Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“What sort of woman is Mrs. Stroud?”
“Well, she’s been kind to us — in a sort of way, but she’s too possessive. You daren’t call your soul your own. That’s one reason I think an affair with her would be so bad for an impressionable poetic boy like Eden.”
“Has she told you anything of her past life?”
“Only that her husband was a paralytic for years. I think he led her an awful life. I imagine she’s out to make the most of the time that’s left.”
“Hm…. Well, thanks for telling me. How do you feel now?”
“All right. I’ll get on with the schooling.”
They found Chris galloping over the course on Launceton. He had been working hard. His sides showed dark patches of sweat. The girl’s thin face was pale, but set in an expression of exaltation. She waved her hand.
“He’s a wonder!” she cried.
As the heat of the sun increased, the horses were taken into the stable and rubbed down. Chris Cummings’s hair clung to her forehead. She went to her child who had curled himself up in the shade and brushed a mosquito from his cheek. She opened her bundle and took out his bottle of milk. He was fast asleep, but the nipple, pressed between his lips, woke him to ecstatic feeding. He gave her a look of deep gratitude, as though she had spent the morning in tending him.
Renny strolled to her side.
“What a good child,” he exclaimed.” Upon my word, I believe that wholesome neglect develops them.”
“I’m not much of a mother,” she said. “But I do love him.”
“Can he manage the bottle alone? Can you leave him?”
“Of course. Do you want me to work some more?” She rose and adjusted her belt.
“What do you take me for? A slave-driver? I want you to come and see my office. I want to talk to you about something your brother told me.”
She looked a little startled but acquiesced. They went into the stable, Tod rolling his eyes after them with a mingling of disappointment at his mother’s departure and resignation in the possession of a bottle of rich Jersey milk, fresh from the cows of Jalna and very different from what he had once thought palatable.
In the office Chris stood, hands in pockets, gazing at the desk. She said:
“I can’t picture you at a desk.”
He sat down at it to show her.
“Well, you look damned queer. And you’ve got a typewriter too. I can imagine your saying ‘whoa’ to it.”
“More likely ‘get up’! Look here.” He began slowly to pick out some words on it.
She laughed and came to his side.
“What are you writing?”
“Can’t you read?”
She bent closer.
“Your typing’s awful.”
“It’s quite legible. Read it aloud.”
She read, “give me A K i Ss.”
She said — “Like hell I will.”
He painstakingly typed “you have a Horrid tongue, but your lips are adorable.”
She asked — “Why is it going off at a slant?”
He answered with a slight huskiness in his voice — “Because I’m trying to see your face.”
“Don’t try. It’s not a nice face.” She laid a hand on each side of his head and turned his face toward the typewriter.
He sat very still a moment, then his hands covered hers. He drew her hands down to his breast and raised his face to hers. She bent and put her lips to his half-smiling, inviting mouth. She thought:
“I’ll kiss him. Why not? That will be an end to it. How thick and dark his lashes are, and the whites of his eyes are like Tod’s.”
She felt dizzy before the mystery of his eyes, so close to her own; she closed hers, kept them tight shut while his upturned face was still as the carved face in a fountain, all its vitality concentrated in the passionate mouth.
She pushed her hands violently against his chest.
“Let me go!” she gasped.
He released her and rose with a swift, eager movement. They faced each other.
“Not again,” she breathed. “No, not again.”
“Why not? You liked it.”
“I mustn’t.”
“Mustn’t?”
“I hate love-making. I’ve had enough.”
“Not with me! We’ve only begun.”
“No — I tell you. I hate it.”
His eyebrows rose incredulously, but he said:
“Very well. Let’s talk about other people’s love-making.”
She touched his sleeve with her thin brown hand. “Don’t think I don’t like you…. I like you only too well.”
“If that isn’t like a woman!” he exclaimed.
“How?”
“They put up a sign — ‘Keep off ’ — then wreathe the sign in roses.”
“Look here,” she said, “I came here to school horses. If you’re not satisfied with me, fire me.”
“I’m perfectly satisfied,” he answered curtly. He sat down on a corner of the desk and took out a somewhat battered packet of cigarettes. He offered her one. He continued — “If you think I’m one of those men who can’t work with a woman without making love to her, you’re mistaken.”
“I’ve never thought that,” she answered simply. “But Jim suspects us.”
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “Jim seems to suspect everyone. He’s been telling me a tale about Mrs. Stroud and Eden.”
Chris frowned. “I wish he hadn’t.”
“You think there’s truth in it?”
“I think Mrs. Stroud is out for sensation. She’s had a bitter sort of life. I think she’s trying to make up for it. She adores Eden’s beauty.”
“I detest her sort of woman. She’ll make a fool of him.”
“She thinks he needs her appreciation.”
“I suppose she calls him a poet — because he’s had one piece accepted. Good Lord, I’d rather he were anything else! His mother was always reading poetry. He’s a well-set-up fellow too. He could ride. He could be a help to me if he had the guts.”
“He hasn’t. Not that sort.”
“You know Mrs. Stroud. Tell her to let Eden alone. I’ve a mind to go and see her myself.”
“I think that’s a good idea. I’m not in a position to give her advice.”
“What do
you
think of her? What sort of woman is she?”
“I think she’s a smouldering volcano.” He took a quick turn about the room, then said:
“If you are going home now I’ll walk along with you.”
“All right.”
With a matter-of-fact air he followed her out of the office.
They lingered a few moments to admire a foal that had been dropped two days before. It lay curled, bony yet weak, at its mother’s feet, its eyes beaming an infantile pride, fearing nothing, the mare nuzzling the silken fringe of its forelock.
“
Isn’t
it feeling grand!” exclaimed Chris.
“I’ve never seen a likelier one,” he agreed.
They found Tod staggering around the yard like a drunken sailor, his empty bottle under his arm. Renny picked him up while Chris collected her other belongings. They set off across the fields.
“Has anyone ever called you Kit?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s good, as short for Christine. I shall call you Kit. Do you mind?”
“Call me whatever you like,” she answered indifferently.
“Why are you so don’t-care?”
She set her thin, delicately moulded lips in a firm line. She said — “I’m finished with that sort of thing.”
“Do you mean pet names?”
“You know what I mean.”
His eyes searched her face. “Are you the sort who thinks herself capable of only one great love?”
“I’ve never had one.”
His mobile brows went up. Then he said — “Why not try?”
“Like hell I will.”
“But why not?”
“You’re too dangerous.”
“Is that why you swear at me?”
“I swear because I can’t help it.”
“You mustn’t let my sister hear you.”
“I never see your sister.”
“But you will. She’s asking you and Jim to tea. Mrs. Stroud too.”
“Well, — that’s kind of her.”
“Will you come?”
“Rather.”
They had arrived at the semi-detached house which, unlike others of its sort, not having been built as such, seemed to resent the cleavage. The half occupied by Mrs. Stroud wore a superior air, with its immaculate frilled curtains and bright brass knocker, while the other half looked disgruntled, as though resentful of the fact that its once ordered rooms were now treated so casually by the newcomers. When Tod saw his home he clapped his hands in joy. Renny set him down inside the gate and he staggered off, in his rolling gait, like a cheerful automaton. Straws were sticking in his tumbled tow hair.
“What a dear little chap!” exclaimed Renny.
“Yes.” She spoke absently, her fingers playing with the latch of the gate.
“Well, I must face the charmer. Wish me luck.”
As he waited before Mrs. Stroud’s door he remembered that Meg was going to invite her to tea. He could not make himself unpleasant to a prospective guest. But he must find out what sort of woman she was. Not that he felt himself capable of really understanding any woman. Horses, yes; men, boys; and his grandmother — he believed he understood her. But she was over ninety. A woman surely must acquire something of man’s outlook by then. Not that Grandmother was like any man he’d ever met…. He rang the bell again.
Inside, Mrs. Stroud had been clipping a pair of garnet earrings on her wax-white, oddly shaped ears, of which she was vain, and changing the low-heeled shoes she wore for her housework to high-heeled slippers. She hastened to the door.
Seeing Renny on the doorstep her face showed first surprise, then a smile of welcome.
“Do come in,” she said. “What a lovely day, but it’s turning hot, isn’t it?”
He entered, they sat down, she offered him a cigarette. He said:
“I walked along with Mrs. Cummings and young Tod.”
“Isn’t she splendid?” exclaimed Mrs. Stroud. “The way she can ride and take care of her baby and keep that house going!”
“She rides well,” agreed Renny tersely.
“She has a hard life. Her brother is an irascible, irritating young man, not easy to live with. Well, the partitions here are thin. Sometimes it makes my blood boil to hear him raise his voice at her.”
“She seems capable of looking after herself. She’s not a timid type.”
“But I do so hate people to be unhappy. Why can’t we enjoy the beauty of life — its poetry, in peace.”
“I don’t know,” returned Renny seriously. “But speaking of poetry — I suppose you’ve heard about Eden’s latest?”
“About his poem being accepted? Oh yes, he came over here at once to tell me. You see, I’ve been so interested in his poetry.”
Their eyes met and remained fixed for a moment, in challenge and distrust.
Renny forced a genial smile to his lips. He said — “It’s kind of you to take an interest in him.”
She smiled a little sadly. “The kindness is all on his side. He’s young and attractive and full of promise. The bond between us is love of poetry.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, “that all this poetry is good for a young chap who is studying law and who needs to keep his wits about him. I shall be glad if he never has another poem accepted.”
Mrs. Stroud could not restrain her disagreement with these words. Her colour rose. “You little know what you are saying!” she exclaimed. “You would put him into a cold, calculating profession and deprive him of what is his very essence — however you may dislike it.”
“I never even suggested the study of law to him. He chose it for himself. I guess because he thought it was an easy life.”
“I’m afraid you don’t at all understand Eden. He has an ardent nature and spends himself recklessly on every thing he goes into.”
“The only thing I’ve seen him spend recklessly is my money,” retorted Renny.
She returned, just as hastily — “Well, I suppose he has a right to be educated. He has certain rights in your father’s will, hasn’t he?”
“I see that he has talked over our affairs with you.”
“I have his happiness at heart,” she answered simply. She clasped her hands in her lap, and he noticed how soft, white, yet capable they looked.
He crushed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “I came here this morning, Mrs. Stroud,” he said coldly, “to ask you to discourage Eden in his visits. He spent a lot of time in your house last spring when he should have been studying. The consequence is that he barely scraped through his exams. Having some rhymes accepted by a magazine doesn’t make up for that.”
She raised her fine grey eyes pleadingly to his. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just remember that he is an inexperienced boy and a student.”
“Do you want me to tell him not to come here?”
“No, that would probably upset him. He’d know I had been interfering. I only ask you to discourage too frequent visits. You don’t want the neighbours gossiping about him and you, do you?”
Mrs. Stroud demanded, in her deep voice — “Has Jim Dayborn been talking?”
“I’m not going to answer that question.”
“Or Miss Pink? I expect it’s Miss Pink. She has been envious of me from the beginning. She imagines it is she who discovered Eden’s talent.”
“Miss Pink wiped the slobber off Eden’s chin when he was christened. You can’t tell her anything about him.”
“That was a very revealing remark, Mr. Whiteoak. It shows pretty clearly your attitude toward life.”
“I may not think it’s as mysterious as you do. But I’m my brothers’ guardian and I’ve got to be as keen for
their
future as for my horses.”
Mrs. Stroud laughed scornfully. “The same method for boy and horse, eh?”
“I might follow a worse.”
“If you think,” she exclaimed abruptly, “that those two next door are what they seem to be, you’re mistaken.” She added, with equal abruptness — “I shouldn’t have said that. But he does annoy me.”
“Mrs. Stroud, are you going to send Eden about his business?”
She gave a warm, almost tender smile.
“Of course I will. I want to do whatever is best for him.”
They parted amicably and, before he left, she took him around her little garden and showed him how well her delphiniums were coming on. At the gate she laid her hand on his sleeve and her eyes flickered in the direction of her neighbours’ windows. She said:
“Did you see that curtain move? I can’t do anything without being observed. It gives one a funny feeling.”
T
HE
T
EA
P
ARTY