Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “I think you are quite justified, Humphrey, and I wish you all the luck in the world. It would be fun having you for a nephew.”

  Bell left, striding purposefully to seek out his beloved.

  An hour later he returned, leading Patience by the hand. His silvery fair hair was standing on end, his harebell-blue eyes were dancing in triumph. He looked, in fact, charming.

  “I did it,” he cried. “I did it and she said yes! what do you think of that?”

  Patience added, in her soft contralto voice, “It was the strangest proposal you can imagine. He came up to me where I was plaiting a pony’s forelock and he said, right out of the blue, ‘I guess you could hardly do worse for yourself than to marry me.’”

  “Wonderful!” cried Finch. “No need to ask what you said.”

  “May I tell him?” Bell delightedly asked of Patience.

  “Go ahead,” she said, still holding his hand.

  “She said, ‘The worst with you would be better than the best with any other man.’”

  “I had to get him out of his inferiority complex,” said Patience.

  Finch was genuinely happy for them. The three sat talking over plans for the future. Patience soon made it clear that she did not want a long engagement. They would get rid of the Chases, prepare the small house for their own occupation, get married, and move in.

  “So, after all,” she said, “I shall not be coming to live with you, Uncle Finch. There’ll just be Mummy. She is so looking forward to coming here. When do you think you will be ready for her?”

  “Quite soon,” he answered easily, then added in a somewhat lugubrious tone, “It’ll be fun.”

  The telephone rang. When Finch answered it, Piers’s voice demanded, “Is Patience there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d like to know why she doesn’t come to feed the sick calf.”

  “Listen, Piers — the girl has just got engaged.”

  “Again! Well, I’ll be damned! To whom?”

  “To Humphrey Bell.”

  “That lily-livered bird!”

  “He is a particularly nice fellow. For my part, I’m very well pleased.”

  “This calf” — Piers spoke emphatically — “is a valuable one. It’s sick. It won’t take its food from anyone but Patience. It loves her.”

  “So does Bell and not with calf-love.”

  “Send her to the phone.”

  Obediently Finch returned to the engaged pair. They were holding hands. An aura of bliss surrounded them.

  But when Patience, in deep concern for the calf, had run off, Bell turned to Finch and said, “You know, I don’t think this should be allowed to go on. This engagement, I mean.”

  “B-but, Humphrey,” stammered Finch, “you — both of you looked so happy. I thought —”

  “So did I.”

  “Then what’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing new. But — I can’t help thinking. Well, a novelist — a story-writer — what’s he got to offer a girl? Besides — look at me! why, I’m almost an albino! And she’s so splendid. If only I might have looked like your brother, Wakefield! Tall and dark, and what a profile, and what eyes!”

  “Look here, Humphrey, I’m willing to bet that if Patience had the power she wouldn’t alter one feature of you, least of all your creative ability. She’s very proud of you as an artist.”

  Reassured, in spite of himself, Humphrey Bell departed, his head buzzing with plans, the felicity of the day almost overpowering him.

  Left alone, Finch sat for a while at the piano playing softly to himself. He played a little secret air that might have sounded meaningless to a listener but to Finch was full of a subtle significance. Over and over he played it, till at last it merged into the whisper of the leaves, the song of the locusts that came through the open window.

  Then he rose from the piano seat and went outdoors. He stood, enjoying the sight of his little ivory-coloured house set so elegantly against the vivid hues of the autumn foliage. None of the family, he thought, appreciated it. They looked on it as rather a pitiful successor to the solid brick house that once had stood there. But it suited him. It suited him perfectly. He revelled in the delicious monotony of his days. In the fall of the year he usually faced a long series of concert engagements, but this year he was free. He was his own man.

  He went through the gate at the end of his vegetable garden and into the grounds of Jalna. He passed the two bungalows, built by the former owner of his house, which were occupied by the families of men who worked in the Jalna stables. He passed the stables. He followed the path through the orchards, stopping long enough to put a ruddy apple into each of his jacket pockets. He crossed the fields, where a mist of Michaelmas daisies surrendered to the bright blaze of goldenrod and black-eyed Susan. A flock of tiny birds were twittering the forecast of their southward flight. He climbed the gate on the side road where the church was, and there, coming out of the church, was the very man he wanted to see — the Rector, Mr. Fennel.

  Mr. Fennel did not change. He always looked the same — solid, benign, as much a part of the church as its steeple. He had talents which might well have advanced him to a position of some importance, but he was quite without ambition and found all the excitement his nature craved in this backwater. He had been a widower for two years.

  “Good afternoon, Finch,” he called out genially. “what wonderful weather after all the rain! Are you going anywhere in particular or would you like to come and take tea with me?”

  “There is nothing I’d like so well,” said Finch, and they fell into step on the way to the Rectory.

  “Of course, you have heard the news,” said Mr. Fennel.

  “I have, and very pleased I am. Humphrey needs a wife like Patience to bring him out.”

  “I hope she’ll bring him out to church.”

  “Oh, she’ll do that.”

  “A dear sweet girl,” said Mr. Fennel.

  “She ought to be, with the mother she has.”

  “what a woman!” Mr. Fennel’s face glowed. “what a tower of strength she has been to me through the years! Never too busy to help with the church work. Always able to enlist the help of even the most tepid members of the congregation. She has a wonderful talent for getting the best out of people.”

  Mr. Fennel opened the low gate that Finch had so often swung on as a small boy, and they passed into the garden of the Rectory.

  “I suppose it means a great deal,” said Finch, “for a man in your position to have the right sort of wife.”

  “It does indeed.” Mr. Fennel drew a deep sigh. “I sorely miss my own dear wife.”

  In the comfortable dining room the Rector’s housekeeper had high tea awaiting him: thick bread and butter, two poached eggs, a cottage cheese, maple syrup, and a johnny-cake, crisp-crusted and hot from the oven. Certainly the man appeared to be well looked after.

  “You must have these eggs,” said Mr. Fennel. “And my housekeeper will do others for me.”

  “I couldn’t possibly. I’ve promised to go to Jalna for dinner. But I’d like some johnny-cake. It’s ages since I have tasted it.” He took a square of it and drowned it in maple syrup.

  Over the second cup of tea Finch remarked, “Perhaps you may marry again some time, sir.”

  “Never, never.” The Rector spoke in fervent denial; a little later he leaned back in his chair and gave Finch an almost coy look. “I’m too old,” he said. “Don’t you think I’m too old?’’

  Finch stared his denial of this. “Too old? Not at all. In fact, if you are getting on a bit there’s all the more reason. A wife — of the right sort — would be of enormous help to you. In your work. In companionship.”

  “I have lived like this,” said the Rector, “for two years and three months.”

  “Indeed, so you have.” Finch’s expressive eyes gave him a look of tender pity. He repeated, “Two years and three months.”

  It was a long while since the Rector had felt so sorry
for himself.

  “There’s nothing so comforting as a sweet wife in one’s house,” said Finch.

  “And you are a widower yourself.” Mr. Fennel beamed in sympathy. He quite forgot that Finch had been divorced for some time before his wife’s death. “Ah, my boy, you should marry again.”

  “Set me the good example,” laughed Finch.

  “It’s a new thought to me. A quite staggering thought. But I acknowledge that I sometimes do feel lonely.”

  “That’s bad for you. Very bad. It’s bad for anyone.” Finch had become deeply serious. “The one I feel sorriest for,” he went on, “is Meg. Often I find her quite depressed from loneliness. She’s such a dear — not at all given to self-pity, but it will be still lonelier for her.”

  “But she tells me she is to live with you.”

  “That’s true. She is — but —” Now Finch looked downcast indeed. “I’m afraid that’s not going to make things much happier for her. Between you and me I’m not easy to get on with. Artistic temperament, you know. Up in the clouds or down in the depths. I try to overcome it, but I can’t. And sometimes I’m irritable, I know. Ready to snap anyone’s head off if I’m interrupted. I try to control it, but I’m not able to. Sometimes I play the piano for five hours a day. Sometimes it’s modern music, with the loud pedal down. Do you like modern music?”

  “I loathe it,” said Mr. Fennel.

  “So does Meggie.”

  “Hmph. It doesn’t sound very pleasant for your sister.”

  “Well,” said Finch, “I’m perhaps picturing myself worse than I am. And Meg is so sweet-tempered, we are bound to get on.”

  “I’ve always greatly admired her.”

  “And she you.”

  At this Mr. Fennel appeared lost in thought.

  On the way home Finch’s spirits were strangely exhilarated. He threw back his head and took deep breaths of the autumn-scented air. He did not trouble to open the five-barred gate but vaulted over it. He picked a little flower and put it in his buttonhole. When he reached home he sat down at the piano and played the same mysterious little tune which he had invented earlier in the day.

  XXI

  Wedding Bells and Plighted Troth

  A FORTNIGHT LATER,When the family were collected at Jalna for Sunday lunch, Meg took up a position of importance in the wing chair in which her grandmother had always sat. It was not that she had never before sat in it, but that on this occasion she had herself ranged the other chairs in such a position that they appeared to be set for an audience. The weather was cold and the first large fire of the season blazed on the hearth. Meg wore an attractive black and white dress and had had her hair done at the hairdresser’s.

  Renny gave her an admiring look from where he sat, with his coffee cup in his hand. “Youlook nice,” he said, “very nice indeed. Is that a new dress?”

  “It is, and the first new dress I’ve bought in ages.”

  “It’s very becoming. You look ten years younger in it. Don’t you think so, Alayne?”

  “I do indeed. There’s something very enlivening in a new dress.”

  Somehow the adjective did not quite please Meg. She remarked, “Then you should be continually enlivened. You get so many.”

  “Me?” cried Alayne. “No woman could buy fewer clothes than I and look respectable.”

  “what about me?” exclaimed Pheasant. “I have had only one new dress in a year. The one Maurice bought me.”

  “You wear slacks and riding breeches so much of the time,” said Alayne. “And look so well in them.”

  Meg now waved this discussion aside with a gesture of her plump hand. “I set out,” she said, “to decide what sort of wedding Patience is to have.”

  But Renny had sprung up, caught her hand in his and was examining it. “where is your wedding ring?” he demanded.

  “That?” she murmured absently. “I’ll explain later. First I think we should decide about Patience’s wedding — whether it is to be formal or small and just the family.”

  “I should think Patience is the one to decide that,” said Christian.

  “Patience,” said that girl’s mother, “will be glad to do what we decide on.”

  “The quieter the better so far as I am concerned,” said Patience.

  “I don’t agree,” said Renny. “I think we should make a splash of it. You are the first girl of the family to marry.”

  “With Adeline it would be different,” said Meg. “Adeline is the only daughter of the eldest son. If Adeline’s bridegroom had been the one we expected him to be” — tactfully she omitted mentioning Fitzturgis’s name — “he was a man whose appearance would well become a formal ceremony; but Humphrey — though he is a nice-looking young man and I like him immensely, and even though blondness is so fashionable — he has an appearance which, it seems to me, goes better with a quiet ceremony. Patience and I will be glad to know what you all think.”

  “Certainly a quiet wedding would save money,” said Piers, with a wink at Finch.

  “Money is no object,” said Meg, looking noble.

  “Money no object!” Piers roared with laughter.

  Meg gave him a look of sorrow rather than anger. “How you spoil things, Piers, by your strange insinuations! Everybody here knows that I would gladly spend my last dollar to give my daughter a showy wedding if she wanted it.”

  “These ostentatious modern weddings,” said Alayne, “seem to me in rather bad taste when the young couple are probably going to creep into a couple of rooms and eat out of tins.”

  “Contra bonos mores,”observed Archer, who was going back to school the following day.

  “I think,” said Finch, “that as Patience wants a quiet wedding she should have one, but I should like to see her in a pretty wedding dress and veil.”

  “I agree,” said Maurice, and other assenting voices were added to his.

  “Shall we call it settled then?” asked Meg, as though she were rather anxious to have the matter settled. “Still,” she hesitated, “is it not possible that Patience, being a largish girl, would, in bridal array, rather overshadow Humphrey?”

  “‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’” said Renny.

  “what will Humphrey wear?” asked Archer.

  “He’ll hire a morning suit,” said Patience.

  “And shall you hire your outfit?”

  “No. Mine must be bought.”

  “And you’ll have it on your hands for the rest of your days?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mercy!” said Archer.

  “I,” said Renny, “shall buy the wedding dress and give the wedding reception here at Jalna.”

  Alayne tried to smile happily at this. Piers, with laughter in his eyes, was watching her.

  Meg rose, went to Renny and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, dear brother,” she said, then turned to Patience. “Thank Uncle Renny, dear. Give him a big hug and kiss.”

  Feeling like a five-year-old, Patience obediently bent over Renny. He reached out and took her on his knee. They kissed. “A long time,” he said, “since I have dandled Patience. And what a solid girl! Lord, I’ll bet you weigh more than Humphrey.”

  Meg beamed on the two of them.

  “Now,” she said, “I have something startling to tell you, so hold yourselves ready for a surprise.”

  All faces were turned toward her.

  She blushed in true Victorian fashion. “It’s about the Rector and me. We’re going ... we’ve decided ... oh, really I can’t tell you.... Can’t you guess?”

  Either they could not or would not. “Out with it,” Renny ordered her. “We can’t endure this suspense.”

  “Mr. Fennel and I are going to marry.”

  If Meg had wanted to create a sensation she had her wish.

  “I’m delighted,” said Alayne. “I think it’s a splendid idea.” She also had a smile of congratulation for Finch.

  “Splendid,” said Piers. “which of you thought of it first?”


  “I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” from Pheasant.

  “You’re a perfect wife for a clergyman,” added Finch. He went to her and hugged her, thinking what a success he would have been in the diplomatic service.

  The younger members of the family were astonished and a little embarrassed by this venture into the realm of love and marriage which they considered their own.

  Renny, one arm encircling Patience, held out the other to Meg. “Come and sit on my other knee,” he said. “I dote on you both.”

  Meg came at once and plumped herself on his other knee. He clasped and kissed her, but after a few moments of this double weight he pushed them from him, exclaiming:

  “Poor little Humphrey! Poor old Fennel! Upon my word, they’ll need all their strength.”

  “There’s nothing so nice” — Piers showed his white teeth, laughing — “as a little light wife to sit on a fellow’s knee when he has only one leg.”

  “I have a little light wife,” said Renny, stretching out a yearning hand toward Alayne. “A lively little light wife.”

  Alayne gave him a repressive look. Whereupon with dignity he remarked that the health of the prospective brides must be drunk. “Archer,” he told his son, “go to the dining room and bring the tallest decanter — the one with the chipped stopper — and enough glasses for everyone. This is a great occasion.” Archer went.

  “what about your house, Meg?” asked Piers.

  She gave a complacent sigh. “It all works out so beautifully. Humphrey and Patience will want his house for themselves. The Chases are going to rent my house furnished. I, of course, will move into the Rectory.”

  “Splendid,” exclaimed Renny. “I’ll wager that the dear old Rector is happy. It will seem funny, Meg, to see you with a husband wearing a beard.”

  “why does Mr. Fennel wear a beard?” asked Adeline.

  “As a very young man he went to the far north as a missionary,” answered Meg, “and grew it to protect his throat. Ever since he has clung to it.”