WHITEOAK HERITAGE
WHITEOAK
HERITAGE
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
Copyright © 2009 The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited
First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1940.
This 2009 edition of Whiteoak Heritage is published in a new trade paperback format.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961.
Whiteoak heritage / by Mazo de la Roche.
ISBN 978-1-55488-411-7
I. Title.
PS8507.E43W46 2009 C813’.52 C2009-901988-4
1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09
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 Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, 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
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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To the memory of H.E. in abiding friendship
Windrush Hill
June 1940
CONTENTS
I REUNION
II FATHER AND DAUGHTER
III NEWCOMERS
IV THE REINS
V FRUSTRATED PLANS
VI EDEN AND MRS. STROUD
VII FINCH AND THE WHITE RAT
VIII SCHOOLING FOR HORSES AND MEN
IX THE TEA PARTY
X ERNEST AND MRS. STROUD
XI PHEASANT’S PLAN
XII BY THE LAKE
XIII WANING SUMMER
XIV RAGS’S WEDDING
XV CONTRASTING SCENES
XVI RENNY AND MRS. STROUD
XVII THE CANOE
XVIII DISCOVERY
XIX HOSPITALITY
XX SWIFT CURRENTS
XXI THE DINNER
XXII NEWS FROM ENGLAND
XXIII LAUNCETON
XXIV CHRISTMAS
I
REUNION
THE TRAIN WAS nearing its destination and the three men lighted cigarettes and fixed their eyes on the swiftly passing fields, expectant of the first glimpse of the town. The expressions on their faces were remarkably different. Their very attitudes showed something of the contrast of their feelings. For two, it was a return; for one, the introduction to a new country. All three were in khaki. One wore the uniform of a captain, one of a sergeant, one of a private. The last sat by himself and, even though he stared through the window, his ears were alert for anything the others might say. He sat, tense and neat-looking, in spite of the clumsy cut of his uniform. He had mouse-coloured hair, pale eyes with fine lines about them, an inquisitive nose, an impudent mouth, and a jutting, obstinate chin. His name was John Wragge.
The sergeant, Maurice Vaughan, was thirty-four and heavy for his age. His brows were dawn together by a deep line above his fine grey eyes. His mouth wore a look of somewhat sullen endurance but had lighted boyishly when he smiled as he was now doing. He had had an officers’ training course before leaving Canada but, in England, had reverted in order to get to the front. He had risen to the rank of sergeant, been twice wounded and brought back with him, as souvenir of the War, a crippled hand which wore a leather bandage, and which he was just beginning to use again, clumsily and not without pain.
The third member of the party was Renny Whiteoak, lifelong friend of Vaughan and two years his junior, being just past thirty. He had been educated in a military college and, at the outbreak of the war, joined the Buffs, a regiment with which his family had long been associated. He had been awarded the DSO for an act of distinguished bravery. The officer’s uniform well suited his lean body of which the flesh seemed rather a weathered and durable sheath for the active muscles beneath, than the evidence of good nourishment. His strong, aquiline profile, his close-cut dark-red hair, his vivid brown eyes added to the impression of nervous vitality. He was saying:
“I’ll bet that the first person to meet me, inside the house, will be the old lady. When the door opens there she’ll be, with both arms stretched out to hug me.”
Maurice Vaughan smiled. “I can just see her. What a fine woman she is for her age! As a matter of fact, for any age. I wonder if she’s failed much while you’ve been away. Four years is a long time for a person of ninety. She is that, isn’t she?”
“She’ll be ninety-four next September. But I don’t think she’s failed. The last letter I had from her was full of news about the family. And it was perfectly legible, except toward the end. She said how glad she was spring had come. She never sets foot outdoors till the snow has gone.”
“It must be nice,” said Maurice, “to know that such a welcome is waiting for you. Relations of all ages — right down to the kid you’ve never seen.”
He instantly wished he had not said that. It would bring to Renny’s mind the loss of his father and his stepmother while he was away. His father had died before he had been absent a year. His stepmother had survived the birth of her last child for only a few weeks. Renny Whiteoak, however, answered composedly:
“Yes, it is nice.” His face softened and he added — “I’m keen to see the youngster. Wakefield they named him. His mother’s maiden name.”
“I might as well,” said Maurice, “have been killed for all the rejoicing there will be over my homecoming.”
His friend drew down his mobile brows and bit his lip in embarrassment. He could think of nothing to say for a moment, then he got out:
“I’m mighty glad you’re here.”
Still embarrassed he turned to Wragge. “What do you think of this country?”
Wragge had, before the War, been a cellarman in a London wholesale wine merchant’s establishment. He answered with a grin:
“Well, sir, I used to spend my days underground before I went to France. After that I lived in the trenches. I’m not much of a judge of landscapes but those rail fences do look funny after ’edges and walls.”
“They look good to me.”
“I expect they do, sir. It’s all wot you’re used to. That’s a pretty bit of woodland there. It’s a nice colour.”
“Those are young maples, just coming into leaf. The tips are red. Look, Maurice.”
“Yes, I was just admiring them. And the blue of the sky.”
After a pause Renny said — “There’s young Pheasant. She’ll be glad to see you.”
“I
don’t think so. Why should she? We have been separated for four years, and she’s only twelve now.”
“But you’ve written, haven’t you?”
“I’ve sent her a few picture postcards.”
“Christmas presents?”
“I wasn’t where I could buy anything suitable. I didn’t think of it and that’s the truth.”
“Well — I’ll say you’re the world’s worst father! If I had a kid — ” He saw that Wragge was straining to hear what was said and broke off with a frown.
“I know — I know,” said Maurice. He nervously fingered the leather bandage on his maimed hand and his mind turned back, in self-condemnation not untouched by self-pity, to the time of his early manhood when he had been engaged to Renny’s sister, Meg. Meg and he had been perfectly suited to each other, he was sure of that. Both families had been delighted by the prospective union. He had wrecked it, made a fool of himself, by getting entangled in a momentary passion for the niece of the village dressmaker.
It was an experience he had thought to leave behind undiscovered, except as it had affected his own maturity. But a child had been born of those few meetings in a summer wood. The girl had taken the child to his parents’ house. Maurice had confessed his fatherhood. The engagement had been broken of by Meg who ever since had been inaccessible to him as if she lived in a foreign country and knew no word nor wanted to know a word of the language he spoke.
That Maurice could continue to love Meg after twelve years in such a situation was a miracle to Renny, and not an edifying one. Maurice should have broken down her resentment by a more flamboyant constancy or simply found someone else to love, someone who would be a mother to his child. Still, Renny cherished Maurice’s fidelity as something unique, the proof of Meg’s desirability, even a tribute to the Whiteoak family.
He leaned toward his friend and said in an undertone — “Perhaps it will be different with you and Meg now — the War and all that … your being wounded … Well, I think you ought to fix it up somehow.”
“God, I should like to!” said Maurice, “but I have no hope at all.”
A movement was going through the passengers, a tentative reaching out toward their belongings, a searching of the narrowing fields for the first ugly intrusion of suburbs.
A few minutes more and they were indeed arriving. The three men in uniform stood up, put on their caps with characteristic gestures; Wragge, the Cockney, slapping on his jauntily, as though with it on one side of his head he was prepared for anything; Maurice Vaughan, deliberately, as if he assumed with it the burden of what lay ahead; Renny Whiteoak, with a decisive movement in which his hair seemed to join, clinging against the rim of the cap as though to clamp it the more closely to the sharply sculptured outline of his head.
He was the first of the three to stride through the railway station, eager to see who was there to meet him. As he reached the barrier his progress was hindered by a straggling group composed of a man in private’s uniform, a woman and five children, ranging in age from three to ten years. The man was plainly embarrassed by the six pairs of eyes turned up to him as his family crowded about him like sheep. They were strangers to him and he did not know now to reunite himself with them. His face was a blank. His wife wore an apologetic smile as though it were her fault that the children had grown beyond his recognition.
But now Renny discovered those who were waiting for him. He pressed his way through the straggling family and went eagerly to meet his sister and his three brothers. He had expected that Eden and Piers would be there, possibly one of his uncles, but he had not expected young Finch. The sight of Meg was a happy surprise. And looking just the same — after all she had been through! Her complexion as fresh, her hair the same soft light brown, the curve of her lips as full and affectionate. Her lips parted in a tremulous smile when she saw him and she raised her two arms ready for the embrace. Now he had her in his, pressing her close. He felt that there was perhaps a little more body to her. She had, he guessed, put on six or eight pounds in his absence.
“Oh, Renny, my dear, how thankful I am!” She clung to him, unwilling to surrender him to the others. He was her own, her very own brother. They had had the same mother. As she pressed him to her the painful imaginings of what might happen to him in the War melted away and her one thought was — “I have him safe, and quite unchanged.”
But while she savoured the first joy of this reunion she saw, over Renny’s shoulder, the figure of Maurice — looked straight into his eyes. She had not known he was returning with her brother. She had not given him a thought.
Renny felt her go rigid in his arms. Then she burst into tears.
“It’s all right, old girl,” he said, his voice husky “I’ve come home and you’ll never get rid of me again.”
“It’s not that,” she sobbed. “It’s Maurice. I can’t meet him! Please don’t ask me to.”
Renny screwed round his head and gave his friend a distracted look. Then he loosed himself from Meg’s arms and returned swiftly to Maurice. He said:
“Look here, I can’t ask you to come with me. Meggie’s too upset, seeing me again and all that.”
Maurice, very white, returned — “Seeing me again and all that, you mean! Never mind, I’ll go on a local train. It’s all right. Tell Meg I’m sorry to have appeared at such an inopportune time.”
His sympathy torn between the two, Renny exclaimed, almost in exasperation:
“Do what you think best and don’t talk like a fool!”
“It’s true and you know it. Well, I’ll see you later. Lord, how those boys have grown.”
“Haven’t they! The car will be packed. Will you take Wragge with you? I’ll send for him when we get home.”
“Righto.” Maurice turned away, the lightness of his tone contrasting with his look of hurt. The Cockney, Wragge, followed him, his shrewd eyes having absorbed the strangeness of the meeting. He threw all he could of devotion into the parting glance he gave Renny Whiteoak. He had been his batman in the War and now his look said — “Whatever ’appens you can count on me, sir.”
Renny rejoined his family. Meg had conquered her agitation and taking his arm drew him toward the three young brothers eagerly waiting to greet him. He kissed each in turn.
They had so developed since he had last seen them that it required an effort of will to place each in the cherished niche where he belonged. It was hard to tell which had changed most. He grinned, almost in embarrassment, as he looked into their three faces.
If it was a matter of mere growth Piers had it, he decided. From a sturdy little boy of less than eleven he had grown to a strapping youth of almost fifteen, with broad shoulders and head well set on a strong neck. His full blue eyes were bold and there was a look about his mouth that hinted that he would not be too eager to do what he was bid. And his hands — well, they looked ready for anything — muscular, brown, vigorous.
But could he give the palm to Piers with Eden standing there, almost as tall as himself? He had last seen Eden as a slender, fair boy of fourteen and here he was a man and almost too good-looking for he was like his poor mother who, if she had not been so delicate, would have been beautiful. Of the three young brothers Eden gave Renny the most eager, the warmest welcome, gripping his hand, looking into his eyes with a swift, penetrating glance.
Finch had changed the least; but even he was grown almost out of recognition. His hand lay small and thin in Renny’s. His teeth looked big and new between his parted lips.
“Hello!” he breathed. “Hello! I thought I’d come to meet you.”
“Good fellow.” Renny still held his hand as they all moved through the station.
Again the family which had impeded his entrance appeared on the scene. The man had placed a heavily shod foot on a bench and, elbow on knee, was staring over the heads of his family, whistling through his teeth, while children and wife in dumb resignation waited to see what he would do next. Renny nudged Meg, with a nod in their direction.
“Poor things,” she exclaimed. “How happy they are.” She smiled at the children, then glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. Her brow cleared as she saw that the crowd had closed between her and the figure of Maurice Vaughan.
Porters had arrived with Renny’s luggage. Eden and Piers were fastening the trunk to the back of the car. It had been washed for the occasion and though Renny disliked it he gave a glance of approval at it. He, Meg, and the small boy got into the back seat. Eden was a good driver. They sped smoothly along the road that lay beside the lake. It was noonday and there was little traffic once they reached the suburbs. Then there were trees in their budding leaves in front of the houses and, glimpsed between them, the lake, fluttering little bright waves.
This moment which Renny had so often pictured, strained toward in homesickness, now seemed unreal. The scene, the backs of the two youths in the front seat, the thin body of the child beside him, the clasp of Meg’s hand across the child’s knees, might, he thought, dissolve into the vapour of a dream and he find himself once more in France, with war the only reality. His weather-seasoned profile looked so aloof to Meg that she leant toward him and asked:
“Aren’t you happy to be home?”
He pressed her fingers and nodded. She felt that he was thinking that their father would not be waiting to welcome him. She herself had got used to the loss but of course it was fresh to Renny. She said in her peculiarly comforting intonation:
“We’ve made such preparations for you! Gran and the uncles and Aunt Augusta have been counting the hours till you come. Everything has been done — even to washing the dogs.”
“It’s grand to be home!” Again his hand pressed hers. He grinned down into Finch’s face. “Eh, Finch? What do you think of me?”
The colour rose to Finch’s forehead. He could not speak. Meg spoke for him.
“You’re a hero to Finch. Of course, you’re a hero to all of us but you know what small boys are. Who do you think he is like, Renny?”
Renny’s vivid brown eyes scrutinized the child’s long, sensitive face. “I’m damned if I know. Well, he’s got the Court nose. He’s got grey-blue eyes. Who has grey-blue eyes in our family?”
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