Certainly Alayne had never made the individual study of the Whiteoaks which Harriet Archer now began. She had read a good deal of psychoanalysis. Often she had wished for an opportunity to make use of what she knew. Here was a field so virgin, so rich, that it required a mind of dauntless activity such as hers to attack it. The truth was that she had never had nearly enough to occupy her mind and in studying the peculiarities of the Whiteoaks she got rid of some of her own inhibitions.
If she were to live with this family she would leave no stone unturned for the understanding of them. It might be supposed that she would rely on Alayne’s judgment. But of that Harriet had a poor opinion since her acquaintance with Renny. From Alayne she had got the impression of a calculating roué. She had found him high-tempered but touchingly affectionate and of a generosity not before equalled in her experience. She had been led to believe that Adeline was a difficult, unloving child, with whom her own mother could do nothing. She had found her overflowing with love, biddable as an angel. Alayne herself had, on close acquaintance, turned out to be not the perfect niece she had always seemed but a highly irritable and often morose woman, without that larger understanding of life on which Harriet prided herself.
For her future guidance Harriet Archer had bought herself a large notebook in which she made entries of various characteristics as they came to her notice. For instance — “Observe what large and well-shaped hands Nicholas has, with fine nails. Yet his wrist is too small in proportion … Does his habit of loudly tooting his nose every time he blows it portend anything?… Note how Finch uses his hands and how Ernest sniffs each time before he talks of his old life in England…. Note how Maurice looks at Meg when he is addressing someone else, and Piers’s habit of laying his hand on Pheasant’s nape…. Notice how frequently the eyes of one or another of the family turn toward the grandmother’s portrait.”
So, from the first morning of her life at Jalna, Harriet Archer made a study of her new relations and not a day passed but she added to her knowledge. And she did not neglect the old house itself. On that first day she begged Renny to show it her and, if anything were needed to further cement their friendship, her exclamations of delight from attic to cellar accomplished it.
Her pleasure was not affected. She had never seen a house at all like it. Outside a museum she had never seen such beautiful pieces of Chippendale and Sheraton as were in the drawing room. The china used in the basement kitchen was such as she was accustomed to see cherished in a cabinet. On the other hand, there were corners uglier and more stuffy than any she had beheld. She felt a genuine pleasure in these too, partly because of the egotism that allowed them to exist, of the very unconsciousness of their existence. Renny escorted her to the kitchen and she praised the Wragges to their faces — Mrs. Wragge’s cooking and his silver-cleaning — even while, after seeing their pantries, she thought drawing and quartering too good for them.
In her Nicholas found a fresh receptacle for his reminiscences. Everyone he knew had long ago heard all he had to tell, over and over again. Now here was a mind fresh as a child’s, eagerly interested in his memory of the London of the nineties. He unearthed old photographs to show her. He read old letters to her. At last he unburdened himself of the whole sorry tale of his marriage and divorce. They enjoyed themselves thoroughly.
Ernest told her about his annotation of Shakespeare which he had long ago begun, and still pretended he hoped one day to finish. He was amazed to find that Harriet knew Shakespeare’s plays as well as he did, had seen the great actors in them and showed a helpful but not too critical interest in his opinions. He thought her clothes were charming and told her so. She began to dress more especially for him than for the others. Together they talked over the relations between Renny and Alayne and felt a reflected emotion in these discussions. Ernest took one of the watercolours he had long ago done, from the wall of his room and gave it to her for hers. It was the first thing her eyes saw each morning when they opened — a thatched Devon cottage, half smothered in roses and honeysuckle.
She was soon invited by Meg to visit Vaughanlands. She won Meg’s heart by her sincere praise of Patience’s looks and talents. She praised Meg herself for her unselfishness and strength of character in helping Maurice by taking in paying guests. Meg had an exuberant nature and, when Harriet left, she threw her plump arms about her and told her how glad she was that she had come to Jalna.
Harriet and Alayne went to The Harbour together. Pheasant had invited them to tea so that the little boys might be present. Harriet had brought gifts to each of them. Nook came at once and snuggled close to Alayne. She pressed her lips to his silky head and said:
“You remember how I told you about Nook? Don’t you think he’s sweet?”
“I think they are all sweet,” answered Harriet, and thought — “Alayne is far more tender toward this child than toward her own. A very curious thing. I must take a note of it tonight.”
When Harriet Archer looked at Pheasant’s childish figure and innocent face it was hard for her to believe all that Alayne had told of her. Yet there was a seriousness about her, something withheld in the dark depths of her eyes. It was a look that Mooey seemed to have inherited. Harriet felt herself much drawn to him and, seeing this, Pheasant was drawn to her. When they parted Pheasant whispered to her — “I think you are going to be good for Alayne.”
Harriet flushed with pleasure and shook her head but she could not really deny it. Indeed she felt that she was going to be good for all of them.
Wakefield and Finch were the two who baffled her. Wakefield she had not yet seen but from all she heard of him she could make no living figure … nothing coherent, nothing comprehensible. He was an enigma, a half-malicious spirit. Finch held himself aloof as none of the others had done. He had a way of gliding out of a room when she entered it that she found most disconcerting. He refused to be drawn into talk of the most friendly sort. She felt that he alone resented her presence there. Yet Alayne had always said that Finch was the friendliest, most affectionate of them all.
Harriet Archer studied even the dogs. She learnt their names, their short histories. She went about with tiny biscuits in her pocket which, unnoticed by anyone, she fed to them. The result was that the family soon remarked what a true dog lover she was and how a dog always knew his friends.
The sun put on a new warmth. The deep snow melted and swept in icy runnels through the ditches. Harriet Archer covered her shoes with shiny black galoshes and went with Renny to the stables.
It was the first time in all her life that she had put foot in one. She was amazed by the size of these and by the order everywhere manifest, which contrasted sharply with the haphazard manner of the housekeeping. But the size and order of the stables were as nothing compared to the revelation the horses themselves were to Harriet Archer.
Something in her that had never been awakened, now stirred, reared a strange dream-head, drew a deep breath of the varied smells of the stables. Renny had given her his arm and her delicate fingers clutched it excitedly They walked through the cold alleys, with the open stalls on either hand. The muscular buttocks of the horses caught the light like polished wood. Horse after horse spoke in deep whinnies to Renny as he passed. They curved their thick necks to look at him and at the little stranger by his side. He took her right into the stalls of his two favourites — Cora, an aged mare, with lovely beaming eyes and a white blaze on her face, and a big roan gelding whose mouth he opened to show Harriet his teeth. She shrank inwardly as the great cavern with its huge teeth yawned above her and an iron hoof was lifted as though in protest, but she held her ground. She even moved closer and stroked the barrel-like body. With that touch the something in her rose, shook itself as with a rattling of harness, and said in her own precise voice:
“I’m going to be a real horse lover. I can see that.”
They found Adeline grooming the pony that had been Wakefield’s, while the stableboy Wilf ran here and there at her bidding. Harriet saw her for th
e first time in her torn jersey and sagging breeches. She gave her elders no more than a smile but began to show off for Harriet’s benefit, lifting the pony’s hooves, slapping its flank. “And she is not yet five!” exclaimed Harriet.
They went to the harness room and, in its shadowy quiet, she saw the ranges of saddles, the lines of well-polished leathers — the snaffles, check straps, and pelhams. Harriet let go Renny’s arm and touched these things masterfully. She savoured the new bond between her and the master of Jalna.
Delighted with her, he displayed the collection of cups and ribbons. She did not understand one-half of what he said, but she felt that she understood him better every hour.
He took her to his office where the little stove was red-hot in her honour. But their breath hung on the air. He put her into his own swivel chair and himself made tea for her in a pot with a chipped spout. As they sipped their tea and he described the careers of the various horses of the lithographs, she felt bolder than ever before in her life. But she knew she was getting chilblains.
When they returned to the house Alayne met them at the door of the sitting room. Her face was flushed and an unnatural glitter was in her eyes. She said:
“I think I’m going to have my baby quite soon. I think you had better send for the doctor.”
He turned pale. “First let me put you to bed,” he said. But when he touched her she cried out. With her in his arms, his lips on her cheek, he stood hesitating a moment. Then, seeing the door of his grandmother’s room open, he carried her in and laid her on the bed.
So it happened that Alayne’s son, arriving before his time, was born in the painted leather bed where old Adeline had borne three sons.
XXVIII
SPRING
SPRING CAME QUICKLY that year. The time between melting snow and greening grass seemed shorter to Alayne than ever before. She had seen from her window how the black tracery of branches was veiled in tiny leaves almost before she had realized the buds. Adeline had brought a handful of bloodroot from a sheltered corner of the wood and put their silver stems and drooping flowers into the little brother’s hands.
She and Alayne were never so near as when they were drawn together by their love for the infant: though Alayne found the constant “Don’t hold him so tightly” or “Don’t kiss him on the mouth!” an irritation. Adeline seemed never to remember how fragile the baby was. She wanted to treat him as a puppy and she resented her mother’s possessive guarding of him.
Toward this new child of hers Alayne’s love flowed in a strong tide, as it had never flowed toward Adeline. She realized this herself and accounted for it by the coincidence of his birth and her return to health and happiness. He had been a smaller child than Adeline, the agony of the birth had been short, and the recuperation gratifying to the doctor and a delight to Renny. In a fortnight Alayne looked like her old self. In a month she was filled with a new energy. The wings of her spirit spread themselves in the new springtime of hope and happiness.
Before the child’s birth she had often felt depressed by the lack of maternal yearning in herself. Even after her return to Jalna she had given all her thoughts to Renny — none, except those of foreboding, to the new life within her.
But how different when her son was in her arms! She became aware of a power he was going to have over her life. She felt his little hands take her heart into their keeping.
From her birth Adeline had definitely shown her resemblance to her great-grandmother. In the first weeks all that could be said of this child was that he had his mother’s colouring. But one day Harriet Archer, holding him to the light and examining his features critically, exclaimed:
“Why, Alayne, I know who he is like! Why did I never see it before? He is the living image of your dear father!”
Alayne looked earnestly into the tiny face. “I believe you are right, Aunt Harriet. Oh, how wonderful it will be if he really is!”
“There is no doubt about it! He has your father’s noble forehead. He has his eyes. Oh, my dear, just wait till I get the photo of him when he was a baby and you’ll see the likeness, feature by feature!”
She found the picture and they compared the infant to it in delighted certainty. When Renny returned to the house Alayne told him of their discovery. He looked rueful rather than pleased.
“Do you really think so?” he asked, staring at his son.
“I am sure of it.”
“Well, it’s to be hoped he doesn’t take after him in any other way.”
“Why not?” she flashed, at once on the defensive.
He laughed. “What on earth should we do with a Professor of Economics in the house?”
She answered seriously — “It would be the best thing that could happen to us.”
He showed chagrin at this. He said — “Then you’re glad that the boy isn’t like me?”
She drew his face to her and kissed him. “One of you is all I can manage, darling.”
But he was not satisfied. “I should think you would have liked your son to be like your husband. This fellow isn’t like any of us.”
“He is like …” She hesitated, as she always did, when speaking of her father to Renny.
“A far finer character,” he finished for her.
“Surely you can understand how much it means to me that he should resemble my father? Surely you don’t feel jealousy of someone you have never even seen!”
He was ashamed. He said eagerly:
“I am glad he looks like your dad, if it pleases you, my sweet! God knows, there are Whiteoaks enough! Perhaps he’ll be a go-getter and put the family on its legs again.”
Alayne found no allurement in this picture of her baby’s future. She frowned and said:
“I hope he will have my father’s intellect.”
“Look here!” said Renny, “It’s time he was christened. And we’ve never discussed his name. That do you want to call him, eh?” In truth he had thought a good deal about his son’s name but had waited for Alayne to say that it should be named for him.
He could scarcely conceal his disappointment when she said:
“I want to call him Archer. You won’t mind, will you?”
He repeated — “Archer … Archer Whiteoak. Hm, it’s an odd sort of name!”
“I think it’s a lovely name. What a picture it brings to one’s mind when you consider the meaning of it! An archer with his bow and arrow, standing beneath a tall oak tree. Don’t you see that, Renny?”
“No,” he returned perversely, “I see a professor in his cap and gown, riding Mrs. Spindles.”
“Oh, you’re hopeless!” She pressed the baby close to her and pressed his fingers to her lips.
“May I give him a second name?” he demanded.
“Of course — a dozen if you like!”
“Court, then. Archer Court Whiteoak.” Alayne had to be content with Adeline’s old perambulator for the baby, when she longed for one of the latest design. A thousand times she thought of what she might do for him, if only her income had not vanished! However, he did have a new crib, of a delicious pale blue enamel, and this stood in the corner of her room, where Adeline’s had once been. But what a different child! One might forget he was in the room he slept so sweetly, the little downy silver head just showing above the satin quilt. Week by week Alayne watched his intelligence unfold. She saw that it was of a different order from Adeline’s. His grey-blue eyes followed her movements, looked into her face, with what she felt was an almost uncanny understanding. At his age Adeline’s gaze had been as remote, as detached as that of some little wild animal peeping from its burrow. Oh, but this boy was near to Alayne’s heart! When she woke in the morning he was her first thought. She glided barefoot across the floor to make sure that all was well with him.
Piers remarked to Renny — “It’s disgusting, this habit of wives — having a first son with no look of his father or his father’s family. Gran did it. Pheasant did it. Now Alayne. My own mother did it.”
“Mi
ne didn’t,” said Renny.
“That’s true!” laughed Piers, then asked. “What was your mother like? Neither you nor Meg resemble her.”
Renny stared at him incredulously. “You don’t mean to tell me that you don’t know what my mother looked like?”
“No. How could I? I should scarcely have known what my own looked like — if I hadn’t been told that Eden was the image of her.”
“Well, all I can say for you is, that you ought to be ashamed. Next Sunday I’ll get out the old album and show you their pictures.”
These brothers were so much thrown together, they were both so strong-willed and domineering, that quarrels between them were inevitable. Earlier in his life Piers had chafed or been sullen under Renny’s tyranny, magnanimous though it was. Now, he not only resisted when he could, but sometimes attempted to tyrannize over Renny himself.
Once Harriet Archer was an unseen witness of one of their quarrels. She had formed the habit of herself walking to the stables every fine morning. The air was becoming fresh and warm. The horses were being schooled for the spring shows. She was often deeply moved by the thought that she was becoming one with the life at Jalna.
She heard raised voices as she approached the paddock. She saw Wright, another man and the boy Wilf standing by holding horses which, attentive and motionless, seemed to listen with dignity to the altercation. Renny and Piers faced each other and Harriet heard from their lips words she had never expected to hear spoken. These were so mixed with the jargon of the stable that nothing was really coherent to her. But she knew that it was all very bad. She was afraid, by the expressions of their faces, that they would come to blows. If they did, she thought, she would cast discretion aside and rush between them. Her heart thumped at the thought of this but she had a faint, a very faint, feeling of disappointment when they turned from each other without violence.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 356
