered. Her expression was a strange mixture of shock and the confirmation of her worst suspicions. She elaborately moved aside for Philip to pass, though the passage was not narrow.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “What for?” asked Philip.

  “Well, I have my felt slippers on and they don’t make a bit of noise. I thought I might have frightened the lady.” There was a faintly derisive lingering on the word “lady”.

  “Miss Wakefield has nothing to be frightened about.”

  He was still frowning as he re-entered the sitting-room.

  “So she’s not to be found,” said Dr. Ramsey.

  “She’ll be down directly.”

  “Oh. You say your mother engaged her?”

  “Among them they did.”

  “I should have prefaired a Scotswoman.”

  “Why didn’t you say so then?”

  “I have always said so.”

  “My mother doesn’t get on with the Scotch.”

  “Scots,” corrected Dr. Ramsey.

  “Scots. She doesn’t get on with them.”

  “She gets on with me.”

  “She’s had to, sir. You’re her doctor.”

  “When is your mother to return?”

  “Next month.”

  “You must miss her sorely.”

  “I do indeed,” said Philip cheerfully.

  There was a light step in the hall and Mary stood in the doorway. Not only did she wear the severely plain dark skirt but about her neck she had tied a black ribbon that finished in a bow at her nape. But severity ended there. Her golden hair curled abundantly about her sensitive face. Her lips wore their odd smile that bent downward a little, as though the capacity for pain ever lingered near. Philip introduced her to his father-in-law. When they had shaken hands and sat down, Dr. Ramsey said:

  “You have undertaken a great responsibility, Miss Wakefield.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She straightened her slender shoulders as though to show her willingness.

  “It is no light matter to undertake
the teaching of two highly intelligent children.”

  “No, indeed.” Mary drew her brows together to show how conscious she was of the weight of the matter.

  “Have you a university degree?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t but —”

  “Have you considerable experience?”

  “No.” Colour rose to her forehead. “You see, I was engaged at the last minute. There had to be someone to take the place of the one who’d broken both legs. I understood that character was required rather than scholarship. That is — under the circumstances — and Mr. Ernest Whiteoak thought — and I thought —” she turned her eyes in desperation toward Philip.

  “And I think so, too,” he supplemented firmly.

  Dr. Ramsey waved his hand and declaimed:

  “‘Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire,

  That’s a’ the learning I desire.’”

  Mary said, without hesitation, “From Robert Burns.”

  Dr. Ramsey could scarcely have felt more pessimistic about Mary’s attainments than he had been feeling the moment before but now a delighted smile lit his stern features.

  “Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I did not think there was an Englishwoman living who could have placed that quotation.”

  “One of my father’s best friends,” returned Mary easily, “was a —”

  On the side of Dr. Ramsey where Philip sat the doctor was a little deaf. Philip, under his breath, said the word, “Scot.”

  “Scot,” repeated Mary loudly.

  Dr. Ramsey uttered a bark of joyous laughter.

  “A Scot, eh? I’d have thought the less of you, if you had called him a Scotchman.”

  “Scot sounds so much better,” said Mary. “This friend of my father’s — this Scot — used often to come to our rooms in London and he would quote Burns.”

  “Well, well. And you like his poetry?”

  “I love it.”

  “I’ll lend you all his poems. I have them very handsomely bound. Yes, I’ll lend them all to you.”

  Dr. Ramsey fell into dreamy silence for a space. In his mind’s eye he saw the room in London where Mary’s father and his friends foregathered and in their midst a Scot, bearing a remarkable likeness to himself, who quoted Burns while the rest of the company hung with deference to his words.

  Mary thanked him for his offer of the poems and, after some agreeable conversation, during which he promised to look in on her at lesson time and give her a little help with the children, he left. Philip and Mary were alone together. They still were standing after having seen Dr. Ramsey to the door.

  Philip turned his head to look at her. His eyes had a roguish light in them.

  “You did well, Miss Wakefield,” he said. “You did amazingly well. To think of your knowing that quotation.”

  “I feel a humbug.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve got to get on with people. You can see for yourself that the old gentleman could be difficult. You’ve been very clever.”

  “And how kind it was of you to warn me about my dress.”

  “Well, I thought it might be safer.”

  She faced him, with an appeal for candour in her eyes.

  “Mr. Whiteoak, do you find my clothes unsuitable for a governess?”

  “No. Not at all. I like them.”

  The warmth of his tone, his approval of her clothes, thrilled her with a new sort of confidence, of pleasure in herself.

  “I’m so glad, because these things I have on are my only really plain clothes. I’m afraid I’m rather given to frills and flounces.”

  “So am I. I love ’em.”

  They smiled into each other’s eyes.

  Philip’s half-grown spaniel puppy, Jake, came from under the table. The dark red table-cover was large and hung almost to the floor. Its edge now hung draped about the spaniel’s shoulders as he raised his eyes pleadingly to Philip’s.

  For some reason it was necessary to Mary to have an outlet for her emotion. She bent down, took the puppy’s head between her hands and kissed him.

  “Dear doggie,” she breathed.

  “You like dogs?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve always wanted one of my own.”

  “And never had one? What a shame!” He walked about the room, picked up his pipe and laid it down again. Then he said, “I think you’re going to be happy here.”

  “I’m sure I shall.” At that moment she had no doubt of it.

  “I was afraid of what you might be. Prim, you know, perhaps a stickler for the proprieties. Like Miss Turnbull.”

  “I’m not conventional enough.”

  “Neither am I. So we shall get on together.”

  In another moment he had left her and she stood at the foot of the stairs alone. The house was very quiet. She put her hands on the newel post and caressed the glossy bunches of grapes carved there. The doors of the drawing-room and Philip’s mother’s room were closed. Mary felt that there were presences behind these doors, longing to open them and come out to crowd about her and inspect her. These were the shadowy forms of Philip’s mother, his brothers, his sister, attenuated by distance, but becoming more solid every day. Their steps sounded in the distance. The day would come when they would open the doors. Mary felt inexpressibly relieved that she would have this coming month, in which to get used to her situation, to gain some control over the children, to enjoy — yes, to enjoy — being alone with Philip Whiteoak. She could not move from the spot where she stood without first living again the enchanted moments when they two had talked intimately together after Dr. Ramsey’s departure. She recalled each word he had spoken. She looked into the mirror of her mind and saw every line of his features. Did she dwell on them because he was handsome? she asked herself. No, a thousand times no. She had seen handsome men before. They were no rarity in London. Perhaps it was because his face showed such a power of enjoying his own life and the world about him. She recalled her father’s face, in which bitter remembrances of the past met apprehension of the future. What a contrast to this man who seemed to be asking no questions of life but just accepting it in its fullness.

  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.