“How long have you known?”
“For years. Eden told me when I was only a kid.”
“Well, it was a great pity things went wrong because the marriage would have been ideal for Meggie — and Maurice too.”
“My God,” cried Piers. “Why couldn’t she forgive him?”
“Meg’s not the girl to forgive that sort of thing. Then the Vaughan’s — Maurice’s parents — taking in the child made it worse. The child was the constant disgrace.”
Hot love for Pheasant ran through Piers’s body, but he could not speak. Not yet. He could not face Renny in open rebellion. He would wait a little, save money (for Renny was paying him good wages), then, when the time was ripe, explode the bombshell. Nothing Meg might say or do could hinder him.
Later he came to believe that he had not been afraid to tell Renny of the engagement but had deliberately planned its concealment till an appointed time. Now, in Renny’s office, he said:
“I’m in no hurry to marry.”
“That’s right,” said Renny. “Never fall for the first girl who attracts you. In fact you should wait your turn to marry.”
“Good Lord!” Piers’s eyes opened wide. “I might never marry!”
“What a catastrophe!” laughed Renny. Then he added seriously — “No, your type must not be lost from Jalna. You are the authentic Whiteoak. It’s up to you to breed, but see that you choose the right mate.”
He felt that he knew how to handle Piers. He could see that the boy was pleased. He put his arm about Piers’s shoulders and added — “I’m not forbidding you to see Pheasant. Only you must not put ideas into her head. She’s a dear little thing and I don’t want to see her hurt. And understand — a marriage between you is impossible.”
Piers thought — “There he goes — the autocrat — the Rajah of Jalna! Why do we knuckle under to him? He’s spoilt. He’s like Gran. Lord, I pity his wife when he brings himself to marry.”
Yet the touch of that arm on his body, the magnetism that emanated from the eldest Whiteoak to every member of the tribe, inevitably drew him. Piers hung his head, his lips had a boyish pout, but then he raised his eyes to Renny’s and muttered assent. He even smiled in response to Renny’s pat of approval.
After this he and Pheasant were more cautious in meeting, and this was made easier by an early spring. There were many quiet spots where young lovers could meet.
Wakefield Whiteoak ran on and on, faster and faster. He was late for the one o’clock dinner, but he had had a good morning, his lessons at the Rectory with Mr. Fennel had gone well, from his point of view for he had escaped with no wearisome addition to his learning, which he considered already sufficient for any boy: he had had agreeable nourishment, in the form of lemon soda and sponge cakes, from the little shop of Mrs. Brawn.
Glorious, glorious life! When he reached the field where the stream was, the breeze had become a wind that ruffled up his hair and whistled through his teeth as he ran. It was as good a playfellow as he wanted, racing him, blowing the clouds about for his pleasure, shaking out the blossoms of the wild cherry-tree like spray.
As he ran, he flung his arms forward alternately like a swimmer; he darted off at sudden tangents, shying like a skittish horse, his face now fierce with rolling eyes, now blank as a gambolling lamb’s.
It was an erratic progress and, as he crept through his accustomed hole in the hedge on to the lawn, he began to be afraid that he might be very late.
He entered the house quietly and heard the clink of dishes and the sound of voices in the dining room. Dinner was in progress. No one paid any attention to Wakefield as he slipped quietly into his place, for a subject of great interest to all was being discussed.
A collection of Eden’s poems was to be published in the fall and that by a well-known New York publisher. Dissension that was almost pleasurable, in that it was blown to exhilarating heat by a breath from the outer world, raged about the table. Meg was proud of the boy, yet fearful lest this success might take him away from home. Ernest too was proud of Eden, recalling the literary ambitions he himself had cherished. Nicholas pleased but judicial. Renny sceptical of Eden’s ability to earn a living by his pen, mourning the hard cash spent on Eden’s study for the law. Piers laughing at versifying, flaunting his own bucolic occupation. Grandmother bewildered, demanding explanation. Eden jubilant, angry, boastful, and sulky in turn.
Now, standing alone on the drive, the warm sun on his back, the wind ruffling his hair, Eden recalled with a smile the scene that had followed. When he was with his family, how often they irritated and angered him. Yet, away from them, his appreciation of them was almost romantic. He would not have had them otherwise, from stormy-tempered old Gran down to little Wakefield. The time would come, he knew, when he would leave the family, the old house, behind him. He knew that his spirit could not be contained by Jalna. Yet he wondered, a little wryly, whether the outside word would inspire him to truer poetry than had sprung from him under this roof.... Yes, surely it would! His imagination pressed forward trying to foresee what lay ahead of him.... This coming summer he would go on a canoeing trip into the North. That, for a long while, he had wanted to do. In the fall he would go down to New York. Mystery beckoned there, the strangeness of an unknown country.
He raised his arms above his head and stretched them, as though to break bonds. By that movement he roused the flock of pigeons sunning themselves on the roof. They swept upward with a whirring of wings, circled overhead, with feet tucked neatly beneath downy breasts and a show of blue and grey and buff to delight the eye, then sped, in playful panic, toward the woods.
Eden saw that the Virginia creeper which covered the front of the house festooned itself over the porch was in tiny bud. The buds were rosy in the sunshine. Soon they would spread themselves in green leaf and, by the time they reddened in the fall, what might he not have done? His blood sang with the urge to live.
Heavy footsteps clumped along the gravel drive. Then appeared Noah Binns, a spade over his shoulder. Eden could not stop himself. He said gaily:
“Hullo, Noah. What do you suppose? I’m having a book published. A book of poetry!”
Noah’s slate-coloured eyes did not light. He stopped, stared at Eden, and grunted — “Huh.”
“Ever read poetry?” asked Eden.
Noah shook his head. “No time fer such fiddle-faddle. I’m on my way to dig a grave.”
“A grave,” repeated Eden, the light going out of his face.
Noah thrust his spade into the gravel. “Aye, a grave. Two graves this week I’ve dug. It’s an unhealthy year.”
“Strange,” said Eden, his eyes resting on the scene before him. “Everything looks full of promise.”
“Promise!” cackled Noah. “Promises made to be broken. Budding and blight. Bugs and passing on.”
“Sad. Very sad,” Eden said absently.
“’Taint sad. Not at all.” Noah spoke with unction. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Nothing could be fairer than that.”
Jalna
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
To the memory of my father
I
THE RAKE’S PROGRESS
WAKEFIELD WHITEOAK ran on and on, faster and faster, till he could run no farther. He did not know why he had suddenly increased his speed. He did not even know why he ran. When, out of breath, he threw himself face down on the new spring sod of the meadow, he completely forgot that he had been running at all, and lay, his cheek pressed against the tender grass, his heart thudding against his ribs, without a thought in his head. He was no more happy or unhappy than the April wind that raced across his body or the young grass that quivered with life beneath it. He was simply alive, young, and pressed by the need of violent exertion.
Looking down into the crowding spears of grass, he could see an ant hurrying eagerly, carrying a small white object. He placed his finger before it, wondering what it would think when it found its way blocked by this tall, forbidding tower. Ants wer
e notoriously persevering. It would climb up his finger, perhaps, and run across his hand. No, before it touched his finger, it turned sharply aside and hurried off in a fresh direction. Again he blocked its path, but it would not climb the finger. He persisted. The ant withstood. Harried, anxious, still gripping its little white bundle, it was not to be inveigled or bullied into walking on human flesh. Yet how often ants had scrabbled over him when he had least wanted them! One had even run into his ear once and nearly set him crazy. In sudden anger, he sat up, nipped the ant between his thumb and forefinger, and placed it firmly on the back of his hand. The ant dropped its bundle and lay down on its back, kicking its legs in the air and twisting its body. It was apparently in extreme anguish. He threw it away, half in disgust, half in shame. He had spoiled the silly old ant’s day for it. Perhaps it would die.
Briskly he began to search for it. Neither body nor bundle of ant was to be seen, but a robin, perched on a swinging branch of a wild cherry tree, burst into song. It filled the air with its rich throaty notes, tossing them on to the bright sunshine like ringing coins. Wakefield held an imaginary gun to his shoulder and took aim.
“Bang!” he shouted, but the robin went on singing just as though it had not been shot.
“Look here,” complained Wakefield, “don’t you know when you’re dead? Dead birds don’t sing, I tell you.”
The robin flew from the cherry tree and alighted on the topmost twig of an elm, where it sang more loudly than ever to show how very much alive it was. Wakefield lay down again, his head on his arm. The moist sweet smell of the earth was in his nostrils; the sun beat warmly on his back. He was wondering now whether that big white cloud that he had seen sailing up from the south was overhead yet. He would lie still and count one hundred—no, a hundred was too much, too sustained a mental effort on a morning like this; he would count up to fifty. Then he would look up, and if the cloud were overhead he would—well, he didn’t know what he would do, but it would be something terrific. Perhaps he would run at full speed to the creek and jump across, even if it were at the widest part. He pushed one hand into the pocket of his knickers and fingered his new agate marbles as he counted. A delicious drowsiness stole over him. A tender recollection of the lovely warm breakfast he had eaten filled him with peace. He wondered if it were still in his stomach, or had already changed into blood and bone and muscle. Such a breakfast should do a great deal of good. He clenched the hand belonging to the arm stretched under his head to test its muscle. Yes, it felt stronger—no doubt about that. If he kept on eating such breakfasts, the day would come when he would not stand any nonsense from Finch or from any of his brothers, even up to Renny. He supposed he would always let Meg bully him, but then Meg was a woman. A fellow couldn’t hit a woman, even though she was his sister.
There came no sound of a footstep to warn him. He simply felt himself helpless in the grasp of two iron hands. He was dazed by a shake, and set roughly on his feet, facing his eldest brother, who was frowning sternly. The two clumber spaniels at Renny’s heels jumped on Wakefield, licking his face and almost knocking him down in their joy at discovering him.
Renny, still gripping his shoulder, demanded: “Why are you loafing about here, when you ought to be at Mr. Fennel’s? Do you know what time it is? Where are your books?”
Wakefield tried to wriggle away. He ignored the first two questions, feeling instinctively that the third led to less dangerous channels. “Left them at Mr. Fennel’s yesterday,” he murmured.
“Left them at Fennel’s? How the devil did you expect to do your homework?”
Wakefield thought a moment. “I used an old book of Finch’s for my Latin. I knew the poetry already. The history lesson was just to be the same thing over again, so’s I’d have time to think up my opinion of Cromwell. The Scripture of course I could get out of Meg’s Bible at home, and”—he warmed to his subject, his large dark eyes shining—“and I was doing the arithmetic in my head as you came along.” He looked earnestly up into his brother’s face.
“A likely story.” But Renny was somewhat confused by the explanation, as he was meant to be. “Now look here, Wake, I don’t want to be hard on you, but you’ve got to do better. Do you suppose I pay Mr. Fennel to teach you for the fun of it? Just because you’re too delicate to go to school isn’t any excuse for your being an idle little beast without an idea in your head but play. What have you got in your pockets?”
“Marbles—just a few, Renny.”
“Hand them over.”
Renny held out his hand while the marbles were reluctantly extracted from the child’s pockets and heaped on his own palm. Wakefield did not feel in the least like crying, but his sense of the dramatic prompted him to shed tears as he handed over his treasures. He could always cry when he wanted to. He had only to shut his eyes tightly a moment and repeat to himself, “Oh, how terrible! How terrible!”—and in a moment the tears would come. When he made up his mind not to cry, no amount of abuse would make him. Now, as he dropped the marbles into Renny’s hand, he secretly moaned the magic formula, “Oh, how terrible! How terrible!” His chest heaved, the muscles in his throat throbbed, and soon tears trickled down his cheeks like rain.
Renny pocketed the marbles. “No snivelling now.” But he did not say it unkindly. “And see that you’re not late for dinner.” He lounged away, calling his dogs.
Wakefield took out his handkerchief, a clean one, still folded in a little square, put in his pocket by his sister that morning, and wiped his eyes. He watched Renny’s tall retreating figure till Renny looked back over his shoulder at him, then he broke into a jog trot toward the rectory. But the freedom of the morning was no longer his. He was full of care, a slender, sallow boy of nine, whose dark brown eyes seemed too large for his pointed face, wearing a greenish tweed jacket and shorts, and green stockings that showed his bare brown knees.
He crossed the field, climbed a sagging rail fence, and began to trot along a path that led beside a muddy, winding road. Soon the blacksmith shop appeared, noisy and friendly, between two majestic elms. An oriole was darting to and fro from elm to elm, and, when the clanging on the anvil ceased for a moment, its sweet liquid song was scattered down in a shower. Wakefield stopped in the doorway to rest.
“Good morning, John,” he said to John Chalk, the smith, who was paring the hoof of a huge, hairy-legged farm horse.
“Good morning,” answered Chalk, glancing up with a smile, for he and Wake were old friends. “It’s a fine day.”
“A fine day for those that have time to enjoy it. I’ve got beastly old lessons to do.”
“I suppose you don’t call what I’m doing work, eh?” returned Chalk.
“Oh, well, it’s nice work. Interesting work. Not like history and comp.”
“What’s ‘comp.’?”
“Composition. You write about things you’re not interested in. Now, my last subject was A Spring Walk.’”
Well, that ought to be easy. You’ve just had one.”
“Oh, but that’s different. When you sit down to write about it, it all seems stupid. You begin, I set out one fine spring morning,’ and then you can’t think of a single thing to write about.”
“Why not write about me?”
Wakefield gave a jeering laugh. “Who’d want to read about you! This comp. stuff has got to be read, don’t you see?”
Conversation was impossible for a space, while the blacksmith hammered the shoe into place. Wakefield sniffed the delicious odour of burnt hoof that hung almost visibly on the air.
Chalk put down the large foot he had been nursing, and remarked:
“There was a man wrote a piece of poetry about a blacksmith once. ‘Under a spreading chestnut tree,’ it began. Ever read it? He must have wrote it to be read, eh?”
“Oh, I know that piece. It’s awful bunk. And besides, he wasn’t your kind of blacksmith. He didn’t get drunk and give his wife a black eye and knock his kids around—”
“Look here!” interrupted Chal
k with great heat. “Cut out that insultin’ kind of talk or I’ll shy a hammer at you.”
Wakefield backed away, but said, judicially, “There you go. Just proving what I said. You’re not the kind of blacksmith to write comp. or even poetry about. You’re not beautiful. Mr. Fennel says we should write of beautiful things.”
“Well, I know I ain’t beautiful,” agreed Chalk, reluctantly. “But I ain’t as bad as all that.”
“All what?” Wakefield successfully assumed Mr. Fennel’s air of schoolmasterish probing.
“That I can’t be writ about.”
“Well, then, Chalk, suppose I was to write down everything I know about you and hand it to Mr. Fennel’ for comp. Would you be pleased?”
“I say I’ll be pleased to fire a hammer at you if you don’t clear out!” shouted Chalk, backing the heavy mare toward the door.
Wakefield moved agilely aside as the great dappled flank approached, then he set off down the road—which had suddenly become a straggling street—with much dignity. The load of care that he had been carrying slid from him, leaving him light and airy. As he approached a cottage enclosed by a neat wicket fence, he saw a six-year-old girl swinging on the gate.
“Oo, Wakefield!” she squealed, delightedly. “Come an’ swing me. Swing me!”
“Very well, my little friend,” agreed Wakefield, cheerily. “You shall be swung, ad infinitum. Verbum sapienti.”
He swung the gate to and fro, the child laughing at first, then shrieking, finally uttering hiccoughing sobs as the swinging became wilder, and her foothold less secure, while she clung like a limpet to the palings.
The door of the cottage opened and the mother appeared.
“Leave her be, you naughty boy!” she shouted, running to her daughter’s assistance. “You see if I don’t tell your brother on you!”
“Which brother?” asked Wakefield, moving away. “I have four, you know.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 179
