Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“What, in God’s name, did you scurry for?”
“Why, to keep out of Mr. Whiteoak’s way!”
“Woman alive — can’t you speak out plain?”
Mrs. Nettleship’s voice became suddenly harsh, “I’d heard a
kiss
. A soft little kiss. And then Mr. Whiteoak gave a pleased laugh.”
“Perhaps she kissed Jake!” Adeline exclaimed grimly.
“Ha, ha, that’s a good one, Mrs. Whiteoak. But I don’t see that young lady kissing a
dog
. Not with a handsome young man about.”
Adeline set down the empty sherry glass. “Is there anything more to tell?” she asked, almost casually.
“Just this.” The housekeeper put her hand in the pocket of her apron and took out a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolded the paper and disclosed several cigarette ends. She held them
out for inspection. “I found
these
amongst the shrubs underneath
her
window. She
smokes
, Mrs. Whiteoak.”
Adeline blew out her breath. “Well, well,” she said. “Quite a forward young woman.”
“
Forward
! Forward’s no name for her behaviour. Twice this week she’s gone through the house
singing
. Just as though she was mistress here!”
Adeline rose. If Mrs. Nettleship expected an explosion from her she was disappointed. She appeared more calm than she had been earlier in the recital. But, when she was in her own room with the door shut behind her, she was seething with mingled anger and consternation. She stood, with her back against the door, her palms pressed against the panels, only by a great effort restraining herself from going straight to Philip, demanding an explanation from him. But wisdom, experience of life, told her that it would be far, far better to wait, to discover for herself how far the affair had gone.
As for Ernest, she would gladly have taken him by the shoulders and shaken him. To think that he would deliberately throw such a temptation in his brother’s way. “If I had the ninny here,” she said aloud, and struck one clenched hand into the palm of the other. She did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the Indian gong that summoned the family to meals, sounded in the hall.
M
ARY CROSSED THE
hall and went to the door of the sitting-room which stood open. She felt confused by the meeting with the various and highly individualistic members of the family. They seemed to raise a wall between her and Philip. She pictured him, as though from a long way off. With the sound of voices all about her, she was isolated, alone. The air was oppressive. Another storm was brewing.
In the sitting-room the children were playing with their new toys. Renny was kneeling on the floor, winding up his train. Meg stood by the table where her music box was tinkling out “Children of Vienna”.
“Listen,” exclaimed Meg. “Isn’t that a pretty tune?”
“Charming,” agreed Mary. “What beautiful presents!”
“We have battledore and shuttlecock, too,” cried Renny, “and I have a lot of lead soldiers and Meggie a work-basket, with a thimble, and two books each!” He sprang to his feet and began to show off the treasures. His small being was vibrant with vitality and enthusiasm. Meg did not know what it was to experience such joy as he did, but she egged herself on to a simulation of it, not wanting to be outdone by him in the eyes of the grown-ups.
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.