The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (253 page)

The droop of his mouth stirred something in her that she had forgotten, something buried for years and years. It did not stir weakly, feebly, like a half-dead thing, but boundingly, richly, like the sap that thrilled the growing things in this June day. She swayed beneath the sudden rush of its coming and put out a hand to steady herself. Colour flooded her face and neck.

He dropped the cigarette and caught her hand.

“Meggie, Meggie,” he burst out. “Have me—marry me! Meggie, oh, my darling girl!”

She did not answer in words, but put her arms about his neck and raised her lips to his. All the stubbornness was gone from their pretty curves, and only the sweetness was left.

G
RANDMOTHER’S
B
IRTHDAY

T
HE DARKNESS
had just fallen on Grandmother’s birthday. It had descended slowly, seeming reluctant to draw the curtain on that day of days. But now the sky was a royal purple, and quite a hundred stars twinkled with all the mystic glamour of birthday candles.

Grandmother had not slept a wink since dawn. Not for worlds would she have missed the savour of one moment of this day, toward which she had been straining for many years. She could sleep all she wanted to after the celebration was over. There would be little else to do. Nothing to look forward to.

With her breakfast had come all the household to congratulate her, wish her joy, and other birthdays to follow. She had put her strong old arms about each body that, in succession, had leaned over her bed, and after a hearty kiss had mumbled: “Thank you. Thank you, my dear.” Wakefield, on behalf of the tribe, had presented her with a huge bouquet of red, yellow, and white roses, an even hundred of them, tied with red streamers.

The day had been a succession of heart-touching surprises. Her old eyes had become red-rimmed from tears of
joy. The farmers and villagers of the neighbourhood, to whom she had been a generous friend in her day, besieged her with calls and gifts of fruit and flowers. Mr. Fennel had had the church bell ring one hundred merry peals for her, the clamour of which, sounding through the valley, had transported her to her childhood Ireland; she did not know just why, but there was she was in Country Meath again!

Mrs. Wragge had baked a three-tiered birthday cake, which had been decorated in the city. On the top, surrounded by waves of icing, was a white-and-silver model of a sailing vessel such as she had crossed the ocean in, from India. On the side, in silver comfits, the date of her birth, 1825. This stood on a rosewood table in the middle of the drawing-room, beside a silver-framed photograph of Captain Philip Whiteoak. How Grandmother wished he could have seen the cake! She imagined herself, strong and springy of step, leading him up to the table to view it. She pictured his start of surprise, his blue eyes bulging with amazement, and his, “Ha, Adeline,
there’s
a cake worth living a hundred years for!”

Oh, the feel of his firm, muscular arm in her hand! A dozen times that day she had kissed the photograph. At last Ernest had been moved to say: “Mamma,
must
you kiss it so often? You are moistening off all the gloss.”

Now night had fallen and the guests were arriving for the evening party. The Fennels, the admiral’s daughters, Miss Pink, and even old friends from a long distance. Her chair had been moved to the terrace, where she could see the bonfire all ready to be lighted. It had taken her an unconscionably long time to make the journey there, for she was weak from excitement and lack of sleep. In the summer-house, two violins and a flute discoursed the insouciant,
trilling airs of sixty years ago, filling the air with memories and the darkness with plaintive ghosts. Grandmother’s sons and eldest grandson had spared no trouble or expense to make the party a memorable one.

On her right hand sat Ernest and Nicholas, and on her left Augusta and Alayne. Augusta remarked to Alayne: “What a blessing that Meg is off on her honeymoon, and not sulking in Fiddler’s Hut! It would have spoiled the party completely if she had been there, and even more so if she had come.”

“She wasted no time when she finally made up her mind, did she?”

“No, indeed. I think she was simply shamed into it. She might have gone on living there forever. Renny would never have given in.” Lady Buckley regarded with complacency her nephew’s tall figure, silhouetted against the flare of the musician’s torches.

“I am afraid,” said Alayne, “that Meg hated me very much after our quarrel about Pheasant. I know that she thought my attitude toward her positively indecent.”

“My dear, Meg is a narrow-minded Victorian. So are my brothers, though Ernest’s gentleness gives him the appearance of broad-mindedness. You and I are moderns—you by birth, and I by the progression of an open mind. I shall be very sorry to see you go tomorrow. I have grown very fond of you.”

“Thank you; and I have of you—of most of you. There are so many things I shall miss.”

“I know, I know, my dear. You must come back to visit us. I shall not leave Jalna while Mamma lives, though Nicholas would certainly like to see me depart. Yes, you must visit us.”

“I’m afraid not. You must come to see me in New York. My aunts would be delighted to meet you.”

Augusta whispered: “What do they know about Eden and you?”

“Only that we have separated, and that I am going back to my old work.”

“Sensible—very. The less one’s relatives know of one’s life the better. I had no peace in my married life till the ocean rolled between me and my people. Dear me, Renny’s lighting the bonfire. I hope it’s quite safe. I wonder if you would mind, Alayne, going down and asking him to be very careful. A spark from it smouldering on the roof, and we might be burned in our beds tonight.”

As Alayne moved slowly down the lawn, the first sparkle curled about the base of the pyramid of hardwood sticks that had as their foundation a great chunk of resinous pine. A column of smoke arose, steady and dense, and then was dispersed by the sudden and furious blossoming of flowers of flame. In an instant the entire scene was changed. The ravine lay, a cavernous gulf of blackness, while the branches of the nearby trees were flung out in fierce, metallic grandeur. The torches in the summerhouse became mere flickering sparks: the stars were blown out like birthday candles. The figures of the young men moving about the bonfire became heroic; their monstrous shadows strove together upon the rich tapestry of the evergreens. The air was full of music, of voices, of the crackling of flames.

Out of the shadow thrown by a chestnut tree in bloom, Pheasant ran across the grass to Alayne’s side. She seemed to have grown during those weeks of her imprisonment. Her dress looked too short for her. Her movements had the wistful energy of those of a growing child. Her hair, uncut for some time, curved in a quaint little tail at her nape.

“This freedom is wonderful,” she breathed. “And all that pretty firelight, and the fiddles! Try as I will, Alayne, I can’t help feeling happy tonight.”

“Why should you try not to be happy? You must be as happy as a bird, Pheasant. I’m so glad we had that hour together this morning.”

“You’ve been beautiful to me, Alayne. No one in the world has ever been so good to me. Those little notes you slipped under my door!”

Alayne took her hand. “Come, I am to go and tell Renny to be careful. Aunt Augusta is afraid we shall be burned in our beds.”

The three youngest of the Whiteoaks were in a group together. As the girls approached, Finch turned his back on them and skulked into the shadow, but Wakefield ran to meet them and put an arm about the waist of each.

“Come, my girls,” he said, airily, “join the merry circle. Let’s take hands and dance around the bonfire. If only we could get Granny to dance, too! Please, let’s dance!” He tugged at their hands. “Piers, take Pheasant’s other hand. Renny, take Alayne’s hand. We’re going to dance.”

Alayne felt her hand being taken into Renny’s. Wakefield’s exuberance was not transmittable, but he ran hither and thither, exhorting the guests to dance, till at last he did get a circle together on the lawn for Sir Roger de Coverley. But it was the elders who were moved to disport themselves, after a glass or two of punch from the silver bowl on the porch. The younger ones hung back in the shelter of the blazing pile, entangled in the web of emotions which they had woven about themselves.

Eden was not among them, but the vision of his fair face, with its smiling lips, mocked each in turn. To Renny it said:

“I have shown you a girl at last whom you can continue to love without possessing, with no hope of possessing, who will haunt you all your days.” To Alayne: “I have made you experience, in a few months, love, passion, despair, shame, enough for a lifetime. Now go back to your sterile work and see if you can forget.” To Piers: “You sneered at me for a poet. Do you acknowledge that I am a better lover than you?” To Pheasant: “I have poisoned your life.” To Finch, hiding in the darkness: “I have flung you, headfirst, into the horrors of awakening.”

Renny and Alayne, their fingers still locked, stood looking upward at the flame-coloured smoke that rose toward the sky in billows endlessly pursuing each other, while, after the crashing of a log, a shower of sparks sprang upward like a swarm of fireflies. In the glare their faces were transfigured to a strange beauty, yet this beauty was lost, not registered on any consciousness, for they dared not look at each other.

“I have been watching two of those sparks,” she said, “sparks that flew up, and then together, and then apart again, till out of sight—like us.”

“I won’t have it so. Not till out of sight, extinguished—if you mean that. No, I am not hopeless. There’s something for us besides separation. You couldn’t believe that we’ll never meet again, could you?”

“Oh, we may meet again—that is, if you ever come to New York. By that time your feelings may have changed.”

“Changed! Alayne, why should you want to spoil our last moments together by suggesting that?”

“I suppose, being a woman, I just wanted to hear you deny it. You’ve no idea what it is to be a woman. I used to think in my old life that we were equal: men and women.
Sinc I’ve lived at Jalna, it seems to me that women are only slaves.”

Someone had thrown an armful of brushwood on the fire. For a space it died down to a subdued but threatening crackle. In the dimness they turned to each other.

“Slaves?” he repeated. “Not to us.”

“Well—to the life you create, to the passions you arouse in us. Oh, you don’t know what it is to be a woman! I tell you it’s nothing less than horrible. Look at Meg, and Pheasant, and me!”

She caught the glint of a smile. He said: “Look at Maurice, and Piers, and me!”

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same. You have your land, your horses, your interests that absorb almost all your waking hours.”

“What about our dreams?”

“Dreams are nothing. It’s reality that tortures women. Think of Meg, hiding in that awful cabin. Pheasant, locked in her room. Me, grinding away in an office.”

“I can’t,” he answered, hesitatingly. “I can’t put myself in your place. I suppose it’s awful. But never think we don’t know a hell more torturing.”

“You do, you do! But when you are tired of being tortured you leave your hell—go out and shut the door behind you, while we only heap on more fuel.”

“My darling!” His arms were about her. “Don’t talk like that.” He kissed her, quickly, hotly. “There, I said I wouldn’t kiss you again, but I have—just for goodbye.”

She felt that she was sinking, fainting in his arms. A swirl of smoke, perfumed by pine boughs, enveloped them. A rushing, panting sound came from the heart of the fire. The violins sang together.

“Again,” she breathed, clinging to him. “Again.”

“No,” he said, through his teeth. “Not again.” He put her from him and went to the other side of the bonfire, which now blazed forth once more. He stood among his brothers; taller than they, his hair red in the firelight, his carved face, set and pale. Recovering herself, she looked across at him, thinking that she would like to remember him so.

In a pool of serene radiance, Grandmother sat. A black velvet cloak, lined with crimson silk, had been thrown about her shoulders; her hands, glittering with rings, rested on the top of her gold-headed ebony stick. Boney, chained to his perch, had been brought out to the terrace at her command, that he might bask in the light of the birthday conflagration. But his head was under his wing. He slept, and paid no heed to lights or music.

She was very tired. The figures moving about the lawn looked like gyrating, gesticulating puppets. The jigging of the fiddles, the moaning of the flute, beat down upon her, dazed her. She was sinking lower and lower in her chair. Nobody looked at her. One hundred years old! She was frightened suddenly by the stupendousness of her achievement. The plumes of the bonfire were drooping. The sky loomed black above. Beneath her the solid earth, which had borne her up so long, swayed with her, as though it would like to throw her off into space. She blinked. She fumbled for something, she knew not what. She was frightened.

She made a gurgling sound. She heard Ernest’s voice say: “Mamma, must you do that?”

She gathered her wits about her. “Somebody,” she said, thickly, “somebody kiss me—quick!”

They looked at her kindly, hesitated to determine which should deliver the required caress; then from their midst
Pheasant darted forth, flung herself before the old lady, and lifted up her child’s face.

Grandmother peered, grinning, to see which of them it was, then, recognizing Pheasant, she clasped the girl to her breast. From that hug she gathered new vitality. Her arms grew strong. She pressed Pheasant’s young body to her and planted warm kisses on her face. “Ha,” she murmured, “that’s good!” And again—“Ha!”

THE END