Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Girls have lied before.”
The child made a sucking movement with its lips and began to cry. Its cry was unexpectedly loud and piercing. The two elderly people trembled like two conspirators. She hushed it with consoling pats.
“Maurice will hear it!”
“I have a mind to carry it to his room and face him with it.”
“No, no, I think I had better go to him.”
“I must see my son myself.” He spoke with authority. He hurriedly drew on his clothes.
“Do be kind to him!”
“If he denies this, I’ll go down on my knees and beg his pardon!”
He repeated these words to himself as he went down the passage to Maurice’s room. He had never had a scene with him in his life. Between himself and his boy there had existed perfect understanding. And now —
He remembered seeing Nicholas Whiteoak, when he was almost the age of Maurice, knocked down by a blow from his father. Captain Whiteoak had thrashed all his boys. His wife had even taken a hand in it. He had heard of the scene of which young Renny had been the centre when he had been suspended from college a month ago.
He opened Maurice’s door softly.
Maurice was lying, his hand under his cheek, his forehead smooth. The blanket was pushed off and beneath the sheet of his body, with the strong legs bent, was the body of a man. Robert Vaughan looked down at him almost fearfully. Out of his slender, delicate body he had begotten this heavily built muscular one. Maurice was like his mother’s people. Yet he had always felt in such close communion with his son. He could not believe, looking at him quietly sleeping, that he had had this shameful secret life. He touched him on the shoulder.
“Maurice!”
His son opened his eyes, blinked, half smiled.
“Yes, Father.” He was not startled. It was not unusual for him to be wakened, to be persuaded to go out to enjoy the beauty of the morning or reminded that his mother liked him to breakfast with her.
“Maurice, sit up and read this.”
Robert Vaughan put the crushed sheet of paper into Maurice’s hand. At the same moment, the baby, as though in anguish of spirit, gave a loud cry in Mrs. Vaughan’s room.
Maurice turned white. His hand that held the note shook. He stared at it fixedly, not able to read.
“Read it,” repeated his father. “Read it aloud.”
Maurice read, in a shaking voice: —
“‘Maurice Vaughan is the father — ’” he stared horrified at his
own father.
“Go on,” said Robert Vaughan gently.
“‘The father of this baby.’”
Again the cry of the child penetrated from the other room.
“She lies!” Maurice burst out.
“Who lies?”
“Elvira Gray.”
“Oh, my God!” Robert Vaughan sank to the side of the bed and covered his face with his hands.
“Father, don’t! I tell you it isn’t true!”
Robert Vaughan began to cry, his whole body shaking convulsively.
“Father! I can’t bear it! What do you want me to say?”
His father uncovered a ravaged face.
“When did you meet this — this Elvira Gray? Where did it happen? Don’t be afraid. Tell me everything.”
Maurice’s misery was complete. The sound of his father’s sobbing, the sight of his face, were terrible to him.
“When did she bring it here?” he asked.
“This morning — before anyone was about. She left it on the step. Its crying woke me.”
“She promised — she promised — !”
“What?”
“To go away. I gave her money.”
“You gave her money…. Yes…. What money, Maurice?”
“Oh, Father, don’t ask me that!”
“No. I don’t need to ask you…. I can guess…. My God, when I think how your mother and I have trusted you — how proud we’ve been of you!”
“Dad, I wish I’d died before I brought such trouble on you!”
“Don’t say that! We must face it together.”
Maurice wrung his hands. His face was distorted by remorse and shame.
“Go on,” said his father sternly.
“Mother and you will never be able to forgive me.”
“Maurice, I beg of you, tell me everything. I must know what to say to the Whiteoaks.”
Maurice groaned.
“If they know the truth of it they will never let Meg marry me.” He felt that he had reached the depths of despair. With his face hidden in his hands he poured out the story of his meetings with Elvira.
M
ESSENGER OF
F
ATE
M
EG WHITEOAK WAS
awake early that morning. She was stirred from her dreams by something new and exciting in the sweet summer air. Or was it some delicate current stirring in her own nerves? She made no attempt to discover which, but lay looking out of half open eyes through the white frilled muslin curtains of her window at the gently moving treetops. She liked to see the trees move gently so, like stately ladies fanning themselves. She liked the indolent morning conversation between two pigeons just above the eaves. She stretched out her bare white arm and let her glance slide along its glistening surface. She noted the pinkness of her palm and her pretty oval nails.
This room and all that was in it were so much a part of her that it was beyond her imagination to picture herself as removed from it. Yet she knew that very soon she would be sharing Maurice’s room at Vaughanlands. She would take some things from this room to make it seem more homelike. The two little Dresden-china girls on the mantelshelf. The water colour by Uncle Ernest of the rose-covered Devon cottage, the sepia print of Queen Louise, and the oval gilt-framed Sistine Madonna that stood on her writing table. She would also like her comfortable stuffed chintz chair and the chenille curtains that hung at her door. Mrs. Vaughan had bought a new bedroom set for the young pair, the bed elaborately brass, the dressing table and washing stand of white enamel. Meg had suggested this herself, for she was tired of heavy walnut and mahogany furniture.
It was surprisingly warm this morning. Summer was really here. A puff of scented air that was almost hot pressed between the curtains and caressed her face and arms. With a strong movement she kicked the bedclothes from her and lay smiling in her long white nightdress. She spread her pink toes to the warm air. She felt deliciously conscious of her body this morning, as though it were a strong young plant rejoicing in its coming fruition.
A thick light brown plait lay over each shoulder and ended in a close glossy curl. She took these curling ends in her hands and dangled them.
She heard a quick snuffling sound beneath her window, then an excited bark. It was her father’s spaniel, Keno, who was never let out in the morning except by Philip. Her father must be up then, off to catch a fish or two before breakfast!
Meg jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She put her head between the curtains and looked down. Her eyes were dancing. Her lips parted in a mischievous smile.
She saw her father in his corduroy Norfolk jacket, wading boots, and a disreputable Panama hat. He had laid his rod on the grass and was taking something from his pocket. It was a pocket comb, and he began at once to comb the wavy black hair of Keno’s ears. The spaniel looked up and saw Meg leaning across the sill. He whimpered with pleasure and tried to prance about, but Philip held him firmly by the ear.
“Quiet, now, Keno! Behave yourself! We must have this loose hair combed out, you know.” He gave the dog a gentle cuff.
Meg’s cheeks dimpled. The stone sill felt cold and hard against her breast, but she did not mind. She pressed closer to it as she leaned out and made encouraging signs to Keno. His eyes were starting with excitement. He licked Philip’s hands and drew away from the comb.
Meg was just going to clap her hands to startle her father when she saw the figure of a man hurrying up the steep path from the ravine. As she turned her face in that direction a rich opulent smell came to her nostrils from the depths of moist earth and sun-warmed foliage there. Always afterward, when she thought of that morning, she was conscious of that smell.
Noah Binns came through the wicket gate and crossed the lawn in a jog trot. Meg drew behind the shelter of a curtain. Philip straightened himself at the sight of Noah’s face, and the released spaniel reared himself toward Meg and rolled his eyes joyously. For the space of a moment the crystal of the summer morning was suspended.
“Hullo, Noah,” said Philip. “What’s up? It’s the first time in my life I’ve seen you move out of a snail’s gallop.”
Noah gasped — “I’ve a turrible piece of news fur you!”
Philip stared at him, his eyes prominent.
“Mr. Vaughan found a baby on his doorstep a bit ago and he fell in a swoon, and I came along and there was a piece of paper lying on the ground, and I looked at it and it said the baby was fathered by young Mr. Vaughan, and it wasn’t no great shock to me, fur I’ve saw the two of ’em whisperin’ together in the woods more than once.”
“Which two?”
“The young feller and Elvira — the dressmaker’s niece. They were a pair up to no good, that was plain.”
Philip spoke slowly. “A young baby, you said. Did you see it?”
“Ay, I seen it. Wrapped in a shawl and its face not as big as my fist. The girl couldn’t have wasted much time fetchin’ it, fur it looked young if ever a critter did.”
“What was done with the child?”
Noah’s eyes twinkled. “Mrs. Vaughan, she come down when she heard it cryin’ and took it up. She was in a turrible state, too. I guess there won’t be no weddin’ now, sir, eh?”
“To hell with you and your impudence!” said Philip. He looked regretfully at his fishing rod and basket lying innocently on the green grass, at Keno grinning up at him. Then he picked up his things, chirped to his dog, and went back into the house.
Noah Binns looked after him resentfully.
“Dang him!” he said. “Dang ’em all!”
T
HE
W
HITEOAKS
R
IDE
O
UT
P
hilip slowly mounted
the stairs, a troubled frown on his forehead. None of his family was yet up and his feet made no sound on the thick carpet. Outside Meg’s door he hesitated. Poor little girl, let her sleep happily while she could! The spaniel knew her room and well remembered having seen her at the window. He made as if to scratch at the door, but Philip caught him by the collar and gently dragged him along the passage. He opened the door of his own bedroom and closed it behind them.
His wife was fast asleep, the frill on the high collar of her nightdress giving her a quaint medieval appearance. She had thrown herself diagonally across the bed now that his big body was out of the way. Keno planted his paws on the side of the bed and licked her full on the mouth.
She started and pushed him away. “Oh, Philip, how could you let him do that?” She rubbed her lips on a corner of the sheet.
“I call that a gentle awakening,” said Philip, sitting down beside her. “Very different from the rude one I have in store for you.”
He was always teasing her. Now she was on her guard against him.
“I call that rude enough,” she answered, playing with Keno’s ears, for the dog had also established himself on the bed.
“I’m in earnest, Molly,” Philip said. “Something awful has happened. An infant was left on the Vaughan’s doorstep this morning, and it’s said young Maurice is the sire of it. I’m afraid poor little Meggie’s marriage is off. I thought I’d let you know first. Then I must tell Nick and Ernest. We’ll go over to Vaughanlands and raise hell. We’ll see what Robert Vaughan and that young whelp have to say for themselves.”
Mary stared up at him, dazed by the suddenness of the blow. Meg’s marriage off! It couldn’t be! It would be too dreadful! That marriage toward which she had strained for a year! That freedom from Meg’s presence which seemed like paradise! Why, in the last few months they had become quite friendly over the preparations for the wedding!
“But — Philip — it may not be true! Who told you?”
“Noah Binns. He saw the baby. He saw Robert Vaughan in a faint and read the note accusing Maurice. Unless he’s quite cracked it must be true.”
“What Noah saw — yes. But probably just a pack of lies as far as Maurice is concerned.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, Molly! We’ll soon find out! I’m going now to rouse Nick and Ernest.”
“I’ll behave as though nothing had happened, at breakfast. Where shall I say you three are?”
“In the stable. Spitfire dropped a foal last night.”
He went softly to Ernest’s room and entered without rapping.
Mary rolled over and hid her face in the crook of her arm. Black depression swept over her. It was true! The engagement would be broken off and Meg would remain at home for years to come, possibly as long as she lived. There were few eligible young men about. Meg was the only cause of discord between Philip and her self. He had always shamelessly spoilt the girl. Mary remembered her as she had first seen her, when she had come to Jalna to act as governess to the two motherless children. They had been running wild for a year. Philip had gone upstairs to fetch them and she had sat waiting in the drawing room, impressed by the stately proportions of the room, still more impressed by the fine proportions of Philip himself, his handsome blue eyes, his indolent smile. She had sat, holding herself together, determined, if possible, to get the post, to make friends with these children.
From the moment when Philip had brought them, one by either hand, into the room, she had found them a formidable pair. Meg, with her round, inscrutable face, her critical stare. Renny, with his look of a small wild thing captured. Meg had been ten then, with a mop of unkempt golden brown hair, the frill of a drawer leg showing beneath her frock; he eight, positively unwashed, his red hair growing to his collar, his brilliant brown eyes and extreme thinness giving him a fierce, half-starved air. “What they need,” Mary had thought, “is a woman’s tenderness.” But they had not responded to hers. They had been intractable, mischievous, difficult, from the first. She could not make them into the semblance of the well-behaved children she had last taught in a Warwickshire rectory.
She had read poetry to them, she had played the piano and sung to them, hoping to soften them, but they would escape to the orchards, the ravine, the woods, and peer out at her suspiciously, as though she were a being from another world.