Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

Pheasant trembled all over, but she did not turn her head. She knew without looking that the hand had been the hand of the man whose head she had brushed with her shawl. When she and Piers reached the street she saw the four men together, lighting cigarettes, just ahead.

  She felt old in experience.

  It was only a short distance to the hotel. They walked among other laughing, talking people, with a great full moon rising at the end of the street, and with the brightness of the electric light giving an air of garish gaiety to the scene. Pheasant felt that it must last forever. She could not believe that tomorrow it would be all over, and they would be going back to Jalna, facing the difficulties there.

  From their room there was quite an expanse of sky visible. Piers threw the window open and the moon seemed then to stare in at them.

  They stood together at the window looking up at it.

  “The same old moon that used to shine down on us in the woods,” Piers said.

  “It seems ages ago.”

  “Yes. How do you feel? Tired? Sleepy?”

  “Not sleepy. But a little tired.”

  “Poor little girl!”

  He put his arms about her and held her close to him. His whole being seemed melting into tenderness toward her. At the same time his blood was singing in his ears the song of possessive love.

  VIII

  WELCOME TO JALNA

  THE CAR moved slowly along the winding driveway toward the house. The driveway was so darkened by closely ranked balsams that it was like a long greenish tunnel, always cool and damp. Black squirrels flung themselves from bough to bough, their curving tails like glossy notes of interrogation. Every now and again a startled rabbit showed its downy brown hump in the long grass. So slowly the car moved, the birds scarcely ceased their jargon of song at its approach.

  Piers felt horribly like a schoolboy returning after playing truant. He remembered how he had sneaked along this drive, heavy-footed, knowing he would “catch it,” and how he had caught it, at Renny’s efficient hands. He slumped in his seat as he thought of it. Pheasant sat stiffly erect, her hands clasped tightly between her knees. As the car stopped before the broad wooden steps that led to the porch, a small figure appeared from the shrubbery. It was Wakefield, carrying in one hand a fishing rod, and in the other a string from which dangled a solitary perch.

  “Oh, hullo,” he said, coming over the lawn to them. “We got your telegram. Welcome to Jalna!”

  He got on to the running board and extended a small fishy hand to Pheasant.

  “Don’t touch him,” said Piers. “He smells beastly.”

  Wakefield accepted the rebuff cheerfully.

  “I like the smell of fish myself,” he said pointedly to Pheasant. “And I forgot that some people don’t. Now Piers likes the smell of manure better because working with manure is his job. He’s used to it. Granny says that one can get used—”

  “Shut up,” ordered Piers, “and tell me where the family is.”

  “I really don’t know,” answered Wakefield, flapping the dead fish against the door of the car, “because it’s Saturday, you see, and a free day for me. I got Mrs. Wragge to put me up a little lunch—just a cold chop and a hard-boiled egg, and a lemon tart and a bit of cheese, and—”

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Piers, “stop talking and stop flapping that fish against the car! Run in and see what they’re doing. I’d like to see Renny alone.”

  “Oh, you can’t do that, I’m afraid. Renny’s over with Maurice this afternoon. I expect they’re talking over what they will do to you two. It takes a lot of thought and talk, you see, to arrange suitable punishments. Now the other day Mr. Fennel wanted to punish me and he simply couldn’t think of anything to do to me that would make a suitable impression. Already he’d tried—”

  Piers interrupted, fixing Wakefield with his eye: “Go and look in the drawing-room windows. I see firelight there. Tell me who is in the room.”

  “All right. But you’d better hold my fish for me, because someone might look out of the window and see me, and, now I come to think of it, Meggie told me I wasn’t to go fishing today, and it slipped right out of my head, the way things do with me. I expect it’s my weak heart.”

  “If I don’t thrash you,” said his brother, “before you’re an hour older, my name isn’t Piers Whiteoak. Give me the fish.” He jerked the string from the little boy’s hand.

  “Hold it carefully, please,” admonished Wakefield over his shoulder, as he lightly mounted the steps. He put his face against the pane, and stood motionless a space.

  Pheasant saw that the shadows were lengthening. A cool damp breeze began to stir the shaggy grass of the lawn, and the birds ceased to sing.

  Piers said: “I’m going to throw this thing away.”

  “Oh, no,” said Pheasant, “don’t throw the little fellow’s fish away.” A nervous tremor ran through her, more chill than the breeze. She almost sobbed: “Ugh, I’m so nervous!”

  “Poor little kid,” said Piers, laying his hand over hers. His own jaws were rigid, and his throat felt as though a hand were gripping it. The family had never seemed so formidable to him. He saw them in a fierce phalanx bearing down on him, headed by Grandmother ready to browbeat—abuse him. He threw back his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Well—let them! If they were unkind to Pheasant, he would take her away. But he did not want to go away. He loved every inch of Jalna. He and Renny loved the place as none of the others did. That was the great bond between them. Piers was very proud of this fellowship of love for Jalna between him and Renny.

  “Confound the kid!” he said. “What is he doing?”

  “He’s coming.”

  Wakefield descended the steps importantly.

  “They’re having tea in the parlour just as though it were Sunday,” he announced. “A fire lighted. It looks like a plate of Sally Lunn on the table. Perhaps it’s a kind of wedding feast. I think we’d better go in. I’d better put my fish away first though.”

  Piers relinquished the perch, and said: “I wish Renny were there.”

  “So do I,” agreed Wakefield. “A row’s ever so much better when he’s in it. Gran always says he’s a perfect Court for a row.”

  Piers and Pheasant went slowly up the steps and into the house. He drew aside the heavy curtains that hung before the double doors of the drawing-room and led her into the room that seemed very full of people.

  There were Grandmother, Uncle Nicholas, Uncle Ernest, Meg, Eden, and young Finch, who was slumped on a beaded ottoman devouring seedcake. He grinned sheepishly as the two entered, then turned to stare at his grandmother, as though expecting her to lead the attack. But it was Uncle Nicholas who spoke first He lifted his moustache from his teacup, and raised his massive head, looking rather like a sardonic walrus. He rumbled:

  “By George, this is nothing more than I expected! But you pulled the wool over Renny’s eyes, you young rascal.”

  Meg broke in, her soft voice choked with tears:

  “Oh, you deceitful, unfeeling boy! I don’t see how you can stand there and face us. And that family—Pheasant—I never spoke to you about it, Piers—I thought you’d know how I’d feel about such a marriage.”

  “Hold your tongues!” shouted Grandmother, who so far had only been able to make inarticulate sounds of rage. “Hold your silly tongues, and let me speak.” The muscles in her face were twitching, her terrible brown eyes were burning beneath her shaggy brows. She was sitting directly in front of the fire, and her figure in its brilliant tea gown was illumined with a hellish radiance. Boney, sitting on the back of her chair, glowed like an exotic flower. His beak was sunken on his puffed breast, and he spread his feathers to the warmth in apparent oblivion to the emotion of his mistress.

  “Come here!” she shouted. “Come over here in front of me. Don’t stand like a pair of ninnies in the doorway.”

  “Mamma,” said Ernest, “don’t excite yourself so. It’s bad for you. It’ll upset your insides, you know.”

>   “My insides are better than yours,” retorted his mother. “I know how to look after them.”

  “Come closer, so she won’t have to shout at you,” ordered Uncle Nicholas.

  “Up to the sacrificial altar,” adjured Eden, who lounged near the door. His eyes laughed up at them as they passed toward Mrs. Whiteoak’s chair. Pheasant gripped Piers’s coat in icy fingers. She cast an imploring look at Nicholas, who had once given her a doll and remained a kind of god in her eyes ever since, but he only stared down his nose, and crumbled the bit of cake on his saucer. If it had not been for the support of Piers’s arm, she felt that she must have sunk to her knees, she trembled so.

  “Now,” snarled Grandmother, when she had got them before her, “aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?”

  “No,” answered Piers, stoutly. “We’ve only done what lots of people do. Got married on the quiet. We knew the whole family would get on their hind feet if we told them, so we kept it to ourselves, that’s all.”

  “And do you expect—” she struck her stick savagely on the floor—“do you expect that I shall allow you to bring that little bastard here? Do you understand what it means to Meg? Maurice was her fiancé and he got this brat—”

  “Mamma!” cried Ernest.

  “Easy, old lady,” soothed Nicholas.

  Finch exploded in sudden, hysterical laughter.

  Meg raised her voice. “Don’t stop her. It’s true.”

  “Yes, what was I saying? Don’t dare to stop me! This brat—this brat—he got her by a slut—”

  Piers bent over her, glaring into her fierce old face.

  “Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it, I say!”

  Boney was roused into a sudden passion by the hurricane about him. He thrust his beak over Grandmother’s shoulder, and riveting his cruel little eyes on Piers’s face, he poured forth a stream of Hindu abuse:

  “Shaitan! Shaitan ka bata! Shaitan ka butcha! Piakur! Piakur! Jab kutr!”

  This was followed by a cascade of mocking, metallic laughter, while he rocked from side to side on the back of Grandmother’s chair.

  It was too much for Pheasant. She burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. But her sobs could not be heard for the cursing of Boney; and Finch, shaking from head to foot, added his hysterical laughter.

  Goaded beyond endurance, his sunburned face crimson with rage, Piers caught the screaming bird by the throat and threw him savagely to the floor, where he lay, as gaily coloured as painted fruit, uttering strange coughing sounds.

  Grandmother was inarticulate. She looked as though she would choke. She tore at her cap and it fell over one ear. Then she grasped her heavy stick. Before anyone could stop her—if indeed they had wished to stop her—she had brought it with a resounding crack on to Piers’s head.

  “Take that,” she shouted, “miserable boy!”

  At the instant that the stick struck Piers’s head, the door from the hall was opened and Renny came into the room, followed by Wakefield, who, behind the shelter of his brother, peered timidly yet inquisitively at the family. All faces turned toward Renny, as though his red head were a sun and they sun-gazing flowers.

  “This is a pretty kettle of fish,” he said.

  “He’s abusing Boney,” wailed Grandmother. “Poor dear Boney! Oh, the young brute! Flog him, Renny! Give him a sound flogging!”

  “No! No! No! No!” screamed Pheasant.

  Nicholas heaved himself about in his chair, and said:

  “He deserved it. He threw the bird on the floor.”

  “Pick poor Boney up, Wakefield dear,” said Ernest. “Pick him up and stroke him.”

  Except his mistress, Boney would allow no one but Wakefield to touch him. The child picked him up, stroked him, and set him on his grandmother’s shoulder. Grandmother, in one of her gusts of affection, caught him to her and pressed a kiss on his mouth. “Little darling,” she exclaimed. “Gran’s darling! Give him a piece of cake, Meg.”

  Meg was crying softly behind the teapot. Wakefield went to her, and, receiving no notice, took the largest piece of cake and began to devour it.

  Renny had crossed to Piers’s side and was staring at his head.

  “His ear is bleeding,” he remarked. “You shouldn’t have done that, Granny.”

  “He was impudent to her,” said Ernest.

  Eden cut in: “Oh, rot! She was abusing him and the girl horribly.”

  Grandmother thumped the floor with her stick.

  “I wasn’t abusing him. I told him I wouldn’t have that girl in the house. I told him she was a bastard brat, and so she is. I told him—bring me more tea—more tea—where’s Philip? Philip, I want tea!” When greatly excited she often addressed her eldest son by his father’s name.

  “For God’s sake, give her some tea,” growled Nicholas. “Make it hot.”

  Ernest carried a cup of tea to her, and straightened her cap.

  “More cake,” she demanded. “Stop your snivelling, Meggie.”

  “Grandmother,” said Meg, with melancholy dignity, “I am not snivelling. And it isn’t much wonder if I do shed tears, considering the way Piers has acted.”

  “I’ve settled him,” snorted Grandmother. “Settled him with my stick. Ha!”

  Piers said, in a hard voice: “Now, look here, I’m going to get out. Pheasant and I don’t have to stop here. We only came to see what sort of reception we’d get. Now we know, and we’re going.”

  “Just listen to him, Renny,” said Meg. “He’s lost all his affection for us, and it seems only yesterday that he was a little boy like Wake.”

  “Heaven knows whom Wakefield will take up with,” said Nicholas. “The family’s running to seed.”

  “Will you have some tea, Renny?” asked Meg.

  “No, thanks. Give the girl some. She’s awfully upset.”

  “I don’t want tea!” cried Pheasant, looking wildly at the hostile faces about her. “I want to go away! Piers, please, please, take me away!” She sank into a wide, stuffed chintz chair, drew up her knees, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed loudly.

  Meg spoke with cold yet furious chagrin.

  “If only he could send you home and have done with you! But here you are bound fast to him. You’d never rest till you’d got him bound fast. I know your kind.”

  Nicholas put in: “They don’t wait till they’re out of pinafores—that kind.”

  Eden cried: “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  But Piers’s furious voice drowned him out.

  “Not another word about her. I won’t stand another word!”

  Grandmother screamed: “You’ll stand another crack on the head, you young whelp!” Crumbs of cake clung to the hairs on her chin. Wake regarded them, fascinated. Then he blew on them, trying to blow them off. Finch uttered hysterical croaking sounds.

  “Wakefield, don’t do that,” ordered Uncle Ernest, “or you’ll get your head slapped. Mamma, wipe your chin.”

  Meg said: “To think of the years that I’ve kept aloof from the Vaughans! I’ve never spoken to Maurice since that terrible time. None of them have set foot in this house. And now his daughter—that child—the cause of all my unhappiness—brought here to live as Piers’s wife.”

  Piers retorted: “Don’t worry, Meg. We’re not going to stay.”

  “The disgrace is here forever,” she returned bitterly, “if you go to the other end of the earth.” Her head rested on her hand, supported by her short plump arm. Her sweetly curved lips were drawn in at the corners, in an expression of stubborn finality. “You’ve finished things. I was terribly hurt at the very beginning of my life. I’ve tried to forget. Your bringing this girl here has renewed all the hurt. Shamed me, crushed me—I thought you loved me, Piers—”

  “Oh, Lord, can’t a man love his sister and another too?” exclaimed Piers, regarding her intently, with scarlet face, cut to the heart, for he loved her.

  “No one who loved his sister could love the daughter of the man who had been so faithless to h
er.”

  “And besides,” put in Nicholas, “you promised Renny you’d give the girl up.”

  “Oh, oh,” cried Pheasant, sitting up in her chair. “Did you promise that, Piers?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Nicholas roared: “Yes, you did! Renny told me you did.”

  “I never promised. Be just, now, Renny! I never promised, did I?”

  “No,” said Renny. “He didn’t promise. I told him to cut it out. I said there’d be trouble.”

  “Trouble—trouble—trouble,” moaned Grandmother, “I’ve had too much trouble. If I didn’t keep my appetite, I’d be dead. Give me more cake, someone. No, not that kind—devil’s cake. I want devil’s cake!” She took the cake that Ernest brought her, bit off a large piece, and snorted through it: “I hit the young whelp a good crack on the head!”

  “Yes, Mamma,” said Ernest. Then he inquired, patiently, “Must you take such large bites?”

  “I drew the blood!” she cried, ignoring his question, and taking a still larger bite. “I made the lad smart for his folly.”

  “You ought to be ashamed, Gran,” said Eden, and the family began to argue noisily as to whether she had done well or ill.

  Renny stood looking from one excited face to another, feeling irritated by their noise, their ineffectuality, yet, in spite of all, bathed in an immense satisfaction. This was his family. His tribe. He was head of his family. Chieftain of his tribe. He took a very primitive, direct, and simple pleasure in lording it over them, caring for them, being badgered, harried, and importuned by them. They were all of them dependent on him except Gran, and she was dependent, too, for she would have died away from Jalna. And beside the fact that he provided for them, he had the inherent quality of the chieftain. They expected him to lay down the law; they harried him till he did. He turned his lean red face from one to the other of them now, and prepared to lay down the law.

  The heat of the room was stifling; the fire was scarcely needed; yet now, with sudden fervour, it leaped and crackled on the hearth. Boney, having recovered from Piers’s rough handling, was crying in a head-splitting voice, “Cake! Cake! Devil cake!”