Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Maurice Vaughan was already at the table, eating sausages and fried potatoes. He did not say good morning, but he put some of the food on a plate and pushed it toward her. Presently he said:
“Jim Martin is coming with a man from Brancepeth today. Have Nannie put the dinner off till one. We’ll be busy.”
Pheasant was aghast. She was to meet Piers at two. How could she get away in time? And if she did not turn up for dinner Maurice might make inquiries, get suspicious. Her hands shook as she poured her tea. She could not properly see the breakfast things.
Maurice stared at her coldly. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you this morning?”
“I was busy thinking. Yes, you want dinner at two; I heard.”
“I said one o’clock. I’d better give the order myself, if you haven’t the wit.”
Pheasant was regaining her self-possession.
“How easily you get out of temper,” she said, coolly. “Of course I’ll remember. I hope Mr. Martin will be soberer than he was the last time he was here. He put a pickle in his tea instead of sugar, and slept all evening, I remember, in his chair.”
“I don’t.”
“I dare say you don’t. You were pretty far gone yourself.”
Vaughan burst out laughing. The audacities of this only half-acknowledged young daughter of his amused him. Yet, perversely, when she was meek and eager to please, he was often unkind to her, seeming to take pleasure in observing how she had inherited a capacity for suffering equal to his own.
Maurice Vaughan was the grandson and only male descendant of the Colonel Vaughan whose letters had persuaded Philip Whiteoak to remove westward from Quebec. He was an only child, who had come to his parents late in life. He had been too gently reared, and had grown into a heavily built, indolent, arrogant youth, feeling himself intellectually above all his associates, even Renny Whiteoak, whom he loved. At twenty he nourished the illusion that he would become a great man in the affairs of his country with no effort on his part. At twenty-one he became engaged to Meg Whiteoak, charmed by that ineffably sweet smile of hers and her drowsy quiescence toward himself. The parents of the two were almost beside themselves with pleasure. They scarcely dared to breathe lest a breath too hot or too cold should damp the ardour of the young pair and the so desirable match be not consummated.
Meggie would not be hurried. A year’s engagement was proper, and a year’s engagement she would have. Maurice, idle and elegant, attracted the attention of a pretty, sharp-featured village girl, Elvira Grey. She took to picking bramble-berries in the woods where Maurice slouched about with his gun—the same woods where Piers and Pheasant now met. Maurice, while he waited impatiently for Meg, was comforted by the love of Elvira.
A month before the marriage was to take place, a tiny bundle containing a baby was laid one summer night on the Vaughans’ doorstep. Old Mr. Vaughan, awakened by its faint cry, went downstairs in his slippers, opened the front door, and found the bundle, on which a note was pinned, which read: “Maurice Vaughan is the father of this baby. Please be kind to it. It hasn’t harmed no one.”
Mr. Vaughan fell in a faint on the steps and was found, lying beside the baby, by a farm labourer who read the note and quickly spread the news. The child was carried into the house and the news of its arrival to Jalna.
As proper in the heroine of such a tragedy, Meg locked herself in her room and refused to see anyone. She refused to eat. Maurice, after a heart-rending morning with his parents, during which he acknowledged everything, went and hid himself in the woods. It was found that Elvira, an orphan, had disappeared.
Meg’s father, accompanied by his brothers, Nicholas and Ernest, went to thrash out the matter with Mr. Vaughan. They were quite twenty years younger than he, and they all raged around the poor distracted man at once, in true Whiteoak fashion. Still, in spite of their outraged feelings, they agreed that the engagement was not to be broken, that the marriage must take place at the appointed time. A home
could be found for the baby. They drove back to Jalna, after having had some stiff drinks, feeling that, thank God, everything had been patched up, and it would be a lesson to the young fool, though rather rough on Meggie.
Meggie could not be persuaded to leave her room. Trays of food placed outside her door were left untouched. One night, after four days of misery, young Maurice rode over to Jalna on his beautiful chestnut mare. He threw a handful of gravel against Meggie’s window and called her name. She made no answer. He repeated it with tragic insistence. Finally Meg appeared in the bright moonlight, framed as a picture by the vine-clad window. She sat with her elbow on the sill and her chin on her palm, listening, while he, standing with the mare’s bridle over his arm, poured out his contrition. She listened impassively, with her face raised moonward, till he had done, and then said: “It is all over. I cannot marry you, Maurice. I shall never marry anyone.”
Maurice could not and would not believe her. He was unprepared for such relentless stubbornness beneath such a sweet exterior. He explained and implored for two hours. He threw himself on the ground and wept, while the mare cropped the grass beside him.
Renny, whose room was next Meg’s, could bear it no longer. He flew downstairs to Maurice’s side and joined his supplications to his friend’s in rougher language. Nothing could move Meggie. She listened to the impassioned appeals of the two youths with tears raining down her pale cheeks; then, with a final gesture of farewell, she closed the window.
Meggie was interviewed by each of her elders in turn. Her father, her uncles, her young stepmother—who had hoped so soon to be rid of her—all exercised their powers of reasoning with her. Grandmother also tried her hand, but the
sight of Meggie, suave yet immovable as Gibraltar, was too much for the old lady. She hit her on the head, which caused Philip Whiteoak to intervene, and say that he would not have his little girl forced into any distasteful marriage, and that it was small wonder if Meggie couldn’t stomach a bridegroom who had just made a mother of a chapped country wench.
Meggie emerged from her retirement, pale but tranquil. Her life suffered little outward derangement from this betrayal of her affections. However, she cared less for going out with other young people, and spent many hours in her bedroom. It was at this time that she acquired the habit of eating almost nothing at the table, getting ample nourishment from agreeable little lunches carried to her room. She became more and more devoted to her brothers, pouring out on them a devotion with which she sought to drown the image of her lover.
Maurice never again came nearer to Jalna than its stables. The friendship between him and Renny still endured. Together they went through the hardships of the War years later. When Pheasant was three years old, Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan died within the year, and she was left to the care of an unloving young father whom she could already call “Maurice.” Misfortune followed close upon bereavement. Mining stocks in which nearly all of the Vaughans’ money was invested became worthless and Maurice’s income declined from ten thousand a year to less than two. He made something from breeding horses, but as Pheasant grew up she never knew what it was to have two coins to rub together or attractive garments with which to clothe her young body. The thousand acres bought from the government by the first Vaughan had dwindled to three hundred. Of these only fifty
lay under cultivation; the rest were in pasture and massive oak woods. The ravine that traversed Jalna narrowly spread into a valley through Vaughanlands, ending in a shallow basin, in the middle of which stood the house, with hanging shutters, sagging porch, and moss-grown roof.
The one servant now kept was an old Scotswoman, Nannie, who spoke but rarely and then in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Beside Jalna, teeming with loud-voiced, intimate, inquisitive people, Vaughanlands seemed but an echoing shell, the three who dwelt there holding aloof in annihilating self-absorption.
Dinner at one, instead of half-past twelve as usual, threw Pheasant’s plans into confusion. She felt suddenly weak, defenceless, insecure. She felt afraid of herself. Afraid that she would suddenly cry out to Maurice: “I’m going to run away to be married at half-past one! Dinner must be at the regular time.”
What a start that would give him! She pictured his heavy, untidy face startlingly concentrated into dismay.
“What’s that?” he would exclaim. “What’s that, you little devil?”
Then she would hiss: “It’s true. I’m going to be married this very day. And I’m going to marry into the Jalna family who wouldn’t have you, my fine fellow.”
Instead of this she said meekly: “Oh, Maurice, I’m afraid I’ll have to take my dinner at half-past twelve. I’ve an appointment with the dentist in Stead at two o’clock.”
She wondered why she had said that, for she had never been to a dentist in her life. She did not know the name of one.
“What are you making appointments with the dentist for?” he growled. “What’s the matter with your teeth?”
“I’ve been troubled by toothache lately,” she said, truthfully, and he remembered an irritating smell of liniment about her at odd times.
They went on with their breakfast in silence, she, a wave of relief sweeping over her at the absence of active opposition, drinking cup after cup of strong tea; he thinking that after all it were better the child should not be at the table with the two men who were coming. Martin had a rough tongue. Not the sort of man a decent fellow would want to introduce to his young daughter, he supposed. But then, what was the use of trying to protect Pheasant? She was her mother’s daughter and he had had no respect for her mother; he had very little for himself, her father. Not all the beastly allegations current about the countryside against him since his first mishap were true, but they had damaged his opinion of himself, his dignity. He knew he was considered a rip, and always would be even when the patch of white that was coming above one temple spread over his whole head.
As for Pheasant, she was filled by sudden unaccountable compassion for him. Poor Maurice! Tomorrow morning, and all the mornings to come, he would be eating breakfast alone. To be sure, they seldom spoke, but still she was there beside him; she carried his messages to Nannie; she poured his tea; and she had always gone with him to admire the new colts. Well, perhaps when she was not there he would be sorry that he had not been nicer to her.
She was so inexperienced that she thought of going to live at Jalna as of removal to a remote habitation where she would be cut off permanently from all her past life.
When Maurice had swallowed the last mouthful of tea, he rose slowly and went to the bow window, which, being shadowed by a verandah, gave only a greenish half-light into
the room. He stood with his back toward her and said: “Come here.”
Pheasant started up from her chair, all nerves. What was he going to do to her? She had a mind to run from the room. She gasped: “What do you want?”
“I want you to come here.”
She went to his side with an assumed nonchalance.
“You seem to be playing the heavy father this morning,” she said.
“I want to see that tooth you’re talking about.”
“I wasn’t talking about it. It’s you who are talking about it. I only said I was going to have it filled.”
“Please open your mouth,” he said, testily, putting his hand under her chin.
She prayed, “Oh, God, let there be a large hole in it,” and opened her mouth so wide that she looked like a young robin beseeching food.
“H-m,” growled Maurice. “It should have been attended to some time ago.” He added, giving her chin a grudging stroke: “You’ve pretty little teeth. Get the fellow to fix them up properly.”
Pheasant stared. He was being almost loving. At this late hour! He had stroked her chin—given it a little dab with his fingers, anyway. She felt suddenly angry with him. The idea of getting demonstratively affectionate with her at this late hour! Making it harder for her to leave him.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be a beauty if I keep on, shan’t I?”
He answered seriously: “You’re too skinny for beauty. But you’ll fill out. You’re nothing but a filly.”
“This is the way fillies show their pleasure,” she said, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. “I wish I could whinny! But I can bite.”
“I know you can,” he said, gravely. “You bit me when you were five. And I held your head under the tap for it.”
She was glad he had reminded her of that episode. It would be easier to leave him after that.
He went into the hall and took his hat from a peg.
“Goodbye,” she called after him.
She watched him go along the path toward the stables, filling his pipe, walking with his peculiar, slouching, hangdog gait. She threw open the window and called after him:
“Oh, hullo, Maurice!”
“Yes?” he answered, half wheeling
“Oh—goodbye!”
“Well, I’ll be—” she heard him mutter, as he went on.
He must think her a regular little fool. But, after all, it was a very serious goodbye. The next time they met, if ever they met again, she would be a different person. She would have an honourable name—a name with which she could face the world. She would be Mrs. Piers Whiteoak.
P
IERS AND
P
HEASANT
M
ARRIED
H
E HAD ARRIVED
on the very tick of two. She had been there twenty minutes earlier, very hot, but pale from excitement and fatigue; she had jogged—sometimes breaking into a run—for nearly half a mile, lugging the heavy portmanteau. She had been in a state of panic at the approach of every vehicle, thinking she was pursued. Three times she had fled to the shelter of a group of wayside cedars, to hide while a wagon lumbered or a car sped by.
Piers stowed the portmanteau in the back of the car, and she flung herself into the seat beside him. He started the car—a poor old rattletrap, but washed for the occasion—with a jerk. He looked absurdly Sundayish in his rigid best serge suit, and with an expression rather more wooden than exultant.