Now Mary heard them pattering about in the passage. She went out to them, drawing her brow into a frown of authority. How she wished they had gone properly to sleep! But any frown she could produce was quickly obliterated by their looks of astonished admiration.
“Oo! Miss Wakefield,” from Meg, “don’t you look beautiful!”
“She’s a princess,” cried Renny, and threw his arms about her.
“Renny,” said Mary, “you’re squashing my dress!” She tried vainly to restrain him.
Meg pulled him off and then said firmly, “Turn around and let’s see you properly.”
Mary showed off her dress for their pleasure.
“Whirl round,” commanded Meg, “till we see what you’ll look like when you dance.”
Up and down the passage Mary whirled, her full skirt billowing about her like sea waves.
“I hear wheels on the drive!” shouted Renny. “People are coming to the dance!”
The children flew to look out of the window. She would have a time of it to get them to bed. “Let them stay up,” she thought, “it won’t hurt them just this once.”
In her own room she took a dark red rose from a tumbler of water, wiped its stem and fastened it in her hair, just at the nape, where the curling coil was. But she could not make up her mind to go down the stairs. Twice she hung over the banisters listening to the first sweet music of the two violins and the harp, and fled back up the stairs again. Oh, if only she had someone to go down with! But she was alone — always alone.
Then Eliza appeared. “I’ve been sent to ask you if you’d care to come down to the dancing,” she said.
Philip had sent for her! She was sure Philip had sent for her. “Who sent you?” she asked.
“Mrs. Whiteoak.”
“I’ll come right down.”
Why had Mrs. Whiteoak troubled to send for her? she wondered. The truth was that Adeline would not risk Philip’s looking on Mary as a poor down-trodden governess. He might forget her himself but his mother must not.
Adeline’s fine arched eyebrows flew up when she saw Mary enter the room. Beauty! And beauty far from unadorned. The number of flounces! The sweep of shoulder and milk-white breast exposed! There was not another such low-cut dress in the room. Adeline’s eyes sought for her daughter. It would be worth her own shock to witness the far greater shock on Augusta’s face. There she was! And looking full at Mary Wakefield. Adeline could not control a chuckle of delight as she beheld the change which came over that long sallow countenance. It changed from an expression of urbane hospitality to one of positive outrage — even unbelief of her own senses. Then dancing couples came between them. Augusta’s face was lost.
Adeline made her way to Mary’s side.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “you look very pretty and gay.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Whiteoak,” Mary answered, colouring.
“But you must not stand here unattended. A set of the Lancers is just being formed. That is the one dance our dear Mr. Pink knows. I’m sure he’d be delighted to dance it with you.” She caught Mr. Pink who was just passing, by the arm.
“Here’s a lovely partner, all set to dance the Lancers with you.”
Mr. Pink had dined well. He held strong ideas on feminine modesty in dress. He would not have allowed his own daughter to wear a low-cut gown. But, if Adeline hoped that he would be too replete to enjoy springing about or too outraged by Mary’s décolleté to desire her as a partner she was to be disappointed. Mr. Pink bowed with alacrity and curved a plump elbow for Mary’s hand. He looked like a happy cherub in a clerical collar.
The violins and the harp sang. The room was full of people, for when Adeline set out to give a party she remembered more and more people whom she liked to entertain. Unlike the parties of the present day which are given exclusively for people of the same generation, when different generations bore each other to the point of misery, this party was composed of many ages. Lily Pink was not the youngest, nor Adeline the oldest. All romped merrily together through the Lancers.
If Mr. Pink looked like a cherub, he danced like an angel. He was light as a feather. Probably during the whole course of their married life Mrs. Pink had never disapproved of him so thoroughly as during this set of Lancers, when she saw him buoyantly marching with the other gentlemen, only to meet Miss Wakefield at the end of the march and whirl her off into a waltz; when she saw him, acting as pivot with the other gentlemen, while Mary, with the other ladies, flew on the outer edge. It was the expression on his face that Mrs. Pink most disliked. Positively, she thought, he looks like a cave man. She wondered fearfully if, during his long years of work among the heathen, he might have picked up some heathen ways.
When the Lancers were over he thanked Mary and wiped his perspiring face.
“Quite warm, isn’t it” he remarked, “but you look cool as a cucumber.”
“I never get too warm dancing,” she said, “and the music is divine.”
“You can always depend on Mrs. Whiteoak to have good musicians.”
“It makes such a difference in one’s pleasure.”
“Yes. Good music, and a partner who dances as you do, Miss Wakefield.”
“You dance well too, Mr. Pink.”
“Well, I don’t get a great deal of practice. This is the only house where I have the opportunity.”
“What a pity!” Mary’s tone of voice was so sincere that for a moment Mr. Pink wondered if he had not made a mistake in going into the ministry, with its manifold restrictions.
“Ah, here comes the Admiral!” said Mr. Pink. “And they are playing a schottische. Lucky man.”
Admiral Lacey bowed, asked Miss Wakefield for the honour of the dance and led her off. Now it was his turn to be unpopular with his wife. She liked to see him enjoy himself. No wife took more pleasure in her husband’s pleasure. But his jauntiness on this occasion, the way he did the “one, two, three and a kick”, was past belief. No couple in the room could compare to them. In fact, the other couples, one by one, dropped out and left the floor to them. Mrs. Lacey looked about for her daughters. She hated to have them see their father so disporting himself. But that madcap Violet had gone out into the garden with her partner, and Ethel seemed to have eyes for no one but Nicholas Whiteoak. Really, Mrs. Lacey had cause for concern. There was her elderly husband dancing like a sailor on the lower deck, with a young woman only partially clothed, and there was one daughter out in the darkness with dear knows whom, and the other daughter brazenly flirting with a divorced man. Mrs. Lacey admired Nicholas, his air of a man of the world. At one time she would have been delighted by a marriage between him and Ethel. But that was when his name had been untarnished by divorce. Now, a thousand times no!
As for Mary, at this period in the evening it mattered little to her who was her partner, provided he could dance. To dance — yes, to dance — that was her one desire. To feel free as air, light as music, to cast off all that bound her, to remember nothing.
Now Mrs. Whiteoak was coming toward her followed by a most presentable young man. Mary marvelled that Mrs. Whiteoak should trouble her head about her, find partners for her.
“Miss Wakefield,” she said, “this is Mr. Clive Busby and he’s eager to dance with you.” She added, as the young man bowed, “Mr. Busby’s family were already settled here when we arrived. Now he lives in the West.”
In the rush of the polka it was possible to converse only in breathless gasps but the young man begged for the waltz that followed and, as they circled round and round, for he seemed not to consider reversing, he pictured for her the wonderful life on his ranch. Mary listened enthralled; her eyes, on a level with his, made him want to tell her all the story of his young life. He asked her if she would go for a drive with him, the following day. He could borrow a horse and buggy from the Vaughans where he was visiting.
Adeline looked on, a smile curving her lips. She was pleased by the success of her manœuvre. Mary was the very type to captivate a young fello
w with a ranch who needed a good sturdy, thick-set, down-to-earth wife, with no nonsense about her. If only she could get Mary away from Jalna, without trouble from Philip, how happy she would be! The thought of Philip’s taking a second wife was intolerable.
Now young Busby and Mary were disappearing through a french window into the garden. The scent of the nicotianas enveloped them. He had told her that, to his mind, Mary was the most beautiful name for a girl.
“I suppose you,” she said, “were named for General Clive.”
“I was. And my father was named for General Brock.”
“General Brock?” she asked, mystified.
“General Isaac Brock, you know. The Battle of Queenston Heights, where we defeated the Americans.”
Her puzzled expression showed that she had not heard of the occasion. Young Busby was shocked. He stood silent, inhaling the scent of the flowers.
“Of course,” she hastened to say, “I’ve heard of the Battle of The Plains of Abraham.”
That did not mollify him.
“I thought everyone,” he said, “had heard of the Battle of Queenston Heights.”
“I am terribly ignorant, I’m afraid.”
“And you a teacher!”
“But I want to learn about Canada.”
“The place to learn is the West,” he declared. “These old provinces are worn out.”
“Do tell me more about your ranch.”
He was happy again. They strolled across the dewy lawn and Mary got her feet wet without ever noticing. Clive Busby talked interestingly. She felt so free.
But, after a time, she began to be restless. She forgot to listen to the young man’s descriptions of life on the prairies. She longed to go indoors, to discover if Philip Whiteoak would ask her to dance. So far this evening they had no more than touched hands in the Grand Chain. There had been no more than a smiling interchange of glances.
When, at last, her partner reluctantly led her back to the drawing-room, the first couple she saw were Philip Whiteoak and Muriel Craig. They were dancing the gavotte, and Mary had a swift pang of jealousy when Clive Busby exclaimed:
“What a stunning couple! Do you know who the young lady is? By Jove, she can dance.”
They stood just inside the door watching the dancers. From the summer darkness without, above the sound of the music, came the melancholy cry of a whip-poor-will. Mary stood, leaning on Clive Busby’s arm, half-stifled by that pang, even to the pain of which she felt she had no right, since Philip had not noticed her that evening. She was nothing to him. All his thoughts were fastened on Miss Craig.
And no wonder. Mary was forced to admit she was beautifully turned out, and had to acknowledge to herself that she was not without beauty. She was less tall than Mary, her neck and her face were shorter. Her neck was round, white and strong, her shoulders, rising above the cream-coloured brocaded taffeta of her dress, were boneless. Her thick light brown hair was piled high on her head and in it shone a pearl and diamond sunburst. Her lips were parted, so Mary thought in her jealousy, as though she were breathless in the admiration that shone up at Philip out of round light eyes.
“Shall we dance?” asked Clive Busby.
“No, thank you. I’m a little tired.”
“Come now,” he looked his unbelief, “not really?”
“Yes. Just a little. Anyhow this dance is over.”
“Of course, there’ll be other fellows you’ll want to dance with. I can’t expect to monopolize you.”
“It’s very kind of you to ask me.”
“Dear me, how formal we are! Are all English girls so formal?”
“I’m not really.”
“I wish I knew what is in your mind.”
“You might be surprised.”
“I’ll bet I’d not be half as surprised as you would be, if you knew what’s in mine.”
“Whatever are the musicians playing?”
“Don’t you know? That’s a Highland fling. I believe that Mrs. Whiteoak and Dr. Ramsey are going to dance it.”
Adeline and the doctor were indeed taking the floor, he wearing an expression of almost mournful gravity, her face lit by an hilarious grin.
“This,” he announced, “is a Scottish reel and I taught it to Mrs. Whiteoak in her youth.”
“Nonsense,” she declared, “it’s an Irish jig and I taught it to you.”
Whichever it was they were at it, their bodies galvanized by Gallic energy, their feet flying. The doctor’s expression never changed, indeed one might have said his life depended on the accuracy with which he executed the steps. Only once more did he open his lips and then it was to utter the brief shout, so in keeping with the dance. It seemed a pity that he was not wearing the kilt.
Adeline had opened the evening, partnered by her eldest son. They had been a striking couple. Since then she had danced several times but there was something of wildness and recklessness in this dance that best suited her nature. She held up her violet moiré skirt that was trimmed with heavy gold passementerie, showing her slim feet and ankles, in black silk stocking and low-heeled black satin slipper with silver buckles.
Augusta looked on at this performance in mingled wonder and pain. She wondered at her mother’s ability so to skip about. She could not have done it. She thought the dance barbarous and was pained by Adeline’s obvious delight in it. She had a feeling that Dr. Ramsey had always been in love with Adeline and this made her uncomfortable.
Nicholas and Ernest regarded the exhibition with amusement and gratification. They were proud of Adeline. At the height of the reel Philip took his nose in his hand and emitted an amazingly good imitation of the bagpipes.
It put new life into the dancers who were beginning to pant a little, but his three spaniels who were outside the French windows waiting for him, recognized his voice, even though so distorted, and thinking he was in dire predicament, rushed in to save him.
The music stopped.
Philip caught Sport and Spot by their collars and dragged them out but Jake ran here and there yelping in a panic till captured by Mary. He lolled blissfully against her shoulder and she followed Phillip on to the lawn. His face lighted with surprise as he saw her.
“Good girl!” he exclaimed, and gently took the puppy from her.
Mary stood looking at him, her spirit crying out in her distress, “Good Girl! And you have never once asked me to dance and never will!”
Adeline appeared in the doorway, followed by Clive Busby. She was well pleased with her son for his attentions to Miss Craig. She was almost pleased with Mary.
“Those dogs of yours behave disgracefully, Philip,” she said. “Do shut the door on them and then bring Miss Craig in to supper. All our guests are starving. And here is Clive Busby eager to take in Miss Wakefield.” She stood with her hand on the door knob, smiling at Mary as she passed. Then she said, in an undertone to Philip:
“That’s quite a case. Young Busby is plainly smitten. What a capital match it would be for that girl.”
“Yes,” he agreed absently, and wondered what Mary could possibly see in Clive Busby.
“Now, Philip, don’t keep Miss Craig waiting, while you play with your dogs.” She ordered him about, with feminine pleasure, as though he were a big boy and he obeyed, half-sulkily.
Muriel Craig tucked a firm white hand under his arm. She gathered up her skirts in the other. She said:
“This is the happiest evening I’ve had in a long while. You can’t imagine how dull life has become for me, since my father’s illness.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the dancing.”
“I think our steps suit, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do.” His eyes followed the musicians who were leaving to go to the basement for refreshment.
Muriel Craig continued, “I do hope you will come often to see Father. He’s taken a great fancy to you. He gets so bored by the society of his nurse and bored a tiny bit by me too, I’m afraid.”
“I’m going to see him
tomorrow,” said Philip.
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Will you stay to lunch?”
“I’d like to. Thanks very much.”
The dining-room was full of people gathered about the table where wax candles in the tall candelabra cast their radiance on white and red roses and gilded the sheen of the damask cloth. There were hot chicken pasties, and cold tongue, and devilled eggs, and sliced peaches in thick cream, and brandied peaches and ice cream, made, with much exertion, in a churnlike freezer, by Eliza. There was coffee and claret cup and cocoanut layer cake and almond meal macaroons and brandy snaps. In short, Adeline had ordered the supper.
She enjoyed having her friends, young and old, about her after an absence. She enjoyed the good food, eating it with gusto, in the knowledge that no digestive complications would follow. She was pleased with her sons. Nicholas, well rid of that wife of his, looked happy and handsome. He was laying himself out to make their guests happy. Who wouldn’t be pleased with a son like Ernest? — making money hand over fist, with no more exertion than the notifying of his intentions to brokers. As for Philip, he seemed to have forgotten all about the governess and was listening to seemingly entertaining talk by Miss Craig.
Muriel Craig had chosen a corner where Philip’s back would be toward the room, and Mary Wakefield. She talked rather breathlessly, never allowing his attention to waver. She really was, he thought, a quick and amusing woman. She talked fluently of her travels, she had been about quite a bit and could scarcely bear to hear about a place she had not visited, or a book she had not read. Philip was an excellent companion for her because he was by nature receptive and had neither travelled nor read widely. His pleasant laugh punctuated her anecdotes. She said she adored ice cream and he saw to it that she had several helpings.
As they were returning to the drawing-room, from where came the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments, she said: “I think you are so fortunate in your children’s governess. She strikes me as a most good-natured creature.”
03 Mary Wakefield Page 13
