She still clasped his fingers and he bent and kissed her hand before he withdrew. Then — “Good night,” he whispered, “and no more bad dreams!”
Her lips curved, her lashes lay on her cheek.
Alayne was alone when he returned to the dining room. She did not speak. After the dewy freshness of the child’s face, hers looked more haggard, more unhappy, than before. She saw that he had difficulty in cutting his beef. He scowled at it with lips compressed but she could not bring herself to go to his assistance. When, at last, the meat shot into the air and was caught by Floss, she clenched her hands and bit her lip painfully.
Renny broke into loud laughter. “This is too funny,” he said. “It’s too ridiculous.” He gathered his table napkin into a ball with his good hand.
Alayne rose from the table. “I could not sleep last night,” she said. “I believe I’ll have to go to bed now.”
“Yes, yes, I think you’d better,” he said. “You need rest — but,” his eyes scanned her plate, “you’ve eaten only a radish!”
“It is enough.” Her tragic tone, the thought of the radish, almost sent him off again. He sat, grinning up at her. He could no more have gone to the door with her than she could have helped him cut his beef.
Floss stood drooling, stung by the mustard, yet wagging her tail for more. She looked idiotically good-natured. Wragge returned from the basement and Renny said curtly:
“More beef, Rags. Cut it up.”
“Ah yes, sir. That h’injured shoulder is a great ’andicap for you.” He glanced inquisitively at Renny’s plate.
“Floss got that, Rags.”
Almost tenderly Wragge prepared his food for him but neither salad nor cold beef had any flavour. Bit by bit he fed the meat to blind Merlin.
He could not endure the house and though the darkness was abruptly closing in he went to the stables. It was turning cold too and the wind blew strongly from the lake. It pressed on his forehead like a steadying hand. Outside the stables he stood facing it a moment, his eyes resting on the dark bulk of the house. Only two lights glimmered there.
He remembered the days when its bright rows of windows repelled the darkness which now seemed powerful to engulf it. And soon Wake would be gone from it who had scarcely spent a night from under its roof! And gone forever! In his mood of depression he saw that calamity coming inevitably toward him. He could do nothing to prevent it. He was going to lose Wake whom he had thought to have always beside him! He had lost Alayne!
He remembered his free days and how he had carried love lightly, as a rider wears his colours in a race. But Alayne would have him wear love as a chain, and his restive spirit winced at its galling.
He went into the stable and, in the dim light, passed from stall to stall. They all knew him and bent their heads to touch him, to be caressed by his hands, cunning in knowledge of their responsive nerves. When he came to his favourite, Cora, he put his arms about her and kissed her. Her velvet nostrils snuffled against his cheek and her primitive quiescent peace was absorbed through all his being.
VI
THE CELIBATES
THE NEXT EVENING Wakefield went through the ravine to break the news to Pauline. His mood was one of pensive joy. His spirit was exalted, yet a strain of tender sadness increased the beauty all about him, made him pause to observe the charm of the tiniest flowers, to notice the whitish green of the fern fronds. Before long he would be saying goodbye to the scene which had been the background of all his life! He had often longed to travel, to see the places which had seemed so magical when he read of them in books, but now he wanted to make only one journey and that was to the cloistered seclusion of the monastery where magic lay in the ceaseless service of Christ and His Mother. The monastery was opening its walls to him. As he walked he could feel in anticipation the soft flapping of the robe against his legs.
He was eager to tell Pauline of his decision, yet he shrank from hurting her in her pride and possessive love of him. But she herself was devout and, even though her suffering might be almost intolerable at first, she would come to see that in giving him up she would reach heights of spiritual joy she might never have attained in the possession of him as a husband. She would marry; she was designed for marriage and happy motherhood; she would think of her engagement to him as a period exquisite and untouched by the crudity of sex. Perhaps she would name her youngest son for him…. He pictured himself going to see her and her husband (a robust, fine-looking man not unlike Piers) and taking the infant Wakefield on his knee while her other children stood about in awe of his thin ascetic person and monk’s robes. He was not sure that such a visit could be permitted but hoped that because of some special circumstance it might.
Pauline was waiting for him, looking pale, he thought. She was heavy-eyed, as though she had not slept, withdrawn into herself as though in contemplation. Was it possible that she guessed his intention? His voice shook a little when, after kissing her gently, he said:
“You look tired, darling. Have you been doing too much?”
She shook her head, her fingers gripped his closely. They dropped into their accustomed seat on the verandah. He put his arm about her, then withdrew it and thrust his hand in his pocket. It was going to be harder than he had thought. He longed to have it all over and to be free. The world about him, the dim sea of purple twilight, seemed meaningless to him apart from his great desire.
“I have something to tell you,” he said. “I’m almost sure that you have guessed it and that it is hurting you even more than I was afraid it would.”
She turned to him, her face pale and startled. “What is it? Has anything happened at Jalna?”
“Pauline — don’t you guess?”
“What do you mean? I don’t guess anything. Is it about Renny … Alayne?”
“No, no — about me…. Haven’t you noticed anything different about me lately?” He looked steadily into her eyes. The moment was upon them now. He steadied himself to tell her. There was a wounded look in her eyes, as though she already felt the blow. She answered, gravely:
“I have noticed that you seem very happy, and very — religious.”
“Then you do guess!”
She looked at him blankly. “No, I can’t possibly guess.”
“Then I must tell you.” He had a sudden aversion from putting his resolution into words, sounding, everyday words. He muttered, almost inaudibly:
“I must go away. Can’t you guess where?”
“No, I can’t guess.” She sat waiting, her dark impenetrable gaze fixed on his, her long brown hands folded on her lap.
He took his hand from his pocket. It felt almost powerless, as though it did not belong to him. He laid it on her folded hands, his fingers pressing their engagement ring.
“Pauline — I am going to ask you to take off this ring that I gave you…. No — not really to take it off — I want you to keep it always in remembrance of the lovely time we’ve had together. But — I can’t marry you! I find that I’m simply not meant for marriage. I am meant for something very different. I want to go into a monastery, Pauline!”
She looked at him unbelievingly. “Oh no, Wake — you can’t mean that!”
“Darling — you can’t feel the cruelty of it any more than I do! But it’s better for me to discover my vocation now than after marriage, isn’t it?”
She seemed incapable of taking in his words. She said incredulously — “You! Vocation! Why — you can’t really mean it! What are you saying, Wake?”
I’m telling you, darling, that I want to enter a monastery. I broke the news to Renny yesterday. I promised him that I wouldn’t speak to you about it till he had had a talk with Father Connelly. He went to see him today. You can’t imagine how splendid the Father was — how clearly he made him see that I had the right to direct my spiritual life. Renny came home quite different. More controlled and apparently quite willing to let me have a try at it, but, of course, he’s terribly anxious about you and so am I. I realize what
a blow it is.”
She said in a low voice — “He is anxious about me!”
“Yes, terribly anxious. But he doesn’t know you as well as I do. He doesn’t realize how full of character you are.”
She gave a little laugh. “No — I suppose not.”
Her laugh jarred on him. He took his hand from hers. His eyes were luminous in the dark. He said, almost assertively:
“Of course, it is awful for you. I know it, and I’ve suffered accordingly. But what must be must be, and it is as inevitable for me to enter a monastery as for that stream down there to enter the lake. No matter what obstacles are put in its way it goes on to its ordained destination.”
“Oh yes, I understand. And I sympathize — more than you know … now that I have taken it in. At first I was absolutely astounded. You seem the last one on earth for such a life.”
He returned, almost huffily — “I don’t see why you say that. I’ve always had a desire for solitude. When I was a small boy they used to talk about my thoughtfulness. Of course, I was generally up to mischief then. Still — I think I’ve always had a contemplative nature.”
She said hesitatingly — “I have often thought that I should like to enter a convent.”
“Not take the veil!” he ejaculated.
“Yes, take the veil.”
“I have never heard of anything so ridiculous! Why, you’re absolutely cut out for marriage and motherhood. Don’t let such thoughts enter your head, Pauline. They’re positively wrong — for you. Some other chap will come along, someone far worthier of you than I am. And you’ll love him and you’ll have children and perhaps” — he smiled tenderly — “you’ll name a little boy for me. That would please me if — the news reached me in my cell.”
“It sounds very pretty,” she answered. “But I’ll never marry. If you are going to enter a monastery I’ll go into a convent. As I said, I’ve often thought I should like to, and now it seems the natural thing.”
Wakefield did not like the idea at all. He had anticipated comforting a heartbroken Pauline, but to find her calm, taking his announcement with no more than astonishment, ready herself to throw aside the world at a moment’s notice, seemed somehow to belittle his act of renunciation, to steal his thunder, as it were. He experienced an almost childish resentment and was searching for words to translate this into dignified disapproval when the door opened and Clara Lebraux came on to the verandah. She carried a tray with glasses of lemonade and a plate of cake.
“I thought you children would like this,” she said, setting the tray on a low table before them. She turned away then to fasten a verandah blind that hung loose and Pauline took the opportunity to whisper — “Don’t speak of this to Mother. I had rather tell her when we are alone.”
Wakefield nodded glumly. He would have preferred a dramatic disclosure to this too easy acceptance of their changed relations. Pauline turned the little pearl ring on her finger and said, with a flitting smile:
“I wonder what I shall do with this! Nuns can’t have possessions, you know — any more than monks!”
Wakefield thought that he had never known Pauline to be guilty of bad taste before. He sipped his lemonade which was too sour, in silence. Clara suspected a quarrel between them and talked cheerfully of plans for their future. She had already told Wakefield of her intention to live with her brother and relinquish the tea shop after her short essay in running it. Wakefield had a sudden pity for her as she talked of visiting him and Pauline after they were married. For the first time in his life he was wretchedly uncomfortable because of feeling for someone else. What would Clara’s life be, with himself in a monastery and Pauline in a convent? Instead of gaining an affectionate and brilliant son, she was to lose her daughter. He could not endure the situation for long and, after muttering an excuse and kissing the two on their foreheads, he left. Everything had turned out different to what he had expected. Pauline had accepted his withdrawal with no faintest outcry of pain. She had seemed even more willing to retreat from him than he from her. Now Clara’s staunch tenderness for them both oppressed him to the point of tears. In truth his eyes were wet when he kissed Clara, and he experienced a filial uprooting in his breast that was more painful than his farewell to Pauline.
The two women watched his slender figure, so quickly absorbed into the twilight. A shadowy moon appeared above the trees and a smell of wet earth rose from the fields.
Clara, sitting on the step, lighted a cigarette, its flare discovering her blunt blonde features set in an expression of affectionate concern. Pauline swayed softly in a hammock in the shelter of the verandah. She curled herself up and put an arm across her eyes. She waited for Clara to speak.
Clara did so in her usual matter-of-fact tone. “What’s up, darling? Anything you can tell me?”
Pauline’s answer startled her. “Yes, Mummie. So much that I don’t know where to begin.”
“Nothing worrying, I hope?”
“I’m afraid you will not be very happy about it.”
So many vicissitudes had come to Clara Lebraux that her spirit was alert with its answer of defence. Now, in a veiled tone, she said:
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Pauline. I’m ready to face most things, you know.”
Pauline lay curled up, as though she would make herself physically remote from Clara’s anxious maternity. She answered, almost coldly:
“Wakefield and I — he came to tell me that he doesn’t want to be engaged any more. He is going to enter a monastery.”
“Oh, my darling!” The exclamation was sharp with anger against Wakefield and fierce with pity for Pauline. “How could he? How dare he? That church … all my married life…. He can’t do such a cruel thing to you! Why didn’t you tell me while he was here?”
“I wanted to be alone with you.”
Clara threw away her cigarette and her hand groped toward Pauline in the dusk. Pauline took it in both of hers.
Clara said — “You know that I wouldn’t have made a scene. But I should have talked sound sense to him. He’s a romantic boy and he is simply carried away by the vision of a mediaeval life. But to have him treat you like this! I won’t bear it!”
Pauline interrupted — “It doesn’t matter nearly so much as you think.”
“Not matter! Why, darling — what are you saying?”
Pauline’s body swayed with the deep breath she drew.
“Mummie, I have never really loved Wakefield. I’ve tried to and often thought I had succeeded — and I do love him but — not in the way you want to love the man you’re going to marry. There is only one way for that, isn’t there?”
Clara came to the side of the hammock and took Pauline in her arms.
“No, no, there are different ways. Many different ways. That’s the wonderful and strange thing about it. There are different ways.”
Pauline said stubbornly — “There is only one way for me, and I’ve never loved Wakefield like that. Perhaps it was wrong for me to be willing to marry him but I was willing.”
She gave a strange little laugh. “I took a lot of pleasure in preparing for it but it was a kind of game of pretence. It was as though I was pretending it was someone else I was marrying.”
Clara shrank from something in her voice. She was afraid that Pauline was going to say something that would be even more painful than what had gone before.
Pauline was helpless against a desire for further self-disclosure. What she had so assiduously guarded she longed to bring into the light, even though she knew what it would cost them both. She said almost defiantly:
“I don’t suppose you’ve even guessed the real truth. You’ve had no idea, have you, that I’ve really loved another man?”
Even in that dim light she saw the whiteness of Clara’s face, how all its wholesome sunburnt colour fled from it, leaving it white and drawn. They had been isolated too much together, the understanding between them was too deep to make the speaking of his name necessary. Clara turned and went to the
edge of the verandah. She said, in a heavy, choking voice:
“You have felt this way about him for a long time, I suppose.”
“For years.”
The words were dragged from Clara against her will. “Does he know?”
The jealousy which Pauline had felt for Clara now rose from its smouldering to a cruel flame.
“Yes,” she breathed, and kept her face turned from her mother.
Clara asked — “What does he feel?” A cold sweat broke out on her lips. She was so afraid of what Pauline’s answer would he. She felt herself unable to bear it. She sat down again on the steps and buried her head in her arms.
She is afraid, thought Pauline, she is terribly afraid that he has made love to me too. It would be unbearable to her to think he had kissed me. But if only I had something worth confessing, I should be glad! I don’t think I could stop myself from telling her.
She said, almost humbly — “He loves me as a child, nothing more.”
It seemed to Clara that her heart was eager for suffering that night. Every remark that Pauline made, even one like the last which should have been a relief, cut her cruelly. She said:
“You have been unlucky in your love, Pauline. It’s very hard for you, my darling. I don’t know what to say to help you. I simply don’t know what to say. It’s so unbearable to me to see you suffer.”
Pauline’s disclosure had given her relief. She felt a new compassion for her mother and a sense, already cloistered, of watching the world from a different plane. She scarcely realized what significance her next words would have for Clara. She spoke them almost indifferently.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 335
