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

  Nicholas was dealing and he said:

  “I remember well twenty-two years ago tonight. We sat at this very table playing cribbage—Ernest and I—your father walking the floor. We were waiting for young Finch to arrive. And he was tardy enough about it.”

  “Philip was very nervous,” said Ernest. “I remember that when we gave him a glass of rum and water, to quiet him, the glass rattled in a quite alarming manner against his teeth... Poor Mary was suffering greatly.”

  Piers held his hand above the table. “Look at that. Steady enough, eh?”

  “Yes,” agreed Ernest, “but all is not over upstairs.”

  “Pheasant will be all right,” said Renny. “The doctor is with her. And Mrs. Patch. Meg and Alayne in the next room.”

  Piers was examining his cards. “Alayne ought to be having this baby. It’s her turn,” he muttered.

  “We don’t all of us have families,” replied Renny. “I’ve responsibility enough as it is.”

  They played out the hand.

  Piers looked at his watch. Half past ten.

  “A year ago tonight,” observed Ernest, as he dealt, “we were in the midst of your birthday party, Finch.”

  Finch turned from the window. “It was a very different birthday from this. It seems years ago.”

  “You made a good speech that night,” said Renny. “You had everybody laughing.”

  Finch looked pleased. “I forget what I said. It was awful rot, I guess.”

  “No. It was very good. By the way, I met Mrs. Leigh and Ada in town today. They’re expecting Leigh and his wife next month. But you didn’t like her, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t like her.” He turned again to the window.

  “Play!” said Nicholas. His tone was testy because of the delay.

  Why had that name been spoken tonight? Why had that pale face, with its indrawn mouth, been introduced into his thoughts? It was there, outside the pane, looking in at him mocking, beseeching, by turn. It was of the figment of night. Of pale starlight. Of shadow darker than darkness. And from it issued that voice which would always trouble his soul, that voice sweeter than the sweetness of her violin.

  From above came a piercing cry Piers threw down his cards and ran up the stairs.

  At twenty minutes to twelve the new Whiteoak came weeping into the world. Meg brought the news down to them.

  She put her arms about Piers and kissed him. “A little son, Piers! Quite strong and well... And on your birthday, Finch!” She kissed him, too. “Many happy returns to you both, darling boys!”

  Piers said—“He did it, by the skin of his gums!”

  “Did what?”

  “Arrived on Finch’s birthday. Pheasant had her heart set on that.” His face was contorted. He was between laughter and tears.

  Nicholas hobbled up and down the room. “Well, well, this is good news! Another boy, eh? And on your birthday, Finch! A new Whiteoak. I remember how a year ago tonight we sat up till dawn in this room celebrating...” And he began singing in an undertone,

  “Zummer is icumen in.

  Sweetly sings cuckoo!”

  Piers’s head was hidden in the long maroon window curtain. His shoulders were shaken by sobs.

  The next day was Sunday. Just as breakfast was over, Wright brought a package addressed to Finch which he had got from the post office the night before. Wakefield carried it, with an important air, to Finch. “Wright is awfully sorry, Finch, that he forgot this last night. Whatever do you suppose it is?”

  He stood by expectantly while Finch undid it. It was a book, fresh from the press. Poetry by the look of it. Wake read the title— “New France, by Eden Whiteoak.” He wanted to take it in his hands, but Finch held him off. “No—let me see it first...”

  He took off the jacket. The cover was green with gold lettering, and there was a design of lilies. How well Eden’s name looked in the gilt letters. How jolly nice of him to have sent him this for his birthday! Finch had not known it was published yet. He raised the cover and looked inside. On the dedication page, he read—For Brother Finch.

  Wakefield read it, too. They looked at each other, stunned by the magnificence of it. Eden had dedicated his new long poem, which had taken him a year to write, to Finch! He was overcome. What had he done to deserve being singled out for such an honour. Eden... New France... For Brother Finch. God, life was terrific!

  He carried it to the dining room to show it to his uncles and Renny, who were still at the breakfast table. They were duly impressed. Rags, with a tray in his hands, bent his inquisitive gaze upon it.

  “I’m sure we’re all proud of both you and Mr. Eden, sir,” he said. “You’ve both of you turned out better than we could ’ave ’Oped.”

  Wakefield had rushed back to the sitting-room at the sound of a plaintive cry there. Now he hastened back to the dining room, exclaiming:

  “Come quick, Piers has something to show you!”

  Nicholas made his table napkin into a ball. Renny heaved him to his feet. Nip, who had been on his knee, circled about the table yapping joyously. One of Renny’s spaniels reared itself beside the table and licked the toast crumbs from his plate. Ernest surreptitiously took an indigestion tablet. All these excitements tended to discourage the gastric juices.

  In the wintry sunlight Piers was holding something on a pillow. In his eyes was pride and on his lips a deprecating tenderness.

  They gathered about the newcomer, staring at him ruthlessly, while his weak eyes shrank from the light and he made a shamefaced grimace as though he would ask nothing better than the opportunity to obliterate himself. Young as he was, he had been put into clothes. Bands, napkins, safety pins, hampered him. His tender arms had been thrust into sleeves by Mrs. Patch. He had been washed, the faint down on his head had been brushed. His nose had been wiped. He was ready for life.

  Renny caught sight of Mooey in the hall. From a disorganised household the tiny boy had escaped to the coal cellar and was smudged from head to foot. With a stride Renny was on him. He snatched him up and carried him to join the circle.

  “Mooey you sweep!” he shouted. “Mooey you miserable tripe, come and see your baby brother!”

  Mooey, with a sooty forefinger in his pink mouth, stared long and dubiously at the newcomer. Then—“Oh hell, I’m not f’ightened!” he said.

  His uncles and great-uncles agreed that, while not handsome, the infant showed unmistakable signs of having the Court nose.

  Piers fixed his prominent blue eyes on Finch’s face. He had got an idea. “Why, look here,” he said. “This kid’s got a long nose, a long, melancholy face, he’s a depressed-looking cuss! By George, we’ll call him Finch!”

  “Not after me?” cried Finch, incredulously.

  “Yes, why not? Pheasant was awfully keen to have him born on your birthday. Thought he might shine in your reflected rays. I believe he’s going to take after you. I’d like damned well to call him Finch—if you don’t mind!”

  “Good idea!” said Nicholas.

  “Splendid!” said Ernest.

  “He might do worse than take after his Uncle Finch,” said Renny.

  “Do you mind?” reiterated Piers.

  “Mind!” Finch was touched to the heart. His features broke into a tender smile. He took the tiny pink hand in his large bony one. “Mind! Why, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had done for me in all my life!” His voice trembled with emotion.

  END

  To HUGH WALPOLE

  The Master of Jalna

  MAZO DE LA ROCHE

  I

  ELDEST AND YOUNGEST

  RENNY WHITEOAK stood with his brows drawn together but a smile softening his lips while a wire-haired terrier belonging to his brother Piers strove with controlled energy to dig her way into the burrow of some small animal. The digging was not easy because a root of a silver birch tree made a barrier across the entrance. The terrier’s white coat was covered with earth, and Renny was remembering how Piers had spent an hour tha
t day in washing from her the stains of some foul encounter. He had titivated her as though for a show. And already she had come to this!

  Still it was clean dirt, good honest earth that, when it dried, would fall from the stiff white coat. The terrier lay on her side now, throwing the brown soil against her pink belly. She tore at the root with her teeth. She tore so hard that the splinters she spat out were bloodstained. Renny remembered that it was spring, that there was probably a terrified little mother with young down there. He picked up the terrier by the scruff and, tucking her under his arm, strolled away. The little dog knew that it was useless to struggle. She turned up a beseeching muzzle, caked with earth, and seeing a face that promised no relenting, wagged her tail and panted toward the next excitement.

  Renny walked on through the still radiance of the June day. Earth and sky were of an ineffable brightness, and the smooth path beneath his feet was his own. He thought of this as he followed its turnings through the birch wood. There was something odd and personal about the possession of a path. It was unlike the fields that surrendered themselves to cultivation or the woods that held themselves apart. The path gave itself—stretched itself supine for you to walk on—but it did not surrender. It led you where it willed, and, if you would not follow it, if you turned aside among the bushes or the tree trunks, it ran on without you in the appointed way marked by the footprints of your fathers.

  He liked the thought of that. It heartened him to think that this path—that all the paths of Jalna—had been made by his own people or those who worked for them. It had been nothing more than a forest when his grandfather, Captain Philip Whiteoak, had come here from England. Uncle Nicholas, Uncle Ernest had run over these as little boys. He, himself… well, if these paths could speak, they could tell a lot about him… forty-five he was now.

  The smile that had been lurking about his mouth became a grin. He tossed the terrier on to the path in front of him, and it sped like an arrow after something that moved among the bracken. A little devil, Biddy. You couldn’t keep her down. Her joyous acceptance of life made him happier. That was the way to take it. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, go at top speed after something else.

  What had been worrying him? Oh yes, that account from Piers for the winter’s feed. He let the farmlands to Piers. Then he bought the fodder off him. Piers was always ready with the rent, but of late he often had to ask Piers for time. It was humiliating because Piers was younger than he and had a way of staring at one as though he were holding himself in, keeping back some unpleasant truths which he would have taken pleasure in uttering. Well… if anyone could make anything out of horse breeding with conditions as they had been for two years… getting worse and worse… he’d like to see how it was done. The smile faded on his lips and the frown groping across his forehead settled between the reddish brows.

  The terrier reappeared on the path leaping about the legs of a slender youth of seventeen who came toward his eldest brother with an air at once petulant and ingratiating.

  “Oh, there you are, Renny! I’ve been all over the place after you. Are you on your way to the fox farm?”

  “Well, I might drop in there.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right.”

  Renny shot an inquisitive look at him. Wakefield seemed to be always ready to go to the fox farm. Was it possible that he was a bit gone on Pauline Lebraux? It was ridiculous to think of his being gone on anyone. He was little more than a kid. Yet—looking at him as an outsider you’d say—“Here’s a tall fellow, handsome as the devil. The girls will be after him.” But an outsider wouldn’t know what a kid he was, how dependent and nervy, though he had almost outgrown his delicacy.

  They had come to an open grassy space where the white-boled silver birches cast their lacy shadows. Renny suddenly grasped Wakefield’s arm and stopped.

  “Do you remember?” he asked.

  Wakefield looked blank. “Remember what?”

  “The day you read me a poem you’d written. It was on this very spot. It must be almost two years ago.”

  Wakefield was gratified. “You remember? Well, I had completely forgotten it. I’ve even forgotten the poem.”

  “Thank God for that! I was afraid you were going to turn out like Eden. You showed all the symptoms.”

  “It was only a phase. I have quite outgrown it.”

  Approval shone out of the elder’s eyes. Wakefield saw it and thought the moment propitious.

  “The school is giving a dinner to Professor Ralston,” he said, “and a presentation. I have to subscribe to both. And I think I should have a dress suit. I am one of the tallest fellows in the school, and I shall feel very awkward in ordinary things. I felt awkward at the last dance, and I expect that I looked as I felt.”

  It was impossible to think of his looking or feeling awkward, seeing him standing there in the sunshine, as straight and slender as one of the young birches. Renny said:

  “There is a suit of Eden’s in the attic cupboard. A dinner jacket. I guess that it would fit you. You are just about the size he was then.”

  Wakefield looked horrified. “That old suit! I should look like the devil in it. Why, even Finch refused to wear that.”

  “Finch couldn’t wear it. He is too long in the arm. But I believe it would fit you. It could be altered if necessary.”

  Wakefield turned away. “Very well, Renny”—he spoke with sad dignity—“I’ll give up going. I don’t mind so very much, but I do mind making myself into a figure of fun.”

  Renny followed him along the path grinning in appreciation of his methods of getting what he wanted, at the old-fashioned turn of speech which he cultivated. How different he was from what the others had been at his age! In a similar position Finch would have backed down at once, agreed to wear anything rather than be insistent. A good boy but rather spiritless. Piers would have sulked. Eden argued excitedly… Well, it was a great thing that Wake had grown up to want a dress suit. It had often seemed doubtful if he would. He was an extravagant youngster too. Money spilt through his fingers like water. It was a pity he had come along when it was so scarce. He was formed for easy living and extravagance. Renny said, in a grudging tone:

  “I suppose I can do it. But money is terribly tight. Well— I shouldn’t say tight—I simply haven’t got it.”

  Wakefield threw over his shoulder:

  “Let Piers wait.”

  “He is waiting.”

  “Let him keep on waiting. He really should not charge you anything for the feed.”

  “What would he live on?”

  “You—like everyone else does!”

  Renny broke into loud laughter, then suddenly sobered.

  “Look here, Wake,” he said rather sternly, “you’re growing up too fast.”

  “Just the same,” persisted the boy, “I don’t like to see Piers so high and mighty about managing his farm profitably when he and his wife and two kids get their living at Jalna for absolutely nothing.”

  “You don’t understand,” returned his elder, rather stiffly. “Piers helps me in a lot of ways.” How could Wakefield understand his clannish desire to have his family under the same roof with him, his pride in keeping the old house full!

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Wakefield’s tone was grandfatherly. “And thanks very much for the evening things. You can always get credit at Fowler’s, can’t you?”

  Fowler’s! The most expensive tailoring place in town. This lad hated himself!

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “And you’ll remember about my subscription to the dinner and present?”

  “Hm-hm.”

  They had crossed a field, passed through a gate, and emerged into the public road. It was deserted, and not far off they could see the white picket fence that enclosed the fox farm.

  Clara Lebraux had had a hard fight to keep it afloat in the two and a half years since her husband’s death. But somehow—and with help from
Renny Whiteoak that both kept secret—she had escaped failure. She had done well with the poultry that got her up so early every morning.

  She and her daughter Pauline were standing together at a window in the kitchen as the brothers appeared at the gate. Pauline said hurriedly:

  “Oh, don’t let us be caught in the kitchen! They’ll think we live in it. Last time Renny came we were washing dishes.”

  Clara Lebraux laughed curtly. “It’s a late hour for me to begin prinking for him. He has seen me looking my worst for over three years now.” There was a curious note of satisfaction in her voice as she said this. She added— “And married men aren’t supposed to look at anyone but their wives.”

  “I wonder why they don’t ring the bell.”

  “They’ve gone round to look at the foxes.”

  “Mummie, shall I run upstairs and change my dress? This is so abominably short.”

  “Yes, do… I like you to look nice.”

  Pauline hesitated at the door. “It’s hard to think of him as married, isn’t it? We see so little of her.”

  “Oh, he’s very much married!” Clara Lebraux spoke abruptly. She went quickly to the oven, drew out a pan of scones she was baking, looked at them suspiciously and thrust them back, banging the oven door.

  Pauline disappeared up the stairs as the bell sounded. Clara wiped her hands on a scorched oven-cloth and went to the door. She glanced in the mirror in the hall in passing, saw that her hair that had been tow-coloured and was now turning dark in streaks, was dishevelled, and that there was flour on her cheek, but she marched straight to the door and opened it.

  She and Renny greeted each other familiarly, but Wakefield stood somewhat aloof. He was conscious of his new height and his imminent manhood.

  “Where is Pauline?” asked Renny, when they were in the living room that had an air of comfort in spite of its extreme shabbiness.

  “Upstairs. She’ll be down directly.”

  “How is the injured fox?”

  “Quite recovered. But we had a time with him. The others had torn a foot almost off. They are devils when they’re roused. But Pauline never loses patience with them. I do. Sometimes I’d like to turn all the foxes in together. Then throw the poultry to them. Have a general massacre.”