05 Whiteoak Heritage Read online

“Hello,” he said. “How you’ve grown!” He took her hand in his left hand. She saw that he wore a leather bandage about his right wrist and that the hand looked helpless.

  “A piece of shell crippled my hand,” he said.

  Pheasant felt weak with the love that surged over her. She longed to kiss the poor hand. She longed to draw his head down to hers and hold it close. But he moved away and began to explain to the housekeeper about John Wragge. These two went to the kitchen and Maurice up the stairs. The meeting had taken no more than a few moments and was over. Pheasant stood irresolute.

  She longed to follow Maurice to his room but she dared not. She clasped her hands about the newel post and swung her body from side to side. Swinging so, she sometimes saw up the stairs and sometimes into the dining room. A strange new life had come into the house. She sniffed. It even smelt different. Then she saw the luggage mounded in the hall. It smelt of leather and strange adventure. In the dining room Mrs. Clinch was placing a platter of cold meat on the table and a glass jar of red pickled cabbage. A good smell came from some hot escalloped dish. Everything was so clean, shining, and attentive for the new life to begin. What would it be like to have a man in the house?

  She heard his step above, then he came slowly toward the stairs. She loosed herself from the newel post and fled to the passage that opened into the kitchen. At that moment the kitchen door opened and Mrs. Clinch stared at her as though surprised.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Your place is in the dining room now.”

  The housekeeper’s tone was so final that Pheasant seemed to hear the slamming of a door. But she did not know what her place in the new life was to be.

  “Lunch is ready.” Mrs. Clinch said this to Maurice who was now at the bottom of the stairs.

  He glanced uncertainly at Pheasant.

  “I’ve set a place for her,” said the housekeeper. “Was that right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m feeding the man you brought, in the kitchen.”

  “Good.”

  Mrs. Clinch gave Pheasant a slight push in the direction of the dining room. Maurice drew out a chair for her. He was embarrassed. He did not know how to talk to children.

  “What will you have?” he asked, when they were at table. “Ham? Tongue? I don’t know what the other stuff is. Should you like a mixture?”

  “The other meat is brawn,” answered Pheasant faintly. “I’ll just have ham, please.”

  They ate in silence.

  Pheasant was fascinated by Maurice’s crippled hand. She saw that he had difficulty in using his knife and fork. Her own hand felt weak, in sympathy. She longed to cut his food for him.

  Her fork fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. A hot tide rose to her cheeks and she bent double, trying to retrieve it. Maurice remarked curtly:

  “Well — I can do better than that.”

  She felt disgraced.

  Maurice was oppressed by recollections of his parents who had lived in this house. They had died years before the War but his absence from home had brought them near, on his return. They were much nearer to him than Pheasant was. He wondered what Renny Whiteoak was feeling, whose father and stepmother both had died while he was in France. Then the remembrance of Meg’s shocked look when she saw him at the station stabbed him with a chagrin so keen that he uttered an incoherent exclamation and pushed his chair back from the table. This homecoming was horrible. This house was deadly.

  He rose and went to the sideboard. He was relieved to find that the whiskey decanter had been filled. He found a glass and half filled it. Pheasant watched his every movement. He went to the door of the pantry, opened it a few inches, and called loudly:

  “Mrs. Clinch!”

  She came running, as though he had shouted “Fire!”

  “Is there any soda water?” he asked.

  She looked blank. “I never thought of soda water,” she answered. “I’m terrible sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He returned to the table and filled his glass with water.

  The spirits cheered him and he tried to think of something to say to his child…. Lord, he should have brought her a present. Children expected presents. “You’ve grown like anything,” he offered.

  She sat straighter. “Yes. I’m tall for my age.”

  He looked her over critically. “But you’ll not be a tall woman.”

  He realized by her expression that he had said the wrong thing and he added:

  “I don’t like tall women.”

  Mrs. Clinch brought the pudding.

  When they were alone again Pheasant asked, in the voice that still did not sound like her own — “Are you glad the War is over?” She was pleased with this question which sounded really grown-up.

  He considered it with his brows knit.

  “No,” he answered at last. “I don’t think I am.”

  Pheasant kept her eyes on her plate. Then he was not glad to see her! He would rather be thousands of miles from home, fighting in a war, than be with her. Tears crept slowly, painfully into her eyes. A deep flush covered her small pointed face.

  “The war wasn’t so bad,” he said. “But when I’ve settled down I daresay I shall be glad. How are you getting on with your lessons?”

  Pheasant had lessons from Miss Pink who was the organist of the Church.

  “Do you mean the school lessons or the music lessons?” she asked, after a silence in which Maurice almost forgot he had asked the question.

  “Both.”

  “I’m pretty good at literature and history. I’m not much good at music.” She could control her tears no longer. They ran swiftly down her cheeks and dropped on to the rather soggy spice pudding.

  Maurice stared at her embarrassed and annoyed. Did the child think he was a brute?

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You may stop the music lessons if you wish.”

  She took a large spoonful of the pudding and, in the effort of swallowing it, found self-control. Maurice left his unfinished and lighted a cigarette. He wondered if there were any way out of having the child with him at meals. Pheasant made a resolute effort to carry on the conversation.

  “Finch Whiteoak likes music,” she said. “He sits by the organ in the church while Miss Pink plays. She says she can hardly play for looking at him. He throws his whole soul into his eyes, she says.”

  “Hmph…. He was at the station to meet Renny…. Do you see much of the Whiteoaks?”

  “Not very much. Wakefield is the sweetest little fellow. Once he ran away and came here, all by himself. When he can’t have what he wants he just lies down on the floor and rolls over and over till he gets it.”

  “Do you ever see Miss Whiteoak — Meg?”

  “No. I never see her. But once I met one of the uncles — the one called Nicholas — and he was very nice. Two days afterward a parcel came addressed to me and, when I opened it, there was a beautiful doll!”

  “That was kind.”

  “Shall I fetch it and show you?”

  “Shall I fetch it “If you like.”

  She pushed back her chair and left the room. Upstairs she stood breathing quickly, trying to keep back the tears. She was not sure why she wanted to cry. She drew out the bottom drawer where she kept the doll, for she no longer played with it. It lay with closed eyes like someone dead, she thought. She felt suddenly very sorry for it. She took it up and buried her face against it. She no longer tried to control herself.

  She did not go back to the dining room and after a little she saw Maurice walking slowly along the path that led to the wood.

  A dimness came over the sun and a few drops of rain fell. There was a deep silence except for the chirping of a small bird. Then the rain came swiftly, lightly, as though not to injure the delicate blossoms of May. Pheasant wondered if Maurice would get wet. But he seemed unreal suddenly. Had he really come home? Was the meeting with him, which she had st
rained toward so long, already over? A cackling laugh came from the kitchen. Wragge had found his way into Mrs. Clinch’s good graces!

  III

  NEWCOMERS

  AS PHEASANT HAD in earlier days followed Maurice about, she now shunned him. The sound of his step sent her flying, with beating heart. She ate her tea alone and was in bed when he had his dinner. She had left for Miss Pink’s when he appeared the next morning. Eating his bacon and eggs he thought that after all the kid was not going to be greatly in evidence. If she had had any look of his family he should not so much have minded her presence, but she bore no resemblance to anyone except the girl who had, for a brief season, made him forget his loyalty to Meg. Yet there was something in the child that was like no one. That look of a young wild creature that watches you with no understanding, yet seems to see right through you. She made him uncomfortable, and that was the truth.

  It was late in the afternoon of the next day before they met again.

  She had had her tea and was writing in an exercise book on the dining room table when he came into the room. The light was fading and she was bent over the book, her thick, brown hair falling over each cheek, so that her face appeared very pale and narrow, as though between bars. On the wall opposite her was a patch of dusky-red sunshine. A plate of bread and butter, a pot of strawberry jam and a jug of milk stood on the table. A half-eaten cookie lay beside her and just as he came in she reached for it, her eyes still on her book, and took a bite.

  His step startled her and she stared at him, the bit of cookie distending her cheek. She was so unused to sudden sounds in that quiet house that it took little to startle her.

  “What are you jumping for?” asked Maurice irritably. “I’m not a burglar.”

  “No, I know you’re not,” she stammered. “I just … I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I can’t send word that I’m coming very time I enter a room, you know.”

  “Yes — no — of course you can’t.”

  She had spoken indistinctly through the bite of cookie. Now she swallowed it and looked at him as though asking whether she should stay or go. He dropped into an armchair and took a note book out of his pocket. He fluttered the leaves, in search of some entry. Neither heard the new step in the hall. A moment later the door opened and Renny Whiteoak stood before them.

  “Hello,” he said. “I didn’t ring because I saw you through the window. All settled down, eh? Hello, Pheasant!”

  She rose and went to him, shyly holding out her hand. Maurice’s face lightened at the sight of his friend. “It’s about time you showed up,” he said.

  Renny shook hands with the little girl. “If you had been through what I have —” he said.

  “I suppose they’ve fairly eaten you up.”

  “I’ve been like a scrap of bread on the duck pond. Among them — from Gran down to the baby — I haven’t had a moment to myself. I’ve talked myself hoarse. I’ve stripped to display the marks of battle. That was for the old lady. She wasn’t a bit shocked. She just ran her fingers along the scars and said — ‘Ha! We were always good fighters!’ I was out in the stables by seven this morning. I’ve been all over the farm.”

  “It sounds just like my homecoming…. Sit down and have a drink.”

  Maurice went to the sideboard and filled two glasses. “Happy days!” he said.

  “Happy days!”

  They sat down.

  “Pheasant,” said Renny, “come and sit on my knee, if you’re not too grown-up.”

  “I shall never feel too grown-up for that,” she answered seriously.

  “That’s the right spirit.”

  She came to him and seated herself sedately on his knee. They looked into each other’s eyes. He had taken a chair by the patch of sunlight on the wall. His head and shoulders were illuminated as though by a spotlight. Pheasant thought: He looks like a really red Red Indian, in this light.

  “I wish I had a little girl,” said Renny. “All those boys of mine …”

  Maurice thought: If that isn’t like old Renny — calling them his boys, already! He’d be paternal toward his grandmother if she’d let him.

  “You’re too young to be my father,” said Pheasant.

  “I’m just two years younger than Maurice.”

  “You seem a lot younger.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. I think it’s because … I don’t know —”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can…. Whisper it.”

  She bent her face to his ear, smiling.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Maurice. But he felt a moment’s perverse jealousy. How easily Renny had got round the kid!

  Pheasant whispered — “Because I think you feel about things more like I do.”

  Renny threw an arm about her and pressed her against his shoulder. He whispered in return: “I’ll bet I do. I think Mrs. Clinch is a killjoy. I think Maurice is a duffer, I think I’m a fine fellow and you’re the most clever and interesting child I know.”

  Pheasant gave a gay little laugh. They laughed into each other’s eyes. It was funny, she thought, that Maurice gave her the feeling of being almost grown-up, while Renny made her feel very young and rather reckless.

  Maurice puffed at his pipe and regarded the two somewhat sombrely. He wanted his friend to himself, yet did not quite know how to get rid of the child.

  “Have you finished your tea?” he asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  “What about those lessons?”

  “They are done.”

  She felt the wish in his tone and slid from Renny’s knee.

  Renny asked — “Did that father of yours bring you a present?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even a German helmet or something made out of an empty shell?”

  “No — I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know, I should never have dared show my face at Jalna without a present for every single one of them, from my grandmother down to the baby!”

  “Did they like their presents?”

  “Yes. And I’ve brought a present for you.”

  “Don’t tease her,” said Maurice.

  “I’m not. Look here!” He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a small silver fruit knife in a chamois case and gave it to her.

  “Open it.”

  “Oh, how pretty! Did you bring it all the way from France for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.” She put both arms about him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you — thank you…. Look, Maurice!”

  When she had gone with her books, Maurice said:

  “You are a good fellow!”

  “Well,” said Renny, “the knife was a little extra present for Meg but I thought she could do very well without it.”

  “It’s a good thing she doesn’t know…. I saw her face when I suddenly appeared at the station.”

  “Well, it was a bit of a shock to her. But she was strung up at the time. I shan’t be surprised if she forgives and forgets — after the years you’ve been away.”

  “I shall.”

  Renny gave his friend a look of intense irritation. “Then for God’s sake,” he ejaculated, “forget her! There are other women in the world.”

  “Not for me. Other women simply don’t count…. She might be reconciled to me if it weren’t for Pheasant.”

  “Send her away to school.”

  “I can’t afford it. Besides there are the holidays. No — there’s nothing to be done about it. I must just settle down and make the best of things.” He rose heavily and poured out a fresh drink for each of them. After a pause he asked:

  “How have they been managing things at Jalna?”

  “Pretty badly from what I can make out. My uncles have always been extravagant. My grandmother has her nose into everything and she has the ideas of fifty years ago. Meg and Eden have been looking after the farmlands. Good Lord, they have t
he apple house stored with hundreds of bushels of rotting apples — holding them back for high prices! They have sold good horses for too little money. They sold my father’s grand old stallion last winter. Each one has a different tale to tell about that…. Well, you can’t be aggressive the moment things come into your own control but there must be a change. I shall buy a new stallion and one or two promising colts and see what I can make from show horses and hunters. Piers is going to be a help to me. I can see that.”

  “There was a fellow,” said Maurice, “who came to see me this morning. He might be of some use to you. He wants work and he seems to know a lot about horses and farming. He says that his sister is just as capable as he is.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “In that white house behind the church. It stood vacant for years, you remember. Then a Mrs. Stroud bought it. She divided it, so she could let half of it.”

  “Oh yes, Meg told me that in a letter.”

  “Well, this fellow — Dayborn his name is — lives in the other half. He has a widowed sister and her child with him. They’re English. They’re quite young. He looks about twenty-six. I gather they’re hard-up and Mrs. Stroud is very good to them.”

  “Is she another widow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to see them. Could we go there now?”

  “All right.”

  “If you think it’s safe for us. Two widows! God knows what may happen to us.”

  “I’ll look after you,” said Maurice.

  He would have preferred to stay where they were and talk over their whiskey and soda but he knew what Renny was. If he got an idea in his head … They emptied their glasses and set out across the fields, Maurice accommodating his slower step to Renny’s urgent stride.

  Renny had many qualities in common with his Irish grandmother and one of them was to let no scheme of his languish for lack of swift attention. Now, in his mind, he saw this young Dayborn as the very man he needed to help him in the work of putting his estate in order. And there was the sister! A girl like that might be a lot of help in schooling ladies’ mounts. He felt full of goodwill toward them. This meeting was to be propitious.

  They walked along a path that ran by the side of a field where the delicate spears of fall wheat were an emerald green and the earth took on a warm mulberry tint from the glow in the west. The path mounted gradually to a distant rise of ground, and reaching this they looked back on the house which stood half-hidden. Maurice’s grandfather had built it ninety years before. He had planted sturdy young conifers about it, as though it were not snug enough in its hollow. They, in the long decades, had grown towering peaks, had clasped bough to bough, twined root about root, till there was a prickly wall that not only kept out the cold winter winds but arbitrarily advanced the evening, long before the sun had set.