03 Mary Wakefield (24 page)

Mary was bewildered. All she could say was, “Oh, thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Not at all. It’s little enough I’m doing for you. I have only one favour to ask. Keep this secret till my return. If the children get wind of it you’ll never be able to control them again. If my daughter, Lady Buckley, is told, she’ll interfere with all our plans. She’ll insist on your giving the usual three months’ notice. Much better keep it to ourselves. Tell Clive that, will you?”

Mary eagerly assented. The children’s curiosity, Lady Buckley’s interference, were evils to be avoided. To leave Jalna unnoticed, to go as she had come, that was what she wanted.

When Adeline was alone she sat motionless for a time, her lips parted in a pleased smile. She took up the letter she had written and read it with a judicial air. Then, frowning at the scratchiness of the pen, she added a post-script. “Maggie dear, I find I can arrange the little visit with you after all so Philip and I will arrive some time late tomorrow.”

She carried the letter to the stables where Philip was examining the strained tendons in the leg of a favourite horse. He straightened himself and smiled at her.

“How’s the leg?” she asked.

“Coming along well.”

“Splendid.” He knew he was back in her favour by the way she returned his smile.

The mare turned her eyes on him and nibbled his sleeve.

“She’s a sweet creature,” said Adeline.

“She is, and I love her.”

“Do you love your mother enough to come on a little visit with her? I’ve been promising to go see Maggie Rutherford — that was Maggie Busby — for many a long day and at last I’ve made up my mind to do it. Her place isn’t above thirty miles from here but hard to get at by train. Will you drive me there, Philip?”

“Gladly, but I can’t stay.”

Adeline drew in a deep sigh. “Ah, well, I’ll not go then. I’d planned this little jaunt, just by ourselves, because what with my being away in Ireland and your being so busy, I seem to have seen very little of you. But ’tis of no account to anyone but myself. I’ll just tear up this letter and write another declining the invitation.

“No, no. You mustn’t do that, Mamma. I’ll drive you there and go back for you, at the end of your visit.”

“What! Drive a hundred and twenty miles for the sake of a little visit? Let’s say no more about it. I’ll go by train, though there’ll be a two-hours wait at some god-forsaken junction. But I don’t mind. Yes, I’ll go by train, even if it does bring on the pain in my back.”

“But I thought that pain was quite gone, Mamma.”

“Ah, it comes and it goes.”

“Do you think the long drive may be bad for it?”

“No. It’s the jolting of the train that plays the mischief.”

“Then I’ll drive you there and stay with you,” he exclaimed warmly, though not altogether without thought of self. He would not at all mind going away for a week. He found himself being drawn inexorably into spending more and more time with Muriel Craig. Now there were the riding lessons he had promised her. There were the urgent invitations from her father. Everywhere he went he seemed inevitably to meet her. It was as though there were a plot to throw them together. He liked her, he admired her, but, since the moment when she had allowed her head to droop to
his shoulder, there had been qualifications to his regard. She was too easy. His wife had been a woman of reserves. She had never given herself away and, though she had not always been easy to get on with and her caresses had been sparingly given, when they had been given they were worth the waiting for. It seemed strange that one of so much character should have left two children who bore no resemblance to her, either in face or nature. Yet he could imagine a gentle girl like Mary having a son the image of her. Why had the thought of Mary come into his head, he wondered. He saw little of her nowadays and, when he did see her, he was conscious of a change in her. What was it? A coldness? A shrinking?

His mother’s lips were on his. His forehead tied itself into a knot, as he tried to think of two things at once and could think of nothing. Adeline was saying:

“You’ll be glad you came. Why it’s years since you visited there with me. Do you remember?”

They went through the orchard, arm in arm. Adeline ate a red harvest apple while they made their plans, which horses they would drive, the route they would follow, what presents she should take her friends. This was the way she liked it to be — an excursion undertaken with gusto, carried though with leisure and ceremony.

At the time appointed she and Philip set out behind a well-groomed pair of bays, with the rest of the family watching the departure with admiration, for Adeline, to show off, had taken the reins herself and handled the restive pair with ease, if a little flaunt-ingly. The long “weeds” of her widow’s bonnet were lifted above her shoulders by the breeze and added a note, at once sombre and elegant, to her appearance.

Raising her eyes for an instant, as the equipage moved along the gravel sweep, she had a glimpse of Mary’s face at an upper window and smiled benignly.

T
HE DAYS OF
that week moved in autumn splendour at Jalna. An early frost had set the Virginia creeper and the soft maples blazing into red. The yellowing leaves of the silver birches began to fall. The sky was of such a blueness as made people say that Italy could do no better. The farm horses lounged in the meadows, as though a life of leisure was what they were made for and all their great muscles were but show. Birds were not yet leaving for the South but here and there they held mysterious meetings, while some twittering leader told them of his fears. Jake suddenly grew larger and assumed a sagacious air but it was a spurious sagacity, for underneath he retained his callow ways. He spent most of his time watching for Philip’s return, and ran yelping at the sight of Mrs. Nettleship. When she came out to shake her duster he hid among the shrubs but when she had gone he returned to wait for Philip.

Mary and Clive had long talks. Nobody could help noticing that he came every day to Jalna and that Mary made less and less pretence of restraining the children. Mary lived in a kind of dream. All about her was so unreal. But her resolve to marry Clive Busby and go far away from Jalna was real. Each night this resolve kept
her to her bed like an anchor, without which she would have sprung up and walked the floor, unable to sleep or rest. She was thankful that Philip was not beneath the same roof with her. She wished she might leave without seeing him again. That would scarcely be possible but, when they did meet, their interchange would be cool and businesslike. He would pay her what salary was due her. She would apologize for leaving without the usual notice. He would be genial and congratulate her on her coming marriage. She would smile happily and say how much she was looking forward to living on the prairies.

Then she would leave.

The thought of a wedding at Jalna was not to be borne. Clive was to take her to his brother’s house a hundred miles away and they would be quietly married from there. He had confided in this brother and also in Mr. Pink who was helping him to get a special licence. It was all quite simple. All she had to do was to steel herself for the break; after that she would look back across a momentous chasm to the life she now lived. Day by day it would grow dimmer. Philip’s face would become blurred in her memory, his voice forgotten. So she soothed her aching spirit with lies.

There was no one she could talk to with truth.

One day she found Jake sitting in a patch of sunlight near the entrance gate. With an inexpressibly melancholy look his spaniel’s eyes, with their drooping underlids, were fixed on the road. When he saw her a momentary pleasure agitated his tail, then he returned to his waiting.

She ran to him and put her hand on his curling topknot. “Dear little Jake,” she said, “how you love him! Far, far better than Sport and Spot do.”

He received the caress with sad dignity but kept his eyes on the road.

“Never mind,” she said. “He will be back tomorrow.”

There was something in her voice that made Jake very sorry for himself. He whimpered, and at the same time wagged his tail, as though to reassure her. “I’m afraid you’re going to take life very
hard,” she said. “And it’s bad for you, Jake. You must try to be tranquil like your father and mother, and like your master. You may be sure he’s not thinking about us.”

In the branches of the evergreens pigeons were shuffling and cooing. They preened their greenish-blue plumage as though it were spring and not fall, with the time for love-making past. The sky was clear virginal blue, reflected in shining pools on the road, for it had rained the night before. Mary saw Clive swinging down the road, taking strides as though in them he must expend his happy energy.

“I must go and meet him,” she thought, “and I don’t know how to do it. Jake, you must come and help me.” She took him by the collar and drew him to his feet. Together they went through the gate.

“We’re coming to meet you,” she cried, and tried to make her walk swinging and free, as Clive’s was.

He caught her hand and held it, then looking about to make sure they were not seen, kissed her on the cheek. He bent and patted the spaniel.

“I must get you a dog,” he said, “for your very own. I have two sheep dogs but they follow me about all day on the ranch. What breed will you choose?”

“A pug,” she answered without hesitating.

“A pug!” he exclaimed. “A snuffling little pug, with a corkscrew tail? Oh, surely not, Mary.”

“Yes. I love them.”

“Then a pug you shall have. I well remember the first one I ever saw. I was on a visit to the Vaughans with my parents. Captain and Mrs. Whiteoak were coming to tea. I was a small boy. It was the time when enormous bustles were worn. I saw them coming in at the gate and walking up the drive. Jove, they were a striking couple! He was the sort of man who had the look of wearing a uniform even when he was in tweeds. What you’d call a dashing officer. But she was the one who really cut a figure. She’d on a kind of dolman and a wide skirt. She’d a broad-brimmed straw hat and she’d trimmed it with bright-coloured pansies, fresh from the garden,
and her eyes looked large and dark, under the brim, and her teeth very white. Well, the hat was odd enough but what staggered me was a pug dog sitting on her bustle. Sitting on it, as large as life, and twice as peculiar. When he got tired of walking, she said, she just lifted him on to her bustle and there he rode like a prince.”

“I shall make myself a bustle,” said Mary, “and teach my pug to sit on it.”

She talked of dogs and horses, asking Clive questions about the ranch. He never tired of describing it or picturing the time when they would be there as man and wife. He often referred to Adeline’s part in bringing them together.

“I love her for it,” he said. “Not that anything could have kept us apart.”

The next day he had business in the town and would not be able to see her till evening.

“Mrs. Whiteoak comes home tomorrow,” she said, “and her son.”

“I’m glad of that, for then we’ll not need to keep our engagement secret any longer. I’ve nearly let the cat out of the bag a dozen times. Now I can write and tell my relations, who must think I’m crazy staying away from the ranch so long.”

Mary felt tired that night, as though she were living under a strain, instead of happily preparing for her marriage. No calm and settled thought of her marriage with Clive could make her sleep or quiet the tension of her nerves. At first the hours went by with painful consciousness of every restless minute. She threw her pillows to the floor and tossed on the flatness of the sheet. Then, by degrees, she could keep her body still but it was the stillness of a cage against which a bird beat himself. She lay straight and stark, her wide-open eyes watching for the dawn. When at last it came she fell asleep and woke without realizing that she had slept. The children were laughing and running from room to room with the fox terrier.

It was mid-afternoon when the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that Adeline and Philip had returned.

He took his mother’s hands and she alighted with a buoyant step but an inward apprehension of what effect the news of the
engagement might have on him. However, the apprehension was not enough to dull the pleasure of home-coming. A week in the badly run establishment of her friend had been quite enough, even though the eyes of that friend had been filled with admiration for all she said and did and Philip had been able to buy two Jersey cows at a great bargain. Even if he were not pleased by the near departure of Mary Wakefield, what could he do about it? Nothing. The girl was promised to young Busby. Mr. Pink had promised to help them get a special licence. Tomorrow she would invite the neighbour-hood to a tea party and announce the impending marriage, almost as though Mary were a daughter of the house. She herself would give her a silk dress to be married in — dark blue would suit her and be useful later for special occasions in her prairie home — dark blue, with a lace bertha, and a blue taffeta petticoat to match. She would buy the muskrat coat for her and, yes, she would choose some nice bit of jewellery — a small locket and chain perhaps — from among her own belongings. There was linen to be thought of. She would give Mary three table-cloths, twelve napkins, six sheets and a pair of fine white blankets. Let the Busby family toe the mark and give silver. These pleasurable arrangements gave her plenty to think of on the long drive. Philip too seemed to have plenty to think of.

“Tired?” he asked her.

“Not in the least. It’s been a very nice visit. Don’t you think so?”

“First-rate. Hullo, there’s Jake!”

The young spaniel, suddenly turned, crept with lowered belly to touch Philip’s hand. The beloved scent of that hand filled him with frantic joy. He tore round and round, his ears flapping, uttering cries of welcome. He fell over himself, rolled in complete disorganization, righted himself and sat down at Philip’s feet gazing up at him.

“There’s a grand greeting,” said Adeline, bending to pat him. “And here come the family.”