“Is there anything more I can do for you?” asked Finch.
“Not a thing,” said Molly. “I’m going to tuck Wake into bed and then get some lunch ready. There’s all sorts of food in the kitchen and a quantity of the richest milk I’ve ever seen.”
“There’s an up-to-date oil stove too. Renny has just had it put in.”
At mention of that name Molly’s colour flamed, but it was without effect on Wakefield, except to bring expressions of gratitude from him. “Renny’s been wonderful,” he said. “I could not have believed Fiddler’s Hut could have been made to look so inviting. What a wilderness this part of the woods was the last time I saw it! And I well remember when Eden was ill here.”
“Eden?” said Molly. “That was your brother who died, wasn’t it? why did he come here? what was wrong with him?”
Finch and Wakefield exchanged looks.
“Did I never mention it before?” said Wakefield. “Eden had tuberculosis.”
“Well,” said Finch, “we must be getting along. Come, Dennis.”
XII
The Two in the Hut
Scarcely had Finch and Dennis disappeared when Renny and Rags came into sight. Renny came first, wearing a frown of anxiety lest he should upset what he carried, which was a skillet containing a broiled beefsteak. As for Rags, his face looking more wizened than usual in the bright light of day, he was laden with an immense tray with covered dishes of vegetables and a raspberry pie.
“All nourishing things,” said the master of Jalna; “and see to it that you leave not a crumb.”
He set down the skillet, put both arms about his brother, and kissed him, giving him at the same time a sharp look, as though for signs of the ravages of disease. He then shook Molly’s hand with an air of distant (though not unfriendly) dignity, and again urged them to enjoy the steak. Rags almost tearfully welcomed Wakefield, reminding him of their romps together when Wakefield was a small boy. He addressed Molly as “Madam,” begging her to call on him for help in case of need. He then proceeded to lay the table. Renny opened a bottle of stout and brought a glassful to each of them. Then he and Rags departed, as suddenly as they had arrived.
Wakefield, attacking the beefsteak with zest, smiled across the table at Molly. “It’s not so bad here, is it, dear?” he said. “I know you didn’t want to come, but I think you’ll soon feel that I was right.”
“why did he look at me like that?” she burst out. “As though everything were my fault!”
“I saw nothing of the sort in his look. Surely he could not have made us more welcome than he did.”
“He made youwelcome — not me.”
Wakefield pushed his plate away from him. “Very well,” he said petulantly, “we’ll go. I can’t bear to stay here, if you are going to be unhappy.…”
Molly’s profile was turned to him, with its tip-tilted nose with a few freckles, its well-cut chin. So often had he studied that profile, found it both courageous and charming, that this downward bend to the lips was unbearable to him. He repeated — “We’ll go.”
She sprang up, full of contrition. “No, no,” she said, putting her arms round him, pressing his head to her slender breast, “we’ll stay and be happy and you’ll soon be well again. We have a right to be happy, haven’t we? In the beginning we were innocent.”
“I think I have no conscience,” said Wakefield. “If I have, it certainly has given me no trouble. I feel as innocent as the day I was born.”
“And so you are, my dearest,” she cried. “If either is to blame, I am the one. The woman should always be the stronger. Come — eat this good food, and then I’ll tuck you up in your bed. But first take a sip of the stout.” She held the glass to his lips.
They talked with determined gayety and ate heartily, for they were hungry. Molly investigated every corner of the Hut, discovering each moment something new and exciting. If her gayety was a little forced Wakefield was not aware of it. Obediently he undressed and got into the inviting white bed. “why, Molly,” he exclaimed, “I remember this bedstead very well. It’s one that Eden used to sleep in, but it has a new mattress. And that little chest of drawers was Uncle Ernest’s. Oh, there’s nothing here that I don’t remember at home! I can’t tell you how clearly I remember everything — every inch of Jalna. I wasn’t strong enough to go to school, and so the Rector used to give me lessons at the Rectory and sometimes I’d play truant and wander through the fields and woods. But I was afraid of Fiddler’s Hut and never came here. God — if I could have looked ahead and seen us two sitting at the table together!”
“Do try to settle down and rest for a bit,” she urged.
“Bring me something to read, then. I saw some books on a shelf by the window. Did you notice how the window frame has been painted a pretty green?” She brought a book to him and he was delighted to discover that it was The Little Duke.“See, Molly, what’s written in it: For Wakefield,a reward for good behaviour, from his sister Meg.”Wakefield gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, Molly, this is delicious! ‘A reward for good behaviour’ — she was always complaining of my naughtiness and thought nothing of taking her slipper to me. But how she spoiled me, too. I used to sit next her at table — on a volume of British Poets to make me taller — and I remember how she would cut every scrap of fat from my meat to please me. I do wonder if Meg will come to see us — now that she’s married to a clergyman …”
XIII
Goings and Comings
Dennis was proud to stride homeward with Finch, stretching his legs to keep pace with those longer legs. He hoped with all his might that he would be tall like Finch. As they strode along the dusty unpaved road, he looked up with admiration and love into Finch’s face. He caught Finch’s sleeve in his hand the better to stride with him. Dennis had looked forward with a certain dread to his homecoming from camp, but it had been easier than he had expected. The dinner party had drawn attention from him, and now there was the coming of Wakefield and Molly. He felt himself to be no longer in disgrace but an important member of the family, with Finch always as the lodestar of his existence.
When they reached home (during the walk Finch had been lost in thought and had not once spoken) they found Patience and Victoria Bell with Sylvia. Patience had also brought her poodle, which sat, statuesque and almost too intelligent, at her knee. The poodle considered that Patience and Victoria Bell were its special property. The three had contrived to take possession of the house, while Patience informed Sylvia of details of the infant’s care. Patience had become all wife and mother, living but to serve husband and child. When she was not in a position to caress them with her hands she did so with her gentle grey eyes. She thought how wonderful it would be if Sylvia were to have a baby and they could spend happy hours discussing their babies and their wonderful husbands together. Then there were Adeline and Philip. They, in their turn, would produce a family, to be nurtured and discussed. Babies — and more babies — oh, the wonder of life!
As a treat for Dennis, and because she thought there was something touching about the little boy, she put the baby into his arms, as a treasure to be enjoyed.
“Now, isn’t she a darling?” exclaimed Patience. “Your latest cousin. Oh, I do wish I had my camera here so that I might take a snap of the two together! Look, Sylvia.”
When Dennis felt the warm weight of the fat baby against his chest a voluptuous delight stirred him. He gazed into its face fascinated. Its red wrinkled features, its moist lips that kept moving, its glazed slate-coloured eyes roused in him a feeling of protectiveness, approaching tenderness. He would have liked to squeeze it hard against his chest and run with it into the woods.
“Aren’t they sweet together?” said Patience.
Dennis raised his eyes to hers and gave her a tranquil look. Indeed, this mood lasted after she and Victoria Bell had departed. He had a feeling of goodness, of purity. He wanted to be helpful about the house. The daily woman was ill and unable to come. Sylvia prepared the lunch and Dennis laid
the table. He ran lightly from room to room doing little services for her. Sylvia was astonished and elated. Scarcely could she believe her eyes to see him like this. Finch had sat down at the piano and was playing some gay music. Bending over him she whispered, “Watch Dennis — see how he’s helping me. He’s quite different.”
A little later she relaxed into one of the comfortable armchairs, for she was tired. Passing behind her Dennis dropped a kiss on her head. It was almost unbelievable to her that she should have had a caress from him. She was touched and even thrilled by this gesture of affection from the odd little boy.
“Finch, what do you suppose?” she whispered, when she had him alone. “Dennis kissed me! Oh, I’m sure we shall be friends from now on. All he needed was time to get used to me.”
Finch was relieved, but he could not wipe from his mind, as Sylvia seemed to do, the memory of that night when the boy had so ruthlessly frightened her. The presence of Dennis in the house was like a small cloud that cast its shadow on the sunny field of his happiness. He had to keep a guard over himself when the boy was with him. It was so easy for him to lose his temper. Once, quite suddenly, he cuffed Dennis, who, instead of looking subdued, caught Finch’s hand in both his and kissed it. What would Renny have done in a like case, Finch wondered. Given the boy another, harder cuff or kissed him in return? He was a great kisser, this master of Jalna, Finch thought. He’d seen him kiss every member of the family, from prickly-skinned old Gran down to Victoria Bell.
The fruit crop ripened and was plucked. The grain crop ripened and was garnered. The leaves turned from light and glossy green to dark lacklustre green. Blossoms became seed pods, it seemed overnight. Small birds gathered into groups and talked of their journey south. Humphrey Bell’s cat, which had produced two kittens in the spring and been a doting mother, now turned against them — bit and scratched them when they tried to snuggle up to her; told them, in fact, that they were grown-up and to keep out of her sight.
Archer prepared to leave home for Oxford, but Alayne, unlike Humphrey Bell’s cat, yearned tenderly over her son. He was so young to go so far away!
“Archer dear,” she said, “it will seem strange without you. I shall miss you greatly.”
Archer was packing and he stood looking at her with a collection of neckties in his hand. His high white forehead, which summer’s sun never tanned, lent an air of chill distinction to what he said.
“This family,” he remarked, “has been the structure of all our lives. We don’t think about it. It’s like the air we breathe. It’s sacred to us. I wake in the morning, feeling myself a part of the family. I go to bed at night, knowing that I’m a part of it. It’s time I went away into another country. But I daresay I shall come home again.”
“Oh, Archer,” breathed Alayne, almost in tears.
Seeing her drooping toward him, he moved a little away.
“I shall miss him,” Adeline said to Renny. “I can let off steam on him when I’m out of sorts and he never loses his temper.”
“He’s a cold little brute on the surface,” said Renny, “but underneath he’s one of us.”
He said as much to Archer when the moment of parting came. “You’ll be back for the centenary of Jalna,” he said. “I shall book your passage from this end, so there’ll be no nonsense about it — ”
“Like taking the money and shipping off to Greece,” said Adeline.
Archer gave her one of his rare smiles. “My dear sister,” he said, “nothing would induce me to miss the centenary. It will be something to boast of when I am ninety. I shall bore your great-grandchildren to extinction boasting of it.”
“when I am a centenarian,” said Adeline, “I shall lay a wreath of snowdrops on your grave, with the inscription: IN EGOTISM HE SURPASSED ALL OTHERS.”
Archer went, and there was no doubt that he left a blank at Jalna, for in the holidays he was always at home, having few friends and no inclination for camping or canoe trips. Yet he rode a horse well, and could swim strongly enough to save himself in an upset, as he said.
Philip was to return to the Royal Military College for the three approaching terms, and in early summer he and Adeline were to be married. Their relations were still cousinly rather than lover-like. Indeed, Adeline was inclined to be lofty with him — at worst supercilious, at best patronizing. He accepted all with good nature, yet occasionally gave her a glance which showed that this might not always be so. He was extremely well pleased by the position in which events had placed him. He looked forward with tranquility and pride. In his mind he saw pictures of himself and Adeline living happily in an unchanging Jalna, to a great age. He accepted with pride the traditions of his family and, because of his striking resemblance to his great-grandfather, saw himself dedicated to their preservation. After the death of his great-uncle Nicholas, he had been given Nicholas’s old-fashioned gold watch by Renny. This he never forgot to wind before he went to bed. When he felt the stem of the watch between his firm forefinger and thumb, heard the smooth response of the mechanism, a look of pride would brighten his matter-of-fact boy’s face.
He was pleased that Adeline occupied the bedroom of their great-grandmother and looked forward to the time when he should sleep in the old painted leather bed with her. No sensual image disturbed this anticipation. He was not yet lover-like toward her. In truth, they were scarcely to be called friends. When he crossed the fields to say goodbye on the morning of his return to college he considered what he ought to say to her. What he really wanted was to get the goodbye over and return to his fellow cadets. He had been told by Renny not to make public his engagement, and he was glad to keep it secret, for the present. He did not wish to be either congratulated or chaffed about it. A few of his friends were engaged or tentatively engaged, but none of these alliances were so important as his.
Adeline was cross-legged on the grass, gently taking a burr from the spaniel’s ear.
“Oh, hullo,” said Philip.
“Hullo.” She just glanced up. The spaniel whined. “You’re not being hurt, my darling,” she comforted, “so be good.”
Philip observed her deft hands and the engagement ring that had been old Adeline’s. “Well, I’m off,” he said.
“Have a good time.”
“I expect I’ll have a lot of hard work ahead of me,” he said, a little pompously.
“That’ll be something new.”
He was nettled. “You have no idea,” he said, “how stiff our curriculum is.”
She patted the spaniel. “Spaniels have such lovely ears,” she said, “but they’re terrible for burrs.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “they’re pretty bad for burrs.”
“And he had a canker in his ear once. That was misery, wasn’t it, pet?” The spaniel, rocked by self-pity, lay down on his back.
“Scotties are the worst for cankers,” said Philip.
Adeline sat on her heels and delivered a brief lecture on the treatment of cankers.
Again Philip said he must be off, and gave her a compelling look.
“Oh, goodbye,” she said.
“I think we should kiss,” he said soberly. “But, of course, if you don’t want to …”
She jumped up and faced him, feet a little apart, toes a little turned in. She pushed out her lips in his direction. Certainly she was at her least alluring. Philip planted a kiss on the extended territory and left her. He hesitated a space in front of the house, giving it a possessive look. A row of pigeons stood on the edge of the roof, peering down at him in curiosity. Well might they stare! he thought. They were beholding the future master of Jalna.
Philip returned across the fields, with a vigorous stride and a look of gravity on his handsome face. He stopped at the Rectory to say goodbye and found Meg and the Rector enjoying a cup of morning coffee. In addition to this she had a plate of scones before her and some sugared cookies.
“Dear boy,” she said, “I am always glad to see you.” She spoke in a sentimental tone, as though they did
not often meet — though in reality she saw him almost every day.
“Do have some coffee and a scone,” she said.
“Thanks, Auntie Meg. But I must hurry along. I still have packing to do.”
But Meg insisted. She poured coffee for him and put a scone into his hand as though he were ten years old instead of double that age. Looking about the room, he thought it was very full of furniture. Meg, when she made her second marriage, had brought to the Rectory the possessions she had not sold or given to Patience.
She now remarked to Philip, “I’m afraid you think this room is overfurnished, Philip. You young people have a taste for scanty furnishing, but I confess I like my house to look like a home and not a barracks. I could not resist bringing a few sticks of furniture with me, and fortunately Rupert loves to see it about me, don’t you, dear?”
The Rector good-humouredly assented, though he was still bumping into pieces of furniture to which he had not yet become accustomed after several years.
“And speaking of one’s belongings,” went on Meg, “there is a dear old silver cruet at Jalna — real Georgian — which my grandmother always insisted I should have, but which, for some reason, Alayne does not want to part with. I do hope, Philip, that when you and Adeline are married, you will try to influence Alayne to let me have it. You will be in a position to be quite firm about it.”
“Oh, Auntie,” Philip said, deprecatingly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Meg. “You’re thinking what a stubborn nature Alayne has but, as Adeline’s husband, you should have influence with her.”
Philip had never given a thought to Alayne’s nature, neither had he ever considered influencing a grown-up, but he was flattered and said, with gravity, “I’ll see what I can do about it, Auntie.”
Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna Page 125