The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (617 page)

Archer examined it without interest. “Nothing,” he said, “except that it’s red.”

“Well, I like that!” exclaimed Renny, affronted.

“I admit that it suits you,” said Archer. “You were born and bred to what it indicates, but I have always been thankful I did not inherit it.”

Renny straightened himself and gave a disparaging glance at his son’s dry pale thatch.

“I know it’s not handsome hair,” said Archer, “but it will see me through courtship and marriage. By that time I shall probably be as bald as a doorknob.”

“I had not thought of you in connection with marriage.” Renny spoke with respect rather than unkindness.

“why not?”

“Well, possibly because you’re so highbrow.”

“I may be highbrow,” Archer said stiffly, “but I believe I shall be capable of propagating my kind.”

“That’s just it. Your kind isn’t suited to the life we lead here. I can’t picture your kind as breeding horses and farming. You’ve said that yourself.”

Archer spoke with an edge to his voice. “I suppose you have my sister in mind for the job.…”

“I had thought of the possibility.”

“Have you a mate for her in mind?”

“I have my ideas.”

“For what they are worth,” said Archer. “where she is concerned you can’t be certain of anything. To wit, she’s a female.”

When conversing with Archer, Renny sometimes found himself using pedantic expressions quite unlike his naturally terse manner. Now he said, “what I was endeavouring to elucidate is whether you notice any change in my hair.”

“Elucidate,” repeated Archer, drawing back.

“Yes. Find out.”

“I’ve noticed it’s a bit grey at the temples.”

“You have — and you didn’t tell me!”

“It seems natural, and —” here Archer gave his singularly sweet smile — “looks rather nice.”

Renny returned the look glumly. “I don’t understand,” he said. “My grandmother’s hair was still red at my age.”

Mary was dancing from one foot to another, hugging herself to keep from freezing.

“Come along,” Renny said, taking her hand. He swept her over a puddle at the edge of the orchard and they made their way across the sodden lawn, round the house to the front door.

Inside the hall the three dogs, having too much sense to go out on such a morning, rose to greet them with overdemonstrative affection for Renny, tolerance for little Mary, and cool curiosity for Archer. He remarked:

“Funny to meet you without the dogs.”

Renny took the cairn terrier into his arms. “This little one,” he said, “is not as hardy as he used to be. He’s promised me to take care of himself. One of the others has a sore paw, and one a touch of rheumatism.”

“Poor things,” said Archer, without sympathy.

Alayne Whiteoak, Renny’s wife, came out of the library, a book of essays in her hand. That room had been no more than a sitting room, with few books, when she had come, as a bride, to Jalna, but now its walls were lined with well-arranged volumes. It also had a television set which Alayne deplored. Little Mary at once went into the library and turned it on. A seductive baritone voice came into the hall. Alayne could imagine the face from which it issued. She called out:

“Mary, you did not ask permission to do that.” Mary did not hear her.

“She loves it,” said Renny.

“It gives her a sense of power,” said Archer, “and that’s why she turns it on.”

“Well,” Alayne spoke sharply, “go and turn it off, Archer.”

He went into the library and closed the door after him.

Alone with Renny, Alayne avoided looking at his muddy boots by looking at his attractive face, with its well-marked aquiline features, adroit mouth, and amber eyes. However, she so well concealed her admiration that he thought she was annoyed at him — as indeed she all but was.

“Little wife,” he said, and made as though to kiss her, but she moved away. If there was one form of his endearments she liked less than “little wife,” it was “wee wifie,” which he occasionally produced when he happened to remember that he had had a Scottish grandfather. But “little wife” was bad enough to make her reject amorous overtures from him.

“why did Mary come?” she asked.

“That’s very interesting. She suggested that we should call at all five of the houses belonging to our family. I think that’s rather clever of her. What I mean is, she’s the youngest of the tribe. She’s just beginning to understand what it is to belong to a family, to …” He hesitated.

“To be a Whiteoak,” she finished for him, with a touch of irony.

He did not notice that. He accepted what she had said, as wisdom.

“So,” he went on, “Mary and I are making the rounds, and I’m going to tell her a little about each of the houses as we visit them. And about the families who live there, of course.”

“I must go into town this afternoon,” Alayne said, feeling little interest in Mary’s education. “Will you drive me or shall I ask Hans?” Hans was the husband of the cook. A Dutch couple had served the household well while Wragge, the Cockney houseman, was, with his wife, taking a prolonged holiday in England.

Renny amiably agreed to drive Alayne into the city, though he hated and feared the traffic. “I have no business there myself,” he said. “I can start at whatever time you like.”

A little later he and Mary were standing, hand in hand, on the gravel sweep in front of the house. She was sorry to leave the television, but she was so pleased to be going about with Renny that nothing else really mattered. Even the wetness and cold of her feet did not matter, and the hand that lay in Renny’s was warm as toast.

“This house,” he was saying, “is where your roots are.”

“My roots?” she repeated, looking down at her small wet feet.

“Yes. Your beginnings. Your father and mother came here when they were first married.” His mind flew back to that homecoming and the hot reception the young pair had suffered. He saw, as clear as though it were yesterday, the passionately excited group, the grandmother in their midst. She’d given Piers a sound rap on the hand with her stick. The poor little bride had cried, and no wonder.

“It’s the most important house of the five, I know,” Mary said, looking up into his face.

“You’re right, and it’s soon going to have a birthday — its hundredth birthday. That’s what they call a centenary. And it’s going to have a celebration!”

“A party?”

“Yes. A really splendid party.”

“Shall I be there?”

“We’ll all be there. And let me tell you, Mary, there’s nothing in the world so strong as a close-knit family group. It gives you confidence. It gives you good cheer. It may give you a bad hour occasionally but it’s always there to go to in time of trouble and it’s there to share your joys.”

Mary nodded agreement, even though she did not understand half of what he said.

Looking down into her child’s face, he said, “You’ll remember this later and it will mean a lot to you.”

To show that she understood, she said, “The house will soon be a hundred years old.”

He exclaimed eagerly — “And for the occasion, all the woodwork, shutters, porch, and doors will be freshly painted. The woodwork’s paint always has been green, but I’m seriously thinking of ivory paint this year. It would set off the rosy colour of the brick and the green of the Virginia creeper.”

The Virginia creeper, at the time, showed not a single green leaf. Its leaves were tightly rolled and looked like little red tongues, stuck out in derision.

“Will you paint the front door ivory?” Mary asked.

“No. The door will keep its natural oak colour. The brass knocker looks well on it, don’t you agree?”

“It’s a very nice house,” said Mary. “Our family has five homes and it’s the best.”

The house appeared to absorb all this attention and praise with great self-satisfaction. If a house could be said to look smug, certainly it did. It seemed to say: “I will remain here, to justify your lives, as long as this country survives.”

Seven pigeons slid down the sloping roof and stood poised for flight, their jewel-like eyes, their burnished throats, bright with the promise of the season. The steps that now came running along the drive were those of Renny’s daughter, Adeline. She was five years older than Archer and though slim was exuberantly formed, as compared to the stark austerity of his youthful frame. These two were in every way a contrast: his fair hair, dry and inclined to stand upright, while hers, of a rich auburn that in sunlight glowed red, curled, as though caressingly, about her vivid face; his eyes a constant blue, hers a changeful brown; his lips composed in a thoughtful and almost satiric (or so he hoped) line, hers ready to smile or be sad.

“I heard your voice, Daddy,” she exclaimed. “where are you going? To the stables? Hello, Mary.” She kissed the little girl with warmth and a certain possessiveness.

Renny said, “Mary and I are making the rounds of the family, just to see that everyone is in their place and behaving themselves and to let them know we are on the spot if they want our advice or our help.”

Mary looked important.

“Good,” said Adeline. “I’ll go with you as far as the stables.” She wore riding clothes and already had been exercising her favourite horse. That was what had brought the brilliant colour to her cheeks.

In the stable they inspected the foal — weak, rough-coated, timid of eye, but standing on his legs. A whicker of warning and pride made him move closer to his mother, who showed no sign of the ordeal of giving him birth. At this time she was the heroine of the stables. Nothing was too good for her.

Mary sniffed the scent of clean straw and hay. She remarked, “It’s warmer here than outdoors. Why is it warmer here than outdoors?”

“It’s animal warmth,” said Adeline. “It’s the healthiest kind of warmth.”

“I wish,” said Mary, “that I might go to see East Wind.… He’s my favourite of all the horses.”

Renny and Adeline exchanged a look over the child’s head. The look said:
What an amazingly clever child she is. The things she thinks up!

“He certainly should be my favourite!” Renny spoke with warmth, for all his present prosperity, so long delayed, was due to the prowess of East Wind on the racetrack.

The thoroughbred stood now in his loose box, eyeing them nonchalantly. He was big, brawny, without elegance, but full of confidence. No sudden contingency alarmed him. He enjoyed racing. He had an impeccable digestion and iron nerves. Renny Whiteoak had spent a large part of the legacy from a loved uncle in acquiring East Wind. He had bought him in the face of bitter though almost silent opposition from his wife. And how well had that purchase turned out! The rangy colt had won race after race. Wealthy racing men had offered large sums for him, but a kind of stubborn loyalty caused Renny to refuse even the most tempting offers. East Wind’s place was at Jalna as long as he lived.

It was this same loyalty that led Renny now to the side of his loved old mare, Cora. She was approaching forty years of age but was in fine fettle — her teeth tolerably good; her intelligence, so Renny thought, amazing. She loved him with the ardour of a strong, one-track nature. He now submitted to her moist nuzzling, her pushing and her nipping, giving her in return a playful cuff, as well as a kiss.

After the visit to the stables, uncle and niece went down a path, through a ravine and across a rushing brown stream that not long ago had been frozen. Now it flowed only a few inches below the small rustic bridge spanning it. “I won’t walk across,” cried Mary. “I won’t! I won’t! I’m afraid!”

“I’m surprised at you,” said Renny. “Every spring you see this little stream in flood. Why should it frighten you now?”

“It never came so close before.” Mary looked at it askance. “It’s turned into something different. I don’t like it. I’ll get my feet wet,” she said, as though they could be any wetter. He picked her up, strode across the bridge with her, set her down on the other side. Happily she clambered up the path on the far side of the ravine. Passing through a bit of woodland in whose shelter the first hepaticas, the snow-white bloodroot bloomed, and the crows were cawing, they came to the small house known as the Fox Farm. Here lived Renny’s niece, Patience, married to a writer named Humphrey Bell. She opened the door to them and it could be seen at once that they had called at an unpropitious time. After kissing them she whispered:

“Humphrey is desperately working on a radio play. He must finish it by evening. I’m so sorry he can’t come down. He’ll be sorry too.”

“Okay,” said Renny, “if he’s not able to come down, I’ll go up and see him.”

“Oh, no!” She tried to intercept him, but he was already on his way up the uncarpeted stairs that creaked at every step.

When the two cousins were left below, Mary remarked, “I like television better than radio.”

“I like radio best,” said Patience, “because Humphrey makes more out of radio. I do wish Uncle Renny hadn’t gone up.”

“Shall I go up and tell him?”

“Goodness, no. It’s very bad for a writer to be interrupted in his work.”

“We’re making a tour of the family houses.” Mary looked important. “You are second on our list.”

The two men now descended the stair together, their boots clumping in unison. Patience, who looked on her husband as an artist to be protected and cherished, searched his face in anguish to discover what damage this interruption might have done him. But his was an inscrutable face, principally because of his extreme fairness. He had narrowly escaped being an albino.

“We’re going to have a drink,” he said to Patience and went to the pantry and brought out a bottle of rye.

Patience and Mary looked on in a kind of speechless disapproval while the two men, having produced a completely masculine atmosphere, sipped their drinks and talked about the weather.

“Have another?” Humphrey invited, suddenly looking carefree, as though he had not a living to earn and his wife were not pregnant. On her part she placed her bulk between him and her uncle, as though to protect him.

“No second drink in the morning,” said Renny. “But this was just what I needed to warm me up.”

“You never look chilly.”