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Title: Mary Wakefield
Author: de la Roche, Mazo (1879-1961)
Date of first publication: 1949
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Macmillan Company of Canada, 1949
Date first posted: 29 January 2015
Date last updated: 29 January 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1231

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                                   TO

                             WALTER ALLWARD

                                   IN

                         FRIENDSHIP AND HOMAGE




                             MARY WAKEFIELD

                                   BY

                            MAZO DE LA ROCHE

                                TORONTO
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                           OF CANADA LIMITED
                                  1949




                          _By the same Author_

                         The Building of Jalna
                              Young Renny
                           Whiteoak Heritage
                                 Jalna
                               Whiteoaks
                            Finch's Fortune
                          The Master of Jalna
                            Whiteoak Harvest
                           Wakefield's Course
                          The Return to Jalna



                           PRINTED IN CANADA
                    _By_ Le Soleil Limite, Qubec.




                                CONTENTS

                        I THE GOVERNESS
                       II THE CHILDREN
                      III PHILIP
                       IV THE HOUSE BY THE LAKE
                        V THE MOORINGS
                       VI GETTING BETTER ACQUAINTED
                      VII FAMILY CIRCLE COMPLETE
                     VIII NO EMPTY ROOM
                       IX NEXT MORNING
                        X THE MEETING WITH MISS CRAIG
                       XI THE PARTY
                      XII MEETINGS ON THE ROAD
                     XIII REVERSES
                      XIV CONGRATULATIONS
                       XV DISCLOSURES
                      XVI THE STORM
                     XVII ESCAPE
                    XVIII THE SEARCH
                      XIX AT THE CRAIGS'
                       XX BY THE LAKE
                      XXI AT GRIPS
                     XXII HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
                    XXIII THE WEDDING AND AFTER




                             MARY WAKEFIELD




                                   I
                              THE GOVERNESS


This was like no awakening she had ever had. She was in a strange house,
among strange people, in a strange land. Her few belongings she had
unpacked that lay scattered about the room, made it look all the
stranger. Yet the day would come when all this would be familiar, when
her belongings there would not look so alien, so pathetic; not that it
was a grand room. It was just a comfortably furnished, moderately-sized
room with a mahogany dressing-table and washstand with basin and ewer
ornamented with red roses, a heavy white counterpane, an engraving of
the Bridge of Sighs and another of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert with
their young family about them. A Virginia creeper which she had noticed
last night massed over the front of the house and enveloping the porch,
had even extended its growth to this side and was spreading a few
vigorous shoots across the window. From it the early morning sunlight
took a greenish tinge.

Mary was glad she had waked early. She wanted time to lie still and
collect her thoughts. Her mind appeared to her as a kaleidoscope that
had been so shaken it could not regain its original pattern. The theme
of that pattern had been her life in London with her brilliant but
unstable father, a journalist who was always startling editors either by
his good or his bad writing. He seemed unable to do anything moderately
well. He was always startling Mary by his high spirits or his deep
melancholy. Her mother had died when she was a child so there had been
no influence in her life to counteract these vicissitudes. She had come
to wear rather a startled look when her eyes were not dreaming. Her eyes
were grey, her fair hair so fine that it slipped from under hairpins in
a disconcerting way but luckily had a natural wave in it. Her father had
been proud of her beauty, so proud of it that the thought of her doing
anything to earn her living had been abhorrent to him. Possibly pride in
himself had had as much to do with it. Neither of them had been clearly
conscious of the way he was going down hill physically till it was too
late to save him. Then he was gone from her.

Now lying in this strange bed between the smooth linen sheets Mary
rolled her head on the pillow at the anguished recollection of those
terrible months of early spring. His bank account had seen them through
his illness, little more. Mary remembered how he had thrown money about.
But at the last he had spent it on little but drink. Events, struggling
to be remembered, hammered at the door of her mind but she would not let
them in. Now, on this June morning, she must be self-controlled, firm in
the beginning of this new life. It lay spread before her like an unknown
sea, upon which she, chartless, had embarked, no past experience to help
her.

She had not wanted to be a governess. If she could have thought of any
other way of earning her living she would have turned to it, but there
were few openings for women in the nineties. The only work she felt
capable of attempting, considering her ignorance and lack of experience,
was teaching the young. The fact that she had had little to do with
children did not trouble her. She thought of them as innocent little
pitchers which she would fill with knowledge gained from text-books and
coloured maps. She would set them to memorizing poems, lists of foreign
countries, their capitals, rivers, capes, mountains and products. The
important thing had been to get the situation. Once secured she felt
equal to coping with it. In truth she had to find work or starve.

She had answered a number of advertisements and indeed had obtained
interviews with several of the advertisers but they all had come to
nothing. She had not the sort of looks, of manner, of voice, that made
people want to have her as a governess for their children. In looks she
was quite lovely, very tall and slender and very fair, with a skin so
delicate that it seemed never to have been roughened by cold winds or to
have lost its first beauty by exposure to the heat of the sun. But it
was her smile that did the most harm. It lighted her face in the most
extraordinary manner and then her mouth which had been wistful and
almost melancholy, became alluring, gay and even provocative. She looked
a dangerous creature to bring into the house where there was a grown-up
son or even a husband.

If only she had known she could have subdued this smile and substituted
an appropriately prim one for it but there was no one to warn her and
before each interview was over she had given herself away--damned her
chances. She had not the sort of face ladies looked for in governesses,
in the last decade of the nineteenth century.

Her lack of proper references had been a handicap almost as great as her
too charming looks. Her only reference had been from the editor of a
newspaper for which her father had sometimes written. The reference had
been based on the fact that Mary had once lived in his house for a month
as companion to his docile little daughter while the child's mother was
ill. The editor had been very kind to Mary and when she required a
reference, had made much of her stay in his house, her efficiency and
her excellent way with children.

In reading over this reference Mary had not considered it as
exaggerated. There was a spaciousness in her nature which made her feel
capable of all that was written there. She found it no more than truth.
Only after many rebuffs had her courage failed her and she had opened
her newspaper and turned to the advertisements with less and less hope.

Now, with the sheet cool against her chin, she looked at the bunches of
lilac on the wall-paper, held together by streamers of rose-coloured
ribbon and remembered the morning in London, less than a month ago, when
she had been engaged to come to this house in Canada. Then too the air
had been bright with sunshine. The sound of horses' hoofs which marked
the rhythm of the life of London had seemed to have a new vitality.
Drays, drawn by heavy horses, rattled over the cobbles, buses and
four-wheelers and hansoms, drawn by well-fed, well-groomed horses, made
the streets lively, giving an air of temperate activity and prosperity.
The very breeze coming in at the open window had fresh life in it and a
tremor of new hope ran through Mary's nerves as she scanned the
advertisements.

Almost at once her eyes were caught and held. She read:

"Wanted a capable governess to go to Canada and take complete charge of
two children. Passage and all expenses paid. Only a woman of firm
character need apply. Call at Brown's Hotel, asking for Mr. Ernest
Whiteoak."

Mary's heart began to thud violently. She let the paper fall to the
floor and rose to her feet. Desire for adventure surged up through all
her being. No opportunity for adventure had ever come her way. She had
scarcely realized that she was capable of desiring it. She had lived
enveloped in the dream world of an imaginative child, long after
childhood was past. Now that its mists were swept away by the death of
her father and the chill necessity of earning her own living revealed
she was, for the first time, free to become acquainted with her real
self.

"To cross the ocean," she said out loud. "To be in a new country.
Heavens above, what an adventure!"

She snatched up the paper and read the advertisement again. In
imagination she felt the pulsing of the engine beneath the deck of the
ship, saw herself wrapped in a travelling rug, in a deck chair, while a
steward offered her refreshment from a laden tray. Of late she had been
so parsimonious that the thought of appetizing food crept more and more
often into her thoughts. She was young, and though not robust was
healthy.

The second reading of the advertisement only increased her desire to
obtain this situation if possible. Indeed it shone out to her as an
answer to prayer. If she could not persuade this Mr. Whiteoak to engage
her, it might well be an end to her hopes of teaching. She would almost
certainly have to take any sort of work that offered, no matter how
distasteful.

So little was she acquainted with what was looked for as desirable in a
governess that she set out to make herself as attractive as possible for
the interview. She brought out her best shoes, the ones with the high
heels and very pointed toes, and polished them. She put on a petticoat
with embroidered flounces and a delicate green and white dress with
elbow sleeves. Her father had forbidden her to go into mourning for him.
Her wide-brimmed hat was trimmed with pink roses and their glossy green
leaves. Her long gloves were of white silk and she wore a wide silver
bracelet. She decided she was too pale and put a touch of rouge on lips
and cheeks. The effect was good, she decided, and as she descended the
stairs her step was lighter than it had been for months.

She and her father had lodged in this old-fashioned semi-detached house
in Vincent Square and had made themselves very comfortable. Mary had a
talent for making lodgings look homelike and there was nothing drab
about these. When she reached the street she looked back at the balcony
outside her apartment, remembering how she had stood alone on it,
looking at the sky, on the night her father died, and she wondered what
would be her feelings when next she stood there. Again her heart began
to thud. She was afraid she would not be able to speak calmly and
efficiently when she met Mr. Ernest Whiteoak. She thought of him as with
large mustachios, waxed and pointed.

She mounted to the top of a bus drawn by sleek bay horses. The streets
showed fresh paint and shining brasses and there were flower sellers at
the corners. If there were any wretched and ragged human beings among
the crowd Mary did not see them. Her eyes were attracted by the women in
elegant dresses, with frills and skirts touching the pavements, and
elaborately-done hair, by the men in frock-coats and tall hats, by the
children carrying brightly painted hoops, being led by nurses toward the
Park. Yet all she saw passed in a moving haze, as she strained toward
the interview that was to mean either so much to her or was to be the
end of her hope of teaching.

At Brown's Hotel she was told that Mr. Whiteoak was out but was expected
to return shortly and was prepared to interview her in the small
sitting-room. Mary walked nervously up and down the room, feeling
herself too tall, as she always did when nervous and about to meet
strangers. Perhaps she had better sit down, rising when Mr. Whiteoak
entered, and then not quite to her full height. She composed herself,
arranging her skirt to advantage and folding her hands in her lap. She
examined the pictures in the room, listened to the activities of the
hotel and tried to recall some lines of poetry with which to steady her
nerves, but all had fled from her mind. Fear and depression took hold of
her. She began to tremble so that she could see the movement in the
flowers of her dress. It was the waiting. If only he would come and have
it over with! She could picture him--a short stout man with an
intimidating look. By the time she heard his step--for she instinctively
knew it was Mr. Ernest Whiteoak--she was ready to sink to the floor in
apprehension.

But how different he was from the man she had expected! He was tall,
slender, smooth-shaven, of very fair complexion, gentle blue eyes, and a
reassuring smile. He carried his top-hat in his hand, his frock-coat was
worn with elegance, enhanced by the flower on his lapel. He was a man in
his middle forties.

"I hope you have not been waiting too long," he said. "I had business
that must be attended to. Am I to understand that you are----"

He hesitated, brought to a stop by Mary's charming appearance. Surely
this young lady, as attractive as any he had seen in Regent Street this
morning, was not an applicant for a position as governess.

"Yes," she answered, in a trembling voice, "I am desirous--I want very
much--my name is Mary Wakefield."

"Ah, yes, Miss Wakefield. Won't you please be seated." He hesitated
again, then himself sat down on a small red velvet chair quite near her.
His presence was reassuring. She thought, he is kindness personified.

"I suppose you understand you would be asked to go to Canada if
engaged," he went on.

"Oh, yes. I--I want very much to go to Canada."

"May I ask why?"

"I want to leave England. My father died some months ago. I'm--alone.
I'd like to go to a new country."

"You feel yourself capable of teaching and managing two high-spirited
children of seven and nine?"

"Oh, I am sure I could. I love children."

"Good. These are very lovable children. My brother's young son and
daughter. Their mother died when the boy was only two years old. He's a
lively customer, I may tell you."

"I'm so glad."

Ernest Whiteoak looked at her sharply. "You are sure you are capable?
What experience have you had?"

Mary produced her reference and he read it through twice.

"Certainly," he said, returning it to her, while his fair brow wrinkled
in thought, "certainly you have not had much experience." Then he
exclaimed, in a frankly confidential tone, "The truth is, Miss
Wakefield, we are in a dilemma. My mother--the children's
grandmother--had engaged a very capable, middle-aged governess for the
children, one suitable in every way. Her passage was booked and she was
to accompany some friends and neighbours of ours who would take her to
my brother's house. My mother then went to Devon to visit my sister, her
mind quite at rest. I, myself, and my elder brother are leaving for
Paris in three days, so you can imagine the fix we are in."

"Yes?" Mary felt rather bewildered but forced an expression of eager
intelligence into her eyes. "And where is the other governess?"

"She is suffering from broken legs."

Mary looked so shocked that he wondered if he should have said limbs. He
therefore amended, "Yes--both limbs were broken. By a bus."

"Then I suppose," faltered Mary, "that, when they mend, she will go to
Canada. I mean I'm to be only temporary."

"Not at all," he reassured her. "There is considerable doubt of her
limbs being really efficient again, and we all feel that she would need
two perfectly good ones in this situation."

If Mary's written references were meagre, certainly her legs were
admirable and she hastened to say, "Mine are."

He gave her a little startled look and then exclaimed:

"Splendid."

For some reason this talk of legs had put them on a new footing.
Constraint was gone. Mary's nerves relaxed and she smiled at him,
showing her white even teeth.

By George, thought Ernest Whiteoak, she's beautiful! He said, in a
confidential tone, "The thing is that it would be necessary for you to
leave in a few days."

"As far as I am concerned," she declared, "I can leave tomorrow."

"I wish my mother were here to make the decision. It is really very
difficult for me." But, even as he spoke he knew that he was glad his
mother was not there. He was sure she would not find this lovely
creature suitable as governess to her grandchildren. But the children
themselves would be charmed by her. Philip himself would be delighted by
her gentleness and good breeding. Then, at that moment, he made up his
mind to engage her. He was naturally indolent and the thought of looking
further depressed him. He began to talk to her of salary and of the
dispositions of the two children, whom he described as lovable, though
high-spirited and at present a little out of hand. Without his saying
so, Mary knew the matter was settled. His face was bright with the
lifting of a load from his mind. Ernest Whiteoak was saying:

"I'm sure you will like Jalna. That is the name of our house. My father
was an officer in India and went to Canada some forty years ago, taking
my mother and my sister who was a baby then. My elder brother was born
in Quebec. My father then bought a thousand acres in Ontario--mostly
virgin forest--and built a house there. I was the first child born in
it." He said this with pride and Mary was impressed.

"My younger brother came along eight years later. He is the father of
your future pupils and, I may remark, very easy to get on with."

To be talked to so pleasantly, to be so put at her ease, was balm to
Mary, after some of the interviews she had passed through. This was the
atmosphere of the New World, she felt, and she yearned toward it. What
was he saying?

"We have tried, Miss Wakefield, to preserve the ways of the Old World at
Jalna, to keep ourselves free from the narrowness, the conceit, of the
New. We have agreeable neighbours. I speak as though I lived at Jalna
but, as a matter of fact, I and my elder brother and my sister all live
in England. Still, we make long visits there and I hope that, on my next
one, I shall find you most happily established with the children."

No interview of a like nature could have passed off more pleasantly. If
only Mr. Whiteoak in Canada were half as nice as the Mr. Whiteoak here
she would be happier than ever she had thought possible. As she sat on
the top of the bus, on her way back to Vincent Square, the air was full
of happy sounds, the horses' hoofs had a gayer rhythm, there was the
distant sound of a military band, and near at hand the knife-sharpener's
tinkling bell. It seemed to Mary that the people in the streets wore
brighter expressions and walked with lighter steps. She was, for the
time being, too excited to think clearly. At one moment she was living
over again the interview with Ernest Whiteoak, seeing his fair aquiline
features, his reassuring smile, listening to his pleasant voice; at
another her mind flew forward to that distant house where she was to
live, and she saw another, somewhat younger edition of Ernest Whiteoak,
with two angelic children clinging to his hands, and all about the house
a great forest where moose and bear and wolf roamed at will, though
never near enough the house to be frightening.

When, at last, she stood in front of the house in Vincent Square, she
looked up at it with a strange feeling of unfamiliarity. It was receding
from her. She was like a swan, sailing down a smooth stream, away from
dangers and fears.

Now, three weeks later, she was lying in this strange bed, in this
lilac-decked room. What beautiful wall-paper! she thought, and how well
the picture of the Bridge of Sighs looked, hanging against it. As soon
as she unpacked she would put up the framed photographs of her father
and her mother on the mantelshelf. Already there, stood an oval glass
case covering a wax group of flowers and fruit, three red roses, a bunch
of grapes, three purple plums, three crab-apples and, strewn over the
sand on the bottom, some cornucopia-shaped sea shells. This ornament had
caught Mary's eyes the moment she had come into the room last night.
Even in her state of fatigue and excitement, even under the pale cold
eyes of the housekeeper, her eyes had been held. When she had taken off
her long ulster and heavy hat she had gone over to the case and had a
good look into it. She had not expected to find anything so aesthetic,
so enchanting, far in the heart of Canada.

Mrs. Nettleship, the housekeeper, had been the only person she had met
the night before. That had been a relief, for she knew she was looking
very fatigued after the long train journey. She always got those violet
circles beneath the eyes when she was tired, which made her look
fragile. Yet, at the same time, she had a sense of being rebuffed by her
reception. She had had such a clear picture of the middle-aged widower
standing tall, slender and distinguished, a shy child by either hand,
saying, in a voice exactly like Mr. Ernest Whiteoak's, "Here are my
little motherless ones, Miss Wakefield. I give them into your keeping."
But, when the carriage had stopped at the door, and the door been
opened, not in a wide welcoming gesture but in a narrow, grudging way,
only the thickset figure of Mrs. Nettleship had been revealed. She let
Mary inside and closed the door after her, as though the house were a
fortress. Inside the hall one oil lamp, in a heavy brass frame, shed a
calm light on the rich-coloured rugs, the straight-backed mahogany
chairs, the fine staircase. A hat-rack on which hung several hats, a
dog's leash and a mackintosh, had a carved fox's head inset. Mrs.
Nettleship wore a light blue print dress and a snow-white apron. She had
frizzy sandy hair and a smile that had less geniality than most frowns.
She said:

"Mr. Whiteoak is not home yet and I guess, if he was, he would not want
to be interviewing you at this hour." She spoke as though it were Mary's
fault that the train was an hour late. She turned to the man who was
beginning to introduce Mary's trunk into the hall.

"Martin," she said, "take that to the back door." Her tone intimated
that Martin had better have taken Mary to the same entrance. The man,
giving a glum look, withdrew.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs. Nettleship asked, as though hunger would be the
last straw to what she had endured from Mary.

"No, oh no, indeed, thank you," Mary answered, though she would have
given much for a bowl of soup.

"That's good," said Mrs. Nettleship, "for the fire's out. I s'pose you'd
like to go straight up to your room."

"Yes, I'm--rather tired."

"You look like two sheets and a shadow," said Mrs. Nettleship
cryptically. "Are you always like that?"

"Heavens, no," said Mary, feeling her anger rise. "You must remember
I've had a long hard journey. I was seasick most of the way across."

Mrs. Nettleship looked steadily down at her feet. "I've never crossed
the ocean," she said. "I believe in staying at home and earning your
living in the country you was born in."

"But how would this country have got populated if everyone had stayed at
home?"

"Enough came out at the first. It's time to stop."

"Well, I'm here anyway," laughed Mary. She wondered what Mrs.
Nettleship's position in the household was.

Mrs. Nettleship enlightened her when she had conducted Mary to her room.
She said, clasping her small pointed hands on her stomach, "I've kept
house for Mr. Whiteoak ever since his wife died, five years ago, and, if
anyone could have done it better, I'd like to meet them. You'll have
your hands full."

"Oh, I suppose any two children are a handful."

Mrs. Nettleship smiled and her eyes twinkled. "They'll do anything for
_me_," she said.

Mary thought, "You're jealous. You resent my coming. Well, that's always
the way. I don't suppose a governess ever went into any house where
there was no mistress but only a housekeeper that the housekeeper didn't
resent it."

Mrs. Nettleship seemed to read her thoughts. Her smile widened into a
grin. "As far as I'm concerned," she said, "I'm glad you've come. I
can't put up with two children always running in and out of my kitchen.
Of course, when the old lady comes home it's different. She's got
will-power and she don't stand any nonsense from no one."

Mary could see that the housekeeper wanted to stay and talk. Her smile
became wider and wider, her lips paler as she stretched them. Twice Mary
yawned and repeated how tired she was. At last Mrs. Nettleship left. At
the door she stopped to say, "Up here on the top floor there's just you
and the children. Better not make a noise and disturb them. They'll be
up early. Eliza and I sleep in the basement. There's where it's cool in
summer and warm in winter. You'll have to come down and see us." When
she had gone her smile seemed to hang on the air like the grin of the
Cheshire Cat.

Mary had not expected to sleep. Everything was too new, too strange. The
black, enveloping silence of the moonless night pressed through the open
windows. Every room in the unknown house seemed to gather itself
together, to steal in on her, to struggle to see which would first
fasten itself on her mind, cling to her memory, never to be forgotten.
Even though she only remained here for a month she would never be the
same again. This house, this family, of whom she had met only one
member, would leave their imprint on her. She drew the sheet over her
head, trying to shut herself in, to protect herself from the urgency of
the house. There were the two rooms where the children slept. She wished
she might have looked in on them as they lay unconscious, have studied
their features, even touched them, before they were able to touch her.
The confidence that had upheld her during all her preparations in
London, during the voyage, suddenly deserted her. She felt alone. No
matter what befell her she would have no one to comfort her, no one who
cared. Like an ice-cold wave submerging her came the realization of her
aloneness. She sank under it and, in her exhaustion, fell asleep and did
not wake till the tall old clock at the foot of the stairs was striking
six.

She saw the ghost of the ship which had brought her out from England,
disappearing into the ocean mists; she saw this house called Jalna,
rising up like a fortification in this new country, its woods and fields
all about it; she heard a cardinal uttering his fiercely joyful whistle,
as though he must live every moment of his life to the utmost; she heard
the bleating of sheep, and then suddenly the laughter of a young
boy--the boy of seven in the next room--not loud but clear and startling
in its vitality. Then there were light, quick steps in the passage and
something heavy bounced against her door.

She sprang up and threw open the door but there was no one there.




                                   II
                              THE CHILDREN


Renny Whiteoak felt brilliantly alive that morning. He came upward, out
of a deep pool of sleep, like a bright coloured fish. He wore a light
blue night-shirt, his skin was milk and roses, his hair of a bright
chestnut that reddened in the shaft of sunlight that fell across the
bed. He lay looking about the room that held almost all his
belongings--his shelf of books--his toy cupboard full of toys he was
outgrowing--his fishing-rod--his wind-up train that had something wrong
with its mechanism and would not go--his bank, into which he reluctantly
dropped small silver when ordered to, and of which his father kept the
key. A large stretch of blue sky, upon which sailed a cloud shaped like
a galleon, filled the window-panes, excepting in one place where the
topmost branch of a silver birch waved. The air was warm. Suddenly Renny
kicked away the clothes and his feet shot into the air with the
unpremeditated activity of a fish's tail. He kicked so high into the
sunlight that only the back of his shoulders touched the bed. He did
this repeatedly, deepening the hollow that had already formed in the
mattress. Then he lay quite still, remembering Meg's new governess who
had arrived the night before and was sleeping in the next room. He
thought of her only as Meg's governess. Next year he would go to
boarding-school as his friend, Maurice Vaughan, two years older than
himself, now went. There was no day school convenient to their houses.

His mind riveted on the governess, he rolled out of bed onto his feet
and went lightly to the door of his sister's room. He opened it and put
in his head. Meg lay curled up in a plump ball, her light-brown pigtail
flung across the pillow. Her room was in shadow. She lay in warm
feminine seclusion. Renny sat down on the side of the bed and put his
face close to hers, breathing noisily. Their breaths mingled, warm and
wholesome as the scent of clover in the sun.

Anger at being woken tied Meg into a more determined ball. Her knees
drew up to her chin, the white satinlike flesh with which her forehead
was padded was drawn in a frown.

"Go 'way!" She kicked at him, her body beneath the sheet convulsed.

"Meggie, listen. Your governess is here. I heard her come last night."

"She's not mine."

"She is."

"She's not. She's just as much yours."

"She'll be yours for years and years."

Up to this point Meg had kept her eyes tight shut. Now she opened them
and they were very blue. "Did you see her?" she asked.

"No. But Mrs. Nettleship came up with her. I heard them talking. I'll
tell you what they said." He drew his feet up on the side of the bed and
clasped his knees. Meg had a glimpse of their black soles and hissed:

"Get off my bed!"

"Why?" He was astonished.

"Your horrible feet. Look at them."

He turned up the sole of his left foot and looked at it unmoved. "Oh,
that."

"You're not allowed to go to bed dirty. You're not allowed to run about
barefoot. If Papa saw you . . ."

"All right, I'll go. I won't tell you."

She caught him by the tail of his night-shirt.

"Come on. Tell me what they said."

"Old Nettle said we're a handful and she couldn't put up with us running
in and out of her kitchen, and she was glad the governess had come."

"My eye!" said Meg.

"The governess," Renny said, "sounded la-di-da." He had heard his father
use the expression and now brought it out impressively.

"_We_'ll la-di-da her!" said Meg.

"I'll tell you what, let's dress and then fire something at her door and
run."

Those were not the days of shorts and pullovers, of scant dresses and
bare legs or abbreviated play-suits. Renny put on an undervest, a shirt,
trousers held up by braces of which he was very proud, and a jacket,
brown stockings and laced shoes. Meg, still sleepy, got into an
undervest, black stockings held up by suspenders from a heavily ribbed
garment called a Ferris waist, frilled white drawers, a white starched
petticoat that buttoned down the back, a pleated navy blue serge skirt,
coming just below the knee, and a white duck blouse with a starched
sailor collar. It was to be a hot June day.

By the time Meg was dressed there were little beads of perspiration on
her nose. She dipped a corner of a towel in the ewer and scrubbed her
face with it, then dried it on the other end of the towel. She hesitated
before the abhorrent task of brushing her teeth. She decided against it.
After all, this was a special sort of day. She would give her teeth a
rest. But she would not neglect her prayers. She knelt down by the side
of her bed, folded her hands and murmured:

                "Oh, Lord, receive my morning prayer.
                  Guard me from sin and hurt and snare.
                Guide me to knowledge of Thy love
                  And keep my thoughts on Heaven above."

Having completed her devotions Meg rose, unplaited her hair and gave it
six strokes of the brush. Her hair sprang to life, caught the sunshine
and lay thick about her shoulders in a light brown mantle. She was ready
for the day. There was silence in Renny's room. Tiptoeing in she found
him dressed but lying across the bed holding his fox terrier in his
arms. The little dog was systematically licking Renny's ear.

"Don't speak," he said. "I'm counting the licks. A hundred and eight--a
hundred and nine--a hundred--"

"All right," said Meg, "you may stay here but I'm going. I want my
breakfast before _she_ comes down."

Renny leapt up. In one hand he held a hard rubber ball. As they passed
Mary's door he threw it sharply against a panel, then snatching Meg's
hand, he dragged her at top speed down the stairs. In this second flight
of stairs the steps were steep and rather narrow. It was not long since
they had descended them with care, a step at a time. Now they fairly
flung themselves down, then stood listening in the passage below. There
was silence everywhere. The door of their father's room was shut. The
other bedrooms were closed too but they were empty, with drawn blinds
and beds smooth beneath white counterpanes. Meg placed her ear to the
keyhole of her father's room.

"He's breathing," she whispered. "Not quite snoring."

"Let's hear." In his turn Renny listened.

Though the door was shut between, their father was as near as though he
stood before them. He was the tremendous reality of their lives. His
breathing was more important than other men's shouting. When their
grandmother was at home she became a great figure but, when the far
distant sea or Ireland or England absorbed her, she became like
impressive scenery, a mountain, a cliff, that you could put out of your
head, when you are distant from it. The visits of their uncles and aunt
were a mixture of pleasurable excitement, for they always brought
presents and humiliation, for they were critical, telling you not to
stand like this or hold your fork like that or making you repeat what
you had said, slowly and with a proper accent. Much more of this
criticism came Renny's way than Meg's. His uncles would look at his
father in astonishment and say, "Upon my word, Philip, this boy is
becoming a little ruffian."

"He is _so_ snoring," declared Renny.

"He is not. If you call that snoring you ought to hear old Nettle."
(Their name for Mrs. Nettleship.)

"When did you hear her?"

"Having her afternoon nap. It was like this." Meg gave a raucous
imitation. This startled the fox terrier, who set up a frantic barking.
The children, followed by him, still barking, flew down the main
stairway, ran down the hall and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs to
the basement. At a small table Mrs. Nettleship and Eliza were eating
their breakfast. There was an immaculate air about them as about the
room. The morning sunlight seeking every corner, lying across the
scrubbed wood of the long table, shining on the polished coal range and
rows of utensils, could discover no dirt or dust. The air was filled by
the pleasant smell of bacon and toast. The little dog ran at once to the
side of the table and sat up.

On an ordinary occasion Mrs. Nettleship would have sent the children
flying, but this morning she felt a mournful pity for them which she
expressed by shaking her head every time she looked at them.

"Poor little things," she muttered to Eliza. "No mother and another one
of them governesses."

"Dear, oh dear," mourned Eliza, surreptitiously putting a rind of bacon
into the terrier's mouth.

The children stood together at the foot of the stairs.

"What is she like?" Renny demanded.

"Wait till you see her," replied Mrs. Nettleship with a sneer. "Dolled
up in a flagrant way, like no teacher I've ever been used to."

"What's flagrant?"

"Scandalous, that's what flagrant is."

"Oh. Was her face painted?"

"I'd not be surprised. She'd fancy clothes."

"She sounds nice," said Meg. "Better than the other two."

"Don't you be deceived. She's the designing sort. Nice to your face and
tattle behind your back."

"Do you mean tell tales to Papa?" asked Meg.

Renny went to Mrs. Nettleship. He was conscious of her weakness for him.
He smiled ingratiatingly. "I want strawberry jam on my toast this
morning and bacon and a fried egg. No porridge." Her arms went round
him. He saw her blue-lipped puckered mouth reaching toward his face and
bent his wiry body backward to avoid the contact. With deliberate
fingers he tickled the back of her neck. "Come on, Nettle," he urged.
"Strawberry jam. A fried egg. _Two_ fried eggs. And _no_ porridge."

She closed her eyes, succumbing. Meg looked on dispassionately. Then the
housekeeper asked:

"Did you wash last night? Your feet and legs was all sandy, you
remember."

"Yes," he answered, meaning yes he remembered.

"Good boy." She looked across at Eliza, her look saying, "See how he
loves me."

There was something in that look which made Eliza uncomfortable. She got
up and began to clear the table. Mrs. Nettleship had come from a town
sixty miles away. No one knew anything of her past, whether her husband
were living or dead. Before she came to Jalna she had been housekeeper
for eight years to an invalid, an old lady who had at last died. Now,
for six years, she had unflinchingly fought dirt and disorder in Philip
Whiteoak's house, and also trained Eliza to her ways. As he often said,
a man could scarcely have two better servants but, he would add with a
shrug, "They're not what you'd call comfortable women."

"Would you like your breakfast in the kitchen?" she asked Renny,
ignoring Meg. "It'll likely be your last chance for a long while."

For answer he drew a chair up to the table, rattling it over the floor.
Meg at once drew up a chair for herself. Mrs. Nettleship said to Eliza:

"You go on with your beds. I'll look after him."

Placing his palms against the edge of the table to steady himself, Renny
tilted back his chair and watched preparations for his breakfast with an
appraising eye.

"It'll be far worse for you having that Englishwoman here than it will
for your sister."

"I shall be going to school."

"Not for over a year!" she scoffed. "She can do a lot to you in that
time."

"I'd like to see her try."

There was silence while Mrs. Nettleship concentrated her attention on
the frying-pan. She set his plate sizzling before him.

"Ladies should be served first," said Meg.

Renny at once pushed the plate towards her. "Take this then," he said.

Mrs. Nettleship angrily grasped his wrist. "None of that," she said. "I
don't like being interfered with."

"If he says I can have it I can," said Meg stubbornly.

"Not in this kitchen. If you don't do what I want you'll have breakfast
upstairs--with _her_."

She looked on approvingly while Renny attacked his bacon. She passed a
hand over his hair. "Sakes alive, what hair! I guess you never put a
brush on it this morning." She placed Meg's plate in front of her with
what seemed almost calculated indifference. When she brought out the pot
of strawberry jam it was set convenient to his hand.

"Now," she said, when they had finished, "I'm going to get a brush and
tidy your hair, mister. Use your napkins, both of you." She disappeared
into the passage which led to the maids' bedrooms.

In an instant the children were silently scrambling up the stairs. The
fox terrier, in his eagerness, nipped first one of their legs, then
another, as they ascended. At the top all three cast restraint away and
scampered through the hall, laughing and barking. The front door stood
open. The outdoors, piercingly green in its freshness, invited them.
They tore through the porch.

"I'll beat you to the gate!" shouted Renny.




                                  III
                                 PHILIP


An hour later Philip opened the door of his bedroom, came out and shut
it stealthily behind him. He cast one apprehensive look up the stairway
to the top floor where the new governess slept. He was not shy but he
dreaded the complications she would almost certainly bring into his
life. He would never forget the trouble caused by Miss Turnbull, the
last governess. She had been the hoity-toity priggish type, disagreeable
to the servants, unreasonable (to his mind) with the children,
complaining to him. Sights and sounds of the farm were always shocking
her. He hoped this new one would be a country woman. Ernest had told him
singularly little of her in his letter--just that she seemed nice and
quite sensible and that her references were good. Philip heaved a sigh
at the thought of being obliged to have three strange women in his
house, but what could he do? Mrs. Nettleship was certainly not capable
of giving the proper care to a little girl. Well, this was the sort of
thing that happened to a man when he was a widower. He'd got used to
being a widower but he never ceased to miss Margaret's taking the
difficult end of domestic complications. She'd had a strong
nature--always thought she was right--and a temper. She'd been only
twenty-five when she died; perhaps by this time she'd have toned down a
bit. It was wonderful how she'd stood up to his mother's tempers, and
rather terrible too. Yet his mother had known Margaret all her
life--dandled her when she was a baby. He himself felt that, when you'd
known a person all your life you ought to understand them. But women
were different.

He took his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. He pushed out his full
lips in a pout. No time to go to the stables before breakfast, as he had
wanted to. He might as well face the music now, have breakfast with the
children and this Miss Wakefield and get it over with. Wearing the
expression of a spoilt boy he descended the stairs and looked into the
dining-room. The table was set for two.

His expression changed to one of dismay. Where were the children? Surely
he was not going to be forced to eat breakfast alone with that woman on
her first morning! He couldn't. He wouldn't. He strode to where the
bell-cord hung and pulled it. In a moment Eliza appeared.

"Breakfast, sir?" she asked.

"Eliza, where are the children?"

"They had their breakfast early and ran off, sir."

"Go and find them, please. No--I'll call them myself." He gave Eliza a
pathetic look. "Eliza, where is that governess?"

"In the library. I think she's waiting for you, sir." Eliza could not
help smiling at the dismay in his eyes as he heard this. "She's brought
books with her and pencils and paper."

"In there!" he repeated, staring at the double doors which separated the
two rooms. The library, more truly a sitting-room, was particularly his
own and the thought of the strange woman in possession of it was more
than he would stand. She must be told to keep out of there.

He went to a side door that opened from the hall and now stood wide. He
stepped out into the morning air and took a satisfying breath of it
before feeling in his pocket for a dog whistle he always carried there
and which his children answered almost as well as his spaniels. It was
carved from bone and had a stout silver chain to it. He blew a shrill
ear-piercing blast on it, then waited. He blew another. Still there was
no response. Frowning a little he drew a deep breath and emitted an even
more peremptory call. Out from the orchard at the back of the house,
where on the ground the petals of the apple-blossoms still lay white,
two little figures appeared.

"Renny!" shouted Philip. "Meggie!"

Renny hid his fishing-rod in the long orchard grass.

"I see you," shouted Philip. "Bring it along."

The two trotted toward him, Renny carrying the rod, the line dangling
free, the hook nearer, at each step, to his sister's face.

"Look out what you're doing, you young idiot! Mind that hook!" Philip
was at the end of his patience.

Now his children were before him, gazing up into his face. He took the
rod and wound the line on the reel. The feel of it in his hand brought
fishing to his mind. He thought he would go off for a few days' fishing
while the governess got settled in. "There," he stood the rod against
the wall. "Now we'll go in and meet Miss Wakefield. There'll be lessons,
you know."

Meg's blue eyes were large and mournful, Renny's narrowed in misery.
Each slipped a hand into his. Thus fortified he felt stronger to face
the ordeal. He bent and kissed each in turn. Then he noticed their hair.
"Wait a jiffy," he said.

He took a small comb in a leather case from his pocket. He ran it
through Renny's dense, dark red hair, exclaiming, "By George, you have a
tangled mop! I must get it cut. Now you, Meg." Hers he found impossible
except for tidying a bit round her face. She looked up trustfully just
like his Clumber spaniels when he combed them. She and the boy were
good-looking children and fairly intelligent. No one could deny that.
"Come along, I guess you'll do." He led them to the door of the library
and they went in.

Mary was standing by the window. She turned and faced them with a
startled air. She felt herself growing pale from excitement. The moment
was upon her--the moment of meeting her new employer and her future
pupils. In a flash she was conscious of her inadequacy, her unfitness
for the situation. She had never been a teacher, she didn't know
anything about children. She did not even know how to live with other
people. She had to brace herself against panic, and, after the first
glance, against bewilderment. She had expected to see a middle-aged man,
probably looking older than Mr. Ernest Whiteoak. She thought of widowers
as middle-aged, just as she thought of children as little darlings. Yet
now she stood facing a young man just past thirty, with the finest blue
eyes she had ever seen, smiling at her, and two children who did not
look at all like little darlings. Philip said:

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Wakefield. I am Philip
Whiteoak and these are Meg and Renny." He held out his hand, took hers,
and feeling the warm clasp of his fingers, she felt a lessening of her
panic.

She shook hands with the children. Meg's round face was turned up to
hers, with no more expression than an egg, yet somehow conveying
hostility in its very lack of expression. Renny's brilliant brown eyes
met hers with a wary look. He gave a rigid little smile, as though his
lips felt stiff. Then closed his mouth firmly. Philip asked her about
her journey, then they all moved into the dining-room and took their
places at table, Mary between the two children, Philip at the head of
the table.

"We've had our breakfast," exclaimed Meg. "I forgot."

"Why, yes, we've had our breakfast. We don't want two breakfasts, Papa."
He gave a sudden small boy's explosion of treble laughter. He jumped
down from his chair and ran to his father's side and threw an arm round
his neck.

"I could eat a little more," said Meg. "Nettle gave me scarcely
anything."

Philip looked at Mary, his eyes laughing. "I suppose," he said, "that
all those English children you taught had perfect manners."

"Oh, no." What if he should ask her how many she had taught? She grew
hot all over. Eliza was offering her porridge and a jug of the
richest-looking milk she had ever seen. "Thank you," she said and began
to force it down.

It was from Meg the dreaded question came. "How many children were you
the governess of?" she asked.

"Not many. Really--just one--for any length of time."

"Was it a girl?"

"Yes."

"How long did you stay with her?"

Mary felt sure the child knew she was hedging. Her colour heightened but
she turned with what dignity she could gather and said to Philip, "I
hope that Mr. Ernest Whiteoak did not tell you I had a lot of
experience. I didn't intend to give him that impression, because I
haven't."

He smiled good-humouredly. "You couldn't very well. Not at your age."

"As a matter of fact," she got out, "I have only one reference."

"Only _one_!" exclaimed Meg, though her expression never changed.

"Sh," said Philip. "Eat your porridge."

"I don't want it. I said I could eat a little more. Not porridge."

"I think," said Mary, "that your brother must have been almost desperate
when he engaged me. You see the other one had broken her legs."

Philip nodded in sympathy for the absent governess but the children
broke into derisive laughter. "Broke her legs!" shouted Renny. "Broke
_both_ her legs! She'd be no use after that. Did they shoot her?"

"Ha-ha-ha!" Meg threw herself back in her chair. "I never heard of such
a thing! _Did_ they shoot her, Miss Wakefield?"

Young barbarians, thought Mary, and felt almost afraid of them. They
looked so complete in themselves, so sure of their foundation--all three
of them. What lay behind the young father's good-humoured smile? She saw
his handsome hands as he gave Renny a push toward his own chair, his
handsome head, with the thick, rather untidy fair hair. But it was his
eyes that fascinated her, not with the mysterious, lambent fire of
beautiful dark eyes that had always pierced her and which she had always
pictured her future husband as having, but with a benign, deep, tender
blueness behind their well-cut lids. Mary stopped eating her poached egg
and closed her eyes, the better to think of adequate adjectives for
describing Philip's.

"These children are little devils," he said. "You'll have to take it out
of them."

"Why did you shut your eyes, Miss Wakefield?" asked Meg.

"The better _not_ to see you," answered her father. "Now, no more
questions. Don't speak till you're spoken to."

Mingled with Mary's apprehension for the task ahead of her, was a
strange exhilaration. Was it the warmth, the serenity of Philip's
presence, in such contrast to the nervous irritability of her father's?
She had lived a singularly sequestered life in the heart of London,
always expected to be on hand on her father's return, never knowing when
to expect him. She had it in her, though she would have denied it, to be
a slave to a man. Was it the isolation with this radiant male, for
surely no one, she thought, could question his radiance as he sat at the
head of his table, his broad shoulders drooping a little, spreading
honey on a thick piece of snow-white home-made bread.

"Our own honey," he said, as though to put her at her ease.

"Really. How lovely!"

"Are you afraid of them? Of bees? Stingin', I mean."

She noticed, for the first time, that he had a slight impediment in his
speech. He could not distinctly say _th_ but substituted a tentative
_ve_. The truth was that Philip, as a small boy, had been too lazy to
correct this impediment, though often reprimanded by his mother for it,
and, as a man, was unaware of it.

"I'm afraid I am. At least, I think I should be. I don't ever remember
having been near a bee."

At this Renny's treble laughter again cut the air.

"Behave yourself," said his father.

Meg, forbidden to speak, pointed to the honey, glistening in the comb,
and then to her mouth. Philip winked at Mary, as though to say, see how
I have them trained. That wink broke down more barriers than a month of
ordinary friendliness could have done. Upper and lower lids met for an
instant over the benign blueness of the orb, hiding it, then opened
again and the eye looked into hers, smiling. He has no dignity, thought
Mary, and he is adorable.

He helped Meg to honey, then nodding toward two oil paintings behind
Mary said, "Those are my parents. My father is dead. But you'll be
seeing my mother one of these days. She's a character. She's going on
seventy but you'd never know it."

Mary screwed round in her chair to look at the portrait and Philip took
the opportunity to have a better look at her. He liked the way her hair
was done in a sort of French roll on the back of her head. He liked the
long graceful line of neck and shoulder and thought it rather a pity
that women wore those wide neck ribbons wound twice round the neck and
tied in a big bow behind. This particular ribbon was light blue with
white polka dots, her shirt-waist was white and her navy blue serge
skirt just reached her instep. She looked fresh as the morning, he
thought, and very young. It was a pleasant surprise and pleasure lighted
his handsome face as she turned back to him.

"What beautiful portraits," she said, "and what a joy they must be to
you! My mother was quite lovely but I have only a rather faded
photograph of her."

"I guess you resemble her." She felt his eyes, suddenly bold, looking
her over, and blushed. She nodded.

"I am supposed to be. And you are so like your father."

He pushed out his lips and wrinkled his brow. "A very poor reproduction,
according to my mother. You see him there in the uniform of the Hussars,
though his family--which was a military one--had always been connected
with the Buffs. Those two portraits were painted in London before they
came to Canada. They brought them out in a sailing vessel. They built
this house. I was born here and so was the brother you met in London.
Nice house, don't you think so?"

"Oh, yes," she agreed enthusiastically.

"I breed horses," he said, as though to forward their acquaintance.

"How interesting!" She leaned toward him a little and Meg stared
inquisitively up into her face.

"_And_ cattle."

"How lovely!"

"And a few sheep. Southdown."

"I love sheep."

"I breed kids too," he went on, "horrible little kids. A perfect
nuisance. I'm thinking of getting rid of them--that is, unless you can
make something of them."

Again came Renny's treble laugh, this time, it seemed to Mary, with
something mocking in it.

"I'm going to try very hard." She straightened her shoulders and did her
best to look efficient.

"It's quite a difficult thing for a man," he said seriously, "where
there is no mother." If he were looking for sympathy, there it was, in
Mary's eyes.

"A fellow just has to do the best he can."

"I think you've done wonderfully well."

"Do you hear that, Renny? Miss Wakefield thinks I'm a wonderful success
as a father. That means she thinks you're wonderful children." He put
his arm about the little boy, then turned with fatherly pride to Mary.
"I'll bet you can't produce better complexions in England."

"They look pictures of health." More and more she dreaded being left
alone with the children. There was something intimidating about them.
They were not at all like little pitchers waiting to be filled with
knowledge from text-books.

"I brought some books with me," she said.

"Good. And they have a supply. If there is anything you want, let me
know. Now I'm going about my work and you can get to yours. Renny!"

"Yes, Papa."

"No monkey tricks. Meggie!"

"Yes, Papa."

"Be a good girl. Help Miss Wakefield."

A moment more and Mary was alone with the two who stood regarding her
appraisingly. She smiled as confidently as she could and asked, "Do we
do lessons in the sitting-room?"

"Goodness, no," answered Meg. "That's where Papa smokes." She continued
to stare coolly at Mary.

The boy did not speak but stood, with a hand grasping the door knob,
swinging his body gently from side to side.

"Show me then," said Mary. She put her arm about Meg's shoulders.
Heavens, the plump firmness of them! She gave the impression of
stubbornness right through her clothes. She wriggled herself free of
Mary's arm. Mary thought, that's the last time I put my arm about _you_
without your inviting me.

Meg led the way into the hall. A door opposite the door of the
dining-room stood ajar. Mary glanced through it. She gave the merest
glance but both children saw her. They looked at each other and smiled
in a secretive way.

"That's Granny's room," said Renny in his clear high voice. "She'll be
coming soon. Everyone's afraid of her." He stared at Mary, as though to
see the effect of his words.

"It was she who sent Miss Turnbull away," added Meg.

"Why?" Mary could not help asking.

"Oh, she didn't like her."

"Want to see the room?" asked Renny. As he spoke he flung open the door
and stalked in, with an air of ownership. "I can do what I like in here.
Come on in."

"Oh, no," objected Mary.

Meg caught her by the hand and dragged her in. "You'd better see it
now," she said, "because when Granny comes home you can't."

"I always can," said Renny. "That's her bed. Like to sleep in it?"

Mary saw an ornate leather bedstead painted in a rich design of flowers
and fruit, between the glowing petals and leaves of which grinning faces
of monkeys appeared and heavy-winged butterflies clung, as though in
sensuous rapture. Over the mattress lay a coverlet of satin, embroidered
in India, in threads of gold and mulberry. On the mantelshelf stood the
figure of a Chinese goddess and among the English walnut furniture were
pieces of inlaid ebony. The room had a semi-oriental look distasteful to
Mary but outside the open window a great white lilac tree displayed its
plumes and filled the air with its scent. Mary pictured the lovely
red-lipped brown-eyed young woman of the portrait in this room, tried to
visualize her as almost seventy. Perhaps she would be bent, complaining,
suffering from rheumatism. She said:

"You shouldn't have forced me in here, Meg. Come, we must get to work."
She took Renny's hand and was surprised by the grip of the small hard
fingers. He tugged at her hand.

"Do you like it?" he insisted. "Should you like to sleep here?"

"No," she answered firmly. "Now show me the schoolroom."

"You don't _like_ it?" he cried, his little face expressing chagrin and
even anger. "Why--it's a beautiful room."

Mary hastened to say, "I didn't mean that I don't think it's a beautiful
room. I only meant it's too grand for me. I like a more simple room to
sleep in."

"Do you like the room you have?" Now he swung on her hand as he had
before swung on the door.

"Very much. Now will you please show me the room where we are to work?"

They darted, as by a common impulse, into the hall and up the two
flights of stairs. Mary heard a door slam. With dignity she followed
them to the top. "Children!" she called.

Renny threw open a door and stood facing her. Behind him she saw a table
littered with books.

"I consider," he said, "that I am too old to be taught by a woman."

"That is what your father engaged me for, so we must be pleasant about
it, mustn't we?" Mary tried to keep a cheerful smile but she found the
small boy intimidating.

"I consider," he continued, "that you don't know enough."

Meg threw herself on to a worn leather couch and exploded in giggles.

"I know more than you think. Come now, that's a good boy."

"I considah, I considah, I considah," he went on, in a high affected
tone, his eyebrows raised superciliously.

Mary began to feel panic. What if she could do nothing with them? What
if she had to confess this to Philip Whiteoak?

Suddenly Renny changed his tactics. He darted to a cupboard, opened the
door and began to rummage on a shelf. He approached her with a small
glass jar in his hands.

"Want to see them?" he asked.

Meg jumped up and came to his side.

"What?" asked Mary, relieved yet suspicious.

He held the jar close to his face. She saw two revolting pinkish-brown
objects.

"Meggie's tonsils!" he shouted.

"How horrid!" She drew away in disgust.

"I consider them my greatest treasures." He studied them in rapt
concentration.

"Why do you keep on saying you _consider_?" Mary asked to change the
subject.

His sister answered for him. "Miss Turnbull was always saying it. Don't
you like it?"

"No. To me it sounds very egotistical."

He would not let her know he did not understand the adjective.

"That's why _I_ like it," he said.

A step sounded on the stairs. It was familiar to the children and Mary
guessed whose it was. Philip came into the room. His tranquil gaze
rested for a moment on the little group before he spoke, then he said,
"Well, now, that's a funny way to entertain Miss Wakefield. Are you sure
she likes such things?"

The children stood motionless, except that Renny joggled the tonsils a
little.

"Oh, I don't mind," said Mary.

"Put them away, Renny. No, give them to me. I'll take charge of them for
a bit." The jar was transferred from his son's hand to his. "What I came
up to say is, I'm going to drive to a farm ten miles along the lake
shore this afternoon and if the children are good, Miss Wakefield, and I
mean _very_ good, the three of you may come with me--that is, if you
would like the drive." His eyes questioned Mary.

"I should like it very much." Thanksgiving filled her heart. If only she
could get through these first days all would be well.

"If you have any trouble of any sort, Miss Wakefield," he said, his eyes
now on his children, "please let me know."

He left them and was barely to the head of the stairs when Renny,
planting himself in front of Mary, drawled:

"I considah----"

"What's that you say?" called back Philip.

"Nothing, Papa, We're just beginning work."

Philip continued his descent, smiling to himself. He was not going to
have that young rascal make life miserable for such a lovely girl. Each
time he saw Mary he was more astonished by her looks. Whatever could
have possessed Ernest to have engaged such a beauty! He wagered that if
his mother or sister had interviewed her she never would have been
engaged. They had been at obvious pains to choose unattractive
governesses for the children. Well, they need not worry. He had no
desire to marry again. He was very content as he was. He owned a fine
property. His occupations could not have been more congenial. From
morning to night he was doing the things he wanted to. He had a deep
sense of gratitude to his father for having left Jalna to him. Neither
Nicholas nor Ernest would have appreciated it half so much as he. The
governor had realized that. Their tastes were of the Old World--London
and Paris, with a fling now and again on the Riviera. He was all for the
New. Give him Canada every time, and to him Jalna was Canada. Both his
brothers had had their share of their father's money. Nicholas had spent
a deal of his in extravagant living. You don't keep horses and a dashing
brougham and a socially-minded wife in London for nothing. Thank
goodness, Nicholas was free of her now. Of course, divorce was a pretty
disgraceful thing but it was she who'd run off and left Nicholas, not
Nicholas her. The one visit she'd made to Jalna had been an irritation.
She'd been so damn supercilious, and it had ended in a quarrel between
her and Mamma. . . . Now, Ernest was a different sort of fellow. He was
shrewd. Financial investments that were so much Greek to Philip, were as
child's play to old Ernie. It looked as though he might become a very
rich man. Philip thought of him with respect.

Out on the smoothly gravelled drive he saw a dog-cart and, just
alighting from it, his father-in-law, Dr. Ramsey. He was a Scotsman by
birth, a man almost seventy, but still attending to a quite large and
scattered country practice. He was a spare man with a bony and
well-proportioned frame, a critical manner and a vigorous belief in the
absolute rightness of his own opinions. He regarded his son-in-law with
a mingled affection and disapproval. He had been deeply gratified when
his daughter, Margaret, an only child, had married Philip. There had
been no better match in the province, in his opinion. But Philip's
easy-going ways, his indolent carriage, the very slight impediment in
his speech which, in the opinion of some women, only added to his charm,
were sources of irritation to Dr. Ramsey. Philip was not the man his
father, Captain Whiteoak, of the Queen's Own Hussars, had been.

The death of his daughter had been a great blow to the doctor. He had
himself attended her in her illness and the end had been terribly
unexpected. He had strained every nerve to save her. Since her death he
felt, in the secret recesses of his heart, that as his skill had failed
to save her, he must do all in his power to keep her place in Philip's
affections vacant. In some strange way that would reconcile his spirit
to her early demise. She had been a jealous girl who could not endure
that Philip should give an admiring glance at any other, though why she
should have minded such a small thing, Doctor Ramsey could not
understand, for she had been as clever and handsome a girl as there was
in the countryside. That neither of her children resembled her he deeply
resented. He took it as a personal injury. Meg took after the Whiteoaks
and the boy seemed to have gone out of the way to reproduce the physical
traits of his Irish grandmother. Not that the doctor did not admire
Adeline Whiteoak. She was a fine-looking woman but, if the boy were
going to resemble a grandparent, why not him?

"Good morning," Philip called out, in his full, genial tones.

"Good morning." Dr. Ramsey, though he had been in Canada forty-five
years, spoke with a considerable Scottish accent. "It's a beautiful
day."

Philip could see him feeling about in his mind for an appropriate
quotation from Robert Burns, as a man might feel in his pocket for a
coin of the right size. Now he had it and smiled as he declaimed:

                  "'The voice of Nature loudly cries,
                    And many a message from the skies,
                  That something in us never dies.'"

"True," agreed Philip. "Very true. It's fine growing weather. We should
have good crops."

The doctor took him by the coat lapel. "This country," he said, "is in
for trouble, if prices continue to rise. I've been shopping this morning
and what do you suppose I paid for bacon? Thirteen cents a pound! It's
ridiculous. Eggs fifteen cents a dozen instead of a cent a piece! Butter
twenty cents a pound! Ruin lies ahead if----"

Philip interrupted. "Now, look here, sir, why will you buy those things
when you know very well that they are produced right here on the farm
and you're welcome to all you need?"

"I didn't buy any," said the doctor. "I only priced them."

He was quite willing to accept these favours, rightly feeling that the
medical attention he gave the two children fully compensated for them.
To the grown-ups at Jalna he sent his bill, which was moderate.

"I don't want anything this morning, thank you. What I came in for was
to see if the wee ones would like to accompany me on my rounds. 'Twould
be a change for them."

The children had got past the age when to go on his rounds with their
grandfather was a treat. They had ponies of their own. And also he
expected too much from them in sedateness of behaviour and was given to
lecturing. Philip thanked Dr. Ramsey. "But they are busy at their
lessons, sir. You see, the new governess arrived last night."

"Well, is that so? And what like is she?"

"Very nice."

"Verra nice," repeated the doctor irritably. "That conveys nothing to
me. I mean does she appear to be a woman of strong character and
erudition? The last one was a fool."

Philip stroked the mare's neck. "I've scarcely had time to judge. I
expect that my brother went into these things."

"H'm. What age is she?"

"It's so hard to tell. Youngish."

"Under forty?"

"Yes."

"I don't see eye to eye with you in bringing over an Englishwoman to
train your children. Now, if she were Scottish it would be different."

"It's really my mother and Ernest. By the way, he's made some amazingly
good investments lately."

"That's fine. For they are usually quite the revairse, aren't they?"

Philip looked after his father-in-law, sitting very upright as he
rattled off in his dog-cart, and wondered what he would say when he
beheld Miss Wakefield. Behold was the right word for a girl so stunning
as she. Yes, she was stunning. You forgot what you were saying to her,
for staring at her. That is, for trying _not_ to stare at her. It wasn't
so much actual beauty perhaps, as that willowy graceful form, that smile
that had something melancholy in it; her mouth went down at the corners
rather than up when she smiled. He wasn't sure. He must notice.

His three Clumber spaniels, Sport and Spot and their half-grown puppy,
Jake, came leaping about his legs. He bent and distributed caresses as
equally as he could, considering that Jake was determined to get more
than his share. Philip had to cuff him gently away to give the parents a
chance.

"Come along, then, we'll go for a walk." He turned in the direction of
the orchard where the spraying of the apple trees was going on. A fine
crop promised. All the land, the woods, the fields, shone this morning,
as though in beneficent mood. The very house wore its mantle of Virginia
creeper with a smiling air, as though conscious of its decoration. The
myriad little leaves of the silver birch trees on the lawn trembled with
life. Philip had in himself a feeling of almost creative achievement, as
though he were a part of the secret purpose of the universe.




                                   IV
                          THE HOUSE BY THE LAKE


Mary had little trouble with the children during the rest of that
morning. She gave it over to trying to make friends with them, in
finding out what their studies had been and letting them show her their
text-books. Some of these had been handed down from their father and
uncles, some were forty years old, dog-eared and out of date, yet for
some reason it was these the children liked best. There was a tattered
history of Ireland with their grandmother's name, Adeline Court, in it
and her age, fourteen. The books which had belonged to Ernest were in
much better condition than those which had belonged to Nicholas. Those
in which Philip's name was scrawled were worst of all.

When Mary touched Meg the little girl drew away but sometimes Renny
would lean against her shoulder, as though deliberately. Once he turned
his eyes and looked close into hers and she wondered what lay behind
their mysterious darkness. He could read and write quite well for a
seven-year-old. She felt new courage to attack her work. The morning
passed quickly.

The children chattered all through the one o'clock dinner and were
encouraged by their father. He felt shy of the new governess. She was so
different from what he had expected. He was very conscious of her
presence. Over and over he wondered, chuckling at the thought, what
would be the expression on his mother's face when she saw Miss
Wakefield.

When he saw how daintily she was dressed for the outing he felt he
should have done something to titivate his own costume but the effort
was too great. He decided to go as he was, in rather a disreputable old
tweed suit and a battered straw hat. But nothing could have been more
shining than the Surrey and the chestnut pair harnessed to it. The
horses were superbly matched. Plenty of elbow-grease had been expended
on the polishing of their equipment. Their fine eyes rolled in their
eagerness to be off. Mary's heart sank as she saw polished hoofs
stamping the gravel. Could one pair of arms control them? Her long cloth
skirt hampered her in climbing to the seat. She placed a foot on the
step and Philip took her by the arm. He took her by both arms and
half-lifted her up. She was there, on the rear seat and Meg scrambling
up after her!

Philip took the reins from the stable boy and gave the encouraging
chirrup for which the horses had been waiting. Now their hoofs made a
staccato tapping on the drive and scattered gravel to the verge of the
well-cared-for lawn. As they turned into the road and Mary became
conscious of Philip's competence with the reins, saw with what skill he
controlled the two fiery beasts, her fear subsided and she felt a kind
of wild exhilaration. It was thrilling to bowl along the white road
between the spreading branches of massive oaks, her responsibility
lifted from her for the moment and nothing to do but give herself up to
enjoyment. How often similar equipages had passed her in London and she
had looked with envy on the occupants! Now here she was, in this
spacious new country, riding behind a glittering pair, her little
charges docile, her employer--but no, she must not keep thinking about
her employer, how well his coat sat on his broad shoulders, the way his
hair grew on the back of his sun-burned neck. And even while she told
herself to keep her mind off him, she inwardly exclaimed, "He's like no
one else! He's fascinating!"

Yet all he had done was to talk to her a little about quite ordinary
things, to mount to the driver's seat behind his horses and to display
his back to her. His fascination probably lay in his difference from the
men she had hitherto met. They had mostly been journalists, friends of
her father's, hardworked, often pressed for money, often disillusioned.
Philip Whiteoak looked as though he had never wanted anything he had not
been able to get, as though he had never worried about anything in his
life. Yet sorrow had been his. He had buried the mother of his children.
Probably had loved her dearly, and had lost her. Yet his blond good
looks were untarnished.

Now the road led them close to the lake. The sand of the shore came
close to the road. The horses curved their polished necks and looked
sideways at the dancing water. What if it should frighten them and they
would run away--bolt! They picked up their iron hoofs, as though in
astonishment; quiverings ran through the burnished hairs of their tails.
The whistle of a train on a distant crossing made them prick their ears.
A white-foamed wave tumbled up the shore. The horses threw themselves
into frightening speed. Trees and fields flew by on the right, the vast
expanse of the lake rocked itself on the left. Mary put out her hand and
grasped the back of the seat in front of her. She could not restrain
that gesture of alarm.

Philip looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Feeling frisky," he said.
"Need more exercise."

"Papa, do let me drive!" Renny put his hands on the reins.

"Oh, no--please!" Mary could not help herself. Meg turned a look of
stolid scorn on her.

Round a curve a farm waggon appeared carrying a load of pigs for market.
The road was narrow, the squeals of the jostling pigs were all that was
needed to set the horses galloping.

"Whoa, now, whoa!" Philip put his strength on the reins. "You are a
pretty pair--showing off like this for Miss Wakefield. There's no
danger."

Mary realized then that she had screamed.

The horses were now subdued to a brisk trot. Philip again looked over
his shoulder. "You're nervous, aren't you?" he said. "But you'll get
over that."

Meg gave her another scornful look.

"I am not used to horses. I'm ashamed." Mary reddened painfully.

"Papa," Renny said, tugging at his father's sleeve, "please let me
drive."

Philip put the reins into the child's hands, at the same time giving
Mary a look of reassurance. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Wakefield. Renny's a
capable rascal with the reins. And I'm right here. The horses are really
well-behaved."

The fright was past. Mary resigned herself to precarious enjoyment of
the velocity of the muscular creatures under control of the small boy
who sat, his back stiff with pride, his arms extended, his thin hands
gripping the reins. Philip's arm lay along the back of the seat; she
noticed the ring with a blood-stone inset, on his hand, that hand which
had assisted her into the carriage. Myriad leaves, as many as the waves
of the lake, spread themselves in the sunshine, butterflies felt
strength coming into their newly spread wings, bird song ceased, to let
the beat of hoofs be heard. The Surrey rolled from temperate shade to
blazing sun. Meg lolled on her seat in an abandon of well-being. It's
glorious, thought Mary, I'm going to be happy here. Thank God, I applied
for this post, and thank God, I got it! The prayer of thanksgiving came
from the depths of her being. In some mysterious way she had never been
so happy before.

The ten miles were at last behind them, ten whole miles and without
apparent effort on the part of the horses! Small farms were passed so
quickly that Mary had no time to examine the buildings properly before
they were passed. They went through a quiet village where they
encountered only one other vehicle in the main street but where
shopkeepers strolled to their doors to see them pass. Philip Whiteoak
seemed to know everyone.

As he turned the horses through an impressive stone gateway he remarked,
"This is where the Craigs live."

"Do we know them?" Renny asked, in his clear voice.

"I do. Mr. Craig has been ill. He's going to sell his horses. I'm going
to buy them."

"Goody!" exclaimed Meg.

The horses came to a standstill in front of a somewhat pretentious stone
house, built close to the shore, the first of a row of similar houses
erected by retired city people. They were evidently expected, for a man
came forward and held the horses and, at the same moment, a tall,
well-built woman of thirty appeared on the verandah where there were a
number of jardinires holding sword ferns and palms. Sheltered by these
luxuriant plants hung a red and yellow hammock with deep fringe and it
was out of it that the young woman had arisen. Mary's first thought was
how could she have been lying in a hammock and remained so tidy? There
was an iron neatness about her belt and the "stand-up, turn-down" collar
of her shirt-waist and its tucked front were stiffly starched. She wore
a fancy comb in her pale brown hair and her wide-open light eyes were
intelligent. Her wide-nostrilled nose was retrouss.

"I am Miss Craig," she said, "and I am to take you round to the sunny
side of the house where my father is sitting in his wheeled chair."

Philip and she shook hands, then she said, "Perhaps the children and
your . . ." She hesitated.

"This is Miss Wakefield. She has just come from England to see if she
can drum a little book-learning into these two. Will you mind if they
stroll round while I talk to your father? That is, if you think he is
well enough to see me."

"He will be delighted." Miss Craig bowed coldly, or so Mary felt as the
round light eyes rested on her, but she smiled charmingly at the
children. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasant. "Father does miss
other men's society, even though his nurse and I do our best to amuse
him."

Philip assisted Mary to alight. The children scrambled down. They
attempted to follow their father but he sent them back to Mary. Miss
Craig led the way and Philip followed her round the house, where in a
sheltered nook they found Mr. Craig with a trained nurse reading aloud
to him. He had suffered a paralytic stroke which had affected one side
which sagged a little. But his face was well-coloured and he looked far
from ill. The nurse was stocky, with little bright black eyes and a set
smile. She rose and when introductions had been made she left and joined
Mary where she stood admiring a large bed of geraniums and coleus. The
children had already disappeared. The nurse began at once to talk to
Mary with nonchalant familiarities. Mary stood withdrawn, longing to
leave her.

"I think I must find the children," she said.

"Oh, you'll never find them. I saw them running after their father to
the stable. This is a lovely place, don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed."

"It's pretty hard on Mr. Craig to have had this sickness, so soon after
he built the house, isn't it?"

"I'm sure it is."

"Miss Craig is a lovely person."

"Is she?"

"She's a devoted daughter."

"Oh."

"It's hard on her too."

"Oh, yes."

"You come from London?"

"Yes."

"Miss Craig's been there. And Paris and Rome. That's not to speak of New
York and Washington."

"Really."

"Don't you think Miss Craig has a lovely figure? I call her the perfect
Gibson Girl."

"Do you?"

A shout was heard from Renny and, on the strength of it Mary made her
escape. She hung about, hiding behind shrubs, till she heard Philip's
voice. He was speaking to the man who held his horses. Mary came from
behind a clump of syringas, her skirt trailing on the grass. He saw her
and came to meet her.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long." He did not trouble to
conceal the admiration in his eyes as he discovered her with the
heavy-scented blossoms massed behind her. "But the old gentleman wanted
to talk. I've bought a lovely mare from him. I can't imagine what
possessed him to go in for show horses. He doesn't know the first thing
about them."

He spoke to Mary with an air of pleasant familiarity. How different it
was from the nurse's pushing intimacy. A quiver of happiness in his
returned presence passed through her. She had been feeling lonely.

"I am so glad you have bought the horse," she ventured.

He looked at her kindly. "You'll get over your fear of them, you
know,"he said. "And you'll enjoy the drives here. We must show you the
country."

He took out his whistle and summoned the children. Soon they were flying
homeward, with Mary less nervous than before and the horses unswerving
in their eagerness to return to their evening feed. The shadows of trees
lay across the white dust of the road. A coolness rose from the moist
earth beneath them. Small birds left the eggs they were hatching to dart
with sunny wings after bright-coloured insects. Mary was conscious of
the moving vitality all about her. From trotting horse to insect fleeing
for its life she was conscious of the vital urge that governed them.

She lost her fear of what seemed to her Philip's reckless driving. She,
having no real experience of being a governess, forgot she was one, and
when the horses stopped and Philip alighted and stood below her to help
her alight she held out her arms to him just as though she were a young
lady visitor to Jalna, and smiled into his eyes.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Oh, no. Not at all tired."

He gave a little laugh, as he set her on the ground. Mary wondered why.
She would have given almost anything to know. She looked into his eyes
to discover the reason but discovered only their deep blueness.

"You are tall, Miss Wakefield," he remarked. "Taller than I had
thought."

"I am too tall."

"You should see my mother and my sister. They're inches taller than
you."

"Then you are a tall family," she said, admiring his height.

"My brothers are taller than I. So was my father. Though I take after
him I lack his height. My mother has that against me."

The thought of anyone holding anything against him was unbelievable to
Mary. She began to dislike his mother.

"I lack his distinction altogether, as you may see from his portrait."

"But then what a beautiful uniform he is wearing!"

"True. Do you know, we still have that uniform and every spring my
mother takes it out and hangs it in the open air. In case of moths. I'm
usually the one who helps her. It's a melancholy proceeding. But she's
brave. It's hard to lose your mate."

He drew his brows together and Mary was sure he was thinking of his dead
wife. Renny came to his side and he put an arm about him. "This fellow,"
he said, "doesn't look a bit like me, does he?"

"I can't see any resemblance." And a pity, too, she thought, for there
was something forbidding in the small boy's chiselled nostrils, the
hard-looking head that had an almost sculptural severity.

"He's the spit of my mother. Isn't it funny?"

Renny gave his clear high laugh. "I'm glad," he said. "I like looking
like Gran."

"Why?" said Mary coldly.

"Because," he grinned, showing all his white teeth, "because everyone's
afraid of her."

"But surely you don't want people to be afraid of you?"

"You bet I do."

"Well, I for one aren't," cried Meg. She caught a handful of his hair,
tugged it and ran off, with him after her.

"Unruly little beggars," laughed Philip.

The two were still talking when the front door opened and Mrs.
Nettleship looked out. She fixed a stony accusing stare on Mary.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, addressing Philip out of the side of
her mouth, while her stare never faltered. "But I'm looking for the
children. I don't know if it's still my place or not but if they're
going to be tidied up before their tea it's high time it was done."

"Oh--" Mary's colour flamed. "I'll find them at once. I don't think
they've gone far." She hastened after them, Mrs. Nettleship's stare
moving automatically in pursuit.

The horses were restively pawing the gravel. Philip lazily climbed into
the seat and took the reins.

"Keep your hair on, Mrs. Nettleship," he advised. "Miss Wakefield will
look after the children all right." He drove off, and in a moment was
hidden behind the row of spruces and hemlocks that shielded house from
stables. Yet the thud of hoofs could still be heard.

"Keep my hair on, eh?" exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, addressing the
hemlocks. "Keep my hair on! Yes, I'll keep it on, Mr. Whiteoak. And I'll
let your mother know a thing or two when she comes back! Carrying on
with that fast-looking young woman before she's in the house twenty-four
hours! Yes, I'll keep my hair on and keep my place too, which is more
than she does."

Mrs. Nettleship returned to the basement where Eliza was removing a
splinter from Renny's thumb. She was suffering more than he, as he
doubled up and writhed in exaggerated agony.

"Do stand still," she implored, "or I'll never get it out."

"What is it?" demanded Mrs. Nettleship.

"A splinter. Such a boy as he is for doing things to himself."

Mrs. Nettleship brushed her aside and took the needle. "Here, let me."
She felt a sensuous pleasure in her power as she probed for the
splinter, and in the small male body tense in her grip. Meg looked on,
vaguely conscious of the difference there would have been in the
attitude of the woman had the splinter been in her thumb.

"We had cherries there today, lots of them," she said, to draw attention
to herself. "I don't want any tea."

The housekeeper pursed her lips and held the splinter aloft on the
needle. Renny thrust his thumb into his mouth. He bunted his red head
against her shoulder.

"I want _my_ tea," he said.

She ran her hand caressingly through his hair. "Tell me," she said,
"where did you go?"

"To Mr. Craig's. We bought a horse."

"Land alive! As though there weren't enough in the stable!" She took him
by the shoulders and held him in front of her. "Was Miss Wakefield nice
to Papa, eh?"

"I don't know."

"Of course you do. Did she smile at him? And laugh at everything he said
and roll her eyes at him?"

"Yes," said Renny. "She did."

"She was lovely to him," said Meg.

Mrs. Nettleship turned furiously to Eliza. "What did I tell you? The
moment I set eyes on her I knew the sort she was. Designing. To think
that they'd be so crazy as to send her into the house with a handsome
young man like Mr. Philip! Could you hear what your Papa and Miss
Wakefield said?"

"He told her not to be afraid," said Meg.

"_Afraid!_ Afraid of _what_?"

"Of him," said Renny.

Meg uttered a squeak of delight. "That's so. He said, 'Don't be afraid
of me, Miss Wakefield. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your golden head.'"

Eliza turned a shocked pink face on Mrs. Nettleship. "Oh, surely not.
Surely not so soon."

"Now, children, remember _all_ they said and I'll make you a pan of
maple cream."

They looked at each other.

"He said he'd take her for lots more drives." Meg's lips curved in a
happy smile. "And she said how lovely and he said it was no trouble at
all and she said it was hard work teaching us and he said not to tire
herself."

Mrs. Nettleship gave a groan. "Oh, you poor little things! What else?
Try to remember!"

Mary's voice came from outside. "Children! Where are you?"

"Hide," said Mrs. Nettleship. "Don't answer."

They ran on tiptoe into the pantry.

Mary knelt on the grass outside one of the windows and peered down.
"Have you seen them, Mrs. Nettleship?"

"They were here but they've gone."

"Oh, dear, and I suppose it's their tea-time."

"Someone let them fill theirselves up on cherries. They said they didn't
want any tea. That's not the way to bring up children." She drowned
anything further Mary said by the rattling of pans.

"I wouldn't stay in this house," she said to Eliza, "with her as
mistress. I can retire any time I want to. I have money saved. As I've
told you many a time, the old lady I nursed left me five thousand
dollars."

The children sitting on their heels in the cool grey light of the pantry
stared in each other's eyes, noticing their own reflections mirrored
there. Now the old game had begun, the game of Nettle against the
governess. But it had never been like this before. Now there was
something new in Nettle's anger against the outsider. They did not feel
pity for Mary. They only wondered dispassionately how long she would
last. Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had lasted quite a long while. To the
children the months of their reigns seemed uncounted ages. To Renny Miss
Cox was a dim memory but Miss Turnbull was very clear. Though he would
not have admitted it there had been something about her he had liked--a
calm cool sureness of herself, a quiet inviolate sense of her own
rectitude. It fascinated him.

Now remembering her he stood up and, looking into space, remarked, "I
considah . . ."

Meg was irritated by his introducing someone long gone from their lives
into this present exciting moment. She caught his hand and drew him
toward the door. "Come on," she urged. "Let's see where she's gone."

He suffered himself to be led but preserved a melancholy dignity. His
tone became la-di-da.

"I considah," he repeated, savouring each syllable, "I considah . . ."

He passed through the kitchen, looking neither to right nor left.




                                   V
                              THE MOORINGS


Mrs. Lacey whose father-in-law had been one of the first of the group of
English naval and army officers to settle in the vicinity of Jalna and
whose husband had reached the rank of Admiral in the Royal Navy sat
beside the tea-table in a room which seemed scarcely large enough for
the impressive Victorian furniture. The sofa and principal chairs were
covered in horsehair of the best quality, their frames of ornate carved
walnut. Unlike the Whiteoaks who had brought their furniture from
England the Laceys had purchased theirs from the reliable Canadian
manufacturers Messrs. Jacques and Hayes. So admirably was it made that
it might well last for ever, but it was inclined to impart rather a
sombre look to a room even though the sunshine poured in, as it was now
doing. Mrs. Lacey and her daughters had made a number of gay-coloured
antimacassars for the backs of chairs and the arms of the sofa, and had
embroidered a pale blue silk drape for the square piano. Another drape,
this one of rose colour, hung on the mantel and a third, of shell pink,
decorated the picture of a square-rigger, in a storm at sea. One of the
daughters of the house painted on china, and many examples of her work
decorated the mantelshelf and the what-not. The floor was covered by a
green carpet with pink flowers across which the June sunlight fell,
through the small windows. Perhaps there was a little too much furniture
in the room but the effect was one of long establishment and well-being.
The daughters were the third generation of Laceys who had occupied the
house, and that was a considerable time in this young country.

The figure of Mrs. Lacey fitted in very well with the character of the
room. She was short, plump and of pleasingly fresh complexion. Her
greying hair was neatly parted in the middle and crimped above her
smooth forehead. She wore a black dress with innumerable shiny black
buttons down the front of the bodice, and a long gold chain on the end
of which was a gold watch tucked inside her belt. A delicate white
ruching brightened her collar and set off the pinkness of her cheeks.
She always held herself upright in her chair and seldom sat down without
a piece of needlework in her hand. Her expression was almost always
cheerful. She was pleased with life in general. Admiral Lacey was just
the sort of husband she had wanted; her daughters just the sort of
daughters. Of course she would have been pleased if they had married.
They had had their chances and, if they had not taken them, well, it was
rather a pity but it left them at home to be company for their father.
He was very fond of them and would greatly have missed them. And after
all they were only in their early thirties.

Now Ethel and Violet came into the room, their hands full of trilliums,
for they had been gathering them in the nearby woods.

"Look, Mamma, aren't they heavenly?" exclaimed Violet. "I've never seen
such large graceful ones."

Mrs. Lacey glanced at them approvingly but said, "Do put them in water
and go and tidy your hair. Philip Whiteoak is coming in. Surely you
didn't forget."

"I'm afraid we did," laughed Ethel. "It isn't very exciting to have your
near neighbour to tea." It would have been truly exciting to her if it
had been Nicholas who was expected. Years ago she had wanted to marry
the eldest Whiteoak. He was the only man she ever had wanted. But
Nicholas had known her all his life. To marry her would have been tame.
So he had gone off to England and married there. After some years of
marriage his wife had eloped with a young Irishman and Nicholas had
divorced her. Ethel had not seen him since but occasionally, in the
dreamings of solitude, she thought how strange it would be if, when
Nicholas returned to visit his old home, they might still come together.

Violet held up the trilliums, admiring them.

"I have a mind to paint them," she said. "Wouldn't they look too lovely,
white on a pastel-blue ground?"

"Violet, I do wish you wouldn't use so many superlatives. Things are
always too lovely or heavenly with you."

"Only flowers. One really can't use too many adjectives to describe
them."

"Well, well," her mother smiled tolerantly, "call them what you like but
do put them in something and come to your tea."

"Where is Father?"

"He's here, waiting as usual," growled Admiral Lacey. He came in,
looking much more good-humoured than his words sounded. "I'm always
waiting for one of you three women. What are those things you've got,
Violet?"

"Wood lilies--trilliums--aren't they ravishing? They seem to have
gathered all the spring into their petals."

"Really," declared Mrs. Lacey, "I can't do anything with that girl."

"What I object to," said her husband, "is the way those long skirts of
theirs gather up dead leaves and twigs. Think of going to the woods in
such a get-up!"

"What would you have us wear?" asked Ethel.

"Shorter skirts--bloomers! We men know you have legs. Why hide them?"

"You're an immoral old darling," said Ethel, kissing him.

"There is Philip at the door." The Admiral himself strode to open it.

"Now it is too late to tidy yourselves," said Mrs. Lacey, in despair.
She regarded her daughters as one might regard two mettlesome ponies,
proud of their spirit, yet deploring their unmanageableness. This
occasion was a fair example of her difficulties with them.

Philip, in loose tweeds and rather sunburned, came in. Mother and
daughters greeted him with dignified familiarity. When they were seated
by the table and had bread and butter on their plates and tea in their
cups Mrs. Lacey asked about the new governess.

"Miss Wakefield?" returned Philip happily. "Oh, she's a peach!"

The word struck the atmosphere of the room like a blow. Then a woman
laughed. And the woman was Ethel.

Mrs. Lacey turned in her chair to take a good look at Philip. "A
_peach_!" she echoed.

"Well, what I mean is she just fills the bill. You liked her, didn't
you?"

"The Admiral and I thought her quite a nice young woman."

"It was awfully kind of you to look after her on the voyage."

"It was a pleasure." The Admiral spoke rather too heartily. His wife
turned her head to look at him.

He put an extra lump of sugar in his tea and stirred it stubbornly. "I
quite agree with Philip," he said. "The girl is a perfect----"

Before he could utter the name of that fruit which had suddenly become
obnoxious to Mrs. Lacey, she drowned him out.

"Richard," she said, "if you were to die would you like to think that a
daughter of yours, only a few months after your death, would deck
herself in such colours as Miss Wakefield wore?"

The Admiral marked his words with his forefinger. "Her father made her
promise faithfully that she would not put on black for him. I call it
sensible. Who wants to see a pretty young woman trailing black
garments?"

"I do, when it is seemly, and I am sure that Ethel and Violet do too.
Don't you, girls?" But her daughters rather disconcertingly agreed with
their father.

"Do you mean to tell me," Mrs. Lacey looked outraged, "that you would
wear a spray of _yellow_ poppies in a hat, with your father scarcely
cold in his grave?"

"By George, this is a depressing conversation!" exclaimed the Admiral.

"If Father wished it," declared Ethel, "I should wear yellow poppies."

"Good girl," said her father. "It's understood, then. You are to wear
yellow poppies and Violet is to wear red."

"I dislike such foolish talk." Mrs. Lacey was getting annoyed. "I will
go into black and the girls will go into black."

"Who for?" demanded the Admiral.

"For you."

"Well, I like that!" His colour was rising. "What makes you so sure I'm
going to die first?"

"Men do," said Mrs. Lacey. This was unanswerable. The Admiral looked
downcast.

"My mother," said Philip, "put on widow's weeds after my father's death
and is never going to take them off."

"And quite right," said Mrs. Lacey, and nodded several times as though
affirming that she had every intention of doing the same, though she
would not hurt her husband's feelings by saying so.

"After all," Philip said reflectively, "men sometimes do outlive their
wives. I'm a widower."

"Good!" exclaimed Admiral Lacey heartily, and realized almost at once
that he should not have said that.

Violet interrupted tactfully, "Do tell us how the children like Miss
Wakefield, Philip."

"Very much indeed. Yesterday we all drove to a Mr. Craig's along the
lake shore and I bought a beautiful mare. We got along famously. Between
threats and bribes I persuade the little rascals to behave."

Ethel asked, "Do tell us about these Craigs. I hear that they are very
rich."

"I believe they are. And by the way, Admiral, there's another widower!"

"Splendid," exclaimed the Admiral, "and, by jingo, here comes a third!"

Dr. Ramsey's spare figure could be seen passing the window. Violet ran
to let him in. He entered with a diagnostic look round, as if, though no
one in the room was ill, they were, at any moment, likely to be. All
three of the younger ones he had brought into the world. He had seen
Mrs. Lacey through three accouchements. He had seen the Admiral laid low
by sciatica. In humble postures all had lain on beds before him.

He declined food but accepted tea. Philip took two more slices of thin
bread and butter, turned them together and proceeded to eat them with
relish.

"I suppose," said Dr. Ramsey to Ethel and Violet, "that you are
delighted to have your parents home again." He said this with a twinkle,
as though it were understood that they had been up to tricks when
authority was removed.

"Oh, yes," they answered.

"It was the first time," Mrs. Lacey remarked, "that we had left them
alone and we did feel a little anxious."

"Not me," said her husband, "I never gave them a second thought."

"Really, Richard, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." But Mrs. Lacey
laughed.

"I don't know what it is to be ashamed."

"Come, come," said Dr. Ramsey. "Don't tell me you are never ashamed."

"Never. Are you?"

"Many a time."

Those present looked at him incredulously. He paid no attention to their
expressions but quoted:

               "'God knows I'm no the thing I should be,
               Nor am I the thing I could be.'"

He stirred his tea with gravity and even melancholy.

It was one thing for him to express such a sentiment. Quite another for
his friends to agree. All hastened to disagree.

"Well," said Philip, "I've spent a good part of my life in feeling or
trying to feel ashamed of myself. With stern parents and two older
brothers and a sister I've always been hearing someone say, 'Philip, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself.'"

"Your father doted on you," said Mrs. Lacey.

"And so does your mother," added the Admiral.

"I'm not so sure about that," he answered. "I'm often a disappointment
to her. I look so much like the governor, yet I can't hold a candle to
him."

"Ah, well," sighed the doctor, "there is no doubt that man reached his
highest point of excellence in morals, manners and intellect during the
last two or three generations. From now on, there will be deterioration.
If any of you are living fifty years from now you are likely to see a
miserable world."

The two young women giggled.

Dr. Ramsey turned abruptly to Philip. "I've been to your house," he
said, "to have a look at the governess but she was off somewhere. I hope
she's not one of the sort that is always gadding."

"It's hard to say," said Philip. "She's only been with us three days."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Mrs. Lacey, "that you, the children's
grandfather, haven't seen her yet?"

"I have not yet been invited."

"Come back with me," said Philip, "and I'll put her through her paces."

"Philip, you are disgraceful," declared Mrs. Lacey. "But you must be
prepared for one thing, Doctor Ramsey, and that is to see her in the
gayest clothes, though her father has been dead only a few months."

Philip pushed out his lips. "All her clothes aren't gay," he said. "She
was dressed very simply this morning."

"I should hope she would be." Mrs. Lacey spoke with a little asperity.
"Teaching two children their multiplication table is scarcely a time for
fancy dress."

"Come now, Mrs. Lacey, don't be hard on the girl. That's not like you."

Philip patted her knee and she took his hand with a coy look and held it
a moment. She was more flirtatious than either of her daughters.

"What like is she?" asked the doctor.

"Tell him what you called her when you first came, Philip," cried Ethel.
"I dare you to."

"What was that?" asked Dr. Ramsey, sharply.

"Come and see for yourself, sir."

"Why have an English governess?" asked Ethel.

"Much better have a good Scotswoman," said the doctor. "That is what I
have always advocated."

"Why not a Canadian?" asked Ethel.

"They don't seem to go in for governessing," answered Philip. "But I do
think it would be a good idea. I think we have clung too much to Old
Country ways in our neighbourhood."

Now the Admiral spoke. "The Whiteoaks, the Vaughans, the Laceys and the
others who first settled here, promised each other to preserve their
British principles, culture and----"

"Prejudices," put in Philip.

"Very well. Prejudices. Prejudice against making a fetish of material
progress--against all the hurry-scurry after money that goes on in the
big American cities. They wanted to lead contented peaceful lives and
teach their children to fear God, honour the Queen, fight for her if
necessary. In short, behave like gentlemen."

"I'm not setting myself up to criticize you, sir. I only mean that this
country is growing and it's bound to grow in a new way. Why, we've got a
population of about five millions. We can't go on modelling ourselves on
the Old Land. Now you went into the Royal Navy as a youth----"

"There was no Canadian Navy and the sea was in my blood."

"I know. But the consequence is that you're just as English as your
father was. You married an Englishwoman."

"Oh, Philip, do you hold that against me?" Mrs. Lacey gave him a
charming smile.

"Never." He smiled back. "But this is an English household, with two
English daughters."

"We were born here," said Ethel.

"I love Canada," said Violet.

Philip ignored them. "Now there's my mother. She's just as Irish as ever
she was. God knows she can't help it! And my sister and two brothers
live in England. When they come to Jalna they expect to see my children
brought up exactly like children in England. It can't be done. I think
that, as time goes on, the people of this country will probably be a
good deal Americanized."

"Heaven forbid!" said Admiral Lacey.

Mrs. Lacey turned to the doctor who sat gazing at the ceiling with his
arms folded.

"What are your feelings about all this, Dr. Ramsey?" she asked.

Without taking his eyes from the ceiling he declaimed, in sonorous
tones:

          "'My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here:
          My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.'"




                                   VI
                        GETTING BETTER ACQUAINTED


Leaving Dr. Ramsey in the sitting-room Philip ran upstairs to look for
Mary and the children. At the foot of the second flight of stairs he
stopped and listened. Then he called softly:

"Meggie!"

All was silent above. He went up and looked into the children's rooms.
They were empty. He went to the door of Mary's room and tapped.

"Miss Wakefield!" he called low.

"Yes?" Her answer came quickly but she did not open the door.

"Look here, my father-in-law's downstairs and he's anxious to meet you.
He's a stickler for convention--going into mourning and that sort of
thing. I wonder if you could find a dark-coloured dress to put on. I
hate to bother you, but you know what the Scotch are. I think we'd
better make a good impression, don't you?"

There was the tone of a conspirator in his voice that filled Mary with a
delighted eagerness to do his will. She said:

"Thank you so much for telling me. If you'll just wait a moment I'll
show you what I have."

Mary had lived in an unconventional atmosphere in London with her
father. Now, slipping into a dressing-gown she opened the door a little
way and stood before Philip holding up a dark blue skirt in one hand and
a white blouse in the other. He scarcely saw the garments. His eyes were
held by the pearl-like whiteness of her arms and neck, the V-shaped bit
of chest exposed.

"Splendid," he said. "Will you get into them then and come right down?"

Philip did not know and could not learn how to behave toward a
governess, any more than Mary knew how to behave like one. She gave a
happy little laugh.

"I'll be down before you can count ten," she promised.

He turned away and almost ran into Mrs. Nettleship, her arms full of the
children's clothes freshly laundered. Her expression was a strange
mixture of shock and the confirmation of her worst suspicions. She
elaborately moved aside for Philip to pass, though the passage was not
narrow.

"I beg your pardon," she said.

"What for?" asked Philip.

"Well, I have my felt slippers on and they don't make a bit of noise. I
thought I might have frightened the lady." There was a faintly derisive
lingering on the word "lady".

"Miss Wakefield has nothing to be frightened about."

He was still frowning as he re-entered the sitting-room.

"So she's not to be found," said Dr. Ramsey.

"She'll be down directly."

"Oh. You say your mother engaged her?"

"Among them they did."

"I should have prefaired a Scotswoman."

"Why didn't you say so then?"

"I have always said so."

"My mother doesn't get on with the Scotch."

"Scots," corrected Dr. Ramsey.

"Scots. She doesn't get on with them."

"She gets on with me."

"She's had to, sir. You're her doctor."

"When is your mother to return?"

"Next month."

"You must miss her sorely."

"I do indeed," said Philip cheerfully.

There was a light step in the hall and Mary stood in the doorway. Not
only did she wear the severely plain dark skirt but about her neck she
had tied a black ribbon that finished in a bow at her nape. But severity
ended there. Her golden hair curled abundantly about her sensitive face.
Her lips wore their odd smile that bent downward a little, as though the
capacity for pain ever lingered near. Philip introduced her to his
father-in-law. When they had shaken hands and sat down, Dr. Ramsey said:

"You have undertaken a great responsibility, Miss Wakefield."

"Yes, indeed." She straightened her slender shoulders as though to show
her willingness.

"It is no light matter to undertake the teaching of two highly
intelligent children."

"No, indeed." Mary drew her brows together to show how conscious she was
of the weight of the matter.

"Have you a university degree?"

"I'm afraid I haven't but----"

"Have you considerable experience?"

"No." Colour rose to her forehead. "You see, I was engaged at the last
minute. There had to be someone to take the place of the one who'd
broken both legs. I understood that character was required rather than
scholarship. That is--under the circumstances--and Mr. Ernest Whiteoak
thought--and I thought--" she turned her eyes in desperation toward
Philip.

"And I think so, too," he supplemented firmly.

Dr. Ramsey waved his hand and declaimed:

                  "'Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
                  That's a' the learning I desire.'"

Mary said, without hesitation, "From Robert Burns."

Dr. Ramsey could scarcely have felt more pessimistic about Mary's
attainments than he had been feeling the moment before but now a
delighted smile lit his stern features.

"Amazing!" he exclaimed. "I did not think there was an Englishwoman
living who could have placed that quotation."

"One of my father's best friends," returned Mary easily, "was a----"

On the side of Dr. Ramsey where Philip sat the doctor was a little deaf.
Philip, under his breath, said the word, "Scot."

"Scot," repeated Mary loudly.

Dr. Ramsey uttered a bark of joyous laughter.

"A Scot, eh? I'd have thought the less of you, if you had called him a
Scotchman."

"Scot sounds so much better," said Mary. "This friend of my
father's--this Scot--used often to come to our rooms in London and he
would quote Burns."

"Well, well. And you like his poetry?"

"I love it."

"I'll lend you all his poems. I have them very handsomely bound. Yes,
I'll lend them all to you."

Dr. Ramsey fell into dreamy silence for a space. In his mind's eye he
saw the room in London where Mary's father and his friends foregathered
and in their midst a Scot, bearing a remarkable likeness to himself, who
quoted Burns while the rest of the company hung with deference on his
words.

Mary thanked him for his offer of the poems and, after some agreeable
conversation, during which he promised to look in on her at lesson time
and give her a little help with the children, he left. Philip and Mary
were alone together. They still were standing after having seen Dr.
Ramsey to the door.

Philip turned his head to look at her. His eyes had a roguish light in
them.

"You did well, Miss Wakefield," he said. "You did amazingly well. To
think of your knowing that quotation!"

"I feel a humbug."

"Nonsense. We've got to get on with people. You can see for yourself
that the old gentleman could be difficult. You've been very clever."

"And how kind it was of you to warn me about my dress."

"Well, I thought it might be safer."

She faced him, with an appeal for candour in her eyes.

"Mr. Whiteoak, do you yourself find my clothes unsuitable for a
governess?"

"No. Not at all. I like them."

The warmth of his tone, his approval of her clothes, thrilled her with a
new sort of confidence, of pleasure in herself.

"I'm so glad, because these things I have on are my only really plain
clothes. I'm afraid I'm rather given to frills and flounces."

"So am I. I love 'em."

They smiled into each other's eyes.

Philip's half-grown spaniel puppy, Jake, came from under the table. The
dark red table-cover was large and hung almost to the floor. Its edge
now hung draped about the spaniel's shoulders as he raised his eyes
pleadingly to Philip's.

For some reason it was necessary to Mary to have an outlet for her
emotion. She bent down, took the puppy's head between her hands and
kissed him.

"Dear doggie," she breathed.

"You like dogs?"

"Oh, yes. I've always wanted one of my own."

"And never had one? What a shame!" He walked about the room, picked up
his pipe and laid it down again. Then he said, "I think you're going to
be happy here."

"I'm sure I shall." At that moment she had no doubt of it.

"I was afraid of what you might be. Prim, you know, perhaps a stickler
for the proprieties. Like Miss Turnbull."

"I'm not conventional enough."

"Neither am I. So we shall get on together."

In another moment he had left her and she stood at the foot of the
stairs alone. The house was very quiet. She put her hands on the newel
post and caressed the glossy bunches of grapes carved there. The doors
of the drawing-room and Philip's mother's room were closed. Mary felt
that there were presences behind these doors, longing to open them and
come out to crowd about her and inspect her. These were the shadowy
forms of Philip's mother, his brothers, his sister, attenuated by
distance, but becoming more solid every day. Their steps sounded in the
distance. The day would come when they would open the doors. Mary felt
inexpressibly relieved that she would have this coming month, in which
to get used to her situation, to gain some control over the children, to
enjoy--yes, to enjoy--being alone with Philip Whiteoak. She could not
move from the spot where she stood without first living again the
enchanted moments when they two had talked intimately together after Dr.
Ramsey's departure. She recalled each word he had spoken. She looked
into the mirror of her mind and saw every line of his features. Did she
dwell on them because he was handsome? she asked herself. No, a thousand
times no. She had seen handsome men before. They were no rarity in
London. Perhaps it was because his face showed such a power of enjoying
his own life and the world about him. She recalled her father's face, in
which bitter remembrances of the past met apprehension of the future.
What a contrast to this man who seemed to be asking no questions of life
but just accepting it in its fullness.

Mrs. Nettleship was crossing the hall when Mary moved up the stairway.
Mrs. Nettleship stopped stock-still by the newel post, as though
examining it for the finger-prints of some criminal. Then she took the
corner of her starched apron and began to polish it.

"It's very pretty, isn't it?" remarked Mary, pleasantly, over her
shoulder.

"It ought to be. All them grapes was done by a wood-carver in Quebec."

"Dear me."

Mary, accustomed to the rare and intricate carving in the medieval
architecture of London, was not impressed. Something in her tone
infuriated Mrs. Nettleship. It was not that she greatly admired the
carving herself but she felt a growing dislike for and distrust of Mary.
She straightened herself and glared up the stairway.

"What's the matter with it?" she demanded.

Mary was too astonished to reply.

At that moment Renny, running along the passage above, cast himself on
the banister and came sliding down at frightening speed. The two women
instinctively drew back from his untrammelled masculinity. But, as he
reached the bottom Mrs. Nettleship caught him angrily by the shoulder.

"You're not allowed to do that!" she said vehemently. "If I tell----"

"I am allowed!" he shouted. "Grandpapa prescribed it for me." He tore
himself from her grasp and flew out through the door, giving her a
daring look as he passed.

"You come back here!"

"You go to--pot!"

Mary burst out laughing. It needed no more to make Mrs. Nettleship hate
her.

In the weeks that followed she did all she could to hamper Mary in her
attempt to control the children. To them she made fun of Mary behind her
back. She encouraged them to be late for lessons, to hide when called.
Once or twice Mary had a mind to tell Philip of their behaviour and of
the encouragement in it they got from the housekeeper but she could not
bear to cloud for one instant the brief periods they spent alone
together. She strained toward these more and more. The hours of her day
became divided into three distinct periods. There was the time spent in
teaching the children and looking after their clothes, the meals eaten
with them, at which Philip often was present, when he good-humouredly
chaffed them or, with sudden promptitude, reprimanded them and with what
a quick response! Never did he embarrass her by probings into their
progress, but when Renny rattled off the names of all the sovereigns of
England in verse or when Meg named every cape in the British Isles,
scarcely taking breath because she knew that, if she stopped, she could
not continue without going back to the beginning, he was delighted.

There were the times when they were alone together, perhaps discussing
the children's lessons but more likely she listening while he told of
the achievements of his horses, or of some advantageous sale he had
made. She could not discover whether he bred horses for pleasure or
profit. There seemed to be plenty of money for everything at Jalna.
There were a number of men employed on the farm and in the stables, all
well paid and seemingly well satisfied. Certainly Philip Whiteoak took
life easily and, wherever he went, carried with him an atmosphere of
well-being.

The third period of Mary's day was when in solitude she wandered through
the woods. In England she had known London and the seaside. Here, for
the first time in her life she stood gazing up into the dark branches of
pines, remnant of the virgin forest, the ground beneath her densely
carpeted by their rust-brown needles. Here was silence such as Mary had
never known before, a deep resin-scented silence unbroken even by bird
song. In the woods where maple, oak and birch throve together the birds,
in their early summer rapture, sought for supremacy in song, each
trilling as though he would drown out all others. But when they flew
into the pine wood they were silent and rested for a little in the
coolness of these sombre boughs. They did not build their nests there.

Mary would throw herself on the ground in the deepest shadow and stare
up into their pointed pinnacles lost in unframed thoughts, in the
ecstasy of isolating herself from all living beings--save one. His
presence came into the wood with her. Sometimes she tried to forget him
but she could not. Almost always she consciously allowed her mind to
dwell on his features, one by one. His hair that at the temples was as
fair as hers, his tranquil eyes that could light like a mischievous
schoolboy's, his fine mouth and chin, his strong body. How terrible it
would have been, she thought, if she had never come here, never seen
this place--never had the image of him as companion to her solitude.

One late afternoon he came into the wood in the flesh. She was lying
prone but on her breast, her cheek pressed on the pine needles. She
heard a step and then saw him walking along the path, quite close to
her. She had often pictured just such a scene; herself, in the
loneliness of the wood, his coming upon her, startling them both. She
had not permitted her imagination to go further but had allowed it to
hover only on the verge of a scene of love. This dark wood should, she
felt, be the setting for none but a profound emotion. When she was here
she did not want to feel but just to be dreaming, on the fringe of
thought. She kept very still and he passed without seeing her.

The weather turned hot, hotter than anything Mary had ever experienced.
The air was vibrant with heat. Flowers came into bloom, drooped and
withered before their time. Cattle and horses stood in the shade of
trees switching their tails to keep off the flies. Philip declared that
it was too hot for study and the children ran wild.

"I am doing nothing," she said almost vehemently, meeting Philip in the
hall, "doing nothing to earn my salary. It isn't fair to you."

"You'll find plenty to do later on." He looked curiously at the book she
carried. "What are you reading?"

"Tennyson. I love his poems, don't you?"

"I confess I don't know much about them. My father-in-law is always
quoting Burns. My mother Thomas Moore. My brother, Ernest, thinks there
is no poetry worth his bothering about but Shakespeare's. Somehow
Tennyson has been overlooked." He gave Mary his friendly smile. "Read me
something of his, will you?"

She felt bewildered by the request, almost alarmed. "Oh, I'm not sure
that I could find anything to interest you."

"Of course you could."

"I know I'd read badly."

"But why?" Now he was laughing at her.

"I should be nervous."

"Come now. Not with me. I'm the least critical person in the world. You
say you're not earning your salary. Here is a way to earn it. A
benighted Colonial horse-dealer, sitting at your feet, yearning to hear
Tennyson read."

"Where shall we sit?" Mary asked, suddenly determined to do it.

"Come with me and I'll show you the coolest spot hereabouts."

He led the way across the lawn blazing in sunlight and along a path down
into a ravine which by its deep shade and the sound of the stream that
ran through it to the lake, gave an air of mystery to the place, so Mary
thought and was constantly pleased by it. It was in truth cooler here.
Philip took her hand as they descended the steep path.

"Gather up your skirt," he said. "There are brambles here." His hand
clasped hers firmly. She was conscious of the clasp of his hand through
all her being.

On a mossy ledge he paused. The stream, green in the shadow, reflected
the rushes, the boughs of evergreens. A rustic bridge crossed it and
under the bridge the shadow was deepest. Philip sank down at Mary's feet
with a sigh.

"What could be better than this?" he asked, looking up at her.

She sank beside him. "It's heavenly. And so still. Except for the
murmuring of the river."

"It's a very little river," he said, "but I love it."

"Jalna is beautiful."

"It's a pretty good place," he agreed. "But we've talked about it
before. Now I want to hear you read." He settled himself expectantly,
looking up into her face, his own dappled by a narrow spear of sunlight
slanting through the leaves.

She opened the book. She was conscious of the trembling of her hands and
feared her voice would do the same. To gain time she showed him the
portrait of Lord Tennyson in the front, as she might have shown it to
Renny.

"I think it is a noble face," she said.

He agreed but he was admiring her slender white hands.

Presently she gathered herself together and began to read. It was easier
than she had thought. He lay, resting on his elbow, very still. There
was a comfort in his presence. Perhaps her voice encouraged the birds in
that dim coolness, for they began to sing quietly all about.

Philip listened, but only half-attentive to the meaning, till he heard
the words:

             "'No more subtle master under heaven
             Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
             Not only to keep down the base in man
             But teach high thought, and amiable words
             And courtliness, and the desire of fame
             And love of truth, and all that makes a man.'"

He laid his hand on the page.

"Stop," he said, "and then read that again." She was confused. "That
. . . which?" she stammered.

"You know." He took his hand from the page and repeated the first line.

"Was I reading too fast?" she asked.

"No. I just wanted to hear it again."

"Do you like it? Shall I go on?"

"Please, do."

She re-read the passage and continued but less clearly. Her composure
was shaken. Philip had picked up a small switch and was gently beating
the ground with it as though to the rhythm of the poetry.

Neither saw Dr. Ramsey descending the opposite slope and he did not see
them till he stood on the rustic bridge. If Mary's composure had been
shaken, his now suffered a tremor, as of an approaching earthquake. He
could scarcely believe his eyes. Philip prone on the ground, at Miss
Wakefield's feet! She dressed, not as he had heretofore seen her but in
some filmy garment, with elbow sleeves! Her body curved in a languishing
attitude.

"Dear God!" muttered the doctor. "Has it come to this?"

He strode on across the bridge and mounted the path toward them with a
sharp crackling of twigs. His foot dislodged a stone and it bounded down
the slope and splashed into the stream. Now Philip and Mary became aware
of his approach.

He was panting a little as he spoke. "I would not dream of interrupting
you," he said, "especially in such a pleasant occupation, but I had
brought the volume of Robert Burns' poems, I promised you, Miss
Wakefield. Twice before I brought them but could not find you. Ah, I see
you have other poetry to engross you. Never mind. I will take it away
again."

"Please, don't," cried Mary. "I want them very much."

He all but threw the book into her lap.

Philip got to his feet. "Hot, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes. It is exceedingly hot driving along dusty country roads on my
rounds. You are fortunate, you and Miss Wakefield, in having no duties
to perform."

He strode up the path and left them.

"You'd never think he was seventy, would you?" remarked Philip looking
after him.




                                  VII
                         FAMILY CIRCLE COMPLETE


Four successive Sunday mornings Mary had gone to the little country
church with Philip Whiteoak, and his children. As she had sat in the
family pew with Renny on her right and Meg on her left and watched the
people of the neighbourhood enter and take their long-accustomed places
she had experienced a feeling of completeness she never before had
known. In London she often had stolen out quietly on a Sunday morning so
as not to disturb her father and gone to the Service. But it had been to
a church in a great city where she was surrounded by strangers. Now, in
the intimacy of this small but solid building, with faces with which she
was growing familiar about her, she found a deep satisfaction, not so
much in religion, as in a new gladness in herself.

Philip did not sit with Mary and the children but went into the vestry
with Mr. Pink whose father had been rector before him, and donned a
surplice. He had assisted the rector by reading the lessons. Now Mary
had the opportunity to look at him unobserved, to compare him with the
portrait of his father, to Captain Whiteoak's disadvantage, to compare
him with all the attractive men she ever had known, to their
disadvantage. Even the slight impediment in his speech only increased
her pleasure in the reading, giving her, for the moment, a kind of
protective maternal feeling toward him.

On the fifth Sunday the hymn "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" was sung,
and to judge by the heartiness which Mr. Pink who had a deep bass, and
the choir and the congregation threw into it, all had an earnest desire
to draw the attention of the Almighty to the fact that five members of
the Whiteoak family, including Sir Edwin Buckley, were en route for
Jalna. On either side of Mary the children raised their clear pipes. She
noticed that both pronounced peril--"peryil". Meg knew all the words but
Renny only the first verse. After singing it he was silent till the last
line of each successive verse when his penetrating treble joined hers
in--"For those in peryil on the sea." Mary was thankful that there were
only four verses to the hymn. If there had been one more she was sure
she would have disgraced herself by giving way to laughter. For some
reason her emotions, gay or sad, were near to the surface in those days.
She could not understand herself, for at times she would laugh almost
uncontrollably at ridiculous nothings with the children which she knew
was bad for discipline, and at other times, usually at night, she would
discover that, for no reason at all, her eyes were full of tears.

As the time of arrival drew near, two women could scarcely have been
more in their element than Mrs. Nettleship and Eliza. From morning till
night they fought with dirt and disorder in a frenzy of preparation.
Mary felt that never before had she known what real cleanliness could
be. Carpets were taken outdoors and beaten, rugs were shaken, walls were
wiped down, windows polished till they might not have been there, so
transparent were they, brass and silver glittered. The drawing-room
which had been swathed in dust covers because Philip used only the
library, now was discovered as a handsome room. Mary stood in it alone,
absorbing its unknown atmosphere, the faint smell of an Indian rug, the
upholstery, the cushions on the sofa where unknown heads had lain,
thinking what thoughts? The china figures on the mantelshelf, the jade
monkey and the ivory elephants in the cabinet, all looked at her with an
unfriendly air, as though by no possible means could they have any
connection with her. There was music on the piano. The air was full of
its far-off vibration. Soon the piano would come to life again but not
for her, though later on she was supposed to give Meg music lessons. The
ormolu clock had been wound and in its ardent ticking seemed anxious to
make up for lost time. A bunch of roses, pressed tightly into a vase,
already drooped a little as though unable to withstand the steady
advance of the returning personalities.

All day the children were beside themselves from excitement. They could
talk or think of nothing but the presents that would be brought to them.
There was no use in trying to curb them. Mary wandered about, longing to
hide herself somewhere in the woods but it was steadily raining, a
sweet-smelling gentle rain following a night of electrical storms. Mary
did not see Philip all day. She felt lost. She wandered about, looking
in at the four bedrooms which had been prepared; Mrs. Whiteoak's with
its rich-coloured bedspread, the other three with snow-white
counterpanes and huge, stiffly starched pillow shams. Even the spaniels
were excited. The puppy, Jake, ran snuffling into each of the freshly
prepared rooms and lifted his leg against a leg of the four-poster that
was to be occupied by Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.

The carriage was to go to the village railway station to meet the local
train which connected, though not very efficiently, with the train from
Montreal. Both were late, and the evening was drawing in when the sound
of horses' hoofs told of the arrival. Renny's cheeks were hot from
excitement, Meg hopped ceaselessly from one foot to the other. Both wore
their Sunday clothes. Mary too had put on one of her best dresses, a
pale pink chambray, with a flounce on the skirt and frills on the elbow
sleeves. She had taken pains with her hair which responded in delightful
puffs and little curls.

When Philip had encountered her just before leaving to drive to the
station he had started back in consternation. He should have warned her
not to dress up like that! By Jove, what would his mother and the
Buckleys think? But--after all, she'd been engaged in England. He'd had
nothing to do with it. Mary exclaimed, excitedly, quite ready to be
thrown into panic:

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Whiteoak?"

"No, no"--he smiled reassuringly--"I thought I saw a spider. But I was
mistaken."

"On _me_?"

"Yes. But I was mistaken. I'm in quite a rush. I'm on my way to the
station." But he lingered. Suddenly he regretted the coming of all these
relatives--even his mother. It had been very pleasant, he and Miss
Wakefield alone with the children. Her presence had been charming to
return to. He had scarcely realized how charming. And he had never seen
her look quite so lovely as at this moment--when he was about to lose
her, he almost had thought. Well, certainly, things would never be the
same again. Looking back over the past month he regretted lost
opportunities to be alone with Mary. There had been no more reading
aloud of poetry since the day when Doctor Ramsey had come upon them in
the ravine. That was a week ago. But--if he chose--surely he might be
read to! Who was to stop him being read to, he'd like to know? He looked
truculently at Mary.

"Yes?" she enquired, her whole body expressing interrogation.

"I was just thinking."

"Rather stern thoughts," she suggested. She found it so hard not to be
too familiar with him.

Now he smiled. "They were about you, Miss Wakefield."

"I hope I have not given you cause to frown."

"Some day I'll tell you," he answered. "But now I must be off. Picture
my family kicking their heels in the railway station. By Jove, they'll
never forgive me!"

Mary looking after him thought,--"When he says 'his family', he means
his _mother_. She must be an odious old lady. I'm beginning to dislike
her."

She drew a deep breath of nervous tension. All the rooms in the house
were alive now, conscious of her, antagonistic to her. She belonged
nowhere, not even in her own bedroom. The children ran past her, as
though they did not see her.

"Are you tidy?" she called after them. "Are your hands clean?"

They gave derisive laughs and ran on.

Jake came panting and snuffling along the passage. He ran into the room
prepared for the Buckleys and again lifted his leg against the leg of
the four-poster. Again no one saw him.

Mary descended the stairs and found Eliza lighting an ornate brass oil
lamp in the drawing-room. Eliza was always pleasant when Mrs. Nettleship
was not about. Now she remarked:

"It seems early for lighting the lamp but Mrs. Whiteoak does like to see
things cheerful-looking when she comes home."

"No rooms could look brighter or more polished than these," said Mary.
She raised her eyes to the crystal chandelier. "Every prism glitters."

Eliza was pleased. "I took each one off and cleaned it separately. Mrs.
Whiteoak always has a good look at it when she comes home. When she has
a party we light all the candles in it. And, of course, on her
birthday."

Jake lolloped down the stairs and looked into the drawing-room. He
raised himself on his hind legs and stood against Mary. Mrs. Nettleship
came from the basement. She gave Mary and Jake looks of equal
disapproval.

"I won't have that dog about my clean rooms," she declared and clapped
her hands vindictively at the spaniel.

He uttered a yelp of horror, flinging himself past Mary and almost
knocking her down. He rushed through the open front door, still yelping.
Outside he spied his decorous parents and flung himself at them for
protection. First he tried to push himself inside his sire's body, then,
failing that, his mother's. Mrs. Nettleship slammed the door after him.

Nearly an hour dragged itself by. Again and again Mary took her watch
from where it was tucked inside her belt and looked at its laggard face.
Her own face burned. Now the lamps were needed, for it was almost dark.

Horses' hoofs clattered on the drive.

Mary fled upstairs to her own room.

There she stood in the open doorway listening. The hall seemed full of
people. Surely those few could not make all that noise. Above the
talking came every now and again the sound of a laugh, almost masculine
in its vitality, yet with a feminine gaiety. Later she heard luggage
being carried up the stairs. She heard voices in the bedrooms below. She
heard a man's deep voice call, "Come here for a minute, Ernest." Then
the voice of the Mr. Whiteoak she had met in London replied, "All right,
Nicholas. I'll be there when I've put on a fresh collar."

Mary resolutely closed her own door, She made up her mind to stay where
she was till sent for. She would read, and yes--she would smoke a
cigarette! Mary's own father had introduced her to this decadent habit,
and it had grown on her to such an extent that, in times of stress, she
not infrequently sought its comfort. In ordinary times one a day
sufficed her. She had brought several packets with her.

Now she sat down, with both windows open, so there might be a current of
air to carry away the smoke. She put a cigarette between her lips and
lighted it, taking care to throw the match as far as possible into the
shrubbery. She inhaled gently. She took up the copy of _Lady Audley's_
_Secret_ which had kept her awake for hours the night before and began
to read. Either the house was quieter now or she had succeeded in
isolating herself. She started when a peremptory rap came on the door.
The cigarette had been finished long ago but she dashed a little good
scent on her hair and collar to allay any lingering odour of tobacco.

"Miss Wakefield!" called Renny.

She opened the door.

"You're wanted downstairs. My grandmother wants to see you. And what do
you suppose they brought me? A train that winds up and runs right across
the room! And a music box for Meggie! Come and see!"

He caught her by the hand, with a warmth he had never before shown and
dragged her through the door.

"You smell!" he exclaimed.

"Of what?" she demanded startled.

"It's nice," he said, and tugged at her again.

He was still holding her hand when they entered the drawing-room. That
close grasp gave her strength. Anxiously she looked about her, seeking
the figure of Mrs. Whiteoak.

But there was no need to seek. Her vigorous presence caught and held the
eye, though all those in the room, save one, were strongly individual,
and even he, Sir Edwin, was far from insignificant, if only because of
his contrast to the others. Mary had expected to see an old woman but,
at sixty-eight, Adeline Whiteoak might have passed for fifty had it not
been for her clothes, which were of a massive cut, and the fact that she
wore a lace cap with ribbons on her head. The cap was wired to give it
body. It also added to her look of imperiousness. There was little of
grey in her hair which still retained a hint of russet. Her
handsomely-cut aquiline features, her expressive brown eyes, her fine
teeth, brought an admiring shine into Mary's own eyes. Above all, she
was smiling and Mary smiled in return.

"How do you do, Miss Wakefield." She held out her hand and Mary's hand
was enfolded in it. Renny still gripped the fingers of the other.

"Come," he persisted, "come and see my train."

It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.

"I hope you are getting on well," said Mrs. Whiteoak. "I hope you are
able to put some knowledge into the children's heads."

"I'm trying hard." Mary's voice was scarcely audible.

"I think I must be getting deaf." Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her
palm. "I can't hear you."

"I'm getting on nicely, thank you." Now her voice came clearly and, she
felt, a little too loud.

Meg spoke up. "We haven't had lessons lately. It's too hot."

Her grandmother's bright glance discovered her. "There are other things
besides lessons," she said.

"What other things?" asked Renny.

"Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?"

He gave a peal of laughter.

"Is there a party or something?" demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary
over.

Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to
sink through the floor.

Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic,
though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he
shook hands kindly.

"It seems quite a long while," he said, "since I interviewed you, on
behalf of my mother."

"And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother's eyes, I'll be bound,"
added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary. "How old are you, my dear?"

"Twenty-four."

"H'm. That quite tallies with my son's description of you. He said you
were--youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your
own teeth. Well--so have I and I'm sixty-eight."

Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun
of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.

Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.

"Now I had better introduce you all round," said Mrs. Whiteoak,
"Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin--Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield--Mr. Whiteoak,
Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley."

The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window
talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady
Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.

"Where are the children?" demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.

"They've taken their toys to the library," answered Philip.

Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the hand toward Mary. "You'd
better join 'em," she said. "They'll be up to mischief." Mary noticed
the hand, long and supple. She saw the flash of rubies and diamonds on
it.

With a little bow Mary withdrew. Scarcely was she in the hall when she
heard Mrs. Whiteoak say:

"Somebody please shut that door."

It was closed and the six people left in the drawing-room exchanged
looks of untrammelled intimacy. Nicholas was the first to speak.

"A lovely creature," he said. "A very lovely creature." He turned to his
brother Ernest. "Upon my word, Ernie, you've a very pretty taste in
women."

"She looked quite different in London," replied Ernest hastily.

"Doubtless the climate here has rejuvenated her," said Sir Edwin who was
small and neat and mouse-coloured.

"Are we to take that remark seriously, Edwin?" asked his wife who was
tall, with a massive curled fringe about her forehead and a
plum-coloured dress. She spoke in a rich contralto voice.

"I offer it as the only possible explanation," he replied. "Ernest
himself says she looks different."

"If she looked as she does now, Ernest must have been demented,"
declared Lady Buckley.

"What's the matter with her looks?" demanded Philip.

"Everything," returned his sister. "She looks and dresses like an
actress."

It went against the grain of Adeline Whiteoak to agree with her
daughter, so she ignored this remark and asked of Ernest:

"How was she different in London?"

"Well, Mamma, it's hard to say. But there was an impalpable difference."

"I do not engage governesses on impalpable grounds."

"We never should have trusted Ernest," said Lady Buckley. "He is too
easily carried away by a little charm."

Ernest replied tartly, "I am the only one of us who has not been carried
away into matrimony."

Sir Edwin giggled. "My charm was too much for Augusta, eh, Augusta?"

His wife looked at him as though she failed to discover a remnant of
charm in him. She said:

"A girl like that is no companion for the children."

"What do you want me to do?" exclaimed Philip hotly. "Turn her out
because she's pretty and wears pretty clothes? Well--I refuse. You sent
her to me. She's a damned sight nicer than the other two were." He went
on more calmly, "Wait till you're acquainted with her before you condemn
her. I'm sure you'll like her."

"Philip is right," agreed Ernest. "Let us be patient and calm."

This remark had no calming effect on his mother. She sprang up and swept
the length of the room. "By the Lord," she exclaimed, "you have a way of
bringing out the worst in people, Ernest."

"Not in me," said Augusta. "For I know that Ernest's intentions are
good."

Mrs. Whiteoak came back up the room. She was smiling. "We certainly must
give the young woman a chance, as Philip says. On my part I intend to be
very civil to her," she said.

"The thought of being uncivil to anyone," came in Augusta's contralto
tones, "never enters my head."

"We'll all be nice to her," said Sir Edwin gaily, "and see what
happens."

"She'll be extremely grateful." Philip smiled at him. He was about to
add, "And so shall I," but thought better of it.

Nicholas gave a yawn. "I'm off to my room to unpack," he said. "Come
along, Philip." He put his arm affectionately through his brother's.
They moved toward the door.

The Buckleys rose and followed them. Augusta asked:

"Is there anything I can do to help you, Mamma?"

"No, thanks. Mrs. Nettleship will help me."

Ernest had no mind to be left alone with his mother.

"Anything I can do?" he asked cheerily, when the others had gone.

She shook her head.

"It's so nice to be home again," he said.

"It may be, for you. It is well to be so irresponsible."

"But--nothing has happened. Mamma."

"Something will. Did you see the look on Philip's face when he spoke of
that girl?"

"No."

"Then you are very unobservant. He is attracted by her. He may even be
attached to her."

Ernest gnawed his thumb, not knowing what to say. There came a tap on
the door. Before opening it he turned to his mother and said:
"Everything seems in very good order at Jalna, doesn't it?"

"Good enough. Good enough," she muttered. Then, with a look of complete
exasperation she added:

"Oh, Ernest, what a fool you were to engage that flibbertigibbet girl!"

Ernest could not deny it. He was thankful when a second light knock
sounded on the door. He opened it.

Mrs. Nettleship stood there, her little pointed hands folded on her
stomach. Ernest slipped past her and went up the stairs. She said,
"Excuse me, Ma'am, but is there anything I can do to help you?" She
closed the door behind her.

"Yes. You can unpack for me but not till morning, except for my
dressing-case."

"I have that already unpacked."

"Then there's nothing. Wait--you may pour me another glass of sherry."
She had seated herself on a sofa and was half-reclining on its cushions,
her long lithe body displayed to advantage, despite its cumbersome
clothes.

With short silent steps Mrs. Nettleship crossed the room and gently took
the decanter from the silver tray. "I thought you'd be tired and would
like a little sherry," she said.

"A good thought. Just half a glass this time."

Mrs. Nettleship brought the sherry to her.

Adeline Whiteoak put the glass to her lips and looked keenly over its
rim at the housekeeper.

"How have things been going--of late?" she asked.

"Do you mean in the last five weeks, Mrs. Whiteoak?"

"Yes. Exactly that."

Mrs. Nettleship was bow-legged. Even through her skirt and two
petticoats it was discernible. Now she planted her feet firmly on the
carpet.

"The last five weeks," she said, "have been terrible hard to bear. If it
wasn't for you, Mrs. Whiteoak, I wouldn't have stood it. It was
affecting my health."

"Just what do you mean?" Adeline Whiteoak spoke above a sharply indrawn
breath.

"It's that governess. It breaks my heart to look at those dear little
children and think what she's set out to do."

"What has she set out to do?"

"Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, don't ask me to say it out loud! I just couldn't.
But I lie awake at nights thinking what this house would be like with
her at the head of it. Of course, I wouldn't stay but wherever I was I'd
be thinking of the poor little children." She gave a deep sigh.

Adeline spoke calmly. "Tell me--what has Miss Wakefield done to make you
feel like this?"

Mrs. Nettleship drew a step closer and the pupils of her pale eyes were
fixed in a gimlet gaze. Now the words poured out of her.

"Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, it began as soon as she came under this roof. I saw
that she was sly. She wasn't dressed in a proper way but always as
though she was going somewhere. She'd perfume on her. She'd worse than
perfume on her, Ma'am, she had _paint_ on her!"

"Paint! Where? On her cheeks?"

"On her lips. I noticed they was redder sometimes than they was at other
times. Then--I _saw_."

"Ha! What else?"

Mrs. Nettleship came very close and lowered her voice till it was almost
a whisper.

"On the third day," she said, and paused.

"Yes? Go on."

"On the third day, I was carrying the children's laundry up to their
rooms. I had slippers on and I didn't make any noise. On the _top_
floor, at Miss Wakefield's door, was Mr. Whiteoak. The door was open and
she was standing in it with a _loose_ wrapper on." The peculiar stress
which Mrs. Nettleship laid on the word _loose_ implied the most immoral
intentions possible on the part of the wrapper. She watched Adeline
Whiteoak's face closely and was satisfied with the effect of her
disclosures.

"What did they do when you appeared?"

"Miss Wakefield was just plain flustered. She didn't know what way to
look. But Mr. Whiteoak spoke real sharp to me."

"What did he say?"

"I apologized and said I hoped I hadn't scared the young lady, and he
said _she'd_ nothing to be scared of."

"H'm. And what then?"

"Doctor Ramsey came in--he'd been twice before to see her but couldn't
find her--and, after a while she dressed and came downstairs. After he'd
left I was passing through the hall, and she and Mr. Whiteoak was still
in the library. Jake was there too and I thought I'd better see if he
wanted out. We've never had a puppy that was so much trouble. Well--I
didn't go into the room, Mrs. Whiteoak. I didn't go in. I know my place
better. Especially after the way Mr. Whiteoak had spoke to me, outside
her bedroom door. I just scurried down to the basement as fast as my
poor legs would carry me."

"What, in God's name, did you scurry for?"

"Why, to keep out of Mr. Whiteoak's way!"

"Woman alive--can't you speak out plain?"

Mrs. Nettleship's voice became suddenly harsh. "I'd heard a _kiss_. A
soft little kiss. And then Mr. Whiteoak gave a pleased laugh."

"Perhaps she kissed Jake!" Adeline exclaimed grimly.

"Ha, ha, that's a good one, Mrs. Whiteoak. But I don't see that young
lady kissing a _dog_. Not with a handsome young man about."

Adeline set down the empty sherry glass. "Is there anything more to
tell?" she asked, almost casually.

"Just this." The housekeeper put her hand in the pocket of her apron and
took out a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolded the paper
and disclosed several cigarette ends. She held them out for inspection.
"I found _these_ amongst the shrubs underneath _her_ window. She
_smokes_, Mrs. Whiteoak."

Adeline blew out her breath. "Well, well," she said. "Quite a forward
young woman."

"_Forward!_ Forward's no name for her behaviour. Twice this week she's
gone through the house _singing_. Just as though she was mistress here!"

Adeline rose. If Mrs. Nettleship expected an explosion from her she was
disappointed. She appeared more calm than she had been earlier in the
recital. But, when she was in her own room with the door shut behind
her, she was seething with mingled anger and consternation. She stood,
with her back against the door, her palms pressed against the panels,
only by a great effort restraining herself from going straight to
Philip, demanding an explanation from him. But wisdom, experience of
life, told her that it would be far, far better to wait, to discover for
herself how far the affair had gone.

As for Ernest, she would gladly have taken him by the shoulders and
shaken him. To think that he would deliberately throw such a temptation
in his brother's way. "If I had the ninny here," she said aloud, and
struck one clenched hand into the palm of the other. She did not finish
the sentence, for at that moment the Indian gong that summoned the
family to meals, sounded in the hall.




                                  VIII
                              NO EMPTY ROOM


Mary crossed the hall and went to the door of the sitting-room which
stood open. She felt confused by the meeting with the various and highly
individualistic members of the family. They seemed to raise a wall
between her and Philip. She pictured him, as though from a long way off.
With the sound of voices all about her, she was isolated, alone. The air
was oppressive. Another storm was brewing.

In the sitting-room the children were playing with their new toys. Renny
was kneeling on the floor, winding up his train. Meg stood by the table
where her music box was tinkling out "Children of Vienna".

"Listen," exclaimed Meg. "Isn't that a pretty tune?"

"Charming," agreed Mary. "What beautiful presents!"

"We have battledore and shuttlecock, too," cried Renny, "and I have a
lot of lead soldiers and Meggie a work-basket, with a thimble, and two
books each!" He sprang to his feet and began to show off the treasures.
His small being was vibrant with vitality and enthusiasm. Meg did not
know what it was to experience such joy as he did, but she egged herself
on to a simulation of it, not wanting to be outdone by him in the eyes
of the grown-ups.

Mary examined all the presents but her mind was not there. She was
thinking, "What is going on behind the closed door of the drawing-room?
What are they saying about me? For some reason they are not pleased with
me." She longed for a word, a glance from Philip to give her confidence.

It was with difficulty that she persuaded the children to carry their
presents up to the schoolroom. But at last this was accomplished. Still
she could not persuade them to go to bed. They must first go downstairs
to say good night to their elders. It was not a question of allowing
them to go. They swept past her and scampered down the stairs.

Mary stood by the windows looking out. The air was full of moisture and
a threatening heaviness. Sheet lightning flashed almost constantly
behind the trees that rose beyond the ravine, the ravine where she had
sat reading to Philip Whiteoak. She felt cut off from any such pleasant
intercourse with him now. From now onward all those people below would
stand between. She was alone in this house full of people. Her head
throbbed and she pressed her temples. That word _alone_! The close-knit
family below had no room for her. And why should they? One day she would
disappear, leaving no impression behind her--no more than had Miss Cox
or Miss Turnbull. No impression on Philip Whiteoak? Oh, surely, surely
he would hold a faint remembrance of her in his breast. She could endure
the thought of his forgetting her, because she did not really believe in
it, but the thought of his remembering her brought tears stinging her
eyes. She heard the children coming up the stairs, putting down their
feet hard to make sure that all the household heard what they were
doing.

They had come from the dining-room where supper was in progress. Each
had been given a taste of whatever they fancied. They were hilarious.

It was long before Mary closed her own door behind her. By that time the
storm was drawing nearer. These electrical storms were a source of fear
to her. Never before had she experienced any storms equal to them in
ferocity. When they came at night they were so much the worse, with the
darkness as a background to their sinister brightness. She wished the
children had asked her to stay with them for company but she knew they
did not want her. Yet Meg dreaded the roar of thunder. Why did Meg not
want her companionship? Mrs. Nettleship was to blame for that, Mary felt
sure. If only she would let the children alone! But it was easy to guess
her influence on them.

At last the storm passed down the lake. Not even a distant rumble could
be heard. Its passing was complete, leaving a great stillness behind. It
passed like the dream of a battle and Mary, tired out, fell asleep. She
slept dreamlessly in the hot night for an hour or more, and then the
storm came back. It swept majestically up the lake, retracing its
course, gathering itself together as for a display of pomp and terror.
As yet no rain fell, though the trembling of the leaves might well have
been mistaken for rain. They trembled against each other with a
pattering sound.

Mary sprang up at the first crash. She was dazed and, for a moment,
could not collect her thoughts. She crouched, with thudding heart
waiting for the next clap. Simultaneously with it the room sprang to
life in a pinkish glare picking out every smallest detail, giving a
transparent vivid beauty to the fruit and shells beneath the glass. The
thunder crashed above the very roof. Mary cried out in terror but her
cry was no more than the squeak of a mole in its burrow.

She must go and see if the children were all right! The air in the room
was stifling. Her hair clung damply to her temples. She drew on her
dressing-gown and hastened to Meg's room. A strong draught greeted her
in the doorway. She heard Meg crying, and flew to her side.

"I'm here, dear," she said, putting her arms about the child.

Meg clung to her. "Shut the window!" she sobbed.

"Oh, what a fool I am!" Mary cried and flew to shut the window. As she
did so, another flash of lightning fairly blinded her and a crash of
thunder shook the universe.

Meg screamed and Mary almost staggered to her, sitting on the side of
the bed, gripping her in her arms.

"Light the lamp," sobbed Meg.

With trembling hands Mary struck a match and lighted the oil lamp. It
had a white china shade with pink roses on it and once, in a state of
temper, Meg had scratched off one of the roses with her nail.

Now the light calmed her. She looked up at Mary out of tear-blurred
eyes. "Don't go," she said, then, as a fresh crash thundered, she cried,
"I want Papa to come!"

"Won't I do?"

"No. Tell Papa to come. I'm frightened."

"Papa's here," said a voice from the doorway.

Philip, dressed in shirt and trousers, came into the room.

"It's a snorter, isn't it?" he said pleasantly, almost as though in
praise of the storm.

"Come here! Come here!" cried Meg, "and sit on my bed!"

He sat down and she scrambled on to his knee, clasping him tightly about
the neck.

"Have you shut Renny's windows?" he asked of Mary. Then exclaimed,
"Why--you are frightened too! Aren't you a silly pair!"

With his tranquil presence in the room Mary's fear had already subsided.
Her heart beat less heavily. But she was humiliated that she had
forgotten Renny's windows. With an exclamation of dismay she ran to his
room. The passage was brilliant in a blaze of lightning. Both windows in
his room stood open. In the wild draught between them Mary's thin
dressing-gown bellied like a sail. With her golden hair loose about her
shoulders she entered the room like an angel in some old painting.

Renny was standing naked in front of one of the windows looking out at
the storm. The lofty peal of thunder that now reverberated among the
clouds, did not make him flinch. He stood motionless, the rain which was
now falling fast, blowing over his naked white body. Then darkness came
again and out of it Mary spoke.

"Renny! You _are_ naughty! Don't you know how dangerous it is to stand
in a draught in a storm?"

She groped her way, feeling the carpet wet beneath her bare feet, to the
windows and drew them down. As she closed the window at which he stood
his small wet hands gripped hers and tried to restrain her.

"I want it open," he said, "I like it."

Simultaneously came a fiery flash and a terrific explosion. Mary uttered
a moan of terror.

"You're afraid!" he laughed. "But I love it! I love it! I wish it would
keep up all night." He began to dance and prance, his slim body
illuminated by a steady flickering.

Fear made Mary strong. She snatched up his night-shirt from the floor,
captured him, and thrust him into it. She took him by the hand and
dragged him to Meg's room. But, when he saw his father there, he ran
from her and threw himself against Philip. He caught up Philip's hand
and rubbed his cheek on it.

"Papa!" he cried, "I'm so glad you've come. I want you always to come."

Philip, between them, laughed up at Mary. He hugged them to him. There
were sounds in the rooms below. People were talking. She hesitated,
wondering if she should go back to her own room.

"The storm is lessening," Philip said. "It will soon be over."

The children chattered. They asked for drinks of water.

An odd tremulous domestic atmosphere was created. Was Philip conscious
of it? But it was impossible to read his thoughts. Perhaps she was
making no more impression on him than Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull had.
Suddenly he said:

"Well, my family are back."

This was so obvious that it seemed no comment was necessary.

"Quite a lot of 'em," he said.

"Yes. The house seems quite full."

"They're like that."

"They're very--distinguished-looking."

"Especially my mother. Don't you be afraid of her. She's peppery but
she's really kind-hearted."

"I'm afraid I haven't a strong character."

"Not strong! But I think you have. It took strength of character to come
out here, so far from home."

"I had no home."

"Miss Wakefield," he said seriously, "I want you to tell me
something----"

She interrupted him by a glance at the children. She could not speak of
herself, of her feelings, not with Meg's inquisitive eyes on her, the
possibility that what was said would be repeated in the kitchen.

Philip looked puzzled, then understanding.

Lady Buckley's voice came from below. "Philip! Are you with the
children?"

He went to the door and called back. "Yes. I'm in Meggie's room."

"Are the children all right?"

"Quite all right. I'm coming down in a jiffy. The storm is over."

He took Renny back to his own room. Mary tucked up Meg where she lay
very still, looking up at her with a cool considering gaze. Mary could
see that she did not want to be kissed. She said:

"Please, Miss Wakefield, leave the lamp burning."

"But it will soon be daylight."

"I want the lamp, please."

"You won't touch it?"

"No. I promise."

Mary lowered the lamp. She left the room, closing the door behind her.
There was quiet. A cool breeze was blowing in at Renny's window. A
myriad drops were falling from the leaves like a slow sweet rain.

Philip came into the passage, closing the door of Renny's room. Mary
said hurriedly:

"I'm sorry. I must have seemed abrupt. But . . . the children. . . . Not
that it mattered. But--you were going to ask me something?"

"Yes. Are you happy at Jalna? Do you--" he looked straight into her
eyes--"like us? I mean the children and me."

She could not answer. She could find neither words nor voice to utter
words.

He persisted. "You do like the children, don't you?"

Her voice shook as she answered, "Yes. Oh, yes, I like them very much."

"Well, that's the important thing. But I feel this about you. You're too
sensitive. By Jove, if things went wrong, you'd take it very hard. I
hate to think how hard you'd take it."

She exclaimed, almost harshly, "You asked me if I liked the children and
I said I did. And you asked me if I liked you and--I do. How can I help?
You're so----"

"That's splendid," he interrupted. "Now you go straight to bed. You're
overwrought by the storm. You'll feel a wreck tomorrow if you don't get
some sleep." He touched her arm in a comforting gesture and went down
the stairs.

Mary could hear voices below. He had left her so suddenly she wondered
if he had thought his sister was waiting for him at the bottom of the
stairway. She went into her own room and closed the door.

It was not quite dark. A moist grey twilight showed behind the trees.
There was a steady drip from the leaves. Mary put her hands on the foot
of the bed to steady herself. She said, as though speaking aloud to
someone on the bed, "But I don't _like_ him. I _love_ him . . . I love
him." She repeated the words over and over and felt calmer. She repeated
his name.

Then she remembered how he had cut her short. Had he seen that she was
about to give herself away--say something foolish? She had a moment's
wild desire to run down the stairs and beat on the panel of his door and
call out a denial. She thought of all the other people, from all the
other rooms, coming forth in amazement and scorn. Most clearly she
pictured Philip's mother, mounting from her richly coloured lair like a
tigress to protect her son.

"And he cares nothing for me," Mary thought, "no more than he cared for
Miss Cox or Miss Turnbull!"

She was shivering. She crept into bed and drew the covers over her head
but she did not sleep again.

In the morning she put on her dark blue skirt and white shirt-waist. She
looked pale and wan. After breakfast she gathered the children into the
schoolroom and shut the door. Meg was weary too and lolled across her
copy book. Renny insisted on standing with his arm about Mary's neck
while she taught him his multiplication table. By no other means could
she persuade him to be still.




                                   IX
                              NEXT MORNING


Adeline Whiteoak had slept well and she felt singularly refreshed. The
storm had cleared the air, leaving the countryside fresh washed, with
all its outlines sharp, as though etched. The shout of a man driving a
team in a distant field could be distinctly heard in her bedroom.

The thought crossed her mind as she was dressing that it was a pity
women's clothes were so cumbersome. It would be grand, she thought, to
have on no more than shirt and trousers, like that fellow in the field.
She grinned when she pictured what she would look like in them. Still,
she would look better than most women. Thank goodness, she had never got
broad across the beam or thick through the breast. With something of
complacency she put herself into her long, whale-boned stays, each metal
fastening snapping sharply into place. She put on a black cashmere
dress. She put on a heavy gold chain and locket. As she held the locket
in her hand she raised it to her lips and pressed a kiss on it. This she
did every morning because of the lock of hair inside.

The dining-room was empty for she had slept late and this rather pleased
her. She liked having the first meal of the day in solitude, with only
the pleasant, familiar sounds of home about her. On this morning, after
an absence of months, they were particularly pleasing. Among the vines
outside the window young birds were twittering as their parents fed
them. A turkey gobbler let forth his boastful shout. A man was raking
the gravel of the drive. Adeline smiled as she drew the large linen
napkin from its silver ring and tucked one corner of it under her chin.
She was not going to risk a drop of milk on the front of her dress. The
porridge was delicious, cracked wheat, and cooked till it was almost
transparent. As for the milk! She had not tasted any to equal it while
she was away. After the porridge she had a dish of ripe raspberries,
smothered in cream, two thick slices of toast well-buttered, and three
cups of strong tea. As she ate, her eyes roved about the room, taking in
first one object and then another, savouring their familiarity and how
well they were cared for. Once her eyes rested on the two portraits, but
not for long. They were too lifelike--herself and her Philip in their
prime. She could look at the portrait of herself with a little
appreciative smile, thinking--ha, I was like that! A handsome girl! But
the two of them together, he in his fine uniform, she in her yellow
satin ball-dress, brought memories too poignant to be borne. How they
had loved! The paltry loves of most people were, in her opinion,
scarcely to be considered. The love, for instance, of Nicholas and his
wife, and young Philip and his. Not that she had never looked at another
man. She wasn't the sort of woman to fasten her feminine egotism on to
one object, to stifle the loved one's spirit by her unremitting
concentration. Adeline's nature was too lavish for that. But she had had
only one great love.

Now Eliza came into the room to see if she wished for anything.

"Not another pot of tea, Ma'am, or a little more toast?"

"Not a sup or bite more, Eliza. You'll have me fat, if you keep on
feeding me like this. Where's everybody?"

"The gentlemen have gone over to the stables, Ma'am. Lady Buckley is in
her room. And the children are with Miss Wakefield."

"H'm . . . I miss Boney. Do you think Miss Pink knows I'm home?"

"Word was sent to her. I believe he's been keeping very well."

"I'm glad of that. Poor old bird. He'll be thankful to see me."

Eliza agreed, though she felt no warmth of affection for the parrot.
Then she exclaimed:

"I hear wheels now. Mebbe that would be Miss Pink."

She hastened into the hall and then turned back to say:

"Yes, Ma'am, it is Miss Pink and she has the bird."

"Show her into the library and tell her I shall be there directly."

Adeline energetically wiped her lips, rose, decided that she would like
one more raspberry, took one from the dish and popped it into her mouth.
She went through the hall, where the door stood open. She could see the
Pinks' fat pony and the trap. She entered the library with a welcoming
smile already on her lips.

Lily Pink was standing in the middle of the room holding a parrot's cage
in her hand. It was she who had undertaken the care of the bird in
Adeline's absence. She was twenty but had the innocent expression of a
sweet little girl of twelve. Her light brown hair was drawn back from
her face into a tight bun at the back of her neck. She wore a pink dress
with leg o'mutton sleeves. Her grandfather had been the first rector of
the little church built by Captain Whiteoak, forty years before. Her
father, also a clergyman, had been a missionary in China where his
children had been born. Ten years ago he had returned to take charge of
the parish that had been his father's.

"Lily, my dear child!" exclaimed Adeline, kissing her, "I am so glad to
see you. _And_ Boney! Has he been well?"

"Perfectly well, Mrs. Whiteoak. All the time."

"I'm so grateful. I couldn't have been satisfied to leave him so long,
with no one more tender-hearted than Mrs. Nettleship. Then there were
the children. I was afraid they'd let him out. I can't trust young
Renny."

She bent her long supple body above the cage and the parrot, with a
scream of joy, hopped into the doorway, climbed up the side of the cage
and from the top flew to her shoulder. She turned her face to his. He
pressed his beak against her nose, uttering low chuckling sounds, while
his bright-plumaged body vibrated with his love for her.

"Has he talked much?" she asked.

"Very little, Mrs. Whiteoak. Except in anger. He's missed you
dreadfully."

"He talked in anger, eh? What did he say?"

Lily blushed. "Oh, I don't know what he said." She could not tell that
her father had ordered her to cover the bird's cage on his outburst of
colourful language.

Boney was the successor to the parrot Adeline had brought from India. At
his death, fifteen years ago, Adeline had been so distressed that
Captain Whiteoak had not rested till he had found another, similar in
plumage, to comfort her. Between them they had taught him the first
Boney's vocabulary, in which he became so proficient that in time the
two birds were merged into one in the minds of the family.

Adeline moved her head gently up and down while the parrot rocked his
body in sensuous enjoyment. He hated everyone but her.

Now he spoke. "_Dilkhoosa . . . Dilkhoosa_," he murmured caressingly.
"_Nur mahal . . . Mera lal._"

"Is he swearing?" asked Lily.

"Swearing? Not a bit of it. He's making love. Oh, they know how to make
love in the East, Lily. Pearl of the harem. That's what he called me,
Lily."

Lily Pink had a sense of shock that a woman of Adeline's age, the mother
of middle-aged sons, a grandmother, should take such obvious pleasure in
these unsuitable endearments. She felt that older people should not have
love words addressed to them, even by a parrot. She herself never
expected to be the object of masculine endearments. For three years she
had cherished a hopeless love for Philip Whiteoak which she expressed by
falling into almost complete silence in his presence and avoiding his
eyes.

Now, from the side door, he entered the hall.

"Hullo, Mamma," he exclaimed. "Up already?"

"Already! The morning's half gone. And this is the first time you've
sought your mother!"

"Not at all. I've been in here twice before. Good morning, Lily. So
you've brought Boney back."

Lily bowed and silently moved her lips. Philip kissed his mother and
chucked the parrot under the beak. Boney snapped at his finger, then
once again concentrated his attention on Adeline.

"It's glorious weather," said Philip. "The air is marvellously cleared.
What are you going to do?"

Adeline concealed by a forced smile the sombre look she turned on him.
The air is not cleared, my fine fellow, she thought, and the first thing
I am going to do is to find out what you've been up to. She said:

"I think I shall go to see the Laceys. Lily can drop me at their door.
Will you do that, my dear?"

"Oh, I'd love to, Mrs. Whiteoak."

"Good. I'll get my hat. But just let me give you this." She took from
her pocket a small box and out of it a pretty leather belt with a
silk-lined purse attached. She fastened it about Lily's waist.

Philip looked on approvingly. "There's a waist you could span," he said.

"She'd never let you try, would you, Lily?"

Lily thanked Adeline for the present, while keeping her eyes resolutely
turned from Philip. She was in a state of panic at the thought of being
left alone with him. She followed Adeline into the drawing-room and
helped to hang the parrot's cage on its stand. It took considerable
coaxing to persuade him to enter the cage, and, when Adeline, after many
endearments, left him he shouted Hindoo curses after her in his
disappointment.

"I shall soon be back, my darling," she cried, and hurried to her room
to put on her hat.

Philip stood smiling at Lily, stranded alone with him.

"Like that thing my mother brought you?" he asked.

"It's lovely," she said, but quite inaudibly.

He fingered the purse, opened it and peeped into it.

"Nothing in it," he said. "Not a penny."

She managed to get out, "Nor ever will be. I never have any money." Her
cheeks flamed as she said it.

"Never mind, Lily. You will. One day some millionaire will come
along----"

Adeline appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. Philip went with
them to the pony trap, assisted them to climb to the seat, patted the
pony, gave him a mouthful of grass. They jogged down the drive, the pony
munching while green saliva dribbled from his lip. His hoofs splashed in
and out of puddles, his small hard flanks glittered in the sunshine.
Adeline thought how contented she would be, if only Philip had behaved
himself. She remarked:

"I suppose you've met the children's governess."

Away from Philip, Lily could talk. "Yes. I met her at Mrs. Lacey's and
Mother has had her to tea with the children. Twice I've met her on the
road. Do you think she's pretty, Mrs. Whiteoak? All the gentlemen are
raving over her."

"Your _father_?"

"Oh, yes."

"Admiral Lacey?"

"Most of all."

"Doctor Ramsey?"

"No. I haven't heard him."

The situation seemed worse than Adeline had imagined.

"Make the pony move faster, Lily," she said. "Give him a tap with the
whip."

Lily took the bent whip, though reluctantly, from its holder and
administered a tap on his right flank. He looked over his shoulder at
her.

"Give him another," said Adeline.

Lily gave him one on his left flank. He stopped.

"Come, come," Adeline urged him. "Get up with you!"

He looked over his shoulder at her.

"Here--give me the whip."

Lily surrendered it and Adeline gave him a sharp cut.

He walked down into the ditch, all but spilling them out.

"He always does that if he's touched with the whip," said Lily.

"Why didn't you tell me? Will he come up again if we pull him?"

"No. We shall just have to wait here till a man arrives."

"I could do it myself," said Adeline, "but I should get burrs in my
skirt. Oh, you rascal!" She struck the pony's flank again. He looked
round at her out of his large, remote eyes and made as though to lie
down in the ditch. Both women clambered hastily out of the trap, and at
the same time Doctor Ramsey appeared on the road driving his big mare.
He greeted Adeline with warmth.

When he saw their predicament he alighted from his buggy and, with a
masterful air, led the pony back to the road, the pony coming eagerly,
as though this was just what he wanted.

"What do you suppose was wrong with him," asked Adeline, "that he should
go into the ditch?"

"He has been going into the ditch ever since I've known him," said
Doctor Ramsey, "and I've known him twenty-five years."

"Which way are you going, Doctor?" she asked. "If it is in the direction
of The Moorings, I think I'll go with you."

"That is just where I am going, for I am taking a bottle of liniment for
the Admiral's back."

"Is it bad then?"

"Just a touch of lumbago. Do come with me, Mrs. Whiteoak. I'd like a
chat with you."

Adeline said good-bye to Lily and mounted to the seat beside the doctor.
He flicked the mare who set off at a good pace, the pony, on his short
legs, doing his best to overtake her.

"Well," said the doctor, looking with canny admiration into Adeline's
lively eyes, "you look none the worse for your journey."

"I'm all the better for it. There's nothing like a change from the
worries and responsibilities of one's own home."

"True. Very true. And Lady Buckley, is she quite well?"

Adeline disliked her daughter's title, for she resented being in a
position socially inferior to her, but Doctor Ramsey never missed an
opportunity of using it, though he had called her Augusta to the day of
her marriage.

"Augusta is well enough."

"And Sir Edwin?"

"If he's ailing he hasn't remarked it."

"And Nicholas and Ernest?"

"Fit as fiddles. Ernest is by way of becoming a rich man. He's got a
wonderful knowledge of investments."

"Ha! He'd better be cautious. If I had money to invest, I'd put it into
property. . . And how did ye find everything at Jalna?"

Adeline looked straight between the mare's ears. "I found a pretty
kettle of fish there."

"You did?"

"Come," she exclaimed, "don't tell me that you've heard nothing."

"Nothing but praise for the young woman. Excepting from Mrs. Lacey. She
seems to be quite a charmer."

"Well, my housekeeper has a tale to tell of her. She saw her _en
dshabill_ at her bedroom door talking to Philip, before she'd been in
the house a week. She heard them kiss in the library."

Doctor Ramsey drew up the mare at the gate of The Moorings and gently
flicked the flies from her flanks. Lily Pink and the pony passed, he
hastening home to his oats, she waving and smiling.

Now the doctor turned a sombre look on Adeline, and spoke in a
deliberate tone, his Scottish accent strongly marked.

"I said I had _heard_ nothing but now I shall tell you what I _saw_."

Adeline sat planted firmly, a hand on either knee.

"At the first I had trouble in finding the young person. Twice I went to
Jalna but she was out. On the second occasion Eliza told me that she had
been seen walking in the direction of the wood. I followed her for, as
the children's grandfather, I felt I had a responsibility. I walked a
long way and then I came to that wee clearing in the midst of the wood.
There is nice smooth grass there and what do you suppose I saw?"

"Goodness knows."

"I saw Miss Wakefield, with her shoes and stockings off, running about
on the grass. She was holding her skirt up to her knees. It was a
feckless sight and a wanton one. I came away."

"You did well," said Adeline, with a mischievous look.

"Then one day I found her in and I had a short talk with her. I must say
that my suspicions were allayed, for she showed an intelligence I had
not expected. During our conversation I happened to mention the poet
Burns, and she expressed a keen desire to read some of his poetry. I
promised to lend her a volume. About a week ago I brought it. I had made
a professional call on the Vaughans, and I left the buggy there and
walked to Jalna through the ravine where it was fairly cool. The day had
been almost unbearably hot. I was crossing the bridge when I espied
them."

Adeline turned her head and looked into his face.

"Yes?" she breathed.

"They were reclining, Mrs. Whiteoak, in attitudes of complete abandon.
She was reading aloud to him. A love poem by Lord Tennyson. I heard some
of the words. I strode up to where they were. I gave her the book, with
what disapproval I could put into my demeanour, and left them. I have
not seen them since."

"Well," said Adeline, drawing a deep breath, "it's bad enough but I've
heard of worse things."

"Doubtless no one has seen the worst, Mrs. Whiteoak. When I think of
that girl as successor to my daughter, my spirit draws back in dismay."

"Men don't always marry the women they make love to," said Adeline,
testily. "Now let us go and see what Mrs. Lacey has to tell us."

They found Mrs. Lacey and her daughters sitting in rustic chairs beneath
an old apple tree. Mrs. Lacey was sewing and Ethel and Violet were
shelling peas. All three jumped up to embrace Adeline and ask her
questions about her journey. Violet galloped to the verandah to fetch a
rocking-chair for Adeline. Doctor Ramsey intercepted her and forcibly
took it from her.

"What a harum-scarum that girl is!" exclaimed Mrs. Lacey.

Violet tossed her curled fringe out of her eyes, reseated herself and
scooped the contents of a pea-pod into her mouth. Her mother gave an
expressive look at Adeline.

"I'll wager," said the doctor, "that you haven't sat in one of those all
the while you were away."

"I have not. And very soothing they are." She seated herself and rocked
as hard as she could considering that the rockers rested on grass.

"The ground is still dry," said Doctor Ramsey. "It's so hard from
drought that the rain ran right off it." He lingered a little and then
reluctantly went indoors to see his patient.

A silence fell.

Then Mrs. Lacey asked, "Are you pleased with the new importation?"

"You mean Miss Wakefield?"

"Of course. She's the most exciting thing that's happened here in many a
day."

"She's very good to look at. A little too smartly dressed, perhaps."

Mrs. Lacey nodded with solemnity. "If that were all! But, Mrs. Whiteoak,
the girl _paints her lips_. Mrs. Pink discovered it first. Ethel and
Violet can't deny it, even though they are on her side. Indeed they seem
quite fascinated by her."

"Oh, no, Mother," denied Ethel, "it is simply that she is an oddity.
Someone so different."

"She's good fun when you get her alone," added Violet. "I mean away from
Mrs. Pink and Mother." She laughed daringly.

"Really, Violet, you are incorrigible. Now that you two have the peas
shelled, you had better take them to Cook. Mrs. Whiteoak and I want a
little private conversation."

"Very well, Mother," said Ethel, "but don't be too hard on Miss
Wakefield."

When her daughters were gone Mrs. Lacey exclaimed, "Really, those girls
are incorrigible."

"They are sweet creatures."

Mrs. Lacey tried to conceal her pride in them. "I'm glad you think so.
But they do so easily get carried away."

Adeline ceased rocking and stretched out her long legs in a manner which
Mrs. Lacey found very unladylike.

Adeline remarked, "I am a woman of the world. I say if a girl in London
wants to paint, to smoke, to be fast, let her. But I do not want her at
Jalna tempting my youngest son. I don't want any new mistress there. You
know what a time I had with Philip's first wife. We didn't get on well,
you remember."

Mrs. Lacey did indeed remember.

"Do you say," she asked, "that this girl _smokes_?"

"Yes. Mrs. Nettleship found cigarette ends on the ground beneath her
window."

"It's unbelievable!"

"It's true. I saw them."

"Mrs. Nettleship had saved them to show you?"

"She had. Now, if Philip must marry, let him marry a woman of means.
Someone who will be an asset. I will not endure him marrying this
flibbertigibbet girl."

"You haven't spoken to him?"

"No, no, not yet. In truth he may have no notion of marrying her. But
it's plainly to be seen she's setting her cap at him. _Poetry!_ Reading
Lord Tennyson's poetry, if you please."

Mrs. Lacey's eyes were shining. "Talk of Lord Tennyson's poetry! The
things that young woman reads! My girls took her into our orchard and
sat there under the trees. They came out _different_. They've never been
quite the same since. But I believe in keeping their confidence and I
encouraged them to talk. They told me that Miss Wakefield has read _all_
of Rhoda Broughton's books, and not only that, she's read all of
_Ouida's_. Did you ever read her horrible novel,_ Friendship_? I'm
ashamed to say I have, and it's the _height_ of immorality. She has
copies of _The_ _Yellow Book_, with quite crazy illustrations by Aubrey
Beardsley, and a magazine with an article by Oscar Wilde, called 'The
Decay of the Art of _Lying_'. I think that is significant, don't you,
Mrs. Whiteoak? She raves about the little restaurants in Soho, where she
says 'the _atmosphere_ is _colourful_'. Really, my husband almost
exploded when I repeated the expression to him. Men who write for
newspapers, took her. She met actors and actresses several times. She
says she longs to see the life of Paris and Vienna. Well, we all know
the immorality of those cities. The three girls spent the whole
afternoon under the apple trees talking of things like that."

Adeline grinned. "No wonder Ethel and Violet have never been the same
since," she said.




                                   X
                       THE MEETING WITH MISS CRAIG


Mary wondered if she would be required to go to church, now that the
children's grandmother and aunt were at home to superintend their
behaviour. She had not seen Philip alone since the arrival of the family
two days before. Now she sought him out to ask him. If she were not
required to go she would spend the morning in the pine woods by herself.

She saw him standing on the lawn outside the door that led from the hall
at the top of the basement stairs. He stood there with his pipe in his
mouth, wearing such an expression of tranquil good will that she
wondered if ever he were ruffled. She shrank from disturbing him. For
some reason she had a feeling of constraint toward him.

However, as she hesitated in the doorway he saw her and took his pipe
from his mouth.

"Good morning, Miss Wakefield," he said. "I hope you have recovered from
the effects of the storm. You were frightened, weren't you?"

"A little. Nothing to speak of. You see I'm not used to them."

"But you will be. You'll get used to everything."

"Oh, I have. That is, practically everything. What I wanted to ask is if
I should go with the children to church, as usual, this morning."

"Don't you want to go?"

She looked him straight in the eyes. "Mr. Whiteoak, that is not the
question. I _must_ find out just what is expected of me."

He smiled amiably. "To enjoy yourself, of course."

"Then," she returned firmly, "it would be quite all right, if I were to
wear my oldest clothes, take the dogs, and go tramping through the
woods?"

"So that's what you'd prefer?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "That wouldn't do at all. My mother wouldn't like it.
You'll have to go to church, I'm afraid."

"Thank you. That is all I want to know."

Instantly she felt that she had spoken curtly. But how was she to speak
to him? She never seemed to know.

"There's a lovely cool breeze," he remarked.

She had noticed the breeze but only because of the way it lifted the
thick fair lock on top of his head. His spaniels rose from where they
had been stretched in the sun and came to him, touching his legs with
their noses.

"They know it's Sunday," he said ruefully.

"Yes. Sunday seems more Sunday here than anywhere I have ever been. It's
restful. I like it."

"And you don't too much mind going to church?"

"Of course not. I love the little church. Now I must find the children
and get them ready."

She left him, her spirit suddenly elated. "Whatever is the matter with
me?" she thought. "I'm not in the same mood for two minutes
together. . . ." Then she remembered all she had been through just a few
months before and thought it no wonder if she were a little odd.

She put Renny into his white man-o'-war suit and helped Meggie with her
hair ribbon. They chattered all the while.

"Gran has twelve pairs of silk stockings."

"Uncle Nick has a stop watch."

"You are not to call him Uncle _Nick_. It's rude."

"I don't care. I'll say Uncle _Ernie_, too."

"It's rude, isn't it, Miss Wakefield?"

"Miss Wakefield doesn't care," he declared.

"Aunt Augusta says our manners get worse and that it's your fault, Miss
Wakefield. It is true, isn't it?"

"Miss Wakefield, do you get paid for teaching us?"

She answered, while brushing his hair vigorously, "I certainly do."

Renny's dark eyes opened wide with shock.

"_Paid!_" he repeated. "With _real_ money?"

"Certainly. Did you think I came all the way across the ocean to teach
you, just out of love for you?"

"Yes, I did." He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. "And were
Miss Cox and Miss Turnbull paid money, too?"

"Of course."

He turned up his face to have his scarf adjusted, with a subdued look.
It was shocking to him to discover that people were _paid_, actually
paid, to do what should be only a pleasure.

From an old but well-polished carriage and a roomy phaeton nine people
stepped decorously, descended nimbly, were assisted, or lifted down,
according to their sex and age, in front of the church. They were an
impressive array to have come from one house. Mary was astonished to see
Philip in a Prince Albert coat and top-hat. As though in protest he wore
the hat slightly to one side. Under pretext of speaking to Renny he
whispered to Mary:

"Isn't it ridiculous dressing up like this to go to church in the
country? But my mother will have it."

Mary had never before seen him looking well-groomed; now, in this
splendid array, he drew her unashamed admiration. All she could say was:

"I don't blame her."

"Do you say that because of the conventions or because I look so
beautiful?"

"You all do." And her eyes rested on Nicholas, Ernest and Sir Edwin,
similarly attired.

As they mounted the steps the sonorous ringing of the bell made speech
impossible. Adeline, wearing her widow's bonnet, with the long veil
falling about her shoulders, was a familiar figure to all who attended
the church. When she was away they missed her. Now it was good to see
her back again. As for her she drew a deep breath and hesitated midway
up the steep steps, not because of the exertion of climbing, but because
she felt, as always when returning after an absence, the nearness of her
husband, by whose side she had watched this church being built, stone
upon stone, and whose bones now lay in its graveyard. The bell ceased
its ringing.

"My Philip," she murmured, and let out the deep breath between her lips
with a whistling sound.

"Did you speak?" asked Sir Edwin at her side.

"No, no. Just grunted."

"It is quite a climb in warm weather."

"Not to me. The heat feels good--after England."

They were in the vestibule now. Philip had left them to go to the
vestry. Renny saw the bell rope dangling and, before he could stop
himself, he sprang up, caught it and began to swing on it. As he hung
there Nicholas administered a sounding whack on his seat, lifted him
down, placed one hand over his mouth to stifle a possible outcry, then
took him by the hand and led him up the aisle.

"That boy," said Augusta, in a whisper to her husband, "will come to a
bad end."

"Most boys do," he returned amiably.

With an offended air she swept into her seat.

Mary sat with the two children in a pew in front of that occupied by
Adeline, her two sons, her daughter and her son-in-law. She felt that
five pairs of eyes observed her every movement. She felt so conscious of
this observation that she trembled as she found the places in their
prayer books for the children.

The volume added to the singing by the newcomers was tremendous. They
had good voices. They knew the hymns by heart. They let themselves go.
From the first Sunday in the church Mary had noticed the weakness of the
choir. Now she saw it submerged, rendered helpless. Its members sang
away, opening and shutting their mouths unheard. The service seemed
unconscionably long. Mary kept her face turned from where Philip sat,
waiting to read the Lessons. When at last he mounted the lectern she let
herself look at him. To her his head, the shape of his shoulders beneath
the folds of his surplice, were more moving than the words he read.

His brothers exchanged a look. They had forgotten how badly Philip read.

Renny dropped the ten-cent piece that was his contribution and it rolled
far into the aisle. Mary did not know whether she should allow him to
get it. But he was uneasy till she did. Then, in a grasshopper jump he
retrieved it and threw a triumphant look at his grandmother behind him.
She leant toward him, the smell of her heavy crpe veil enveloping him.
"Be a good boy," she whispered, "or it will be the worse for you." The
scent of the crpe came to him.

He grasped the coin and stared at his Uncle Nicholas helping to take up
the collection. When Nicholas held the alms-dish in front of him he
planted his offering in the middle of it with a flourish.

"He is completely out of hand," observed Augusta to Ernest who nodded
agreement.

Nicholas and Chalk, the blacksmith, a fine-looking young man, stood
shoulder to shoulder at the chancel steps and presented the alms-dishes
to Mr. Pink, whose complexion was but inadequately described by his
name. The best that could be said of his sermons was that they were
brief; the worst, that they never were to the point. He always appeared
about to make some profound observation but always it eluded him or
possibly, as Nicholas said, was never there.

At last the congregation trooped down the aisle. Renny managed to get
next to little Maurice Vaughan, two years his senior and a schoolboy on
his holidays from Upper Canada College.

In the porch Adeline was surrounded by friends to welcome her home. She
stood like a queen with courtiers encircling her, a pleased smile
curving her full lips. Mr. Vaughan brought a newcomer to her.

"This," he said, "is Miss Craig who lives quite a long way off and
drives the ten miles to come to our church."

"Now I call that a compliment," said Adeline, taking her hand and
looking her over approvingly. "Tell me why you come so far to our
insignificant little church."

"Your son told me about it and how you and Captain Whiteoak had built it
in the wilds. I came first, because I was curious, and several times
since because I like it so much."

"You are newcomers in this part then?"

"Yes. My father built a house on the lake shore. Unfortunately he has
had a stroke and goes nowhere."

"Well, well, that's sad."

She turned to greet a neighbouring farmer and his wife.

"This is our wedding anniversary, Mrs. Whiteoak," the man said. "Forty
years married."

"Six children and eighteen grandchildren," added his wife.

"Good for you! Well, you're lucky to have your man still with you."

"Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, I remember the Captain and you dancing at our
wedding. What a grand-looking gentleman he was!"

"He was that. I must go now and see his grave."

She led the way into the churchyard, her family, now joined by Philip
following her. Mary also followed but at a little distance. She saw them
gather about a plot marked by a massive granite plinth and enclosed by
an ornamental iron fence. There were two graves in the enclosure, that
of Captain Philip Whiteoak, the other of the younger Philip's young
wife, Margaret. A small marble cross bore her name.

Adeline's tall black-robed figure halted by the grave of her husband,
the summer breeze spreading her veil. Augusta bent her head. The four
men removed their hats.

There came into Augusta's mind the image of her father carrying her on
his shoulder when she was a little girl in pantalettes, and she smiled
tenderly at the recollection of that tiny girl. "Dear Papa," she
murmured in her deep voice.

Sir Edwin remembered how he always had felt especially insignificant
when standing beside that stalwart military figure, how Captain Whiteoak
had stared at him out of his prominent blue eyes, as though in wonder at
his being there at all. "Yet," thought Sir Edwin, "he could be very
agreeable, very agreeable indeed--when he chose."

Into the mind of Nicholas there suddenly flashed the remembrance of an
especially severe tanning his father had given him. He'd had a good
many, but he could recall the smart of that particular one to this day,
though he'd forgotten what it was for. Yet how generously the hand that
had administered the tanning, had been in giving money! And that hand
now . . . Nicholas felt a contraction of the heart as he, for an
instant, pictured that hand now. How many bones were there said to be in
a hand? Twenty-eight? Twenty-eight small bones--dry--perhaps
disjointed--in that box, beneath the summer grass! Instead of the large
handsome hand he remembered.

An officer and a gentleman, if ever there was one, thought Ernest,
gazing down at the grave. And how well he could tell a story!
Particularly a story of his life in India. But he had not been
intellectual. Sometimes Ernest wondered from whom he himself had
inherited his intellect. Not from his mother. For though she was highly
intelligent it was in an intuitive feminine way. . . . That look, on her
face hurt him. He wished they might leave the grave.

Dear old governor! thought Philip, and resolutely kept from his mind any
sad reflections. He turned his eyes to where Mary stood, her
wide-brimmed straw hat shadowing her face.

Adeline's heart cried out, "My darling, oh, my darling!" For one blind
instant she felt that she would throw herself on the grave, pressing it
to her breast, as she had pressed him when he lay dying--he who only an
hour before had left the house, sound and well! But she held herself
together. She put up her hand and arranged the widow's veil on her
shoulder. She led the way from the grave with an unfaltering step.

Renny was left alone with the granite plinth. For a long while he had
wanted to climb it. Now suddenly he felt strong enough. He hopped over
the iron railing, put his arms about the monument, placed a foot on the
lowest projection, hung on like a limpet, though the foothold was
precarious. With his utmost effort he gained the highest ledge and clung
there. He took off his sailor cap and placed it on the very pinnacle of
the monument. He laughed with the joy of achievement. He could not stop
himself. He shouted, "Hurrah!"

The family turned, transfixed by the sight.

Philip strode toward his son. "I'll warm his seat for this," he
exclaimed.

But Adeline held him back. "No, no," she said. "Let the boy be. He means
no harm. Indeed he makes a pretty picture there. I like it."

At the one o'clock dinner she was in great good humour. Whatever Mrs.
Nettleship's faults might be she was an excellent cook. To some people
the meal might have seemed a little too substantial for such a warm day,
not so to Adeline. She relished every mouthful. Her neighbours, the
Vaughans, had joined the family and she enjoyed their company,
particularly as Robert Vaughan had, as a youth, been in love with her,
though she was already married, and had never quite got over it.

After dinner they repaired to the shuttered coolness of the drawing-room
and there Adeline asked of Mrs. Vaughan:

"What about these people, the Craigs? The young woman is quite comely.
She's a good shape too."

Mrs. Vaughan did not consider a young woman's shape a proper subject for
discussion in mixed company. She repeated:

"Yes, she is quite comely. She is very nice too. I feel sorry for her
because she is cut off from the pleasures suitable to her age. There
they are, in that big house, quite unable to entertain their friends,
and only a trained nurse for company."

"Miss Craig is quite an heiress," added her husband. "One of you chaps
should make up to her."

Adeline's eyes sparkled. "What a good idea! Nicholas is the man for it.
That wife of his was an extravagant one to keep and to get rid of her
cost quite a lot. He's the man to marry Miss Craig."

It had been painful to the Vaughans to hear Nicholas' divorce mentioned.
The suggestion that he should marry again was acutely embarrassing. How
often in their long friendship with Adeline Whiteoak she had embarrassed
them by her remarks! Both of them flushed but Nicholas remained
imperturbable. He said:

"Once bitten, twice shy. I'll never marry again."

"What about Philip?" asked Sir Edwin.

"Philip has enough on his hands," said Adeline tersely.

"It's to be Ernest then," said Nicholas. "He has a new suit that he's
irresistible in."

Ernest tried not to look conceited. "What nonsense you talk, Nick. As
for me, if ever I marry it will be for love. I am thankful to say that
money is no longer any consideration with me."

"Yes," agreed Adeline complacently, "my son, Ernest, is quite a
financier. There is nothing he doesn't understand about investments. You
had better get his advice, Robert, and double your capital."

Adeline herself, though possessed of a respectable fortune of a hundred
thousand dollars, invested in the most conservative manner, was quite
satisfied with the low interest she received. She lived at Jalna without
expense to herself, save in personal matters. She never referred to the
fact that she had means of her own. Indeed she would sometimes speak of
herself as a poor widow, dependent on her son Philip.

Philip, his father's favourite son, had had the house and land
bequeathed to him and enough money to live on without extravagance. A
considerable part of his income was derived from the fertile farm lands
of Jalna. In money matters he was generous to the point of extravagance.
Dealings in money confused him. He spoke of himself as a farmer and
horse breeder.

His two older brothers had inherited, in addition to what their father
had given them, quite substantial amounts from their father's sister in
England. Nicholas, unknown to any save Ernest, had lost a good deal of
money in the previous year, in Portuguese, Greek and Mexican Bonds.
Nicholas, who from his mother had inherited a love for the foreign and
picturesque, was drawn to these investments. He was thankful that he had
kept these losses to himself, for he could imagine what Adeline's
caustic remarks would be, had she known of them.

Ernest too had had losses. Grand Trunk Railway shares had fallen.
British Rails had suffered a fall. But these losses were as nothing
compared to his gains. Standing with one hand in the breast of his coat,
he talked fluently of his investments and of how his capital was
doubled. It was a delightful sensation to him to boast a little.

Mr. Vaughan was greatly impressed. He was of a cautious nature but his
ambition for his young son who had come to him late in life, was
unbounded. He wanted him to be a noble man, to exert great influence for
good in the country. Surely the possession of wealth would aid him in
his great future, for undoubtedly his future would be great. He was such
a serious and altogether remarkable child, a contrast to that
harum-scarum little Renny.

Robert Vaughan said firmly, "I shall be glad of your advice, Ernest.
Certainly Sunday is no day for the discussion of money matters, but if
you are free tomorrow morning I should like to come over and have a talk
with you."

"Ernest will put you on the right track," encouraged Sir Edwin.

"He's a perfect wizard," said his sister admiringly.

Ernest almost simpered. It was so wonderful to feel oneself a successful
man of affairs.

"I'll do what I can," he said.

Philip was pulling burrs from his dog's tail and hiding them under the
chair where he sat.

"The land is good enough for me," he said. "I'd rather invest in wheat
and oats and apples."

Ernest looked down at him tolerantly. "I think you're very wise, Philip,
to stick to what you understand."

"I get rattled when I bother about money."

His mother craned her neck to look at him. "Whatever are you doing?" she
asked.

"Nothing. Just sitting here. Twiddling my thumbs." He winked at Augusta
who could not forbear a smile in return even though she saw the burrs
beneath his chair.




                                   XI
                                THE PARTY


"I want a dinner party," said Adeline, "and a dance afterward. I like my
friends to know I'm home."

"Everybody knows you're home, old dear," returned Philip. "And don't you
think you'd better wait till the weather cools off? People would melt,
dancing in this heat."

"I have danced in hotter weather, with tight stays on me and an enormous
bustle. I don't see what makes you so lazy, Philip. Neither your father
nor I had a lazy bone in our bodies."

Philip lighted his pipe and concealed the burnt match beneath the chair
he was seated on. He said, "Neither you nor my father ever did what I
call an honest day's work that I ever saw----"

His mother interrupted him in outraged tones. "Not work! Your father and
I not work! You should have seen him when this place was being built.
He'd heave up a timber, with two men at the other end! He had the
strength of two."

"Yes. I've heard about that. But it took only a short while. Not a whole
day."

"He had to conserve his strength. A man needed to conserve what strength
he had in those days."

"As for me, I have my oats to get in before the weather changes. I pitch
in and help my men, you know."

"And a pretty beet-red colour you've got yourself!"

"It makes me feel nice and safe. No girl would run after a beet-red
widower."

Adeline laughed scornfully. "Look in your mirror and you'll see how your
looks are spoilt. That sunburnt face makes your hair brighter, your eyes
bluer, your teeth whiter."

"How dreadful," said Philip. "I sound like a picture on a cigar box."

"You're a handsome man and very like your father."

Adeline did not often acknowledge this likeness and Philip was duly
flattered. He grunted appreciatively.

"You were his favourite child."

"H'm."

"He had great hopes of you. And so have I."

"What sort of hopes, Mamma?"

She was put to it to say what were these hopes. Philip was just past
thirty and had never shown ambition.

He insisted, "What are those hopes, Mamma?"

She took his brown, strong hand in her long supple hand and squeezed it.
"That you'll never make a fool of yourself in any way. That's a good
deal to hope for in any man, isn't it?"

"Too much."

"Ah, Philip, you're my white-headed boy. 'Twould break my heart if you
were to throw yourself away in a foolish marriage with some silly girl."

"Your heart is made of tougher stuff than that, Mamma."

"You talk of my never having worked. Just think. I bore three sons in
the wilds of Canada and brought up my four children, with just what help
I could get."

He gave his engaging smile. "How well you talk, Mamma! If you go on like
that you'll have me crying."

His pipe had gone out. Again he lighted it.

Adeline exclaimed, "I saw what you did with that burnt match! I see the
two of them under your chair. Pick them up this moment, Philip, and put
them in a proper place."

Renny ran into the room. Philip drew the little boy to him and put the
burnt matches in the pocket of his blouse. "Something nice for you," he
said. "Bury them and fire weed will come up."

"It won't, will it, Granny?" He climbed into her lap and clasped her
neck. "Sing me something," he begged, "like you used to."

She hugged him close. "I can't sing."

"You can so."

She had, as a matter of fact, a quite good voice but little idea of
tune. She sang:

                "'There was an old woman had three sons,
                Jerry and James and John;
                Jerry was hung, James was drowned,
                John was lost, and never was found;
                And there was an end of her three sons,
                Jerry and James and John!'"

Renny lay, lolling on her lap, savouring her song. His bare brown legs
lay relaxed on hers, his heels gently kicking her shins. She looked
across his head at Philip.

"This boy," she said, "is the apple of my eye."

"He certainly looks like you, Mamma."

"Oh, he showed his good sense!" She kissed him rapturously on the mouth.
Boney, in his cage, cried out in jealousy.

"I wish," said Renny, "that I had a little brother."

"And what would you do with him?"

"I'd teach him to ride. I'd take care of him."

"No, no. One small boy in the house is quite enough."

Sir Edwin Buckley looked in at the door. On seeing him Renny leaped from
Adeline's lap. "Uncle Edwin," he cried, "you promised to help me with my
train. It won't run."

Sir Edwin looked at him disapprovingly. "A little restraint, please, if
I am to help you with it."

The little boy galloped from the room and back again carrying the train.
Sir Edwin tweaked up his trousers at the knees, knelt gingerly and bent
his side-whiskered face above the toy. Philip and Adeline leant forward
fascinated.

Augusta, coming into the room, remarked, "Edwin's bent toward mechanical
things always amazes me."

"You forget, my dear," said Sir Edwin, "that my grandfather was a
scientist."

"And got a baronetcy for discovering something about bugs!" laughed
Adeline. "It's always struck me as funny."

"It was an extremely important discovery," said Sir Edwin with dignity,
"and has saved thousands of lives."

"If we go on saving lives to the extent we now are," she returned, "the
world will be overcrowded in the next fifty years."

Sir Edwin did not hear her. His gaze was riveted on the little
locomotive.

"Mamma wants to give a party," Philip remarked to his sister.

"I think it is highly appropriate," agreed Augusta.

"You don't think the weather too warm?"

"In Canada," said Augusta, "the weather is always too warm or too cold."

"People will get very hot dancing."

"If the liquid refreshment is good, they will not mind. A claret cup
will help."

In an aside to Philip, Adeline remarked, "I never get anything better
than cooking sherry in her house."

Presently the little locomotive was repaired and toddled across the
floor. Renny clapped his hands in delight.

Nicholas and Ernest agreed with their mother that a party would be
delightful. Invitations to a dinner for sixteen people were sent out and
three times as many were invited to a dance afterward. Everywhere in the
house there was a bustle of preparation.

Mary was in a state of uncertainty as to whether or not she were
expected to be present. Her mind was soon relieved by Adeline's saying,
with a smile, "You must wear your best bib and tucker on Friday night,
Miss Wakefield."

She has a beautiful, a gay smile, thought Mary, why is it that I fear
her? She answered:

"Thank you. It is very kind of you."

"You dance, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes."

"So do I. Does that surprise you?"

Mary felt that Mrs. Whiteoak was rather old for dancing, but, on the
other hand, nothing she might do could surprise her.

"I'm sure you dance very well," she said.

Adeline grinned. "Oh, I can still move me legs to the music."

From now on Mary could think of nothing but the party. It was madness,
she knew, to beautify herself for Philip's sake. She scarcely saw him
nowadays, except at meal-time, when she sat isolated between the two
children who were now not allowed to talk at table. They sat speechless,
drinking in the animated talk of their elders which to Meggie was more
interesting than food. What a contrast these meals were, Mary often
thought, to the first one she had had at Jalna.

Mary brought out her one evening dress. It was turquoise blue, a thin
material and cut low. It looked sadly wrinkled, yet Mary shrank from
taking it to the basement to press. She waited till Mrs. Nettleship was
away for the day, then took it down, hoping she would meet no one on the
way. Eliza was agreeable. She admired the dress. Neither Miss Cox nor
Miss Turnbull had had anything approaching it. When parties were given
they had kept to their room. When the dress was pressed it satisfied
even Mary's scrutiny. She felt that she could look her best in it.

She did not realize that her looks had been enhanced by the outdoor
life, the sunshine, at Jalna. Her neck had rounded, the lovely pallor of
her cheeks was tinged by colour. She only knew that she felt stronger,
and could walk over quite rough ground without fatigue.

The weather turned cool on the night of the party. A fresh breeze from
the west sprang up. Adeline felt justified in her choice of the day and
again and again drew attention to her perspicacity. She was dressed for
the dinner quite an hour before the time appointed, but she did not
mind. She was out to the porch, into the dining-room to inspect the
table, to the drawing-room to inspect the floor, to the kitchen to give
final directions there. Mrs. Nettleship was in a state of chill and
hollow-voiced disapproval. She detested all forms of entertaining.
Though she curried favour with Adeline, she disliked her, as she
disliked all women. She liked men, almost she loved them, but took a
sadistic pleasure in making things uncomfortable for them.

Rugs and carpets had been taken up and floors waxed. Doors and windows
stood open to the evening air. The air coming in at the windows was
heavy with the scent of nicotiana, its starry flowers already white
against the August dusk. Already the days were beginning to shorten.

Mary, from her window, could see the guests arriving for dinner. She had
not been invited to share this part of the entertainment. The guests
were old friends of the family and she would, she told herself, have
felt _de trop_. She was glad to sit quietly upstairs waiting for the
dance. She had had a time of it to persuade the children to go to bed.
She wondered if there were any other children with such high spirits.
Even though she was so much stronger she found them tiring.

As she sat, with an elbow on the window-sill and her cheek resting on
her hand, she pictured Philip sitting at the head of his table, being
charming to his guests. She wondered, if, during the whole day, he had
given one thought to her. She wondered if he had given a thought to his
brief married life, and regretted the young wife, who should have been
at his side tonight. Mary had a moment's poignant pity for Margaret. The
children had shown Mary their mother's photograph in an album with a
heavy silver clasp. They had shown it, hard-hearted little creatures
that they were, without a trace of pity or regret for the stern-faced
young woman, holding a spray of lilies in her hand.

Now Mary heard them pattering about in the passage. She went out to
them, drawing her brow into a frown of authority. How she wished they
had gone properly to sleep! But any frown she could produce was quickly
obliterated by their looks of astonished admiration.

"Oo! Miss Wakefield," from Meg, "don't you look beautiful!"

"She's a princess," cried Renny, and threw his arms about her.

"Renny," said Mary, "you're squashing my dress!" She tried vainly to
restrain him.

Meg pulled him off and then said firmly, "Turn round and let's see you
properly."

Mary showed off her dress for their pleasure.

"Whirl round," commanded Meg, "till we see what you'll look like when
you dance."

Up and down the passage Mary whirled, her full skirt billowing about her
like sea waves.

"I hear wheels on the drive!" shouted Renny. "People are coming to the
dance!"

The children flew to look out of the window. She would have a time of it
to get them to bed. "Let them stay up," she thought, "it won't hurt them
just this once."

In her own room she took a dark red rose from a tumbler of water, wiped
its stem and fastened it in her hair, just at the nape, where the
curling coil was. But she could not make up her mind to go down the
stairs. Twice she hung over the banisters listening to the first sweet
music of the two violins and the harp, and fled back up the stairs
again. Oh, if only she had someone to go down with! But she was
alone--always alone.

Then Eliza appeared. "I've been sent to ask you if you'd care to come
down to the dancing," she said.

Philip had sent for her! She was sure Philip had sent for her. "Who sent
you?" she asked.

"Mrs. Whiteoak."

"I'll come right down."

Why had Mrs. Whiteoak troubled to send for her? she wondered. The truth
was that Adeline would not risk Philip's looking on Mary as a poor
down-trodden governess. He might forget her himself but his mother must
not.

Adeline's fine arched eyebrows flew up when she saw Mary enter the room.
Beauty! And beauty far from unadorned. The number of flounces! The sweep
of shoulder and milk-white breast exposed! There was not another such
low-cut dress in the room. Adeline's eyes sought for her daughter. It
would be worth her own shock to witness the far greater shock on
Augusta's face. There she was! And looking full at Mary Wakefield.
Adeline could not control a chuckle of delight as she beheld the change
which came over that long sallow countenance. It changed from an
expression of urbane hospitality to one of positive outrage--even
unbelief in her own senses. Then dancing couples came between them.
Augusta's face was lost.

Adeline made her way to Mary's side.

"Well, my dear," she said, "you look very pretty and gay."

"Thank you, Mrs. Whiteoak," Mary answered, colouring.

"But you must not stand here unattended. A set of the Lancers is just
being formed. That is the one dance our dear Mr. Pink knows. I'm sure
he'd be delighted to dance it with you." She caught Mr. Pink who was
just passing, by the arm.

"Here's a lovely partner, all set to dance the Lancers with you."

Mr. Pink had dined well. He held strong ideas on feminine modesty in
dress. He would not have allowed his own daughter to wear a low-cut
gown. But, if Adeline hoped that he would be too replete to enjoy
springing about or too outraged by Mary's _dcollet_ to desire her as a
partner she was to be disappointed. Mr. Pink bowed with alacrity and
curved a plump elbow for Mary's hand. He looked like a happy cherub in a
clerical collar.

The violins and the harp sang. The room was full of people, for when
Adeline set out to give a party she remembered more and more people whom
she liked to entertain. Unlike the parties of the present day which are
given exclusively for people of the same generation, when different
generations bore each other to the point of misery, this party was
composed of many ages. Lily Pink was not the youngest, nor Adeline the
oldest. All romped merrily together through the Lancers.

If Mr. Pink looked like a cherub, he danced like an angel. He was light
as a feather. Probably during the whole course of their married life
Mrs. Pink had never disapproved of him so thoroughly as during this set
of Lancers, when she saw him buoyantly marching with the other
gentlemen, only to meet Miss Wakefield at the end of the march and whirl
her off into a waltz; when she saw him, acting as pivot with the other
gentlemen, while Mary, with the other ladies, flew on the outer edge. It
was the expression on his face that Mrs. Pink most disliked. Positively,
she thought, he looks like a cave man. She wondered fearfully if, during
his long years of work among the heathen, he might not have picked up
some heathen ways.

When the Lancers were over he thanked Mary and wiped his perspiring
face.

"Quite warm, isn't it?" he remarked, "but you look cool as a cucumber."

"I never get too warm dancing," she said, "and the music is divine."

"You can always depend on Mrs. Whiteoak to have good musicians."

"It makes such a difference in one's pleasure."

"Yes. Good music, and a partner who dances as you do, Miss Wakefield."

"You dance well too, Mr. Pink."

"Well, I don't get a great deal of practice. This is the only house
where I have the opportunity."

"What a pity!" Mary's tone of voice was so sincere that for a moment Mr.
Pink wondered if he had not made a mistake in going into the ministry,
with its manifold restrictions.

"Ah, here comes the Admiral!" said Mr. Pink. "And they are playing a
schottische. Lucky man."

Admiral Lacey bowed, asked Miss Wakefield for the honour of the dance
and led her off. Now it was his turn to be unpopular with his wife. She
liked to see him enjoy himself. No wife took more pleasure in her
husband's pleasure. But his jauntiness on this occasion, the way he did
the "one, two, three and a kick," was past belief. No couple in the room
could compare to them. In fact, the other couples, one by one, dropped
out and left the floor to them. Mrs. Lacey looked about for her
daughters. She hated to have them see their father so disporting
himself. But that madcap Violet had gone out into the garden with her
partner, and Ethel seemed to have eyes for no one but Nicholas Whiteoak.
Really, Mrs. Lacey had cause for concern. There was her elderly husband
dancing like a sailor on the lower deck, with a young woman only
partially clothed, and there was one daughter out in the darkness with
dear knows whom, and the other daughter brazenly flirting with a
divorced man. Mrs. Lacey admired Nicholas, his air of a man of the
world. At one time she would have been delighted by a marriage between
him and Ethel. But that was when his name had been untarnished by
divorce. Now, a thousand times no!"

As for Mary, at this period in the evening it mattered little to her who
was her partner, provided he could dance. To dance--yes, to dance--that
was her one desire. To feel free as air, light as music, to cast off all
that bound her, to remember nothing.

Now Mrs. Whiteoak was coming toward her followed by a most presentable
young man. Mary marvelled that Mrs. Whiteoak should trouble her head
about her, find partners for her.

"Miss Wakefield," she said, "this is Mr. Clive Busby and he's eager to
dance with you." She added, as the young man bowed, "Mr. Busby's family
were already settled here when we arrived. Now he lives in the West."

In the rush of the polka it was possible to converse only in breathless
gasps but the young man begged for the waltz that followed and, as they
circled round and round, for he seemed not to consider reversing, he
pictured for her the wonderful life on his ranch. Mary listened
enthralled; her eyes, on a level with his, made him want to tell her all
the story of his young life. He asked her if she would go for a drive
with him, the following day. He could borrow a horse and buggy from the
Vaughans where he was visiting.

Adeline looked on, a smile curving her lips. She was pleased by the
success of her manoeuvre. Mary was the very type to captivate a young
fellow with a ranch who needed a good sturdy, thickset, down-to-earth
wife, with no nonsense about her. If only she could get Mary away from
Jalna, without trouble from Philip, how happy she would be! The thought
of Philip's taking a second wife was intolerable.

Now young Busby and Mary were disappearing through a french window into
the garden. The scent of the nicotianas enveloped them. He had told her
that, to his mind, Mary was the most beautiful name for a girl.

"I suppose you," she said, "were named for General Clive."

"I was. And my father was named for General Brock."

"General Brock?" she asked, mystified.

"General Isaac Brock, you know. The battle of Queenston Heights, where
we defeated the Americans."

Her puzzled expression showed that she had not heard of the occasion.
Young Busby was shocked. He stood silent, inhaling the scent of the
flowers.

"Of course," she hastened to say, "I've heard of the Battle of the
Plains of Abraham."

That did not mollify him.

"I thought everyone," he said, "had heard of the Battle of Queenston
Heights."

"I am terribly ignorant, I'm afraid."

"And you a teacher!"

"But I want to learn about Canada."

"The place to learn is the West," he declared. "These old provinces are
worn out."

"Do tell me more about your ranch."

He was happy again. They strolled across the dewy lawn and Mary got her
feet wet without ever noticing. Clive Busby talked interestingly. She
felt so free.

But, after a time, she began to be restless. She forgot to listen to the
young man's descriptions of life on the prairies. She longed to go
indoors, to discover if Philip Whiteoak would ask her to dance. So far
this evening they had no more than touched hands in the Grand Chain.
There had been no more than a smiling interchange of glances.

When, at last, her partner reluctantly led her back to the drawing-room,
the first couple she saw were Philip Whiteoak and Muriel Craig. They
were dancing the gavotte, and Mary had a swift pang of jealousy when
Clive Busby exclaimed:

"What a stunning couple! Do you know who the young lady is? By Jove, she
can dance."

They stood just inside the door watching the dancers. From the summer
darkness without, above the sound of the music, came the melancholy cry
of a whip-poor-will. Mary stood, leaning on Clive Busby's arm,
half-stifled by that pang, even to the pain of which she felt she had no
right, since Philip had not noticed her that evening. She was nothing to
him. All his thoughts were fastened on Miss Craig.

And no wonder. Mary was forced to admit she was beautifully turned out,
and had to acknowledge to herself that she was not without beauty. She
was less tall than Mary, her neck and her face were shorter. Her neck
was round, white and strong, her shoulders, rising above the
cream-coloured brocaded taffeta of her dress, were boneless. Her thick
light brown hair was piled high on her head and in it shone a pearl and
diamond sunburst. Her lips were parted, so Mary thought in her jealousy,
as though she were breathless in the admiration that shone up at Philip
out of her round light eyes.

"Shall we dance?" asked Clive Busby.

"No, thank you. I'm a little tired."

"Come now," he looked his unbelief, "not really?"

"Yes. Just a little. Anyhow this dance is over."

"Of course, there'll be other fellows you'll want to dance with. I can't
expect to monopolize you."

"It's very kind of you to ask me."

"Dear me, how formal we are! Are all English girls so formal?"

"I'm not really."

"I wish I knew what is in your mind."

"You might be surprised."

"I'll bet I'd not be half as surprised as you would be, if you knew
what's in mine."

"Whatever are the musicians playing?"

"Don't you know? That's a Highland fling. I believe that Mrs. Whiteoak
and Dr. Ramsey are going to dance it."

Adeline and the doctor were indeed taking the floor, he wearing an
expression of almost mournful gravity, her face lit by an hilarious
grin.

"This," he announced, "is a Scottish reel and I taught it to Mrs.
Whiteoak in her youth."

"Nonsense," she declared, "it's an Irish jig and I taught it you."

Whichever it was they were at it, their bodies galvanized by Gallic
energy, their feet flying. The doctor's expression never changed, indeed
one might have said his life depended on the accuracy with which he
executed the steps. Only once more did he open his lips and then it was
to utter the brief shout, so in keeping with the dance. It seemed a pity
that he was not wearing the kilt.

Adeline had opened the evening, partnered by her eldest son. They had
been a striking couple. Since then she had danced several times but
there was something of wildness and recklessness in this dance that best
suited her nature. She held up her violet moir skirt that was trimmed
with heavy gold passementerie, showing her slim feet and ankles, in
black silk stockings and low-heeled black satin slippers with silver
buckles.

Augusta looked on at this performance in mingled wonder and pain. She
wondered at her mother's ability so to skip about. She could not have
done it. She thought the dance barbarous and was pained by Adeline's
obvious delight in it. She had a feeling that Dr. Ramsey had always been
in love with Adeline and this made her uncomfortable.

Nicholas and Ernest regarded the exhibition with amusement and
gratification. They were proud of Adeline. At the height of the reel
Philip took his nose in his hand and emitted an amazingly good imitation
of the bagpipes.

It put new life into the dancers who were beginning to pant a little,
but his three spaniels who were outside the french windows waiting for
him, recognized his voice, even though so distorted, and thinking he was
in dire predicament, rushed in to save him.

The music stopped.

Philip caught Sport and Spot by their collars and dragged them out but
Jake ran here and there yelping in a panic till captured by Mary. He
lolled blissfully against her shoulder and she followed Philip on to the
lawn.

His face lighted with surprise as he saw her.

"Good girl!" he exclaimed, and gently took the puppy from her.

Mary stood looking at him, her spirit crying out in her distress, "Good
girl! And you have never once asked me to dance and never will!"

Adeline appeared in the doorway, followed by Clive Busby. She was well
pleased with her son for his attentions to Miss Craig. She was almost
pleased with Mary.

"Those dogs of yours behave disgracefully, Philip," she said. "Do shut
the door on them and then bring Miss Craig in to supper. All our guests
are starving. And here is Clive Busby eager to take in Miss Wakefield."
She stood with her hand on the door knob, smiling at Mary as she passed.
Then she said, in an undertone to Philip:

"That's quite a case. Young Busby is plainly smitten. What a capital
match it would be for that girl."

"Yes," he agreed absently, and wondered what Mary could possibly see in
Clive Busby.

"Now, Philip, don't keep Miss Craig waiting, while you play with your
dogs." She ordered him about, with feminine pleasure, as though he were
a big boy and he obeyed, half-sulkily.

Muriel Craig tucked a firm white hand under his arm. She gathered up her
skirts in the other. She said:

"This is the happiest evening I've had in a long while. You can't
imagine how dull life has become for me, since my father's illness."

"I'm glad you've enjoyed the dancing."

"I think our steps suit, don't you?"

"Indeed I do." His eyes followed the musicians who were leaving to go to
the basement for refreshment.

Muriel Craig continued, "I do hope you will come often to see Father.
He's taken a great fancy to you. He gets so bored by the society of his
nurse and bored a tiny bit by me too, I'm afraid."

"I'm going to see him tomorrow," said Philip.

"In the morning?"

"Yes."

"Will you stay to lunch?"

"I'd like to. Thanks very much."

The dining-room was full of people gathered about the table where wax
candles in the tall candelabra cast their radiance on white and red
roses and gilded the sheen of the damask cloth. There were hot chicken
pasties, and cold tongue, and devilled eggs, and sliced peaches in thick
cream, and brandied peaches and ice-cream, made, with much exertion, in
a churnlike freezer, by Eliza. There was coffee and claret cup and
cocoanut layer cake and almond meal macaroons and brandy snaps. In
short, Adeline had ordered the supper.

She enjoyed having her friends, young and old, about her after an
absence. She enjoyed the good food, eating it with gusto, in the
knowledge that no digestive complications would follow. She was pleased
with her sons. Nicholas, well rid of that wife of his, looked happy and
handsome. He was laying himself out to make their guests happy. Who
wouldn't be pleased with a son like Ernest?--making money hand over
fist, with no more exertion than the notifying of his intentions to
brokers. As for Philip, he seemed to have forgotten all about the
governess and was listening to seemingly entertaining talk by Miss
Craig.

Muriel Craig had chosen a corner where Philip's back would be toward the
room, and Mary Wakefield. She talked rather breathlessly, never allowing
his attention to waver. She really was, he thought, a quick and amusing
woman. She talked fluently of her travels, she had been about quite a
bit and could scarcely bear to hear about a place she had not visited,
or a book she had not read. Philip was an excellent companion for her
because he was by nature receptive and had neither travelled nor read
widely. His pleasant laugh punctuated her anecdotes. She said she adored
ice-cream and he saw to it that she had several helpings.

As they were returning to the drawing-room, from where came the sound of
the musicians tuning their instruments, she said: "I think you are so
fortunate in your children's governess. She strikes me as a most
good-natured creature."

"Yes. She's very nice," he answered, a little coldly.

"It means so much to have a good kind creature about them."

"It does indeed." He looked about him for the good kind creature but she
was not to be seen.

"I can't possibly dance after all that supper," said Muriel Craig.
"Could we go out for a stroll? There's such heavenly moonlight."

Adeline came into the hall. "How sensible you are!" she exclaimed.
"That's just what I should like to do, but the night air gives me a
buzzing in my left ear. Infirmities of age coming on me, you know." She
showed her fine teeth in a smile that quickly sobered as she saw Mary
standing alone on the porch.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Wakefield," she said. "I have been looking for
you. Here is a young man who is dying for a waltz with you. Mr.
Robertson," she turned to the young man whom she had only that moment
espied, "this is Miss Wakefield, who waltzes like a dream."

Mr. Robertson was pale, with hair parted in the middle, and a very high
collar which had gone very limp from the heat. He vaguely offered his
arm to Mary, and began vaguely to waltz round and round with her.
Apparently he never had heard of reversing.

Mary felt slightly dizzy. A surge of almost intolerable disappointment
made her limbs heavy. She wished she were upstairs, alone in her
bedroom. She had a mind to make an excuse to go to see if the children
were safely tucked up. She had a sudden feeling of love for the
children. With them she might find ease from the anguish of jealousy.
But Mr. Robertson, though vague-looking, was firm. He held her closely,
turning round and round.

And, after him, returned Clive Busby to make sure she had not forgotten
her promise to drive with him.

The time dragged on. It was past midnight. It was two o'clock. The
guests were leaving. Horses, scarcely able to endure the waiting to
return to their own stables, pawed the gravel drive. Carriage lamps
flashed. There were shouts of "Whoa!"

Lily Pink was spending the night at Jalna. Her mother was delicate and
could not endure late hours, so Lily was to remain. Like Mary she had an
ache in her heart. Not that she had expected Philip would ask her to
dance and, even if he had, she was sure she would have danced her worst.
But she could not comfort herself. The ache persisted. She stood
smilingly with the family in the drawing-room that now looked very large
and bare, while they congratulated themselves that the party had gone so
well.

"And did you enjoy yourself, my dear?" Augusta asked her kindly.

"Oh, yes, Lady Buckley. It was lovely."

"You looked very nice dancing. I always like dotted Swiss muslin on a
young girl."

"Mother and I made the dress ourselves."

"Your mother is an excellent needlewoman and I'm glad you take after
her. I have always enjoyed sewing."

"I've always hated it," said Adeline.

Ernest observed gallantly, "My very best dance of the evening was with
Lily."

"She treated me with scorn," said Philip. "Never once looked in my
direction."

"But there were those who did," put in Sir Edwin. "No one could fail to
notice the die-away looks Miss Craig gave you."

Nicholas remarked, "That young woman is a strange mixture of rigidity
and voluptuousness. From the waist down she dances like a
boarding-school miss, and from the waist up like Salome."

"This is scarcely proper conversation in front of a young girl," said
Augusta.

"Oh, I don't mind." Lily blushed prettily. "And after all, Salome is
biblical."

Philip went to the dining-room where all signs of supper had been
cleared away, save for the remains of the tongue on a platter on the
sideboard. He cut three slices from the tongue and, with these on his
palm, went to the back of the hall where, in a small room, his three
spaniels had retired to their respective mats. He fed a slice of tongue
to each. The parent dogs took their share gently and a little
reproachfully, as though this were poor compensation for the evening
they had spent, but Jake wolfed his, trying to swallow Philip's hand
with it. He patted all three.

"Good dogs. Now lie down. Go to mats."

Jake tried to take possession of each of his parents' mats in turn but
when driven off by them curled himself up on his own, with only an
upturned roguish eye to show that he lived.

As Philip returned through the hall, he reflected with content that the
party was over, his crops which were above the average in quality, were
almost completely garnered, his horses promised well. In a day or two he
would go on the fishing trip he had been looking forward to. Before long
there would be the duck shooting. Would he ever get Jake properly
trained for a gun dog? He doubted it. Jake was a bit of a fool. His best
friend couldn't deny that.

When he was passing his mother's door she called to him.

"Come in, Philip, and tell me good night."

He found her still dressed but with her hair hanging about her
shoulders. Her parrot sitting on her wrist, gazed into her face with a
possessive air. He chuckled in pleasure over her return to him.

"He won't let me undress," she said. "He's for billing and cooing the
whole night through."

"No wonder. He appreciates how alluring you look with your hair down. I
hope you're not too tired."

"Well, I am rather tired. But I've given my party and I'm satisfied."

Adeline was pleased with her youngest born tonight. Holding Boney at
arm's length, so that he should not bite him, with her other arm she
clasped Philip to her bosom and planted a warm kiss on his mouth.

"You darling boy," she breathed.

"Dear old girl."

"Not one of the others means to me what you do."

"Not one of them feels as I do about you."

They swayed lovingly together till Boney began to walk up her arm with
murder in his eye. Then she gently pushed Philip away. "The bird is
jealous. You'd better go."

"Good night, Mamma."

"Good night, my dear."

He closed the door behind him.

He discovered the drawing-room empty, with the exception of Lily. When
the older ones had gone upstairs she had lingered, she did not know why.
Quite a time ago Mary had disappeared up the stairs. She had not said
whether or no she would come back. Lily looked at her own reflection in
the mirror above the mantelshelf. It was a very old mirror and gave back
her reflection in a wavering way, like an image mirrored in water. But
she thought she had never looked so pretty. She wished that the Swiss
muslin dress might have been low cut. Then Philip might have danced with
her. She knew her arms and shoulders were lovely, for her own mother had
told her so.

Philip stood looking into the room.

"Everybody but us gone to bed, Lily?"

"All but Miss Wakefield. I don't know about her."

They stood looking at each other, silent. Then he came into the room and
lighted a cigarette. Eliza looked in at the door.

"Shall we lay down the rugs tonight, sir?" she asked.

"No. Get to your beds. You must be tired."

"Thank you, sir, but I'm not really tired."

Again they were alone. Lily was speechless but she could hear the
thumping of her heart. The scent of the nicotiana came in, almost
unbearably sweet. Chaotic thought choked Lily's mind. Oh, if only she
could speak! Oh, if her heart did not beat so fast and hard!

She heard Mary coming down the stairs. What relief! And what
disappointment!

Philip stood, looking Mary over as she came into the room. He said,
"Well, Miss Wakefield, Lily and I had given you up. We thought we were
the last of the party."

"I went up to see if the children were all right."

"At this hour! What did you expect them to be doing?"

"It was hard for them to settle down."

She thought his smile was sceptical, that he knew she had gone up to
tidy her hair and put fresh powder on her face. She wished she had not
come down again.

"Did you enjoy the party?" he asked, a slight constraint in his voice.

Her back was to Lily. She framed the word no with her lips.

Lily asked quite loudly, "What did you say, Miss Wakefield?"

"I said nothing."

"Lily," said Philip. "Play something."

"Me? Why should I play?" She could force herself to speak now that a
third person was there. "My playing would sound dreadful after the real
musicians."

"Nonsense. I thought they sounded rather tinny. Didn't you, Miss
Wakefield?"

"I liked their playing."

Lily asked, "Should I disturb the others--your mother?"

"They're not in bed yet. Play, Lily." He closed the door.

Lily spread her skirt on the piano stool. She bent her head over the
keys, thinking what she should play. She who was aching to dance with
Philip herself, must play for his dancing with another. She felt a sob
rising in her throat and drowned it in the opening chords of a Strauss
waltz. Not only would she play but she would play her best.

There was an old moon and its face could now be seen at one of the
french windows.

Philip said, "We don't need the light." He took an extinguisher from the
mantel and began to put out the lights of the chandelier. The lights
from the many candles illumined his face. Scores of crystal prisms
reflected their flames in all the colours of the rainbow. The candles
were extinguished like stars and, as the chandelier swayed, a faint
tinkling music came from the prisms. Philip put his arm about Mary's
waist. They moved slowly into the waltz. Moonlight now flooded the room.

One thing besides sewing Lily could do well, play dance music. But never
before had she played like this, when she could scarcely see the keys
for tears. But she did not need to see the keys. The music flowed from
her heart through her fingers. The two on the floor moved as one body.
No other dancers that night had been like these, Lily thought. Their
grace, their delight in the rhythmic movement, their long gliding steps
that seemed to take them beyond the room, out into the moonlight, filled
her with bitter joy. She sought for comparisons. "They are like two
birds flying together--they are like two waves dancing together--they
are like two flowers blowing on the one stalk." She could not be flowery
enough to please herself--to torture herself.

"Good," said Philip, at the end. "Splendid, Lily."

Mary still leant against his shoulder, without a thought in her head.
Her mind was as smooth as a beach that a summer storm has swept.

"Like another?" he asked, after a little.

"Yes."

"Another waltz. Play us another waltz, Lily."

Lily turned the knife in her breast and played better than ever. She put
all her longing into the slow beat of the waltz.

They danced to the far dim end of the room and there Mary felt Philip's
lips touch her hair, his arm tighten on her waist. She willed the rest
of the world to stay away, to give her this moment, but the sound of the
piano had flooded the house, for, at the last Lily had played with
passion. The door opened and Adeline stood there in her dressing-gown,
Boney clinging to her breast.

Dancers and music stopped.

"Go on," said Adeline. "Don't let me stop you."

They looked at her speechless.

"I had a glimpse of you before you stopped," she said. "I've never seen
prettier dancing. Why didn't you dance like that when all the people
were here? They'd have loved it."

Philip moved from Mary's side to his mother's.

"No need to be nasty," he said, in a low tone.

But she answered loudly.

"Be quiet till I've had my say!"

He looked at her silently, his face hardening. The light from the lamp
in the hall poured in through the wide doorway.

"Miss Wakefield," said Adeline, "I think you have missed your vocation.
You should not have been a teacher but a professional dancer. You're too
good at it for a private drawing-room and I'm glad you had the sense to
restrain yourself till my guests were gone, for they're a conventional
lot and I am afraid they would have been scandalized to see such
abandon. I'm not conventional but your dancing opened my eyes to what a
young woman will do when she lets herself go."

"You flatly contradict yourself," said Philip. "You say you never saw
prettier dancing, and why didn't we do it when all the people were here
and they'd have loved it. The next instant you say you're glad we
restrained ourselves and that they'd have been horrified."

"You know what I mean!" shouted Adeline.

"I'm sorry," Mary got out. She turned and fled from the room.

Lily Pink was weeping over the keyboard. Adeline said to her more
quietly:

"Go to bed, my dear. It's nearly morning."

Lily rose, her face distorted like a child's from crying.

"There's nothing for you to cry about, Lily," said Philip, as she passed
him. He put out his hand to give her a comforting pat but she shrank
away as though he were about to strike her and cried out, "No!"

"Well, I'll be damned," said Philip looking after her.

"You may well be," said Adeline gloomily.

"What have I done?"

"You've done enough to make me want to take a stick to your back. If
your father had come in on this scene he'd have raised the roof with the
rage that was in him."

In the doorway Augusta, Nicholas, and Ernest now appeared. Augusta wore
a long dark red wrapper but her brothers were in night-shirts, over
which they had pulled trousers. Nicholas' thick dark hair stood up in
magnificent confusion but Ernest's fine fair hair was still sleek.

"Whatever is up?" demanded Nicholas.

"We were dancing," answered Philip.

"_We?_" echoed Augusta's deep tones.

"Yes," he returned with a brazen look at her. "Mary Wakefield and me."

He was purposely ungrammatical and it made what he said the more brazen.

"Tell them," said Adeline, "just how you were dancing."

He was still imperturbable. "Well," he said, "I hadn't danced with the
poor girl all the evening. We had the room to ourselves."

"Yes," said Adeline, "they had the room to themselves. He put out the
candles but there was moonlight. Plenty of light for me to see the
shameless performance."

"Who was playing the piano?" asked Nicholas.

"Who but Lily Pink!"

"I didn't think she had it in her."

"Edwin remarked to me," said Augusta, "with the bedclothes over his
head--for he was trying to go to sleep--that the music sounded to him
positively _vicious_."

A smile flickered across Adeline's face, then faded.

"It was that," she said, "and I guess her poor parents would have hidden
their heads in shame, if they had heard it and seen what I saw. The
children's governess swooping up and down the room, draped over Philip's
arm like a courtesan! Ah, she's no better than she should be."

"I won't hear a word against her," said Philip.

"You'll hear whatever I have to say," declared Adeline, her eyes
blazing.

He was standing quite near her but in his anger he shouted as though she
were deaf:

"I repeat that I won't!"

"Don't you dare shout at me, sir!"

"Then don't you say such things of Miss Wakefield."

"I say she's a wanton!"

"Then you lie."

Adeline sprang on Philip and caught him by the shoulders to shake him,
but he took her wrists in his hands and held her. Boney who had not yet
got over his joy in the return of his mistress, paid no heed whatever to
this disturbance but continued to snuggle himself beneath her chin and
to utter caressing words in his foreign lingo. Mother and son, locked
together, glared into each other's eyes.

Nicholas rumbled, "That's no way to speak to Mamma. I can't allow it."

"I'm sorry," muttered Philip. "But she drove me to it." He still gripped
Adeline's wrists.

"Free me, sir!" she demanded, her face only a few inches from his.

"What will you do, if I do let you go?" he asked half-laughing.

"You'll see," she hissed, like the villainess in a play.

Ernest came and gently withdrew Philip's hands.

"This is bad for you, Mamma," he said. "You should be in your bed." She
shook him off.

"I want," she said, folding her arms and facing Philip, "to be assured
that that--" she hesitated over what she should call Mary, then went
on--"wanton young person shall leave the house tomorrow."

"I can't do it," returned Philip calmly. "In the first place, she's done
nothing wrong. In the second place I've engaged her for a year."

"You are not bound if she misbehaves herself."

"She hasn't."

Nicholas put in, "I shouldn't go into that again, if I were you. Let's
talk over the affair quietly tomorrow."

"There is no talking over this quietly," said Adeline. "She is to go."

"No, Mamma." Philip spoke with pointed calm. "I cannot and will not
dismiss her."

Adeline demanded fiercely, "How often have you been up to her bedroom?"

Augusta uttered a contralto groan, as she saw peaceful retirement
receding.

"Not once," Philip answered with great distinctness.

Adeline laughed. "Come now, come now, tell the truth. How many times?"

"That sort of pastime may have been the custom in your dear father's
house--not in mine."

"Philip--" Adeline spoke with passion--"why will you always be saying
that Jalna is yours? Everyone knows it already."

"It's very irritating," said Nicholas.

"And after all," put in Augusta, "Nicholas is the eldest son."

"All I said was that in _my_ house that sort of thing is not done."

"And you insult my poor father's memory," cried Adeline, "and he in his
grave!"

"Many a time I hear you say worse of him."

She could not deny this. She struck one clenched hand into the palm of
the other. "If _your_ father," she said, "whom we all agree _was_ a man
of good character, even though _my_ poor father--God rest his soul--was
not--"

Ernest interrupted, "Mamma, why must you talk in that Irish peasant way
when you are upset? It sounds so affected."

"It makes what I say more impressive," she returned. "And God knows it's
myself who needs to be impressive, with my youngest son blackening my
father's memory and flaunting his----"

"Better not use that word, Mamma," said Philip. "Because it only makes
me more determined not to be overridden in this affair."

"What I am trying to say, only I can't get a word in edgeways, is that
if Philip's father were here he would send that girl off tomorrow
morning."

"I wish," put in Augusta, "that I might have seen the dance."

"Yes," agreed Ernest, "if only we had come down a little sooner!"

"I wish you had," said Philip. "You could have seen nothing wrong."

Adeline grinned. "No. Because you had taken care to put out the lights.
_Why_ had you put out the lights?"

"Because I liked the idea of dancing in the moonlight."

"I am sorry to see," said Adeline, "that you, a young father--widower of
as noble a young woman as ever drew breath----"

Philip's eyes were prominent with astonishment.

"You are late in discovering it, Mamma."

"Mamma--" Ernest thoughtfully bit his thumb--"just what did you mean
when you said that Miss Wakefield was draped across Philip's arm? I
think a great deal depends on that."

"I'll show you," Adeline answered with gusto. "Step back and I'll show
you. Put your arm round my waist, Philip . . . You might play me a
waltz, Nicholas."

Before Philip could stop himself he put an arm about her waist. He held
her rigidly a moment, then drew himself decisively away. He strode to
the door and from there he said, with an angry tremor in his voice:

"I tell you all that you are wasting your time and had better be in your
beds, for nothing you can say will make me dismiss Mary Wakefield and
that's flat."

They heard him going up the stairs.

Adeline's face fell. Then she brightened. "Ernest, you put your arm
about me and we'll show them."

"I can't, Mamma. It would be quite different."

"The point is," said Nicholas, through a yawn, "that Philip is in one of
his mulish moods. Nothing we can say will change him."

"He is adamant," said Augusta. "But he cannot go on being adamant, if he
feels disapproval of his behaviour from every side, combined with
complete restraint and perfect politeness."

"Augusta is quite right," said Ernest. "Also I am positive that Philip
has only a passing regard for this girl. He was lonely and she was
thrown in his path."

"By you," added Adeline grimly.

Ernest grew pink but went on, "Tonight I noticed that by the end of the
party he had had a little--a very little--too much to drink. That,
combined with the moonlight, the music----"

"Good God," interrupted his mother, "he's thirty! He's been married
once. If he can't withstand a little feeble moonlight and a waltz played
by Lily Pink . . ."

"Certainly," said Nicholas, "she put her whole soul into her playing."

"Then," declared his sister, "there is something terribly wrong with
Lily's soul."

Nicholas laughed. "I'm going to bed," he said. "Let me take you to your
room, Mamma."

"No," she said with sad dignity. "I'll go alone. The time has come for
me to learn that I'm a poor widow whose children will not stretch a
helping hand to her."

She kissed each in turn and, only slightly drooping, left the room. The
parrot had lowered his breast to her shoulder, puffed himself and closed
his eyes.

Nicholas winked at the other two. "A very fine exit," he said.

When they reached the passage above there was silence throughout the
house, except for a bubbling cosy snore from Sir Edwin.




                                  XII
                          MEETINGS ON THE ROAD


The majesty of the garnered harvest was at Jalna. Day after day heavy
waggons had borne their rich loads to the barn. There never had been a
better year for crops, except for the corn which Adeline would call
maize. It had grown to a great height but had been battered down by a
heavy storm. Nevertheless it had half raised itself again and was saved.
The boughs of the apple trees were weighted by sound fruit, the Duchess,
the Astrakan, the Baldwin, the Northern Spy, the pippen, the snow
apple--best of all. Down where the stream passed near the stables grew a
wild apple tree whose little sweet apples tasted like pears and were
valued most by Meg and Renny. They hid in this tree, eating its fruit;
it was always in their pockets; they stored it under their pillows for
bedtime refreshment. It was responsible for lack of appetite, for hives,
sometimes for pains in their insides. But nobody suspected the apple
tree.

The sun, having ripened the grain and coloured the fruit, now turned his
wayward strength to painting great splashes of gold and purple in the
ditches and the edge of the woods where golden-rod and Michaelmas
daisies drew what moisture they could find, through their tough stalks.
Even the mushrooms did not escape his colouring, for here and there
appeared red ones and others that were mauve. To Adeline these were
toadstools and poison and so she trained the children. They discovered
the pale Indian pipes which alone never saw the sun, picked them,
carried them a little way, then threw them down and trampled them.

Philip's cows and sheep and pigs had done well, but they were of small
account compared to his horses. He had made a name for himself as a
breeder of the best Clydesdales in the country. Yet he was not happy,
and no prosperity on the land could overcome the discomfort of his life
in the house. One could not be at outs with Adeline and forget it. Her
atmosphere advanced before her as an outrider--hung on her skirts like a
train. If she were displeased, her displeasure was unforgettable, to
herself and to its object. Now she was displeased with Philip and her
displeasure was dark indeed. She was mystified because, though Philip
had so bluntly refused to let Mary Wakefield be dismissed, he had so far
as she could discover never seen her alone since the night of the dance.
And how she had watched him and how she had watched Mary! "Upon my
word," she would say to herself, "I shall be worn out with all the
watching, yet it is my duty and do it I must." Mary was not difficult to
watch, for of late she had spent most of her free time in her own room,
but Philip was here, there and everywhere. She would send Ernest or
Nicholas on some pretext to look for him. They well knew what was in her
mind but humoured her, Nicholas cynically--feeling sure that Philip was
carrying on his affair with Mary in his own indolent but persistent
fashion--Ernest, anxious to prevent any alliance that would cause
trouble in the family. In truth he gave only a small part of his mind to
the matter, for he had anxieties of his own, of which he would speak to
no one but bore them in secret.

He, Nicholas and the Buckleys were shortly returning to England. Adeline
would be alone with Philip and the children. By that time, she was
confident, she would have Mary on the way to departure also. She had
almost entirely ignored Mary since the night of the dance but, when she
did speak to her, it was with a kind of fierce graciousness, as though
in the twinkling of an eye she might bite her head off. As for Mary, the
mere sight of Adeline walking towards her was enough to make her heart
pound. She avoided all the family but the children. The days passed in a
sort of dream. Something, she felt, was bound to happen. She could not
go on like this. The pageantry of autumn began to unroll, as though in
the last act of a play, in which she, the heroine, did not know her
lines, did not even know whether the play were melodrama or farce. She
was conscious that she was inadequate to hold her own among these other
players whose roles so well suited them.

Passing the drawing-room she would have a glimpse of the two older
brothers, Lady Buckley, and Adeline playing a game of whist. It would be
after tea and the evening growing cool but not yet dark enough for
lamplight. The sun, very low, would send its light flickering through
moving branches. It was not always easy to distinguish an eight spot
from a ten spot. Augusta would be holding her hand high, on a level with
her eyes, to catch the light; Ernest trying not to see what cards she
held, yet somehow glimpsing them. Nicholas would be wearing the
eyeglasses which he had just lately taken to for reading and card
playing, and from which depended a black ribbon. But Adeline, with a
humorous twist to her mouth, would be scrutinizing the faces of the
other players, as if from them, rather than from her own hand she would
be guided in her next play.

Sometimes Mary would have a brief picture of Sir Edwin playing at
backgammon with his mother-in-law. His even-featured face, between his
neat side-whiskers, was as impassive as an egg. When he spoke it was in
a clipped monotone, but Adeline's voice came out, hard and clear.

"Deuce!" would come softly from Sir Edwin's lips.

"Trey!" would be rapped out from Adeline's strongly-moulded ones.

"Doublets!"

"Quatre!" And Boney, on her shoulder, would repeat the word.

If they heard Mary pass, they gave no sign.

All appeared to have forgotten the scene on the night of the party. All
appeared to be hardly aware of Mary's existence. Her dance with Philip
began to seem like a dream. Yet in solitude she enacted it over again,
lived it, as though it were all that were real in her life--the return
down the stairs, with hair and face freshened--she scarcely knew why
but--there was the hope! It had been an unacknowledged hope, without
foundation, for he had not come to her once that night. Then--how the
hope had been justified! It had blazed into bloom, almost stifling her
with its power. Unbelievably she had found herself in Philip's arms, his
powerful body moving so lightly beside hers, his arms bounding her
world. Nothing else had mattered but the sweep of their embraced bodies
in the long room, lighted only by moonlight, the throb of the waltz, the
scent of the nicotiana coming in at the window. There was her world, her
life, she had thought. Nothing could ever be the same again! That must
go on--encircling her.

But things were the same again--now painfully the same. The routine of
her days, the long wakeful nights moved on, with no one to notice her
changed looks, her heavy eyes. Even her hair seemed changed and did not
want to curl but hung in limp locks.

She was sure that Philip avoided her, that is, when she was alone. If
the children were with her he would appear as his former self, chaffing
Renny, stroking Meg's hair, asking questions to which he scarcely seemed
to expect an answer, about their progress. Sometimes Mary, with an
almost fierce determination, would persuade his eyes to meet hers. When
they did, for an instant, it was as if they were alone together, with
the beat of the waltz on the air, instead of the voices of the children,
her heart would palpitate, she would look away from him speechless. If
only, she thought, her position had not been so ambiguous--if only she
had felt sure of her ground in any quarter. But, even with the children,
even with Mrs. Nettleship and Eliza, she felt uncertain. Sometimes the
children were friendly, even clinging, but again they would whisper
together and eye her as an outsider. Then, she thought, Mrs. Nettleship
had been at work.

Once Renny suddenly kissed her right on the mouth, then rubbed the back
of his hand over his own lips and examined it.

Mary was startled, then angered. She exclaimed, "If that's the way you
feel about my kisses, don't kiss me again."

"I wasn't rubbing away your kiss," he said, "I was just finding out if
the paint comes off."

Mary flushed scarlet, but she said calmly, "You are a very silly little
boy."

"You do paint your lips though, don't you?" Meg's clear eyes had a
tormenting gleam.

"But why?" demanded Renny. "If you're going to paint them why don't you
paint them green or blue or something different?"

"It's to make her prettier, stupid," said Meg. "Nettle says so."

One day she found Renny with an old clay pipe he had found, between his
teeth, and took it away from him.

He looked at her haughtily. "Well, if you smoke I guess I can smoke
too," he said.

Mary was aghast. Was there anything the two didn't know about her? And
remarked, as though casually:

"Mrs. Nettleship again, I suppose."

They looked at each other and laughed.

"Supposing we'd smelled it on you," said Meg.

Renny drew his finely marked brows into a frown of disapproval.

"Miss Turnbull," he said, "never painted or smoked."

"Do you, Miss Wakefield?" asked Meg directly.

"That is not your affair. Now let us get on with our geography."

"I considah it my affair," said Renny, and intoned unctuously, "I
considah . . . I considah . . ." till Mary had to threaten to take him
to his elders.

Nicholas, strangely enough, Mary began to look on as almost an ally. Out
of his deep-set dark eyes he would occasionally give her a glance,
half-mocking, half-sympathetic, as though he understood the difficulties
of her position and was, at any rate, not against her. He would stand no
nonsense from Renny and once when he was struggling and shouting against
being taken upstairs by Mary, Nicholas had appeared, promptly laid him
across his knees and administered several salutary smacks on his behind.

Since the night of the party Mary had met Lily Pink only once. Both had
been alone and they had met face to face on the public road near the
church. Lily had given Mary the impression that, if she could have run
away, she would.

"Upon my word," Mary thought. "I might almost call it that 'fateful
night'."

She went towards Lily smiling. It was late afternoon and their shadows
lay long across the road.

"It's two weeks and more since we met," Mary said, after greeting her.

"Yes. Time flies," observed Lily, like a grandmother. She carried a
sheaf of gladioli.

"What lovely gladioli!" exclaimed Mary.

"They are for the church."

"Are you going there now?"

"Yes. To practise on the organ."

"You play so well. I shall never forget how you played for our dancing."

Lily's face quivered at the mention of that night which should, she
thought, be buried in oblivion for ever.

"You played," Mary insisted, "as though you had composed the piece that
very moment, for that very waltz. It was wonderful."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Lily spoke with puritanical rigidity, as
though the very thought of enjoyment was base.

"And we danced rather well, didn't we?"

"I never noticed."

Mary was crestfallen. They drew apart.

A farmer's waggon with a huge load of hay came down the road, the feet
of the horses treading softly in the dust. The girls separated to let it
pass between them. Mary drew a deep breath of the scented load. The
gladioli caught a wisp and held it draped across their bloom.

"Well, good-bye," said Lily, and then she gave Mary a look, almost of
panic, "He's coming!" she breathed and the gladioli trembled on her arm.

Philip looked singularly carefree to them, as he approached, as though
their existence or the existence of any other woman meant nothing to
him. He looked complete, bright and untarnished in his masculinity.

"I must hurry. I'm late," said Lily but she lingered.

"Hullo!" he called out. "What are you two gossiping about?"

Lily looked at him in silent panic. Mary smiled and said, "We have only
one subject for gossip."

"I'll wager I know what that is," he said. "Me."

Lily gazed at him in wonder. What _would_ he say next!

"We were talking of Miss Pink's playing," Mary looked straight into his
eyes.

He returned cheerfully, "Lily's a wonder. She looks so cool and remote.
Yet who can tell what's in her? A bit of the devil, I sometimes think,
eh, Lily?"

She turned and left them, almost running along the road, the gladioli
bobbing on her arm.

"Now I've upset her. I shouldn't have said that." Philip stared after
the retreating figure.

"Was she always so shy?"

"Ever since I've known her and I've known her all her life. But she's
getting worse. I'm inclined to think she dislikes me."

For an instant Mary felt like telling him the truth. "Dislike you! Why,
she loves you madly." But she said:

"I think it would do her good to get away for a bit. She's far too
sensitive."

"Yes. It doesn't do. I'm afraid you are inclined to be like that too."

"But in a quite different way."

"You know, Miss Wakefield," he cut at a thistle with a switch he was
carrying, "I've been intending to tell you how sorry I am that my mother
spoke to you as she did on the night of the dance. But she's like that.
She'll come down on you like a thousand tons of brick and then forget
all about it."

Mary's lips felt stiff as she answered, "But she hasn't forgotten. I'm
sure she dislikes me. So does Lady Buckley. It's horrible to be
disliked."

"No, no, they don't dislike you."

"I think I ought to go."

"The children and I--why, we'd be disconsolate."

That cut her, to hear him speak of his feelings and the children's as
comparable. It meant just one thing. He had been dallying with her.
There had been nothing of real feeling in him. Now he was shielding
behind his children. She hardened herself to say:

"Of course, if I'm giving satisfaction. . ."

"Satisfaction!" he repeated warmly. "Your being here has meant so much
more than that. You've been so"--he hesitated, then found a word he
could use--"so congenial to me. I want you to feel that you're needed."

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

"And you won't talk of leaving?"

A cloud of dust showed the approach of Doctor Ramsey in his buggy. He
drew in his mare and saluted the two on the road with a grim smile.

"The drought continues," he said. "I doubt if we shall have good crops
next year."

"The rain will come," said Philip easily.

"Out West the land is famished for water."

"I must say I enjoy this weather," said Philip.

"Naturally. You have the temperament to enjoy the passing pleasure, with
no concern for the future. It's a good way to be, eh, Miss Wakefield?"
Without waiting for an answer he demanded abruptly:

"Can I give either of you a lift? I have room for only one."

"Thank you but I am going the other way. And I need the exercise. Good
morning." Mary began to walk quickly along the road.

Philip looked pensively after her, then climbed into the buggy beside
his father-in-law.

"A nice geerl," observed Doctor Ramsey. "It's a pity she's so delicate."

"Is she delicate? I hadn't noticed."

"You don't think she looks strong, do you?"

"Well, perhaps not exactly _strong_, but healthy, I think."

"I wish I could agree with you. She has a weak heart. I could tell that
by the way she breathed. She should not take these long walks. Also, I
fear her lungs may not be good. Poor geerl. She is lucky to have a nice
quiet home with you."

They were meeting another buggy. It was driven by Clive Busby whose
visit to the Vaughans was long extended. For some reason which he did
not analyse Philip always encountered him with a feeling of distaste.
Now he craned round the side of the buggy top to look after him. The
young Westerner had given too confident a grin. His necktie had too gay
a stripe. Was he going to settle down on the Vaughans for the autumn?
Certainly they must be tired of him. He saw the buggy stop, Clive Busby
alight and assist Mary to the seat. Doctor Ramsey was amiably talking.
The mare jogged peacefully on.

"What luck," Clive Busby was saying, "to overtake you. As a matter of
fact I knew you were walking because I've been to Jalna with the
sailboat I made for Renny and the children told me you had come this
way."

"You are so kind to the children. You do so many nice things for them."

He turned to look at her. He was breathing rather quickly. "I think you
know why," he said. "It isn't for the children's sake."

He had one of the nicest faces she had ever seen, she thought. He was a
man who, young as he was, people were always confiding in, telling their
troubles to, confident of his sympathy. In the weeks since the dance he
had managed to spend a good deal of time with her. She had been
conscious of his drawing nearer and nearer to her with every meeting.
There was something deadly in it, like the growth of a quickly-growing
tree in front of a little house, protective, but shutting off the outer
world, the light, freedom. All the while she liked him better, felt more
and more confidence in him, found him so easy to understand. The
Whiteoaks she never would understand, she thought. They were always
making new combinations, expanding impressively, taking in all that was
around them, then contracting into an impenetrable knot. Sometimes she
wished she were a thousand miles from them, a thousand miles from the
one she loved. Well--she might well go a thousand miles--two
thousand--how far was it to the prairies?

Clive Busby was saying, "You know, I can just see you out in the West,
with the wind blowing your hair and the length and breadth of the land
about you. I'd be afraid to tell you how often I've pictured you there."

It was coming! She almost put out her hands to hold it off. She said:

"I'm afraid I'm not the sort pioneers are made of."

"But you are!" he exclaimed eagerly. "You are. You have no idea how many
of your sort go out to the West and like it. It's a grand life. Nothing
would induce them to come back to the East. Oh, Miss Wakefield--do you
mind if I call you Mary?"

"I'd like it."

"And will you call me Clive?"

"I always think of you as Clive."

He turned his alarming blue eyes on her. They made her glad that his
hands were occupied with the reins. "Do you really? Well, that shows you
like me, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes. I feel as though I'd known you for years."

"And yet we've gone on Mistering and Missing each other! Me _Missing_
you! There's a pun for you. A pretty bad one, I admit. But I can't
afford to miss you. You're the only girl in the world for me. I hadn't
intended to say this today. I had it all fixed up to propose to you by
the light of the new moon and here I am doing it out on the road in a
buggy!"

Suddenly her mouth went perfectly dry. Her lips were stiff as she got
out, "It's as good a place as any but----"

He took the reins in one hand and laid the other on her two clasped
hands, pressing them together, as though they represented himself and
herself and he was uniting them in marriage.

"Mary--" he lingered on her name--"don't say no. We were made for each
other. I tell you, if you search the world over, you won't find another
man who loves you as I do."

She looked down at his strong hand, with the tan of the prairies on it.
She felt the comfort, yes, the comfort of his presence. She pictured
herself thousands of miles away from this place where nobody cared for
her, secure in the shelter of Clive Busby's love. She who had no one in
all the world, would have him. She would no longer be alone, wondering
what this one thought, wondering what that one thought, surrounded by
undercurrents, stifled by people, yet alone. She would be in a house
with a man whose presence was comfort and security, and, beyond the
house, the clear flat land, stretching to the radiant horizon.

"But, Clive," she began.

"Say it again," he interrupted. "It's wonderful to hear you say my name.
Say it again . . . Mary."

She was not getting on with her rejection of him. Before she realized it
she would be accepting him. He looked so eager it went to her heart.
"Clive," she repeated, and it was borne in on her how happy she could
make him. What better could she do with her life than to make him happy?

"Yes--" he prompted--"you're saying yes, aren't you, Mary!"

"Give me time. I can't answer today."

"How long? Tomorrow?"

"No. A week."

His face fell. "A week then. But I've already been away a week--still,
if you want a week, Mary dear--I'll wait. God knows I'd wait a year, if
I thought you'd say yes at the end of it . . . Mary--there's no one
else, is there?"

"No one else wants to marry me."

"Thank goodness for that. I thought I had to compete with some rich
fellow. Someone--like Philip Whiteoak."

"Oh, no."

"Mary, I believe you'll say yes--in a week. May I see you every day, in
the meantime?"

"No, not once."

"Not once?" He looked despairing.

"No . . . Please, Clive."

"Very well. I'll try to bear it but it will almost kill me." With a grim
look he took his hand from hers, gripped the reins and flapped them on
the horse's back. The horse broke into an ambling pretence of going
faster. The sun came out hotter, the golden-rod blazed in the ditches.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Lily was walking up the aisle of the church, the gladioli resting on her
arm. Strangely the church looked even smaller when it was empty. The
stained glass windows seemed very near her. Their sumptuous colours were
reflected in the flowers she carried. She walked gracefully, as though a
long train fell from her shoulders and trailed behind her. She walked
with dignity, as though every eye in a crowded church were on her.

When she reached the steps of the chancel she halted there a space, with
closed eyes. The figure of Philip Whiteoak, in a Prince Albert coat,
with a white carnation in the button-hole, had been waiting for her. Now
they moved closer, till they stood side by side. Her father, in cassock
and surplice, was about to begin the wedding ceremony.

So Lily stood, going through the service, word by word, inaudibly making
the responses, in her imagination hearing Philip's voice repeat the
words assigned to him. Was he placing the ring on her finger? What was
she doing? Perhaps this pretence was wicked! She opened her eyes. The
emptiness, the silence of the church was frightening. What would her
mother think if she knew what play-acting she was up to? Surely she was
a wicked girl. Surely she had, as Philip Whiteoak said, a bit of the
devil in her. A bit of devil . . . devil . . . She could not help
laughing as the word echoed through her mind. She actually shook with
silent laughter and the gladioli trembled.

Then she pulled herself together. She went to the vestry and got the two
brass vases for the flowers. She went outdoors to the pump and filled
them with water. She raised her innocent face to the sky and thought how
blue it was. She looked down at the stream below the churchyard and saw
how it reflected the blue of the sky. The vases were ice-cold in her
hands.

She carried the flowers to the chancel and placed them reverently on the
altar. She backed away a few steps and stood admiring them . . . Then
she went and sat down before the organ. Her hands were cold and wet from
being under the pump. She rubbed the palms on her skirt.

In another moment the music of Mendelsohn's "Wedding March" filled the
church.




                                  XIII
                                REVERSES


In these weeks the mind of Ernest Whiteoak had been greatly disturbed
but until now he had been able to keep his anxiety to himself. He had
lost money in Crystal Palace A shares. He had lost money in Breweries.
He had lost money in Cotton. He had been fooled by a broker into buying
shares on margin. More and more good money had been thrown away to
retain his shares. He was indeed playing with capital that was not his.
He was gambling on market changes and only had to put up a small
proportion of the sum at stake. This had given his somewhat credulous
nature a false feeling of power, and a pleasant exhilaration in the
exercise of that power. He was even less fitted to gamble on the stock
market than was Nicholas, but his earlier successes had made him bold.

Now he bitterly regretted leaving England. His communications with his
broker had of necessity been made by cable. He was positive that if he
had been on the spot he could have managed his affairs efficiently.

The latest messages he had received had made him incapable of clear
thought. His mind was too confused by his losses to be able to do more
than reiterate, "If only I had been there!"

He had been so sure that not only was he going to augment his fortune,
as indeed for a time he had, but that he would double it. Now, with a
sinking heart, he sought out his brother Nicholas.

Nicholas was sunning himself on the rustic seat, beneath a stately
silver birch that grew in the centre of the lawn. Between his feet sat
Jake, gazing up into his face with ecstasy, as Nicholas fondled his ears
and gently tickled the back of his neck.

Ernest came swiftly across the grass and stood in front of his brother.

Nicholas looked up. Then he saw the expression on Ernest's face and
asked, "Anything wrong?"

Ernest gave a groan of affirmation. Then sat down on the bench beside
him.

"Wrong! It could scarcely be worse. New Gaston Mining stock has fallen
from 3-1/8 to ."

"Ha! What can you do about it?"

"Nothing. South Eastern Railway has declined."

Nicholas turned his large eyes sympathetically on his brother.

"Hard luck," he muttered.

"If only I'd been in England, I'd have got out of it in time."

"I wonder. I didn't, you know."

"Nick, you haven't the flair for speculation that I have. Oh, if only I
had been there!" He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down.

"There is one thing certain," said Nicholas. "We shall have to draw in
our horns when we go back to London."

"Nick, when I have sifted the dregs of this catastrophe, I think I shall
find myself a poor man."

"Surely it isn't as bad as that."

"Nick, I shall have to spend more time at Jalna."

"Yes. There's always Jalna."

"Oh, if only I were in England now!"

"You couldn't have done anything, old man."

"Curse that broker."

"Only a few weeks ago you seemed quite pleased with him--and yourself."

"I was. I thought I was going to more than make up for my earlier
losses."

"I told you more than once that you depended too much on him."

"No one could have depended more on a broker than you did on yours."

"I don't pretend to be knowing about investments."

"Neither do I. I don't _pretend_, but I am very cognizant of what goes
on in the market. My broker told me it was quite remarkable--I mean my
grasp of it all. Oh, I wish I were in London!"

"Why not go?"

"It's too late, I tell you. Unless, of course, I had more capital. I
wonder if Mamma----"

"Never. She'd never lend you a penny."

"She might if I promised to double it for her."

"You're more optimistic than I am."

"Perhaps Philip . . ."

"You can try him but I doubt it."

"There he is now. He's been fishing. It's a propitious moment."

Philip, seeing them, turned in their direction. He had on a disreputable
old jacket, a pair of baggy duck trousers, and he needed a hair-cut. For
once, the immaculate Ernest did not notice these details of his
brother's costume.

"Hullo, Philip," he greeted him genially. "Had any luck?" Philip held up
his fishing basket, in which lay eight gleaming trout.

"Oh, very nice. Quite a change from last time when you didn't get even a
bite."

"Enjoyed it just the same," said Philip, laconically.

"Still, it was not like having a nice little catch like this."

"N--no. But I enjoyed it. A lovely morning, that was."

"Autumn is coming."

"Yes. Look at this birch tree. I like its little yellow leaves. They're
the first to turn."

Nicholas leant forward to look at the fish. "Good ones," he said. "I
shall have one for my breakfast."

"Sit down, Philip," said Ernest. "I want to tell you something."

They made room for him on the rustic seat. He sat down and lighted his
pipe. Jake, with an apologetic leer at Nicholas, moved from between his
knees to between Philip's. Philip looked enquiringly and a little
defensively at Ernest.

Ernest came straight to the point. "I've had bad news," he said. "Stocks
I've been holding on to have fallen. I'm going to lose quite a lot of
money, I'm afraid."

"What a surprise," said Philip. "I thought you were getting rich."

"So I was! And so I should yet, if I had more capital. I'll explain the
whole matter."

He embarked on a long explanation of the state of his affairs, and if at
times he grew a little confused, it did not really matter.

"It's all Greek to me," said Philip. "What do you want me to do?"

Ernest's self-esteem was returning. "If you could make me a loan," he
said, "it would save the day."

"How?"

"Well, these stocks are bound to revive. I could hang on till they do."

"I never like the idea of gambling in stocks." Philip opened Jake's
mouth and looked with concentrated interest at his teeth.

"You can't call this gambling, Philip. These investments are sound.
There'll be little risk. Don't you agree, Nicholas?"

"I won't commit myself."

"Well, as my broker has often remarked, I have a remarkable flair----"

"What's all this?" asked a strong voice. The three rose and discovered
Adeline close behind them. She placed her hands on the back of the seat
and looked quizzically from face to face.

How much had she overheard, Ernest wondered. But, whether it were much
or little she was bound to find out all. He could not keep anything away
from her and he knew it.

"Come and sit down, old girl," said Nicholas. He went to her and put his
arm about her. He led her to a seat, gently smacking her on the hip with
the flat of his hand.

A harsh note came into her voice as she spoke.

"You've lent Ernest money before this, Philip," she said. "Don't you do
it again. I won't have it."

"Then," exclaimed Ernest hotly, "you would have me lose my investment,
for lack of a little more capital!"

"I had rather you lost it than to cripple Jalna. If Philip were anyone
else, I'd say go ahead."

"Perhaps then you yourself would be willing," said Ernest eagerly.

"I am a poor woman," she returned, looking gloomily at her shoes. "I
have little enough to live on."

"Poor old girl," said Nicholas.

"Then," said Philip, wanting to hear her confirm her opposition, "you
advise me not to go into this?"

"I don't advise. I say I won't have it."

Nicholas winked at Philip.

Adeline laid her hand on Ernest's knee, who had sat down beside her.
"Come," she said. "Take this loss like a man. I heard all your
explanation and I'm sure this is a bad case. Be thankful you have
something left and don't throw good money after bad. I hope Robert
Vaughan has not invested in these things."

"I'm afraid he has," answered Ernest. "But, by no means disastrously."

Adeline groaned, then exclaimed vivaciously, "I'll tell you what, you,
Ernest, must marry Muriel Craig! She will inherit a considerable
fortune. You needn't worry any longer."

"Miss Craig cares nothing for me," said Ernest, crossly. "It's Philip
she is after."

"Then you should make her care for you," said Adeline. "What is your
feeling toward her?"

Ernest put the tips of his fingers together and said judiciously, "A
kind of tepid admiration."

"You couldn't have a better beginning, with your temperament. You will
warm to her as time goes on."

"I repeat it is Philip she wants."

"Well, here she comes like Paris with the golden apple and here are the
three of you waiting! Let her make her choice."

From the thick evergreens that fringed the drive Muriel Craig's trap
emerged, drawn by a pretty chestnut cob. She sat very straight, holding
the reins high, the small elegant whip in one hand. She looked
self-conscious, rather than confident. The three brothers went quickly
toward her. Adeline looking after them thought, "If she chooses by
distinction, it's Nicholas--if by elegance, it's Ernest--if she prefers
an untidy rapscallion, as she probably does, it's Philip."

She greeted Muriel Craig warmly, giving at the same time an appraising
look at her, out of narrowed dark eyes.

"How fresh you look, my dear, and what a pretty striped shirt-waist!"

"I'm glad you like it. My father thinks the stripe rather loud."

"Not a bit of it. If anyone can wear that stripe you can. What do you
say, Ernest?"

"I say she can wear it," he returned, tepidly.

"Mr. Ernest does not sound very enthusiastic," said Muriel Craig. "I'm
afraid he also considers it too loud." She turned to Philip. "What do
you think, Mr. Philip?"

"I always like stripes. Like 'em loud, too."

Nicholas thought, "The girl is positively languishing for Philip. Ernest
has no chance whatever."

The children ran out of the house shouting, their lessons over, free for
the rest of the day. They began to pull handfuls of grass for Miss
Craig's cob.

"Oh, the sweet children!" she exclaimed. "I must go to see them." She
sprang up and swept across the grass. A straight line might have been
drawn from her chin to her instep . . .

"Children!" she called. "I have brought you candy!"

From the seat of the trap she took a small box of butterscotch. They
were delighted. Meg thrust a square of it into her mouth, and mumbled
her thanks.

"You should have passed it round first, you greedy girl," said Renny.

Her cheek distended, her teeth glued together, Meg proffered it to her
elders.

Philip had got to his feet and made as though to join Miss Craig.

Adeline gave him the dark look she had for him nowadays.

"Don't go," she said. "Leave that to Ernest."

Ernest rose. He refused butterscotch but Adeline took a piece with
eagerness. "A very small box," she commented in an undertone to
Nicholas. "I hope the girl isn't mean."

Philip watched Ernest's progress with amusement.

"An ardent suitor, what!" he remarked.

"That fellow," said Nicholas, "will never reach the point of proposing
to any girl."

"Ernest has plenty of character," said his mother. "Give him time."

Ernest had reached Miss Craig's side. He smiled pleasantly and said,
"How is your father, Miss Craig?"

"Improving every day. He is beginning to walk again. He has a most
efficient nurse who seldom leaves his side."

"How very satisfactory."

"Yes. But she really is a detestable woman."

"How annoying."

"But, I hear that all nurses become overbearing."

"I shouldn't wonder." After a silence he asked:

"Would you care to see our dahlias? They're very fine."

She hesitated. "I'm afraid I should be going. My father . . ."

"The dahlias really are especially good."

Her eyes wandered to the group on the lawn.

Ernest thought, "I was never meant for this. A fortune-hunter! It's
humiliating." Then the remembrance of Mr. Craig's wealth stood out as
promising deliverance from his financial worries, and she was a
personable girl--an attractive girl. He wondered at his own coldness.

Mary came out to the porch where its drapery of Virginia creeper was
just beginning to redden. Soon the frosts would set it flaming and turn
the dahlias black.

"Ernest is taking Miss Craig to see the dahlias," observed Nicholas.
"That looks promising."

"There's Miss Wakefield!" cried Renny. "May I take her a piece of
butterscotch?"

"Not just one piece," said Adeline. "Offer her the box. Then ask her if
she will be kind enough to go to the Rectory and ask Mrs. Pink for the
recipe she promised me. You children had better go with her. Come first
and kiss me."

He clambered on her knee, hugged and kissed her.

Philip rose. He extracted a piece of butterscotch from between Jake's
jaws which was causing him acute misery and threw it into the shrubbery.
Jake at once set out on an intensive search for it.

"Don't go, Philip," said Adeline, more kindly than she had spoken to him
since the night of the party. "I've scarcely set eyes on you today."

"I'll be back before long, Mamma," he said, stubbornly. "Nick will be
with you."

He went toward the porch.

"Look at the shape of his trousers!" exclaimed Adeline. "The set of his
jacket! I can't imagine what any girl sees in him. Think of your
father's back--the way he wore his clothes! The contrast is terrible. I
wonder Philip can be my husband's son."

"Don't worry about him, Mamma. All the girls are after him."

"Ah, if only I could get that governess out of the house! And do it I
will, by hook or by crook."

Philip stood looking up at Mary.

"Did you get my mother's message, Miss Wakefield?" he asked. For the
first time he noticed how she'd gone off in her looks.

"Yes. I'm setting out now."

"We want to go too," immediately came from Renny.

"I don't think he should," Mary said. "He runs so much on the way and
gets hot and it makes his hives itch."

"I'll stay with him," volunteered Meg.

"Good girl," said her father.

She clung to one hand, Renny tugged at the other. Between them they made
a wall, always between her and Philip, thought Mary, and believed he
wished it so.

"Are you quite well?" he asked, thinking of what Doctor Ramsey had said
of Mary's health.

"Perfectly, thank you." Did he think she was slack in her duties?

"You look a little pale to me. Perhaps you are losing your English
complexion."

Meg began to laugh. She put an arm about Renny's neck and whispered in
his ear, "She forgot her paint."

"I felt the heat," Mary said, "but this weather is lovely."

Ernest and Muriel Craig came round the house.

"What heavenly dahlias!" she cried. "I've never seen their equal. Mr.
Whiteoak has promised me some bulbs." She greeted Mary with that air of
condescension which made her long to escape from Miss Craig's presence
or be rude to her.

"How well your charges look!" she exclaimed. "Really they are a credit
to you."

"We look well," said Renny, whose grin showed a front tooth missing,
"because we paint."

"Oh, you rascal!" Miss Craig threw both arms enthusiastically about the
little boy. "The things you say! I tremble for what _you'll_ be when
you're a man."

She spoke as though she had suffered a good deal at the hands of dashing
men, yet not entirely without pleasure.

"He'll be a rip, I fear," said Ernest.

Still holding the child to her Miss Craig said to Philip:

"I have a message from my father for you. He is so anxious to see
you--about something, I'm not quite sure what it is. Your mere presence
helps him. He wondered if you could drive back with me. Then, this
evening, one of our men is coming in this direction and would bring you
home. For my part I'd be grateful for a lesson in driving this cob. I
know I'm a silly little thing but I'm terrified of him."

Renny had never before heard a woman call herself a silly little thing.
Neither his grandmother nor aunt were in the habit of so describing
themselves. Mary posed as an encyclopedia of knowledge and Gibraltar of
firmness. Yet there was something that did not ring quite true in Miss
Craig's words. He and Mary exchanged a look that on his side might
almost have been called sardonic.

Philip agreed with alacrity. He had noticed Miss Craig's self-conscious
and inefficient manner of handling the reins.

"But first I must tidy myself," he said.

"Please don't. We know you have been fishing. If coming with me forced
you to change, I should never forgive myself. _We_ think he looks very
nice as he is, don't we, children?"

The children chorused, "Yes."

Philip however went into the house to make himself respectable. Mary at
once set off on her errand, for she would not remain a moment longer
than necessary in Miss Craig's company. Ernest and Muriel Craig watched
her figure disappear along the drive. He felt deeply rebuffed by Miss
Craig's open lack of interest in him and in the dahlias. For once in his
life he made no attempt to be agreeable to a visitor but stood silent
and abstracted. Muriel Craig was silent too. Her round light eyes took
in every detail of Mary's dress and seemed to probe beneath the dress
into the very body that pulsed beneath.

But, as Philip's returning steps were heard in the hall, her eyes turned
to where the children were romping on the lawn with the spaniels, and
she exclaimed:

"How I love those two children!"

Ernest made no reply but Philip gave her a gratified look. "I'm glad to
hear it," he said. "Sometimes they're pretty bad, you know."

She refused to believe any such thing. Ernest held the cob steady while
Philip assisted her to mount to the seat. A well-shod foot, a pretty
ankle and a rustling taffeta petticoat were, for an intriguing moment,
visible. Ernest said good-bye coolly, and, lighting a cigarette paced a
number of times up and down before the house. His naturally sanguine
nature took heart. After all, he was not ruined. He still had enough to
live on, and live quite well too, provided he spent part of each year at
Jalna. He always enjoyed being there. Philip was a good-humoured and
generous host. In truth, Adeline and her three older children scarcely
looked on Philip as a host but rather as the youngest son who had by
good fortune been chosen by his father as inheritor of the estate and
whose duty it was to make them welcome at all times. As for Philip there
was nothing he liked better than to have them there with him.

Now Ernest made his way back to the garden seat and dropped down on it
with a sigh. Nicholas gave him a dubious look. He hoped Ernest was not
going to remain in the dumps over his losses.

Adeline remarked, "Did ye notice how well the cob moved down the drive?
He knew he had a good man at the reins."

"That young woman," said Nicholas, "handled them as if they were hot
pokers."

Adeline turned to Ernest. "Did you make any headway with her?" she
asked.

"Not a bit," he replied testily. "And to tell the truth I don't want to.
She is not at all my sort. I have no wish to be married."

"It seems a pity," said Adeline, "never to put out a hand to capture all
that money. These losses of yours, Ernest, show how easy it is to lose
it. Now here is a fortune, at our very door and I have two attractive
sons----"

"What's the matter with Philip?" asked Nicholas.

"I don't want another woman at Jalna."

"Mamma," said Ernest, "it is inevitable that Philip will marry again.
It's plain that Miss Craig wants him. Take my advice and don't do
anything to discourage him. If you do you may get a daughter-in-law
you'll like much less. You might even get Miss Wakefield who hasn't a
shilling to her name."

Adeline turned to him sharply. "Have you seen anything suspicious since
the dance?"

"N--no. But propinquity often leads to regard."

"Ernest, you did a bad day's work when you engaged that designing
creature. I might have known better than to trust you to show any sense
where a female is concerned."

"You might indeed," he returned tranquilly. "I don't know the first
thing about the average woman. You are the only woman I pretend to
understand, but then you make yourself so clear."

"Certainly," put in Nicholas, "Miss Craig makes her intention clear. She
is tooth and claw after Philip and, in my opinion, he wants to be
hooked."

"Speaking of being hooked," said Ernest, "here are his fish. He's gone
off without a second thought for them. I think I had better carry them
down to the kitchen." He picked up the basket from where it stood on the
rustic table. He hesitated a moment and then said, "I have an investment
in mind which I am positive will recoup the losses I have had--not only
cancel them but make me a great deal more. The thing is that I shall be
on the spot to watch the fluctuations of the stocks. If I had been there
this summer things would be very different with me now." He went to the
house gently swinging the basket of fish in his hand.

"D'ye think he may do what he says?" Adeline asked, her eyes following
Ernest.

"I shouldn't be surprised. He has a decided flair for speculation, but
don't you ever be persuaded, Mamma, to invest anything on his advice."

"Trust me to hang on to what I have!" she exclaimed. "It's little
enough, God knows, but 'twill keep me in my old age."

She watched Nicholas light a fresh cigarette and put out her shapely
hand for one. However, she surreptitiously took the light he gave her
and looked almost fearfully toward the house as she inhaled.

"That hussy, Mary Wakefield, smokes," she said. "I wouldn't have Nettle
see me do it, not for anything."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The trap bowled brightly along the tree-lined road, the cob moving in
accord with the pleasant pressure he felt on the reins. Philip and
Muriel Craig made a handsome pair, she very upright, her sailor hat
tilted forward, he wearing a checked coat and yellow gloves. He twiddled
the whip, admiring the scarlet ribbon bow on its handle.

"I can't tell you," she said, "how nice it is just to sit here, with my
hands in my lap and watch someone else drive--particularly when they
handle the reins as you do."

"This cob," he said, "is gentle enough, but he needs more exercise. I'm
afraid you're a bit nervous, Miss Craig."

"I am--I am! And I'm so ashamed. I don't think I should be half so
nervous on horseback. It's the thought of this high trap overturning
that makes me tremble. My father promises to buy me a saddle horse if
I'll learn to ride it. But who will teach me? There are so few who ride
excepting your family."

"I'll gladly teach you."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, how lovely that will be! Are you sure it
won't bore you?"

"Come now, Miss Craig, can you imagine my being bored in your company?"

"I wish I couldn't," she said humbly, "but I'm afraid I can imagine
anything. I'm far too imaginative."

Philip looked into her round, matter-of-fact eyes and doubted it. A
couple of generations ago, he decided, she would have been pretending to
swoon.

"Oh," she cried, "there is Miss Wakefield on the road ahead of us! Do
you think we could squeeze her into the seat with us? She walks as
though she were so tired."

"It would be a close fit," he returned, his eyes searchingly on Mary's
back. "Besides, she's going only as far as the Pinks'. Do you really
think she seems tired?"

"Perhaps it's just her shoes. I always feel that shoes should be chosen
for the wear they're to have. What I mean is, on rough country roads
it's better to have brogues like I wear."

They had overtaken Mary. Philip drew in the horse. She looked up at them
defensively. Miss Craig leaned toward her with a solicitous air.

"We think you look so tired, Miss Wakefield. We'd love to give you a
lift but there's scarcely room for three on the seat. So I'm going to
propose that Mr. Whiteoak shall drive you to the Pinks' while I trudge
manfully along the road in my big brogues. Your shoes are so dainty,
they're better suited to city pavements, aren't they?"

"Thank you. I'm not at all tired."

"Oh, yes, you are! You can't fool us. We know, by the way you walk. Do
let me out, Mr. Whiteoak."

"If anyone is to get out it will be me." He put the reins into her
hands. Their hands touched and she gave him a small, intimate smile, as
though they spoke in a language no one else could understand.

Mary included him in the icy look she gave Miss Craig.

"I want to walk," she said. "My shoes may be all wrong but they feel
quite comfortable to me. Good morning." She turned away.

"Now we've offended you!" cried Miss Craig. "Please, please, don't be
offended, Miss Wakefield! It breaks my heart if I think I've offended
anyone. You mustn't misunderstand me. I think your shoes are quite the
prettiest I've ever seen. I only meant--I'd love to walk and let Mr.
Whiteoak drive you to the Pinks'."

Mary gave her a look of speechless anger and literally strode down the
road. Little whorls of dust circled about her skirts.

Miss Craig returned the reins to Philip. She drooped, almost on his
shoulders, and he saw that her eyes were swimming in tears.

"Why," he exclaimed, in astonishment, "surely you're not crying!"

"Oh, I'm such a silly," she sobbed.

"You are indeed." His eyes were puzzled and kind. "I don't know what it
all was about."

"She hates me and I can't bear to be hated."

"Now that's sheer nonsense."

"You saw the look on her face."

He could not deny that he had.

"But you mustn't cry," he said, and patted her hand.

His sympathy was more than she could bear. Now her head was indeed on
his shoulder, her sailor hat tilted precariously over one ear. He
flapped the reins on the cob's back and they jogged past Mary in this
position.

Philip had never been more uncomfortable. With Miss Craig's head so
unexpectedly on his shoulder--"just as though I were a hired man taking
my girl for a buggy ride," he thought--with Mary's eyes boring a hole in
his back, he thought yearningly of the tranquil hours he had spent with
his fishing-rod.

He shifted his shoulder a little and she sat upright and straightened
her hat. Her face was flushed and smiling now. He had never seen her
look so pretty. She was leaning forward to smile at a figure that was
just emerging from the shadow of a clump of cedars.

"Did you see?" she laughed. "Young Mr. Busby? He's waiting for Miss
Wakefield. No wonder she was annoyed with me for offering her a lift.
She didn't want to miss him."

"He's probably not waiting for her."

"Oh, certainly he is. I felt something in the air. And now I'm _so_ glad
because I know she wasn't really angry at me but only at my interference
with her plans. I'm so glad, because I think she's a dear thing, and
always so unhappy-looking." Her voice took on a new intimacy. "Just
glance over your shoulder and see this meeting. It will be fun to see
them get together, in spite of our efforts to divide them."

"Indeed I shall do nothing of the sort." He flicked the cob with the
whip, and stared sulkily between its ears. After a moment he asked,
"Well, did they meet!"

"You _know_ I'm peeping! But I just can't help myself. It's so
fascinating to get a glimpse of a romantic love affair at close
quarters. The rich young rancher and the poor governess! Now--they
_have_ met! And what a meeting! Did I say her feet were tired? I take it
all back. She fairly ran to him and he's taken both her hands. Oh, it's
divine! Why _will_ you drive so fast, Mr. Whiteoak? Don't you think it's
good for me to see two happy people?"

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mary had watched the passing of the trap, the attitudes of its occupants
with astonishment. She was so astonished to see Muriel Craig's head
against Philip's shoulder, her sailor hat pushed rakishly to one side
that, for a moment, she felt no other emotion.

"Good heavens!" she said out loud. "Is that the way things are with
them! He'll be kissing her next--out on the open road!" Her voice shook
and was strangled in her throat by a surge of jealousy. She could only
say, "Oh, Philip, how _could_ you? Philip . . ." The beloved name became
a knife to stab her breast. Jealousy made her feet uncertain. She
scarcely could keep to the road. She had a mind to throw herself into
the dusty ditch, to tear at the nettles and thistles with her bare
hands. She had not imagined jealousy could be so devastating as this.
Her feelings on the night of the dance when he had ignored her were as
nothing compared to the vehemence of what she now suffered.

What could have passed between them to make that stiff-starched creature
droop to his shoulder like a flower in the heat of the sun? And her hat!
Mary's sensitive lip curled at the thought of Muriel Craig's hat! The
fool, the stupid creature! And _he_, the flirt, the heartless flirt,
treating her, Mary--alone in a strange country, so terribly alone--with
calculated cruelty!

Her eyes, though they were wide open, were unaware of Clive Busby coming
toward her. She would have passed oblivious of him but he hastened to
meet her with his hands outstretched. He took hers into them and his
grasp was sharp on her fingers. She looked into his face, scarcely
seeing him.

"Why," he exclaimed, "why, Mary, your hands are ice cold! And out in the
sun--on a day like this!"

Over his shoulder she saw the trap disappear round a bend in the road.

"I have been sitting most of the day teaching," she said. "My
circulation is poor. But I'm quite all right." She gently withdrew her
hands and walked on.

He fell into step at her side.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he persisted. "You're very pale."

"I'm perfectly well."

"Mary, you didn't turn pale because you saw me coming?"

"I didn't see you."

"You know what day it is?"

"No. What day?"

"Mary . . . you're tormenting me!"

Then she remembered.

"The week is up," she said. "I remember now."

His voice trembled in his hurt. "Does it mean so little to you then? Oh,
Mary . . ." She saw the rich colour flood his face.

She spoke in a breathless staccato way. "I've been thinking so much--my
mind is confused. I'd forgotten the exact day. But you mustn't be fond
of me, Clive. You mustn't."

"As though I can help it! You might as well say to Niagara, 'Restrain
yourself.' Mary, I've lived years in this past week and all of them with
you--out on the prairies. All of them with you."

She turned her eyes away from him. "Haven't you thought of the reverse?"

"No! I wouldn't let myself. I made up my mind to have this week of hope
even if--no, I never let myself think of--I couldn't." He was not able
to speak coherently but tried with his appealing eyes to draw hers back
to him.

Is all this so important, she thought, does it matter what I do--whether
I marry him or not? Does it matter what becomes of me? But I do mind
being alone. It is comforting to have him walking along the road beside
me--to know if I put out my hand I can touch him. When she spoke her
mouth felt dry and her lips stiff. The poison of jealousy had run
through her, like fire in prairie grass.

"Clive," she said, "you wouldn't want to marry a woman who----"

"Loves someone else!" he broke in, his voice suddenly harsh. "That's
what you're trying to say. I know you love someone else and I think I
know who it is. Mary, is it Philip Whiteoak you love? Are you trying to
tell me you love Philip Whiteoak?"

She looked at him aghast, as though a stranger had stopped her on the
road and talked to her of the secrets of her heart. What colour she had
ebbed from her face. She walked faster, the fresh breeze blowing the
thin stuff of her dress against her taut body.

"You have no right," she said. "If I did love him it would be my secret,
but I don't love him. I hate him."

"So that's it," he said slowly. His legs seemed to grow heavy beneath
him and he fell behind her. "That's what the trouble is."

She stopped now and waited for him. He looked young and pathetic. She
felt a maternal pity for him.

"Clive," she said, her eyes clear and candid, "I wish it had been you.
I'd have loved to love you."

"The point is," he answered fiercely, "that it satisfies you better to
hate him than to love me."

"You have no idea how unhappy I am."

His hand touched hers for an instant.

"I wish I could do something about it," he said. "But I can't do
anything, can I? This is the funniest rejection I've ever heard of a
fellow getting. To be told that the girl he adores would love to love
him. Gosh, it makes a fellow's head swim!"

"It's true."

"But my case is hopeless, eh?"

"You wouldn't want a wife who didn't love you."

"You've said that before!"

"Clive, I'd rather make you happy than anyone I know."

"Rather than _him_! Come now, Mary."

"_He's_ happy," she returned bitterly. "Happy as a man need be."

"Now I look at it this way. Philip Whiteoak is rich. He's generous and
kind, so they say. But I say he thinks only of himself. He'll never
trouble to understand any woman. He'll just go on in his happy-go-lucky
way, not noticing if his wife's happy or not. Now this may be a mean
thing to say but I've been told that he didn't make his first wife very
happy."

She turned to him passionately. "Why should you explain Mr. Whiteoak to
me? He's nothing to me. Nothing. If I said I hated him I spoke
foolishly. I take these violent dislikes. The truth is I dislike the
whole family. So much indeed that I feel I must leave and find a new
post. There's something in that house I can't endure."

"Mary, is all this true?"

"Yes."

"And you're really going to leave Jalna?"

"Yes."

"Then come to me, Mary darling. I'll love you so dearly you won't be
able to help loving me back. Do say yes."

Looking into his face she felt that she could learn to love him. Her
feeling for him was almost love. Surely a deeper kindness was in her
than many a woman brought to her marriage. He would take her to a new
free life, far from this place, from these people whom she never wanted
to set eyes on again. Oh, she was so lonely! Loneliness cried out in
her. And here was a man who loved her truly and unselfishly. She might
go through life and never meet such another. His love, his nearness
overpowered her. She could not speak but she stretched out her hand to
clasp his.




                                  XIV
                             CONGRATULATIONS


She slept more peacefully than she had for many nights. She gave herself
up to sleep as a wave-tossed boat sinks into the soft sand of the shore.
Her sleep was deep and she dreamed her favourite dreams, the childish
dreams she did not want to be woken from. There was the one in which she
was back in school and had won all the best prizes, and the other
students and visitors looked at her in astonishment and admiration
because she never did win prizes, being always too much confused by the
examination papers. Then there was the one in which she, at will, rose
from a crowded street and floated above the heads of the people who
stopped whatever they were doing, to gaze up at her. Sometimes she would
perch on a gable and wave down at them, sometimes hide behind a
chimney-pot. Always she ended on the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, while
traffic, buses, carts, drays, carriages, horses of all sorts,
flower-sellers, porters, beggars, gentlemen in top-hats, stood
spellbound. Yet, all through her dreams was the suspicion that people
were laughing at her.

Not through all the night did she dream of Philip Whiteoak or Clive
Busby or even dream that she was quite grown up.

Very early she was awakened by the clangour of the turkey gobbler's
voice on the lawn beneath her window. Never before had he brought his
family there at such an hour. Now he put forth all the power in his
breast to rouse the world, to defy if for the sake of those in his
train.

Mary got up, wrapped a blanket about her and went to the window. She
wanted to look out on this new day, with this new feeling in her heart,
and discover what it was like. She saw the turkey-cock, his head on one
side, staring at the east where the light was clearest above the tree
tops. But all colours were quiet excepting the wattles of the cock,
which were bright red. He shook his head and tossed them, eyeing his
seven wives, his many sons and daughters. The air was so cool and fresh
it felt like frost. The sun now began to appear above the blackness of
the trees. The vast sky filled with light. It was a mackerel sky and
like the scales of a fish the countless small clouds took on brightness.
The bed of geraniums rivalled the turkey-cock's wattles.

Now he dropped his burnished wings with a metallic sound and moved
slowly in a circle. The tassel-like appendage above his beak, his
wattles, grew fiery red. The tips of his wings scored the dew-grey
grass. He eyed the circle about him with potential fury. His eldest son
shook his plumage, half dropped his wings but drew them up again. The
hen turkeys uttered little wavering cries.

Mary drank in the pure air, scented with pine. She huddled the blanket
about her, feeling herself safe inside it, as the kernel of a nut inside
the shell. She lived only in the upper part of her mind, keeping one
chamber of it locked away. In that chamber was the figure of Philip
Whiteoak. The walls would narrow on it, day by day, till at last it was
obliterated.

The sunlight, with a little warmth in it, now fell full on her face and
her hair. It gave her strength, as sunlight always did. She began to
make her plans for the day. She would seek out Mrs. Whiteoak and tell
her she wished to leave. She knew how gladly that news would be
received. She would beg to be allowed to leave as soon as possible.
Clive would come and tell Philip how eager he was for an early marriage.
He could not remain much longer in the East. He wanted to take Mary back
with him as his wife.

She thought of the flat sweep of the prairies, the wooden house, with
the stiff new furniture, the piano, a few small shrubs growing in the
shelter of the house, the unfenced waving grain, the half-wild horses,
the thriving cattle, all so young and full of hope. Clive himself, with
his shoulders always between her and the roughness of life, his kind
hands. Perhaps she would have his children. But she drew away from the
thought of that. It was too great a leap forward. The chasm that
separated this day from those to follow, was enough. She lay almost
indolently across the sill, preparing herself . . . When the children's
lessons are over I will go straight to Mrs. Whiteoak and say I hope she
will not find it an inconvenience if I leave. I will ask her if she can
possibly let me go quite soon. I will stand looking straight into her
eyes and talk coolly to her. If she asks me my reason I will say I am
engaged to be married. I will let that sink in for a moment before I say
anything further . . . then I'll say it's to Clive Busby. She'll be
pleased, and God knows I'm sorry to please her . . . And _he_, what will
he think? Let him think what he likes! It is nothing to me.

The turkey-cock had led his family down into the ravine, and from there
his _gobble-gobble_ came, vibrant with his own importance. What
treasures were down there, in the cool shadow, waiting to be ravaged by
vigorous beaks? The stream could be heard faintly murmuring its way
through the ravine, weakened by drought. There was farewell in its
murmur. She had loved it. And she had loved the little bridge that
spanned it, and the trees that shouldered each other down to the brink
of the stream.

Now it was good-bye to them all.

She rose, folded the blanket and began to dress. Deliberately she kept
her face set and cold, like a marble wall she erected against the people
in this house. All but the children. She felt a sudden pity for them.
What an unsympathetic stepmother Muriel Craig would be! The children
were nicer than usual this morning. They were quieter, as though they
felt something different about her, and Meg looked at her with a
critical air, as though she wore a new garment.

Mary made the lessons as easy as possible for them, and put them in a
good humour, giving them a feeling of proficiency. They sat up straight,
beaming at their books and at her.

"How nice you are this morning," observed Renny, his eyes on her face,
as though he would wrench her niceness from her and examine it.

"I thought I always was nice."

He gave his high treble laugh. "Not you. You're often as nasty--as nasty
as I am."

"Which is saying a good deal."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, you can be pretty nasty."

He raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose, as he had seen Miss
Turnbull do. "I considah," he said, "that I do it only for your good."

On a sudden impulse Mary put an arm about him and hugged him. How
responsive he was! His wiry little body was galvanized into an answering
embrace. Meg looked on disapprovingly. She said:

"Nettle thinks it's silly for a boy to hug his governess."

There it is, thought Mary, antagonism on every side! How glad I shall be
to leave! She rose, went to the window and looked at the sky, as though
for freedom. The room became unreal to her. She felt herself already on
her way.

The children were clamouring to be off to their ponies. She dismissed
them and went slowly down the stairs.

The character of the sunlight had changed in these last days. Now it
gilded all it touched with the ruddy tinge of autumn. The light from the
stained glass window in the hall lay in rich-coloured patches. As Mary
reached the last steps a green light was cast on her face and for a
moment she looked like a drowned woman. She stood listening, her hand on
the carved grapes of the newel post. In front of her stood the hat-rack,
with one of Philip's hats on it, a soft, rather battered hat that, more
than once, had been romped with by Jake. She turned her eyes from it.

From the sitting-room came the sound of a pen moving scratchily over
paper. She went to the door and saw Adeline Whiteoak seated at the
writing desk. Unobserved Mary looked in on her.

She had never been more impressed by her air of distinction. She had
always thought that the lace cap, wired to a peak on the forehead, added
to it, but now the cap had been left off and the shape of the head
disclosed, and the way the hair grew. Her shoulders were beautiful, so
were her hands, Mary thought. A frown bent her brows as her sharp pen
dug and sputtered on the notepaper. She looked up and saw Mary.

"Miss Wakefield," she said, "have you such a thing as a new pen nib? If
I don't remember to put mine away each time I have written a letter, one
of my sons comes along, uses it and leaves it wrecked."

"Yes, I have one. I'll get it for you right away."

"No. Not now. This letter is finished and a pretty sight it is. But this
afternoon I'd be greatly obliged for a new nib."

"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 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 the notice I should give? I believe the 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 like." 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 from 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 postscript. "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 to 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 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 godforsaken 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 he 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 through 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 flauntingly. 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.




                                   XV
                               DISCLOSURES


The 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 a 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 spectacular. 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."

She talked of dogs and horses, asking Clive questions about the ranch.
He never tired of describing it or picturing the time when they would be
there as man and wife. He often referred to Adeline's part in bringing
them together. "I love her for it," he said. "Not that anything could
have kept us apart."

The next day he had business in the town and would not be able to see
her till evening.

"Mrs. Whiteoak comes home tomorrow," she said, "and her son."

"I'm glad of that, for then we'll not need to keep our engagement secret
any longer. I've nearly let the cat out of the bag a dozen times. Now I
can write and tell my relations, who must think I'm crazy staying away
from the ranch so long."

Mary felt tired that night, as though she were living under a strain,
instead of happily preparing for her marriage. No calm and settled
thought of her marriage with Clive could make her sleep or quiet the
tension of her nerves. At first the hours went by with painful
consciousness of every restless minute. She threw her pillows to the
floor and tossed on the flatness of the sheet. Then, by degrees, she
could keep her body still but it was with the stillness of a cage
against which a bird beat himself. She lay straight and stark, her
wide-open eyes watching for the dawn. When at last it came she fell
asleep and woke without realizing that she had slept. The children were
laughing and running from room to room with the fox terrier.

It was mid-afternoon when the sound of horses' hoofs warned her that
Adeline and Philip had returned.

He took his mother's hands and she alighted with a buoyant step but an
inward apprehension of what effect the news of the engagement might have
on him. However, the apprehension was not enough to dull the pleasure of
home-coming. A week in the badly run establishment of her friend had
been quite enough, even though the eyes of that friend had been filled
with admiration for all she said and did and Philip had been able to buy
two Jersey cows at a great bargain. Even if he were not pleased by the
near departure of Mary Wakefield, what could he do about it? Nothing.
The girl was promised to young Busby. Mr. Pink had promised to help them
get a special licence. Tomorrow she would invite the neighbourhood to a
tea party and announce the impending marriage, almost as though Mary
were a daughter of the house. She herself would give her a silk dress to
be married in--dark blue would suit her and be useful later for special
occasions in her prairie home--dark blue, with a lace bertha, and a blue
taffeta petticoat to match. She would buy the muskrat coat for her and,
yes, she would choose some nice bit of jewellery--a small locket and
chain perhaps--from among her own belongings. There was linen to be
thought of. She would give Mary three table-cloths, twelve napkins, six
sheets and a pair of fine white blankets. Let the Busby family toe the
mark and give silver. These pleasurable arrangements gave her plenty to
think of on the long drive. Philip too seemed to have plenty to think
of.

"Tired?" he asked her.

"Not in the least. It's been a very nice visit. Don't you think so?"

"First-rate. Hullo, here's Jake!"

The young spaniel, suddenly turned, crept with lowered belly to touch
Philip's hand. The beloved scent of that hand filled him with frantic
joy. He tore round and round, his ears flapping, uttering cries of
welcome. He fell over himself, rolled in complete disorganization,
righted himself and sat down at Philip's feet gazing up at him.

"There's a grand greeting," said Adeline, bending to pat him. "And here
come the family."

The voices of the Whiteoaks were so strong that Sir Edwin's milder tones
were unheard but he smiled pleasantly and kissed his mother-in-law on
the cheek. Boney, the parrot, flew to meet her and now even the
Whiteoaks could scarcely make themselves heard.

"Where are the children?" shouted Philip.

"On a picnic with their governess," returned Augusta's contralto tones.

"We are having tea early, Mamma," said Ernest, "you must be starving,"
and putting his arm about her and drawing her close he whispered in her
ear, "I have had good news from England. Certain of my stocks are
rising. I'm going to make a lot of money out of them."

"Splendid! You'll need to go over and look after them."

"I shall indeed."

"Ernest, I am delighted."

"I knew you would be."

Eliza, immaculate and rosy-cheeked, announced that tea was ready in the
dining-room. It was more substantial than usual and they seated
themselves about the table with an air of pleasant anticipation. No
detail of the visit was too slight to be related and to be heard with
interest. The family was all the more happy in being together because so
soon were they to be divided by the return of the Buckleys and Nicholas
and Ernest to England. Ernest was so exhilarated by the good news from
his broker that he laughed easily, ate and drank more, and drew
everyone's attention to how well Adeline was looking. He remarked:

"You have a special sort of air, Mamma, as though you were the bearer of
good news."

Those words seemed to push Adeline toward the divulging of the
engagement. And, after all, what better time could she choose? Mary and
the children were out of the way. If Philip were going to be annoyed,
let him be annoyed now and get it over with. She put her cup to her
lips, drank the last of her tea and clasped her hands on her stomach.

"I have good news," she said. "Very good news."

They looked at her attentively.

"I consider it very good news and I'm sure you will. It's always good to
hear that a girl who is alone in the world has made a good match for
herself."

"Whom on earth are you talking about, Mamma?" demanded Nicholas.

Adeline looked straight into his eyes, avoiding Philip's.

"I'm talking about Miss Wakefield. She's a very nice girl, though rather
silly, and I've felt from the first that she needed a nice forthright
young man, with prospects, to look after her."

"Is it Clive Busby?" asked Augusta.

"Yes."

"She couldn't do better," exclaimed Nicholas. "A very decent fellow."

"He has been here every day since you left," said Augusta. "I confess I
began to feel anxious."

"No need for anxiety. It's all settled. They're to marry immediately."

"This explains a great deal," said Ernest. "She has been avoiding us all
this week."

"She strikes me as a very artful young person," put in Sir Edwin.

Adeline laughed. "Oh, she knows how to look after herself. I saw from
the first that she was setting her cap for Clive Busby. I saw that he
hadn't a chance. But I'm glad. Very glad. She'll make him a good wife."

Adeline now let her eyes meet Philip's.

He was staring at her, his blue eyes prominent, as his father's were,
when something had roused him. It gave her a little shock but she kept
the smile on her face.

"How long have you known this?" he demanded.

"I had it from Maggie, just before I left."

"Had Busby written to her?"

"Yes."

"Then she's a terrible liar, for the last word she said to me was--'Tell
Clive to write to me. I've only had one letter from him since he came
from the West.'"

"Aye, that was the one."

"But she told me that was written when he first came."

"Ah, Maggie's a great muddle-head."

"When do you say this letter came?"

"Maggie was vague about it."

"Why didn't you mention it before now?"

"Clive asked to have it kept secret till I was back at Jalna."

"Why?"

"Well, I guess Miss Wakefield thought the young ones would be out of
hand if they knew she was leaving."

Philip fixed his eyes on the silver muffin-dish and kept them there
while the colour mounted steadily to his forehead. He was silent.

Augusta said, "For my part I shall be glad to see her go. I think she
was extremely unsuitable as a governess."

Sir Edwin added, "She never convinced me that she had any ability to
teach."

"Poor young Clive," said Nicholas. "What a wife for the prairie! I see
her in five years, with three or four delicate children hanging on to
her trailing skirt."

Ernest smiled at the picture and said, "One thing is certain. _I_ will
not choose the next governess."

Adeline stared down the table at her youngest born, with a half-teasing
smile. "Have you nothing to say about the suitability of the match?" she
asked, her own temper reaching out toward his.

"Just this," he answered and picking up the muffin-dish he dashed it to
the floor.

Augusta almost dropped the cup of tea she was raising to her lips. Half
its contents were spilt. Sir Edwin blinked rapidly.

Adeline struck the table with the flat of her hand.

"I won't have such tantrums! Philip, how dare you?"

He rose and went to the door. There he turned and said:

"It's all a plot to get her out of my way. I can see it now. And you're
all in it." Without waiting to hear anything more he flung through the
hall and out of the house.

Eliza came running up the basement stairs.

"Did something fall, Ma'am?" she asked of Adeline. "Was I wanted to pick
up?"

"Yes. Mr. Philip upset the muffin-dish. You'd better gather them up."

Eliza bent her back and collected the fragments.

"Shall I bring fresh ones?" she asked.

All declined to have more.

When they were alone again Ernest remarked, "It's quite singular how
Philip can fly off when you least expect it."

"I expected it," said Adeline.

"I saw his forehead turn pink," said Augusta. "That's always a sign of
temper in him."

"My grandfather," Sir Edwin spoke in a consciously pacific tone, "not
the one who was given a baronetcy but the one----"

"Who manufactured stockings in Birmingham," put in Adeline eagerly. "I
always like the sound of him best. Tell us about him."

Sir Edwin continued, "Always hiccuped when he was angry. You'd hear a
hiccup and you'd know what was coming."

"What if he'd hiccup by chance, when he wasn't angry?" asked Adeline.

"He never did. He was always angry when he hiccupped."

"It goes to show," said Ernest, "how anger works on the digestive
organs."

"Impossible." Adeline helped herself to another piece of cake. "I've
never heard of such a thing."

"The point is," said Nicholas, "that Philip is greatly upset by this
news. It may mean trouble."

"Philip can do nothing," returned Adeline. "It's all settled. I intend
to give the girl a nice wedding, a fur coat and some table and bed
linen."

"The girl for Philip to marry," declared Augusta, "is Miss Craig."

"I'd hate to marry her," put in Sir Edwin.

"That," said Augusta, "is a contingency which need not be considered."

Adeline rose. "I don't want a second wife of Philip's at Jalna," she
said, "but, if there must be one, let her be a woman of character and
not a flibbertigibbet like this Mary Wakefield."

She led the way into the drawing-room and Ernest closed the door behind
them. "Now," he said, dropping into a comfortable chair beside her,
"tell us all about it, Mamma, right from the beginning. I feel that
you've been very clever in managing the affair and steering Philip clear
of . . ." he hesitated.

Augusta finished for him. "A very wretched entanglement."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Philip strode along the path toward the stables, scarcely seeing where
he was going. All other feelings were for the moment submerged in his
angry astonishment. He had been the centre of a plot, moved about like a
pawn, knowing nothing of what was going on. He had been frustrated,
while that fathead, Busby, had wormed himself into Mary Wakefield's
affections, got engaged to her. All the family had been in the plot
against him. He could see that now. All had been afraid that he would
fall in love with Mary, ever since the night of the dance. But they were
mistaken. He wasn't in love with her. He simply did not want to lose
her. The children needed her. He had a mental picture of himself as a
pathetic young widower, with two motherless children.

He could not think clearly. As a scutter of horse's hoofs sounded behind
him he moved aside. A groom, riding the mare he had bought from Mr.
Craig, overtook him. The man turned in the saddle and looked back.

"She's doing fine, sir," he called out proudly.

"Good." He ran his eye over the mare's silken flanks glittering in the
sunlight but she looked a long way off, remote.

He wheeled and turned into the path leading to the apple orchard. There
he could be alone and think. He passed the old pear tree that stood by
itself outside the orchard. The pears were enormous. But there were
wasps eating them. One of those that had fallen had three wasps digging
into the same hole, as though their lives depended on it. Philip kicked
it and it flew off in fragments, the wasps circling back to the tree.

The orchard was quiet, the heavy fruit waiting for the final ripening.
Clumps of Michaelmas daises rose above the coarse orchard grass and
above them hovered small white butterflies. Philip halted and, resting
his hand against a thick branch, stood staring at the ground. He forced
himself to think more calmly, to try to discover what his real feelings
were. He was not in the habit of analysing them but of following his
impulses. His fury on hearing of Mary's engagement still tingled through
his veins. He was glad he had thrown the silver dish to the floor. He
felt violence moving inside him. "Upon my soul," he thought, "if it were
fifty years ago, I should be ready to fight a duel with Busby!"

But then, he thought, what had Busby done? Merely got engaged to a
pretty girl who was thrown in his way . . . But Busby'd been so
underhand about it . . . The sly dog! He'd never seen Mary and Busby
together, except on the night of the dance. Yes!--there was that time on
the road when Muriel Craig saw her run to meet him! And again the day
when she had been loitering with Lily Pink, obviously waiting for Busby.
Oh, there'd been times enough! His mother was right, Mary had been
setting her cap for Busby from the start. And why not? She'd a right to
get married if she'd . . . But he didn't want her to get married. He
wanted her at Jalna. He needed her. He'd had a pretty uncomfortable time
with those two who preceded her. Always getting in his way, looking
self-righteous or injured or making complaints. Mary was so lovely . . .
She'd behaved badly. . . She'd hurt him. She'd hurt him deeply . . .
Why, he didn't think of her as a governess, someone he employed. He
thought of her as a friend. He loved her! That was the truth. He loved
her.

And she'd chosen that stolid, matter-of-fact fellow, Busby--turned him,
Philip Whiteoak, down! She'd never given him a chance. He liked to take
his time about things. Things as important as marriage. Why, he'd known
Margaret for twenty years before he proposed to her. To be sure they had
been only a few months old when they first met, but it went to show that
he didn't like being hurried . . . And the damnable plot against him!
His mother persuading him to go on a visit with her, so that he would be
out of the way. He'd wager that she and Clive's aunt had chuckled over
how well they had managed the affair--the scheme--the confounded plot!

The blood mounted to his head. He pressed a thumb and middle finger
against his throbbing temples. A chipmunk ran through the tree against
which he leaned, and was transfixed into stark immobility within a yard
of his hand. Every single reddish hair stood up. Its bright eyes stared
in astonishment. It clasped its body in its little forelegs, as though
to keep from flying to pieces. Philip made reassuring noises between his
teeth. Moments passed, then the chipmunk with a flurry of its tail
leaped into another tree and was gone.

"I'll go and find the girl," Philip thought, "and see what she has to
say for herself." He moved steadily on through the orchard, in the
direction of the woods. If Mary had taken the children on a picnic that
was where they would be.

Mary, just emerging from the pine wood with Meg and Renny, saw him leave
the orchard and cut across a stubble field in their direction.

"Children," she said, "there is your father. Shouldn't you like to run
and meet him while I carry the hamper home through the orchard?"

They did not hear the end of the sentence. Renny pushed the handle of
the hamper into her hand, overtook Meg and flew across the stubble. They
shouted their welcome.

Mary almost ran toward the orchard and, once in its shelter, turned to
see what direction Philip and the children had taken. She saw them still
standing close together, their faces turned up to his. She waited,
gripping the handle of the hamper, moving her toes inside her thin
shoes, conscious of the soft sandy loam of the orchard path. She saw the
little group separate then and the children run toward the house. Philip
stood motionless, watching, till they reached the lawn. Then he strode
straight toward the orchard.

But she would not meet him there. She could not endure to meet him
without the protection of the children. Not once, if she could help it,
would she meet him alone, before she left Jalna. Yet she would prepare
herself for such an encounter, be ready to look into his eyes with
coolness. She would accept his congratulations, or whatever he had to
say to her, with composure--but not now. Now the thought of meeting him
alone was intolerable.

Yet he was crossing the field at such a slant that he was bound to meet
her just as she came out of the orchard. If she remained among the
trees, all he had to do was to follow the path, for it was clear that
his intention was to meet her now and alone. That was why he had sent
his children on to the house. For a moment she stood rooted in
perplexity. Had she not better nerve herself to the meeting, have it
over with? She had a glimpse of him entering the orchard, the last of
the sunlight brightening his hair to gold.

That glimpse of him was enough. This was a spot where she could not meet
him. It was too beautiful in the sunset, with the trees bending beneath
their load of burnished apples, and an oriole singing his farewell song
from the very branch where hung his empty nest. Mary ran swiftly away
from the path and among the trees till, at the far side of the orchard
she came to the shed where barrels and crates were stored to be
convenient for the packing. She entered it and stood in a dim corner
draped with cobwebs. A broken toy of Renny's lay on the floor. She felt
safe from Philip here. She pressed her hand on her side to quiet the
beating of her heart.

The oriole indolently let fall his notes as though he felt the silence
of autumn creeping close to him. The chipmunk ran chattering across the
roof of the shed, then peered in at Mary through a crack. She heard
Philip's step turning in that direction. The chipmunk had given her
hiding place away. Now, as he scrabbled about, he sent a sifting of dust
down through the crack. Mary waited for the step to pass. It did not and
Philip now stood in the doorway.

At first he could not see her, then her form separated itself from the
gloom. He saw her white hands and face.

"Why did you hide from me?" he asked.

"Hide? I--just came in here."

"You hid from me and I will tell you why. You were ashamed because you'd
treated me so badly."

Mary's eyes dilated. She was frightened by the very solidity of his
accusing presence. After a silence, in which she collected her strength
for defence, she said:

"I don't think I have treated you badly--unless you mean----"

"Well--what?"

"Not giving you proper notice?"

"You know that is not what I mean."

"Then you mean about my engagement?"

"Yes."

"It amounts to the same thing, doesn't it? It amounts to my leaving the
children without a----"

He interrupted, "Why will you go on talking to me as an employer?"

She answered, with a new note in her voice, "I don't know how you want
me to talk to you, Mr. Whiteoak. I never have known."

"_Mr. Whiteoak!_" He shot out his name with scorn.

"Surely you don't expect me to call you by your Christian name!"

"I expected you," he returned fiercely, "to treat me as a friend. I
behaved in a friendly way to you, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Do you call it treating me like a friend to let me go off with my
mother, all unsuspecting that you were carrying on a courtship with
Clive Busby and were, in fact, engaged to him--you were engaged to him
before I left, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"You kept it all secret. Then, at the moment I return, my mother tells
me what everyone but myself has known all the while. Why did you hide it
from me?"

Mary came from behind the barrels that smelt sweetly of new wood. There
was a look of challenge in her eyes.

"I didn't think it mattered to you," she said.

"Not matter to me! Not after the way we waltzed together! Do you forget
that, Mary?"

It was the first time he had called her Mary. It was the first time he
had spoken of the dance which she looked back on as the most precious
moment of her life. She put both hands on the barrel behind her and
leaned against it as though for support.

"I shall never forget it." He could barely hear the words.

"And yet," he went on, the flush deepening on his face, "you've engaged
yourself to another man. I don't understand you."

"And I don't understand you." Her voice had come back to her. It was
almost harsh. "You never noticed me on the night of the dance--not till
everyone but Lily was gone. Then you remembered that I had been there.
You looked about and saw me and thought, 'Poor thing, I really should
give her the pleasure of a dance with me!' We waltzed and our steps
suited. We danced too well. Your mother didn't like it. I think she was
right. A man who cares nothing for a girl shouldn't dance with her like
that."

"But I did care!" he cried.

"For that one waltz," she answered, almost as though she forced coldness
on herself, "you cared. But since then you've hardly given me a
thought."

"I have given you a thousand thoughts. But I'm not one of those men who
can't let a woman they're attracted to, alone. I looked on you as rather
remote--detached."

In a shaken voice she asked, "After that waltz? I thought I let myself
go shamelessly."

"Mary--did you love me that night?"

"No, for I didn't think. I hadn't a thought in my head."

"You were just carried away by the pleasure of it. So was I. Let's look
at it like that. Let's think calmly of our relations. They were friendly
from the start, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"There was even something special in them."

"Yes."

"Then Clive appeared on the scene." Philip came closer to her and gently
took one of her wrists in his hand. "Tell me, did Clive come between us
from the start? Was it love--almost at first sight? It must have been,
because he hasn't been here very long."

She drew her hand away and the wrist he had held tingled as though a
briar had bound it.

"How can I tell?" she asked, and then she broke out, "Clive couldn't
come between us because--you weren't there!"

"I wasn't there--in your affections, you mean."

"Yes . . . Clive loved me. He wanted to marry me."

"And you love him?"

"Yes."

"And you never felt anything approaching love--for me?"

"How can you be so cruel, Mr. Whiteoak! You have no right----"

"It's you who are cruel, Mary." He spoke with a childlike appeal,
deliberately putting it in his voice and his eyes, she thought, and
steadied herself to answer:

"If you loved me you kept your love well hidden. There have been weeks
when you have scarcely looked in my direction."

"I was happy just to feel that you were under the same roof. I thought
you . . ."

"Tell the truth," she interrupted wildly. "You did not give me a second
thought. You were satisfied with your fishing--the life you lead--and no
wonder. I don't think I've ever known a man more happily placed. You've
everything."

"I have an indolent nature. I'm willing to let things take their
course."

"Then, let them take their course. You know what it is."

"Good Lord God!" he shouted, "am I to lose you without raising my hand
to prevent it?"

"It's too late."

He could see the beat of her heart, in her throat.

"That means," he said, more quietly, "that you did--perhaps still
do--love me."

She looked into his eyes, without speaking.

"Can you love two men, Mary?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"It's impossible! Or it's not the same sort of love. I think you feel
affection, kindness toward Clive. I think you love me . . . But you
don't feel kindness toward me, Mary."

"What kind of love do you feel for me," she cried, "when a few scornful
remarks from your mother were enough to make you shun me for weeks?"

"I think you shunned me too. I think we both were a little shy. We'd
felt an emotion we weren't prepared for."

"Perhaps," She hesitated and then brought out what had so rankled in her
mind. "I've wondered what emotion you felt when you drove Miss Craig
home, with her head on your shoulder."

He was so disconcerted that he was for a moment comical, then he made a
grimace.

"Discomfort," he said. "Acute discomfort. Nothing more. I swear I said
nothing that should have made her feel sentimental and by the time we
were round the bend in the road she was sitting up properly. Muriel has
never had any real attraction for me, but, all the while you've been at
Jalna, Mary, my love for you has been taking a greater hold on me. You
have heard of entertaining an angel unawares. I've done that with my
love for you."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't say such things." She shook her head from side
to side as though looking at some object that moved her to pity. And she
repeated, "It's too late."

"Now I'm conscious," he continued, as though she had not spoken, "all
through me, of how much I love you."

She stepped swiftly past him into the orchard. Then, facing him, said:

"I can't treat Clive like this. I can't listen to such words from
another man. Do you think I have no loyalty in me?"

"Then you're going to marry him?"

"Yes."

He followed her and put his arm about her.

"I won't let you."

"Nothing can stop me. I've promised."

"You don't love him."

"I love him dearly."

"Not as you do me." Both his arms were about her and he held her close
to him. The enchantment she had felt in his touch, on the night of the
dance, now flowed through her, intensified to the point of ecstasy. The
oriole, his plumage gilded by the sun's last rays, may have felt so, as
he poured out his song.

Philip bent his face to hers whispering, "My dearest, sweetest, Mary
. . . My darling one . . . I won't let you go . . . You can't make me
. . . Kiss me, Mary."

She returned his kisses.

"There'll be a moon tonight, Mary," he said. "We'll go out in the
moonlight together."

"No." She put her hands on his chest and would have pushed him from her
but he would not let her go.

For an enchanted moment they were as still as though turned to stone.
Then Philip was roused by clumping steps on the orchard path. He
released her and they saw a farm labourer, Noah Binns, drawing near, his
dinner pail swinging in his hand, his pleased grin showing black and
broken teeth, though he was still young.

Noah Binns' little pig's eyes were fixed on them in curiosity but, to
show that his mind was occupied by other affairs, he remarked:

"Bugs is breedin'."

"Bugs! What bugs?" asked Philip.

"Tater bugs. Where there was one, there's ten."

He clumped on.

Mary and Philip stood looking after him. Their moment was broken. They
didn't know what to say. Then Mary gave a little laugh. "What a strange
creature! Every time I meet him he says something about bugs or worms or
rot or decay." She laughed nervously.

"He enjoys thinking of life like that . . . He saw us, Mary."

"Does that mean he'll tell?"

"Of course. But it doesn't matter."

"It matters terribly to me, as I'm going to be married so soon. People
will talk. But I needn't mind. I'm going far away."

"Mary, are you being deliberately cruel?"

"I'm trying to put this afternoon behind me."

"You can't! No more than I can. It would be there between you and Clive,
if you were to marry him . . . But you can't marry him . . . It wouldn't
be fair to him, Mary, loving me as you do."

She had turned her face away from him but now she looked into his eyes.
"What has just passed," she said, "was only a little moment in our
lives."

"It has made everything different," he said, "I knew I loved you
but--now I know you love me."

"You loved me!" she cried. "Then why in God's name didn't you say so?"

"I was a fool . . . I was willing to drift along."

"Now it's too late."

"Mary," he took her hand and drew her back into the shed where the air
was heavy with the smell of apples. "Let's talk this over. It's not too
late. No one can keep us apart."

She suffered herself to be led. Her eyes were wide and shining with
tears. They were tears of pity for him and for herself. Each one was the
haven the other had sought. What was either but a fragile being whose
life might, at any moment, be engulfed? She raised her face to his and
put her arms about his neck.

And, though, at the moment there was no strength in her, power from her
passed through him like a flame. He felt capable of sweeping her up in
his arms, away from the very face of the earth. He kissed her hands, the
little hollow of her throat, her lips.

"Now let me go," she said, and he did not restrain her.

She followed the orchard path, crossed the field where the old pear tree
stood whose fruit now shone like gold. The windows of the house shone
too, flaming in the sunset. But, as she drew near it, the sun sank
behind the pine wood and the house stood in chill twilight. She met no
one in the passages. The sound of Nicholas' playing on the piano came
from the drawing-room. Mary went straight to her own room.




                                  XVI
                                THE STORM


Noah Binns plodded on. His boots had so many times been wet through and
dried in the oven that they no longer seemed to be made of leather but
of some rough and corrugated wood. Their toes turned stiffly upward,
their laces dangled as he clumped over the road. Every now and again he
gave out a "_Whew_" of relish.

He saw Lily Pink coming toward him along the quiet road. She carried a
bottle of blackberry cordial, a present from her mother to Adeline
Whiteoak. She smiled gently at Noah Binns and enquired about his
mother's rheumatism.

"It's no better, thank you, and it'll get worse, as I keep a'tellin'
her."

"But that's not a cheerful way to talk to her. My father says you should
always comfort a sick person."

"That's your father's business, Miss, to comfort the sick and bury the
dead. He's paid for it. I'm not."

Lily looked at him blankly, unable to find anything to say.

"Would you be going in the direction of Jalna?" he asked.

"Yes." She answered coldly. What business was it of his?

"Then, Miss, I advise you to keep away from the apple-packin' shed."

"Why!"

Noah shook his dinner pail up and down, listening to the rattle of the
tin cup inside, as though the sound afforded him sensuous pleasure. Then
he answered, "There's love-makin' goin' on by the shed."

Lily drew back from him in horror.

"What--why--" she stammered.

He grinned at her discomposure. "Don't mind--don't mind--it's all over,
I guess. I guess you'd be safe goin' that way now."

She stood fascinated.

Noah went on, "I guess the boss has a right to make love to the
governess, or whatever they call her, if he wants to, but she's been
traipsin' through these woods steady with that there Mr. Busby, hasn't
she?"

"I don't know," answered Lily, fiercely. She left him and hurried in the
direction of Jalna but took the path outside the orchard.

Noah Binns looked after her reflectively. "Dang it all," he said to
himself, "what's she fussed up about? I've got a right to say what I
saw, haven't I? If she'd seen the bugs I have, she might get fussed up.
_Ten_ where there was one!"

Lily stood in the porch waiting. She had not allowed herself to think,
after she had left Noah Binns, for fear she would not have the courage
to go on. Now she stood clutching the bottle of blackberry cordial as
pink-cheeked Eliza opened the door.

"Mother sent this," she said, "please give it to Mrs. Whiteoak."

"Is that Lily Pink?" called Adeline's voice from inside.

"Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak." Eliza drew back and Lily stepped into the hall.

"Come into my room. I want to see you."

Lily went down the hall to Adeline's room. The door was open and she was
seated before her dressing-table. She had on a wide flounced cambric
petticoat, with rows of lace insertion, and a many-gored low-cut "corset
cover". So, all in white, with her hair down and shoulders bare, she had
a festive air about her. Boney was perched on the head of the bed. When
he saw Lily he opened his beak and screamed, yet with a jocular air:

"_Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Shaitan ka butcka!_"

"Shall I come in?" asked Lily. "Will he mind?"

"No. He'll not mind. Come right in. My, what a good colour you've got! I
like to see a young girl with a bright complexion. One doesn't often see
it in this country. Ireland's the place for that. Look at our little
Renny. He's peaches and cream. But what will he be in twenty years?
Weatherbeaten. What's that you have in the bottle?"

"Blackberry cordial. Mother sent it. It's good to have when winter comes
and there are coughs about."

Adeline was delighted. She took off the white napkin that wrapped the
bottle, held the bottle to the light to admire the colour of the
cordial, uncorked it and savoured a sip.

She smacked her lips. "Ha, that's good. There's nothing better for the
throat. Thank your mother a thousand times . . . And now I have
something for you."

From a drawer of her dressing-table she produced a small blue velvet box
and from it a gold thimble.

"Now give me your hand." She took Lily's right hand and placed the
thimble on its middle finger. "It was given me by my godmother when I
was just your age."

"But Mrs. Whiteoak, you shouldn't part with it!"

"Ah, I've never been one to sew much. I used to do embroidery when I was
young. But now my bit of mending is all I trouble about and a silver
thimble is good enough for that."

Lily's face glowed. She threw both arms about Adeline's neck and hugged
her. She murmured incoherent thanks. Then suddenly she broke down and
clung to her shaken by sobs.

"Well, well, well, now--whatever is the matter with you, Lily?"

She clasped the girl close, her bare arms enfolding her, her body giving
off a pleasant scent of Windsor soap, her starched petticoat crackling.

"I don't know." But she went on sobbing.

Adeline patted her back. "Tut, tut, now, that's enough. You're not into
any sort of trouble at home, are you?"

"Oh, no."

"Lily . . . It's no love affair, is it?"

"No!" she cried hoarsely.

"Then, in God's name, what is it?"

"It's . . . it's that governess. Mary Wakefield."

Adeline held her closer. "Whisper to me. What is it she's done?"

"She's bad! That's what she is! Bad."

"What do you know, my dear? Come, we'll just sit here quietly on my bed
and you'll tell me."

Lily stumbled to the bed and sat down leaning heavily against Adeline.

Out of her distorted mouth she sobbed, "I wish I hadn't said anything."

"Ah, but 'twas right that you should. It will do you good to clear your
mind of what's troubling you. Besides, Miss Wakefield lives in my house
and teaches my two innocent grandchildren. It's my right to know what
she's up to."

Lily sat up and wiped her eyes with the hand on which the gold thimble
still shone.

"It's a shame," she said, "that I should go on like this just after
having such a lovely present given me." Through blurred eyes she
examined the thimble.

"Come, come," Adeline was growing impatient, "what's all this about,
Lily?"

"Mrs. Whiteoak, _she's_ engaged to Clive Busby, isn't she?"

Adeline's brows shot up. "Well--and who told you that?"

"Oh, I know it's a secret. But Clive told Violet Lacey. He made her
promise not to breathe a word of it but he was so happy he couldn't help
telling her."

"And she told you?"

"Yes, and I promised not to tell and I haven't except to you and I guess
you know already."

"I do. Now, what has she done?"

"I don't know . . . I really don't . . . But as I was coming here just
now I met Noah Binns and he told me, with a _hateful_ smile, not to come
past the shed where they keep the barrels and crates at the far end of
the orchard and naturally I asked why and he said--oh, I can't repeat
it!"

"Now Lily, don't be silly. Go on."

"He said not to come past that place because there was _love-making_
going on there. He said it was Mr. Whiteoak and Mary Wakefield. I don't
know what he meant, do you?" Lily's eyes were avidly bright, as they
looked into Adeline's.

Adeline smiled. "Noah Binns' sort have nasty minds. You mustn't listen
to them, Lily. As for my son--he knows of the engagement and he's as
pleased as I am. He was probably making arrangements with her about the
children. Is that all Noah said?"

"He said she'd been _traipsing_ through the woods with Clive and now she
was in the orchard making love to Mr. Whiteoak. It was the way he said
it. He _leered_."

"Ah, well, he's a nasty fellow and I think I'll have a word with him.
Now you run along, my dear . . ." She talked to Lily of other things.

When the door had shut behind her, Adeline stood motionless for a space,
a very different person from the comforting, kindly woman who had kissed
the girl good-bye. Her brows were drawn in a black frown, her lips
compressed.

"So . . . that's what's she's like," she thought. "A bitch--a wanton!
Just what I thought that night I caught her dancing like a _fille de
joie_ with my Philip. She's got the two of them on strings--young fools
that they are! And she's had me on a string--old fool that I am!" Then
she said aloud, but softly, "What's to be done?"

Her anger at the thought that Mary had deceived her burned even more
hotly than the thought of her playing with the two men. She wondered how
she could face her calmly at the supper table. But perhaps that silly
girl, Lily, had worked herself up over nothing. Yet why had Noah Binns
warned Lily not to go through the orchard? Why had he leered? Adeline
had never seen so much as a half-smile on his face. And he seemed a
decent fellow. Mr. Pink thought well of him. If only it had been she who
had met him instead of Lily!

Mary did not appear at the supper table. She had complained of a
headache, Eliza said.

Emotion made Adeline hungry. Never had cold lamb, thick slices of dark
red tomatoes with plenty of vinegar and sugar on them, tasted better.
All the while she was seething inside. Her daughter and her two elder
sons were conscious of this and expected an explosion at any moment. But
none came. She finished the meal as she had begun it, in affable
description of her visit with Maggie Rutherford. It gave opportunity for
her power of mimicry and lively wit.

It was a wonder she could be lively with Philip facing her from the
other end of the table in sombre silence. After supper she played
backgammon with Sir Edwin. At the usual time she said good night to her
family with the exception of Philip who had taken the dogs for a walk,
and retired to her room. Philip had sent a message to Mary by Meg saying
he wished to see her. The child had returned with word that Mary was not
well and was lying down and would it be all right if she saw him in the
morning. "And she really does look ill, Papa," Meg had said, feeling
something in the air. Philip had muttered, "Very well, Meggie. Tell Miss
Wakefield I'll see her the first thing in the morning." He felt baffled.
For a moment he had a mind to go to her, but, with family and children
about, how could they two have privacy? He would have to wait till
morning. But it was now that he wanted her with him. Now, out in the
moonlight, he'd make her forget the very existence of Clive Busby.

He could not bear to be near the house or even in his own woods. He
turned through the gate to the road that led to the lake. The moon was
just past its first quarter but capable of throwing distinct black
shadows on the silent road. In all of the two miles he met no vehicle
but, in a field, two horses came and looked at him over the fence. The
three spaniels and the fox terrier trotted continuously on and off the
road, in and out of ditches, snuffed at the openings into burrows,
flattened themselves to get under fences into fields, where they ran
about with noses to the ground, but always reappeared. There was no need
to whistle to them. They would not lose him. They were too joyous in his
return.

He passed through a lane, followed a path winding among scrubby cedars
and alders and was on the beach. The lake spread cold and tranquil,
reflecting the moon. The shingle crunched beneath his feet, and then
came the sand at the water's edge. Wavelets, rimmed with silver, spent
themselves soundlessly on the beach. The dogs came to the water's edge
and drank as though in great thirst, letting their forepaws get wet. The
fox terrier shivered but he would not stop drinking till the spaniels
did.

Philip thought of the countless times he had come to this spot, of how
the countryside round about was as familiar to him as the face of one of
his family. His brothers had gone away, his sister too, but this was
where he wanted to be. This was his life. In this place he had grown up,
married, begotten his children, lived his short married life and now
loved . . . If only Mary were with him by the lake! He would pour out
all his new-found love on her--not in words, but he would make her feel
it, in the very touch of his hand, in the beat of his heart, in his
breast against hers. The air moved cool on his forehead. He raised his
face to it and walked along the lake's rim. If only she were here! No
matter how many years they might have together he always would regret
this night--the night when they should have walked together by the lake,
the night when they should have watched the moon sink into the gleaming
water, have walked, with fingers interlocked, along the beach. Was she
really ill? Yes, he believed so, otherwise she could not have denied him
this night. But a night's rest would make her well and tomorrow he would
settle everything--with his mother--with Clive. His mother--he smiled
wryly when he thought of her. He did not feel as angry at her as he had,
but he would show her who was master of Jalna.

Adeline remained in her room reading till she heard Philip put the dogs
to bed and mount the stairs. Then she went into the hall and stood
there, her fingers resting lovingly on the carved grapes of the newel
post till she heard his windows opened for the night. Then she went up
the stairs and stood in the passage till the pencil of light under his
door was gone. She stood very still now, close to his door, listening
intently. She heard his steady regular breathing. She went up the stairs
to the top floor.

Very lightly she tapped on Mary's door. There was a light inside.

Mary's voice came from close to the panel. "Yes? Who is there?"

Adeline thought, "She's expecting Philip." She said, "May I speak to you
for a moment, Miss Wakefield?"

The door was instantly opened and Mary stood there, white-faced,
defensive, scarcely seeming to breathe.

"Thank you." Adeline came into the room and closed the door behind her.

They stood, tall women, eye to eye, in long white nightdresses, up to
the throat, down to the wrist, Adeline's elaborately tucked. About her
shoulders she had a brilliantly coloured oriental shawl. Her hair which
she had been brushing hung loose about her neck and down her back. She
was a superb and deliberately picturesque figure.

Mary's hair hung in a single plait, she was barefoot.

"Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak?" She found herself trembling like a leaf, already
intimidated.

"I want to know," Adeline said, "what you mean by playing fast and loose
with young Busby."

"I'm not playing fast and loose with him. I mean to marry him."

Adeline laughed. "You mean to marry him and yet you were in the arms of
my son this very afternoon. Kissing him. Now I have the right to know
what this means."

"It doesn't--I wasn't--"

"Don't be a fool," interrupted Adeline harshly. "You were seen by one of
the men--everyone knows it by now. Why, within half an hour the tale was
carried to me. I've suspected from the first that you were no better
than you should be. But carrying on with two men at the same time--one,
the son of my friend--one, my own son! Good God, do you imagine you can
pull the wool over everybody's eyes? What _are_ you trying to do? That's
what I want to know."

Mary backed away from her. Her brain would not act. It was in a whirl.
She could find no words in which to explain.

"Do you imagine Clive Busby will marry you after this?"

"I don't know," Mary answered, in a strangled voice.

"Perhaps you think Philip will marry you! Not he. He's had enough of
marriage. Are you his mistress?"

The question was shot at her like a blow.

"Are you his mistress?" repeated Adeline. "Come--how often has he been
up to your room?"

Mary put her hand to her throat. She wanted to scream. She was alone!
She had no weapons. The figures of Clive and Philip loomed like enormous
shadows in the room, Clive looking at her with hate, Philip . . .

"He has been up to your room, at night, hasn't he?"

"Will you let me alone!" cried Mary.

"I want an answer. _Are you Philip's mistress?_"

Mary's fear, her hysteria, turned to rage.

"Yes," she answered, in rage, "I am."

Adeline's jaw dropped. She had not expected any such confession. For a
moment she was too astounded to speak. She looked at Mary as though
seeing her for the first time.

Mary's trembling ceased. She stood exhilarated, like an actress taking a
triumphant curtain call.

"And do you expect," Adeline asked quietly, "to marry Clive after this?"

"I will not tell you anything more. What I am going to do is my own
affair." She still looked exhilarated, triumphant.

She swept, her nightdress flowing, past Adeline, to the door and threw
it open.

"Will you please go, Mrs. Whiteoak?" she said.

"I will not leave you till we've talked this thing out." Adeline
melodramatically folded her arms.

"Go! I tell you!" Mary shouted. Her restraint was ebbing. She would have
the household awake, Adeline thought.

"Very well," she said, "I will go but let me tell you this--so far you
have called the tune, tomorrow you will pay the piper." In the doorway
she turned and added, "It was a bad day for Jalna when a hardened
adventuress like you came on the scene, but--there will be a reckoning
tomorrow."

Mary shut the door behind Adeline with a bang that sounded loudly
through the silent house. Adeline expected the family would be
disturbed, that Ernest, at least, being the most highly strung, would
appear from his room. But Ernest was far away in London, dreaming of
speculations, the dazzling success of which outstripped anything he had
formerly achieved.

Adeline slowly descended the stairs. The house was very dark. She was
glad when she reached her own room where the night light threw Boney's
sleeping shadow on the wall. But her coming woke him. He flew straight
to her shoulder, rumpling himself in pleasure, and, in his foreign
lingo, called her Pearl of the harem. She sat down by the table on which
was a photograph of her husband in a velvet frame, and with an elbow on
the table and her chin in her palm she sat, lost in thought, for a long
time. Never had she been more mistaken in anyone than in Mary
Wakefield--Mary, with that die-away look, those large appealing eyes, to
have behaved like this!

To have faced her with a look that was almost intimidating--to have
ordered her from the room! A smile of ironic admiration bent Adeline's
lips.

"It was little sleep I had last night," was her greeting to Augusta next
morning.

"I'm sorry for that, Mamma. You generally sleep so well."

"I don't complain, but many a wakeful night I've had, worrying over my
children. You and Edwin did well, Augusta, whether intentionally or from
lack of ability, not to have any."

"Is it anything special, Mamma? Will you care to tell me?"

"It is enough to scandalize the countryside. Are the children with Mary
Wakefield?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"As soon as I've had a little food to stay me, I want to see Philip."

"Alone, Mamma?"

"No. I want you all to be there. Tell Philip to be waiting in the
library."

The children were not with Mary. They had wakened at the usual time,
been the first to have breakfast, a meal which Mary almost invariably
shared with them. Now, this morning, being free of restraint, they had
wild spirits; Renny, although the smaller, able to run faster, leading
the way, Meg panting close behind, her light brown mane flying. They
were off to the pig-sty to see a new family of piglets, pink and clean,
squirming beside the protective bulk of their mother.

Philip discovered them there, long past lesson time, and sent them back
to the house. Up the two flights of stairs they ran, and, on tiptoe,
went into the schoolroom. Mary was not there. The door of her bedroom
was shut.

"Her headache's worse," giggled Meg. "She's going to stay in bed."

"Hurrah!"

"We shall have the day off."

"Hurrah!"

"Let's sneak out of the house, down into the ravine, over the bridge,
through the woods, pretending we're Indians."

"Hurrah!"

"We'll go to the Vaughans. Mrs. Vaughan bought six baskets of peaches
yesterday, I heard her say."

"They're putting a ring in a boar's nose! Hodge told me. Let's run. We
may be in time."

They were gone and no one saw them go.

When Adeline had had her third cup of tea she rose and sailed
majestically toward the sitting-room. She seated herself in a
high-backed chair, the light from the window full in her face. She could
see the wild clouds of the Equinox already gathering to obscure the sun.
One cloud sent down a scatter of glittering raindrops and then moved
away.

Nicholas came into the room with his tolerant look of a man-of-the-world
that said nothing that might happen could surprise or upset him.

"Good morning, Mamma," he said, kissing the top of her head, "you slept
late this morning."

"I did and no wonder, for I lay awake half the night worrying about the
goings on in this house."

Nicholas blew out his cheeks. "Well, Gussie told me something was
troubling you. Let's hope it isn't serious."

"Should I be lying awake if it weren't serious?"

"Of course not. Will you tell me what the trouble is?"

"Wait till we all are here. Where are the others? Why don't they come?"

"They're coming."

Augusta, Sir Edwin and Ernest now entered the room. Augusta seated
herself on the sofa. Ernest, after greeting his mother, sat down beside
Augusta. Sir Edwin stood hesitating.

"Perhaps," he said, "I had better not intrude."

"It will be no intrusion," returned his mother-in-law. "I want you."

"I am sure," said Augusta, "that, if advice on any delicate matter is
needed, yours will be most valuable."

"This matter," Adeline said decisively, "is not delicate."

"Has this matter to do with Philip?" asked Ernest.

"It has."

"And Miss Wakefield?"

"Yes."

"Dear me."

Augusta put in, "Perhaps, after all, Edwin had better go."

Adeline gave her sudden mordant grin. "It's never too late to learn,"
she said.

"How true that is," exclaimed Ernest. "Only a few years ago I knew
practically nothing of the Stock Market. Now I have, you might say, its
intricacies at my fingertips." He placed the tips of his delicate
fingers together and smiled complacently.

His family looked at him with respect.

"_Where_ is Philip?" demanded Adeline. "Ernest, do go and find him."

"I hope he is in a better temper than he was last night," said Nicholas.

Philip's voice came from the hall. "Anybody calling me?"

"I think you had my message," answered Adeline.

He stood in the doorway. He said, "What's all this about?" He looked his
usual good-tempered self.

"Sit down, sit down, my dear," said his mother. "We want a few
explanations from you."

Sir Edwin flushed. "Not I. Really not I, Philip."

Philip gave a short laugh. He sat down just inside the door.

"Well, after all," thought Sir Edwin, "it's his house. He has a right to
do as he likes in it."

Jake came in and sat between Philip's feet.

Adeline clutched her chin in her hand as a man might clutch his beard.
She regarded Philip in silence for a space and then asked, "Tell me,
Philip, have you considered Miss Wakefield to be a young woman of a
character you were willing to entrust your children to?"

The good humour left his face. He frowned.

"I certainly have."

"Shut the door, Philip."

He put out his hand and shut the door.

"Yet," she went on, "that girl became engaged to Clive Busby who is as
fine a young fellow as I know, and, while preparing for her marriage to
him, allowed you to go right on making love to her."

"I've scarcely spoken to her in these weeks. There's been nothing
between us."

"No? What about your meeting in the orchard last evening?"

"Did Noah Binns come and tell you that?"

"No. He told Lily Pink and she told me."

"Little fool."

"You don't deny that there was a passionate love scene between you?"

"Noah Binns! Passion! You make me laugh. I thought his mind rose no
higher than bugs and blight."

Adeline fastened on the last word. "Blight! That's what she's been. A
blight on this place. She is to marry Clive Busby next week. Yet she
clasps you in her arms and----"

"Come now," he interrupted, "don't tell me that Noah went into details!
Or perhaps it was Lily."

Adeline raised her voice, her eyes blazed into his.

"Don't try to be funny over this, Philip. I won't have it. And I don't
need Noah Binns to tell me what that woman is to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that she is your mistress."

"That's a lie!" he shouted.

Adeline sprang to her feet. "Do you dare tell me I lie?"

He answered more quietly, "It's malicious gossip, whoever is responsible
for it. Mary is as virtuous as any girl living."

"I repeat," said Adeline, "that she is your mistress." She held up her
hand, in a peremptory gesture. "She told me so herself."

A shock of consternation went through the room. Ernest rose and took a
step forward, as though he would put himself between his mother and
Philip who had turned startlingly pale. Nicholas tugged at his
moustache, to hide the sardonic smile that hardened his lips. Augusta's
sallow face flushed deeply. Sir Edwin nibbled at some inaudible words.
He took out his watch and looked at the time. Time for a row, he nibbled
inaudibly, time for a row.

"Mother," said Philip, his voice trembling, "can you look me in the face
and tell me that?"

"I can. I went up to her room last night."

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"I wanted to give her a chance to defend herself."

"When was this? Where was I?"

"In bed. As I say I went up to her room----"

"Poor little thing!" exclaimed Philip.

"Don't worry about her. She can look after herself. She's an adventuress
with a past behind her. Now--don't interrupt . . . I asked her, quite
simply, what she meant by preparing to marry young Busby and at the same
time carrying on a love affair with you. She had nothing to say for
herself. Then I asked her, plump and plain, if she was your mistress.
She wouldn't answer. Then I said, "He's been up to your room at night,
hasn't he? And she said 'Yes.'"

"She didn't understand you," cried Philip.

Adeline's flexible lips curled in scorn. "Not understand _me_! Do I
generally make myself clear? She understood me well enough. I repeated,
'Are you his mistress?' Oh, she understood! You might as well try to
paint a blackamoor white as to make her out virtuous."

"She could not have understood you," he repeated doggedly.

"Bring her down! I'd like to hear her deny it."

"I will, by God!"

He flung open the door and leaped up the stairs, two steps at a time.
Jake, thinking this was some new game, ran after him joyously barking.
They could be heard ascending the second flight of stairs. Then nothing
more could be heard.

"I should like," observed Sir Edwin, "to know what they are saying up
there."

"You are much better not knowing," said his wife.

"It was I," said Ernest, "who brought this trouble on us, and I'm very
sorry about it. I never was more deceived in my life. The next time a
governess is engaged, somebody else can choose her."

"What astounds me," said Nicholas, "is that she'd be so brazen. Tell the
truth, Mamma, weren't you surprised?"

"I was indeed."

"What do you say she'll do now?"

"Philip's coming!"

All faces turned expectantly toward the door.

Philip was alone. Augusta and Ernest looked relieved; Adeline, Nicholas
and Sir Edwin disappointed.

"She's not there," said Philip quickly. "She's gone!"

"She's out with the children," suggested Ernest.

"She's gone, I tell you! Her trunk is packed. Her portmanteau gone. The
bed hasn't been slept in."

"Eliza has made the bed," said Augusta.

"No. She was up there and I asked her. She said the room was just as it
is now when she went into it." He turned to Adeline. "You have driven
Mary away. God only knows what you have shocked her into doing." His
eyes were tragic. In his excitement he had run his hand through his
hair. Standing erect it added to his distraught appearance.

Adeline laughed derisively. "Me shock her? Ah, my dear, she's not so
easily shocked. She can look out for herself. But brazen as she is, she
could not face us this morning after what she told me last night."

"I tell you she didn't know what she was saying!"

"Have sense, Philip," Nicholas put in tersely. "Mary Wakefield is no
ignorant schoolgirl."

"Indeed," added Sir Edwin, "she seems to be a woman of strong
character."

"I was taught," said Augusta, "to look on such a character as frail."

"Now then, Philip," Adeline spoke with an air of finality, "it's time to
put this nonsense out of your head. I have no doubt that you are not the
first with Mary Wakefield. Nor will you be the last . . ."

"I will not hear another word against her," he shouted. "And if you
won't believe her, perhaps you'll believe me. I have never been to bed
with her. I swear it--though I despise myself for going to the trouble
of denying what anyone who knows Mary . . ." He could not go on. He
stood, with his hands clenched, glaring at them.

"But surely," said Ernest, "no girl would knowingly damage her own
character."

"She did know," declared Adeline. "She knew exactly what I said and what
she said."

"Then she is deranged," said Philip.

"Perhaps her derangement is just love for you," suggested Nicholas, "and
disappointment because she isn't getting you."

"She is getting me! Make no mistake about that. I'm going now to find
her and I'm going to marry her."

"You fool," cried Adeline, "you would marry a girl who will have no rag
of reputation left after this!"

In the hall Renny began to sing, in his penetrating treble voice, the
new song he had just learned from a stableman.

                         "'Ta ra ra boom de-ay
                         Ta ra ra boom de-ay'"

Adeline called him and he appeared, red-cheeked, red-haired, brown-eyed,
brown-jacketed, as in autumn colouring. He had forgotten he had run away
but now he remembered and stood rigid.

"Have you seen your governess this morning?" asked Adeline.

"No, Grannie. She's sick."

"How do you know?"

"She didn't come out of her room?"

"And you haven't heard anything about her?"

"No. I haven't."

"Very well. Run along now."

His brow cleared. He relaxed and ran out singing:

                         "'Ta ra ra boom de-ay
                         Ta ra ra boom de-ay'"




                                  XVII
                                 ESCAPE


With her ear to the panel of the door Mary could hear that Adeline was
descending the stairs. She listened for a moment, even after all was
silent. Then she came back and stood facing her reflection in the
mirror. It was as though she looked at a stranger. A different Mary was
looking out at her, a Mary with dilated nostrils and bold, defiant eyes.
A stranger. She laughed at her own reflection in triumph. I had the best
of Mrs. Whiteoak, she thought, she was dumbfounded, she didn't know what
to say. I had the best of her.

She began to pace up and down the room, unable to think clearly, except
for that one thought--I had the best of her. She came up here to
humiliate me, to accuse me, but I took the wind out of her sails. She
thought she'd frighten me but I was equal to her! Those eyes of hers
that seem to blaze into yours--but she found mine could blaze back.
Never in my life had I such a moment. It was like something on the
stage, only they'd never dare put such a scene on the stage--a girl
declaring she was loose, when she was--just the reverse! It would upset
all ideas of morality. It would be shameful. People would say what a
horrible play. And no wonder! I am a horrible woman . . . Yet I don't
mind . . . I don't care . . . All that matters to me is that I got the
best of her. I did not allow myself to be intimidated. Every single bit
of her has been intimidating to me--the way her eyes are set in her
head, the way she uses her hands. There's been something fatal in her
for me. But tonight she must have felt stunned . . . She must be
wondering at this minute what on earth to do. She must be wondering what
I am going to do. That girl, she'll think, can never marry Clive now!
What if she intends to marry my Philip?

Philip. His name was like a cold hand laid on her heart. Her exalted
brain halted in its imaginings. Her taut nerves slackened. Suddenly her
legs felt weak and she sat down on the bed. She stared blankly in front
of her. She did not know how long a time passed, but she began to be
very cold. Her mouth felt unbearably dry yet she could not bring herself
to the point of getting a drink. She sat like one doomed, while his name
rang like a bell through the empty chambers of her mind.

After a while a few scalding tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away
on the frilled cuff of her nightdress. But they freed her from the
weakness, the lethargy, that had overtaken her. She looked about the
room, noticing the strange shadows thrown by the lamplight. She noticed
the worn spot in the carpet in front of the dressing-table. She noticed
the wax flowers and fruit under glass on the mantelshelf. She looked
down and saw her bare feet, side by side, close together, on the mat by
the bed. They looked very white, and somehow pathetic. They will carry
me, she thought, far away from this house, as they brought me to it
. . . For now the knowledge that she was going away came clearly to her.
In the morning Mrs. Whiteoak would tell Philip what she had said. Never
again could she look him in the face after the preposterous lie she had
told.

Now she went to the washstand and filled a glass from the water bottle.
The coldness of the water showed how the nights were becoming cold. She
drank it down thirstily. Then she took the folded "comforter" from the
foot of the bed, wrapped it round her and sat down, this time drawing
her feet up. She clasped them in her hands. It was hard to know which
was coldest, hands or feet, but they comforted each other.

She must think what to do.

Now she could think. The exhilaration of her encounter with Adeline was
gone, the exhaustion which followed it, was gone. She could think
clearly with a part of her mind. In its recesses there still was a dark
turmoil of emotion.

Should she go to Clive, tell him everything? Would she be able to
convince him that what she had said to Adeline was a lie? And if she
could, would he be willing to marry a girl to whom such a lie would
occur? But she did not want to marry Clive! She would die rather than
tell Clive what she had done. She would die rather than marry him when
she loved Philip with her whole being. Now that Philip had touched the
torch of her love for him into full flame she wondered that she ever had
contemplated marrying Clive . . . Yet, if Clive would be disgusted if he
knew what she had said in her anger, what would be Philip's contempt!
Philip who had told her he loved her, had kissed her in the orchard, had
begged her to walk with him in the moonlight. They would not understand,
and how could they when she herself did not understand? Even sitting on
her bed, wrapped in the comforter, with the chill dawn greying the
window, the thought of that moment when she had taken the wind out of
Adeline's sails made her pulses thrill in renewed exhilaration. How
those dark eyes whose fire she had found so hard to face, had stared in
blank astonishment! How that mouth, with the strong lines about it, had
dropped open! At the recollection Mary laughed, even though she knew
that in that moment she had ruined her life.

She thought of the words people used in speaking of a girl who had been
seduced. "He ruined her." Well--it could be said of her that she ruined
herself. Mary's laugh was fixed in an ironic smile which made her pale
face oddly older.

One thing was certain. She must leave Jalna. The thought of meeting
Philip, the thought of facing the family, was not to be borne. So acute
was the stab of this thought that she sprang up and began to put on her
clothes. She did not know where she might go. There would be time to
make plans when she was safely outside the gate. Standing in her
petticoat she poured water from the ewer into the basin. She had always
liked this basin with its big red roses shining under the clear water.
The water came from a cistern and was soft, as though just fallen from
the clouds. She dashed it on her face, pressed it to her burning eyes.
The large linen towel smelt of the outdoors.

She packed her trunk, strapped it, packed things for immediate use in
her portmanteau, then put on her hat and coat. She was now breathless
with haste. The sun was touching the tree tops. At any moment the
servants would be astir, the dogs barking to see her set out. She must
not be seen.

She took a last look round to make sure she had forgotten nothing. This
room, so stamped by her emotions, could it ever be the same again?
Surely, in far-off years, someone lying in that bed would be conscious
of the shadow of Mary Wakefield.

Carrying her portmanteau she crept down the stairs.

Outside Philip's door she hesitated, her heart seeming to halt its beat
while she willed a last message through the panel . . . "I love you,
Philip, and never shall love any man but you. Good-bye, my dearest
love."

She stole down the stairs.

The front door stood wide open and the incomparable sweetness of the
September morning poured into the hall. She was not the first member of
the household to be about! She heard Mrs. Nettleship's harsh voice in
the kitchen below singing a hymn--"Pull for the Shore, brothers, pull
for the Shore," she sang in quavering appeal. Jake's acute ear
discovered Mary's soft step in the hall. He scratched at the door of the
dogs' room and whined. In panic she hastened through the door and down
the steps. She did not look back till she was safe behind the heavy
branches of the evergreens that made the driveway a tunnel of greenness.
Then between the branches she looked back at the house. Bluish-grey
smoke curled straight up from two of its five chimneys. Where the sun
struck warmest on the roof the pigeons had gathered, bowing to each
other, making rich confidential noises in their throats, their
iridescent breasts gleaming. Now that many leaves of the Virginia
creeper had fallen the pinkish red of the brick was shown. The house,
now forty years old, was like a comfortable fresh-complexioned matron in
early middle age. It looked serene, complacent, confident of the
beneficence of the future.

She turned away and trudged down the drive. Strangely enough her
thoughts were not fixed on Philip but on Adeline. Since their interview
of the night before Adeline's image was so imprinted on her
consciousness that she wondered if ever again it could be erased. If I
were a sculptor, she thought, I could do a head of her from memory. Her
nostrils, her eyelids, her lips, are clearer to me than my own. The
worst of hating her is that something in me has always been drawn to
her. But, what matter, for I shall never see her again? Or pass through
this gate again, or see his face again.

The portmanteau was heavier than she had expected. It kept thudding
against her leg as she walked. She shifted it from hand to hand. The
distance to the railway station was little more than a mile, however.
She knew there was an early morning train to Montreal. She would take
that train and, in Montreal, find some employment, no matter what, and
through it save enough to return to England. She might get the passage
paid in return for caring for an invalid or children. The one clear
purpose in her mind was to go far away from this place. I would starve,
she thought, rather than meet any of them again.

She heard the sound of a horse's hoofs on the road and stepped aside to
let it pass. As it drew close she saw that the man in the buggy was
Doctor Ramsey. He drew in his horse and stared down at her in surprise.

"Good morning, Miss Wakefield," he said, "this is a surprise, meeting
you abroad so airly. And your portmanteau too! Are you off for a
holiday?"

"Yes," she returned, "I'm catching the train."

"And they let you come afoot! And carrying that heavy load. Come, I'll
take you to the station." He began to tie the reins to the dashboard.
"Just a wee minute and I'll have you and your baggage in the buggy."

"No--no, thank you. The rest of the walk is nothing. I'd--I'd rather
walk. I like it."

Doctor Ramsey had heard too many women tell too many lies to be taken in
by this.

"What's wrong, Miss Wakefield?" he asked, his shrewd, good-looking face
alight with curiosity. "This is no ordinary holiday you are on, I'm sure
of that."

Whatever she said he would go to Jalna and repeat, she was sure of that.
She said:

"If you must know, Doctor Ramsey, I'm giving up my situation. I'm
returning to England."

"Well, this is a surprise. I think I know a certain young man who will
be heart-broken."

"No one will be heart-broken, Doctor Ramsey." For an instant a terrible
temptation to burst into tears assailed her. To cry out, through her
tears, "No one but me! No one but me!" But she controlled herself and
looked straight into his eyes. "I'd much rather walk," she said.
"Good-bye." She stretched out her hand to shake his.

His hand caught hers in a strong bony grip, a grip to give confidence.
Mary felt that, if once he got her into that buggy, he would have the
truth out of her.

She made her pale lips smile. "Good-bye," she repeated. "And please give
my love to the children."

"I'd insist," he said, "but I'm on an urgent call to a lying-in case.
Good-bye, Miss Wakefield, and good luck to you."

Nothing but the urgency of his call dragged him away from Mary and his
desire to drive straight to Jalna and find out what all this was about.
With set lips he turned toward duty. He gave his old mare a touch with
the whip and it ambled on.

Mary passed the two shops and the few houses of the tiny village. The
road into it was guarded by two rows of the noblest oaks and pines in
the province. Mary looked up into their massive branches and remembered
Mrs. Whiteoak's possessive pride in them. "One would think she owned the
earth the way she looks and acts."

There were the railway tracks to be crossed, the harsh cinders gritting
beneath her feet, the high platform to be mounted. She was beginning to
be in a panic for fear she would miss the train. The stationmaster
looked out of the wicket through steel-rimmed spectacles. Mary asked for
a ticket to Montreal.

"Was you goin' today?"

"Yes. On this morning's train. Is it late?"

"Late! It's gone. Ten minutes ago. Didn't you hear it whistle?"

"Oh--no, I didn't hear the whistle."

It must have passed through while she was talking to Doctor Ramsey. She
was filled with dismay. She sat down on a seat in the waiting-room, the
portmanteau at her feet. For a time she could not decide what to do. If
only she had let the doctor drive her to the station, she would now be
miles and miles away. I always seem to do the wrong thing, she thought.
If there were nineteen right ways and one wrong, I should choose the
wrong. From behind the wicket came the steady ticking of the telegraph.

She went out of the station, closing the door softly so that she might
not be heard, recrossed the tracks and set out toward the lakeshore
road. She remembered that it was only about six miles to Stead, the next
village. She would go there, where there was a good hotel, take a room,
and leave on the next train for Montreal. She would almost certainly be
offered a lift on the way. But the road was unusually quiet. A great
load of hay passed her, a waggon from which two timid calves looked out
on her, a buggy whose seat was crowded by a fat married couple, and a
man in a gig training a trotter for the Fall Fair trotting races. The
speed of this vehicle almost took Mary's breath away, it seemed
dangerous on the open road.

Lake gulls drifted above the fields and back over the lake. It was grey
green, roughening because a strong wind was rising. It blew the clouds
in great battalions, bright and billowing against the blue, till one
covered the sun and turned them to threatening purple. Mary was little
more than a mile on her way when a shower came slanting down as though
it chose her for its special object. Even the thick hemlock branches
beneath which she took shelter were not enough to keep her from getting
wet. She looked disconsolately out at the road, stretching long before
her. Already she felt tired out. Blisters were forming on her palms. The
coil of her hair began to loosen, a hairpin slid under her collar and
down her back. The damp earthy smell of the woods came out to meet the
smell of the lake.

The shower passed. Once again Mary set out. She had got a pair of gloves
from the portmanteau and now the carrying of it was less painful. But it
grew heavier and heavier as she plodded on. Her long cloth skirt, wet
from the rain, dragged at her knees. Now the sun was out again, the
gulls leant in the wind or dropped to ride with assurance on the rowdy
green waves.

Surely, surely, Stead was not far off. Mary stopped at a farmhouse by
the road to ask how far. Still another mile she was told, and the
farmer's wife asked her if she would come in and have a cup of tea. A
pan of buns had just been taken from the oven. The kitchen was hot and
the air heavy with the delicious smell of the baking. Mary was glad to
sit down by the table and drink a cup of tea and eat a bun, so hot that
the butter melted on it. She realized she was faint for food. She had
eaten nothing since the picnic with the children. The farmer's wife
seemed glad of her company. Her own mother had come from England. She
told her mother's name and the name of the village she had come from.

Mary had expected to feel refreshed, stronger to face the rest of the
walk, but food and drink had made her sleepy. She felt as though the
pith had gone out of her. She stumbled as she walked, with not a thought
in her head, save to keep walking. Mechanically she stepped aside to let
a waggon pass. She had not the wit now to hail the driver and ask him
for a lift. The waggon rumbled on, the blond manes of the farm horses
tossing in the wind. The driver was an old man, humped up on the seat.
Old brute, thought Mary, he might have seen that I was ready to drop.
Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She did not trouble to
wipe them away. Her mind was again a blank.

She did not see the shining trap and well-groomed horse coming toward
her down a side road till it was quite near. Then she wiped her face
with her handkerchief and prepared to appeal to the driver. There was no
need. The horse was drawn up sharply by Mary's side. She looked up into
Muriel Craig's round face, with its cool stare fixed on her.

"Why, Miss Wakefield," cried Muriel Craig. "To think of meeting you, of
all people, trudging along the road so far from home."

Mary smiled coldly. "I am walking to Stead," she said.

"Then you must let me give you a lift. I go right past there."

Mary would have been glad of a lift from the devil himself. She heaved
her portmanteau into the trap and clambered in after it. "Thank you,"
she murmured.

In a moment the trap was bowling swiftly over the road to the rhythmic
cadence of hoofs. Mary sank back into the comfortable seat and gave
herself up to her relief.

"I'm glad," said Muriel Craig, handling the reins with conscious
elegance, "to see you with sensible shoes. You simply have to come to it
in this country."

"I brought these with me from England."

"Did you really? Oh, I can tell that now when I look at them. English
shoes are the very best." She smiled at Mary in a way she never had
before. Her smile seemed to embrace Mary in its friendliness.

"You must let me out when we come to Stead," said Mary. "I can easily
walk to the railway station."

"What train are you taking?"

"The next one to Montreal."

"Then you're leaving Jalna?"

"Yes."

"Just a holiday?"

"No. Permanently. I'm returning to England."

Muriel Craig drew in the horse to a walk. She sat silent. Mary glanced
sideways at the _retrouss_ profile, uptilted beneath the down-tilted
sailor hat.

Then Muriel Craig spoke. "I guess you've had words with someone at
Jalna. I suspect it's Mrs. Whiteoak. I hear she's very difficult to get
on with."

Mary snatched at this interpretation of her leaving. "Yes, yes, she's
very difficult."

"I believe she was so overbearing with the other governesses that they
could not endure it."

"I daresay."

"Have you any position in view?"

"Not exactly. I think you'd better let me out here. I don't want to take
you out of your way."

"Now, look here. I have something to propose. I do hope you'll be
interested."

Mary began to understand what people found to like in Muriel Craig. Now
that she had dropped her patronizing airs she appeared candid, pleasant,
full of dependable common sense.

"This is what I have to propose. I have a friend in New York. Very well
off--really rich. She has three tiny children. She would be perfectly
delighted to get someone like you to teach them. She must have someone
reliable. Then, any time you felt like returning to England, there you
would be, right at a seaport. You'd have twice the salary you'd get in
Montreal. Now, my dear, you're not going to be so silly as to refuse.
You couldn't be. This is a heaven-sent opportunity. I'm going to take
you straight home with me and you're going to stay there while I write
to my friend." She put a hand over one of Mary's and clasped it with
comforting warmth. "This friend has been so good to me and I'm dying to
do her a good turn. As for you--you'd love her and her sweet little
children too."

Mary was so exhausted by lack of sleep, by the long walk, carrying the
portmanteau, that a friendly hand held out to her was irresistible. She
felt a rush of contrition for her misjudgement of Miss Craig. Her lips
trembled as she answered:

"It seems to be the perfect position for me and it's so kind of you to
offer to take me in but I think I should stay at an hotel."

"Hotel! The very idea. As though I could tolerate such a thing. No,
you're coming straight home with me. There is that big house, with just
my father and me in it and a poor little thing like you talking of going
to an hotel." She brought the whip down sharply on the horse's flank,
clicked her tongue at him, and now they were speeding along the road at
a pace that was almost alarming. It was as though Muriel Craig were
afraid Mary might change her mind.

Mary was surprised to find Mr. Craig walking across the lawn leaning on
his nurse's arm. He was the sturdiest-looking invalid imaginable and a
summer's tan added to his look of health. He greeted Mary hospitably.

"You are very welcome, Miss Wakefield. Make yourself quite at home . . .
I don't understand about your being here. Have you left the Whiteoaks?"

His daughter answered for her. "Miss Wakefield is going back to England,
Father."

His particular illness had made him slow to understand. The nurse kept
looking at him with a quizzical look, as though of perpetual
encouragement.

"Well, well," he said, "however it is, you look very tired, young lady.
You should go and lie down. Get my nurse to make you an eggnog. She's
famous at eggnogs."

At the earliest possible moment Muriel Craig led Mary upstairs and
installed her in a large bedroom. She carried up the portmanteau herself
as though it were nothing. She remained for some time giving Mary more
alluring descriptions of her friend's house, her children, her
good-heartedness.

"Now," she said at last, "you must have a good rest while I go and write
to my friend. How thankful I am I found you, you poor little thing! You
looked such a picture of distress, trailing along the road, lugging that
heavy portmanteau."

Impulsively she came and threw her arms about Mary and kissed her.

"Poor little thing indeed," thought Mary, "I'm taller than she. But what
vitality! She's like a steam-roller."

Mary herself longed for nothing but to throw herself down on the bed and
let oblivion enfold her. But what a bed! It was covered by a heavy white
counterpane, the ponderous pillows shielded by stiffly starched pillow
shams with fluted frills. Mary gingerly lifted one off and stood not
knowing what to do with it. And how should she ever arrange the bed to
look as it looked now? Oh, for that eggnog which Mr. Craig had advised!
Her stomach was touching her backbone. For an idiotic moment she
pictured herself as eating the pillow sham in her famine.

She was trembling from fatigue and hunger. She replaced the pillow sham
and taking the folded satin quilt from the bed laid it on the floor. She
opened a window, for the room was airless and threw herself on the
floor, her head pillowed on the quilt. She had thought to fall instantly
asleep but a painful throbbing swept through her nerves. She opened her
eyes to their widest; a future black as night spread like a desert
before them. Alone. Alone! She could not sleep. She was too tired for
sleep. Never could she sleep again. The satin quilt, smelling of
camphor, suffocated her. She flung it away and lay flat on the carpet.
Large greenish medallions on a maroon ground swarmed about her. Like
hideous hungry monsters crawling toward her. She pressed her hands to
her eyes, shutting them out. That was better. A fresh cool wind made the
curtains billow. It blew across her, bringing with it the moist earthy
smell of autumn. Mary lay quiet now and presently she dropped into a
deep dreamless sleep.




                                 XVIII
                               THE SEARCH


Renny's voice came down to them from the top floor, clear and high, like
someone blowing with all his might on a flute. Nicholas observed:

"What an insane song!"

"I heard Hodge singing it," said Ernest.

"I often have wondered," mused Sir Edwin, "why the repetition of
meaningless words is fascinating."

"Yes," agreed Ernest, "in the songs of Shakespeare's time it was the
same. 'With a hey nonny nonny,' you know."

These remarks were like little waves rippling about two glowering rocks.
Adeline and Philip, their eyes on each other, said nothing.

Then Nicholas went to Philip and threw an arm about his shoulders. "Come
now, old man," he said, "take this affair sensibly. You'll be glad later
on. I'm sure you will."

"I suppose you mean that I should sit twiddling my thumbs while the
victim of this plot--the girl I love--"

"I know of no plot."

"There was a plot. Mamma knows there was a plot."

Adeline demanded, "Was it part of a plot that you should follow the girl
into the orchard--when you knew she was to marry another man next
week--and make love to her?"

"That had nothing to do with the plot."

"It has set all the neighbourhood talking."

"What do I care for the neighbours? All I care about is to find Mary."

"Philip, you didn't trouble your head about Mary till you heard she was
going to marry Clive."

"She was here in the house--by my side. I loved her."

Augusta put in, "I beg of you to think this over coolly, Philip."

He turned away, then said over his shoulder, "All your talk is wasted, I
can tell you that."

The sound of wheels came from outside. Ernest, nearest the window,
exclaimed, "It's young Busby! Looking grim."

Philip strode into the porch. Clive Busby was alighting from the buggy,
tying the horse to the ring in the nose of the iron horse's head by the
steps. His face was extraordinarily pale and set.

The rest of the family followed Philip to the hall, with the exception
of Sir Edwin who looked out between the curtains, while nervously
fondling his side whiskers.

Clive came up the steps like the bearer of bad news.

"Good morning," he said, in a controlled voice. "May I see Miss
Wakefield?"

"She's not here," answered Adeline, her eyes holding his. "I had a talk
with her she didn't like and she's left. I think you should follow her,
Clive. The girl's impulsive and rather foolish but she'll be all right."

"Not here!" he repeated, dazed. "Where is she?"

"No one knows. We've just now discovered it."

"My God!" he said wildly, "She may have done something terrible."

"Scarcely. She carried her portmanteau with her."

The sound of another vehicle was heard and Doctor Ramsey, the
accouchement dealt with, urging his old mare, appeared. He greeted the
group without surprise.

"A blustery day," he said, "and that was quite a shower we had."

"Have you seen Miss Wakefield, by any chance?" asked Philip.

"Miss Wakefield? Ah, yes. She and I had a little chat airly this
morning. She was on her way to catch the Montreal train, as I suppose
you know."

"Montreal!" echoed Philip. "She took the train to Montreal! Did she tell
you where she was going to stay?"

"No. She was not very communicative but she evidently had her plans well
laid."

Clive Busby turned to Philip. "Can I see you alone?" he asked.

"Yes. Come on."

Adeline exclaimed, "I think I'll come too."

"Thanks," said Philip. "We'd sooner be alone."

He led the way into the tunnel of pines and hemlocks that marched from
gate to house. There, with the greenish light on their faces, Philip's
deeply flushed, Clive's greyish-white beneath the tan, they measured
each other, as though for a duel. Then Philip said:

"This engagement of yours, Busby, must come to an end. Mary loves me.
She made a mistake. I'm sorry."

"I will not give her up till she asks me to, with her own lips. She has
been perfectly happy in our engagement. We've planned everything
together. The mistake is on your side."

"Tell me, why did you come over here?"

"Because of some gossip I'd heard."

"Noah Binns?"

"God, do you think I'd listen to him?"

"Lily Pink?"

"No. Mrs. Pink. She came to Vaughanlands this morning."

Philip gave an exclamation of anger, then his brow cleared.

"It's as well that this should be settled between us now . . . I suppose
Mrs. Pink said I'd been seen kissing Mary in the orchard."

"Yes."

"It's true."

"You can't make me believe Mary doesn't love me. When I find her she'll
explain."

Philip broke off a twig of hemlock and examined it. With his eyes still
fixed on it he said:

"I wonder if she will tell you what she told my mother."

"What?"

"She told my mother that she was my mistress."

Clive's lips had had colour in them. Now they went greyish-white like
his face.

"You lie!" he shot out.

"No. She did say that to my mother. But it's not true. There has never
been anything more passionate between Mary and me than what Mrs. Pink
repeated. I swear that, Clive."

"I don't want to hear you swear anything," Clive exclaimed miserably.
"It makes me sick that we should stand here discussing her in such a
way. Mary, of all girls! She'd die of shame if she knew."

"The fact remains," said Philip, "that she said that to my mother last
night. You can't be more astounded than I am to hear it."

"I won't believe she said any such thing. Your mother imagined it."

"My mother is not in the habit of imagining things of that nature."

"You have treated me badly. You knew Mary and I were engaged."

"Not till I came home yesterday."

"Then you went straight to her and tried to push me out!"

"Yes. Because I intend to marry her."

"Mary will never jilt me. She's too honourable."

"Would you marry a girl who----"

"I will not discuss her!" interrupted Clive. "I'll find her and she will
tell me the truth."

"That's all I ask. I'll come with you."

They turned, side by side, and came out on the gravel sweep before the
house. Clive untied the horse and got into the buggy. His eyes met
Philip's with a look of mingled hurt and hate. He said:

"I'm going to Montreal by the next train."

"So am I. But there's not another till tomorrow morning."

"It's a long while to wait."

Without another word Clive drove away and down the road. I shall never,
he thought, enter those gates again.

Instead of turning the horse toward Vaughanlands he drove to the railway
station. Better make sure that Mary really had gone by the train.

The stationmaster did not hurry to appear at the wicket. Clive forced
himself to ask coolly:

"Can you tell me whether Miss Wakefield went on the train to Montreal
this morning?"

"H'm. She the young lady up at Jalna?"

"Yes."

The stationmaster grinned. "She missed the train. It's funny in a
country place like this, folks could miss a train with nothing else to
do but catch it. But she missed it all right."

"Did you notice what way she went afterward?"

"Well, she sat a while and then she went out very quiet and took the
road to Stead. I reckon she planned to spend the night at the hotel and
take the morning train to the city and change there for Montreal. You
see this here's only a local line. Or she might take this evening's
train to the city and stay there for the night. Whatever she does she's
got to change trains in the city."

"Oh. I didn't know. Thanks very much."

She had missed the train! If he drove straight to Stead he might be able
to find her there in the hotel. He got into the buggy and set out along
the lakeshore road. Colour had returned to his face but his head felt as
though an iron band encircled it. A feeling of terrible urgency made him
drive the horse at a gallop along the road. He would not be able to rest
till he had come face to face with Mary, had wrung the meaning of all
this bewilderment from her.

He enquired for her at the hotel in Stead. He went to a smaller, very
poor hotel and enquired there. He went to the railway station. She had
not been seen in any of these places. He came to the conclusion that
Mary had a friend in Stead with whom she was staying. There was nothing
to do but wait till the evening train.

He drove back to Vaughanlands and put the horse in its stall. The
tightness in his head had developed into a raging headache. He lay on a
sofa and kind Mrs. Vaughan made him tea and rubbed camphor on his head.
She tried to lead him on to talk of his trouble but, when she saw the
misery in his eyes when she tentatively touched on the subject, she fell
silent, putting all her sympathy into the stroking of his forehead. If
she knew all, he thought, what would she think? His spirit writhed at
the remembrance of what Philip had told him.

Somehow the rest of the day passed and again he drove to the railway
station at Stead. She was not there. He had told the Vaughans that
possibly he might be away for the night. He was thankful he would be
able to spend it alone. He had several drinks in the bar of the hotel,
then went to bed. He slept better than he had expected, a heavy almost
dreamless sleep.

Next morning, in a heavy downpour of rain he walked to the railway
station. Mary was not among the sleepy passengers waiting for the train.
Neither had she appeared when it drew out. He went back to the hotel and
forced down some breakfast. He tried to think what he should do next. He
could not go to every house in Stead and ask for her, yet he was sure
she must be there. When the rain had eased he walked doggedly through
the streets of the village, looking up at the houses, hoping to see her
face at a window.

At last he decided to drive back to the Vaughans'. It was possible that
there he might hear news of Mary. He heard nothing but Robert Vaughan
casually remarked that Philip Whiteoak had gone to Montreal. Clive
smiled grimly to think of that wild-goose chase. He went out and
wandered through the dark woods where Mary and he had walked hand in
hand, planning the future which now looked as gloomy to him as these
dripping trees shedding their summer's pride.

In late afternoon he drove again to Stead and searched for her at the
station. Again he spent the night in the hotel and repeated the vain
search on the following morning. He began to be in a panic. Mary had
drowned herself! She had gone out of her mind and drowned herself in the
lake. As he drove homeward he looked in growing apprehension at the
tumbling green waves. To him, a Westerner, the lake was an ocean. The
gulls hovered above something in the water. Clive's heart froze with
fear. Then he saw that it was a log. He stopped at several houses and
asked if anyone there had seen Mary. The woman who had given her tea and
a bun was one of these. She looked with curiosity at Clive and enlarged
on Mary's look of weariness and how she herself had felt worried about
her.

The horse needed no encouragement to hasten back to his stable.

Mrs. Vaughan met Clive with a letter in her hand.

"Miss Craig's man brought this, Clive," she said, so anxious to help him
with looks of sympathy, longing to put her arms about him and comfort
him, as though he were her own son.

Clive tore open the letter and read:

      "Dear Mr. Busby,

    "Mary Wakefield is staying with me. I think it would be a good
    thing if you were to come and see her. She doesn't know I am
    writing this but I am sure she is still very attached to you. If
    you come let it be today and please ask for me.

                                                   "Sincerely,
                                                   "Muriel Craig."




                                  XIX
                             AT THE CRAIGS'


Mary heard the light but decisive tap on the door twice before she could
drag herself from the well of sleep into which she had sunk. At first
she could not remember where she was. Why was she lying on the floor?
Had she fainted and fallen there? The knock came again and a voice.

"Miss Wakefield! Mary! May I come in?"

Mary staggered to her feet. She was aching in every muscle.

"Just a moment," she called. She threw the comforter on to the bed and
opened the door. Her eyes, glazed by exhaustion and deep sleep could
scarcely focus on the figure in the doorway, so trim, so alert.

"What a draught!" exclaimed Muriel Craig. "It's a wonder you weren't
blown out of the bed. But you didn't lie down! Goodness! I was sure
you'd lie down and have a sleep."

"I sat in that nice big chair," said Mary, "with the comforter wrapped
round me. I slept like a log."

"Really." The word somehow expressed disapproval. "You look completely
washed out and chilled. Let me feel your hand. Why, it's icy. And you
must be starved too. I kept lunch back as long as I could to give you a
chance to rest but now my father's clamouring for it. You can't imagine
what my life is! Between his demands and his nurse's I'm driven almost
crazy."

She had seated herself to wait for Mary who would have given a good deal
to tidy herself in privacy. Her hands shook as she opened her
portmanteau and took out her brush and comb.

"What nice hair you have," Muriel Craig said, as Mary's silky hair flew
before the brush. "And fine too, though not so fine as mine. Mine is a
perfect nuisance, it's so fine. These peculiarities are a nuisance,
aren't they? It's the same with my instep. It's so high I have a
terrible time getting shoes to fit me. After this I think I shall have
them made to order."

"What a nuisance," said Mary.

"Of course, some people admire them. But I don't." She put forward a
perfectly shod foot and studied it with great concentration. "Another
trying thing is my tiny waist. Have you noticed it? I never can get my
skirt-bands to fit properly. Dressmakers are so stupid . . . I had not
heard that Mrs. Whiteoak was home from her visit till I met you. Did she
have a nice time?"

"I think so."

"I like the simple way you do your hair. It suits you . . . I suppose
her son came with her?"

"Oh, yes."

"Should you like to go to the bathroom and wash your hands?"

She led the way and waited in the passage for Mary, who felt a little
refreshed after bathing her face in warm water. They descended the
stairs together. Mr. Craig was already seated at table with his nurse
and excused himself from rising.

"You'll have to pardon my bad manners," he said.

"Oh, Mr. Craig," exclaimed his nurse, "your manners are beautiful."

"Nurse says my manners are beautiful," he remarked to Mary. "Some people
are easily pleased, aren't they?" He wanted to talk all through the meal
about his illness and the wonderful care he had had. He was confused as
to which hand should hold his knife and which his fork, till the nurse
put him right with her air of whimsical encouragement. Her beady eyes
sparkled at all his little jokes but his daughter's pale gaze seemed to
try to ignore him.

Mary felt more unreal than ever she had felt in all her life. Her brain
was numbed and she was grateful for Mr. Craig's little jokes, for them
she could understand and smile at. He could not say enough in praise of
Doctor Ramsey and his treatment of him.

"There's a fine man," he said, in his slow, rather thick voice. "There's
a grand man. And he's got a grand son-in-law, too. Mr. Philip Whiteoak.
Do you know him?"

"Miss Wakefield has been governess to Mr. Whiteoak's children, Father,"
his daughter put in impatiently. "Surely you knew that."

"Forgot," he muttered.

"Naughty forgetful man!" cooed the nurse, patting his hand.

"I can tell you someone who admires him," Mr. Craig said. "My daughter.
That girl there. But she won't get him. He's not going to take a second
wife, Doctor Ramsey tells me. He's devoted to the memory of his first
wife."

Muriel Craig's face had grown an angry red, but she was silent.

"And that's right too, isn't it, Miss Wakefield! I'm sure you don't
approve of second marriages. Neither do I. I had a wonderful wife. What
you'd call a perfect helpmate. But . . . she wasn't sympathetic. I'd
never have come through this sickness without sympathy."

"You're very much better, aren't you?" said Mary.

"Better! Why, I'm coming on like a house afire."

He made a wide gesture that overturned his glass of milk. The nurse
quickly began to mop it up with her table napkin.

"Naughty boy!" she chuckled.

He caught a string of her apron in his hand. "Tied to her apron
strings--that's what I am!" he declared dramatically, addressing the
ceiling.

The first pumpkin pie of the season was on the table and a large dish of
purple grapes. Muriel Craig was too angry to touch either. As soon as
Mary and she could escape she led Mary to the verandah. They sat down
side by side in the hammock.

"My father talks like an old fool," Muriel said vehemently. "He's always
trying to be funny and he certainly doesn't succeed, except in the eyes
of that imbecile nurse. Don't you dislike her?"

Mary could say with truth that she did not see much to like in her.

"It's so nice to have you here," said Muriel, putting an arm about her
and gently swaying the hammock. "I have very few real friends."

After a silence in which Mary desperately tried to think of something
worth saying, Muriel remarked:

"You have such a nice skin it seems a pity you put powder on it. My
mother always said to me, 'Muriel, you have a flawless complexion. Don't
ever powder your face,' and I never have. Would you like me better with
powder?"

"I admire you as you are."

"It's a good thing someone admires me."

"I think everyone I know admires you."

"Do you think Philip Whiteoak does?" Her large clear eyes looked
straight into Mary's.

Mary laughed. "He would scarcely confide that to me."

"He might. Doesn't he ever confide in you?"

"I was at Jalna to look after his children--not as his confidante."

"But you liked him, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes. He is very kind."

"Very kind! Dear me." Her arm tightened about Mary. "I think you might
confide in me. I think you might tell me what the trouble was and why
you left Jalna so suddenly."

"Mrs. Whiteoak and I had words."

"Heavens! I'll wager you came off badly. I'd be afraid of her. _Do_ tell
me about it."

Mary's colour rose. "I really can't."

"Was it just you two alone?"

"Yes."

"And he didn't know about it?"

"No."

Muriel put forward her foot and sat in concentrated admiration of her
instep before she said, in a thoughtful tone:

"I know someone who is badly smitten on you. But of course everyone
knows that."

Mary looked enquiring.

"Clive Busby. Someone--I forget who it was--told me you were engaged.
But you'd never be running off like this, if you were engaged to him.
But you could be, if you wanted to. I'm sure of that. One day I met him
at a garden party--it was given by some of the officers of the Queen's
Own Rifles--and when I told him how much I admired you his eyes
positively shone. Oh, he's terribly smitten! Don't tell me he hasn't
proposed."

"I'm not telling you anything," Mary said coldly. "I'm not at all a
communicative person. I hope you don't mind."

"But I _do_ mind! I want us to swing here together in the hammock and
pour out our feelings. I've written the letter to my friend in New York
and it's posted."

"Thank you. That is kind." Mary put her hand to her eyes. Muriel Craig's
head, enormously magnified, was floating before them. "I'm ashamed to
say it but--I must go and lie down again. I feel a little dizzy. It's
very silly of me."

Muriel sprang up. "Rest is what you need and rest you shall have. And
right in bed too."

In her abundant energy she all but dragged Mary up the stairs. She
prepared the bed for her while Mary changed into a dressing-gown, Muriel
talking all the while but now of her difficulties with her father and
his nurse. She covered Mary with the satin "comforter", patted her
shoulder and told her to sleep till she was rested through and through.

I wonder if ever that day will come, thought Mary. She welcomed the
comfort and solitude of the bed, as a fish welcomes water. She covered
her head and submerged herself in sleep. But she had no real rest in her
sleep, for wherever her dreams carried her, Adeline Whiteoak was there
to drive her away.

Fortunately she woke before she was called, so that she was able to
dress in peace. She saw by the looking-glass that she was less pale and
that the blue circles beneath her eyes had almost disappeared. This gave
her confidence.

After the evening meal Mr. Craig proposed a game of euchre. He had not
played a game of cards since before his illness. Miss Wakefield's visit
was doing him good. So a card table was placed in the chilly
drawing-room and the four sat themselves about it, Mr. Craig and his
nurse playing as partners. The light from the incandescent gas fixture
that hung from the ceiling, cast intense shadows on their faces. Muriel
looked very discontented, her father very pleased with himself and his
twinklingly solicitous nurse. It was hard for him to remember what was
trump or to decide what card to play. Time and again the nurse sprang up
and ran round to help him. Mary noticed how, when she bent over his
shoulder, her cheek seemed always to touch his head. Muriel noticed
nothing but sat pouting at her cards like a sulky schoolgirl. Mary had a
momentary vision of the Whiteoaks playing at cards or backgammon, the
vivid laughing faces, the hilarity when Adeline was the winner and Boney
joined his shouts to her triumph.

Mr. Craig was not satisfied till three games of euchre had been played.
Then, leaning heavily on his nurse's arm he stumped off, after a kindly
"Good-night" to Mary and his thanks for putting up with an old man's
stupidity. Muriel and he exchanged a casual nod, a muttered something
before they parted. With a pang Mary remembered the warm embrace her
father had given her when they said "Goodnight," the smell of his
tobacco and the way his moustache tickled her cheek. She remembered the
audible kisses of the Whiteoaks.

To Muriel's disappointment Mary said she must go to her room and write a
letter. Fortunately she had brought her little leather writing-folio
with her. All her writing things were in her room, she said. Might she
go there to write her letter?

"Oh, what a different evening from the one I'd planned!" cried Muriel.
"I thought we'd talk and talk till midnight."

"I'm sorry," was all Mary could say, "but I really must do this letter
tonight."

At last she escaped.

In her room she sat down by the marble-topped table. It was ice cold
beneath her bare arm.

"My dear Clive", she wrote and then stared out into the darkness . . .
Again she made the attempt.

      "My dear Clive,

    "To me the writing of this letter is a great grief. It is to
    tell you that I cannot marry you, to tell you--oh, that I could
    find the gentlest words in the language--that I do not love you
    deeply enough for marriage. I reproach myself for not having
    discovered this before. Dearest Clive, I am not good enough for
    you. I will always remember your goodness and kindness. I don't
    ask you to forget me but I do beg of you to forgive me, and to
    try to think of me without bitterness."

                                                           "Mary."

She read the letter. It was not all that she would have liked to say to
Clive but it must do. She could find no other words. She addressed the
letter, sealed and stamped it. She would not let herself think of
Clive's face when he had read it.

And now that other letter, the letter to Philip. Surely she had the
right to send him a message of farewell . . . just a line to say she
loved him and would never love any other but him. Here, in this dim
room, with the cavernous, dripping night beyond the window, she might
free her spirit, pour out to him on paper what would never pass her
lips. She took a sheet of notepaper and wrote:

      "My dear, my only love--"

Then her hand refused to move. A terrible cramp came into it. Though she
set her teeth and tried to force it, her hand would not move. She
gripped her wrist in her left hand to control it but, when she put pen
to paper she could only scrawl his name. She was powerless to write.

She buried her face in her arms and broke into wild crying. Hoarse sobs
shook her. She did not care if people in the house heard her and came
running. She cared for nothing but to let the sobs tear her to pieces.
But no one heard her and, at last, she was quiet. She got up, undressed,
knelt by the high bed in her long white nightdress and said her prayers.
She made no mention in them of her unhappiness, sent up no petition, but
the accustomed words comforted her.

The next morning she asked Muriel Craig where she could post a letter.
She had it ready in her hand.

"Give it to me," said Muriel, "the man's just going in for the mail and
he'll take it. What a morning! Pouring with rain!" She caught up the
letter and hurried off.

In the passage she stood thinking, after she had read the address. Then
she went softly up to Mary's room and looked about. She saw the
writing-case and opened it. Nothing but notepaper and two English
postcards inside. She looked in the waste-paper basket and discovered
some torn bits of paper. She pounced on these and tiptoed with them to
her room. Guilt was written all over her but no one saw her.

She pieced together the bits of paper and read what Mary had written:
"My dear, my only love", and his name "Philip". The paper was blistered
and writing blurred by tears.

What did it mean?

It meant possibly that Mary was breaking off what relations there were
between herself and Clive and was reaching out toward Philip. What else
could it mean? But Mary would not get her clutches on Philip--not if she
could prevent it.

Her face was flushed with excitement as she finished her note to Clive.
She flew downstairs with it to the reluctant man, waiting in his rubber
cape to go out in the rain.

"Take this," she said, "to Mr. Vaughan's and leave it for Mr. Busby.
When you bring back the mail from the post office bring it straight to
me."

                 *        *        *        *        *

For the seventh time Clive Busby was driving along the road by the lake,
in search of Mary. To him it had become the most hateful stretch of road
in the world. Every bend of it, every tree, every stone, every patch of
thistles, he felt he knew like the palm of his hand. The horse knew it
too and hated it. He showed his resentment by jerking his head and
splashing through puddles so clumsily that drops of muddy water flew
over the dashboard.

At last I shall know the truth, Clive thought. At last the truth . . .
from her own lips. His weary mind had reached the point where what he
craved most was to know where he stood, to sweep away the web that
entangled him.

When he reached the Craigs' he tied his horse and strode to the door. A
maid left him in the hall where he took off his mackintosh, folded it
neatly across a chair, and passed his hand over his hair. But the heavy
thudding of his heart told a story less cool. He heard voices in the
next room. Then the door of the room opened and Muriel Craig came into
the hall. She said smiling:

"Mary's in there. She doesn't know it's you. Katie just said, 'A
gentleman.'"

As Clive went into the room she closed the door after him, but she
remained near it.

He was alone with Mary.

The first thought of each was shock at the appearance of the other. Her
eyes were reddened, her features blurred. He looked ten years older.

Then panic seized her at being alone with him and she exclaimed, "Didn't
you get my letter?"

"_Your_ letter? No."

"Of course, you couldn't. I forgot. It was only posted this morning."

"Did you ask me to come, in the letter?"

"No. I asked you not to come."

"Mary--" he had been standing just inside the door, now he came close to
her--"for God's sake tell me what happened!"

"Clive--I beg of you--don't make me talk of it. Go back and read my
letter--try to believe that it breaks my heart to treat you like this."
She pressed her hand to her trembling mouth.

"No letter will do. I must have it from your own lips."

"Then . . . if you must . . . I don't love you well enough to marry you.
I mean I don't love you in that way. Oh, surely you understand."

"I'm trying to but it's hard. Only a few days ago you and I were happy
together. You held my hand and we laughed, as we walked through the
woods. Why, you even chose the sort of little dog you wanted me to buy
you." His voice broke.

"I know. I know. I must seem a horrible person to you--and no wonder."

"What happened? Something happened after Philip Whiteoak came home."

"Yes."

"In the orchard?"

"Yes."

"He told you not to marry me? You do what he says?"

"I needed no telling!" she broke out. "I love him. I've always loved
him. I think you guessed that. But I stifled it--my love for him--I
choked it down. I turned to you, thinking I could make you
happy--perhaps be happy myself--but then he came back and he told me
that he loved me----"

"Are you going to marry Philip?"

"No! I'm not going to marry anyone."

"Why aren't you going to marry him? You love him 'in that way',
apparently. Why did you run away from him, Mary?"

He came nearer, as though to take her hand, but she put her two hands
behind her back.

"I ran away," she answered, looking steadily in his eyes, "because I did
not want to see him again or anyone I had known in that place."

Clive looked sombrely at the floor, then, with the heavy colour rising
in his face, he asked, in a low voice:

"Mary, did you say anything to Mrs. Whiteoak that you have regretted
since?"

"Did _he_ tell you that?" she demanded hoarsely.

"Yes. But he said it wasn't so."

She stared at him speechless.

"Mary--tell me--For God's sake, tell me the truth!" Like a trapped bird
beating itself against bars her mind beat itself against his
questioning. If she told him she had spoken the truth he would loathe
her. If she told him she had lied, what would be his scorn?

"_Will_ you let me be! _Will_ you leave me! I regret nothing I've said
or done. All I want is to be let alone--never to see any of you again!"

Clive flinched as though she had struck him.

He drew back, his eyes mournfully fixed on her distorted face. With his
hand on the door knob he said:

"Good-bye, Mary," and was gone.

Late that afternoon he went to Jalna to tell Adeline Whiteoak good-bye.
He would have gone off without seeing her, thinking he would write to
her after he reached home but Mrs. Vaughan insisted that he must say
good-bye in person. Adeline Whiteoak was an old friend of his family,
had been very kind to him. He must not treat her without ceremony.

The rain had stopped. There was a flashing, wild brightness through the
clouds. The wet-winged turkeys, trailing through the ravine, stopped,
each in its attitude of that instant, to watch him cross the bridge. The
stream, rejuvenated by the rains, tripped gleaming past the water weeds
and cress that edged it.

As Clive reached the top of the opposite side of the ravine the house
rose before him, its mantle of vines newly washed by rain, its windows
reflecting the sun. He looked up at the windows of Mary's room and a
fresh pang and a new, painful wonder struck his heart. What thoughts,
what acts, had that room sheltered? What mysterious impulse had driven
her to become a different Mary from the one he loved?

Adeline met him at the door. She had seen him coming. She stepped out
into the porch and shut the door behind her.

"Well, Clive?" she said, her eyebrows arched, and gave him her hand.
"Why, your hand is cold! My dear boy, young people's hands shouldn't be
cold."

"I guess it's because my heart's cold, Mrs. Whiteoak. I don't want to
talk about my affairs. I--I can't talk about them. It would kill me and
that's the truth." He gripped her hand so that he hurt her. "I've come
to say good-bye. And--I want to thank you for all your kindness."

"Now, don't despair. Sit right down and tell me everything. You'll feel
the better for it."

He wrenched his hand away. "I'm sorry--but--I can't. Good-bye."

There was nothing to do but to let him go.

At Vaughanlands he found out that Philip Whiteoak was at the Windsor
Hotel in Montreal. From the railway station, on his way to the West,
Clive sent this telegram to Philip:

    MARY WAKEFIELD IS STAYING WITH THE CRAIGS.

                                                             C. B.




                                   XX
                               BY THE LAKE


Only one passenger alighted from the morning train and that was Philip
Whiteoak. He left his travelling bag at the station to be called for and
set off up the road on foot. He walked as though there were no time to
spare, yet he was not unconscious of the clear crisp beauty of the
autumn morning, the harebell blue of the sky, the shining little clouds,
puffed up to importance by the lively wind, the coloured fallen leaves
that skipped nimbly over puddles on the road. All this suited his mood
which was one of pleasurable impatience, not unmixed with apprehension.

Jake was waiting for him at the gate. For the moment he had forgotten
Philip and was tentatively pawing a brown and black caterpillar. When he
heard the step he looked round, with one paw still resting on the
caterpillar. For an instant his astonishment and delight made him
powerless, then he was galvanized into movement, rushed at Philip with
cries that seemed rather of pain than pleasure and threw himself against
Philip's legs.

"Hullo, Jake," he snatched up the half-grown dog and held him aloft.
"Glad to see me, eh? But look at the muck you've put on me, you rascal!"

They went up the drive together, Jake doing his best to run between
Philip's legs or fall over himself directly in Philip's path. They met
Ernest in the hall.

Ernest, anxious to be on friendly terms again with Philip, asked, in a
warmly solicitous tone:

"Any word of Miss Wakefield?"

"She's not in Montreal," Philip answered tersely.

"Well--that long journey for nothing then."

"Yes."

"It is certainly mysterious."

"I know where she is."

"Yes? Do you mind telling me where?"

"With the Craigs."

"Really? You amaze me. I thought those two girls were rather
antagonistic."

"So did I. But--you never know with women. Where is Mamma?"

"At Vaughanlands."

"Ha!" Philip gave a short explosion of laughter, then he asked, "What
about Busby?"

"He left for the West yesterday."

"Did you see him?"

"No. But he came to say good-bye to Mamma. Philip, you know I am the
last one to interfere in your affairs but I do feel--I earnestly
feel----"

"Meaning you feel like Ernest," laughed Philip. "All right, old man, go
ahead and feel like Ernest. He's a pretty good egg." He ran up the
stairs, leaving his brother half-angry, half-pleased, a state often
induced in his family by Philip.

Soon he reappeared, his clothes changed to riding things.

"Going out again so soon?" said Ernest.

"Yes."

"To the Craigs', I suppose."

"You're right."

"You know, Philip, I hate to interfere but I do--" he tried to stop
himself but before he could he had said, "I do _earnestly_----"

"Good," said Philip, going through the porch, with Jake at his heels.
"Keep it up. Go on feeling like Ernest. But it's not going to change
me."

Presently Jake was shut in the stable with his parents, and Philip, on
his chestnut mare, trotted briskly through the gate and along the road
by the lake. His relief at finding out where Mary was made him almost
happy. His concern, his consternation, at her disappearance, the two
days of miserable searching of hotels and steamship offices in Montreal,
the search at the pier when a ship for England was to sail, lay behind
him. His sanguine nature strained forward to the meeting with Mary. The
message from Clive had allayed his fear that she was deranged. Clive
never would have sent him the message, Mary never would have been at the
Craigs' if anything of that sort were wrong. It was clear that Clive had
discovered her and that she had broken off their engagement. Philip's
heart went out to Clive in gratitude for his telegram.

Muriel opened the door to him. She had seen his horse cantering down the
road, so she was prepared to meet him, with a happy smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Whiteoak." Her eyes said that the morning was good
indeed when he appeared at her door.

"Good morning." He hesitated, considering just how he should make his
request.

"Did you want to see Father? I'm afraid he isn't up yet. But he soon
will be. Do come in."

"Thank you." He came into the hall.

"Miss Craig," he said, "I really came to see Mary Wakefield. I am told
she is staying with you."

"She was. But she's left. She's gone to New York to take a position
there."

"Are you sure?"

She laughed. "You're teasing me, Mr. Whiteoak."

"I think it is you who are teasing me."

"I don't know what you mean." She flushed pink.

"I mean that, when I rode up the drive, I saw the two of you at a
window. You were looking out, your heads close together."

"You're mistaken."

"Oh, no, I'm not."

Her breast rose and fell in her agitated breathing. She said, almost in
a whisper:

"Mary doesn't want to see you. She told me to say she'd gone to New
York."

For a moment he stared unbelieving, then remembered that Mary had run
away from his house.

"She must see me. Go and tell her she must see me. I won't leave till
she does."

"I am Mary's friend. I must help her. All she wants is to go far away
and forget the unhappy time she's had."

"If you are Mary's friend you will beg her to see me if it's only for
five minutes . . . Or take me to her. Will you do that?" His eyes
implored her.

"I'll ask her but--I'm afraid she won't."

"Tell her what I say, that I won't go till she has spoken to me."

In a strangled voice Muriel said, "You love her, don't you?"

"With all my heart."

She turned and hurried from the room.

On the stairway she flung herself against the banisters and began to
cry. After a little she pulled herself together and went slowly up to
Mary's room. Mary was standing by the window watching to see Philip go.

"Has he gone?" she asked.

"No. He refuses to go till he's seen you."

"Oh, Muriel--I don't know how I can meet him!"

"I wish it were me! Oh, how I wish it were me he wanted! It does seem
hard, when I've loved him from the first time I met him----" She leant
against the door crying.

"I'm so sorry, Muriel."

"Why won't you meet him?"

"I can't tell you."

"I have the right to know, after all I've gone through and loving him as
I do."

"I can't tell you."

"Well, you can tell me this: Are you simply playing with him--to inflame
his passion?"

Mary gave an hysterical laugh. "Good heavens, no! I have only one
thought and that is to avoid him." Her panic increased. To meet Philip's
eyes, with the brand of that monstrous lie on her forehead, would kill
her. She might be dooming herself to a life of loneliness, but face him
she could not.

A tap came on the door and the nurse handed Muriel a telegram.

"Oh, Miss Craig, I do hope it's not bad news," she said, her eyes
twinkling into the room.

"It's nothing to worry about," said Muriel coldly. She wanted the nurse
to go, then said:

"Do you think she would see I'd been crying?"

"Oh, no. Is the telegram from New York?"

Muriel tore it open and read, "Position satisfactorily filled at present
thanks for suggestion writing."

"Oh, how disappointing!" gasped Muriel. "Now there is nowhere for you to
go. Whatever shall you do?"

"I must just find a new post."

"You may stay here with me till you do."

"And run the risk of meeting _him_?"

"But where shall you stay? A young girl like you cannot stop at an hotel
by herself."

"I will go to Montreal, as I intended at the first."

"But have you enough money for your return passage?"

"I will work for it."

"But it is not easy to find your sort of work. Supposing you can't get
work."

Mary walked up and down the room wringing her hands.

Muriel asked, "Does Mr. Whiteoak owe you money?"

"Yes. But I shall never ask for it."

"I'll do that for you. I'll go straight down and ask him."

"No. I couldn't endure that." She stopped in her walking and looked with
melancholy reserve at Muriel. "No. I have changed my mind about seeing
him. There is nothing else to do . . . I will see him--but, oh, how can
I?"

"Shall I go with you?"

"No, no, I must do it alone . . . But not indoors."

"It's perfectly private in the parlour and I'll wait just outside."

Mary had her suspicions of Muriel waiting "just outside". She was
determined that, if meet Philip she must, no word of what passed between
them should be overheard.

She said, "We have kept him waiting so long that I think it will be best
for you to say I'd gone out into the grounds--that you'd searched for
me--but I shouldn't ask you to lie for me."

"Oh, I don't mind," cried Muriel. "And I think you do quite right to see
him and put him out of his misery." She flew to the looking-glass and
began to put her hair in order, while asking:

"Where shall I say he can find you?"

"By the lake. Give me a few moments' start."

Mary left the room and went softly down the back stairs.

Muriel returned to Philip.

"I'm afraid you'll think I've been gone quite a while," she said.

"It does seem rather long."

"As a matter of fact she's gone out."

"I see. She went out to avoid me."

"I guess she did. She's very nervous. Do you think you could send her a
message by me? It might be better."

"Not possibly. Please tell me which way she went."

"Before I tell you I want to remind you, just once, of that wonderful
drive we had--that day we saw Mary running so joyfully to meet Clive
Busby."

"I saw nothing."

"I'm afraid I behaved very foolishly that day. A girl never should show
her feelings the way I did."

Philip felt extreme discomfort. He made sounds to express that he
thought her behaviour had been perfect.

"No, no," she denied. "I should have controlled myself. But, oh, it's so
hard for me to conceal my feelings! You will forgive me, won't you?" She
came and laid her hands on his arm. For a moment of apprehension he
expected her head to fall once more to his shoulder.

He patted her back with what repressive force he dared and said, "There
is nothing to forgive and I do thank you for your kindness to Mary. Now,
I must be off to find her."

He left the house and crossed the closely mown lawn behind it. Beds of
cannas edged by silver-leafed geraniums stood up primly, denying the
nearness of the tumultuous lake, stirred to green breakers by a gale of
the night before. But the wind was now no more than a breeze, the great
waves were sunny and fell in lacy foam. Mary was standing on a
breakwater, her dress whipped close about her, a strand of her hair,
like blond seaweed, blowing free.

Philip stood a space, drinking in the beauty of the picture she made, as
he drank in the sharp autumn air, before he called her name.

She had been facing the lake, now she turned and her eyes met his. A
long while seemed to have passed since last their eyes had met. She drew
on all her courage for the ordeal, but the effect she gave was almost
one of challenge. He came to the lake's edge.

"Mary," he said, having still to raise his voice above the noise of the
waves, "what is your idea in going out there? Is it to throw yourself
into the lake if I attempt to lay hands on you?"

"No--oh, no."

"Then do come back, unless you want to talk to me out there. In that
case----"

Before she could answer he was by her side.

She had thought never to see him again. Now his nearness almost
overpowered her. His nearness and the noise of the waves confused her.
"I can't talk to you," she said. "Not here."

"Then we'll go to that seat and sit down and you'll tell me everything."

She let him lead her to the rustic seat but she would not sit down. She
supported herself against its rough bark-covered back. A shrub covered
by red berries rose behind the seat.

"At least we can't be seen here," he said. "I shouldn't put it past that
woman to spy on us."

Mary stood silent, her eyes on her white ringless hands that clung to
the seat.

"Now tell me, for God's sake," he demanded, "why you ran away."

"You know why. You must know."

"I suppose because of my mother--her going up to your room. What did she
say to you?"

"Does it matter what she said to me?" Mary cried wildly. "Nothing
matters except what I said to her. If you care for me--if you ever cared
for me--don't make me talk about it. It's cruel."

"Mary," he said gently, "I beg of you not to be so foolish . . . Surely
you can speak to me of anything. If you love me you won't shrink from
speaking of this. You do love me, don't you?"

"I--don't know."

"You don't know! Why--you astonish me. Do you forget our meeting in the
orchard?"

"I did love you then."

"And now--you don't know!"

"My brain is confused. It won't act."

Now he scanned her face in sharp anxiety. "You are tired out," he said.
"If you would cast yourself on me, tell me everything, then you would
not be confused. You would be well again. I can see that you are not
well." He laid his hand on her hands that were clasped on the back of
the seat. "Come, my darling."

The word _darling_ from his lips! To be called his darling! Tears
suddenly fell from her eyes and splashed on his hand.

"I thought you would utterly despise me," she said.

"How could I despise you! I'm simply trying, with all my might, to find
out why you told my mother you were my mistress." There was no way, he
felt, but to force her into the open though to do it he must be brutal.

Colour flamed into Mary's face. She drew her hands from beneath his and
pressed them against her eyes. She seemed to press back her tears,
because when she again looked at him, she had stopped crying.

"Mrs. Whiteoak asked me," she said, almost indifferently, "if it wasn't
so, and I was very angry and I said it was."

"You understood her? There was no mistake?"

"I understood perfectly. She accused me a second time and I said, yes,
it was so."

"I see. And how did she take it?"

The triumph of that moment again lit Mary's face. She smiled her odd
smile that had something of pain in it. She said, "Mrs. Whiteoak was
amazed. Even while she accused me she had not believed it herself . . .
I told that horrible lie just because I was furious . . . You can see
what a strange sort of person I am."

Philip went round the rustic seat and put his arms about her. He led her
back and set her down and himself beside her.

"Mary," he said, "I can't pretend that I understand you but I love you
more than ever and you're coming home with me and we're going to get
married as soon as possible."

"And you don't hate me for what I said?"

"I adore you for it."

She relaxed her weary body against his strength. Her spirit, like a
river that had found the sea, lost itself in his. She was cold, for she
had not dressed herself for the wind from the lake. The warmth of his
arm that pressed her to his side, had a comfort in it that seemed to her
godlike. His warm hands held her chilled ones. She looked out across the
silver and green expanse of the lake and, in her fancy, compared herself
to a sailing ship that had delivered its cargo, and now, lightened and
buoyant, spread its sails to the breeze. She wished she were a poet. If
she were she could, at this moment, she was sure, pour out her heart in
a poem.




                                  XXI
                                AT GRIPS


Philip turned in the saddle to look back at Mary, still waving to him
from the gate. It was hard to tear himself away from her. He sat,
turning in the saddle, to imprint her image on his memory. Yet a part of
him strained toward Jalna and the announcement of his coming marriage.
But first he would ride to the Rectory and acquaint Mr. Pink with the
change in Mary's prospects.

He had ridden over this road hundreds of times but never had it been so
exhilarating, so beautiful, as on this blowy late September morning,
with the waves, where the lake encroached on the sandy soil, breaking
almost to the road. Something should be done about this road, but on
this morning he would not have it different. The gulls circled above
him, their wings flashing in the sun, their tucked-up feet yellow
against their breasts, like useless appendages that they would never
need again. One of them winged swiftly above the smartly-trotting mare,
as though in a race. The mare arched her neck and glanced in playful
apprehension at the waves. Philip spoke lovingly to her and patted her
neck. She was his, she was gentle, she was a female.

Inside the white picket fence of the Rectory Lily Pink was cutting
flowers for the altar tomorrow. She stood frozen, with scissors poised,
when Philip appeared at the gate.

"Oh, good morning, Lily," he said. "Cutting the last flowers before the
frost gets them, eh?"

"Tomorrow is Sunday," she answered, not able to look at him, remembering
how she had carried the tale of his doings to his mother.

Philip, at this moment, forgot all about that. He asked cheerfully, "Is
your father at home?"

"Yes," she breathed, "writing his sermon."

"Oh!" Philip groaned his disappointment.

"Could I take a message?"

"No," he sighed, "I'll come again."

Mr. Pink had seen him through the window. He hastened to the door and
shouted, "Come along in. My sermon's done." He was like a boy let out of
school. He noticed what a pretty picture Lily and Philip and the
chestnut mare and the garden flowers made. He felt thankful for this
beautiful and tranquil world. "God's in His Heaven, all's right with the
world." He would bring that into his sermon tomorrow morning. He would
say that, as long as men kept the thought of God in His Heaven watching
over them, so long as they carried out the teaching of Christ in their
lives, all would be well in the world. And no man living could deny
that.

"Come in!" he shouted to Philip.

He was worried about Philip. He did not like the story that was going
round, about him and Mary Wakefield. He hoped Philip had come to explain
things. He led the way into his study and closed the door behind them.

An hour later Philip, having put the mare in her stall, entered his own
door.

Renny flew down the stairs to meet him. "Papa. Papa! I'm glad to see
you!"

Philip picked him up and hugged him. A wave of good will toward everyone
in the house surged through his being. As it neared Adeline, however, it
wavered and did not quite envelop her. A smile, in which there was more
than a hint of malice, lighted his face when he thought of her.

Renny said, "I can turn a handspring. Come and watch me do it."

"It must be time for dinner," answered Philip. At Jalna that meal was in
the middle of the day.

"Dinner!" echoed the little boy. "We had it long ago. But they're
keeping some for you in the oven."

"I'm glad of that. I'm as hungry as a hunter."

"What were you hunting? Was it Miss Wakefield? Nettle says she's run
away."

"That's nonsense. She is visiting Miss Craig."

"It's nice without her."

"Don't you like her?" Philip asked sharply.

"Well--she's like all the others. Always wanting you to learn things."

"And learn you'd better or you'll be at the bottom of the class when you
go to school with Maurice."

"Granny says she'll teach me. She's having a nap in her room."

"Good. Don't disturb her."

Philip ate his meal in solitude but with the first zest he had felt
since the morning of Mary's disappearance. Afterward he did not want to
meet anyone but escaped through the side door with his pipe, to find his
dogs and take them for a walk in the woods. He must be alone, to think
of Mary and of all the happiness that lay ahead of them. He knew she
shrank from the difficulties of returning to Jalna as its mistress, but
he would smooth away the difficulties. One object which must be smoothed
away--obliterated--was Mrs. Nettleship. Her sandy hair, her pale
piercing eyes, her habit of gossip, had come to irritate him. What if
she were a model of cleanliness and order, as Augusta was always
reminding him? These qualities were, in truth, her most irritating. She
must be got out of the way before Mary came.

He had hated to leave her at the Craigs', with that impossible Muriel.
He would have liked to put her on his horse behind him, as they used in
the old days, and enter the gates of Jalna at a gallop, in the first
flush of his happiness. But his plan was to ask Mrs. Lacey to take his
dear girl into her house until the wedding. She could not refuse him
that.

It ended by his going to see Mrs. Lacey that very afternoon. But first
he returned to the stable and left the dogs with young Hodge, and a
message for his mother that he would not be home for tea. He knew well
that Mrs. Lacey would ask him to share the evening meal with them. He
wanted to avoid his family till Sunday morning when he would of
necessity meet them at church. After church he would tell the family
what they might expect and also he would come to grips with his mother
over the scene between her and Mary in Mary's bedroom. The air must be
cleared before he brought Mary to Jalna.

He and Mrs. Lacey were closeted together for a long while. Her romantic
soul made her eager to forward his love affair. At the same time she
shrank from incurring Adeline's anger. Ever since they had first met,
many years ago, she had done her best to keep on the right side of
Adeline and had admirably succeeded. She did not intend to risk words
with her now. She told her fears to Philip and promised to talk over the
matter with her husband and let Philip know the result on Monday. He had
to content himself with this half promise.

He did not drive to church on the Sunday morning but took the winding
path across the fields and, for the first time in months arrived in time
to put on his surplice without hurry and an urgent look from Mr. Pink.
The family always arrived in a body and their progress along the aisle
was a spectacle of interest to the rest of the congregation which never
palled. First came Adeline, her hand resting on the arm of her eldest
son. They were followed by the Buckleys, Augusta's hand resting on Sir
Edwin's elegantly crooked arm. Last came Ernest with a child on either
side. The appearance of the group was that of the Old World rather than
the New. Though they were so closely identified with the place where
they lived they retained, in a remarkable degree, the atmosphere of the
land from which they had sprung.

Adeline seldom sat herself in the pew without a moment's fresh shock at
the realization that the husband she had so loved was no longer at her
side. The years did not make it easier to understand or to bear. When
she rested her head against the back of the pew in front, that moment
was given to him. Then she would straighten herself and raise her eyes
to the stained glass window she had had erected to his memory. She would
draw a deep sigh, look for the number of the opening hymn and find it in
her book. She would glance down at Renny and hold the hymn book so that
he might follow the words with her. Not that she needed the words. Every
hymn sung in that church she knew by heart, unless, as on rare
occasions, it happened that Mr. Pink in an abandon of enterprise, chose
a strange one. Then her eyebrows would shoot up incredulously, she would
sharply close the book, as though that were the end of it for her, and
watch the singing choir, as though they were performing some strange
gymnastics which she neither understood nor admired.

As the service progressed on this particular morning she watched her son
Philip with concentrated interest. What was he up to, she wondered.
Ernest had told her that he had gone to the Craigs', where Mary was.
Obviously he was trying to reach some understanding with that queer girl
but, if it were marriage, why was he avoiding his family? And where was
he last evening? Adeline could only conclude that he was afraid to meet
her, for fear she should guess his plans and frustrate them. More likely
still, Mary could not bring herself to marry him after what had
happened, and small wonder!

But Philip did look comely this morning, with his fresh colouring, his
clear blue eyes, and clean surplice. He read the Lessons in a way that
Adeline liked, though his brothers were very critical of his style.
There was warmth in his voice and a ring of conviction that he believed
in what he read. On the whole Adeline thought he would come safely
through this affair. Ernest had not told her of Philip's stubborn
attitude during their brief encounter, for he felt that, all too soon,
the two must settle the affair between them. He quite dreaded the
thought of it and yet, considering their mettle, felt a certain
exhilaration in anticipating the climax.

But the climax was to be silent. Neither Philip nor Adeline were to
utter a word when the moment came. A religious calm was to pervade the
scene.

Philip had just read the Second Lesson. He returned to his seat at one
side of the chancel. His surplice, to his mother's eyes, had a defiant
swing. To Ernest it looked jaunty. Mr. Pink rose and moved with dignity
to take his place. Mr. Pink's voice was resonant and the words which now
came from his mouth might well in their volume have been uttered in a
cathedral, instead of in this little country church.

"I publish the Banns of Marriage between Philip Piers Whiteoak of this
Parish and Mary Wakefield of the same. If any of you know cause or just
impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holy
Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking."

Philip sat imperturbable, his hands clasped on his surpliced stomach,
his eyes, looking unusually large and blue, fixed on some point above
the heads of the congregation. A stir ran through the congregation and a
whispering, as of a gust of wind over a little field of corn. The
Vaughans, in their pew, cast sidelong glances across at Adeline. Admiral
Lacey's face grew crimson. Mrs. Lacey tried vainly to look innocent.
Ethel caught Violet's hand in hers and they sat clutched. The remainder
of the neighbourhood, the farmers from the surrounding country, the
people from the village, young Chalk, the blacksmith, craned their necks
to catch a glimpse of the Whiteoaks, or scanned Philip's face with
curiosity. There were few who had not heard the story of what Noah Binns
had seen in the orchard, at a time when everybody who knew anything knew
the young lady was engaged to Clive Busby.

Nicholas' hand went to his moustache. He tugged it, as though he would
tug away the smile that flickered on his lips. Ernest took out his white
silk handkerchief and blew his nose. He felt it was a moment for action
of some sort and that was all he could think of doing. The slight air of
offence which was Augusta's natural expression, though it had nothing to
do with her really amiable disposition, deepened. Sir Edwin nibbled at
some mute declaration which a mind-reader might have interpreted as "I
forbid the Banns."

But it was on Adeline that the scrutiny of the gathering was centred.
From her black figure radiated the very essence of dissent. No
envelopment of black stuff could hide its angry brightness. She rose
majestically to her feet.

A thrill of fearful anticipation ran through the little church. Was Mrs.
Whiteoak going to forbid the Banns? Every eye but those of Noah Binns in
the last pew, was fixed on her. Noah stared, hungrily inquisitive, at
Philip. He saw Philip turn pale.

Lily Pink should by this time have been playing the opening chords of
the Jubilate Deo. The congregation should be rising to sing. But Lily
felt paralysed. She could not make her fingers press the keys but sat
sideways on the organ seat watching the progress of that noble figure
down the aisle. For noble Adeline looked, however lacking in nobility
her impulse may have been, with her widow's weeds floating from her fine
head, and her features composed in the very mould of displacency.

Looking neither to right nor left she walked slowly and firmly to the
door. As she reached it young Hodge who had driven her to church, sprang
forward and opened it. At the same moment Lily gained control of her
fingers, the organ burst forth, the congregation rose, and Adeline
departed to the sound of music.

Ernest, on seeing his mother leave the family pew, had made as though to
escort her, but a look from Adeline had quelled his intention and he had
resumed his seat crestfallen.

Now the service proceeded, with a kind of tremulous intensity, as though
all present were determined to keep their heads. But when it came to the
sermon, Mr. Pink found it difficult to introduce, with the spirit he had
intended, those beautiful lines from Browning. It was not easy to assert
that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world, when Mrs.
Whiteoak had vacated her pew.

At last the Recessional hymn was sung and the congregation poured out.
They gathered in knots in the churchyard to discuss what had happened.
The Vaughans and the Laceys hurried away, so that the Whiteoaks would
not have the embarrassment of speaking to them. Hodge had taken Adeline
home and now had returned with the carriage to convey the Buckleys and
the children. Nicholas and Ernest had driven together in a trap.

Nicholas, untying the horse in the church carriage shed, asked of his
brother, "Shall we wait for him?"

"No," answered Ernest, almost violently. "I could not possibly drive
with him. But, if you wish to wait, I'll walk home."

"Let him return as he came," Nicholas said tersely, and climbed into the
trap.

As they drove out he greeted what acquaintances they met, touching his
hat brim with the whip, genially, as though nothing had happened.

But, when they were bowling along the road, on which every vehicle was
carrying people home from church, Nicholas exclaimed, "Philip deserves
to be thrashed for what happened this morning. It was an insult to all
of us and, of course, particularly to Mamma."

"You're sure Mr. Pink wasn't aware that we knew nothing of the Banns?"

"Pink aware! Nothing on earth would have tempted him to commit such an
outrage."

Ernest declared solemnly, "It was enough to give Mamma a seizure."

"Gad, I'd hate to be in his shoes when they meet."

"Perhaps he won't show his face till after dinner. He may go to the
Laceys. I do hope he does. It's a peculiar thing but disturbances during
a meal give me a dyspepsia."

Nicholas grunted, then exclaimed, "Lord, you could have knocked me down
with a feather when those Banns were read!"

"I thought Mamma was rising to forbid them."

"Small wonder if she had."

"Nothing can stop the marriage now. We shall just have to put up with
it."

"Well, after all, she's a very attractive girl."

"Nick--would you willingly have Philip bring a girl of her loose
character to Jalna, to be the mother of his children?"

"He swears she isn't loose."

"Do you believe him?"

"Philip's never been a liar."

"He might be, to save the reputation of the woman he loves."

"Possibly. But I think that if Mary Wakefield had acknowledged it and it
were so, Philip would not have denied it."

"Then what, in the name of Heaven, possessed her to say such a dreadful
thing?"

"In my opinion she wished it were so."

"Nick, you are a confirmed cynic."

They turned in at their own gate, scattering the fine gravel beneath the
wheels. At the stable Hodge took charge of the horse. He looked downcast
and even guilty, as though he had had a hand in the morning's doings. He
was a sensitive young man and devoted to Adeline.

Her two sons found her seated in her own particular chair in the
drawing-room. Augusta and Edwin were there also, the sympathetic
audience, it appeared, to a monologue by Adeline describing her shock,
her outrage, at the church.

Nicholas bent over her and kissed her.

"Well, old girl," he said, "that was a dramatic exit you made. I've
never seen anything better--not on the stage."

She looked pleased with herself, though sombrely.

Ernest kissed her from the other side. He said, "I wanted to escort you
out but I saw that you preferred to go alone."

"An escort would certainly have marred the effect," observed Sir Edwin.

"I showed the world," said Adeline, "what I thought of the
announcement."

"The point is," smiled Nicholas, "that we can't do a thing about it."

"Oh, to think," cried Adeline, holding the hand of the son on either
side of her, "that I should have brought my youngest child into the
world to have him treat me like this! Eight years I waited after Ernest
was born and then, when I was expecting another----"

Sir Edwin interrupted, "Philip's just at the door. If you care to repeat
that, he will be in the hall in time to hear it."

Adeline gave him a withering look. Nevertheless she once more, and with
even greater tragic emphasis, said:

"Oh, to think that I should have brought my youngest into the world to
have him treat me like this! Eight years I waited after Ernest was born
and then--when I was expecting another I thought, this one will be like
his father. He will have golden hair and blue eyes, and it's him will be
the prop of me old age."

Midway through this speech Philip appeared in the doorway. He had had a
lift in a farmer's buggy and had alighted at the gate soon after
Nicholas and Ernest. He stood listening to Adeline without entering the
room, his eyes steady on her face, his arms folded. There was something
in the sunny warmth of his appearance that lightened the scale of
disfavour weighting the room. Added to this, Adeline's affectation of
speech, at such a moment, seemed to Augusta, Edwin and Ernest, most
unfortunate. Try as they would they could not feel quite the same
sympathy toward her. Nicholas thought, "The old girl's defeated and she
knows it, hence the Irish." He squeezed the hand he still held, and said
sternly to Philip:

"Well, and what have you to say for yourself?"

"I had to do it," he answered. "I had to settle the thing at one blow."

"A blow! That's what it was!" exclaimed Adeline. "A blow, in front of
all the world."

"It was not in front of all the world but just one little corner of it,"
he said, almost soothingly.

"It is _my_ world," she answered sadly.

Looking at her it did seem a pity that she shone in only this remote
community.

Sir Edwin said, "Dear Mrs. Whiteoak, we all felt with you. Your distress
was ours."

Augusta added, "I should have liked to leave the church with my mother,
but thought better of it."

"After a look from her," supplemented Nicholas.

Philip came into the room. "If all of you," he said, "had kept cool, not
a person in the church would have guessed you'd had a surprise."

Adeline sprang to her feet. "I like that!" she cried. "I like that, I
do! I was expected to sit in my pew smirking while the Rector gave out
the Banns for my son's marriage and I knowing nothing of it. Is that
what you expected me to do, Philip? Come, now, tell me!"

"I don't know what I expected," he answered sulkily.

Her nostrils widened as she said, "Or perhaps you expected me to take
out a handkerchief and wipe me eye on the corner of it. Wipe me eye and
bow me head and let out an Amen . . . Is that what you expected? Answer
me, you good-for-nothing rascal!"

As these words vibrated on the air Sir Edwin put the thumb of his right
hand on one ash blond side-whisker and its fingers on the other,
concealing his mouth, over which flickered an unseemly smile.

Philip's colour rose. He looked at her dumbly. He looked at the
miniature of his father in the brooch at her throat.

"Or perhaps," she went on, "you even expected me to feel chastened that
you'd insulted me. You maybe thought I'd rise in the pew and genuflect."

"Mamma," put in Augusta, "I don't think you realize how irreverent that
sounds."

"Mind your business, Augusta."

Philip said, "I intended no insult."

"Well, maybe it was better than a poke in the eye with a stick. But was
there a soul in the church, d'ye think, who didn't realize you'd
insulted your poor old mother?"

Philip's eyes became prominent.

"You're not my _poor old mother_!" he said loudly. "You're my
domineering mother who makes a scene, even in a church, when she is
balked in having her own way. If anyone was insulted this morning it was
I. Sitting there facing the congregation while you stalked from the
church like a tragedy queen."

The two last words pleased her. She considered them and then asked, on a
milder note, "What was it like after I left? Did they go on with the
service?"

"They did. You may be important, Mamma, but they couldn't stop the whole
show because you left in a temper. And I had to sit there with every eye
on me."

"In the olden times," she said, "a man might have been chastened with
scorpions for no more than you've done."

"Those were the days for you," he retorted.

"Come, come, Philip," put in Nicholas.

"The point is," said Philip, "the Banns have been read and will be read
on the two succeeding Sundays and, a few days later, Mary and I shall be
married."

Adeline ignored this statement and demanded:

"Did Mr. Pink know I'd been told nothing of the Banns?"

"He did not know."

"If I thought he had," she cried, "I'd bann _him_, and I'd not take
three weeks doing it! I'd do it in as many minutes."

"Mamma," said Philip, "you are not an Archbishop or even a Bishop."

"Your father and I built that church."

"Is it yours now?"

"Philip," came from Ernest, "will you stop being rude to Mamma!"

"Will _you_ stop defending me," said Adeline. "I need no defence against
an ungrateful young rogue like this."

"What have I to be grateful for?" Philip asked truculently. Adeline
threw up her hands in despair. She sank again into her chair and
stretched out her long legs in an attitude of exhaustion. After a space
she said:

"I have protected you against designing women who were after you, in the
past. And you were glad of it, weren't you? You have told me so with
your own lips."

"Well--maybe. But I could well have protected myself."

She laughed scornfully. "The way you have protected yourself against
this woman who took you as her lover in the room next the one where your
innocent little daughter slept. No protestations, my man! She told me so
herself."

"Now let us have this thing clear," said Philip. "It is clear between
Mary and me. Mamma made Mary so angry by her accusation that Mary
wouldn't deny it. In her anger she accepted the slur on herself. That's
what she says. What I think is that she was so intimidated she would
have agreed to anything."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen her," said Adeline.

Augusta's contralto voice was now heard. "What Philip says reminds me of
an occurrence when he was a little boy. Ernest and Nicholas were about
thirteen and fifteen. They owned a beautiful collie, with an especially
fine coat. One day the boys noticed that patches of it had apparently
been cut off by scissors, right to the skin. Philip had got into trouble
several times for mischief with scissors and knives. Naturally the boys
thought he'd been up to his tricks. They accused him, roughly, the way
boys will. I was there and I'm afraid I accused him too. He didn't say a
word but just looked at us, as though he were pleased to have done such
a bad thing. He was dragged before Papa who thundered at him 'Did you do
this, sir?' And Philip looked Papa straight in the eye and said 'Yes.'
He was severely punished. Then, a few days later it was discovered that
the dog had a peculiar form of eczema and that was the cause of the hair
coming off in patches. I remember I was so upset over Philip's being
wrongfully punished, I cried. But, when I asked him why he'd
acknowledged a fault he'd never committed, he said he didn't know. I
myself think it was because he was pleased that he should be considered
capable of such an enormity . . . Do you remember the occasion, Philip?"

"I can't say I do. I had so many lickings."

"A story to give one thought," observed Nicholas.

Sir Edwin looked admiringly at his wife. "Augusta," he said, "has an
extraordinarily analytical mind."

Philip bit his knuckle, unable to decide whether the analogy of this
anecdote tended to make his loved one appear better or worse.

The low rumble of the Indian gong that rose and fell again under the
beating by Eliza, told that the Sunday dinner was served. They were a
family with excellent appetites and, when they had seated themselves
about the table and the four plump young ducks on the platter in front
of Philip gave forth their good odour, not one present felt himself
unable to eat his share. Philip was a good carver, having sat at the
head of the table since his father's death. He carved slowly but with
accurate knowledge of the anatomy of the ducks, and every eye was on
him.

The two children were more watchful of the faces of their elders than of
the portions they were to get. Nicholas, Ernest and Sir Edwin tried to
draw the conversation into impersonal channels, but when the meal was no
more than half over Adeline abruptly asked of Meg:

"Did you hear the Banns read in church this morning?"

Meg raised her face in egg-like calm to Adeline's--"Yes, Granny."

"Did you understand what it means?"

"Yes. It means that Papa is going to marry Miss Wakefield."

"Did you understand at the time?"

"No. Nettle told me."

"Are you pleased?"

"No. I don't want him to."

"And what about you, Renny? Do you want your father to marry Miss
Wakefield?"

The little boy's high clear voice came decisively. "If it will stop her
giving us lessons I do."

Meg added, "Nettle says it's awful to have a step-mother."

"That woman," growled Philip, "will leave tomorrow."

"She's going anyway," said Meg smugly. "She doesn't want to stay--not
with Miss Wakefield bossing her about."

"Not another word out of you," Philip said sternly.

Renny piped, "In the fairy tales step-mothers turn children into birds
and animals. I hope Miss Wakefield will turn me into a horse."

A chuckle ran round the table. Philip forced a smile and exclaimed,
"Then what should I do? I'd have no little boy."

"You could ride me!" Renny cried joyfully. "And I'd go faster than any
other horse and you'd never need to touch me with the whip."

Philip covered his son's little hand with his. "If Miss Wakefield turns
you into a horse," he said soberly, "I will mount you and the two of us
shall ride away together and never come back."

Meg, since Philip's reprimand, had been on the verge of tears. Now she
burst into them noisily and without restraint. Her father had shown
preference for Renny. Ordinarily she would have been told to leave the
table, but now Adeline called her to her side, embraced her, kissed her
and said, "Poor child--poor child."

"She's nothing of the sort," said Philip, "and she's behaving like a
four-year-old."

"I quite agree," said Nicholas. "This howling for nothing is a
nuisance."

"If she is behaving without restraint," said Adeline, "she is doing no
worse than Philip."

"I think I have shown considerable self-restraint," he returned.

"I was taught," Adeline went on, "by my dear father, that there is no
better quality to guide you through life than self-restraint."

"That's the first good word I've ever heard you say for him," said
Nicholas.

It was plain that Nicholas had gone over to the enemy.

"If you had been more like my dear father," Adeline retorted, "your wife
might not have run off with another man."

"Mamma!" implored Augusta. "Remember the children."

"I do remember them and I wish there were more of them but Nicholas
never got a chick. Neither have you and Edwin managed one. Now my father
got eleven children and he taught them all self-restraint. My, but he
was a fine man! If ever I have said a hard word about him I deserve to
be punished for it. Indeed, I never really appreciated him till he was
gone."

She heaved a great sigh. "That is the way of it, with parents, and I
suppose 'twill be the way with me. I'm not so young as I was."

"I never have seen you look better than you do at the present time,
Mamma," said Ernest eagerly.

"Ah, I don't complain."

Eliza now brought in a peach shortcake, mounded with whipped cream, and
set it in front of Adeline. Eliza's hand shook, as she set down the
dish, for she had been greatly upset by Hodge's account of what had
happened in the church.

Adeline was so impressed by Eliza's condition that, when she took up the
heavy silver fork and spoon to serve the shortcake her own hand trembled
like a leaf.

"Eliza," she said, "will you please give the dish to Lady Buckley to
serve. I don't feel able for it."

Eliza did as she was bid, with a look of deep commiseration.

"Why, Mamma," cried Ernest, "peach shortcake is one of your favourite
dishes! Aren't you going to have any?"

"Not today . . . not today," she answered, in a small voice. "I have no
appetite for this meal. But don't worry about me. I shall just sit here
quietly and enjoy the sight of your enjoyment. Meggie, go back to your
chair, dear, and eat your shortcake. Renny, sit up straight and hold
your fork properly. God knows I have done my best to train you in good
manners, as I was trained. If I or my brothers behaved unmannerly my
father would give us a clip on the ear that would send us flying."

For a space she watched, with a sad expression, the consuming of the
shortcake, then she said:

"I think I shall go and lie down for a bit. I'm far from well. Boys,
will one of you lend me an arm."

Nicholas and Ernest at once sprang to her assistance. She left the room
supported by their strong arms.

Augusta, with great good sense, talked cheerfully to the children, gave
them second helpings and, when they had finished, gave them permission
to leave the table. Nicholas and Ernest returned from their mother's
room.

"How is she?" Sir Edwin asked anxiously.

"A little better," answered Ernest. "She wants you to go to her,
Philip."

"Oh, surely she is not able to continue the discussion," said Augusta.

"I think," Ernest said judicially, "it will be best for Philip to go."
He reseated himself remarking, "This is going to give me indigestion."
With a resigned air he again attacked the shortcake.

Philip said, "Excuse me, Augusta," and left the room, with a step that
had more of stubbornness than conciliation in it.

"I do hope there is nothing serious wrong with your mother," said Sir
Edwin.

Nicholas finished the last of his peach shortcake, leaned back in his
chair and wiped his drooping moustache.

"There is nothing serious," he said, "beyond the fact that Mamma has the
good sense to know when she's beaten."

In truth she did know and, as she lay on her bed waiting for Philip, she
accepted the fact without bitterness.

Now he stood in the doorway, his head bright against the dark curtains,
just as his father had stood, in that same doorway, when he was a young
man.

"Come closer," she said, "come to the bedside."

He came close and knelt down by the bed, putting his arms about her.

"Mamma," he said, "are you ill?"

"I'm better now." She put her long arms about him and drew him closer.
He pressed his face against her breast.

"You're my favourite," she said. "My youngest. I can't deny you
anything. If you want to marry this girl, you must." She gave a deep
sigh of resignation and added, "Bring her home and I'll be nice to her."

Boney had been perching on Adeline's ankle. Now he walked the length of
her body, picking his steps carefully When he reached her head he sank
to his breast and spread his wings as though to shield her. He uttered
little clucking noises.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On the following day Philip was once more driving his chestnut mare
along the road by the lake. On the seat by his side Mary sat and behind
the portmanteau was stored. It was a brilliant and chill morning, with
coloured leaves flying through the air like small birds, and flocks of
small birds, on their southward journey, blown through the air like
leaves. A steady rhythm of drumming waves sounded on the beach, and the
mare, as though taking pleasure in it, kept time with the beat of her
hoofs. Each separate hair of her mane and tail seemed vibrant with life.

Mary sat clutching her hat with both hands to keep it on. The wind had
whipped a lovely colour into her cheeks, a colour slightly deeper than
that in her lips. The effect, Philip thought, was very pretty. He
remarked:

"Your lips are less red than they were, Mary dear," he said.

She caught the under one between her teeth and gave it a little bite.

"I have a confession to make," she said.

"Yes?" he smiled.

"I did formerly put a little paint on my lips." She scanned his face,
anxious to discover the effect of her words, then added, "But I'll never
do it again, if you like me better without it."

"I like you as you are," he said.

They were on their way to the Laceys, where it had been amicably
arranged that Mary should stay till her marriage. It was necessary to
pass Jalna on the way. At the gate Philip drew up. The whip slanted from
his hand.

"Don't look startled, Mary," he said. "I'm not going to force you to
anything you are against. But I think it would be well for you to come
in now with me to meet my mother. You'll have to do it sooner or later
and the sooner you have it over with the better. In fact, I think it
would please her to have you come straight to her before you go to the
Laceys."

"Oh, no--not yet! I don't think I can."

"Of course you can . . . Come, now, be a sensible girl. Mamma will like
you all the better for being forthright. And remember, you have me at
your side."

Ah, she could do anything with him at her side! She could face a dozen
Adeline Whiteoaks, having Philip to protect her. Yet her heart beat with
painful swiftness as she nerved herself to consent.

"Very well," she said. "I suppose you're right. But, as for your mother
liking me, I can't picture such a thing."

Philip himself felt a good deal of trepidation at the thought of the
meeting. He felt very sorry for Mary, yet it was certain that the poor
darling had made things much worse by her reckless lie. He put a hand
over both hers that were tightly clasped in her lap and squeezed them.

"You'll feel the better for it afterward," he said.

"I hope so, for I could scarcely feel worse than I do at this moment."

She wished the driveway had been ten times as long. She scarcely had
time to collect herself when the trap stopped in front of the door, and
Philip sprang out and turned to lift her down.

"I can't!" she cried, in sudden panic.

"You can't?"

"No."

"Then when will you?"

"Tomorrow."

"Very well," he prepared to mount again into his seat. Disappointment
clouded his face. "But I thought you had better pluck."

"I will. I will!" She could not bear him to be disappointed in her. Then
again that moment when she had faced Adeline in triumph, had got the
best of her, flashed into her mind, hardening it to the ordeal. She
almost flung herself into Philip's arms, for fear her resolution would
again fail her. He set her on her feet.

"Straighten your hat," he said, with an appraising look. "It has too
wide a brim for that wind."

She straightened it, took herself firmly in hand and went up the steps
and through the door.

Inside he kissed her. "Your house, Mary," he said. "Welcome to it, my
darling."

She would have liked to cling to him, to obliterate herself in him, but
he led her into the drawing-room and left her. She listened to his steps
as he went down the hall in search of his mother. She heard Adeline
Whiteoak's voice.

She heard her steps coming from the direction of her bedroom. Philip
remained behind. Was he afraid of a scene, Mary wondered, or did he
think it best for them to be alone together at the meeting. She did not
know. She did not care. Just to have this terrible meeting over with was
all that mattered.

But how could she speak to Adeline? Her mouth was dry as a bone. She
stood straight, half-defiant, half-tremulous, facing the door.

Now Adeline stood there facing her. She looked a stately figure, almost
as though she had dressed for the meeting, in a royal purple tea-gown of
heavy silk, with a short train, and lace on the sleeves and at the
throat. All day she had moved, eaten, and spoken, like a semi-invalid.
But now her natural vitality took possession of her. Three swift steps
brought her to Mary. As she came she opened her arms wide and Mary found
herself enfolded against her strong breast, held there, inhaling the
Eastern scent that always came from Adeline because of the boxes of
sandalwood in which she kept her finery.

"My child!" There was true warmth, as well as a melodramatic vibration
in Adeline's voice. "My child--all is forgiven!"




                                  XXII
                           HE WAS A LITTLE BOY


Renny Whiteoak was up at six o'clock that morning. Though the month was
October the day was warm as summer, yet with a finer, sweeter warmth.
The bright blue of the sky was repeated in the little boy's jersey. In
his insides he felt clean as a whistle. He was slim and agile as a
minnow.

On his way to the stables he shouted, sang, and laughed, without in the
least knowing why. Hodge was just unlocking the heavy padlock on the
main door when he arrived.

"Hullo, Hodge," he yelled, as though Hodge were stone deaf. "I've come
to help you with your work."

"Fine," said Hodge, throwing open the door with a grand gesture. "I'm in
need of a helper. What wages do you ask?"

"A dollar a month."

"Whew! I can't pay all that."

"Twenty-five cents a month will do," Renny said quickly.

"All right. I'll hire you. We'll begin by watering them."

Hodge tramped in his heavy boots to where the buckets were kept, Renny
stretching his legs to keep step with him. When Hodge picked up a bucket
Renny took one also. The horses craned their necks out of their stalls
to watch them. Low whinnies of approval marked their progress to the
well beyond the farthest loose-box. Hodge lifted the heavy cover and the
chill smell of water came from the dark below. He let down the bucket
and brought it up brimming. Drops of water clung to the curly fair hairs
on his arm. He filled Renny's bucket, Renny squatting beside him, their
faces darkly glimpsed in the well below.

"Don't you ever come monkeying about here by yourself," warned Hodge.
"You might fall in."

"Would you save me if I fell in?"

"How the dickens would I know? I'd be off working somewhere else."

"But, if I screamed."

"The thing is," said Hodge, "to keep away from it. Here--don't you try
to lift that heavy bucket! You'll ruin yourself some day, the loads you
try to lift."

Renny grasped the handles of the bucket and carried it with Hodge. He
did his best to take a full share of its weight as it was lifted to old
Laura's lips. She was in the largest of the loose-boxes. She was thirty
years old and had been Captain Whiteoak's favourite. As she dipped her
small, intelligent head to the bucket she gave a kind glance at Renny
out of her lustrous eyes.

"She likes me," he said. "Do you think she'll last till I'm big enough
to ride her?"

"Shouldn't wonder. She's a great stayer. And look at her depth through
the heart." Hodge ran a hand lovingly over her shoulder. "I've heard my
father say that your grandfather valued her more than any horse he'd
ever owned, and he'd had a good many, what with England and India and
Canada."

"I value her too," Renny said stoutly. "Value everything at Jalna."

Joe, the older stableman, had brought oats and hay to the horses. Tom, a
young boy, was cleaning the stalls, shovelling the manure into a barrow
and wheeling it into the stable yard. Hodge was Renny's favourite and he
stuck by him. Together they set about grooming the horses. Renny's hand
was almost too small to grasp the curry-comb but he worked hard, hissing
through his teeth as Hodge did. His own lively Welsh pony was bright as
a polished nut when he had finished with her and Hodge commended him.
The pony turned her head and nuzzled Renny, slobbering lovingly over his
ear.

Renny asked of Hodge, "Are you coming to the party this afternoon,
Hodge?"

"Oh, I'll be around, if I'm needed."

Renny stood with his legs well apart, chewing a straw. "Do you know who
the party's for?" he asked.

Hodge scratched his head on which grew a thatch of tow-coloured hair.
"Well," he answered evasively, "I couldn't rightly say."

"It's for Miss Wakefield. She's going to be my stepmother."

"Oh . . . That'll be fine--I guess."

"Hodge, would you like to have a stepmother?"

"Why--I guess so."

Renny uttered a hoot of derision. "What! And be turned into a snake or a
toad by her?"

"You don't believe them lies, do you?"

"I don't know. Nettle said so."

"She's gone and a good thing too . . . By jingo, it's time I went to my
breakfast. And you'd better go to yours. You've got yourself dirty. Do
you want me to help you wash at the pump?"

"Hurray! You bet I do." He was delighted at the prospect. He hopped
along beside Hodge to the pump in the stable yard. Hodge produced a cake
of yellow soap.

"It'll be cold," he warned.

"I don't mind."

"Pull off your jersey then, and bend over."

Off came the jersey and the undervest. The little white body was erect
beneath the alert head.

"It's only my face and hands that are dirty," he said.

Hodge pumped enough water to wet the soap. He lathered Renny's hands and
neck. "You do your face. I might get soap in your eyes."

Well soaped, Renny bent, with hands on his knees, beneath the icy stream
Hodge pumped on him. His cheeks turned from red to pink, from pink to
mauve. Hodge rubbed him hard with a rough stable towel. Then Hodge
stripped to his waist and Renny flung himself on the pump-handle,
pumping so hard that, at each upward swing, he was lifted off his feet.
He laughed with joy to see the water sluicing over Hodge's square torso,
drowning his tow head.

Now they could see the cows coming majestically from the cow stable
after the milking. Tom was carrying two pails of milk toward the house.
It was foaming over the top and Renny could smell its warm sweetness as
it passed him.

"Have a drink?" asked Tom.

"Don't mind if I do," said Hodge. He took the tin mug from the pump and
dipped it into the bucket. He handed it to Renny.

"You go first," said Renny politely.

"No. You're the boss," grinned Hodge.

Renny put the mug to his lips and did not take it away till it was
drained. He was a little out of breath with the effort but the eyes of
the two young men on him demanded a show of manly efficiency.

"Another?" asked Hodge.

"No, thanks."

Hodge emptied the mug twice and Tom did the same, then plodded on toward
the house. Hodge went to the cottage, one of several on the estate
occupied by the hired help, where he lived with his mother.

Renny ran swiftly up the stairs to wake Meg. He wondered why she always
was so sleepy in the morning. He was scarcely ever sleepy and Nettle
said that was the reason he was so thin and Meg plump. Nettle had been
sent away because she hadn't been nice about Miss Wakefield. If you
weren't nice about Miss Wakefield you went. Would he have to go, he
wondered, if he weren't nice to her?

Meg was curled up in a delicious pink and white ball, with her
golden-brown plait streaming across the pillow, like a handle to lift
her by. He took it where the faded ribbon bow was and heaved it up and
down, as he had the handle of the pump. She woke, with a start, uncurled
herself and puckered her pretty face into a frown.

"Go 'way," she said, crossly. "Leave me alone, Renny!" His cold fingers
were tickling her neck.

"Wake up," he said, putting his face close to hers.

Meg's taste in smells was peculiar. She loved the smell of paint, of
floor polish and the like. Now the smell of the carbolic soap that he
had been washed with ravished her nostrils.

"Oo, what a lovely smell!" she breathed, and clasped his head close on
the pillow.

He was delighted at having pleased her. He lay still a few moments,
savouring the pleasure of being hugged by her, then his ravening stomach
urged him to spring up. He pulled the bed-clothes off her.

"Come on," he said. "Get up. They'll be bringing the tent soon."

"I don't care," she grumbled. "I'm not going to the party."

He was astonished. "Why, Meggie, there'll be ice-cream and fruit punch
and all sorts of things."

"I don't care."

But she did care and she wanted to see the marquee put up on the lawn.
She rolled on to her behind and peered about for her stockings. They
were under the bed and he got them for her. She snatched them and began,
still crossly, to pull them on.

"I'm going," he called back over his shoulder, and clattered down the
stairs.

The door of Ernest's bedroom opened. He appeared and caught Renny by the
arm.

"You've been making a great noise," he said sternly, "racketing up and
down the stairs. Don't you realize it's still early and some of your
elders want to sleep?"

"I forgot."

"Forgetfulness of the comfort of others is an offence that cannot be
allowed. You like us to think of your comfort, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Uncle Ernest."

"Now, give me your hand and we'll go down quietly together. Your hand is
cold. What makes your hand so cold?"

"I don't know."

"Have you been outdoors?"

"Yes. It's warm out."

"Good. We are to have fine weather for the garden party."

They seated themselves at table. Eliza set dishes of oatmeal porridge in
front of them. Ernest thought how chipper Eliza looked since Mrs.
Nettleship's departure. He remarked to his nephew:

"This is an important day for you, Renny."

The little boy looked enquiringly into his face.

"There is a drop of milk on your chin. Wipe it off. Not with your hand.
With your napkin. That's better. Now, this day is important to you
because today your father introduces to his friends the young lady who
is to be your new mother. Everybody will have a chance to meet her and
admire her. She's very pretty, you know. You should stand near her when
she is receiving the guests and be very polite. If you undertake to pass
a dish you must be careful not to tilt it. If a lady and gentleman are
standing side by side, be sure to offer it to the lady first."

"Yes, Uncle Ernest. I thought it was Granny's party."

"She is giving it for Miss Wakefield."

"I thought she was giving it for herself."

"Really, Renny, you sometimes surprise me by your stupidity. Your mind
is so much on your own affairs that you don't listen to what is going on
about you."

"I listened to the Banns being read."

"That has nothing to do with the party . . . Well, yes, it had a good
deal to do with the party, after all. Will you have an egg?"

"Yes, please."

Ernest chipped the top off a boiled egg for Renny and gave him a piece
of buttered toast from a generous plateful, of which the slices were so
well spread that the butter oozed through them and formed little golden
pools on the plate.

Ernest remarked abruptly, "I don't like your smell."

"It's soap," said Renny.

"It's nothing of the sort. It's stable. You _must not_ come to the table
after handling horses."

Renny hung his head. "I washed," he murmured.

"Did you change your clothes?"

"N--no."

"Well--hurry up with that egg. Then you may spread some marmalade on a
piece of toast and leave the table. I cannot eat another bite while you
are in the room."

He wiped his lips and leaned back in his chair, his forget-me-not blue
eyes fixed disapprovingly on the little boy.

Renny finished his egg in two spoonfuls, took a piece of toast and ran
toward the door.

"Come back here," said Ernest, "and push your chair in--not
roughly--gently. Now what do you say?"

"Please excuse me."

"Certainly."

He ran through the porch to the lawn. Men were there putting up the tent
that had been brought from town. It was striped red and white, with a
scalloped border. There were long tables supported by trestles. The men
were jolly, laughing and sometimes swearing a little as they worked. The
spaniels and the fox terrier were there running in and out among the
men's legs. But, when they saw the toast in Renny's hand, they thought
of nothing but that. He put bits into one white-toothed mouth after
another. Then Jake, seeing his opportunity, took the remainder and ran
with it into the shrubbery.

Doctor Ramsey now drove up between the spruces and hemlocks. He alighted
from his buggy and tied his horse. Renny ran to him.

"Hullo, Grandpapa," he shouted. "We're having a garden party."

"So I see," said the doctor, eyeing the gay tent without enthusiasm.
"And what is the object of the party, may I ask?"

"Don't you know?" cried Renny, astonished.

"Ay, I know, but I'm wondering if you rightly understand."

"We're having it to show Miss Wakefield to all our friends. She's going
to be my new mother."

"Ay. Can you remember your mother who died?"

"Oh, yes."

"She was my only child, you know."

"_Was_ she?"

"Why, surely you knew that?"

Renny felt the sad reproach in Doctor Ramsey's eyes. "Oh, yes, I knew,"
he hastened to say. Then he added quickly:

"Will you bring Miss Wakefield some babies?"

"God knows . . . Do you want me to bring babies?"

"Yes. I want a little brother. I'd take care of him. I'd teach him to
ride."

"Well, well, we shall see."

"Grandpapa, do you really bring them in your black bag?"

"Do you expect me to give away the secrets of my profession?"

"Calves," said Renny, "are too big to come in your bag, so the cows get
them all by themselves. I saw one do it in a field."

"I hope Meggie wasn't there," said the doctor sharply.

"No. I was alone."

"Did you tell her?" Doctor Ramsey's eyes were stern.

"No," lied Renny.

Adeline was sweeping across the grass to them.

"What a day!" she exclaimed. "We couldn't have chosen better. I always
say this is the best time of the year."

"I'm glad you're so pleased," said Doctor Ramsey drily.

She took his arm and squeezed it. "Come now," she said. "Show your
mettle and make the best of this, the way I do. To tell the truth I'm
getting very fond of Mary. The way she's come out in the past ten days
is amazing. She is a very complex character and it takes a character
like my own to understand her. I've taken her right under my wing."
Adeline curved a long supple arm as in illustration. "I'm giving her her
trousseau out of my own pocket. When she was to marry Clive Busby I
planned to give her a muskrat coat, suitable for the prairies, but now
the coat is to be sealskin."

"That, of course," said the doctor, "will be more suitable for the
mistress of Jalna."

Adeline drew back. "The mistress, did you say? The mistress! Ah, Doctor
Ramsey, I always shall continue to look on myself as mistress here, if I
live to be a hundred--which Heaven forbid!"

Doctor Ramsey gave her an admiring look. "I know no other woman," he
said, "so well fitted to carry off that weight of years as yourself."

"And may you be here to give me a dose of physic after the celebration,"
she laughed.

He shook his head. "Not me." Then he asked, "Have you heard aught of
young Busby?"

"Yes. Mrs. Vaughan had a letter from his mother. He's well and working
hard. There is a very nice girl out there whom he was paying attention
to, before he came east. Now they hope he'll settle down and marry her.
I'm so glad, because Mary isn't fitted for life on the prairies . . .
Jalna is the place for her," she added complacently.

Doctor Ramsey was a Presbyterian and had not been present at the first
giving out of the Banns but he had heard much of the scene in the
church, and the look he now gave Adeline was not so much admiring as
puzzled.

The other members of the family joined them and there was great activity
in the arranging of tables, the laying of cloths, the placing of chairs
for the small orchestra and those of the guests who preferred to eat
their refreshments sitting. Children and dogs were here, there and
everywhere. Eliza, who had amazingly blossomed out since Mrs.
Nettleship's departure, was masterful in her handling of the situation.
Young Hodge's mother ran hither and yon at her bidding. Philip seated
himself on one of the long tables, over which a white damask cloth had
just been spread, and lighted his pipe. He puffed at it placidly till a
concerted outcry brought him to his feet.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I didn't notice the tablecloth." He began to
smooth it out but Eliza at once removed it and spread a fresh one in its
stead.

Jake, seeing the discarded cloth in a basket on the grass, drew it out
and dragged it into the shrubbery, unobserved by any but his parents who
disclaimed any connection with him.

By noon the scene was set for the garden party. After a light lunch
everyone but Renny relaxed for a time. The Indian Summer day was hot. He
went to a field through which the stream ran in the open and was shallow
with a chalky bed. He set himself to work at a dam he and his friend
Maurice Vaughan had been building in the holidays. He stood in the
stream and heaved the flat stones from the bank into place. He plastered
them with mud, stretching his small thin hands to their utmost, putting
out all his strength in the heaving. He pictured the dam as a mighty
construction, the stretch of water thus saved as spreading like a lake
over the field. Three ducks swimming in the pool eyed his work with
interest. Three farm horses came and drank.

Renny lost all sense of time; he forgot the garden party; he forgot the
ice-cream. He would have worked where he was till dark if Meg, all
dressed in white, with a pale blue sash, had not appeared. She looked at
him in dismay.

"Renny Whiteoak!" she cried, "you're going to catch it! Oo! Look at you!
People are coming. Granny's been looking for you everywhere. Hurry up!
I've been dressed for hours."

He thought she looked pretty standing there.

"You look pretty," he said.

"You look awful. You may not be allowed to come to the party."

"I don't care." But he did. He hurried with her to the house and up to
his room. He was turning a basin of water into a mud puddle when Adeline
appeared. She gave him a look of disgust.

"Oh, you miserable boy," she said. "I've a mind to give you a good
beating and lock you in a dark cupboard for the rest of the day. What
would you say to that?"

Doggedly he lifted the heavy basin and emptied the mud puddle into the
great slop jar. Doggedly he heaved up the heavy ewer.

"Here!" she cried, "you'll spill it. Let me."

She filled the basin, snatched up the sponge and began to wash him. She
held him by one ear while she washed his neck, her elbow sleeves leaving
her tapering forearms exposed.

"Ow! My ear!" he howled, but she kept her hold on it, both keeping him
at arm's length and washing him.

"Now, strip," she ordered.

He scrambled out of his clothes and she, with a running commentary on
his condition and on what her father would have done to any of her
brothers had he been in the same, she continued the cleaning process.
When he stood, a white sliver, with a russet top, before her, she
relented and smiled. That was enough. He cast himself on her, hugging
her, till she exclaimed:

"Come, come, you'll rumple my dress . . . Now--here's your lovely white
sailor suit. Let me put you into it and see how nice you'll look."

He stood admiring himself in the glass. The black silk tie, the lanyard,
with the whistle tucked into his pocket, looked well.

When Adeline had brushed his hair she stood back to admire him. "You
look the perfect Irish gentleman," she exclaimed.

"But the Whiteoaks are English, Granny," he said.

"I know that," she whispered, with her arch smile, "but we'll not tell
anyone."

He could have shouted with joy, when he heard the little orchestra
playing, right on their own lawn. But he did wish there had been a drum.
He liked the flautist best of all. He pressed close beside him, admiring
the nimble movements of his fingers on the flute.

Mary stood with Philip and Adeline, receiving the guests. She had bought
herself a turquoise blue silk mull dress and a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat
with pink roses. Philip wore white flannels. Everyone agreed that you
would have travelled far before you would have found a handsomer pair.
And, if Adeline herself had travelled the world over to discover Mary,
she could scarcely have looked more pleased.

Renny had never before seen so many people together except at a Fall
Fair. He found time to tear to the stable yard and have a look at the
dozens of horses and vehicles with Hodge. In his hand he had brought a
large piece of cake for Hodge and, as he discussed the horses, he licked
the sweet icing that had stuck to his fingers. He and Hodge agreed that
there was not a horse in the yard which could compare to their own.

He returned to the garden party for more ice-cream. He could see Meggie
being helpful in her best dress. He could see Uncle Ernest with one of
the prettiest of the young ladies and Uncle Nicholas with Ethel Lacey.
He ran and squeezed himself in between Philip and Mary. Philip took his
hand.

Muriel Craig came, carrying a plate on which there was a generous
helping of chicken salad and a well-buttered roll. She wore a dress of
many-coloured Roman stripes with enormous sleeves. She had already been
greeted by Mary but now she whispered to her:

"Could we possibly have a word together quietly? I have something I must
tell you."

Mary led her to the shelter of the porch.

"What do you suppose has happened?" Muriel asked at once.

"I can't imagine."

"You will be horrified when I tell you. Two days ago my father and that
horrible nurse of his went off together and got married! Isn't it
appalling?" The irises of her eyes showed white all round them.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry for you," Mary said warmly.

"It's heart-breaking. I shall never get over it!" And she took a large
forkful of chicken salad. "I cried all that night. I shall certainly
have to leave home. I could not possibly live with that woman."

"There is one comfort," said Mary. "She will take good care of your
father."

"He doesn't need her! He's getting better every day. But I must just
resign myself. The first thing I shall do will be to visit my friend in
New York . . . I suppose if I'm to have ice-cream and punch I'd better
have them now. That charming Mr. Biggs is getting some for me at this
moment . . . How nice you look, Mary. Really, it's surprising what
clothes do for a girl."

"Thank you," said Mary.

"As for myself, clothes seem not to make any difference to me. As one of
my admirers remarked the other day, I look every bit as pretty in a
simple cotton dress as in silk mull."

As peach and pineapple yield their richest flavour just before decay, so
this day showed the finest colouring; its breezes were most playful, and
carried in them scents of ripeness, of distant wood smoke, of a
sweetness to make one wonder. Magnificent threats of stormy weather to
come showed in the west but the garden party revelled in the very best
of summer. The gaily striped tent, the pretty parasols, the hard-working
little orchestra, would never grace a happier scene.

"But what are they all talking about?" wondered Renny. The snatches of
conversation he overheard seemed to mean nothing. When he spoke he had
something to say.

He said to Meg, "I've had three dishes of ice-cream."

"I only had two," she returned, "but I had three pieces of cake. And I
had a glass of punch."

"Why, we're not supposed to drink punch." He was both horrified and
envious.

"I did."

"Did anyone see you? Who poured it for you?"

"Nobody. It was a glassful some lady set down and I just picked it up."

"Did you feel funny after it?"

"A little. The tent turned round."

"Isn't it turning now?"

"No. I'm all over it. I could drink another."

"Whew!" He looked at her admiringly.

At last came the time for the guests to leave. There were the
hand-shakings, the renewed congratulations, the flurry and amiable
crowding together of good-byes. There was the rumbling of wheels and the
glad clatter of hoofs. Last of all went Mary, with Philip to drive her
back to the Laceys.

Renny had run to the gate after the trap. They had waved back to him but
still he felt rather lonely, standing in the sunlight by the gate.

The driveway was dark and the trees looked very tall. They shut out the
light and Renny remembered ghosts and goblins and bad fairies as he
trotted along the drive. On the lawn the men were folding up the tent,
the musicians had vanished, without his having seen them go. The dogs,
worn out, were strewn on the porch. The grass looked trodden and
lifeless. Beyond the ravine, through the trees, a crimson eye of sunset
glowed. He ran round the house to where two farm labourers had loaded a
waggon with barrels of apples from the brick-built apple-house.

Renny clambered up into the waggon. He gripped the edge of a barrel to
steady himself as the driver slapped the reins on the horses' backs. The
spicy scent of the Northern Spies rose out of the barrels.

One of the men asked over his shoulder, "Did you have a good time at the
party?"

"Oh, yes. Where are the apples going?"

"To Montreal. In the morning. The barrels have got to be headed in
tonight."

"Why are you working late?"

"We didn't work all day. The boss gave us a holiday. But we thought we'd
head in the barrels."

"Can I go with you to the station?"

"If you're up early enough."

"I'll be up."

He took an apple from the barrel he was clinging to. It lay, round as
the world and cold as ice, in his hand. He sniffed it. It had a good
smell. His mind flew back to another good smell--the smell of the
Christmas tree. All his being tingled at the recollection of that scent.
He remembered no farther back than last Christmas. That was far enough
to remember. It filled him with a heady joy. For an instant he forgot
where he was. Then the waggon stopped with a jolt. They were at the
barn. The men jumped down. One held out his arms to Renny.

"Jump," he said.

Renny jumped into the man's arms and was set on the ground.

"What have you got there?" the man asked. "An apple? Don't you know
you're not supposed to take one out of the barrels? You know where to
get one, if you want it."

The man took the apple from Renny's hand, reached up and put it back in
the barrel. The other man was unhitching the horses.

"It's too dark to head in the barrels," he said. "We can do them in the
morning." He led the horses clumping into the stable.

The first man brought sacking and covered the barrels. Renny ran into
the stable. The smell of clean straw greeted him out of the living dusk.
Everywhere there were quiet movements and deep breathing.

"Here!" shouted both men. "Come out of there. Do you want to get locked
in?"

Renny trotted out. It was almost dark. The crimson eye in the west had
closed. The men were moving shadows.

"Good-bye," he called, over his shoulder, as he ran off.

"Good-bye," answered the men.

He looked in at the inky darkness of the apple-house. He did so much
want an apple. A figure stumped toward him from the direction of the
kitchen. It was Noah Binns, who had been having a feed of left-overs
from the garden party.

"Hi, Noah!" Renny called.

"Huh?" grunted Noah, stumping closer.

"Say, will you wait here while I go into the apple-house?"

"Afeared, eh?" Noah's grin was just visible.

"No. But I thought someone might lock me in."

"Go ahead. But don't be long."

Renny ran down the moist stone steps into the darkness. In bunks, like
sleepers, lay the apples, Spies, greenings, russets, Tolman sweets,
snows, pippins, filling the air with their scent. He put his hand where
he knew the snow apples were stored. He took one and hurried up the
steps.

"A notorious big crop of apples this fall," said Noah. "Eat your fill.
There won't be none next year."

"Why?"

"Tree bugs is at work under the bark, suckin' the good out of the trees.
I seen 'em and heard 'em--suckin'."

"We spray the trees."

"A lot of good that will do. This bug is a new sort. He likes the spray.
He's up from the States."

Renny stood a moment looking after Noah before he ran into the house. He
was glad to get in and shut the door behind him. The red apple lay cold
in his hand.

A sudden change had come in the atmosphere. The evening was chilly. A
fire of birch logs was blazing in the drawing-room and everyone but
Philip was sitting about it talking of the garden party.

"Well, young man," said Ernest, "it's about time you came in."

"Are you hungry?" asked Adeline.

"I just want this apple."

"I'm not hungry either," said Meg. She was sitting on a stool at
Augusta's knee, holding magenta wool on her hands for winding. Her light
brown hair shone in the firelight.

Renny went to Nicholas. "Uncle Nick," he said, "will you read out of the
book to me?"

"Too late," growled Nicholas.

"But, if you don't read, we'll not finish the book before you go back to
England."

"Very well. I'll read a few pages."

Renny brought the shabby leather-bound book. He climbed to Nicholas'
knee and stretched himself comfortably with his head on Nicholas'
shoulder who said:

"By George, you're a cold little codger. Where have you been?"

"Getting an apple. Have a bite?" He held the apple to Nicholas' mouth.
He took a quarter of it in one bite with his strong white teeth. Renny
looked at the pink-veined cavity in the apple, then set to nibbling
round its edge.

Nicholas swallowed and read:

    "As the evening approached, she placed on the stone fireplace a
    pot containing two of the salted bears' feet to stew for supper,
    and then we seated ourselves, to wait with anxiety and
    impatience for the return of our boy hunters. At last we heard
    the clatter of hoofs approaching at a sharp trot, and distant
    sounds of joyful cheering. I went to meet the riders.

    "Like military hussars, they slackened rein when they saw me,
    and sprang from their chargers, took off the saddles, and left
    the animals free to enjoy the sweet grass and the fresh water
    from the brook at their own free will. Then they hastened to
    join their mother at the tent, who received them joyfully.

    "Jack and Frank each carried a young kid slung across his
    shoulders, and the movement in Fritz's game-bag gave me the
    impression that it contained something alive.

    "'The chase for ever, papa!' cried Jack, in a loud voice; 'the
    chase for ever! And what splendid fellows Storm and Grumbler are
    to run over level ground! They so tired the little creature we
    followed for a long distance, that we were able at last to catch
    it with our hands.'

    "'Yes, papa!' exclaimed Frank; 'and Fritz has two such pretty
    rabbits in his bag. And we were very nearly bringing you some
    honey, mamma, only we stopped to hear the cuckoo.'

    "'Ah, but you forget the best!' cried Fritz. 'We met a troop of
    antelopes, and they were so tame, we might have brought one home
    easily had we wished.'

    "'Ah, stay, my boy,' I said; '_you_ have forgotten the best: the
    goodness of God in bringing you all home safely to the arms of
    your parents, and preserving you from danger on the way. But
    presently you must give us a straightforward account of your
    journey, from the beginning, after you have rested.'"

On and on Nicholas read. A sense of well-being pervaded the room. His
elders listened with an interest only second to that of the little boy.
But it was he who was transported to the foreign land, to the company of
the fantastical beasts and birds, the boy hunters. He was both there and
in the safe cosy room, lolling on Uncle Nick, idly watching Meg turn her
hands in the skein of wool.

A step interrupted the reading and Philip came in.

Nicholas shut the book. "Time for you to go to bed, young fellow." And
he tilted Renny to the floor.

Adeline called him to her. "What did you do with the apple seeds?" she
demanded.

"I swallowed them. I didn't want to interrupt the reading."

"Swallowed them! Ah, you must never do that again. Your grandfather
tells me that seeds of all sorts are likely to get into the appendix and
kill you. It's a new disease and you must be careful not to get it. Do
you understand?"

"Yes, Granny."

"Now, thank your uncle for the reading and off to bed, both of you."

Meg objected. "It's not fair for me to go when Renny goes. I'm two years
older."

"Well, you may stay up half an hour longer."

The wool was wound into a huge ball. It was for the knitting of a
spencer. Meg rose and went to Sir Edwin. She stroked his silky
side-whiskers.

"I love whiskers," she said.

"Thank you, my dear." He beamed at her.

"I hope," said Augusta approvingly, "that, when you grow up, you will
have the good fortune to marry a gentleman with side-whiskers."

"Meggie is determined," said Nicholas, "to marry a man with a dark
moustache like mine."

"Not a bit of it," smiled Ernest. "Meggie wants a smooth-shaven man like
me."

"What sort do you want, Meg?" asked her father.

"One like you," she declared, and cast herself on him.

Renny said, "Thank you for the reading, Uncle Nick." He put his arms
round the neck of each grown-up in the room and gave each a good-night
kiss.

Adeline said to Philip, "I hope Mary wasn't too tired after the party."

"Well, she was a little tired, but just pleasantly so."

"She looked as pretty as a picture," said Ernest.

"Granny," whispered Renny, in her ear, "will you come up and tuck me
in?"

"I heard you," said Philip. "Your Granny has been on her feet all day.
She doesn't want to climb two flights of stairs."

"Will you, then, Aunty?"

Adeline interrupted, "I will tuck the children in. Renny, don't forget
your teeth and your prayers."

He mounted the long dim stairs. Eliza had lighted the oil lamp in a
bracket on the wall. The day stretched behind him, a medley of shapes,
sounds, smells, which he did not try to disentangle or even think of.
The real things were his bed, the lamp on the wall and the great full
moon just swimming above the tree tops. The lamp was cosy but the moon
made the drawing-room and the people in it seem a long way off and
himself very small.

He hung over the footboard of the bed, dangling his legs. He pictured
the apple seeds travelling through his body, getting ready to give
trouble. Already he thought, he felt a little pain. He stood up quickly
as though listening. If he felt it again he would run straight
downstairs . . . But it did not come again.

He sauntered into Meg's room. There were the clothes she had taken off
when she dressed for the garden party, lying in a little heap in a
chair, her stubby shoes in the middle of the floor, toeing in. He walked
about, looking at her belongings, handling the things on her
dressing-table. He went to Miss Wakefield's room that was full of
moonlight. He wondered if she would sleep there again or go down to one
of the bigger better bedrooms below. He hoped she would go to another
room. He did not want to meet her the first thing in the morning and say
"Good morning, Mamma." But he said it now, out loud, "Good morning,
Mamma," several times. It sounded funny . . .

He tried to remember his first mother, the one who had died. Though he
tried hard he could remember only her arms, lifting him up. She was
dead. In Heaven. Somewhere beyond the moon. He wondered if she liked it
up there. Grandpapa said she did. He looked out at the moon. Then
suddenly he turned and ran back to his own room and began to take off
his clothes.

He had just got into bed when he heard Meg coming up the stairs and, in
a moment more, his grandmother. He was glad and shouted out, "I'm in!
And covered up!"

"You'd better be," said Adeline.

She picked up the towel he had dropped on the floor and examined the
smudges on it.

"I have a mind," she said, "to make you get up and wash all over again.
Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, I brushed them hard. Look." He displayed them in a grin, one of
the lower ones missing.

"Say your prayers?"

"Yes," he shouted. He leaped up on the bed and threw his arms round her
neck.

She hugged him to her, making a cooing sound. "You've got high spirits,"
she said. "That's a good thing in this life. I wonder what life will do
to you. I hope it will be kind."

"Granny!"

"Yes?"

"You promised me that you would come riding with me one morning early!
Will you do it tomorrow?"

"Ah, my riding days are over. I'm getting old."

"But you promised!"

"Well--we'll see."

"Tomorrow!"

"No. After the wedding. I've too much to do now for early riding."

"But you will, won't you?"

"Yes." She laid him flat and tucked the blanket round him. "Now, not
another squeak out of you." She kissed him, turned down the wick, and
went to Meg's room. Soon he heard her descending the stairs.

"Meggie!" he called. "Come and kiss me good night!"

"No. It's too cold. I'm sleepy."

He sprang out of bed and padded to her bedside. His mouth found her cool
round cheek. He knew she was smiling in the dark.

"Good night," she murmured, "sleep tight. Don't let the little bugs
bite."

He ran back to his own room and jumped into bed. His feet were icy. The
moon was looking in at him, bigger than ever. It was too big. He pulled
the blanket over his head to shut it out and was instantly asleep.




                                 XXIII
                          THE WEDDING AND AFTER


The wedding day dawned bright and chill. There was a new firmness to the
soil. The first vehicles on the roads splintered the thin ice that
gleamed in the ruts. The carriage, in which Admiral Lacey was to drive
Mary to the church, had been washed and polished till it shone. So had
the Admiral who was to give Mary away. There was great excitement at The
Moorings as Mary and Violet dressed for the ceremony. Violet, in pale
blue, carrying pink roses and violets, was to be bridesmaid. With her
smiling face and high colour which later on would become florid, she
looked very young for her age and quite suitable to attend Mary who was
unusually pale and grave. Standing on the verge of her new life she cast
a fleeting look backward at the months through which she had just
passed. She would be glad, she thought, when tomorrow had come and she
was truly Philip's. Never again would she look back.

"Girls, girls," cried Mrs. Lacey, "you must hurry. There isn't a minute
to spare, if you're to be on time. Violet, you madcap, are you only now
putting on your shoes? Ethel, do help her. Mary, have you something old,
something new, something borrowed and something blue?"

"Of course, she has, Mother!" cried Ethel. "She is carrying her mother's
white vellum prayer book which is old. Her dress and veil are new. Her
garters are blue. And she has borrowed my best lace handkerchief."

"Speaking of handkerchiefs," said Mrs. Lacey, "I must be sure to have
one handy because I'm bound to cry at a wedding."

"For the love of God," cried her husband, from the next room, "somebody
come and find my collar button!"

It seemed that they never would be ready in time but ready they were at
last, when Nicholas drove up to the house in a phaeton to take Mrs.
Lacey and her daughters to the church.

"Upon my word," said Admiral Lacey, "I believe I've put on twenty pounds
since I last wore this coat."

"You look fine," said Nicholas.

"It doesn't wrinkle across the back?"

"Not at all," lied Nicholas.

"That's good. Have your party left for the church yet?"

"My mother and the Buckleys and Renny have. Philip and Ernest and Meggie
are to follow. Meg got mislaid somehow. Children are a great pest."

"What a blessing that your mother is reconciled to the match."

"Yes, and wants everyone to know it. She went early to the church so
that she might be seen, smiling her blessing."

"She's a great character."

"She has her good points," smiled Nicholas.

Eliza, dressed in her best for the wedding, was searching frantically
for Meg. She well knew how antagonistic to the marriage the child was.
She feared that Meg would not turn up for the ceremony. A shame it was
for her to spoil everything by her naughtiness.

Philip called out "Eliza, don't search any more! Hodge and his mother
are waiting for you. I must be off this minute."

He jumped into the trap beside Ernest whose fair forehead was tied in a
knot of worry.

"My God," he cried, "there goes the church bell!"

The bell sounded sweet on the sharp air.

Philip touched the horse with the whip. "We may comfort ourselves with
this," he said, "they can't go on without us."

"Damned undignified for the groom to arrive at top speed."

"Better than with a lagging step. I expect there will be quite a crowd
at the church."

"Your marriage to the children's mother was the last wedding from
Jalna."

"Yes."

It was not a happy allusion at this moment. Both fell silent,
remembering the day.

There were indeed many people in the church and about to enter the
church. The carriage shed was full of vehicles. The bell was still
ringing when Philip, and Ernest who was his groomsman, hurried to the
side door that led into the vestry. By the time they were inside it had
stopped and the organ was sending forth a soothing strain.

But Philip was not soothed. His handsome face was flushed. He was
excited and nervous. He had run his hand through his hair and stood it
on end. Ernest now was calm.

Meg stuck her head in at the door.

"Were you looking for me, Papa?" she asked.

"You have no right to come here," said Ernest. "You should be in the pew
with your grandmother."

Her eyes grew large and mournful. "I was sad."

"Look at her hair!" exclaimed Ernest.

She had put on her new dress but her hair was still in the plait in
which she wore it at night. Philip hastily pulled the faded ribbon from
it and shook out the shining mass. He did not do it gently.

"You have no reason to feel sad," he said.

"Oh, you hurt me!" Her eyes filled with tears.

He bent and kissed her. "You must go round to the front door," he said,
"and then walk quietly up the aisle to our pew. Where is your hat?"

"Here." She held it up.

He put it on her. She smiled up at him. "Your own hair needs tidying,"
she said, and ran off.

He ran his hand over it, smoothing it. Mr. Pink appeared in his
surplice.

"I think the moment has come," he said. "The bride is alighting from her
carriage."

Philip stood at the chancel steps, Mary drawing ever nearer to him. At
last she was by his side. He glanced at her quickly and saw her face,
pale and beautiful beneath the veil. He saw the hand that held her
mother's prayer book tremble. Mr. Pink began:

"'Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God
. . .'"

The service proceeded. Each had answered, "I will," Philip in a full and
confident tone, giving the promise with his whole heart; Mary, in a
voice lower, but still firm. Then Mr. Pink guided their two right hands
to join, and so they gave their troth.

They loosed their hands. Then Mary again took Philip's right hand in
hers and her voice now stronger, made her promise. She could hear
herself making it, as though she were an outsider, and to her, her voice
seemed to ring through the church.

Again they loosed their hands. Then Philip laid the ring upon the Book,
then Mr. Pink delivered the ring again to Philip, and he put it on
Mary's fourth finger, and holding it there, said, in the same full and
confident voice:

"'With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee honour, and with all my
worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and the Son and of
the Holy Ghost. Amen.'"

They knelt together.

"Well, well," thought Adeline, "it's done. He's had his own way, and I
hope good comes of it. No one can say that I didn't smile at this
wedding. And no one will ever be able to say I'm not a good
mother-in-law."

When Philip and Mary had signed their names in the Register, when Lily
Pink was tearing the Wedding March out of her soul, and family and
friends were crowding about to congratulate the newly married pair,
Adeline was the first to kiss the bride. She did it perhaps a little
ostentatiously. In truth there were as many eyes on her as on the bride.
As she walked down the aisle she was conscious of this, and moved as
though her being were a pleasure to her. As friends and the farmers and
their wives who had come to see the wedding and whom she had known for
many years, came up to speak with her, her smile became almost a grin.
She would have liked to put on an Irish accent but thought better of it.

Because of the smallness of the Laceys' house only the relatives and a
few friends were to be gathered there. Mary was glad. She longed for the
moment when she and Philip would be on the train together, bound for
their honeymoon in New York. Now, in the carriage, he took her hand,
held it a moment in silence, then said:

"I am the happiest man on earth."

"Oh," she said, "I hope we shall have long lives and be consciously
happy every day of them."

"Of course, we shall . . . You've had enough of unhappiness, my sweet.
And I will see to it that you have no more."

As the last of the party left the churchyard Meg had again to be
searched for. She had gone back to the vestry to find her hair ribbon
which, faded and old as it was, had suddenly assumed the proportions of
a treasure.

The wedding breakfast was delicious. The couple's health was drunk in
champagne provided by Nicholas. The cake, a magnificent erection in
ornate icing, with silver bells on the top, was Ernest's offering.
Adeline expressed satisfaction with all the wedding presents, excepting
that given by the Buckleys. She did not hide her dissatisfaction with
it.

She said to Nicholas, "I admire the candelabra you gave them. Ernest's
present was equally nice. But this--" She held, on her supple palm, a
solid silver fern-pot, "this is a penurious present. What do they want
with a fern-pot?"

"They might, at any time, decide to keep a fern," said Nicholas.

"What! Go to the woods and dig up a fern and bring it into the house?"

"Why not? They own a fern-pot. They must have something to put in it."

"Oh, I do call it a miserable present. What did they give Philip on his
first marriage?"

"I forget."

"Ask him."

"Mamma, this is no time for such reminiscences."

"Ernest, come here!"

He came, and she asked, "What did Edwin and Augusta give Philip and
Margaret for a wedding present?"

"A fern-pot," he answered, without hesitation.

"Where is it now?"

"In Nick's room. He keeps his pipes in it."

"Is that what that is?" said Nicholas. "I forgot."

Sir Edwin, seeing them gathered about the fern-pot, strolled over to
them.

"Edwin," said Adeline, "Ernest tells me that you and Augusta gave Philip
a silver fern-pot on his first marriage. Surely that is not possible?"

Her son-in-law wavered for an instant and then said, "We did indeed. We
wanted Philip to know that our feelings were equally benevolent to both
marriages."

Violet Lacey came running up. "They are ready to leave," she said. "And,
oh, how lovely Mary looks in her going-away things!"

She did indeed. Adeline took her in her arms and held her close.
"Good-bye, my dear," she said, "and I hope you will be very, very
happy."

Their breasts together, they stood embraced, their eyes mysterious.
Strangely, in that moment, Mary remembered the scene in her bedroom, her
triumph over Adeline that had brought her so many tears. "I had the best
of her," she thought, "but never shall again."

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Whiteoak," she murmured.

Philip came, hat in hand, and was embraced.

The children pushed their way to his either side. He bent and kissed
them.

"Shall you bring me something from New York?" asked Renny.

"I will indeed. Be a good boy while I'm away."

Mary kissed the cool cheek Meg half-turned to her, then Renny's small
pursed mouth.

"Good-bye, Miss Wakefield," he said, in his clear treble.

Everyone laughed. "Mrs. Whiteoak," corrected his aunt.

"Not Mrs. Whiteoak--but Mamma!" cried Violet.

He hung his head in embarrassment.

"Hurry," exclaimed Nicholas, "or you'll miss your train." He poked
Philip in the ribs. "Like you did the last time. Remember?"

Philip would never forget. He caught Mary by the arm and they ran the
short distance to the gate, in a shower of rice. They leaned from the
carriage waving.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" called everyone.

Renny ran to the road and stood there waving, listening to the beat of
hoofs growing fainter, watching the carriage till it was out of sight.
Suddenly the world seemed larger, echoing to the sounds of departure,
and he smaller.

He went back into the house where the others had returned. Doctor Ramsey
put out an arm and drew Renny to his side. "Poor wee laddie," he said.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The wedding over, movements of a different nature stirred Jalna.
Nicholas and Ernest, Edwin and Augusta bent themselves to their
preparations for travel. The Buckleys made theirs with the least fuss,
confining their operations as much as possible to their own room. But
Nicholas and Ernest were here, there and everywhere. Their luggage
strewed the hallways. Their strong voices shouted from room to room.
Nicholas was happy at returning to his agreeable life in London. Ernest
was exhilarated by the thought of new investments. The hearts of Edwin
and Augusta yearned towards the peace of their home in Devon.

But Adeline was glad to be where she was. Canada was her country and at
Jalna she had spent the happiest years of her life. She looked forward
with complacency to the coming winter. Mary was an amenable girl, if
something of an enigma. She herself could generally manage Philip. She
would retain the reins. Opportunely a small school was being started by
two capable women in the district and to it the children could be sent
for a time. They had run wild long enough.

At last, after an upheaval greater than garden party and wedding
combined, the travellers to England had departed. Adeline was left alone
with the children. There had been snow, the snow was gone and Indian
Summer warmed the November air, cleared the sky to a stainless blue,
clouded the horizon with smoky grey. The light wind bore no heavier
freight than the silver savings of the milkweed pod. The stream,
broadened by rains, moved tranquilly past its banks.

"All it lacks are swans," Mary had said, on the day of the garden party.

"And swans it shall have," he had promised.

She had only to express a wish and he was eager to fulfil it.

Now Renny had a wish and after a good deal of persuasion, Adeline had
yielded to it. Not that she did not want to humour him or did not
herself enjoy the prospect of what he urged, but she had got a bit
slack. To get up at sunrise had become something of an effort,
especially to put on a riding habit and mount a horse and ride to the
lake shore on an empty stomach, for who could eat a substantial
breakfast at that hour? But the little boy begged so hard. It was nice
to think how much he wanted her. She could not refuse.

It saddened her to think how she and her Philip had once, with light
hearts and little effort, risen at sunrise, and ridden over the estate
and galloped over the sandy country roads. Ah, the country had been
grand in the fifties and sixties and even the seventies! She wondered
what it would be in another fifty years. She had heard that there were
Chinese laundrymen in the cities and she herself had seen an Italian
pushing a barrow of red and yellow bananas along a street. Well, Philip,
her husband, wouldn't have liked it. He wanted to keep the province
British. On her own part she rather liked mixtures.

As the mellow brick of the house was gilded by the early sunlight and
the windows set ablaze, Hodge led Captain Whiteoak's old mare, saddled
and bridled, to the door. Renny followed on his pony. Adeline came into
the porch wearing her riding habit, with its long skirt, and a bowler
hat sitting jauntily on her head. The sun touching her brought out the
red that still remained in her hair. She looked a fine figure. Hodge's
eyes were full of admiration, but Renny saw only his grandmother coming
to ride with him at last.

Hodge assisted her to the saddle; Laura was skittish and sent the gravel
flying with her dancing.

"Laura, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," exclaimed Adeline, "at
your age!" She stroked the mare's shining neck. "But you're no more
unseemly than I am. We just don't know how to get old, do we, pet?"

Under the evergreens, splashed with light and shade, jogged the mare and
the pony, the elderly woman and the little boy. They passed through the
gate on to the deserted road.

Adeline smiled down at Renny. "So you've routed me out early at last,"
she said.

He laughed up at her. "Yes. Aren't you glad?"

"I am that." She snuffed the air. "Why, I wouldn't have missed this for
anything. It's glorious."

"We'll do it often, shan't we? Every day?"

"Well, perhaps not every day."

"Every other day then?"

"Take the pleasure of the moment and don't be looking ahead."

They cantered down the road. They did not speak again except to point
out some small wild creature or comment on a new barn or admire an
especially fine strawstack, till they reached the lake. Here they took
the winding road by its shore. The air had changed. Now it smelt of the
lake and had a coolness and a stir. Two gulls winged their way above its
blueness, making haste as though to show their power. Adeline and Renny
drew up to enjoy the view which, in truth, consisted of no more than the
blue floor of the lake and the blue arch of the sky where no sail, no
cloud, appeared. Nothing but blueness and a hazy horizon.

"It's a fine sight," said Adeline.

"Yes, it's a fine sight," he agreed.

"I've always admired this world," Adeline went on. "We're lucky to have
such a splendid world to live in. When I was a girl in Ireland I used to
look at the wild sea and the headlands and the grey mountains, and think
how grand they were. When I married your grandfather in India, I thought
how beautiful Kashmir was, with its flowers and its temples. When I go
to Devon to visit your aunt and look out over the moors, with their
heather and the rushing streams and the herds of moor ponies running
wild, I think how splendid."

"But this is best," said Renny.

"Yes. It's best. And I hope there's a happy life ahead of you. Now your
father will always tell you you're a Whiteoak and the Whiteoaks are
English, but you must remember you're part Irish too. And the Irish
blood is your best. My grandfather was a marquis."

"I'm part Scotch too," he said, nodding his head. "And my Scotch
grandfather is a doctor and he's going to bring me a little brother."

"Ay, perhaps," she returned, a little grimly. "But Scotch or no, you're
the one that takes after me and my family. You have my hair. You have my
eyes. Later on you'll have my nose and mouth."

He laughed at the thought of it. "Shall we ride on, Granny? Let's ride
on."

"Very well. But not too far. I have only a cup of tea inside me and I'm
getting hungry."

"I had an apple! Come on, Granny. Let's ride fast." She gave Renny's
shoulder a tap with her riding crop.

"Yes," she said. "We'll ride fast. Lead on."






[End of Mary Wakefield, by Mazo de la Roche]
