03 Mary Wakefield

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Whom on earth are you talking about, Mamma?” demanded Nicholas.

  Adeline looked straight into his eyes, avoiding Philip’s.

  “I’m talking about Miss Wakefield. She’s a very nice girl, though rather silly, and I’ve felt from the first that she needed a nice forthright young man, with prospects, to look after her.”

  “Is it Clive Busby?” asked Augusta.

  “Yes.”

  “She couldn’t do better,” exclaimed Nicholas. “A very decent fellow.”

  “He has been here every day since you left,” said Augusta. “I confess I began to feel anxious.”

  “No need for anxiety. It’s all settled. They’re to marry immediately.”

  “This explains a great deal,” said Ernest. “She has been avoiding us all this week.”

  “She strikes me as a very artful young person,” put in Sir Edwin.

  Adeline laughed. “Oh, she knows how to look after herself. I saw from the first that she was setting her cap for Clive Busby. I saw that he hadn’t a chance. But I’m glad. Very glad. She’ll make him a good wife.

  Adeline now let her eyes meet Philip’s.

  He was staring at her, his blue eyes prominent, as his father’s were, when something had roused him. It gave her a little shock but she kept the smile on her face.

  “How long have you known this?” he demanded.

  “I had it from Maggie, just before I left.”

  “Had Busby written to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s a terrible liar, for the last word she said to me was — ‘Tell Clive to write to me. I’ve only had one letter from him since he came from the West.’”

  “Aye, that was the one.”

  “But she told me that was written when he first came.”

  “Ah, Maggie’s a great muddle-head.”

  “When do you say this letter came?”

  “Maggie was vague about it.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it before now?”

  “Clive asked to have it kept secret till I was back at Jalna.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I guess Miss Wakefield thought the young ones would be out of hand if they knew she was leaving.”

  Philip fixed his eyes on the silver muffin-dish and kept them there while the colour mounted steadily to his forehead. He was silent.

  Augusta said, “For my part I shall be glad to see her go. I think she was extremely unsuitable as a governess.”

  Sir Edwin added, “She never convinced me that she had any ability to teach.”

  “Poor young Clive,” said Nicholas. “What a wife for the prairie! I see her in five years, with three or four delicate children hanging on to her trailing skirt.”

  Ernest smiled at the picture and said, “One thing is certain. I will not choose the next governess.”

  Adeline stared down the table at her youngest born, with a half-teasing smile. “Have you nothing to say about the suitability of the match?” she asked, her own temper reaching out toward his.

  “Just this,” he answered and picking up the muffin-dish he dashed it to floor.

  Augusta almost dropped the cup of tea she was raising her lips. Half its contents were spilt. Sir Edwin blinked rapidly.

  Adeline struck the table with the flat of her hand.

  “I won’t have such tantrums! Philp, how dare you?”

  He rose and went to the door. There he turned and said:

  “It’s all a plot to get her out of my way. I can see it now. And you’re all in it.” Without waiting to hear anything more he flung through the hall and out of the house.

  Eliza came running up the basement stairs.

  “Did something fall, Ma’am?” she asked of Adeline. “Was I wanted to pick up?”

  “Yes. Mr. Philip upset the muffin-dish. You’d better gather them up.”

  Eliza bent her back and collected the fragments.

  “Shall I bring fresh ones?” she asked.

  All declined to have more.

  When they were alone again Ernest remarked, “It’s quite singular how Philip can fly off when you least expect it.”

  “I expected it,” said Adeline.

  “I saw his forehead turn pink,” said Augusta. “That’s always a sign of temper in him.”

  “My grandfather,” Sir Edwin spoke in a consciously pacific tone, “not the one who was given a baronetcy but the one —”

  “Who manufactured stockings in Birmingham” put in Adeline eagerly. “I always like the sound of him best. Tell us about him.”

  Sir Edwin continued, “Always hiccupped when he was angry. You’d hear a hiccup and you’d know what was coming.”

  “What if he’d hiccup by chance, when he wasn’t angry?” asked Adeline.

  “He never did. He was always angry when he hiccupped.”

  “It goes to show,” said Ernest, “how anger works on the digestive organs.”

  “Impossible.” Adeline helped herself to another piece of cake. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “The point is,” said Nicholas, “that Philip is greatly upset by this news. It may mean trouble.”

  “Philip can do nothing,” returned Adeline. “It’s all settled. I intend to give the girl a nice wedding, a fur coat and some table and bed linen.”

  “The girl for Philip to marry,” declared Augusta, “is Miss Craig.”

  “I’d hate to marry her,” put in Sir Edwin.

  “That,” said Augusta, “is a contingency which need not be considered.”

  Adeline rose. “I don’t want a second wife of Philip’s at Jalna,” she said, “but, if there must be one, let her be a woman of character and not a flibbertigibbet like this Mary Wakefield.”

  She led the way into the drawing-room and Ernest closed the door behind them. “Now,” he said, dropping into a comfortable chair beside her, “tell us all about it, Mamma, right from the beginning. I feel you’ve been very clever in managing the affair and steering Philip clear of …” he hesitated.

  Augusta finished for him. “A very wretched entanglement.”

  Philip strode along the path toward the stables, scarcely seeing where he was going. All other feelings were for the moment submerged in his angry astonishment. He had been the centre of a plot, moved about like a pawn, knowing nothing of what was going on. He had been frustrated, while that fathead, Busby, had wormed himself into Mary Wakefield’s affections, got engaged to her. All the family had been in the plot against him. He could see that now. All had been afraid that he would fall in love with Mary, ever since the night of the dance. But they were mistaken. He wasn’t in love with her. He simply did not want to lose her. The children needed her. He had a mental picture of himself as a pathetic young widower, with two motherless children.

  He could not think clearly. As a scutter of horse’s hoofs sounded behind him he moved aside. A groom riding the mare he had bought from Mr. Craig, overtook him. The man turned in the saddle and looked back.

  “She’s doing fine, sir,” he called out proudly.

  “Good.” He ran his eye over the mare’s silken flanks glittering in the sunlight but she looked a long way off, remote.

  He wheeled and turned into the path leading to the apple orchard. There he could be alone and think. He passed the old pear tree that stood by itself outside the orchard. The pears were enormous. But there were wasps eating them. One of those that had fallen had three wasps digging into the same hole, as though their lives depended on it. Philip kicked it and it flew off in fragments, the wasps circling back to the tree.

  The orchard was quiet, the heavy fruit waiting for the final ripening. Clumps of Michaelmas daisies rose above the coarse orchard grass and above them hovered small white butterflies. Philip halted and, resting his hand against a thick branch, stood staring at the ground. He forced himself to think more calmly, to try to discover what his real feelings were. He was not in the habit of analysing them but of following his impulses. His fury on hearing of Mary
’s engagement still tingled through his veins. He was glad he had thrown the silver dish to the floor. He felt violence moving inside him. “Upon my soul,” he thought, “if it were fifty years ago, I should be ready to fight a duel with Busby!”

  But then, he thought, what had Busby done? Merely got engaged to a pretty girl who was thrown in his way … But Busby’d been so underhand about it …The sly dog! He’d never seen Mary and Busby together, except on the night of the dance. Yes! — there was that time on the road when Muriel Craig saw her run to meet him! And again the day when she had been loitering with Lily Pink, obviously waiting for Busby. Oh, there’d been times enough! His mother was right, Mary had been setting her cap for Busby from the start. And why not? She’d a right to get married if she’d … But he didn’t want her to get married. He wanted her at Jalna. He needed her. He’d had a pretty uncomfortable time with those two who preceded her. Always getting in his way, looking self-righteous or injured or making complaints. Mary was so lovely … She’d behaved badly … She’d hurt him. She’d hurt him deeply … Why, he didn’t think of her as a governess, someone he employed. He thought of her as a friend. He loved her! That was the truth. He loved her.

  And she’d chosen that stolid, matter-of-fact fellow, Busby — turned him, Philip Whiteoak, down! She’d never given him a chance. He liked to take his time about things. Things as important as marriage. Why, he’d known Margaret for twenty years before he proposed to her. To be sure they had been only a few months old when they first met, but it went to show that he didn’t like being hurried … And the damnable plot against him! His mother persuading him to go on a visit with her, so that he would be out of the way. He’d wager that she and Clive’s aunt had chuckled over how well they had managed the affair — the scheme — the confounded plot!

  The blood mounted to his head. He pressed a thumb and middle finger against his throbbing temples. A chipmunk ran through the tree against which he leaned, and was transfixed into stark immobility within a yard of his hand. Every single reddish hair stood up. Its bright eyes stared in astonishment. It clasped its body in its little fore-legs, as though to keep from flying to pieces. Philip made reassuring noises between his teeth. Moments passed, then the chipmunk with a flurry of its tail leaped into another tree and was gone.

  “I’ll go and find the girl,” Philip thought, “and see what she has to say for herself.” He moved steadily on through the orchard, in the direction of the woods. If Mary had taken the children on a picnic that was where they would be.

  Mary, just emerging from the pine wood with Meg and Renny, saw him leave the orchard and cut across a stubble field in their direction.

  “Children,” she said, “there is your father. Shouldn’t you like to run and meet him while I carry the hamper home through the orchard?”

  They did not hear the end of the sentence. Renny pushed the handle of the hamper into her hand, overtook Meg and flew across the stubble. They shouted out their welcome.

  Mary almost ran toward the orchard and, once in its shelter, turned to see what direction Philip and the children had taken. She saw them still standing close together, their faces turned up to his. She waited, gripping the handle of the hamper, moving her toes inside her thin shoes, conscious of the soft sandy loam of the orchard path. She saw the little group separate then and the children run toward the house. Philip stood motionless, watching, till they reached the lawn. Then he strode straight toward the orchard.

  But she would not meet him there. She could not endure to meet him without the protection of the children. Not once, if she could help it, would she meet him alone, before she left Jalna. Yet she would prepare herself for such an encounter, be ready to accept his eyes with coolness. She would accept his congratulations, or whatever he had to say to her, with composure — but not now. Now the thought of meeting him alone was intolerable.

  Yet he was crossing the field at such a slant that he was bound to meet her just as she came out of the orchard. If she remained among the trees, all he had to do was to follow the path, for it was clear that his intention was to meet her now and alone. That was why he had sent the children on to the house. For a moment she stood rooted in perplexity. Had she not better nerve herself to the meeting, have it over with? She had a glimpse of him entering the orchard, the last of the sunlight brightening his hair to gold.

  That glimpse of him was enough. This was a spot where she could not meet him. It was too beautiful in the sunset, with the trees bending their load of burnished apples, and an oriole singing his farewell song from the very branch where hung his empty nest. Mary ran swiftly away from the path and among the trees till, at the far side of the orchard she came to the shed where barrels and crates were stored to be convenient for the packing. She entered it and stood in a dim corner draped with cobwebs. A broken toy of Renny’s lay on the floor. She felt safe from Philip here. She pressed her hand on her side to quiet the beating of her heart.

  The oriole indolently let fall his notes as though he felt the silence of autumn creeping close to him. The chipmunk ran chattering across the roof of the shed, then peered in at Mary through a crack. She heard Philip’s step turning in that direction. The chipmunk had given her hiding place away. Now, as he scrabbled about, he sent a sifting of dust down through the crack. Mary waited for the step to pass. It did not and Philip now stood in the doorway.

  At first he could not see her, then her form separated itself from the gloom. He saw her white hands and face.

  “Why did you hide from me?” he asked.

  “Hide? I — just came in here.”

  “You hid from me and I will tell you why. You were ashamed because you’d treated me so badly.”

  Mary’s eyes dilated. She was frightened by the very solidity of his accusing presence. After a silence, in which she collected her strength for defence, she said:

  “I don’t think I have treated you badly — unless you mean —”

  “Well — what?”

  “Not giving you proper notice?”

  “You know that is not what I mean?’

  “Then you mean about my engagement?”

  “Yes.”

  “It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? It amounts to my leaving the children without a —”

  He interrupted, “Why will you go on talking to me as an employer?”

  She answered, with a new note in her voice, “I don’t know how you want me to talk to you, Mr. Whiteoak. I never have known.”

  “Mr. Whiteoak!” He shot out his name with scorn.

  “Surely you don’t expect me call you by your Christian name!”

  “I expected you,” he returned fiercely, “to treat me as a friend. I behaved in a friendly way to you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you call it treating me like a friend to let me go off with my mother, all unsuspecting that you were carrying on a courtship with Clive Busby and were, in fact, engaged to him — you were engaged to him before I left, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You kept it all secret. Then, at the moment I return, my mother tells me what everyone but myself has known all the while. Why did you hide it from me?”

  Mary came from behind the barrels that smelt sweetly of new wood. There was a look of challenge in her eyes.

  “I didn’t think it mattered to you,” she said.

  “Not matter to me! Not after the way we waltzed together! Do you forget that, Mary?”

  It was the first time he had called her Mary. It was the first time he had spoken of the dance which she looked back on as the most precious moment of her life. She put both hands on the barrel behind her and leaned against it as though for support.

  “I shall never forget it.” He could barely hear her words.

  “And yet,” he went on, the flush deepening on his face, “you’ve engaged yourself to another man. I don’t understand you.”

  “And I don’t understand you.” Her voice had come back to her. It was almost h
arsh. “You never noticed me on the night of the dance — not till everyone but Lily was gone. Then you remembered that I had been there. You looked about and saw me and thought, ‘Poor thing, I really should give her the pleasure of a dance with me!’ We waltzed and our steps suited. We danced too well. Your mother didn’t like it. I think she was right. A man who cares nothing for a girl shouldn’t dance with her like that.”

  “But I did care!” he cried.

  “For that one waltz,” she answered, almost as though she forced coldness on herself, “you cared. But since then you’ve hardly given me a thought.”

  “I have given you a thousand thoughts. But I’m not one of those men who can’t let a woman they’re attracted to, alone. I looked on you as rather remote — detached.”

  In a shaken voice she asked, “After the waltz? I thought I let myself go shamelessly.”

  “Mary — did you love me that night?”

  “No, for I didn’t think. I hadn’t a thought in my head.”

  “You were just carried away by the pleasure of it. So was I. Let’s look at it like that. Let’s think calmly of our relations. They were friendly from the start, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was even something special in them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Clive appeared on the scene.” Philip came closer to her and gently took one of her wrists in his hand. “Tell me, did Clive come between us from the start? Was it love — almost at first sight? It must have been, because he hasn’t been here very long.”

  She drew her hand away and the wrist he had held tingled as though a briar had bound it.

  “How can I tell?” she asked, and then she broke out, “Clive couldn’t come between us because — you weren’t there!”

  “I wasn’t there — in your affections, you mean.”

  “Yes … Clive loved me. He wanted to marry me.”

  “And you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never felt anything approaching love — for me?”

  “How can you be so cruel, Mr. Whiteoak! You have no right —”