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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “A strange thing to cling to,” observed Christian.

  “I don’t agree,” said Pheasant. “I think that clinging to a beard is quite understandable.”

  “I’ll grow one,” declared Piers.

  Meg folded her arms and looked as firm as she was able, considering the soft contours of her face. “I have told Rupert that I cannot marry a man with a beard.”

  Everyone looked astonished. Piers asked, “what is he going to do about it?”

  “He is going to cut it off.”

  She spoke so calmly, yet there was almost consternation in the room. That beard which the family had seen, Sunday after Sunday, since childhood, spread fanwise over the breast of his surplice!

  “I thought the man had more character,” said Piers sadly.

  “He fondled it in church with a pensive air,” observed Finch.

  “It shows,” said Renny, “how badly he wants her when he will sacrifice his beard.”

  “After this,” said Piers, “anything may happen.”

  “I wonder,” said Pheasant, “how Mr. Fennel came to be named Rupert — it’s a lovely name.”

  Meg beamed. “His father was a missionary in Prince Rupert’s Land. It was named after Prince Rupert, and the parents liked the name so well they gave it to their son.”

  Archer now returned with the decanter of sherry and the glasses on a large silver tray.

  “He’s a perfect waiter,” Christian whispered to Adeline. “I’ve always said so. Poor Aunt Alayne! what a disappointment for her.”

  “Archie,” said his father, “come and congratulate your Aunty Meg.”

  “Mercy!” said Archer. He went and shook hands with Meg, who drew him into her arms and gave him a tender kiss.

  At this time Humphrey Bell arrived for lunch. Glasses were filled and a health drunk to the prospective brides and bridegroom. The family circle opened to admit Bell, and shyly he took his place in it. He looked singularly happy. Yet when the lively meal was over he drew Patience aside into the library and said:

  “There’s still time for you to get out of this engagement, Patience dear, if you want to.”

  “Do you want to get out of it, Humphrey?”

  “Never. But I thought ... I wondered if you ...”

  “Oh, dearest — just to have you here at Jalna — as one of us — to know that we belong to each other — makes me so happy.” She took his hand and raised it to her cheek.

  In fact all the family liked Humphrey Bell. In his unostentatious way he became one of them, as Fitzturgis, so strongly individualistic, failing in his efforts to fit a square peg into a round hole, could never have done. So much had been expected of Fitzturgis. Bell was looked on as a sweet-tempered, rather lovable oddity who possibly had it in him to write something that would add lustre to his name.

  Less than a week later Mr. Fennel appeared with shaven face. Renny, walking on the country road, met him face to face and did not recognize him. They passed, then Mr. Fennel turned and called after Renny in a high falsetto voice quite unlike his own, “Pardon me, sir, but can you tell me if I am on the road that leads to St. John’s Church?”

  Renny wheeled and strode back to him. “You are going in the opposite direction.” he said. “You must....” Then his voice faltered; he stared and broke out, “Mr. Fennel — you — without a beard! I never believed you’d do it. By Judas, you look wonderful!”

  “You think it’s an improvement?” asked the Rector, embarrassed yet rather pleased with himself.

  Renny viewed him full face, then in profile. “You look nothing short of a bishop,” he declared, “and if they don’t make you one after this, I miss my guess.”

  “My dear fellow,” laughed Mr. Fennel, then added seriously, “The difficulty is appearing before the congregation on Sunday morning.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll grow a beard that will take their mind off you. Mine would be fiery red, I’ll wager.”

  In truth the congregation were almost as surprised by the disappearance of the Rector’s beard as they were by the announcement of his engagement to Meg. It was universally agreed that both changes were for the better. Meg was looked upon as the perfect wife for a clergyman.

  It was decided that Patience’s marriage to Bell should take place in December, and that of Meg to the Rector early in the spring. Someone had suggested a double wedding, but Meg declared it would take her all the winter to prepare her house for the removal and the letting. In the meantime the young couple were to live with her. Often she condoled with Finch for having failed him.

  This autumn was a successful one for Renny. East Wind more than lived up to the high hopes for him. He was not a temperamental horse. He took races, as it were, in his stride. With his big body, on which was set his beautiful head, he fairly gambolled over the course. The confusion of a bad start did not trouble him. A piece of paper blown across his path did not cause him to swerve. Straight ahead, in a glory of speed, seeming to enjoy it, he won race after race. In the most important race of the season he defeated the favourite. Renny took him to Kentucky and he was victorious in a great race there. All this good luck, to him who had so often experienced the reverse, put Renny into high good spirits.

  Adeline accompanied him on these occasions. He was delighted to have her with him, to be able to take her to the sort of hotels he considered suitable for his daughter. He devoted himself to her — to charm her into the obliterating of Fitzturgis from her mind. Sometimes he succeeded, but there were times when that scene by the lake rose before her with tragic distinctness and she would hear herself give a little moan of pain. Strangely the wild anger she had felt slept in her breast and only the pain was awake, ready still to stir. Once, in the dining room of a hotel, she glimpsed a face that set her pulses thumping. She could not swallow, she could not speak, but sat staring transfixed. Then the man, as though he were conscious of her eyes on him, turned and looked at her. It was a quite different face, not comparable to his in fineness or attraction, she thought, and realized in herself both disappointment and relief. It came to her as a shock, filling her with wonder, for she had never yet analyzed her emotions, that if the man had been Fitzturgis she would have sprung from her seat, gone to him, forgiven him. Nothing could have stopped her. Yet the idea of writing to him, of making an effort to heal the breach between them, never entered her mind. She had sent him off, she was done with him. He had not, since leaving, written to her. Surely if he had loved her deeply he would have written, begged for forgiveness. She had not, in truth, expected a letter from him.

  * * *

  When the time for the wedding of Patience and Bell drew near Meg asked her daughter whether Roma was to be invited.

  “No,” Patience said firmly. “I don’t want her at my wedding.”

  “But we cannot treat Roma like that. It would be too unkind and would look so small-minded to the rest of the family and very strange to our friends.”

  “I don’t want her.”

  “You should be grateful to her, dear, for getting Norman out of the way to make room for Humphrey.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.... If you think she should be invited, let’s do it.”

  Roma was invited, and Roma came, bringing with her a handsome New York handbag as a present to Patience. Somehow the family had expected her to be different, to have about her the air of the great metropolis. They were prepared to see Roma elegantly trigged out in expensive clothes. They felt sure that she would be foolishly extravagant with the legacy from Nicholas.

  But Roma looked exactly the same. She went up to her old bedroom at Meg’s, hung up her things in the clothes cupboard, hummed a little tune, just as though she had never been away. She was charming to Humphrey, was pleasant to everyone, though a little pensive in the presence of Adeline, a little puzzled, as though she wondered why Adeline treated her with such coldness.

  Adeline was bridesmaid to Patience, little Mary was flower girl. Renny gave the bride away. White chrysanthemums deco
rated the church, which was filled not only by the guests but by farmers and the working people of the neighbourhood, for everyone liked Patience. Mr. Fennel, clean-shaven, looked so different from the Rector of old that Pheasant almost questioned whether the ceremony were legal. Humphrey was so nervous that he persisted in trying to place the ring on the wrong finger. But finally the two were united and the bridegroom kissed the bride with a strange gaiety, as though to imply that they were now in for it and that, on his part, he had cast humility to the winds. As for little Mary, who had so valiantly led the procession, followed by Adeline, in a primrose-yellow dress, then by the bride on Renny’s arm, little Mary bent her golden head over her basket of flowers and shed an unseen tear or two. But, if her tears were unseen, certainly Meg’s were not. No Victorian mother ever wept more feelingly over the loss of a daughter. Yet Patience was marrying a man whom Meg liked, and the pair would live within a stone’s throw of the Rectory.

  On the way to Jalna after the ceremony Renny remarked to Meg, for they were driving in the same car, “I hope that when your time comes you’ll not disgrace us all by blubbering throughout the service.”

  “It will be an entirely different thing,” she cried hotly. “Being married oneself is not like losing one’s only daughter. And besides, when I saw Rupert” — she now called the Rector Rupert — “standing there, looking so beautiful in his clean surplice and his clean-shaven face, and realized how soon....” She began again to weep.

  “Do you mean,” he said, “you were thinking how soon the surplice would get soiled and how soon the Rector will grow another beard? For he can, you know, and probably will, as soon as you’re married.”

  “Never. I shall never let him!”

  They were now turning into the driveway. From other cars people began pouring into the house. A contingent of Humphrey’s relations had arrived from New Brunswick. One and all thought his bride an attractive girl, and several of them wondered what she saw in him.

  Wakefield had been unable to come to the wedding as he was on a tour through the United States in a successful play. He was playing male lead to an established actress. His own position in the theatre seemed secured. He sent one of the most admired presents received by the pair and a telegram so amusing that when it was read aloud the guests broke into genuine applause. The wedding was indeed a happy occasion. Meg dried her tears, and she and the Rector, standing side by side, for their engagement had been announced, were almost as much congratulated as the bride and groom. Renny, as the bride’s guardian, made a lively and pungent speech. Referring to the bride’s father as his dearest friend, he all but brought Meg to the point of tears again, but in consideration for the Rector she restrained them. Renny had the advantage of an incisive voice, a physical magnetism, and appearance which added point and raciness to what he said. Mr. Fennel spoke felicitously, recalling how he had baptized Patience, who had not once cried; how he had prepared her for confirmation, performed the ceremony at her wedding. He even hinted, amid great applause, that he was soon to take on a new relationship toward her. Yet it was Maurice, as best man, who made the best speech. None of the family had believed it was in him to make such a speech — so warm, so eloquent, so poetic. Pheasant was so proud of him that she could scarcely restrain herself from open demonstration of her pride and tenderness. His brothers (for it was the first day of the Christmas holidays and Christian and Philip were present) were proud of him. Piers was proud of him.

  Adeline said to him at the first opportunity, “You were splendid, Mooey. When I was listening to you I felt that you could do anything you wanted — if you chose to try.”

  “I could do anything with you beside me.” He spoke close to her ear because of the din of talk. His cheek touched the fine hair at the temple.

  The bridegroom also spoke. With literary care he had composed his speech. He had carefully memorized it, so there should be no haltings, no stammering — and there were not. However, he uttered the speech in so low a tone that it was practically inaudible, yet everybody was so in sympathy with him that when he smiled at a little witticism he had made they all smiled too.

  Maurice had been firm in his promise not to drink — that is, up to this day he had been firm. But there were healths to drink and champagne to drink them in. Flushed, laughing, happy in his success as a speaker, happier still in Adeline’s praise, he was carried away, his resolve melted. By the time the married pair had driven off in a car stormed by confetti he was uncertain in everything he said or did. Only one certainty was left him and that was that he must leave before Adeline noticed his condition. He saw Finch and went to him.

  “Uncle Finch,” he said, “I want to spend the night with you. I c-can’t go home. Do you mind?”

  “Of course, old man — I’ll be glad to have you. I’ll bring round my car and take you over whenever you like. What about going up to my old room here and resting for a bit?”

  Maurice gave a dazed laugh. “Two flights of stairs! I couldn’t do it. For God’s sake take me now.”

  Piers strolled up. He looked his son over.

  “Tight, eh?” he remarked, not unsympathetically.

  “He thinks,” said Finch, “he’d like to spend the night with me.”

  “Good idea. We don’t want him at home like this.”

  “He’d like to go now.”

  “Right. Get him out of the way before his mother sees him.”

  Maurice stood, swaying a little, a troubled smile on his face.

  Piers took his arm and walked beside him, as though in confidential conversation, to the porch.

  “Explain to Aunt Alayne,” said Maurice. “Tell her I have a headache.”

  “I will.”

  Finch was in his car on the drive. Piers said to him, as Maurice sank into the back seat, “Make him go to bed. Don’t let him drink any more.” He added in a lower tone, “Damned good speech he made, wasn’t it?”

  Adeline had not seen the departure. At that moment Archer was asking her, under cover of the babble of voices, “I wonder why there are so many flowers and so much ceremony and, after that, eating and drinking, both at funerals and weddings.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “I guess —” His eyes did not leave her face. He seemed to be watching for the effect of his words. “I guess it’s to hide what’s really going on.”

  “You,” she told him, “should always wear a wreath of flowers on your head — to hide what’s going on in it.”

  Alayne was passing, and, seeing them apparently engaged in a pleasant interchange, asked, “Enjoying yourselves, darlings?”

  “Oh yes, Mummy,” they both agreed.

  Dennis, in his best dark-blue suit and white shirt, had, as so often, been hovering near Finch, had heard him agree to Maurice’s spending the night with him. He did not hesitate. He edged his way past the wedding guests, slipped through the front door, then ran across the snowy lawn, through the little gate and down into the ravine. The path there was still visible. The snowfall had been light. It was not very dark down there, for there were many stars shining between the branches. Yet Dennis was very much afraid. He ran so fast that his heart became like a live thing struggling to get out between his ribs. He kept up his courage by saying over and over, “I’ll get there first — see if I don’t!”

  At last he could see the house and the lights in the music room. There was as yet no sound of the car. He went into the hall, taking care to wipe the snow off his feet on the mat. He thought the house was very beautiful.

  He tore off his clothes and, naked but for his little woollen undervest, got into bed between the cold sheets. He heard Finch and Maurice coming in at the door.

  “I’m going to put you right into bed, Maurice,” Finch was saying. “Then I must go back to the party.”

  “Awright,” came docilely from Maurice.

  They came into the bedroom.

  Dennis kept his eyes tight shut.

  “W-why,” said Maurice, “there�
��s your boy in the bed.”

  Finch leant over Dennis. “why are you here?” he asked. And so early to bed?”

  “I was tired. I thought of my own bed and I came to it.”

  “S-splendid,” Maurice said, smiling down at Dennis. “I’ll shleep on couch.” He added, in what he believed to be an undertone, “Sweet lil boy ... how nice he looks lying there.”

  Dennis smiled up at him, very pleased with himself.

  “Dennis can sleep on the couch,” said Finch. “I’ll give you pyjamas ... Lord, I must get back to the party.”

  But Maurice insisted on leaving Dennis in possession. When Finch had established him on the couch in the music room and gone off in his car, Dennis could hear him singing softly to himself in a pleasing baritone:

  She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.

  After a while he called out, “Dennis! Are you awake?”

  “Yes, Maurice.”

  “Do you think you could get me a drink? I’m not feeling well ... shouldn’t risk walking ... too damn dizzy.”

  “A drink of water?”

  “No.... Something out of the decanter on sideboard.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t.”

  “Awright, Dennis.... Doesn’t matter.”

  After that there was silence.

  XXII

  Meg Married

  EARLY IN THE New Year Maurice returned to Ireland and Christian accompanied him. He was to remain with him till spring. He then was to go to the Slade School of Fine Arts in London. When he left Ireland, Pheasant was to make her long-promised visit to Maurice, taking little Mary with her. Though Maurice had — with the exception of his lapse at the time of the wedding — shown real firmness in his resolve to avoid drinking, Piers and Pheasant felt that it would be reckless to allow him to return alone. Christian was able to persuade them that no temptation for him lay in companionship with Maurice. He could, in fact, persuade them of whatever he chose. After London he would persuade them to send him to Paris for study.