“Mrs. Whiteoak, do you or don’t you want to?”
The old lady woke and without hesitation, answered — “I do want to,” though she had completely forgotten what was in question.
“Good,” said Dilly and flung down the armful of clothes. She was all excitement.
The garments were a rose-coloured crinoline with rose and white panniers, a pale-blue satin bodice trimmed with lace and little bunches of flowers, and a man’s hunting costume of breeches and pink coat. The former Adeline Whiteoak had brought with her in a sailing vessel from the Old Land, the latter had been worn by Nicholas when he rode to hounds in England.
“These things are so picturesque, dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” cried Dilly. “They will be just what is needed to brighten us all up at tea time.”
The grandmother leant forward in her chair to peer at the faded, camphor-smelling bundle.
“What are they?” she demanded.
“A crinoline of yours and hunting togs. Meg told me they belong to her Uncle Nicholas.”
“Bless my soul! And what are we going to do with them?”
“Dress up! Won’t it be fun? I’ve always wanted to know what I should look like in a crinoline and this is a beauty.” She began to undress.
“But me,” demanded the old lady. “What about me?”
“You are to wear the hunting clothes. You said just now you wished you’d been a man —”
“Never wished any such thing — except when I was going to have a baby.”
“But you said something that gave me the idea. I thought it would be such fun.” Dilly was now wearing the crinoline and struggling to fasten the bodice. “But what a tiny waist you had, dear Mrs. Whiteoak. This is practically killing me.” She was panting, her face was flushed.
Adeline Whiteoak watched her with an odd smile bending her lips.
Pictures from the past crowded into her mind. She heard the sound of a violin and the clatter of a hansom cab on the London street.
“My waist was small,” she said.
Dilly exclaimed — “And I can imagine how gracefully this crinoline swayed about you!”
“Aye. I moved well.”
Dilly could scarcely bear to take her eyes off her reflection. She swayed and twirled before the pier-glass. However, the little glass clock on the mantelpiece striking four brought her to the task on hand, to get old Mrs. Whiteoak into the hunting clothes. Almost she wished she had not thought of anything so absurd, but her high spirits had infected Adeline, who now said:
“Bring me the breeches.”
Scarcely able to bend for the tightness of the bodice Dilly extracted the breeches from the heap on the floor. Adeline threw back the skirt of her dressing gown and extended her legs, clad in long woollen stockings and flannel drawers. Dilly drew on the nether garments and, because she herself was strong as a boy, was able to divest her of her dressing gown and clothe her in waistcoat and pink coat. Adeline herself was now moved to an amazing alacrity of both body and mind. She stood, leaning on her stick, critically surveying her reflection in the pier-glass. She said:
“I need boots, a cap, and a stock. Open yon little drawer and you will find large linen handkerchiefs in it. They were my Philip’s. One of them will make a stock.”
Neat-fingered, Dilly folded the linen into the semblance of a stock and secured it with a brooch. She said:
“I’ll bring shoes and cap in a jiffy.” She flew up the stairs to Renny’s clothes-cupboard and there found his shining riding boots and black velvet cap. His belongings had a fascination for her. On the way down she hugged the boots to her bosom and kissed the cap.
Scarcely was she back in the grandmother’s room when the rest of the family began to assemble in the drawing-room for tea. Wakefield came sliding down the banister pursued by Meg upbraiding him.
The approach of Nicholas was heralded by the shrill barking of Nip, whose favourite hour of the twenty-four this was. Augusta and Ernest descended together amiably conversing. Piers came, innocent and pink-cheeked, from a stolen interview with Pheasant. Finch came, brooding on a girl he had seen in the street the day before. He did not know who she was. He did not want to know, but he could not get her out of his mind. Eden came, a letter from Messrs. Cory and Parsons, the New York publishers, burning in his breast pocket. Renny was the last to come. His eyes swept the family circle, the blazing fire, the laden tea-table, the unusual sight of his grandmother’s empty chair. He demanded:
“Where’s Gran?”
Ernest answered — “She and Dilly are closeted in her room. They’ve some sort of secret. They’ll be here.”
“That girl,” said Nicholas, “is not capable of assisting Mamma. I must go.”
“I’ll go,” said Renny.
He turned out into the hall and there encountered one of the strangest sights he ever had seen. He stood dumbfounded as the pair approached him. His face was well moulded by nature to express astonishment, from the arched eyebrows, the carven nose, to the spirited mouth. His features now expressed that emotion to its utmost. Here was an elegant young lady of the eighteen-fifties who resembled Dilly Warkworth, accompanied by a very elderly gentleman in hunting costume who bore a bizarre likeness to a portrait he had seen in Ireland, of his great-great-grandfather, the old Marquis of Killiekeggan.
In truth, Adeline Whiteoak, nearing the century mark in age, was swept, at this moment, by an amazing rejuvenation. It had been a struggle to get herself into the male attire. The boots had been hardest of all. But it had been the change from the lace-trimmed cap to the velvet cap which had worked the greatest transformation. More even than the breeches. With her hair tucked out of sight, with the shadow of the cap’s peak on her face, she no longer looked the feeble old woman, but a handsome elderly rake of the Regency period.
Scarcely leaning on Dilly, she passed Renny and entered the drawing-room with a jaunty air. The effect of this entrance was galvanic. The company, seated like an audience, now rose like an audience, drawn to their feet by that superb but fantastic entrance. Ernest was the first to recognize his mother.
“Mamma!” he exclaimed.
Then Augusta put all the force of her amazed disapproval into the same word.
Their mother, with an ancient, rakish elegance, half-tottered, half-swaggered toward her chair. The parrot, Boney, as though the better to see her, hung head down on his perch.
“So is it really my grandmother?” cried Wake.
“It is,” said Meg, “and I call it wicked.”
The young men, Eden and Piers, were charmed. They addressed her as “Your Lordship,” placed her chair for her, and brought her tea. Dilly danced round the room, swaying her crinoline, her burning eyes on Renny. Everybody began to talk at once — Nicholas to recall the time when he had last worn that hunting pink — Ernest to bring out an old daguerreotype of his great-grandfather and point out the likeness between it and the figure in the wing-chair. Boney could not recognise his mistress and shouted his bewilderment and outrage. Wragge, bringing in a second supply of tea — for everyone was unusually thirsty — all but dropped the pot.
“What my grandmother needs,” cried Wakefield, “is more room for scope!”
When Finch — last of the family to appear and ravenous for food — beheld his grandmother, he stared open-mouthed. “Like a duck in a thunderstorm,” said Piers.
“Why — why,” gasped Finch. “What’s it all about? What’s happened to Gran?”
“It’s an enigma,” said Wakefield.
Finch stood looking down on the bizarre figure in the hunting clothes, then he gave an hysterical giggle. He stared down at his grandmother, giggling, and, as she looked up into his face, she too began to giggle. The awkward boy, the old lady in her strange attire, made a picture irresistibly droll. Everyone began to explode in laughter. Adeline, with a shaking hand, set down her cup and saucer and gave herself up to laughter. Boney screamed with laughter.
“Mamma’s face is crimson,” Ernest remarked, pulling himse
lf together. “This is very bad for her.”
“It must stop,” said Augusta, suddenly grave and rather ashamed of herself.
“Mamma,” Nicholas said loudly, “control yourself.”
“I can’t,” she gasped, her face now purple.
They gathered about her solicitous — all but Finch, who held his aching side and appeared to be on the verge of hysteria.
“Behave yourself, sir,” ordered Nicholas.
“I can’t,” wailed Finch.
“Renny, come and straighten up this young’un. He’s killing my mother.”
“I’ll do it,” said Piers, and, taking Finch under the arms, ran him out of the drawing-room into the study and gently, carefully closed the door behind him.
Augusta gave Dilly a look of deep reproach. She said — “I find nothing amusing in turning my mother into a figure of fun.”
“You were laughing,” said Dilly boldly.
Nicholas said — “We all were laughing and it’s time we stopped.” He bent over his mother and lifted the velvet cap from her head. The disordered hair released, she appeared once more as a very old woman. She still shook with what was now almost silent laughter. Meg came with smelling salts. Ernest drew with difficulty the heavy boots from her feet. Augusta came hastening with her dressing gown. The change was completed and now no more than a roguish smile lit her face.
“Ha,” she said, “I haven’t enjoyed myself so — not in years! But now I want my tea and very hungry I am. Blackberry jam, please. And a muffin.
Bless my heart, that was fun. Where’s Dilly?”
The young woman, midway between feeling pleased with herself and being in disgrace, flew to the grandmother and embraced her. “What fun!” she cried.
“Indeed ’twas fun. There’s nothing like a bit of dressing-up to pass the time.” And she made this remark as complacently as though she had all the time in the world to spare.
Dilly swayed near Renny, her crinoline, though faded, still exhaling the perfume of a romantic past. She sought to transmit a shock of her desire into his body but he produced nothing for her but an ironic smile.
As soon as Eden was able to get Renny apart from the others, he took the publishers’ letter from his pocket. “I had this today,” he said, trying to speak nonchalantly. “I thought you might like to see it.”
He expected no sympathetic understanding and got none.
Renny, after knitting his brows over the letter, remarked — “It’s brief enough. I can’t think they are much interested.”
Eden said, heatedly — “You must understand, Renny, that publishers in a city like New York are busy people. They haven’t time to write a long screed to a new author. The point is that they are considering the poems. They may publish them.”
“Hmph. I see that they think there are scarcely enough poems for a book.”
“That’s nothing! I have others in my room.” Before he could stop himself he added — “I’m writing new ones every day!”
“I’ll bet you are! When you ought to be studying.”
“I don’t neglect my work.”
“Come now!”
“I go to lectures.”
His brother’s eyebrows shot up. “You go to lectures — and you fill your notebooks with verse! It won’t do, Eden. Either you must put your back into your studies or give them up and help Piers with the horses and farm.”
Eden said despairingly — “Can’t you understand what it means to me to have such encouragement.”
“I do understand that it would be damn bad for you.”
“Oh, Lord God,” cried Eden, and flung himself across the passage to Ernest’s room, where he and his uncle exulted together. By the time they had read the letter from Messrs. Cory and Parsons half a dozen times they were convinced that the publishers would not only produce the poems but that the book would make Eden’s name. He sat up half the night writing a new poem.
As for Dilly, from that day she gave up her attempt to be come the mistress of Jalna. Lady Buckley and she shortly sailed for England, Augusta to return to her home in Devonshire and Dilly to the arms of her family. From there she wrote, before a month had passed, of her engagement to a cousin on her father’s side. In this letter (to Renny) she declared: “I am happier than ever before in this strange life of mine — devoted to my fiancé, but — I still think you are wildly attractive!”
XXV
NOTHING COULD BE FAIRER
When the pleasure of meeting on the pond to skate was gone with the winter’s cold, Piers and Pheasant still contrived their secret meetings. He had become the very lodestar of her life, by whose light all that she thought or did illumined. Yet, strangely, the idea of marrying him had never entered her head. Marriage to her was something remote and romantic which one read of in books but did not contemplate for oneself. It was a subject, indeed, which she consciously put out of her mind because her parents had not been married, because Maurice Vaughan and Meg Whiteoak had not married, and because it was somehow her fault that they had not. It was enough for her that spring and summer lay ahead and that, in the warmth of the evenings, their meetings could be longer.
On this early evening they had arranged to meet on the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream down in the ravine. The stream, in ardent relish of its freedom, moved swiftly between its moist banks, where, as yet, there was no growth but only drowsy promise. The air was charged with the sound of running water.
Pheasant said — “What a delicious sound! I could listen to it all night. Yet I hate the sound of water running out of a tap, don’t you?”
“I’ve never thought about it. But I guess the water out of a tap would be a good deal cleaner. Think of the frogs and eels and water-rats down there.”
“Oh, I like to think of them.” Her face was almost passionately alight. “They’ve had such a long winter. They’re awake now — hopping and slithering and scuttling about — getting ready to —” She did not finish the sentence but leant over the railing, picturing those activities down below.
He finished for her. “Getting ready to mate.”
She raised her face to smile into his. “Oh, Piers, how exciting for them!”
“Yes,” he agreed, “and for me too.”
“You do like creatures, don’t you?” she exclaimed, pleased with him.
“Oh, pretty well.... But I like you better.”
“Naturally.” Again she leant over the rail.
He looked at the back of her neck where a short brown lock he had found a nesting-place.
“Why naturally?”
“Because it seems only natural to like your best friend better than things that live in the water.”
“What I mean is, you make so little of it.”
Now she stood up straight and faced him, astonished. “I make little of it!” she cried. “Why, Piers, your caring for me is the greatest thing in my life.” Colour swept into her cheeks. “It’s the only thing in my life!”
At these words an extraordinary change came over the scene. The chatter of the stream ceased and a strange breathless silence enveloped them. The very colour of the trees changed, for the red sunset pushed the evening aside and burnished them to a new life, so that every needle on the pines seemed sharpened and polished. Suddenly the trunks of the bridge became painted figures on a screen. The only sound came from within, and that was the beating of their hearts. She was the first to speak. She whispered:
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?” he wanted to know.
“Because it wasn’t proper.”
“Proper! Oh, Pheasant — don’t bring Mrs. Clinch into this.”
Now he moved swiftly and took her in his arms. He said, into the soft hair that hid her ear — “I’m going to marry you, if you’ll have me.
Will you?”
“Yes, Piers.”
Now the stream was in motion again, hastening, as though to make up for lost time, to tell their secret to the lake. They heard vo
ices and the barking of dogs. They climbed the steep path to the little wood where they were safe.
From this time they never missed a day for meeting. They were an engaged couple and Piers waited only for the propitious moment to declare the fact to the family. But it was hard to find that moment — hard to make up his mind to face the obstacles that he knew lay in his way. With the coming of spring the newly aroused force of his passion made him sometimes contemptuous of the others and he wanted to leap from his bed, arouse the household, and announce his engagement. But when morning came he wanted only to enjoy his love in peace.
One morning Renny took him into his little office in the stables and remarked:
“I hear that you’re meeting Pheasant Vaughan every day.”
This was so unexpected that Piers could only mutter — “We meet pretty often.”
“Why?” Renny shot the question at him; at the same time his mobile brows came down in a frown.
Piers would have liked to answer — “Because I love her and am going to marry her,” but all he said was — “Well, there’s not much to do.”
Renny said — “I suppose the time has come when you need a girl to go about with. But, Piers,” his eyes held his brother’s, “you can’t go about with Pheasant. You know why.”
“It wasn’t her fault, was it?” Piers asked loudly.
“No, but you’ll find out that in life the innocent often have to suffer.”
“She won’t suffer through me!” His ready colour flamed.
“What! Are you telling me that you have made her fond of you?”
The words all but tumbled out of Piers — “Yes, she and I love each other. We’re going to be married.” But he did not speak. Only his angry blue eyes made response.
“Is there anything between you two?” demanded Renny.
Like a sulky boy Piers muttered his lie — “Nothing” — and hated himself for lying.
Renny spoke almost soothingly now. “You understand that there can’t be, Piers — because of Meg?”
“I expect I do — though it seems pretty hard.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 178
