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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “Poor as church mice. Mind what you’re doing! You all but grazed the gateposts.”

  “Don’t worry!” laughed Malahide, cracking the whip. “I’ll jump the gate if necessary — carriage and all!”

  They flew along the road, Adeline’s lace scarf streaming out behind, the moonlight shining on her set features.

  “Look there!” said Malahide. “What lovely clouds! To me the moon looks like a race horse leaping over them.” He waved his whip skyward and the carriage swerved dangerously near the edge of the road.

  “My God!” cried Adeline. “You’ll have us in the ditch!”

  “What! Do you say I can’t drive?” He turned and looked in her face. The bays shied at a piece of paper fluttering in the moonlight.

  “Give me those reins,” said Adeline.

  She took them in her hands and drew the horses to a standstill. She spoke soothingly to them.

  Malahide swayed and seemed likely to fall off the seat.

  Adeline would have given a great deal to be back at the Laceys’ or home at Jalna. But this must be faced. She put one arm firmly about Malahide’s waist. His head dropped to her shoulder. His hat fell off, but fortunately not into the road.

  What would her children say if they could see her, she thought grimly, as she drove homeward. Never must they know of this. Yet the situation was not without its element of pleasure. It was many a year since she had handled the reins. Her hands felt strong and capable. If only she had not this incubus of Malahide leaning against her!

  And what a night! The unseasonable warmth had gone. In a few hours it had turned to this brilliant air, pregnant with frost, filled with sharp warning of the approaching winter. She was reminded of night drives with her Philip. Different indeed they had been, with him sitting straight and stalwart beside her, driving his horses at a spanking rate along the lonely road.

  With a challenging air she drew up the bays in front of her own door. Malahide seemed half asleep, but she helped him to alight and made him sit on a garden seat in the shadow of the porch. The bays stood quietly, nuzzling each other.

  When the man had driven the horses to the stables she turned to Malahide. What should she do with him? She decided, after a moment’s reflection, that he must go back to his tent.

  “Come,” she said sternly, “get up and take my arm.”

  He rose obediently and they moved slowly across the lawn in the direction of the ravine. She added: —

  “Are you able to walk to your tent?”

  “To the world’s end with you,” he declared, leaning heavily on her.

  “You talk like a fool, Mally…. Now, help yourself a little! Don’t imagine I can carry you.”

  She gave him a thump between the shoulders that made him stagger. It did him good. He braced himself. Slowly and heedfully they descended the variable path.

  In the ravine a clear and poignant chill stung their nostrils. “Sharp frost tonight,” commented Adeline.

  “And me in a tent!”

  “Have you plenty of blankets?

  “Tons of them.”

  “Good. Ha, here is the bridge!” She would have liked a breathing space here, but she was afraid to stop, for fear he might be difficult to start again.

  She found the path on the other side and along it they groped, for it was dark down here, till they saw the whiteness of the tent. Malahide was reviving in the cold air. He bent and, unfastening the flap, ushered her into the tent as though it were a mansion. He found and lighted a candle. The interior was discovered, chill and neat. On a chair, by the bed, stood a half-empty bottle of brandy. He beamed at Adeline. He said: —

  “Let me give you something to sustain you on the walk back. But, no, you shall not go! You shall sleep on my pallet and I will lie on the ground outside your door.”

  Adeline stood firmly on her feet, regarding him with a strange mixture of amusement and despair.

  “What account you will give of yourself tomorrow night, I can’t imagine,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s all up with us. For Robert Vaughan’s sake, pull yourself together, Mally!”

  He stood swaying, the bottle in one hand. “For your sake, and yours only!” he said, fervently. He poured a little of the brandy into a glass and she sipped it gratefully.

  She helped him to divest himself of his evening clothes, which she hung on a line that was suspended across the tent. He sat in his woollen dressing gown, his confused mind not quite convinced of her substance, or of the unreality of her grotesque shadow that loomed above them. As she raised her arms the lines of her sides and breast showed something of her early grace. Her face was to him the emblem of fortitude and the arrogance of their tradition.

  She had tucked him up like a child and now she retraced her steps through the ravine. Freed of Malahide, she no longer felt tired. She walked strongly, and when she came to the bridge she stood there for a space, looking down into the sliding darkness of the stream. It threw silvery glances up at her. It talked to her — the familiar, long-continued converse of more than fifty years. She stood so motionless that she might have been one of the watchful trees at its brink. An owl flitted by her, its soft wings carrying the moonlight, a mouse drooping in its beak.

  “Ha!” she exclaimed, under her breath. “You about your business … I about mine! Funny old birds … both of us!”

  XXVII

  THE HORSE SHOW

  IN THE STRONG ELECTRIC light every detail of the spirited scene was garishly visible. The bright uniforms of the bandsmen; their polished instruments, from the throats of which a barbarous march was throbbing; the gently swaying flags and bunting that hung from the ceiling; the varied colour and staring faces of the audience that filled the tier upon tier of seats; the muscular and shining bodies of the horses, and the rich hue of the tanbark. From the boxes, with their array of white shirt fronts and evening cloaks, to the occupants of the back seats, all eyes were directed toward the next event, which was the most important of the Show, the prize being a coveted silver cup and a purse of a thousand dollars.

  The Vaughans shared their box with the Laceys, all but Vera, who sat with Meg Whiteoak. Robert Vaughan’s ascetic face wore an eager, almost a tremulous, smile. It was his first outing since his illness and he found the excitement of the occasion almost overwhelming. Admiral Lacey sat, solid, red-faced, and benign, his eyes sometimes wandering from the horses to the handsome women who strolled by with their escorts.

  The Whiteoak family occupied the next box, Nicholas nervously tugging at his dark moustache, Philip with an expression of exaggerated calm, Mary, outshining both young girls that night, in a gown of silver and blue. Adeline, wearing a white lace mantilla and a grey satin dress and ermine cape, was the most notable figure in the audience. Since her husband had been one of the founders of the Show, she had sat in that box year after year, her appraising gaze on the horses, her challenging smile flashing for the men who ever and again came to lean over her shoulder or raise their hats to her from below. This year, conscious of her new teeth, there was an added self-satisfaction in her greetings. She threw back her cape and sat erect as she saw a society reporter making a note of her appearance. There was nothing of the restrained and lukewarm fine lady about her. She arched her neck and showed herself off, as the vital and eager thoroughbreds in the Show.

  Now they were coming! Lifting their dainty hoofs high, distending their full nostrils, holding their sleek, barrel-like bodies in readiness, their riders immaculate, their faces masks of imperturbability. Renny was the youngest rider and Gallant the youngest horse. Yet they excelled the eighteen other entrants in severity of line and scorn of bearing. Gallant was transported to a new world of artificial light and strange sounds. The only link with his old life was the thighs that bound him, the hands that guided him. For sheer grace, give the crowd Harpie and her dark-faced rider, whose languid length seemed to melt into her very flesh.

  One after another the riders essayed the jumps. One after another they cleared the eas
ier ones, balked or failed to clear without ticking or knocking a bar from the highest — all but Renny and Malahide, who, with scarcely a fault, circled the tanbark. One after another the sound of a bugle dismissed them till only five were left.

  Amid loud applause these five returned to another trial. The three tall barriers together at the end of the course were the stumblingblock. The tension of the audience became pronounced, as three of the riders were defeated and withdrew. Now only Gallant and Harpie were left. Through all their sensitive nerves they were conscious of the atmosphere of enmity. As they passed each other, Gallant made a hideous grimace and bit Harpie on the shoulder.

  “Keep that hell’s spawn out of my way!” snarled Malahide, and struck at Gallant with his crop.

  Three times Gallant and Harpie were pitted against each other. Three times the Whiteoaks and Vaughans were strung up to meet victory or defeat. But the judges could not decide. They bent their heads together in close conclave.

  Philip consulted the paper on which he had kept tab of the jumps. He struck it on his knee.

  “I tell you,” he said to his mother, “Gallant has won!”

  “No doubt about it,” said Nicholas.

  “Nothing of the sort,” declared their mother. “Gallant was at fault — there and there and there!” She tapped the paper with a hand upon the forefinger of which flashed a handsome ruby ring.

  Mary exclaimed — “Harpie ticked the bar in that last jump! I saw it. She jumped all wrong.”

  “What do you know of jumping?”

  “I have my two eyes to see.”

  “Ha, here they come again!”

  At each successful leap there was an outburst of applause. At each failure a sharp outgoing of breath. The excitement was almost too much for Robert Vaughan. He closed his eyes that he might not see Harpie’s final leaps.

  Throughout the contest the mare’s irritation had increased. She disliked Malahide and feared him. In crabbed fashion she jumped the hurdles and sped toward the three highest gates. She felt his hands like iron on her reins. His spur sought her side. In grand swoops she leaped the barriers and galloped from the course, tossing her head and sheering. The vibrant air was shattered by applause.

  Adeline smiled triumphantly into Philip’s face.

  “Renny will be put to it to beat that,” she said.

  But the world must not know that she was against Jalna. Her face was noncommittal as colt and boy trotted into the arena. She felt a pang as she watched them to think that her heart was set against their victory. Ah, but they were clean-cut and fierce and beautiful! Her nostrils dilated with pride.

  As the confidence between Harpie and Malahide had diminished during the contest, so the love between Gallant and Renny had flowered. With an almost jocular air the colt made his final appearance. He arched the granite grey of his neck and leaned sideways a little. He leaped the first barriers with disdain, the music of his hoofs thudding gaily between each. Like a phrase of music he approached the high climax of the three gates.

  The audience leaned forward in their seats. Those standing by the palings pressed closer. A woman with coarse yellow hair gave an excited laugh and thrust her breast forward between two men. The colt, almost near enough for touching, rolled his great eyes, saw her and swerved. Strange memories came to him.

  His gay arrogance fell from him. His speed rushed back on itself as a torrent in sudden meeting with a rock. He swerved from the jump and balked, showing his great teeth, picking up his hoofs as though they were missiles to be hurled.

  Renny too had heard the laugh, seen the face. “Careful, boy — good boy — now for it!” Wheeling, he headed Gallant for the gates. But again he sheered, curveted, rolled his eyes. Now, for the last time — let him try it! All his blood is in a fever — the very hairs of his mane are electrified. “Up! Up! Up you go, my darling!” Renny says to him softly, and with hands and knees and spirit lifts him over the gate. The next looms. Over it the grey body describes a swift arc. At the third his spleen rises, he jumps as though he would fly to pieces, and kicks the top bar from its place. The bugle sounds. The air is shaken by handclaps and cheers and laughter. Like the embodiment of perversity the colt refuses to leave the arena. He gives a massive buck, then kicks at an official standing near. Renny’s face is white. His hat has fallen off and his hair shows dark red in the strong light.

  Severely Malahide rides out on Harpie amid a tumult of noise. The brazen music of the band, the sharp explosion of applause. But Renny and the colt are the favourites. The air is full of praise for them and wonder at their defeat. Malahide circles the course with the silver cup on his saddle, his sallow face impassive.

  As Renny made his way through the crowd he passed deliberately where Lulu stood hanging on the palings. Already she was in close conversation with one of the men, but she turned, her face all alight, to Renny. He said, his mouth beside her ear: —

  “I wish you’d been in hell before you came here tonight!”

  She exclaimed — “You said you’d send me a ticket, and you didn’t! I came all this way to see you ride. Paid for it out of my own money!”

  “And made me pay for what I had of you!” he returned, and passed on.

  He came to Philip’s box and sat down beside him. Philip put a hand on his knee and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  “Well done, old man!”

  Renny gave a grunt of bitter dissent.

  “What happened?” asked Philip.

  “I don’t know. Well — I can’t explain. But the colt saw someone who upset him. Oh, don’t ask me, Father!”

  “Never mind. We must just swallow our disappointment. But Gallant’s too temperamental. No good for showing.”

  “I know.” He stared blackly at the throng of horses, their riders in uniform, who were entering for the Musical Ride. He could see Lulu, leaning on the palings, talking to the man, who now turned his back on the arena and was looking with heavy curiosity into her face. The knuckles on her hand that gripped the palings stood out. Renny felt that her wanton lips were pouring forth his secret.

  Adeline gave him a poke with her fan. She asked: —

  “Why did you lose your stirrup? It was bad enough to let Malahide beat you.”

  “I hope you’re happy, Gran,” he returned bitterly.

  “I didn’t like to see my grandson beaten,” she answered. “It went against the grain.”

  Malahide sat simpering in the Vaughan’s box, where Robert Vaughan, with a ghastly smile on his face, received congratulations with him.

  XXVIII

  DESIGNS OF YOUTH

  THE NEXT DAY RENNY told Philip that he had wrenched his ankle, he scarcely knew how. Certainly it was swollen and slightly discoloured, but he made more of the mishap than was usual with him. He had dark shadows beneath his eyes and looked as though he had not slept. The family doctor came and bound up the ankle. Renny was below par, he said, and must rest for a fortnight. Philip looked at his wilding with some concern. What sort of man was he going to be, he wondered. He wished he knew what was in his heart.

  “Beaten! Beaten! Beaten!” mourned Renny to himself, as, with the aid of a stick, he hobbled along the path at the river’s edge. “And by that spineless cur! How could I let him do it! Oh, damn that woman — damn her! I never want to see her face again!” Her face mocked at him from among the leaves. Her eyes slanted up at him from the glancing river.

  Irresistibly he was drawn to the spot opposite Malahide’s tent. He lay down in the long grass and waited for a sight of Malahide. The tent looked remote, unapproachable, serenely virgin, hidden among the trees. Yet, beneath its white dome, it harboured that black viper! “He beat me!” Renny reiterated, clenching his hands on the grass. “He did me in! He licked me! He’s defeated me! He got the best of me! And all Lulu’s fault!”

  The flap of the tent was drawn back and Malahide came out carrying a teakettle. He wore a black jersey and white trousers, and his hair, which Renny had always seen in ebony sleekne
ss, rose in two pointed locks like horns. With the effortless yet cautious movements of a cat he approached the stream, knelt there, and plunged his arms into the icy water. He splashed his face and head with it as though to cool a fever, then, still kneeling, rubbed them with a towel that lay crumpled on the brink.

  Unseen by him the family of swans appeared round the bend of the stream. Of the four cygnets one only now survived. How the others had met their end no one knew. But the successive calamities had left the parent birds in a state of unease. They moved in watchful protective strength on either side of the cygnet, who arched his fluffy grey neck and uttered wistful cooing sounds. The female suddenly dived, turning up her snow-white stern, while her mate, throwing her a glance of haughty interest, sailed smoothly round the bend, his cygnet at his side. At that moment Malahide shook out his towel and the swan, fearing some danger to his young, raised his great wings and sped toward Malahide in fury.

  Stepping backward, like a matador before an enraged bull, Malahide flicked the towel in the bird’s face. He had not anticipated the rage he excited, for the swan, beating his wings upon the water, came close to him, even on to the land. Malahide darted back and disappeared into his tent, while the swan returned to his cygnet, raising his breast feathers in triumph, one dark leg curved above the water ready, if necessary, to strike in its defence. The three then moved together down the stream.

  Renny had watched this scene with the most intense interest. He still brooded on it while Malahide returned and filled his kettle. While the graceful smoke rose from his fire and the smell of his frying bacon came across the stream, Renny lay, his head pillowed on his arm, watching as though half asleep, but in truth the most vivid thoughts and pictures were illuminating his mind.

  He remained there for more than an hour until he had seen Malahide, dressed in dark tweeds, fasten the flap of his tent and disappear in the direction of Vaughanlands.

  Renny then rose and, not without pain, retraced the path to the bridge and crossed to the other side of the river. He went to the spot where Malahide had thrown down his towel and crouched there beside it, half hidden in the bushes. All about was the deep quiet of autumn. The frost of the night before had given way to warm yellow sunlight. The soft tongue of the stream licked at the stones, making them ever smoother.