“I’m sure you will like Jalna. That is the name of our house. My father was an officer in India and went to Canada some forty years ago, taking my mother and my sister who was a baby then. My elder brother was born in Quebec. My father then bought a thousand acres in Ontario — mostly virgin forest — and built a house there. I was the first child born in it.” He said this with pride and Mary was impressed.
“My younger brother came along eight years later. He is the father of your future pupils and, I may remark, very easy to get on with.”
To be talked to so pleasantly, to be so put at her ease, was balm to Mary, after some of the interviews she had passed through. This was the atmosphere of the New World, she felt, and she yearned toward it. What was he saying?
“We have tried, Miss Wakefield, to preserve the ways of the Old World at Jalna, to keep ourselves free from the narrowness, the conceit, of the New. We have agreeable neighbours. I speak as though I lived at Jalna but, as a matter of fact, I and my elder brother and my sister all live in England. Still, we make long visits there and I hope that, on my next one, I shall find you most happily established with the children.”
No interview of a like nature could have passed off more pleasantly. If only Mr. Whiteoak in Canada were half as nice as the Mr. Whiteoak here she would be happier than ever she had thought possible. As she sat on the top of the bus, on her way back to Vincent Square, the air was full of happy sounds, the horses’ hoofs had a gayer rhythm, there was the distant sound of a military band, and near at hand the knife-sharpener’s tinkling bell. It seemed to Mary that the people in the streets wore brighter expressions and walked with lighter steps. She was, for the time being, too excited to think clearly. At one moment she was living over again the interview with Ernest Whiteoak, seeing his fair aquiline features, his reassuring smile, listening to his pleasant voice; at another her mind flew forward to that distant house where she was to live, and she saw another, somewhat younger edition of Ernest Whiteoak, with two angelic children clinging to his hands, and all about the house a great forest where moose and bear and wolf roamed at will, though never near enough the house to be frightening.
When, at last, she stood in front of the house in Vincent Square, she looked up at it with a strange feeling of unfamiliarity. It was receding from her. She was like a swan, sailing down a smooth stream, away from dangers and fears.
Now, three weeks later, she was lying in this strange bed, in this lilac-decked room. What beautiful wall-paper! she thought, and how well the picture of the Bridge of Sighs looked, hanging against it. As soon as she unpacked she would put up the framed photographs of her father and her mother on the mantelshelf. Already there, stood an oval glass case covering a wax group of flowers and fruit, three red roses, a bunch of grapes, three purple plums, three crabapples and, strewn over the sand on the bottom, some cornucopia-shaped sea shells. This ornament had caught Mary’s eyes the moment she had come into the room last night. Even in her state of fatigue and excitement, even under the pale cold eyes of the housekeeper, her eyes had been held. When she had taken off her long ulster and heavy hat she had gone over to the case and had a good look into it. She had not expected to find anything so aesthetic, so enchanting, far in the heart of Canada.
Mrs. Nettleship, the housekeeper, had been the only person she had met the night before. That had been a relief, for she knew she was looking very fatigued after the long train journey. She always got those violet circles beneath the eyes when she was tired, which made her look fragile. Yet, at the same time, she had a sense of being rebuffed by her reception. She had had such a clear picture of the middle-aged widower standing tall, slender and distinguished, a shy child by either hand, saying, in a voice exactly like Mr. Ernest Whiteoak’s, “Here are my little motherless ones, Miss Wakefield. I give them into your keeping.” But, when the carriage had stopped at the door, and the door been opened, not in a wide welcoming gesture but in a narrow, grudging way, only the thickset figure of Mrs. Nettleship had been revealed. She let Mary inside and closed the door after her, as though the house were a fortress. Inside the hall one oil lamp, in a heavy brass frame, shed a calm light on the rich-coloured rugs, the straight-backed mahogany chairs, the fine staircase. A hat-rack on which hung several hats, a dog’s leash and a mackintosh, had a carved fox’s head inset. Mrs. Nettleship wore a light blue print dress and a snow-white apron. She had frizzy sandy hair and a smile that had less geniality than most frowns. She said:
“Mr. Whiteoak is not home yet and I guess, if he was, he would not want to be interviewing you at this hour.” She spoke as though it were Mary’s fault that the train was an hour late. She turned to the man who was beginning to introduce Mary’s trunk into the hall.
“Martin,” she said, “take that to the back door.” Her tone intimated that Martin had better have taken Mary to the same entrance. The man, giving a glum look, withdrew.
“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Nettleship asked, as though hunger would be the last straw to what she had endured from Mary.
“No, oh no, indeed, thank you,” Mary answered, though she would have given much for a bowl of soup.
“That’s good,” said Mrs. Nettleship, “for the fire’s out. I s’pose you’d like to go straight up to your room.”
“Yes, I’m — rather tired.”
“You look like two sheets and a shadow,” said Mrs. Nettleship cryptically. “Are you always like that?”
“Heavens, no,” said Mary, feeling her anger rise. “You must remember that I’ve had a long hard journey. I was seasick most of the way across.”
Mrs. Nettleship looked steadily down at her feet. “I’ve never crossed the ocean,” she said. “I believe in staying at home and earning your living in the country you was born in.”
“But how would this country have got populated if everyone had stayed at home?”
“Enough came out at the first. It’s time to stop.”
“Well, I’m here anyway,” laughed Mary. She wondered what Mrs. Nettleship’s position in the household was.
Mrs. Nettleship enlightened her when she had conducted Mary to her room. She said, clasping her small pointed hands over her stomach. “I’ve kept house for Mr. Whiteoak ever since his wife died, five years ago, and, if anyone could have done it better, I’d like to meet them. You’ll have your hands full.”
“Oh, I suppose any two children are a handful.”
Mrs. Nettleship smiled and her eyes twinkled. “They’ll do anything for me,” she said.
Mary thought, “You’re jealous. You resent my coming. Well, that’s always the way. I don’t suppose a governess ever went into any house where there was no mistress but only a housekeeper that the housekeeper didn’t resent it.”
Mrs. Nettleship seemed to read her thoughts. Her smile widened into a grin. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “I’m glad you’ve come. I can’t put up with two children always running in and out of my kitchen. Of course, when the old lady comes home it’s different. She’s got will-power and she don’t stand any nonsense from no one.”
Mary could see that the housekeeper wanted to stay and talk. Her smile became wider and wider, her lips paler as she stretched them. Twice Mary yawned and repeated how tired she was. At last Mrs. Nettleship left. At the door she stopped to say, “Up here on the top floor there’s just you and the children. Better not make a noise and disturb them. They’ll be up early. Eliza and I sleep in the basement. There’s where it’s cool in summer and warm in winter. You’ll have to come down to see us.” When she had gone her smile seemed to hang on the air like the grin of the Cheshire Cat.
Mary had not expected to sleep. Everything was too new, too strange. The black, enveloping silence of the moonless night pressed through the open windows. Every room in the unknown house seemed to gather itself together, to steal in on her, to struggle to see which would first fasten itself on her mind, cling to her memory, never to be forgotten. Even though she only remained here for a month she would never be the sa
me again. This house, this family, of whom she had met only one member, would leave their imprint on her. She drew the sheet over her head, trying to shut herself in, to protect herself from the urgency of the house. There were the two rooms where the children slept. She wished she might have looked in on them as they lay unconscious, have studied their features, even touched them, before they were able to touch her. The confidence that had upheld her during all her preparations in London, during the voyage, suddenly deserted her. She felt alone. No matter what befell her she would have no one to comfort her, no one who cared. Like an ice-cold wave submerging her came the realization of her aloneness. She sank under it and, in her exhaustion, fell asleep and did not wake till the tall old clock at the foot of the stairs was striking six.
She saw the ghost of the ship which had brought her out from England, disappearing into the ocean mists; she saw this house called Jalna, rising up like a fortification in this new country, its woods and fields all about it; she heard a cardinal uttering his fiercely joyful whistle, as though he must live every moment of his life to the utmost; she heard the bleating of sheep, and then suddenly the laughter of a young boy — the boy of seven in the next room — not loud but clear and startling in its vitality. Then there were light, quick steps in the passage and something heavy bounced against her door.
She sprang up and threw open the door but there was no one there.
II
THE CHILDREN
RENNY WHITEOAK FELT brilliantly alive that morning. He came upward, out of a deep pool of sleep, like a bright coloured fish. He wore a light blue night-shirt, his skin was milk and roses, his hair of a bright chestnut that reddened in the shaft of sunlight that fell across the bed. He lay looking about the room that held almost all his belongings — his shelf of books — his toy cupboard full of toys he was outgrowing — his fishing-rod — his wind-up train that had something wrong with its mechanism and would not go — his bank, into which he reluctantly dropped small silver when ordered to, and of which his father kept the key. A large stretch of blue sky, upon which sailed a cloud shaped like a galleon, filled the window-panes, excepting in one place where the topmost branch of a silver birch waved. The air was warm. Suddenly Renny kicked away the clothes and his feet shot into the air with the unpremeditated activity of a fish’s tail. He kicked so high into the sunlight that only the back of his shoulders touched the bed. He did this repeatedly, deepening the hollow that had already formed in the mattress. Then he lay quite still, remembering Meg’s new governess who had arrived the night before and was sleeping in the next room. He thought of her only as Meg’s governess. Next year he would go to boarding-school as his friend, Maurice Vaughan, two years older than himself, now went. There was no day school convenient to their houses.
His mind riveted on the governess, he rolled out of bed onto his feet and went lightly to the door of his sister’s room. He opened it and put in his head. Meg lay curled up in a plump ball, her light-brown pigtail flung across the pillow. Her room was in shadow. She lay in warm feminine seclusion. Renny sat down on the side of the bed and put his face close to hers, breathing noisily. Their breaths mingled, warm and wholesome as the scent of clover in the sun.
Anger at being woken tied Meg into a more determined ball. Her knees drew up to her chin, the white satinlike flesh with which her forehead was padded was drawn in a frown.
“Go ’way!” She kicked at him, her body beneath the sheet convulsed.
“Meggie, listen. Your governess is here. I heard her come last night.”
“She’s not mine.”
“She is.”
“She’s not. She’s just as much yours.”
“She’ll be yours for years and years.”
Up to this point Meg had kept her eyes tight shut. Now she opened them and they were very blue. “Did you see her?” she asked.
“No. But Mrs. Nettleship came up with her. I heard them talking. I’ll tell you what they said.” He drew his feet up on the side of the bed and clasped his knees. Meg had a glimpse of their black soles and hissed:
“Get off my bed!”
“Why?” He was astonished.
“Your horrible feet. Look at them.”
He turned up the sole of his left foot and looked at it unmoved. “Oh, that.”
“You’re not allowed to go to bed dirty. You’re not allowed to run about barefoot. If Papa saw you…”
“All right, I’ll go. I won’t tell you.”
She caught him by the tail of his night-shirt.
“Come on. Tell me what they said.”
“Old Nettle said we’re a handful and she couldn’t put up with us running in and out of her kitchen, and she was glad the governess had come.”
“My eye!” said Meg.
“The governess,” Renny said, “sounded la-di-da.” He had heard his father use this expression and now brought it out impressively.
“We’ll la-di-da her!” said Meg.
“I’ll tell you what, let’s dress and then fire something at her door and run.”
Those were not the days of shorts and pullovers, of scant dresses and bare legs or abbreviated play-suits. Renny put on an undervest, a shirt, trousers held up by braces of which he was very proud, and a jacket, brown stockings and laced shoes. Meg, still sleepy, got into an undervest, black stockings held up by suspenders from a heavily ribbed garment called a Ferris waist, frilled white drawers, a white starched petticoat that buttoned down the back, a pleated navy blue serge skirt, coming just below the knee, and a white duck blouse with a starched sailor collar. It was to be a hot June day.
By the time Meg was dressed there were little beads of perspiration on her nose. She dipped a corner of a towel in the ewer and scrubbed her face with it, then dried it on the other end of the towel. She hesitated before the abhorrent task of brushing her teeth. She decided against it. After all, this was a special sort of day. She would give her teeth a rest. But she would not neglect her prayers. She knelt down by the side of her bed, folded her hands and murmured:
“Oh, Lord, receive my morning prayer.
Guard me from sin and hurt and snare.
Guide me to knowledge of Thy love
And keep my thoughts on Heaven above.”
Having completed her devotions Meg rose, unplaited her hair and gave it six strokes of the brush. Her hair sprang to life, caught the sunshine and lay thick about her shoulders in a light brown mantle. She was ready for the day. There was silence in Renny’s room. Tiptoeing in she found him dressed but lying across the bed holding his fox terrier in his arms. The little dog was systematically licking Renny’s ear.
“Don’t speak,” he said. “I’m counting the licks. A hundred and eight — a hundred and nine — a hundred —”
“All right,” said Meg, “you may stay here but I’m going. I want my breakfast before she comes down.”
Renny leapt up. In one hand he held a hard rubber ball. As they passed Mary’s door he threw it sharply against a panel, then snatching Meg’s hand, he dragged her at top speed down the stairs. In this second flight of stairs the steps were steep and rather narrow. It was not long since they had descended them with care, a step at a time. Now they fairly flung themselves down, then stood listening in the passage below. There was silence everywhere. The door of their father’s room was shut. The other bedrooms were closed too but they were empty, with drawn blinds and beds smooth beneath white counterpanes. Meg placed her ear to the keyhole of her father’s room.
“He’s breathing,” she whispered. “Not quite snoring.”
“Let’s hear.” In his turn Renny listened.
Though the door was shut between, their father was as near as though he stood before them. He was the tremendous reality of their lives. His breathing was more important than other men’s shouting. When their grandmother was at home she became a great figure but, when the far distant sea or Ireland or England absorbed her, she became like impressive scenery, a mountain, a cliff, that you could put out of you
r head, when you are distant from it. The visits of their uncles and aunt were a mixture of pleasurable excitement, for they always brought presents and humiliation, for they were critical, telling you not to stand like this or hold your fork like that or making you repeat what you had said, slowly and with proper accent. Much more of this criticism came Renny’s way than Meg’s. His uncles would look at his father in astonishment and say, “Upon my word, Philip, this boy is becoming a little ruffian.”
“He is so snoring,” declared Renny.
“He is not. If you call that snoring you ought to hear old Nettle.” (Their name for Mrs. Nettleship.)
“When did you hear her?”
“Having her afternoon nap. It was like this.” Meg gave a raucous imitation. This startled the fox terrier, who set up a frantic barking. The children, followed by him, still barking, flew down the main stairway, ran down the hall and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs to the basement. At a small table Mrs. Nettleship and Eliza were eating their breakfast. There was an immaculate air about them as about the room. The morning sunlight seeking every corner, lying across the scrubbed wood of the long table, shining on the polished coal range and rows of utensils, could discover no dirt or dust. The air was filled by the pleasant smell of bacon and toast. The little dog ran at once to the side of the table and sat up.
On an ordinary occasion Mrs. Nettleship would have sent the children flying, but this morning she felt a mournful pity for them which she expressed by shaking her head every time she looked at them.
03 Mary Wakefield Page 2
