The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (246 page)

Christmas came.

Books for Alayne from New York, with a chastely engraved card enclosed from Mr. Cory. More books, and a little framed etching from the aunts up the Hudson. An overblouse, in which she would have frozen at Jalna, from Rosamund Trent. Alayne carried them about, showing them, and then laid them away. They seemed unreal.

There were no holly wreaths at Jalna. No great red satin bows. But the banister was twined with evergreens, and a sprig of mistletoe was suspended from the hanging lamp in the hall. In the drawing-room a great Christmas tree towered
toward the ceiling, bristling with the strange fruit of presents for the family, from Grandmother down to little Wake.

A rich hilarity drew them all together that day. They loved the sound of each other’s voices; they laughed on the least provocation; by evening, the young men showed a tendency toward horseplay. There was a late dinner, dominated by the largest turkey Alayne had ever seen. There was a black and succulent plum pudding with brandy sauce. There were native sherry and port. The Fennels were there; the two daughters of the retired admiral; and lonely little Miss Pink, the organist. Mr. Fennel proposed Grandmother’s health, in a toast so glowing with metaphor and prickling with wit that she suggested that if he were three sheets in the wind on Sunday he would preach a sermon worth hearing. The admiral’s daughters and Miss Pink were flushed and steadily smiling in the tranced gaiety induced by wine. Meg was soft and dimpled as a young girl.

A great platter of raisins smothered in flaming brandy was carried in by Rags, wearing the exalted air of an acolyte.

Seeing Rags’s hard face in that strange light carried Renny as in a dream to another very different scene. He saw Rags bent over a saucepan in a dugout in France, wearing a filthy uniform, and, oddly enough, that same expression. But why, he could not remember. He had picked Rags up in France. Renny looked up into his eyes with a smile, and a queer worshipping grin spread over Rags’s grim hard-bitten face.

The raisins were placed on the table in the midst of the company. Tortured blue flames leaped above them, quivering, writhing, and at last dying into quick-running ripples. Hands, burnished like brass, stretched out to snatch the raisins. Wake’s, with its round child’s wrist; Finch’s, bony and
predatory; Piers’s, thick, muscular; Grandmother’s, dark, its hook-like fingers glittering with jewels—all the grasping, eager hands and the watchful faces behind them illuminated by the flare; Gran’s eyes like coals beneath her beetling red brows.

Pheasant’s hands fluttered like little brown birds. She was afraid of getting burned. Again and again the blue flames licked them and they darted back.

“You are a little silly,” said Renny. “Make a dash for them, or they’ll be gone.”

She set her teeth and plunged her hand into the flames. “Oh—oh, I’m going to be burned!”

“You’ve only captured two,” laughed Eden, on her other side, and laid a glossy cluster on her plate.

Renny saw Eden’s hand slide under the table and cover hers in her lap. His eyes sought Eden’s and held them a moment. They gazed with narrowed lids, each seeing something in the other that startled him. Scarcely was this unrecognized something seen when it was gone, as a film of vapour that changes for a moment the clarity of the well-known landscape and shows a scene obscure, even sinister—The shadow passed, and they smiled, and Eden withdrew his hand.

Under the mistletoe Mr. Fennel, Grandmother having been carefully steered that way by two grandsons, caught and kissed her, his beard rough, her cap askew.

Uncle Ernest, a merry gentleman that night, caught and kissed Miss Pink, who most violently became Miss Scarlet.

Tom Fennel caught and kissed Pheasant. “Here now, Tom, you fathead, cut that out!” from Piers.

Finch, seeing everything double after two glasses of wine, caught and kissed two white-shouldered Alaynes. It
was the first time she had worn an evening dress since her marriage.

Nicholas growled to Ernest: “Did you ever see a hungry wolf? Look at Renny glowering in that corner. Isn’t Alayne lovely tonight?”

“Everything’s lovely,” said Ernest, rocking on his toes. “Such a nice Christmas!”

They played charades and dumb crambo.

To see Grandmother (inadvertently shouting out the name of the syllable she was acting) as Queen Victoria, and Mr. Fennel as Gladstone!

To see Meg as Mary, Queen of Scots, with Renny as executioner, all but cutting off her head with the knife with which he had carved the turkey!

To see Alayne as the Statue of Liberty, holding a bedroom lamp on high (“Look out, Alayne, don’t tilt it so; you’ll have the house on fire!”), and Finch as a hungry immigrant!

You saw the family of Jalna at their happiest in exuberant play.

Even when the guests were gone and the Whiteoaks getting ready for bed, they could not settle down. Ernest, in shirt and trousers, prowled through the dim hallway, a pillow from his bed in one hand. He stopped at Renny’s door. It was ajar. He could see Renny winding his watch, Wake sitting up in bed, chattering excitedly. Ernest hurled the pillow at Renny’s head. He staggered, bewildered by the unexpected blow, and dropped his watch.

“By Judas,” he said, “if I get you!” With his pillow he started in pursuit.

“A pillow fight! A pillow fight!” cried Wake, and scrambled out of bed.

Ernest had got as far as his brother’s room. “Nick,” he shouted, in great fear, “save me!”

Nicholas, his grey mane on end, was up and into it. Piers, like a bullet, sped down the hall. Finch, dragged from slumber, had barely reached the scene of conflict when a back-banded blow from Eden’s pillow laid him prostrate.

Nicholas’s room was a wreck. Up and down the passage the combatants surged. The young men forgot their loves, their fears, their jealousies, the two elderly men their years, in the ecstasy of physical, half-naked conflict.

“Boys, boys!” cried Meg, drawing aside her chenille curtain.

“Steady on, old lady!” and a flying pillow drove her into retreat.

Pheasant appeared at her door, her short hair all on end. “May I play, too?” she cried, hopping up and down.

“Back to your hole, little hedgehog!” said Renny, giving her a feathery thump as he passed.

He was after Nicholas, who had suddenly become cognizant of his gout and could scarcely hobble. Piers and Finch were after him. They cornered him, and Nicholas, from being the well-nigh exhausted quarry, became the aggressor, and helped to belabour him.

Eden stood at the top of the stairs, laughingly holding off little Wake, who was manfully wielding a long old-fashioned bolster. Ernest, with one last hilarious fling in him, stole forth from his room, and hurled a solid sofa cushion at the pair. It struck Eden on the chest. He backed. He missed his footing. He fell. Down the stairs he went, crashing with a noise that aroused Grandmother, who began to rap the floor with her stick.

“What’s up? What have you done?” asked Renny.

“My God, I’ve knocked the lad downstairs. What if I’ve killed him!”

The brothers streamed helter-skelter down the stairs.

“Oh, those bloody stairs,” groaned Eden. “I’ve twisted my leg. I can’t get up.”

“Don’t move, old fellow.” They began to feel him all over. The women emerged from their rooms.

“I have been expecting an accident,” said Augusta, looking more offended than usual.

“Oh, whatever is the matter?” cried Alayne.

Ernest answered, wringing his hands: “Can you ever forgive me, Alayne? Piers says I’ve broken Eden’s leg.”

E
DEN AND
P
HEASANT

S
IX WEEKS
had passed, and Eden was still unable to leave his room. As well as a broken leg, he had got a badly wrenched back. However, after the first suffering was over, he had not had such a bad time. It was almost with regret that he heard the hearty red-faced doctor say that morning that he would soon be as fit as ever. It had been rather jolly lying there, being taken care of, listening to the complaints of others about the severity of the weather, the depth of the snowdrifts, and the impossibility of getting anywhere with the car. The inactivity of body had seemed to generate a corresponding activity of mind. Never had he composed with less effort. Poetry flowed through him in an exuberant crystal stream. Alayne had sat by his couch and written the first poems out for him in her beautifully legible hand, but now he was able to sit up with a pad on his knee and scrawl them in his own way—decorating the margins with fanciful sketches in illustration.

Alayne had been a dear through it all. She had nursed him herself, fetching and carrying from the basement kitchen to their room without complaint, though he knew he
had been hard to wait on in those first weeks. She looked abominably tired. Those brick basement stairs were no joke. Her face seemed to have grown broader, flatter, with a kind of Teutonic patience in it that made him remember her mother had been of Dutch extraction, several generations ago; it was there—the look of solidity and patience. A benevolent, tolerant face it might become in later life, but plainer, certainly.

She must have been disappointed, too, at his inability to take the position got for him by Mr. Evans at the New Year. Though she had not said much about it, he knew that she was eager to leave Jalna and have a house of their own. He had refused to let her put her money into the buying of one, but he had agreed that, he paying the rent from his salary, she might buy the furniture. She had talked a good deal about just how she would furnish it. When his leg was paining and he could not sleep, it was one of her favourite ways of soothing him, to stroke his head and furnish each of the rooms in turn. She had chosen the furniture for his workroom with great care, and also that for his bedroom and hers. He had been slightly aggrieved that she spoke of separate rooms, though upon reflection he had decided that it would be rather pleasant to be able to scatter his belongings all over his room without the feeling that he was seriously disturbing her. She was too serious: that was a fact. She had a way of making him feel like a naughty boy. That had been charming at first, but often now it irritated him.

There was something strange about her of late. Remote, inward-gazing. He hoped and prayed she wasn’t going to be mopey. A mopey wife would be disastrous to him, weigh on his spirits most dreadfully. She had slept on the couch in their room during the first weeks after the accident, when he
had needed a good deal of waiting on at night. Later, she had taken all her things and moved to a big low-ceiled room in the attic. She spent hours of her time there now. Of course, all he had to do was to ring the little silver bell at his side, and she came flying down the stairs to him, but he could not help wondering what she did up there all alone. Not that he wanted her with him continually, but he could not forgive her for seeking solitude. He was really very happy. He was well except for a not unpleasant feeling of lassitude. He had also a feeling of exquisite irresponsibility and irrelevance. This interval in his life he accepted as a gift from the gods. It was a time of inner development, of freedom of spirit, of ease from the shackles of life.

He had scarcely felt the chafing of those shackles yet, and he did not want to feel them. He should have been a lone unicorn, stamping in inconsequent gaiety over sultry Southern plains, leaving bonds to tamer spirits.

He was just thinking this, and smiling at the thought when Pheasant came into the room. She was carrying a plate of little red apples, and she wore the vivid smock bought for her by Alayne.

“Meggie sent you those,” she said, setting the plate beside him. “As a matter of fact, I think you eat too much. You’re not as slim as you were.”

“Well, it’s a wonder I’m not thin,” he returned with some heat. “God knows I’ve suffered!” He bit into an apple, and continued: “You’ve never had any real sympathy for me, Pheasant.”

She looked at him, astonished.

“Why, I thought I’d been lovely to you! I’ve sat with you, and listened to your old poetry, and told you what a wonder you are. What more do you want?”

He reclined, drumming his fingers on the afghan that lay over him, a faint smile shadowing, rather than lighting, his face.

She examined his features and then said darkly: “You’re too clever, that’s what’s the matter with you.”

“My dear little Pheasant, don’t call me by such a horrid word. I’m not clever. I’m only natural. You’re natural. That is why we get on so famously.”

“We don’t get on,” she returned, indignantly. “Uncle Ernest was saying only the other day what a pity it is you and I quarrel so much.”

“He’s an old ninny.”

“You ought to be ashamed to say that. He has done everything in his power to make up to you for hurting you. He has read to you by the hour. I don’t think he’ll ever get over the shock of seeing you hurtle downstairs with his pillow on top of you.”

“I agree with you. It was the most exhilarating thing that has happened to him in years. He looks ten years younger. To have knocked an athletic young fellow downstairs and broken his leg! Just when he began to feel the feebleness of old age creeping on! Why, he’s like a young cockerel that’s saluted the dawn with its first crow.”

“I think you’re sardonic.”

“And I think you’re delicious. I especially admire your wisdom, and that little tuft of hair that stands up on your crown. But I do wish you’d put it down. It excites me.”

She passed her hand over it.

“Do you know,” he said, “that you pass your hand over your head exactly as I do. We have several identical gestures. I believe our gesture toward life is the same.”

“I think your greatest gift,” she said, stiffly, “is flattery. You know just how to make a woman pleased with herself.”

She was such a ridiculous little child, playing at being grown up, that he could scarcely keep from laughing at her. Neither could he keep the tormenting image of her from his mind when she was away from him. He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

Outside, the snow-covered lawns and fields, unmarked by the track of a human being, stretched in burnished, rosy whiteness toward the sunset. The pines and hemlocks, clothed in the sombre grandeur of their winter foliage, threw shadows of an intense, translucent blueness. And in the hard bright intensity of that northern ether, every smallest twig was bitten against its background as though with acid. An atmosphere hateful to those who see it in alien loneliness, but of the essence and goodness of life to the native born.