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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “My dear Clive,

  “To me the writing of this letter is a great grief. It is to tell you that I cannot marry you, to tell you — oh, that I could find the gentlest words in the language — that I do not love you deeply enough for marriage. I reproach myself for not having discovered this before. Dearest Clive, I am not good enough for you. I will always remember your goodness and kindness. I don’t ask you to forget me but I do beg of you to forgive me, and to try to think of me without bitterness.

  “Mary.”

  She read the letter. It was not all that she would have liked to say to Clive but it must do. She could find no other words. She addressed the letter, sealed and stamped it. She would not let herself think of Clive’s face when he had read it.

  And now that other letter, the letter to Philip. Surely she had the right to send him a message of farewell … just a line to say she loved him and would never love any other but him. Here, in this dim room, with the cavernous, dripping night beyond the window, she might free her spirit, pour out to him on paper what would never pass her lips. She took a sheet of notepaper and wrote:

  “My dear, my only love —”

  Then her hand refused to move. A terrible cramp came into it. Though she set her teeth and tried to force it, her hand would not move. She gripped her wrist in her left hand to control it but, when she put pen to paper she could only scrawl his name. She was powerless to write.

  She buried her face in her arms and broke into wild crying. Hoarse sobs shook her. She did not care if people in the house heard her and came running. She cared for nothing but to let the sobs tear her to pieces. But no one heard her and, at last, she was quiet. She got up, undressed, knelt by the high bed in her long white nightdress and said her prayers. She made no mention in them of her unhappiness, sent up no petition, but the accustomed words comforted her.

  The next morning she asked Muriel Craig where she could post a letter. She had it ready in her hand.

  “Give it to me,” said Muriel, “the man’s just going in for the mail and he’ll take it. What a morning! Pouring with rain!” She caught up the letter and hurried off.

  In the passage she stood thinking, after she had read the address. Then she went softly up to Mary’s room and looked about. She saw the writing-case and opened it. Nothing but notepaper and two English postcards inside. She looked in the wastepaper basket and discovered some torn bits of paper. She pounded on these and tiptoed with them to her room. Guilt was written all over her but no one saw her.

  She pieced together the bits of paper and read what Mary had written: “My dear, my only love,” and his name “Philip”. The paper was blistered and writing blurred by tears.

  What did it mean?

  It meant possibly that Mary was breaking off what relations there were between herself and Clive and was reaching out toward Philip. What else could it mean? But Mary would not get her clutches on Philip — not if she could prevent it.

  Her face was flushed with excitement as she finished her note to Clive. She flew downstairs with it to the reluctant man, waiting in his rubber cape to go out into the rain.

  “Take this,” she said, “to Mr. Vaughan’s and leave it for Mr. Busby. When you bring back the mail from the post office bring it straight to me.”

  For the seventh time Clive Busby was driving along the road by the lake, in search of Mary. To him it had become the most hateful stretch of road in the world. Every bend of it, every tree, every stone, every patch of thistles, he felt he knew like the palm of his hand. The horse knew it too and hated it. He showed his resentment by jerking his head and splashing through puddles so clumsily that drops of muddy water flew over the dashboard.

  At last I shall know the truth, Clive thought. At last the truth … from her own lips. His weary mind had reached the point where what he craved most was to know where he stood, to sweep away the web that entangled him.

  When he reached the Craigs’ he tied his horse and strode to the door. A maid left him in the hall where he took off his mackintosh, folded it neatly across a chair, and passed his hand over his hair. But the heavy thudding of his heart told a story less cool. He heard voices in the next room. Then the door of the room opened and Muriel Craig came into the hall. She said smiling:

  “Mary’s in there. She doesn’t know it’s you. Katie just said, ‘A gentleman.’”

  As Clive went into the room she closed the door after him, but she remained near it.

  He was alone with Mary.

  The first thought of each was shock at the appearance of the other. Her eyes were reddened, her features blurred. He looked ten years older.

  Then panic seized her at being alone with him and she exclaimed, “Didn’t you get my letter?”

  “Your letter? No.”

  “Of course, you couldn’t. I forgot. It was only posted this morning.”

  “Did you ask me to come, in the letter?”

  “No. I asked you not to come.”

  “Mary —” he had been standing just inside the door, now he came closer to her — “for God’s sake tell me what happened!”

  “Clive — I beg of you — don’t make me talk of it. Go back and read my letter — try to believe that it breaks my heart to treat you like this.” She pressed her hand to her trembling mouth.

  “No letter will do. I must have it from your own lips.”

  “Then … if you must … I don’t love you well enough to marry you. I mean I don’t love you in that way. Oh, surely you understand.”

  “I’m trying to but it’s hard. Only a few days ago you and I were happy together. You held my hand and we laughed, as we walked through the woods. Why, you even chose the sort of little dog you wanted me to buy you.” His voice broke.

  “I know. I know. I must seem a horrible person to you — and no wonder.”

  “What happened? Something happened after Philip Whiteoak came home.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the orchard?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told you not to marry me? You do what he says?”

  “I needed no telling!” she broke out. “I love him. I’ve always loved him. I think you guessed that. But I stifled it — my love for him — I choked it down. I turned to you, thinking I could make you happy — perhaps be happy myself — but then he came back and he told me that he loved me ——”

  “Are you going to marry Philip?”

  “No! I’m not going to marry anyone.”

  “Why aren’t you going to marry him? You love him ‘in that way,’ apparently. Why did you run away from him, Mary?”

  He came nearer, as though to take her hand, but she put her two hands behind her back.

  “I ran away,” she answered, looking steadily into his eyes, “because I did not want to see him again or anyone I had known in that place.”

  Clive looked sombrely at the floor, then, with the heavy colour rising in his face, he asked, in a low voice:

  “Mary, did you say anything to Mrs. Whiteoak that you have regretted since?”

  “Did he tell you that?” she demanded hoarsely.

  “Yes. But he said it wasn’t so.”

  She stared at him speechless.

  “Mary — tell me — for God’s sake, tell me the truth!” Like a trapped bird beating itself against bars her mind beat itself against his questioning. If she told him she had spoken the truth he would loathe her. If she told him she had lied, what would be his scorn?

  “Will you let me be! Will you leave me! I regret nothing I’ve said or done. All I want is to be let alone — never to see any of you again!”

  Clive flinched as though she had struck him.

  He drew back, his eyes mournfully fixed on her distorted face. With his hand on the door knob he said:

  “Good-bye, Mary,” and was gone.

  Late that afternoon he went to Jalna to tell Adeline Whiteoak good-bye. He would have gone off without seeing her, thinking he would write to her after he reached home but Mrs. Vaughan insis
ted that he must say good-bye in person. Adeline Whiteoak was an old friend of his family, had been very kind to him. He must not treat her without ceremony.

  The rain had stopped. There was a flashing, wild brightness through the clouds. The wet-winged turkeys, trailing through the ravine, stopped, each in its attitude of that instant, to watch him cross the bridge. The stream, rejuvenated by the rains, tripped gleaming past the water weeds and cress that edged it.

  As Clive reached the top of the opposite side of the ravine the house rose before him, its mantle of vines newly washed by rain, its windows reflecting the sun. He looked up at the windows of Mary’s room and a fresh pang and a new, painful wonder struck his heart. What thoughts, what acts, had that room sheltered? What mysterious impulse had driven her to become a different Mary from the one he loved?

  Adeline met him at the door. She had seen him coming. She stepped out into the porch and shut the door behind her.

  “Well, Clive?” she said, her eyebrows arched, and gave him her hand. “Why, your hand is cold! My dear boy, young people’s hands shouldn’t be cold.”

  “I guess it’s because my heart’s cold, Mrs. Whiteoak. I don’t want to talk about my affairs. I — I can’t talk about them. It would kill me and that’s the truth.” He gripped her hand so that he hurt her. “I’ve come to say good-bye. And — I want to thank you for all your kindness.”

  “Now, don’t despair. Sit right down and tell me everything. You’ll feel the better for it.”

  He wrenched his hand away. “I’m sorry — but — I can’t. Good-bye.”

  There was nothing to do but let him go.

  At Vaughanlands he found out that Philip Whiteoak was at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal. From the railway station, on his way to the West, Clive sent this telegram to Philip:

  MARY WAKEFIELD IS STAYING WITH THE CRAIGS.

  C.B.

  XX

  BY THE LAKE

  ONLY ONE PASSENGER alighted from the morning train and that was Philip Whiteoak. He left his travelling bag at the station to be called for and set off up the road on foot. He walked as though there were no time to spare, yet he was not unconscious of the clear crisp beauty of the autumn morning, the harebell blue of the sky, the shining little clouds, puffed up to importance by the lively wind, the coloured fallen leaves that skipped nimbly over puddles on the road. All this suited his mood which was one of pleasurable impatience, not unmixed with apprehension.

  Jake was waiting for him at the gate. For the moment he had forgotten Philip and was tentatively pawing a brown and black caterpillar. When he heard the step he looked round, with one paw still resting on the caterpillar. For an instant his astonishment and delight made him powerless, then he was galvanized into movement, rushed at Philip with cries that seemed rather of pain than pleasure and threw himself against Philip’s legs.

  “Hullo, Jake,” he snatched up the half-grown dog and held him aloft. “Glad to see me, eh? But look at the muck you’ve put on me, you rascal!”

  They went up the drive together, Jake doing his best to run between Philip’s legs or fall over himself directly in Philip’s path. They met Ernest in the hall.

  Ernest, anxious to be on friendly terms again with Philip, asked, in a warmly solicitous tone”

  “Any word of Miss Wakefield?”

  “She’s not in Montreal,” Philip answered tersely.

  “Well — that long journey for nothing then.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is certainly mysterious.”

  “I know where she is.”

  “Yes? Do you mind telling me where?”

  “With the Craigs.”

  “Really? You amaze me. I thought those two girls were rather antagonistic.”

  “So did I. But — you never know with women. Where is Mamma?”

  “At Vaughanlands.”

  “Ha!” Philip gave a short explosion of laughter, then he asked, “What about Busby?”

  “He left for the West yesterday.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. But he came to say good-bye to Mamma. Philip, you know I am the last one to interfere in your affairs but I do feel — I earnestly feel —”

  “Meaning you fell like Ernest,” laughed Philip. “All right, old man, go ahead and feel like Ernest. He’s a pretty good egg.” He ran up the stairs, leaving his brother half-angry, half-pleased, a state often induced in his family by Philip.

  Soon he reappeared, his clothes changed to riding things.

  “Going out again so soon?” said Ernest.

  “Yes.”

  “To the Craigs’, I suppose.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You know, Philip, I hate to interfere but I do —” he tried to stop himself but before he could he had said, “I do earnestly —”

  “Good,” said Philip, going through the porch, with Jake at his heels. “Keep it up. Go on feeling like Ernest. But it’s not going to change me.”

  Presently Jake was shut in the stable with his parents, and Philip, on his chestnut mare, trotted briskly through the gate and along the road by the lake. His relief at finding out where Mary was made him almost happy. His concern, his consternation, at her disappearance, the two days of miserable searching of hotels and steamship offices in Montreal, the search at the pier when a ship for England was to sail, lay behind him. His sanguine nature strained forward to the meeting with Mary. The message from Clive had allayed his fear that she was deranged. Clive never would have sent him the message, Mary never would have been at the Craigs’ if anything of that sort were wrong. It was clear that Clive had discovered her and that she had broken off their engagement. Philip’s heart went out to Clive in gratitude for his telegram.

  Muriel opened the door to him. She had seen his horse cantering down the road, so she was prepared to meet him, with a happy smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Whiteoak.” Her eyes said that the morning was good indeed when he appeared at her door.

  “Good morning.” He hesitated, considering just how he should make his request.

  “Did you want to see Father? I’m afraid he isn’t up yet. But he soon will be. Do come in.”

  “Thank you.” He came into the hall.

  “Miss Craig,” he said, “I really came to see Mary Wakefield. I am told that she is staying with you.”

  “She was. But she’s left. She’s gone to New York to take a position there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughed. “You’re teasing me, Mr. Whiteoak.”

  “I think it is you who are teasing me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She flushed pink.

  “I mean that, when I rode up the drive, I saw the two of you at a window. You were looking out, your heads close together.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not.”

  Her breast rose and fell in her agitated breathing. She said, almost in a whisper:

  “Mary doesn’t want to see you. She told me to say she’d gone to New York.”

  For a moment he stared unbelieving, then remembered that Mary had run away from his house.

  “She must see me. Go and tell her she must see me. I won’t leave till she does.”

  “I am Mary’s friend. I must help her. All she wants is to go far away and forget the unhappy time she’s had.”

  “If you are Mary’s friend you will beg her to see me if it’s only for five minutes … Or take me to her. Will you do that?” His eyes implored her.

  “I’ll ask her but — I’m afraid she won’t.”

  “Tell her what I say, that I won’t go till she has spoken to me.”

  In a strangled voice Muriel said, “You love her, don’t you?”

  “With all my heart.”

  She turned and hurried from the room.

  On the stairway she flung herself against the banisters and began to cry. After a little she pulled herself together and went slowly up to Mary’s room. Mary was standing by the window wat
ching to see Philip go.

  “Has he gone?” she asked.

  “No. He refuses to go till he sees you.”

  “Oh, Muriel — I don’t know how I can meet him!”

  “I wish it were me! Oh, how I wish it were me he wanted! It does seem hard, when I’ve loved him from the first time I met him ——” She leant against the door crying.

  “I’m so sorry, Muriel.”

  “Why won’t you meet him?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I have the right to know, after all I’ve gone through and loving him as I do.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Well, you can tell me this: Are you simply playing with him — to inflame his passion?”

  Mary gave an hysterical laugh. “Good heavens, no! I have only one thought and that is to avoid him.” Her panic increased. To meet Philip’s eyes, with the brand of that monstrous lie on her forehead, would kill her. She might be dooming herself to a life of loneliness, but face him she could not.

  A tap came on the door and the nurse handed Muriel a telegram.

  “Oh, Miss Craig, I do hope it’s not bad news,” she said, her eyes twinkling into the room.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” said Muriel coldly. She wanted the nurse to go, then said:

  “Do you think she would see I’d been crying?”

  “Oh, no. Is the telegram from New York?”

  Muriel tore it open and read, “Position satisfactorily filled at present thanks for suggestion writing.”

  “Oh, how disappointing!” gasped Muriel. “Now there is nowhere for you to go. Whatever shall you do?”

  “I must just find a new post.”

  “You may stay here with me till you do.”

  “And run the risk of meeting him?”

  “But where shall you stay? A young girl like you cannot stop at an hotel by herself.”

  “I will go to Montreal, as intended at the first.”

  “But have you enough money for your return passage?”

  “I will work for it.”

  “But it is not easy to find your sort of work. Supposing you can’t get work.”