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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “But what a time for a sale!”

  “It may turn out very well. And it’s bound to give us some cash, which we must have.”

  Nicholas listened rather sombrely to the plans for the sale. But, as he listened, his mind, with the resilience characteristic of the family, became more buoyant. It was filled with interest and hope.

  For some weeks little else was talked of in the house or out but the preparations and prospects of the sale. Bills announcing it were fixed to the walls of post offices, hotels, and railway stations within a considerable radius. The question of what animals should be sold and what retained was discussed with heat. The three elderly people were dragged to the stables to give their opinions, which indeed were greatly valued, and, once when Nicholas was kept to his room with gout, a young bull and two horses were fetched for his inspection and paraded round the lawn under his window.

  Sarah’s presence was almost forgotten. Pheasant was as good a man as any of them when it came to interest in the stables. If it had not been for Alayne, Sarah would have felt neglected. Finch fought shy of being alone with her. He wished profoundly that she had not come to Jalna at that time. He did not suspect the motive Alayne had had in asking Sarah to visit them, but he was conscious of something purposeful in the attitude of the family toward Sarah and he felt that she too was conscious of it, for sometimes an expression of childlike mischievousness flitted across her face and she, almost too ingenuously, asked the older members for advice about her future.

  “She is a little devil,” thought Finch, “and I hate her. I hate her for marrying Arthur without loving him, and I hate her for floating about here in her finery when he is dead.”

  Nothing in life, he thought, interested him so much at this moment as the development of his feeling for Pauline. Like a close-folded bud it as yet gave no sign of what peculiar form or fragrance it would later reveal.

  Augusta had told Meg of their hopes for Sarah and Finch. They did not wish, she said, to rush the girl callously into a new engagement with her tragic widowhood fresh on her, but it was their duty to guard her, to be kind to her, and, when the proper time came, to provide her with a new husband—and him a Whiteoak if possible. There was little doubt that Sarah had cared, and still cared, for Finch.

  Meg was heart and soul with the family. Her eyes had glowed, her full bosom swelled with eagerness while her aunt talked. Oh, it was such a good idea and, oh, she wished she could do something to help!

  She asked Maurice if he could think of anything they might do to help, but all he could suggest was a picnic, and that was far too commonplace for a girl like Sarah. Then Meg thought of a little dinner—a delightful little dinner of the sort that really smart people gave. It would show Sarah that her relatives could do things just as well as the Leighs and their friends, if they chose. Of course, there would be no guests outside the family.

  Maurice thought of their shabby dining room, their one servant, and looked doubtful. But Meg was sanguine. They had tender young chickens of their own which the maid could cook perfectly. She herself would make the soup and she would order a meringue from town. They would have plenty of sweets and cigarettes and surely Renny ought to supply the wine.

  “No, don’t ask him to do that. We have some sherry and I’ll buy port. I can make a good cocktail.” His face brightened as he arranged this part of the entertainment.

  “How many of them shall you invite?”

  “Only Sarah and Finch. Then I must have an extra girl for Eden. Pauline Lebraux is a sweet young thing. I’ll ask her.”

  “Can you leave her mother out?”

  “I’ll have her over another time. She’ll understand that six is quite as many as I can manage.”

  Meg was exhilarated by the arrangements for the dinner. It gave her a feeling of well-being. She felt almost prosperous when Maurice’s evening clothes were returned from the cleaners and laid out on the bed. She herself sponged and pressed her black lace dinner gown, but she was disconsolate at the amount of plump leg that showed.

  “Whatever shall I do with it?” she asked Maurice pathetically.

  “Put a frill on it,” he suggested.

  “A frill! A frill of what?”

  “Would passementerie do?” he asked. It was the only material he could think of at the moment.

  “No!” She gave him a scornful look. “All I can do is to make my legs as inconspicuous as possible. At dinnertime they’ll be under the table and after dinner, in the drawing-room, I’ll keep behind the large brass coffee table.”

  “Where is that Indian shawl your grandmother left you? You might throw that across your knees.”

  But she took no interest in this suggestion.

  The family at Jalna thought that Meg was admirably doing her part. They looked on the dinner as an event of some import and, for the moment, the coming sale was overshadowed by its significance. The only dissatisfied member of the family was Wakefield. He thought it was unkind of Meggie not to invite him, though he had not been told that Pauline was to be a member of the party.

  The midday dinner at Jalna was even better than usual that day, ending with a peach pie smothered in cream. Augusta warned both Sarah and Finch not to over-eat lest they should have no appetite for the delicacies under preparation at Vaughanlands.

  “Perhaps I had better not eat my tart, then,” Sarah said regretfully. She had had just one bite of it.

  “No, I think you had better not.”

  Finch had already finished his. He was sitting beside Sarah. He said:

  “I’ll eat it for you. I’m always hungry.”

  He took it from her abruptly, pushed his plate to one side, and placed hers in front of him.

  Sarah regarded him with her sideways, mischievous smile while he devoured it with an air of abstraction.

  “I think he’s putting flesh on,” said Renny, eyeing Finch with an air of approval.

  Piers showed his white teeth in a derisive smile. He washed the car for them and himself drove it round to the door at the appointed time. Finch was waiting on the steps. Piers suddenly thought—“Why, the fellow looks distinguished! If I didn’t know who he was I’d say he was a remarkable-looking chap.” He said:

  “The car doesn’t look half bad, does it? I washed it myself and it was in the hell of a mess after the mud yesterday. No one can say that I’m not doing my bit.”

  Finch looked at him with suspicion but said politely:

  “Thanks very much. I’d have done it myself if you had told me.”

  “Oh, you’re too swanky for that sort of thing now.”

  “What rot!”

  “No, no, you are quite right to take care of your hands. They are your fortune now that Gran’s money is gone.”

  Finch hated this sort of talk. He was helpless against it. He climbed gloomily into the seat vacated by Piers and took the wheel in his gloved hands. Piers leaned against the window of the car, looking in at him with his enigmatic smile. Finch could see the pores in the fresh skin of his cheeks, the downy continuance of the line of his eyebrows above his nose, a reddish vein in the clear white of his right eye, a pale scar on his chin, which had once been cut by a kick from a colt. Any defects he had seemed only to increase his look of wholesomeness. After a scrutiny of Finch’s tie and waistcoat, he said:

  “I admire you. I have a deep respect for you, in fact. You remind me of a lawyer Gran used to tell about. He was a brilliant fellow but he always posed before the jury as a rather dull chap who by a lucky chance was always on the right side.”

  “Don’t see why I should remind you of him,” replied Finch heavily.

  “Oh yes, you do! It’s perfectly obvious. You played Gran like a grand old trout and—you landed her. You’re playing Auntie. You’re playing Sarah. Yet you always manage to look simple.”

  “Shut up,” growled Finch.

  “Yes, I’m just going to. But first I want to tell you that you are quite right in the way you are handling Sarah’s case. This he-man stuff
—taking the very food out of her mouth— getting into the car and leaving her to clamber in afterward—it’s sure to appeal to her after her life with Leigh.”

  “Oh, hell!” said Finch. “I didn’t notice what I was doing.” He scrambled quickly out of the car. In his haste he made no allowance for his height and gave the top of his head a cruel knock. He stood dazed, watching Sarah come down the steps from the house. Against the richness of her black cloak, the bands of her black hair, her face looked startlingly white. There was not much colour in her lips and they were folded together with the serene assurance of the lips in a sculptured head. The eyes looked scarcely more alive than the eyes in a statue in that evening light, and she moved down the steps as though without her own volition. She passed the brothers with no more than a flicker of her lashes and entered the car. Piers tucked the rug about her knees, touching her caressingly as though she were something precious.

  “Be happy, Sarah,” he said. “There are good times coming.”

  Without looking at him she slid her hand out of her cloak and touched his. He gave a long look into her eyes, trying to sound the depths of her and perhaps coming nearer in his guess than any of the others had done.

  Wakefield came around the house. He had not appeared at tea and wore a look of chagrin he did not try to conceal.

  “So you’re off,” he said, in his high-pitched boy’s voice. “Well, have a good time! Say—who is going to be there besides you?

  “Pauline,” answered Finch, giving him a glance of triumph.

  For a second Wakefield scarcely took it in. Pauline invited to dinner at Meggie’s and he not! It was impossible! Anger surged through him. There was a plot against him. The family had found out that he loved her and were trying to keep them apart! And he had seen Pauline that very morning and she had said nothing to him of the dinner. He had drawn nearer to her that morning than ever before and yet she had said nothing of the dinner! They had sat under a tree and he had taken her hand in his two hands and had laid first his cheeks and then his lips against it—and she had said nothing to him of the dinner. Was she too in the plot? And what was this hellish plot against him? He looked from one to another of them, baffled. He looked again at Finch and saw the triumph hardening his lips. He turned to Piers.

  “Did you know that Pauline was going to be there?” he asked. He could not control the quiver in his voice.

  “Why yes. Didn’t you?”

  “You know I didn’t! Everyone knows I didn’t!” He forgot that he was seventeen, that he was almost a man. Tears stung his eyes. “It was contemptible of Meggie!” he exclaimed.

  Piers regarded him with amusement and compassion.

  “Why don’t you hop in,” he said, “and go with them? Meg might find a corner for you.”

  “He can’t do that!” shouted Finch. He started the engine.

  “I will,” said Wakefield fiercely. “I’m not going to be left out of this!”

  “You’ll not do it,” muttered Finch. The car would not start for him.

  He pressed the accelerator and set the engine roaring. The car jerked and grunted but would not start. Sarah sat looking straight ahead of her, her hands tucked out of sight beneath her cloak.

  “Give her a stronger mixture,” suggested Piers.

  Wakefield stepped on to the running board.

  “You’re not coming,” said Finch roughly, but Wakefield held his ground.

  Renny came out of the house and he and Piers pushed the car from behind. It started suddenly and, with a violent jerk, sped down the drive.

  “Why is the kid on the running board?” asked Renny of Piers.

  “Just for the ride, I suppose.”

  “There’s something more in it than that. He was hurt at not being invited. But he should not have gone. Meggie will be upset.”

  Meg was upset when her younger brother appeared in the hall with untidy hair and a jersey with a tear on the shoulder through which the white skin gleamed.

  “I tried to prevent it,” Finch whispered to her, while Maurice shook hands with Sarah. “I don’t know what is the matter with him. Except, of course, that he’s utterly spoilt.”

  Wakefield had lighted a cigarette and withdrawn to a corner where he stood gazing in feigned absorption at the painting of a Dutch farm scene.

  “He cannot come to the table! It’s impossible,” said Meg. “As though I hadn’t enough to worry me! It’s really too bad of him!”

  “Shall I go and tell him so?”

  “No. You go with Sarah into the drawing-room. Eden and Pauline are already there. I’ll attend to Wake.” She hurried away and Finch, with chagrin, noticed the shortness of her skirt.

  “Darling boy,” cooed Meg, propelling Wakefield toward the kitchen, for she did not want him to be harrowed by a sight of the dinner table, glittering in damask and silver.

  “Darling boy, don’t you understand that we had to have an even number? And that you would be an odd one? The very next dinner party I have—”

  “Meggie,” interrupted Wakefield, opening his eyes wide, “this is the very first dinner party you have had since I am grown up. And you didn’t ask me.”

  “Listen, pet! I didn’t ask Renny or Piers, and they are not complaining.”

  “They are married men! It’s different. And you deceived me. You all hid from me the fact that Pauline was to be here.”

  “Oh, Wake, you are so silly!” cried Meg in despair. “What if Pauline is here? You’re not in love with her, are you?”

  “Yes, I am,” he replied coldly.

  So he made his romantic confession in the heat of the steaming kitchen, with the smell of gravy in his nostrils, with his eyes fixed on a table littered with cooking utensils and the maidservant quarrelling in the pantry with Rags, who had come over to wait at table.

  If he had expected to create a sensation by his words he was disappointed. Meg only looked a little more flustered.

  The door from the back passage opened and Eden came into the kitchen, closing it noiselessly behind him.

  “Can’t you come back?” he asked his sister. “We’ve all had cocktails and Sarah hasn’t been taken upstairs yet to leave her cloak. What are you going to do about it?” He leaned against the door, looking at Wakefield with an amused smile.

  “What am I to do?” exclaimed his sister. “Here is this child looking like a tramp and come over here on purpose to annoy me!”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Wakefield scornfully. “I’m going! If my family cut themselves off from me they will very quickly find that I cut myself off from them!”

  “I think,” said Eden, “that Wake looks charming in those rags. Why don’t you give him a bite on the kitchen table and have him in the drawing-room afterwards? He’ll create a diversion.”

  “My life has been too full of those sort of diversions,” said Meg tragically.

  Wakefield was divided between an impulse to fling out of the house forever, and the desire to spend the evening there. At that moment Katie, the maid, took the roasting-pan from the oven, set it on the table and lifted the cover, disclosing the two round-breasted chickens under their strips of bacon. He discovered that he was very hungry. He raised his accusing eyes to Meg’s face.

  “Very well,” she said. “If you’ll have something to eat here, Wake, I’ll be glad to have you join us afterward. Dear me, what will those girls think?” She hurried back to the drawing-room followed by Eden.

  Sarah Leigh’s dress was in the extreme of fashion. She looked like an early Victorian print. As she glided to the dining room Finch thought he had never seen her look so nearly beautiful. Her immobility of expression added, rather than took from, her power of attraction. For to the subtle observer it spoke of passion repressed, not lacking or spent.

  Where had Pauline got the dress, Finch wondered. He had never before seen her in anything but the simplest clothes. Often they were shabby. But this was a lovely golden shade touching the ground and cut low from her thin young shoulders.
He leant toward her and whispered his admiration of it.

  She looked delighted. “Shall I tell you a secret?” she asked. “No, I won’t tell you unless you promise to keep it. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you in any case.” She flushed a little and looked as though she would recall her words.

  “I’ll not tell a soul.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you then. It was a birthday present from Renny! I couldn’t have come otherwise.”

  “I’m glad he gave it to you, then,” he said, looking searchingly into her eyes, wondering about Renny and the mother and daughter.

  He caught Wakefield’s name on Meggie’s lips.

  “The poor boy,” she was saying, “was dreadfully disappointed at not being here tonight. But I told him to drop in later on and I do hope he will.”

  Pauline too caught the words. She looked at Finch and found his eyes on her. Strange eyes, she thought, they were, with their large pupils. Eyes that seemed to look into the depths of hers, searching for something there. She remembered her meeting with Wakefield that morning and how she had not said a word to him of coming here tonight. She had known that he was not to be here and she had felt shy of speaking of the dinner. How foolish that had been, because this very evening she would have to face him, he thinking her a deceitful girl. She felt that Finch was conscious of her distress. Her face burned and she turned back to her dinner but could not enjoy it. Her cheeks grew hot for another reason. She had done wrong in telling Finch that Renny had given her the frock she wore. She had become so used to taking things from him that she found nothing strange in it. But what would Finch think? He might think her a very queer sort of girl.

  Finch was thinking of the gift but not of her acceptance of it. Where, he wondered, had Renny’s windfall come from? He had paid Uncle Ernest’s doctor’s bill. He had paid the vet, and now there was this golden foam about the young form of Pauline… Why was she looking unhappy? And just when he had told her that she looked beautiful? Was she angry at him for that? Now, at this moment, she did not look at all beautiful. Only pensive and pathetically young. Her slender hands looked very brown and as though they were used to work; a contrast to the marble whiteness of Sarah’s hands, with their delicately rounded fingers… He did not look higher than Sarah’s hands. He did not want to look into that pale, closed-in face. Eden was talking to her in a low voice, laughing as he talked, so that nothing of what he said was distinguishable. Maurice had begun to talk to Pauline. Finch turned to Meg.