Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
As Clive reached the top of the opposite side of the ravine the house rose before him, its mantle of vines newly washed by rain, its windows reflecting the sun. He looked up at the windows of Mary’s room and a fresh pang and a new, painful wonder struck his heart. What thoughts, what acts, had that room sheltered? What
mysterious impulse had driven her to become a different Mary from the one he loved?
Adeline met him at the door. She had seen him coming. She stepped out into the porch and shut the door behind her.
“Well, Clive?” she said, her eyebrows arched, and gave him her hand. “Why, your hand is cold! My dear boy, young people’s hands shouldn’t be cold.”
“I guess it’s because my heart’s cold, Mrs. Whiteoak. I don’t want to talk about my affairs. I — I can’t talk about them. It would kill me and that’s the truth.” He gripped her hand so that he hurt her. “I’ve come to say good-bye. And — I want to thank you for all your kindness.”
“Now, don’t despair. Sit right down and tell me everything. You’ll feel the better for it.”
He wrenched his hand away. “I’m sorry — but — I can’t. Good-bye.”
There was nothing to do but let him go.
At Vaughanlands he found out that Philip Whiteoak was at the Windsor Hotel in Montreal. From the railway station, on his way to the West, Clive sent this telegram to Philip:
MARY WAKEFIELD IS STAYING WITH THE CRAIGS.
C.B.
O
NLY ONE PASSENGER
alighted from the morning train and that was Philip Whiteoak. He left his travelling bag at the station to be called for and set off up the road on foot. He walked as though there were no time to spare, yet he was not unconscious of the clear crisp beauty of the autumn morning, the harebell blue of the sky, the shining little clouds, puffed up to importance by the lively wind, the coloured fallen leaves that skipped nimbly over puddles on the road. All this suited his mood which was one of pleasurable impatience, not unmixed with apprehension.
Jake was waiting for him at the gate. For the moment he had forgotten Philip and was tentatively pawing a brown and black caterpillar. When he heard the step he looked round, with one paw still resting on the caterpillar. For an instant his astonishment and delight made him powerless, then he was galvanized into movement, rushed at Philip with cries that seemed rather of pain than pleasure and threw himself against Philip’s legs.
“Hullo, Jake,” he snatched up the half-grown dog and held him aloft. “Glad to see me, eh? But look at the muck you’ve put on me, you rascal!”
They went up the drive together, Jake doing his best to run
between Philip’s legs or fall over himself directly in Philip’s path. They met Ernest in the hall.
Ernest, anxious to be on friendly terms again with Philip, asked, in a warmly solicitous tone”
“Any word of Miss Wakefield?”
“She’s not in Montreal,” Philip answered tersely.
“Well — that long journey for nothing then.”
“Yes.”
“It is certainly mysterious.”
“I know where she is.”
“Yes? Do you mind telling me where?”
“With the Craigs.”
“Really? You amaze me. I thought those two girls were rather antagonistic.”
“So did I. But — you never know with women. Where is Mamma?”
“At Vaughanlands.”
“Ha!” Philip gave a short explosion of laughter, then he asked, “What about Busby?”
“He left for the West yesterday.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. But he came to say good-bye to Mamma. Philip, you know I am the last one to interfere in your affairs but I do feel — I earnestly feel —”
“Meaning you fell like Ernest,” laughed Philip. “All right, old man, go ahead and feel like Ernest. He’s a pretty good egg.” He ran up the stairs, leaving his brother half-angry, half-pleased, a state often induced in his family by Philip.
Soon he reappeared, his clothes changed to riding things.
“Going out again so soon?” said Ernest.
“Yes.”
“To the Craigs’, I suppose.”
“You’re right.”
“You know, Philip, I hate to interfere but I do —” he tried to stop himself but before he could he had said, “I do
earnestly
—”
“Good,” said Philip, going through the porch, with Jake at his heels. “Keep it up. Go on feeling like Ernest. But it’s not going to change me.”
Presently Jake was shut in the stable with his parents, and Philip, on his chestnut mare, trotted briskly through the gate and along the road by the lake. His relief at finding out where Mary was made him almost happy. His concern, his consternation, at her disappearance, the two days of miserable searching of hotels and steamship offices in Montreal, the search at the pier when a ship for England was to sail, lay behind him. His sanguine nature strained forward to the meeting with Mary. The message from Clive had allayed his fear that she was deranged. Clive never would have sent him the message, Mary never would have been at the Craigs’ if anything of that sort were wrong. It was clear that Clive had discovered her and that she had broken off their engagement. Philip’s heart went out to Clive in gratitude for his telegram.
Muriel opened the door to him. She had seen his horse cantering down the road, so she was prepared to meet him, with a happy smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Whiteoak.” Her eyes said that the morning was good indeed when he appeared at her door.
“Good morning.” He hesitated, considering just how he should make his request.
“Did you want to see Father? I’m afraid he isn’t up yet. But he soon will be. Do come in.”
“Thank you.” He came into the hall.
“Miss Craig,” he said, “I really came to see Mary Wakefield. I am told that she is staying with you.”
“She was. But she’s left. She’s gone to New York to take a position there.”
“Are you sure?”
She laughed. “You’re teasing me, Mr. Whiteoak.”
“I think it is you who are teasing me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She flushed pink.
“I mean that, when I rode up the drive, I saw the two of you at a window. You were looking out, your heads close together.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Oh, no, I’m not.”
Her breast rose and fell in her agitated breathing. She said, almost in a whisper:
“Mary doesn’t want to see you. She told me to say she’d gone to New York.”
For a moment he stared unbelieving, then remembered that Mary had run away from his house.
“She must see me. Go and tell her she must see me. I won’t leave till she does.”
“I am Mary’s friend. I must help her. All she wants is to go far away and forget the unhappy time she’s had.”
“If you are Mary’s friend you will beg her to see me if it’s only for five minutes … Or take me to her. Will you do that?” His eyes implored her.
“I’ll ask her but — I’m afraid she won’t.”
“Tell her what I say, that I won’t go till she has spoken to me.”
In a strangled voice Muriel said, “You love her, don’t you?”
“With all my heart.”
She turned and hurried from the room.
On the stairway she flung herself against the banisters and began to cry. After a little she pulled herself together and went slowly up to Mary’s room. Mary was standing by the window watching to see Philip go.
“Has he gone?” she asked.
“No. He refuses to go till he sees you.”
“Oh, Muriel — I don’t know how I can meet him!”
“I wish it were me! Oh, how I wish it were me he wanted! It does seem hard, when I’ve loved him from the first time I met him ——” She leant against the door crying.
“I’m so sorry, Muriel.”
“Why won’t you meet him?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I have the right to know, after all I’ve gone through and loving him as I do.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, you can tell me this: Are you simply playing with him — to inflame his passion?”
Mary gave an hysterical laugh. “Good heavens, no! I have only one thought and that is to avoid him.” Her panic increased. To meet Philip’s eyes, with the brand of that monstrous lie on her forehead, would kill her. She might be dooming herself to a life of loneliness, but face him she could not.
A tap came on the door and the nurse handed Muriel a telegram.
“Oh, Miss Craig, I do hope it’s not bad news,” she said, her eyes twinkling into the room.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Muriel coldly. She wanted the nurse to go, then said:
“Do you think she would see I’d been crying?”
“Oh, no. Is the telegram from New York?”
Muriel tore it open and read, “Position satisfactorily filled at present thanks for suggestion writing.”
“Oh, how disappointing!” gasped Muriel. “Now there is nowhere for you to go. Whatever shall you do?”
“I must just find a new post.”
“You may stay here with me till you do.”
“And run the risk of meeting
him
?”
“But where shall you stay? A young girl like you cannot stop at an hotel by herself.”
“I will go to Montreal, as intended at the first.”
“But have you enough money for your return passage?”
“I will work for it.”
“But it is not easy to find your sort of work. Supposing you can’t get work.”
Mary walked up and down the room wringing her hands.
Muriel asked, “Does Mr. Whiteoak owe you money?”
“Yes. But I shall never ask for it.”
“I’ll do that for you. I’ll go straight down and ask him.”
“No. I couldn’t endure that.” She stopped in her walking and looked with melancholy reserve at Muriel. “No. I have changed my
mind about seeing him. There is nothing else to do … I will see him — but, oh, how can I?”
“Shall I go with you?”
“No, no, I must do it alone … but not indoors.”
“It’s perfectly private in the parlour and I’ll wait just outside.”
Mary had her suspicions of Muriel waiting “just outside.” She was determined that, if meet Philip she must, no word of what passed between them should be overheard.
She said, “We have kept him waiting so long that I think it will be best for you to say I’d gone out into the grounds — that you’d searched for me — but I shouldn’t ask you to lie for me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” cried Muriel. “And I think you do quite right to see him and put him out of his misery.” She flew to the looking-glass and began to put her hair in order, while asking:
“Where shall I say he can find you?”
“By the lake. Give me a few moments’ start.”
Mary left the room and went softly down the back stairs. Muriel returned to Philip.
“I’m afraid you’ll think I’ve been gone quite a while,” she said.
“It does seem rather long.”
“As a matter of fact she’s gone out.”
“I see. She went out to avoid me.”
“I guess she did. She’s very nervous. Do you think you could send her a message by me? It might be better.”
“Not possibly. Please tell me which way she went.”
“Before I tell you I want to remind you, just once, of that wonderful drive we had — that day we saw Mary running so joyfully to meet Clive Busby.”
“I saw nothing.”
“I’m afraid I behaved very foolishly that day. A girl never should show her feelings the way I did.”
Philip felt extreme discomfort. He made sounds to express that he thought her behaviour had been perfect.
“No, no,” she denied. “I should have controlled myself. But, oh, it’s so hard for me to conceal my feelings! You will forgive me, won’t
you?” She came and laid her hands on his arm. For a moment of apprehension he expected her head to fall once more to his shoulder.
He patted her back with what repressive force he dared and said, “There is nothing to forgive and I do thank you for your kindness to Mary. Now, I must be off to find her.”
He left the house and crossed the closely mown lawn behind it. Beds of cannas edged by silver-leafed geraniums stood up primly, denying the nearness of the tumultuous lake, stirred to green breakers by a gale of the night before. But the wind was now no more than a breeze, the great waves were sunny and fell in lacy foam. Mary was standing on a breakwater, her dress whipped close about her, a strand of her hair, like blond seaweed, blowing free.
Philip stood a space, drinking in the beauty of the picture she made, as he drank in the sharp autumn air, before he called her name.
She had been facing the lake, now she turned and her eyes met his. A long while seemed to have passed since last their eyes had met. She drew on all her courage for the ordeal, but the effect she gave was almost one of challenge. He came to the lake’s edge.
“Mary,” he said, having still to raise his voice above the noise of the waves, “what is your idea of going out there? Is it to throw yourself into the lake if I attempt to lay hands on you?”
“No — oh, no.”
“Then do come back, unless you want to talk to me out there. In that case —”
Before she could answer he was by her side.
She had thought never to see him again. Now his nearness almost overpowered her. His nearness and the noise of the waves confused her. “I can’t talk to you,” she said. “Not here.”
“Then we’ll go to that seat and sit down and you’ll tell me everything.”
She let him lead her to the rustic seat but she would not sit down. She supported herself against its rough bark-covered back. A shrub covered by red berries rose behind the seat.
“At least we can’t be seen here,” he said. “I shouldn’t put it past that woman to spy on us.”
Mary stood silent, her eyes on her white ringless hands that clung to the seat.
“Now tell me, for God’s sake,” he demanded, “why you ran away.”
“You know why. You must know.”
“I suppose because of my mother — her going up to your room. What did she say to you?”
“Does it matter what she said to me?” Mary cried wildly. “Nothing matters except what I said to her. If you care for me — if you ever cared for me — don’t make me talk about it. It’s cruel.”
“Mary,” he said gently, “I beg of you not to be so foolish … Surely you can speak to me of anything. If you love me you won’t shrink from speaking of this. You do love me, don’t you?”