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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Good day.”

  Renny drew rein. “Not very Christmaslike weather, is it?” he remarked, genially.

  “It’s abominable.”

  “Walking pretty bad, I guess.”

  “Bad! It’s vile. But I must have exercise.” He straightened himself. “I never let weather stop me.”

  The geniality in Renny’s voice took on an almost tender note. “I admire you for that,” he said, “but walking on a road like this is hard work. Better let me sell you a horse.”

  Eugene was suddenly afraid. He had never mounted a horse. He distrusted them, and yet —

  “Riding is the best exercise there is,” said Renny. “All your insides get exercise without any effort on your part. Now tramping through this slush is quite a strain on the heart. But perhaps you have a particularly strong heart.”

  “Well — at my last physical checkup — I have one every year — x-rayed from head to toe — the doctor told me to take things a little easier. Nothing organically wrong. I was just to slow down a little. I’ve lived a very strenuous life. Mentally, I mean, Mr. Whiteoak.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Men don’t arrive where you are without an effort.”

  “True. Very true.”

  “Now what you ought to do is to conserve your strength for the enjoyment of a long life.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s so.”

  “It’s not going to help you to enjoy life or conserve your strength, to plod along a bleak country road in December.”

  “I’m certainly not enjoying it.”

  “And it is the same all through the year. You’d always be better on horseback than on foot. With your figure you’d look mighty well on a horse.”

  He had struck the right note. A smile trembled on Eugene Clapperton’s pale lips. But he said doubtfully: “I’d probably break my neck.”

  Renny laughed in scorn at such an idea.

  “You? With your physique! You’d have a good seat and good hands. I thought that the first time I met you. Now I have a little horse — quite a small little horse — but strong and reliable and gentle as a lamb. To tell you the solemn truth, she has one knee a little stiff from a fall, so she is no good for jumping. But she’s the perfect horse for you. Mind you, she’s not cheap. You’d not want to be seen on a cheap horse — a man about to be married to a pretty young girl.”

  “Can’t ride,” said Eugene Clapperton sulkily.

  “I’ll teach you. And I may remark that I am a good riding-master. As for the mare, you couldn’t fall off her if you tried.”

  As he talked, Renny’s enthusiasm heightened, in the sheer pleasure of an expected sale. He would have taken pleasure in selling a horse to the devil himself. “I have the very mount for you,” he would have said. “A horse accustomed to a rider with hoofs and tail. As for temperature — this horse just revels in the heat.”

  Eugene Clapperton was won over. He was grateful. After a pause he said, “I’ll come and look at the mare, Colonel Whiteoak. And right here I want to say I appreciate your friendly attitude. I appreciate your taking that incinerator away — also the piggeries.”

  Renny Whiteoak showed his fine teeth in a cheerful grin. “If we are to be neighbours for life — if you are to marry into a family I’m attached to, we should be on friendly terms.”

  “I did wrong, I freely admit it, in suspecting you in that miserable affair. I should have known better. I’m very sorry, Colonel Whiteoak.”

  The smile faded from Renny’s face but he still spoke cheerfully. “I have put all that behind me,” he said. “On my part I appreciate your giving up the plan of building a lot of small houses.” He could not bring himself to speak of these as constituting a village. The idea was grotesque.

  Eugene Clapperton’s face broke into little wrinkles of weakness and shamefaced pride in that weakness.

  “I gave it up,” he said, “to please my fiancée. She couldn’t bear the thought of outsiders infringing on our privacy.”

  Renny toyed with Cora’s luxuriant mane. “I like her for that,” he said. “I’ve always liked her but now I shall like her even more. You’ve made a good choice in her.”

  “I know I have.”

  “And she in you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Now about the mare. What about coming to see her now? We are near my gate. Then, after you have looked her over, I hope you will come to the house for a drink. We’ve been singing Christmas carols every evening lately. Perhaps you would like to join us.”

  Eugene Clapperton agreed. He could not help himself. He felt hypnotized. Also, to go indoors out of that hateful slush and sing carols had a kind of celestial lure in it. He turned in his tracks, entered the gate he never had thought to enter again, and plodded to the stables.

  Renny was there considerably before him.

  “Wright!” he called. “Put Belinda in the big loose box and groom her a bit. She’s sold!”

  Wright was a happy man in these days. He had been downcast in the months when Renny’s self-suspicion had darkened the lives of all at Jalna. But now he had thrown care aside and was straining toward the spring when he and Renny would set about the pleasant task of rebuilding the prestige of the stables. The colt jointly owned by himself and Adeline was developing magnificently. The two had great hopes of him. Renny had offered to buy Wright’s share in him at treble the cost but Wright firmly held on to his prize.

  Now he leapt to obey orders. By the time Eugene Clapperton reached the stable the mare, standing in deep clean straw, showed a glistening hide and freshly combed mane and tail.

  “You look cold,” said Renny. “Better come into my office and have a drink. I keep a bottle of Scotch here.” He led the way into the little room that somehow looked inviting to Mr. Clapperton.

  “Sit down,” said the master of Jalna, “and make yourself at home.”

  It was a strange new world to Eugene Clapperton whose days had been passed in city offices, hedged in by clicking typewriters and glossy-curled stenographers. Here there was the smell of clean straw, of harness oil, the sound of powerful bodies quietly moving in the straw. Wright was an honest, jolly-faced fellow, Eugene Clapperton thought. He felt strangely exhilarated, muscular and a little tough, as, with the drink inside him, he strode with Renny to inspect the mare.

  Shortly she was his and, again at Renny’s side, he strode toward the house to join in the carol singing. Its windows glittered red in the light of the setting sun. Eugene Clapperton felt exhilarated and a little shy as he pulled off his goloshes in the porch and entered the house. The bulldog and bobtailed sheepdog greeted him with a terrific barking, but it was the little Cairn that raged about his legs and had to be picked up by Renny and carried. Instantly its expression became one of angelic sweetness. More than twenty people were in the room. Some of the young ones were sitting on the floor. Every mouth was open and from it issued lusty singing — Mr. Fennel’s mouth in the midst of his beard, Nicholas’ beneath his shaggy moustache, the children’s like newly opened flowers. The carol came to an end just as Mooey sprang from his seat and offered it to Eugene Clapperton.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he murmured, dropping into it.

  Renny bent over Nicholas and whispered:

  “I’ve got a visitor here, somewhat resembling old Scrooge, but be nice to him. He’s just bought Belinda at a mighty good price.”

  “what!” growled Nicholas. “That horrid old fellow! Must I be nice to him?”

  “Just to please me, Uncle Nick.”

  Nicholas turned his massive head and grinned at the neCentenaryomer. The crumb of cake fell off his moustache on to his waistcoat.

  Eugene Clapperton hurried over to shake hands with him. “I do hope you are well, sir,” he said.

  “Very well. Very well. Enjoying the singing. Let’s go ahead with it. Kind of you to join us. Glad to see you.”

  “Good King Wenceslaus,” announced Finch.

  Eugene Clapperton decorously resumed his seat. Bu
t he had seen Gemmel and his heart was pleasantly quickening its beat. He opened and shut his mouth, pretending to sing. He was very pleased by the turn events had taken. He regarded the fair-haired small boys with an almost affectionate interest. He strained his ears to hear Gem’s voice but it was hushed, now that he had come into the room.

  Several carols more had been sung when a loud knock on the front door sent the three little boys scurrying to answer it. If they had waited for Rags to answer the knock, he would have had more sense than to usher in Renny’s two horse-dealing friends, Messrs. Crowdy and Chase. The boys escorted them into the midst of the room with ceremony, though they hung back and would have preferred waiting in the hall.

  At first glance Renny was delighted to see them but almost instantly he remembered how ill they would mix with many of the party. He always took care not to inflict their presence on Alayne. Already he could see the surprise on her face, that look about the nostril, as though she smelled horse. In truth, the pair always brought the smell of stables with them. Meg disapproved of them; Mrs. Fennel openly stared at them in curiosity and wonder; Miss Pink threw them a look of alarm. The small boys brought chairs from the dining room for them. But before seating themselves they bowed from side to side, with the air of star performers at a concert.

  Finch played the opening bars of “Silent Night” and Crowdy and Chase were forgotten, but not for long. They knew the carol by heart. Crowdy, in a rather hoarse but powerful bass; Chase, in a high penetrating tenor, now took the lead, overcoming all opposition. They sang slowly and with great solemnity. If they had spent their lives in carol singing, instead of horse trading, they could not have done it with greater proficiency. The singing lasted longer than usual. The room grew very warm. Before leaving, Chase bowed low over Alayne’s hand and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Whiteoak. I have not spent such an evening since I was a choir boy. You’d never believe I was one, would you?”

  Crowdy, extending his left hand, palm up, drew on it a design with the forefinger of his right — a habit he had when moved — then exclaimed:

  “This evening will never be forgotten by yours truly, ma’am. It’s been very dee-lightful.”

  When all were gone, Alayne threw open the windows. She stretched her arms wide and took a deep breath. “what air!” she exclaimed. “I could scarcely breathe.”

  She and Finch were alone, except for Archer and Dennis. The little boys were tired. Archer wound his wiry arms around her waist.

  “Only three more days till Christmas,” he sighed. “How can I wait? I wonder what Santa Claus will bring me!” He looked pale and tense.

  “He will bring me the best,” said Dennis, from where he lay against Finch’s shoulder.

  “He won’t. He always brings me the best.”

  “I shall lie awake all the night listening for him.”

  “I heard the little reindeer’s hoofs on the roof last Christmas.”

  Dennis’ eyes were like stars. He bobbed up and down in his joy.

  Alayne said, “Now children, it’s very late. You must go to bed. Help Dennis to undress, Archer. If you are good, I’ll come up and tell you a story.”

  When they had gone she said, “I do wonder if we are right in encouraging their belief in a myth. There are psychologists who say its very bad for them.”

  Finch gave a hoot of derision.

  “Bad for them! They get a greater thrill out of it than out of anything that comes later in their lives.”

  “Many experts believe they get too much of a thrill. They say there always is fear mixed with it and that their nerves may suffer afterwards. It may give them some form of neurosis later.” She looked anxiously into Finch’s eyes.

  “Alayne,” he said. “I hope you are not going to be taken in by this sort of twaddle. If the psychologists want to start a campaign to protect children from fear, let them begin on the crime plays that come over the radio — the hideous pictures in the comics — but no, they’ll never do it! They’re afraid to. There’s too much money at stake. There’s no one to protect poor old Santa Claus. Even the department stores do their best to spoil him. But I want Dennis to believe in him. I want him to have the feeling I used to have when I woke on a Christmas morning and smelled the greenery and thought of the Tree and thought of Santa Claus — no fairy, but jolly flesh and blood who had come down the chimney the night before with presents for me. Gosh, the man who would take Santa Claus from the children and leave a kind of Mother Goose in his place, is about the meanest and stupidest man on earth!”

  Alayne laughed and shut the windows.

  “I do like you, Finch,” she said.

  In the hall she found Archer not yet halfway up the stairs. She looked up at him and asked:

  “Archer, do you believe in Santa Claus?”

  “Do you want me to?” he countered.

  “That has nothing to do with it. Just answer Mother quite simply. Do you or don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. But I won’t tell Dennis. He believes, all the time.”

  “You have no feeling of fear about him?” she asked anxiously.

  Archer gave one of his rare smiles. “All I’m afraid of,” he said, “is that he won’t bring me what I want.”

  He continued on his way up the stairs. From the twilight of the upper passages she heard his chant. “Saliva! Oh, saliva!” And far above in his room he still lingered on the fascinating word.

  There was snow and to spare for Christmas. Never since the house was built had it been so buried in snow. It had begun to fall quietly one afternoon in mid-December, just like an ordinary snowfall. In the night it had become a blizzard. The house had groaned and its shutters had rattled in the storm. When calm clear morning came it could be seen that more than two feet had been added to the depth of whiteness on the level ground. But the drifts were as high as a man’s shoulder between house and stable. It was necessary for everyone who was able to wield a snow shovel to put his strength into the clearing of paths. Even Dennis, in a scarlet snowsuit, set to work. Nicholas and Ernest never had seen any snowfall to compare with it. A hundred generations of birds had had no such struggle to find a morsel of food. Pheasants, blue jays, juncos, and even a pair of cardinals, came to the very door for the great bowls of cut-up bread and basins of wheat scattered for them by Mrs. Wragge. For five days no grocer, baker, butcher, or postman could reach the house. But it did not much matter. Mrs. Wragge baked delicious bread, a pig and a number of chickens were killed. Who wanted newspapers or letters? An enjoyable isolation cut off the family from the rest of the world. Piers’ boys and Patience came every day on skis.

  At last the roads were cleared by snowploughs. The dogs ran between walls of dazzling marble whiteness. Christmas came and went. It had seemed a long year but like the snow it came to an end and the New Year dawned.

  XXXIV

  SETTLING DOWN

  WITH DOMESTIC HELP so difficult to secure in these last months of the war, it was impossible to guard Pheasant from overwork. As her bulk became noticeable her strength grew less. Two men and two racketing small boys required more effort in housework than she was capable of. Piers helped her all he could but his leg was a handicap to him. Maurice hated work. The very thought of physical work depressed him. He liked his books and was getting on well at the crammer’s in town. It was arranged for him to board nearby during the early months of the year, not returning home until after the baby’s birth. This disposed of him but left Nooky and Philip to be coped with. They could not be taken to Jalna because of the old uncles. Meg was willing to have them for a fortnight at the time of the birth but she could not house them for the winter. It would be impossible for her to control Philip. She knew it and he knew it. He was an obstreperous small boy and it did not shame him to be known as such. He was a bad influence on Nooky, who was by nature obedient. The two combined were never at a loss to think of things to do which they should not do. Piers delighted in their high spirits but at times he came down hard on them, always the hard
est on Philip. When he considered his years in the prison camp and what his life now was, he could not be really angry with them.

  What the boys needed, said Nicholas and Ernest, was the discipline of boarding school. They themselves had gone to boarding school and Renny also. The old men were very fond of Pheasant. It troubled them to see her with dark circles beneath her eyes and that tired look about the mouth. They put their heads together, and considered how they had not much longer to live and how they might as well spend their money to the advantage of the family. So they proposed to Piers that they should pay half the school fees of the boys, if he would pay the other half. Piers with gratitude accepted their offer. This left Archer in prospect of being without companions of his own age. He was now beyond Miss Pink’s little school. Because of the immense snowfall he could not be taken to a school in the town. There was little gasoline for the car. Alayne was forced to agree to let him go to school with the others.

  Therefore, in mid-January, Renny set off on a bitterly cold morning, with his two nephews and his son in tow. The passengers in the train were mostly boys of seven to eighteen. None was more composed than Archer. He had said goodbye to Alayne with no sign of emotion. The last words she had heard him say, as he shouldered his boy scout kit in the hall, were, “Saliva! Oh, saliva!” in a shrill chant.