03 Mary Wakefield (20 page)

“We were talking of Miss Pink’s playing,” Mary looked straight into his eyes.

He returned cheerfully, “Lily’s a wonder. She looks so cool and remote. Yet who can tell what’s in her? A bit of the devil, I sometimes think, eh, Lily?”

She turned and left them, almost running along the road, the gladioli bobbing on her arm.

“Now I’ve upset her. I shouldn’t have said that.” Philip stared after the retreating figure.

“Was she always so shy?”

“Ever since I’ve known her and I’ve known her all her life. But she’s getting worse. I’m inclined to think she dislikes me.”

For an instant Mary felt like telling him the truth. “Dislike you! Why, she loves you madly.” But she said:

“I think it would do her good to get away for a bit. She’s far too sensitive.”

“Yes. It doesn’t do. I’m afraid you are inclined to be like that too.”

“But in quite a different way.”

“You know, Miss Wakefield,” he cut at a thistle with a switch he was carrying, “I’ve been intending to tell you how sorry I am that my mother spoke to you as she did on the night of the dance. But she’s like that. She’ll come down on you like a thousand tons of brick and then forget all about it.”

Mary’s lips felt stiff as she answered, “But she hasn’t forgotten. I’m sure she dislikes me. So does Lady Buckley. It’s horrible to be disliked.”

“No, no, they don’t dislike you.”

“I think I ought to go.”

“The children and I — why, we’d be disconsolate.”

That cut her, to hear him speak of his feelings and the children’s as comparable. It meant just one thing. He had been dallying with her. There had been nothing of real feeling in him. Now he was shielding behind his children. She hardened herself to say:

“Of course, if I’m giving satisfaction…”

“Satisfaction!” he repeated warmly. “Your being here has meant so much more than that. You’ve been so” — he hesitated, then found a word he could use — “so congenial to me. I want you to feel that you’re needed.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“And you won’t talk of leaving?”

A cloud of dust showed the approach of Doctor Ramsey in his buggy. He drew in his mare and saluted the two on the road with a grim smile.

“The drought continues,” he said. “I doubt if we’ll have good crops next year.”

“The rain will come,” said Philip easily.

“Out West the land is famished for water.”

“I must say I enjoy this weather,” said Philip.

“Naturally. You have the temperament to enjoy the passing pleasure, with no concern for the future. It’s a good way to be, eh, Miss Wakefield?” Without waiting for an answer he demanded abruptly:

“Can I give either of you a lift? I have room for only one.”

“Thank you but I am going the other way. And I need the exercise. Good morning.” Mary began to walk quickly along the road.

Philip looked pensively after her, then climbed into the buggy beside his father-in-law.

“A nice geerl,” observed Dr. Ramsey. “It’s a pity she’s so delicate.”

“Is she delicate? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You don’t think she looks strong, do you?”

“Well, perhaps not exactly
strong
, but healthy, I think.”

“I wish I could agree with you. She has a weak heart. I could tell that by the way she breathed. She should not take these long walks. Also, I fear her lungs may not be good. Poor geerl. She is lucky to have a nice quiet home with you.”

They were meeting another buggy. It was driven by Clive Busby whose visit to the Vaughans was long extended. For some reason which he did not analyse Philip always encountered him with a feeling of distaste. Now he craned round the side of the buggy top to look after him. The young Westerner had given too confident a grin. His necktie had too gay a stripe. Was he going to settle down on the Vaughans for the autumn? Certainly they must be tired of him. He saw the buggy stop, Clive Busby alight and assist Mary to the seat. Doctor Ramsey was amiably talking. The mare jogged peacefully on.

“What luck,” Clive Busby was saying, “to overtake you. As a matter of fact I knew you were walking because I’ve been to Jalna with the sailboat I made for Renny and the children told me you had come this way.”

“You are so kind to the children. You do so many nice things for them.”

He turned to look at her. He was breathing rather quickly. “I think you know why,” he said. “It isn’t for the children’s sake.”

He had one of the nicest faces she had ever seen, she thought. He was a man who, young as he was, people were always confiding in, telling their troubles to, confident of his sympathy. In the weeks since the dance he had managed to spend a good deal of time with her. She had been conscious of his drawing nearer and nearer to her with every meeting. There was something deadly in it, like the growth of a quickly-growing tree in front of a little house, protective, but shutting off the outer world, the light, freedom. All the while she liked him better, felt more and more confidence in him, found him so easy to understand. The Whiteoaks she never would understand, she thought. They
were always making new combinations, expanding impressively, taking in all that was around them, then contracting into an impenetrable knot. Sometimes she wished she were a thousand miles from them, a thousand miles from the one she loved. Well — she might well go a thousand miles — two thousand — how far was it to the prairies?

Clive Busby was saying, “You know, I can just see you out in the West, with the wind blowing your hair and the length and breadth of the land about you. I’d be afraid to tell you how often I’ve pictured you there.”

It was coming! She almost put out her hands to hold it off. She said:

“I’m afraid I’m not the sort pioneers are made of.”

“But you are!” he exclaimed eagerly. “You are. You have no idea how many of your sort go out to the West and like it. It’s a grand life. Nothing would induce them to come back to the East. Oh, Miss Wakefield — do you mind if I call you Mary?”

“I’d like it.”

“And will you call me Clive?”

“I always think of you as Clive.”

He turned his alarming blue eyes on her. They made her glad his hands were occupied with the reins. “Do you really? Well, that shows you like me, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. I feel as though I’d known you for years.”

“And yet we’ve gone on Mistering and Missing each other! Me
Missing
you! There’s a pun for you. A pretty bad one, I admit. But I can’t afford to miss you. You’re the only girl in the world for me. I hadn’t intended to say this today. I had it all fixed up to propose to you by the light of the new moon and here I am doing it out on the road in a buggy!”

Suddenly her mouth went perfectly dry. Her lips were stiff as she got out, “It’s as good a place as any but —”

He took the reins in one hand and laid the other on her two clasped hands, pressing them together, as though they represented himself and herself and he was uniting them in marriage.

“Mary —” he lingered on her name — “don’t say no. We were made for each other. I tell you, if you search the world over, you won’t find another man who loves you as I do.”

She looked down at his strong hand, with the tan of the prairies on it. She felt the comfort, yes, the comfort of his presence. She pictured herself thousands of miles away from this place where nobody cared for her, secure in the shelter of Clive Busby’s love. She who had no one in all the world, would have him. She would no longer be alone, wondering what this one thought, wondering what that one thought, surrounded by undercurrents, stifled by people, yet alone. She would be in a house with a man whose presence was comfort and security, and, beyond the house, the clear flat land, stretching to the radiant horizon.

“But, Clive,” she began.

“Say it again,” he interrupted. “It’s wonderful to hear you say my name. Say it again… Mary.”

She was not getting on with her rejection of him. Before she realized it she would be accepting him. He looked so eager it went to her heart. “Clive,” she repeated, and it was borne in on her how happy she could make him. What better could she do with her life than to make him happy?

“Yes —” he prompted — “you’re saying yes, aren’t you, Mary!”

“Give me time. I can’t answer today.”

“How long? Tomorrow?”

“No. A week.”

His face fell. “A week then. But I’ve already been away a week — still, if you want a week, Mary dear — I’ll wait. God knows I’d wait a year, if I thought you’d say yes at the end of it… Mary — there’s no one else, is there?”

“No one else wants to marry me.”

“Thank goodness for that. I thought I had to compete with some rich fellow. Someone — like Philip Whiteoak.”

“Oh, no.”

“Mary, I believe you’ll say yes — in a week. May I see you every day, in the meantime?”

“No, not once.”

“Not once?” He looked despairing.

“No… Please, Clive.”

“Very well. I’ll try to bear it but it will almost kill me.” With a grim look he took his hand from hers, gripped the reins and flapped them on the horse’s back. The horse broke into an ambling pretence of going faster. The sun came out hotter, the golden-rod blazed in the ditches.

Lily was walking up the aisle of the church, the gladioli resting on her arm. Strangely the church looked even smaller when it was empty. The stained glass windows seemed very near her. Their sumptuous colours were reflected in the flowers she carried. She walked gracefully as though a long train fell behind her. She walked with dignity, as though every eye in a crowded church were on her.

When she reached the steps of the chancel she halted there a space, with closed eyes. The figure of Philip Whiteoak, in a Prince Albert coat, with a white carnation in the button-hole, had been waiting for her. Now they moved closer, till they stood side by side. Her father, in cassock and surplice, was about to begin the wedding ceremony.

So Lily stood, going through the service, word by word, inaudibly making the responses, in her imagination hearing Philip’s voice repeat the words assigned to him. Was he placing the ring on her finger? What was she doing? Perhaps this pretence was wicked! She opened her eyes. The emptiness, the silence of the church was frightening. What would her mother think if she knew what play-acting she was up to? Surely she was a wicked girl. Surely she had, as Philip Whiteoak said, a bit of the devil in her. A bit of devil… devil… She could not help laughing as the word echoed through her mind. She actually shook with silent laughter and the gladioli trembled.

Then she pulled herself together. She went to the vestry and got the two brass vases for the flowers. She went outdoors to the
pump and filled them with water. She raised her innocent face to the sky and thought how blue it was. She looked down at the stream below the churchyard and saw how it reflected the blue sky. The vases were ice-cold in her hands.

She carried the flowers to the chancel and placed them reverently on the altar. She backed away a few steps and stood admiring them… Then she went and sat down before the organ. Her hands were cold and wet from being under the pump. She rubbed the palms on her skirt.

In another moment the music of Mendelsohn’s “Wedding March” filled the church.

I
N THESE WEEKS
the mind of Ernest Whiteoak had been greatly disturbed but until now he had been able to keep his anxiety to himself. He had lost money in Crystal Palace A shares. He had lost money in Breweries. He had lost money in Cotton. He had been fooled by a broker into buying shares on margin. More and more good money had been thrown away to retain his shares. He was indeed playing with capital that was not his. He was gambling on market changes and only had to put up a small proportion of the sum at stake. This had given his somewhat credulous nature a false feeling of power. He was even less fitted to gamble on the stock market than was Nicholas, but his earlier successes made him bold.

Now he bitterly regretted leaving England. His communications with his broker had of necessity been made by cable. He was positive that if he had been on the spot, he could have managed his affairs effectively.

The latest messages he had received had made him incapable of clear thought. His mind was too confused by his losses to be able to do more than reiterate, “If only I had been there!”

He had been so sure that not only was he going to augment
his fortune, as indeed for a time he had, but that he would double it. Now, with a sinking heart, he sought out his brother Nicholas.

Nicholas was sunning himself on the rustic seat, beneath a stately silver birch that grew in the centre of the lawn. Between his feet sat Jake, gazing up into his face with ecstasy, as Nicholas fondled his ears and gently tickled the back of his neck.

Ernest came swiftly across the grass and stood in front of his brother.

Nicholas looked up. Then he saw the expression on Ernest’s face and asked, “Anything wrong?”

Ernest gave a groan of affirmation. Then sat down on the bench beside him.

“Wrong! It could scarcely be worse. New Gaston Mining stock has fallen from 3 1/8 to 1/2.”

“Ha! What can you do about it?”

“Nothing. South Eastern Railway has declined.”

Nicholas turned his large eyes sympathetically on his brother.

“Hard luck,” he muttered.

“If only I’d been in England, I’d have got out of it in time.”

“I wonder. I didn’t, you know.”

“Nick, you haven’t the flair for speculation that I have. Oh, if only I had been there!” He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down.

“There is one thing certain,” said Nicholas. “We shall have to draw in our horns when we go back to London.”

“Nick, when I have sifted the dregs of this catastrophe, I think I shall find myself a poor man.”

“Surely it isn’t as bad as that.”

“Nick, I shall have to spend more time at Jalna.”

“Yes. There’s always Jalna.”

“Oh, if only I were in England now!”

“You couldn’t have done anything, old man.”

“Curse that broker.”

“Only a few weeks ago you seemed quite pleased with him — and yourself.”