“Well, — that’s kind of her.”
“Will you come?”
“Rather.”
They had arrived at the semi-detached house which, unlike others of its sort, not having been built as such, seemed to resent the cleavage. The half occupied by Mrs. Stroud wore a superior air, with its immaculate frilled curtains and bright brass knocker, while the other half looked disgruntled, as though resentful of the fact that its once ordered rooms were now treated so casually by the newcomers. When Tod saw his home he clapped his hands in joy. Renny set him down inside the gate and he staggered off, in his rolling gait, like a cheerful automaton. Straws were sticking in his tumbled tow hair.
“What a dear little chap!” exclaimed Renny.
“Yes.” She spoke absently, her fingers playing with the latch of the gate.
“Well, I must face the charmer. Wish me luck.”
As he waited before Mrs. Stroud’s door he remembered that Meg was going to invite her to tea. He could not make himself unpleasant to a prospective guest. But he must find out what sort of woman she was. Not that he felt himself capable of really understanding any woman. Horses, yes; men, boys; and his grandmother — he believed he understood her. But she was over ninety. A woman surely must acquire something of man’s outlook by then. Not that Grandmother was like any man he’d ever met…. He rang the bell again.
Inside, Mrs. Stroud had been clipping a pair of garnet earrings on her wax-white, oddly shaped ears, of which she was vain, and changing the low-heeled shoes she wore for her housework to high-heeled slippers. She hastened to the door.
Seeing Renny on the doorstep her face showed first surprise, then a smile of welcome.
“Do come in,” she said. “What a lovely day, but it’s turning hot, isn’t it?”
He entered, they sat down, she offered him a cigarette. He said:
“I walked along with Mrs. Cummings and young Tod.”
“Isn’t she splendid?” exclaimed Mrs. Stroud. “The way she can ride and take care of her baby and keep that house going!”
“She rides well,” agreed Renny tersely.
“She has a hard life. Her brother is an irascible, irritating young man, not easy to live with. Well, the partitions here are thin. Sometimes it makes my blood boil to hear him raise his voice at her.”
“She seems capable of looking after herself. She’s not a timid type.”
“But I do so hate people to be unhappy. Why can’t we enjoy the beauty of life — its poetry, in peace.”
“I don’t know,” returned Renny seriously. “But speaking of poetry — I suppose you’ve heard about Eden’s latest?”
“About his poem being accepted? Oh yes, he came over here at once to tell me. You see, I’ve been so interested in his poetry.”
Their eyes met and remained fixed for a moment, in challenge and distrust.
Renny forced a genial smile to his lips. He said — “It’s kind of you to take an interest in him.”
She smiled a little sadly. “The kindness is all on his side. He’s young and attractive and full of promise. The bond between us is love of poetry.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, “that all this poetry is good for a young chap who is studying law and who needs to keep his wits about him. I shall be glad if he never has another poem accepted.”
Mrs. Stroud could not restrain her disagreement with these words. Her colour rose. “You little know what you are saying!” she exclaimed. “You would put him into a cold, calculating profession and deprive him of what is his very essence — however you may dislike it.”
“I never even suggested the study of law to him. He chose it for himself. I guess because he thought it was an easy life.”
“I’m afraid you don’t at all understand Eden. He has an ardent nature and spends himself recklessly on every thing he goes into.”
“The only thing I’ve seen him spend recklessly is my money,” retorted Renny.
She returned, just as hastily — “Well, I suppose he has a right to be educated. He has certain rights in your father’s will, hasn’t he?”
“I see that he has talked over our affairs with you.”
“I have his happiness at heart,” she answered simply. She clasped her hands in her lap, and he noticed how soft, white, yet capable they looked.
He crushed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. “I came here this morning, Mrs. Stroud,” he said coldly, “to ask you to discourage Eden in his visits. He spent a lot of time in your house last spring when he should have been studying. The consequence is that he barely scraped through his exams. Having some rhymes accepted by a magazine doesn’t make up for that.”
She raised her fine grey eyes pleadingly to his. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just remember that he is an inexperienced boy and a student.”
“Do you want me to tell him not to come here?”
“No, that would probably upset him. He’d know I had been interfering. I only ask you to discourage too frequent visits. You don’t want the neighbours gossiping about him and you, do you?”
Mrs. Stroud demanded, in her deep voice — “Has Jim Dayborn been talking?”
“I’m not going to answer that question.”
“Or Miss Pink? I expect it’s Miss Pink. She has been envious of me from the beginning. She imagines it is she who discovered Eden’s talent.”
“Miss Pink wiped the slobber off Eden’s chin when he was christened. You can’t tell her anything about him.”
“That was a very revealing remark, Mr. Whiteoak. It shows pretty clearly your attitude toward life.”
“I may not think it’s as mysterious as you do. But I’m my brothers’ guardian and I’ve got to be as keen for their future as for my horses.”
Mrs. Stroud laughed scornfully. “The same method for boy and horse, eh?”
“I might follow a worse.”
“If you think,” she exclaimed abruptly, “that those two next door are what they seem to be, you’re mistaken.” She added, with equal abruptness — “I shouldn’t have said that. But he does annoy me.”
“Mrs. Stroud, are you going to send Eden about his business?”
She gave a warm, almost tender smile.
“Of course I will. I want to do whatever is best for him.”
They parted amicably and, before he left, she took him around her little garden and showed him how well her delphiniums were coming on. At the gate she laid her hand on his sleeve and her eyes flickered in the direction of her neighbours’ windows. She said:
“Did you see that curtain move? I can’t do anything without being observed. It gives one a funny feeling.”
IX
THE TEA PARTY
ADELINE WALKED SLOWLY about the tea table, examining what was spread thereon with an eye so interested as to be almost greedy. She thanked God that her digestion was good. She was not one of those old people who had to subsist on pap foods. She could eat the highly seasoned curry for which she had acquired a taste in India; she could eat English plum pudding with brandy sauce, or a chocolate éclair, and feel so little the worse for it that she always considered the game had been well worth the candle.
Here was spread just the lavish sort of tea she most enjoyed: chicken, cucumber, and fish paste sandwiches. Hot buttered crumpets with honey. Three cakes — a coconut layer cake, a dark rich devil cake, and a white iced cake crowned with halved walnuts. There was a dish of fresh bonbons. She stretched out a greedy, wrinkled hand, took one of these last and popped it into her mouth. The centre was marzipan and it stuck firmly on her upper plate. She did not mind this but stood, leaning on her stick, her brown eyes goggling a little, while she savoured the sweetness.
But of course she could not enjoy it in peace. Her daughter, elegant in black taffeta and heavy gold bracelets, came in search of her.
“Are you all right, Mamma?” she asked, looking into Adeline’s face.
Adeline returned the look dumbly but with rising colour. She wou
ld choke rather than give herself away.
Augusta came and took her arm.
“Is there anything wrong, Mamma?”
“Justavin a look a — table,” she mumbled through the marzipan.
“Mamma! What — oh, I see. But really you shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” demanded Adeline, more clearly and truculently. She swallowed the morsel and no longer tried to hide her face.
Augusta replied with tact — “You shouldn’t be asked to wait so long for your tea.”
Adeline thought — “I’ve taken her in.” She was pleased and said magnanimously — “I don’t mind waiting on occasion.”
They moved back to the drawing room together. “Do I look all right?” asked Adeline. “Is my cap on straight?”
Her daughter moved it a quarter of an inch.
“You look very nice.”
Nicholas and Ernest were already there. Nicholas was reading a war novel sent to him by a friend in England, Ernest a little ostentatiously holding a volume of Shakespeare in his hand. He rose and went to meet his mother. Nicholas winced as he made the effort.
“Stay where you are,” said his mother. “I’ll take the will for the deed. How’s your gout?”
“A nuisance. I’ve done nothing to bring it on this time. Been living like a Spartan.”
His brother uttered a skeptical, falsetto, highly irritating laugh.
Nicholas glared at him.
“Boys,” adjured their mother, “I hear the visitors in the hall.”
Meg entered the room hurriedly, then went forward with dignity to meet Dayborn, Chris Cummings, and Mrs. Stroud. She presented each in turn to her grandmother, her aunt, and her two uncles. Before the introductions were over, Wakefield came running after her in a pale blue smock, and slippers of the same colour. He gave his tiny hand to each of the visitors, with an air of putting them at their ease. Meg had all a mother’s pride in him.
“My youngest grandson,” said Adeline. “A posthumous child. He’d never have lived if I hadn’t cosseted him. Whatever his life may be, he owes it to me. He knows that already, don’t you, child?”
“Yes,” agreed Wakefield. “Owe my life to Gwannie.” He beamed at the admiring circle.
“And how is your own health, Mrs. Whiteoak?” asked Mrs. Stroud, sitting down beside her. “Good I hope.”
“Ah, I’m full of merit,” replied the old lady. “I’ve fewer pains and aches than any of my three children. My eldest son — him with the moustache — is suffering from gout.”
“What a distinguished looking man!” said Mrs. Stroud.
“The other one,” proceeded Adeline, “has lit’ry tastes. He’s got an idea for a book. He’ll tell you all about it. He told me yesterday, but I’ve forgotten. My daughter, Lady Buckley, is a widow. They’ve all three spent most of their lives in England. They’re too English for me. I’m a real old pioneer, I am.” She peered round Mrs. Stroud at Chris Cummings. “So that’s the girl that breaks in colts! She don’t look strong — but you never can tell. Where’s your baby, my dear, and why didn’t you bring him with you?”
“Old Scotchmere is minding him for me. He’s rigged up a hobby horse.”
“Ha, ha, Scotchmere turned nurse! They tell me you can ride like a jockey. I must get as far as the stables one day and see you.”
Mrs. Stroud interposed. “Don’t go, Mrs. Whiteoak. I did once, and it frightened me to see her. She’s too pretty to run such risks.”
“It’s my job,” said Chris, “and I ask no better.”
“Ah, that’s the spirit!” Adeline’s gaze swept the room. “Where’s Renny? Why doesn’t he come to tea? Where’s Eden and the other two? We’ve waited long enough.”
As she spoke Renny came in, his hair flat from the brush, his eyes expectant. Eden followed him, a faint smile lighting his face as his eyes met those of Mrs. Stroud. Meg, taking Wakefield by the hand, led the way to the dining room. He held out his other hand to Mrs. Stroud.
“How sweet he is!” she exclaimed. “And so friendly. Children have an instinct for knowing those who really love them.”
Renny, playfully and in a mood to show off his precarious friendship with his youngest brother, picked him up as they reached the tea table and raised him shoulder high. Wakefield stiffened and cried — “Down, down, please! Want d-d-down!” Renny deposited him, far from gently, on the chair next Meg’s.
“Now, what about instinct?” laughed Dayborn. “He doesn’t take to you.”
“Unfortunately,” explained Meg, “the poor little fellow was frightened by Renny soon after he came home. He hasn’t got over it, but he will.”
“He is nervous,” added Ernest, “and doesn’t see many strangers.”
Nicholas said — “Since the death of his parents we have lived very quietly. It’s time to change that.”
He was sitting next to Mrs. Stroud. She looked into his deeply-lined, experienced face and thought — “What a striking looking man! And a divorcé! How could a woman divorce him! Oh, to have been married to a man like that!”
But his table manners did not please her. He humped his broad shoulders above his plate and devoured a fish paste sandwich in two bites. He began to tell her about a fountain he was planning, at the south side of the house, to be ready for his mother’s birthday.
“The design is to be a female figure, in Hindoo costume, holding an Irish harp and leaning against a lion. It is to typify the three countries which have most influenced my mother’s life. The idea is my brother’s. He will show you some sketches he has made for it. But please do not mention it to my mother. It is to be a complete secret till the day. The water is to come out of the lion’s mouth.”
“How interesting!” said Mrs. Stroud. “But has Canada no part in the design?”
“Canada supplies the water,” he replied.
Eden, on her other side, was offering her a crumpet. She was acutely conscious of his nearness. She was contrasting his smooth, young brown hands, with those of Nicholas which, though shapely, shook perceptibly as he raised his cup to his lips.
“Well, and what do you think of us?”
“I think you’re fascinating. Much more so than you led me to expect. Why, there’s poetry in every one of you — with one exception.”
“I guess which one you mean. I must say he’d be relieved to be the exception. But I’m dashed if I can see poetry in any of them.”
“Ah, you know them too well. If you had lived the life I have! But that’s all over. It’s a new world for me. I’m so glad I came here. Now I know your background. It’s as different as possible to mine. How charming your grandmother is being to Jim Dayborn!”
The old lady was talking with gusto of Irish hunters. Her harsh laugh broke out as she told him of youthful exploits. She questioned him closely as to what he considered Launceton’s chances for the Grand National. She was all for entering him but her sons, her daughter and granddaughter, thought it was too great a risk and expense.
Ernest was telling Chris of his idea for a book about Shakespeare. Quite different from anything that had been done, he declared. He felt himself, from years of theatre going, well fitted for the task. He asked her opinion of Shakespeare’s sonnets. She confessed that she did not know he had written any. This confession did not lower her in Ernest’s opinion. He was satisfied to have an attractive young woman to talk to of “his work.”
“What a nice old boy!” she thought. “Yet he does seem a bit ga-ga on the subject of Shakespeare.”
But as Ernest talked, his clear forget-me-not blue eyes did not miss the understanding glances that passed between Mrs. Stroud and Eden, nor the self-conscious pleasure in her as she manoeuvred to keep him by her side when, after tea, they went to see the garden.
Old Adeline established herself on the circular white seat beneath the great silver birch that dominated the lawn. The bed of red geraniums had just been set out and she beamed her approval at it. Then she remembered Piers and Finch.
&nbs
p; “Where are the two young lads?” she demanded. “I didn’t see ’em at tea?”
Meg replied — “Piers is off fishing. Finch has somehow got tar in his hair and wasn’t fit to come to table.”
“Tar, eh? The young rascal! He’ll have to have his hair buttered. That will take it off. That one’s a nice little boy, Mrs. Stroud. But full of music, like his poor mother.”
“A musician and a poet, Mrs. Whiteoak! You are lucky in your grandsons!”
“I am that! And in yon horsy fellow too — and the baby. Look out, sir! You are a naughty boy!”
Wakefield had just emptied his two hands, filled with gravel from the drive, into Mrs. Stroud’s white piqué lap. She made nothing of it and would not allow him to be rebuked. She was making herself a general favourite.
It was the first time that Renny had seen Chris in anything but shabby riding breeches. Here was a different girl. Instead of the long-sleeved shirt, she wore a pink chambray dress. Her silk clad legs and slender bare arms were graceful. But the hand and wrist were so tanned as to give the impression that she wore coffee-coloured gloves. From whip-like, almost fierce vitality, she had flowered into graceful femininity.
“You’re two different people,” he told her as they stood beside an old mulberry tree under which a dilapidated hammock had been the recipient, for more than three decades, of fallen berries. Its mattress sagged, its framework was rusty, but it was a sequestered spot that retained a certain poetic essence.
“I pity you, if you’re as easily taken in as that,” she returned.
“I can’t imagine your swearing in this outfit.”
“The hell you can’t!” she exclaimed, incredulously and without affectation.
“Chris, I do like you.”
“Thanks.”
“I like you more every day.”
“Do you like me enough to raise my wages?”
“I don’t let material things enter into my affections.”
“That’s bad news.”
“But, if you want a rise, you shall have it.”
“I don’t earn a penny more than I get. You’ve been lovely to me.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 11