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

  “Did you live with him?” Alayne tried to make it easier for her by a tone of unconcern, but her eyes were filled with tears of pity for the child who in such quaint phraseology— “the delight of their old age,” indeed—told of the tragedy of her birth.

  “Yes, till I was married. He just endured me. But I expect the sight of me was a constant reminder—of what he’d lost, I mean.”

  “Lost?”

  “Yes, Meg Whiteoak. He’d been engaged to her, and she broke it off when I appeared on the scene. That’s why she has that glassy stare for me. All the Whiteoaks were against the marriage, of course. It was adding insult to injury, you see.”

  “Oh, my dear.”

  The significance of looks and chance phrases that had puzzled her became apparent. She was pierced by a vivid pain at the thought of all the unmerited suffering of Pheasant.

  “You have had rather a hard time, but surely that is all over. Meg cannot go on blaming you for what is not your fault, and I think the others are fond of you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “I should be if you would let me.” Her hand moved across the grass to Pheasant’s. Their fingers intertwined.

  “All right. But I warn you, I’m not a bit proper.”

  “Perhaps I am not so proper as you think.” Their fingers were still warmly clutched. “By the way, why doesn’t Piers like me? I feel that it will not be altogether simple to be your friend when he is so—well, distant.”

  “He is jealous of you—for my sake, I think. I just think that, mind you; he’s never said so. But I think he finds it pretty beastly that you should be thought so much of and me so little, and that you should be made so welcome and me so unwelcome, when after all we’re just two girls, except that you’re rich and I’m poor, and you’re legitimate and I’m up against the bar sinister, and Piers has always taken such an interest in the place and worked on it, and Eden only cares for poetry and having his own way.”

  Alayne was scarlet. Out of the tangle of words one phrase menaced her. She said, with a little gasp: “Whatever made you think I was rich? My dear child, I am poor—poor. My father was a college professor. You know they are poor enough, in all conscience.”

  “You may be what you call poor, but you’re rich to us,” answered Pheasant, sulkily.

  “Now listen,” continued Alayne, sternly. “My father left me five thousand dollars insurance, and a bungalow which I sold for fourteen thousand, which makes nineteen thousand dollars. That is absolutely all. So you see how rich I am.”

  “It sounds a lot,” said Pheasant, stolidly, and their hands parted and they both industriously plucked at the grass.

  The significance of other allusions was now made plain to Alayne. She frowned as she asked: “What put such an idea into your head, Pheasant? Surely the rest of the family are not suffering from that hallucination.”

  “We all thought you were frightfully well off. I don’t know exactly how it came about—someone said—Gran said—no, Meg said it was—” She stopped short, suddenly pulled up by a tardy caution.

  “Who said what?” insisted Alayne.

  “I think it was Uncle Nick who said—”

  “Said what?”

  “That it, was a good thing that Eden—oh, bother, I can’t remember what he said. What does it matter, anyhow?”

  Alayne had to subdue a feeling of helpless anger before she answered, quietly: “It does not matter. But I want you not to have the notion that I am rich. It is ridiculous. It puts me in a false position. You knew that I worked for my living before I married Eden. Why did you think I did that?”

  “We knew it was publishing books. It didn’t seem like work.”

  “My child, I was not publishing. I only read manuscripts for the publisher. Do you see the difference?”

  Pheasant stared at her uncomprehendingly, and Alayne, moved by a sudden impulse, put her arm about her and kissed her. “How silly of me to mind! May we be friends, then?”

  Pheasant’s body relaxed against her with the abandon of a child’s. “It’s lovely of you,” she breathed, “not to mind about my—”

  Alayne stopped her words with a kiss. “As though that were possible! And I hope Piers will feel less unfriendly to me when he knows everything.”

  Pheasant was watching over Alayne’s shoulder two figures that were approaching along the orchard path.

  “It’s Renny,” she said, “and Maurice. I wonder what they’re up to. Renny’s got an axe.”

  The men were talking and laughing rather loudly over some joke, and did not see the girls at once. Alayne sat up and stroked her hair.

  “I’ll bet it is some war joke,” whispered Pheasant. “They’re always at it when they’re together.” Pheasant took up an apple and rolled it in their direction. “Hullo, Maurice, why such hilarity?”

  The two came up, Maurice removing his tweed cap. Renny, already bareheaded, nodded, the reminiscent grin fading from his face.

  “Alayne,” he said, “this is Maurice Vaughan, our nearest neighbour.”

  They shook hands, and Alayne, remembering having heard a reference to the fact that Vaughan drank a good deal, thought he showed it in his heavy eyes and relaxed mouth. He gave Pheasant a grudging smile, and then turned to Renny.

  “Is this the tree?” he asked.

  “Yes,” returned Renny, surveying it critically.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Alayne.

  “Cut it down. It’s very old, and it’s rotting. It must make room for a new one.”

  Alayne was filled with dismay. To her the old apple tree was beautiful, standing strong and yet twisted with age in the golden October sunshine. From it seemed to emanate the spirit of all the seasons the tree had known, with their scents of fragile apple blossoms and April rains, of moist orchard earth and mellowing fruit. A lifetime of experience was recorded on its rugged trunk, the bark of which enfolded it in mossy layers, where a myriad tiny insects had their being.

  She asked, trying not to look too upset, for she was never certain when the Whiteoaks would be amused at what they thought soft-heartedness or affectation, “Must it come down? I was just thinking what a grand old tree it is. And it seems to have borne a good many apples.”

  “It’s diseased,” returned Renny. “Look at the shape of the apples. This orchard needs going over rather badly.”

  “But this is only one tree and it is such a beautiful shape.”

  “You must go over to the old orchard. You will find dozens like this there.” He pulled off his coat and began to roll up the sleeves from his lean, muscular arms. Alayne fancied that an added energy was given to his movements by her opposition.

  She said nothing more, but with a growing feeling of antagonism watched him pick up the axe and place the first blow against the stalwart trunk. She imagined the consternation among the insect life on the tree at that first shuddering shock, comparable to an earthquake on our own sphere. The tree itself stood with a detached air, only the slightest quiver stirring its glossy leaves. Another and another blow fell, and a wedge-shaped chip, fresh with sap, sprang out onto the grass. Renny swung the axe with ease, it and his arms moving in rhythmic accord. Another chip fell, and another, and the tree sent up a groaning sound, as the blows at last penetrated its vitals.

  “Oh, oh! Let me get my things,” cried Pheasant, and would have darted forward to rescue her hat and mushrooms had not Vaughan caught her by the wrist and jerked her out of the way.

  It seemed that the dignity of the gnarled old tree would never be shaken. At each blow a shiver ran through its far-spreading branches and, one by one, the remaining apples fell, but for a long time the great trunk and massive primal limbs received the onslaughts of the axe with a sort of rugged disdain. At last, with a straining of its farthest roots, it crashed to the ground, creating a gust of air that was like the last fierce outgoing of breath from a dying man.

  Renny stood, lean, red-faced, triumphant, his head moist with sweat. He glanced shrewdl
y at Alayne and then turned to Vaughan.

  “A good job well done, eh, Maurice?” he asked. “Can you give me a cigarette?”

  Vaughan produced a box, and Pheasant, without waiting to be asked, snatched one for herself and, with it between her lips, held up her face to Vaughan’s for a light.

  “There’s a bold little baggage for you,” remarked Renny to Alayne, with an odd look of embarrassment.

  Pheasant blinked at Alayne through smoke. “Alayne knows I’ve been badly brought up.”

  “I think the result is delightful,” said Alayne, but she disapproved of Pheasant at that moment.

  Pheasant chuckled. “Do you hear that, Maurice? Aren’t you proud?”

  “Perhaps Alayne doesn’t realize that he is your happy parent,” said Renny, taking the bull by the horns.

  Vaughan gave Alayne a smile, half sheepish, half defiant, and wholly, she thought, unprepossessing. “I expect Mrs. Whiteoak has heard of all my evil doings,” he said.

  “I did not connect you two in my mind at all. I only heard today—a few minutes ago—that Pheasant had a father living. I had stupidly got the idea that she was an orphan.”

  “I expect Maurice wishes I were, sometimes,” said Pheasant. “I don’t mean that he wishes himself dead—” “Why not?” asked Vaughan.

  “Oh, because it’s such fun being a man, even an ill-tempered one. I mean that he wishes he had no encumbrance in the shape of me.”

  “You encumber him no longer,” said Renny. “You encumber me; isn’t that so?”

  “Will somebody please get my hat and book and mushrooms?” pleaded the young girl. “They’re under the tree.”

  Renny began to draw aside the heavy branches, the upper ones of which were raised like arms in prayer. An acrid scent of crushed overripe apples rose from among them. His hands, when he had rescued the treasures, were covered by particles of bark and tiny terrified insects.

  Vaughan turned toward home, and Pheasant ran after him, showing, now that they were separated, a demonstrative affection toward him that baffled Renny, who was not much given to speculation concerning the feelings of his fellows.

  As for Alayne, her mind was puzzled more and more by these new connections who were everything that her parents and her small circle of intimates were not. Even while their conduct placed her past life on a plane of dignity and reticence, their warmth and vigour made that life seem tame and even colourless. The response of her nature to the shock of this change in her environment was a variety of moods to which she had never before been accustomed. She had sudden sensations of depression, tinged with foreboding, followed by unaccountable flights of gaiety, when she felt that something passionately beautiful was about to happen to her.

  Renny, lighting a cigarette, looked at her gravely. “Do you know,” he said, “I had no idea that you were so keen about that tree, or I should have left it as it was. Why didn’t you make me understand?”

  “I did not want to make too much fuss. I thought you would think I was silly. Anyone who knew me at all well would have known how I felt about it. But then—you do not know me very well. I cannot blame you for that.”

  His gaze on her face became more intense. “I wish I did understand you. I’m better at understanding horses and dogs than women. I never understand them. Now, in this case, it wasn’t till the tree was down and I saw your face that I knew what it meant to you. Upon my word, I wouldn’t have taken anything—why, you looked positively tragic. You’ve no idea what a brute I feel.” He gave a rueful cut at the fallen tree to emphasize his words.

  “Oh, don’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t hurt it again!”

  He stood motionless among the broken branches, and she moved to his side. He attracted her. She wondered why she had never noticed before how striking he was. But then, she had never before seen him active among outdoor things. She had seen him rather indifferently riding his roan horse. In the house she had thought of him as rather morose and vigilant, though courteous when he was not irritated or excited by his family; and she had thought he held rather an inflated opinion of his own importance as head of the house. Now, axe in hand, with his narrow red head, his red foxlike face and piercing red-brown eyes, he seemed the very spirit of the woods and streams. Even his ears, she noticed, were pointed, and his hair grew in a point on his forehead.

  He, having thrown down the axe at her words of entreaty, stood among the broken branches, motionless as a statue, with apparently a statue’s serene detachment under inspection. He scarcely seemed to breathe.

  One of those unaccountable soarings of the spirit to which she had of late been subject possessed her at this moment. Her whole being was moved by a strange exhilaration. The orchard, the surrounding fields, the autumn day, seemed but a painted background for the gesture of her own personality. She had moved to Renny’s side. Now, from a desire scarcely understood by herself, to prove by the sense of touch that she was really she and he was no one more faunlike than Renny Whiteoak, she laid her hand on his arm. He did not move, but his eyes slid toward her face with an odd, speculative look in them. He was faintly hostile, she believed, because of her supersensitiveness about the tree. She smiled up at him, trying to show that she was not feeling childishly aggrieved, and trying at the same time to hide that haunting and wilful expectancy fluttering her nerves.

  The next moment she found herself in his arms with his lips against hers, and all her sensations crushed for the moment into helpless surrender. She felt the steady thud of his heart, and against it the wild tapping of her own. At last he released her and said, with a rather whimsical grimace: “Did you mind so much? I’m awfully sorry. I suppose you think me more of a brute than ever now.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed quiveringly, “how could you do that? How could you think I would be willing—”

  “I didn’t think at all,” he said. “I did it on the spur of the moment. You looked so—so—oh, I can’t think of a word to describe how you looked.”

  “Please tell me. I wish to know,” she said icily.

  “Well—inviting, then.”

  “Do you mean consciously inviting?” There was a dangerous note in her voice.

  “Don’t be absurd! Unconsciously, of course. You simply made me forget myself. I’m sorry.”

  She was trembling all over.

  “Perhaps,” she said, courageously, “you were not much more to blame than I.”

  “My dear child—as though you could help the way you looked.”

  “Yes, but I went over to you, deliberately, when—oh, I cannot say it!” Yet, perversely she wanted to say it.

  “When you knew you were looking especially lovely—is that what you mean?”

  “Not at all. It’s no use—I cannot say it.”

  “Why make the effort? I’m willing to take all the blame. After all, a kiss isn’t such a terrible thing, and I’m a relation. Men occasionally kiss their sisters-in-law. It will probably never happen again unless, as you say, you brazenly approach me when—what were you trying to say, Alayne? Now I come to think of it, I believe I have the right to know. It might save me some stabs of conscience.”

  “Oh, you make it all seem ridiculous. You make me feel very childish—very stupid.”

  He had seated himself on the fallen tree. Now he raised his eyes contritely to hers.

  “Look here. That’s the last thing on earth I want to do. I’m only trying to get you not to take it too seriously, and I want all the blame.”

  Her earnest eyes now looked full into his, taking a great deal of courage, for his were sparkling, so full of interest in her, and at the same time so mocking.

  “I see that I must tell you. It is this: I have had odd feelings lately of unrest, and a kind of anticipation, as though just around the corner some moving, thrilling experience were waiting for me. This sensation makes me reckless. I felt it just before I moved toward you, and, I think— I think—”

  “You think I was playing up to you?”

  “Not quite
that. But I think you felt something unusual about me.”

  “I did, and I do. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever known. Tell me, have you thought of me as—caring for you, thinking a good deal about you?”

  “I thought you rather disliked me. But please let us forget about all this. I never want to think of it again.”

  “Of course not,” he assented gravely.

  With a stab of almost physical pain, she remembered that she had half unconsciously kissed him back again. Her face and neck were dyed crimson. With a little gasp she said: “Of the two I am the more to blame.”

  “Is this the New England conscience that I’ve heard so much about?” he asked, filled with amazement.

  “I suppose so.”

  He regarded her with the same half-mocking, half-quizzical look in his eyes, but his voice deepened.

  “Oh, my dear, you are a sweet thing! And to think that you are Eden’s wife, and that I must never kiss you again!”

  She could not meet his eyes now. She was afraid of him, and still more afraid of herself. She felt that the strange expectancy of mood that had swayed her during these weeks at Jalna was nothing but the premonition of this moment. She said, trying to take herself in hand:

  “I am going back to the house. I think I heard the stable clock strike. It must be dinner-time.” She turned away and began to walk quickly over the rough orchard grass.

  It was significant of the eldest Whiteoak that he made no attempt to follow her, but sat with his eyes on her retreating form, confident that she would look back at him. As he expected, she turned after a dozen paces and regarded him with dignity but with a certain childlike pleading in her voice.

  “Will you promise never to think of me as I have been this morning?” she asked.

  “Then I must promise never to think of you at all,” he returned with composure.

  “Then never think of me. I should prefer that.”

  “Come, Alayne, you know that’s impossible.”