Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny

by de la Roche, Mazo

  Young Vaughan had managed to draw Adeline a little to one side.

  “I wish we two were the only ones on the beach,” he said, his blue eyes drinking in the lithe beauty of her form.

  “We shall have to come together for a bathe one day.”

  “Would you really? But you’re not in earnest. Your eyes are smiling.”

  “What harm would there be in it?”

  “None. But people are so abominable.” He took a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. “May I call you Adeline? Surely I have as much right as that man Wilmott.”

  “He’s an old friend. I’ve known him for ages.”

  “You only met him on board ship.”

  “That seems ages ago. But — call me Adeline if you like.” She scarcely heard what Robert said. She was looking across the sand at Daisy and Philip. There was an intangible something in their attitudes, a look in their eyes, that arrested her. Daisy was suddenly different. She was no longer the irresponsible girl, given to poses and extravagances, but a deliberate woman, filled with almost uncontrollable passion for a man. Her eyes devoured Philip. She was a huntress who, having made many experiments in the chase, now drew her bowstring taut, having discovered the coveted prey. That Philip was married meant little to her. She hungered for experience rather than permanence in the field of her emotions. Adeline could see how conscious Philip was of the unleashing of something wild in Daisy. Her heart gave a leap of anger, then she turned to Robert with a smile.

  “I’d love to have you call me Adeline,” she said.

  “Thank you — Adeline … Of course, I’ve called you that a thousand times in secret. I seem always to be thinking of you.”

  “You’re a dear boy, Bobby.” Again her eyes moved toward Daisy and Philip. They were motionless, gazing at the rose-stained blueness of the lake. A single cloud hung like a crimson banner. The colour was reflected on their faces which seemed flushed by their own turbulent thoughts. Again Adeline’s heart gave a leap of anger — anger too at herself for being so blind. Her first thoughts about Daisy had been right. She was dangerous. Yet she had been foolish enough to laugh at Daisy — to pity her for her ineffective poses. Curiously, at this moment Daisy looked beautiful.

  Generous Kate Brent put the thought into words.

  “Doesn’t Daisy look beautiful!” she exclaimed.

  Everyone looked at Daisy who, with an enigmatic smile, continued to gaze at the lake.

  “What a lucky dog you are, Philip!” said Conway. “Here I am completely under the dominance of my wife — not daring to glance at another woman.”

  “You two must learn to be tolerant, as Adeline and I are,” returned Philip.

  “Pray do not believe a word that Conway says,” said Mary. “It is quite the other way about.”

  “Mary is right,” put in Sholto. “It was only yesterday that he slapped her and pulled her hair. I can vouch for it because I was present.”

  Conway leaped up. “Now you’re in for it!” he said.

  With an exclamation of terror, Sholto fled along the beach, Conway in pursuit. Their pale red hair flew backward from their pale brows.

  “Will he hurt him?” asked Kate, anxiously.

  “He will not kill him,” returned Adeline, “but we are an untamed family. You never can tell what we shall do when we’re roused.”

  “Conway is not really angry,” said Mary.

  Moved by irresistible curiosity for everything that Conway did, she rose and followed the youths who were now out of sight.

  The three did not return till the picnic meal was ready to sit down to. The clothes of the bathers had been completely dried by the warm sand and the sun. They had regained appetites which the heat of the preceding days had taken away.

  The young Busbys had gathered driftwood for a fire, and its bright blaze rose crackling from the beach. It was now past sunset and a deep velvet darkness was resting in the shadows. A kettle was boiled. Tea was made. The tempting dishes prepared by Mrs. Coveyduck were arranged on the cloth. The mysterious light, the unconventional costumes, the excellent wine produced by Philip, the relief from enervating heat made the atmosphere gay, with an almost Gallic liveliness. This was partly due to the constant reference by Conway and Mary to life in the South of France. French interjections made the two seem foreign, and Sholto imitated all they did. It was surprising how the behaviour of these three, the youngest present with the exception of the youngest Busby who was almost speechless from shyness, affected the behaviour of the more sedate. No one had ever seen Dr. Ramsey in such spirits. With his arm about the plump waist of Lydia Busby, he waved his glass aloft and recited some of the more amorous poems of Robert Burns. Wilmott obviously had taken too much wine. Adeline was in wild spirits. Together she and Wilmott sang “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” There were tears in Wilmott’s eyes as they recalled the night in Quebec when they had heard Jenny Lind sing. Life seemed strange and full of beautiful and violent possibilities. The moon rose out of the lake.

  “Let’s bathe again!” exclaimed Conway, suddenly. He stood slim and white at the water’s rim.

  “In the dark?” cried Lydia Busby. “Oh, surely not!”

  “We did in the South of France,” said Mary. “It was lovely. Far nicer than in daylight because the glare was gone.”

  “It’s a grand idea,” said Isaac Busby. “I shall be first in!” He ran into the water and plunged.

  “It’s glorious,” he shouted. “Come on, everybody!”

  They threw themselves into this new pleasure with the abandon of children. Adeline freed herself from Robert Vaughan and, taking Wilmott’s hand, led him across the rippling sand till the water reached their breasts. She smiled into his eyes.

  “Do you feel better now, James?” she asked.

  “Better? There is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Duck down, James. Let the water go over your head.”

  “Adeline, you don’t understand me in the least. When I am at my happiest, you think I am tipsy or ill. But I do feel a little confused in the head and perhaps a ducking would help me.” He looked submissively into her eyes. “Shall we do it now?”

  “Yes. Take a deep breath first and hold it.”

  Down they went under the water. A singing, prehistoric world was theirs for a moment. A world where they had strange adventures, holding fast each other’s hands. Then they came up and rediscovered the moon and their companions.

  “I am divinely happy,” said Wilmott. “I really haven’t a care in the world, since I know that Henrietta is satisfied and is no longer seeking me. I was wrong in saying you don’t understand me. You are the only one who understands me. I have told you that I am writing a book. I should like to read the first chapters to you. I want your opinion of it.”

  “Oh, James, how lovely! Will you bring the manuscript tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. I think you will find it quite moving. Shall we go under again?”

  “Yes, let’s go under.”

  Again they disappeared and again rose out of the lake. The voices and laughter of the others came to them softly.

  Lydia Busby looked lovelier in her bathing costume in the moonlight than anyone had dreamed it possible for her to look. The curves of her arms and neck were bewitching. There was an almost seductive sweetness in her smile, a new consciousness of her own charm. Hitherto she had seemed but a tomboy.

  The fire had died down. Someone went to the shore and rebuilt it so that its flames rose bright. Suddenly, moved by a common impulse, all gathered round it, posturing and gesticulating in extravagant fashion. Dr. Ramsey picked up an empty bottle and waved it while he quoted Burns. At this moment Elihu Busby appeared from among the willows and stalked across the sand. Before he raised his voice to speak they realized that his sense of decorum was outraged. He flourished the stump of his right arm.

  “I never thought,” he said, “that I’d live to see the day my children would take part in such a scene.”

 
“‘My heart’s in the Highlands,’” chanted the doctor,

  “my heart is not here;

  My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dr. Ramsey — you who should be an example to others.”

  “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I was invited to a party and I came. I am only making myself agreeable.”

  “If strangers choose to come here and bring outlandish habits from the Old World, we can’t prevent ’em, but we can refuse to take part in ’em.”

  Again the doctor quoted Burns. “What does old Bobby say?” he declaimed. “He says: —

  “The social, friendly, honest man,

  Whate’er he be,

  ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,

  And none but he.”

  Elihu Busby turned from him to his eldest son.

  “I’m sick at heart, Isaac,” he said, “to think that you would allow your sisters to take part in such a dissipated scene — hopping about like grasshoppers, half-naked and streaming with water.”

  Lydia and her younger sister began to cry.

  Young Isaac said — “Father, we meant no harm and you and Mother knew we were coming on a picnic.”

  “Would you have behaved in this fashion if your mother and I had been here? This picnic will be the talk of the countryside if it gets out. So far we have been a moral community.”

  Dr. Ramsey laid down the bottle and folded his arms. Again he quoted Burns.

  “Morality, thou deadly bane,

  Thy tens o’thousands thou hast slain!”

  Elihu Busby ignored him. He said to his daughters: —

  “Get into your clothes, girls. As for you, Kate, you are married now, and if your husband chooses to allow you to remain I can’t force you to leave but, if I had known what his tastes are, I might not so soon have forgiven you your marriage to him.”

  Now Kate also began to cry.

  “Really, sir,” said Brent, with his disarming smile, “this has been a most innocent affair. I only wish you had been here from the first to see for yourself. But, if Kate’s sister are leaving, she and I will leave too. Come, Kate, gather up your things.”

  Weeping, Kate and her sisters fled to the shelter of the cedars.

  With dignity and a little truculence, Philip came to Elihu Busby’s side.

  “I take it hardly,” he said, “that you should come here and criticize my way of entertaining myself and my friends.” Busby liked Philip and admired him. With some softening in his manner he said: —

  “I don’t contend, Captain Whiteoak, that anything disgraceful took place at this picnic. What I do say is that so much licence is not good. In time it will lead to disgraceful things. If you drink wine and dance about a fire like pagans, what will your grandchildren do when they set out to have a good time? They’ll probably get drunk on gin and dance naked. Manners and morals are never at a standstill. Either they rise or they decline. Like Empires.”

  “Then your ambition is,” said Philip, smiling, “to have your grandchildren enjoy a picnic thus. The young ladies, after dipping a lily-white toe in the lake, will sit in a circle with their knitting while the most devil-may-care of the young men will read aloud from the works of Mr. Longfellow.”

  Dr. Ramsey had overheard. He sprang up. “Yes,” he said, striking an angular attitude: —

  “Lives of great men all remind us

  We can make our lives sublime,

  And, departing, leave behind us

  Footprints on the sands of time.”

  So declaiming he planted a naked foot firmly on the moist sand. He then lifted it and carefully examined the imprint. “Picture the joy of the wanderer, ninety years hence, when he comes upon this! He’ll immediately set about making his life sublime also.” He stamped on the footprints. “Bah,” he exclaimed, “I wouldn’t give one line of old Bobby’s for everything Mr. Longfellow has written or ever will write!”

  Elihu Busby turned to Philip.

  “Is Dr. Ramsey drunk?” he asked.

  “No, no, not in the least.”

  “He waved that bottle about as though he were.”

  “That bottle, Mr. Busby, contained nothing but mineral water.”

  “All that is the matter with me,” said the doctor, “is that I am relaxing. I work too hard. There should be three doctors in this neighborhood instead of one. Yet can you say, Elihu Busby, that I have ever neglected a patient?”

  “Indeed I cannot,” said Busby, heartily. “More than a few of us would be dead if it weren’t for your devotion.”

  “Thank you,” said the doctor, only a little mollified.

  The three sisters now appeared from the cedar thicket, fully dressed and carrying their bathing costumes in a basket. Kate had recovered her spirits and walked with the assurance of a married woman, to her husband’s side. He greeted her with a sly wink. Lydia, too, was now composed but her colour was high and her eyes downcast till she passed Dr. Ramsey. Then she raised them and a look was exchanged, so warm, so full of tenderness that each was surprised and bewildered. The youngest sister, Abigail, was still weeping. But she was only sixteen. Their brother joined them and their father, with a commanding gesture, marched them away. Exhortations to the horses came out of the darkness beyond the willows. Then came the sound of wheels. Five of the party had departed. Nero, who had been exploring farther along the shore, had not become aware of Elihu Busby’s presence till he was leaving. To make up for this laxness he followed his buggy for some distance, uttering loud threatening barks. After this demonstration of his watchfulness he padded back across the beach and asked Adeline for something to eat. She went to where the hampers stood and proceeded to pile high a plate for him.

  Sholto raised his young voice loudly. “Who was the old gaffer?” he asked.

  “The Busby girls’ father, you ass,” returned his brother.

  “We should have ducked him in the lake for a spoil-sport.”

  “Hold your tongue,” said Philip, laconically, “or I shall duck you.”

  “I wish you would duck me, Philip,” cried Mary. “I’m longing for another dip.”

  The words had scarcely been spoken when Conway and Sholto seized her and carried her into the lake. With their pale hair flying in the moonlight the three resembled a mermaid captured by two mermen, and being carried off by them to their ocean cave. So thought Wilmott and he said so to Dr. Ramsey. They had separated themselves from the others in a new-found congeniality and were strolling along the beach.

  “The lady whose appearance most struck me,” said the doctor, “was Lydia Busby. To tell you the truth, I am pretty badly smitten. And this with a girl whom I have known for years and scarcely noticed, except for her healthy good looks. It is quite extraordinary what propinquity and a moonlit night will suddenly discover.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Wilmott absently, his eyes on their two shadows on the beach. “Miss Lydia is a lovely girl.”

  “I admire her more than I admire Mrs. Whiteoak,” went on Dr. Ramsey. “Certainly Mrs. Whiteoak has a very arresting face — ” he fell silent a moment in thought, then continued, after a deep breath — “but she isn’t the sort of woman I should care to marry — even if I had the chance.” He laughed.

  “Of course not. You would require quite a different sort of companion.… Do you know, I was surprised to hear you quote poetry this evening. I had not guessed that you have literary tastes.”

  The doctor laughed. “Oh, I don’t show my real self on all occasions. I am a reserved man. But I read a good deal when I can find the time.”

  “You have an excellent memory.”

  “It’s a pernicious memory. I never forget anything.”

  “I, on the contrary, find great pleasure in forgetting. I’m piling up new experience. And — at the same time —” he looked out across the still lake and spoke softly — “at the same time, I’m writing a book.”

  Dr. Ramsey looked impressed. “Now that is just
what I should expect of you!” he exclaimed.

  Wilmott was pleased. “Is it?”

  “Yes. And I make a guess that it is a work of the imagination.”

  “You are right.”

  “Are you getting on well with it?”

  “I have the first five chapters written.”

  “Can you tell me something about it?”

  Wilmott launched forth. They strode on. A lovely freshness was rising from the lake. Dew was falling on the shore. Whippoorwills called and called again from the near-by woods. A loon uttered its wild laugh.

  Robert Vaughan felt himself to be unwanted by Daisy and Philip who talked in a low tone. He was angry at Daisy, ashamed of what he considered her shameless overtures to Philip. Himself she ignored. He would have liked to order her home but instead sprang up and left them. Adeline was still among the willows with Nero. Robert felt alone, unwanted by anyone — not by the three disporting themselves in the lake, not by the two striding in the opposite direction, not by Philip and Daisy, in the intimacy of the firelight, not by Adeline, feeding her dog among the willows.

  There was just moonlight enough for her to see what was in the hamper. She heaped a dish with slices of ham and pieces of bread but instead of setting this before Nero she fed him from her fingers. This suited him well because he already had had a good deal to eat and food tasted better when Adeline fed him. He loved her with a deep, warm, dark devotion. She was barely conscious that his lips touched her fingers. Her eyes were fixed on Daisy with an expression so cold, so hard, so almost blank that an observer might well have wondered if they could be the luminous and changeful eyes with which she generally looked out on the world.

  Philip sat in the glow of the fire, motionless but with an enigmatic smile. His shirt open at the neck revealed his white chest, his uprolled sleeves his rounded yet muscular arms. Daisy sat close to him, almost leaning against him. She thought Adeline had gone along the beach with Wilmott and the doctor. Daisy, with her narrow slant eyes, her short face, her turn-up nose, had a kind of savage primitive beauty. Her mouth was upthrust toward Philip as though in preparation for a kiss.