The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche
Page 93
“My mother and the Buckleys and Renny have. Philip and Ernest and Meggie are to follow. Meg got mislaid somehow. Children are a great pest.”
“What a blessing that your mother is reconciled to the match.”
“Yes, and wants everyone to know it. She went early to the church so that she might be seen, smiling her blessing.”
“She’s a great character.”
“She has her good points,” smiled Nicholas.
Eliza, dressed in her best for the wedding, was searching frantically for Meg. She well knew how antagonistic to the marriage the child was. She feared that Meg would not turn up to the ceremony. A shame it was for her to spoil everything by her naughtiness.
Philip called out, “Eliza, don’t search any more! Hodge and his mother are waiting for you. I must be off this minute.”
He jumped into the trap beside Ernest whose fair forehead was tied in a knot of worry.
“My God,” he cried, “there goes the church bell!”
The bell sounded sweet on the sharp air.
Philip touched the horse with the whip. “We may comfort ourselves with this,” he said, “they can’t go on without us.”
“Damned undignified for the groom to arrive at top speed.”
“Better than with a lagging step. I expect there will be quite a crowd at the church.”
“Your marriage to the children’s mother was the last wedding from Jalna.”
“Yes.”
It was not a happy allusion at this moment. Both fell silent, remembering the day.
There were indeed many people in the church and about to enter the church. The carriage shed was full of vehicles. The bell was still ringing when Philip, and Ernest who was his groomsman, hurried to the side door that led into the vestry. By the time they were inside it had stopped and the organ was sending forth a soothing strain.
But Philip was not soothed. His handsome face was flushed. He was excited and nervous. He had run his hand through his hair and stood it on end. Ernest now was calm.
Meg stuck her head in at the door.
“Were you looking for me, Papa?” she asked.
“You have no right to come here,” said Ernest. “You should be in the pew with your grandmother.”
Her eyes grew large and mournful. “I was sad.”
“Look at her hair!” exclaimed Ernest.
She had put on her new dress but her hair was still in the plait in which she wore it at night. Philip hastily pulled the faded ribbon from it and shook out the shining mass. He did not do it gently.
“You have no reason to feel sad,” he said.
“Oh, you hurt me!” Her eyes filled with tears.
He bent and kissed her. “You must go round to the front door,” he said, “and then walk quietly up to our pew. Where is your hat?”
“Here.” She held it up.
He put it on her. She smiled up at him. “Your own hair needs tidying,” she said, and ran off.
He ran his hand over it, smoothing it. Mr. Pink appeared in his surplice.
“I think the moment has come,” he said. “The bride is alighting from her carriage.”
Philip stood at the chancel steps, Mary drawing ever nearer to him. At last she was by his side. He glanced at her quickly and saw her face, pale and beautiful beneath the veil. He saw the hand that held her mother’s prayer book tremble. Mr. Pink began:
“‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God …’”
The service proceeded. Each had answered, “I will,” Philip in full and confident tone, giving the promise with his whole heart; Mary, in a voice lower, but still firm. Then Mr. Pink guided their two right hands to join, and so they gave their troth.
They loosed their hands. Then Mary again took Philip’s right hand in hers and her voice now stronger, made her promise. She could hear herself making it, as though she were an outsider, and to her, her voice seemed to ring through the church.
Again they loosed their hands. Then Philip laid the ring upon the Book, then Mr. Pink delivered the ring again to Philip, and he put it on Mary’s fourth finger, and holding it there, said, in the same full and confident voice:
“‘With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honour, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
They knelt together.
“Well, well,” thought Adeline, “it’s done. He’s had his own way, and I hope good comes of it. No one can say that I didn’t smile at this wedding. And no one will ever be able to say I’m not a good mother-in-law.”
When Philip and Mary had signed their names in the Register, when Lily Pink was tearing the Wedding March out of her soul, and family and friends were crowding about to congratulate the newly married pair, Adeline was the first to kiss the bride. She did it perhaps a little ostentatiously. In truth there were as many eyes on her as on the bride. As she walked down the aisle she was conscious of this, and moved as though her being were a pleasure to her. As friends and the farmers and their wives who had come to see the wedding and whom she had known for many years, came up to speak with her, her smile became almost a grin. She would have liked to put on an Irish accent but thought better of it.
Because of the smallness of the Laceys’ house only the relatives and a few friends were to be gathered there. Mary was glad. She longed for the moment when she and Philip would be on the train together, bound for their honeymoon in New York. Now, in the carriage, he took her hand, held it a moment in silence, then said:
“I am the happiest man on earth.”
“Oh,” she said, “I hope we shall have long lives and be consciously happy every day of them.”
“Of course, we shall … You’ve had enough of unhappiness, my sweet. And I will see to it that you have no more.”
As the last of the party left the churchyard Meg had again to be searched for. She had gone back to the vestry to find her hair ribbon which, faded and old as it was, had suddenly assumed the proportions of a treasure.
The wedding breakfast was delicious. The couple’s health was drunk in champagne provided by Nicholas. The cake, a magnificent erection in ornate icing, with silver bells on the top, was Ernest’s offering. Adeline expressed satisfaction with all the wedding present, excepting that given by the Buckleys. She did not hide her dissatisfaction with it.
She said to Nicholas, “I admire the candelabra you gave them. Ernest’s present was equally nice. But this —” She held, on her supple palm, a solid silver fern-pot, “this is a penurious present. What do they want with a fern-pot?”
“They might, at any time, decide to keep a fern,” said Nicholas.
“What! Go to the woods and dig up a fern and bring it into the house?”
“Why not? They own a fern-pot. They must have something to put in it.”
“Oh, I do call it a miserable present. What did they give Philip on his first marriage?”
“I forget.”
“Ask him.”
“Mamma, this is no time for such reminiscences.”
“Ernest, come here!”
He came, and she asked, “What did Edwin and Augusta give Philip and Margaret for a wedding present?”
“A fern-pot,” he answered, without hesitation.
“Where is it now?”
“In Nick’s room. He keeps his pipes in it.”
“Is that what that is?” said Nicholas. “I forgot.”
Sir Edwin, seeing them gathered about the fern-pot, strolled over to them.
“Edwin,” said Adeline, “Ernest tells me that you and Augusta gave Philip a silver fern-pot on his first marriage. Surely that is not possible?”
Her son-in-law wavered for an instant and then said, “We did indeed. We wanted Philip to know that our feelings were equally benevolent to both marriages.”
Violet Lacey came running up. “They are ready to leave,” she said. “And, oh, how lovely Mary looks in her going-away things!”
Their breasts together, they stood embraced, their eyes mysterious. Strangely, in that moment, Mary remembered the scene in her bedroom, her triumph over Adeline that had brought her so many tears. “I had the best of her,” she thought, “but never shall again.”
“Thank you, dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” she murmured.
Philip came, hat in hand, and was embraced.
The children pushed their way to his either side. He bent and kissed them.
“Shall you bring me something from New York?” asked Renny.
“I will indeed. Be a good boy while I’m away.”
Mary kissed the cool cheek Meg half-turned to her, then Renny’s small pursed mouth.
“Good-bye, Miss Wakefield,” he said, in his clear treble.
Everyone laughed, “Mrs. Whiteoak,” corrected his aunt.
“Not Mrs. Whiteoak — but Mamma!” cried Violet.
He hung his head in embarrassment.
“Hurry,” exclaimed Nicholas, “or you’ll miss your train.” He poked Philip in the ribs. “Like you did the last time. Remember?”
Philip would never forget. He caught Mary by the arm and they ran the short distance to the gate, in a shower of rice. They leaned from the carriage waving.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” called everyone.
Renny ran to the road and stood there waving, listening to the beat of hoofs growing fainter, watching the carriage till it was out of sight. Suddenly the world seemed larger, echoing to the sounds of departure, and he smaller.
He went back into the house where the others had returned. Doctor Ramsey put out an arm and drew Renny to his side. “Poor wee laddie,” he said.
The wedding over, movements of a different nature stirred Jalna. Nicholas and Ernest, Edwin and Augusta bent themselves to their preparations for travel. The Buckleys made theirs with the least fuss, confining their operations as much as possible to their own room. But Nicholas and Ernest were here, there and everywhere. Their luggage strewed the hallways. Their strong voices shouted from room to room. Nicholas was happy at returning to his agreeable life in London. Ernest was exhilarated by the thought of new investments. The hearts of Edwin and Augusta yearned towards the peace of their home in Devon.
But Adeline was glad to be where she was. Canada was her country and at Jalna she had spent the happiest years of her life. She looked forward with complacency to the coming winter. Mary was an amenable girl, if something of an enigma. She herself could generally manage Philip. She would retain the reins. Opportunely a small school was being started by two capable women in the district and to it the children could be sent for a time. They had run wild long enough.
At last, after an upheaval greater than garden party and wedding combined, the travellers to England had departed. Adeline was left alone with the children. There had been snow, the snow was gone and Indian Summer warmed the November air, cleared the sky to a stainless blue, clouded the horizon with smoky grey. The light wind bore no heavier freight than the silver savings of the milkwood pod. The stream, broadened by rains, moved tranquilly past its banks.
“All it lacks are swans,” Mary had said, on the day of the garden party.
“And swans it shall have,” he had promised.
She had only to express a wish and he was eager to fulfill it.
Now Renny had a wish and, after a good deal of persuasion, Adeline had yielded to it. Not that she did not want to humour him or did not herself enjoy the prospect of what he urged, but she had got a bit slack. To get up at sunrise had become something of an effort, especially to put on a riding habit and mount a horse and ride to the lake shore on an empty stomach, for who could eat a substantial breakfast at that hour? But the little boy begged so hard. It was nice to think how much he wanted her. She could not refuse.
It saddened her to think how she and her Philip had once, with light hearts and little effort, risen at sunrise, and ridden over the estate and galloped over the sandy country roads. Ah, the country had been grand in the fifties and sixties and even the seventies! She wondered what it would be in another fifty years. She had heard that there were Chinese laundrymen in the cities and she herself had seen an Italian pushing a barrow of red and yellow bananas along a street. Well, Philip, her husband, wouldn’t have liked it. He wanted to keep the province British. On her own part she rather liked mixtures.
As the mellow brick of the house was gilded by the early sunlight and the windows set ablaze, Hodge led Captain Whiteoak’s old mare, saddled and bridled, to the door. Renny followed on his pony. Adeline came into the porch wearing her riding habit, with its long skirt, and a bowler hat sitting jauntily on her head. The sun touching her brought out the red that still remained in her hair. She looked a fine figure. Hodge’s eyes were full of admiration, but Renny saw only his grandmother coming to ride with him at last.
Hodge assisted her to the saddle; Laura was skittish and sent the gravel flying with her dancing.
“Laura, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” exclaimed Adeline, “at your age!” She stroked the mare’s shining neck. “But you’re no more unseemly than I am. We just don’t know how to get old, do we, pet?”
Under the evergreens, splashed with light and shade, jogged the mare and the pony, the elderly woman and the little boy. They passed through the gate on to the deserted road.
Adeline smiled down at Renny. “So you’ve routed me out early at last,” she said.
He laughed up at her. “Yes. Aren’t you glad?”
“I am that.” She snuffed the air. “Why, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. It’s glorious.”
“We’ll do it often, shan’t we? Every day?”
“Well, perhaps not every day.”
“Every other day then?”
“Take the pleasure of the moment and don’t be looking ahead.”
They cantered down the road. They did not speak again except to point out some small wild creature or comment on a new barn or admire an especially fine strawstack, till they reached the lake. Here they took the winding road by its shore. The air had changed. Now it smelt of the lake and had a coolness and a stir. Two gulls winged their way above its blueness, making haste as though to show their power. Adeline and Renny drew up to enjoy the view which, in truth, consisted of no more than the blue floor of the lake and the blue arch of the sky where no sail, no cloud, appeared. Nothing but blueness and a hazy horizon.
“It’s a fine sight,” said Adeline.
“Yes, it’s a fine sight,” he agreed.
“I’ve always admired this world,” Adeline went on. “We’re lucky to have such a splendid world to live in. When I was a girl in Ireland I used to look at the wild sea and the headlands and the grey mountains, and think how grand they were. When I married your grandfather in India, I thought how beautiful Kashmir was, with its flowers and its temples. When I go to Devon to visit your aunt and look out over the moors, with their heather and the rushing streams and the herds of moor ponies running wild, I think how splendid.”
“But this is best,” said Renny.
“Yes. It’s best. And I hope there’s a happy life ahead of you. Now your father will always tell you you’re a Whiteoak and the Whiteoaks are English, but you must remember you’re part Irish too. And the Irish blood is your best. My grandfather was a marquis.”
“I’m part Scotch too,” he said, nodding his head. “And my Scotch grandfather is a doctor and he’s going to bring me a little brother.”
“Ay, perhaps,” she returned, a little grimly. “But Scotch or no, you’re the one that takes after me and my family. You have my hair. You have my eyes. Later on you’ll have my nose and mouth.”
He laughed at the thought of it. “Shall we ride on, Granny? Let’s ride on.”
“Very well. But not too far. I have only a cup of tea inside me and I’m getting hungry.”
“I had an apple! Come on, Granny. Let’s ride fast.” She gave Renny’s shoulder a tap with her riding crop.
“Yes,” she said. “We’ll ride fast. Lead on.”
Young Renny
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
For Edward and Anne Dimock.
Remembering the summer of 1934
and much before and after.
I
THE REHEARSAL
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE house had been put in perfect order. Workmen had been there to mend the roof, tighten the supports of the shutters, and give the woodwork a glossy coat of new paint. They had cut back the Virginia creeper which, in its exuberant growth, would have completely covered the windows and so excluded even the peering sun from the doings of the Whiteoaks in this early summer of nineteen hundred and six.
The gravel sweep had been raked into a pattern by the gardener and Philip Whiteoak hesitated for a moment before crossing it. It seemed a pity to disarrange it, though he considered the making of the pattern rather a waste of time. Still, he could not deny that the house looked very spruce, somewhat like a man with a close haircut and shave, and a new cravat about his neck.
Philip himself looked the very reverse of spruce. A stained corduroy coat covered his broad shoulders and muddy top boots his powerful legs. He carried a fishing rod and a basket in which glistened a dozen speckled trout. One of these had life in it still and now and again drew itself into a sharp contortion above the bodies of its fellows.
As Philip lounged across the gravel and up the shining steps into the porch, he wondered lazily which of his family he would see first when he entered the house. He rather hoped it would not be his mother, with whom he had had words this morning, or his wife, who would make him feel that he should have come in by the side entrance with his mud and his fish.
As a matter of fact it was his wife whom he now saw descending the stairs in a white embroidered dress with a wide flounced skirt. He went toward her, smiling a little sheepishly, yet really unashamed.
“Hello, Molly,” he said. “You look as pretty as a picture.”