The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (232 page)

She became aware that Eden was observing someone in the grounds outside. She heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs and, turning, saw a man leaning from his horse to fasten the gate behind him. Her beauty-loving eye was caught first by the satin shimmer of the beast’s chestnut coat. Then she perceived that the rider was tall and thin, that he stooped in the saddle with an air of slouching accustomedness, and, as he passed beneath the window, that he had a red, sharp-featured face that looked rather foxlike beneath his peaked tweed cap.

The two clumber spaniels had rushed out to greet him and were bounding about the horse, their long silken ears flapping. Their barking irritated the horse, and, after a nip or two at them, he broke into a canter and disappeared with his rider behind a row of Scotch firs that hid the stables from the house.

“Renny,” murmured Eden, “back from his porcine expedition.”

“Yes, I thought it must be Renny, though he is not like what I expected him to be. Why did you not call to him?”

“He’s rather a shy fellow. I thought it might embarrass both of you to exchange your first greetings from such different altitudes.”

Alayne, listening to the muffled sound of hoofs, remarked: “He gives the impression of a strong personality.”

“He has. And he’s as wiry and strong as the Devil. I’ve never known him to be ill for a day. He’ll probably live to be as old as Gran.”

“Gran—Gran,” thought Alayne. Every conversation in this family seemed to be punctuated by remarks about that dreadful old woman.

“And he owns all this,” she commented. “It does not seem quite fair to all you others.”

“It was left that way. He has to educate and provide for the younger family. The uncles had their share years ago. And of course Gran simply hoards hers. No one knows who will get it.”

“Gran” again.

A gentle breeze played with a tendril of hair on her forehead. Eden brushed his lips against it. “Darling,” he murmured, “do you think you can be happy here for a while?”

“Eden! I am gloriously happy.”

“We shall write such wonderful things—together.”

They heard steps on the gravelled path that led to the back of the house. Alayne, opening her eyes, heavy with a momentary sweet languor, saw Renny enter the kitchen, his dogs at his heels. A moment later a tap sounded on the door.

“Please,” said Wake’s voice, “will you come down to dinner?”

He could not restrain his curiosity about the bride and groom. It seemed very strange to find this young lady in Eden’s room, but it was disappointing that there were no confetti and orange blossoms about.

Alayne put her arm around his shoulders as they descended the stairs, feeling more support from his little body in the ordeal of meeting the rest of the family than the presence of Eden afforded her. There were still Renny and the wife of young Piers.

Their feet made no sound on the thick carpet of the stairs. The noontide light falling through the coloured glass window gave the hall an almost church-like solemnity, and the appearance at the far end of old Mrs. Whiteoak emerging from her room, supported on either side by her sons, added a final processional touch. Through the open door of the dining room Alayne could see the figures of Renny, Piers, and a young girl advancing toward the table. Meg already stood at one end of it, surveying its great damask expanse as some high priestess might survey the sacrificial altar. On a huge platter already lay two rotund roasted fowls. Rags stood behind a drawn-back chair, awaiting Mrs. Whiteoak. As the old lady saw Alayne and her escorts approaching the door of the dining room, she made an obviously heroic effort to reach it first, shuffling her feet excitedly, and snuffing the good smell of the roast with the excitement of an old warhorse smelling blood.

“Steady, Mamma, steady,” begged Ernest, steering her past a heavily carved hall chair.

“I want my dinner,” she retorted, breathing heavily. “Chicken. I smell chicken. And cauliflower. I must have the pope’s nose, and plenty of bread sauce.”

Not until she was seated was Alayne introduced to Renny and Pheasant. He bowed gravely, and murmured some only half-intelligible greeting. She might have heard it more clearly had her mind been less occupied with the scrutiny of him at sudden close quarters. She was observing his narrow, weather-beaten face, the skin like red-brown leather merging in colour into the rust-red of his hair, his short thick eyelashes, his abstracted, yet fiery eyes. She observed too his handsome, hard-looking nose, which was far too much like his grandmother’s.

Pheasant she saw as a flower-like young girl, a fragile
Narcissus poeticus
in this robust, highly coloured garden of Jalna.

Alayne was seated at Renny Whiteoak’s left, and at her left Eden, and next him Pheasant and Piers. Wakefield had been moved to the other side of the table, between his sister and Uncle Ernest. Alayne had only glimpses of him around the centrepiece of crimson and bronze dahlias, flowers that in their rigid and uncompromising beauty were well fitted to withstand the overpowering presence of the Whiteoaks. Whenever Alayne’s eyes met the little boy’s, he smiled. Whenever her eyes met Meg’s, Meg’s lips curved in their own peculiar smile. But when her eyes met those of Mrs. Whiteoak, the old lady showed every tooth in a kind of ferocious friendliness, immediately returning to her dinner with renewed zeal, as though to make up for lost time.

The master of Jalna set about the business of carving with the speed and precision of one handing out rations to an army. But there was nothing haphazard about his method of apportioning the fowl. With carving knife poised, he shot a quick look at the particular member of the family he was about to serve, then, seeming to know either what they preferred or what was best for them, he slashed it off and handed the plate to Rags, who glided with it to Meg, who served the vegetables.

To one accustomed to a light luncheon, the sight of so much food at this hour was rather disconcerting. Alayne, looking at these enormous dinner plates mounded with chicken, bread sauce, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and green peas, thought of little salad lunches in New York with mild regret. They seemed very far away. Even the table silver was enormous. The great knife and fork felt like implements in her hands. The salt-cellars and pepperpots seemed weighted by memories of all the bygone meals they had savoured. The long-necked vinegar bottle reared its head like a tawny giraffe in the massive jungle of the table.

Renny was saying, in his vibrant voice that was without the music of Eden’s, “I’m sorry I could not go to your wedding. I could not get away at that time.”

“Yes,” chimed in Meg, “Renny and I wanted so very much to go, but we could not arrange it. Finch had a touch of tonsillitis just then, and Wakefield’s heart was not behaving very well, and of course there is Grandmamma.”

Mrs. Whiteoak broke in: “I wanted to go, but I’m too old to travel. I did all my travelling in my youth. I’ve been all over the world. But I sent my love. Did you get my love? I sent my love in Meggie’s letter. Did you get it, eh?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Alayne. “We were so very glad to get your message.”

“You’d better be. I don’t send my love to everyone, helter-skelter.” She nodded her cap so vigorously that three green peas bounced from her fork and rolled across the table. Wakefield was convulsed by laughter. He said, “Bang!” as each pea fell, and shot one of his own after them. Renny looked down the table sharply at him, and he subsided.

Grandmother peered at her fork, shrewdly missing the peas.

“My peas are gone,” she said. “I want more peas; more cauliflower and potatoes, too.”

She was helped to more vegetables, and at once began to mould them with her fork into a solid mass.

“Mamma,” objected Ernest mildly, “must you do that?”

Sasha, who was perched on his shoulder, observing that his attention was directed away from his poised fork, stretched out one furry paw and drew it toward her own whiskered lips. Ernest rescued the morsel of chicken just in time. “Naughty, naughty,” he said.

As though there had been no interruption, Meg continued:

“It must have been such a pretty wedding. Eden wrote us all about it.”

By this time Renny had attacked the second fowl with his carvers. Alayne had made no appreciable inroads on her dinner, but all the Whiteoaks were ready for more.

“Renny, did you get the pigs?” asked Piers, breaking in on conversation about the wedding with, Alayne thought, ostentatious brusqueness.

“Yes. You never saw a grander litter. Got the nine and the old sow for a hundred dollars. I offered ninety; Probyn wanted a hundred and ten. I met him halfway.” The master
of Jalna began to talk of the price of pigs with gusto. Everyone talked of the price of pigs; and everyone agreed that Renny had paid too much.

Only the dishevelled carcass of the second fowl remained on the platter. Then it was removed, and a steaming blackberry pudding and a large plum tart made their appearance.

“You are eating almost nothing, dear Alayne,” said Meg. “I do hope you will like the pudding.”

Renny was looking at Alayne steadily from under his thick lashes, the immense pudding spoon expectantly poised.

“Thank you,” she answered. “But I really could not. I will take a little of the pie.”

“Please don’t urge her, Meggie,” said Eden. “She is used to luncheon at noon.”

“Oh, but the pudding,” sighed Meg. “It’s such a favourite of ours.”

“I like it,” said the grandmother with a savage grin; “please give me some.”

She got her pudding and Alayne her tart, but when Meg’s turn arrived, she breathed: “No, thank you, Renny. Nothing for me.” And Renny, knowing of the trays carried to her room, made no remark, but Eden explained in an undertone, “Meggie eats nothing—at least almost nothing at the table. You’ll soon get used to that.”

Meggie was pouring tea from a heavily chased silver pot. Even little Wake had some; but how Alayne longed for a cup of coffee, for the plum tart, though good, was very rich. It seemed to cry out for coffee.

Would she ever get used to them, Alayne wondered. Would they ever seem near to her—like relatives? As they rose from the table and moved in different directions, she felt a little oppressed, she did not quite know whether by the
weight of the dinner or by the family, which was so unexpectedly foreign to her.

Old Mrs. Whiteoak pushed her son Ernest from her, and, extending a heavily ringed hand to Alayne, commanded:

“You give me your arm, my dear, on this side. You may as well get into the ways of the family at once.”

Alayne complied with a feeling of misgiving. She doubted whether she could efficiently take the place of Ernest. The old woman clutched her arm vigorously, dragging with what seemed unnecessary and almost intolerable weight. The two, with Nicholas towering above them, shuffled their way to Mrs. Whiteoak’s bedroom and established her there before the fire by painful degrees. Alayne, flushed with the exertion, straightened her back and stared with surprise at the unique magnificence of the painted leather bedstead, the inlaid dresser and tables, the Indian rugs, and flamboyant hangings.

Mrs. Whiteoak pulled at her skirt. “Sit down, my girl, sit down on this footstool. Ha—I’m out o’ breath. Winded—” She panted alarmingly.

“Too much dinner, Mamma,” said Nicholas, striking a match on the mantelpiece and lighting a cigarette. “If you will overeat, you will wheeze.”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” retorted his mother, suddenly getting her breath. “Look at your own leg, and the way you eat and swill down spirits.”

Boney, hearing the voice of his mistress raised in anger, roused himself from his after-dinner doze on the foot of the bed, and screamed: “Shaitan! Shaitan ka bata! Shaitan ka butcha? Kunjus!”

Mrs. Whiteoak leaned over Alayne, where she now sat on the footstool, and stroked her neck and shoulders with a hand
not so much caressing as appraising. She raised her heavy red eyebrows to the lace edging of her cap and commented with an arch grin:

“A bonny body. Well covered, but not too plump. Slender, but not skinny. Meg’s too plump. Pheasant’s skinny. You’re just right for a bride. Eh, my dear, but if I was a young man I’d like to sleep with you.”

Alayne, painfully scarlet, turned her face away from Mrs. Whiteoak toward the blaze of the fire. Nicholas was comfortingly expressionless.

“Another thing,” chuckled Mrs. Whiteoak, “I’m glad you’ve lots of brass. I am indeed.”

“Easy now,” cried Boney. “Easy does it!”

At that moment Grandmother fell into one of her sudden naps. Nicholas smiled down tolerantly at his sleeping parent.

“You mustn’t mind what she says. Remember, she’s ninety-nine, and she’s never had her spirit broken by life—or by the approach of death. You’re not offended, are you?”

“N-no. But she says I am—brazen. Why, it almost makes me laugh. I’ve always been considered rather retiring—even diffident.”

Nicholas made subterranean sounds of mirth that had in them a measure of relief, but he offered no explanation. Instead, he took her hand and drew her to her feet.

“Come,” he said, “and I’ll show you my room. I expect you to visit me often there, and tell me all about New York, and I’ll tell you about London in the old days. I’m a regular fossil now, but if you’ll believe me, I was a gay fellow once.”

He led the way to his room, heaving himself up the stairs by the hand railing. He installed her by the window, where she could enjoy the splendour of the autumn woods and where the light fell over her, bringing out the chestnut tints in her hair
and the pearl-like pallor of her skin. It was so long since he had met a young woman of beauty and intelligence that the contact exhilarated him, made the blood quicken in his veins. Before he realized it, he was telling her incidents of his life of which he had not spoken for years. He even unearthed a photograph of his wife in a long-trained evening gown, and showed it to her. His face, massive and heavily lined, looked, as he recalled those bygone days, like a rock from which the sea has long receded, but which bears on its seamed and battered surface irrevocable evidence of the fury of past storms.