Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Before he had seen her, Alayne fled down the hall. She could not face him there before the others. She would escape to her room and not see him before morning.

  She heard his question: “What’s up?” She heard Nicholas put the situation pithily before him. He made no audible comment, but she could picture his expression, how the rustred eyebrows would fly up, the brown eyes blaze. Then she heard Augusta’s voice.

  “Alayne is here, poor girl. She is staying the night. Why, where has she gone? Alayne, dear, Renny is here!”

  She did not answer. The door of Grandmother’s room stood open; she stepped inside and drew it to after her. She was startled to find the night light burning. By its faint radiance the room was revealed to her in an atmosphere of sombre melancholy; the tarnished gilt flourishes on the wallpaper, the deep wing chair before the empty grate, the heavy curtains with their fringe and tassels, the old painted bedstead, on the headboard of which perched, above the fantastically pictured flowers and fruit, Boney his head under his wing.

  The room seemed conscious of this intrusion. It had absorbed, during the years of old Adeline’s occupancy, enough of human emotions to give it food for brooding while its walls stood. Every article there bore the imprint of that trenchant personality. Now, dimly revealed by the night light, these inanimate objects had the power to recreate her presence. The bed was no longer smooth and cold, but rumpled and warm from the weight of that heavy, vigorous old body. Alayne thought: “If I had come into her room like this, how she would have held out her arms, and grasped me, and begged, ’Kiss me… Kiss me, quick!’”

  Alayne stood by the bed, listening. Had they gone upstairs again, or into the drawing-room to talk? She could hear voices, but Renny’s voice, which carried so distinctly, was not audible. The impetus given to her passion for him by her surroundings, by his sudden appearance, made her heart beat painfully. She steadied herself by her hand on the footboard.

  He was coming.

  Involuntarily she moved toward the door, as though to bar it against him. But he was there before her. He pushed it open and came inside. In the clouded radiance of the night light, against the background of a heavy maroon curtain, she saw the face she loved. The face she called up in the night, the face that haunted her by day. There he stood—she could put out her hand and touch him. He lived in her, and the urge toward him would not be denied. But what did she really know of him? What was really his conception of love and happiness? She did not know. He was an enigma to her to which the only answer was the cry of her heart.

  He said, scanning her face: “Shall you divorce him, now?”

  She breathed: “Yes.”

  “And marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes fell; she was afraid of their nearness. Against it she raised the barrier of a question.

  “Why did you not come tonight?’’

  “I couldn’t,” he answered, “because I knew they had gone.”

  “You knew Eden and Minny had gone?”

  “Yes.” He gave a short, strained laugh. “I was riding. The gates at the crossing dropped as I got there. It was just light enough for me to make out their two figures on the platform. They were carrying bags. And when the train passed I saw him again at a window.” His grimness was dispersed by the sudden arch grin so amazingly like old Adeline’s. “He saw me and waved his hand!”

  “And that is why you didn’t come in to supper?”

  He nodded.

  “But why?”

  “I can’t tell. I simply couldn’t—knowing that.”

  In sudden pain, she asked: “And you weren’t going to tell me? You were going to let me go back to the Hut and find out for myself?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But how cruel of you!”

  He did not answer; his eyes were on the little pearl-white hollow of her throat.

  Now her eyes searched the dark depths of his. Was he really cruel, or only shy as a wild animal is shy, afraid of things he does not understand? She remembered the sound of someone moving in the pine wood, of Finch’s odd look when he returned from searching.

  “Were you in the woods? Was it you Finch and I heard, then?”

  Again he did not answer, but this time he came and put his head against hers, and whispered: “Don’t ask me questions. Love me.”

  She felt the fire of his kiss on her neck. She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. They could find no words, but their hearts, pressed close, talked together in the language of the surging tides, the winds that bend the branches to their will, the rain that penetrates the deep warmth of the earth.

  XXVIII

  WILD DUCKS

  A MONTH LATER a party was setting out one morning from Jalna for the wild-duck shooting. They were going by motor to the lakes and marshlands haunted by canvasback, mallard, and snipe. With Maurice Vaughan were to ride two friends of his, Mr. Vale from Mistwell, and Mr. Antoine Lebraux from Quebec. Piers and Renny were to take the dogs, which, filled with gladness by the sight of the guns, trotted without rest from point to point of interest—the dunnage bag, the provisions, the weapons, and their masters’ legs, clad in thick woollen stockings or leather leggings. The sky was grey, broken by small patches of cold blue, while the scattered sunshine seemed deliberately to seek out the burning red of the maple trees. A strong wind was blowing from the southeast, bringing with it the smell of the lake and the sound of its thunder on the beach.

  Wright came from the house, carrying a heavy canvas-covered hamper, and stowed it in the back of Kenny’s car.

  “The bacon’s in this one, sir,” he observed, “and the small tinned stuff. The bag of dog biscuits is in this corner. And this here’s the sperrits.”

  “Good.” Renny stuck his head into the car. “We can start directly… All set, Maurice?”

  “Yes, it’s time we were off.”

  Nicholas, Ernest, Finch, Wakefield, Pheasant, and Mooey were out bareheaded to see the party off. Nicholas wore a heavy red-and-green-plaid dressing gown; his iron-grey mane had not yet been combed, and rose in a crest above his strong features. Ernest stood chatting to the strangers, hands in pockets, looking slender, feeling young again, exhilarated by the bustle. Pheasant, her short brown hair fluttering, was everywhere in pursuit of her son, who, on his feet now, wrapped in a muffler of Piers’s, his small nose blue, was in imminent danger from cars, dogs, men, and the excited racings of Wake.

  How Finch wished he were going!

  He stood curved like the new moon, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, watching with a wistful grin the fascinating activities of the hunters.

  Piers was passing him with a pointer on a lead, when he stopped abruptly and stared at him. The grin faded from Finch’s face. He stiffened, expecting a sneer. Piers said: “Why don’t you come along?”

  Finch returned pleasantly: “Yes, I see myself!”

  “I’m in earnest. It’d do those fool nerves of yours good. Set you up for the winter.” He called to Renny, who was peering suspiciously into the engine of his motor. “Why don’t you let young Finch come? He might be of some use.”

  “He’d be more likely to put a shot into one of us! He’s never been. Why take him?”

  “Why not?” persisted Piers. “Look at him! He’ll never live to enjoy his money if he goes on like this. He’s all legs and nose.”

  The two surveyed him. Finch giggled distraughtly, feeling himself to be dangling in mid-air.

  “Very well,” agreed Renny, laconically. “But don’t waste any time getting ready.”

  Finch flew toward the house.

  “Why he’s as keen as mustard,” said Piers, approvingly “Me, too!” clamoured Wake. “I want to go!”

  Piers tried to quiet him by standing him on his head, but the moment he was released he got into the car and established himself on the dunnage bag, whence he had to be forcibly ejected.

  “Do you know,” he said, tears in his eyes, looking up into Renny’s f
ace, “that I have never been anywhere in my life?”

  “You can’t come.” Renny took out some silver and put two fifty-cent pieces into the little boy’s hand. ’Try to have a good time on this.”

  Wake had never had such a magnificent sum given to him before. He was effectually quieted, even made solemn by the responsibility.

  In his room Finch was throwing clothes and boots into a suitcase. In a fury of haste he dragged a bottle-green sweater over the dark red one he wore. He surveyed himself in the glass. He remembered Wake’s dream of his being a “long, yellowish, rather sad-looking flower.” He burst out laughing. “Gosh,” he exclaimed, “this is fierce!” What he designated as “fierce” can only be guessed, but probably referred to the furious speed with which life was moving. There were Eden and Minny Ware mysteriously disappeared, there were Aunt Augusta and Alayne in England, and here was he off hunting with the other men.

  He tore down the stairs, the suitcase bumping against his legs, and appeared wild-eyed before the others. He sprang, bag in hand, into his brother-in-law’s car.

  “Here,” objected Vaughan, “you can’t ride in this car! You’ll have to go in the other.”

  “Get in here with the dogs,” said Renny.

  He put his suitcase on top of the mound of luggage, and wedged himself in with the two spaniels and the pointer. They were trembling with excitement. They licked his hands and face and cried with glad eagerness to be off.

  They were off! Maurice’s car was turning into the drive, its three occupants waving and calling out to the group who were left. It was impossible to believe that he was in the car behind Renny and Piers. He put his head out of the window and shouted: “Goodbye, Uncle Nick! Goodbye, Uncle Ernest! Goodbye, kids!”

  They shouted back. Wake was dancing up and down with excitement. Uncle Ernest had Mooey in his arms. Pheasant and Mooey were throwing kisses. The joy, the abandon, of it pained him. He could bear unhappiness, but he had no defences against joy.

  On either side of the road the oaks and the maples stood up showing their scarlet and mahogany-coloured leaves, a few of which, with every gust, were swept from them and flew a short way like bright birds before they sank to the roadside. As they neared the church the cedars of the graveyard rose in a dark green cluster against the sky. Renny touched Piers’s hand on the wheel. “Go slow here,” he said.

  The car crept past the graveyard. The brothers looked up the steep path, remembering how only a short while ago they had carried a coffin up there. Renny took off his cap. He shot a quick glance at the others, and they too pulled off theirs. Piers held his in his brown hand, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Renny for the signal to replace it. But Renny looked over his shoulder and said to Finch:

  “Finch, do you remember what her last word was?” “‘Gammon,” answered Finch.

  THE END

  About Mazo de la Roche

  Mazo de la Roche was once Canada’s best-known writer, loved by millions of readers around the world. She created unforgettable characters who come to life for her readers, but she was secretive about her own life. When she died in 1961, her cousin and lifelong companion Caroline Clement burned her diaries, adding to the aura of mystery that already surrounded Mazo.

  READ ABOUT THE LIFE OF MAZO DE LA ROCHE IN A NEW BIOGRAPHY

  Mazo de la Roche: Rich and Famous Writer

  by Heather Kirk

  ISBN 13: 978-1-894852-20-3

  $17.95

  Available at traditional and online bookstores

  The Jalna Novels by Mazo de la Roche

  In Order of Year of Publication

  In Order of Year Story Begins

  Jalna, 1927 The Building of Jalna, 1853

  Whiteoaks of Jalna, 1929 Morning at Jalna, 1863

  Finch’s Fortune, 1931 Mary Wakefield, 1894

  The Master of Jalna, 1933 Young Renny, 1906

  Young Renny, 1935 Whiteoak Heritage, 1918

  Whiteoak Harvest, 1936 The Whiteoak Brothers, 1923

  Whiteoak Heritage, 1940 Jalna, 1924

  Wakefield’s Course, 1941 Whiteoaks of Jalna, 1926

  The Building of Jalna, 1944 Finch’s Fortune, 1929

  Return to Jalna, 1946 The Master of Jalna, 1931

  Mary Wakefield, 1949 Whiteoak Harvest, 1934

  Renny’s Daughter, 1951 Wakefield’s Course, 1939

  The Whiteoak Brothers, 1953 Return to Jalna, 1943

  Variable Winds at Jalna, 1954 Renny’s Daughter, 1948

  Centenary at Jalna, 1958 Variable Winds at Jalna, 1950

  Morning at Jalna, 1960 Centenary at Jalna, 1953

  From Mazo de la Roche: Rich and Famous Writer by Heather Kirk

  Copyright © The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data available from Library and Archives Canada

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

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