The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (157 page)

“There was never any real fear,” said Renny. “It was trumped up to show off. Before long he’ll like me the best of the lot.” He patted the little boy encouragingly on the back. His eyes rested less genially on Eden. He spoke to his grandmother, slightly raising his voice.

“So you liked Mrs. Stroud, Gran?”

“I did. I think she’s a nice, sensible woman, though I wouldn’t say she’s out of the top drawer.”

Eden’s face flushed. He said:

“She’s the most interesting, intellectual woman I have met.”

“What would you say, Gran, if you were told that Eden is having an affair with her?”

“I should not believe you.”

“It’s true.”

Eden threw a furious look at Renny. “For God’s sake, shut up!”

Adeline planted her ebony stick firmly on the ground between her feet and leaned forward so that she might miss no word. “Shut up, did he say? I say no! I say out with it! I want to know what it’s all about.” Her eyes glowed with curiosity.

“I suppose,” answered Eden, “it is not the first time in history that a young man has had a friendship with an older woman.”

“I agree,” said Ernest, “that it has often been and I see no reason why it should be bad for a young fellow. I myself, when I was twenty-three —”

“Five years older than this boy,” interrupted Renny.

“We develop younger now,” said Eden.

“Develop younger!” Nicholas put in impatiently. “Fellows like you are babies compared to what I and my friends were at your age.”

Old Adeline gave her stick a thump.

“You’re all babies,” she declared. She went on — “Why wasn’t I told this before the woman came? I’d have drawn her out!”

“She’s one woman in a thousand,” said Eden. “I’d rather be with her than with anyone I know. And I intend to be with her. If people choose to have filthy minds, let them say what they like. We’ll go our own way.”

Nicholas turned to Renny. “What
are
people saying?”

Eden put in vehemently — “And who are the people who are talking? Old gossips like Miss Pink! And dirty dogs like Jim Dayborn!”

Renny put the child from him and sat up. Wakefield trotted after Meg who had gone into the house.

“That’s rot,” said Renny. “You know very well that you can’t spend all your spare time in Mrs. Stroud’s house without making people talk. Just tell your family, since you’re so above-board, what time you came home last night and how you came in.”

“I refuse,” said Eden hotly. “I’m damned if I’ll be badgered like this.” He sprang to his feet. “You can talk me over among yourselves. I’m off.”

“What a young cock-a-hoop!” exclaimed Adeline. As he flung off she watched him from under her shaggy brows, her strong lips pursed in a line of ironic reflection.

“That remark of Eden’s was very unjust,” said Ernest.” He has had a great deal of sympathy from his family. Especially, I may say, from myself. I have encouraged him in writing poetry —”

“I wish you’d been doing something else, then,” said Renny. “Poetry is at the bottom of all this trouble. He sits at Mrs. Stroud’s knee, reading his verses. She recites Browning and Shelley to him. I’ve heard about it from Dayborn. I shouldn’t have mentioned this affair in front of you all but I have spoken to him before and he was on his high horse. If you older ones think it doesn’t matter, I’ll have nothing more to say. Let him ride for a fall if you don’t mind.”

“That would never do,” rumbled Nicholas. “When and how
did
he come in last night?”

“At one o’clock. Through the study window.”

Nicholas whistled softly. Ernest exhaled his breath in a soundless “whew.” The grandmother was silent, still retaining her expression of ironic reflection.

Augusta had been silent throughout the scene, though her needle remained suspended. She kept her detachment when she could, for she liked placid and orderly things, but this was too much. Such an experience for a boy of eighteen was not to be tolerated. He was her favourite among her nephews. She liked to think of him as elegant and indolent but she did not like to think of him as without moral conscience. Now she felt more put out at him than ever she had been. But the blame was Mrs. Stroud’s.

“What effrontery!” she exclaimed, “to come to our tea party with such a thing on her conscience!”

“Who is she, anyhow?” asked Nicholas. “Has she nothing better to do than pursue a youth?”

“She is renewing
her
youth,” said Renny drily. “I don’t think she’s had any past successes. I gather that she’d pretty heavy going with an invalid husband for a good many years. She’s making up for lost time.”

“She cannot do that on Eden,” said Augusta.

Ernest looked at her for inspiration. He asked — “But what are we to do? He seems quite headlong. And if the disparity of their ages and their outlook does not keep them apart —”

“Something must be done,” said Augusta.

Renny observed — “You know that he barely scraped through his exams. You know he’s in debt. And I must say you’ve encouraged him in his extravagance, Uncle Ernie.”

Ernest looked flustered. He had, before he was middle-aged, gone through the respectable legacy left him by his father. He brought back that father’s shadow to his aid now, exclaiming:

“My father would have taken a horsewhip to him!”

Renny grinned and said — “I’m willing to do that, if you think I ought to.”

“Oh no,” said Augusta, “the day for violence is past. Except of a very moderate sort.”

“Like a kick behind,” suggested Renny.

Adeline now withdrew herself from her ruminating, which had taken her far back into dusky recesses of her mind, where were laid memories of certain episodes of her own youth. She said:

“There’s only one thing to do with a woman like that. An older man of experience must cut him out.”

It took a moment for the proposal to gain a footing in their minds, then Augusta exclaimed:

“What a good idea, Mamma! Ernest is the man, without a doubt. He has had experience of the world. He has distinction. He has charm.”

Ernest coloured like a girl at these words. He positively simpered. At the same time he was aghast at the thought of tackling Mrs. Stroud. He said, clasping his knee to keep his hands steady — “Let Nick do the job. Women like
divorcés.”

“With this leg!” exclaimed Nicholas sardonically. I’d look well, with a guitar on my gouty knee, serenading the merry widow.”

“I’ll bet you’d have her sitting on the other one in no time,” said Renny. “I think aunt’s idea is a good one. The woman is lonely. She likes masculine companionship but not the horsy type. She likes poetry. Uncle Ernie can tell her about the book he’s going to write. Did you speak of it today?”

“I had little conversation with her. I spoke of it to Mrs. Cummings.”

“Chris? I’ll bet she’d never heard of Shakespeare.”

“Indeed she had, though she does not know his sonnets.”

“Mrs. Stroud does. I saw them on her writing table.”

“There is one contingency,” said Ernest, “which none of you take into account. What if I myself should become smitten with the lady? What then?”

“Marry her, with our blessing!” cried Renny.

Ernest looked offended. So did Augusta. She said:

“If and when my brother chooses to marry, I hope he will find someone more suitable both in appearance and breeding. In my opinion Mrs. Stroud is squat, and a little common.”

Adeline asked anxiously of Ernest — “Do you think there’s danger of your getting soft on her?”

“Not the least, Mamma. She is not at all my style. I was only joking.”

“This is no matter for jest,” said Augusta.” You can see how wrought-up Eden is. There is no time to waste. Today has made an opening. Tomorrow you must call on her. Be frank, tell her you are worried about Eden. Touch her sympathies, then proceed with her conquest. Your instinct will tell you what to say.”

“It sounds easy,” said Ernest, “sitting here under this tree, but it will be very different when I’m alone with Mrs. Stroud.”

“It will be easier,” encouraged Augusta.

“For your passion will be roused,” added his mother.

“My
passion
!” Ernest was aghast.

“Your passion for achievement, Mamma means,” supplemented Augusta.

“You’ll have her eating out of your hand after the third meeting,” said Renny.

“There is something underhand about it,” Ernest said, biting his nail.

“Nonsense,” said Nicholas. “She has no scruples. She’d make a mess of that boy without a second thought. Go ahead and do your damnedest, Ernie.”

Ernest braced himself. He answered with fervour:

“I will.”

“All this has been tiring for Mamma,” said Augusta. “She’s nodding.”

Adeline’s chin was indeed sunk on her breast. Her lace-trimmed, beribboned cap was over one eye, but an inscrutable smile curved her lips.

E
RNEST AND
M
RS.
S
TROUD

T
HE NEXT DAY
it was raining. There had been several weeks of fair weather which latterly had blazed into summer heat, and the heavy rain of the night before had come as a relief. A fresh bright morning might have been expected, but instead it was dull and a thin rain was falling. There was a lifelessness in the air, and Mrs. Stroud, moving about her orderly living room, felt restless and suddenly alone in the world. The sensation was not new to her. It was one she had had to fight against almost all her life. She had been an only child. Her father had died when she was still a girl, and her youth had been restricted by the care and the whims of a semi-invalid mother whom she had never greatly loved. When she was twenty-six her mother died. Only a few weeks later she was caught in a rainstorm and took shelter under a tree. A man of fifty was sheltering there also. They got into conversation. He was a widower, a retired merchant, comfortably off. She was in a mood for sudden intimacies. In less than six months they were married.

Life with Robert Stroud was little more exciting than the life she had left. His ways were set. His will was adamant. He had made his money rather by extreme care than by enterprise. Once they were married, he had seemed to lose interest in her. She had suppressed every warm impulse in herself in order to fit her life into his. They had been married only three years when he had a stroke and for six years was a helpless invalid. Amy Stroud’s life with her mother had been exhilarating as compared to the suffocation that now surrounded her days. When she was not hastening to obey the capricious demands of her husband, she had buried herself in books, poetry, and the old-fashioned novels which had belonged to her predecessor.

Freedom had come three years ago. It had been like a new birth, painful in its sweetness. She had spread herself like a heavy-bodied butterfly fresh from the chrysalis. She had bought herself the dainty clothes she had always desired. She had sold the house and all its stuffy furniture. She longed above all things to travel, to see Italy and Greece, but her husband’s long illness had eaten up a large part of his capital. Her flutterings would not be high above the ground. It was a thrill to her, in that first summer, to go to a little lakeside resort and sit with other women on a verandah, gossiping, waiting for their husbands to return from their fishing. The next winter she had actually gone to Florida, repeating on a larger scale the experience of the summer. The following summer she had ventured as far as Quebec, had taken long walks about the Citadel and had sat on the promenade reading
The Golden Dog.
Still she was not satisfied. She felt a well of emotion and eloquence within herself. Yet she had no one on whom to spend her emotion or to move by her eloquence. She had spent more money than she should have done and felt that she must buy a house and settle down. She returned to Ontario, spending the winter in a boarding house, concerts and moving pictures her diversions, and scanned the newspapers for advertisements of houses.

When she saw the advertisement of Miss Pink’s house she was interested, for as a girl she had once paid a visit in that vicinity with her mother and ever after had retained memories of its quiet charm, its air of remoteness, its fine old trees. She consulted the agent and he took her to see the house. It was a disappointment to find that it was too large for her and the price more than she cared to pay. Yet there was something about the house that captivated her. She felt that she must have it. She had a naturally extravagant nature but the long years of association with her husband had made her cautious and shrewd. She worried herself till she was almost ill. Then came the illuminating idea of dividing the house into two dwellings and letting the half not occupied by herself. The accomplishing of this, the consultations with a builder, the furnishing of her own side of the house, had given her the freest and happiest days of her life.

It had not been so easy as she had expected to find a tenant.

When Jim Dayborn and Chris Cummings turned up she was delighted. She had accepted a low rent because they were just the sort of people she had always wanted to know. They were young, they had come from families with a background. They had knocked about the world and were unhampered by the standards that had clogged her life. She was attracted by Tod. She had never before been on intimate terms with a child. It pleased her to do favours for the three. She felt that a new era had opened up for her.

Unfortunately they were not good tenants. They kept the place badly and were behind with the rent. Already their relations were not so genial as they had been.

But Amy Stroud was not really cast down by any lack in them. For the first time she was feeling life, as well as living it. Eden Whiteoak had kindled desires, passions in her which she had known to exist, but which she had expected would no more than smoulder all her days. Her spirit was like a volcano that has never known perceptible eruption. Over its mouth was grown dry pale grass, prosaic buildings had been painstakingly erected on its verge. But tremblings were now to be felt, mutterings heard. At night she sometimes walked the floor by the hour, not able to sleep, not wanting to sleep, carried away by the floodtide of her emotional ecstasy.