03 Mary Wakefield (12 page)

Mary examined all the presents but her mind was not there. She was thinking, “What is going on behind the closed door of the drawing-room? What are they saying about me? For some reason they are not pleased with me.” She longed for a word, a glance from Philip to give her confidence.

It was with difficulty that she persuaded the children to carry their presents up to the schoolroom. But at last this was accomplished. Still she could not persuade them to go to bed. They must first go downstairs to say good night to their elders. It was not a question of allowing them to go. They swept past her and scampered down the stairs.

Mary stood by the windows looking out. The air was full of moisture and a threatening heaviness. Sheet lightning flashed almost constantly behind the trees that rose beyond the ravine, the ravine where she had sat reading to Philip Whiteoak. She felt cut off from any such pleasant intercourse with him now. From now onward all those people below would stand between. She was alone in this house full of people. Her head throbbed and she pressed her temples. That word
alone
! The close-knit family below had no room for her. And why should they? One day she would disappear, leaving no impression behind her — no more than had Miss Cox or Miss Turnbull. No impression on Philip Whiteoak? Oh, surely, surely he would hold a faint remembrance of her in his breast. She could endure the thought of his forgetting her, because she did not really believe in it, but the thought of his remembering her brought tears stinging her eyes. She heard the children coming up the stairs, putting down their feet hard to make sure that all the household heard what they were doing.

They had come from the dining-room where supper was in progress. Each had been given a taste of whatever they fancied. They were hilarious.

It was long before Mary closed her own door behind her. By that time the storm was drawing nearer. These electrical storms were a source of fear to her. Never before had she experienced any storms equal to them in ferocity. When they came at night they were so much the worse, with the darkness as a background to their sinister
brightness. She wished the children had asked her to stay with them for company but she knew they did not want her. Yet Meg dreaded the roar of thunder. Why did Meg not want her companionship? Mrs. Nettleship was to blame for that, Mary felt sure. If only she would let the children alone! But it was easy to guess her influence on them.

At last the storm passed down the lake. Not even a distant rumble could be heard. Its passing was complete, leaving a great stillness behind. It passed like the dream of a battle and Mary, tired out, fell asleep. She slept dreamlessly in the hot night for an hour or more, and then the storm came back. It swept majestically up the lake, retracing its course, gathering itself together as for a display of pomp and terror. As yet no rain fell, though the trembling of the leaves might well have been mistaken for rain. They trembled against each other with a pattering sound.

Mary sprang up at the first crash. She was dazed and, for a moment, could not collect her thoughts. She crouched, with thudding heart waiting for the next clap. Simultaneously with it the room sprang to life in a pinkish glare picking out every smallest detail, giving a transparent vivid beauty to the fruit and shells beneath the glass. The thunder crashed above the very roof. Mary cried out in terror but her cry was no more than the squeak of a mole in its burrow.

She must go and see if the children were all right! The air in the room was stifling. Her hair clung damply to her temples. She drew on her dressing-gown and hastened to Meg’s room. A strong draught greeted her in the doorway. She heard Meg crying, and flew to her side.

“I’m here, dear,” she said, putting her arms about the child.

Meg clung to her. “Shut the window!” she sobbed.

“Oh, what a fool I am!” Mary cried and flew to shut the window. As she did so, another flash of lightning fairly blinded her and a crash of thunder shook the universe.

Meg screamed and Mary almost staggered to her, sitting on the side of the bed, gripping her in her arms.

“Light the lamp,” sobbed Meg.

With trembling hands Mary struck a match and lighted the oil lamp. It had a white china shade with pink roses on it and once, in a state of temper, Meg had scratched off one of the roses with her nail.

Now the light calmed her. She looked up at Mary out of tear-blurred eyes. “Don’t go,” she said, then, as a fresh crash thundered, she cried, “I want Papa to come!”

“Won’t I do?”

“No. Tell Papa to come. I’m frightened.”

“Papa’s here,” said a voice from the doorway.

Philip, dressed in shirt and trousers, came into the room.

“It’s a snorter, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly, almost as though in praise of the storm.

“Come here! Come here!” cried Meg, “and sit on my bed!”

He sat down and she scrambled on to his knee, clasping him tightly about the neck.

“Have you shut Renny’s windows?” he asked of Mary. Then exclaimed, “Why — you are frightened too! Aren’t you a silly pair!”

With his tranquil presence in the room Mary’s fear had already subsided. Her heart beat less heavily. But she was humiliated that she had forgotten Renny’s windows. With an exclamation of dismay she ran to his room. The passage was brilliant in a blaze of lightning. Both windows in his room stood open. In the wild draught between them Mary’s thin dressing-gown bellied like a sail. With her golden hair loose about her shoulders she entered the room like an angel in some old painting.

Renny was standing naked in front of one of the windows looking out at the storm. The lofty peal of thunder that now reverberated among the clouds, did not make him flinch. He stood motionless, the rain which was now falling fast, blowing over his naked white body. Then darkness came again and out of it Mary spoke.

“Renny! You
are
naughty! Don’t you know how dangerous it is to stand in a draught in a storm?”

She groped her way, feeling the carpet wet beneath her bare feet, to the windows and drew them down. As she closed the
window at which he stood his small wet hands gripped hers and tried to restrain her.

“I want it open,” he said, “I like it.”

Simultaneously came a fiery flash and a terrific explosion. Mary uttered a moan of terror.

“You’re afraid!” he laughed. “But I love it! I love it! I wish it would keep up all night.” He began to dance and prance, his slim body illuminated by a steady flickering.

Fear made Mary strong. She snatched up his night-shirt from the floor, captured him, and thrust him into it. She took him by the hand and dragged him to Meg’s room. But, when he saw his father there, he ran from her and threw himself against Philip. He caught up Philip’s hand and rubbed his cheek on it.

“Papa!” he cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I want you always to come.”

Philip, between them, laughed up at Mary. He hugged them to him. There were sounds in the rooms below. People were talking. She hesitated, wondering if she should go back to her own room.

“The storm is lessening,” Philip said. “It will soon be over.”

The children chattered. They asked for drinks of water.

An odd tremulous domestic atmosphere was created. Was Philip conscious of it? But it was impossible to read his thoughts. Perhaps she was making no more impression on him than Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had. Suddenly he said:

“Well, my family are back.”

This was so obvious that it seemed no comment was necessary.

“Quite a lot of ’em,” he said.

“Yes. The house seems quite full.”

“They’re like that.”

“They’re very — distinguished-looking.”

“Especially my mother. Don’t you be afraid of her. She’s peppery but she’s really kind-hearted.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t a strong character.”

“Not strong! But I think you have. It took strength of character to come out here, so far from home.”

“I had no home.”

“Miss Wakefield,” he said seriously, “I want you to tell me something —”

She interrupted him by a glance at the children. She could not speak of herself, of her feelings, not with Meg’s inquisitive eyes on her, the possibility that what was said would be repeated in the kitchen.

Philip looked puzzled, then understanding.

Lady Buckley’s voice came from below. “Philip! Are you with the children?”

He went to the door and called back. “Yes. I’m in Meggie’s room.”

“Are the children all right?”

“Quite all right. I’m coming down in a jiffy. The storm is over.”

He took Renny back to his own room. Mary tucked up Meg where she lay very still, looking up at her with a cool considering gaze. Mary could see that she did not want to be kissed. She said:

“Please, Miss Wakefield, leave the lamp burning.”

“But it will soon be daylight.”

“I want the lamp, please.”

“You won’t touch it?”

“No. I promise.”

Mary lowered the lamp. She left the room, closing the door behind her. There was quiet. A cool breeze was blowing in at Renny’s window. A myriad drops were falling from the leaves like a slow sweet rain.

Philip came into the passage, closing the door of Renny’s room. Mary said hurriedly:

“I’m sorry. I must have seemed abrupt. But … the children… Not that it mattered. But — you were going to ask me something?”

“Yes. Are you happy at Jalna? Do you —” he looked straight into her eyes — “like us? I mean the children and me.”

She could not answer. She could find neither words nor voice to utter words.

He persisted. “You do like the children, don’t you?”

Her voice shook as she answered, “Yes. Oh, yes, I like them very much.”

“Well, that’s the important thing. But I feel this about you. You’re too sensitive. By Jove, if things went wrong, you’d take it very hard. I hate to think how you’d take it.”

She exclaimed, almost harshly, “You asked me if I liked the children and I said I did. And you asked me if I liked you and — I do. How can I help? You’re so —”

“That’s splendid,” he interrupted. “Now you go straight to bed. You’re overwrought by the storm. You’ll feel a wreck tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” He touched her arm in a comforting gesture and went down the stairs.

Mary could hear voices below. He had left her so suddenly she wondered if he had thought his sister was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairway. She went into her own room and closed the door.

It was not quite dark. A moist grey twilight showed behind the trees. There was a steady drip from the leaves. Mary put her hands on the foot of the bed to steady herself. She said, as though speaking aloud to someone on the bed, “But I don’t
like
him. I
love
him … I love him.” She repeated the words over and over and felt calmer. She repeated his name.

Then she remembered how he had cut her short. Had he seen that she was about to give herself away — say something foolish? She had a moment’s wild desire to run down the stairs and beat on the panel of his door and call out a denial. She thought of all the other people, from all the other rooms, coming forth in amazement and scorn. Most clearly she pictured Philip’s mother, mounting from her richly coloured lair like a tigress to protect her son.

“And he cares nothing for me,” Mary thought, “no more than he cared for Miss Cox or Miss Turnbull!”

She was shivering. She crept into bed and drew the covers over her head but she did not sleep again.

In the morning she put on her dark blue skirt and white shirt-waist. She looked pale and wan. After breakfast she gathered the children into the schoolroom and shut the door. Meg was
weary too and lolled across her copy book. Renny insisted on standing with his arm about Mary’s neck while she taught him his multiplication table. By no other means could she persuade him to be still.

A
DELINE WHITEOAK HAD
slept well and she felt singularly refreshed. The storm had cleared the air, leaving the countryside fresh washed, with all its outlines sharp, as though etched. The shout of a man driving a team in a distant field could be distinctly heard in her bedroom.

The thought crossed her mind as she was dressing that it was a pity women’s clothes were so cumbersome. It would be grand, she thought, to have on no more than shirt and trousers, like that fellow in the field. She grinned when she pictured what she would look like in them. Still, she would look better than most women. Thank goodness, she had never got broad across the beam or thick through the breast. With something of complacency she put herself into her long, whale-boned stays, each metal fastening snapping sharply into place. She put on a black cashmere dress. She put on a heavy gold chain and locket. As she held the locket in her hand she raised it to her lips and pressed a kiss on it. This she did every morning because of the lock of hair inside.

The dining-room was empty for she had slept late and this rather pleased her. She liked having the first meal of the day in solitude, with only the pleasant, familiar sounds of home about her. On this morning, after an absence of months, they were particularly
pleasing. Among the vines outside the window young birds were twittering as their parents fed them. A turkey gobbler let forth his boastful shout. A man was raking the gravel of the drive. Adeline smiled as she drew the large linen napkin from its silver ring and tucked one corner of it under her chin. She was not going to risk a drop of milk on the front of her dress. The porridge was delicious, cracked wheat, and cooked till it was almost transparent. As for the milk! She had not tasted any to equal it while she was away. After the porridge she had a dish of ripe raspberries, smothered in cream, two thick slices of toast well-buttered, and three cups of strong tea. As she ate, her eyes roved about the room, taking in first one object and then another, savouring their familiarity and how well they were cared for. Once her eyes rested on the two portraits, but not for long. They were too lifelike — herself and her Philip in their prime. She could look at the portrait of herself with a little appreciative smile, thinking — ha, I was like that! A handsome girl! But the two of them together, he in his fine uniform, she in her yellow satin ball-dress, brought memories too poignant to be borne. How they had loved! The paltry loves of most people were, in her opinion, scarcely to be considered. The love, for instance, of Nicholas and his wife, and young Philip and his. Not that she had never looked at another man. She wasn’t the sort of woman to fasten her feminine egotism on to one object, to stifle the loved one’s spirit by her unremitting concentration. Adeline’s nature was too lavish for that. But she had had only one great love.