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

  Wakefield gave him a look of hurt. “I’m not hungry. I want only some coffee.”

  “Tck!” said Malahide, as Wakefield returned to the table. “No appetite! What a pity! But you’ll enjoy your lunch all the more. Now look at Parry, how he fills himself up.”

  He beamed at his son, who had a large dish of porridge before him, his mother having the same.

  Finch and Paris were laughing and talking as they ate. Finch’s eyes were bright and he had a fair colour in his cheeks. His unruly lock hung across his forehead. Sarah sat demure, speaking to no one. She seemed hungry.

  The pale sunlight slanted across the room. The bleating of newborn lambs came from the meadow.

  “To me there is no sweeter sound,” said Malahide. “The dear little lambs!” He placed a scrap of bread on his fork and collected on it the bacon gravy from his plate.

  “Do you remember my pet lamb?” asked Paris.

  “Can I ever forget her?” answered his mother. “We couldn’t keep her out of the house when she’d grown to a sheep. She was devoted to Parry and would follow him upstairs to his room, bunting her head against the door and bleating till he opened it. Eventually we all hated her.”

  Wakefield’s eyes met Sarah’s.

  “Poor lamb!” she exclaimed.

  “It ended by my sending her to the butcher,” said Malahide.

  “The proper place for her,” said Wakefield, grimly.

  At eleven o’clock Malahide was waiting in the hall for the young men. In his riding clothes he had a look of vitality in contrast to his white hair and sallow, sunken cheeks. Wakefield and Paris were riding with him but Finch and Sarah were going in the car with Mrs. Court.

  Malahide rode a good bay mare but the other horses were old and the one ridden by Wakefield was stiff in the hindquarters. He rode side by side with Paris, seeing, as in a dream, the new tender greenness of the countryside, the white thatched cottages with women standing in the doorways and little children and hens in and out of the doors. A delicate mist still hung in the hills and in the hollows and here and there was the silver flash of a pond with ducks on it.

  “I can tell you, Paris,” said Wakefield, in a low voice, “this is one of the unhappiest days of my life.”

  “I think I can guess why.” Paris threw him a sympathetic look. “It’s the reconciliation between those two. I can see through her, I think. But how I wish she’d taken a fancy to me! Oh, I could love her fierce enough to satisfy even her! Do you think maybe I could cut Finch out?”

  “Never. He fascinates her. Everything he does or says is wonderful to her. She told me so herself. Years ago.”

  “Well, well,” said Paris, “that’s queer. Now I should say that you’d be far more fascinating to a woman.”

  Wakefield turned to look at him in surprise.

  “You don’t know Finch. He’s an artist and he has all that implies — where women are concerned. But something happened to him — something went wrong — I don’t know just what it was. It wasn’t altogether marrying Sarah. There have been other things. I think my brother Eden’s death was a great shock to him. Then — when my grandmother died — she left all her money to Finch and the family thought — that is, some of them thought — he’d been scheming and underhand about it. That hurt him terribly.”

  “What became of the money?” asked Paris. “He doesn’t seem to have much now.”

  “He hasn’t. He gave a lot of it away — to different members of the family. He made some bad investments. He has to work hard. Sometimes I think it would have been better for Finch if he’d not been a musician. I mean, not devoted his life to music. What I’m certain of is that he should never have been reconciled to Sarah!”

  They rode on in silence for a space, then Parry said: —

  “As Sarah is so much in love with Finch maybe she’d like to buy the horse for your eldest brother, as a sort of bid for his good will. What do you think?”

  “Renny would never accept it from her. Moreover she’d not raise a finger to help him. She once held a mortgage on Jalna and Renny had the devil’s own time to pay it off. She was going to foreclose. But he got the best of her and she’s hated him ever since.”

  “How did he get the best of her?” A subtle resemblance to his father came into Parry’s handsome face.

  Wakefield grinned. “With the last of Finch’s fortune!”

  Malahide’s horse was trotting on ahead. Now he turned in a gateway almost hidden by tall holly bushes whose prickly leaves glittered in the pale sunlight.

  “This is Madigan’s,” said Paris.

  They dismounted and a young boy, with a reckless air and his head bandaged, took their horses.

  “What’s the matter, Shaun?” asked Parry.

  “I was just helpin’ a friend. Mister Parry, and a fella came along and hit me with the tailboard of a cart.”

  Paris seemed to consider this a satisfactory explanation. He and Wakefield followed Malahide to the door. He turned to them with a secretive air.

  “Now I warn you not to be too enthusiastic about this horse. You especially, Wakefield, must be very knowing and a bit skeptical. It is possible we may get him for even less than I said.”

  Wakefield felt as though he were being drawn into a net. He wished with all his heart that Renny were here.

  The door opened and a maid, with large staring eyes, gave them one startled look and retreated, showing her bare pink heels at every step through the holes in her stockings.

  Wakefield thought he had never felt anything like the frozen mustiness of that hall. A row of muddy boots stood along the wall and a mackintosh and whip lay on the floor beside them.

  A short square man came cheerfully from the back premises to meet them. He had a square forehead and a look of spurious intensity in his small eyes.

  “Good morning, Mr. Court!” he exclaimed. “And Mr. Paris! Is it come to see Johnny the Bird, ye have?”

  “We have,” agreed Malahide languidly. “This young gentleman is our cousin, Mr. Wakefield Whiteoak, from Canada. I’ve had a time to persuade him to come, for he thinks his brother has given up steeplechasing and also he’d not want to buy a horse by proxy.”

  Wakefield’s spirits rose and Mr. Madigan’s face fell. He said regretfully, as they shook hands — “Well, your brother is missing the chance of a lifetime. The devil himself couldn’t persuade me to part with this horse but that I’m in desperate need of cash. Will you come along and look at him then?”

  “Yes,” agreed Wakefield, “I’d like to see him.” He felt sorry for Mr. Madigan for he knew what it was to be in need of cash and had heard of such need from his earliest days.

  Outside, the car had just driven up. Mrs. Court had been to the village to shop. Mr. Madigan greeted her with effusion.

  “I’ve been buying a leg of mutton,” she announced, as though it were a piece of news worth repeating.

  “Well now,” said Mr. Madigan, “there’s a coincidence! My wife brought some glasses of red currant jelly out from the storeroom this morning, and a bottle of our cherry brandy. I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of accepting one of each — the jelly will go well with the mutton and the brandy will give a fillip to it all.”

  “Well, that is kind of you!” said Mrs. Court. She looked much gratified.

  Finch and Sarah, after the introduction, followed the others toward the stables, she with her hand in his like a child’s, he giving Wakefield a look of mingled anger and pleading.

  “You’d think,” he said, as they jostled each other in the stable doorway, “that I’d committed a crime, when all I’ve done is to return to the woman I love, the woman I need.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Wakefield, “don’t try to talk about it here! They’ll hear you.”

  “But it’s your expression that drives me to it. If only you’d let me do this normally and naturally.”

  “There’s nothing normal or natural about it.” Wakefield shouldered past him into the clean whitewashed stab
le.

  The boy with the bandaged head led the way to a loose box at the far end.

  “Here’s himself,” he said, “waitin’ to greet ye! Look pretty for the gentlemen, Johnny the Bird!”

  The horse regarded the approaching group with curiosity but his expression was not friendly. He was big-boned and grey, with head and ears that were iron in their stark decisive outline.

  “Now isn’t he a darlin’?” asked Mr. Madigan.

  Nobody answered. All were gazing in acute concentration at the tall, unfriendly, beautiful animal who now nonchalantly turned from them and helped himself to a mouthful of hay. With hay bristling from his lips he looked contemptuously over his steel-grey shoulder at the weak humans gathered there.

  Mr. Madigan began to extol his value. From point to point, from ears to rump, he loosed fiery words in his praise, while Malahide stood pulling at his flexible underlip, Paris stretched his mouth in a grin of delight and the two Whiteoaks mentally collected all they knew of horses and trained it on Johnny the Bird. The stableboy kept fingering the sore spot under his bandage.

  Then, hidden by Mr. Madigan, he led the horse to a very poor track behind the stables and the owner himself mounted him. Just as he started, a scatter of mud flying from his hoofs, an old man mounted on a sober bay gelding rode into the yard. Two others rode with him.

  Malahide gave a start of obvious anger.

  “It’s that old rascal, Dermot Court.” he said to Paris. “What in hell is he doing here?”

  But he went to meet him with a smile.

  “Cousin Dermot,” he said, “what an unexpected pleasure!”

  Mr. Madigan drew in the horse and trotted back to the starting point.

  Dermot Court leaned from the saddle to shake hands testily with his kinsman.

  “How d’ do,” he said. “Here, some of you, help me down.”

  Paris and Wakefield were at his side. What an arresting face he had, Wakefield thought. He was the Dermot Court he had heard his grandmother talk of as a “dashing young fellow.” Renny too had told of visiting him and his old father at their home in County Meath, after the War. Dermot would know all about horses, he had been prominent in the racing world in his day. Surely he had been sent here by Providence to help them in their decision.

  “I’m Wakefield Whiteoak, sir,” he said, flushing. “My brother Renny has talked of you, and my grandmother too.”

  “Yes, yes,” broke in Malahide, “these two youngsters are our dear Cousin Adeline’s grandsons. They’re here to look at a horse — a perfect wonder — with a view to buying him. I’m delighted you’ve come, for now we can have your invaluable opinion.”

  “Aye, that’s why I came,” answered old Dermot, in his harsh voice. “I’m staying with Colonel McCarthy, him yonder with the eyeglass, and I heard you were trying to sell these lads a race horse. I thought too much of their grandmother and liked their brother too well to want them to be fleeced. So I came over.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Malahide. “There is no one whose opinion I value more. You have met my wife, haven’t you? And Sarah?”

  “I have and admire them both.” He bowed over Mrs. Court’s hand and gave Sarah a pat on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you and your husband were separated.”

  “No longer, and never again,” answered Sarah, with her small, secret smile.

  “I don’t believe in these marital reunions. I’ve tried ’em myself and I say that, if a husband and wife once come to the point of parting, they were never meant for each other. Now which of you young fellows is the husband?”

  Finch gave a boyish and rather tremulous smile. The smile, Wakefield thought, showed Finch’s weakness, for in repose his face was distinguished and bore a look of experience. Dermot shook him by the hand.

  “Well, well, any girl ought to get on with you. I hear that you were your grandmother’s favourite.”

  “Oh, no,” answered Finch hurriedly. “No. Not at all. That is —” He flushed painfully.

  Malahide said suavely — “Women are unaccountable in their decisions, and our dear Adeline was no exception. But, Dermot, Mr. Madigan is anxious to show you the horse. I do hope you and your friends will come to my place afterward. Then we can talk.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Dermot Court amiably. “But first let me shake hands with this lad.” He took Wakefield’s hand in his strong clasp.

  Wakefield thought — “Why, it’s as though Gran held my hand!” He smiled and said: —

  “You are like my grandmother, sir.”

  Dermot was delighted. “You could not pay me a higher compliment. As for you — you certainly bear a resemblance to her. In fact both you lads have the Court nose. How beautiful she still was when first I saw her! She was fifty and I fifteen. I followed her about like a dog.” He made a wry face. “Well, she’s been long in her grave and was a centenarian when she went there. Sure, I have no business to be on the face of the earth. Come, let’s see the horse. I must tell you that I saw him in his last race and that’s why I asked Colonel McCarthy to bring me over.”

  All the while he inspected the horse, all the while he held the stop watch in his hand, he never ceased talking, but when they were in the Madigans’ best room, with a decanter of whiskey and a syphon of soda before them, he was silent.

  “What had we better do?” Finch whispered to Wakefield.

  “Just what he says,” answered Wakefield stiffly.

  Colonel McCarthy was holding the floor, in a very wheezy voice.

  “If there’s a man in Ireland,” he said, “whose opinion you can depend on, it is Dermot Court. It’s in his blood. And what a man old Renny Court was! That would be your great-grandfather. He spent everything he could get his hands on in steeplechasing. I expect he lost money but he had a lot of fun. Steeplechasing wasn’t too respectable then. It was nobody’s child. But he and his father-in-law, the Marquis of Killiekeggan, and of course the famous Marquis of Waterford — they put it on its feet. Made it fashionable.”

  He ran on about the old days, Finch feeling that he could listen forever, feeling his grandmother in the room with him, as he heard the exploits of her father and grandfather; Wakefield impatient to hear Dermot’s verdict on Johnny the Bird. At last he moved to a chair behind him and leaning forward whispered: —

  ”What shall I write to Renny, sir?”

  Dermot spoke out of the side of his mouth but almost inaudibly. “Don’t let that horse get away from you. That horse dealer and Malahide don’t realize how good he is. Nobody does but me. I’d buy him in a minute if I weren’t so old. However, I’d like to do your brother a good turn. I like him. Malahide is getting a commission on this sale. That’s why he’s so keen. But urge Renny to buy the horse. He can be trained in my stable. You cable Renny to come and see the horse himself, if he’s skeptical.”

  VI

  THE TRIO IN GAYFERE

  THE PASSAGE TO Ireland had been rough but the return calm and tranquil. Wakefield and Paris kept somewhat to themselves. Wakefield because of his anger and disappointment toward Finch, Paris because he could see that the married pair wished to be alone. Finch had asked Wakefield if he would object to his bringing Sarah to Gayfere Street. Wakefield had answered that he did not mind but he promised himself that, if he found her presence as unbearable as he expected to find it, he would get another lodging.

  It was surprising how Sarah, who always travelled with much luggage and who seemed incapable of doing anything for herself, was ready to leave Ireland with so little preparation. It seemed to Wakefield that she had held herself ready to follow Finch wherever he went, at a moment’s notice. She was conciliatory towards both Paris and Wakefield, she used the charm of her voice and her smile on them as though she would force them to speak well of her to Finch.

  In London they had parted from Paris and stood waiting on the doorstep of the house in Gayfere Street, the rain falling steadily, driven slantwise by an east wind. Henriette opened the door but the sm
ile faded from her large yellow face when she saw Sarah. She half closed it again as though they were peddlers. Finch had prepared himself for this moment but the words went out of his head and he stammered helplessly. Sarah stood smiling, waiting to be taken care of. Wakefield said, in a matter-of-fact voice: —

  “Hullo, Henriette, aren’t you going to let us in? I hope you have some of your good soup waiting for us. This lady is my brother’s wife, who has come back with him from Ireland.” As he said the words he had a complete disbelief in the reality of their import. Surely this thing had not happened! Surely they were not to have Sarah like a millstone about their necks from now on! They had been so happy in this little house. He had been so happy at getting a part in a play, at making a friend of Molly Griffith. Now there was this still, closed-in pale face between him and Finch, a barrier against their candid intercourse.

  “I didn’t know as the gentleman were married,” said Henriette. “I ’ope the lady doesn’t intend to stop ’ere. There’s scarcely room.”

  “I may not be staying,” answered Wakefield.

  Henriette looked more doleful than ever. “I’d be sorry to see you go, sir.”

  Finch spoke with exasperation. “We’ll settle all this for ourselves. Please get us something hot to eat.”

  Henriette retired groaning to the basement. Wakefield thought — “There he goes — either too shy to speak at all or speaking aggressively! Now he’s hurt the poor old thing’s feelings.”

  “What a lovely little house!” exclaimed Sarah. “I’ve never seen another like it. It must be terribly old. Did you hear the boats on the river while we waited at the door? Which is our room, Finch?”

  They went up the stairs.

  In his own room Wakefield set down his suitcase, contemplated it bitterly, then gave it a kick that sent it right across the floor. “Hell!” he said. Then added, “God forgive me for using bad language but I just can’t help it. This thing is all wrong!”