He unlocked the front door and showed her into the living room. There he left her and she could hear him descend into the cellar and shake down the ashes in the furnace. She was puzzled, but not really troubled, by his air of mystery. Perhaps he had brought her here to tell her something of her mother’s life in Canada. The air of the room was lifeless and she put up a window a little way. She could hear him putting on coals. He seemed a long while down there.
Presently he returned to her. There was a smudge of ash on his forehead. He smiled at her, as though reassuringly.
“Fire nearly out,” he said. “Do you find it cold here?”
“Oh, no. I opened the window.”
“It’s a pretty room — don’t you think so?”
“Very. It must have been frightfully hard on your uncle to — give it all up.”
“Yes, indeed. I wish you could have met Aunt Harriet. She was a sweet woman. She and I were great friends. She made that drawing of Rheims Cathedral when she was quite young. And the one of the Greek Theatre at Taormina. She’d travelled all over France and Italy. She was very intellectual.” He sighed.
The sound of Archer’s sleighbell came tinkling through the open window. Renny went to it and looked out. The children were running toward the house.
“You can’t come in here,” he said. “You’d better run home.”
She heard their receding laughter, detached and half-defiant. They felt independent and daring.
He turned again to Molly.
“You’re sure you’re not cold?”
“Perfectly.”
But he put down the window.
She looked inquiringly at him.
“I have something to tell you,” he said, “which I’m afraid will upset you terribly.”
She stood looking into his eyes, waiting. She had a sudden feeling of trust in him, as though it would not be possible to him really to hurt her. He said: —
“I suppose you have thought a good deal about your mother since our talk yesterday.”
“Yes, I have.” So it was about her mother! She had expected that. A thought illuminated her mind. He was going to tell her that he had loved her mother!
“Perhaps you know,” he went on, “that your mother was not happily married.”
She hesitated, then said — “I — yes, I knew.”
“You’ll think I have no right to talk to you like this but I want you to believe that I only do it because I must.”
“I do believe that, but — why must you?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. But first I must tell you that I loved your mother and that she loved me. She was estranged from Dayborn. They didn’t live together as man and wife. It was a great surprise to me when I discovered through you that she had had a daughter after her return to England. Then I began to calculate. I asked you the date of your birth, do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” She looked straight into his eyes, not flinching.
“It came to me like a bolt out of the blue — that you were not Dayborn’s daughter, but mine.”
In his self-control he spoke in an almost matter-of-fact tone
Her mouth was unbearably dry. She swallowed before she could answer.
“Perhaps you’re right. There was that picture of you I found in her things. I found a letter from — my father — oh, I have to call him my father! It was an unkind, angry letter. There was a hint I couldn’t understand but — I understand now!”
She had said she understood but he could see that she was using all her strength to steady herself, that she had not grasped the import of what he had told her. He came and sat down beside her on the sofa. She had dropped to it as though weak, had grasped its arm in her hand so that the knuckles stood out white and tense.
“We loved each other,” he said. “We didn’t think we were harming anyone. She’d been a better wife to Dayborn than he deserved. She was so courageous. She seemed never to think of herself. I suppose that’s why —”
He could not go on.
“Yes?”
“I suppose that was why you were born. She never thought of herself.”
She turned to look into his face. Her eyes were feverishly bright. She exclaimed: —
“But you can’t be positive of this! After all, you’re just guessing, aren’t you? My mother never wrote to you to tell you I was coming, did she?”
“No, she didn’t tell me, though we exchanged letters for a time. Then she stopped writing. Evidently she didn’t want me to know. There was a kind of deep reserve in her that makes me understand her doing this. I think you have it in you, too.”
“Then you’re only guessing really!”
“I have no written proof but I am positive. You do believe in instinct, don’t you? And there’s more than that. Look.”
He took her hand and held it in front of her. He put his own right hand beside it.
“I have a very individual hand,” he said. “I want you to look at it and then at your own.”
Obediently she examined his lean, muscular, man’s hand, then her own thin, girl’s hand.
“They don’t look alike to me,” she said.
“Not look alike! Do you see the bend of the little finger — the length of the thumb and the way it’s joined to the hand — the shape of the nails! Why, the two hands are identical.”
“That might be chance.”
“But it isn’t chance. And look here,” — he led her to the mirror above the mantel, — “I want you to examine our foreheads and the way the hair grows. Do you see? Look at my ears — then at your own! You are marked, Molly, as my daughter. There’s no getting away from it. At first I kept thinking — ‘How like her mother she is!’ But now I can see only your resemblance to me. Don’t you see it?”
“Yes,” she answered, half reluctantly. “I do. And there was that letter. The one I found among my mother’s things. He —” she stumbled over the word, not knowing what to call Dayborn — “he said in it — ‘You’ve never been able to get that red-haired fellow out of your mind. I’ll swear there aren’t many husbands as forgiving as I am.’”
“Brute!”
“He went on to ask her how much money she had and to send him as much as she could. That letter turned me against him.”
“No wonder. But, if you had known him, you’d have forgiven him a good deal…. The question is — can you forgive me?”
Old Adeline, propitiatory, challenging, wary, looked out of his eyes. He forgot, for the moment, his harassment of the past twenty-four hours.
She turned to him swiftly and laid her cheek against his shoulder. She said: —
“I’m glad … in a strange sort of way. I can’t explain.”
He put his arm about her.
“Do you realize what it’s going to mean to you and Wake?” he asked.
She looked trustfully into his face. “What had I better do? Tell him or keep it secret?”
He answered, almost irritably, “I’ve had it out with Wake. He realizes that you can’t marry now.”
His arm tightened about her. He waited for the impact of the blow. He felt her go rigid. Then she began to cry wildly and loudly. She beat on his shoulder with her hands.
“We can’t marry!” she cried. “We can’t marry!”
She would have fallen to the floor but he took her in his arms trying to quiet her.
At last she said — “I must go away.”
“Yes. That will be best…. Molly, I’d have given anything I possess to have prevented this. It’s been one of the worst days in my life.”
“It has broken my heart,” she sobbed.
“Poor little girl!” He stroked her hair.
“I’ll go back to England.”
“You and Wake must settle what is best to do.”
“When can I see him?”
“Whenever you like. Shall I send him here?”
“Yes. Tell him not to be long, will you?”
“I’ll send him as soon as I can find h
im. Molly — you’ll have to be strong. It’s going to be awful for Wake to give you up.”
“What did he say — when you told him?”
“He was terribly upset.”
She began once more to cry, wildly.
He found some brandy in the sideboard and gave her a little. He chafed her hands, which were icy cold. As he looked down at their hands, his warm and strong, bringing the life back to hers, the resemblance between them seemed suddenly to typify the whole heartbreaking business to her. She closed her fingers round his and held them to her breast.
XXVI
RENNY AND ALAYNE
ARCHER WHITEOAK WENT down through the ravine and over the bridge, drawing his new sleigh behind him. The bell on it jingled merrily but he did not feel merry. Somewhere he had lost his cap. He could not remember when but he now realized that the cold wind was whistling in his ears and over his crown. The sleigh felt heavy, much heavier than on the way over. The two girls and Nook had disappeared long ago. He had been left to find his way home alone. He would tell his mother.
Though it was still early afternoon the sun was slanting through the trees, etching a pattern of great beauty on the snow. Diminutive snow clouds were sometimes blown across its crust. Archer saw no beauty in the scene about him. It existed for him as an immense icy basin across which he had a long way to traverse. In the illimitable distance was the circular shape of a cookie or a sweet biscuit or a snow apple. This was all that kept him alive crossing the ravine.
He passed through the little wicket gate on the lawn. The gate was propped wide open by a snowdrift. He discovered that he had a sore spot somewhere. He had coughed and it had hurt.
He pondered on this hurt with gathering gloom as he trudged toward the porch. The sheep dog was sitting in the porch, a bundle of snowy grey hair, and ran joyfully to greet him. He gave it a shout of warning but that was of no avail. It knocked him down as he knew it would. The sore spot hurt again!
He made no attempt to pick up the rope of his sleigh but went howling straight into the house.
Alayne came down the stairs, her mind balanced between annoyance and sympathy.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
He threw himself on the bottom step and lay there, filling the house with his woe. She picked him up and began to divest him of his outer garments.
“Darling, are you hurt? Where is your cap?”
“My feet are cold! They went and left me!”
“What a shame! Where were you?”
“At Uncle Ernest’s … Oh — my feet! Oh — my sore spot!”
Rags came and she gave him the small snow suit to shake and hang up.
“Come upstairs with Mummie,” she said.
“I can’t wa-alk!”
His face looked fragile but he had a sturdy body. She found him heavy and was glad to set him down in her room. She undressed his feet and held them in her warm lap. She looked anxiously into his face.
“Where is the sore spot?”
“It’s where somebody hit me.”
“Hit you! Who was it?”
“I forget.” Deliberately he gave his rare smile that always stirred her heart. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Can I have a cookie?”
“Archer, I cannot let you eat between meals.”
There was silence for a moment while he watched her ministrations to him. Then he said: — “I don’t feel well.”
“Then why do you want to eat?”
“To make me feel better.” He put his hand to his side. “There’s the spot! I hurt it when I fell off my sleigh. Daddy was kissing the girl and I fell off my sleigh. It was his fault.”
Alayne looked at him, unable to speak for a moment in her astonishment. Then she demanded: —
“What do you mean, Archer? You must tell Mummie just what you mean.”
He laid his hand on her head as though he were blessing her. “If had something to eat I could talk.”
She rose and went to a cabinet. She took barley sugar from it and gave him a piece.
“Where was Daddy?” she asked, trying to speak without concern.
“In Uncle Ernest’s house.” His cheek was distended by the sweet. “I stood on my sleigh and looked through the window. The girl was on the sofa —”
“What girl?”
“Molly. You know Molly, don’t you? Tickle my feet and see if I can keep from laughing.”
“In a moment. Did Daddy and Molly see you?”
“No. They were on the sofa. She was being naughty and he kissed her. Now tickle me!”
Gently Alayne caressed his pink sole with the tips of her fingers. She looked compellingly into his eyes.
“Tell me, why did you leave the window?”
“Molly frightened me. I fell off my sleigh and came home.”
“Didn’t they see you?”
“No. Tickle me harder!”
“Tell me right from the beginning what happened and you shall have another sweet.”
“Well, they looked in the glass and she put her head on his shoulder and cried and he carried her to the sofa and held her like you do me and gave her something to drink in a glass and kissed her. And she kissed him. The spot is right here.” He laid his hand on it. “It doesn’t hurt so badly when you tickle me and I have a sweet.”
Alayne heard Renny’s step on the stair. He came into the room. A cold rage toward him possessed her. She could have screamed in her rage at him. She felt rage, like a living thing, turn in her breast, but she pressed it down and spoke in a controlled voice.
“Tell Daddy how you hurt yourself, Archer.”
He began eagerly — “It was your fault, Daddy, wasn’t it? Because if you hadn’t been on the sofa with Molly I’d not have looked through the window and —”
Renny interrupted — “What are you saying? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why, yes, Daddy. You closed the window and I looked in and you —”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Renny sharply. “You’re talking nonsense and you know it.”
Alayne smiled. “You should choose a more secluded spot for your rendezvous,” she said.
“I don’t know what either of you mean.”
Archer turned his bare feet together till the soles met. He clasped his hands and his brow became accusing. “I fell off my sleigh,” he said, “because I tried to see what Daddy and Molly were doing.”
“You may be willing to encourage the boy to be a spy and a liar,” broke in Renny. “I can’t agree.”
Alayne began to draw on the little boy’s socks.
“I don’t want to go!” he whined.
“I hear Adeline in the passage. She’ll take you up with her. It’s almost your teatime.”
He stiffened himself to a poker. “I won’t go!”
If he was a poker Renny’s grasp was iron. He carried him into the passage and closed the door behind. Adeline was standing with her back against the opposite wall, very straight, as though her height were to be measured.
“Adeline,” he said, “I want you to take Archie up to the nursery! He’s got some nonsense in his head. Make him forget it. It’s damned silly.”
Her eyes searched his face.
“Yes, Daddy.”
She took her brother by the hand and he walked stiffly toward the stairs. He began, in a dictatorial tone: —
“Daddy shouldn’t have made Molly cry and then —”
Adeline interrupted him with a gay laugh. “I know and I’d have cried too but I laughed and laughed and what do you suppose I laughed at? An owl and a squirrel fighting in the ravine! The feathers and the fur flew. Come and I’ll tell you.”
Renny gave a wry smile and went back to Alayne.
She was standing, waiting.
“Our children are getting an early training in deception,” she said.
He tried to touch her but she drew sharply away.
“Alayne,” he said, “I ask you, in all truth and sincerity, to believe me. I —”
&nbs
p; She interrupted — “Believe you! When there’s another woman in question!” She put her hands on the foot-board of the bed and gripped it to steady herself. “Never! I know you too well.”
“How dare you say that to me!” he exclaimed roughly. “You talk as though our life was a succession of affairs on my part and endurance on yours. It’s unjust.”
“You’ll be telling me next that you’ve always been faithful to me and that Archer saw nothing.”
“I was unfaithful — if you want that word — once! Once, I tell you, in all our married life! I thought that was over — forgiven — forgotten — it was the only time. There was something to be said on my side. I’ll swear there was! As to what Archie saw — I was comforting Molly because she is in trouble.”
“Yes — yes — I know that sort of trouble! She wants you! That’s her only trouble.”
“My God! She adores Wake.”
“I’ve seen looks pass between you. I couldn’t understand. Now I do. There’s no use in talking to me.”
“Archer saw something in that room that shocked him.”
“He saw Molly crying.”
“Why were you kissing her?”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were!”
“You take that mere baby’s word against mine?”
“Your own face gives you the lie! The moment you stepped inside the door and heard Archer talking you looked excited and defensive. What was she crying about?”
“Her father. She worries about him. He’s drinking hard”
“My God, why need you and she go to an empty house to talk about her family affairs? Where was Wakefield? Why didn’t she tell her troubles to him?”
“She thought I could help her.” He stared steadily into Alayne’s eyes.
“And I don’t doubt that you did,” she sneered. “You helped her by kissing her! Well, you are not the first middle-aged man to want affairs with young girls.”
He still looked steadily into her eyes. “Alayne,” he said, “anyone who heard you say that might wonder if you have an atom of love left for me.”
There was a moment of quivering silence, then she began to cry bitterly. “You can’t imagine what it is,” she sobbed, “to be a woman who sees her looks going and her husband …” She could not speak. She covered her face with her hands.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 388