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

  “Doesn’t remember?”

  “No. He just says Mummy’s gone away.”

  “It was a terrible thing,” Finch said, heavily.

  “Yes, wasn’t it?”

  They sat in silence. Finch felt that Voynitsky was yearning to be rid of him and the child, but he was polite. “Do have a drink,” he urged.

  To pass the time, Finch agreed. By the time their glasses were emptied, the nurse had returned with the little boy. He now wore coat and cap. Finch thought:

  “He’s a pretty child.” A feeling of fatherly pride rose in his heart.

  The nurse was helping the taxi driver to carry out a large trunk. They were laughing together. The woman looked the stronger of the two.

  “All those clothes for a youngster?” exclaimed the driver.

  “Sure. He’s a reg’lar little dook.”

  Voynitsky bent and kissed the child. “You will remember Dmitri, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” came the composed little voice.

  He trotted at Finch’s side from the house. Finch lifted him into the taxi.

  Voynitsky had pressed Finch’s hand on parting, and said, “We both loved a remarkable woman. Never shall we see another like her. I am heartbroken, Mr. Whiteoak.”

  Finch was thankful to get away. He looked almost fearfully at the small being by his side. Already he had telegraphed Renny, telling him of Sarah’s death, and had got a telegram in reply: “Bring the child to Jalna.” It was what he had expected. Now he wondered how he could care for anything so young and fragile during the long journey. To be sure he knew something about children, but this was Sarah’s child, his brief past was an enigma. What if the child began to cry and kept on crying! It would be horrible. He might miss even Voynitsky — cry for him.

  When Finch had got him and his trunk into the hotel bedroom he led him to the window and showed him the view over the harbour. Dennis stood with his eight little fingers in a row on the still and looked out with gravity. It was an old story to him.

  “I guess you’ve seen it often,” said Finch.

  “Yes. Show me something different,” He spoke distinctly, in an extraordinarily sweet voice like Sarah’s.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing else to show you.”

  He turned and looked up critically into Finch’s face. “Mummy always had something else,” he said.

  Sarah seemed to be in the room with them. Finch was conscious of the scent of her black hair, so luxuriant, yet so fine and so ordered in its arrangement. He could not believe she was dead.

  As though conscious of his thought Dennis said:

  “But she went to sleep, right on the road, and a policeman brought me home. Dmitri cried but I didn’t.”

  “Do you like Dmitri?” asked Finch.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “why?”

  “I can’t tell you. I simply don’t like him.”

  Dennis gave a sudden, clear little laugh.

  “Let’s kill him,” he said. “You hit him. Then I’ll hit him. Then we’ll both hit him. Then he’ll be dead.”

  “Did he ever hit you?” asked Finch.

  “He smacked my face. Then I screamed. Then Mummy screamed. Then he screamed.” Again Dennis laughed, this time more loudly.

  “Surely he didn’t scream.”

  “Well, he said he was sorry. I’m hungry.”

  Finch felt an immense relief. Here was something to do. He took Dennis to the dining room and ordered a careful meal for him. After that he persuaded him to lie on the bed for a while. He took him for a walk. He bought him picture books and read aloud to him. Then came another meal. Then it was time to go to the railway station. Dennis was not tired but Finch, five times his size, was dog-tired. He was even more tired when, after long days and nights of travel, he reached home. He might have relaxed on the train but for Dennis. Always he was watching Dennis. Once he fell asleep in his seat and, when he woke, found Dennis at the end of the railway carriage, waiting an opportunity to slip through the door. On the whole, no child could have been better behaved than he but he was always moving, kneeling up to look out of the window, lying down to stare at the lights on the ceiling, lying precariously on the edge of the seat, squatting on his little haunches. The train seemed extraordinarily dirty. The little boy’s hands often must be washed. As the melancholy looking young man herded him along the aisle to the washroom, women gave them looks of curiosity. Young women tried to make up to Finch through his child. Older women to give him sympathy through his child, till his invulnerable reserve discouraged them. Once Finch forgot that Dennis could not digest chocolate and let him eat chocolate pudding which, shortly after, Dennis brought up. Once each night Dennis woke Finch by crying, whether from indigestion or a bad dream Finch could not discover but he lay awake listening for the crying. Those were the only tears. Finch would, several times a day, take Dennis on his knee and show him the pictures in his book. It was strange, he thought, how he who never had had a parental thought, now had parenthood violently thrust upon him.

  When they alighted from the train there was Renny to meet them, looking so well, so happy, it warmed Finch’s heart to see him.

  “Come right along,” he said, “the car is waiting.” He picked up Dennis and kissed him. With him on his arm he strode to the baggage room. The luggage was retrieved. Outside the air had the feel of winter. A few snowflakes floated on the sunny air. Finch followed in Renny’s wake, a weight of responsibility seemed to drop from his shoulders. He wondered if the day would ever come when Renny would not make him feel young and inexperienced. But he liked it. He sniffed the sharp air. New life entered into him. He helped the porter stow the luggage in the car and tipped him.

  “Too much,” observed Renny. “You’re not in the States now.”

  He took the driver’s seat and placed Dennis on Finch’s knee. “Has he enough on?” he asked. “It’s cold.”

  “I think so. I don’t know.” And he asked the little boy, “Are you cold?”

  “No,” came the small, self-possessed voice, “but I want to go to the lavatory.”

  Renny gave an exclamation of impatience. “You are a dud father! why didn’t you attend to that before you left the train? Well, take him now and be quick about it.” He leant back and lighted a cigarette.

  When the two returned, after this expedition, Renny looked at Dennis critically and remarked, “Hair like Eden’s — eyes like Sarah’s — nose like yours … a pity about Sarah, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Finch. “But we’d better not talk about it. He remembers.”

  “Poor little chap.” Then, after some questions about the journey, Renny asked, “How did she leave her money, Finch?”

  “Everything to Dennis. She hadn’t a large fortune left. I imagine that the Russian got most of it from her.”

  “Hm. What is he like?”

  “Like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, I am glad you have taken your child from him.”

  “He wasn’t at all reluctant to part with him.”

  Renny smiled down at Dennis. “Now you are going to live at Jalna,” he said.

  “Look here, Renny,” Finch flushed in embarrassment. “what about Alayne? Will she mind having Dennis in the house?”

  “She’ll love having him. Alayne is very fond of you and she helped to make the match between you and Sarah. She’ll love having him. And he’ll be company for Archer. She is still in New York, you know.”

  “why — I thought she’d be home by this time.”

  “So did I, but her friends persuaded her to stay on. I’m going down at the end of the week to bring her home.”

  Finch felt he had been away a long while. He had questions to ask about every member of the family. Dennis sat quietly looking out at the December fields, the uneasy green lake where gulls flung themselves above the grey water into the grey sky and sank again to the water, as though in mournful pleasure. The sun had disappeared. Purple clou
ds, heavy with snow, moved closer to field and lake. The car sped along the almost deserted road.

  Finch lifted Dennis to his knee as they turned in at the gate. “Look,” he said. “This is Jalna, where you’re going to live.”

  “Oh. Was I ever here before?”

  “Yes. When you were a baby.”

  “Shall I have someone to play with?”

  “Yes. Other children and dogs. Lots of dogs.”

  Dennis laughed in delight but when they went into the hall and the dogs rose from where they sprawled about the hot stove and made aloud barking, he clung to Finchs legs in terror. Renny picked him up and set him on his shoulder.

  “Now you’re safe,” he said.

  Finch exclaimed, “The stove! why, Renny, you’ve got the stove back!”

  Renny grinned triumphantly. “Yes. Doesn’t it look cozy? The dogs like it. I like it. The uncles like it. I thought it a good time to install it again while Alayne is in New York. She’d have objected, you know. But she won’t be able to say much, coming home after such a visit.”

  “Has she been told about Dennis?”

  “Not yet. But she’ll love having him.”

  Nicholas’ voice came from the library. “I’m in here, Finch! Come right in and bring the child. How glad I am to see you!”

  XXXII

  A DEBT REPAID

  A WEEK LATER Alayne and Renny returned to Jalna from New York. They were accompanied by Rosamond Trent, a friend of Alayne’s before her marriage to Eden, who, during all the years, had kept up a steady correspondence with her and for whom Alayne had a peculiar affection though Miss Trent often irritated her. In the days when they had shared an apartment together Rosamond had mothered Alayne, poured out on her a passionate devotion, offered homage to Alayne’s intellect. Alayne had relaxed under the mothering, tried her best to deserve the devotion, and realized the homage to be somewhat excessive. Rosamond Trent’s exuberance was often trying but her kindness was inexhaustible. She had a deep pity for Alayne because of her marriage to the two Whiteoaks who had buried her in the Canadian countryside for the past twenty years, yet she had at the same time envy for Alayne because she lived a life that was rich in experience unknown to her or to her other friends. In Alayne’s rare visits to New York, Rosamond Trent had done everything in her power to make Alayne happy, had in truth done her best to make Alayne sorry she had ever left New York. Always she had wanted to visit Alayne at Jalna and always Alayne had shrunk from such a visit. What could she do to make things exciting enough for Rosamond? what could she do to smooth over the eccentricities of Nicholas, the delinquencies of the Wragges, the presence of too many dogs, the unmanageableness of Renny? Yet perversely she felt pride in those contrasts to Rosamond’s well-oiled existence. There had been, however, no pride in the one bathroom with its vociferous plumbing which served the whole family, no pride in the old stove that, to her mind, disfigured the hall in cold weather, no pride in the smell of horses that every so often got into the house. Rosamond would be a visitor she never would be able to forget for a moment and she shrank from entertaining her at Jalna.

  Yet now she was at the door!

  Rosamond had literally asked for an invitation. And she had made known to Alayne her reason for her eager desire to visit Jalna. Hearing it, Alayne had cast anxiety aside and doubly welcomed her friend. When Renny had arrived, he warmly seconded the invitation. She was not the sort of woman who attracted him, but she was Alayne’s friend and that was enough.

  Rags opened the door with a bow and a deferential smile of welcome. Miss Trent looked him over with approval. “what a nice face!” she whispered to Alayne. “The real old family retainer type.” Rags overheard her and his smile solidified into a look of such sweet servitude that even Renny noticed it. Alayne noticed nothing but the stove in the middle of the hall, from where she had thought it was banished forever.

  Her accusing eyes sought Renny’s. “Has anything gone wrong with the oil heating?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He returned her look with an arch grin. “But there’s something so cheerful about the old stove. The uncles like it. The dogs like it. It makes the hall cozy. Don’t you agree, Miss Trent?”

  “I do indeed. I haven’t seen a coal stove since I used to visit my grandfather’s farm in Vermont when I was a child.”

  Alayne felt mortified. What was the use of trying to do anything with this house — this family? But she controlled herself and turned to greet Nicholas and Ernest who were being given an arm down the stairs by Finch and Wakefield. It was mid-morning and the two old gentlemen were making their first appearance of the day, having taken particular care with their toilet, more especially Ernest who, fifteen years before, had had a great admiration for Rosamond Trent.

  That admiration was not lessened as he again met her. Her fur-trimmed coat, her odd but very becoming hat, her beautifully done hair which, in the interval, had become a fine even grey, the perfection of her makeup — vivid as to lips but not too vivid — filled him with a pleasurable animation.

  “I never shall forget the time we crossed the ocean together,” he exclaimed, grasping her hand.

  “Nor I!” She returned the grasp, her eyes glowing.

  “I was there too,” mumbled Nicholas, “though I don’t suppose you remember.”

  “As though I could forget!” she cried. “I enjoyed every minute of it. What a happy world!” She turned then to Finch. Both remembered how, on that voyage, she had borrowed ten thousand dollars of his newly inherited fortune, to put into an antique business she had started, and how she never had repaid it. The slump of the thirties had made repayment impossible, but a flush overspread her cheeks.

  “You were such a sweet boy,” she said.

  He gave an embarrassed laugh.

  Alayne said, “Rosamond, this is my youngest brother-in-law, Wakefield.”

  Miss Trent looked into the handsome young face and declared, “He is very like you, Colonel Whiteoak.”

  “Thanks,” said Renny, delighted.

  “I escaped the red hair,” said Wakefield.

  Alayne was looking for Archer. She saw a little boy descending the stairs but he did not run down to meet her and he was only half Archer’s size.

  “why — who —” her astonishment made her almost speechless. “whoever is this?”

  Finch stared at her in consternation. “Is it possible,” he asked, “that Renny has not told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “About — Sarah.”

  “Renny has told me nothing.”

  Renny took the child into his arms and said, “This is Sarah’s little boy. Sarah was killed in a motor accident, while Finch was in California. Finch brought him home to Jalna. Kiss Auntie Alayne, Dennis.” He held the child close to Alayne. Dennis obediently clasped her neck and kissed her.

  Her face, after its momentary eclipse behind his small person, appeared deeply flushed. Another child — a young child — in the house — and Sarah dead! It was cruel to have broken such news to her at a moment like this. She felt too confused to do more than turn and hold out her hand to Finch.

  “You must have been terribly shocked,” she got out.

  “Yes.” Still holding her hand he said, “Renny told me he would tell you.”

  Renny was dividing his caresses among the dogs, having set down the child. He said, “I didn’t see any sense in telling her before we came home.”

  Nicholas put in, “Well, well, it’s all over with Sarah. She was a strange girl. Let’s put her out of our minds. Tell us about New York, Alayne. You look amazingly well.”

  Rosamond Trent had thrown her arm about Alayne, as though to keep her from falling, “I think a little sherry would be good for her,” she said.

  Wakefield hurried to get it. The rest moved into the drawing-room where a bright fire encircled birch logs on the hearth. Ernest conducted Miss Trent to a chair.

  “No need to be upset,” Renny said shortly, to Alayne.

  “
You could scarcely expect me to hear news like that, without a qualm.”

  On her other side Finch said, “Dennis is not to stay at Jalna unless you want him, Alayne. I’m looking for a nurse for him. They’re terribly hard to find.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Renny. “Of course, we want him. He’s company for Archer.”

  “who is looking after him now?” she asked.

  “Everyone gives a hand,” said Renny. “He seems to like it. He can dress himself. I’ve had him on Wake’s old pony already. He’s going to make a rider.”

  “where is Archer?”

  “At school,” answered Nicholas. “He played truant yesterday. Wakefield warmed his seat for him.”

  Wakefield returned with glasses and a decanter of sherry on a tray. He said cheerfully, “We don’t want Archer to waste his time like I did, do we?”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Renny. “So you gave him a warming, eh?”

  Alayne felt stiff with resentment. She drank her sherry in silence. Rosamond Trent, as a connoisseur in antiques, was admiring the graceful old pieces glowing in the firelight. Ernest was delighted to have her as a visitor. In these dreary days of early winter, with the war still dragging on, she would be an exhilarating companion. Finch captured his son and turned him outdoors to play with Archer’s old tricycle. He thought that Alayne might have given Dennis a warmer welcome. He always had stood by her. It was true she had held out a sympathetic hand to him when she was told of Sarah’s death, but she had not been sympathetic about Dennis’ coming. A little child! A very small boy! what was he in the house? Nothing. Alayne had been too occupied in resenting the smacking Wake had given Archer, to think of Dennis as a poor little motherless boy and himself as a widower.

  The family outside Jalna were eager to meet Miss Trent. Piers and his family, Meg and hers, all came and all were favourable toward her. From Meg down to Dennis, they admired and liked her. She was so whole-souled, so appreciative of what they had, so generous toward what they had not, so friendly. Only Nicholas remained aloof from this concerted approval.

  Alayne relaxed in the success of her friend. Now she was glad she had invited her to Jalna. The visit to New York had done Alayne good. She felt extraordinarily well and happy. She accepted the return of the old stove to the hall as one of those inevitable things that happened at Jalna. You might struggle to change it but you could not change it. To see Renny himself again, almost more than himself, was enough to make her happy. He had put on flesh in these last weeks. He looked the picture of a hard, weather-beaten huntsman, in love with life, as he lived it in his own limited sphere. He talked of what he would do with his horses, when the war was over. Soon it would be over. He let others talk and mourn over the problem of reconstruction. They were as helpless as he but had not the sense to realize it. He did not worry over matters he was not capable of controlling. Rosamond Trent, from disliking him — from trying, as she once had done, to influence Alayne against him — came to admire him, to like him, perilously near to loving him.