But Pheasant walked the little empty house alone, wringing her hands, when he had gone. Mooey had been taken to Ireland. Piers had gone to the war. Would she ever again see either of them? The two sons left to her seemed small and weak and remote. Three times she had been brought to bed with Piers’s sons. Now he was gone!
She folded his civilian clothes and laid them away. What a pity he had bought that last suit! He could well have done without it and she had been against buying it, but he would have it. Now here it was, still retaining the roundness of his body. And he was gone! She knelt beside the drawer where she had laid it, shaken by sobs.
The next to leave were Renny and Rags. It was now the first of March. Renny had so recently been in England that it seemed as though he were merely making another visit. The name of Johnny the Bird once more appeared in conversation. The Vaughans and Pheasant and her boys spent much of their time at Jalna. Like their mother, the uncles wanted the young people about them. Alayne lived in a kind of dream. She had felt strangely moved in the parting with Piers. Now in this leave-taking with her heart of hearts she felt dreamlike and almost detached. She did not think “He will come back” or “He will not come back.” Her mind was not capable of such surmise. She only noticed the little things about him she had always loved. She could scarcely take her eyes off him. The passion of her earliest love for him tormented her, yet it was the passion of a dream.
On his part he felt a constant gratitude toward her for the way she had borne the news of Molly’s parentage. Things might have been so bad between them but they were in truth happier than ever. He would sit beside her, holding her hand in his strong fingers, giving her directions as to what should be done in the stables about this or that, in certain eventualities — just as though she understood.
It was the first time he had ever talked to her of his horses in that earnest familiar way, as though he were confident of her understanding and sympathizing. She knew that, in doing this, he was showing his gratitude to her, throwing open that door of his other life. She was touched. But then — everything he did in these days touched her. There seemed a pathos and finality in all his acts, as though they were last rites before a sacrifice. Sometimes she felt like crying out that he ought not to leave her. He had fought in one war. His brothers were to fight in this. Let that be enough. Sometimes she was almost angered by the loyalty of this young country to the Motherland. Why should all these men be in training for a war in Europe? It might be better, she thought, if there were more hardheaded materialism and less idealism of a bygone generation. But there were other times when she too was carried on the tide and felt herself heart and soul in the struggle.
She talked to him of the children and, for the first time, confessed that she was disappointed in Archer. He had been such a wonderful baby with that noble forehead and that profound look in his eyes which so reminded her of her father. He had been so gentle, showed a thoughtful mind and a touching dignity. But now at five he showed neither ordinary common sense nor dignity. Nothing she could say shamed him. He was utterly absorbed in his own ignoble activities and had no real love for anyone. Tears filled her eyes.
Renny threw back his head and laughed.
“Ashamed of Archie! That’s nonsense. He’s a queer egg, but he’ll come through. He’ll go into business and retrieve the family fortunes. I promise you.”
Before he left he gave Archer his first pony and the little fellow bestrode it with no more fear and no more pleasure than he showed toward his tricycle. He just sat there while the groom led the pony about the paddock looking as though the weight of the world lay on his brow, but Renny noted with pride that he had good hands on the reins and a good leg in the stirrup.
Renny had not seen Molly since she and her sisters had moved into the fox farm. She was taking the train to the town each day to her war work and on her return kept to the house for fear of meeting either him or Wakefield. But he felt that he must speak to her once again before leaving. He wanted to make sure that the girls were comfortably settled in.
On his last Saturday afternoon he went to the fox farm, thinking on this day he would find her in. But he went reluctantly, for he dreaded meeting her. He drank in the pure air and filled his eyes with the sight of the trees, ice-sheathed after a wild storm. He thought he would like to carry this picture away with him.
It was the first week in March but the countryside was ice-bound. There was a feeling of brittle restraint in the air. He had that same feeling in himself and his spirit strained to the time when he would break through and enter what lay ahead of him. A deep sensuous urge to see Johnny the Bird welled up in him. He wanted to win the Grand National with that horse. Perhaps the great race might not again be run for years but it was to be run this spring and Johnny the Bird must win it! He was not going into this war as he had gone into the last — fired by the spirit of careless adventure. Then he had gone, leaving his father as master of Jalna, with no special responsibilities of his own. Now he had wife and children, the uncles were old and depended on him. The thought of the race rose like a bright beacon above the sea of uncertainty and turmoil.
The girls heard the ring at the door. There were just three of them in the house for Molly had had to do extra work that afternoon and was not yet home. They had heard no step and were in a panic.
“Peep out between the curtains, Garda,” whispered Gemmel, “and see who it is.” Garda tiptoed into the sitting room and back again.
“It’s the eldest Whiteoak,” she whispered. “It’s Renny.”
“Go and let him in. Talk to him. Find out what he is like. I’d love to know. I can see that Molly hates him. I believe he has something to do with her engagement being broken.”
Garda flushed crimson. “I’d not dare.”
“Then you go, Althea.”
“Nothing would tempt me. He may knock all day, as far as I’m concerned. Draw the curtains, Garda. He might walk round the house.”
The curtains were drawn. Instead of the bell, there now came a knock on the door.
Garda began to laugh.
“Ssh!” ordered Althea sternly. “He mustn’t hear a sound.”
“I have a mind to go to the door myself,” whispered Gemmel. “If I were like you girls, I’d go and talk to him. I think he’s wonderful.”
“Oh, if only Molly would come!” said Althea. “Crouch down, he’s coming round the house!”
They heard his steps crunching the snow. They glimpsed him through the crack of the curtains. That house was so familiar to him, so full of the associations of his friendship with Clara Lebraux, that, even with strangers in it, he could scarcely feel an outsider.
Garda saw his brown eye peering through the chink in the curtains. She hid her face in her arm and shook with frightened laughter.
“Is the girl mad?” he thought. “And what sort of scene are they having in there?” He moved away from the window but he did not go.
“He heard you laughing! He saw us!” exclaimed Althea, in a voice of pain. “I must go to the door.” She rose with dignity and went to the door. She could hear Gemmel slyly following her on hands and thighs. That soft shuffle had followed her all her life. The agonizing shyness that cut her off from other people she now wore like a visible cloak as she faced Renny. He was struck by her ethereal beauty. He had not before been close to her.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you. Is Molly at home?”
She shook her head.
“Do you expect her soon?”
Again she shook her head.
“Well, I’m leaving on Monday for England. I wanted to say goodbye to her. And I wanted to know if you are quite comfortable here, and if there’s anything I can do for you before I go.”
He looked at her inquiringly, with a puzzled, half-amused scrutiny. She knew she would have to speak but she could not. She heard Gemmel just inside the door of the sitting room. She fled to her, her hand to her mouth.
“Go to him,” sh
e said. “Tell him we want nothing.”
Renny heard what she said. “Just as though I were a peddler,” he thought, and his face was lit by a grim smile when Gemmel appeared. He looked down at her and said: —
“I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you but I’d like to know if you’re quite comfortable before I go away.”
She smiled up from under her tumbled dark hair. He saw her supple hands flat on the floor. She answered: —
“I don’t know. I think we are. You’ll have to ask Molly.”
“Shall I come in and wait for her?”
“Yes. Come right in.”
She turned her body about and led the way. He could hear her sister’s swift escape from the room.
“She’s shy,” said Gemmel, looking after her.
“Yes, I have noticed that,” he answered gravely.
“Garda is, too, but her shyness runs to giggles.”
“It’s quite an affliction for a girl.”
“Yes. I am afflicted but — not in that way.” There was malice in her smile. Then she added — “I don’t want you to think I’d be other than — what I am.”
“I admire you for that.”
“My courage, you mean?”
“No. Your accepting of things as they are. Most people are dissatisfied if — they can’t have everything. Do you like the house?”
“I love it. For my part I’m glad there’s a war. Otherwise I’d never have come out here. For one thing the floors aren’t as cold here as they were at home. There they were mostly stone.”
“Shall I lift you to the sofa?” He spoke with solicitude but no embarrassment.
At the same moment the front door opened.
“Yes, yes,” said Gemmel, “lift me.”
He took her in his arms and set her on the sofa.
“How strong you are!” She clung an instant to his shoulder, smiling at Molly, who now came into the room.
Molly looked very thin and pale. The freckles stood out beneath her eyes like golden flecks. She had the self-possession of the actress but the hand she put into his trembled. He repeated his anxiety for their well-being.
“Thanks,” she answered. “It’s lovely here. We’ve everything we need. Thanks for the baskets of apples and pears and all the vegetables. You all have been so kind.”
“My wife,” he said, “is coming to see you, when she gets me off her hands.”
“Mrs. Vaughan and Mrs. Piers have been. They were very kind. Can you stay to tea?”
“Thanks, but I have a thousand things to do.”
He asked her about her work, half absent-mindedly, while his eyes took in the complications of her resemblance to Chris and to himself. Gemmel now sat silent like a child, her curious glance moving from one face to the other. When Renny left, Molly went with him to the veranda. They dropped their guarded looks then and he exclaimed: —
“Oh, my dear. I’d give my right hand not to have done what I have!”
She gave a little ironic smile. “If you hadn’t done — what you did — I suppose I should never have been born.” Then she added, with a break in her voice — “I wish I hadn’t!”
“Don’t say that! You have a good chance of a happy life ahead of you. You’re just beginning.”
“I think,” she said slowly, “that I’m sorrier for Wake than I am for myself. It’s been very hard on him.”
“Yes, it has been hard on him. But he has the future ahead of him — just as you have. You know, when I was a boy — a few years younger than Wake — I wanted most terribly to marry a girl named Vera Lacey. But I couldn’t.”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Did you love her as much as Wake loves me, do you think?”
“No. I’m sure I didn’t. This has been a heartbreaking affair for both of you. And it has for me, too.”
“Christopher is my greatest hope now,” she said. “If only he is spared! When the spring comes I want to go to England to be near him. My sisters will be quite happy here.”
“That was an odd little one I was talking to.”
“She’s selfish and she’s self-centred but I love her.”
They stood silent, not knowing how to say goodbye. Neither was moved by paternal or filial emotion. They were just man and woman. He looked at his wrist watch and exclaimed: —
“I must be off! Goodbye, my dear.” He hesitated, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Try to forgive me!”
She returned to the room where her stepsisters were waiting. The three broke into a babel of talk. They told how they had kept him out, how they had been forced to let him in, their impressions of him. Althea’s voice rose highest of all. She almost screamed in her excitement. Their voices beat about Molly. Althea had been so silly — Gemmel had been so bold — Garda had laughed till she cried. Just look at her wet eyes! How strong Renny Whiteoak was! Why, Gemmel’s weight was nothing to him! He smelt of horses! Ugh — how he smelt of horses! He was handsome — far handsomer than Wakefield. He wasn’t handsome at all — only striking. Was there ever such an interesting family? What a pity Molly’s engagement was broken off! But perhaps they would all find husbands out here. “Even me!” Gemmel covered her face with her hands and broke into peals of laughter. She had more charm than any of them, she declared.
Monday came and a gale of wind that made the shutters creak on their hinges and the mares’ tails fly as they galloped about the paddock. All was bustle. The Vaughans were there. Pheasant and her boys were there. Finch, Sarah, and their child. It was his first day at Jalna. Rags wore himself out running up and down the basement stairs. Mrs. Wragge cried quarts, but still managed to cook a good lunch.
Nicholas drew Renny aside in the sitting room, Merlin close at their heels. Nicholas spoke with a great effort.
“I wanted to speak about the old dog,” he said. “He’s rheumatic, you know. If he gets worse — so he can’t enjoy his life — what had I better do, eh? Have him put out of the way?”
Renny took Merlin by his forepaws and stood him up.
“Merlin has promised me,” he said, “to keep well till I come back.”
Merlin lifted his lip in the sentimental, spaniel’s smile.
“But,” persisted Nicholas, “what if he doesn’t keep that promise! What shall I do?”
“He’ll keep it,” said Renny shortly, and turned away. The car was at the door. Alayne and Adeline were going to the station with him. Everyone was crowded into the hall. Renny shook hands with his brother-in-law.
“Lord,” said Maurice, “I wish I were going with you!” But he had been disabled in the last war.
“Goodbye, Meggie!”
She burst into tears and clung to him.
“Well, I’m ashamed of you, Meg! The Whiteoaks have always been soldiers. What would you have?”
One after the other he said goodbye to them, kissing the women and children, wringing his uncles’ hands. Their voices were a bit quavering. But they told him they would carry on and not to stay away too long.
Wakefield stood in the background. Renny went to him swiftly. He took his hand and kissed him. Compassion and self-reproach were in his glance. But Wakefield kept his eyes downcast.
Archer was riding his tricycle round and round at the far end of the hall. The last moment had come. Alayne flew to him and dragged him from the saddle. She held him up in front of Renny.
“Daddy’s going now. Look at him hard. You must remember just what he’s like.”
“I know just what he’s like,” said Archer, wriggling so that his jersey came up round his ears.
“But he’s going to the war! You must say goodbye to him properly.”
“Goodbye,” said Archer, laconically. Then he made a hideous, snorting sound. “I’m an armored tank,” he said. “Put me down.”
Renny snatched him from Alayne and covered his face with kisses. After several beginnings and withdrawings, Archer’s rare smile overspread his face and he deigned to pat his father’s cheek.
“Goodbye, Da
ddy,” he said. “Don’t get killed too soon.”
Renny set him down on his tricycle and he pedaled off without looking back.
“Hurry up,” shouted Finch. “You’ll miss your train!”
Renny, Alayne, and Adeline were in the back seat together. Rags sat in the front with Finch, who drove the car. Everyone came out into the snow to see them off. The western sky was glowing red. There was a softness to the snow, and a strange, flapping wildness to the wind. It was the flapping of the flag of spring. Renny craned his neck to see the group on the steps, to catch a last glimpse of the stables. Then he settled back in his seat and smiled into Alayne’s face. She smiled back. They said little but they encouraged Adeline to talk — Alayne clung fiercely to every flying moment, wondered how she would face the moment of farewell. But when it came it was not so painful as she had expected. The station platform was crowded with men in uniform, their wives and sweethearts and sisters. There was a mother clinging to the hand of her son! There was a baby held in its father’s arms, a press photographer taking a picture of them! Everyone’s features looked sharpened and pale in the lights of the station. She smelled train oil, boot polish, and the queer woolly, harsh scent of the men’s uniforms. Her man had become just one of the others. She was just another wife. Adeline another child. There was jostling, joking, the ringing of a bell.
There were things she wanted to say to Renny but she could not remember what they were. Another man in officer’s uniform came up and spoke to him. He wore the uniform of the 48th Highlanders. He was tall and strong and looked fine in his bonnet and kilt. There was his wife, a dumpy little woman, and two half-grown boys. Renny was about to introduce them to Alayne when the train drew in. Then how quickly it was all over! There was more jostling, more laughing and shouting.
“Goodbye!”
“See you later!”
“Fire a shot for me, Bill!”
“Give Hitler a kick behind for me!”
She felt herself gripped in his arms, felt his lips pressed to hers, saw Adeline lifted up and kissed.
“Goodbye, ma’am,” from Rags. “I ’ope all will go well at Jalna.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 392
