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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Alone, eh?”

  “Yes, alone. So far I’ve been able to conceal it from Mother and Dad, though she suspects. Last night I had to help him up to his room. I’m awfully fond of Maurice, but — he’s making things beastly difficult. He’ll promise anything and forget his promise the next hour. It’s pretty hard to understand him.”

  “Does he see much of Fitzturgis?”

  “Very little. On his first night at home we had a little party — Adeline and Fitzturgis were there, and Maurice was disagreeable to him — actually insulting. But, you understand, he was tight. Fitzturgis pushed Maurice off a bench. They’ve scarcely spoken since. Scarcely been in each other’s company.”

  “I’ll see Maurice. I’ll do what I can.”

  “And you’ll not tell?”

  “No. It’s a shame that he should behave like this.”

  “And when he is drinking too much he is not himself. Mother notices it. What I’m afraid of is there’ll be a regular bust-up with Dad. Maurice has invited me to go back to Ireland with him on a visit, but Dad would never let me go if he found out that Maurice is a hard drinker.”

  Finch did not answer. His mind had flown back to a night when he himself was eighteen years old. He had left his studies and stolen into the bedroom occupied by Piers and Pheasant to see if he could find a cigarette to smoke. His nerves had been torturing him. Maurice had been asleep in his cradle. Finch remembered bending over him in curiosity. He had gone weak with tenderness as he gazed down at that baby slumber — at the round, baby fist curled beneath the flower-petal cheek. He had kissed the baby repeatedly in an almost ecstatic yearning. And now the baby was a man — Maurice — a “hard drinker.”

  “He and I,” Christian was saying, “have become very good friends in the past weeks. I don’t want anything — not anything — to come between us.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him…. What do you think, Christian, of his feelings toward Adeline?”

  “He loves her. I have no doubt of it. I think that is at the bottom of his trouble, poor fellow.”

  When Christian had gone the last light was fading. Behind the trees to the westward where the great window of the living-room faced, little red-gold sparklets of the afterglow danced between the leaves. “No curtains at this window,” thought Finch. “Just the outdoors, coming right into the room.” It was a little past midsummer. The glorious energetic period of growth was slackening into the period of ripening. Finch was deeply conscious of this feeling of repose in the land. He wanted to draw it into his own house, into his own breast. There was weariness in him and a great longing for repose. At that moment he wanted, above all things, his house to himself. He wanted to get acquainted with it — to go from room to room, looking out of each window in turn, returning always to the music room and to the piano. But not yet could he bring himself to touch the keys. Before that moment there must be the agreement of peace between his spirit and his hands.

  He took off his jacket and went and hung it in the clothes cupboard of his bedroom. It was the first garment he had hung there and he contemplated it almost in wonder. He took a packet of cigarettes from a pocket in the jacket and lighted one. He gave the mattress of the bed a thump with his fist to test its resilience. It had cost plenty. He wished he might sleep there tonight — in the house alone.

  The isolation was delicious. The silence was almost palpable. As the sun disappeared, a fresh breeze stirred the new curtains at the window. Alayne had chosen the curtains. At the time Finch had been a little doubtful of the choice, but now he saw that they were perfect. No other colour, no other pattern would have pleased him as did these. Patience had come that morning and made up his bed. It looked so inviting that he wished he might sleep in it tonight. No other bedroom was yet furnished, and he felt that he would have liked them to remain empty — to have lived there in delicious isolation, alone.

  He remembered hotel bedrooms, berths in trains and ships — hotel lounges, dining rooms, bars, taxicabs, concert halls, crowds, people — above all, people. And here was this bedroom, alone in the new house — none other furnished — and beyond the ravine, Jalna — and along the road Piers’s house, The Moorings, and near the church Meg’s house! All these loved people. But he wished — and made a wry face at himself for the wish — that Meg and the two girls would stay where they were. To be alone in this house with his piano — to give himself up to composing. He knew he had better work in him than had yet been put to paper. To be alone.

  He remembered, standing there with his chin in his band, how as a boy he had thought it would be the very height of felicity to have a room of one’s own. Piers had been a tyrannical sharer of room and bed. Piers had found a good deal of amusement in baiting him.

  He remembered bedrooms he had shared with his wife Sarah, and he stretched his arms ceilingward, stretched all his body to its utmost, in his relief to be free. No other woman — no other marriage — not for him. The piano his woman. Music his mistress. The trees his audience…. He looked at his watch. He should be moving along to Jalna. He had a mind to spend the night here alone, to play the piano for the first time in this dear house of his.

  But how to send word that he was not coming? If only he had a telephone installed. He would have to go to Jalna and tell them. But he would return here — and alone. He would spend the night alone with his piano … in the house alone. This was what he had been straining toward — to be alone!

  From the wood beyond Jalna a whip-poor-will began to call. In mindless energy it threw its cruel command into the dusk. Whip-poor-will … whip-poor-will.From bough to bough it flitted. It might have been singing love words for all it knew! From his earliest days Finch had loved and feared this bird’s song. Piers had told him in mischief that it cried Whip-poor-Finch, and for a long while he had believed that. Now he stood listening in the darkening room till there was silence again.

  A small, remarkably sweet boy’s voice came from the doorway. “Did you hear the whip-poor-will?” it said.

  He wheeled and saw his son.

  “Did you hear it?” repeated the boy. “I counted thirty-one times it did the call without taking breath.”

  “Once,” said Finch, “I counted more than two hundred times.”

  “Gee whiz!” Dennis gave his high-pitched treble laugh. He then stood irresolute, as though not sure of his welcome. Finch wondered if he should embrace the boy — give him a hug and a kiss. The Whiteoaks were a demonstrative family. Renny was never embarrassed by kissing his brothers. Yet Finch could not make up his mind to move across the room to the side of his son — to draw him close — after almost a year’s separation…. Was it that some essence of Sarah clung about the boy — emanated from him? Was it that Sarah had been so possessive toward Dennis that she had created a barrier Finch could not overcome? Another shadow fell. Again the whip-poor-will began to call.

  “There he goes,” exclaimed Dennis and counted the calls aloud. “One — two — three — four — five —”

  Finch went to the clothes cupboard and took his jacket from the hook. Dennis at once stopped counting and followed. He said:

  “So this is where you keep your clothes? Is that all you have? what a nice house! I’d better turn on the light.” Without waiting for permission he switched on the light and the room shone forth in all its newness. “what a pretty lamp!” said Dennis. “what a nice room!” He stood transfixed a moment in admiration and was himself revealed as small for his age, of compact build, with clear-cut features, straight fair hair and greenish eyes — eyes like Sarah’s. But Sarah’s hair had been black.

  “which is my room?” asked Dennis. He spoke with an almost quizzical air, as though he already knew and was tempting Finch to subterfuge.

  “The small room at the back.”

  Dennis repeated, on a note of disappointment, “The small room at the back.”

  “The others are for Meg and the girls.”

  “But I thought we were going to live here — you and me … a
lone together.”

  His clear eyes, that looked shallow as a bird’s, rested, as it were, accusingly on Finch’s face, which now had a look of great weariness. Finch asked abruptly, “why are you home from camp so soon?”

  “But it’s not soon. Uncle Renny sent me for only half the season because you were coming home. Wasn’t that good?”

  “Splendid,” said Finch heavily.

  Dennis seemed to have taken possession of the house. He went from room to room, turning on all the lights, moving as though to music, moving as though he had never been tired in his life.

  “why is my room not furnished?” he demanded.

  “I haven’t got round to that yet.”

  “Yours is the only bedroom furnished, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  A shadow crossed the little boy’s face. It was as though he said, “That’s being selfish, isn’t it?”

  Finch thought, “Oh, to be rid of him — rid of everybody — to be alone.” The crawling, creeping pain that had troubled him toward the end of his tour now again struck the back of his neck, his temples. He pressed a middle finger and thumb to them. He went to the window of the living room, and looked out into the darkness. Dennis pressed down treble keys of the piano and it cried out as though in anguish.

  “Don’t!” exclaimed Finch roughly. “Come away from there.”

  Dennis hung his head, his lips quivering. Then he came and slipped his hand into Finch’s with a proprietary air. What a small firm hand — like Sarah’s.

  Finch asked quietly, “Will you be afraid to go back to Jalna in the dark?”

  “No. For I shall have you.”

  Finch gently returned Dennis’s hand to him. He said, “what I meant was, I wish you would go home.”

  “This is home,” interrupted Dennis.

  “I know — I know…. I wish you would go to Jalna and tell Aunty Alayne that I have decided to spend the night here. Tell them that I am quite all right but I am going to sleep here. I shall be there for breakfast.”

  “But they’re having some supper pretty soon.”

  “I can do without that. Do you mind going?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Good. Now what are you to say?”

  “I’m to say you are staying here but you’ll be there for breakfast. Goodnight.” He vanished as quickly as he had come.

  It seemed too good to be true. The whip-poor-will, as though in an ecstasy of relief, gave himself up to the reiteration of his cry. The woods rang with it. A screech-owl gave forth his quaking call. Finch went from room to room, turning off the lights — all but the one in his bedroom. He looked longingly at the bed. But not yet could he lie in it. He discovered that his mouth was very dry. But the water was not yet available in the house. He must just forget his thirst. He would play something of Haydn’s and find tranquility.

  But when he laid his hands on the keys they were helpless. The fluid keyboard had become a frozen stream. The keys were frozen — immovable. He rested his elbows on the keyboard and his head on his hands. He gave himself up to the quiet of the night.

  After a time he went and lay down on his bed. Physically he began to be at ease. He stretched his body to its fullest length and threw out his arms. An immense relief enveloped him to think that he had been able to send that message by Dennis. He was thankful that Dennis had come, and still more thankful that he had gone…. Taken the message. He began to feel drowsy….

  He was roused by the sound of quick footsteps on the flagstones of the terrace. He heard them enter at the open door. He held his breath, listening…. Then came the sound of a crash — not heavy, but as of a small body falling on the floor of the music room, and simultaneously the rattle of dishes. Finch sprang up. It was very dark in the music room. In his confusion he forgot where the electric switch was. He fumbled along the wall, dazed.

  The clear treble voice of Dennis came out of the darkness.

  “It was a surprise,” he said, “but I fell.”

  “A surprise,” muttered Finch. “A surprise. What the devil are you up to?” Suddenly he found the electric switch. Two floor lamps and several wall lights brightly discovered the scene. Dennis lay sprawled on the floor. A hamper beside him had burst open and its contents discharged — sandwiches, fruit, broken dishes, a Thermos bottle.

  Dennis lay on his back, softly beating the floor with his fists. Tears were in his eyes. “I’m disappointed,” he said. “It was to be a lovely surprise for you. I gave the message and Mrs. Wragge packed the hamper. Aunty said to. And here are your pyjamas and here are mine. We’ve moved in.”

  Finch picked up the Thermos bottle.

  “what’s in this?” he asked, his mouth parched.

  “Coffee. With cream in it. There’s sugar in this little bag. And here are scones and butter and black cherries and cheese and — gee whiz — the cups are broken!”

  “I have plenty of dishes here,” said Finch. He went to the pantry and filled a large cup with coffee. It seemed to him the best he ever had tasted. It put new life into him. He could hear Dennis moving about gathering up the contents of the hamper. He came and asked, “where shall we have our picnic?”

  “Anywhere you like,” said Finch.

  “I choose the kitchen, then. It’s a pretty little kitchen.” He began deftly to lay the table. He drew up two chairs. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I believe I am.” This was true. Finch suddenly found himself very hungry. He drank a second cup of coffee and looked over the little spread on the table with interest.

  “Coffee should be taken last — not first,” Dennis said with some severity.

  “I know, but I was very thirsty.”

  “It’s nice to have your own way sometimes,” said Dennis.

  They sat facing each other across the small table. Mrs. Wragge had been generous, but soon they made a clean sweep of the food and had poured the last cups of coffee. They had eaten in silence, Dennis with outward composure though inwardly a little shy, a little puzzled by this strange father.

  Suddenly he asked, “what should I call you?”

  Finch’s mind was far away. With a start he repeated: “Callme? what do you mean, callme?”

  “Well, I generally just say you. But what do you like to be called — Father — Daddy — Papa — Pop?” At the last he gave his high laugh and said again, “Pop.”

  “Certainly not that,” said Finch, “if you value your skin.”

  “what then?”

  “Daddy, I think. You’re still a small boy.”

  Inexplicably Dennis jumped up, ran round the table to Finch and hugged him. “May I stay here with you tonight?” he whispered close into Finch’s ear. “I have my pyjamas, you know.” His arms tightened. “Please, please, let me stay. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  Finch looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock, long past the boy’s bedtime. He looked very small and pale.

  “Very well,” Finch said gruffly. “To bed with you, then, and keep yourself small.”

  Somehow he had become resigned to the boy’s presence. A blessed peace had descended on his nerves. He felt healthily tired. He knew that he could sleep. He moved quietly about the rooms, making things tidy for the night. He lighted another cigarette and sat by the open window of the music room, looking out into the gentle darkness. Tomorrow he would have solitude — seclusion.

  VII

  Maurice

  THERE WERE MOMENTS when Maurice half regretted this visit home. At these times he wondered whether the pleasure of being again under the same roof with his mother and Christian compensated for the pain of seeing Adeline and Fitzturgis together as so obviously lovers. He avoided it when possible, but in that closely knit circle it was not always possible. He longed to remove Adeline physically out of reach of Fitzturgis; yet when, as it occasionally happened, he found himself alone with her he became almost speechless, behaving, as she thought, like a sulky boy. A boy … that was what he really longed to be. He had
not felt ready for manhood when Dermot Court died and left him in possession of his estate. Maurice had clung to his position in that house, of a cherished boy dreaming of a distant future, living in a present where there was no responsibility. Now here in Canada he felt himself to be once again under Piers’s discipline. He could not forget his childhood fear of his father. The very form and face of Piers invited him to challenge, mystified him, made him feel both roused and helpless. He thought of his mother as suffering under Piers’s arbitrary domination, yet he could see how Piers about the house meekly did as Pheasant told him.

  Young Philip looked on Maurice as something of a curiosity. A brother and no brother — a visitor, yet one of the family — one of the family, yet an outsider, because he owned a place in Ireland to which he would before long return. A few presents and the evidence of means which lay behind them, these produced respect in Philip, but he envied no one. That autumn he was entering the Royal Military College as a cadet. He was to make the army his career. There would be another Captain Philip Whiteoak!

  At first Philip had been hurt by the realization that Christian now was closer to Maurice than to him — in temperament and tastes. The two older brothers could talk about art in a way that frankly bored Philip. Well, they might have art. He would be kept busy in living. One hope which he lovingly harboured was that Renny should make him heir to Jalna. Why not? Of what use would land and a large house and a stable full of horses be to Archer? All Archer would require for content were a small apartment and plenty of books.

  Philip had twice helped Christian steer Maurice to his room past the bedroom where their parents slept. He had seen his mother give a swift, pained look at Maurice, as though she guessed what her sons so carefully sought to hide from her. Maurice was such gay company when he was sober and in good spirits. His different way of speaking lent piquancy to what he said. When he had drunk, even a little too much, he became downcast, and his every word and movement was crowned by a melancholy intensity.