The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  He stared at her incredulously. “Gran, you don’t mean it!”

  “I do. Go you, Renny, and tell them that your grandmother is full of goodwill this Christmas and wants to prove it by helping them. Heigho, but ’twill take a deal of money!”

  Renny folded her in his arms and laid his cheek against hers. “Gran, you’ve never done anything better than this. They’ll be grateful all the rest of their lives. And so shall I! I can’t tell you how I’ve been worried about them — since — this affair.”

  She peered up at him shrewdly. “How much do you think of that girl Chris? Tell me that.”

  “So much that it will hurt like hell to give her up.” With a defensive glance at grandmother and sister he went toward the door.

  When it had closed behind him, Meg said, — “I wonder how true that is. Of course I know he thinks it’s true. But men deceive themselves even more easily than they deceive women.”

  Adeline shut her eyes. Her lips moved. She said, — “I get all mixed up when I try to calculate how much it will cost. But I know it will be a lot. Well, well, I’ll have to grin and bear it. I wonder what your uncles will say!”

  Meg patted her hand. “I don’t see how they can help being glad. They both admire Chris and are sorry for her. And they know the baby’s future may depend on this. For my part, I think you’re showing the real Christmas spirit.”

  Adeline looked slyly at her granddaughter. “It isn’t only for their sakes,” she said. “The young man must be protected. Yon redhead.”

  Meg stared. Then she exclaimed, — “Oh, Gran, how clever of you! I always say that whatever brains I have, I inherit them from you!”

  Chris was waiting near the gate when Renny appeared, driving one of the farm sleighs drawn by a lively gelding. Seeing the open gate it was determined to go through without stopping.

  “Whoa,” he shouted, tightening the reins.

  The gelding, forced to a standstill, danced heavily in the snow, its thick neck arched in make-believe fear of the tree Chris held upright. It was a Christmas tree, somewhat taller than she, its roots wrapped in a sack, its thick-spreading branches tapering to a perfect spire. She was bareheaded and, with the medieval cut of her straight fair hair and her dark jersey and breeches, she made an arresting picture against the snowy landscape. Her face, too, was arresting, with its look of fragility and endurance, purity and experience. Renny stared at her and the tree without speaking.

  “Will it do?” she asked.

  “It’s a beauty.” Now his eyes looked only into hers. He was torn between the desire to tell her the good news and the pain of telling her they must part.

  “I chose it myself. Somehow I couldn’t bear to have it cut down. I made the men dig up roots and all. Now, if Pheasant likes, she can have it planted again and it will live.”

  “What a good idea! The kid will love that.”

  “After Launceton dying I can’t bear to think of anything young and beautiful being killed.”

  “I know.” He kept his eyes on her. He said:

  “Do you know what I’m doing, Kit? I’m making a picture of you in my mind — to keep always — just the way you look at this minute. You’ve no idea how lovely you are. You’re the most unself-conscious girl I’ve ever known. This picture of you will never leave me — no matter where you go. It’s — sort of symbolic.”

  She smiled up at him. “Renny, you’ve been beautiful to me. If only I could have helped you win that race!”

  “It would have been grand.” They gazed spellbound into space for a moment, visualizing that dream of victory. Then, with a sharp sigh, he jumped out of the sleigh and took the tree from her. She sprang on to the seat just in time to grasp the reins and restrain the gelding.

  “Stop it, you devil,” she said, without emotion.

  Renny lifted the tree into the sleigh. He remarked:

  “There’s only one thing I don’t like about you, Kit. That’s the way you call horses hard names.”

  “I just can’t help it. They understand. They know I love them.”

  “Here come Jim and Tod,” exclaimed Renny.

  “He said Tod could be with him in the stable.” She called out to the approaching pair, — “Why are you coming here?”

  Dayborn answered, — “You’ll have to mind him. I’ve got to go and buy myself a pair of boots. My feet are right out of these.”

  Tod smiled apologetically at his mother. He wanted to be with her, yet feared she might welcome him no more than had Dayborn. She patted his cheek with her thin chapped hand. Dayborn put him on the straw beside the tree. He beamed up at it.

  “Choose a good pair of boots, Jim,” said Renny. “You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

  Dayborn stared uncomprehending.

  “My grandmother is going to pay your expenses to England. She told me so this morning.”

  “But why — why —” Dayborn could only stammer.

  Chris said, — “But she mustn’t do that. It’s too much.”

  “She wants to,” said Renny. “It’s her Christmas present to you.”

  “Are Chris and the kid to go too?”

  “Of course. I think they’ll be your greatest assets when you meet Mrs. Gardiner. I’ve had a cable from my aunt. She has met your friend and is sure you can patch things up. She says she’s a motherly person.”

  “She is!” cried Dayborn fervently. “She’s been an angel to me. God, how glad I shall be to see her and make everything right.”

  “Tod will do that. Just look at him.”

  He had grasped the trunk of the tree in his little mittened hand for support. A scatter of snow from its branches was clinging to the fringe of hair that gleamed from beneath his woollen cap. “Tall, tall,” he said complacently. “Vewy nice.”

  “I must go straight to Mrs. Whiteoak and thank her,” said Dayborn. “Or had I better wait till I get my new boots?”

  “Get the new boots first,” said Chris. “And put on your other coat and your blue tie. Give her my love and tell her I shall come to thank her.”

  “You ought to come now.”

  “I’d rather go alone.”

  “Right! Oh, what a woman she is! I adore her. Chris, isn’t she splendid!” He put both arms about Chris and hugged her. He looked across her at Renny, with a possessive air. A malicious smile flickered across his small, irregular face. “I haven’t been blind, you know,” he said.

  Chris slackened the reins. Jake plunged forward. Dayborn looked after them still smiling, then turned toward the village. The reaction from bitter disappointment was almost too much for him. He could not clearly see his way. The sun came out in dazzling brightness. There were bells on Jake’s harness. He could hear them jingling across the snow.

  Renny squatted between child and tree, a hand supporting each. Clots of snow from Jake’s hooves were thrown back into the sleigh. Fine snow, like spray, rose from the runners of the sleigh. The bells were deep-toned and melodious. Above them, Renny said:

  “Are you really glad, Kit?”

  She did not answer. Then she turned her face and looked at him over her shoulder. Tears were running down her cheeks. She turned her face away again. Neither of them spoke. Tod still stared up into the tree. “Tall, tall,” he said.

  They left him in the sleigh and went into the porch. Before ringing the bell Renny took out his handkerchief and dried her cheeks.

  “Why are you crying, my darling little heart?” he asked.

  “You know very well…. We shall never meet again…. I feel it here.” She struck her hand on her breast.

  Pheasant had been watching for them. She threw open the door.

  “Oh, you’ve brought it!” She cried in delight. “Maurice told me you were bringing me a tree. He went to town and bought decorations for it. And something in a box which I’m not to open till the morning!”

  “He’d better,” said Renny grimly. He put a package into her hand. “Here’s something else that must not be opened till the mornin
g.”

  “Oh, how lovely! And I have one from Miss Pink! And Mrs. Clinch has crocheted me bedroom slippers. What a Christmas! Maurice home and a tree loaded with presents!”

  She was alone with the tree. It was evening. She had stayed up later than usual and had come to have one last look before she went to bed. The tree stood, round and thick, and as full of confidence as though it were still in the middle of the wood. It was wonderful to think that it was not destined to die. Its roots were there and it could be planted in the earth again. She would keep it all her life. When she had children of her own she would point to it, where it rose tall and stately, and say — “That was my first Christmas tree when I was a little girl.” Probably it would be her last. She did not think she would want to have another. The joy of it was too deep, too disturbing. It hurt her.

  Maurice had bought such pretty decorations but he had forgotten to buy candles. It was just as well, for Mrs. Clinch had a horror of fire. But she herself had gone to the kitchen and fetched the pair of old brass candlesticks from the mantelshelf. She had put candles in them and set one on either side of the tree. Now she lighted them.

  How holy the two little flames looked! They reached up into the darkness and threw a soft radiance into the dimmest part of the tree. The boughs gave out their scent. It was like the breath of Christmas. The unopened packets lay clustered on the lowest branches. Five. She thought she would sing a carol. She stood very straight, her brown hair hanging on either side of her face, the candle flame reflected in her eyes. She sang, in a small sweet voice:

  “Once, in Royal David’s city,

  Stood a lowly cattle-shed,

  Where a mother laid her Baby

  With a manger for His bed.

  Mary was that mother mild,

  Jesus Christ her little Child.”

  The scent of the tree rose like incense. From the road came the sound of sleigh bells.

  THE END

  The Whiteoak

  Brothers

  MAZO DE LA ROCHE

  For my children, René and Kim, with my love

  I

  JALNA, 1923

  As Finch Whiteoak was dressing that morning he noticed the change in his hands. Funny he never had noticed it before. They had, suddenly it seemed, as though overnight, grown long and thin, the fingers finely articulated, the knuckles more prominent, the thumb more individual. They looked like the hands that might do something worthwhile. He grinned at the thought that he should do anything worthwhile. Then he grew sober and straightened himself. This was the first day of March, his fifteenth birthday. It was natural that he should change. He wondered if possibly he might have the beginning of a beard, but when he ran his hand over his chin it felt smooth as an egg. Certainly he was growing fast, for his jackets were short in the sleeve and his trousers in the leg. When he considered his clothes he scowled. Was he never to have a brand new suit? Always he was forced to wear those which his brother Piers had outgrown, and by the time Piers had outgrown a suit, who would want it? Not Finch. He wanted a brand new suit.

  Sunday morning was the regular morning for clean underthings, but as this was his birthday he would change today. He pulled off his socks that had holes in the heels, and opening the bottom drawer of the scarred chest of drawers, of which several of the wooden knobs were missing, he discovered clean socks and underclothes as well. These last had shrunk in the washing, so that when he had forced himself into them, he felt scarcely able to move. He performed a few stretching exercises to ease the discomfort, thereby making himself such a figure of fun that his brother Piers, who had just wakened up, gave a derisive chuckle. Piers would soon be nineteen.

  Finch stiffened and demanded — “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You.”

  “Me? What d’you mean?”

  “You ought to see yourself.”

  Finch’s voice came out loudly. “It’s not my fault if everything’s five sizes too small for me.”

  Piers answered soothingly — “Dear me, no. And it’s not your fault you’re such a funny shape. But you can’t expect me not to laugh.”

  “You’d laugh,” said Finch bitterly, “at your grandmother — if you dared.”

  “I have a cheerful disposition and you help me to keep the way.”

  “Shut up.”

  Piers raised himself on his elbow, his pink and white face suddenly serious. “You’re not being cheeky, I hope.”

  There was silence from Finch, as he began to put on his shoes.

  “Are you?”

  “No,” muttered Finch. He knew better than to be cheeky to Piers. Anyhow it was his birthday. He ought to be in a good mood. And perhaps Piers had a present for him. He remembered that on his last birthday Piers had given him something. What had it been? Oh, yes, a necktie, a quite decent one. It was still one of his best. He thought he would put it on this morning. It would be a sort of polite thing to do. It would remind Piers that this was his birthday. Strange that Piers had not remarked the day, because he was one who generally gave you a hard smack for every year and a terrific one “to grow on.” He glanced at his brother to see if he were noticing the tie but Piers had sunk on to his pillow again and closed his eyes. He was enjoying his Saturday freedom from school. He had that look of blissful carefreeness on his healthy face that Finch both envied and distrusted. He envied it because he knew that never could he achieve that look and he distrusted it because it sometimes was the forerunner of a teasing mood. He stood staring at Piers for a space, the tie in his hand. Then he saw that Piers had abruptly fallen asleep again, in that way he had, as though he could sleep or wake at will.

  Fifteen seemed, in some way, a landmark to Finch. He felt that he was different. He was no longer a kid. There was a certain dignity attached to the fifteenth birthday. Why, in just six years more he would be of age. What would he be like then, he wondered. A very different sort of fellow from what he was today. He put back his shoulders and held himself very straight. But only for a moment. It really was too much effort the first thing in the morning.

  And what a morning! An icy rain was beating on the panes, running down in dreary rivulets to form a pool on the sill. The old cedar tree close to the window looked as though it had been lifted dripping from a pool. Surely no rain could make it quite so wet. Beyond it he could see the blurred shape of the stables and the figure of a stableman running towards them. Benny, the English sheepdog, was walking tranquilly toward the house, as though he didn’t give a fig for the rain…. What a day for a birthday! And yet Finch had, deep down in him, that delicious feeling of excitement.

  He poured the water in which Piers had washed his hands last night into the slop bowl. He poured fresh water from the ewer into the basin, noticing with distaste the grimy rim round its edge where the wash water had been. Now he splashed the fresh cold water over his face, passed his wet hands across his lank light-brown hair, and made a pretence of drying himself. Why the hell did Piers have to use his towel as well as his own, and drop them both on the floor? He wondered whether or not he would brush his teeth and decided against it.

  He wished someone would give him new hairbrushes and a comb. Certainly these were dilapidated. He couldn’t even remember whom they had belonged to or how long he had had them, and he could remember a long way back. His hair looked nice and moist and sleek when he had finished with it but, by the time he had finished dressing, that unruly lock was out of place and falling stiffly over his forehead. He cleaned his nails, then, with an eager feeling deep inside him, went forth to meet his birthday.

  At the top of the stairs he hesitated to look in at Eden, asleep on his back. Always he left his bedroom door wide open. His arms were thrown above his head, and his hair, of a bright gold, lay tossed against the pillow. There was something in the sight of Eden lying there that made Finch feel uneasy, almost sad. But then there was something sort of sad about anybody lying fast asleep. Even Eden had a look almost of humility, as though he were sorry for having been suspe
nded from the university last term and would never, never do anything wrong again. Yet the moment his eyes were open that look would be gone, and he’d not be pleased to find Finch staring in at him. Finch wondered if Eden had a present for him.

  In the passage he met his sister Meg, leading the youngest member of the family by the hand. Why should she lead as though he were a baby, when he would be seven next June? Why should she dress him and fuss over his hair and spoil him in every possible way? There were others who could do with a little more attention than they got.

  “Why, Finch dear,” Meg said reproachfully, “why in the world have you put on your Sunday suit? It’s only Saturday. Did you get mixed up in the days, dear?”

  He had a mind to shout back — “It’s my birthday, isn’t it? A fellow has a right to wear his best suit on his birthday, hasn’t he?” But he said nothing. He just stared at her with his mouth open.

  Little Wakefield tugged at Meg’s hand. “I want my brekkus. I want my brekkus,” he said, in the whiny voice he kept especially for his sister.

  “Listen, Finch.” Meg spoke in a reasoning way. “Listen, dear. I want you to go back and take off that suit. It’s been all freshly sponged and pressed. I don’t want you to get spots on it. So do, like a good boy….”

  Finch turned from her and ran up the stairs. “All right,” he called back, his voice breaking in anger, “I’ll change, I’ll come down in my old rags. Don’t worry.”

  Meg raised her blue eyes to him in wonder. “What a temper to get in, dear! If Renny heard you I don’t know what he’d say.”

  “He’d give him a clip on the ear,” put in Wakefield, turning suddenly from a baby into a horrid small boy.

  “You shut up,” called down Finch.

  Now Wakefield was a real little gamin. “Shut up yourself!” he yelled.

  “I will not have such rudeness from either of you,” Meg was saying. She grasped the little boy’s hand more firmly and began to descend the stairs into the hall below.