03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  An officer and a gentleman, if ever there was one, thought Ernest, gazing down at the greave. And how well he could tell a story! Particularly a story of his life in India. But he had not been intellectual. Sometimes Ernest wondered from whom he himself had inherited his intellect. Not from his mother. For though she was highly intelligent it was in an intuitive feminine way.… That look on her face hurt him. He wished they might leave the grave.

  Dear old governor! thought Philip, and resolutely kept from his mind any sad reflections. He turned his eyes to where Mary stood, her wide-brimmed straw hat shadowing her face.

  Adeline’s heart cried out, “My darling, oh, my darling!” For one blind instant she felt that she would throw herself on the grave, pressing it to her breast, as she had pressed him when he lay dying — he who only an hour before had left the house, sound and well! But she held herself together. She put up her hand and arranged the widow’s veil on her shoulder. She led the way from the grave with an unfaltering step.

  Renny was left alone with the granite plinth. For a long while he had wanted to climb it. Now suddenly he felt strong enough. He hopped over the iron railing, put his arms around the monument, placed a foot on the lowest projection, hung on like a limpet, though the foothold was precarious. With his utmost effort he gained the highest ledge and clung there. He took off his sailor cap and placed it on the very pinnacle of the monument. He could not stop himself. He shouted, “Hurrah!”

  The family turned, transfixed by the sight.

  Philip strode toward his son. “I’ll warm his seat for this,” he exclaimed.

  But Adeline held him back. “No, no,” she said. “Let the boy be. He means no harm. Indeed he makes a pretty picture. I like it.”

  At the one o’clock dinner she was in great good humour. Whatever Mrs. Nettleship’s faults might be she was an excellent cook. To some people the meal might have seemed a little too substantial for such a warm day, not so to Adeline. She relished every mouthful. Her neighbours, the Vaughans, had joined the family and she enjoyed their company, particularly as Robert Vaughan had, as a youth, been in love with her, though she was already married, and had never quite got over it.

  After dinner they repaired to the shuttered coolness of the drawing-room and there Adeline asked of Mrs. Vaughan:

  “What about these people, the Craigs? The young woman is quite comely. She’s a good shape too.”

  Mrs. Vaughan did not consider a young woman’s shape a proper subject for discussion in mixed company. She repeated:

  “Yes, she is quite comely. She is very nice too. I feel sorry for her because she is cut off from the pleasures suitable to her age. There they are, in that big house, quite unable to entertain their friends, and only a trained nurse for company.”

  “Miss Craig is quite an heiress,” added her husband. “One of your chaps should make up to her.”

  Adeline’s eyes sparkled. “What a good idea! Nicholas is the man for it. That wife of his was an extravagant one to keep and to get rid of her cost quite a lot. He’s the man to marry Miss Craig.”

  It had been painful for the Vaughans to hear Nicholas’ divorce mentioned. The suggestion that he should marry again was acutely embarrassing. How often in their long friendship with Adeline Whiteoak she had embarrassed them by her remarks! Both of them flushed but Nicholas remained imperturbable. He said:

  “Once bitten, twice shy. I’ll never marry again.”

  “What about Philip?” asked Sir Edwin.

  “Philip has enough on his hands,” said Adeline tersely.

  “It’s to be Ernest then,” said Nicholas. “He has a new suit that he’s irresistible in.”

  Ernest tried not to look conceited. “What nonsense you talk, Nick. As for me, if ever I marry it will be for love. I am thankful to say that money is no longer any consideration with me.”

  “Yes,” agreed Adeline complacently, “my son, Ernest, is quite a financier. There is nothing he doesn’t understand about investments. You had better get his advice, Robert, and double your capital.”

  Adeline herself, though possessed of a respectable fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, invested in the most conservative manner, was quite satisfied with the low interest she received. She lived at Jalna without expense to herself, save in personal matters. She never referred to the fact that she had means of her own. Indeed she would sometimes speak of herself as a poor widow, dependent on her son Philip.

  Philip, his father’s favourite son, had had the house and land bequeathed to him and enough money to live on without extravagance. A considerable part of his income was derived from the fertile farm lands of Jalna. In money matters he was generous to the point of extravagance. Dealings in money confused him. He spoke of himself as a farmer and horse breeder.

  His two older brothers had inherited, in addition to what their father had given them, quite substantial amounts for their father’s sister in England. Nicholas, unknown to any save Ernest, had lost a good deal of money in the previous year, in Portuguese, Greek and Mexican Bonds. Nicholas, who from his mother had inherited a love for the foreign and picturesque, was drawn to these investments. He was thankful that he had kept these losses to himself, for he could imagine what Adeline’s caustic remarks would be, had she known of them.

  Ernest too had had losses. Grand Trunk Railway shares had fallen. British Rails had suffered a fall. But these losses were as nothing compared to his gains. Standing with one hand in the breast of his coat, he talked fluently of his investments and of how his capital was doubled. It was a delightful sensation to him to boast a little.

  Mr. Vaughan was greatly impressed. He was of a cautious nature but his ambition for his young son who had come too him late in life, was unbounded. He wanted him to be a noble man, to exert great influence for good in the country. Surely the possession of wealth would aid him in his great future, for undoubtedly his future would be great. He was such a serious and altogether remarkable child, a contrast to that harum-scarum little Renny.

  Robert Vaughan said firmly, “I shall be glad of your advice, Ernest. Certainly Sunday is no day for the discussion of money matters, but if you are free tomorrow morning I should like to come over and have a talk with you.”

  “Ernest will put you on the right track,” encouraged Sir Edwin.

  “He’s a perfect wizard,” said his sister admiringly.

  Ernest almost simpered. It was so wonderful to feel oneself a successful man of affairs.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  Philip was pulling burrs from his dog’s tail and hiding them under the chair where he sat.

  “The land is good enough for me,” he said. “I’d rather invest in wheat and oats and apples.”

  Ernest looked down at him tolerantly. “I think you’re very wise, Philip, to stick to what you understand.”

  “I get rattled when I bother about money.”

  His mother craned her neck to look at him. “Whatever are you doing?” she said.

  “Nothing. Just sitting here. Twiddling my thumbs.” He winked at Augusta who could not forbear a smile in return even though she saw the burrs beneath his chair.

  XI

  THE PARTY

  “I WANT A dinner party,” said Adeline, “and dance afterward. I like my friends to know I’m home.”

  “Everybody knows you’re home, old dear,” returned Philip. “And don’t you think you’d better wait till the weather cools off? People would melt, dancing in this heat.”

  “I have danced in hotter weather, with tight stays on me and an enormous bustle. I don’t see what makes you so lazy, Philip. Neither your father nor I had a lazy bone in our bodies.”

  Philip lighted his pipe and concealed the burnt match beneath the chair he was seated on. He said, “Neither you nor my father ever did what I call an honest day’s work that I ever saw —”

  His mother interrupted him in outraged tones. “Not work! Your father and I not work! You should have seen him when this place was being
built. He’d heave up a timber, with two men at the other end! He had the strength of two.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard about that. But it took only a short while. Not a whole day.”

  “He had to conserve his strength. A man needed to conserve what strength he had in those days.”

  “As for me, I have my oats to get in before the weather changes. I pitch in and help my men, you know.”

  “And a pretty beet-red colour you’ve got yourself!”

  “It makes me feel nice and safe. No girl would run after a beet-red widower.”

  Adeline laughed scornfully. “Look in your mirror and you’ll see how your looks are spoilt. That sunburnt face makes your hair brighter, your eyes bluer, your teeth whiter.”

  “How dreadful,” said Philip. “I sound like a picture on a cigar box.”

  “You’re a handsome man and very like your father.”

  Adeline did not often acknowledge this likeness and Philip was duly flattered. He grunted appreciatively.

  “You were his favourite child.”

  “H’m.”

  “He had great hopes of you. And so have I.”

  “What sort of hopes, Mamma?”

  She was put to it to say what were these hopes. Philip was just past thirty and had never shown ambition.

  He insisted, “What are those hopes, Mamma?”

  She took his brown, strong hand in her long supple hand and squeezed it. “That you’ll never make a fool of yourself in any way. That’s a good deal to hope for in any man, isn’t it?”

  “Too much.”

  “Ah, Philip, you’re my white-headed boy. ’Twould break my heart if you were to throw yourself away in a foolish marriage with some silly girl.”

  “Your heart is made of tougher stuff than that, Mamma.”

  “You talk of my never having worked. Just think. I bore three sons in the wilds of Canada and brought up my four children, with just what help I could get.”

  He gave his engaging smile. “How well you talk, Mamma! If you go on like that you’ll have me crying.”

  His pipe had gone out. Again he lighted it.

  Adeline exclaimed, “I saw what you did with that burnt match! I see the two of them under your chair. Pick them up this moment, Philip, and put them in a proper place.”

  Renny ran into the room. Philip drew the little boy to him and put the burnt matches in the pocket of his blouse. “Something nice for you,” he said. “Bury them and fire weed will come up.”

  “It won’t, will it, Granny?” He climbed into her lap and clasped her neck. “Sing me something,” he begged, “like you used to.”

  She hugged him close. “I can’t sing.”

  “You can so.”

  She had, as a matter of fact, a quite good voice but little idea of tune. She sang”

  ‘“There was an old woman had three sons,

  Jerry and James and John;

  Jerry was hung, James was drowned,

  John was lost, and never was found;

  And there was the end of her three sons,

  Jerry and James and John!’”

  Renny lay, lolling on her lap, savouring her song. His bare brown legs lay relaxed on hers, his heels gently kicking her shins. She looked across his head at Philip.

  “This boy,” she said, “is the apple of my eye.”

  “He certainly looks likes you, Mamma.”

  “Oh, he showed his good sense!” She kissed him rapturously on the mouth. Boney, in his cage, cried out in jealousy.

  “I wish,” said Renny, “that I had a little brother.”

  “And what would you do with him?”

  “I’d teach him to ride. I’d take care of him.”

  “No, no. One small boy in the house is quite enough.”

  Sir Edwin Buckley looked in at the door. On seeing him Renny leaped from Adeline’s lap. “Uncle Edwin,” he cried, “you promised to help me with my train. It won’t run.”

  Sir Edwin looked at him disapprovingly. “A little restraint, please, if I am to help you with it.”

  The little boy galloped from the room and back again carrying the train. Sir Edwin tweaked up his trousers at the knees, knelt gingerly and bent his side-whiskered face above the toy. Philip and Adeline leant forward fascinated.

  August, coming into the room, remarked, “Edwin’s bent toward mechanical things always amazes me.”

  “You forget, my dear,” said Sir Edwin, “that my grandfather was a scientist.”

  “And got a baronetcy for discovering something about bugs!” laughed Adeline. “It’s always struck me as funny.”

  “It was an extremely important discovery,” said Sir Edwin with dignity, “and has saved thousands of lives.”

  “If we go on saving lives to the extent we now are,” she returned, “the world will be overcrowded in the next fifty years.”

  Sir Edwin did not hear her. His gaze was riveted on the little locomotive.

  “Mamma wants to give a party,” Philip remarked to his sister.

  “I think that is highly appropriate,” agreed Augusta.

  “You don’t think the weather too warm?”

  “In Canada,” said Augusta, “the weather is always too warm or too cold.”

  “People will get very hot dancing.”

  “If the liquid refreshment is good, they will not mind. A claret cup will help.”

  In an aside to Philip, Adeline remarked, “I never get anything better than cooking sherry in her house.”

  Presently the little locomotive was repaired and toddled across the floor. Renny clapped his hands in delight.

  Nicholas and Ernest agreed with their mother that a party would be delightful. Invitations to a dinner for sixteen people were sent out and three times as many were invited to a dance afterward. Everywhere in the house there was a bustle of preparation.

  Mary was in a state of uncertainty as to whether or not she were expected to be present. Her mind was soon relieved by Adeline’s saying, with a smile, “You must wear your best bib and tucker on Friday night, Miss Wakefield.”

  She has a beautiful, a gay smile, thought Mary, why is it that I fear her? She answered:

  “Thank you. It is very kind of you.”

  “You dance, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So do I. Does that surprise you?”

  Mary felt that Mrs. Whiteoak was rather old for dancing, but, on the other hand, nothing she might do could surprise her.

  “I’m sure you dance very well,” she said.

  Adeline grinned, “Oh, I can still move me legs to the music.”

  From now on Mary could think of nothing but the party. It was madness, she knew, to beautify herself for Philip’s sake. She scarcely saw him nowadays, except at meal-time, when she sat isolated between the two children who were now not allowed to talk at table. They sat speechless, drinking in the animated talk of their elders which to Meggie was more interesting than food. What a contrast these meals were, Mary often thought, to the first one she had at Jalna.

  Mary brought out her one evening dress. It was turquoise blue, a thin material and cut low. It looked sadly wrinkled, yet Mary shrank from taking it to the basement to press. She waited till Mrs. Nettleship was away for the day, then took it down, hoping she would meet no one on the way. Eliza was agreeable. She admired the dress. Neither Miss Cox nor Miss Turnbull had anything approaching it. When parties were given they had kept to their room. When the dress was pressed it satisfied even Mary’s scrutiny. She felt that she could look her best in it.

  She did not realize that her looks had been enhanced by the outdoor life, the sunshine, at Jalna. Her neck had rounded, the lovely pallor of her cheeks was tinged by colour. She only knew that she felt stronger, and could walk over quite rough ground without fatigue.

  The weather turned cool on the night of the party. A fresh breeze from the west sprang up. Adeline felt justified in her choice of the day and again and again drew attention to her perspicacity. She was dre
ssed for the dinner quite an hour before the time appointed, but she did not mind. She was out to the porch, into the dining-room to inspect the table, to the drawing-room to inspect the floor, to the kitchen to give final directions there. Mrs. Nettleship was in a state of chill and hollow-voiced disapproval. She detested all forms of entertaining. Though she curried favour with Adeline, she disliked her, as she disliked all women. She liked men, almost she loved them, but took a sadistic pleasure in making things uncomfortable for them.

  Rugs and carpets had been taken up and floors waxed. Doors and windows stood open to the evening air. The air coming in at the windows was heavy with the scent of nicotiana, its starry flowers already white against the August dusk. Already the days were beginning to shorten.

  Mary, from her window, could see the guests arriving for dinner. She had not been invited to share this part of the entertainment. The guests were old friends of the family and she would, she told herself, have felt de trop. She was glad to sit quietly upstairs waiting for the dance. She had had a time of it to persuade the children to go to bed. She wondered if there were any other children with such high spirits. Even though she was so much stronger she found them tiring.

  As she sat, with an elbow on the window-sill and her cheek resting on her hand, she pictured Philip sitting at the head of his table, being charming to his guests. She wondered, if, during the whole day, he had given one thought to her. She wondered if he had given a thought to his brief married life, and regretted the young wife, who should have been at his side tonight. Mary had a moment’s poignant pity for Margaret. The children had shown Mary their mother’s photograph in an album with a heavy silver clasp. They had shown it, hard-hearted little creatures that they were, without a trace of pity or regret for the stern-faced young woman, holding a spray of lilies in her hand.