The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (248 page)

He saw Pheasant standing on a bluff, her slender figure outlined against the sky. Her short green dress was fluttering about her knees. She looked like a flower poised there above the breezy blueness of the lake.

The phaeton had been drawn down the narrow stony road that led to the water’s edge between two bluffs. Hodge had loosed the horses, and had led them out into the lake to drink. A fire had been lighted on the beach, and around it the family, with the exception of Pheasant and old Mrs. Whiteoak, were enjoying themselves in their own fashions. Wake, with upturned knickers, was paddling along the water’s rim. Renny was throwing sticks for his spaniels. Nicholas and Ernest were skipping stones. Meg, in a disreputable old sweater, was bent over the fire, cherishing the teakettle. Alayne was carrying driftwood. Lady Buckley, very upright on a rug spread on the beach, was knitting at something of a bright red colour.

Before Piers joined the others on the beach, he went to speak to his grandmother, who sat regarding the scene from the safety of her seat in the phaeton.

“Well, Gran, are you having a good time?”

“Put your head in so I can kiss you. Ah, there’s the boy! Yes, I’m having a very good time. I used to bring the children to picnics here more than sixty years ago. I remember sitting on this very spot and watching your grandfather teach the boys to swim. Nick was a little water dog, but Ernest was always screaming that he was going down. Oh, we had the times! This was a grand country then.”

“I suppose so, Gran.”

“Yes, the wood pigeons were so thick they’d fly in clouds that would throw a great shadow. The farm boys would trap them. Pretty, pretty things, with eyes like jewels. They’d put the pretty eyes out of one, the brutes! And they’d throw it in a field; and when the flock saw it fluttering they thought it was feeding and they’d alight in a cloud, and the boys and men would shoot them by hundreds.”

“No such shooting now, Gran.”

“Go and see when tea will be ready. I want my tea. And, Philip—I mean Piers—keep your eye on Pheasant; she’s young, aye, she’s young, and her mother was bad, and her father a rip. She’s worth watching.”

“Look here, Gran, I don’t like your saying such things about Pheasant. She’s all right.”

“I dare say she is—but she’s worth watching. All women are, if they’ve any looks. I want my tea.”

Piers was smiling at the old lady’s advice as he strode along the beach. He was tolerantly amused by her, and yet he thought, “There’s a grain of truth in what she says. Girls are worth watching. Still, there’s no one about but Tom Fennel
that she could—Eden, there’s Eden; he has nothing to do—might amuse himself—poets—immoral fellows. I’il spend more time with her. I might take her to the Falls for the weekend. There’s that new inn there. She’d like that, poor little young ’un.”

The lake was the colour of lapis lazuli. Some gulls, disturbed by the barking of the dogs, wheeled, petulantly crying, above its brightness. Beyond them a coaling schooner, with blackened sails, moved imperceptibly, and a steamer bound for Niagara trailed its faint streamer of smoke. Little sailboats were languishing in some yacht club race.

Piers went up to Renny, whose eyes were fixed on Flossie swimming after a stick, while Merlin, having retrieved his, barked himself off his feet in agonized demand for another opportunity to exhibit his powers. As Piers approached, the spaniel shook himself vigorously, sending a drenching shower over the brothers’ legs.

“She has got it,” said Renny, his eyes still on Floss, and he called out to her, “Good girl!”

“Damn Merlin! “ said Piers. “He’s soaked my trouser legs.”

“All in white, eh?” observed Renny, looking him over.

“You didn’t expect me to come in overalls, did you? Have we time for a swim before tea?”

Renny bent and put his hand in the water. “It’s not very cold. Suppose we do. Tea can wait.”

“Where is Eden?” asked Piers, casting his eyes over the party.

“He was up on the bluff with Pheasant a bit ago.” Looking up, they saw his fair head rising just above the grass where he lay stretched at Pheasant’s feet.

“I won’t have him hanging about her,” burst out Piers.

“Tell him so, then,” said Renny, curtly.

“By the Lord, I will! I’ll tell him so he’ll not forget.” His mind suddenly was a seething sea of suspicions. “Why even Gran thinks there’s something wrong. She was warning me just now.”

“No need to get in a stew,” said Renny, throwing the stick for Merlin, who leaped to the water with a bark of joy, while his place was immediately taken by a dripping, importunate Flossie. “Eden and Alayne will be leaving before the first of July. Evans has a job for him then.”

“What a loafer he is!”

“You didn’t expect him to work with a broken leg, did you? Don’t grouse about anything now: this is Wake’s birthday party. Come on and have our swim.” He shouted to Wakefield: “Wake, should you like to go in for a swim?”

Wakefield came galloping through the wavelets.

“Should I? Oh, splendid! What if I had the pony here? She’d swim out with me, I’ll bet.”

“Eden!” called Renny. “We’re going in swimming. Better come.”

They stared up at him as he scrambled to his feet and began to descend the steep path down the side of the bluff. He still limped from the effects of his fall.

“Won’t it be pretty cold?” he asked.

“We might have Meggie boil a kettle of water to warm a spot for you,” said Piers.

“Where’s Finch?” asked Renny. “Finch will want to come.”

Wakefield answered: “He’s in the little cove already, lying on the sand.”

The four made toward the cove.

“Don’t let Uncle Ernest come,” said Eden. “He’s sure to hurt me.”

“Uncle Ernest! “ shouted Renny. “Eden says you’re not to come. You’re too rough.”

“Eden, Eden,” cried Ernest, but with a certain pride, “I wish you would let me forget that.”

Grandmother’s voice came from the phaeton, sharp with the anguish of hunger: “When are we going to have tea? I told Piers to fetch me tea!”

“I am bringing you a molasses scone to stay you, Mamma,” said Augusta. She was carefully making her way across the shingle, the buttered scone in her hand.

When the four brothers reached the little willow-fringed cove, they found Finch lying face downward, his head propped on his arms. “Still sulking?” asked Piers. “Did you know, Renny, that the poor youth is obsessed by the idea that we make more of Wake’s birthday than his? Isn’t it heartrending, Wake?”

Wakefield, smiling and self-conscious, stared down at Finch’s prostrate form.

“If I get this leg chilled,” observed Eden, “I might have rheumatism.”

“You won’t get chilled if I am with you,” said Piers, pulling off his coat.

When the others had plunged into the lake, and Wake was already screaming with delight and terror at Piers’s hands, Renny returned to Finch and said with a fatherly air: “Better come in, Finch; it’ll do you good. You’ve been studying too much.”

“No. I d’want to,” mumbled the boy against his arm.

“Don’t be a duffer,” said Renny, poking him with his bare foot. “The more Piers sees he can rattle you the more he’ll do it.”

“Tisn’t only that.”

“Well, look here. It was too bad I gave you that cuff before the others. But you were too damned cheeky. Come along and forget it.”

Finch rolled over, disclosing a distorted red face.

“Is there no place I can be let alone?” he bawled. “Have I got to go to the end of the world to be let alone? All I ask is to be let alone, in peace here, and you all come prodding me up!”

“Stay alone, then, you little idiot!” Renny tossed away the cigarette he was smoking and strode to the water’s edge.

All very well, Finch thought, for a lordly being like Renny, safe, always sure of himself, unmenaced by dreadful thoughts and bewitchment, of whom even Piers stood in some awe. With his head propped on his hand, he watched his brothers swimming, splashing, diving, the sunshine glistening on their white shoulders. As a creature apart, he watched them, with the idea in his mind that there was a conspiracy against him, that each member of the family played a different part against him, talking him over among themselves, sneering and laughing at him; but, in spite of himself, a slow smile of pleasure in their glistening grace, their agility, crept over his features. Their robust shouts were not unmusical. And the shine of their sleek heads, blond and russet and black, pleased his eyes. He saw that Piers was rough with Eden, and he was glad. He wished they would fight, half kill each other, while he reclined on the sand looking on.

Eden came limping out of the water.

“Are there any towels?” he asked. “Run and ask Meg for towels, like a good fellow, Finch.”

Oh, yes! He was a good fellow when there was an errand to be run. But he hurried across the shingle to his sister.

“Towels? Yes, here they are. This big red-and-white one for Renny, mind! And the two smaller ones for Eden and Piers. And send Wake to me. I must give him a good rubbing so he shan’t take a chill.”

A sudden mood of savage playfulness came over Finch. Snatching the towels, he went, with a wild fling of his body, back toward the cove. There he hurled the twisted bundle at his brothers.

“There are your old towels!” he yelled; and as he crashed among the brushwood beyond the willows, he called back, “You’re to go to Meggie, young Wake, and get walloped!”

Alayne had joined Pheasant on the bluff, and presently Renny too mounted the path, his damp russet head appearing first above the brink, like the ruffled crest of some bird of prey. He threw himself on the short thick clover that carpeted the bluff, and lighted his pipe.

“It seems rather hard,” said Pheasant in her childish voice, “that Alayne and I could not have bathed. By the noise you made we could imagine the fun you were having.”

“It was too cold for girls.”

“It is a scientific fact,” she said, sententiously, “that our sex can endure more cold than yours.”

“We had no bathing suits.”

“We should have all brought bathing suits and made a proper party of it. You have no idea how stupid it is to sit twiddling one’s thumbs while you males are enjoying yourselves. ‘Men must work, and women must weep’—that is the Whiteoak motto. Only you translate it into: ‘Men must play, and women—’ Do help me out with something really biting, Alayne.”

Alayne answered only with a shrug. Renny continued to stare out across the moving brilliance of the water, puffing at
his pipe. With a sort of taciturn tyranny he overrode the younger girl’s desire for chatter and chaff. She too fell silent, plucking at the grass, and then, after a sidelong glance at the other two, she rose and began slowly to descend the path.

“Why are you going, Pheasant?” called Alayne sharply

“I think someone should help Meggie to lay the cloth.”

“Very well. If I can be of use, please call me.”

Now a shudder of excitement ran through her. It was the first time in weeks that she had been alone with Renny. She almost wished that she had followed Pheasant.

For some time he had avoided her. Their rides, which had been interrupted by the heavy snowfalls of January and the illness of Eden, had not been resumed. Although they lived in the house together, they were separated by a wall, a relentless wall of ice, through which each was visible to the other, though distorted by its glacial diffusions. Now on the cliff, in the sunshine, the wall seemed likely to melt, and with it the barrier of her intellectual self-control. If she could only know what he was feeling! His very silence was to her a tentative embrace.

Like incense, the sweetness of the wood smoke rose from the beach. Wake’s little naked figure was darting here and there like a sandpiper.

She studied Renny’s profile, the carved nose, the lips gripping the pipe, the damp hair plastered against the temples. It was so immobile that a heavy depression began to drown her mood of passionate excitement. Looking at him, remembering Eden, she began to feel that she had had enough of Whiteoaks. She had bruised her soul against their wanton egotism. This Renny whom she loved was as remote, as self-sufficient, as that rock out yonder. His look of passionate immobility might be the mask of nothing more than
a brooding desire to acquire some mettlesome piece of horseflesh for his stalls. Yet how could that be, and she have that feeling that his very silence was an embrace! Two shadowy arms seemed to spring from his shoulders toward her, crushing her to him, kissing her with the passion of his kisses in the orchard with, added to them, all the hunger of these months of self-restraint.

His fleshly arms had not moved. One lay across his thigh, the other slanted toward his pipe, the bowl of which lay in his palm.

He took his pipe from his lips, and spoke in a low, husky voice. His words overwhelmed her. She was like a mariner who, fearing certain shoals, watching with both dread and desire for the light that warned of their nearness, is suddenly blinded by that light full in the eyes. Excitement, resentment, depression, all left her. She was conscious only of his love.

“I love you,” he said, “and I am in hell because I love you. And there is no way out.”

The magical experience of sitting on the cliff with Renny, hearing these words from his mouth, in his restrained voice, filled Alayne with a sense of reckless surrender rather than tragic renunciation. Like a crop from virgin soil, this first profound love gushed upward from her being to embrace the hot sun of his passion.

With Renny it was very different. A man who had loved women both casually and licentiously, who could not speak their language, who had thought to have and craved to have no other sort of feelings toward them, he felt himself betrayed by this new and subtle passion that went deeper than mere possession, that could not be gratified and forgotten. In his eyes was something of the bewilderment of the
animal that finds itself wounded, unable to exercise the faculties which had been its chief delight. Love, which had hitherto been to him as a drink of fresh water, now tasted of the bitter salt of renunciation.

He muttered again: “There is no way out.”

She said, almost in a whisper: “No, I suppose there is nothing to be done.”