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

  Archer prepared to leave home for Oxford, but Alayne, unlike Humphrey Bell’s cat, yearned tenderly over her son. He was so young to go so far away!

  “Archer dear,” she said, “it will seem strange without you. I shall miss you greatly.”

  Archer was packing and he stood looking at her with a collection of neckties in his hand. His high white forehead, which summer’s sun never tanned, lent an air of chill distinction to what he said.

  “This family,” he remarked, “has been the structure of all our lives. We don’t think about it. It’s like the air we breathe. It’s sacred to us. I wake in the morning, feeling myself a part of the family. I go to bed at night, knowing that I’m a part of it. It’s time I went away into another country. But I daresay I shall come home again.”

  “Oh, Archer,” breathed Alayne, almost in tears.

  Seeing her drooping toward him, he moved a little away.

  “I shall miss him,” Adeline said to Renny. “I can let off steam on him when I’m out of sorts and he never loses his temper.”

  “He’s a cold little brute on the surface,” said Renny, “but underneath he’s one of us.”

  He said as much to Archer when the moment of parting came. “You’ll be back for the centenary of Jalna,” he said. “I shall book your passage from this end, so there’ll be no nonsense about it — ”

  “Like taking the money and shipping off to Greece,” said Adeline.

  Archer gave her one of his rare smiles. “My dear sister,” he said, “nothing would induce me to miss the centenary. It will be something to boast of when I am ninety. I shall bore your great-grandchildren to extinction boasting of it.”

  “when I am a centenarian,” said Adeline, “I shall lay a wreath of snowdrops on your grave, with the inscription: IN EGOTISM HE SURPASSED ALL OTHERS.”

  Archer went, and there was no doubt that he left a blank at Jalna, for in the holidays he was always at home, having few friends and no inclination for camping or canoe trips. Yet he rode a horse well, and could swim strongly enough to save himself in an upset, as he said.

  Philip was to return to the Royal Military College for the three approaching terms, and in early summer he and Adeline were to be married. Their relations were still cousinly rather than lover-like. Indeed, Adeline was inclined to be lofty with him — at worst supercilious, at best patronizing. He accepted all with good nature, yet occasionally gave her a glance which showed that this might not always be so. He was extremely well pleased by the position in which events had placed him. He looked forward with tranquility and pride. In his mind he saw pictures of himself and Adeline living happily in an unchanging Jalna, to a great age. He accepted with pride the traditions of his family and, because of his striking resemblance to his great-grandfather, saw himself dedicated to their preservation. After the death of his great-uncle Nicholas, he had been given Nicholas’s old-fashioned gold watch by Renny. This he never forgot to wind before he went to bed. When he felt the stem of the watch between his firm forefinger and thumb, heard the smooth response of the mechanism, a look of pride would brighten his matter-of-fact boy’s face.

  He was pleased that Adeline occupied the bedroom of their great-grandmother and looked forward to the time when he should sleep in the old painted leather bed with her. No sensual image disturbed this anticipation. He was not yet lover-like toward her. In truth, they were scarcely to be called friends. When he crossed the fields to say goodbye on the morning of his return to college he considered what he ought to say to her. What he really wanted was to get the goodbye over and return to his fellow cadets. He had been told by Renny not to make public his engagement, and he was glad to keep it secret, for the present. He did not wish to be either congratulated or chaffed about it. A few of his friends were engaged or tentatively engaged, but none of these alliances were so important as his.

  Adeline was cross-legged on the grass, gently taking a burr from the spaniel’s ear.

  “Oh, hullo,” said Philip.

  “Hullo.” She just glanced up. The spaniel whined. “You’re not being hurt, my darling,” she comforted, “so be good.”

  Philip observed her deft hands and the engagement ring that had been old Adeline’s. “Well, I’m off,” he said.

  “Have a good time.”

  “I expect I’ll have a lot of hard work ahead of me,” he said, a little pompously.

  “That’ll be something new.”

  He was nettled. “You have no idea,” he said, “how stiff our curriculum is.”

  She patted the spaniel. “Spaniels have such lovely ears,” she said, “but they’re terrible for burrs.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “they’re pretty bad for burrs.”

  “And he had a canker in his ear once. That was misery, wasn’t it, pet?” The spaniel, rocked by self-pity, lay down on his back.

  “Scotties are the worst for cankers,” said Philip.

  Adeline sat on her heels and delivered a brief lecture on the treatment of cankers.

  Again Philip said he must be off, and gave her a compelling look.

  “Oh, goodbye,” she said.

  “I think we should kiss,” he said soberly. “But, of course, if you don’t want to …”

  She jumped up and faced him, feet a little apart, toes a little turned in. She pushed out her lips in his direction. Certainly she was at her least alluring. Philip planted a kiss on the extended territory and left her. He hesitated a space in front of the house, giving it a possessive look. A row of pigeons stood on the edge of the roof, peering down at him in curiosity. Well might they stare! he thought. They were beholding the future master of Jalna.

  Philip returned across the fields, with a vigorous stride and a look of gravity on his handsome face. He stopped at the Rectory to say goodbye and found Meg and the Rector enjoying a cup of morning coffee. In addition to this she had a plate of scones before her and some sugared cookies.

  “Dear boy,” she said, “I am always glad to see you.” She spoke in a sentimental tone, as though they did not often meet — though in reality she saw him almost every day.

  “Do have some coffee and a scone,” she said.

  “Thanks, Auntie Meg. But I must hurry along. I still have packing to do.”

  But Meg insisted. She poured coffee for him and put a scone into his hand as though he were ten years old instead of double that age. Looking about the room, he thought it was very full of furniture. Meg, when she made her second marriage, had brought to the Rectory the possessions she had not sold or given to Patience.

  She now remarked to Philip, “I’m afraid you think this room is overfurnished, Philip. You young people have a taste for scanty furnishing, but I confess I like my house to look like a home and not a barracks. I could not resist bringing a few sticks of furniture with me, and fortunately Rupert loves to see it about me, don’t you, dear?”

  The Rector good-humouredly assented, though he was still bumping into pieces of furniture to which he had not yet become accustomed after several years.

  “And speaking of one’s belongings,” went on Meg, “there is a dear old silver cruet at Jalna — real Georgian — which my grandmother always insisted I should have, but which, for some reason, Alayne does not want to part with. I do hope, Philip, that when you and Adeline are married, you will try to influence Alayne to let me have it. You will be in a position to be quite firm about it.”

  “Oh, Auntie,” Philip said, deprecatingly.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Meg. “You’re thinking what a stubborn nature Alayne has but, as Adeline’s husband, you should have influence with her.”

  Philip had never given a thought to Alayne’s nature, neither had he ever considered influencing a grown-up, but he was flattered and said, with gravity, “I’ll see what I can do about it, Auntie.”

  “I do hope,” said Meg, “that Alayne will not try to tyrannize over you young people. With her dominating nature it will be hard for her to refrain.”

  “S
he’d better not,” said Philip.

  “More coffee, please,” said the Rector.

  “The holidays are over,” said Meg. “It’s been an eventful summer.”

  “It’s been a wonderful summer for me,” said Philip.

  He rose, and was about to go when Meg said:

  “I’ve been thinking what a good idea it would be for you both to go into the church together and send up a little prayer of thanksgiving for the way Philip’s path has been smoothed and for guidance in the future for him and Adeline.” Meg took another bite of scone and looked benignly at the two males, who cringed perceptibly.

  “Oh, no, Auntie,” said Philip.

  “The difficulty is,” said Mr. Fennel, “that I have a churchwardens’ meeting, and before that I have a sick call to make.”

  “Rupert, dear,” said Meg, “I think nothing should stand in the way of this little act of devotion. Only yesterday, in your sermon, you said we should bring our religion into our daily life and you can see how this poor boy is longing to do it.” She took a mouthful of coffee.

  The Rector rose with a sigh.

  “You’d better come, too, Auntie,” said Philip.

  “I’d love to,” said Meg, “but I’m almost breathless already with the things I have on hand. And I somehow feel that it would be more effective if you two only were present. ‘when two or three are gathered together,’ you know.”

  “But you’d only make three, Auntie,” said Philip. He strongly felt the need of support in this project, in which he found himself as helpless as a child, although it gave him a pleasant feeling of his own importance.

  “Sorry, dear, but I can’t do it.” Meg took him in her arms and fondly bade him goodbye.

  The Rector had left them for a moment but now reappeared with a rolled-up magazine under his arm. On their way to the church, which was just the other side of the cedar hedge, Mr. Fennel disclosed to Philip that he had a bottle of Scotch rolled up in the magazine. “It’s for the sick call,” he explained. “There’s nothing I can do for poor old Brawn that will put so much heart into him.” And the Rector gave a wink.

  In the churchyard they passed the plot where Philip’s great-grandparents, grandparents, great-uncles and uncle, Eden, were buried, as well as several infant Whiteoaks. Meg had put fresh flowers in the metal containers by the graves, and little Mary had that very morning laid a few daisies and a prettily coloured dead butterfly on the smallest grave because she felt sorry for the baby down there.

  “They look very nice, don’t they?” remarked the Rector.

  “Couldn’t look nicer,” said Philip, and he moved apprehensively toward the church door. “I really haven’t much time to spare,” he added. He stood very erect.

  “We’ll make it brief,” said the Rector.

  “Auntie should have come,” said Philip.

  “Ah, she’s a busy woman,” said the Rector loyally.

  He opened the door into the vestry and, after he had disposed of the magazine and its treasure within, he said cheerfully:

  “You go into the church and kneel at the chancel rail. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Philip tiptoed into the church, which was cooler than the outdoors and where a shaft of rosy light from the window above the altar lay across its dimness. He knelt, looking upward into the window, which was a memorial to his great-grandparents. He felt himself being swept along helpless into a situation he would not have thought possible. He was not a religious boy, though at the time of his confirmation he had for a time felt an impulse toward things spiritual, said his prayers regularly, and taken care not to use “bad” language. That phase had passed, leaving him inclined to be devil-may-care and pleasure-loving; but always he was respectful toward tradition and, since his engagement to Adeline, he had moments of feeling nobly dedicated.

  Now the Rector, seeing him kneeling at the chancel steps, likened him to a young knight making his devotions before setting forth on a crusade. He knelt down beside Philip and there was silence except for the twittering of a flock of small birds gathered in a tree beyond an open window. They were preparing for their migration to the south and their talk was of its difficulties and of the necessity of keeping together.

  The Rector was a great lover of birds; therefore, raising his voice, but still low and reverent, he prayed:

  “We pray Thee, most merciful Father, to send one of Thy special angels to guide and protect the small birds on their arduous and dangerous flight to the South. At this moment a number of them are collected near this Thy House. We pray Thee to have a mind to them on their journey.”

  There was another silence during which Philip’s head drooped to his knuckles. Then Mr. Fennel continued:

  “We pray Thee to guide Thy child, Philip Whiteoak, who kneels before Thee, on the road to noble manhood. Make him strong to resist spiritual sloth. Help him to value the things of the spirit. Spread the wing of Thy goodness over him and his affianced bride during all their life together. This we earnestly pray. Amen.”

  Philip, whose voice had recently become a good baritone, joined in with an Amen,considerably louder than he had intended. Hastening along the road toward home he felt rather as he had felt when as a boy at boarding school he had been summoned to the headrd’s study and, instead of receiving punishment, had been told of an advance in the school team.

  He found his parents, his brother Christian, and his little sister already at lunch. Looking at him across the table, as he swept his plate clean, Mary thought: He is going away and that is good. There are too many men.

  Pheasant said, “I hope you remember that your packing is not finished.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded of that,” he returned, with his mouth full.

  “what you need reminding of is your manners,” said Piers.

  “Sorry.” Philip flushed and looked at his plate.

  Little Mary surveyed him critically.

  To put him again at ease, Pheasant inquired whether he had got all his goodbyes said.

  “Yes. I did some of them yesterday. This morning it took longer than I expected.”

  “Hard to part with your girl, eh?” said Piers.

  “It was Auntie Meg.” He had a mind to tell of going into the church but thought better of it.

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed Christian.

  “Meg is the clinging type,” said Piers.

  Philip’s favourite pudding was brought on, as a treat, and as it was being eaten with gusto Pheasant said, “what do you suppose? You’ll never guess, Philip. Well, I shall tell you. Your Uncle Renny wants to have portraits painted of you and Adeline to hang in the dining room at Jalna beside the great-grandparents. Isn’t it a lovely idea?”

  Philip was both amazed and flattered. He mumbled, “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Capital,” said Piers. “It’s a fine idea. Is Renny prepared to pay for the portraits?”

  Pheasant nodded vigorously. “I’m sure he is. He says he wants them done by a good artist.”

  “We have the artist right here,” said Piers. “Christian shall do the portraits and keep the money in the family.”

  “Oh, Dad,” the young artist exclaimed in despair, “I can’t paint portraits!”

  “Not after all that time in Paris? Of course you can.”

  “No — but really — I’m not a portrait painter.”

  “All you need to do,” said Piers, “is to get good photographs of the pair and use them as models.”

  “It isn’t often,” Pheasant put in, “that an artist has such handsome subjects.”

  “I shouldn’t like the style to be too modern,” said Philip. “I mean the sort of thing that you can’t tell what you’re looking at.”

  “You would hate the portraits I’d paint,” said Christian.

  Philip was pleased by the prospect of having his portrait painted, for, with the exception of snapshots and school groups, he had never seen a picture of himself since the photograph Pheasant had had taken to send to Piers ove
rseas. It had been taken by the best photographer in town and showed himself and Christian (then nicknamed Nooky) at the ages of eight and eleven. It was a charming portrait and, framed in silver, stood on a table in the living room.

  The meal over, Philip finished his packing and, with something oddly final in the atmosphere, as though he were going on a very long journey, he said goodbye and set out.

  Mary stood in the doorway and watched the car disappear. Her heart felt light as she went, with a lively step, to the studio. As Christian had driven Philip to the railway station, she got it into her silly little head that he too had departed. Now the studio was her own — her own, that is, till he returned, which she hoped would not be for some time. She liked him well enough, but life was much pleasanter for her when all three brothers were away. Then it was that she felt more safe.

  She investigated every corner of the studio, as though to make friends with it again, opening cupboards to peep into them and investigating drawers full of sketches. She did not like a single one of them. But a picture of young birch trees, standing on an easel, rather pleased her. She had just picked up a palette and brush, that she might pretend to be an artist, when Christian’s shocked voice came to her from the doorway.

  “Mary! what are you up to?”

  She fled and, in the kitchen garden, among the pungent-smelling tomato plants and their scarlet fruit, shed a few tears.

  XIV

  Tea With the Wragges

  Wright had dropped in to take tea with the Wragges and, as so often happened, Noah Binns joined them.

  “Evenin’ folks,” he said, as he stumped down the several steps from the outer door.

  “Evening, Noah,” said the cook. “You’re just in time for a nice cup of tea.”

  Rags placed a chair for the old man, who cast a greedy eye over the table. “You on a slimming diet?” he inquired.

  “It’s true we ’ave no cake,” said Rags, “but we always eat a snack at bedtime. The wife is boiling an egg for me now and she’ll put one on for you, if you say the word.”