03 Mary Wakefield (31 page)

“The fact remains,” said Philip, “that she said that to my mother last night. You can’t be more astounded than I am to hear it.”

“I won’t believe she said any such thing. Your mother imagined it.”

“My mother is not in the habit of imaging things of that nature.”

“You have treated me badly. You knew Mary and I were engaged.”

“Not till I came home yesterday.”

“Then you went straight to her and tried to push me out!”

“Yes. Because I intend to marry her.”

“Mary will never jilt me. She’s too honourable.”

“Would you marry a girl who —”

“I will not discuss her!” interrupted Clive. “I’ll find her and she will tell me the truth.”

“That’s all I ask. I’ll come with you.”

They turned, side by side, and came out on the gravel sweep before the house. Clive untied the horse and got into the buggy. His eyes met Philip’s with a look of mingled hurt and hate. He said:

“I’m going to Montreal by the next train.”

“So am I. But there’s not another till tomorrow morning.”

“It’s a long while to wait.”

Without another word Clive drove away and down the road. I shall never, he thought, enter those gates again.

Instead of turning the horse toward Vaughanlands he drove to the railway station. Better make sure that Mary really had gone by the train.

The stationmaster did not hurry to appear at the wicket. Clive forced himself to ask coolly:

“Can you tell me whether Miss Wakefield went on the train to Montreal this morning?”

“H’m. She the young lady up at Jalna?”

“Yes.”

The stationmaster grinned. “She missed the train. It’s funny in a country place like this, folks could miss a train with nothing else to do but catch it. But she missed it all right.”

“Did you notice what way she went afterward?”

“Well, she sat a while and then she went out very quiet and took the road to Stead. I reckon she planned to spend the night at the hotel and take the morning train to the city and change there for Montreal. You see this here’s only a local line. Or she might take this evening’s train to the city and stay there for the night. Whatever she does she’s got to change trains in the city.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. Thanks very much.”

She had missed the train! If he drove straight to Stead he might be able to find her there in the hotel. He got into the buggy and set out along the lakeshore road. Colour had returned to his face but his head felt as though an iron band encircled it. A feeling of terrible urgency made him drive the horse at a gallop along the road. He would not be able to rest till he had come face to face with Mary, had wrung the meaning of all this bewilderment from her.

He enquired for her at the hotel in Stead. He went to a smaller, very poor hotel and enquired there. He went to the railway station. She had not been seen in any of these places. He came to the conclusion that Mary had a friend in Stead with whom she was staying. There was nothing to do but wait till the evening train.

He drove back to Vaughanlands and put the horse in its stall. The tightness in his head had developed into a raging headache. He lay on a sofa and kind Mrs. Vaughan made him tea and rubbed camphor on his head. She tried to lead him on to talk of his trouble but, when she saw the misery in his eyes when she tentatively touched on the subject, she fell silent, putting all her sympathy into the stroking of his forehead. If she knew all, he thought, what would she think? His spirit writhed at the remembrance of what Philip had told him.

Somehow the rest of the day passed and again he drove to the railway station at Stead. She was not there. He had told the Vaughans that possibly he might be away for the night. He was thankful he would be able to spend it alone. He had several drinks in the bar of the hotel, then went to bed. He slept better than he had expected, a heavy almost dreamless sleep.

Next morning, in a heavy downpour of rain he walked to the railway station. Mary was not among the sleepy passengers waiting for the train. Neither had she appeared when it drew out. He went back to the hotel and forced down some breakfast. He tried to think what he should do next. He could not go to every house in Stead and ask for her, yet he was sure she must be there. When the rain had eased he walked doggedly through the streets of the village, looking up at the houses, hoping to see her face at a window.

At last he decided to drive back to the Vaughans’. It was possible that there he might hear news of Mary. He heard nothing but Robert Vaughan casually remark that Philip Whiteoak had gone to Montreal. Clive smiled grimly to think of that wild-goose chase. He went out and wandered through the dark woods where Mary and he had walked hand in hand, planning the future which now looked as gloomy to him as these dripping trees shedding their summer’s pride.

In late afternoon he drove again to Stead and searched for her at the station. Again he spent the night in the hotel and repeated the vain search on the following morning. He began to be in a panic. Mary had drowned herself! She had gone out of her mind
and drowned herself in the lake. As he drove homeward he looked in growing apprehension at the tumbling green waves. To him, a Westerner, the lake was an ocean. The gulls hovered above something in the water. Clive’s heart froze with fear. Then he saw that it was a log. He stopped at several houses and asked if anyone there had seen Mary. The woman who had given her tea and a bun was one of these. She looked with curiosity at Clive and enlarged on Mary’s look of weariness and how she herself had felt worried about her.

The horse needed no encouragement to hasten back to the stable.

Mrs. Vaughan met Clive with a letter in her hand.

“Miss Craig’s man brought this, Clive,” she said, so anxious to help him with looks of sympathy, longing to put her arms about him and comfort him, as though he were her own son.

Clive tore open the letter and read:

“Dear Mr. Busby,

“Mary Wakefield is staying with me. I think it would be a good thing if you were to come and see her. She doesn’t know I am writing to you but I am sure she is still very attached to you. If you come let it be today and please ask for me.

“Sincerely,

“Muriel Craig.”

M
ARY HEARD THE
light but decisive tap on the door twice before she could drag herself from the well of sleep into which she had sunk. At first she could not remember where she was. Why was she lying on the floor? Had she fainted and fallen there? The knock came again and a voice.

“Miss Wakefield! Mary! May I come in?”

Mary staggered to her feet. She was aching in every muscle.

“Just a moment,” she called. She threw the comforter on to the bed and opened the door. Her eyes, glazed by exhaustion and deep sleep could scarcely focus on the figure in the doorway, so trim, so alert.

“What a draught!” exclaimed Muriel Craig. “It’s a wonder you weren’t blown out of the bed. But you didn’t lie down! Goodness! I was sure you’d lie down and have a sleep.”

“I sat in that nice big chair,” said Mary, “with the comforter wrapped round me. I slept like a log.”

“Really.” The word somehow expressed disapproval. “You look completely washed out and chilled. Let me feel your hand. Why, it’s icy. And you must be starved too. I kept lunch back as long as I could to give you a chance to rest but now my father’s clamouring
for it. You can’t imagine what my life is! Between his demands and his nurse’s I’m driven almost crazy.”

She had seated herself to wait for Mary who would have given a good deal to tidy herself in privacy. Her hands shook as she opened her portmanteau and took out her brush and comb.

“What nice hair you have,” Muriel Craig said, as Mary’s silky hair flew before the brush. “And fine too, though not so fine as mine. Mine is a perfect nuisance, it’s so fine. These peculiarities are a nuisance, aren’t they? It’s the same with my instep. It’s so high I have a terrible time getting shoes to fit me. After this I think I shall have them made to order.”

“What a nuisance,” said Mary.

“Of course, some people admire them. But I don’t.” She put forward a perfectly shod foot and studied it with great concentration. “Another trying thing is my tiny waist. Have you noticed it? I never can get my skirtbands to fit properly. Dressmakers are so stupid … I had not heard that Mrs. Whiteoak was home from her visit till I met you. Did she have a nice time?”

“I think so.”

“I like the simple way you do your hair. It suits you … I suppose her son came with her?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Should you like to go to the bathroom and wash your hands?”

She led the way and waited in the passage for Mary, who felt a little refreshed after bathing her face in warm water. They descended the stairs together. Mr. Craig was already seated at table with his nurse and excused himself from rising.

“You’ll have to pardon my bad manners,” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Craig,” exclaimed his nurse, “your manners are beautiful.”

“Nurse says my manners are beautiful,” he remarked to Mary. “Some people are easily pleased, aren’t they?” He wanted to talk all through the meal about his illness and the wonderful care he had had. He was confused as to which hand should hold his knife and which his fork, till the nurse put him right with her air of
whimsical encouragement. Her beady eyes sparkled at all his little jokes but his daughter’s pale gaze seemed to try to ignore him.

Mary felt more unreal than ever she had felt in all her life. Her brain was numbed and she was grateful for Mr. Craig’s little jokes, for them she could understand and smile at. He could not say enough in praise of Doctor Ramsey and his treatment of him.

“There’s a fine man,” he said, in his slow, rather thick voice. “There’s a grand man. And he’s got a grand son-in-law, too. Mr. Philip Whiteoak. Do you know him?”

“Miss Wakefield has been governess to Mr. Whiteoak’s children, Father,” his daughter put in impatiently. “Surely you knew that.”

“Forgot,” he muttered.

“Naughty forgetful man!” cooed the nurse, patting his hand.

“I can tell you someone who admires
him
,” Mr. Craig said. “My daughter. That girl there. But she won’t get him. He’s not going to take a second wife, Doctor Ramsey tells me. He’s devoted to the memory of his first wife.”

Muriel Craig’s face had grown angry red, but she was silent.

“And that’s right too, isn’t it, Miss Wakefield! I’m sure you don’t approve of second marriages. Neither do I. I had a wonderful wife. What you’d call a perfect helpmate. But … she wasn’t sympathetic. I’d never have come through this sickness without sympathy.”

“You’re very much better, aren’t you?” said Mary.

“Better! Why, I’m coming on like a house afire.”

He made a wide gesture that overturned his glass of milk. The nurse quickly began to mop it up with her table napkin.

“Naughty boy!” she chuckled.

He caught a string of her apron in his hand. “Tied to her apron strings — that’s what I am!” he declared dramatically, addressing the ceiling.

The first pumpkin pie of the season was on the table and a large dish of purple grapes. Muriel Craig was too angry to touch either. As soon as Mary and she could escape she led Mary to the verandah. They sat down side by side in the hammock.

“My father talks like an old fool,” Muriel said vehemently. “He’s always trying to be funny and he certainly doesn’t succeed, except in the eyes of that imbecile nurse. Don’t you dislike her?”

Mary could say with truth that she did not see much to like in her.

“It’s so nice to have you here,” said Muriel, putting an arm about her and gently swaying in the hammock. “I have very few real friends.”

After a silence in which Mary desperately tried to think of something worth saying, Muriel remarked:

“You have such a nice skin it seems a pity you put powder on it. My mother always said to me, ‘Muriel, you have a flawless complexion. Don’t ever powder your face,’ and I never have. Would you like me better with powder?”

“I admire you as you are.”

“It’s a good thing someone admires me.”

“I think everyone I know admires you.”

“Do you think Philip Whiteoak does?” Her large clear eyes looked straight into Mary’s.

Mary laughed. “He would scarcely confide that to me.”

“He might. Doesn’t he ever confide in you?”

“I was at Jalna to look after his children — not as his confidante.”

“But you liked him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. He is very kind.”

“Very kind! Dear me.” Her arm tightened about Mary. “I think you might confide in me. I think you might tell me what the trouble was and why you left Jalna so suddenly.”

“Mrs. Whiteoak and I had words.”

“Heavens! I’ll wager you came off badly. I’d be afraid of her.
Do
tell me about it.”

Mary’s colour rose. “I really can’t.”

“Was it just you two alone?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t know about it?”

“No.”

Muriel put forward her foot and sat in concentrated admiration of her instep before she said, in a thoughtful tone:

“I know someone who is badly smitten on you. But of course everyone knows that.”

Mary looked enquiring.

“Clive Busby. Someone — I forget who it was — told me you were engaged. But you’d never be running off like this, if you were engaged to him. But you could be, if you wanted to. I’m sure of that. One day I met him at a garden party — it was given by some of the officers of the Queen’s Own Rifles — and when I told him how much I admired you his eyes positively shone. Oh, he’s terribly smitten! Don’t tell me he hasn’t proposed.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Mary said coldly. “I’m not at all a communicative person. I hope you don’t mind.”

“But I
do
mind! I want us to swing here together in the hammock and pour out our feelings. I’ve written the letter to my friend in New York and it’s posted.”

“Thank you. That is kind.” Mary put her hand to her eyes. Muriel Craig’s head, enormously magnified, was floating before them. “I’m ashamed to say it but — I must go and lie down again. I feel a little dizzy. It’s very silly of me.”