01 The Building of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Philip went to drive her to the Rectory. Adeline was alone but she did not mind. She was supremely happy. There, under her own roof, with the rain pattering lightly on it, she awaited her ordeal with more of pride than fear. She was in her own house. From now on she would do what she liked. Oh, how she loved the house! It spoke to her, as though in a deep reassuring voice. It resolved itself from the chaos of building and took shape as a home about her. Echoes of footsteps sounded through it, footsteps to come; unborn voices called out to her, not only the voice of the child to whom she was about to give birth but of her children’s children. She would spend all her days here. She and the house would have many secrets together. The house would teem with life, with emotion. It would hold all together inside its walls, over which in time vines and their leaves would grow.

  XVII

  SPRINGTIME AT JALNA

  PHILIP SAID, AND said it from the bottom of his heart, that he hoped and prayed Adeline would never have another child. To say nothing of her sufferings and the risk to her life, it was too hard on him. He felt a nervous wreck after this last. The doctor had been so long in coming that it looked as though the infant might be born without his assistance. The midwife had never arrived, being engaged in another confinement. It seemed for a time that Philip and Mrs. Pink would be Adeline’s sole support. At the mere thought of such a contingency, a cold sweat broke out on him. Adeline had more than her share of endurance but, for some reason, her self-control deserted her and she cried out with every pain. Time and again she declared that she was dying. When Dr. Ramsey came at last she faced him with defiance and momentary calm. Before he did anything for her relief he told her his opinion of her actions of the morning. In half an hour the child was born.

  Though Adeline had gone through so much, her recovery was quick. This was probably because of her great content. The weather too became sunny and warm. All about her, indoors and out, the work went forward. There was jubilation among the workmen at the news of the birth in the new house. To the best of their ability they did their work quietly. When the infant was ten days old, Philip carried him out to show him to them. He was a smaller, weaker child than Nicholas had been but he had pretty features, an exquisite skin, and his eyes were like forget-me-nots. The woodsmen, horny-handed and unkempt, crowded about him. They were pleased by the fineness of his long white robe and the little lace cap he wore. He looked up at them reflectively, placing the finger tips of one hand against those of the other.

  Philip was delighted because he was the first of his children to show a resemblance to his own family. Adeline, with him on the pillow beside her, would study the small face and declare that, though his colouring was Philip’s, his features never would be. There was some discussion over his name. Philip chose Charles, his own father’s name. Adeline chose Dennis as the name least aggressively her father’s. Certainly, she declared, she would never name him after their doctor, as she had Nicholas after her loved Dr. St. Charles. But they could not decide which of his names he should go by. Each disliked the choice of the other. “Charles is a stern name,” she affirmed.

  “Nonsense,” said Philip. “It’s as agreeable a name as there is. Dennis sounds like a comical Irish story.”

  “You just show your bad feeling when you say such a thing,” she retorted. “’Tis a grand name!”

  But the problem was settled by a book Wilmott sent her. It was Ernest Maltravers, by Lord Lytton. Adeline had not read halfway through the book before she cried — “His name shall be Ernest!”

  Philip had to acknowledge that the name was a good one and Wilmott, when he came to see the infant, said that nothing could be more suitable and expressive of the tiny personality. So he was named, Ernest Charles Dennis, but continued to be called Baby, for some time.

  Philip’s heart glowed with pride when he sat by Adeline’s bed and saw her propped up on the pillows, the week-old infant snuggled in the curve of her arm, the two older children perched beside them. Adeline’s pallor brought out the superb contours of the bones of her face which would, even in age, be arresting. Her hair, massed on the pillow, made a striking background. Her white arms curved about her children with maternal satisfaction.

  The children had been brought from Vaughanlands by their nurse to inspect their baby brother for the first time. Augusta, now three years of age, sat decorously at the infant’s feet, her hands crossed in her lap, her eyes fixed in wonder on his pink face. Nicholas however was more excited by the painting on the head of the bed. The brilliant flowers and fruit with their strange sensuous beauty filled him with delight. He bounced on his plump behind, his hands now clasped ecstatically beneath his chin, now stretched out to grasp them. He laughed and shouted.

  “Dr. Ramsey says,” remarked Adeline, “that I might have a child every year without harm, if only I would take better care of myself.”

  “Not one more,” said Philip, “unless Ramsey promises to sit on our doorstep for the last month. In any case, three is enough. We have a daughter to comfort our old age. We have two sons, so we are certain of an heir. Surely you don’t want more!”

  “No. Three is enough.”

  He folded his arms on his broad chest. “I have made up my mind to one thing, Adeline. This boy, Ernest, shall be christened in our own church. Of course, you know that Pink and I have talked a good deal of the desirability of a church in the neighborhood. You remember what we went through last winter in discomfort in those long drives to the service. Now I am willing to give the land for a church and we might, with a great deal of effort, raise a fund sufficient for a poor-looking edifice. But I want a substantial church to sit in on a Sunday and, if I am to be by far the largest subscriber, I say that I might as well build the place myself. Then I shall have it as I want it and no bickering.”

  “It would take a lot of money just to build one little church.”

  “Adeline, that church will provide for your spiritual needs for the rest of your life, and for these children after you. That is not a little thing, is it?”

  “You have the Church in your blood,” she said. “I haven’t.”

  “But you would like to own a church, wouldn’t you?”

  “It would be heavenly. If I didn’t like the clergyman I should just put him out.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t do that! But — you would have a good deal of influence.”

  “But, if it were my church, I could,” she said stubbornly.

  “Once the church is consecrated it is under the jurisdiction of the bishop of the diocese.”

  The dimple flashed in her cheek. “I should attend to the bishop.”

  Their talk had been punctuated by Nicholas’s shouts. Now he became too noisy to ignore. He crept to the head of the bed to kiss the grinning face of a monkey that peered between bright blossoms. He knelt on his mother’s hair.

  “Young rascal!” exclaimed Philip, picking him up and setting him on his knee. He took out his great gold watch and held it to Nicholas’s ear.

  “Ga — ga — ga — ga!” shouted Nicholas, his eyes dancing like stars.

  “You see,” said Philip, “the time is as propitious as ever it will be for building a church. I have the men on the spot. I have the money to spare. Large amounts of material left over from the building of the house and barn can be utilized. The Rector has a book of excellent plans for churches in the Colonies where there are not great sums of money available. It will be an unpretentious building but, in time, as the community grows it can be added to. The Rector is most enthusiastic, as there are a good many of the poorer people who seldom have the opportunity of attending a service. You can imagine how they would welcome a church and a parish room where they could meet and be sociable.”

  “Ga — ga — ga!” shouted Nicholas. “Ga — ga!”

  “My sister would be tremendously pleased. I am sure she would send a substantial donation. I should screw something out of the Dean also.”

  “If you think you will get anything out of my people, you’re
mistaken,” said Adeline.

  “I had no such thought,” he returned.

  “But my mother would embroider a beautiful altar cloth.”

  “That would be very nice.”

  “My grandfather might give a pair of silver candlesticks.”

  “I doubt if candles on the altar would be acceptable. The Rector is against ritualism.”

  “Ga — ga — ga — ga!” said Nicholas, violently shaking the watch, then biting on it.

  Philip returned it to his pocket. He rose, took his elder son beneath the arms, and tossed him in the air. Nicholas’s face became a mask of hysterical delight. He would not have minded if he had been tossed clear into the sky.

  Adeline smiled lazily, her hand rhythmically patting the back of her last-born. Gussie was enraptured. She scrambled down from the bed and ran to her father and clasped him about the legs. If any hard feeling existed between them, it was now forgotten.

  “Me too!” she shrieked. “Gussie too!”

  Philip set Nicholas on the floor and snatched up Gussie. He tossed her up and caught her. Again and again. Higher and higher, till she almost touched the ceiling. At each upward flight she uttered a cry of mingled fright and joy. Her dark curls stood on end. Her dress of pale blue merino, cut low at the neck and with short sleeves, blew out like a little balloon. Her tiny kid-clad feet hung helpless beneath her white pantalettes.

  Adeline lay laughing at them. Nicholas pouted a little. But Ernest kept his forget-me-not blue eyes fixed on space and the tips of his pink fingers just touching.

  “Stop,” said Adeline at last. “You will make her giddy.”

  He desisted but before he put her down he gave her a hearty kiss on the mouth.

  “Little daughter!” he said. “Little daughter!”

  When he had led the children away to their nurse Adeline lay still, savouring her happiness. She lay on her embroidered pillows, relaxed but not drowsy, her difficult undertaking of giving birth accomplished, a thousand pleasant things waiting to be done as soon as she had the strength to do them. Her mind travelled back over her past life and she felt that she really must have lived quite a long time to have experienced so much. There were the young, untrammeled, headstrong days in Ireland, full of the sound of boys’ voices, the music of the hunting horn, the drift of fine rain against green leaves. There was her married life in India, the bold bright colour of it, the passion of her love for Philip, her friendship with native princes. It began to seem strangely unreal. She thought of the voyage from India and remembered rising early one hot morning, having a glimpse of Philip stripped on the deck while two sailors dashed buckets of cold water over him. She remembered the pleased look on the faces of the sailors. None had seen her looking on.

  She thought she would have a lilac tree planted outside the window of this room. Lilac had such a lovely scent in springtime. Mrs. Pink had promised her a root of it, as well as other garden plants. She would have flowers all about the place and an orchard with fruit of all sorts. She would plant a peach tree and a grapevine and ask Captain Lacey to show her how to make peach brandy and grape wine.

  Oh, how she wised she were able to unpack the chest of ivory and jade ornaments! And she was able — if only Dr. Ramsey would let her! Suddenly she grew restless. She tossed herself on the pillows. Was she to lie here forever, doing nothing? The infant was sunk in deep, almost prenatal slumber.

  Half an hour later she was in her clothes, with the exception of her stays. But she had put on her linen chemise, her long, lace-edged drawers, her hand-knit silk stockings with clocks on the sides, her white flannel petticoat, her voluminous finely tucked cambric petticoat, her dark red skirt with flounces edged with ruby-coloured velvet ribbon, her little sacque with lawn and lace undersleeves, her gaily embroidered Indian slippers. She felt oddly weak when she had finished dressing and did not attempt to arrange her hair. It hung to her waist in a rich russet mane. She opened the door and looked into the hall. Then she cast a backward glance at Ernest. At this moment there was no tenderness in it. He had been with her too much. She wanted to get away from him.

  Though she felt a little giddy there was an exhilarating lightness in her body as she moved along the hall. In the dining room she saw the heavy cornices above the windows waiting for curtains to be hung. She saw the massive sideboard and dining table, the chairs from the house in the Rue. St. Louis not arranged but standing just where they had been uncrated. She would have yellow velours curtains for this room, with heavy cords and tassels. Already richly embossed wallpaper from France had been ordered in Quebec. She stood for a moment, caressing the satin smoothness of the newel post, while her eyes roved speculatively from the library on her left to the drawing-room on her right. She smiled to think that Philip insisted on having a library, because there had been one in his home in England. They had brought few books with them but she was fond of reading. They would acquire a good collection in time. The light from the coloured glass windows on either side of the front door cast bright patches of green, purple, and red over her. What lovely windows, she thought, and they had been her very own idea! By their brightness she saw that the sky had cleared. The sun was shining. She opened the door and stepped into the porch. She found herself face to face with Dr. Ramsey.

  He reddened with anger. “Mrs. Whiteoak, how dare you!” he exclaimed, taking off his hat and throwing it on the floor of the porch.

  She had known he had a temper but such an exhibition of it filled her with amusement. She clung to the door handle, laughing at him.

  “How dare you!” he repeated. “I have given my permission for you to be up in your own room in two days and here you are in the porch! And alone! Let me tell you, you may bring on trouble that will keep you in bed for weeks.”

  “I’m as right as rain,” she said, using the new slang of the period.

  He looked down at his hat as though he had a mind to kick it. Then he said, still looking at it: —

  “If you feel so capable of looking after yourself, you may do so at your next confinement.”

  “There is not going to be another,” she answered, loftily.

  He gave an ironic smile. “You tell me that — a passionate woman like you!” Now his eyes were on her.

  “I have a husband who considers my health,” she returned, still more loftily.

  “Does he give you permission to ignore my orders?”

  “I do what I like!”

  “Well, you shall go back to bed now.”

  “I will not.”

  “You shall!”

  “I defy you!”

  He caught her by the arms and turned her round. His grip was like iron. For a moment she felt helpless, then she threw her weight against his shoulder and stretching up her hand took a handful of his rather long, wiry hair.

  “Will you loose me!” she panted.

  He gave a little excited laugh. With a sharp intake of breath, he bent his head and kissed her lips.

  Both stood motionless a space. They heard a light step on the newly spread gravel of the drive. Dr. Ramsey picked up his hat and, still more flushed, turned to face Daisy Vaughan. She was astonished by the sight of Adeline.

  “Why, Mrs. Whiteoak — you up!” she cried. “How lovely!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “And how well you look! You have an enchanting colour. Hasn’t she, Dr. Ramsey?” She gave him an intent look.

  “Quite,” he returned stiffly.

  There was a somewhat embarrassing silence but it was soon broken by Daisy’s exclaiming: —

  “What do you suppose has happened? Kate Busby has eloped with Mr. Brent! Her father is in a towering rage and says he will never forgive her. Do you think he ever will. Dr. Ramsey?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I think an elopement is so romantic. Nothing would hinder me from marrying the man I loved. I would fly with him to the ends of the earth. Everyone seems to think Mr. Brent is a quite good match, even though his means are un
certain. What do you think of such infatuation, Dr. Ramsey? I’ll wager you disapprove of it.”

  “I’m in no position to judge anyone’s conduct,” he returned.

  Adeline’s eyes were laughing at him. She leant against the stone wall of the porch, folding her arms. “Both parties are lucky,” she said. “They’ll make a nice pair.”

  “I’m so glad you think so,” said Daisy. ”But I wish there had been a wedding. Even though I shall never be a bride I should love to be a bridesmaid.”

  “You’ll be a bride without doubt,” said Adeline.

  A faint cry came from her bedroom. She turned her eyes in that direction with something of the expression of a fine Persian cat, aloof yet attentive to the cry of its young.

  “Oh, the darling baby!” cried Daisy, darting down the hall and throwing herself on her knees by the side of the bed. “Oh you darling, angelic little Ernest!” She clasped him to her breast. But she had nothing he wanted. He continued to cry.

  He thrived in the weeks that followed and continued to be an object of great interest to all about, for he had set the seal of birth on the new house. Nicholas found himself of less consequence.

  Frequently Gussie was set to minding Nicholas, amusing him while the baby slept. Though so young, she had a capable way with her and often he would do her bidding. But, when he set his will against hers, she had no power to control him. He would shout and scream in her face. He would pull her curls. He now weighed more than she and would push her aside to grasp a toy or reach his mother’s knee. Gussie loved little Ernest. He was sweeter than her best doll. But she did not love Nicholas. There were times when she liked him very much but there were other times when she would have liked to get rid of him.

  On a warm bright morning in May the nurse had set Nicholas in his perambulator on the grass. It was near the ravine where passing workmen might amuse him, or the flight of returning birds. They came in great numbers, in clouds, filling the air with their song. Always there was some living thing to watch at Jalna.