Cold Pastoral (30 page)

Several times she took her bewilderment to the cemetery, gazing at the mater's grave. She lay with many others, under a granite monument surrounded by an iron railing. All the Fitz Henrys were recorded, as well as the two who had died in France. The girl's throat felt tight when she saw the brevity of Arthur and John. The snow would have to melt before the mater's name could be cut. A winter cemetery was very lonely. Marble and snow swept coldly together. One white angel fascinated the girl. She was perched up aloft with body-length wings and a marble dress, bloused at the waist. Holding a basket of flowers, she bent with one bloom in an extended hand. The girl was inclined to wait until the angel dropped the flower. Occasionally she picked flowers from the conservatory and let them make bright stains in the snow. Once she stuck a geranium in the angel's hand, and when she went back it was frozen, making a blood-spot against marble flesh. Strangely enough she knew Philip had been to the cemetery, too, because he noticed the angel.

“Mary,” he said, “you've been to the cemetery recently.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of the angel near Mater.”

“Do you like that angel, Philip?”

“Not much,” he admitted.

“Neither do I,” she said. “But I gave it a real flower for a change. Please don't put an angel over me when I die, Philip.”

“I won't,” he assured her gravely. “I hope you'll be in the same plot with us.”

She was startled beyond measure. His plans included her resting-place with the Fitz Henrys— Mary, beloved wife of…If she lived long enough the fisherman's daughter would begin to feel dynastic. “And madly play with my forefather's joints.” Was she in such a plight that she should be clubbed with some great kinsman's bone? To keep her mouth straight she said hastily.

“I often go there after school. This time I wanted to decide my graduation dress.”

“Anything you like,” he said, always generous towards her needs.

It was then he told her something she had not known.

“Mary, that money the American cabled when the Press—”

“Yes,” she said, surprised.

“It's quite intact. I merely paid your hospital bills, and the interest has brought it back to the original sum.”

“Philip,” she said excitedly, “I can go to a bigger university and finish my Arts.”

“I was afraid of that,” he said quietly. The minute the words were said she could have bitten out her tongue. Without a word of gratitude she had seized on a venture only possible through his generosity.

She walked to his chair, sitting on its leather arm. His very quietness brought him infinite returns. She put her arms around his neck in palliation for selfishness. “Philip, what a beast I am! Instead of thinking of your goodness to me I just plan to spend the money. I think I've been spoiled with too much. I wasn't used to it, and it went to my head. Please, please forgive me—”

“Mary dear, I don't want gratitude. When we took you, money fell in line. I took the risk of your walking out someday, but I felt the money was yours and I should preserve it for you….”

She placed her cheek against his hair, rocking a little in contrition. “What do you want me to do, Philip?”

In a second he pulled her down across his knees. “Don't you know, Mary?”

He smelt familiar, always a little antiseptic.

“Don't you know, Mary?” he repeated.

“Don't tell me,” she said quickly. “I've—I've got a lot to do.”

“As you say,” he said, turning up her face and looking at her in fresh wonder. “Mary, do you know you'd be more human to me if I saw you one day with a pimple.”

Nothing could have reassured her more or dissipated the high tension. She laughed until she could have cried. “Philip,” she said against his face, “if you like I'll eat chocolates every meal and ice-cream between. That might be a help.”

“No, you won't,” he said, laughing himself. “I shouldn't kiss you, Mary, when you're at school.”

“But, Philip, what would make you stop kissing me?”

At that moment there seemed nothing.

“AND STOOD ALOOF FROM OTHER MINDS.”

“I
f I were a flower I'd refuse to bloom,” said David, frowning at the mud-spattered tulips.

“Oh, but they're beautiful, David! Not quite unspotted from the world. They want a west wind—”

“Darling, gardens are worse than people. They always want something they haven't got. Dirty little things,” he said, addressing the tulips and shivering in the wind. In spite of the sun it blew with the flick of a cat-o'-nine-tails. His face was pallid from indoor heat, and his hands held a blue tinge. Mary Immaculate was walking round the flowerbeds in a green knitted suit. There was no shrinking in her flesh or bleak look on her skin. She walked with a young insolence, showing the line of her shapely legs.

“House-cat,” she said pityingly. “I suppose, dear David, if we have a frost to-night you won't come to see me graduate.”

“Yes, I will,” he said nobly. “I have an intense curiosity to see you get your diploma. What do you want for a graduation present? Don't be shy. Tell me what you want, even unto half of my kingdom.”

She sat down on the grass edge of a flower-bed, while he towered above her.

“You'd better tell me, my dear. The wind is east, and it might freeze the genial current of my soul.”

“I don't want anything, David. I have everything material.”

“Gracious,” he said lightly, “you must be growing up, suffering the birth-pangs of frustration. To wish for the intangible is a sure sign.”

“I've always wished for the intangible,” she said reprovingly. “I think I'm a Glaucus girl. I ate grass and changed into a—”

“Sea-nymph, I think. Remember, Glaucus was smothered in a cask of honey. It must have been a sticky end. I can't give you the worship of fishermen or boatmen, but I can give you the present. Speak up, girl! You're too old for a doll.”

“Funny,” she said, smiling at the spattered flowers. “I never had a doll.”

“The girl who never had a doll! It sounds odd! My first memory of you seems to rule them out. You looked so tall, and disdainful of dolls. It would have taken some daring to present one. What can I give you that's not a doll?”

“Thank you, David,” she said gravely. “What I want you can't give me.” Her tone was resigned, as if her wishes were out of reach.

“My dear,” he said, bending her head back to see her face. “What do you want? I insist on knowing.”

“Nothing I can have,” she said with resignation. “I want to finish my Arts. The college has lots of affiliations with England and Canada, and I could get a third year status wherever I went. I'd rather go to England. I want the Old World more than the New. Then I'd like to ramble over Europe and perhaps Asia, certainly Egypt, and see everything I've read about.”

“Small programme,” he said dryly. “Couldn't you be content with third year Arts ?”

“I thought I'd tell you the lot, David, as a bit is just as impossible as the whole.”

“Nonsense,” he said decisively. “What's stopping you? You can certainly have the university.”

“David,” she challenged, “can I?”

“Certainly,” he said in the same tone. “If Philip won't send you, I will.”

“You can't send me without his consent. He has control of me until I'm too old for it. And it isn't for lack of money.” She told him about the fund for her education.

“Heavens!” he said in surprise. “Fancy Phil saving all that! If he's not the canny Scot! He must be better off than I know.”

“Yes, but he spent his own money on me. For that reason I can't ask him to let me go with my own money.”

“Well,” he said consideringly, “we'll see. Why don't you fight for it, Mary, if you want it very badly?”

She shrugged under his eyes.

“How can you fight against things that are planned? I've always done what I was told, that is more or less,” she said, clutching at scrupulosity. “It's easier to conform as much as you can. Besides, I promised Mater.”

David shook his head, forbearing to question her closely.

“Mary, sometimes you're a regular diehard Catholic. I suppose you come by it honestly.”

“I expect so, David. Mater took my gypsy away. You can't be footloose when you're tied to hot and cold water, and indoor plumbing.”

“Mary, you kill me,” he said, laughing out loud. “You have the merit of being the most unexpected woman I know. I could go round the world with you, and love every step of the way.”

“I'd love it, too,” she said agreeably. “We'd have fun.”

“We would, indeed,” he responded with enthusiasm.”A gallivanting time while I showed you all the places that have given me pleasure. We must go to warm places first, where I can forget this east wind. I suggest Italy; Rome and Florence, and some Tuscan towns. We'll go next May, when the air is soft and scented. You'll love the vines, Mary, the chestnuts and the clumps of blossom so magnificently blossom…Think of it! No, we won't think of it—” he said abruptly. Her face was uptilted, glowing, and her eyes lucent with sun. It was the face of a girl who would pull up her roots and travel with the zest of the vagabond. David looked at the solid structure of the Place and frowned.

“Go in, my dear, and wash your face for your graduation.”

Mary Immaculate looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“You're mean, David,” she said softly. “You show me the world and then order me in to wash my face.”

She walked out of his sight with a dignified back.

“Damn,” he said out loud, kicking the muddy flowers. One broke off and listed against another. It had a mute, fainting look, with its trumpet humbled to the earth. “Damn,” he said again, stooping to pick it up. To satisfy himself he returned to the house, dropping the flower in a vase. At least, he thought, I'll see that she gets her Arts.

The family was impressed with her graduation. There had been an element of tolerance in their attitude towards the limitations of her college. So little had been said of her work that they realized her reticence when they saw her mounted behind the President, the faculty, the governors and an eminent personage laced in gold braid. They knew she had recently passed through an examination week, but she had sailed through it as a normal routine. Later she had casually remarked the winning of distinction in five out of six subjects. Even then they had not quite realised the high standard required. When they saw only four of her class graduating in Arts, and only two with distinction, they murmured amongst themselves and stared at their student with appraising eyes. From her elevation her scrutiny was as cool as a drift of snowflakes. Others looked harassed, the men pulling at their collars in dread of the ordeal of getting down from the tier and across the plat form without mishap. They seemed conscious of the size of their feet. The girls looked fresh but unpowdered. Inside it was very warm, and congestion and excitement caused a nervous exudation of oil. Their charge was conspicuous by the dry look of her fine-pored nose. As the President stood and the students sat, the girl went into immobility. There the mater's training and own balanced body helped. It was impossible to detect one restless movement. To them she looked curiously unfamiliar in her cap and gown, which austere garb gave her face inscrutability, extending to hands lightly clasped in her lap.

“Felice,” whispered David, during an adjusting lull, “it's a long time since I've seen anything like this. I wish you'd hold my hand.

They look so raw and so young and so full of ideals. It's worse than a wedding. Do you know Mary like this?”

“No,” she whispered back, “and I'm feeling conscience-stricken. I was talking to her while she dressed, and she said she missed Mater terribly. She was the only one who followed her studies and knew the subjects she was taking. What have we done for her this winter?”

“Nothing,” he said with a frown, “except patronise her.”

It was not long before the men looked extremely conscience-stricken themselves. As some grave girls filed down for their diplomas, a figure appeared from the wings, presenting bouquets of flowers. All were not favoured, and some maidens retreated unadorned. Felice leaned towards Philip. “Did you arrange anything, Phil?”

“No,” he said with his brow worried into pleats. He pulled at his watch as if he could rush for flowers at this late moment.

“It's too late now,” said Felice with a shrug. “We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. She looks lonely as it is.”

There
was
an aura of loneliness about her, emanating to them all. Perhaps it was because her nose did not oil and conform, or because she did not pluck nervously at her gown or keep patting the curls at the back of her neck.

“Here she comes,” whispered Felice.

Mary Immaculate was treading delicately down towards the President and the gold braided-donor. They saw her accept her diploma, bow and receive a smile from eyes seeming gracious to her beauty. As she retreated to the ascending aisle a hand passed her a sheaf of white carnations. She received them without surprise, holding them like a baby across her arms. The family breathed audible relief, mixed with other emotions.

“Somebody had more thought than we had,” said Felice to Philip. He looked extremely perturbed, whether with himself or the interloper it was impossible to say. Further incident made deeper pleats in his brow. The girl was just seating herself when a hissing voice demanded behind them, “Who's that lovely girl?”

“That's Mary Fitz Henry, awful young snob! My own Mary says none of the students know her. She just comes and goes, and the boys are terrified of her. By right of her work she should be secretary of the S.R.C., but she doesn't mix. The Fitz Henrys have made her a prig. She hasn't attended any of the graduating affairs. Make you sick! Yesterday there was a picnic, and a dance last night. She might be giving the valedictory only—”