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

  Alayne was willing to accept Dennis as a member of the family. The friendship between her and Finch was of such long standing and so dear to her, that she was willing to make this sacrifice in its support. Sacrifice it was, for Dennis was a spoilt child, excitable and highly strung. But she admired the self-assurance with which he encountered life at Jalna, though it must have been strange to him. He came into a room as though certain of his welcome, his green eyes alert below his fringe of fair hair. He took possession of what he saw that pleased him and only a will stronger than his could force him to let go. There were few wills stronger than his. Archer’s was one of these and soon there were screams and stampings, as Archer proved the fact. Once Renny put him across his knee and smacked his seat with a hard hand. Set once more on his feet, Dennis looked at Renny in astonishment and said, “That hurt.”

  “See to it,” said his uncle, “that you behave yourself or you’ll get hurt again.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “Yes you do. You like me very much.”

  “You don’t like me.”

  “I like you when you’re good.”

  “I’m good now.”

  Renny picked him up and kissed him.

  “Dennis is a fine little fellow,” Renny said to Alayne. “You must try to be a mother to him.”

  She looked doubtful. She found it trying enough to be a mother to her own two. Soon the holidays would be upon her, an exuberant young girl in the house, and she so tired! It would take her a year to rest, she thought. She would like to go away with Renny to some balmy, relaxing climate for a year. Then the thought of Renny in a balmy, relaxing climate made her smile. Surely he would take the balm out of a South Sea island and turn it into something northern.

  She yearned over Archer with inexpressible longing for him to develop into a man worthy to be the only grandson of her father. Archer had inherited the high, noble brow, the penetrating, blue gaze of Professor Archer. Sometimes he made remarks so profound for his years, it seemed to her, that she was filled with elation. At other times, in truth at most times, she could have wept at Archer’s insane egotism, his senseless chatter, his preoccupation with things that were worse than useless. Renny was more tolerant of Archer’s peculiarities than she. “He’ll come through it all,” Renny would comfort her. “I’ve seen boys act like imbeciles before this.”

  Archer’s fancy would be captivated by some word or phrase that he could not get out of his head. He would go about, as though in a daze, muttering or chanting the charmed words. If they had been beautiful words or phrases, Alayne would have been happy. She would have thought her boy was going to be a writer of distinction. But no, the words that fascinated Archer were not distinguished or beautiful. Sometimes they were embarrassing, and his craze for them lasted so long! For a month, for perhaps two months, they were his constant companions. Alayne was thankful that Rosamond Trent was not there to hear his latest spellbinder. It was the one word, saliva.

  Up and down, in and out Archer would go, declaiming the horrid syllables, his head up, his back so straight that he seemed almost to lean backward. Alayne reasoned with him, she ignored him, she used every device she had read of in her books on child training. Nothing impressed Archer but the one word, saliva.

  “Oh, saliva — saliva — saliva,” he would chant, while his hallucinated gaze saw what she dared not guess.

  Finch was not helpful. He just went into shouts of laughter. Renny was not helpful, for he joked about Archer’s obsession. “Saliva, is it?” he would say to Archer. “Well, spit it out. Get rid of it.”

  But Archer did not smile. There was nothing funny in it to him. He continued in his single-hearted impervious way. After standing by the piano singing Christmas carols, with a look so pure it went straight to Alayne’s heart, he would stalk away chanting, “Saliva — oh, saliva.”

  The singing of carols each afternoon before the children’s tea, was begun by Finch’s playing the piano for the uncles at that hour. Someone had started a carol, all had drifted in from other rooms and joined in the singing. An artist, with a taste for large colourful canvases, might well have enjoyed painting the scene. There stood the old piano reflecting the firelight, the mirror with its tarnished frame reflecting the family group; Finch at the piano, singing as he played, Alayne standing with one elbow on the instrument, one arm about her son’s shoulders. At Finch’s other side Adeline, now home from school, looking, as it seemed to Alayne, fairly ready to push her elders off the face of the earth by her exuberance. The term at school had done wonders for Roma who now also was in glowing health. How was it, Alayne wondered, that boys never looked like that? Boys might look strong and healthy but they did not look like that.

  The mirror also reflected Nicholas and Ernest, at ease in their padded chairs, little Dennis perched on the arm of Nicholas’ chair, his little pipe joining with the not unmusical rumblings that came from his great-uncle’s chest. The mirror did not reflect Renny who always sat somewhat apart on the window seat, the Cairn terrier and the bulldog on his either side, the sheepdog at his feet. The dogs thoroughly disliked the singing but so enjoyed the warmth of fire and of human companionship that they endured it with tolerance.

  Almost every evening Piers and his sons joined the group. No one of the family enjoyed singing more than Piers. His fine baritone was a great addition to the volume of song and both Nooky and Philip had charming trebles. Finch arranged “Good King Wenceslaus” as a part song, and it was in the treble part that the two had their chance to shine. They stood up straight, singing with all their might. It was hard to believe they were ever anything but sweet and good. In truth Nooky seldom was but Philip’s days were spent in getting into scrapes and getting out, with considerable disturbance to school masters and family. Pheasant usually did what she could to conceal his misdeeds from Piers but now and again she stepped aside and let him get what he well deserved.

  Meg and Patience often joined the carol singers. Mr. and Mrs. Fennel too, and Miss Pink. But the best addition, in the way of music, was the coming of the Griffiths. Their voices had a spirituality, a strange wildness, as of the hills where they had been bred. It was Finch who had urged them to come to Jalna for the singing. It was some time before they could make up their minds to cross the ravine, enter the house and sit down among the family whose doings were at once so familiar to them and so remote. It was Althea’s doing that her sisters were shy and distrustful of themselves in the company of outsiders. Garda was naturally sociable. Gemmel was naturally bold. Both were under an influence they scarcely were aware of, in Althea’s ethereal presence.

  Eugene Clapperton was no singer but he liked music and he bitterly resented not being invited to join the party. Instead of being thankful that Gemmel was able to go to Jalna with her sisters, he reiterated to himself that she was ill, that no one had a right to ask her to go where he was not invited, that she should not want to go where he was ignored.

  One day Renny Whiteoak met him face to face on the road. It was a day of slushy snow and dim sunshine. Squirrels sped from tree to tree on last minute urgency of business. It was a colourless day of wan foreboding of winter. It was one to make the average human being look his worst. The squirrels had looks to stand it. Black or red, occasionally grey, they were pretty as ever. But Eugene Clapperton was not pretty, as he doggedly plodded along the road. He was out for exercise. He was not going to allow himself to get soft, not with a young bride awaiting him in the spring. Next winter he would take her south. They would leave slush and snow behind them, stroll in warm sunshine in Florida, if he could find a place that was not horribly overcrowded. His face was sallow, his lips were blue, his eyes the colour of oyster shell. He was a contrast to the figure he now saw approaching. It was the master of Jalna, riding his handsome old mare Cora. Horse and rider were warmly coloured, yet in their warmth they harmonized with the scene in its bleakness. They had had their troubles. Pain might be ahead of them but as Cora planted her hoofs nonchalantly in the
slush, as he drooped in the saddle, they shared an enviable serenity of spirit. Eugene Clapperton wished he had gone in the other direction. He gave a quick glance up into Renny’s face, his lips scarcely moving as he said:

  “Good day.”

  Renny drew rein. “Not very Christmaslike weather, is it?” he remarked, genially.

  “It’s abominable.”

  “Walking pretty bad, I guess.”

  “Bad! It’s vile. But I must have exercise.” He straightened himself. “I never let weather stop me.”

  The geniality in Renny’s voice took on an almost tender note. “I admire you for that,” he said, “but walking on a road like this is hard work. Better let me sell you a horse.”

  Eugene was suddenly afraid. He had never mounted a horse. He distrusted them, and yet —

  “Riding is the best exercise there is,” said Renny. “All your insides get exercise without any effort on your part. Now tramping through this slush is quite a strain on the heart. But perhaps you have a particularly strong heart.”

  “Well — at my last physical checkup — I have one every year — x-rayed from head to toe — the doctor told me to take things a little easier. Nothing organically wrong. I was just to slow down a little. I’ve lived a very strenuous life. Mentally, I mean, Mr. Whiteoak.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Men don’t arrive where you are without an effort.”

  “True. Very true.”

  “Now what you ought to do is to conserve your strength for the enjoyment of a long life.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s so.”

  “It’s not going to help you to enjoy life or conserve your strength, to plod along a bleak country road in December.”

  “I’m certainly not enjoying it.”

  “And it is the same all through the year. You’d always be better on horseback than on foot. With your figure you’d look mighty well on a horse.”

  He had struck the right note. A smile trembled on Eugene Clapperton’s pale lips. But he said doubtfully: “I’d probably break my neck.”

  Renny laughed in scorn at such an idea.

  “You? With your physique! You’d have a good seat and good hands. I thought that the first time I met you. Now I have a little horse — quite a small little horse — but strong and reliable and gentle as a lamb. To tell you the solemn truth, she has one knee a little stiff from a fall, so she is no good for jumping. But she’s the perfect horse for you. Mind you, she’s not cheap. You’d not want to be seen on a cheap horse — a man about to be married to a pretty young girl.”

  “Can’t ride,” said Eugene Clapperton sulkily.

  “I’ll teach you. And I may remark that I am a good riding-master. As for the mare, you couldn’t fall off her if you tried.”

  As he talked, Renny’s enthusiasm heightened, in the sheer pleasure of an expected sale. He would have taken pleasure in selling a horse to the devil himself. “I have the very mount for you,” he would have said. “A horse accustomed to a rider with hoofs and tail. As for temperature — this horse just revels in the heat.”

  Eugene Clapperton was won over. He was grateful. After a pause he said, “I’ll come and look at the mare, Colonel Whiteoak. And right here I want to say I appreciate your friendly attitude. I appreciate your taking that incinerator away — also the piggeries.”

  Renny Whiteoak showed his fine teeth in a cheerful grin. “If we are to be neighbours for life — if you are to marry into a family I’m attached to, we should be on friendly terms.”

  “I did wrong, I freely admit it, in suspecting you in that miserable affair. I should have known better. I’m very sorry, Colonel Whiteoak.”

  The smile faded from Renny’s face but he still spoke cheerfully. “I have put all that behind me,” he said. “On my part I appreciate your giving up the plan of building a lot of small houses.” He could not bring himself to speak of these as constituting a village. The idea was grotesque.

  Eugene Clapperton’s face broke into little wrinkles of weakness and shamefaced pride in that weakness.

  “I gave it up,” he said, “to please my fiancée. She couldn’t bear the thought of outsiders infringing on our privacy.”

  Renny toyed with Cora’s luxuriant mane. “I like her for that,” he said. “I’ve always liked her but now I shall like her even more. You’ve made a good choice in her.”

  “I know I have.”

  “And she in you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Now about the mare. What about coming to see her now? We are near my gate. Then, after you have looked her over, I hope you will come to the house for a drink. We’ve been singing Christmas carols every evening lately. Perhaps you would like to join us.”

  Eugene Clapperton agreed. He could not help himself. He felt hypnotized. Also, to go indoors out of that hateful slush and sing carols had a kind of celestial lure in it. He turned in his tracks, entered the gate he never had thought to enter again, and plodded to the stables.

  Renny was there considerably before him.

  “Wright!” he called. “Put Belinda in the big loose box and groom her a bit. She’s sold!”

  Wright was a happy man in these days. He had been downcast in the months when Renny’s self-suspicion had darkened the lives of all at Jalna. But now he had thrown care aside and was straining toward the spring when he and Renny would set about the pleasant task of rebuilding the prestige of the stables. The colt jointly owned by himself and Adeline was developing magnificently. The two had great hopes of him. Renny had offered to buy Wright’s share in him at treble the cost but Wright firmly held on to his prize.

  Now he leapt to obey orders. By the time Eugene Clapperton reached the stable the mare, standing in deep clean straw, showed a glistening hide and freshly combed mane and tail.

  “You look cold,” said Renny. “Better come into my office and have a drink. I keep a bottle of Scotch here.” He led the way into the little room that somehow looked inviting to Mr. Clapperton.

  “Sit down,” said the master of Jalna, “and make yourself at home.”

  It was a strange new world to Eugene Clapperton whose days had been passed in city offices, hedged in by clicking typewriters and glossy-curled stenographers. Here there was the smell of clean straw, of harness oil, the sound of powerful bodies quietly moving in the straw. Wright was an honest, jolly-faced fellow, Eugene Clapperton thought. He felt strangely exhilarated, muscular and a little tough, as, with the drink inside him, he strode with Renny to inspect the mare.

  Shortly she was his and, again at Renny’s side, he strode toward the house to join in the carol singing. Its windows glittered red in the light of the setting sun. Eugene Clapperton felt exhilarated and a little shy as he pulled off his goloshes in the porch and entered the house. The bulldog and bobtailed sheepdog greeted him with a terrific barking, but it was the little Cairn that raged about his legs and had to be picked up by Renny and carried. Instantly its expression became one of angelic sweetness. More than twenty people were in the room. Some of the young ones were sitting on the floor. Every mouth was open and from it issued lusty singing — Mr. Fennel’s mouth in the midst of his beard, Nicholas’ beneath his shaggy moustache, the children’s like newly opened flowers. The carol came to an end just as Mooey sprang from his seat and offered it to Eugene Clapperton.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he murmured, dropping into it.

  Renny bent over Nicholas and whispered:

  “I’ve got a visitor here, somewhat resembling old Scrooge, but be nice to him. He’s just bought Belinda at a mighty good price.”

  “what!” growled Nicholas. “That horrid old fellow! Must I be nice to him?”

  “Just to please me, Uncle Nick.”

  Nicholas turned his massive head and grinned at the neCentenaryomer. The crumb of cake fell off his moustache on to his waistcoat.

  Eugene Clapperton hurried over to shake hands with him. “I do hope you are well, sir,” he said.

  “Very well. Very well.
Enjoying the singing. Let’s go ahead with it. Kind of you to join us. Glad to see you.”

  “Good King Wenceslaus,” announced Finch.

  Eugene Clapperton decorously resumed his seat. But he had seen Gemmel and his heart was pleasantly quickening its beat. He opened and shut his mouth, pretending to sing. He was very pleased by the turn events had taken. He regarded the fair-haired small boys with an almost affectionate interest. He strained his ears to hear Gem’s voice but it was hushed, now that he had come into the room.

  Several carols more had been sung when a loud knock on the front door sent the three little boys scurrying to answer it. If they had waited for Rags to answer the knock, he would have had more sense than to usher in Renny’s two horse-dealing friends, Messrs. Crowdy and Chase. The boys escorted them into the midst of the room with ceremony, though they hung back and would have preferred waiting in the hall.

  At first glance Renny was delighted to see them but almost instantly he remembered how ill they would mix with many of the party. He always took care not to inflict their presence on Alayne. Already he could see the surprise on her face, that look about the nostril, as though she smelled horse. In truth, the pair always brought the smell of stables with them. Meg disapproved of them; Mrs. Fennel openly stared at them in curiosity and wonder; Miss Pink threw them a look of alarm. The small boys brought chairs from the dining room for them. But before seating themselves they bowed from side to side, with the air of star performers at a concert.