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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “A very humble nosegay, but the best I could find.”

  She took the flowers, held them at arm’s length, then close. “They’re lovely! The first marigolds I have had since I left Wales.” She turned to a small framed drawing on the wall. “That was our house.”

  He examined the picture — the low stone house with austere hills rising beyond it and, on the nearest, the ruin of the ancient monastery.

  “what a place to live!” he exclaimed. “Scarcely a tree in sight. I’ll wager the winds were terrific.”

  A wild smile flickered across Gemmel’s lips.

  “They were. The greatest longing I had was to walk on the hills in the wind. Now that I’m better I hope to go back there some time and do what I longed to do.”

  They went into the living room. He watched her free movements with approval. “It’s wonderful,” he said, “to see you like this. How does it feel?”

  “I’m like someone who has waded in a little pool, and is now plunged into the ocean.”

  “The ocean of matrimony too, I hear.” His smile was a little sardonic. “You wasted no time.”

  “I had wasted too much already,” she answered gravely.

  “Well. My congratulations to Clapperton. And to you, on becoming mistress of Vaughanlands. It’s a lovely place.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I am sorry —” a frown corrugated his forehead — “that Clapperton seems bent on ruining it.”

  She stared and repeated, “Ruining it!”

  “Yes. This hair-brained scheme of a model village. It’s bound to ruin the property.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  He gave a short laugh. “It’s all right now and probably very amusing. But think of the future! In the natural course of things, you will outlive your husband by many years. That village will grow. It will get completely out of hand. God knows what sort of people will live there. Your property will depreciate in value every year. You’ll end by being glad to sell it at any price. I’m sorry about it for your sake.”

  Never had she thought of this aspect of her engagement to Eugene Clapperton. Great as was the difference in their ages, the thought of outliving him, of a free, independent life without him, had never entered her head. Now it shone through her consciousness like a cold silver thread. She would be eternally grateful to Eugene. She loved him — in a thankful way — but this thought of mental and physical freedom — she almost forgot Renny Whiteoak’s presence in the contemplation of it.

  He was saying, “I should like to think of your being proud of Vaughanlands for the rest of your days. I should like to think of you as my neighbour for the rest of mine. But, mark my words, you will live to have slums about you if Mr. Clapperton goes on as he has begun.”

  “But, if it’s so foolish, why does he do it? I always think of him as shrewd.”

  Shrewd indeed, Renny thought. Damned shrewd. A grimace of distaste for Eugene Clapperton’s kind of shrewdness made his face grim for a moment, then resolutely he forced his features into a benevolent smile. He said:

  “A man may be shrewd in some ways and still be hipped in others. Mr. Clapperton has this Quixotic idea of a perfect village. He thinks he will preside over it and keep it so. But the village will be like that Frankenstein monster. It will ruin Vaughanlands, it will ruin Jalna. I won’t pretend that I am not afraid for Jalna. I’m dreadfully afraid for it. I think my old grandmother would rise from her grave and curse him, if she knew what he was about. Perhaps she does know. Perhaps she has cursed him and his.” Now he was laughing as though ashamed of his vehemence but Gemmel had heard the talk of superstitious Welsh servants and the thought of the dead woman’s curse was not unreal to her.

  “But what can I do?” she asked. “Eugene won’t listen to me.”

  Renny grinned. “You don’t know your power. Ask him for the site of the village as a wedding present. Tell him that the thought of the village is abhorrent to you — that it’s affecting your health. You have never been married. You don’t know yet what your power is. I tell you, a woman can do almost anything she likes with a man. You’re far cleverer than most girls. Don’t weaken. Make him give up this plan, and the day will come when you’ll thank me, with all your heart, for this advice.”

  “I’ll do it,” she exclaimed. “I’ll put a stop to this building. See if I don’t!”

  “But you must be careful not to mention my name. Simply tell him you can’t endure to see the property spoilt.”

  “I will.” She spoke solemnly.

  “Splendid!” Renny exclaimed, and quite simply took her in his arms and kissed her. “You’ve made a friend for life. I’ll dance at your wedding.”

  “And you’ll be friends with Eugene?”

  “Nothing can stop me. Not even he.”

  She was elated, but whether because of their compact or because of the embrace, it was impossible to say. His kiss had been spontaneous, lightly but firmly planted on her cheek. She had felt a magnetic power, from his arm and from his chest, encircling her. She sank into a chair as she saw her sisters entering the room, and reached for a cigarette.

  The two shook hands with Renny, Althea turning her face from him. Garda said, “Isn’t it wonderful to see Gem walking about — standing up — sitting down — just as she pleases?”

  “Wonderful! And yet so natural that I feel as though she always had.”

  “It will take me a long while to get used to it,” said Garda. “Every morning when I wake I could shout for joy when I remember. Is it any wonder we all love Eugene?”

  “I don’t,” said Althea.

  “You are notoriously ungrateful.”

  Renny said, “That’s right. Why should a woman be grateful? Let her take whatever comes her way, as her due.”

  Garda came and sat close beside him. “You can’t prevent our being grateful to you,” she said, “for letting us live here all these years.”

  For some reason that remark made the girls seem very vulnerable and lonely. He said brusquely:

  “I’m sorry you’re going. I wish you might have stayed here forever. Do you know that this little house, as it stands, has always been lived in by women? And friends of mine. I bought it and had it carried here on rollers. I can remember just how it looked, trundling down the road. My fox terrier had got into it and kept running from one room to another, peering out of the windows. First Clara Lebraux and her daughter, Pauline, lived here and now you three. Always women.”

  “And always rent-free,” said Althea, looking out of the window. “I hope your next tenant will be a man and pay his rent.”

  “Althea has a materialistic mind, though you wouldn’t guess it,” said Garda.

  They sat clustered about him, finding his presence exhilarating which Eugene Clapperton’s was not. When he appeared that afternoon, Althea remained upstairs with her drawing board and Garda, in mackintosh and goloshes, went for a walk. Gemmel sat beside him on the sofa, outwardly gentle but inwardly poised for a struggle.

  “You are such a dear, sweet girlie,” he said, holding her thin fingers against his lips, speaking through them. “I don’t know how I can wait till spring for you. Today, as I walked here, I smelled that dank smell of leaves rotting and wet earth. My goodness, everything was lonely. I wished the winter was over. Six months till we marry! I don’t see how I can wait.”

  “The time will soon pass.”

  “Of course, you’re not as anxious as I am.” He spoke resignedly. “That’s natural. But I hope you’re a little anxious.”

  She did not answer but smiled into his small, pale eyes.

  “You’re glorious in that red dress, Gem. I’ve never seen you in red before.”

  “Mollie sent it to me from New York.”

  “It’s as good as sunshine on a day like this. My little sunshine!” He clasped her to him fervently. His dry lips, of a mauvish colour, sought hers but found only her cheek. “You mustn’t be shy,” he whispered. He savoured the silence of the house. He said. �
�Do you know, this is the first time we’ve been completely alone in the house. Just us two.”

  “Althea is upstairs,” she said hurriedly, with the ridiculous feeling in her heart that Althea would hear her if she cried out for help.

  “Althea doesn’t count with me,” he said. “She’s the most nondescript, colourless person I’ve ever met. Not that I don’t like her, mind you. I do like her and I’m willing to treat her as a sister.”

  “You’ll find that Althea has plenty of character,” she returned, a little sharply.

  “That’s good. That’s fine. But you have character enough for both. You’re quite a fiery little thing, or could be. We’ll get on. Don’t you worry, little girl.”

  “There is only one thing I worry about,” Gemmel spoke gravely.

  “You worry? what about?” His jaw dropped in apprehension.

  “About the village,” Gemmel answered. “About Clappertown.”

  He brought his teeth together with a snap. “It’s enough to worry me into the grave,” he said, “the way those Whiteoaks go on. What do you suppose they’ve done? They’ve built an incinerator — just a paltry rubbish burner — but how it smokes! — right against the boundary between their property and my tenants. They’ve made an enclosure farther along and turned fifteen pigs loose in it. All four tenants have been to my house to complain of the smoke and the smell. It’s enough to drive me crazy. Of course, I’ll complain to the police but — to tell you the truth — I’m half afraid of the eldest Whiteoak. I think he’s touched in the head. He’s a very queer man. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes. He is rather odd.”

  “But why do you worry about the village, Gem?”

  She stroked his head, as she never had stroked it before, with a lingering, persuasive touch. She might have been Delilah and he a thin-haired Samson. He drooped, he sank in his seat, as though his head felt heavy. “Oh, girlie,” he murmured.

  “I look on those people in those little houses,” she said, “as snakes in our Eden.”

  “Snakes!” He sat bolt upright. “Surely not snakes, girlie.” But he did like her calling her future home an Eden. It showed how her love for him was increasing.

  “I never see those little houses,” she continued, “without thinking how inappropriate they are and picturing what it will be like when there are streets of them. We shall have no privacy whatever.”

  She yearned for privacy with him! And she should have it or he’d know the reason why.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said, with his jaw set, “that there is no trespassing on our part of the estate.”

  “I shall never be able to forget them. It won’t be at all like living in the country. I was brought up among the Welsh mountains and I hate the thought of people all about me.”

  “But you’d like to be the little lady of the manor, wouldn’t you?”

  “There couldn’t be a manor in this country,” she said decisively. “The word has no meaning outside England. It’s feudal. It’s the demesne of a lord.”

  “Oh, well,” he said, “I only used the word figuratively.”

  She clasped her hands between her knees and sat staring at the floor. A long silence fell between them. Then he asked: “what do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Just what you like. You have done so much for me already that I couldn’t ask anything more.”

  He clutched her hand and squeezed it. “You can ask whatever you want. But, remember, this project of a model village has been a dream of mine for many years. I’m a great dreamer, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course. You have a benevolent nature. You go about doing good.”

  “Oh, girlie, girlie —” he all but broke down — “the only one I want to please is you! If you dislike the thought of the village, I won’t build it.” As Eugene Clapperton said these words he realized, in a great sweep of relief, what a load would be lifted from his own shoulders if he gave up the project.

  Gemmel clasped him in her thin arms. A delicious sense of power made her feel buoyant as a fish in the sea.

  “Oh, thank you, dear Eugene! Thank you!”

  He became too demonstrative in his infatuation and she withdrew a little, sliding to the other end of the sofa.

  He laughed, embarrassed by his own fervour.

  Then he said, seriously, “Now, Gem, I want you to make Colonel Whiteoak understand that you persuaded me to do this. I don’t want him to get the idea that he intimidated me. Tell him, the first time you see him, that you persuaded me. Understand?”

  “Yes, Eugene. I will.”

  XXXI

  FINCH AND HIS SON

  ALAYNE WENT TO visit her friend, Rosamond Trent, in November. It was a time when the countryside was, to her mind, melancholy. New York would be a revivifying change, the theatrical season in full swing, clean pavements to walk on instead of muddy paths or wet grass, shops overflowing with luxurious commodities, restaurants with luxurious food, a renewal of old acquaintances. She was to be gone a month.

  Finch had left some weeks earlier on a concert tour. Never before had he set out on a tour feeling so tired. The strain of long hours of practising, added to the tension of contemplating Renny’s struggle against the web that enmeshed him, had taken much of his vitality from him. The long engulfment of the war had taken something he felt he never could regain. Perhaps it was the power of enjoying solitude. There seemed no more to be any real solitude. The world lay in a tangled heap and, until he could extricate himself, he would always be tired. He was not fearful of his own performance in his recitals. He knew that, no matter how tired he was, he always could, when the moment came, forget his weariness and put himself with abandon into his playing. But afterwards he paid for it in hours of wakefulness when he should have been refreshing himself with sound sleep. He had sedative tablets which he took when driven to it. They were not habit-forming but he was afraid of them. He would look at his watch at three in the morning and say, “If I am not asleep in an hour I will take one.” Then he would lie in the dark listening to the sounds of a strange city, trying, with all his might, to sleep. Then he would think, “I am trying too hard. It doesn’t matter whether I sleep or not. I will relax and care about nothing.” He would stretch his body on the bed and relax, inch by inch, consciously, putting all thoughts out of his head. On this night a face appeared before his closed eyes, the face of a man he had seen in one of the front seats at his concert. The forehead had been noticeably large, now it was enormous. It pressed the eyes, nose and mouth down, down and down, till they disappeared into the collar. The face, now all forehead, grew larger and larger. Finch threw himself to the other side of the bed. A street car rattled past the hotel.

  Now, to quiet himself, he thought of Jalna and all those at home. He pictured each one of the family, from Nicholas down to Archer. For a space he was calm. He drew deep breaths. Then he noticed that they all had enormous foreheads that pressed their features, down and down, into their necks. Nicholas’ grey moustache was swallowed, Renny’s grin of triumph over finding the money. Rags, featureless, floated about with the tea tray. Someone — was it himself? — was playing the piano.

  He flung to the other side of the bed. He felt suffocated by the heat of the bedroom. He had turned off the radiator and opened the window but still it was too warm. The overheating of the hotels was one of the trying things about a town. He found himself, as so often, envying Renny and Piers.

  Resolutely he lay on his back. He pictured the little church at home, the first snowfall lying in the churchyard. He pictured the family plot, where those who had given themselves to so many emotions now lay at peace. The snow lay lightly on the graves. Too lightly, for it did nothing to restrain those within. A restless movement ran through their bones. In frantic haste his spirit fled from the place. He pressed his fingers to his temples. Was it possible that he was going to have one of those attacks of pain in his head and neck
which once before had nearly wrecked him? He gently massaged the back of his neck. He looked at his watch. Just twenty minutes had passed since last he had looked at it. He could not go on like this. He took one of the tablets in a gulp of water and settled down to let it work its beneficent will. But he was so thoroughly awake that the tablet took some time to soothe him. In truth his imagination seemed more terribly alive. He felt himself playing Bach’s Italian Concerto in F major. But he could not control the black keys. The white keys behaved themselves, doing his bidding, but the black keys raced away from under his fingers like ants. He wondered why the thought of ants was so intolerable to him. There was some painful scene in his memory connected with ants but he could not recall what it was. Now the black keys had run right away from the keyboard, scuttled down the legs of the piano and were clambering up the legs of the bed. They were running this way and that over the bedspread. Finch stretched out his hand and turned on the light. He took another tablet, for he must be fit to play that night. He remembered that he was in Oregon and that the Pacific was near. That was a calming thought. He pictured the endless rolling of the waves. He tried to repeat poetry about the sea but the poems eluded him. One line from some forgotten poem went on and on in his brain— “Hateful is the dark blue sky.” Over and over it was reiterated till he felt nothing, could see nothing but that dark blue arch burning above him. “Hateful is the dark blue sky.” Not since boyhood had he remembered the words — beautiful and menacing ...

  He woke at nine, relaxed but not rested. Thank God, he thought, I have only two more concerts to get through! He took a bath and had a pot of tea and some toast sent up to him — poor tea and poor toast. Scarcely had he swallowed it when a telegram was brought in. Something had happened at home, he thought, and tore it open in nervous haste.

  Nothing had happened at Jalna. The telegram was signed by a lawyer in San Francisco and told of the death of Finch’s former wife, Sarah, in a motor accident. “Would Mr. Whiteoak come as soon as possible and take charge of his son who at present was with Mr. Voynitsky.” Finch read the telegram three times before he took in its meaning. Even then he could not bring himself to believe it. Sarah dead! Sarah — who had seemed impervious to the weakness of flesh!