The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (522 page)

As he neared Jalna the humiliation of what he had to do, the dread of what Renny’s reception of him might be, drove all other thoughts from his mind. The sweet, dry, playful breeze of late summer refreshed him. As he turned from the dusty road into a path leading across the fields, he noticed how extraordinarily dry everything was. The triumphant sun, after having given life to the season’s growth, now was sucking it away, leaving dry, rustling leaves, parched grass, and only those wild flowers whose harsh fibrous stalks made them insensible to drought. So the goldenrod, the Michaelmas daisy, and the pale blue chicory flourished. Like the essence of the dry light air made palpable, thistledown and the fluff of milkweed floated high and low. Bees sought in haste for the ever-decreasing honey. A myriad crickets chirped and the insistent orchestra of the locusts made the most of this last act before the falling of the final curtain. An old crabapple tree, standing alone in the field, bore a luxuriant crop of little apples with a silver bloom on their red cheeks. Maurice began to feel less unhappy. He saw Wright in the meadow adjoining and, climbing the fence, intercepted him.

“Can you tell me where my uncle is?” he asked.

“Colonel Whiteoak?”

“Yes.”

Wright pointed with his thumb toward the stables. “In his office. He’s searching for that there letter he lost, if you know what I mean.” Wright’s broad face was heavy with gloom.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll go there.” Maurice spoke in his light, impersonal voice. Wright looked after him glumly.

Maurice thought, “He’s never had any respect for me just because I don’t like riding.” He hastened to the stable, eager to get the misery of the apology over with.

He found Renny in his little office, where the desk was heaped with papers, every drawer emptied out, even the wall cupboard disgorged of its contents. That morning he had found one of the twenty-dollar notes in his ledger.

Maurice pulled himself together.

“Good morning, Uncle Renny.”

Renny turned toward him absently. He scarcely seemed to see him.

Maurice went on, “I’ve come to tell you how sorry I am about last night. I’m terribly sorry about the whole thing. I should have known better.”

“Yes, yes, you should have known better. It was a damned stupid thing to do. Don’t ever do anything like that again. You don’t know what it might lead to.” He stood staring at the littered desk.

“How tired he looks,” thought Maurice, and suddenly instead of feeling afraid of Renny he felt sorry for him. He felt a warmth, a kindness, springing from him. If only his father had been like Renny, he felt he might have got on with him.

Renny said, “I suppose you’ve heard something of how Clapperton’s money disappeared.”

“Yes,” answered Maurice, colouring.

“By God, everyone has heard of that!”

“Are you looking for it here, Uncle Renny?”

“Yes. I — well, I had a sudden idea that it might be here. I’ve emptied out everything, as you see, but —” he pressed his hand to his head — “my brain is so tired I think I may have overlooked it. Now I want you to go through the papers on this desk, very carefully, and make sure it isn’t here. I’ll search the cupboard again.”

Maurice, relieved at the turn the interview had taken, yet deeply embarrassed, began the search. Neither spoke. From the stable came the sound of a steady clatter of hoofs as a horse was led out and, from a stall, a low whinny.

Maurice gave an exclamation. Renny turned sharply.

“Look, Uncle Renny!” He had opened a little brass stamp box. In it, folded very small, was a bank note. It was folded so that the king’s face looked out at them, the head nobly held, as in a frame.

Renny took the box and extracted the note. “That’s two this morning,” he muttered. He sat down at the desk and drew his wallet and a notebook from his pocket. He placed the twenty-dollar bill in the wallet and made a neat entry in the notebook. He returned both to his pocket, then looked up at Maurice with a smile that was more like a grimace of pain.

“You have a crackpot for an uncle,” he said. “I hope you’re proud of him.”

Maurice could think of nothing to say but stammered, “I’m terribly sorry, Uncle Renny.”

“Yes. So are we all.”

It was indeed terrible to Maurice to have this disgraceful and frightening thing, about which he and his mother had spoken in whispers, about which he and Swift had speculated in careful undertones, brought into the open and himself alone in this box of a room with the perpetrator — the victim — whatever you might call him. And he wasn’t asking for a special sympathy — just including himself in the family group who were sorry that this calamity had overtaken them. And that look in his eyes, that were so like Adeline’s. Maurice had not noticed the resemblance before.

Renny rose abruptly. He went to the cupboard and took out a bottle with a little Scotch in it and poured himself a drink. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “if you knew how these things unnerve me.”

Maurice felt a rush of gratitude and love toward him. He had been so decent about last night. He was suffering.

Maurice asked, “Shall I tidy the papers, Uncle Renny?”

“No. I’ll put them away.” He set down the empty glass and looking at the litter on the desk, as though the sight of it were hateful to him, gathered it in handfuls and thrust it back into the drawers. “Now let’s go out into the sun.”

Outside he threw back his head and took a deep breath. The three dogs ran to greet him and he bent down, fondling them. “Good old boys! No — bad old boys! You have noses. Why don’t you smell it out? what does all this fuss over me mean? Nothing! Get busy with your nose, Roger! Smell it out, Bill!” He caught up the little Cairn and kissed it. “why don’t you help me, little rascal? No — you think of nothing but bunnies and mice.”

Suddenly Maurice saw Adeline standing quite near them on the path. He was startled by her pallor and by the bluish shadows beneath her eyes but her lips were red, with a feverish look. She looked unusually tidy and her cotton dress was obviously fresh that morning. Renny did not see her but went on fondling the dogs, pulling Roger’s topknot, scratching Bill behind the ears, while the Cairn was vainly striving to lick his face.

Maurice and Adeline stood looking at each other. With a gesture of his hand toward Renny and a shake of the head Maurice tried to tell her that they were not to speak. She seemed to understand. She nodded gravely but drew a little nearer. Renny straightened himself and saw her.

“Well,” he said, as though to himself, “I must be off.” He turned toward the paddock where Wright could be seen schooling the colt.

Adeline moved quickly to him. She ran beside him looking up into his face. Then she slipped her hand into his and Maurice saw his fingers close on it. He saw them fall into step with an air of complete harmony.

RENNY AND HIS DAUGHTER

R
ENNY, WITH
A
DELINE’S
hand in his, hesitated for only a short while by the paddock to watch Wright’s skilful handling of the colt, then turned across a field to where a group of young alders made a small shade by the stream. The stream was very shallow because of the drought but still it was active, hurrying over the pebbles as though to gain the shade of the ravine. He dropped to the edge of the bank, his legs hanging over it. She sat close to him. She felt the sun on her bare legs and arms. She saw the sun on his thin muscular hand and she dared be happy, though with a tremulous happiness, as though at any moment the cloud of his anger would darken her sky. He turned to look into her eyes. She returned his look with the complete surrender of childhood.

“Adeline,” he said, “I am afraid you will think I was very hard on you last night.”

“No, no,” she said, in a muffled voice. “It was all right.”

“Parents don’t do that sort of thing nowadays.” He tried to make her smile by smiling at her but her lips were moulded in gravity.

She said, in Ernest’s very tone, “If they did more of it, there wouldn’t be so much juvenile delinquency.”

He could not endure that. He took her in his arms and held her close for a moment. She thought, “Always, always I shall remember this. I shall think — ‘how much happier I was then!’ Or I shall think — ‘how much more miserable I was then!’ I don’t know which I am but — I shall always remember.”

“It infuriated me,” he said, “that Swift should lay a hand on you.”

Her eyes flashed. “But I wasn’t to blame, Daddy.”

“Can you say that out of your very bones?”

“Yes.”

“what do you feel about him now?”

“I hate him.”

“why?”

The question, thrown so vehemently at her, took from her the power of thought for a moment. She could not speak.

“why?” he repeated.

Now she could think and answered with decision, “Because he led me into trouble with you.”

He looked at her keenly. “That’s a good answer.”

After a silence, he asked, “Adeline, do I seem different to you from what I used to be?”

“A little.”

“A little! You mean a lot. I’m terribly worried about something. I can’t tell you the cause. But perhaps when you come home for the Christmas holidays, you’ll find me a better companion.”

“what I want is to be with you!” she exclaimed. “Always. To be at Jalna with you. Or, if I go anywhere — to have you come with me.”

“Stick to that for the next seven years and I’ll be a happy man.”

“I will stick to it always.” She pressed her face to his shoulder. “Daddy, will you let me help you search for the letter? I will never stop searching all day, not till I find it, I promise you.”

“If I haven’t found it when you come back from school, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Is it
really
a letter?”

“Don’t ask questions. I can’t explain it to you — not yet.”

She did not leave his side all the morning. They came in to lunch hand in hand. There was a complete understanding between them, Alayne thought. Adeline might lie to him, might do things in direct opposition to his wishes, he might take a stick to her back as he had last night, still there would be complete understanding between them. The hot sunshine, the fresh air, had brought colour to Adeline’s cheeks but Alayne looked ill. She had spent the morning going over Adeline’s clothes, in preparation for school. She discovered shoes that should have been taken to the shoemaker for mending long ago, stockings that should have been darned, tunics that should have been mended. Roma had an entirely new school outfit — an added expense — to say nothing of the doubling of the large fees. Roma was in a blissful daze. To be going off to school with Adeline was a felicity she had not hoped for. Archer showed no sign of missing either girl. His mind seemed concentrated on the fact that he was to be the only child at Jalna, with an unquestioned field for his egotism.

The last morning came, with the bustle of luggage being carried downstairs, the continual running up and down and in and out of the children, the unheeded advice, the tips from the uncles, the hugs, the glibly given promises. Adeline, thought Alayne, was made of hardy fibre. She looked, she seemed as resilient as ever. But she did not see her as she stood alone saying goodbye to her room, her dear room, in which she had spent a night of the despair a child can know. Morning had brought a lifting of that despair; being restored to Renny’s love had made her well, for indeed she had felt ill. But the night had left its mark on her. She carried a scar on her heart which all the joy of coming years would never quite erase. In her thoughts she did not separate the events of the night.
Othello
— the supper in the restaurant — the journey home — Swift’s strange talk, his hot embrace — Renny’s violence — were so closely woven as to be inseparable, making a confused, a chaotic pattern in her memory.

Now she stood on the platform of the country station as the train, with hissing and roaring, came to a stop. She wore her school tunic, her long black stockings and black shoes. She carried her coat, her box of tuck given by Mrs. Wragge, and her badminton racquet. Her hair, flung back from her forehead, rippled like a pennant. Roma similarly equipped stood close beside her. Archer, clinging to his father’s sleeve, hopped up and down in his excitement.

“Got your tickets safe?” demanded Renny.

“Yes.” Roma patted her pocket. Adeline showed her ticket between her teeth.

“Right. Don’t swallow it.”

Heads of other children showed at the windows. Renny put the two aboard. Archer scrambled up the steps after them and had to be lifted down just as the train started. Adeline, peering out of the window, saw them standing hand in hand on the platform. The train swept her away.

Eager chattering schoolgirls surrounded her. They fired questions at her.

“Hello, Adeline! who is your friend?”

“Is she your sister?”

“Is she the cousin you’ve talked about?”

“what’s her name? Has she been to school before?”

“Did you have fun in the holidays? I had a super time.”

“So did I!”

“So did I!”

Adeline smiled but she groaned inwardly. “Girls — girls — and more girls — teachers — games — scripture — exams! Another term!”

THE PROPOSAL

T
WO DEPRESSED GENTLEMEN
sat facing each other across the luncheon table at Vaughanlands the day after the notable performance of
Othello
. The face of each was so distasteful to the other that he could scarcely bear to look at it. Eugene Clapperton’s face was sallow, his eyes tired and his thin lips compressed. He felt that his troubles since coming to this place were so unreasonable, so endless. He had come intending to be a friend to everyone, a beneficent influence in the community. His reward had been hostility from the Whiteoaks, the really dreadful upset over the theft, and now this attack on his young cousin. He sympathized with Sidney, yet he was disgusted with him. Sidney should have known better than to have been drawn into an exchange of hot words with Renny Whiteoak, who was a violent and dangerous man, if ever there was one. Sidney had not made clear to Eugene Clapperton just what had happened. It was all very muddled and doubtless he had lied. One thing was certain. He had got a severe beating. It had been a shock to go to his bedroom to call him and find him lying there with one eye completely closed, the other badly swollen, his lip cut and a basin of bloodstained water on the washing stand. It had been a frightening climax to a series of depressing events. He wished Sidney had remained in bed. No one could enjoy a meal with that face opposite, with those disgusting noises Sidney made drawing in his soup from the spoon.