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

by Mazo de La Roche

  All the family came at different times to see him, to relate their experience of insect bites and to give advice. Meg’s advice was the most pleasing to Finch. She said, “As soon as Dennis is completely recovered you must send him to camp. I know the very place for him and, as the owner of the camp is an old friend of Rupert’s and a good churchman, nothing could be more suitable. The child will be made completely happy and your minds will be at rest about him.”

  So it was arranged, and the day came when Meg and the Rector, themselves going in the direction of the camp, took the little boy with them. Dressed in grey flannel shorts and blue pullover he set out to say goodbye to the family. At Jalna the only one he found at home was Archer, who shook hands with him formally.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “Have a good time, if you can.”

  “why do they send children to camp?” Dennis asked.

  “So they may have peace.”

  “Is it better to have peace than children?”

  “Children are always listening. Grown-ups like a little privacy.”

  “I’ll have no privacy at camp.”

  “You will have everything you need,” said Archer. “At your age you are not supposed to need privacy.”

  “what I like,” Dennis said, looking up at two pigeons on the roof, “is to be with my father. And he wants me to be with him. It’s Sylvia who sends me to camp.”

  “That is because she feels insecure when you are about.”

  “My father belonged to me before he belonged to her.”

  Archer regarded him judicially. “I foresee quite a struggle,” he said, “but I think you’ll come out on top.”

  “Noah Binns says to organize.”

  “You couldn’t have better advice.… Well — run along now and say your goodbyes. When you come back from camp I shan’t be here.”

  “where will you be?”

  “In England. I’ve been chosen as a Rhodes Scholar and I’m setting out in time to travel round a bit.”

  “Will it make you different — being a Rhodes Scholar?”

  “I’ve always been different.”

  “Will it be fun?”

  “I hope not. Your camp will be fun.”

  Adeline and Philip now appeared, carrying tennis racquets. Dennis said goodbye to them and set out to visit the rest of the family. At the Fox Farm he found that Patience had the day before given birth to a daughter. Humphrey Bell was so pleased and excited by this that he tucked a five-dollar bill into the little boy’s pocket. “For you,” he said, “to spend at camp, to celebrate the coming of Victoria.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Dennis, and he added, for politeness’ sake, “Is that what you’re going to call her?”

  “Yes. Victoria, for my mother. She’ll be Vicky Bell. Don’t you think it’s a pretty name?”

  Dennis thought it was, but thought a baby girl was a quite unnecessary addition to any family. Still he was pleased by her arrival, as it had produced such munificence from Humphrey. He found little Mary in the studio and showed her the crisp new banknote.

  “I have more money than I know what to do with,” he told her. “My father said how much money did I want and I said just what he could afford and he said I can afford as much as you want and he took out his wallet and said to help myself and I did. My father makes a terrific lot of money. Do you know how? He makes it playing the piano, that’s how.”

  “I knew that,” said Mary, “long ago.”

  “Does your father make a terrific lot of money?”

  “No,” said Mary. “He’s very poor. But he doesn’t mind. He likes it. Will you be long in camp?”

  Dennis gave her a look that somehow was not comfortable. “I don’t think so,” he said. “My father will miss me. I’ll not stay long.”

  “My daddy would miss me, if I went to camp, and so would my mummy, but she’d miss me even more,” said Mary, who thought Dennis was too boastful and even a little tiresome.

  “I have no mummy,” he said. “Just a stepmother. And do you know what she is? I’ll tell you.” He put an arm about her neck and whispered into her ear: “She’s a she-devil — that’s what she is.” He drew back a little, laughing, his eyes close to hers.

  His words — a combination new to her — sent a thrill of excitement through her nerves, but she only said, “why are your eyes that funny colour?”

  Laughing at they knew not what, they sauntered along the country road together, for Mary was accompanying Dennis as far as the Rectory to see him off. At last she said, “I know what devil is but not she-devil.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “when you have a stepmother.”

  “I couldn’t have one, because my own mother is living.” No longer was she laughing. A flutter of apprehension brought the colour to her cheeks. “I couldn’t have a stepmother,” she added decisively.

  An enigmatic smile curved his lips. “That’s what I used to think.”

  “Till when?” she asked.

  “Till one day my mother — died. Yours might die any day, you know. Then you’d get a stepmother.”

  “I’m going home.” Mary spoke with vehemence. “You can go on alone.”

  “All right,” he said tranquilly, “but don’t tell.”

  “Tell what?”

  “what I said about — anything. Goodbye.”

  The Rectory was in sight, the car standing at the gate.

  Meg saw the small figure coming alone down the road and called out, “Hurry up, Dennis! Uncle Rupert and I are waiting. Your father has brought your suitcase and your rubber sheet, and” — by this time the little boy had come close — “the strange thing is that I’m almost positive this suitcase belongs to me. I’ve been missing it for some time and I can’t imagine how he came to get hold of it. I don’t mind your taking it to camp, Dennis dear, but I do hope you’ll take good care of it, for I really think I must ask your father to let me have it back when you return.”

  “Has he gone?” asked Dennis.

  “Yes. He just left your things and then drove off.”

  “He didn’t say goodbye to me.” Dennis stood looking wistfully down the road. “I hurried because I expected to find him here.”

  The Rector was behind the wheel and growing impatient. “How long am I to sit here waiting?” he demanded. “We’re already late in starting. I don’t know why it is, but I used always to be on time.”

  “Rupert, dear,” said Meg,“don’t fuss. It’s so bad for you.”

  They were in. The car started with a jolt, for it was an old one and the Rector was not a very good driver.

  VI

  Father and Daughter

  Renny Whiteoak was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. Even though his mind was firmly fixed on circumspection in the planning of a marriage between young Philip and Adeline, try as he would to keep himself from urging it on her, he did not succeed. Sooner or later, she was bound to discover how ardently he hoped for it. Better speak now and exert his influence in the open. He was sure that Philip was agreeable to the union. Never a day passed but he came to Jalna on one pretext or another. Alayne had remarked this, but supposed he was drawn by the tennis court, the stables, and his affection for Renny as much as by the charms of Adeline. Though Renny had dropped hints to her of his desire, she had thought of it as fantastic and even dangerous. Both of Piers’s older sons (one in Paris, one in Ireland) were more congenial to Alayne than Philip. She would have preferred either, if she had been consulted, as a son-in-law.

  No one knew what were Adeline’s feelings toward Philip — least of all Philip himself. He held himself aloof from sentiment, with adolescent aloofness. Yet in solitude he never ceased to toy with the idea of marrying Adeline, of sometime being master of Jalna. He never took Archer into account as a rival in its possession, dismissing him as one whose sole ambition in life was to pass examinations with the highest marks possible. He was immensely flattered by Renny’s choice of him as a husband for Adeline and by Pier
s’s optimistic agreement.

  On this particular July morning Renny, discovering his daughter leaning on the fence of the paddock where a pair of two-year-olds were being schooled, took her by the hand and said, “Come into the office for a bit. I’d like a word with you.”

  Indolently she turned with him. “How muggy it is,” she exclaimed. “The colts are lazy. I’m lazy. The rain last night didn’t clear the air. All it did was to beat down the hollyhocks and delphiniums. Mummy is mourning over them.”

  “Is she?” he returned absently and, still with fingers interlaced, they entered the little room, next the tack room in the stables, that was his office — the scene of many a deal in horseflesh, of much perplexity in the squaring of accounts, of interviews where privacy was important. Adeline loved this room. She could look back to the days of early childhood, when to sit opposite Renny in his shiny swivel chair, with the littered writing table between them, filled her with pride. She never tired of admiring and comparing the points of their most distinguished horses, the framed photographs of which covered the walls.

  Renny offered her a cigarette which she refused.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve given up smoking — for the time being.”

  “Self-discipline?” he asked.

  “No. Self-indulgence. I’m tired of it.”

  “I find it very comforting,” he said.

  “I don’t need comforting.”

  She studied his face. His expressive eyebrows told her that something was in the wind. To help him out she asked, “what is it, Daddy?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “How extraordinary.”

  “Don’t laugh. I was thinking seriously about you.”

  Her eyes were earnestly on his, as without again speaking, she waited. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeated, “how hard it was on you — that disappointment in your Irishman, Fitzturgis, I mean.”

  She tried to speak lightly. “For goodness’ sake, what put thatinto your head? It’s all in the past. I never give him a thought now.” But the quivering of her lips, the darkening of her eyes, rejected this quick denial.

  “That’s well,” he said. “I admit I have been pretty anxious on that score.”

  “That sounds as though I’ve been acting the part of the jilted maiden.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said testily. “You’ve been so natural, it’s seemed too good to be true.” He paused, picked up a small bronze horse that was a paperweight, and considered it. This had been a birthday present to him from Adeline and Fitzturgis. “As for him,” Renny went on, “he never could understand or appreciate a thoroughbred — horse or woman. It simply wasn’t in him. He was too damned self-centred.”

  “why do we have to talk about him?” Adeline broke out.

  “We don’t. What I’ve been wondering is whether the thought of marriage — in the future — ever comes to you. You’re young, healthy, good-looking. It would be natural.”

  “I never give it a thought.”

  “Never?”

  “I have enough in my life, as it is. I have you, Daddy. I have Jalna andthe family. Why should I want another man hanging about?”

  “Not if he were the right man?”

  She turned to him squarely. “Don’t imagine,” she said, “that I can’t guess what’s in your mind. I know you too well.”

  So flabbergasted was he by this remark that he was speechless for a space. Then he got out, “But why — how?”

  “I should have been pretty dull,” she said, “if I hadn’t guessed.” She laughed, almost derisively, it seemed to him, and he felt his well-laid plan had fallen through.

  “Poor darling,” she said, and came and sat on his knee. “Poor darling.” She toyed with his dense unyielding hair.“what a disappointment for you.”

  He caught her hand and held it. “This is no joke,” he said angrily. “It’s a very serious affair. It’s your future — if you will consent — andit’s my dearest wish.”

  “Do you expect me to consent? How can I consent to anything so vague?”

  “It isn’t vague in my mind,” he said eagerly. “It’s solid. It’s as real as flesh and blood. It’s the very heart of all I hold most dear.”

  “what about Philip and me?” she said, bringing their two names out into the open. “We don’t hold each other dear. We’re just two cousins. I’ve had experience. I’ve loved and been disappointed. Philip is just a boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Renny, “that you should have guessed what I have in mind, because I wanted to tell you of it in my own way.”

  “You think you could persuade me, Daddy?”

  “I’d never try to persuade you to acquiesce in any plan of mine unless I were confident it would make you happy.” He tried not to sound high-flown.

  “I suppose,” she said, seriously now, “Philip and I have a right to be happy.”

  “And that’s what I want,” he exclaimed, “above all things! The pair of you are cut out for each other. It would be a perfect match.”

  She had got off his knee and was walking nervously up and down the little room. Even in that restricted space it could be seen how graceful was her walk. In truth the grace of her walk, the musical quality of her voice, were her greatest charms. Now she demanded:

  “Have you spoken of this to Philip?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t!” she cried. “Not before you spoke to me.”

  “I thought it should be first in the mind of the man.”

  “The man!The boy— only twenty! How did he take it?”

  “Calmly. Seriously. Like the nice chap he is.”

  “I suppose he’s thinking of Jalna — with me thrown in. What of my brother?”

  “Archer will never settle down to country life.”

  “Would Philip?”

  “I’m sure he would. I’m sure he’d like nothing better. What better life could a young pair have than the life you and he would enjoy here? Another Philip and Adeline — after a hundred years! And you two the very incarnation of the other pair.”

  “Life is different now, Daddy. There isn’t the same belief.”

  “Belief doesn’t need to be conscious, Adeline. There’s too much said and written about our feelings nowadays. If we just go ahead and livewe can be as happy as ever people were. There’s the great thing about this marriage I propose. You and Philip have it in you to live and be happy.”

  “Youpropose,” she repeated. “That’s funny — when one comes to think of it. You proposeand Philip and I do the marrying.” She faced him almost accusingly and he noticed how pale she had grown and how large and darkly tragic appeared her eyes.

  “No need to look at me like that,” he said. “Put the whole affair out of your mind. Forget what I have said. Only remember this, my pet, that your happiness is what I crave, above all things. And I’ll be honest with you. The thought of losing you is almost more than I can bear. If you and Philip married I’d have you safe at Jalna.”

  “I don’t want to marry anyone.” Without warning she burst into tears.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her trembling lips.

  “Not now, perhaps, but — the day will come. Then some brute will appear on the scene who will captivate you and off you’ll gallop with him and never a look behind.”

  Now her tears were mixed with laughter. They clung together. Noises from the stables reached them, then a sudden shower sounded on the roof and a distant roll of thunder. These sounds enclosed them. They smelled the rain, heard the thunder, and wished for nothing but to be together.

  VII

  Adeline and Philip

  The summer was lush, the leaves broad and darkly green. Paths were overgrown, grass sprouted up in the gravel of the drive. There was a hushed, humid resignation in the midsummer air. The stream moved darkly, slowly beneath its little rustic bridge. And there on the bridge sat Adeline, lost in thought. Even on the bridge the unusual growth was noticeable, for a wild grapevin
e had secured a hold on one of the handrails and, with leaf and tenacious tendril, was pursuing its way to the other side of the stream.

  Adeline wound a tendril round her finger like a ring. The green of the crowding foliage cast that hue on the golden brown of her dreamy eyes, so that it would have been difficult, even for those who knew her best, to pronounce what was their colour. She was living these days in a strange confusion of thought — at times reliving the experience of her engagement to the Irishman, Fitzturgis; more often, dwelling on the proposal made to her by Renny.

  She had thought herself to be free of those recollections, so poignant, so capable of shattering her peace, but now they had come back to her. The meeting with Fitzturgis in Ireland. The budding, the blossoming of her first love. The days they had spent together in London, she under the guardianship of Finch. The return to Canada. The two years of waiting for Fitzturgis to come out to her. His coming to Jalna. That exciting, disturbing, disappointing time. The scene by the lake when she had discovered him and her cousin Roma bathing together. Her fierce anger at seeing their embrace. If she lived to be a hundred, as her great-grandmother had done, never could she forget the fiery violence of that moment — the moment that had changed everything. She could not recall it even now without a smile of triumph at the discomfiture of the pair in the lake and her hurling stones at them.

  Bit by bit she had put that time out of her mind. It lay discarded like a torn-up illustration out of a book. But, now and again, she would take out the scraps, piece them together and form again that haunting picture. Renny, understanding her all too well, had given her a new picture to dwell on — the picture of Philip and herself at Jalna. Always it glowed, at the back of her mind, as though illumined by a secret light. Then again she would see the two of them, framed as were the portraits of their great-grandparents in the dining room, in ornate gold frames.

  Love? what matter if they were not “in love”? Once she had known what it was to have her life transfigured by love — broadened into a new spaciousness, yet strangely narrowed to the passionate employment of her powers upon one individual. She felt that she had discovered all there was to know of such an entanglement. She wanted no further experience of that sort. Once was enough. Often she had pictured her future — free as the wind that blew among the trees, across the fields of Jalna. She would belong to no one but herself — and the family. But Philip was part of the family. If they two … but she could not bring herself to give words to the picture that was now so insistently in her mind, the picture which Renny had made for her — herself and Philip, gilt-framed, beautiful and silent, gazing out upon a placid world.…