Читать книгу Mary Wakefield - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 7

Table of Contents

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: