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

  “I leave shortly for Florida.”

  “That’s still in the future. In the past, all you’ve done is to move across the ravine just in the nick of time to have a baby!”

  “Maurice!” shouted Meg. “Are you going to let him insult me?”

  Maurice made himself heard above the general laughter.

  “You let my wife alone!” he scowled, as he knew Meggie expected him to scowl, at the brother-in-law who was also his son-in-law.

  Piers, unabashed, continued—“As for the piggery, it’s not mine at all. It simply adds to the value of Jalna. It belongs to Renny.”

  “The hell it does!” said Renny. “I won’t have it!”

  Piers turned to Finch. “Whom does the piggery belong to?”

  “Jalna,” answered Finch. Gradually, from being most unhappy, he had become rather pleased with himself. Here he was, the centre of a row, yet no one was blaming him. He took Meggie’s hand and replaced it on his shoulder. She gave him a tender smile. “What this poor boy has suffered!” she exclaimed.

  Nicholas said—“The great mistake was to allow him absolute control of the money at twenty-one. I should have been made his trustee.”

  Renny shot him a look. “You! I was his guardian.”

  “A lot you’ve guarded him,” retorted Nicholas. “You’ve allowed him to follow every whim.”

  “I wanted to keep out of the affair.”

  “But why? It was your business more than anyone’s, as you say.”

  “It would have been very different,” said Ernest, “if Mamma had given me control over the money.”

  “Hmph!” growled his brother. “Out of the frying pan into the fire, I should say”

  “What I have never been able to understand,” said Meg, “is this—Why did Granny leave me nothing but her watch and chain and that old Indian shawl. No one carries such a watch now. And she thought so little of the shawl that she used to let Boney make a nest in it. And then to give Pheasant that gorgeous ruby ring!”

  “For God’s sake, forget about that ring!” ejaculated Piers. “When Gran’s things were divided you got two rings.”

  “Neither of them could compare with the ruby! And how can I forget it when Pheasant is so ostentatious with it. Why, she’s taken to wearing it on her forefinger!”

  “She’ll wear it on her nose if she chooses!”

  Maurice scowled without any urging from Meg. He refilled his pipe and lighted it with a coal from the fire.

  “All I got was her bed,” said Renny.

  Meg curled her short upper lip in a sneer. “A pity about you, truly! When you have the whole estate!”

  “Yes,” grunted Nicholas. “Jalna thrown in!”

  Ernest added: “He did not think Jalna worth considering!”

  The face of the master of Jalna became as red as his hair. “Gran had nothing to do with my getting Jalna! I got it through my father.”

  Another silence ensued in which each seemed to be searching his own mind for a weapon to turn against the others. Alayne refilled the coffee cups. The pot was emptied. She thought—“I cannot endure to stay here. I must leave them to have their row out in their own way.” But she did not go. Since her return the life at Jalna had become her life, as never before. If she left the room she would be tacitly acknowledging that she was of weaker fibre than they. She would stay, no matter how her head ached, no matter how she inwardly shrank from the things they said.

  Wakefield’s clear voice was heard. “Was there anything more in the letter, Meggie?”

  “Yes. There is more in the letter.” There was an increased tension as she read—“‘Are you aware that Finch invested thirty thousand dollars in New York stocks and lost it? He informed me of this without visible emotion. But he was never the same again. He seemed sunk in apathy. As for me, no words can express my pain at seeing the fortune, so many years hoarded by my mother, come to such a queer unnatural end. Writing without violence I may say that I consider Renny’s callous neglect to be at the bottom of the disaster.’”

  A smile flickered across Finch’s pale face. Now what would they make of this? He clasped his knee in his hands, and his eyes, in which the large pupils were unusually bright, took in the scene before him without moving.

  Nicholas’s voice came from a long way off. “You have lost thirty thousand dollars in stocks... what stocks?”

  He answered, in a low hurried voice—“I bought on margin. Fifty thousand each in Universal Autos—Upstate Utility Corporation—and Cereal Foods... I put up a twenty per cent margin. My broker cabled me—when the crash came—that I must put up the eighty per cent balance if possible—if I was to save my holdings. I refused.”

  “You refused!” shouted Piers. “You blithering young ass!”

  “You let the money go!” said Maurice. “My God! But why?”

  “I was sick of the business. I wasn’t going to throw good money after bad.”

  Alayne cried—“Oh, Finch, and I cabled you, too! Oh, why didn’t you hold on? I never dreamed that you would let it go!”

  Ernest turned on her. “So, you were into it, too, Alayne! I’m astonished at you. This is terrible.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  Piers asked of her—“Did you hold on? Finch told me that you had invested.”

  “Yes, I am holding on.”

  “You’re lucky. They’ll be rising again.”

  Meggie spoke. “Alayne Archer, it is your fault that my brother has lost all this money. You excited him by your own speculations. The decent thing for you to do is to make up his loss to him out of what your aunt left you. He is only a poor, misguided boy!”

  “She’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Renny emphatically.

  Nicholas said—“You evidently knew of the investment, Piers, and you told us nothing. It’s a damnable shame!”

  “He told me, in confidence.”

  “It was your duty to speak. You were the only one who knew.”

  “You are greatly to blame, Piers,” said Ernest.

  Maurice and Meg, who had both approved the investment, kept silent.

  “Let us calculate,” said Nicholas. “There is this absolute loss of thirty thousand. There is the ten thousand to the Trent woman...”

  “He will get that back,” interjected Ernest.

  “Don’t be a fool,” rejoined his brother, and continued— “That’s forty thousand. Then, we’ll say five thousand for Eden. Another five for the motor car and that accursed piggery—”

  Piers put in—“Don’t forget your trip abroad, Uncle Nick!”

  Nicholas went on imperturbably. “Well, add another five thousand for that. Then, there’s the fifteen thousand mortgage for the Vaughans...”

  “Merciful Heaven!” cried Meggie. “You’re not counting that as a loss, are you?”

  Nicholas regarded her, sceptically. “That remains to be seen. Now, my friends, this lad has about forty thousand dollars left of Mamma’s bequest to him. And, by the time he has paid for this visit to Florida he will have still less. Interesting, isn’t it, to see how rapidly money can be dispersed?” He tugged his grey moustache and smiled bitterly at his kinsmen.

  “Renny, Renny,” said Ernest, “you are greatly to blame for this! You treated Finch as a child till he was twenty-one and then you threw him out from the nest to do what he willed.”

  “It’s true enough,” said Piers. “Several times, in my hearing, Finch asked his advice about his affairs and Renny simply turned away and left him.”

  “His pigeons will come home to roost,” said Meggie.

  “A fat lot they will,” said Piers. “Here’s his wife with a fresh fortune left her.”

  They all looked at Alayne. She had probably never felt quite so embarrassed in her life. To add to her embarrassment Renny began sulkily to play with her fingers. For the first time in her life she could think of nothing to say. She opened her mouth and shut it. Her mind floundered among the wreckage of argument and complaint that had been
cast upon this sea of dissension. They did not wait long for her to speak. They were all talking at once. The talk surged about her and Renny, who also was silent. Finch, hedged round with Meggie’s solicitude, sat clasping his knee, an enigmatic smile on his face, now and then replying to a question in the same untroubled tone.

  At last Piers rose, stretched himself, and went to the dining room. He returned with a decanter of whiskey a siphon, and some glasses.

  “How about something to light up the old innards, Uncle Nick?” he said. “Have a spot, medicinally, Uncle Ernie?”

  Finch drifted to the piano. He could not understand why it was, but he wanted to play to the family All the tremors of the past months had left his nerves. He felt strong and free and, for some subtle reason, rather proud. They had been waiting for, watching Gran’s money since before he was horn. He had suffered obloquy because it had been left to him. Now two-thirds of it had melted and they were still talking, but blaming each other now rather than him. His music was come back to him, flowing through his veins like wine. The past year was not wasted. He had loved and he had suffered. He was home again in his own place. He would work hard and become a great musician yet. He would spend every cent of what he had left on his music. He felt his heart go out with longing toward Renny.

  He played Chopin to them. He pictured himself as sweeping them along with him on those deep masculine waves of melody. Through Brahms and the faint sounds of Debussy he led them to the tolerance and tranquillity of Mozart. He played for an hour. Then he looked round with an almost mystic curiosity to see the effect of his spell.

  Nicholas, Maurice, and Piers formed a group around the siphon. From them came a rumble of talk that was apparently agreeable, for it was broken by low laughter. Wakefield now sat on the ottoman beside Meggie. Finch could hear them discussing means of transportation to Florida and whether or not, in the event of his going, Wake should take his fishing tackle. Ernest was on the sofa beside Alayne. They were apparently discussing him. They smiled at him and Ernest said—“Splendid, Finch! Eve never heard you play so well!” Alayne said nothing, but there was a glowing look in her eyes that meant more than words.

  Rags brought in the tea. There was a fruitcake which Finch particularly liked and small cakes filled with custard and covered with cocoanut icing. He was ravenous. Alayne asked Meg to pour the tea.

  She said—“Run and find Renny, Wake, please! I do hope he has not gone to the stables.” She wondered if he had been very angry when he had left the room. His expression had been gloomy, and no wonder, after so much combined criticism. She herself felt tired out. There had been a time when she would not have been able to eat a morsel after such a wrangle, but now she found herself eagerly devouring bread and jam like the rest of them. A lock of fair hair had loosened and hung into her eyes. She looked pale and wan.

  Meg began talking to her in the most friendly way, asking her advice about clothes for the South. She waited impatiently for Wakefield’s return.

  He came running in and instantly snatched up a piece of bread. “I can’t find him anywhere,” he said, with his mouth full. “I’ve been up to his room and down to the kitchen. Wright had just come in and he said Renny wasn’t at the stable. His hat is hanging on the rack and his dogs are lying in the hall.”

  “I should think he would hide his head,” observed his sister. “I think he has taken Aunt Augusta’s letter very much to heart. He realises, too, that we all blame him in this matter.”

  “He’d be deaf as a post if he didn’t,” said Piers.

  “He has found,” said Ernest, “that such high-handedness only reacts against himself.”

  Nicholas growled. “Renny has inherited all the worst traits of the Courts and the Whiteoaks combined.”

  “And yet,” cried Meg, “I have heard him boast that he had inherited the best from each family. What was that he said to us, Maurice, just the other day?”

  “He said—‘From my English forebears, I got my love of horses. From my Irish, the instinct for selling horses. And from my Scotch my horse sense.’”

  “That was it!” cried Meg delightedly. “Did you ever hear of such conceit?”

  Piers said—“I’d forgotten that Renny’s mother was Scotch.”

  “She was Scotch,” affirmed Meg. “And of an excellent family. Very different from—” She did not finish the sentence.

  “Just the same,” said Piers, “I think the poor old chap should have his tea. I’ll have a look for him myself.”

  “Oh, I wish you would!” breathed Alayne.

  Piers left the room and before long returned with a puzzled expression on his candid face.

  “He’s gone to bed.”

  “To bed!” they echoed, in one voice.

  “But I was in his room,” said Wakefield. “He wasn’t in bed then.”

  Piers answered—“He’s not in his own bed.”

  Once more the family turned and looked at Alayne. She felt her face tingling with the blood that had rushed to it. Like Ernest, earlier in the afternoon, she could utter no sound, only make grimaces.

  Ernest laid his hand on hers. “Never mind, dear girl,” he said soothingly. “It’s only natural.”

  Finch gave a loud guffaw, and his eyes sought those of Piers, which beamed back full of laughter.

  Piers said—“He’s not where you think he is. He’s in Gran’s bed. The old painted bed he inherited from her.”

  Food which was being masticated lay undisturbed in the mouths of the Whiteoaks or was hastily bolted. It was as though old Adeline herself had walked into their midst, her velvet tea gown trailing, her cap with the purple ribbons set for their subjection, her rings which had been divided among them, again flashing on her long fingers. “Renny in my bed? Well, why not? I left it to him! I bore his father there. Renny is bone of my bone... Let him rest his red head on my pillow and cool his hot temper in my bed. It’s his own place.”

  Nicholas got himself with difficulty out of his chair. He hobbled towards the door and, after a moment’s wavering, all the others rose and followed him. They went down the hall where the late sunlight, diffused through the stained glass window, cast bright splotches of colour upon them. Wragge had built a great fire in the stove. Its sides were red and the smell of overheated pipes made the air heavy.

  Nicholas opens the door of his mother’s room and looks in. There, propped on two pillows, lies the master of Jalna. His eyes closed, his thin muscular hands clasped on the coverlet, he appears to be lying in state. Boney, on his perch by the head of the bed, his plumage less bright than the plumage of the painted birds on the headboard, lifts his wings in a rage at the intrusion. He is moulting and, with the flapping of his wings, bright feathers are thrown from him and drift on to the bed.

  “Shaitan! Shaitan Kabatka! Iflatoon! Chore! Chore!” He pours forth a volley of horrible Hindoo oaths. All the curses that have lain simmering in his drowsy brain, without utterance for the past three years, now come hurtling through his beak. His eyes revolve like the lamps in a lighthouse. At one moment he turns them full of ire on the family collected about the bed. At the next they beam, full of possessive affection, on the occupant of the bed.

  “Is he ill, do you think?” whispers Ernest.

  “I don’t like it at all. He has gone too far,” growls Nicholas.

  “To think that Boney should talk again—after all these years!” says Meg. She goes to the bed and lays her hand on her brother’s forehead. “Speak, Renny. Are you ill? Or is it just that your feelings are hurt?”

  Oh, their glorious lack of self-consciousness! thinks Alayne. Oh, that I could so grandly let myself go! That I could be so magnificently a fool!

  “Bring Wakefield! He will notice the child,” says Meg.

  Piers, his teeth gleaming, pushes the boy forward.

  Wakefield has been sadly overwrought. He bursts into tears and wrings his slender hands. “Renny, you’re not dying, are you?”

  Renny opens his eyes. They look black in the
dim light. “Somebody...”

  Nicholas interrupts him. “You are not to say that! That’s carrying things too far!”

  “Somebody fetch me a cup of tea.”

  “Go and fetch him tea, Piers!” cries Meg. “Oh, Renny dear, whatever is the matter?”

  He turns and hides his face in the crook of his arm. “Everyone is against me... no one has ever understood me but Gran...”

  XXX

  WHAT OF PAULINE?

  WAS he hers, Alayne questioned, or did he belong to the family? She had been ashamed for him. She had felt chagrin that he had so played up to the family’s attitude toward him. Yet she felt a certain elation, for, without doubt, she had solidified her own position in that flamboyant circle.

  The next day was Sunday and they had all gone to church. No disruption could prevent their going to church. Sometimes she thought that they had the unquestioning faith of the Children’s Crusade, as they braved all kinds of weather, and sometimes she thought of them as pagans with a savage tenacity for the rites handed down to them by tradition. Once, just to test them on the subject, she had read aloud an illuminating chapter from a book by an eminent scientist on religion. The only one who had shown any interest in it had been Pheasant, and the opinion she had offered had been that the writer was talking about things he did not understand.

  Alayne sat in the Whiteoaks’ pew, her feet on the hassock on which for so many years old Adeline’s large shapely feet had rested. On her left sat Piers and Finch, on her right Nicholas, Ernest, and Wake. Across the aisle, in the Vaughan pew, sat Meg, Maurice, and Patience. The little girl peeped between her fingers across at her uncles. Wake shut one eye and glared at her with the other. She giggled and was reprimanded in a stage whisper by her mother. Meg was looking handsome, with black fur about her neck. Maurice’s face wore the expression of callous reverence attained by forty years of church-going. He had begun when he was four. The backbone of the responses and the hymns was supplied by these two pews. They never failed or faltered. Their fervour was not controlled by any graduations of volume suggested by the letters ρ or dim at the beginning of hymn lines.