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 know,” he said sympathetically, not reminding her that he paid her for Roma’s support and that Patience earned her own living.

  “I shall love to think of Adeline in this house and that sweet Irishman too. And with me keeping house for Finch it seems almost too —”

  “Too true to be good,” said Archer, just entering.

  Renny looked with some sternness at his son. “Were you listening?” he demanded.

  “I suppose I was,” answered Archer. “I find it so hard to draw the line between being not interested enough and being too interested.”

  “I’ll draw it for you,” said Renny. “when you come upon two people talking in low tones together that’s the time to keep out.”

  “But wherever I go I find two people talking in low tones. There seems to be no place for me.”

  There now came a smell of burning from the kitchen and Meg flew to it in panic. However, no mischief had been done and shortly a pair of fine plump capons were placed on the table. Pheasant found her little daughter, comforted her, and the family drew about the table.

  “Depressus extollor,”remarked Archer, then, for the benefit of the company, translated, “Having been depressed, I am now exalted.” Alayne gave him a repressive look. Renny took up the carving-knife and fork.

  He had barely disjointed a wing when there was the sound of a car on the drive. From where she sat Roma could see the arrival. “Do you know what?” she said to Christian, who sat next her. “It’s Uncle Nicholas. You’d think he’d know enough to stay home at his age.”

  Now everyone had discovered him. There was a general standing up and craning of necks, Renny still gripping the carving-knife and fork. He exclaimed:

  “The dear old boy said he wanted to come. I told him I thought it would be too much for him. He looked disappointed and now, by the Lord, he’s had his own way. Philip and Nooky, you two go and help him in.” The boys obeyed.

  “who brought him?” Alayne asked in the voice she used when she was prepared to endure some fresh evidence of family wilfulness.

  “Wright. In his own car. Now Wright has got him out. Why — he’s walking strongly!”

  “Bless his heart,” said Meg. “Patience, will you lay a place for him?” She looked hopefully about the already crowded table.

  “He had his dinner before we left,” said Alayne. “I saw to that.”

  “I know,” Renny agreed. “But he ate very little. He’ll be hungry by now. Archer, you could let Uncle Nick have your place, couldn’t you?”

  “Mercy!” said Archer. It was his latest favourite in words and he uttered it on a high complaining note.

  By this time the old man was in the room, smiling his triumph. “Thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t you? But I enjoy a party as well as anyone.”

  “And we’re delighted to have you,” cried Meg, going to him and kissing him.

  “Now don’t trouble about me,” said Nicholas. “I’ll just sit at this little table and gnaw a bone. How pretty everything looks.”

  But they troubled a good deal, the boys bringing a comfortable chair, Patience laying a cloth and dishes on the little table, Renny cutting his favourite parts from the chicken.

  Little Mary said, “I want to bring flowers for his table.” She had to be lifted from her chair; and when she reappeared, with three short-stemmed daisies, a vase must be found for them. Luckily the night was warm and the food not too chilled as Fitzturgis had feared. He listened to, rather than joined in the loud animated talk, now and again meeting Alayne’s eyes in an amused interchange. He saw Roma’s cool gaze on him and wondered what she was thinking.

  What splendid strawberry shortcake! what thick yellow cream! what “angel food,” with eight eggs in it! Meg beamed when he praised it. After they had had coffee she said to him privately:

  “Renny tells me you are anxious to find a house and that you’d like to consider this. Now would be a good time to go over it.”

  “Very well,” he agreed placidly.

  Meg expected more enthusiasm than this.

  “Are you sure you want to?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” he smiled; “I’d love to.”

  Meg led the way and Renny joined them. He said, “Meg and I have known this house all our lives. We used to come here to tea as children. After the first war it was made into a two-family house, but Meg restored it to its original form when she bought it.”

  “Some strange people have lived here,” she recalled. “Do you remember Mrs. Stroud, Renny? Andthe Dayborns?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Yes — I remember.”

  In every room Meg had some memory of its past to relate. Adeline, who had been helping Patience, now joined them. “Oh, Mait,” she breathed, tucking her hand into his arm, “won’t it be lovely?”

  At the end of the tour Meg asked, “Do you think you’d like to buy it or rent it?”

  “It would suit me better to rent,” said Fitzturgis.

  “Oh yes,” agreed Adeline. “It would suit us better to rent.”

  Downstairs Patience was saving to Roma, “Do you think you could give me that fifty dollars you borrowed from me?”

  Roma looked faintly surprised. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll pay it — when I can get hold of some money.”

  “But, Roma, you said Uncle Nick was making you a present of some quite soon.”

  “I thought he was.”

  “Mother would be very annoyed if I told her this.”

  “Then don’t tell her.”

  “Roma, do you expect to pay me back?”

  “why, yes. Some day.” She was bored by the family party. She wanted to get away somewhere with Norman, whose car was waiting for her down the road a little way. But she went dutifully and kissed Nicholas goodnight, lingered a little on the lawn with the three boys, before drifting through the gate into the dusk.

  “Mercy!” exclaimed Archer, looking after her.

  Norman moved a book on psychoanalysis out of the way to make room for her on the seat of his car. He offered her a cigarette, lighted it for her.

  “How’d the party go?” he asked.

  She let the smoke drift down her nostrils, making a wide gesture with the hand that held the cigarette. “Like hell,” she said. “Uncle Nick arrived without warning just as we sat down at the table.”

  “Hmph. How is he?”

  “He’s all right — the old miser!”

  “How’s your Aunt Meg behaving?”

  “Oh, she’s been pretty bitchy for days. I suppose she’s tired. But who isn’t? I know I am? Patience has been bothering me for the fifty dollars I borrowed. Fifty dollars!You’d think it was a thousand.”

  “what became of the fifty dollars, Roma?” Norman was really curious.

  “I don’t know,” she said crossly. “All I know is that they’re always after me.”

  “Never mind, darling.” Norman’s arm slid about her. “We’ll soon be married and you’ll be safe with me, where your family can harm you no more.”

  Roma did not answer. She could see her reflection in the little looking glass and she was gazing at it rapt.

  IV

  Finch’s Return

  FINCH HAD EXPECTED to return alone to Jalna. But in London he had been joined by Maurice, who had come over from Ireland on a sudden impulse to see him before he sailed. Maurice had been suffering a mood of depression. He had felt himself to be alone, without deep roots either in Ireland or Canada. Most of all he had felt the finality of Fitzturgis’s departure. He had never believed that the engagement between him and Adeline would end in marriage. He had expected to see Fitzturgis making spasmodic efforts to sell his property, writing less and less often to Adeline, and at last settling down to an indolent and not unpleasant life on his infertile acres. Then suddenly out of the blue (that is, out of an airmail letter from Pheasant) had come word that Fitzturgis had made a sale, and was leaving with his mother and sister for New York, that Adeline expected to be married in the early fall.<
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  Sitting with Finch over a drink in his London hotel, Maurice had said, “I feel sure I could make Adeline happier than Fitzturgis can. I’ve always loved her — as long as I can remember. I understand her. The trouble is she takes me for granted. I’m just another cousin.”

  “How old are you?” asked Finch.

  “Twenty-four. And please don’t tell me I’ll grow out of this because I shan’t.”

  “I was only thinking how faithful you and Fitzturgis have been to Adeline.”

  “Adeline is the sort of girl men are faithful to.”

  “I was thinking, too, why not come home with me and give Fitzturgis a run for his money? And what a splendid surprise for your mother. She misses you, Maurice.” Finch spoke as in solicitude for Pheasant, but his solicitude was really for Maurice. He had noticed that he was not looking well, that the hand that held the glass trembled, that it was too often refilled. Was the boy just getting over a drinking bout, he wondered, and put the question abruptly: “Do you drink a good deal, Mooey?”

  Perhaps it had been the use of the family’s abbreviation of his name that had made Maurice answer, with childlike simplicity, “I’m afraid I do, Uncle Finch.” And he added, under his breath, “I get lonely and depressed at times.”

  “Then do come home with me. It’s two years since you were there. It’s time we had a reunion at Jalna. Wakefield is coming a bit later.”

  Maurice had not been difficult to persuade and now the two were descending from the aeroplane. They were tired after the long flight. They narrowed their eyes against the intense heat and glare of the landing-field. The tall figure of Finch was discovered by Piers, who had come in the car to meet him.

  “Hullo,” he shouted, then, as soon as it was permitted, pressed forward to shake Finch by the hand. “You’re two hours late,” he added.

  “I know,” Finch said apologetically.

  “I’ve been waiting two and a half hours.”

  “Here’s Maurice, Piers.” Finch’s tone said, “Here’s a surprise to make up for all the waiting.”

  Piers stared at his eldest-born in open-mouthed astonishment for a moment, then his healthy sunburnt face warmed into fatherly welcome.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” he said. “And won’t your mother be delighted! But why didn’t you send word?”

  “I thought I’d surprise her. But — perhaps I should have sent word.”

  “It would have been better. Never mind. Let’s find your baggage and get out of here.”

  Piers’s car, from standing in the heat of the sun, was like an oven. Finch and Maurice sank into the blistering seat subdued.

  “Hot spell,” said Piers, explaining.

  “I had forgotten,” said Maurice, “how hot it can be…. I hope my coming is not an inconvenience.”

  “You know we’re delighted to have you.”

  “How is everybody?” asked Finch.

  “Fine. Renny couldn’t come to meet you. He’s off to a sale and taken Fitzturgis with him.” Piers chuckled. “Trying to teach him the elements of breeding show horses. I can’t make the fellow out. What sort of life does he lead in Ireland, Maurice?”

  “Very pleasant, I believe. I don’t see much of him. Did Adeline go to the sale too?”

  “No. I guess Renny thought that Fitzturgis would have no eyes for the horses if she were there. He’s badly smitten.”

  They were moving swiftly through the shimmering countryside, where every hour the sun gained in power, the shadows crept closer under the trees, the breeze created by the movement of the car became hotter. Yet Maurice was exhilarated. He was glad he’d come. After all the years in Ireland this was strangely home. He was grateful to Finch for having persuaded him to come, and turned toward him to smile his gratitude. But Finch looked suddenly detached, lost in his own thoughts. What were they, Maurice wondered. What did Finch feel about coming home?

  Finch was thinking of his new house and how densely it was surrounded by trees. He thought of it as shady and cool. But he must have some of the trees cut down. That would be a problem, what trees to cut down. They had stood there so many years. They had surely absorbed through their roots the very essence of those who had lived in the old house which had been burned down. Those who had lived there and those who had died. Eden had died there. He had looked out on those same trees from his bedroom window when he was ill. Finch’s brows drew together in pain as he pictured Eden, in that light blue dressing-gown, standing at the window, looking out at the sombre wintry scene, longing for spring. Why did one remember the sad things about the dead? He should have remembered Eden’s gaiety and generosity — remembered him when he was full of life, not declining into death. Finch thought of his dead wife Sarah, not in pain but in wonder at how unreal she had become to him. She was as a ghost, playing a ghostly tune on that violin of hers. She had played her own tune on his emotions, on his nerves, when they lived together, but only a faint vibration of it remained. Even the son she had left him seemed … well, he could hardly think of Dennis as unreal. He was an active eleven-year-old, but somehow Finch had never been able to feel close to Dennis, never had wanted to have the child with him. Now, for the first time, he asked himself why. Was it because he felt in Dennis a predatory reaching out toward him that reminded him of Sarah? Was it because there was probably no fatherliness in himself — not as in Renny, who had been as a father to his brothers — a rough and ready one at times but generous and warm-hearted? Finch found in himself no eagerness to see Dennis, who was at a boys’ camp somewhere. He had brought him a camera because he knew that was what Dennis wanted, but he had not written to him — had not answered the neat little letter Dennis had sent him. Why had Dennis signed it “Your aff. and only son”? That was like Sarah — possessive.

  Finch leant forward to ask of Piers, “How is Dennis? Have you heard lately?”

  “He’s all right, I believe. He’ll be home soon. Renny only sent him for half the season. He thought you’d want him with you. Your house is ready. You’ll have fun furnishing it. Meg is all agog to take it in hand.”

  The dimple at the corner of Piers’s mouth was roguish as he glanced over his shoulder to note the effect of these words on Finch. He looked more imperturbable than he felt. He said:

  “That’s very kind of Meg. However, I don’t intend to furnish all the house straight away. I shall go slowly and get the sort of things I’ll enjoy living with.”

  “That’s right,” sang out Piers, his attention again on the road.

  Maurice asked, “If Auntie Meg is letting her house where will she and the two girls live?”

  “With Finch, naturally.”

  “There has been nothing arranged,” Finch said in the loud tone that betrayed his nerves.

  “Meggie has arranged it all,” laughed Piers. “It would never do for you — a poor lone widower, with a child — to struggle with housekeeping when she —”

  Finch interrupted, “Nothing is arranged.”

  “Tell her that. She thinks it is.”

  They drove on in silence. Then they were in the familiar road, with its spreading trees, and the quiet fields and orchards of Jalna lay on the left. They were in the driveway, that green tunnel that looked cool but still was breathlessly hot. Now they were in front of the house, with the browning grass, the drooping flower borders subservient to the sun.

  “We need rain,” said Piers and took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Out of some shady corner the dogs gathered themselves, as though this were the last effort of which they were capable, and sent up a concerted bark, which on the part of the spaniel ended in a howl of protest. The front door opened and Alayne stood there, in mauve, her silvery hair elegantly brushed back from her clear-cut cool features.

  Finch had always been a favourite of hers, and now she welcomed him. “why, Finch, what weather we have for you! what heat! Do come in where it’s more bearable.” Then, seeing Maurice — “My dear, what a lovely surprise! Does your mother expect you? Wil
l you all come in and have a cold drink?”

  “How strong?” asked Piers.

  “I was thinking of blackcurrant cordial, but, if you like something stronger …”

  Piers said, “I think we should be getting along. Don’t you, Maurice? You’re anxious to see your mother, aren’t you?” Maurice agreed that he was.

  Finch was now out of the car, had saluted Alayne on the cheek and, with Maurice’s help, was unloading his luggage. Wragge appeared, with his anxious secretive smile, and took possession of the two lightest of the suitcases. Maurice promised to return later that day and the car disappeared down the drive. Finch stood in the porch, its familiarity, its very insignificance, its sun-warmed stone and brick festooned by vines, drawing him in, dimming the immensity of the flight under bright sky and over dark sea, the confusion of crowds, the concert halls. Here his surname became the surname of all about him. He was no more than “Finch.” Yet — so infinitely himself that in that moment it seemed to him that he had no meaning elsewhere.

  The dogs pushed their way into the house — and threw themselves with grunts on to the coolness of the floor.

  “what a day for a sale,” Alayne said. “But Renny would go and would take Maitland with him. The poor man will be melted. He so feels the heat.”

  They were in the shuttered coolness of the drawing-room. Wragge had brought the iced blackcurrant drink; and after enquiring for Nicholas, Finch asked:

  “How do you like Fitzturgis?”

  “Very much.” Alayne spoke almost as though in defence of him, as though she perhaps were the only one who understood him. “He and I have had some interesting talks. I find him quite unusual.”

  “He’s not so unusual in Ireland.”

  “I think he would be unusual anywhere.”

  “Do you think he can make Adeline happy?”

  Alayne gave a resigned little shrug. “who knows? And just what is happiness?”

  “I certainly cannot answer that question,” said Finch and, sipping his iced currant drink, let himself sink into the blank-minded familiarity of the room.