Lily’s face glowed. She threw both arms about Adeline’s neck and hugged her. She murmured incoherent thanks. Then suddenly she broke down and clung to her shaken by sobs.
“Well, well, well, now — whatever is the matter with you, Lily?”
She clasped the girl close, her bare arms enfolding her, her body giving off a pleasant scent of Windsor soap, her starched petticoat crackling.
“I don’t know.” But she went on sobbing.
Adeline patted her back. “Tut, tut, now, that’s enough. You’re not into any sort of trouble, are you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Lily … It’s no love affair, is it?”
“No!” she cried hoarsely.
“Then, in God’s name, what is it?”
“It’s … it’s that governess. Mary Wakefield.”
Adeline held her closer. “Whisper to me. What is it she’s done?”
“She’s bad! That’s what she is! Bad.”
“What do you know, my dear? Come, we’ll just sit here quietly on my bed and you’ll tell me.”
Lily stumbled to the bed and sat down leaning heavily against Adeline.
Out of her distorted mouth she sobbed, “I wish I hadn’t said anything.”
“Ah, but ’twas right that you should. It will do you good to clear your mind of what’s troubling you. Besides, Miss Wakefield lives in my house and teaches my two innocent grandchildren. It’s my right to know what she’s been up to.”
Lily sat up and wiped her eyes with the hand on which the gold thimble still shone.
“It’s a shame,” she said, “that I should go on like this just after having such a lovely present given me.” Through blurred eyes she examined the thimble.
“Come, come,” Adeline was growing impatient, “what’s all this about, Lily?”
“Mrs. Whiteoak, she’s engaged to Clive Busby, isn’t she?”
Adeline’s brows shot up. “Well — and who told you that?”
“Oh, I know it’s a secret. But Clive told Violet Lacey. He made her promise not to breathe a word of it but he was so happy he couldn’t help telling her.”
“And she told you?”
“Yes, and I promised not to tell and I haven’t except to you and I guess you know already.”
“I do. Now, what has she done?”
“I don’t know … I really don’t … But as I was coming here just now I met Noah Binns and he told me, with a hateful smile, not to come past the shed where they keep the barrels and crates at the far end of the orchard and naturally I asked why and he said — oh, I can’t repeat it!”
“Now Lily, don’t be silly. Go on.”
“He said not to come past that place because there was love-making going on there. He said it was Mr. Whiteoak and Mary Wakefield. I don’t know what he meant, do you?” Lily’s eyes were avidly bright, as they looked into Adeline’s.
Adeline smiled. “Noah Binns’ sort have nasty minds. You mustn’t listen to them, Lily. As for my son — he knows of the engagement and he’s as pleased as I am. He was probably making arrangements with her about the children. Is that all Noah said?”
“He said she’d be traipsing through the woods with Clive and now she was in the orchard making love to Mr. Whiteoak. It was the way he said it. He leered.”
“Ah, well, he’s a nasty fellow and I think I’ll have a word with him. Now you run along, my dear…” She talked to Lily of other things.
When the door had shut behind her, Adeline stood motionless for a space, a very different person from the comforting, kindly woman who had kissed the girl good-bye. Her brows were drawn into a black frown, her lips compressed.
“So … that’s what she’s like,” she thought. “A bitch — a wanton! Just what I thought that night I caught her dancing like a fille de joie with my Philip. She’s got the two of them on strings — young fools that they are! And she’s had me on a string — old fool that I am!” Then she said aloud, but softly, “What’s to be done?”
Her anger at the thought that Mary had deceived her burned even more hotly than the thought of her playing with two men. She wondered how she could face her calmly at the supper table. But perhaps that silly girl, Lily, had worked herself up over nothing. Yet why had Noah Binns warned Lily not to go through the orchard? Why had he leered? Adeline had never seen so much as a half-smile on his face. And he seemed a decent fellow. Mr. Pink thought well of him. If only it had been she who had met him instead of Lily!
Mary did not appear at the supper table. She had complained of a headache, Eliza said.
Emotion made Adeline hungry. Never had cold lamb, thick slices of dark red tomatoes with plenty of vinegar and sugar on them, tasted better. All the while she was seething inside. Her daughter and her two elder sons were conscious of this and expected an explosion at any moment. But none came. She finished the meal as she had begun it, in affable description of her visit with Maggie Rutherford. It gave opportunity for her power of mimicry and wit.
It was a wonder she could be lively with Philip facing her from the other end of the table in sombre silence. After supper she played backgammon with Sir Edwin. At the usual time she said good night to her family with the exception of Philip who had taken the dogs for a walk, and retired to her room. Philip had sent a message to Mary by Meg saying he wished to see her. The child had returned with word that Mary was not well and was lying down and would it be all right if she saw him in the morning. “And she really does look ill, Papa,” Meg had said, feeling something in the air. Philip had muttered, “Very well, Meggie. Tell Miss Wakefield I’ll see her first thing in the morning.” He felt baffled. For a moment he had a mind to go to her, but, with family and children about, how could they two have privacy? He would have to wait till morning. But it was now that he wanted her with him. Now, out in the moonlight, he’d make her forget the very existence of Clive Busby.
He could not bear to be near the house or even in his own woods. He turned through the gate to the road that led to the lake. The moon was just past its first quarter but capable of throwing distinct black shadows on the silent road. In all of the two miles he met no vehicle but, in a field, two horses came and looked at him over the fence. The three spaniels and the fox terrier trotted continuously on and off the road, in and out of ditches, snuffed at the openings into burrows, flattened themselves to get under fences into fields, where they ran about with noses to the ground, but always reappeared. There was no need to whistle to them. They would not lose him. They were too joyous in his return.
He passed through a lane, followed a path winding among scrubby cedars and alders and was on the beach. The lake spread cold and tranquil, reflecting the moon. The shingle crunched beneath his feet, and then came the sand at the water’s edge. Wavelets, rimmed with silver, spent themselves soundlessly on the beach. The dogs came to the water’s edge and drank as though in great thirst, letting their forepaws get wet. The fox terrier shivered but he would not stop drinking till the spaniels did.
Philip thought of the countless times he had come to this spot, of how the countryside round about was as familiar to him as the face of one of his family. His brothers had gone away, his sister too, but this was where he wanted to be. This was his life. In this place he had grown up, married, begotten his children, lived his short married life and now loved … If only Mary were here with him by the lake! He would pour out all his new-found love on her — not in words, but he would make her feel it, in the very touch of his hand, in the beat of his heart, in his breast against hers. The air moved cool on his forehead. He raised his face to it and walked along the lake’s rim. If only she were here! No matter how many years they might have together he always would regret this night — the night when they should have walked together by the lake, the night when they should have watched the moon sink into the gleaming water, have walked, with fingers interlocked, along the beach. Was she really ill? Yes, he believed so, otherwise she could not have denied him this night. But a night’s rest would ma
ke her well and tomorrow he would settle everything — with his mother — with Clive. His mother — he smiled wryly when he thought of her. He did not feel as angry as he had, but he would show her who was master of Jalna.
Adeline remained in her room reading till she heard Philip put the dogs to bed and mount the stairs. Then she went into the hall and stood there, her fingers resting lovingly on the carved grapes of the newel post till she heard his windows opened for the night. Then she went up the stairs and stood in the passage till the pencil of light under his door was gone. She stood very still now, close to his door, listening intently. She heard his steady regular breathing. She went up the stairs to the top floor.
Very lightly she tapped on Mary’s door. There was a light inside.
Mary’s voice came from close to the panel. “Yes? Who is there?”
Adeline thought, “She’s expecting Philip.” She said, “May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Wakefield?”
The door was instantly opened and Mary stood there, white-faced, defensive, scarcely seeming to breathe.
“Thank you.” Adeline came into the room and closed the door behind her.
They stood, tall women, eye to eye, in long white night-dresses, up to the throat, down to the wrist, Adeline’s elaborately tucked. About her shoulders she had a brilliantly coloured oriental shawl. Her hair which she had been brushing hung loose about her neck and down her back. She was a superb and deliberately picturesque figure.
Mary’s hair hung in a single plait, she was barefoot.
“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak?” She found herself trembling like a leaf, already intimidated.
“I want to know,” Adeline said, “what you mean by playing fast and loose with young Busby.”
“I’m not playing fast and loose with him. I mean to marry him.”
Adeline laughed. “You mean to marry him and yet you were in the arms of my son this very afternoon. Kissing him. Now I have the right to know what this means.”
“It doesn’t — I wasn’t —”
“Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Adeline harshly. “You were seen by one of the men — everyone knows it by now. Why, within half an hour the tale was carried to me. I’ve suspected from the first that you were no better than you should be. But carrying on with two men at the same time — one, the son of my friend — one, my own son! Good God, do you imagine you can pull the wool over everybody’s eyes? What are you trying to do? That’s what I want to know.”
Mary backed away from her. Her brain would not act. It was in a whirl. She could find no words in which to explain.
“Do you imagine Clive Busby will marry you after this?”
“I don’t know,” Mary answered, in a strangled voice.
“Perhaps you think Philip will marry you! Not he. He’s had quite enough of marriage. Are you his mistress?”
The question was shot at her like a blow.
“Are you his mistress?” repeated Adeline. “Come — how often has he been up to your room?”
Mary put her hand to her throat. She wanted to scream. She was alone! She had no weapons. The figures of Clive and Philip loomed like enormous shadows in the room, Clive looking at her with hate, Philip…
“He has been up to your room, at night, hasn’t he?”
“Will you let me alone!” cried Mary.
“I want an answer. Are you Philip’s mistress?”
Mary’s fear, her hysteria, turned to rage.
“Yes,” she answered, in rage, “I am.”
Adeline’s jaw dropped. She had not expected any such confession. For a moment she was too astounded to speak. She looked at Mary as though seeing her for the first time.
Mary’s trembling ceased. She stood exhilarated, like an actress taking a triumphant curtain call.
“And do you expect,” Adeline asked quietly, “to marry Clive after this?”
“I will not tell you anything more. What I am going to do is my own affair.” She still looked exhilarated, triumphant.
She swept, her nightdress flowing, past Adeline, to the door and threw it open.
“Will you please go, Mrs. Whiteoak?” she said.
“I will not leave you till we’ve talked this thing out.” Adeline melodramatically folded her arms.
“Go! I tell you!” Mary shouted. Her restraint was ebbing. She would have the household awake, Adeline thought.
“Very well,” she said, “I will go but let me tell you this — so far you have called the tune, tomorrow you will pay the piper.” In the doorway she turned and added, “It was a bad day for Jalna when a hardened adventuress like you came on the scene, but — there will be reckoning tomorrow.”
Mary shut the door behind Adeline with a bang that sounded loudly through the silent house. Adeline expected the family would be disturbed, that Ernest, at least, being the most highly strung, would appear from his room. But Ernest was far away in London, dreaming of speculations, the dazzling success of which outstripped anything he had formerly achieved.
Adeline slowly descended the stairs. The house was very dark. She was glad when she reached her own room where the night light threw Boney’s sleeping shadow on the wall. But her coming woke him. He flew straight to her shoulder, rumpling himself in pleasure, and, in his foreign lingo, called her Pearl of the harem. She sat down by the table on which was a photograph of her husband in a velvet frame, and, with an elbow on the table and her chin in her palm she sat, lost in thought, for a long time. Never had she been more mistaken in anyone than in Mary Wakefield — Mary, with that die-away look, those large appealing eyes, to have behaved like this!
To have faced her with a look that was almost intimidating — to have ordered her from the room! A smile of ironic admiration bent Adeline’s lips.
“It was little sleep I had last night,” was her greeting to Augusta next morning.
“I’m sorry for that, Mamma. You generally sleep so well.”
“I don’t complain, but many a wakeful night I’ve had, worrying over my children. You and Edwin did well, Augusta, whether intentionally or from lack of ability, not to have any.”
“Is it anything special, Mamma? Will you care to tell me?”
It is enough to scandalize the countryside. Are the children with Mary Wakefield?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“As soon as I’ve had a little food to stay me, I want to see Philip.”
“Alone, Mamma?”
“No. I want you all to be there. Tell Philip to be waiting in the library.”
The children were not with Mary. They had wakened at the usual time, been the first to have breakfast, a meal which Mary almost invariably shared with them. Now, this morning, being free of restraint, they had wild spirits; Renny, although the smaller, able to run faster, leading the way, Meg panting close behind, her light brown mane flying. They were off to the pig-sty to see a new family of piglets, pink and clean, squirming beside the protective bulk of their mother.
Philip discovered them there, long past lesson time, and sent them back to the house. Up the two flights of stairs they ran, and, on tiptoe, went into the schoolroom. Mary was not there. The door of her bedroom was shut.
“Her headache’s worse,” giggled Meg. “She’s going to stay in bed.”
“Hurrah!”
“We shall have the day off.”
“Hurrah!”
“Let’s sneak out of the house, down into the ravine, over the bridge, through the woods, pretending we’re Indians.”
“Hurrah!”
“We’ll go to the Vaughans. Mrs. Vaughan bought six baskets of peaches yesterday, I heard her say.”
“They’re putting a ring in a boar’s nose! Hodge told me. Let’s run. We may be in time.”
They were gone and no one saw them go.
When Adeline had had her third cup of tea she rose and sailed majestically toward the sitting-room. She seated herself in a high-backed chair, the light from the window full in her face. She could see the wild clouds of the Equinox
already gathering to obscure the sun. One cloud sent down a scatter of glittering raindrops and then moved away.
Nicholas came into the room with his tolerant look of a man-of-the-world that said nothing that might happen could surprise or upset him.
“Good morning, Mamma,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “you slept late this morning.”
“I did and no wonder, for I lay awake half the night worrying about the goings on in this house.”
Nicholas blew out his cheeks. “Well, Gussie told me something was troubling you. Let’s hope it isn’t serious.”
“Should I be lying awake if it weren’t serious?”
“Of course not. Will you tell me what the trouble is?”
“Wait till we all are here. Where are the others? Why don’t they come?”
“They’re coming.”
Augusta, Sir Edwin and Ernest now entered the room. Augusta seated herself on the sofa. Ernest, after greeting his mother, sat down beside Augusta. Sir Edwin stood hesitating.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I had better not intrude.”
“It will be no intrusion,” returned his mother-in-law. “I want you.”
“I am sure,” said Augusta, “that, if advice on any delicate matter is needed, yours will be most valuable.”
“This matter,” Adeline said decisively, “is not delicate.”
“Has this matter to do with Philip?” asked Ernest.
“It has.”
“And Miss Wakefield?”
“Yes.”
“Dear me.”
Augusta put in, “Perhaps, after all, Edwin had better go.”
Adeline gave her sudden mordant grin. “It’s never too late to learn,” she said.
“How true that is,” exclaimed Ernest. “Only a few years ago I knew practically nothing of the Stock Market. Now I have, you might say, its intricacies at my fingertips.” He placed the tips of his delicate fingers together and smiled complacently.
His family looked at him with respect.
“Where is Philip?” demanded Adeline. “Ernest, do go and find him.”
“I hope he is in a better temper than he was last night,” said Nicholas.
Philip’s voice came from the hall. “Anybody calling me?”
Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Page 83