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

by Mazo de La Roche

  They were interrupted by Archer’s throwing open the door. He stood facing them, his white forehead glistening, his expression one of accusation.

  “why didn’t anybody call me?” he demanded. “why wasn’t I there?”

  “It was no place for a child,” answered Alayne.

  “I’m going straight over now.”

  “No, Archer.”

  He clasped his arms about his middle and bent double in an agony of frustration. “Oh, oh, I can’t bear it,” he moaned. “Oh, I never do anything I want to.”

  “I’ll take you with me when I go back,” said Renny.

  “when will you go?” asked Alayne. “Is it safe for Archer, even with you?”

  “There’s no danger.” he returned, absent-mindedly. “I must go now and break the news to the uncles.”

  “I’ve done that,” said Archer.

  His parents stared at him in consternation.

  “You!” cried Alayne. “Oh, that was very wrong.”

  “The shock might have been the end of them,” said Renny. “If I had the time I’d give you a hiding you’d never forget. How did they take it?”

  Archer, with a benign air, answered, — “Oh, they took it very well. I think they were glad it was me who told them.”

  “I must go straight up to them,” said Renny.

  “Can I come?” asked Archer.

  Alayne interposed her body between that of her husband and her son. She said to Renny, — “Hadn’t you better have a bath first?”

  “Oh, they’ll like to see him this way,” said Archer.

  Renny went up the stairs.

  As he ascended, a deep thankfulness rose through all his being that Jalna was safe. In the early morning sunshine the old house stood serene, all its rooms knowing him, its timbers, as it were, his bones. His first breath he had drawn under that roof. There he would draw his last. The door of Ernest’s bedroom stood open, disclosing Ernest sitting up in bed and Nicholas in the armchair at his side. Both looked dishevelled, distressed, yet somehow drawn from the acquiescence of very old age by the disastrous news.

  Ernest greeted Renny with, — “I’m waiting for a cup of hot tea. I think it will brace me. What a terrible thing this is!”

  Renny said, — “It’s a shame you had the news told you by that boy.”

  Nicholas gave a grim laugh. “Well, we had to have it and Archer gave us the dose quickly. He just opened my door and said, — ‘Clapperton’s house is on fire. Clapperton’s dead.’”

  “He did the very same for me,” added Ernest. “He opened my door and said the same words. Oh, what a shock!”

  “Let me get you some brandy.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve sent for tea.”

  “Uncle Nick?”

  “I’ve had some.”

  Ernest could not control his voice. It shook painfully as he said, — “You must tell us all about it, Renny. Wragge was quite incoherent when he answered the bell … why, your hands, they’re black …”

  “what made them black?” asked Nicholas, in a tone of foreboding, as though he guessed without asking.

  Renny looked at his hands, then put them behind his back. He said, — “I remarked of Eugene Clapperton yesterday that I didn’t believe he’d ever known a generous impulse — and that he was a coward. Now I take back those words, with all the power that’s in me. He died a hero’s death. He lost his life in an attempt to save Althea Griffith.”

  “Is she dead too?” quavered both the old men.

  “No, no, she had not gone into the house, as he thought she had … Did you hear me say that I take back all I’ve said against him?”

  “Yes, dear boy,” agreed Ernest. “You are quite right. It was a noble act he did and I too retract all I’ve ever said — or thought — against him.”

  Nicholas drew the end of his grey moustache between his teeth and gnawed it. “Never liked him,” he growled. “Can’t think of him as a hero. Shan’t try.”

  XX

  VARIOUS SCENES

  A sharp thunderstorm blew in from the lake that day, and heavy, though brief, rain. It left only a furtive smouldering in the more remote parts of the burned house, beneath the caved-in roof. All the rest was wet charred beams and bricks and broken glass. The scorched trees showed all the redder for being wet. The living trees, and more especially the young pine, in the midst of its dead companions, all the greener. Men had brought tarpaulins and spread them over what furniture had been salvaged, though some of it had been carried to the newest bungalow where the two sisters had taken refuge.

  No one had worked so hard as Raikes. From the moment when Gem’s voice had woken him he had laboured, doing the work of two. Smudged, blackened, dripping with sweat, then dripping with rain, he had delved into the ruins rescuing all he could. He had the two cars safe and locked against theft. He had collected basketfuls of blackened cutlery and china and put them away to be cleaned. He had heaved beams aside to get at what was pinned beneath.

  “Lands sakes,” said Mrs. Barker, as he sat at the early evening meal with her and her husband, “you sure look tired out. You ought to take a little rest.”

  Through a mouthful of fried potatoes Raikes replied, — “There’ll be no rest for me till all the mess is cleared away.” He had made no mention to anyone that he had been discharged.

  “It’s lucky for them two girls that they have you,” said Barker. “They’re an awful helpless pair. I wonder what they’ll do.”

  “No need for them to worry,” said his wife. “Think of the money they’ve got.”

  “Wait till you hear what the will says. Wills can be tricky things.”

  “You’ll see he’s left his wife every penny. He was crazy about her, wasn’t he, Tom?”

  “Well,” said Raikes, “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “How did they get on?”

  “Pretty snappy at times.”

  “She looks like she’s a temper,” Barker put in.

  “She’s a swate girl.”

  “And you’re the one that knows it, hey?” laughed Mrs. Barker.

  “Come, now,” admonished Raikes, “the man’s not cold yet.”

  Mrs. Barker giggled unfeelingly.

  “what’s funny?” asked her husband.

  “Oh, I was just thinking.”

  The men laid down their knives and forks to stare at her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she gasped, now laughing hysterically.

  “Out with it,” said Raikes. “We can bear it.”

  “Oh, I was just thinking what you said about him not bein’ cold yet! He was pretty hot, wasn’t he?”

  The men looked at each other.

  “Women ain’t got no heart,” said Barker.

  Now she was indignant. “It was us women that did the crying, wasn’t it?”

  “You ladies are temperamental,” Raikes said, politely. “That’s what makes you so lovable.”

  Barker cleaned his plate with a piece of bread, then put it solemnly into his mouth. “Mr. Clapperton,” he said, “was a hero.”

  “He was that,” agreed Raikes, with equal solemnity.

  “I’m not a Catholic,” continued Barker, “but I’m not ashamed to say — God rest his soul.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Raikes. “May his soul rest in peace.”

  Barker rose. “I’d like,” he said, “for us to drink a glass in his honour.” He went to the cupboard and returned with a half-bottle of whisky.

  They filled their tumblers with whisky and water.

  “May we all,” said Barker, “live as good and die as noble.”

  “I want to join in that,” said Mrs. Barker. She picked up Raikes’ glass and took a sip from it. She threw a provocative glance at the Irishman which he appeared not to notice.

  “We’re lucky,” said Barker, “that our bungalow was saved. I thought it would burn for sure. And the new one. It’s lucky it was there for the girls to move into.”

  “Now Mrs. Clapperton’ll
be on to everything you do,” said his wife.

  “I should worry,” he replied. “She’ll be too busy to notice me. It’s Tom that’ll have to be careful.”

  Raikes gave a smile that was both mischievous and sheepish. He emptied his glass.

  “I must be getting along,” he said.

  “You haven’t had your pie,” she said.

  “I couldn’t. I’d such a late lunch.”

  He went out and his eyes swept the scene of devastation. The sullen ruin of the house and its outbuildings, the separate remains of the three bungalows, the scorched trees, the trampled vegetable garden, his pride, all stared him in the face, unrecognizable and as though reproachful. The origin of the fire was a mystery, except to Gem and Althea who had their suspicions, but Gem was ready to say, if there were an inquiry, that she herself had smoked a cigarette late that night in the kitchen. She was ready to say anything to protect Raikes.

  He now came to the door of the new bungalow and quietly tapped. The Great Dane sent forth a tremendous barking. Raikes could hear him panting against the door. “Now, now, Toby,” he soothed. “Quit that barkin’. It’s me, Toby.” The dog whined in recognition. The door opened and Gem’s weary figure was revealed, her hair unbrushed, her eyes heavy. They met his only for a moment. A shyness rose between them.

  “what can I do to help now?” he asked.

  “Nothing. We’re getting on all right. We’re resting. They sent a hamper of food from Jalna.”

  “I know. After a bit I’ll go out in the car and do a bit of shopping for you. ’Tis lucky I saved the two cars, isn’t it?”

  She gave a faint smile. Their eyes met, then they looked away again. After a moment she said, — “Mr. Clapperton’s cousin, the one who married my youngest sister, is coming, and my sister too.”

  “And will he — see to the funeral — and all that?”

  “Yes … Mr. Clapperton owned a plot in a large cemetery in the city. He’ll be buried there, beside his first wife.”

  “I see.” Raikes spoke with great solemnity. Then he added, on the same note, — “Well, ’twas a quick end. He didn’t suffer much.”

  She gave a shudder, in spite of the heat.

  “We all have to die,” he said. “Some one way. Some another.”

  “Yes.” A strange light of excitement swept the weariness from her face. The musical tone of her voice came out strongly. “I want to live,” she said, “to be very old. I haven’t lived yet.”

  A smile came into his eves, rippled across his face, not touching his lips which remained serious. “Now you’ve the chance to live,” he said. “You’re free.”

  “Don’t.…” Yet she did not turn away.

  The families from the three burned bungalows had been disposed of. Two families had gone to relations. The third had been given shelter at the Rectory. The noise of the radios, the cries of children had ceased. The poultry which Raikes had driven from the burning poultry-house were, with much confusion, with flying up and falling off and flying up again, finding perches among the trees. The parked cars of those who had come to see the ruin of one of the landmarks of the district were moving away.

  But another car had just arrived and from it alighted Ernest and Renny, Ernest leaning heavily on his nephew’s arm. He had said he could not rest till he had visited the scene of the fire. It was on his nerves, he said. Nothing of reality, he said, could be half so dreadful as what he pictured. Nicholas, on the other hand, wanted to remember Vaughanlands as it was. “I’ll take that remembrance of it” he said, “to my grave. I’m too old to see familiar things shattered. I’ve seen enough changes, and most of them horrid.”

  Now Ernest stopped stock still on the drive, almost overcome by the spectacle of the roofless walls, the gaping apertures where windows had been, the charred front door hanging on its hinges. At first he could not speak. He just stood and stared. Then a sob broke from him and tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I told you not to come.” Renny’s voice was harsh with concern. “I should not have let you come.”

  With a great effort Ernest controlled himself. He took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I shan’t give way again. But — of all sights I’ve ever seen — this is the most desolate.”

  “It is indeed,” Renny agreed grimly.

  Ernest moved close to the ruin. His light-blue eyes widened to take in every detail of the destruction. He pointed with his stick. “In that room to the left, my parents slept while Jalna was being built. I remember hearing my father tell how he would put his head out of the window to smoke his last cigar because Mrs. Vaughan could not bear smoking in the house. But what kind people they were! True gentlefolk. Very different from that Mr. Clapperton — even though he had so heroic an end, poor man. And there, in the room on the right, our Eden died. Bless me, there’s little left standing on that side of the house. Why — there on the poor wrecked door is the brass knocker they brought with them from England. It’s a lion’s head with the mouth open roaring. Bless me, it’s no wonder he roars.”

  Right round the house Ernest insisted on going, through rubble, over fallen masonry, and all the way he reconstructed the house, lifted it up again out of the ruins, filled it with the people who had been dear to him. Near the back door they came on an oil painting in an ornate gilt frame, leaning in drunken fashion against a scorched tree.

  “It’s a shipwreck,” exclaimed Ernest. “God bless me, they shouldn’t have left it out in the weather. Why, it was Eugene Clapperton’s favourite picture. Really, Renny, I think we should put it in safety somewhere.”

  “I’ll see to it,” said Renny.

  Ernest took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “what heat!” he said. “what a day! when I took my rest this afternoon I could not sleep. I tossed about the bed till I could endure it no more and got up. I shall sleep tonight, I can tell you. I’ll go to bed as soon as we reach home.”

  “You’re too tired, Uncle Ernest.”

  “No. Not too tired. Just — a little wrought up. No matter how long one lives, there are always unexpected things — things that can stir one to the depths — I suppose that’s what makes life so interesting. You know, Renny, old age has not made me self-centred … I thank God for that.” He paused, gathered himself together and added, — “Renny, I was conceived under that roof … of beautiful young parents … young.” He turned away weeping.

  XXI

  ERNEST SLEEPS

  That night there was another electric storm, this one accompanied by a wild wind. At Jalna the shutters rattled and banged. At Vaughanlands ashes were whipped into glowing red eyes. The air was full of disorder and fresh green leaves were blown from the trees and whirled like messages between the two houses.

  Renny was roused by the gale. The air that blew across him was suddenly cold. He drew it into his lungs, breathing deeply. The heat wave was over, he thought. Then he remembered Ernest’s susceptibility to draughts. He must go and close his windows. As he went along the passage the events of the day before crowded in on him. The clock struck four. That had been the hour when the fire had started the night before.

  He met Alayne in her nightdress. He could see her by the pale moonlight.

  “why are you up?” he asked.

  “I’ve been to Archer’s room. He was almost blown out of the bed, and not a stitch on him. Where are you going?”

  “To shut Uncle Ernest’s windows.”

  “Oh.” She stood in the passage waiting while he went into the bedroom. She heard the windows gently closed. Then there was silence. Then the light was turned on. Still silence. The old man had not woken. He had been very tired.

  Now Renny came from the room, all the light at his back. He put his hand across his eyes, then drew it down over his face and gripped his mouth.

  “what has happened?” she gasped.

  “He is dead,” came through the gripping hand that all b
ut smothered the words.

  “Oh, no — surely not!”

  “Sh — you’ll wake Uncle Nick. Oh, Alayne …”

  “You’re mistaken,” she said, though she knew he was not. “He’s just sleeping heavily.”

  “Do I know a dead man when I see one? Come and look.”

  He drew her into the room.

  It was neat as was always Ernest’s room, his clothes carefully folded or hung up, the bed smooth. Ernest himself lay on his side, one arm out on the sheet, the other curved, its palm cradling his cheek, the light from the bedside lamp full on his face.

  “Am I mistaken?” Renny asked, his voice coming hoarsely from his throat.

  “No … How serene he looks!”

  “I’ve felt his pulse — his heart … Oh, Alayne, I never should have taken him to see that sight. It was terrible to him … He was quite broken up.”

  She spoke calmly. “It’s been the strain and excitement of yesterday. It never stopped. He was very wrought up. I could see that. But — he’s gone so peacefully.”

  Renny laid his hand on Ernest’s shoulder, as though he comforted him in his aloneness. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I’ve been coming into this room to talk with him — as long as I can remember and — in all that time — I never had a harsh word from him.”

  “And to me he was always so sweet.” Her calm deserted her and she began to cry. “To think this would happen … poor Uncle Ernest … poor Uncle Nicholas.”

  “You’re cold,” he said. “You must go back to bed.”

  “No, no — I can’t. Look—it’s daylight. I’ll go and dress … However can you tell Uncle Nicholas?”

  “It will kill him … his only brother … seldom in all their lives were they separated.”

  She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his pyjamas. She said, — “It won’t kill him. Only the other day he said to me that they must soon be separated and that that separation must be faced … If you like, I’ll tell him.”

  “Will you? Do you think we should have the doctor here?”

  “Yes … I’m getting so chilled. What a change!”