Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (72 page)

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 a 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.”

“Hm. What age is she?”

“It’s hard to tell. Youngish.”

“Under forty?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see eye to eye with you in bringing over an English-woman 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.

M
ARY 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 wagon 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 shop-keepers 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 jardinières 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 retroussé.