03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Not in me,” said Augusta. “For I know that Ernest’s intentions are good.”

  Mrs. Whiteoak came back up the room. She was smiling. “We certainly must give the young woman a chance, as Philip says. On my part I intend to be very civil to her,” she said.

  “The thought of being uncivil to anyone,” came in Augusta’s contralto tones, “never enters my head.”

  “We’ll all be nice to her,” said Sir Edwin gaily, “and see what happens.”

  “She’ll be extremely grateful.” Philip smiled at him. He was about to add, “And so shall I,” but thought better of it.

  Nicholas gave a yawn. “I’m off to my room to unpack,” he said. “Come along, Philip.” He put his arm affectionately through his brother’s. They moved toward the door.

  The Buckleys rose and followed them. Augusta asked:

  “Is there anything I can do to help you, Mamma?”

  “No, thanks. Mrs. Nettleship will help me.”

  Ernest had no mind to be left alone with his mother.

  “Anything I can do?” he asked cheerily, when the others had gone.

  She shook her head.

  “It’s so nice to be home again,” he said.

  “It may be, for you. It is well to be so irresponsible.”

  “But — nothing has happened, Mamma.”

  “Something will. Did you see the look on Philip’s face when he spoke of that girl?”

  “No.”

  “Then you are very unobservant. He is attracted by her. He may even be attached to her.”

  Ernest gnawed his thumb, not knowing what to say. There came a tap on the door. Before opening it he turned to his mother and said: “Everything seems in very good order at Jalna, doesn’t it?”

  “Good enough. Good enough,” she muttered. Then, with a look of complete exasperation she added:

  “Oh, Ernest, what a fool you were to engage that flibbertigibbet girl!”

  Ernest could not deny it. He was thankful when a second light knock sounded on the door. He opened it.

  Mrs. Nettleship stood there, her little pointed hands folded on her stomach. Ernest slipped past her and went up the stairs. She said, “Excuse me, Ma’am, but is there anything I can do to help you?” She closed the door behind her.

  “Yes. You can unpack for me but not till morning, except for my dressing-case.”

  “I have that already unpacked.”

  “Then there’s nothing. Wait — you may pour me another glass of sherry.” She had seated herself on a sofa and was half-reclining on its cushions, her long lithe body displayed to advantage, despite its cumbersome clothes.

  With short silent steps Mrs. Nettleship crossed the room and gently took the decanter from the silver tray. “I thought you’d be tired and would like a little sherry,” she said.

  “A good thought. Just half a glass this time.”

  Mrs. Nettleship brought the sherry to her.

  Adeline Whiteoak put the glass to her lips and looked keenly over its rim at the housekeeper.

  “How have things been going — of late!” she asked.

  “Do you mean in the last five weeks, Mrs. Whiteoak?”

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  Mrs. Nettleship was bow-legged. Even through her skirt and two petticoats it was discernible. Now she planted her feet firmly on the carpet.

  “The last five weeks,” she said, “have been terrible hard to bear. If it wasn’t for you, Mrs. Whiteoak, I wouldn’t have stood it. It was affecting my health.”

  “Just what do you mean?” Adeline Whiteoak spoke above a sharply indrawn breath.

  “It’s the governess. It breaks my heart to look at those dear little children and think what she’s set out to do.”

  “What has she set out to do?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Whitoak, don’t ask me to say it out loud! I just couldn’t. But I lie awake at nights thinking what this house would be like with her at the head of it. Of course, I wouldn’t stay but wherever I was I’d be thinking of the poor little children.” She gave a deep sigh.

  Adeline spoke calmly. “Tell me — what has Miss Wakefield done to make you feel like this?”

  Mrs. Nettleship drew a step closer and the pupils of her pale eyes were fixed in a gimlet gaze. Now the words poured out of her.

  “Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, it began as soon as she came under this roof. I saw that she was sly. She wasn’t dressed in a proper way but always as though she was going somewhere. She’d perfume on her. She’d worse than perfume on her, Ma’am, she had paint on her!”

  “Paint! Where? On her cheeks?”

  “On her lips. I noticed they were redder sometimes than they was at other times. Then — I saw.”

  “Ha! What else?”

  Mrs. Nettleship came very close and lowered her voice till it was almost a whisper.

  “On the third day,” she said, then paused.

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “On the third day, I was carrying the children’s laundry up to their rooms. I had slippers on and I didn’t make any noise. On the top floor, at Miss Wakefield’s door, was Mr. Whiteoak. The door was open and she was standing in it with a loose wrapper on.” The peculiar stress which Mrs. Nettleship laid on the word loose implied the most immoral intentions possible on the part of the wrapper. She watched Adeline Whiteoak’s face closely and was satisfied with the effect of her disclosure.

  “What did they do when you appeared?”

  “Miss Wakefield was just plain flustered. She didn’t know what way to look. But Mr. Whiteoak spoke real sharp to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I apologized and said I hoped I hadn’t scared the young lady, and he said she’d nothing to be scared of.”

  “H’m. And what then?”

  “Doctor Ramsey came in — he’d been twice before to see her but couldn’t find her — and, after a while she dressed and came downstairs. After he’d left I was passing through the hall, and she and Mr. Whiteoak was still in the library. Jake was there too and I thought I’d better see if he wanted out. We’ve never had a puppy that was so much trouble. Well — I didn’t go into the room, Mrs. Whiteoak. I didn’t go in. I know my place better. Especially after the way Mr. Whiteoak had spoke to me, outside her bedroom door. I just scurried down to the basement as fast as my poor legs would carry me.”

  “What, in God’s name, did you scurry for?”

  “Why, to keep out of Mr. Whiteoak’s way!”

  “Woman alive — can’t you speak out plain?”

  Mrs. Nettleship’s voice became suddenly harsh, “I’d heard a kiss. A soft little kiss. And then Mr. Whiteoak gave a pleased laugh.”

  “Perhaps she kissed Jake!” Adeline exclaimed grimly.

  “Ha, ha, that’s a good one, Mrs. Whiteoak. But I don’t see that young lady kissing a dog. Not with a handsome young man about.”

  Adeline set down the empty sherry glass. “Is there anything more to tell?” she asked, almost casually.

  “Just this.” The housekeeper put her hand in the pocket of her apron and took out a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolded the paper and disclosed several cigarette ends. She held them out for inspection. “I found these amongst the shrubs underneath her window. She smokes, Mrs. Whiteoak.”

  Adeline blew out her breath. “Well, well,” she said. “Quite a forward young woman.”

  “Forward! Forward’s no name for her behaviour. Twice this week she’s gone through the house singing. Just as though she was mistress here!”

  Adeline rose. If Mrs. Nettleship expected an explosion from her she was disappointed. She appeared more calm than she had been earlier in the recital. But, when she was in her own room with the door shut behind her, she was seething with mingled anger and consternation. She stood, with her back against the door, her palms pressed against the panels, only by a great effort restraining herself from going straight to Philip, demanding an explanation from him. But wisdom, experience of life, told her that it would be far, far
better to wait, to discover for herself how far the affair had gone.

  As for Ernest, she would gladly have taken him by the shoulders and shaken him. To think that he would deliberately throw such a temptation in his brother’s way. “If I had the ninny here,” she said aloud, and struck one clenched hand into the palm of the other. She did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the Indian gong that summoned the family to meals, sounded in the hall.

  VIII

  NO EMPTY ROOM

  MARY CROSSED THE hall and went to the door of the sitting-room which stood open. She felt confused by the meeting with the various and highly individualistic members of the family. They seemed to raise a wall between her and Philip. She pictured him, as though from a long way off. With the sound of voices all about her, she was isolated, alone. The air was oppressive. Another storm was brewing.

  In the sitting-room the children were playing with their new toys. Renny was kneeling on the floor, winding up his train. Meg stood by the table where her music box was tinkling out “Children of Vienna”.

  “Listen,” exclaimed Meg. “Isn’t that a pretty tune?”

  “Charming,” agreed Mary. “What beautiful presents!”

  “We have battledore and shuttlecock, too,” cried Renny, “and I have a lot of lead soldiers and Meggie a work-basket, with a thimble, and two books each!” He sprang to his feet and began to show off the treasures. His small being was vibrant with vitality and enthusiasm. Meg did not know what it was to experience such joy as he did, but she egged herself on to a simulation of it, not wanting to be outdone by him in the eyes of the grown-ups.

  Mary examined all the presents but her mind was not there. She was thinking, “What is going on behind the closed door of the drawing-room? What are they saying about me? For some reason they are not pleased with me.” She longed for a word, a glance from Philip to give her confidence.

  It was with difficulty that she persuaded the children to carry their presents up to the schoolroom. But at last this was accomplished. Still she could not persuade them to go to bed. They must first go downstairs to say good night to their elders. It was not a question of allowing them to go. They swept past her and scampered down the stairs.

  Mary stood by the windows looking out. The air was full of moisture and a threatening heaviness. Sheet lightning flashed almost constantly behind the trees that rose beyond the ravine, the ravine where she had sat reading to Philip Whiteoak. She felt cut off from any such pleasant intercourse with him now. From now onward all those people below would stand between. She was alone in this house full of people. Her head throbbed and she pressed her temples. That word alone! The close-knit family below had no room for her. And why should they? One day she would disappear, leaving no impression behind her — no more than had Miss Cox or Miss Turnbull. No impression on Philip Whiteoak? Oh, surely, surely he would hold a faint remembrance of her in his breast. She could endure the thought of his forgetting her, because she did not really believe in it, but the thought of his remembering her brought tears stinging her eyes. She heard the children coming up the stairs, putting down their feet hard to make sure that all the household heard what they were doing.

  They had come from the dining-room where supper was in progress. Each had been given a taste of whatever they fancied. They were hilarious.

  It was long before Mary closed her own door behind her. By that time the storm was drawing nearer. These electrical storms were a source of fear to her. Never before had she experienced any storms equal to them in ferocity. When they came at night they were so much the worse, with the darkness as a background to their sinister brightness. She wished the children had asked her to stay with them for company but she knew they did not want her. Yet Meg dreaded the roar of thunder. Why did Meg not want her companionship? Mrs. Nettleship was to blame for that, Mary felt sure. If only she would let the children alone! But it was easy to guess her influence on them.

  At last the storm passed down the lake. Not even a distant rumble could be heard. Its passing was complete, leaving a great stillness behind. It passed like the dream of a battle and Mary, tired out, fell asleep. She slept dreamlessly in the hot night for an hour or more, and then the storm came back. It swept majestically up the lake, retracing its course, gathering itself together as for a display of pomp and terror. As yet no rain fell, though the trembling of the leaves might well have been mistaken for rain. They trembled against each other with a pattering sound.

  Mary sprang up at the first crash. She was dazed and, for a moment, could not collect her thoughts. She crouched, with thudding heart waiting for the next clap. Simultaneously with it the room sprang to life in a pinkish glare picking out every smallest detail, giving a transparent vivid beauty to the fruit and shells beneath the glass. The thunder crashed above the very roof. Mary cried out in terror but her cry was no more than the squeak of a mole in its burrow.

  She must go and see if the children were all right! The air in the room was stifling. Her hair clung damply to her temples. She drew on her dressing-gown and hastened to Meg’s room. A strong draught greeted her in the doorway. She heard Meg crying, and flew to her side.

  “I’m here, dear,” she said, putting her arms about the child.

  Meg clung to her. “Shut the window!” she sobbed.

  “Oh, what a fool I am!” Mary cried and flew to shut the window. As she did so, another flash of lightning fairly blinded her and a crash of thunder shook the universe.

  Meg screamed and Mary almost staggered to her, sitting on the side of the bed, gripping her in her arms.

  “Light the lamp,” sobbed Meg.

  With trembling hands Mary struck a match and lighted the oil lamp. It had a white china shade with pink roses on it and once, in a state of temper, Meg had scratched off one of the roses with her nail.

  Now the light calmed her. She looked up at Mary out of tear-blurred eyes. “Don’t go,” she said, then, as a fresh crash thundered, she cried, “I want Papa to come!”

  “Won’t I do?”

  “No. Tell Papa to come. I’m frightened.”

  “Papa’s here,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Philip, dressed in shirt and trousers, came into the room.

  “It’s a snorter, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly, almost as though in praise of the storm.

  “Come here! Come here!” cried Meg, “and sit on my bed!”

  He sat down and she scrambled on to his knee, clasping him tightly about the neck.

  “Have you shut Renny’s windows?” he asked of Mary. Then exclaimed, “Why — you are frightened too! Aren’t you a silly pair!”

  With his tranquil presence in the room Mary’s fear had already subsided. Her heart beat less heavily. But she was humiliated that she had forgotten Renny’s windows. With an exclamation of dismay she ran to his room. The passage was brilliant in a blaze of lightning. Both windows in his room stood open. In the wild draught between them Mary’s thin dressing-gown bellied like a sail. With her golden hair loose about her shoulders she entered the room like an angel in some old painting.

  Renny was standing naked in front of one of the windows looking out at the storm. The lofty peal of thunder that now reverberated among the clouds, did not make him flinch. He stood motionless, the rain which was now falling fast, blowing over his naked white body. Then darkness came again and out of it Mary spoke.

  “Renny! You are naughty! Don’t you know how dangerous it is to stand in a draught in a storm?”

  She groped her way, feeling the carpet wet beneath her bare feet, to the windows and drew them down. As she closed the window at which he stood his small wet hands gripped hers and tried to restrain her.

  “I want it open,” he said, “I like it.”

  Simultaneously came a fiery flash and a terrific explosion. Mary uttered a moan of terror.

  “You’re afraid!” he laughed. “But I love it! I love it! I wish it would keep up all night.” He began to dance and prance, his slim body illuminated by a
steady flickering.

  Fear made Mary strong. She snatched up his night-shirt from the floor, captured him, and thrust him into it. She took him by the hand and dragged him to Meg’s room. But, when he saw his father there, he ran from her and threw himself against Philip. He caught up Philip’s hand and rubbed his cheek on it.

  “Papa!” he cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I want you always to come.”

  Philip, between them, laughed up at Mary. He hugged them to him. There were sounds in the rooms below. People were talking. She hesitated, wondering if she should go back to her own room.

  “The storm is lessening,” Philip said. “It will soon be over.”

  The children chattered. They asked for drinks of water.

  An odd tremulous domestic atmosphere was created. Was Philip conscious of it? But it was impossible to read his thoughts. Perhaps she was making no more impression on him than Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had. Suddenly he said:

  “Well, my family are back.”

  This was so obvious that it seemed no comment was necessary.

  “Quite a lot of ’em,” he said.

  “Yes. The house seems quite full.”

  “They’re like that.”

  “They’re very — distinguished-looking.”

  “Especially my mother. Don’t you be afraid of her. She’s peppery but she’s really kind-hearted.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t a strong character.”

  “Not strong! But I think you have. It took strength of character to come out here, so far from home.”

  “I had no home.”

  “Miss Wakefield,” he said seriously, “I want you to tell me something —”

  She interrupted him by a glance at the children. She could not speak of herself, of her feelings, not with Meg’s inquisitive eyes on her, the possibility that what was said would be repeated in the kitchen.

  Philip looked puzzled, then understanding.

  Lady Buckley’s voice came from below. “Philip! Are you with the children?”