03 Mary Wakefield (32 page)

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 “Good-night,” 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 wastepaper basket and discovered some torn bits of paper. She pounded 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 into 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 closer 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 into 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 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.

O
NLY 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.