The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (116 page)

“Meggie! Were you saying anything?”

“No, darling. Meggie has a headache, tell Mamma. Tell Mamma Meggie doesn’t want any breakfast.”

“All right.” But he did not go away.

After a little his voice came again. She could hear him breathing into the keyhole.

“Meg, are you crying?”

“Goodness, no! Do go and tell Mamma!”

He trotted off.

Again she relaxed into a flood of tears. She did not try to control them, for the unhappiness of weeping was bearable. She remembered how, when she was a child, she could cry and cry. She remembered the sound of Renny’s yells of rage and despair when he was little. Would Renny offer to fight Maurice, challenge him to a duel? She pictured them facing each other with revolvers in the ravine at dawn. She heard the sad murmuring of the river.

Another step sounded outside her door. There was no tap, but it opened softly and Mary put in her head.

“Meg, dear, aren’t you quite well? Don’t you think that a cup of tea would be nice? We had the first strawberries on the table this morning. Eden said he thought you were feeling ill.” There was an excited quiver in her voice. She was keeping a hold on herself. Meg was conscious of a faint sense of satisfaction in the thought that Mary was trying to pretend that everything was as usual while she had known the worst from the very beginning.

“I don’t want anything,” she answered.

Mary came quickly to the bedside and looked down at her tear stained face.

“Why, Meggie —”

Meg sat bolt upright, her blurred eyes staring into Mary’s.

“I know all,” she said. “I heard Noah Binns tell Daddy everything.”

Consternation drew the colour from Mary’s lips. For a moment she did not know what to say, but just stood staring back at Meg, stammering — “Why — why — oh —”

Then she pulled herself together and sat down beside Meg and put both arms around her. “Poor little girl! It’s awful for you, I know. I mean, to have heard such a thing. But you mustn’t believe it! I don’t believe a single word of it. You must try to put it out of your head and go on as though nothing had happened. It’s nothing but cruel, spiteful gossip.”

Meg drew herself away. “Is Daddy downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Did he go over to the Vaughans?”

“Yes. He and your uncles went.”

“What did Maurice say?”

“They did not see him. They saw Mr. Vaughan.”

“Did they see the baby?”

Again Mary put her arms about her.

“If I were you, Meg,” she said, “I would not let myself believe this hateful gossip.”

“But — supposing it isn’t gossip? Supposing it’s true?”

“You must not think it is true. You love Maurice. Maurice loves you. I have seen his eyes follow you with a most loving look in them.”

Meg pushed her away. “Send Daddy to me, please! I want him to tell me what he thinks.”

“Can’t I say anything to help you? If only I could be your friend in this time —”

Meg turned her back and buried her face in the pillows.

She lay listening to the sound of Mary’s steps retreating down the stairway. She wished she could hear what they were saying below. Suddenly she sprang out of bed and ran across the room into the passage. She leant far over the banister and strained her ears. All the family seemed to be talking at once. She could just distinguish Aunt Augusta’s contralto voice through the sonorous tones of the men, and her grandmother’s, old and harsh, raised suddenly for a moment.

She would stay listening, she thought, till she heard her father coming into the hall, then she would run back to her bed and lie rigid on it with her eyes tightly closed. He would have to speak to her several times before she would answer.

She started as she heard Renny’s steps coming along the passage. She tried to dart into her room, but she could not escape him. She turned and faced him, pathetic in her white nightdress, her brown plaits with the curls on the ends.

“Renny,” she said, “I’ll
never, never
marry Maurice! It’s all over, I tell you! You wouldn’t have me marry him, would you?”

Renny gave her a sideways look. He would have liked to escape her. He did not answer, but gave an embarrassed smile. His face looked inscrutable to her, masculine and knowing and old. She thought — “He has known all about this sort of thing for ages, while I am only beginning to find out!”

She asked sharply — “Did you know about it before this morning?”

“A little,” he answered.

“A little! What do you mean by that?”

“Well, Maurice had spoken of Elvira to me.”

“Oh, and to think that Mother would ask me to behave as though nothing had happened! To go on with everything! To believe that it was all gossip!”

“I supposed a good deal of it is gossip.” He moved down the stairway below her so that their faces were now on a level.

She looked into his face furiously. “Is the
baby
just
gossip
?”

He drew back from her, standing flat against the wall. Philip came into the hall below. He saw them as he reached the foot of the stairs. He had a sudden recollection of them watching from above when there was a party going on. But they were no longer children. He had his hands full. Renny watched his approach with relief. Meg put her arm across her eyes and began to cry.

“What are you crying for?” asked Philip. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

“Oh, Daddy, how can you say that?” She fell sobbing into his arms. “My heart is broken!”

Philip stroked her hair. “Meggie, Meggie, don’t cry so! You’ll be ill. Come, we’ll go into your room and talk it over. Renny doesn’t believe in this story, do you, Renny?”

“That’s just what I was telling her.”

“He does! He does! He knows every word of it is true!”

Philip drew her into her own room and closed the door behind them. He sat down on the side of the bed and took Meg on his knees. Her plump young body was an armful. She looked searchingly into his face.

“Daddy, I want you to answer me just in one word. Do you or don’t you believe that Maurice is the father of this baby?”

“Meggie, what I think has happened is —”

“One word! I said one word! Oh, Daddy, don’t you lie to me too!”

Philip’s forehead was puckered in distress. He answered sombrely —

“Yes.”

Her last hope, if she had any, was shattered. She threw herself out of his arms and lay in a dishevelled heap on the bed. She began to roll convulsively from side to side. She caught the hem of the sheet in her teeth and bit at it.

“Meggie, stop it!” said Philip sternly. He gave her a sharp slap on the cheek.

She lay still, looking up at him out of eyes so swollen by weeping that they were almost closed. He could scarcely recognize his child.

He rose heavily and went to the washing stand. He dipped her sponge in the ewer and came back to her and began gently to bathe her eyes. “Poor little girl,” he comforted, “poor little daughter.”

She caught his hand and kissed it.

“Oh, Daddy,” she sobbed, “I’ll stay with you forever!”

There seemed to be no limit to her tears. As fast as he wiped them away, others streamed in their place. He asked desperately: —

“Shall I send your mother to you?”

“No — no!”

“Granny, then?”

“No!”

“Your aunt or one of the uncles?”

“I don’t want anyone!”

“Would you like to be alone for a bit?” He felt that he could not stand the strain of this much longer.

“Yes.”

“If I leave you, will you promise me not to roll about or anything?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be quite still and try not to worry?”

“Yes — I’ll lie quite still.”

He straightened her pillows and drew her nightdress neatly about her ankles. Then he covered her, touched her plaits, and said — “Nice hair.”

When he reached the door he turned back and said seriously: —

“You must not imagine that this sort of thing has never happened to an engaged girl before. It’s very rough on you, I’ll admit. But young men are often wild, you know. This will be a good lesson for Maurice. Far better have it happen before marriage than after. He’ll probably be a good husband to you all his days.” He went out and closed the door.

Downstairs he lingered in the hall for a moment, looking through the open door at the lawn, where one of Eden’s rabbits, escaped from its hutch, nibbled its sunny way. Philip sighed, thinking that there would be no fishing for him that day. He glanced at the grandfather clock and saw that it was not quite eleven. God — what a day! Already it seemed like a week.

He turned into the library where the family had gathered. Little breakfast had been eaten that morning and Eliza had just carried in a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of scones. His mother was sitting behind it, the shadow of disappointment on her face lightened a little at the sight of the food. Malahide Court lounged beside her on the couch. He wore a pensive expression. Sir Edwin sat upright near a window reading a fortnight-old copy of the
Times
, his eyeglasses pushed near the end of his nose so that he might look over them at his collected relatives-in-law when he chose. Ernest had an open copy of
Quo Vadis
on his knee, but his reading was only an effort to appear calmer than he was. He was deeply shaken by the events of the morning. He was longing for food, yet doubtful if he should eat when so agitated. Nicholas sat puffing stolidly at his pipe and motioned Philip to a chair at his side. Augusta, in a wine-coloured cashmere dress with a lace jabot, held Eden on her lap, and Molly sat close beside talking earnestly to her. The folding doors that gave into the dining room were open, and under their arch, his hands deep in his pockets, Renny moved nervously about. He gave his father an anxious look as he entered. The lace curtains at the windows moved gently in the light breeze.

“Well,” Adeline demanded. “How is the girl taking it?”

“Very hard, indeed,” answered Philip sadly. “She’s never stopped crying. As a matter of fact, I thought once she was going to have a fit. She rolled over and over and bit the sheet!”

The breath of the family escaped in a universal “tck.”

“She should have had a clout on the head,” said Adeline.

“She did,” said Philip.

“Ha! That was good! Bring her to her senses.”

“I call it nothing short of brutal,” observed Ernest.

“Oh, it was just a tap,” said Philip, “but it quieted her, poor little thing!”

“The point is,” put in Nicholas, “is she willing to go on with the marriage?”

“It’s impossible to say at the moment. She doesn’t want to see anyone. She just wants to be let alone.”

“The very best thing for her,” said Augusta. “The quieter she can be kept for the next few days the better. Speak soothingly to her, give her plenty of tempting food. Perhaps a wedding present might divert her mind. I think she can be brought to see reason!”

“She must,” said Adeline. “Have some tea, Philip.” She began to fill the cups with tea. Ernest rose and, with
Quo Vadis
in one hand and a plate of scones in the other, circled the room. Soon they were all eating, drinking the heartening beverage which they felt they badly needed, for they had had a severe shock to their pride and their long-cherished plan had been all but wrecked.

“What I can’t tolerate,” said Adeline, “is the thought that Robert Vaughan and his wife, with never any but this one chick to look after, should not have known what he was up to. I call them a weak-kneed, spineless, milk-and-water doddering old pair of half-wits!”

“They have spoilt the boy,” said Ernest.

“They were always talking about how clever and how good he was,” added Nicholas.

“I think,” agreed Augusta, “that they were very boring on the subject of their son’s perfections. I am convinced that they thought him superior to our young man.”

Philip chuckled. “Yes. When ours was suspended last term Vaughan made no pretense of hiding his gratitude for the high-minded qualities of his son.”

“Well, he’ll do no crowing after this,” said Nicholas. “Young Renny deserved to be suspended, it’s true, but his scrape had nothing to do with girls.”

Renny’s grandmother looked at him fiercely from under her heavy brows. She began to speak, but found that she had taken such a mouthful of scone that it was impossible. Her family regarded her politely and with a little concern as she grew red and tried in vain to swallow.

“Take a mouthful of tea, Mamma,” urged Ernest. “It’s dangerous to fill your mouth so full of dry scone.”

Her fierce glance became furious as she directed it from Renny’s face to Ernest’s, but she took his advice and swallowed half a cupful of tea. With it she got rid of the scone and turned to her grandson.

“If you,” she said thickly, “ever dare to lay a bad hand on a village girl, I pity you!”

A rumble of agreement came from the lips of her sons.

The subject of Adeline’s threat stood in the arch of the doorway, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile. His bright gaze travelled from one face to another.

Eden was sure that they were scolding Renny again. He slipped down from his aunt’s lap and went to him and pulled at his sleeve.

“Let’s go for a walk, Renny, shall we?” he whispered.

Renny laid his hand on Eden’s round, soft neck.

“Take your hand off the child’s neck,” commanded their grandmother. “You’ll make him humpbacked walking with him so. You’re always at it.”

Renny grinned, but did not remove his hand.

“You defy me!” cried Adeline!

“Now that you remark it, Mamma,” said Ernest, “I am conscious that Renny never comes near the child without putting his hand on his nape. It is very bad for Eden, as you say. Have you noticed the habit, Philip?”

Philip stared at his sons.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, “that Renny is very fond of the child. Stand out here, Eden, and let us see if your neck is straight.”

Mary said, with a resentful tone in her voice: —

“I am often worried by the way Renny is always handling Eden. I think it’s bad for him. And Eden expects it. He runs to Renny the instant he sees him.”

“And why not?” exclaimed Adeline. “That’s perfectly natural. What isn’t natural is that Renny should put the weight of his hand on the child’s neck.”