Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
One day, out of the loneliness of her heart, Pheasant said to Mrs. Clinch:
“Do you think he will ever like me?”
Mrs. Clinch regarded her with a cold, judicial eye. “He might, if you was a different sort of child.”
“Different? How different?”
“Well, you are what you are. I don’t s’pose you can help it.”
“I’d like,” said Pheasant, “to be more of a companion to him, like a daughter should.”
Mrs. Clinch looked pessimistic. She said:
“I don’t see him hobnobbing with you, if that’s what you mean. He’s got his own ways and his own thoughts and the less you interfere with him the better — poor young man!”
Those fatal words — poor young man — always ended Pheasant’s questions. She turned away, flushing deeply. She wondered what she could do to improve herself, to make herself more companionable for Maurice, more able to think like he did.
How did he think, she wondered. She tried to send out her mind that it might penetrate his, feel as his did. She felt herself coming home from the War, very large, manly, and brave, with Renny Whiteoak at her side. She tried not to feel envious that Renny had a decoration and she not. There was one thing she had anyhow. She had a little girl, all trembling with eagerness, waiting for her. Yet, when she met that little girl, what a disappointment lay in store! A shy, plain child with none of the attractions she had hoped for. And at Jalna, beyond the ravine, Meg Whiteoak whom she could not marry! Meg had been a beautiful girl. Mrs. Clinch said she had never seen a lovelier skin and even now there was none to compare to her. Still Pheasant had an interesting face, if only she were more intelligent!
This trying to penetrate Maurice’s mind was not successful. It led always to the conclusion that, if she herself were different, he would like her better, or notice her at any rate. One day he reprimanded her for coming to lunch with her hair untidy. Before the next meal she brushed her hair till it shone and tied a blue ribbon round her head with a bow at the temple. He did not even glance at it.
She tried to talk to him about
Rob Roy
which she was reading. He answered politely but he was not interested. She thought it’s too old-fashioned, I must read what he is reading. When he went out she took up a war novel which had been leant him by Nicholas Whiteoak, and buried herself in that. She read something terrible about a wounded soldier being caught in a barbed-wire entanglement and hanging there till a splinter of shell horribly finished him. Her flesh crept with terror of it. She felt sick. If Maurice had seen such things why should he want to read of them? Perhaps he could not get them out of his mind. Her heart was full of pity for him. She asked timidly:
“Do you like that book?”
“Not much,” he replied indifferently. “But there are some good descriptions in it.”
“Descriptions of what?”
“Fighting.”
“Did you see things as — bad as that?”
“Bad as what?”
“Things in the book?”
“Have you been reading it?”
“A little.”
“It’s not fit for you.”
“I just wanted to be able to talk to you about it.”
“Talk to
me
about
war!
Good Lord!”
“I thought” — she made a great effort and went on — “I thought the book might draw us together.”
Maurice laughed in genuine amusement. That hurt her cruelly. She buried her face in her lesson book, glad of the thick hair that fell forward across it.
Maurice said — “You’ve been alone too much with that old woman. I wish you had another child to play with.”
She wanted to cry out, “It’s not another child I need, it’s you!” But she clenched her hands together tightly under the table, and her blurred vision sought the exports of Sweden.
Mrs. Stroud had occupied her house for some time before she and Pheasant met. Then, one day as Pheasant was passing her gate, Mrs. Stroud stopped her and asked her if she would like to see a nestful of young wagtails. There was one in her porch. Pheasant, full of excitement, followed her along the pink-bordered path. The air was heavy with the scent of pinks. She stood long, admiring the nestlings. Then Mrs. Stroud asked her if she would come indoors and drink a cup of chocolate with her. Pheasant accepted the invitation with outward dignity but with an inner thrill that made her almost dizzy with pleasure. Mrs. Stroud was the kindest woman she had ever met. Her house was the sweetest, cleanest, prettiest house she had ever seen, far prettier than Miss Pink’s which had formerly been her ideal. Mrs. Stroud showed her all over the house.
The room that pleased Pheasant most was the guest room with its pink silk bedspread and curtains that Mrs. Stroud herself had made. She said that no one had yet slept in the room. Perhaps Pheasant would come and spend the night with her. The chocolate was the best Pheasant had ever tasted, the cups the prettiest she had ever seen. Pheasant sat very straight, conversing sedately. She told Mrs. Stroud as much of her life as she thought not derogatory to herself. She stayed and stayed, till at last Mrs. Stroud suggested that they go next door and see the baby.
They had chosen an opportune time. Chris was giving him a bath for they had just come back from the stables and he was, as she said, dirty as any stableboy.
But now he was clean and pink! He stood, naked and jubilant, his silvery hair on end. He never knew when he was going to be washed or fed, and, when either blessing descended on him, accepted it with unquestioning joy.
The wild disorder of this house, its gypsy-like casualness, was as thrilling to Pheasant as the charm and order of Mrs. Stroud’s. She felt that a new world had opened up before her. She saw new possibilities in life. Only the hour before she had thought Mrs. Stroud the most lovely woman and the kindest she had ever met. She still thought her the kindest and was sure no one else had such a smile. But the sight of Chris Cummings in her khaki shirt and breeches, bathing Tod, filled her with a new admiration. She watched every movement of her lithe body, the bony competent hands, with intensest interest. Even the way her hair, the same colour as Tod’s, was licked back behind her ears and curled by her jawbone in a drake’s tail, was charming.
Chris accepted her presence with matter-of-fact friendliness. She produced a bag of chocolate caramels, passed it round, popped one into Tod’s mouth, then put a clean cotton garment on him and lighted a cigarette. She felt like hell, she said, for she had had a bad fall that morning.
“Renny Whiteoak says,” she observed, “that there’s a way of falling so that you don’t hurt yourself. I wish I could find it out.”
Mrs. Stroud disapproved of such language in front of the child. She shook her head smilingly at Chris, then said:
“Why don’t you get him to show you?”
“He’s promised to, next time he’s thrown.”
“From what I hear,” said Pheasant, “he’s broken pretty nearly all his bones at different times.”
“What do you think of Eden’s riding?” asked Mrs. Stroud. She never could resist bringing the conversation round to him.
“He has good hands but he’s terribly impetuous and he hasn’t been brought up to control himself, so you can’t expect him to control a horse.”
She put an old magazine into Tod’s hands. “There, look at that,” she said. “I’ve got to lie down for a bit.”
He accepted the magazine with interest though it was worn almost to rags with his handling.
Mrs. Stroud and Pheasant rose and said goodbye.
“You will come and see me again, won’t you, dear?” asked Mrs. Stroud as they parted.
“Oh yes, I’ll come often,” said Pheasant. She ran all the way home, feeling that she must pour out the story of this meeting to someone. But when she was inside the door, smelled the familiar musty smell of the house, and heard Mrs. Clinch’s movements in the kitchen, she did not know whom to tell. Not Maurice, surely, as he passed her in the hall with a casual nod. There was really no one. She went out again, but this time slowly. She found the old pony in the field by the stream and put her arms about his neck for companionship.
After this she went often to see Mrs. Stroud. Sometimes there was no answer to her knock. Then she would go to the other house, but often found no one there either. Then she would walk around the two houses, looking in at the windows, longing to be inside. Once Jim Dayborn caught her looking into Mrs. Stroud’s living room. He laughed and exclaimed:
“So, you’ve got on to the racket too!”
“What racket?”
“That she doesn’t open her door to others when she has her favourite visitor inside.”
“Is Mr. Ernest Whiteoak her favourite visitor, then?”
“Mr.
Ernest
Whiteoak! Why?”
“Because I saw him sitting on the sofa beside her just now.”
Dayborn sneered.
“So — she’s more than one string to her bow!”
Pheasant did not feel surprised or hurt when Mrs. Stroud did not answer her knock. Without doubt she had seen her coming up the path and naturally she would not want a child about when she was having serious conversation with a gentleman friend. Pheasant had got the expression “gentleman friend” from Mrs. Clinch, and admired it. When she could not get into either house she would go home and return two hours later.
She was never listless or lonely now. She had new ideas in her head and she was constantly turning them over, like a small bird turning the eggs in her nest so that they may come to perfect maturity.
By degrees these vague ideas formed themselves into a definite plan. She made up her mind that, since Meg Whiteoak would not marry Maurice, and, as she herself had not the power of making him happy, she must find a wife for him. She believed there were two ready to her hand, if only she could choose the right one.
At first her mind dwelt with most pleasure on Mrs. Stroud. She pictured her standing at Maurice’s side in the chancel of the little church, being married by Mr. Fennel, saying “I will” in her deep moving voice. She found a prayer book and read the marriage service. Much of it puzzled her but she was pleased to find that the real object of marriage was the having of children. Mrs. Stroud and Maurice would have lots of children, little brothers and sisters for her. She would make Vaughanlands into a new place, gay, airy, and full of children. Pheasant loved Mrs. Stroud. Yet, for some odd reason, she did not completely trust her. Deep down in her heart she resented Mrs. Stroud’s not answering her knock when she had more interesting visitors. At first she had not minded this. Jim Dayborn had planted the seed of distrust.
She found her thoughts turning more and more often to Chris Cummings. She was young and men liked young women, Pheasant knew. She had a lovely face. She had Tod. Above all, she had Tod. When Pheasant thought of having him in the house she felt weak, as though her bones had turned to something yielding.
She had a great admiration for Mrs. Clinch’s perspicacity. She thought she would cautiously sound her on the subject. It was one of Mrs. Clinch’s very deaf days and Pheasant was finally driven to shout — “Which do you most admire, Mrs. Stroud or Mrs. Cummings?”
Mrs. Clinch did not hesitate for a moment. She shouted back, almost angrily — “What a question!”
“But which do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Like best?”
Mrs. Clinch gave a snort. “Like that jockey that goes about cursing and swearing in men’s clothes! Not me! Mrs. Stroud’s a real lady. She’s a newcomer who is a credit to the neighbourhood. She’s been too kind to that pair, and if they don’t run off without paying their rent you can call me Davy.”
Mrs. Clinch’s objection to being called Davy was so intense that, when she used the expression, Pheasant never had anything more to say. She made up her mind to ask Maurice himself if he had any preference.
By this time she was so excited that she could not rest till she had made a decision. She sought out Maurice who was putting up a screen door at the side entrance. As soon as he stopped hammering she asked, her voice trembling in her earnestness:
“Maurice, which do you most admire, Mrs. Stroud or Mrs. Cummings?”
He stared at her, then, with no more hesitation than Mrs. Clinch had shown, replied:
“Mrs. Cummings, of course. If you mean looks.”
“Well, which would you say has the best nature?”
With equal promptitude he answered:
“Mrs. Cummings. I don’t like the other one’s ears.”
“But one shouldn’t judge another person by their ears, should one?”
“I do — in this case.”
He began to hammer again, talking under his breath to the door.
“You’re screwing it on the wrong side,” she said gently.
He stared at it dismayed. “So I am!” He picked up a screwdriver and began to take out the screws.
“It’s a disconcerting thing, Pheasant, to discover that you can’t do anything right.”
“Oh, I think you do everything right, that is,
almost
everything.”
He gave his unexpected, boyish smile. “Do you? That’s splendid!”
“Mrs. Cummings” — now she was in for it — “admires you very much.”
“Does she now!”
“Yes, she thinks you’re very reliable.”
“I’ll be getting conceited.” He began to put in the screws afresh.
“She wants to ask your advice about an important matter.”
“I’d hate to think anyone would be advised by me.”
“This is a peculiar matter that only you can help her in. Would you see her by the rose trellis at moonrise tonight, if she came over?”
“Blast the thing! It goes on better the wrong way than the right.”
“Would you see her, Maurice?”
“Certainly. But it’s funny she’d want to see me.”
“Will you be waiting for her, by the rose trellis just at moonrise?”
“If she’s set on it.” If the screws would not go in with the help of the screwdriver he would hammer them in. He began.
Pheasant did not delay. She ran all the way to the field that lay between Vaughanlands and the paddock where the schooling was done. She crossed the field cautiously, making sure that none of the women of the Whiteoak family was an onlooker. Only Scotchmere and two stablemen and Piers were there. She came up slowly.