Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (90 page)

“Mine are stubs, I’m afraid.”

“I can use any sort. This is one Nettle gave me and I must say it reflects her temper.”

Mary stepped inside the room. “Mrs. Whiteoak, may I speak privately to you?”

“Yes. Of course. Come in and shut the door.” Her brown eyes were narrowed by curiosity, her lips firm, as though she expected trouble.

“I want to tell you,” Mary said slowly, “that I should like to leave.”

“To leave? Why?”

“Because —” Mary’s colour rose and she ended quickly, “because I’m going to be married.”

“To be married! Ha —”

“I am rather wondering if it might be possible for me to leave rather soon. Of course, I don’t wish to inconvenience you or Mr. Whiteoak but if I could —”

“May I ask whom you are going to marry, Miss Wakefield?”

“Mr. Busby.”

Adeline’s face relaxed into a look of profound relief. It seemed too good to be true. The scheme she had so spontaneously adumbrated on the night of the dance now was presented to her clearly defined, complete. She raised her eyes, shining with good will, to Mary’s flushed face.

“Miss Wakefield,” she said. “I am really pleased because I don’t know another young couple whom I think are so well matched. Clive Busby is manly, strong, ambitious, and has an affectionate nature. I’ve known his father and his grandfather before him. All fine men. You need have no fear. On your side you will give him the comeliness, the taste, his nature craves for. My dear, you have shown your good sense. I congratulate you, and Clive too. I will write to my friend Isaac Busby and congratulate him on his future daughter-in-law.”

She rose and took Mary’s hand for a moment. They looked into each other’s eyes. Then Mary asked:

“What about the length of notice I should give? I believe that usual time is three months but —”

Adeline snapped her fingers. “The usual time doesn’t count in this house. I want to help you all I can. I shall be frank and tell you it’s even more for the sake of my old friend’s son than for you. I know he wants to get back to his ranch. He must get back. And I’ll see to it that he can take his bride with him.”

“Yes?” Mary was trembling with eagerness. She could not be off too soon to please her. To go far from this house, to make a new life for herself, to tear the thought of Philip Whiteoak from her heart.

“How soon then?” she asked.

“As soon as you life.” She sat down, slapped the flat of her hand on the letter she had been writing, and showed her still fine teeth in a smile. “By a curious coincidence this letter is to an aunt of Clive’s. She’s always begging me to go and pay her a little visit. I’ve told her I’ll go the day after tomorrow. I’ll be able to take her the good news. While I am away, which will be less than a week, you can make your preparations. When I return we’ll have the wedding. Is that too soon?”

“I — well, I suppose I can do it.”

“You’ll not want a trousseau, going to the prairies, will you?”

“Oh, no.”

“You’ll not want a large wedding, I take it.”

“Heavens, no.”

“You shall be married in this house. My son, Mr. Nicholas Whiteoak, will be pleased to give you away. We must invite the Vaughans, the Laceys, the Pinks, just the near neighbours. I want you to let me buy you a good warm muskrat coat. It is the thing for the prairies. Not that it’s terribly cold there but it’s sharp. Very exhilarating. I’ve always wanted to go there myself. When my husband and I came out to this country, I think we might have gone straight to the West, but my dear father was against it.”

Mary was bewildered. All she could say was, “Oh, thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Not at all. It’s little enough I’m doing for you. I have only one favour to ask. Keep this secret till my return. If the children get wind of it you’ll never be able to control them again. If my daughter, Lady Buckley, is told, she’ll interfere with all our plans. She’ll insist on your giving the usual three months’ notice. Much better keep it to ourselves. Tell Clive that, will you?”

Mary eagerly assented. The children’s curiosity, Lady Buckley’s interference, were evils to be avoided. To leave Jalna unnoticed, to go as she had come, that was what she wanted.

When Adeline was alone she sat motionless for a time, her lips parted in a pleased smile. She took up the letter she had written and read it with a judicial air. Then, frowning at the scratchiness of the pen, she added a post-script. “Maggie dear, I find I can arrange the little visit with you after all so Philip and I will arrive some time late tomorrow.”

She carried the letter to the stables where Philip was examining the strained tendons in the leg of a favourite horse. He straightened himself and smiled at her.

“How’s the leg?” she asked.

“Coming along well.”

“Splendid.” He knew he was back in her favour by the way she returned his smile.

The mare turned her eyes on him and nibbled his sleeve.

“She’s a sweet creature,” said Adeline.

“She is, and I love her.”

“Do you love your mother enough to come on a little visit with her? I’ve been promising to go see Maggie Rutherford — that was Maggie Busby — for many a long day and at last I’ve made up my mind to do it. Her place isn’t above thirty miles from here but hard to get at by train. Will you drive me there, Philip?”

“Gladly, but I can’t stay.”

Adeline drew in a deep sigh. “Ah, well, I’ll not go then. I’d planned this little jaunt, just by ourselves, because what with my being away in Ireland and your being so busy, I seem to have seen very little of you. But ’tis of no account to anyone but myself. I’ll just tear up this letter and write another declining the invitation.

“No, no. You mustn’t do that, Mamma. I’ll drive you there and go back for you, at the end of your visit.”

“What! Drive a hundred and twenty miles for the sake of a little visit? Let’s say no more about it. I’ll go by train, though there’ll be a two-hours wait at some god-forsaken junction. But I don’t mind. Yes, I’ll go by train, even if it does bring on the pain in my back.”

“But I thought that pain was quite gone, Mamma.”

“Ah, it comes and it goes.”

“Do you think the long drive may be bad for it?”

“No. It’s the jolting of the train that plays the mischief.”

“Then I’ll drive you there and stay with you,” he exclaimed warmly, though not altogether without thought of self. He would not at all mind going away for a week. He found himself being drawn inexorably into spending more and more time with Muriel Craig. Now there were the riding lessons he had promised her. There were the urgent invitations from her father. Everywhere he went he seemed inevitably to meet her. It was as though there were a plot to throw them together. He liked her, he admired her, but, since the moment when she had allowed her head to droop to
his shoulder, there had been qualifications to his regard. She was too easy. His wife had been a woman of reserves. She had never given herself away and, though she had not always been easy to get on with and her caresses had been sparingly given, when they had been given they were worth the waiting for. It seemed strange that one of so much character should have left two children who bore no resemblance to her, either in face or nature. Yet he could imagine a gentle girl like Mary having a son the image of her. Why had the thought of Mary come into his head, he wondered. He saw little of her nowadays and, when he did see her, he was conscious of a change in her. What was it? A coldness? A shrinking?

His mother’s lips were on his. His forehead tied itself into a knot, as he tried to think of two things at once and could think of nothing. Adeline was saying:

“You’ll be glad you came. Why it’s years since you visited there with me. Do you remember?”

They went through the orchard, arm in arm. Adeline ate a red harvest apple while they made their plans, which horses they would drive, the route they would follow, what presents she should take her friends. This was the way she liked it to be — an excursion undertaken with gusto, carried though with leisure and ceremony.

At the time appointed she and Philip set out behind a well-groomed pair of bays, with the rest of the family watching the departure with admiration, for Adeline, to show off, had taken the reins herself and handled the restive pair with ease, if a little flaunt-ingly. The long “weeds” of her widow’s bonnet were lifted above her shoulders by the breeze and added a note, at once sombre and elegant, to her appearance.

Raising her eyes for an instant, as the equipage moved along the gravel sweep, she had a glimpse of Mary’s face at an upper window and smiled benignly.

T
HE DAYS OF
that week moved in autumn splendour at Jalna. An early frost had set the Virginia creeper and the soft maples blazing into red. The yellowing leaves of the silver birches began to fall. The sky was of such a blueness as made people say that Italy could do no better. The farm horses lounged in the meadows, as though a life of leisure was what they were made for and all their great muscles were but show. Birds were not yet leaving for the South but here and there they held mysterious meetings, while some twittering leader told them of his fears. Jake suddenly grew larger and assumed a sagacious air but it was a spurious sagacity, for underneath he retained his callow ways. He spent most of his time watching for Philip’s return, and ran yelping at the sight of Mrs. Nettleship. When she came out to shake her duster he hid among the shrubs but when she had gone he returned to wait for Philip.

Mary and Clive had long talks. Nobody could help noticing that he came every day to Jalna and that Mary made less and less pretence of restraining the children. Mary lived in a kind of dream. All about her was so unreal. But her resolve to marry Clive Busby and go far away from Jalna was real. Each night this resolve kept
her to her bed like an anchor, without which she would have sprung up and walked the floor, unable to sleep or rest. She was thankful that Philip was not beneath the same roof with her. She wished she might leave without seeing him again. That would scarcely be possible but, when they did meet, their interchange would be cool and businesslike. He would pay her what salary was due her. She would apologize for leaving without the usual notice. He would be genial and congratulate her on her coming marriage. She would smile happily and say how much she was looking forward to living on the prairies.

Then she would leave.

The thought of a wedding at Jalna was not to be borne. Clive was to take her to his brother’s house a hundred miles away and they would be quietly married from there. He had confided in this brother and also in Mr. Pink who was helping him to get a special licence. It was all quite simple. All she had to do was to steel herself for the break; after that she would look back across a momentous chasm to the life she now lived. Day by day it would grow dimmer. Philip’s face would become blurred in her memory, his voice forgotten. So she soothed her aching spirit with lies.

There was no one she could talk to with truth.

One day she found Jake sitting in a patch of sunlight near the entrance gate. With an inexpressibly melancholy look his spaniel’s eyes, with their drooping underlids, were fixed on the road. When he saw her a momentary pleasure agitated his tail, then he returned to his waiting.

She ran to him and put her hand on his curling topknot. “Dear little Jake,” she said, “how you love him! Far, far better than Sport and Spot do.”

He received the caress with sad dignity but kept his eyes on the road.

“Never mind,” she said. “He will be back tomorrow.”

There was something in her voice that made Jake very sorry for himself. He whimpered, and at the same time wagged his tail, as though to reassure her. “I’m afraid you’re going to take life very
hard,” she said. “And it’s bad for you, Jake. You must try to be tranquil like your father and mother, and like your master. You may be sure he’s not thinking about us.”

In the branches of the evergreens pigeons were shuffling and cooing. They preened their greenish-blue plumage as though it were spring and not fall, with the time for love-making past. The sky was clear virginal blue, reflected in shining pools on the road, for it had rained the night before. Mary saw Clive swinging down the road, taking strides as though in them he must expend his happy energy.

“I must go and meet him,” she thought, “and I don’t know how to do it. Jake, you must come and help me.” She took him by the collar and drew him to his feet. Together they went through the gate.

“We’re coming to meet you,” she cried, and tried to make her walk swinging and free, as Clive’s was.

He caught her hand and held it, then looking about to make sure they were not seen, kissed her on the cheek. He bent and patted the spaniel.

“I must get you a dog,” he said, “for your very own. I have two sheep dogs but they follow me about all day on the ranch. What breed will you choose?”

“A pug,” she answered without hesitating.

“A pug!” he exclaimed. “A snuffling little pug, with a corkscrew tail? Oh, surely not, Mary.”

“Yes. I love them.”

“Then a pug you shall have. I well remember the first one I ever saw. I was on a visit to the Vaughans with my parents. Captain and Mrs. Whiteoak were coming to tea. I was a small boy. It was the time when enormous bustles were worn. I saw them coming in at the gate and walking up the drive. Jove, they were a striking couple! He was the sort of man who had the look of wearing a uniform even when he was in tweeds. What you’d call a dashing officer. But she was the one who really cut a figure. She’d on a kind of dolman and a wide skirt. She’d a broad-brimmed straw hat and she’d trimmed it with bright-coloured pansies, fresh from the garden,
and her eyes looked large and dark, under the brim, and her teeth very white. Well, the hat was odd enough but what staggered me was a pug dog sitting on her bustle. Sitting on it, as large as life, and twice as peculiar. When he got tired of walking, she said, she just lifted him on to her bustle and there he rode like a prince.”

“I shall make myself a bustle,” said Mary, “and teach my pug to sit on it.”