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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “why ‘Heaven forbid’?”

  “Because you’re angel enough as you are.”

  This pleased her. Indeed, conversation with him was always a pleasure to her. She bent her head closer to the moth to watch its progress along his hand. Her fine hair separated and fell forward, exposing her tender nape. His eyes moved to it, away from the moth which, with a quiver of new life, prepared to fly.

  “why does it take so long?” she asked.

  “Well, it took you more than a year to learn to walk.”

  “Had I been in a cocoon?”

  “Sort of.” She turned her head sideways and gave him a slanting look.

  “Tell me,” she said, “all about — everything.”

  “You ask your mother.” His tone became brusque. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I think you know everything,” she said.

  Together they watched the moth’s progress from a lumbering movement to a confident preparation for flight. It had become more brightly coloured, its body smaller, its wings larger, capable of flight.

  Renny Whiteoak lifted it from his hand and set it outside on the sunny sill. “Come along,” he said, “you’ll freeze if you stay here.”

  “I like this studio. I come here to think.”

  “About Christian?”

  Christian was her brother, the owner of the studio, who was studying art in Paris.

  “No. About all of us. Do you know how many houses there are, with us in them?”

  He pretended not to know. “How many?”

  “Five,” she cried in triumph. “First there’s ours — ”

  “You should put Jalna first,” he interrupted. For a moment she looked downcast, then strung off the names quickly.

  “First there’s Jalna, where you live. Then there’s my house — ”

  Again he interrupted — “You should say my father’s house.”

  Instantly she brought out, for she was a regular churchgoer, “In my father’s house are many mansions.What’s a mansion, Uncle Renny?”

  “A large residence.”

  “How could there be a lot of large residences in one house, Uncle Renny?”

  “That particular house is heaven.”

  She pondered over this as she hopped beside him through the door into the sunshine.

  “Is Jalna a mansion?” she asked.

  “Good Lord, no. It’s just a fair-sized house.”

  She hid her disappointment and went on with her list.

  “First there’s Jalna. Then there’s my father’s house. That sounds silly to me. Does it sound silly to you?”

  “Rather. Better say my house,as you did the first time. That’s two, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Jalna and my house and Uncle Finch’s house and Aunt Meg’s and Patience’s. That’s five houses, all belonging to us. Shall we call on them, just you and me together?”

  “All right,” he said. “It’s rather a good idea. We’ll go to Jalna first. I’ve already told your mother that I’m taking you to see the new foal.”

  She was so happy to do this that she wanted to reward him. She said, “There’s a starling’s nest under the eave,” and she pointed it out to him. The starling had just gone in, with a bit of string dangling from his beak. He was quite hidden, now that he was under the eave, but a pigeon had seen him and had flown to the roof to peer in at the happy householder. As though that were not enough he hopped down from the roof and went in to observe the progress of the nest-building. His feet showed clean and coral-coloured. His pouting breast was the banner of desirous conjugality. Deeply he cooed as he stood half-hidden with the starling.

  “Poor old boy,” said Renny. “He’s dying for a nest of his own and is too lazy to build one.”

  Mary’s eager sympathy, where birds and beasts were concerned, overflowed in a tear or two. She wiped them on the back of her uncle’s hand that she closely held.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered, as though unable to bear the sight of the pigeon’s frustration.

  Together they strolled along the road and entered a field across which a path, newly thawed, led to Jalna. Mary’s shoelace was dangling and Renny bent to tie it. Consciously feminine, she savoured his attitude of service to her. She sniffed the good smell of tweed and pipe tobacco that rose from him. As he had looked down in tenderness at her white nape, now she gazed in wonder at his weather-beaten one. All the long winter it had been shielded by a collar; still it looked weather-beaten. With curiosity she examined his high-coloured, pointed ears, his dense red hair.

  She asked, “why is your hair a different colour in spots?”

  He sat on his heels and stared at her in surprise. He was astonished. “A different colour? where?”

  “There,” she touched the hair at his temple with her forefinger. “It’s sort of grey there.”

  “Grey,” he repeated. “Grey. I hadn’t noticed. You mean really grey?”

  She was proud to have discovered something about him that he himself hadn’t noticed. She danced up and down and chanted — “Grey! Grey! Grey!”

  “Well, I’ll be dashed,” he said, rather to himself than to her. “I hadn’t noticed more than a few scattered grey hairs, but reallygrey, you say, at the temples? Hm — well — I’m past sixty. I suppose it’s to be expected.” He tried to sound resigned, then burst out: “why, my grandmother lived to be a hundred, and she neverwent grey. But, of course, her hair was hidden by a lace cap. I couldn’t very well wear a lace cap, could I, Mary? Would you like to see me in a lace cap?”

  “You look nice,” said Mary, in a comforting tone, for she felt that he was troubled.

  Hand in hand they crossed the brown field, he leaving the path to her and walking alongside in his thick-soled brown boots that left their imprint on the rough grass. They came to another field, into which gave a five-barred gate. The field beyond was somehow greener and more spring-like. A benign cow stood there, waiting for the grass to grow. Renny Whiteoak laid his hand on the gate.

  “See this gate, Mary?” he asked.

  She nodded, her fine fair hair blown by the north wind.

  “Well,” he went on, “I’ve been in the habit of vaulting this gate, just for the fun of it, when I cross this field. I haven’t done it since last fall. Now I’m going to make a test. If I can vault over this gate — well and good. If I can’t I shall realize that the grey hairs are a sign of decrepitude.”

  “what shall you do then?” she asked, only half-understanding.

  “I’ll burst into tears,” he said emphatically. “How would you like to see me burst into tears?”

  The thought of seeing him in tears brought the all too ready tears into her own eyes.

  He saw them and declared, “We’ll cry together.”

  He took a clean neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and put it into her hand. “We can share this,” he said. “It’s large but we’ll need it.” Near the gate he halted. “Now — be ready, Mary — go!”

  He took a few quick steps to the gate, laid a hand on it and vaulted it smartly, turning on the other side to face his niece with a grin.

  “How was that?” he demanded.

  She clapped her hands, with the handkerchief between them. She gave a little laugh of delight. “Oh, that was good,” she cried. “Do it again!”

  The grin faded from his face. “How like a woman,” he said, opening the gate for her to pass through. “A man does his damnedest and all she can find to say is — ‘Do it again.’”

  Mary wiped her eyes, then her nose, with the handkerchief and returned it to him. The cow moved a little closer to watch them pass. They were observed also by Renny Whiteoak’s son, Archer, a University student, home for the weekend.

  “Well, Archer, and what did you think of that for a jump?” Renny’s eager brown eyes sought his son’s cold blue ones.

  “Very spry,” returned the youth judicially.

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t do it.”

 
; “I never have pretended,” said Archer, “to be athletic. It’s all I can do to find the path and, when I have found it, to stay on it. But I admire high spirits — never say die — all that sort of thing.” Archer liked a Latin quotation and now added — “Nec mora nec requies.”

  He joined the other two, taking care that they should be between him and the cow.

  Renny had not liked the word “spry.” To get even with his son he remarked, “That’s a nasty-looking pimple you have on your chin.”

  “It may not add to my appearance,” said Archer, “but it has added considerably to my comfort, as, because of it, I am excused from a tea party Auntie Meg is giving at the Rectory. I was to have helped pass the tarts but she thinks that pimples and pastry are too apropos.”

  “That’s the Women’s Institute,” Mary piped up proudly. “I’m going to the party to help.”

  They passed from the field into the apple orchard, where the trees, after valorous effort throughout the month of April, had produced only the tiniest leaf buds, where the path was half-hidden by last year’s dead grass, where a few dying snowflakes huddled in the deepest shade.

  “Will spring ever come to us!” Archer exclaimed disconsolately.

  “In a few weeks this orchard will be white with bloom.” The word “white” touched the master of Jalna in a tender spot. He bent his head in front of Archer. “Do you see anything wrong with my hair?” he demanded.

  Archer examined it without interest. “Nothing,” he said, “except that it’s red.”

  “Well, I like that!” exclaimed Renny, affronted.

  “I admit that it suits you,” said Archer. “You were born and bred to what it indicates, but I have always been thankful I did not inherit it.”

  Renny straightened himself and gave a disparaging glance at his son’s dry pale thatch.

  “I know it’s not handsome hair,” said Archer, “but it will see me through courtship and marriage. By that time I shall probably be as bald as a doorknob.”

  “I had not thought of you in connection with marriage.” Renny spoke with respect rather than unkindness.

  “why not?”

  “Well, possibly because you’re so highbrow.”

  “I may be highbrow,” Archer said stiffly, “but I believe I shall be capable of propagating my kind.”

  “That’s just it. Your kind isn’t suited to the life we lead here. I can’t picture your kind as breeding horses and farming. You’ve said that yourself.”

  Archer spoke with an edge to his voice. “I suppose you have my sister in mind for the job.…”

  “I had thought of the possibility.”

  “Have you a mate for her in mind?”

  “I have my ideas.”

  “For what they are worth,” said Archer. “where she is concerned you can’t be certain of anything. To wit, she’s a female.”

  When conversing with Archer, Renny sometimes found himself using pedantic expressions quite unlike his naturally terse manner. Now he said, “what I was endeavouring to elucidate is whether you notice any change in my hair.”

  “Elucidate,” repeated Archer, drawing back.

  “Yes. Find out.”

  “I’ve noticed it’s a bit grey at the temples.”

  “You have — and you didn’t tell me!”

  “It seems natural, and —” here Archer gave his singularly sweet smile — “looks rather nice.”

  Renny returned the look glumly. “I don’t understand,” he said. “My grandmother’s hair was still red at my age.”

  Mary was dancing from one foot to another, hugging herself to keep from freezing.

  “Come along,” Renny said, taking her hand. He swept her over a puddle at the edge of the orchard and they made their way across the sodden lawn, round the house to the front door.

  Inside the hall the three dogs, having too much sense to go out on such a morning, rose to greet them with overdemonstrative affection for Renny, tolerance for little Mary, and cool curiosity for Archer. He remarked:

  “Funny to meet you without the dogs.”

  Renny took the cairn terrier into his arms. “This little one,” he said, “is not as hardy as he used to be. He’s promised me to take care of himself. One of the others has a sore paw, and one a touch of rheumatism.”

  “Poor things,” said Archer, without sympathy.

  Alayne Whiteoak, Renny’s wife, came out of the library, a book of essays in her hand. That room had been no more than a sitting room, with few books, when she had come, as a bride, to Jalna, but now its walls were lined with well-arranged volumes. It also had a television set which Alayne deplored. Little Mary at once went into the library and turned it on. A seductive baritone voice came into the hall. Alayne could imagine the face from which it issued. She called out:

  “Mary, you did not ask permission to do that.” Mary did not hear her.

  “She loves it,” said Renny.

  “It gives her a sense of power,” said Archer, “and that’s why she turns it on.”

  “Well,” Alayne spoke sharply, “go and turn it off, Archer.”

  He went into the library and closed the door after him.

  Alone with Renny, Alayne avoided looking at his muddy boots by looking at his attractive face, with its well-marked aquiline features, adroit mouth, and amber eyes. However, she so well concealed her admiration that he thought she was annoyed at him — as indeed she all but was.

  “Little wife,” he said, and made as though to kiss her, but she moved away. If there was one form of his endearments she liked less than “little wife,” it was “wee wifie,” which he occasionally produced when he happened to remember that he had had a Scottish grandfather. But “little wife” was bad enough to make her reject amorous overtures from him.

  “why did Mary come?” she asked.

  “That’s very interesting. She suggested that we should call at all five of the houses belonging to our family. I think that’s rather clever of her. What I mean is, she’s the youngest of the tribe. She’s just beginning to understand what it is to belong to a family, to …” He hesitated.

  “To be a Whiteoak,” she finished for him, with a touch of irony.

  He did not notice that. He accepted what she had said, as wisdom.

  “So,” he went on, “Mary and I are making the rounds, and I’m going to tell her a little about each of the houses as we visit them. And about the families who live there, of course.”

  “I must go into town this afternoon,” Alayne said, feeling little interest in Mary’s education. “Will you drive me or shall I ask Hans?” Hans was the husband of the cook. A Dutch couple had served the household well while Wragge, the Cockney houseman, was, with his wife, taking a prolonged holiday in England.

  Renny amiably agreed to drive Alayne into the city, though he hated and feared the traffic. “I have no business there myself,” he said. “I can start at whatever time you like.”

  A little later he and Mary were standing, hand in hand, on the gravel sweep in front of the house. She was sorry to leave the television, but she was so pleased to be going about with Renny that nothing else really mattered. Even the wetness and cold of her feet did not matter, and the hand that lay in Renny’s was warm as toast.

  “This house,” he was saying, “is where your roots are.”

  “My roots?” she repeated, looking down at her small wet feet.

  “Yes. Your beginnings. Your father and mother came here when they were first married.” His mind flew back to that homecoming and the hot reception the young pair had suffered. He saw, as clear as though it were yesterday, the passionately excited group, the grandmother in their midst. She’d given Piers a sound rap on the hand with her stick. The poor little bride had cried, and no wonder.

  “It’s the most important house of the five, I know,” Mary said, looking up into his face.

  “You’re right, and it’s soon going to have a birthday — its hundredth birthday. That’s what they call a centenary. And it�
��s going to have a celebration!”

  “A party?”

  “Yes. A really splendid party.”

  “Shall I be there?”

  “We’ll all be there. And let me tell you, Mary, there’s nothing in the world so strong as a close-knit family group. It gives you confidence. It gives you good cheer. It may give you a bad hour occasionally but it’s always there to go to in time of trouble and it’s there to share your joys.”

  Mary nodded agreement, even though she did not understand half of what he said.

  Looking down into her child’s face, he said, “You’ll remember this later and it will mean a lot to you.”

  To show that she understood, she said, “The house will soon be a hundred years old.”

  He exclaimed eagerly — “And for the occasion, all the woodwork, shutters, porch, and doors will be freshly painted. The woodwork’s paint always has been green, but I’m seriously thinking of ivory paint this year. It would set off the rosy colour of the brick and the green of the Virginia creeper.”

  The Virginia creeper, at the time, showed not a single green leaf. Its leaves were tightly rolled and looked like little red tongues, stuck out in derision.

  “Will you paint the front door ivory?” Mary asked.

  “No. The door will keep its natural oak colour. The brass knocker looks well on it, don’t you agree?”

  “It’s a very nice house,” said Mary. “Our family has five homes and it’s the best.”

  The house appeared to absorb all this attention and praise with great self-satisfaction. If a house could be said to look smug, certainly it did. It seemed to say: “I will remain here, to justify your lives, as long as this country survives.”

  Seven pigeons slid down the sloping roof and stood poised for flight, their jewel-like eyes, their burnished throats, bright with the promise of the season. The steps that now came running along the drive were those of Renny’s daughter, Adeline. She was five years older than Archer and though slim was exuberantly formed, as compared to the stark austerity of his youthful frame. These two were in every way a contrast: his fair hair, dry and inclined to stand upright, while hers, of a rich auburn that in sunlight glowed red, curled, as though caressingly, about her vivid face; his eyes a constant blue, hers a changeful brown; his lips composed in a thoughtful and almost satiric (or so he hoped) line, hers ready to smile or be sad.