“Not at this season. I shall in the spring. I do the housework — make things home-like for him.”
“Hmph! Is he about?”
“No. He’s taken some crates of late cockerels to market.” And she added, smiling — “Thank goodness.”
They sat down facing each other as they so often had. She took one of his cigarettes. “Tell me,” she said, “all the news.”
“First tell me about Pauline.”
She avoided his eyes. “Happy and well. I believe she has done what is best for her. And Wake?”
He answered gloomily — “I can say the same for him. But I can’t get used to it. It’s a great disappointment.”
He went on to tell her of the state of affairs at Jalna but not mentioning Alayne’s name. Each time he avoided it Clara scanned his face, trying to discover what was in his heart, what had brought him here. She thanked him for a newspaper cutting he had sent her telling of his success at the New York Show. As he talked of this his face lighted, he drew his chair closer to hers. He laughed as he talked of Mrs. Spindle’s performance. They both laughed and the ugliness of the room was dispersed by their vital drawing together. Each poured out to the other the stored-up honey of deep understanding.
He had so much to say. The words poured from him. His plans for breeding, for showing, and the children’s prowess, the money he had made which had enabled him to scrape together the interest on the mortgage. Her heart ached with sympathy as she foresaw the future scraping together of that interest, the day when it should not be produced, the falling due of the mortgage, the foreclosure. She distrusted Sarah, fearing her for his sake. When he told her how Sarah had said that if she could not have Finch she would have Jalna, she laughed at Sarah’s impudence but she was afraid.
She made tea and over it she said, not able to control her burning desire to hear of his relations with Alayne:
“You have not once mentioned your wife.”
He turned his face away and, as often before, she noticed the blackness of his lashes as he lowered them. They gave a softness, she thought, to the hard sweep of his profile, a mystery to his eyes.
“There is nothing to say.”
“Do you really mean that? You don’t write to each other? But I have no right to ask.”
“No, we don’t write.”
“And you didn’t see her when you were in New York?”
“No. She probably didn’t even know I was there.” He seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some vision.
Clara’s heart began to beat heavily. Was it possible, was it possible that all was really over between him and Alayne? That he had come here to tell her so? That they two at last might be everything to each other in freedom? She asked, the words coming huskily:
“Is everything over between you, then?”
He turned toward her startled. Every line of his face was dear to her. She longed to go to him, to take his head in her hands and press it to her breast.
He answered — “No, I can’t think that. I can’t think that we shan’t come together again. I am sure that she still cares for me and knows that I love her.”
A sound like the clanging of bells beat in Clara’s ears. A mist clouded her vision. He had come then to see her, as a friend! He had never really been her lover. His heart belonged to that cold, hard, shallow woman who had left him and his child….
There was silence between them for a space. The early winter twilight began to draw in. The outlines of the furniture became blurred. There was a grey shapelessness all about them. Clara gathered up her courage and said in her usual curt tone:
“Since you feel as you do about her I think you are wrong in letting this state of affairs go on. You ought to stop it at once.”
He asked blankly — “What am I to do?”
“I think you ought to go to her and ask her to come back. I think you ought to force her to say something definite. She never has, has she?”
He gave a little laugh. “Well, she said pretty definitely that she couldn’t stand me any longer.”
Clara exclaimed almost angrily — “Then why do you think that she still loves you?”
“I can’t think otherwise.”
“That is because you care so much for her!”
“I suppose so. Our love was too great to come to nothing. We went through too much to get each other. Good God, Clara, she’s had my child! She’s been more to me than any other woman possibly could be!” The muscles of his upper lip contracted. Again he turned away his face.
Then Clara put all her own love, all her hopes from her. She laid her hand on his knee and said:
“Renny, you must go to her. There is nothing else for it. In a separation like this one of the two must throw pride aside and make the first move to reconciliation. I think you ought to be that one. She went away and left you. Now, I make my guess that she is waiting — hoping for you to go and bring her home. You have told me that Adeline was to go to her. Why don’t you take the child yourself? Why don’t you take her and say to your wife — ‘Here I am with our child! Are you coming back to us or aren’t you? Does our past love mean nothing to you?’ I think you should make her understand that she’s got to come back to you or — give you up forever.” On the last words Clara’s voice broke and unaccustomed tears filled her eyes.
He laid his hand on hers which still rested on his knee. He was deeply touched by her obvious emotion. He said, with rather a twisted smile:
“You think that would bring her to time?”
“I think you ought to do something and do it right away. It’s too miserable, the way you are going on. I can see how unhappy you are. You have enough on your mind — enough to bear — without estrangement from the wife you love, thrown in!”
“And you think I should go without sending her any word? Just as I walked in on you today?”
Oh, this turning of the screw! Clara bit her lip and looked at him dully in her pain.
“Yes,” she said, “just as you walked in today. Only with a heart full of love.” Now she had done everything for him she could do. Surely she had in a measure repaid the long years of friendship, of comfort and support he had given her — the short months of passion!
“Clara!” he exclaimed. “You can’t think how much I care for you! I shall do just as you say. I always have taken your advice, haven’t I?”
She squeezed his knee then withdrew her hand. “Good. But I haven’t been one to give advice, have I? I’m not that sort of woman. And I’m the last one to give advice in affairs of the heart but — in this case — I feel that I am talking sound sense. If you and Alayne don’t watch you are going to have your lives crumbling in ruins about you. And that’s an awful thing, believe me.”
She got up and went suddenly to the window. He followed and stood close beside her. He said in a muffled voice:
“Don’t think I shall ever forget what has been between us. You were beautiful and kind and — I shall never forget.”
“Don’t!” she exclaimed hoarsely.
A motorcar turned in at the gate and she saw her brother alight from it. She switched on the light and saw Renny’s face vivid and expectant beside her. She put out her hand and touched him caressingly on the cheek, then turned to the door which now opened.
Her brother was a small, spare, rather weazened man. He had been brought up in luxury with the expectation of inheriting a fortune. The loss of his father’s money had embittered him as misfortune had never embittered Clara. From extravagance he had turned, with the strength of a single-minded nature, to penuriousness. He was constantly worrying over the amount of grain his leghorns demolished in order to produce eggs. They were such fragile little birds and so insatiable!
Now, as he came in, he noticed that only one light was burning and looked pleased. Then he saw Renny and showed his surprise.
“My brother, Duncan,” said Clara. “Duncan, this is Mr. Whiteoak. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
Duncan twinkled up at Renny, gripped his hand and sa
id, in a high-pitched voice:
“I am very glad to meet you. My sister and her husband were greatly indebted to you. Well — I’m very glad! It’s been a filthy day at the market. And I got very poor prices.”
He talked on, scarcely stopping to draw breath. It was delightful, he said, to have someone besides his sister to talk to. With unaffected heartiness he begged Renny to stay to supper. And Renny would have stayed but for something in Clara’s eyes. She did not want him to stay, he felt sure of that. Her brother insisted on showing him his poultry. By the light of a lantern they inspected the interior of rows of poultry-houses, where pouting pullets peered down at them from under dangling blood-red combs. Duncan pounced on two eggs hidden in the straw of the nests and railed against the carelessness of the hired man who had left them there to freeze. He confided to Renny that Clara was and always had been an extravagant woman. Yet, in spite of his meanness, Renny liked the little man. And he liked Renny and, though he had driven far that day, insisted on taking him to the station. Under his twinkling eyes Renny and Clara said goodbye.
As he strode along the road to Jalna his heavy soles crushed the nobbles of ice into which the slush had frozen. There was a full, white moon dipping her way through the shining scales of a mackerel sky. The trees about the house stood like pointed black towers touched with silver. There were lights in most of the rooms and a spiral of smoke uncurled itself from each chimney. He felt a new hope in him, a fresh strength. That was what Clara did. She freed him. His gratitude flowed back to her. He thought — “If only I could do something for her! If only she could have a different life!”
But the thought of her was driven from his mind by the sight of a pale figure moving across the lawn toward the silver birch tree. He went quickly to it and discovered Sarah, wrapped in a grey squirrel coat, a fur toque on her head.
She made as though to avoid him but, when she found she could not, she faced him with her enigmatic smile.
“Well,” he said, “it’s an odd time for you to be prowling about!”
“Prowling!” she repeated softly. “That’s a strange word to use. It sounds as though you grudged me a foothold.”
He returned, almost complainingly — “How can I help it when I know what is in your mind? You’re not like an ordinary person taking the air. I feel that you have unaccountable things in your mind.”
At this she looked pleased. “What sort of things?”
“Well — spying on Finch, for one thing.”
“That’s not unaccountable.”
“It is to me. I can’t understand how any woman who has pride can so hang on to a man who wants to be free. He’s shown you by every means in his power that he does not want to see you.”
“But surely I may look in on him!”
“In that room? Were you looking in the window?”
“Yes. He’s there. With his uncles. He looks so young and sweet.”
“Sarah,” said Renny solemnly, “you must never do that again!”
“Very well, I promise…. What else do you think I had in my mind?”
He gave a grim laugh. “We’ll not put that into words. All I have to say about that is — the sooner you get it out of your mind the better.” He turned on her suddenly, almost savagely. “Finch will never live with you again! You will never own Jalna. Remember that!”
She flinched like a child that is threatened but the smile still flickered over her face. Merlin, inside the house, had heard Renny’s voice and had scratched on the door till Rags let him and Floss out. They came racing across the snow, filling the air with their joyful barks. Somewhere from behind the house the sheepdog joined them, adding his deep tones to the welcome. In the stable a stallion neighed. Finch’s figure appeared in the window of the drawing room.
“There he is!” exclaimed Sarah and began to run toward the house.
But Renny caught her by her fur coat and held her fast.
“Have you no shame?” he said sternly. “Do you want to go home by the road or through the ravine?”
“Through the ravine,” she answered meekly.
“The snow must be deep there.”
“I came that way.”
He led her through the gate and to the top of the path. The beautiful stark shadows of the trees were penciled against the snow. Sarah’s face looked wanly beautiful in the moonlight. As Renny stood supporting her on the slippery path a vibration of hate that was almost akin to love passed between them. He released her and she descended the path slowly, holding to tree after tree as she went, the silver-grey fur of her coat strangely one with the scene.
He returned with his dogs to the house. Inside he looked sharply into Finch’s face, discovered that he had seen nothing. He said:
“I’m going down to New York tomorrow. I’m taking Adeline to visit her mother.”
“This is news!” said Ernest. “Have you known long that you are going? Alma should have time to get the child ready. I’m not sure that she has appropriate clothes.”
“I can buy her something there, if necessary. Alayne will attend to that.”
Nicholas said — “This is very good news, Renny. I hope that you will bring Alayne back with you. I don’t at all like the way things have been going. You tell her for me that I think she ought to come home.”
“It’s never been anything more than a temporary separation,” said Renny stiffly.
Nicholas’s heavy eyebrows went up.
Ernest said — “If you are travelling by day — and I think that would be best for Adeline — you should let Alma know at once. She is such a slack creature that I dare say the poor child doesn’t own a clean shift.”
Renny went up the stairs to the nursery two steps at a time. The children were asleep. Alma was with the Wragges and Bessie in the basement. Renny took an electric torch from his pocket, opened the door of the clothes cupboard and turned its beam on the small garments hanging there. The dresses were in good condition as Adeline was generally in riding breeches. There was the little fur-trimmed coat she wore on Sundays. He went to the chest of drawers and peered into one after another. What he saw made him scowl. He put out the light, tiptoed from the room, and descended the stairs. This time to the basement. Alma went to bed with red eyes.
XXIII
ADELINE’S FIRST JOURNEY
SHE WAS WOKEN by Alma while it was still dark. She did not know whether it were night or morning and she was almost afraid of Alma’s great shadow looming on the ceiling. Without preliminary Alma lifted her, rosy and warm, from the snugness of her cot. She hung limp on Alma’s hands like a sleepy puppy.
“Wake up! My goodness, what a sleepyhead! I wish I was you. You’re going on the train today.”
“Where?” Adeline’s eyes flew open.
“To New York to see your Momma.”
“Me too! Want to go see my Momma,” cried Roma. She had forgotten all her French and now chattered freely in English.
“You can’t,” said Alma. “Your Momma isn’t in New York.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“But I must go too.”
“You lie down and keep warm, like a good little girl. I’ve got my hands full.”
Alma was in a state of excitement. She had been up since five, ironing the things she had washed before she went to bed. She had sewn on buttons, polished little shoes. A suitcase was already packed with Adeline’s clothes.
She ate her breakfast sitting opposite her father, the light still burning above the table though the sky was growing blue. With the fatalism of childhood she never questioned this upheaval in her life, but behaved as though she had known all along that she was to go to New York. But unlike some children she was not too excited to eat. She munched her way steadily through her breakfast, her eyes scarcely leaving Renny’s face. He was preoccupied, nervous. He kept throwing scraps to his dogs, talking to them in endearing terms, as though he were to be long separated from them.
Ernest came down in
his dressing gown, carrying his own travelling rug which he insisted Renny must take for Adeline’s comfort. He remained to put her into her little hat and coat and draw on her tiny gloves. She was to go upstairs, Nicholas had sent word, to say goodbye to him. The car was at the door.
Renny stood by it looking at his watch. Still Ernest did not return with the child. Rags had gone to the basement, dragging the dogs with him.
“My God!” Renny shouted through the open door, “do you want me to miss my train? Uncle Ernest, bring that child down!”
There was no answer. Merlin, escaped from Rags, came round the outside of the house and climbed into the car. Renny caught him by the tail, took him in his arms and carried him to the top of the basement stairs.
“Rags, you blasted fool!” he shouted, and delivered the dog to him. He returned, swearing along the hall. He looked at his watch.
He bounded up the stairs, met Ernest mildly interrogatory at the top, snatched Adeline from him and ran with her in his arms to the car.
“Now,” he said to Wright, “step on it!”
They shot down the drive, through the gate and along the icy road. The sun rose red across the lake which steamed like a glassy caldron. Gulls flew in and out of the rose-tinted mist uttering thin cries. Adeline was in a state of mingled bewilderment and bliss.
This state continued all day, with now one emotion predominant, now the other. She was swept into a new life, into undreamed-of things, into a state of intimacy with her father never before achieved.
But no matter how great her bewilderment she was always mistress of herself. As soon as they had arranged their things in the train and she had found out what was expected of her, she behaved like a seasoned traveller.
Renny was proud of her — of her looks and her behaviour.
He was proudly conscious of the admiring glances she received when he led her through the long rows of carriages to the restaurant car. Many eyes turned toward them as they sat at table there, the small child composed, making animated conversation with him in an almost unchildlike way; the man attentive to her but nothing of the doting father in his aspect. The two were complete in their relation.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 352