07 Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Meg moved closer to him and whispered: “I think I shall take Alayne upstairs. I’ve had new chintzes put in your room, and fresh curtains, and I’ve taken the small rug from Renny’s room and covered the bare spot on the carpet with it. I think you’ll be pleased when you see it, Eden. She’s a perfect dear.”

  Brother and sister looked at Alayne, who was standing with the two uncles at a window. They had opened the shutters and were showing her the view of the oak woods that sloped gradually down to the ravine. A flock of sheep were quietly grazing, tended by an old sheep dog. Two late lambs were vying with each other in plaintive cries.

  Meg came to Alayne and put an arm through hers. “I know you would like to go to your room,” she said.

  The two women ascended the stairway together. When they reached Eden’s door Meg impetuously seized Alayne’s head between her plump hands and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sure we can love each other,” she explained, with childish enthusiasm, and Alayne returned the embrace, feeling that it would be easy to love this warm-blooded woman with a mouth like a Cupid’s bow.

  When Eden came up, he found Alayne arranging her toilet articles on the dressing table and humming a happy little song. He closed the door after him and came to her.

  “I’m glad you can sing,” he said. “I had told you that my family were an unusual set of people, but when I saw you among them I began to fear they’d be too much for you—that you’d get panicky, perhaps, and want to run back to New York.”

  “Is that why you were so quiet downstairs? You had an odd expression. I could not quite make it out. I thought you looked bored.”

  “I was. I wanted to have you to myself.” He took her in his arms.

  Eden was at this moment inexplicably two men. He was the lover, strongly possessive and protective. As opposed to this, he was the captive, restless, nervous, hating the thought of the responsibility of introducing his wife to his family, of translating one to the other in terms of restraint and affection.

  She said, stroking his hair, which was like a shining metallic casque over his head: “Your sister—Meg—was delightful to me. She seems quite near already. And she tells me she had this room done over for me—new chintz and curtains. I am so glad it looks out over the park and the sheep. I can scarcely believe I shall have sheep to watch from my window.”

  “Let me show you my things,” cried Eden, gaily, and he led her about the room, pointing out his various belongings from schooldays on, with boyish naïveté. He showed her the ink-stained desk at which he had written many of his poems.

  “And to think,” she exclaimed, “that I was far away in New York, and you were here, at that desk, writing the poems that were to bring us together!” She stroked the desk as though it were a living thing, and said, “I shall always want to keep it. When we have our own house, may we take it there, Eden?”

  “Of course.” But he wished she would not talk about having their own house yet. To change the subject he asked, “Did you find Gran rather overpowering? I’m afraid I scarcely prepared you for her. But she can’t be explained. She’s got to be seen to be credible. The uncles are nice old boys.”

  “Do you think”—she spoke hesitatingly, yet with determination—“that it is good for her to spoil her so? She absolutely dominated the room.”

  He smiled down at her quizzically. “My dear, she will be a hundred on her next birthday. She was spoiled before we ever saw her. My grandfather attended to that. Quite possibly she was spoiled before ever he saw her. She probably came into the world spoiled by generations of tyrannical hot-tempered Courts. You will just have to make the best of her.”

  “But the way she spoke about your mother. I cannot remember the word—flibberty-something. It hurt me, dearest.”

  Eden ran his hand through his hair in sudden exasperation. “You must not be so sensitive, Alayne. Words like that are a mere caress compared to what Gran can bring out on occasion.”

  “But about your dear mother,” she persisted.

  “Aren’t women always like that about their daughters-in-law? Wait till you have one of your own and see. Wait till you are ninety-nine. You may be no more sweet-tempered than Gran by then.”

  Eden laughed gaily, but with an air of dismissing the subject, and drew her to the chintz-covered window seat. “Let’s sit down here a bit and enjoy Meggie’s new decoration. I think she’s done us thundering well, don’t you?”

  Alayne leaned against him, breathing deeply of the tranquil air of Indian summer that came like a palpable essence through the open window. The earth, after all its passion of bearing, was relaxed in passive and slumbrous contentment. Its desires were fulfilled, its gushing fertility over. In profound languor it seemed to brood; neither on the future nor on the past, but on its own infinite relation to the sun and to the stars. The sun had become personal. Red and rayless, he hung above the land as though listening to the slow beating of a great heart.

  She became aware that Eden was observing someone in the grounds outside. She heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs and, turning, saw a man leaning from his horse to fasten the gate behind him. Her beauty-loving eye was caught first by the satin shimmer of the beast’s chestnut coat. Then she perceived that the rider was tall and thin, that he stooped in the saddle with an air of slouching accustomedness, and, as he passed beneath the window, that he had a red, sharp-featured face that looked rather foxlike beneath his peaked tweed cap.

  The two clumber spaniels had rushed out to greet him and were bounding about the horse, their long silken ears flapping. Their barking irritated the horse, and, after a nip or two at them, he broke into a canter and disappeared with his rider behind a row of Scotch firs that hid the stables from the house.

  “Renny,” murmured Eden, “back from his porcine expedition.”

  “Yes, I thought it must be Renny, though he is not like what I expected him to be. Why did you not call to him?”

  “He’s rather a shy fellow. I thought it might embarrass both of you to exchange your first greetings from such different altitudes.”

  Alayne, listening to the muffled sound of hoofs, remarked: “He gives the impression of a strong personality.”

  “He has. And he’s as wiry and strong as the Devil. I’ve never known him to be ill for a day. He’ll probably live to be as old as Gran.”

  “Gran—Gran,” thought Alayne. Every conversation in this family seemed to be punctuated by remarks about that dreadful old woman.

  “And he owns all this,” she commented. “It does not seem quite fair to all you others.”

  “It was left that way. He has to educate and provide for the younger family. The uncles had their share years ago. And of course Gran simply hoards hers. No one knows who will get it.”

  “Gran” again.

  A gentle breeze played with a tendril of hair on her forehead. Eden brushed his lips against it. “Darling,” he murmured, “do you think you can be happy here for a while?”

  “Eden! I am gloriously happy.”

  “We shall write such wonderful things—together.”

  They heard steps on the gravelled path that led to the back of the house. Alayne, opening her eyes, heavy with a momentary sweet languor, saw Renny enter the kitchen, his dogs at his heels. A moment later a tap sounded on the door.

  “Please,” said Wake’s voice, “will you come down to dinner?”

  He could not restrain his curiosity about the bride and groom. It seemed very strange to find this young lady in Eden’s room, but it was disappointing that there were no confetti and orange blossoms about.

  Alayne put her arm around his shoulders as they descended the stairs, feeling more support from his little body in the ordeal of meeting the rest of the family than the presence of Eden afforded her. There were still Renny and the wife of young Piers.

  Their feet made no sound on the thick carpet of the stairs. The noontide light falling through the coloured glass window gave the hall an almost church-like solemnity, and the appe
arance at the far end of old Mrs. Whiteoak emerging from her room, supported on either side by her sons, added a final processional touch. Through the open door of the dining room Alayne could see the figures of Renny, Piers, and a young girl advancing toward the table. Meg already stood at one end of it, surveying its great damask expanse as some high priestess might survey the sacrificial altar. On a huge platter already lay two rotund roasted fowls. Rags stood behind a drawn-back chair, awaiting Mrs. Whiteoak. As the old lady saw Alayne and her escorts approaching the door of the dining room, she made an obviously heroic effort to reach it first, shuffling her feet excitedly, and snuffing the good smell of the roast with the excitement of an old warhorse smelling blood.

  “Steady, Mamma, steady,” begged Ernest, steering her past a heavily carved hall chair.

  “I want my dinner,” she retorted, breathing heavily. “Chicken. I smell chicken. And cauliflower. I must have the pope’s nose, and plenty of bread sauce.”

  Not until she was seated was Alayne introduced to Renny and Pheasant. He bowed gravely, and murmured some only half-intelligible greeting. She might have heard it more clearly had her mind been less occupied with the scrutiny of him at sudden close quarters. She was observing his narrow, weather-beaten face, the skin like red-brown leather merging in colour into the rust-red of his hair, his short thick eyelashes, his abstracted, yet fiery eyes. She observed too his handsome, hard-looking nose, which was far too much like his grandmother’s.

  Pheasant she saw as a flower-like young girl, a fragile Narcissus poeticus in this robust, highly coloured garden of Jalna.

  Alayne was seated at Renny Whiteoak’s left, and at her left Eden, and next him Pheasant and Piers. Wakefield had been moved to the other side of the table, between his sister and Uncle Ernest. Alayne had only glimpses of him around the centrepiece of crimson and bronze dahlias, flowers that in their rigid and uncompromising beauty were well fitted to withstand the overpowering presence of the Whiteoaks. Whenever Alayne’s eyes met the little boy’s, he smiled. Whenever her eyes met Meg’s, Meg’s lips curved in their own peculiar smile. But when her eyes met those of Mrs. Whiteoak, the old lady showed every tooth in a kind of ferocious friendliness, immediately returning to her dinner with renewed zeal, as though to make up for lost time.

  The master of Jalna set about the business of carving with the speed and precision of one handing out rations to an army. But there was nothing haphazard about his method of apportioning the fowl. With carving knife poised, he shot a quick look at the particular member of the family he was about to serve, then, seeming to know either what they preferred or what was best for them, he slashed it off and handed the plate to Rags, who glided with it to Meg, who served the vegetables.

  To one accustomed to a light luncheon, the sight of so much food at this hour was rather disconcerting. Alayne, looking at these enormous dinner plates mounded with chicken, bread sauce, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and green peas, thought of little salad lunches in New York with mild regret. They seemed very far away. Even the table silver was enormous. The great knife and fork felt like implements in her hands. The salt-cellars and pepperpots seemed weighted by memories of all the bygone meals they had savoured. The long-necked vinegar bottle reared its head like a tawny giraffe in the massive jungle of the table.

  Renny was saying, in his vibrant voice that was without the music of Eden’s, “I’m sorry I could not go to your wedding. I could not get away at that time.”

  “Yes,” chimed in Meg, “Renny and I wanted so very much to go, but we could not arrange it. Finch had a touch of tonsillitis just then, and Wakefield’s heart was not behaving very well, and of course there is Grandmamma.”

  Mrs. Whiteoak broke in: “I wanted to go, but I’m too old to travel. I did all my travelling in my youth. I’ve been all over the world. But I sent my love. Did you get my love? I sent my love in Meggie’s letter. Did you get it, eh?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Alayne. “We were so very glad to get your message.”

  “You’d better be. I don’t send my love to everyone, helter-skelter.” She nodded her cap so vigorously that three green peas bounced from her fork and rolled across the table. Wakefield was convulsed by laughter. He said, “Bang!” as each pea fell, and shot one of his own after them. Renny looked down the table sharply at him, and he subsided.

  Grandmother peered at her fork, shrewdly missing the peas.

  “My peas are gone,” she said. “I want more peas; more cauliflower and potatoes, too.”

  She was helped to more vegetables, and at once began to mould them with her fork into a solid mass.

  “Mamma,” objected Ernest mildly, “must you do that?”

  Sasha, who was perched on his shoulder, observing that his attention was directed away from his poised fork, stretched out one furry paw and drew it toward her own whiskered lips. Ernest rescued the morsel of chicken just in time. “Naughty, naughty,” he said.

  As though there had been no interruption, Meg continued:

  “It must have been such a pretty wedding. Eden wrote us all about it.”

  By this time Renny had attacked the second fowl with his carvers. Alayne had made no appreciable inroads on her dinner, but all the Whiteoaks were ready for more.

  “Renny, did you get the pigs?” asked Piers, breaking in on conversation about the wedding with, Alayne thought, ostentatious brusqueness.

  “Yes. You never saw a grander litter. Got the nine and the old sow for a hundred dollars. I offered ninety; Probyn wanted a hundred and ten. I met him halfway.” The master of Jalna began to talk of the price of pigs with gusto. Everyone talked of the price of pigs; and everyone agreed that Renny had paid too much.

  Only the dishevelled carcass of the second fowl remained on the platter. Then it was removed, and a steaming blackberry pudding and a large plum tart made their appearance.

  “You are eating almost nothing, dear Alayne,” said Meg. “I do hope you will like the pudding.”

  Renny was looking at Alayne steadily from under his thick lashes, the immense pudding spoon expectantly poised.

  “Thank you,” she answered. “But I really could not. I will take a little of the pie.”

  “Please don’t urge her, Meggie,” said Eden. “She is used to luncheon at noon.”

  “Oh, but the pudding,” sighed Meg. “It’s such a favourite of ours.”

  “I like it,” said the grandmother with a savage grin; “please give me some.”

  She got her pudding and Alayne her tart, but when Meg’s turn arrived, she breathed: “No, thank you, Renny. Nothing for me.” And Renny, knowing of the trays carried to her room, made no remark, but Eden explained in an undertone, “Meggie eats nothing—at least almost nothing at the table. You’ll soon get used to that.”

  Meggie was pouring tea from a heavily chased silver pot. Even little Wake had some; but how Alayne longed for a cup of coffee, for the plum tart, though good, was very rich. It seemed to cry out for coffee.

  Would she ever get used to them, Alayne wondered. Would they ever seem near to her—like relatives? As they rose from the table and moved in different directions, she felt a little oppressed, she did not quite know whether by the weight of the dinner or by the family, which was so unexpectedly foreign to her.

  Old Mrs. Whiteoak pushed her son Ernest from her, and, extending a heavily ringed hand to Alayne, commanded:

  “You give me your arm, my dear, on this side. You may as well get into the ways of the family at once.”

  Alayne complied with a feeling of misgiving. She doubted whether she could efficiently take the place of Ernest. The old woman clutched her arm vigorously, dragging with what seemed unnecessary and almost intolerable weight. The two, with Nicholas towering above them, shuffled their way to Mrs. Whiteoak’s bedroom and established her there before the fire by painful degrees. Alayne, flushed with the exertion, straightened her back and stared with surprise at the unique magnificence of the painted leather bedstead, the inlaid dresser and tab
les, the Indian rugs, and flamboyant hangings.

  Mrs. Whiteoak pulled at her skirt. “Sit down, my girl, sit down on this footstool. Ha—I’m out o’ breath. Winded—” She panted alarmingly.

  “Too much dinner, Mamma,” said Nicholas, striking a match on the mantelpiece and lighting a cigarette. “If you will overeat, you will wheeze.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” retorted his mother, suddenly getting her breath. “Look at your own leg, and the way you eat and swill down spirits.”

  Boney, hearing the voice of his mistress raised in anger, roused himself from his after-dinner doze on the foot of the bed, and screamed: “Shaitan! Shaitan ka bata! Shaitan ka butcha? Kunjus!”

  Mrs. Whiteoak leaned over Alayne, where she now sat on the footstool, and stroked her neck and shoulders with a hand not so much caressing as appraising. She raised her heavy red eyebrows to the lace edging of her cap and commented with an arch grin:

  “A bonny body. Well covered, but not too plump. Slender, but not skinny. Meg’s too plump. Pheasant’s skinny. You’re just right for a bride. Eh, my dear, but if I was a young man I’d like to sleep with you.”

  Alayne, painfully scarlet, turned her face away from Mrs. Whiteoak toward the blaze of the fire. Nicholas was comfortingly expressionless.

  “Another thing,” chuckled Mrs. Whiteoak, “I’m glad you’ve lots of brass. I am indeed.”

  “Easy now,” cried Boney. “Easy does it!”

  At that moment Grandmother fell into one of her sudden naps. Nicholas smiled down tolerantly at his sleeping parent.

  “You mustn’t mind what she says. Remember, she’s ninety-nine, and she’s never had her spirit broken by life—or by the approach of death. You’re not offended, are you?”

  “N-no. But she says I am—brazen. Why, it almost makes me laugh. I’ve always been considered rather retiring—even diffident.”