“Not a bit of it,” smiled Ernest. “Meggie wants a smooth-shaven man like me.”
“What sort do you want, Meg?” asked her father.
“One like you,” she declared, and cast herself on him.
Renny said, “Thank you for the reading, Uncle Nick.” He put his arms round the neck of each grown-up in the room and gave each a good-night kiss.
Adeline said to Philip, “I hope Mary wasn’t too tired after the party.”
“Well, she was a little tired, but just pleasantly so.”
“She looked pretty as a picture,” said Ernest.
“Granny,” whispered Renny, in her ear, “will you come up and tuck me in?”
“I heard you,” said Philip. “Your Granny has been on her feet all day. She doesn’t want to climb two flights of stairs.”
“Will you, then, Aunty?”
Adeline interrupted, “I will tuck the children in. Renny, don’t forget your teeth and your prayers.”
He mounted the long dim stairs. Eliza had lighted the oil lamp in a bracket on the wall. The day stretched behind him, a medley of shapes, sounds, smells, which he did not try to disentangle or even think of. The real things were his bed, the lamp on the wall and the great full moon just swimming above the tree tops. The lamp was cosy but the moon made the drawing-room and the people in it seem a long way off and himself very small.
He hung over the footboard of the bed, dangling his legs. He pictured the apple seeds travelling through his body, getting ready to give trouble. Already he thought, he felt a little pain. He stood up quickly as though listening. If he felt it again he would run straight downstairs … But it did not come again.
He sauntered into Meg’s room. There were the clothes she had taken off when she dressed for the garden party, lying in a little heap in a chair, her stubby shoes in the middle of the floor, toeing in. He walked about, looking at her belongings, handling the things on her dressing-table. He went to Miss Wakefield’s room that was full of moonlight. He wondered if she would sleep there again or go down to one of the bigger better bedrooms below. He hoped she would go to another room. He did not want to meet her the first thing in the morning and say, “Good morning, Mamma.” But he said it now, out loud, “Good morning, Mamma,” several times. It sounded funny …
He tried to remember his first mother, the one who had died. Though he tried hard he could remember only her arms, lifting him up. She was dead. In Heaven. Somewhere beyond the moon. He wondered if she liked it up there. Grandpapa said she did. He looked out at the moon. Then suddenly he turned and ran back to his own room and began to take off his clothes.
He had just got into bed when he heard Meg coming up the stairs and, in a moment more, his grandmother. He was glad and shouted out, “I’m in! And covered up!”
“You’d better be,” said Adeline.
She picked up the towel he had dropped on the floor and examined the smudges on it.
“I have a mind,” she said, “to make you get up and wash all over again. Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes, I brushed them hard. Look.” He displayed them in a grin, one of the lower ones missing.
“Say your prayers?”
“Yes,” he shouted. He leaped up on the bed and threw his arms round her neck.
She hugged him to her, making a cooing sound. “You’ve got high spirits,” she said. “That’s a good thing in this life. I wonder what life will do to you. I hope it will be kind.”
“Granny!”
“Yes?”
“You promised me that you would come riding with me one morning early! Will you do it tomorrow?”
“Ah, my riding days are over. I’m getting old.”
“But you promised!”
“Well — we’ll see.”
“Tomorrow!”
“No. After the wedding. I’ve too much to do now for early riding.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
“Yes.” She laid him flat and tucked the blanket round him.
“Now, not another squeak out of you.” She kissed him, turned down the wick, and went to Meg’s room. Soon he heard her descending the stairs.
“Meggie!” he called. “Come and kiss me good night!”
“No. It’s too cold. I’m sleepy.”
He sprang out of bed and padded to her bedside. His mouth found her cool round cheek. He knew she was smiling in the dark.
“Good night,” she murmured, “sleep tight. Don’t let the little bugs bite.”
He ran back to his own room and jumped into bed. His feet were icy. The moon was looking in at him, bigger than ever. It was too big. He pulled the blanket over his head to shut it out and was instantly asleep.
XXIII
THE WEDDING AND AFTER
THE WEDDING DAY dawned bright and chill. There was a new firmness to the soil. The first vehicles on the roads splintered the thin ice that gleamed in the ruts. The carriage, in which Admiral Lacey was to drive Mary to the church, had been washed and polished till it shone. So had the Admiral who was to give Mary away. There was great excitement at The Moorings as Mary and Violet dressed for the ceremony. Violet, in pale blue, carrying pink roses and violets, was to be bridesmaid. With her smiling face and high colour which later on would become florid, she looked very young for her age and quite suitable to attend Mary who was unusually pale and grave. Standing on the verge of her new life she cast a fleeting look backward at the months through which she had just passed. She would be glad, she thought, when tomorrow had come and she was truly Philip’s. Never again would she look back.
“Girls, girls,” cried Mrs. Lacey, “you must hurry. There isn’t a minute to spare, if you’re to be on time. Violet, you madcap, are you only now putting on your shoes? Ethel, do help her. Mary, have you something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue?”
“Of course, she has, Mother!” cried Ethel. “She is carrying her mother’s white vellum prayer book which is old. Her dress and veil are new. Her garters are blue. And she has borrowed my best handkerchief.”
“Speaking of handkerchiefs,” said Mrs. Lacey, “I must be sure to have one handy because I’m bound to cry at a wedding.”
“For the love of God,” cried her husband, from the next room, “somebody come and find my collar button!”
It seemed that they never would be ready in time but ready they were at last, when Nicholas drove up to the house in a phaeton to take Mrs. Lacey and her daughters to the church.
“Upon my word,” said Admiral Lacey, “I believe I’ve put on twenty pounds since I last wore this coat.”
“You look fine,” said Nicholas.
“It doesn’t wrinkle across the back?”
“Not at all,” lied Nicholas.
“That’s good. Have your party left for the church yet?”
“My mother and the Buckleys and Renny have. Philip and Ernest and Meggie are to follow. Meg got mislaid somehow. Children are a great pest.”
“What a blessing that your mother is reconciled to the match.”
“Yes, and wants everyone to know it. She went early to the church so that she might be seen, smiling her blessing.”
“She’s a great character.”
“She has her good points,” smiled Nicholas.
Eliza, dressed in her best for the wedding, was searching frantically for Meg. She well knew how antagonistic to the marriage the child was. She feared that Meg would not turn up to the ceremony. A shame it was for her to spoil everything by her naughtiness.
Philip called out, “Eliza, don’t search any more! Hodge and his mother are waiting for you. I must be off this minute.”
He jumped into the trap beside Ernest whose fair forehead was tied in a knot of worry.
“My God,” he cried, “there goes the church bell!”
The bell sounded sweet on the sharp air.
Philip touched the horse with the whip. “We may comfort ourselves with this,” he said, “they can’t go on without us.”
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“Damned undignified for the groom to arrive at top speed.”
“Better than with a lagging step. I expect there will be quite a crowd at the church.”
“Your marriage to the children’s mother was the last wedding from Jalna.”
“Yes.”
It was not a happy allusion at this moment. Both fell silent, remembering the day.
There were indeed many people in the church and about to enter the church. The carriage shed was full of vehicles. The bell was still ringing when Philip, and Ernest who was his groomsman, hurried to the side door that led into the vestry. By the time they were inside it had stopped and the organ was sending forth a soothing strain.
But Philip was not soothed. His handsome face was flushed. He was excited and nervous. He had run his hand through his hair and stood it on end. Ernest now was calm.
Meg stuck her head in at the door.
“Were you looking for me, Papa?” she asked.
“You have no right to come here,” said Ernest. “You should be in the pew with your grandmother.”
Her eyes grew large and mournful. “I was sad.”
“Look at her hair!” exclaimed Ernest.
She had put on her new dress but her hair was still in the plait in which she wore it at night. Philip hastily pulled the faded ribbon from it and shook out the shining mass. He did not do it gently.
“You have no reason to feel sad,” he said.
“Oh, you hurt me!” Her eyes filled with tears.
He bent and kissed her. “You must go round to the front door,” he said, “and then walk quietly up to our pew. Where is your hat?”
“Here.” She held it up.
He put it on her. She smiled up at him. “Your own hair needs tidying,” she said, and ran off.
He ran his hand over it, smoothing it. Mr. Pink appeared in his surplice.
“I think the moment has come,” he said. “The bride is alighting from her carriage.”
Philip stood at the chancel steps, Mary drawing ever nearer to him. At last she was by his side. He glanced at her quickly and saw her face, pale and beautiful beneath the veil. He saw the hand that held her mother’s prayer book tremble. Mr. Pink began:
“‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God …’”
The service proceeded. Each had answered, “I will,” Philip in full and confident tone, giving the promise with his whole heart; Mary, in a voice lower, but still firm. Then Mr. Pink guided their two right hands to join, and so they gave their troth.
They loosed their hands. Then Mary again took Philip’s right hand in hers and her voice now stronger, made her promise. She could hear herself making it, as though she were an outsider, and to her, her voice seemed to ring through the church.
Again they loosed their hands. Then Philip laid the ring upon the Book, then Mr. Pink delivered the ring again to Philip, and he put it on Mary’s fourth finger, and holding it there, said, in the same full and confident voice:
“‘With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honour, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
They knelt together.
“Well, well,” thought Adeline, “it’s done. He’s had his own way, and I hope good comes of it. No one can say that I didn’t smile at this wedding. And no one will ever be able to say I’m not a good mother-in-law.”
When Philip and Mary had signed their names in the Register, when Lily Pink was tearing the Wedding March out of her soul, and family and friends were crowding about to congratulate the newly married pair, Adeline was the first to kiss the bride. She did it perhaps a little ostentatiously. In truth there were as many eyes on her as on the bride. As she walked down the aisle she was conscious of this, and moved as though her being were a pleasure to her. As friends and the farmers and their wives who had come to see the wedding and whom she had known for many years, came up to speak with her, her smile became almost a grin. She would have liked to put on an Irish accent but thought better of it.
Because of the smallness of the Laceys’ house only the relatives and a few friends were to be gathered there. Mary was glad. She longed for the moment when she and Philip would be on the train together, bound for their honeymoon in New York. Now, in the carriage, he took her hand, held it a moment in silence, then said:
“I am the happiest man on earth.”
“Oh,” she said, “I hope we shall have long lives and be consciously happy every day of them.”
“Of course, we shall … You’ve had enough of unhappiness, my sweet. And I will see to it that you have no more.”
As the last of the party left the churchyard Meg had again to be searched for. She had gone back to the vestry to find her hair ribbon which, faded and old as it was, had suddenly assumed the proportions of a treasure.
The wedding breakfast was delicious. The couple’s health was drunk in champagne provided by Nicholas. The cake, a magnificent erection in ornate icing, with silver bells on the top, was Ernest’s offering. Adeline expressed satisfaction with all the wedding present, excepting that given by the Buckleys. She did not hide her dissatisfaction with it.
She said to Nicholas, “I admire the candelabra you gave them. Ernest’s present was equally nice. But this —” She held, on her supple palm, a solid silver fern-pot, “this is a penurious present. What do they want with a fern-pot?”
“They might, at any time, decide to keep a fern,” said Nicholas.
“What! Go to the woods and dig up a fern and bring it into the house?”
“Why not? They own a fern-pot. They must have something to put in it.”
“Oh, I do call it a miserable present. What did they give Philip on his first marriage?”
“I forget.”
“Ask him.”
“Mamma, this is no time for such reminiscences.”
“Ernest, come here!”
He came, and she asked, “What did Edwin and Augusta give Philip and Margaret for a wedding present?”
“A fern-pot,” he answered, without hesitation.
“Where is it now?”
“In Nick’s room. He keeps his pipes in it.”
“Is that what that is?” said Nicholas. “I forgot.”
Sir Edwin, seeing them gathered about the fern-pot, strolled over to them.
“Edwin,” said Adeline, “Ernest tells me that you and Augusta gave Philip a silver fern-pot on his first marriage. Surely that is not possible?”
Her son-in-law wavered for an instant and then said, “We did indeed. We wanted Philip to know that our feelings were equally benevolent to both marriages.”
Violet Lacey came running up. “They are ready to leave,” she said. “And, oh, how lovely Mary looks in her going-away things!”
She did indeed. Adeline took her in her arms and held her close. “Good-bye, my dear,” she said, “and I hope you will be very, very happy.”
Their breasts together, they stood embraced, their eyes mysterious. Strangely, in that moment, Mary remembered the scene in her bedroom, her triumph over Adeline that had brought her so many tears. “I had the best of her,” she thought, “but never shall again.”
“Thank you, dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” she murmured.
Philip came, hat in hand, and was embraced.
The children pushed their way to his either side. He bent and kissed them.
“Shall you bring me something from New York?” asked Renny.
“I will indeed. Be a good boy while I’m away.”
Mary kissed the cool cheek Meg half-turned to her, then Renny’s small pursed mouth.
“Good-bye, Miss Wakefield,” he said, in his clear treble.
Everyone laughed, “Mrs. Whiteoak,” corrected his aunt.
“Not Mrs. Whiteoak — but Mamma!” cried Violet.
He hung his head in embarrassment.
“Hurry,” exclaimed Nicholas, “or you’ll miss your train.” He poked Philip in the
ribs. “Like you did the last time. Remember?”
Philip would never forget. He caught Mary by the arm and they ran the short distance to the gate, in a shower of rice. They leaned from the carriage waving.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” called everyone.
Renny ran to the road and stood there waving, listening to the beat of hoofs growing fainter, watching the carriage till it was out of sight. Suddenly the world seemed larger, echoing to the sounds of departure, and he smaller.
He went back into the house where the others had returned. Doctor Ramsey put out an arm and drew Renny to his side. “Poor wee laddie,” he said.
The wedding over, movements of a different nature stirred Jalna. Nicholas and Ernest, Edwin and Augusta bent themselves to their preparations for travel. The Buckleys made theirs with the least fuss, confining their operations as much as possible to their own room. But Nicholas and Ernest were here, there and everywhere. Their luggage strewed the hallways. Their strong voices shouted from room to room. Nicholas was happy at returning to his agreeable life in London. Ernest was exhilarated by the thought of new investments. The hearts of Edwin and Augusta yearned towards the peace of their home in Devon.
But Adeline was glad to be where she was. Canada was her country and at Jalna she had spent the happiest years of her life. She looked forward with complacency to the coming winter. Mary was an amenable girl, if something of an enigma. She herself could generally manage Philip. She would retain the reins. Opportunely a small school was being started by two capable women in the district and to it the children could be sent for a time. They had run wild long enough.
At last, after an upheaval greater than garden party and wedding combined, the travellers to England had departed. Adeline was left alone with the children. There had been snow, the snow was gone and Indian Summer warmed the November air, cleared the sky to a stainless blue, clouded the horizon with smoky grey. The light wind bore no heavier freight than the silver savings of the milkwood pod. The stream, broadened by rains, moved tranquilly past its banks.
“All it lacks are swans,” Mary had said, on the day of the garden party.
03 Mary Wakefield Page 31
