The fox farm was let to new tenants. Renny was having the house redecorated, painted without and within. It was impossible to engage men to do the work, so Finch and Wakefield had undertaken it and were making it look like new. They joked and sang at their work in the variable spring weather. Now, on a Sunday afternoon, Alayne and Renny had come to inspect.
“It looks fine, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Very nice. Thank goodness, you have let it to people who will pay a good rent.”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed, and visions of the past tenants flashed through his mind.
“I hope they will be more congenial to me than the sisters were.”
“Oh, I think they will. I’m sure you’ll like them.”
They walked through the rooms.
“It’s a sweet little house,” she said. “I wonder what it would be like if you and I lived in a house like this? Just the two of us.”
He turned to her, surprised. “Would you like it?”
“In some ways I think I should.”
“Leave Jalna! Desert your children! And the old uncles — and all the others!”
“I’d have you.”
“That’s the way to talk,” he exclaimed, with a gratified grin. “After all you’ve been through with me — after all the worry I’ve caused you!” He put his arm about her and laid his cheek against her hair.
In the grass outside she found a fragile pink flower.
“what a backward spring,” she said. “This is the first wild flower I’ve found. It has seemed as though the flowers never would find courage to come up.”
“They always do,” he said. “They’re like you. They’ve lots of courage — when necessary.”
Adeline was home for the midterm weekend. She now came running across the grass to join them. She pushed her body between theirs and, turning her head, smiled first into Alayne’s face then into Renny’s.
“It’s glorious to be home,” she exclaimed. “I wish I might never have to leave it again.”
Renny smiled down at her. “what about that visit to Ireland with Mooey?”
“Oh, bother Mooey,” she exclaimed.
“Bother Mooey,” repeated Alayne. “I thought you and he were great friends.”
“We are,” laughed Adeline, “but still I say — bother him — bother him — bother him!”
Maurice appeared as from nowhere.
“what’s that?” he demanded. “what’s that about me?”
“I say bother you and Ireland too.”
“Just for that,” said Maurice gravely, “I will take you there and keep you forever.”
Renny's Daughter
MAZO DE LA ROCHE
DUNDURN PRESS
TORONTO
I
STIRRINGS OF SPRING
The room could scarcely have been more snug for two very old men. The birch logs in the fireplace had blazed brightly and now had been resolved into glowing red shapes that looked solid but were near the point of crumbling. Soon a fresh log would be needed. There were plenty of them in the battered basket by the hearth. The February sunshine glittered on long icicles outside the window and the steady dripping from them played a pleasant tune on the sill. It was almost time for tea.
The two old brothers, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak, were quite ready for it. They ate lightly but liked their food often. Tea was their favourite meal. Nicholas looked impatiently at the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf.
“what time is it?” he asked.
“A quarter past four.”
“what?”
“A quarter past four.”
“Hm. I wonder where everyone is.”
“I wonder.”
“Winter’s getting on.”
“Yes. It’s St. Valentine’s Day.”
“I have a valentine.” The clear pipe came from the hearthrug where their great-nephew Dennis was lying with a book in front of him.
“You have a valentine, eh?” exclaimed Ernest. “And do you know who sent it to you?”
“No. That’s a secret. But I guess it was Adeline.” He rose and stood between the two old men like a slender shoot growing between two ancient oaks. He wore a green pullover which accentuated his clear pallor, the blondness of his straight hair, and the greenness of his long narrow eyes.
Ernest said, in rather halting French, — “I have always considered those eyes of his rather a disfigurement. They’re altogether too green. Certainly his mother’s eyes were greenish but not like this.”
Dennis said, in English, — “I understood every word you said.”
“what did I say then?” demanded Ernest.
“You said my eyes were too green. Greener than my mother’s.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Ernest. “I apologize. I forget that you’re not just a very small boy.”
“I was nine at Christmas.”
“Eight. I well remember when I was eight. I had a beautiful birthday party, in this very house.”
“How old are you now, Uncle Ernest?”
“I am ninety-four. That seems quite old to you, I daresay.”
“Yes. Pretty old.”
“Yet I remember my eighth birthday as though it were just a month ago. It was a lovely spring day and I had a new suit for the occasion. There had been a heavy rain the night before and, as I ran out to welcome the first guest, I tripped and fell into a puddle on the drive. The front of the jacket was all wet with muddy water! Even my lace collar was wet.”
“Lace collar!”
“Yes. Boys dressed differently in those days.”
Ernest would have liked to go on talking about the past but the door opened and a young girl came in. She was the daughter of the old men’s eldest nephew, Renny Whiteoak. She went to the brothers and kissed them in turn.
“Hullo, Uncles,” she exclaimed. “You look beautiful, bless your hearts.”
“All spruced up for tea,” rumbled Nicholas. “And tired of waiting for it.”
Adeline stroked his upstanding grey hair which the onslaught of the years had failed perceptibly to thin. “I love your hair, Uncle Nick,” she said. “It looks so massive.”
At once Ernest felt a twinge of jealousy. He passed a hand over his thin white hair and said disparagingly:
“I don’t know why it is but your Uncle Nicholas’ hair never looks as though he ran a brush over it.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Adeline. “He runs the brush over it, not through it. I’ll have a go at it one of these days and show you how handsome he can look.”
Nicholas looked up at her adoringly. He took one of her slim, strong hands in his and held it to his cheek.
“You’ve been outdoors,” he said. “I smell the frosty air on your hand.”
“Yes. I’ve just had the dogs for a walk. I’m starving.”
“Here comes the tea!” cried Dennis.
Through the door which Adeline had left open behind her, a small thin man, with close-cropped grey hair and an expression of mingled resignation and aggressiveness on his sallow face, came in, carrying a tray. Adeline sprang to his assistance and drew the tea table between the two old men.
“Good,” she exclaimed. “Plenty of bread and butter and blackberry jam. I believe I like bread and butter better than any other food.” She took a piece from the plate and began to eat it. Dennis at once stretched out his hand to do the same.
“Don’t do that, young man,” said Adeline, her mouth full. “It’s one thing for me to have bad manners. Quite another for you.”
Adeline’s mother now entered. She was in her early fifties, her look of calmness and self-possession the achievement of many years of struggle. The smile on her lips was not reflected in the clear blue depths of her eyes. She seated herself behind the tea table, her hands moved among the cups and saucers. Dennis came and stood by the tray.
“May I pass things?” he asked.
“If you’re very careful.” She began to fill the cups.
“where is Renny?
” asked Ernest.
The man, Wragge, spoke up. “’E’s in ’is office, sir, going over accounts, but ’e said to tell you he’d be in directly.”
“Thank you,” said Alayne Whiteoak, with an air of dismissal.
He did not go at once, however, but lingered to set a chair in place, to adjust a curtain, to empty an ashtray into the fireplace. It was as though he remained to irritate her. When, at last, he had gone she said:
“I wish Renny would ever be on time.”
“He has the accounts to do,” Adeline said, defensively. “He can’t very well leave in the middle of doing them.”
Ernest remarked, to bridge the moment’s tenseness between mother and daughter:
“The fire needs fresh logs.”
“I’ll put one on,” cried Dennis. He heaved the largest log on to the fire which sent up a cloud of sparks. Small eager flames beset the log as it settled onto the glowing foundation.
“Good boy,” said Nicholas. He stretched out his hand to raise the teacup to his lips but miscalculated the distance and overturned the scalding tea onto the rug.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed ruefully. “That was stupid of me.” He took out his handkerchief and began to mop up the tea.
“If you would only keep your mind on your movements the way I do,” said Ernest, “you would never upset things.”
Nicholas blew out his cheeks. “Can’t keep my mind on anything,” he rumbled. “Got very little mind left.”
“Uncle Nick,” cried Adeline, “you have a wonderful mind! Don’t worry about the rug. I’ll fetch a towel from the dogs’ room.”
Alayne said, — “I’ll pour you a fresh cup of tea, Uncle Nicholas.” But her hands trembled with irritation as she poured. She kept saying to herself, — “We shall not have him with us much longer. Be patient.”
Adeline brought a towel and a basin of water, Nicholas and Dennis watching her with concentrated interest as she mopped up the wet spot. Things were barely in order again when Renny Whiteoak entered, bringing with him a gust of cold air.
“I thought you’d like a little fresh air,” he said. “It’s terribly hot in here.”
“Please don’t leave that door open,” exclaimed his wife. “We shall freeze.”
“I should certainly be forced to go to my room,” said Ernest.
Nicholas was silent, brooding on the spilt tea, though he had a freshly-filled cup in front of him.
“It’s like spring outdoors,” said Renny. “The birds are chirping. It would do you good to get the air.” He stood beside the tea table smiling down at them, tall, wiry, his dark red hair lightly touched with grey at the temples, his high-coloured face animated by a teasing smile.
Alayne thought, — “How can he look younger than I, when he is much older! It isn’t fair. And yet it is fair because he has the power to do what I have not the power to do — draw happiness out of some deep well within himself — out of some pagan link with the primeval.” She rose and, with her graceful walk, went to the outer door and firmly closed it. When she returned to her place Renny sat down and took Dennis on his knee. “How often,” thought Alayne, “I have seen him with a child on his knee! A child on his knee or sitting astride a horse — those are the two ways I picture him most easily. I’m not particularly fond of children. I don’t very much like horses, but Renny still fascinates me.” She poured a cup of tea for him and handed it to him with a smile.
Nicholas had regained his spirits. There was a deliciously soft fresh cake and he was eating it with relish. His few remaining teeth, which were mercifully hidden behind his drooping grey moustache, were capable only of masticating soft food. He said:
“It’s high time this young lady of ours saw something of the world. I was saying to Ernest less than an hour ago that it’s high time she saw something of the world.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Uncle Nick,” said Adeline.
“what Adeline should have been doing in these past months,” said Alayne, “is to have gone to a university. I very much wanted to enter her at Smith, as you know.”
“Never heard of it,” declared Nicholas. “where is it?”
Nicholas had, since the war, become tremendously anti-American. No one quite knew why. He took no trouble to conceal this feeling, for he could not remember, no matter how often he was reminded, that Alayne was an American. Though she had spent almost half her life in a British country she still was very conscious of her American roots. She subscribed to the more intellectual of American periodicals. She kept in touch with what was going on in the political scene. It was seldom she allowed herself to be stung by any of the old man’s remarks but, for some reason, this last remark of his did annoy her.
“It is the most notable women’s college on the continent,” she returned.
“Never heard of it,” he persisted, and emptied his teacup with audible gusto.
Ernest’s loved wife had been an American and he now said, — “How well I remember my dear Harriet’s descriptions of her life there. They were both enlightening and entertaining.”
Nicholas heaved himself about in his chair to look skeptically at his brother. “Never heard Harriet speak of it,” he said.
“I myself am a graduate of Smith College.” Alayne spoke with a little asperity.
“Ha,” returned the old man. “That accounts for the only fault you have.”
Alayne looked enquiringly at him.
“An air of superiority, my dear.”
Alayne flushed a little. “It is remarkable,” she said “that I should still retain that, after more than twenty years at Jalna.”
Renny laughed. “But you do,” he declared. “You do.”
“Adeline,” put in Ernest, “matriculated with honours. It is a great pity that she has not gone on with her education in a university.”
“I didn’t want to,” said Adeline. “I mean I’m not that sort of girl.
“But you are,” insisted her great-uncle. “Otherwise you would not have done so well in your exams.”
“I know enough now,” returned Adeline laconically.
“There you show your ignorance,” said Alayne. “If you want any sort of career — but” — she gave a little shrug — “we’ve been through all this before. I know you think life at Jalna is career enough for you. I only hope you won’t regret it.”
“Never fear,” put in Renny. “She won’t regret it. She’s her father’s daughter. Not one of the boys has been as keen about horses as she.”
He often spoke of his brothers as though they were his sons, of which he had only one, a boy of almost fourteen, at a preparatory school.
“The point is,” said Adeline, “that I am dying to go to Ireland with Maurice.”
Nicholas had finished his tea and his chin had sunk to his breast. He was indulging in a short nap. Now he brought himself up with a snort, subconsciously aware that something of real interest had been said.
“what is that?” he demanded. “Ireland? who’s going to Ireland?” The very name of Ireland uttered was enough to rouse him from sleep, for from there had come his strong-willed mother as a young woman, to there she often had returned to visit; Ireland she had constantly elevated as the greatest of countries, its speech had coloured her own, and though she never had been able to get on with her relations there, she had boasted of them as superior in wit and breeding to the Whiteoaks.
“Ireland,” Nicholas repeated. “We haven’t a living relation there now — except old Dermot Court.”
“He died years ago, Uncle Nick, and left his property to young Maurice. Don’t you remember?” Renny looked anxiously into the old man’s face. “Maurice goes over this spring to claim it.”
Nicholas’ brow cleared. “Ah, yes. I remember now. And a very nice property it is. I saw a good deal of Dermot at one time. Best manners of any man I ever knew. Who’s going to Ireland, did you say?”
“Me!” Adeline gave a daring look at her father.
“I wish you wou
ld try not to be aggressive,” said Alayne.
“I do try. But you’ve no idea how hard it is.”
She now threw a coaxing look about the circle of grown-ups. “It will be such a wonderful opportunity for me to see something of the world. You know the war kept me from ever being taken anywhere. I actually don’t know anything of life outside Jalna, do I?”
“The thing for you to do,” said Ernest, with a sly smile, “is to marry Maurice and go to Ireland on your honeymoon.”
The suggestion of marriage for Adeline was distasteful to Renny. He expected that, in due course, she would marry but he looked on that time as years distant. He regarded Adeline as a child. He did not want Adeline to marry till the perfect mate for her appeared — if such a one existed. He did not think Maurice and she were suited to each other. He was not even sure that Maurice cared for Adeline except as a cousin. Alayne, on the other hand, would have liked to see her daughter’s future secure. She was convinced that Maurice was attracted to Adeline, and, in truth, felt that, if there would be any unsuitability in the match, it would be because he was finer-fibred and more sensitive than Adeline. The young girl, with her passionate love of country life, of horses and dogs, her tardy approach to things intellectual, was not and never had been a congenial companion to Alayne. She had been surprised and pleased by her excellent standing in her studies but it had been disappointing to find that Adeline’s attitude toward scholastic achievement seemed to be that she could do well in anything she chose but that, once she had rded what was in the books, she had little further interest in them. Alayne’s hopes for intellectual companionship lay in her son, whose school reports showed that he was already impressing his teachers with his ability. Archer was an omnivorous reader. Adeline liked the old romantic novels she found on the bookshelves in the library. Many of these had belonged to her great-grandmother for whom she was named, and Alayne sometimes suspected that part of the child’s interest in them was because they had been handled and read by the woman whose portrait she so much resembled. She had devoured the old copies of the Boys’ Own and the books of Talbot Baines Reed that were heaped in a corner of the attic. Not long ago Alayne had discovered her reading Tom Jones.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 439