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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  Mary walked up and down the room wringing her hands.

  Muriel asked, “Does Mr. Whiteoak owe you money?”

  “Yes. But I shall never ask for it.”

  “I’ll do that for you. I’ll go straight down and ask him.”

  “No. I couldn’t endure that.” She stopped in her walking and looked with melancholy reserve at Muriel. “No. I have changed my mind about seeing him. There is nothing else to do … I will see him — but, oh, how can I?”

  “Shall I go with you?”

  “No, no, I must do it alone … but not indoors.”

  “It’s perfectly private in the parlour and I’ll wait just outside.”

  Mary had her suspicions of Muriel waiting “just outside.” She was determined that, if meet Philip she must, no word of what passed between them should be overheard.

  She said, “We have kept him waiting so long that I think it will be best for you to say I’d gone out into the grounds — that you’d searched for me — but I shouldn’t ask you to lie for me.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” cried Muriel. “And I think you do quite right to see him and put him out of his misery.” She flew to the looking-glass and began to put her hair in order, while asking:

  “Where shall I say he can find you?”

  “By the lake. Give me a few moments’ start.”

  Mary left the room and went softly down the back stairs. Muriel returned to Philip.

  “I’m afraid you’ll think I’ve been gone quite a while,” she said.

  “It does seem rather long.”

  “As a matter of fact she’s gone out.”

  “I see. She went out to avoid me.”

  “I guess she did. She’s very nervous. Do you think you could send her a message by me? It might be better.”

  “Not possibly. Please tell me which way she went.”

  “Before I tell you I want to remind you, just once, of that wonderful drive we had — that day we saw Mary running so joyfully to meet Clive Busby.”

  “I saw nothing.”

  “I’m afraid I behaved very foolishly that day. A girl never should show her feelings the way I did.”

  Philip felt extreme discomfort. He made sounds to express that he thought her behaviour had been perfect.

  “No, no,” she denied. “I should have controlled myself. But, oh, it’s so hard for me to conceal my feelings! You will forgive me, won’t you?” She came and laid her hands on his arm. For a moment of apprehension he expected her head to fall once more to his shoulder.

  He patted her back with what repressive force he dared and said, “There is nothing to forgive and I do thank you for your kindness to Mary. Now, I must be off to find her.”

  He left the house and crossed the closely mown lawn behind it. Beds of cannas edged by silver-leafed geraniums stood up primly, denying the nearness of the tumultuous lake, stirred to green breakers by a gale of the night before. But the wind was now no more than a breeze, the great waves were sunny and fell in lacy foam. Mary was standing on a breakwater, her dress whipped close about her, a strand of her hair, like blond seaweed, blowing free.

  Philip stood a space, drinking in the beauty of the picture she made, as he drank in the sharp autumn air, before he called her name.

  She had been facing the lake, now she turned and her eyes met his. A long while seemed to have passed since last their eyes had met. She drew on all her courage for the ordeal, but the effect she gave was almost one of challenge. He came to the lake’s edge.

  “Mary,” he said, having still to raise his voice above the noise of the waves, “what is your idea of going out there? Is it to throw yourself into the lake if I attempt to lay hands on you?”

  “No — oh, no.”

  “Then do come back, unless you want to talk to me out there. In that case —”

  Before she could answer he was by her side.

  She had thought never to see him again. Now his nearness almost overpowered her. His nearness and the noise of the waves confused her. “I can’t talk to you,” she said. “Not here.”

  “Then we’ll go to that seat and sit down and you’ll tell me everything.”

  She let him lead her to the rustic seat but she would not sit down. She supported herself against its rough bark-covered back. A shrub covered by red berries rose behind the seat.

  “At least we can’t be seen here,” he said. “I shouldn’t put it past that woman to spy on us.”

  Mary stood silent, her eyes on her white ringless hands that clung to the seat.

  “Now tell me, for God’s sake,” he demanded, “why you ran away.”

  “You know why. You must know.”

  “I suppose because of my mother — her going up to your room. What did she say to you?”

  “Does it matter what she said to me?” Mary cried wildly. “Nothing matters except what I said to her. If you care for me — if you ever cared for me — don’t make me talk about it. It’s cruel.”

  “Mary,” he said gently, “I beg of you not to be so foolish … Surely you can speak to me of anything. If you love me you won’t shrink from speaking of this. You do love me, don’t you?”

  “I — don’t know.”

  “You don’t know! Why — you astonish me. Do you forget our meeting in the orchard?”

  “I did love you then.”

  “And now — you don’t know!”

  “My brain is so confused. It won’t act.”

  Now he scanned her face in sharp anxiety. “You are tired out,” he said. “If you would cast yourself on me, tell me everything, then you would not be confused. You would be well again. I can see that you are not well.” He laid his hand on her hands that were clasped on the back of the seat. “Come, my darling.”

  The word darling from his lips! To be called his darling! Tears suddenly fell from her eyes and splashed on his hand.

  “I thought you would utterly despise me,” she said.

  “How could I despise you! I’m simply trying, with all my might, to find out why you told my mother you were my mistress.” There was no way, he felt, but to force her into the open though to do it he must be brutal.

  Colour flamed into Mary’s face. She drew her hands from beneath his and pressed them against her eyes. She seemed to press back her tears, because when she again looked at him, she had stopped crying.

  “Mrs. Whiteoak asked me,” she said, almost indifferently, “if it wasn’t so, and I was very angry and I said it was.”

  “You understood her? There was no mistake?”

  “I understood perfectly. She accused me a second time and I said, yes, it was so.”

  “I see. And how did she take it?”

  The triumph of that moment again lit Mary’s face. She smiled her odd smile that had something of pain in it. She said, “Mrs. Whiteoak was amazed. Even while she accused me she had not believed it herself … I told that horrible lie just because I was furious … You can see what a strange sort of person I am.”

  Philip went round the rustic seat and put his arms around her. He led her back and set her down and himself beside her.

  “Mary,” he said, “I can’t pretend that I understand you but I love you more than ever and you’re coming home with me and we’re going to get married as soon as possible.”

  “And you don’t hate me for what I said?”

  “I adore you for it.”

  She relaxed her weary body against his strength. Her spirit, like a river that had found the sea, lost itself in his. She was cold, for she had not dressed herself for the wind from the lake. The warmth of his arm that pressed her to his side, had a comfort in it that seemed to her godlike. His warm hands held her chilled ones. She looked out across the silver and green expanse of the lake and, in her fancy, compared herself to a sailing ship that had delivered its cargo, and now, lightened and buoyant, spread its sails to the breeze. She wished she were a poet. If she were she could, at this moment, pour out her heart in a poem.

  XXI

/>   AT GRIPS

  PHILIP TURNED IN the saddle to look back at Mary, still waving to him from the gate. It was hard to tear himself away from her. He sat, turning in the saddle, to imprint her image on his memory. Yet a part of him strained toward Jalna and the announcement of his coming marriage. But first he would ride to the Rectory to acquaint Mr. Pink with the change in Mary’s prospects.

  He had ridden over this road hundreds of times but never had it been so exhilarating, so beautiful, as on this blowy late September morning, with the waves, where the lake encroached on the sandy soil, breaking almost to the road. Something should be done about this road, but on this morning he would not have it different. The gulls circled above him, their wings flashing in the sun, their tucked-up feet yellow against their breasts, like useless appendages that they would never need again. One of them winged swiftly above the smartly-trotting mare, as though in a race. The mare arched her neck and glanced in playful apprehension at the waves. Philip spoke lovingly to her and patted her neck. She was his, she was gentle, she was a female.

  Inside the white picket fence of the Rectory Lily Pink was cutting flowers for the altar tomorrow. She stood frozen, with scissors poised, when Philip appeared at the gate.

  “Oh, good morning, Lily,” he said. “Cutting the last flowers before the frost gets them, eh?”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” she answered, not able to look at him, remembering how she had carried the tale of his doings to his mother.

  Philip, at this moment, forgot all about that. He asked cheerfully, “Is your father at home?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, “writing his sermon.”

  “Oh!” Philip groaned his disappointment.

  “Could I take a message?”

  “No,” he sighed, “I’ll come again.”

  Mr. Pink had seen him through the window. He hastened to the door and shouted, “Come along in. My sermon’s done.” He was like a boy let out of school. He noticed what a pretty picture Lily and Philip and the chestnut mare and the garden flowers made. He felt thankful for this beautiful and tranquil world. “God’s in His Heaven, all’s right with the world.” He would bring that into his sermon tomorrow morning. He would say that, as long as men kept the thought of God in His Heaven watching over them, so long as they carried out the teaching of Christ in their lives, all would be well in the world. And no man living could deny that.

  “Come in!” he shouted to Philip.

  He was worried about Philip. He did not like the story that was going round, about him and Mary Wakefield. He hoped Philip had come to explain things. He led the way into his study and closed the door behind them.

  An hour later Philip, having put the mare in her stall, entered his own door.

  Renny flew down the stairs to meet him. “Papa. Papa! I’m glad to see you!”

  Philip picked him up and hugged him. A wave of good will toward everyone in the house surged through his being. As it neared Adeline, however, it wavered and did not quite envelop her. A smile, in which there was more than a hint of malice, lighted his face when he thought of her.

  Renny said, “I can turn a handspring. Come and watch me do it.”

  “It must be time for dinner,” answered Philip. At Jalna that meal was in the middle of the day.

  “Dinner!” echoed the little boy. “We had it long ago. But they’re keeping some for you in the oven.”

  “I’m glad of that. I’m as hungry as a hunter.”

  “What were you hunting? Was it Miss Wakefield? Nettle says she’s run away.”

  “That’s nonsense. She is visiting Miss Craig.”

  “It’s nice without her.”

  “Don’t you like her?” Philip asked sharply.

  “Well — she’s like all the others. Always wanting you to learn things.”

  “And learn you’d better or you’ll be at the bottom of the class when you go to school with Maurice.”

  “Granny says she’ll teach me. She’s having a nap in her room.”

  “Good. Don’t disturb her.”

  Philip ate his meal in solitude but with the first zest he had felt since the morning of Mary’s disappearance. Afterward he did not want to meet anyone but escaped through the side door with his pipe, to find his dogs and take them for a walk in the woods. He must be alone, to think of Mary and of all the happiness that lay ahead of them. He knew she shrank from the difficulties of returning to Jalna as its mistress, but he would smooth away the difficulties. One object which must be smoothed away — obliterated — was Mrs. Nettleship. Her sandy hair, her pale piercing eyes, her habit of gossip, had come to irritate him. What if she were a model of cleanliness and order, as Augusta was always reminding him? These qualities were, in truth, her most irritating. She must be got out of the way before Mary came.

  He had hated to leave her at the Craigs’, with that impossible Muriel. He would have liked to put her on his horse behind him, as they used in the old days, and enter the gates of Jalna at a gallop, in the first flush of his happiness. But his plan was to ask Mrs. Lacey to take his dear girl into her house until the wedding. She could not refuse him that.

  It ended by his going to see Mrs. Lacey that very afternoon. But first he returned to the stable and left the dogs with young Hodge, and a message for his mother that he would not be home for tea. He knew well that Mrs. Lacey would ask him to share the evening meal with them. He wanted to avoid his family till Sunday morning when he would of necessity meet them at church. After church he would tell the family what they might expect and also he would come to grips with his mother over the scene between her and Mary in Mary’s bedroom. The air must be cleared before he brought Mary to Jalna.

  He and Mrs. Lacey were closeted together for a long while. Her romantic soul made her eager to forward his love affair. At the same time she shrank from incurring Adeline’s anger. Ever since they had first met, many years ago, she had done her best to keep on the right side of Adeline and had admirably succeeded. She did not intend to risk words with her now. She told her fears to Philip and promised to talk over the matter with her husband and let Philip know the result on Monday. He had to content himself with this half promise.

  He did not drive to church on the Sunday morning but took the winding path across the fields and, for the first time in months arrived in time to put on his surplice without hurry and an urgent look from Mr. Pink. The family always arrived in a body and their progress along the aisle was a spectacle of interest to the rest of the congregation which never palled. First came Adeline, her hand resting on the arm of her eldest son. They were followed by the Buckleys, Augusta’s hand resting on Sir Edwin’s elegantly crooked arm. Last came Ernest with a child on either side. The appearance of the group was that of the Old World rather than the New. Though they were so closely identified with the place were they lived they retained, in a remarkable degree, the atmosphere of the land from which they had sprung.

  Adeline seldom sat herself in the pew without a moment’s fresh shock at the realization that the husband she had so loved was no longer at her side. The years did not make it easier to understand or to bear. When she rested her head against the back of the pew in front, that moment was given to him. Then she would straighten herself and raise her eyes to the stained glass window she had had erected to his memory. She would draw a deep sigh, look for the number of the opening hymn and find it in her book. She would glance down at Renny and hold the hymn book so that he might follow the words with her. Not that she needed the words. Every hymn sung in that church she knew by heart, unless, as on rare occasions, it happened that Mr. Pink in an abandon of enterprise, chose a strange one. Then her eyebrows would shoot up incredulously, she would sharply close the book, as though that were the end of it for her, and watch the singing choir, as though they were performing some strange gymnastics which she neither understood nor admired.

  As the service progressed on this particular morning she watched her son Philip with concentrated interest. What was he up to, she wond
ered. Ernest had told her that he had gone to the Craigs’, where Mary was. Obviously he was trying to reach some understanding with that queer girl but, if it were marriage, why was he avoiding his family? And where was he last evening? Ade-line could only conclude that he was afraid to meet her, for fear she should guess his plans and frustrate them. More likely still, Mary could not bring herself to marry him after what had happened, and small wonder!

  But Philip did look comely this morning, with his fresh colouring, his clear blue eyes, and clean surplice. He read the Lessons in a way that Adeline liked, though his brothers were very critical of his style. There was warmth in his voice and a ring of conviction that he believed in what he read. On the whole Adeline thought he would come safely through this affair. Ernest had not told her of Philip’s stubborn attitude during their brief encounter, for he felt that, all too soon, the two must settle the affair between them. He quite dreaded the thought of it and yet, considering their mettle, felt a certain exhilaration in anticipating the climax.

  But the climax was to be silent. Neither Philip nor Adeline were to utter a word when the moment came. A religious calm was to pervade the scene.

  Philip had just read the Second Lesson. He returned to his seat at one side of the chancel. His surplice, to his mother’s eyes, had a defiant swing. To Ernest it looked jaunty. Mr. Pink rose and moved with dignity to take his place. Mr. Pink’s voice was resonant and the words which now came from his mouth might well in their volume have been uttered in a cathedral, instead of in this little country church.

  “I publish the Banns of Marriage between Philip Piers Whiteoak of this Parish and Mary Wakefield of the same. If any of you know cause or just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

  Philip sat imperturbable, his hands clasped on his surpliced stomach, his eyes, looking unusually large and blue, fixed on some point above the heads of the congregation. A stir ran through the congregation and a whispering, as of a gust of wind over a little field of corn. The Vaughans, in their pew, cast sidelong glances across at Adeline. Admiral Lacey’s face grew crimson. Mrs. Lacey tried vainly to look innocent. Ethel caught Violet’s hand in hers and they sat clutched. The remainder of the neighbourhood, the farmers from the surrounding country, the people from the village, young Chalk, the blacksmith, craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the Whiteoaks, or scanned Philip’s face with curiosity. There were few who had not heard the story of what Noah Binns had seen in the orchard, at a time when everybody who knew anything knew the young lady was engaged to Clive Busby.