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

  Now, looking concerned, she asked, “what is wrong? Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Terribly serious, I’m afraid. His right lung is affected. He’s been having treatments. The doctors say he must rest for several months, in bed. They say rest will complete the cure, but — can we believe them?” Renny’s forehead was furrowed by apprehension. “Oh, Alayne, what if he should go, as Eden went?”

  Resolutely she put that image away from her and said — in a reassuring tone — “Wakefield will recover. Care and rest will cure him, as the doctors say.”

  “He wants to come home,” said Renny — eyeing her to watch the effect of his words — “home for the rest they prescribe.”

  She sat up straight in bed. Her eyes looked almost fiercely into his. “To come here,” she said, “where there are two young people? He can’t — he can’t possibly do it.”

  “He does not suggest coming into this house. What he wants is to come to Fiddler’s Hut. You remember Fiddler’s Hut?”

  “Fiddler’s Hut?” she repeated unbelievingly. “Surely not. Why, I haven’t seen it in years! It must be a tumbledown ruin by now.” She might have added that she hoped never again to see it.

  “It is not a tumbledown ruin,” he said defensively. “Although it stood here when my grandfather bought the property, it was built of stones from the fields. It’s solid still. In the old days a fellow called Fiddling Jock lived there and my grandmother — ”

  “I’ve heard that story a hundred times.” She spoke in sudden uncontrollable anger. “I know how he lived there and how he died and how I nursed Eden there through his first illness. Fancy your asking me if I remember it!”

  “Well, you often say you forget things.”

  “Not that sort of thing.”

  “Alayne” — his eyes were dark with foreboding as he repeated — “what if Wake goes — the way Eden did?”

  “He won’t — not if he has the right care, and guards his health in the future, which Eden never did.” Now she spoke calmly, reassuringly. “But I cannot think that tumbledown shack — ” she reiterated.

  “It’s not a shack and it’s not tumbledown.”

  “Call it what you will,” she said wearily. “All I’m trying to say is — how can Wakefield get the proper care? who is to look after him?”

  Renny avoided her eyes. He said, in a low, almost conciliatory voice, “Molly is coming to nurse him.”

  His words appeared to electrify Alayne. “That girl!” she said violently. “It’s impossible. They’ve been living together — without marriage — and you are the one who knows why. They are of the same blood.”

  “You forgave me that,” he said, “and it was long before I met you.”

  She felt that she had borne more than any woman should be asked to bear. She put a hand to the back of her neck. “Do you want me to lie awake the rest of the night?” she said, her voice shaking with anger.

  “All I said was,” he repeated, “that Molly was born long before I ever met you and, if you could have known the circumstances — ”

  “My God,” she cried, “do you imagine that I will endure to hear the details of your randy youth? I want to settle down and sleep — if I can.”

  He flung out of the room. But, in his own room, one word she had used rankled in his mind. He returned to her.

  The bedside lamp was still burning but the sheet was drawn up to her chin and her eyes shut tight. She opened them just a slit when he entered.

  “You used a word about me just now,” he said, “that I don’t like.”

  “A word,” she repeated, as though mystified.

  “Yes — a word — and I want it explained.”

  She looked self-conscious now. “what word?”

  “Randy. You spoke of my randy youth.”

  “Did I?”

  “Well — I’ve heard the word before and, as I’ve said, I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of your going about collecting odd words to throw in my teeth.” And he marched out of the room. In the doorway he turned to say, “I’ve been called many things in my life but never — ”

  She sat up in bed. “Sh!”she commanded. “Archer will hear you.”

  He banged the door after him and she heard him go down the stairs with his light, quick step. He was clever, she thought, in his own instinctive way, to have put her in the wrong with something as flimsy as a word offensive to him; yet — and she smiled to remember it — he had been genuinely hurt.

  The dogs, too, had heard him go downstairs but it was not till he opened the front door that the cairn terrier jumped off the bed and the spaniel and the bulldog came from under it. They were so afraid he would leave the house without them that they bundled themselves down the stairs and shouldered each other through the doorway in panic. They overtook him on the drive and created, with whines of pleasure and gambollings, a reunion as though after long separation. “Good boys,” he said, patting each in turn — and added, “It’s well that somebody loves me.”

  The least Alayne might do, he thought, was to show some concern over Wakefield’s illness. He was deeply troubled by it. These half-brothers of his, he reflected, with the exception of Piers, had not much stamina. They had had a delicate mother — a pretty, graceful woman, but fragile.

  He turned his steps past the stables, for the very thought of the sanguine beasts it housed was comforting. The path led to the back of Finch’s property. A stile had lately been built where a fence divided it from Jalna and Renny now perceived, perched on it, the lanky figure of Finch. The dogs, too, had discovered him; and, after a few warning barks, ran joyfully to greet him. A tender summer haze enveloped all.

  “Hullo,” called out Finch. “That you, Renny?”

  He clambered down from the stile.

  “why are you about so late?” Renny asked.

  “Well, I couldn’t sleep and the night is lovely.”

  “Yes.” Renny absently looked up into the night’s radiance, then said, “Come for a walk. I have something I want to tell you.”

  Finch peered into his face. “Not bad news, I hope.”

  “Not good. Come with me and I’ll tell you.”

  Their two tall shadows merged together as they moved along the sandy road that led past the orchard to the woodland, the lesser, capricious shadows of the dogs darting about them. Almost overnight, it seemed, tiny green apples had formed on the trees.

  Renny told his news in a low, almost laconic voice.

  Few could be more impressed by bad news than Finch. He flew with open arms, as it were, to receive its impact. His lively imagination pictured the worst to come. Yet it was he who was most excited, moved to joy by good news.

  “I’m afraid,” Renny said, “that Wake is a very sick man, though he does not write despondently.”

  “But it will be terrible to him to give up his work. It’s his life. And Molly too! You say she is coming to nurse him. That means they both give up. Why, their lives are dedicated to the stage!”

  “what nonsense you talk,” said Renny. “Neither is giving up. They are taking a much-needed holiday.”

  “But I keep remembering Eden. I saw so much of him, in Devon and later — when he was so ill. He wore a light blue dressing gown. Sometimes I dream of him — in that dressing gown. I see him so clearly. And the strange thing is that, as time goes on, I see him even more clearly and I understand him better.… Last night I dreamed of him. And Wake was there too — as a little fellow …”

  Finch was becoming wrought up, and his excitement had the effect of calming Renny. As often before, he felt ashamed for Finch’s emotionalism. He said, “Come along with me. We’ll find the Hut. That’s where Wakefield plans to rest. Did I tell you? I think it’s a good idea.”

  Now, in unison, they strode toward the Hut, scarcely large enough to be called a cottage, that was half-buried in a neglected part of the estate. So buried was it in the luxuriant growth of summer that it was difficult to find. The path leading to it was obliterated.
A mingling of weeds and wild shrubs grew waist-high. Among these hid small garter snakes and above circled bats, singing their nocturnal song, heard only by themselves. But above the other growth flourished an exuberant wild grapevine. It covered the windows of the Hut, wound itself about the latch of the door, fixing it as with a bolt. Its great leaves shone in the moonlight, as though lacquered. Its strong tendrils hung in wait for anything they could capture.

  Renny was engaged in tearing the vine from the doorway, releasing the latch. Even as the vine, ripped from its stronghold, hung limp in his hand, its tendrils reached out for something to cling to.

  Now he was able to open the creaking door.

  Their nostrils were met by the smell of mould. They could just make out the shapes of a few pieces of furniture that had been left there. A melancholy place. Finch asked:

  “How long since it was occupied?”

  “It must be twenty-five years.”

  “Good God!… It surely isn’t the place for Wake.”

  “when I have cleared it up it will be.”

  “It feels so damp.”

  “Eden recovered his health here.”

  “But he died — later.”

  “Only because he went to Europe and knocked himself about. I shall come here tomorrow and set to work. You’ll be surprised by what I shall do tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” exclaimed Finch. “Today! Look.”

  Through the open doorway they could see the clouds above the treetops tinged by the coming dawn. The moon had sunk. The two brothers stood looking upward, conscious of the towering mystery of life. In that dim little dwelling they stood surrounded by shadows of the past.

  The two became suddenly more visible to each other. A greenish light from the east had penetrated the lush growth and showed their hands and faces as though seen underwater. The bats had retreated but a small bird burst into song and a mysterious movement was felt, rather than seen or heard, through the woodland.

  “I shall get a few hours’ sleep,” Renny said, “then come here after breakfast to clear up. Want to help me?”

  To do something with Renny was exhilarating to Finch. He agreed and they retraced their steps, hearing the first cock-crow as they neared the poultry house.

  Going softly up the stairs to his room, Renny noticed that the light was still burning in Alayne’s room. He opened the door quietly and put in his head.

  “Still awake?” he asked.

  She gave him a look.

  “Did you expect me to sleep,” she demanded, “after hearing you go out at such an hour?”

  “Now, look here, Alayne,” he said with the arch grin of his grandmother, “if you have been lying awake, worrying over that word you used about me, forget it. I have forgiven you.”

  XI

  Preparing the Hut and the Arrival

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning when Renny and Finch, armed with scythe and axe, arrived at the Hut.

  He looks as fresh as ever, thought Finch, if he can be said to look fresh with that weather-beaten complexion.

  Looking Finch over, Renny remarked, “You certainly need the good rest you’re getting.”

  “I find it hard to relax,” said Finch. “I don’t quite know why.”

  “Nothing will do you so much good as manual labour. Here — begin by pulling this wild grapevine up by the roots.”

  “It’s very pretty,” Finch said regretfully.

  “It’s smothering everything for its own satisfaction. Pretty but ruthless — like some women.”

  They set to work.

  Now the vine lay in a great leafy mound, its tendrils reaching out as though for succor, for something to cling to, even in its death. Shrubs and saplings were cut down, trees were felled, undergrowth and bracken torn away. Sunshine and breeze came pouring in. Small creatures that had reveled in that sequestered greenness came hastening out. In the height of the work they were joined by Dennis, whom Renny set to collecting brushwood and placing it in a mound for burning later on. The boy threw himself into the work with zest, showing no embarrassment at having been sent home from camp, appearing rather to be pleased with himself, and above all to be happy to be working with Finch and Renny.

  “He’s a nice little fellow underneath all his queerness,” remarked Renny, when Dennis was out of earshot. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be all right.”

  “I wish I thought so. I can’t tell you how he irritates me.”

  Renny laughed. “And I can’t tell you,” he said, “how Archer irritates me, but he amuses me too. That’s the way with boys. Just when your patience has reached breaking point they make you laugh.”

  “Dennis doesn’t make me laugh,” Finch said grimly. Then he added, with sudden childlike yearning, “Used I to make you laugh?”

  “By jingo,” said Renny, “you used rather to make me want to cry.”

  The mound of brushwood grew. More light and air came into the Hut. Meg and Patience, Adeline and Philip visited and brought their advice. Within a week a path was made to its door. Its inner walls were tinted. Its windows polished. Furniture was brought from Jalna, but it was Alayne who made curtains and ordered a supply of groceries for the kitchen. Something of the spirit of pioneer days was reborn. When all was made ready Philip remarked to Adeline:

  “D’you know, I shouldn’t mind living in this little cottage.”

  “Do you mean you and me?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He spoke shyly. Never did he feel quite sure of himself when alone with Adeline.

  “It’s too small.” She spoke with decision. “I like lots of room about me.”

  “Room for what?” he asked. “Here we’d have all outdoors and nobody in the house with us.”

  “The house,”she mocked. “You call thisa house?”

  “We’d be alone here.” Fearful that she would think him sentimental, he added, “I’d like to lie in bed and smell my bacon cooking in the morning.”

  “who’d be cooking it?”

  “You, of course.”

  “Don’t deceive yourself. I’m used to being waited on.”

  “Do you mean to say” — and he looked more astonished than he felt — “that you’d refuse to cook my bacon?”

  “If bacon was to be cooked,” she said, “you’d do it.”

  “All right,” he said sulkily. “I’d do it. And you’d lie in bed — a lazy wife — smelling it. My mother makes the breakfast. So does Patience. Do you think you’re different?”

  “Certainly I could do it, if I had to. But I’m used to coming down to breakfast and finding it ready. Also I like quite a lot of people about me.”

  “Waiting on you, eh?” Philip spoke with heavy youthful sarcasm.

  Adeline looked him over without answering; then she asked a question. “Do you know what you make me think of, standing there?”

  His nostrils dilated a little in expectation of a compliment.

  “You are,” she said, “a cross between a Hussar — ”

  He exhaled in pride. There was the resemblance to his grandfather, naturally.

  “A Hussar,” she finished, “anda Dresden china shepherd.”

  He gave a “Humph” of disgust. He searched his mind for a clever retort but found there nothing of the kind. But he felt it right that he should have some authority over her. She had turned away and was looking in at the neat white bedroom. He followed her and looked over her shoulder.

  “You mustn’t come here,” he said, “after those two arrive; you know that, don’t you?”

  “If you mean I might get the disease — well, there’s no danger of that. Uncle Wakefield is not much affected. But — I have promised Mummy.”

  She turned her head. Philip was close behind her. He looked compellingly into her eyes. “Your mother has a better reason,” he said.

  “A better reason?” she repeated, surprised.

  “Yes. Those two — aren’t married.”

  “who told you?”

  “My brother Christian
.”

  “why?”

  She was startled now. He had a sense of power over her and spoke with gravity.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps she has a husband living. Anyhow, I think your mother is right.”

  “I don’t need anyone, thank you, to keep me in order.”

  “But I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “that Molly and Wake aren’t married.”

  With a tantalizing glance she exclaimed, “what fun!”

  Philip would have liked to be sentimental in this little white nest, would have liked to feel nobly protective toward Adeline, but this last remark of hers made him almost wonder if he really wanted to marry her. As for her lovely looks, he was so accustomed to being with her that he scarcely noticed them. It was more important to him that he resembled his great-grandfather. A Hussar — a soldier — certainly not a Dresden china shepherd.

  “It’s a good thing,” he said, “there were no other fellows about, to hear you make that remark.”

  “what did I say?” She tried to look artless. She wanted to hear what her words would sound like on his lips.

  “You said,” he now spoke with severity, “that it would be fun not to be married.”

  “Well,” she laughed, “I still think so. Now take us. Do you like the thought of being tied to me for the rest of your days?”

  It was as though she had read his mind — that moment’s wavering — that brief disloyalty. “Yes,” he said instantly. “I do like it. I don’t want anything different.”

  Without knowing how he had done it, he realized that he had pleased her and also asserted his masculine authority. His look of solid tranquility returned.