The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (631 page)

“what you need reminding of is your manners,” said Piers.

“Sorry.” Philip flushed and looked at his plate.

Little Mary surveyed him critically.

To put him again at ease, Pheasant inquired whether he had got all his goodbyes said.

“Yes. I did some of them yesterday. This morning it took longer than I expected.”

“Hard to part with your girl, eh?” said Piers.

“It was Auntie Meg.” He had a mind to tell of going into the church but thought better of it.

“Good Lord,” exclaimed Christian.

“Meg is the clinging type,” said Piers.

Philip’s favourite pudding was brought on, as a treat, and as it was being eaten with gusto Pheasant said, “what do you suppose? You’ll never guess, Philip. Well, I shall tell you. Your Uncle Renny wants to have portraits painted of you and Adeline to hang in the dining room at Jalna beside the great-grandparents. Isn’t it a lovely idea?”

Philip was both amazed and flattered. He mumbled, “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Capital,” said Piers. “It’s a fine idea. Is Renny prepared to pay for the portraits?”

Pheasant nodded vigorously. “I’m sure he is. He says he wants them done by a good artist.”

“We have the artist right here,” said Piers. “Christian shall do the portraits and keep the money in the family.”

“Oh, Dad,” the young artist exclaimed in despair, “I can’t paint portraits!”

“Not after all that time in Paris? Of course you can.”

“No — but really — I’m not a portrait painter.”

“All you need to do,” said Piers, “is to get good photographs of the pair and use them as models.”

“It isn’t often,” Pheasant put in, “that an artist has such handsome subjects.”

“I shouldn’t like the style to be too modern,” said Philip. “I mean the sort of thing that you can’t tell what you’re looking at.”

“You would hate the portraits I’d paint,” said Christian.

Philip was pleased by the prospect of having his portrait painted, for, with the exception of snapshots and school groups, he had never seen a picture of himself since the photograph Pheasant had had taken to send to Piers overseas. It had been taken by the best photographer in town and showed himself and Christian (then nicknamed Nooky) at the ages of eight and eleven. It was a charming portrait and, framed in silver, stood on a table in the living room.

The meal over, Philip finished his packing and, with something oddly final in the atmosphere, as though he were going on a very long journey, he said goodbye and set out.

Mary stood in the doorway and watched the car disappear. Her heart felt light as she went, with a lively step, to the studio. As Christian had driven Philip to the railway station, she got it into her silly little head that he too had departed. Now the studio was her own — her own, that is, till he returned, which she hoped would not be for some time. She liked him well enough, but life was much pleasanter for her when all three brothers were away. Then it was that she felt more safe.

She investigated every corner of the studio, as though to make friends with it again, opening cupboards to peep into them and investigating drawers full of sketches. She did not like a single one of them. But a picture of young birch trees, standing on an easel, rather pleased her. She had just picked up a palette and brush, that she might pretend to be an artist, when Christian’s shocked voice came to her from the doorway.

“Mary! what are you up to?”

She fled and, in the kitchen garden, among the pungent-smelling tomato plants and their scarlet fruit, shed a few tears.

Tea With the Wragges

Wright had dropped in to take tea with the Wragges and, as so often happened, Noah Binns joined them.

“Evenin’ folks,” he said, as he stumped down the several steps from the outer door.

“Evening, Noah,” said the cook. “You’re just in time for a nice cup of tea.”

Rags placed a chair for the old man, who cast a greedy eye over the table. “You on a slimming diet?” he inquired.

“It’s true we ’ave no cake,” said Rags, “but we always eat a snack at bedtime. The wife is boiling an egg for me now and she’ll put one on for you, if you say the word.”

“I’ll say the word twice.” Noah leered at his own wit.

“Fine,” said the cook and popped two more eggs into the boiling water. She turned then to Wright. “Will you have eggs with your tea, Mr. Wright?”

“No, thank
you,
”
returned Wright. “I’ll be going home for supper shortly. I thought I’d just drop in and say hello and ask what’s the news.”

He drew up a chair and the cook poured him a cup of strong tea and pushed a plate of cookies closer to him.

“Things go along quiet in the house,” said Mrs. Wragge. “The excitement all comes from the stables. I can tell you we were screwed up to concert pitch by East Wind’s big win yesterday. The boss went to a party last night and if he didn’t come home tight I miss my guess. His dogs was barkin’ like all get out at three o’clock this morning.”

“I never knew a man,” said Noah, “who carried his liquor worse.”

“Him?” cried the cook. “It’s a libel. I’ve worked in this house for half a lifetime and I never seen a man carry his liquor better. If he gets tight he has good reason for it.”

Rags said pontifically, “I ’ave fought with ’im in two wars and I’ll s’y he can drink or let it alone as the case may be.”

“Meaning,” said Noah, “if there’s drink to be had he’ll drink it.”

“The Whiteoak men,” said Wright, “drink like gentlemen.”

Noah scraped out the shell of his first egg and attacked the second. “I was brought up totalitarian,” he said, “and totalitarian I’ll die.”

Rags winked at Wright. “Noah’s a man of ’igh principles,” he said. “’E’s severe, but ’e’ll mellow with the years.”

“I am against drink,” declared Noah, “horse racin’, and lotteries.”

“what are you for?” asked Rags.

“I’m fer a better world, but I ain’t seen no signs of it. The climate gets worse and folks’ behaviour gets worse. It’s a sorry sight to see so many young ones comin’ on.”

“Oh, Noah, don’t say that!” cried the cook. “Think of the lovely young couple who are to live in this very house next year! Think of the lovely kiddies they’ll have.”

Noah had a trickle of egg yolk on his chin; still he contrived to look scornful. “I don’t give no heed to sex,” he said. “Hot or cold — rock or roll — it’s all the same to me.”

“I’d like to know where you’d be if it hadn’t been for sex.” She filled his cup, putting in extra sugar.

“I might still be an angel in heaven,” he said with satisfaction, then sought to drown his straggling moustache in tea.

“One thing is certain,” observed Rags, “the young pair won’t ’ave much say in the management of the place — not while the present rd and mistress are aboveground.”

“I’ve been a gravedigger all my days,” said Noah, “but I don’t calculate to dig their graves, not unless they’re carried off within the next ten years.”

“By gum,” said Wright, “you don’t look as though you’d strength to dig a grave for a grasshopper.”

Noah teehee-ed. “Don’t you fool yourself,” he snickered. “I’ll outlast you by many a month. You’re just the powerful kind of man that goes off quick. I’ll be ready to dig a good six feet for you.”

“Speaking of sickness,” said the cook, addressing Wright, “how is Mr. Wakefield coming along, at Fiddler’s Hut? My husband and I don’t go to call there now, as the lady wasn’t too friendly last time we did.”

“She’s shy,” said Wright, “but she’s very nice, and devoted to him. Regularly spoils him.”

“He always was spoiled,” said Rags.

“A pernicious truant and snake-in-the-grass,” said Noah.

“But what eyes!” exclaimed the cook. “And what curly hair! I couldn’t refuse him anything.”

Noah asked, “Is he doomed, do you think, like his brother was?”

“Not he,” said Wright. “He’s put on weight and talks of going back on the stage soon.”

“In his ordinary life,” said Noah, “he was a danged bad actor.”

“Ah, he was a sweet boy.” Mrs. Wragge sighed deeply. “I can’t bear to think of him being ailing. I do like small boys. There’s that little Dennis. He’s a dear little boy. I hear he’s to have a baby brother or sister in the New Year.”

“It’s chose a bad time to be born,” groaned Noah. “All signs pint to a bad winter and a worse spring and summer to follow. It’ll be a wonder if any of us is alive at this time next year. A terrible end is prepared for this world, and we’re moving towards it fast.”

“Have another cup of tea,” urged the cook.

“I don’t mind if I do. And this time don’t be so stingy with the sugar. I need something to contradict the voluptuous behaviour I see all around me.”

The cook put three extra lumps of sugar in his tea.

Wright remarked, “I don’t think that’s a nice way to talk in front of a lady.”

Noah stared. “Do you mean to say the carryings-on I witness ain’t voluptuous and explosive? I seen ’em in ditches.”

“There’s no call to talk about it,” said Wright. “I like a little refinement.”

Noah gave the table a thump with his fist. “It’s the first time in my life,” he said, “that I’ve been accused of loose talk before a female. I’ve reverenced the female sex. I’ve reverenced them too much to marry them.”

“That’s a loss to some woman,” said Rags.

Noah was not mollified. He looked glumly at the table, then drained his cup and got to his feet. Walking waveringly to the door he stood with his hand on the latch and said:

“I like misery.”

Then he disappeared.

There was silence for a short space, silence except for the noisy bubbling of the teakettle. Then the cook remarked:

“That old fella’d make a dog laugh.”

Wakefield and Molly

Fortunately for Wakefield’s progress the weather was almost continuously fair and he was able to spend his days outdoors. The richly coloured tapestry of leaves fell from the trees and made a carpet below. The oak leaves were the last to fall, but already the glossy acorns strewed the ground and were collected and buried by squirrels that immediately forgot where they had hid them, and frisked up and down the massive tree trunks and made friends with Molly and Wakefield, as though there were no such season as winter. Birds lingered in this woodland retreat, seeming to forget the necessity of migrating. The flaming colour of a cardinal would shine out like a lamp and a few bold notes from his spring song would enliven the air. He indeed had no intention of migrating but intended to spend the winter here. In early dawn the honk of wild geese came down from the misty sky.

Of the two beings isolated here, Wakefield was the least unhappy. At times he was almost content, for he felt the continued improvement in his condition and the doctor who came regularly to see him was satisfied. Renny kept him supplied with the necessary funds. He was in correspondence with managers who would, he hoped, offer him an engagement when it would be possible for him to accept it.
And
he was writing a play! He had already written an unsuccessful play, but this new one would be different. His heart was lifted by hope as he worked at it and, when he read scenes aloud to Molly and saw how her mobile face reflected their mood, he felt ready to fly with eagerness.

Molly knew that she could get a part in London or New York. Both managers and audiences liked her. She had been on the point, she felt sure, of attaining stardom when Wakefield’s illness had cut short their careers, at least temporarily. Of the two, Wakefield had felt the shock of this most deeply. For a time he had varied between deep melancholy and a distraught uncertainty. But once he had decided he wanted to go to Jalna he became calmer. His spirit lightened as he looked forward in hope, instead of into a chasm of despair. To be at Jalna, to be near Meg and Renny, made him feel a child again. He accepted Molly’s sacrifice, he accepted all that was done for him, as a child accepts the care that is given it. He did not lack company, for the family, with the exception of Adeline and Alayne, came to visit the Hut. Alayne could not bring herself to come, and Wakefield took a certain mischievous pleasure in her unease. She made him feel reckless and without compassion. He accepted Molly’s devotion as something she longed to give and even told her that the rest in this lovely spot would do her good. The warmth, the almost continuous sunshine of the autumn days brought bright tints to her cheeks and hair, which she had cut short. She had not made a very good job of it but it became her. In an old cotton dress she would wander about the woodland, keeping from the paths, and fill her little basket with wild blackberries. Standing in the heat among the bushes, with trees obscuring all but a patch of the azure sky, she would remember the wild bare hills of Wales where she had spent her childhood, the wind that blew across them — her sisters, all scattered, her brother killed in the war.

While Wakefield was recovering his health and even enjoying the life thus thrust on him, Molly fretted ever more deeply for opportunities lost, for all that she felt slipping away from her. Sometimes a feeling of active rebellion shook her. She would wake in the terrible stillness of the woodland and long desperately for the muffled roar of traffic in a great city; would picture herself putting on her makeup in her dressing room at the theatre or the return to their apartment after the play. Here, she felt less close to Wakefield — who, in a strange way, seemed absorbed by his family. He would talk by the hour of his boyhood at Jalna: of his grandmother and how she would feed him sops of sponge cake dipped in her glass of sherry; of his uncles, Nicholas and Ernest, and what gentlemen of the old school they were; of how he had gone to the Rectory for lessons, rather than school, because of his weak heart; of how, for the same reason, he had always slept with Renny. He would hug himself in laughter as he recalled, “Even when he brought Alayne to Jalna as his bride, she had to creep into a room by herself, because I was sleeping with the bridegroom!”

Renny continued, or so it seemed to Molly, sedulously to avoid her. He would come to see Wakefield when he knew she was out of the way. She, equally painstaking, would go into another room or hasten outdoors if she heard his step.