He rolled up his sleeves and dashed the water over his face, neck, and arms. “Gosh!” he thought, under the delicious coolness, “if the family could see me!” He grinned into the basin.
Bob was glad to have another male to talk to, especially one who knew something of farming. What Renny did not know about he hid under an air of sagacity. But what Bob really wanted was a listener. He talked on and on, expounding his theories, telling of his trials and disappointments. Like many farmers he ate little, but urged Renny to repletion. The two women sat silent, their eyes fixed on Renny. There was dead silence in the next room and upstairs. An alarm clock on a bracket ticked in extravagant and watchful haste.
Lulu brought a round glossy teapot from the stove. “Now,” she said, “what about that fortune?”
Bob’s face relaxed into humorous condescension. “Don’t you let her tell your fortune,” he advised. “She’ll give you a bad one.”
“Why?” asked Renny, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. Bob was already puffing at his pipe.
“That sort of woman always brings bad luck.”
“Now that’s a hard thing to say,” declared Lulu.
Bob reached out and caught her dress in his hand. “Well, Lulu, you know what I mean. What I mean is you’re not steady and safe like my Lizzie in there. But you’ve been good to me, there’s no denying that! You and Elvira too.”
Lulu sat down and stared into the teapot. “I guess it’s stewed long enough,” she said. She stirred the leaves and poured a cup apiece.
They drank simultaneously, with almost the air of conspirators in a rite. Summer lightning woke the landscape beyond the door into swift brightness.
“Now,” said Lulu, crossing her legs, “who shall I do first?”
“Not me,” said Bob. “Last time, you told me the potatoes would be blighted, and they was….” He stared glumly into his cup. “And the time before, you told me that my missus was going to have another girl — and she did! No more fortunes for me!”
“How can you say that!” exclaimed Lulu. “Didn’t I tell you you were going to have a handsome visitor within three days?”
“So you did,” said Bob. “I remember. But I guess he came to see Elvira.”
“He’s not my visitor,” said the girl sulkily.
Lulu turned to Renny. “Whose visitor are you?” she asked, looking at him out of half-closed eyes.
He was suddenly boyish, embarrassed. Bob rose and pushed in
his chair. He said — “Well, you settle it among you. I’m going to do the chores.”
“I’ll milk the cows,” said Lulu with a sharp, almost commanding tone in her voice.
“All right.”
The two women drew their chairs close on either side of Renny and peered into his cup.
“Well,” he asked, “what do you make of it?”
“I see,” she said slowly, “love and fighting, but not much peace.”
“Who wants peace?” He laughed. “If I’d wanted peace I should not have come here.”
“I see women loving you — I can’t make them out.”
“I hope I shall be able to.”
“One of their names begins with an A and one with C.”
“What’s the matter with B?”
“Everything. She’s a bitch without a name.”
He laughed softly. Thoughts were stirring wildly in his head. “Tell me more about this nameless one.”
“She’ll come and she’ll go, but you won’t forget her.”
“Will she let me love her?”
“For a night.”
Elvira rose and stood with her hands clasped to her breast. Tears were standing on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” asked Renny.
“I feel lonesome all of a sudden.”
“She’s the funniest girl,” said Lulu. “She’s always been like that.” After one glance at Elvira her slanting gaze returned to the cup. Renny put his arm about her waist.
“I see the colt,” she went on.
“What is he doing? Kicking the other tea leaves about?”
“No — but he isn’t getting where he’s headed for.”
Renny became instantly serious.
“That’s bad. If I don’t get him there I’ll be in trouble with my father.”
“I see your grandmother on her deathbed,” she continued.
He looked aghast. “Good heavens! Not for a long time, I hope.”
“Yes — a long time off.”
“Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “how she’s leaving her money?”
Lulu gave a malicious smile. “She’s leaving more of herself to you than any of the others.”
“Good!” he laughed. “Her money is herself. She hangs on to it for dear life.”
Lulu went on. “I see responsibility. Lots of it. People clinging on to you.”
He raised his head pridefully. “I don’t mind that.”
“But you will love one place more than any one person.” She set down the cup. “I don’t see anything more. I must go and milk the cows. It’s got dark.”
Bob came in carrying a lighted lantern.
“I’ve done the chores,” he said, not looking at Lulu or Renny. “You said you’d milk the cows, Lulu.”
“Yes,” she said, taking the lantern and lowering the flame, which smoked.
As they went down the path a cool breeze drew from the moist earth all the sweet scents sleeping there. There was no moon, but a host of far-off stars distilled a pale light. Under the low stable roof the two cows turned broad reproachful faces toward Lulu. The farm horses had been turned out, but the colt lay, an angular grey bulk, in the shadow of the stall, from which his eyes glanced softly in the lantern light.
Lulu sat down on a stool, curving her graceful legs beneath her, and laid her forehead against the red flank of a cow. From its hard udder she drove a stream of milk against the bottom of the pail.
Renny stood leaning against the end of the stall. “You’re a wonderful woman,” he said. “When I first saw you you were a dressmaker —”
“Not much of a one,” she interrupted. “I often spoiled the materials they brought me.”
He went on — “When I meet you again you are a harvester. Next thing you’re a fortune teller. Now you’re a milkmaid!”
“Well,” she said lightly, “I’ve had time to learn a good many things. I’m no chicken.”
“I don’t suppose,” he asked inquisitively “that you’d tell me how old you are?”
“No.” She spoke curtly. “I wouldn’t.”
She milked the second cow, then turned them both out into the night, slapping their bony hips as they passed her and stumbled meekly over the uneven step into the yard.
The same fitful heat lightning softly illumined the fields. Lulu went to a well in the stable and plunged her arms to the elbow in the cool water.
“I hate the smell of milk,” she said.
He stood looking at her gravely. He said: —
“I guess I had better be going. I must find some place for the night.”
The lightning played across her features.
“We could go and sit in the mow for a bit if you like,” she said, as though indifferently. “But if you think you’d better be going …”
“If Bob wouldn’t mind — I think I’ll sleep here in the hay. The colt’s played out.”
“Are you?” she asked, and her teeth gleamed.
He put both arms round her and drew her to him, kissing her hotly on the mouth.
“Well, then,” she whispered composedly, “we’ll go up.”
They mounted the ladder and she threw herself down, but at a little distance from him. He stood, so tall that he must bend his head under the sloping roof.
“Why don’t you sit down?” she asked.
“I’m all right.” His voice shook a little.
She undid her brooch and the red ribbon from her neck.
“I hate pressure on my throat,” she sa
id. “I wish the fashion was to go bare-necked. Here, put these in your pocket. If they get into the hay I’ll never see them again.”
He put the ribbon and brooch carefully into his pocket.
She stretched her arms and yawned.
“Well,” she asked lazily, “what do you want to know?”
His voice came out of the dusk. “You were going to tell me how you came by those eyes.”
“It was my mother’s doing. Her husband was a good man. He was a respected man. But my mother got intimate with a Rumanian gypsy who came peddling things…. I was all she had of him.”
He came and knelt at her side.
“Let me look into them,” he said, his breath coming short.
She touched his white shoulder that showed through the tear in his coat. “It’s too dark for seeing,” she whispered.
The lightning flickered softly, seeking the cobwebs in the loft, touching the hay into a scented brightness.
He laid his hand on her lips and she kissed it. With a swift movement he drew it the length of her body, outlining its curves, to her feet. Then he held it above her as though in menace — as though he had drawn some weapon she had had concealed about her.
She sank before him, sighing as though wounded.
XII
THE RETURN
HE WAS WOKEN by a grinding, tearing sound. His face was against the hay and he felt half stifled. He kept his eyes shut and stretched out his hand to feel if Lulu were there. His hand slid across the depression where her body had lain. He opened his eyes and sat up, his fresh cheek seamed by his fragrant pillow.
Through the cracks of the loft the sunlight came slanting, bright-edged. He sat thinking of the night past, neither proud nor repentant, but pierced through by the new strange experience, as the virgin twilight of the loft by the dusky sun rays.
He would have remained there thinking for a while, but the sounds below disturbed him. Was the colt into some mischief?
With a supple movement he rose and descended the ladder. As the colt recognized his legs, it ceased to gnaw the boards of the stall and gave a welcoming whinny. When his head appeared it lifted its lip and showed its big teeth in a grimace of relief. Splinters of wood clung to the stiff hairs about its mouth. A great gouge was torn from the manger, the straw of its bed was kicked into the passage.
He went up to it warily, but it stretched its long head toward him and began talking in subdued rumbles of the long lonely night and its anxiety to be off.
Renny clasped its massive neck in his arms.
“Good boy,” he murmured. “Nice old boy! Whose nice old boy is he? Whose pretty old boy?” He was filled with a sudden, deep sadness at the thought of parting with the colt.
As they stood so embraced, Elvira appeared in the doorway. She looked cool and fresh, but a little startled, like a doe surprised in
the forest.
“Won’t you come and have some breakfast?” she asked.
“Just look,” he exclaimed, “what this young devil has done!”
“It doesn’t matter. The stable is falling to pieces anyway.”
“But it does matter! I must pay Bob for it.”
“He wouldn’t take anything.”
From a shiny new purse Renny took our a five dollar note. “Here,” he said, “you give it to him after I am gone.”
She took it. Then she said hesitatingly: —
“I want to tell you how sorry I am about your sister … the bad thing I did to her.”
He drew a deep sigh. “Yes,” he said heavily. “It has spoiled her life, she says.”
Elvira looked up at him miserably. “I loved him, but I’m sure now that he never loved me. Does she know that? It might make it easier for her to forgive him.”
Renny answered stiffly — “My sister must do what she thinks right.”
He brought water to the colt, fed him, and followed Elvira to the cottage. His mind turned to Lulu. How would she meet him in front of the others? He wished he might have seen her alone first.
But here she was in the kitchen, which was made clean and tidy, giving the four little girls their breakfast. Bob was already in the fields.
Renny glanced inquiringly at Lulu from under his lashes. He moved shyly toward the breakfast table, then turned to the washing stand in the corner. The children followed his every move fascinated, their spoons suspended, the bluish milk on their porridge undisturbed.
Lulu laid a clean towel on Renny’s shoulder and gave him a little push. She was complete in her self-assurance. When he slid to his chair opposite the children she leant over him and poured cream from a jug over his porridge. It dropped in thick yellow gouts. Her attitude implied that nothing was too good for him.
She sat at one end of the table and Elvira at the other. Renny tried to joke with the little girls, but they only stared at him in speechless trepidation. Elvira sat silent, still feeling rebuffed, and Lulu seemed bent only on serving Renny.
But when she stood beside him as he saddled the colt, and he turned and faced her expectantly, she said: —
“No. Don’t come again. We’ve had our time together. It’s over.”
“Over!” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes — you can’t keep coming back here. It’ll be something for you to look back on, just as it is. But I’m not the sort of woman to want a boy hanging around.”
“But you did want me, didn’t you?”
She smiled enigmatically.
“You did!” he repeated angrily, and moved toward her.
She drew back and exclaimed almost savagely: —
“Don’t dare touch me! I only want you to go!”
The look in her face satisfied him. He was no longer angry or hurt. He mounted the colt and, arranging its mane with his fingers, said: —
“I suppose if I ever do come this way you’ll refuse to see me?”
“Yes — I’ll refuse to see you.”
“Do you never want to see me again?”
“Well — I’ll not say that.”
“Aren’t you going to give me one kiss before I go?”
She came to his stirrup and held up her face, hard as a sculptured mask.
He bent down, then drew back. “Do you expect me to kiss that?”
“It’s the best I can give you.”
“Were you disappointed in me?”
“My God — no!”
She reached up, as though in a frenzy, and pulled his face down to hers and kissed him passionately. Then she turned away and walked swiftly along the path.
As he cantered down the road he had thought of all that had happened since he had left Jalna. It had been a strange time and he wished he might go straight home without delivering the colt to its new owner. The thought of parting with it now drove all other thoughts from his head. This morning he felt a new gracious understanding between them. His will was now the colt’s will. When he turned into the road that led to Mr. Ferrier’s, a black cloud hung over him.
It was nearly noon when the colt trotted docilely in at the gate. Mr. Ferrier, a bluff, purple-faced man, advanced to meet him.
“I expected you yesterday, young man,” he said severely.
Renny looked at him out of a woebegone face. “I myself expected to be here, sir,” he answered.
“Then why weren’t you here?”
Renny stroked the colt’s mane.
Mr. Ferrier looked the pair over. “You look as though you had been through a good deal.”
Renny drew down the corners of his mouth and dismounted. He put the bridle into Mr. Ferrier’s hand.
“Now see here,” said Mr. Ferrier, “I want you to tell me why your coat is torn half off your back, why your clothes look as though you’d spent the night in a haystack, and why this animal’s hide is stiff with sweat and dust. If you refuse to tell me, I’ll inquire your father about it.”
“The truth is,” returned Renny, “I had an awful time getting here.”
“I want no half-truths!�
�� shouted Mr. Ferrier. “Is or is not this animal vicious?”
The colt answered for himself. He opened his mouth wide, then shut it with a grinding champ of his teeth full in the face of his new owner. Mr. Ferrier drew back in terror. He threw the bridle from him as though it were a poisonous reptile. Renny caught it and stood grinning sheepishly.
“Take him away!” ordered Mr. Ferrier. “I refuse to keep him! I’ll let your father hear from me! Thank God I haven’t given him my cheque! And just let me tell you, young fellow, those people you horrified in the motor car yesterday were my brother-in-law and his wife. They told me of the dastardly behaviour of this beast on the road and on the railway line. Your father will get a letter from me that will make his hair rise!”
Renny experienced an added sharpness in all his senses as he galloped along the homeward road. He felt that he could see the very veins on the smallest leaves of the new washed trees. The smell of the saddle, of the colt, of the warming earth, rose to him with piercing perfection. The feel of the horse beneath him, the measured thud of its hoofs, Lulu’s remembered kiss warm on his lips, filled him with joyous vitality. Life burned in him like a torch.
XIII
FAMILY PLEASURES
PHILIP AND MARY stood on either side of a swing that hung from a low branch of an oak tree beside the croquet lawn. In the swing Eden sat clutching the ropes tightly, ecstatic at the experience of being swung through the air from one parent to another. His mother would push him gently on the back and, at about every fifth swing, his father would catch his feet, hold them a second, and send him back to his mother with added momentum.
The baby, Piers, toddled about, drawing a small wooden horse on wheels. But he was becoming old enough to have feelings of jealousy when his brother was the centre of interest. He stalled his horse under the drooping branches of a syringa in flower and came toward the swing, frowning.
“Me! Me! Me!” he demanded.
“Look out!” cried Philip.
Mary snatched up the child in her arms. He pushed at her breast. “Me!” he repeated, pointing at the swing.
“Put him on my lap!” cried Eden. “I’ll hold him.”
Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Page 104