Raising her eyes for an instant, as the equipage moved along the gravel sweep, she had a glimpse of Mary’s face at an upper window and smiled benignly.
XV
DISCLOSURES
THE DAYS OF that week moved in autumn splendour at Jalna. An early frost had set the Virginia creeper and the soft maples blazing into red. The yellowing leaves of the silver birches began to fall. The sky was of such a blueness as made people say that Italy could do no better. The farm horses lounged in the meadows, as though a life of leisure was what they were made for and all their great muscles were but show. Birds were not yet leaving for the South but here and there they held mysterious meetings, while some twittering leader told them of his fears. Jake suddenly grew larger and assumed a sagacious air but it was a spurious sagacity, for underneath he retained his callow ways. He spent most of his time watching for Philip’s return, and ran yelping at the sight of Mrs. Nettleship. When she came out to shake her duster he hid among the shrubs but when she had gone he returned to wait for Philip.
Mary and Clive had long talks. Nobody could help noticing that he came every day to Jalna and that Mary made less and less pretence of restraining the children. Mary lived in a kind of dream. All about her was so unreal. But her resolve to marry Clive Busby and go far away from Jalna was real. Each night this resolve kept her to her bed like an anchor, without which she would have sprung up and walked the floor, unable to sleep or rest. She was thankful that Philip was not beneath the same roof with her. She wished she might leave without seeing him again. That would scarcely be possible but, when they did meet, their interchange would be cool and businesslike. He would pay her what salary was due her. She would apologize for leaving without the usual notice. He would be genial and congratulate her on her coming marriage. She would smile happily and say how much she was looking forward to living on the prairies.
Then she would leave.
The thought of a wedding at Jalna was not to be borne. Clive was to take her to his brother’s house a hundred miles away and they would be quietly married from there. He had confided in this brother and also in Mr. Pink who was helping him to get a special licence. It was all quite simple. All she had to do was to steel herself for the break; after that she would look back across a momentous chasm to the life she now lived. Day by day it would grow dimmer. Philip’s face would become blurred in her memory, his voice forgotten. So she soothed her aching spirit with lies.
There was no one she could talk to with truth.
One day she found Jake sitting in a patch of sunlight near the entrance gate. With an inexpressibly melancholy look his spaniel’s eyes, with their drooping underlids, were fixed on the road. When he saw her a momentary pleasure agitated his tail, then he returned to his waiting.
She ran to him and put her hand on his curling topknot. “Dear little Jake,” she said, “how you love him! Far, far better than Sport and Spot do.”
He received the caress with sad dignity but kept his eyes on the road.
“Never mind,” she said. “He will be back tomorrow.”
There was something in her voice that made Jake very sorry for himself. He whimpered, and at the same time wagged his tail, as though to reassure her. “I’m afraid you’re going to take life very hard,” she said. “And it’s bad for you, Jake. You must try to be tranquil like your father and mother, and like your master. You may be sure he’s not thinking about us.”
In the branches of the evergreens pigeons were shuffling and cooing. They preened their greenish-blue plumage as though it were spring and not fall, with the time for love-making past. The sky was clear virginal blue, reflected in shining pools on the road, for it had rained the night before. Mary saw Clive swinging down the road, taking strides as though in them he must expend his happy energy.
“I must go and meet him,” she thought, “and I don’t know how to do it. Jake, you must come and help me.” She took him by the collar and drew him to his feet. Together they went through the gate.
“We’re coming to meet you,” she cried, and tried to make her walk swinging and free, as Clive’s was.
He caught her hand and held it, then looking about to make sure they were not seen, kissed her on the cheek. He bent and patted the spaniel.
“I must get you a dog,” he said, “for your very own. I have two sheep dogs but they follow me about all day on the ranch. What breed will you choose?”
“A pug,” she answered without hesitating.
“A pug!” he exclaimed. “A snuffling little pug, with a corkscrew tail? Oh, surely not, Mary.”
“Yes. I love them.”
“Then a pug you shall have. I well remember the first one I ever saw. I was on a visit to the Vaughans with my parents. Captain and Mrs. Whiteoak were coming to tea. I was a small boy. It was the time when enormous bustles were worn. I saw them coming in at the gate and walking up the drive. Jove, they were a striking couple! He was the sort of man who had the look of wearing a uniform even when he was in tweeds. What you’d call a dashing officer. But she was the one who really cut a figure. She’d on a kind of dolman and a wide skirt. She’d a broad-brimmed straw hat and she’d trimmed it with bright-coloured pansies, fresh from the garden, and her eyes looked large and dark, under the brim, and her teeth very white. Well, the hat was odd enough but what staggered me was a pug dog sitting on her bustle. Sitting on it, as large as life, and twice as peculiar. When he got tired of walking, she said, she just lifted him on to her bustle and there he rode like a prince.”
“I shall make myself a bustle,” said Mary, “and teach my pug to sit on it.”
She talked of dogs and horses, asking Clive questions about the ranch. He never tired of describing it or picturing the time when they would be there as man and wife. He often referred to Adeline’s part in bringing them together.
“I love her for it,” he said. “Not that anything could have kept us apart.”
The next day he had business in the town and would not be able to see her till evening.
“Mrs. Whiteoak comes home tomorrow,” she said, “and her son.”
“I’m glad of that, for then we’ll not need to keep our engagement secret any longer. I’ve nearly let the cat out of the bag a dozen times. Now I can write and tell my relations, who must think I’m crazy staying away from the ranch so long.”
Mary felt tired that night, as though she were living under a strain, instead of happily preparing for her marriage. No calm and settled thought of her marriage with Clive could make her sleep or quiet the tension of her nerves. At first the hours went by with painful consciousness of every restless minute. She threw her pillows to the floor and tossed on the flatness of the sheet. Then, by degrees, she could keep her body still but it was the stillness of a cage against which a bird beat himself. She lay straight and stark, her wide-open eyes watching for the dawn. When at last it came she fell asleep and woke without realizing that she had slept. The children were laughing and running from room to room with the fox terrier.
It was mid-afternoon when the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that Adeline and Philip had returned.
He took his mother’s hands and she alighted with a buoyant step but an inward apprehension of what effect the news of the engagement might have on him. However, the apprehension was not enough to dull the pleasure of home-coming. A week in the badly run establishment of her friend had been quite enough, even though the eyes of that friend had been filled with admiration for all she said and did and Philip had been able to buy two Jersey cows at a great bargain. Even if he were not pleased by the near departure of Mary Wakefield, what could he do about it? Nothing. The girl was promised to young Busby. Mr. Pink had promised to help them get a special licence. Tomorrow she would invite the neighbour-hood to a tea party and announce the impending marriage, almost as though Mary were a daughter of the house. She herself would give her a silk dress to be married in — dark blue would suit her and be useful later for special occasions in her prairie home — dark b
lue, with a lace bertha, and a blue taffeta petticoat to match. She would buy the muskrat coat for her and, yes, she would choose some nice bit of jewellery — a small locket and chain perhaps — from among her own belongings. There was linen to be thought of. She would give Mary three table-cloths, twelve napkins, six sheets and a pair of fine white blankets. Let the Busby family toe the mark and give silver. These pleasurable arrangements gave her plenty to think of on the long drive. Philip too seemed to have plenty to think of.
“Tired?” he asked her.
“Not in the least. It’s been a very nice visit. Don’t you think so?”
“First-rate. Hullo, there’s Jake!”
The young spaniel, suddenly turned, crept with lowered belly to touch Philip’s hand. The beloved scent of that hand filled him with frantic joy. He tore round and round, his ears flapping, uttering cries of welcome. He fell over himself, rolled in complete disorganization, righted himself and sat down at Philip’s feet gazing up at him.
“There’s a grand greeting,” said Adeline, bending to pat him. “And here come the family.”
The voices of the Whiteoaks were so strong that Sir Edwin’s milder tones were unheard but he smiled pleasanty and kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek. Boney, the parrot, flew to meet her and now even the Whiteoaks could scarcely make themselves heard.
“Where are the children?” shouted Philip.
“On a picnic with their governess,” returned Augusta’s contralto tones.
“We are having tea early, Mamma,” said Ernest, “you must be starving,” and putting his arm about her and drawing her close he whispered in her ear, “I have had good news from England. Certain of my stocks are rising. I’m going to make a lot of money out of them.”
“Splendid! You’ll need to go over and look after them.”
“I shall indeed.”
“Ernest, I am delighted.”
“I knew you would be.”
Eliza, immaculate and rosy-cheeked, announced that tea was in the dining-room. It was more substantial than usual and they seated themselves about the table with an air of pleasant anticipation. No detail of the visit was too slight to be related and to be heard with interest. The family was all the more happy in being together because so soon were they to be divided by the return of the Buckleys and Nicholas and Ernest to England. Ernest was so exhilarated by the good news from his broker that he laughed easily, ate and drank more, and drew everyone’s attention to how well Adeline was looking. He remarked:
“You have a special sort of air, Mamma, as though you were the bearer of good news.”
Those words seemed to push Adeline toward the divulging of the engagement. And, after all, what better time could she choose? Mary and the children were out of the way. If Philip were going to be annoyed, let him be annoyed now and get it over with. She put her cup to her lips, drank the last of her tea and clasped her hands on her stomach.
“I have good news,” she said. “Very good news.”
They looked at her attentively.
“I consider it very good news and I’m sure you will. It’s always good to hear that a girl who is alone in the world has made a good match for herself.”
“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 w
hen 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.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 81
