Читать книгу Whiteoak Harvest - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 6

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That evening Clara Lebraux divested of her daffodil-strewn apron, sat on a rather uncomfortable rustic seat before the door of her own house and inhaled with deep enjoyment the smoke from a Russian cigarette. Her enjoyment of the cigarette had an edge all the more keen because of her deep unhappiness. She stared into the twilight of the trees beyond her small garden and reviewed her life. It was divided into three parts—her girlhood in Newfoundland, her married life in Quebec, and the years since coming to the vicinity of Jalna. Her father had made money in the Fisheries. He and his family had lived extravagantly. Clara had married young and enjoyed a kind of bickering happiness for twelve years, clinging more and more to her child as she cared less for her husband. She had lived the open air life that suited her, tobogganing, snowshoeing, in the winter; sailing her yacht on the St. Lawrence in the summer. Then, when Pauline had been a long-legged child of fourteen, Clara’s father had lost his money and, in the same year, Antoine Lebraux had developed the disease which had proved fatal. From that time Clara had never known what it was to be free from anxiety and care. Her brother had moved to Ontario. She and Lebraux with their child had followed him and bought a small farm with the object of rearing silver foxes. In the long illness and death of her husband Clara had found a friend in Renny Whiteoak. He had been friend and protector to Pauline and her. Clara remembered how in her husband’s terrible illness she had depended more and more on Renny, how, after Antoine’s death, love had come to her. But not in place of friendship. They were good friends always, he never suspecting her love—not till that night last September when, in the twilit wood that now opened before her, they had found each other as lovers. They had come together in friendship and in passion. The harvest moon had burned in the dusky sky above them. She wanted him, had been wanting him for years and hiding her desire. She had exulted in giving herself to him. They had seemed small under the great harvest moon, but not insignificant. Their love had had an exultant meaning under the night sky. All through the autumn they had met, but not since then. She understood that she was no longer necessary to him in that way and she acquiesced. She was more primitive than passionate. Nothing could take from her what she had had. Now that the warm weather had come she sat smoking every evening staring into the wood, wondering if he might come to her.

Pauline, dressed in white, came out of the house and leaned against the back of the bench. She looked pale.

“I find these first warm days depressing,” she said, in her low voice that had a hint of her father’s French intonation.

Clara’s hand reached back to hers. “Do you, darling? But they are nice, after such a terrible winter, aren’t they?”

“I like the winter. I never mind the cold.”

“I know. But the cold is awful to me, even though I was brought up in Newfoundland.... Look here, Pauline.”

“Yes, Mummie.” She answered as a child, but her eyes dwelt, with a woman’s appraisal, on her mother’s blunt, healthy face, her hair cut without elegance, her chest on which there was a red triangle of sunburn. Pauline suspected the relations between Renny and her mother, and the suspicion poisoned her life. She loved Renny with her passionate girl’s soul, with a piercing, hopeless love. And soon she was to marry Wakefield. Sometimes she felt that she was wrong in marrying Wakefield, but she had a deep affection for him, and she could not waste her life in love for a man who cared nothing for her as a woman, only loved her as a little friend. She had told of her indecision in the confessional and the priest had advised her to turn her heart confidently to Wakefield. He was sure they would be happy together. She must put Renny out of her mind. Her love for him was a sin.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Clara.

“Yes?” Pauline was scarcely interested. Her mother would certainly be thinking about the tea-shop, and they had talked and thought so much of it.

“I’ve been thinking,” went on Clara, “that I ought to go away.”

“Go away? But where? And why?” Pauline’s words were almost a cry. She could scarcely believe her ears. Her mother go away!

Clara went on quietly—“Well, since your uncle’s wife has died, he needs a housekeeper.”

“He doesn’t need you!” said Pauline passionately. “He’s never been kind to you. I don’t like Uncle Fred. Why, Mummie”—her voice broke—“you couldn’t go away? You couldn’t!”

“You and Wake would be better alone. Any young married pair are better alone.”

“We don’t want you to go. We don’t want to be alone.” But even as her lips framed the words, her voice faltered. She was not convincing. Clara experienced a cruel pang. Yet how natural that the boy and girl should want to be in the house alone!

But Pauline was not thinking of Wakefield. A glimmering brightness had risen in her mind. If her mother went away there would no longer be the torture of seeing her and Renny together, of seeing them go off together talking intimately about some trivial matter.

“I have quite made up my mind,” Clara was saying. “Of course, I shall often come to see you. And I’ll write two or three times a week.” She spoke in a stolid matter-of-fact tone.

Pauline looked down at her curiously. What was behind that blonde impassive face? Why had she come to this decision? Pauline suddenly wanted to throw herself on Clara’s breast and cry. The twilight of the spring evening, the strangeness of her approaching marriage, the thought of parting from her mother, gave her a lost, frightened feeling. But she spoke calmly.

“Of course, if you want to go, Mummie. But you know how I feel about it. Why, I’ve never been away from you a night in my life. It will be horrible.”

Clara laughed teasingly. “Horrible! With Wake! It’s a good thing he can’t hear that.”

“He would understand.”

“Is he coming to-night?”

“No. He has gone to town to a mission for men. It is the Paulist Father’s mission. Wakefield is becoming more Catholic than I am. He really knows much more about the ritual. He’s wonderful, and he appreciates the beauty of it so.”

“Yes,” agreed Clara thoughtfully. “But I wish he had come to see you. It’s a night for young lovers. Do you smell something sweet on the air?”

“I’ve noticed it. I don’t know what it is. I’m perfectly happy with you. Shall we go for a stroll?”

Clara’s feet ached from being on them all day, but she was never too tired to walk with Pauline. She so habitually thought of Pauline before herself that a wish expressed by the girl became her own also. She rose and put her arm about Pauline’s waist.

“Which way shall we go?” she asked.

“Through the wood and down into the ravine.”

“Don’t you think it will be damp there?”

“I don’t mind.” Pauline’s childishly egotistical answer overrode any further objection Clara might have had. Clasped together they crossed their plot of shaven grass and from it found the narrow path that led across an open field into a copse of oaks. Here the path wound steeply into the ravine, from where the hurried murmur of the stream could be heard.

As they entered the wood a blackbird, hidden among the dense branches, let fall his last low whistle before, startled by their steps, he sought a still more remote shelter for the night. After that came the whirring cry of the nightjar who seemed not to fear them. He spun his velvet flight about them as they moved, now singly, toward the little bridge that crossed the stream.

All this belonged to Jalna, and from the other side of the water another path led upward to the house. Along this path they now heard a third person moving. The young bracken, crushed by his footsteps, added its scent to the already sweet-scented air. A bright spark, making a downward curving arc, showed that he smoked.

In the minds of both mother and daughter was the certainty that the descending figure was Renny Whiteoak’s and both felt an almost equal pang of regret that she was not to meet him alone. No regret dulled the eagerness with which he greeted them. They had not yet spent a summer in the place where they now lived, and it came as a pleasant surprise to him to find them standing together on the bridge on this first warm evening.

Clara noticed before Pauline that his arm was in a sling. She gave an exclamation of dismay, then asked curtly:

“What did you do to it?”

“Nothing!” he laughed. “Honestly, nothing.”

“Well ... if you are going to answer me as though I were a fool ...” she said sulkily.

“What is it really?” asked Pauline. She drew close to him, trying to see his features, but she could only make out the brightness of his eyes, and the line of his lips against the cigarette.

He answered—“I was wrestling with the Daffodil tea-shop and put it in its place too.”

“It’s a damned shame!” exclaimed Clara. “I’m absolutely sick about it. Is anything broken?”

“The collar-bone.”

“And you’re due to ride in the Show in a few weeks. How awful!”

“It’s only a crack really. I shall be all right.”

Clara put out her hand and laid it gently on his shoulder. “I had rather the old tea-shop had fallen down,” she said.

She kept her hand on his shoulder because she could not take it away. It was as though the maimed shoulder were a magnet that held her hand irresistibly. If he had backed from her across the bridge, she would have followed him as unconsciously as the iron the magnet. In the semi-darkness Pauline was aware of this irresistible drawing of her mother and she felt a wild rage against her. “When she goes,” Pauline thought, “I shall never be tortured like this any more. I shall be far happier.” She said—“I think I shall go back to the house. Wakefield may come.”

Without turning her head, Clara answered:

“I thought you said he had gone to the mission.”

“He may not stay. He said he might come rather late.”

“Oh, very well.”

Clara spoke, almost without knowing that words left her lips. But, after a few moments, she made a great effort and said to Renny:

“I am going to keep house for my brother. It is better for Pauline and Wakefield to be alone together.”

“Going away!” he repeated incredulously. “You can’t. It’s perfect nonsense. They don’t need to be alone together. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why should they want to be alone together?”

“It’s better for married people. They get on better.”

He returned hotly—“None of us have been alone when we were first married. Not Eden and Alayne. Not Piers and Pheasant. Not Alayne and me.”

She gave a little laugh. “Well, have the lot of you always got on?”

“My Uncle Nicholas and his wife were alone together and they got to hate each other.”

“I have another reason.”

Something in her voice made him try to see her face. “What is it, Clara?” he asked.

“I feel that it is not safe for me to be near you.”

“You need not be afraid of me.”

“You have shown me that. But I can’t trust myself. I must take my hateful self away.”

His voice broke out harshly. “Clara, I need you! I can’t let you go away! I want you near me!” He put his uninjured arm about her and drew her to him so that their breasts were together. She did not answer but, with supreme effort, tried to draw every particle of bliss possible from his embrace for her solace later. Yet she did not falter in her resolve.

Pauline had retreated to the top of the path but had not yet returned to the house when she heard Renny’s voice raised in what, in the extreme stillness of that place, amounted almost to an outcry. She stood transfixed in an ecstasy of jealousy. She was not the only person who had overheard his excited words. He stood in the singular position at that moment of a man who holds in his arms a woman who loves him, while two other women who love him, stand as listeners unseen and unable to see the principal actors in the drama.

Having seen Renny go toward the ravine, Alayne had a sudden desire to follow him there. She had last seen the stream frozen and the bridge arched in snow. She would stand on it with him and listen to the talking of the stream. A passionate tenderness toward life stirred her emotionally. She felt the largeness and strength of the springtime renewal. A heaviness, as though her own body partook in it, caused her to move slowly. She made no sound as she opened the wicket gate and stood at the top of the descent into the ravine.

When she heard his outburst of “Clara, I need you! I want you near me! I can’t let you go away!”—she did not stop in her slow descent but moved forward, as though by a power other than her own. The path seemed to flow under her feet and yet she was able to move steadily. It was her brain that felt as though it were falling, in a dizzy flight down into the darkness. All the while she had a hard pride in the thought that she could walk so steadily after hearing words like these. She planted one foot after the other among the curled green heads of the bracken fronds. She carried her electric torch in her hand, unlighted, but, when she reached the bridge, she turned on its beam and pointed it, as though it were a weapon, at the two who had drawn apart in consternation.

She flashed the light across Renny’s rigid features then turned it full into Clara’s face that showed, not so much shame and mortification, as sullen resentment. Her light-lashed eyes blinked, but she stared at Alayne’s black figure and said curtly:

“This is just a good-bye you’ve interrupted, Mrs. Whiteoak. There’s nothing to be melodramatic about.”

Alayne answered in a voice she scarcely recognised as her own—“Let it be a good-bye! Let it be a good-bye!”

“Renny will explain.”

“I ask for no explanation,” answered Alayne bitterly, as though she threw their secret unopened in their teeth.

Clara turned from the bridge and began quickly to mount the path toward the wood where Pauline listened. She felt no surprise when she found her still there. She gave her shadowy figure one glance, then passed doggedly on. Pauline remained where she was.

The dusk in the ravine deepened to darkness across which the first firefly outlined the pattern his followers would elaborate in their season. A tree toad set up its liquid warble. The torch fell from Alayne’s hand and went out. She clasped the railing of the bridge and bent over it, as though she were going to be sick. She felt in her face the chilled breath of the stream.

Renny came and put his hand on her back, but she pressed her breast against the railing, writhing away from his touch.

“How long has that woman been your mistress?” she asked.

“Alayne—don’t!”

“I asked you how long.”

He returned fiercely—“She is not my mistress.”

With the insistence and hollowness of a bell she repeated her question. The firefly sketched his design more intricately on the darkness.

Renny said—“Now, Alayne, pull yourself together. Don’t be hysterical. This isn’t the first time that a man who loves his wife——”

“Don’t use that word to me,” she interrupted harshly. “Love! Yes—I suppose you do love me—as a man loves his fireside chair—his old coat—all I want to know is—how long?”

“Come up to the house. There’s a horrible chill rising from the water.”

“Chill—” she repeated scornfully, “I feel no chill, I feel a fever of heat!”

He took her forcibly in his hands. He said quietly:

“You must come to the house.”

She straightened her body and allowed herself to be led, as though blind, along the path. He picked up the torch and dropped it into his pocket.

He led her into the dining-room and turned on the lights. He closed the doors and said, in a tone almost matter-of-fact—“Now, I’m going to give you something to drink.”

He was shocked by her grey-white pallor, her expression of outrage and hate.

“Yes,” she said harshly. “I need to be drugged, doped. Give me something that will make me forget all this—if you can!”

He poured a little brandy into a glass and offered it to her. She struck it violently away with her hand and the glass lay shattered on the floor.

She looked at him as though she saw him for the first time, and every hard-bitten line of his face was hateful to her. He scowled ruefully at the spilt brandy, and said:

“I wish you wouldn’t carry on like this.”

“I dare say you do,” she returned bitterly. “It’s very troublesome of me. I’m not at all the sort of wife you should have.” She looked steadily at him for a space, then she began to cry loudly and brokenly. He remembered with swift relief that the servants were out for the evening. They were alone except for the sleeping child. His highly coloured face was now almost as white as Alayne’s. He stood transfixed till the noise of her crying subsided, then he repeated:

“Clara is not my mistress.”

“Oh, why do you lie to me?” she exclaimed brokenly.

He was silent a moment, then said, in a low voice:

“I don’t deny that she and I were once intimate.”

“When?”

“Last Fall. But I do deny that there has been anything between us since.”

She said, in a shaking voice—“Perhaps you can explain that passionate outburst of yours on the bridge.”

“I value her friendship.”

“Her friendship! That woman’s friendship! I tell you she is sex personified.”

“And I tell you that she is a colder woman sexually than you.”

The implication of these words transfixed her for a moment, then she said violently:

“I don’t want to hear anything about her! I refuse to hear her name spoken!”

“You never will hear it spoken by me.”

She spread her left hand in front of him.

“Look at that hand! It has worn the wedding ring of two Whiteoaks and both of you have been as false, as faithless—as I suppose all your precious ancestors were before you.”

Renny looked up at the portrait of his grandfather in Hussar’s uniform. “He and Gran quarrelled a good deal but he was faithful to her. At any rate, she thought so.”

He had spoken in pride of his grandfather’s fidelity. Of what was he made? She looked at him standing there, with his narrow red head, his arched beak of a nose, his horseman’s back and shoulders, and she hated him, every bit of him, from the point of red hair on his forehead, to his worn brown shoes.

She said, with an icy close-lipped sneer—“What a pity you did not model yourself on him rather than on old Renny Court who from what I hear was the rake of the countryside!”

He was stung and burst out—“Is love a matter of conscience?”

“Not with you!” Her mouth looked positively ugly with its sneer, he thought. “Nor with Eden. Neither of you had any conscience.”

From white a deeper red than usual flamed into his face. He said, in a hard voice:

“You had better leave Eden out of this. He is dead and—if he was unfaithful to you—he knew damned well that you didn’t love him any more—that you’d turned to me.”

“How could he know that?”

“How could he help? Uncle Nicholas told me since that everyone in the house knew it. They were just waiting to see what would happen.”

“So—you talk me over with your family!”

He disdained to reply to this but went on—“And let me tell you, Alayne, that you were far more provocative in your behaviour toward me at that time than Clara Lebraux has ever been!”

It was as though he had struck her. But she controlled herself and said bitterly—“But you were able to resist me!”

He answered with dignity—“You were married to my brother!”

“You make my head reel!” she cried. “The fact that I was married to your brother had a restraining influence—but the fact that I am married to you has none.”

“I have used more self-restraint than you know,” he returned sternly. “Besides, things were different with me then. I was a happy man. I had not the same need. Last Fall I was—well, you know how things were with us.”

“I know that last summer you mortgaged this place and took money needed for other things to move that hideous house on to your land for Clara Lebraux to live in! Now I know why!”

“Alayne!” he cried. “I had no such thought when I brought Clara and Pauline to live on the estate. They were in terrible difficulties. I had been Lebraux’s best friend.”

“Well,” she answered, with a gesture of finality, “I don’t want to hear any more about it. I can’t bear any more.”

He began to pick the broken pieces of glass from the floor, bending awkwardly because of the sling he wore. She looked at his dense red hair and thought—“I shall go white before he does.” She looked at the lines that indented his forehead and felt a bitter satisfaction.

He took out his handkerchief and mopped up the little puddle of brandy. Then he stood up and pressed the wet handkerchief to his forehead. He stood almost impassively while she left the room. But when he heard her crying in her room he bounded up the stairs and throwing open the door appeared before her, his face contorted like a child’s.

“Don’t!” he exclaimed brokenly and would have taken her in his arms.

She put out her hands to keep him off.

“Darling—you know I have never loved anyone but you!”

“Will you go away!” she answered. “I couldn’t bear to have you touch me.” She went and threw herself on the bed. She felt like one shipwrecked, as though her legs were weighted by seaweed that dragged her down.

Little Adeline stirred in her cot and made a sighing sound. Renny went to her and she stared out of her bright eyes, remote and impersonal, like a little animal in its burrow. Her hair stood like tawny fur.

Alayne sat up on the side of her bed.

“Ask your child—our child—to forgive you,” she said. “That is our child. I bore it and I wish I’d died then.”

He put his face down to Adeline’s but she was only half awake. She stared with her bright impersonal look as though she did not see him. He drew the covers close under her chin and went out.