“It’s very kind of you to ask me.”
“Dear me, how formal we are! Are all English girls so formal?”
“I’m not really.”
“I wish I knew what is in your mind.”
“You might be surprised.”
“I’ll bet I’d not be half as surprised as you would be, if you knew what’s in mine.”
“Whatever are the musicians playing?”
“Don’t you know? That’s a Highland fling. I believe that Mrs. Whiteoak and Dr. Ramsey are going to dance it.”
Adeline and the doctor were indeed taking the floor, he wearing an expression of almost mournful gravity, her face lit by an hilarious grin.
“This,” he announced, “is a Scottish reel and I taught it to Mrs. Whiteoak in her youth.”
“Nonsense,” she declared, “it’s an Irish jig and I taught it to you.”
Whichever it was they were at it, their bodies galvanized by Gallic energy, their feet flying. The doctor’s expression never changed, indeed one might have said his life depended on the accuracy with which he executed the steps. Only once more did he open his lips and then it was to utter the brief shout, so in keeping with the dance. It seemed a pity that he was not wearing the kilt.
Adeline had opened the evening, partnered by her eldest son. They had been a striking couple. Since then she had danced several times but there was something of wildness and recklessness in this dance that best suited her nature. She held up her violet moiré skirt that was trimmed with heavy gold passementerie, showing her slim feet and ankles, in black silk stocking and low-heeled black satin slipper with silver buckles.
Augusta looked on at this performance in mingled wonder and pain. She wondered at her mother’s ability so to skip about. She could not have done it. She thought the dance barbarous and was pained by Adeline’s obvious delight in it. She had a feeling that Dr. Ramsey had always been in love with Adeline and this made her uncomfortable.
Nicholas and Ernest regarded the exhibition with amusement and gratification. They were proud of Adeline. At the height of the reel Philip took his nose in his hand and emitted an amazingly good imitation of the bagpipes.
It put new life into the dancers who were beginning to pant a little, but his three spaniels who were outside the French windows waiting for him, recognized his voice, even though so distorted, and thinking he was in dire predicament, rushed in to save him.
The music stopped.
Philip caught Sport and Spot by their collars and dragged them out but Jake ran here and there yelping in a panic till captured by Mary. He lolled blissfully against her shoulder and she followed Phillip on to the lawn. His face lighted with surprise as he saw her.
“Good girl!” he exclaimed, and gently took the puppy from her.
Mary stood looking at him, her spirit crying out in her distress, “Good Girl! And you have never once asked me to dance and never will!”
Adeline appeared in the doorway, followed by Clive Busby. She was well pleased with her son for his attentions to Miss Craig. She was almost pleased with Mary.
“Those dogs of yours behave disgracefully, Philip,” she said. “Do shut the door on them and then bring Miss Craig in to supper. All our guests are starving. And here is Clive Busby eager to take in Miss Wakefield.” She stood with her hand on the door knob, smiling at Mary as she passed. Then she said, in an undertone to Philip:
“That’s quite a case. Young Busby is plainly smitten. What a capital match it would be for that girl.”
“Yes,” he agreed absently, and wondered what Mary could possibly see in Clive Busby.
“Now, Philip, don’t keep Miss Craig waiting, while you play with your dogs.” She ordered him about, with feminine pleasure, as though he were a big boy and he obeyed, half-sulkily.
Muriel Craig tucked a firm white hand under his arm. She gathered up her skirts in the other. She said:
“This is the happiest evening I’ve had in a long while. You can’t imagine how dull life has become for me, since my father’s illness.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the dancing.”
“I think our steps suit, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do.” His eyes followed the musicians who were leaving to go to the basement for refreshment.
Muriel Craig continued, “I do hope you will come often to see Father. He’s taken a great fancy to you. He gets so bored by the society of his nurse and bored a tiny bit by me too, I’m afraid.”
“I’m going to see him tomorrow,” said Philip.
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Will you stay to lunch?”
“I’d like to. Thanks very much.”
The dining-room was full of people gathered about the table where wax candles in the tall candelabra cast their radiance on white and red roses and gilded the sheen of the damask cloth. There were hot chicken pasties, and cold tongue, and devilled eggs, and sliced peaches in thick cream, and brandied peaches and ice cream, made, with much exertion, in a churnlike freezer, by Eliza. There was coffee and claret cup and cocoanut layer cake and almond meal macaroons and brandy snaps. In short, Adeline had ordered the supper.
She enjoyed having her friends, young and old, about her after an absence. She enjoyed the good food, eating it with gusto, in the knowledge that no digestive complications would follow. She was pleased with her sons. Nicholas, well rid of that wife of his, looked happy and handsome. He was laying himself out to make their guests happy. Who wouldn’t be pleased with a son like Ernest? — making money hand over fist, with no more exertion than the notifying of his intentions to brokers. As for Philip, he seemed to have forgotten all about the governess and was listening to seemingly entertaining talk by Miss Craig.
Muriel Craig had chosen a corner where Philip’s back would be toward the room, and Mary Wakefield. She talked rather breathlessly, never allowing his attention to waver. She really was, he thought, a quick and amusing woman. She talked fluently of her travels, she had been about quite a bit and could scarcely bear to hear about a place she had not visited, or a book she had not read. Philip was an excellent companion for her because he was by nature receptive and had neither travelled nor read widely. His pleasant laugh punctuated her anecdotes. She said she adored ice cream and he saw to it that she had several helpings.
As they were returning to the drawing-room, from where came the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments, she said: “I think you are so fortunate in your children’s governess. She strikes me as a most good-natured creature.”
“Yes. She’s very nice,” he answered, a little coldly.
“It means so much to have a good kind creature about them.”
“It does indeed.” He looked about him for the good kind creature but she was not to be seen.
“I can’t possibly dance after all that supper,” said Muriel Craig. “Could we go out for a stroll? There’s such heavenly moonlight.”
Adeline came into the hall. “How sensible you are!” she exclaimed. “That’s just what I should like to do, but the night air gives me a buzzing in my left ear. Infirmities of age coming on me, you know.” She showed her fine teeth in a smile that quickly sobered as she saw Mary standing alone on the porch.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Wakefield,” she said. “I have been looking for you. Here is a young man who is dying for a waltz with you. Mr. Robertson,” she turned to the young man whom she had only that moment espied, “this is Miss Wakefield, who waltzes like a dream.”
Mr. Robertson was pale, with hair parted in the middle, and a very high collar which had gone very limp from the heat. He vaguely offered his arm to Mary, and began vaguely to waltz round and round with her. Apparently he never had heard of reversing.
Mary felt slightly dizzy. A surge of almost intolerable disappointment made her limbs heavy. She wished she were upstairs, alone in her bedroom. She had a mind to make an excuse to go to see if the children were safely tucked up. She had a sudden feeling of love
for the children. With them she might find ease from the anguish of jealousy. But Mr. Robertson, though vague-looking, was firm. He held her closely, turning round and round.
And, after him, returned Clive Busby to make sure she had not forgotten her promise to drive with him.
The time dragged on. It was past midnight. It was two o’clock. The guests were leaving. Horses, scarcely able to endure the waiting to return to their own stables, pawed the gravel drive. Carriage lamps flashed. There were shouts of “Whoa!”
Lily Pink was spending the night at Jalna. Her mother was delicate and could not endure the late hours, so Lily was to remain. Like Mary she had an ache in her heart. Not that she had expected Philip would ask her to dance and, even if she had, she was sure she would have danced her worst. But she could not comfort herself. The ache persisted. She stood smilingly with the family in the drawing-room that now looked very large and bare, while they congratulated themselves that the party had gone so well.
“And did you enjoy yourself, my dear?” Augusta asked her kindly.
“Oh, yes, Lady Buckley. It was lovely.”
“You looked very nice dancing. I always like dotted Swiss muslin on a young girl.”
“Mother and I made the dress ourselves.”
“Your mother is an excellent needlewoman and I’m glad you take after her. I have always enjoyed sewing.”
“I’ve always hated it,” said Adeline.
Ernest observed gallantly, “My very best dance of the evening was with Lily.”
“She treated me with scorn,” said Philip. “Never once glanced in my direction.”
“But there were those who did,” put in Sir Edwin. “No one could fail to notice the die-away looks Miss Craig gave you.”
Nicholas remarked, “That young woman is a strange mixture of rigidity and voluptuousness. From the waist down she dances like a boarding-school miss, and from the waist up like Salome.”
“This is scarcely proper conversation in front of a young girl,” said Augusta.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Lily blushed prettily. “And after all, Salome is biblical.”
Philip went to the dining-room where all signs of supper had been cleared away, save for the remains of the tongue on a platter on the sideboard. He cut three slices from the tongue and, with these on his palm, went to the back of the hall where, in a small room, his three spaniels had retired to their respective mats. He fed a slice of tongue to each. The parent dogs took their share gently and a little reproachfully, as though this were poor compensation for the evening they had spent, but Jake wolfed his, trying to swallow Philip’s hand with it. He patted all three.
“Good dogs. Now lie down. Go to mats.”
Jake tried to take possession of each of his parents’ mats in turn but when driven off by them curled himself up on his own, with only an upturned roguish eye to show that he lived.
As Philip returned through the hall, he reflected with content that the party was over, his crops which were above the average in quality, were almost completely garnered, his horses promised well. In a day or two he would go on the fishing trip he had been looking forward to. Before long there would be the duck shooting. Would he ever get Jake properly trained for a gun dog? He doubted it. Jake was a bit of a fool. His best friend couldn’t deny that.
When he was passing his mother’s door she called to him.
“Come in, Philip, and tell me good night.”
He found her still dressed but with her hair hanging about her shoulders. Her parrot sitting on her wrist, gazed into her face with a possessive air. He chuckled in pleasure over her return to him.
“He won’t let me undress,” she said. “He’s for billing and cooing the whole night through.”
“No wonder. He appreciates how alluring you look with your hair down. I hope you’re not too tired.”
“Well, I am rather tired. But I’ve given my party and I’m satisfied.”
Adeline was pleased with her youngest born tonight. Holding Boney at arm’s length, so that he should not bite him, with her other arm she clasped Philip to her bosom and planted a warm kiss on his mouth.
“You darling boy,” she breathed.
“Dear old girl.”
“Not one of the others means to me what you do.”
“Not one of them feels as I do about you.”
They swayed lovingly together till Boney began to walk up her arm with murder in his eye. Then she gently pushed Philip away. “The bird is jealous. You better go.”
“Good night, Mamma.”
“Good night, my dear.”
He closed the door behind him.
He discovered the drawing-room empty, with the exception of Lily. When the older ones had gone upstairs she had lingered, she did not know why. Quite a time ago Mary had disappeared up the stairs. She had not said whether or no she would come back. Lily looked at her own reflection in the mirror above the mantelshelf. It was a very old mirror and gave back her reflection in a wavering way, like an image mirrored in water. But she thought she had never looked so pretty. She wished that the Swiss muslin dress might have been low cut. Then Philip might have danced with her. She knew her arms and shoulders were lovely, for her own mother had told her so.
Philip stood looking into the room.
“Everybody but us gone to bed, Lily?”
“All but Miss Wakefield. I don’t know about her.”
They stood looking at each other, silent. Then he came into the room and lighted a cigarette. Eliza looked in at the door.
“Shall we lay down the rugs tonight, sir?” she asked.
“No. Get to your beds. You must be tired.”
Thank you, sir, but I’m not really tired.
Again they were alone. Lily was speechless but she could hear the thumping of her heart. The scent of the nicotiana came in, almost unbearably sweet. Chaotic thought choked Lily’s mind. Oh, if only she could speak! Oh, if her heart did not beat so fast and hard!
She heard Mary coming down the stairs. What relief! And what disappointment!
Philip stood, looking Mary over as she came into the room. He said, “Well, Miss Wakefield, Lily and I had given you up. We thought we were the last of the party.”
“I went up to see if the children were all right.”
“At this hour! What did you expect them to be doing?”
“It was hard for them to settle down.”
She thought his smile was skeptical, that he knew she had gone up to tidy her hair and put fresh powder on her face. She wished she had not come down again.
“Did you enjoy the party?” he asked, a slight constraint in his voice.
Her back was to Lily. She framed the word no with her lips.
Lily asked quite loudly, “What did you say, Miss Wakefield?”
“I said nothing.”
“Lily,” said Philip. “Play something.”
“Me? Why should I play?” She could force herself to speak now that a third person was there. “My playing would sound dreadful after the real musicians.”
“Nonsense. I thought they sounded rather tinny. Didn’t you, Miss Wakefield?”
“I liked their playing.”
Lily asked, “Should I disturb the others — your mother?”
“They’re not in bed yet. Play, Lily.” He closed the door.
Lily spread her skirt on the piano stool. She bent her head over the keys, thinking what she should play. She who was aching to dance with Philip herself, must play for his dancing with another. She felt a sob rising in her throat and drowned it in the opening chords of a Strauss waltz. Not only would she play but she would play her best.
There was an old moon and its face could now be seen at one of the french windows.
Philip said, “We don’t need the light.” He took an extinguisher from the mantel and began to put out the lights of the chandelier. The lights from the many candles illumined his face. Scores of crystal prisms reflected their flames in all the colours of the rainbow. The c
andles were extinguished like stars and, as the chandelier swayed, a faint tinkling music came from the prisms. Philip put his arm about Mary’s waist. They moved slowly into the waltz. Moonlight now flooded the room.
One thing besides sewing Lily could do well, play dance music. But never before had she played like this, when she could scarcely see the keys for tears. But she did not need to see the keys. The music flowed from her heart through her fingers. The two on the floor moved as one body. No other dancers that night had been like these, Lily thought. Their grace, their delight in the rhythmic movement, their long gliding steps that seemed to take them beyond the room, out into the moonlight, filled her with bitter joy. She sought for comparisons. “They are like two birds flying together — they are like two waves dancing together — they are like two flowers blowing on one stalk.” She could not be flowery enough to please herself — to torture herself.
“Good,” said Philip, at the end. “Splendid, Lily.”
Mary still leant against his shoulder, without a thought in her head. Her mind was as smooth as a beach that a summer storm has swept.
“Like another?” he asked, after a little.
“Yes.”
“Another waltz. Play us another waltz, Lily.”
Lily turned the knife in her breast and played better than ever. She put all her longing into the slow beat of the waltz.
They danced to the far dim end of the room and there Mary felt Philip’s lips touch her hair, his arm tighten on her waist. She willed the rest of the world to stay away, to give her this moment, but the sound of the piano flooded the house, for, at the last Lily had played with passion. The door opened and Adeline stood there in her dressing-gown, Boney clinging to her breast.
Dancers and music stopped.
“Go on,” said Adeline.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
They looked at her speechless.
“I had a glimpse of you before you stopped,” she said. “I’ve never seen such prettier dancing. Why didn’t you dance like that when all the people were here? They’d have loved it.”
Philip moved from Mary’s side to his mother’s.
“No need to be nasty,” he said in a low tone.
Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Page 75