Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course

by Mazo de La Roche

  Archer, from Renny’s shoulder, whined: —

  “I’m hungry. I want my tea.”

  “My goodness,” cried Patience. “You’ve just had a Christmas dinner.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Alayne came to Renny’s side.

  “I think I’d better take him back to the dining room and give him something to eat,” she said. “He can come to the Tree later.”

  “He won’t go.”

  “I think he will. Will you come with Mother, Archer?”

  “I don’t know. Try me.”

  She attempted to lift him down but the moment she touched him he screamed. She desisted.

  “Now I know,” he said, with puckered brow. “I don’t want to go.”

  “The door is open!” cried Adeline. She was first to enter the room.

  There was the Tree, its spicy boughs bending beneath the weight of many bright packets. Frost powder gleamed in the light of a hundred little wax candles. Gay-coloured fish, birds and cornucopias trembled on the tips of the branches, and on the topmost twig hovered a pink cherub that had delighted Renny and Meg when they were small. From behind the Tree a burly blue-eyed Santa Claus appeared and demanded of the children whether or not they had been good.

  Roma, Nook, and Philip had no doubts of Santa Claus. Patience and Adeline knew he was Uncle Piers but the glamour of his costume, the authentic gleam in his eyes, his jovial laugh, swept them along to willing acceptance of him. The Tree was half stripped of presents when Archer exclaimed, in a piercing whisper: —

  “Why, Santa Claus has got on Uncle Piers’s new boots.”

  He was swept up by Rags and carried to the basement, where, on his old tricycle, he pedaled round and round the kitchen, into the larder and down the brick-paved passage to the coal cellar, relieved to be rid of the burden of so much merrymaking.

  Molly could scarcely believe in her present from Wakefield, it was so beautiful. Old Adeline had, in her will, left an article of jewelry to each of her grandsons for his wife or his prospective wife. None of the family would ever forget the scene between Meg and Piers when this clause was read, for Pheasant was already the possessor of a ruby ring given to Adeline by an Indian Rajah.

  Renny had kept one of the most valuable of the rings for Wakefield. It was a cluster of five diamonds exquisitely placed in the old-fashioned low setting. Wakefield had had the stones polished and the family had scarcely realized their beauty till they saw the ring gleaming on Molly’s thin young hand.

  “The stones would be still more brilliant,” said Wakefield, “if they were cut in the modern way.”

  “They’re perfect,” she answered, laying her left hand on her right as though it did not belong to her but now had a separate and superior life of its own.

  The excitement of the Tree was over and in the dimness of the hall, among the dogs, they kissed for the third time that day.

  “Let’s go out for some air,” he said. “The children are making snowballs. Will you come?”

  “How lovely! I’ve never made a snowball in my life.” She ran upstairs to get her things.

  “Wrap yourself up!” he called after her. “It’s turning very cold.”

  In the cupboard under the stairs he found his old windbreaker and cap with ear muffs, his goloshes. He felt as though he had never been away from home as he rummaged through the miscellaneous collection there.

  Outside this cupboard was the door that led into his grandmother’s room. He had not been inside the room since his return. Now he opened the door and stepped in. It was lighted by a red shaft of light from the lowering sun, he looked about him almost timidly. He could remember everything in this room since his first consciousness. Nothing was changed except that the tall old figure stretched on the richly coloured leather bed, or seated in the wing chair, was missing and the gay-plumaged parrot on the perch was the stuffed figure of Boney who had died two years before. It was all so real yet so unreal.Wakefield said, in a low voice: —

  “My Grandmother, I’ve just given your ring to Molly and she loves it.”

  He heard Molly coming down the stairs and went to meet her.

  “Oh, how quaint you look!” she exclaimed. “Wherever did you get the cap?”

  “I’ve had it for ages. What do you suppose I’ve been doing?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been telling Gran that I’ve given you her ring. Her room’s back there.”

  Molly looked a little startled. “Wake, you do say odd things.”

  He laid his head on her shoulder. “Molly,” he said, “you must always love me. I suddenly feel afraid to look ahead. There’s so much can happen.”

  “I’ll always love you. Wake,” she promised.

  Renny, Piers, Pheasant, Paris, and all the children were romping in the snow. The dogs went tumbling through the door to take their part, none more eager than Merlin. When Wakefield appeared, Pheasant threw a snowball at him.

  “Here comes the matinee idol!” she cried.

  “He’s getting quite above himself,” said Piers. “Let’s roll him over, Renny!”

  The two elder brothers made for Wake. He was helpless. Molly was positively alarmed for him but Pheasant and the children laughed. When at last he was freed he was white from head to foot. His cheeks were scarlet.

  “Thank God for ear muffs!” he said.

  Piers sprang up and caught a snow-weighted branch of hemlock in his hands and hung there. The snow came down in a miniature storm, enveloping Molly. The children surrounded her, bearing her down. Adeline leaped on to Parry’s back and he galloped with her, her hair bright as a flame.

  Molly felt that never before had she met with really high spirits. There was something reckless in their gayety. It was as though they realized more than others the shortness of life and would live it to its full.

  They found the path to the stream and scrambled down its bank. They swept the stream with pine boughs and made a slide. Everyone slid but none compared to the long, swift, eagle slide of Renny. Molly’s eyes were always following him.

  “You’re always watching Renny,” said Wake, his eyes narrowing. “Is he so fascinating then?”

  “No. I don’t know. I think it’s just that he’s so different from anyone I’ve known.”

  Once more the stab of jealousy pierced Wake’s heart.

  “Renny’s old enough,” he said coldly, “to be your father.”

  She stared. “Well, what of that?”

  “Nothing!” he answered. “Nothing — of course — nothing!”

  But he was happy again when, in the drawing room, Rags, with a pontifical air, carried a tray of raisins, blazing in brandy, up and down the room. The children danced about him, striving to snatch a handful of the fruit but terrified of the blaze. The grownups joined in. It was Alayne who coolly thrust her hand into the flame and divided the spoils among the children.

  Nicholas sat puffing at his pipe, his eyes shining. A good Christmas, he thought, and wondered what would have happened by next Christmas.

  XXIV

  TAKING DOWN THE WREATHS

  AS ALWAYS THE Christmas greens were taken down on Twelfth Night. As long as they remained there seemed a kind of spiritual barrier between Jalna and the war. Though they dried and their needles were scattered on the floor and holly berries lay withered on the sills, even Alayne said — “Let us leave them till the last moment.”

  But after Twelfth Night it would be unlucky to preserve them, so down came the wreaths and the Christmas Tree, in all its majesty, was borne from the house. All were mounded in the little field between the kitchen garden and orchard. There was a great crackling blaze as the wreaths subsided to ash and a smell like incense was given off.

  It had been a time of pure happiness to Molly. There had been dinners and dances in the town but it was at Jalna that her happiness was keenest. This was a new life to her. There was skiing, there was skating, there was that feeling of permanence which brought an inward satisfaction
to the heart.

  It was the morning after Twelfth Night when Renny said to Molly, finding her alone with a book: —

  “You have never properly seen my stables. Shouldn’t you like to come with me now, if you’ve nothing better to do?”

  “Yes, I’d love to.” She rose eagerly. “I’ll fetch a coat and hat.”

  “Where’s Wake?”

  “With his Uncle Ernest. I think they enjoy a talk together.”

  There had been one of those fairy snowfalls that leave a fragile and ethereal world behind them. Every twig bore its pretty burden, light as air. A puff of wind would send a fine spray from the trees, turning them into fountains. The air was colder than Molly had ever experienced but she did not mind. She could have flown.

  As she strode by Renny’s side she wished the way to the stables was longer. It was a pity to go indoors out of this. She said so.

  He stood stock-still and looked at her. “You needn’t come if you don’t want to,” he said, “but I must.”

  “Oh, I do want to! I often wish I were two people here, there’s so much to do and see!”

  “It’s probably just as well that there are not two of you,” he returned. “It might cause trouble. But you have enjoyed yourself at Jalna, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

  He opened the stable door, the latch of which was meticulously decorated with snow. Inside it was warm. Shafts of sunlight touched clean straw, well-groomed flanks, and vigourous manes. A rich content permeated the stables, as though the occupants were assured that their world was secure, their god good. The aged mare Cora was as happy as the youngest colt. The stable cat, who had just caught a mouse, was purring on a beam above the stallion’s stall. A stableman came along the passage carrying a bucket of water in either hand. Through the open door of the harness room another could be seen polishing leather. Renny led Molly from stall to stall, giving her a brief account of each horse. The horses reached out to nuzzle him or to nibble his sleeve. They were jealous of his attention.

  But he scarcely knew what he was saying. From the moment he had entered the stable with the girl at his side he had been bewildered by his own sensations. His mind was groping into the past. He was in the past. It was as though he were in a dream from which he could not wake. She spoke but the voice was not hers. It belonged to another girl. A girl who had once stood beside him in that same loose box, looking at another horse.

  What was Molly saying?

  Something about the Grand National.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Yes. Of course.”

  It was not the answer she had expected. She looked surprised.

  He said abruptly — “You tell me your mother is dead.”

  She drew back a little from his abruptness.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it long? — Since she died, I mean.”

  “Eight years.”

  “Your stepfather’s name is Griffith.” He looked at her almost accusingly.

  “Yes. We — Christopher and I — took his name when Mummie married him, but our name is really Dayborn.”

  His face was inscrutable. He kept running his fingers through the mare’s mane. After a moment he asked: —

  “Was your mother ever in Canada?”

  “She never mentioned Canada to me.”

  “I ask,” he said, “because I once knew a Mrs. Dayborn.” He stopped himself. He must be careful. He twisted his fingers in the mare’s mane.

  “Was your mother fond of horses?” he asked gently.

  Molly’s face lighted. “She loved them! She knew all about them. She’d schooled show horses at one time in her life.” For her the barriers were down. Trembling, she asked, “Do you think my mother was ever in Canada?”

  “Was her name Chris?”

  “Then you did know her!”

  They stared at each other, she on guard to protect her mother’s secret, if secret there was, he living again the moments when he had held that other girl in his arms in this very spot — all those years ago. But he must be careful — terribly careful. He must say nothing to imperil Wake’s happiness.

  “You are nineteen?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Then almost angrily she broke out — “What are you trying to tell me or — keep from me?”

  “I think your mother was here but she probably had a reasonable motive for not telling you. Perhaps you’d better not speak of it to Wake. She was a lovely young woman. Do you remember her clearly?”

  “Oh, yes. It was terrible for us when she died. She was going to have a child. She wasn’t well. She thought perhaps she’d had too many falls from horses. She almost died when I was born.”

  He winced. He turned away his face from her. Then he turned to her again and took her arm. “Let’s go into my office,” he said, “where we can talk without interruption.”

  He led her into the small room that was warmed by a stove. She sat down in the chair facing the desk and he sat behind the desk. His hands moved mechanically among the papers on it. After a moment he said: —

  “I think there is no doubt that your mother came to Jalna with her husband, Jim Dayborn, to school horses for me. It was directly after the Great War. I’d only just come home. I think she’d been through a pretty hard time. Evidently she thought it better that you shouldn’t know about it.”

  “Renny,” — she had been calling him that since coming to Jalna, — “I want to tell you something rather strange. Just before I left England I was going over some things of my mother’s. Things in a writing folio. There was a newspaper print of you on horseback. I recognized it as the same picture your brothers showed me in Gayfere Street. The name was cut off. I thought it was a coincidence. But she’d never mentioned Canada to me so I didn’t speak of it to Wake.”

  “Thank God!”

  She was startled. The colour heightened in his weather-beaten face. He gave a short laugh. He said: —

  “Well, perhaps it’s not so important as all that but if your mother wanted her stay here kept secret, I think we should do it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I wonder what Christopher would say.”

  “Was he called Tod, as a baby?”

  “Yes. Mother always called him Tod.”

  “To think of it!” he ejaculated.

  She saw how his hand trembled as again he moved the papers about. She laid her own two hands on the desk as though for support. His eyes rested first on her hands, then on his own. He saw the well-articulated lines of his repeated in her girl’s hands. He saw the thumb, with the clear half-moon on its nail, the curve of the little finger, the very shape of the bones. He raised his eyes to her face and searched it in vain for any resemblance to himself. Then he noticed how her fair hair grew in a point on the forehead, as did his, her ears that were pointed and lay close to the head. The icy finger that had just touched his heart now stretched out to cling about it.

  He rose and went to the window and looked out into the dazzling day…. It couldn’t be! He was mistaken. This dreadful thing couldn’t have happened to him … couldn’t be waiting to ruin Wake’s happiness! He must get rid of the girl. He must be alone to think. He almost hated her, sitting there, as though some trick of fate had brought her and Wake together!

  He pulled himself up. She was speaking.

  “It’s all so confusing.”

  He turned to her. “Yes. I expect the best thing we can do is to put it out of our minds.”

  “And not tell Wake?”

  “I shouldn’t tell him, if I were you.”

  “I find it hard to keep things from him. He’s so sympathetic.”

  “Yes, he is. You’re nineteen, you say. When is your birthday?”

  She told him. He stood motionless with knit brows. The icy hand of foreboding was pressed on his heart. He had never felt like this before.

  “Your mother’s first husband, James Dayborn,” he said, “when did he die?”

  “My own father? He died of
lung trouble when I was three.”

  “Lung trouble! Tuberculosis! God, that’s an awful thing! I had a brother die of it. You’re strong, are you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m perfectly healthy.”

  “Good. You’re thin, though.”

  “It’s natural to me. My mother was thin. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. And strong as steel. I’ve never known a woman to ride as she could. Well — we must have another talk later. Remember, don’t mention this to Wake.” He spoke peremptorily.

  “No.” She answered in the tone of an obedient child.

  He went to the outer door with her and stood watching her as she went toward the house. The walk — the fair hair showing beneath the little hat — she might he Chris! He bit his lip to keep back a groan. The dazzling, fairy scene was dark for him. Talk of feeling confused — he scarcely knew what he was doing!

  A groom came to him and asked if he had seen a certain bottle of liniment. He stared uncomprehending.

  “Liniment?”

  “Yes sir. The bottle the vet left this morning.”

  Renny wheeled and walked blindly into the office. He picked up the bottle and handed it to the man, who went off, thinking, “It’s not like him to have had too much to drink at this hour in the day. Gosh, he looked queer!”

  It was hot in the little room. He threw up the window and the bright snow came sifting in. He sat down at his desk, resting his head on his hand.

  He thought — “She’s mine. She’s my child. Mine and Chris’s…. There’s no doubt about it…. Her hands. The way her hair grows. The time of her birth. She’s mine … mine and Chris’s…. Oh, Chris, how could we do this to young Wake!” He twisted his fingers in his strong red hair. He could have torn it, in the bitterness of his anger at himself.

  “Talk of pigeons coming home to roost! If ever any man paid for his sins, I have. God, I’ve always been found out — from that first time — the gypsy woman when I was nineteen! Perhaps she did something to me — put a curse on me! She was clever enough. But Chris — that sweet girl! I loved her. I’d have married her if I’d had the chance. She wasn’t a wife to Dayborn. He was a cantankerous devil. She never loved him but how she slaved for him and his child!” He remembered how she used to come in the early morning, along the path through the orchard, Dayborn carrying the baby Tod on his shoulder. She was better than Dayborn at schooling the horses. She was afraid of nothing. What hands she had for a horse! And for a man … he could feel them on his hair, on his face. And she was dead! In childbed…. Too much hard work … too many falls … poor little Chris! He had thought she was buried in his past but now pity for her pierced his breast. Had he been to blame? He supposed he had. Nature had made him into one of those men who are always to blame. But if only their love had not produced this dreadful crisis — this girl whom Wake loved!