08 Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  The sun had sunk below the treetops and had left them almost instantly in a well of greenish shadow. There was no afterglow, scarcely any twilight. After the rich radiance of the sun came shadow and chill. It was like the passing of their love, he thought, and mocked at himself for being sentimental.

  “Alayne—” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, nothing—I forgot what I was going to say.” He followed her to the door. “You must have someone bring you home. It will be very dark.”

  She hesitated on the flat stone before the door. She turned suddenly to him, smiling.

  “Home!” she repeated. “It was rather nice of you to say that.”

  He came out, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Goodbye, Alayne!”

  The crows were returning to their nests from some distant field. She heard their approach beyond the orchards, first as the humming of a vast hive of bees which, as it drew nearer, swelled into a metallic volume that drowned all other sound. The air rocked with their shouts. Separate cries of those in advance became audible, raucous commands, wild shouts, vehement assertions, shrill denials—every brazen, black-feathered throat gave forth an urgent cry. They passed above the orchard, against the yellowish sky, hundreds of them, seeking the pine wood. Some battled with the air to overtake those ahead; some swam steadily with forceful movements of the wings, while others drifted with a kind of rowdy grace.

  As Alayne followed the orchard path beneath them she wondered if it were possible that in a few hours she would have left all this behind and returned to a life so alien.

  There was no mistake about the welcome from those at Jalna. Piers and Pheasant were in Montreal. Renny, although the old people said they expected him, did not appear at supper. The summer had gone like a dream, Nicholas said. A strange, sad dream, Ernest added. Augusta tried to persuade

  Alayne to go to England with her instead of returning to New York. Augusta dreaded travelling alone, she dreaded returning to her lonely house, and Alayne had never seen England! Why could she not come? Alayne felt a momentary impulse to accept the invitation. Why not go across the ocean and see if she could find forgetfulness there? But how could she forget with one of that family beside her, with constant references being made to the others? No, she could not do it. Better cut loose from them entirely, and forever. Finch played for her during the evening and she was filled with delight by the improvement in him, pride that it had been she who had persuaded Renny to have him taught. The air in the drawing-room, though subdued, was genial. It was full of a melancholy gentleness. Wakefield was allowed to take the jade and ivory curios from their cabinet to show them to Alayne, and afterward arrange them on the floor to his own satisfaction.

  Alayne had never spent such an evening at Jalna. Something in it hurt her, made her feel more acutely the impending parting. And yet the old people were cheerful. They had been pleased by a call from Mrs. Leigh. “A pretty woman, egad!” from Nicholas. “Very modern and yet so sweet, so eager to please!” from Ernest. “She was for going to hunt you out at the Hut—you and Eden—but I told her you were out. I thought it best,” from Augusta.

  Wakefield curled up beside Alayne on the sofa. He took off her rings and adorned his own small fingers with them. But when he went to replace them she shut her hand against the wedding ring.

  “I am not going to wear it any more,” she said, in a low tone.

  “But what shall I do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Aunt Augusta.”

  “What shall I do with this, Aunt?” He twirled the ring on his finger.

  Augusta replied, with dignity: “Put it in the cabinet with the curios.”

  “The very thing!” He flew to the cabinet. “Look, everybody! I’ve put it on the neck of the tiny white elephant. It’s a jolly little collar for him.”

  Alayne watched him, with a smile half humorous, half bitter. So that was the end of that! A jolly little collar for a white elephant. And the glad thrill that she had felt when it had been placed on her finger. She fidgeted on the sofa. She had waited past her time in the hope that Renny would return. Why was he avoiding her? Was he afraid? But why should he be, when it was her last night at Jalna? All day she had hugged the anticipation of the walk back to the Hut at night. For surely he would take her back through the darkness! What he might say to her on the way had been the subject of fevered speculation all day She had dressed herself, done her hair, with the thought that as he saw her that night, so would she remain in his memory. And he had taken himself away somewhere, rather than spend the evening in the room with her!

  Augusta was murmuring something about a horse— Renny—he had been so sorry—his apologies.

  “Yes? Oh, it is too bad, of course. Say goodbye to him for me.”

  “Oh, he will see you again,” said Ernest. “He’s driving you into town himself tomorrow.”

  No peace for her. The feverish speculations, the aching thoughts, would begin all over again.

  She said: “Tell him not to trouble. Finch will drive me in, won’t you, Finch?”

  “I’d like it awfully.”

  “What do you suppose, Alayne?” cried Wake. “I’ve never been on a visit.”

  “What a shame! Will you visit me some time? I’d love to have you.” She pressed him to her, on the sofa, and whispered: “Tell me, where is Renny?”

  He whispered back: “In the stables, I know, because he sent Wright to the kitchen for something, and I was there.”

  Finch was to see her back to the Hut. He ran upstairs for his electric torch.

  Alayne was enfolded in the arms of Augusta, Nicholas, and Ernest.

  Ernest said: “How shall we ever repay you for what you have done for Eden?”

  Nicholas growled: “How shall we ever make up to her for what he has done? Turned her life topsy-turvy.”

  Augusta said, holding her close: “If you change your mind about coming to England with me, just let me know. I’ll make you very welcome.”

  “I advise you not to,” said Nicholas. “She’ll freeze you in that house of hers.”

  “Indeed I shan’t! I know how to make people comfortable if anyone does. It was I who arranged the cottage for her, though Mama took all the credit.” From her was exhaled a subdued odour of the black clothes she wore, and of a hair pomade with the perfume of a bygone day.

  Finch and Alayne were out in the darkness, the beam from the electric torch thrown before her. Cold, sweet scents rose from the flower beds. The grass was dripping with dew.

  “Let us go through the pine wood,” she said. She had thought to return that way with Renny.

  They spoke little as they went along the bridle path beneath the pines. Her mind was engaged with its own unhappy thoughts. Finch’s was filled with the sadness of life, its reaching out, its gropings in the dark, its partings. It was cold under the trees. From a cluster of hazels came the troubled talking of small birds passing the night there on their migration to the South.

  Finch flashed the light among the branches, hoping to discover the small things perching. His attention was diverted to a more distant sound, as of footsteps moving among the pines.

  “What are you listening to?” whispered Alayne.

  “I thought I heard a twig break. Someone in there. Wait a second.” He left her and ran softly padding toward the sound.

  She strained her ears to listen, her eyes following the moving beam of the electric torch. The sound of Finch’s padding steps ceased. The light was blotted out. She was in black silence except for the infinitesimally delicate song of a single locust on a leaf near her. She was frightened.

  She called sharply: “Finch! What are you doing?” “Here! It was nothing.”

  The torch flashed again; he trotted back to her. “One of the men hanging about.” He thought: “Why was Renny hiding in the wood? Why didn’t he turn up at the house? If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man! Gosh, he looked like Gran!”

  The Hut lay in darkness, save for starl
ight sifting among the trees. A tenuous mist hung among their trunks, weighted with chill autumnal odours, dying leaves, fungus growths such as wood mushroom and Indian pipe, and the exhalations of deep virgin soil.

  Alayne opened the door. Dark and cold inside. Eden had gone to bed early. He might have left the lamp burning and put wood on the fire! Finch flashed the light into the interior. She found a match and lighted two candles on the table. Her face in the candlelight looked white and drawn. A great pity for her welled up in the boy’s heart. She seemed to him the loneliest being he knew. He glanced at the closed door of Eden’s room. Was Eden awake, he wondered.

  Alayne said: “Wait a minute, Finch. I must get that book I want you to read.” She went into her room. “Goodness, what a muddle I have here!”

  “Oh, thanks! But don’t trouble now.” The laundry list decorated with postage stamps caught his eye. What the dickens? He peered at it, puzzled. Some of Eden’s foolery, he’d bet. The stamps not used ones either. If they went away and left that pinned to the wall, he’d come and get the stamps.

  When she returned, after what seemed a long while to Finch, what little colour she had had in her face had been drained from it. She laid the book on the table.

  “There,” she said in a strained voice, “I hope you will like it.” She went on, with an odd contraction of her mouth, “I have just had a note from Eden.” He saw then that she had crumpled a piece of paper in her hand.

  “Oh,” he said, stupidly, his jaw dropping, “what’s he writing a note about?”

  She pushed it into his hand. “Read it.” He read:

  DEAR ALAYNE—

  After all your preparations it is I who am to flit first! And not to flit alone! Minny Ware is coming with me. Are you surprised, or have you suspected something between us? At any rate, it will be a surprise for poor old Meggie. I’m afraid I am never to have done taking favours from your sex. There is only one thing for you to do now, and that is divorce me. I am giving you good grounds—and not so impossibly scandalous as the first time. My dear child, this is the first really good turn I’ve ever done you. My withers are wrung when I think what you must have gone through this summer!

  If you and Renny don’t come together, I’ll feel that I have sinned in vain.

  We are not going to California, but to France. I shall be writing to Finch from there, so he will be able to inform your lawyer of my exact whereabouts.

  Thank you, Alayne, for your magnanimity toward me. I can say thanks on paper.

  Yours,

  EDEN.

  Finch read the letter through with so distraught an expression that Alayne burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Oh, Finch, don’t!” she gasped. “You look so funny, I can’t bear it!”

  “I don’t see anything funny about it,” he said. “I think it’s terrible.”

  “Of course it’s terrible. That’s what makes it so funny. That, and your expression!” She leaned against the wall, her hand pressed to her side, half laughing, half crying.

  He strode toward Eden’s room and flung open the door. It was in a state of disorder such as Eden alone could achieve. Alayne came and stood beside Finch, looking into the room. He could feel that she was shaking from head to foot. He put his arm about her.

  “Dear Alayne, don’t tremble so! I’m afraid you’ll be ill.”

  “I’m all right. Only I’m very tired, and Eden’s way of doing things is so unexpected!”

  “I’ll say it is! I’m the one that ought to know. He didn’t tell me he was going to take a girl with him when he borrowed the money.”

  She was bewildered. “Borrowed the money? What money?”

  “The money for the year in France. I raised it for him. But for heaven’s sake don’t tell Renny of it or I’ll get into a frightful row!”

  She ceased trembling, her face set. “He borrowed money from you —to go to France?”

  He assented, not without self-importance.

  “But, Finch, Renny was paying for a winter in California!”

  “I know. But Eden didn’t want to go to California. He wanted a year in France. He must have it because of something he’s going to write. I can’t explain. You understand how it is. You left your work and came here to nurse him because of his poetry. It makes you feel that what he is doesn’t really matter. You and I feel the same about art, I think. I hope you don’t think I’m a fool.” He was very red in the face.

  She must not hurt his feelings by deprecating his act. Ah, but Eden would never pay him the money back! She put a hand on each of his cheeks, and kissed him.

  “It was a beautiful thing to do, Finch! I’ll not tell a soul… Strange how he uses us, and then leaves us standing staring at the spot where he has been.”

  She took the letter from Finch and read it again. The colour returned to her face in a flood.

  “I wish I hadn’t let you read it. Because of—things he said. You must forget them. He’s so—ruthless.”

  Finch grunted acquiescence. Of course. That about Renny and her. Still… he stared into the deserted nest from whence the singer had flown. How desolate! How lonely it was here! No place for a woman.

  He broke out: “You can’t stop here tonight! You must come back with me.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the gruesomeness. I couldn’t stick it myself. I’ll not leave you.”

  “I would rather be here.”

  “No. It won’t do! Please come. Aunt will like to have you. There’s your old room waiting.”

  She consented. They returned.

  There were lights upstairs now, but a light still burned in the drawing-room, and from it came the sound of the piano. Nicholas was playing.

  From the hall they could see his grey leonine head and heavy shoulders bent above the keyboard. Alayne remembered with a pang that she had not asked him to play that evening, though she had urged Finch.

  He was playing Mendelssohn’s “Consolation.” When had one heard Mendelssohn! His terrier sat drooping before the fire waiting for him to come to bed.

  Finch whispered: “Shall you tell him?”

  “Yes. Wait till he has finished.”

  They stood motionless together. When the last notes had died, Alayne went to his side. He remained looking at his hands for a little, then slowly raised his eyes to her face.

  Startled by her reappearance, he exclaimed: “Alayne, my dear! What is wrong?”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “It’s nothing serious. It’s only that Eden has gone away a little sooner than I expected. He left a note at the Hut for me. Finch wouldn’t let me stay there alone—so I’m back, you see.” Her head drooped; she twisted her fingers together. Her voice was scarcely audible as she added: “He took Minny Ware with him.”

  Nicholas’s large eyes glared up at her. “The deuce he did! The scoundrel! He ought to be flogged. My poor little girl—” He heaved himself around on the piano seat and put his arm about her waist. “This is the return he makes you for all your kindness! He’s nothing but a young wastrel! Does Renny know of this?”

  “I haven’t seen Renny.” She was filled with shame at the thought of Renny. Now she did not want to see him. She would leave this house and never return to it again.

  Augusta was calling from upstairs: “Did I hear Alayne’s voice? What is wrong, Nicholas?”

  Full of excitement, he limped vigorously to the foot of the stairs.

  “Gussie!” He had not given her this diminutive for years. “Come along down, Gussie! Here’s a pretty kettle of fish. Young Eden has run off with that hussy Minny!”

  He turned to Alayne and Finch, who had followed him into the hall. “Do you know where they’ve gone?”

  Finch was getting excited, too. “To France!” he shouted, as though his uncle were deaf.

  Augusta began to descend the stairs, dressed in petticoat and camisole, a tail of hair down her back. If ever she had looked offended, she looked offended now.

&nbs
p; “Nick, you don’t mean to tell me!”

  Ernest appeared at the top of the stairs in nightshirt and dressing gown, the cat Sasha rubbing herself against his legs.

  “What’s this new trouble?” he demanded.

  Augusta on the stairs, midway between the brothers, answered: “Some scrape of Eden’s. I’m afraid that Ware girl has been leading him into mischief. Nicholas does get so excited.”

  Just as they drew together at the bottom of the stairs, and Nicholas was demanding to see Eden’s letter, and Augusta was declaring that she had always expected something like this, and Ernest was saying what a blessing it was that Mama had not lived to see this night, and Nicholas was retorting that no one enjoyed a to-do better than Mama, quick steps were heard in the porch and the door was opened by Renny.

  Before he had seen her, Alayne fled down the hall. She could not face him there before the others. She would escape to her room and not see him before morning.

  She heard his question: “What’s up?” She heard Nicholas put the situation pithily before him. He made no audible comment, but she could picture his expression, how the rustred eyebrows would fly up, the brown eyes blaze. Then she heard Augusta’s voice.

  “Alayne is here, poor girl. She is staying the night. Why, where has she gone? Alayne, dear, Renny is here!”

  She did not answer. The door of Grandmother’s room stood open; she stepped inside and drew it to after her. She was startled to find the night light burning. By its faint radiance the room was revealed to her in an atmosphere of sombre melancholy; the tarnished gilt flourishes on the wallpaper, the deep wing chair before the empty grate, the heavy curtains with their fringe and tassels, the old painted bedstead, on the headboard of which perched, above the fantastically pictured flowers and fruit, Boney his head under his wing.