Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Oh, yes,” she answered placidly.

  When they reached the lawn before the house, Finch left her and turned aside through the shrubbery. She went slowly into the porch, reluctant to go to bed. Archer was there, also on his way to bed, his dry, almost white hair erect above his high forehead. He had collected certain belongings to carry upstairs among them a box in which he had had a butterfly imprisoned. The box was broken and the butterfly gone.

  “It’s your fault,” he said with concentrated passion. “I left my butterfly for you to look after and you threw it on the grass and the dogs got it!”

  “You did not,” she returned. “You just showed it to me. Then you went off and left it. How do you know the dogs got it?”

  He showed her the box. “There — do you see the teeth marks? And there’s a bit of the butterfly’s wings sticking to the lid. It’s the last time I’ll ever trust you to look after anything of mine.”

  “You didn’t tell me to look after it.”

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t.”

  They ascended the stairs quarrelling. Archer said, “You’re always against me. Whatever I try to do, you’re always against me. If someone was to throw a rock at me you’d find two bigger rocks and throw them at me”

  “Get out of my way,” she said, as they climbed the second flight of stairs. “Don’t keep joggling me.”

  “I will.” He moved closer to her.

  She took the book she carried and gave him a smart rap on the head with it. He burst into angry tears. In the first place, he was disturbed about his butterfly. In the second, he did not want to go to bed.

  She turned into her room, not giving him so much as a glance. He went into his own room, gasping and gulping, making the most of every sob. He began to undress. Every now and again he would call out:

  “If anybody threw a rock at me you’d throw two bigger ones!”

  She was perfectly silent.

  She sat down by the table where Eden, as a youth, had written his first poetry. His name was carved on it, just his Christian name — Eden. She traced the letters with her forefinger. Some day, she thought, she would cut her own name beneath it. It would look nice, as both names had four letters.

  The moonlight shone in brightly, making Roma beautiful in her fairness. She had laid the book on the table and sat looking at it. “I will never give it up,” she thought, “to anyone.”

  There was silence in Archer’s room, then suddenly he came running into hers, stark naked. He was laughing. He leaped on her bed and began springing up and down.

  “Roma, Roma, sitting all alone-a!” he chanted.

  She looked at him disparagingly. “If I were as skinny as you,” she said, “I’d never take my clothes off. I’d sleep in them.”

  He gave a few more jumps but she had taken the spring out of him. He got off the bed and came and bent his white body over the table.

  “what book is this?” he asked peremptorily, like a professor.

  “It’s mine.”

  “It is not. It’s Eden Whiteoak’s. Don’t you see his name on it?” He looked at her slyly. “I’ll bet you don’t know who he was.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “who then?”

  “My father.”

  “I bet you don’t know who he was married to once.” Archer’s face looked pinched with shrewdness.

  “I do so.”

  “He was married to my mother!”

  “I know who told you.”

  “who?”

  “Alma. I’ve known it a long while.”

  “My mother,” Archer said, dictatorially, “didn’t want him. She put him right out of the house. Then she married my father and had me. She had me, do you understand?”

  “Having you was the silliest thing she ever did.”

  Again he was deflated. He could think of nothing to say.

  “She didn’t put him out of the house,” went on Roma. “He ran away, of his own accord, with someone much nicer and much prettier and they had me.”

  Alayne’s step could be heard on the stairs. The children looked at each other guiltily.

  “Archer,” she said, coming into the room, “how often have I told you not to run about like that! when you undress you are to put your pyjamas on at once.” She came to the table and picked up the book. A stab of shock and pain went through her. How she had once loved Eden’s poetry! How long ago! Ah, a different life — a different world — she had been a girl then! Well, almost a girl, only twenty-eight and he twenty-three! She had stood by this same table, from which his carved name stared up at her, and stroked his bright hair, smiled down into his eager face and bent and kissed him. How long ago! Another life. Another world. A world sunk under the waves of time, only now and again recreated in memory by some small floating object, such as this book.

  “who gave you leave to take this from the library?” she asked, her eyes on Roma’s pale face.

  “No one.”

  “You should not have taken it without permission. You must be very careful of it.” She could not say to put it back. As she turned away she asked, “why did you want the book?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now that’s just being stupid, Roma. Of course, you know why you want it.”

  “No — I don’t.”

  “Have you read any of the poems?”

  “Yes — a few.”

  “which ones?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  How, Alayne wondered, had Eden begot this uninteresting child! He, with his swift intelligence, his responsiveness! But there was Minny Ware — she had been shallow enough. Alayne took Archer’s hand. “Come,” she said, “it’s getting chilly.” She saw the tumbled bed and exclaimed:

  “I should think you would be ashamed to make your bed so badly. One would think you had been jumping on it.”

  The children stared at her in silence.

  Alayne sighed and led Archer to his own room. Roma could hear him steadily talking, trying with all his powers to drag out the goodnights, to hang on to his mother a little longer. But at last she went, calling out “Goodnight, Roma!” as she reached the head of the stairs. She was scarcely at the bottom when Archer turned his light on again.

  “Goodnight, Roma!” he sang out. “Come and kiss me goodnight.”

  “No. Go to sleep.”

  He began to groan and moan, making dreadful noises.

  Alayne called from below, “Archer, do you want me to punish you?”

  “No — o,” he whined, though he had no fear of her. Now he called softly, “Goodnight, Roma,” repeating the words till she replied with a goodnight to him.

  She sat by the table in the moonlight, motionless except that now and again she turned a page of the book. She did so with an air of serene possessiveness, as though its contents were well known to her and beloved. So she remained till the moon sank.

  XIII

  RENNY’S RETURN

  A MONTH LATER, at five o’clock in the morning, Renny Whiteoak alighted from a car at his own gate and turned into the deep shade of the driveway. He had come on an early train, had got a lift from the railway station and, unknown to his family, was almost at the door. They were not expecting him for another fortnight. It pleased him that he would surprise them, find them doing everyday things, instead of waiting in an excited group to welcome him. He would take even the old house off its guard. It would be dozing away in the rich comfort of its Virginia Creeper, never expecting him. Well, he had been away an unconscionable time. Yet it had passed quickly, in confusion, in noise, in mass movements of men. Here there was peace.

  What a plunge it was into the shade of the evergreens! How fresh, how still the early morning air was! A red squirrel ran the length of a bough and sat swaying on its tip, gazing down at him. Another squirrel darted across his path and up the mossy trunk of a hemlock, in a flying leap joined the first squirrel and the two peered down, talking about him. And it was only five in the morning!
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  He stepped through a gap in the trees and onto the lawn that wore a silver carpet of dew. Near his feet there was a throng of tiny mushrooms that had sprung up overnight. He stood looking down at them, deliberately savouring the moment when he would raise his eyes to the house, anticipating the recognition it would give him. Out of the earth rose the essence of the land he knew. Out of the hushed white branches of the old silver birch came a long-drawn sigh of recognition.

  A robin, running across the dewy grass, caught an earthworm, drew it out to full length, to far more than full length; it snapped like the string of an instrument. Renny waited till both halves were devoured, then slowly raised his eyes to the house. His eyes moved over it, from eave to basement, from shuttered windows to vine-embowered porch. It had not changed. It rose solid and intact. By God, he never wanted to leave it again!

  He would stay at home and think easy and comfortable thoughts. He would forget the victimized world he had been living in for more than four years. He would forget the planes that swept like a flock of vultures; the palpitating entanglement of mechanism that ground that earth. He felt that he hated everything mechanical. He would like to walk on his two legs or ride a horse for the rest of his days. He felt that he would like to see the land ploughed, harrowed, sown with seed, by man’s labour alone, as in the old days at Jalna. His ears were weary of the throbbing of engines.

  An early morning breeze swept through the leaves of the Virginia Creeper. They vibrated, and the vibration seemed to spread throughout the fabric of the house. It seemed to say: “So you are home again, wanderer. And high time it is! My roof has waited all these nights and days to receive you; now bend your head under it and leave me no more.”

  He smiled and moved beneath the window of his wife’s room. He picked up a handful of gravel from the drive and threw it lightly against the pane. He waited, his face upturned. She must have sprung up at the first rattle of the tiny stones for there she was at the window, throwing wide the sash, leaning across the sill to look down. She saw him standing below, his face raised to the window, wearing his uniform as he had worn his riding clothes, with that air as though they had been invented for him and he alone could so well grace them.

  She was in a pale blue nightdress, her fair plaits, now more silver than fair, hanging over her shoulders. Some instinct must have told her who had thrown the gravel, for she looked less surprised than stunned by the sudden realization, in the flesh, of all she had yearned for in the long years. She had yearned for him as the husband whose flesh was the barrier between her and the world, and all the harm evil gods could do her. She had yearned for him as the lover. She had not prayed for his return. She was, in truth, almost completely a skeptic and did not actually believe in the evil gods she sometimes conjured up, but thought all that happened was but chance. So, as chance had flung them passionately together, she would cling with passion to him, till the end.

  “You are back,” she said softly. “I’ll come down and let you in.”

  She cast one glance at herself in the mirror before she flew down the stairs. Would he find her much changed? It could not be helped — the white hair — but he had loved the gold of it. Her hands fumbled with the key. She seemed to have forgotten how to unlock the door. There — now it came! He pushed it wide open. She was in his arms. She succumbed as to a wave that swept her away. She let herself go as she had not let herself go for four-and-a-half years. It had not been possible to let go. All her energy had been concentrated on hanging on. But now — she sank in his arms, her head thrown back, her legs too weak to hold her up. He looked down into her face. She surrendered to the intensity of his gaze.

  “You aren’t changed!” he exclaimed. “You aren’t changed at all! My sweet one. My own girl.”

  He pressed his lips to hers.

  The sun was just high enough to send a splash of colour through the stained-glass window. It was purple and it fell on her head. But, when he carried her into the library and sat down with her on his knees, he saw the white in her hair.

  “I told you,” she exclaimed. “I told you in a letter. Don’t look like that or I shall think it makes a difference.”

  He took one of her plaits and kissed it. “It makes no difference,” he said, “but — I didn’t want it to change.”

  She sat up and examined his weather-beaten features, the aquiline nose, the mouth, hard but with such felicity in the expressions of love, the changeful brown eyes. His hair — why, there was not a single grey streak in it! It scarcely seemed fair that hers should change and his retain its stubborn dark red. He looked younger than she! And he was years and years older.

  “The war,” she said, almost coolly, “seems to have treated you well.”

  He gave the arch grin, so like his grandmother’s. “Oh, I wear well,” he said.

  “But that awful time at Dunkirk — that accident in the jeep.”

  “I’m over all that. But not fit for service. Feel that.” He placed her fingers on the ridge of a scar on his crown.

  “Oh, your poor dear head!” she cried, and drew it down and kissed it.

  She had so many questions to ask, and he the same.

  “Shall we ever find time for all the things we want to say!” she exclaimed.

  He looked at his watch. “A quarter to six! I think I’ll go to see the uncles and the children.”

  “Not the children — not yet! Please. But go to the uncles if you think it isn’t too early.” She wanted to dress and, more particularly, to do something to her face.

  “They want to be waked. They can sleep all the afternoon.”

  He caught her to his breast and kissed her again. They clung together motionless in the joy of reunion. Then, “Lead me up the stairs with my eyes shut,” he cried. “Let me open them and find myself in your room.”

  He closed his eyes tightly and she led him out of the room and up the stairs. In her room she said:

  “Open them quickly! It was horrible — as though you were blind.”

  He laughed, his eyes flew open. “My God!” he exclaimed, “it’s like a miracle. I’ve dreamed this sort of thing. Oh, Alayne, we’re together again! Yes — together.” He moved about the room looking at her belongings — her toilet things on the dressing table. “I’m glad you haven’t changed anything.”

  “I’ve nothing new!”

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll go to Uncle Ernest first.”

  “You know that Adeline sleeps in your room.”

  “Yes. I shall tiptoe past.”

  “I’ll have her moved from there today.”

  He creaked cautiously in his heavy boots down the passage to Ernest’s door. Softly, he opened it and went into the room.

  The old man lay on his back, his delicate profile with the high-bridged nose upturned, his hands folded on the coverlet.

  “Uncle Ernest,” said Renny, bending over him.

  Ernest opened his eyes. He put up his hands as though to ward off his nephew. He gasped, in a hoarse voice, “You are his ghost! You have come to tell me — that he —”

  It was almost like Hamlet. An observer might have thought that Ernest did it too well, that he must assuredly have heard Renny’s laugh in the next room, have been prepared with this bit of play-acting.

  “Don’t be frightened, Uncle Ernest. I’m solid enough.” He sat down on the side of the bed, took the old gentleman in his arms and kissed him.

  “Dear boy. What a start you gave me! And how splendid you look!”

  “You look pretty well yourself.”

  “Ah, many a time I wondered if I would last till you came home! Thank God, I have.”

  “Uncle Ernie, you couldn’t have treated me like that — not been here to welcome me. It wouldn’t have been home without you.”

  “No, no, I couldn’t have done that.” Ernest’s voice quavered but he hung on to himself. “Oh, how glad I am that you’re home! We’ve needed you.”

  A thumping came on the floor of the adjoining room.

>   “There’s Nicholas!” exclaimed Ernest. “He hears us. You’ll have to go to him or he’ll have the whole family awake. I wish I might have had you to myself for a bit. I shall ring for my breakfast early this morning.”

  Renny hurried to Nicholas. He was sitting up in bed very dishevelled. He held both arms wide and clasped Renny to him. Tears ran down his deeply lined cheeks. He could not speak.

  Renny straightened himself, then sat down beside the bed. He said, “Well, Uncle Nick, I’m home again. It feels wonderful.”

  “It is wonderful. It’s a miracle. First Piers — now you. All we need now is Wakefield. But how thankful I am! My knee is pretty bad or I should be prancing about the room for joy.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Of course, you’ve seen Alayne. How thankful she must be! Poor Piers has lost a leg. It’s very sad. Now tell me how you managed to get here so early. I heard you laugh in Ernest’s room. I was already half-awake. I thought, — ‘No one but Renny laughs like that. He’s here!’ And I thumped with my stick. Give me your hand. Let me hold your hand.”

  Ernest came in, wearing his dressing gown.

  “You must be very hungry, dear boy,” he said. “My own stomach is literally caving in from excitement. Yet Wragge would resent it bitterly if I were to ring for any breakfast at this hour.”

  “Bad to eat when you’re excited,” said his brother.

  “But very weakening to go empty. I think I shall get a biscuit from my room.” He left and returned nibbling a biscuit. “The biscuits have got very flabby,” he said. “Most unappetizing. I don’t suppose you have breakfasted, Renny.”

  “No. But I’m not hungry.”

  “Now, tell us all about your journey,” said Nicholas.

  They plied him with questions.

  At half-past six he said, “I think I shall go and see Adeline.”

  “I shall go with you,” said Ernest.

  They went to Renny’s bedroom where she slept. He opened the door softly and stole to the side of the bed. She lay in the abandon of healthy sleep, her arms thrown wide. He bent and kissed her. Her eyes flew open. She looked up at him, dazed. Then a joyous smile curved her lips.