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

by de la Roche, Mazo

  “Malahide told you,” interrupted Renny.

  “I saw the theft myself,” said Malahide.

  Adeline turned on him. “What theft?”

  “The theft of the ring.”

  “And where were you?” cried Meg. “Spying! Peering in at the window! Now I understand why Boney screamed — ‘To hell with Malahide!’”

  Adeline sat, pursed, wary, trying to absorb all, determined not to give her grandson away.

  Admiral Lacey looked in her eyes. “Did you want this engagement, then?”

  “The girl could do worse. He’s a fine boy. A perfect Court. Not like Biddy Court’s son, there. A real Court — like myself.”

  “I should not have minded — a few days ago. But — since then — I have heard something very bad about this young man.”

  “Out with it!” said Adeline.

  The Admiral looked at Mary and Meg. “I can’t — not in front of the young ladies.”

  Mary rose. “Come, Meg. It is much better for us to go.”

  “Yes,” agreed Adeline, “run along. The Admiral is squeamish.”

  When she and the three men were alone together, Admiral Lacey said — “Neither I nor my son can consent to this engagement. You can’t expect it, Mrs. Whiteoak. Renny has been intimate with a loose woman. Apparently you know of it.”

  Adeline fixed him with her fierce eyes. “Did you go spotless to your bride? How many men do? Tell me that!”

  The Admiral coloured. “This is different.”

  “You mean it is found out!”

  Renny exclaimed — “Everything I do is found out! I have a shadow who dogs my footsteps. I wish he would come outside with me and he would not be even a shadow when I had finished with him. Come along, Malahide! Come along! Don’t be a coward!”

  Malahide turned to him with a sneer. “I should be delighted — if you could fight with anything but your fists.”

  “I can! I’ll fight with anything you name. Pistols — swords — riding crops — axes — anything you like!”

  Adeline struck the table with the flat of her hand. “Silence! There’ll be no fighting between you two. As for you, Malahide — I’m done with you. My family was right and I was wrong. You’ve tried to diddle all of us. You’ve tried to turn us against each other. It’s a nice visit you’ve given us. And I’m the one that will not be sorry to see the last of you.” Her brown eyes suddenly blazed and she struck the table again. “Be off with you — out of my sight — forever!”

  Malahide’s mouth was an ugly gash. “Do you imagine,” he snarled, “that I have enjoyed myself? Only the extremity of my misfortune brought me here in the first place. Only extremity made me endure the boredom. What are you Whiteoaks? Who are you? What do you know? Where have you been? Nobody — nobody — nothing — nowhere — these are the answers!”

  Adeline could scarcely breathe for the fury that was in her. She clutched her throat.

  Renny thought — “Let her have it! Let her have it! Let her know what he is!” But he trembled with the urge to spring on Malahide.

  Adeline got out the words — “You dare — you miserable — oh, let me have the strength to — and — my sons not here!”

  “I’m here, Gran!” shouted Renny. He sprang toward Malahide, dragging the table cover as he passed, and crashing the tea things to the floor.

  Admiral Lacey interposed his florid bulk between the two. “Go,” he said to Malahide. “You’d better go at once.”

  Malahide took three long steps to the door. There he turned and raised a dark hand.

  “It’s time,” he said, “that you were told what you are, Cousin Adeline. But I can’t tell you. It would have taken my mother to do that.”

  Before she could retort he was gone.

  Now the sound of Boney’s screams came from the bedroom. He had heard Malahide’s voice raised in anger and he rent the air in raucous reply.

  “Hell — hell — hell with Malahide! To hell with Cousin Malahide! Shaitan — shaitan ka batka!” His wings could be heard flapping frantically at the end of his chain.

  “Go to him Renny,” said Adeline in an unexpected small voice. “Go to him and free him. Oh, the poor bird! The poor, poor bird!” She rose, leaning heavily on her stick. “To think,” she said, “to think that Bridget Court is in her grave and I can’t write and tell her what I think of her son!”

  XXXII

  WINTER COMES

  RENNY LOOKED ABOUT HIS ROOM to see whether he might be leaving anything behind. The room looked dishevelled, desolate: the drawers of the dressing table gaped; the cupboard doors stood wide open, disclosing an assembly of soiled white duck trousers, faded jerseys, and assorted tweeds; while on its floor boots, tennis rackets, riding crops, and garments for the laundry lay in confusion. A fox terrier had burrowed himself into the middle of the unmade bed.

  In this confusion Renny stood, a trim soldierly figure, in the winter uniform of the Royal Military College, the long, dark blue top coat, faced with red and fastened by brass buttons, the wedge-shaped, grey lamb cap, worn at a lively angle. His expression showed unusual gravity and he looked thinner than he had a month ago. His face appeared older, with a look of somewhat taciturn self-possession.

  Miss Lacey, Vera, and Malahide were on the ocean. He had seen Vera only once again. They had said their goodbye in the presence of Ethel Lacey, who, against her father’s commands, had slipped from the room and left them a few precious moments alone together. Vera, in a controlled voice, had promised to be faithful, never to forget, to wait for him — no matter for how long. How young and stern and beautiful she had looked! The fine, glossy skin beneath her eyes had been tinged with violet. Her hands had been as cold as ice, but her lips were hot and ardent with love for him. She would write by mail and he would do the same.

  Looking about the room he felt himself a different person from the boy who had come back to it last spring. Desire for experience, arrogant strength, had hardened within him. He would face the world without fear; he would go his own way.

  He bent over the terrier and patted it. Its warm tongue slid across his hand. It rose on the bed, stretched itself, and jumped to the floor, uttering a troubled whine.

  “I’m off now,” said Renny. “Coming down?”

  They went down the stairs together. Meg appeared at the door of the dining room, table napkin in hand.

  “You’re going!” she exclaimed, wiping her lips in preparation for kissing. “And I didn’t have breakfast with you! I slept so badly I simply couldn’t wake this morning. And I might as well have been with you while you finished dressing. I haven’t eaten three mouthfuls.” She came and stood close to him, her eyes soft with sleep, the long braids of her hair wound round her head. He saw that she wore her nightdress beneath her dressing gown.

  He removed his cap and bent to kiss her. She held him tightly, the smell of toast and warm flesh coming from her.

  “M’m,” she breathed. “Nice old thing! I wish you hadn’t to go. It’s been fun these days, with you the only man in the house and that beast Malahide gone. But you’ll soon be back. It will be no time till the Christmas holidays.”

  He rocked her gently in his arms. “Where are the kids?”

  “With Mother, in the sitting room. Eden has a cold.”

  He found Mary with her usual basket of darning. Peep was astride of his rocking horse, his golden head, his vivid blue suit, a flash of gay colour against the bleakness of the scene outside the window. Eden, bent over the table, was absorbed in drawing. Renny tried to see what it was, but Eden flattened himself on it.

  “No,” he said, “you shan’t see! It’s my own private picture.”

  “Let Renny see,” said Mary. “He’s going away.”

  “No. It’s not for anyone but me.”

  Renny’s relentless hand drew him back and a crude drawing of a swan was disclosed, standing on a still cruder drawing of a prostrate man. Renny gave a shout of laughter.

  “Good for you, youngster!” he e
xclaimed. “Malahide and the swan, eh?” He bent to kiss the child, but Eden turned his face away.

  “Very well, I’ll say goodbye to Peep!”

  But the baby, intent on his gallop, turned an indifferent cheek.

  Renny said, rather huffily — “Perhaps you’ll let me kiss you, Mother?”

  Mary drew down his head and they exchanged kisses of more warmth than usual. They had been less antagonistic in these holidays than ever before.

  “Well,” he said, “you’ll have a nice, peaceful time, with Malahide out of the way. Make Dad write to me about his shooting. Have a good time in New York.”

  “Yes, yes. I hope things will go better this term.”

  He gave a derisive grunt and went to his grandmother’s door.

  “It’s me, Gran. I’m off!”

  Her voice came, full and strong. “I’ll see you outside. I’m coming out for a breath of air.”

  “Damned cold air,” he thought, as he opened the front door and a piercing gust met him. It brought with it a flutter of dead leaves that heaped themselves, trembling, on those already in the porch. The bare limbs of the trees thrust up starkly out of the ravine. The grass lay frozen and crisp. By the door his luggage waited, and he gave a grim smile, remembering how Malahide’s had lain there on the day of the garden party.

  He strode across the lawn and through the little gate to the edge of the ravine. The river that moved so secretly among dense growth in the summer now lay exposed in startled brightness, a skein of ice on either brink. As he looked, the swan and his mate appeared round a bend, soft and snowy on the ruffled water. Their cygnet had disappeared as the others had done, leaving no trace of its short existence. Now the parent birds moved by in proud melancholy, their arched necks like question marks of fate.

  He thought of his own life that lay ahead of him. What would it be? He and Vera moving close together like the swans. But they would rear their young, by God! He would always love her, take care of her. Now she, like a swan, was sailing across the ocean from him, but the time would pass, horribly long though it seemed in prospect. He would go to her, bring her back for always.

  The face of Lulu flashed into his mind, that strange face with its teasing eyes and sensual mouth. With a frown he turned abruptly from the river and retraced his steps to the house. He heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. Grandmother would be waiting.

  As he crossed the lawn the bays were drawn up in front of the house and he saw her in the porch. She had put on one of her best caps in his honour and she wore her mink cape which had seen much service. She made a picture, he thought, standing there in the porch, with the reddened leaves of the Virginia creeper festooned above her — a fine, formidable old woman. He was proud of her. He felt a quick throb of pride in the house, too, standing foursquare to the cold wind, brave wreaths of smoke rising from its chimneys. One day it would he his. Not for many years, he hoped, but still — one day it would be his.

  She came down the steps toward him.

  “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “How cold it has turned. Cold as a stepmother’s breath, hey, Renny?”

  He smiled a little sheepishly. “She’s been very nice to me these holidays.”

  “Nicer than I have, eh?” she eyed him jealously.

  “Oh, that’s all over, Gran!” He laughed cheerfully.

  She came and tucked her hand in his arm. “We’ve made it up, haven’t we? And I’ve admitted that I was all wrong about that vagabond Malahide. And I stood by you in your love affair, didn’t I?”

  He pressed her against his side. “You did indeed, Gran!”

  “Too bad they made Vera return the ring! But I have it safe for you. Whenever you want it — you’ll know where to find it.” She gave him an arch look.

  “You were a brick about that, Gran.”

  “Walk me up and down a little. It’s cold standing here. Capes are cold things. I’ve always said so.”

  They took a turn up and down the drive, a striking pair, she in her cap and mink cape, he in his cadet’s uniform. Hodge had the luggage in the trap. The bays were pawing the gravel.

  “Goodbye, Gran.” He bent to kiss her.

  She laid her hand on his chest. “Don’t be in such a hurry. I want to say this…. You must not set your heart too strongly on that girl. You never know how things will end in these first love affairs. I’ve had ’em. They die a natural death. But when a great love comes you’ll know it. Let me tell you that!”

  He looked unbelieving, sure of the endurance of his love. She kissed him on each cheek and he got into the trap beside Hodge.

  “Goodbye, Gran, goodbye!” He waved his hand to her and to Mary and Eden, whose faces were at the window. He heard Eden’s shrill voice calling to him. He saw Peep’s bright form flashing to and fro. The trap bowled along the drive, its wheels and the well-groomed flanks of the bays glimmering behind the evergreens.

  Adeline stood looking after them, leaning on her stick. A fine boy, bone of her bone, a perfect Court! Strange it would be now, women alone in the house together, no man about. Strange to think winter was coming on … no man about … strange how quickly the summer had passed … like a dream … now the cold weather was coming on … a long, long spell of it.

  A chill sunlight flickered out between the indigo clouds and fell on her, on the frozen grass and bare trees. “Those clouds mean snow,” she said aloud, looking up at them. A poem of Moore’s she had used to like, but had not thought of for years, came into her mind. She stood, leaning on her stick, looking straight ahead of her, and began to repeat it: —

  “I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,

  A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on;

  I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining.

  The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.”

  She trudged along the drive to the small wooden gate and laid her hand on it almost caressingly. She had always liked this gate. Her husband and she had often stood at it together. But how cold the wood was to her hand! Still, it was more sheltered here. With an almost rapt look in her eyes she repeated the next verse: —

  “And such is the fate of our life’s early promise,

  So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;

  Each wave, that we dance on at morning, ebbs from us,

  And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.”

  “A good poem,” she thought. “My Philip used to like to hear me say it. Queer how I can remember every word of it this morning. I feel very clear-headed and strong this morning.” She turned, facing the wind, and marched back toward the porch.

  The cloud had indeed held snow. Now it came, hard and white, dancing on the wind, stinging her cheeks. The air was full of it. Its falling did not ease the bite of the wind as it sometimes does, but made it all the more bitter. She had to put her head down and struggle against it. It filled her cape, so that her body looked huge, and smote her sides. She was out of breath when she gained the porch. But she was proud of herself. She said, aloud: —

  “Not many women care to be out on a morning like this — let alone a woman of my age!”

  She stood in the shelter of the porch gazing out at the snowstorm. Some flakes hung in her shaggy eyebrows, her shoulders were white with them. She smiled a little, a smile in which there was poignant regret, but no bitterness. Still out of breath, and in a much lower tone, she continued the poem: —

  “Ne’er tell me of glories serenely adorning

  The close of our day, the calm eve of our night: —”

  Her memory failed her. She groped in her mind for the next words, while the wind, veering vindictively as though in quest of her, rushed in on her where she stood, scattering the dead leaves and carrying its weight of whiteness. She faced it, as though at bay, and the next lines returned to her. But she said them haltingly: —

  “Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,

  Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening’s best l
ight.”

  A gleam of sunlight flickered into the porch. She gave a triumphant nod of her head, but she realized that she was bitterly cold. She put her hand on the door knob and turned it. The wind, as though coming to her aid, pressed its savage weight upon the door and threw it open, pressed her into the hall.

  Try as she would she could not shut the door behind her. The terrier came snuffling from the hot stove and stood beside her. She rapped peremptorily with her stick.

  “Eliza! Eliza!” she called. “Come and shut the door!”

  Eliza hastened to her aid, crisp in her clean print dress. Her strong bony arms mastered the wind. The door shut with a bang.

  The warmth in the hall felt delicious. Adeline gave a proud grin at Eliza.

  “I’ve had a walk, Eliza,” she said. “A walk in that wind. Not many women — of my age — would do that, eh?”

  “No, indeed, ma’am! It hardly seems safe.”

  Adeline took off her lace cap and shook the snow from it. “Don’t worry, Eliza,” she said. “I’m not going to do it again. I’m stuck here in the warmth — for the winter — ha!”

  THE END

  Copyright © 2009 The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited

  First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1935.

  This 2009 edition of Young Renny is published in a new trade paperback format.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Project Editor: Michael Carroll

  Copy Editors: Kelvin Kong and Jason Karp

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

  Cataloguing and Publication Information Available from Library and Archives Canada

  De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961

  Morning at Jalna / Mazo de la Roche.