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

by Mazo de La Roche

  “what unselfish wives!” exclaimed Alayne, with something approaching a sneer. “I confess I am thinking only of myself and my domestic help at Jalna. It’s out of the question.”

  Pheasant had sat listening in silence to all that was being said. Now she spoke, rather breathlessly but with cheerful resignation. “I seem to be the only one,” she said, “who is in a position to look after Sylvia’s baby, and I’ll gladly do it.”

  Oh, if only she had not brought Sylvia’s name into the discussion! It stabbed the atmosphere like a sword and was followed by a wounded silence. This was broken by Meg. “Certainly Piers does no brain work that will be affected by a baby in the house. Nor have you domestic help to be imposed on, or insomnia to keep you awake, for I noticed that you nodded and almost fell asleep at the last meeting of the Women’s Institute.”

  After these remarks by Meg, the feeling in the room became less strained. Wragge brought in the tea things. Everyone looked kindly at Pheasant, who, with composure, began to eat a currant bun.

  Patience went and sat close to her. She whispered:

  “when may I take the baby to you?”

  “Anytime.”

  “It’s terribly good of you. Do you think Piers will mind?”

  “He’ll think it’s the right thing to do — and he likes babies.”

  Patience hastened to say: “Oh, so does Humphrey. He’s sweet to them. It’s just his work. I must guard that. Did I tell you that he’s writing a play for television?”

  Roma moved to sit near them. “Is it accepted?” she inquired skeptically.

  “It’s been practically accepted,” said Patience proudly. “Of course, nothing is certain.”

  “There’s more truth than fiction in that,” said Roma.

  “Humphrey,” went on Patience, “puts everything he has into his work. He never considers what it is taking out of him.”

  “Everyone to his taste,” said Roma.

  Meg was rising to go. “I hope everyone understands,” she said, addressing Alayne, “that I long to have the baby with me, and that nothing would prevent me if the Rector were not obliged to have a certain amount of seclusion. As Jalna is a considerably larger house, I should have thought …” She added, after a moment’s reflection: “Especially as no important mental work is being carried on here — indeed no mental work of any sort — ”

  “It’s impossible,” said Alayne, “for me to have a newborn infant and trained nurse here at this time.”

  “If you haven’t the facilities, you haven’t,” said Roma. “Everybody understands that. What I can’t understand is why Uncle Finch cannot keep his two children at home. Why should he get out of his responsibilities?”

  “For some reason,” said Meg, “Finch appears to feel little affection for either child.”

  Alayne made a gesture of extreme weariness. “Finch,” she said, “has been through an appalling time.”

  “Haven’t we all?” said Roma.

  “I must be going,” Meg said. “You had better come with me, Roma. You have your packing to do.”

  “It’s been done for days,” said Roma, but rose, too, with her air of docility. She came to Adeline and held up her smooth cheek to be kissed. “when next we meet, it will be for your wedding.” Her voice was as cool as the firm flesh of her cheek. Adeline had a momentary desire to bite it, but gave it a noncommittal peck. “That’s funny-smelling scent you use,” she observed.

  “French,” said Roma. “Six dollars per quarter ounce.”

  Alayne went to bed early, hoping, yet scarcely daring to hope, for a good night’s sleep at last. To make more sure of this she had taken a sleeping pill. Were they losing their efficacy? she wondered. But, no — there was the gentle benign drowsiness stealing over her — beginning at her toes — creeping deliciously upward, along the stretched-out length of her taut body …

  But there was nothing benign about the sudden opening of her door, the introduction of a stark, russet-coloured head into the aperture. Even though Alayne could not see his face, she could picture that ingratiating grin of his, which, for some reason, she liked least of all the expressions that passed over his bony, mobile features — possibly because it appeared when he knew he was not wanted, or when he offered her an opinion best kept to himself. Or so she thought.

  All Alayne’s senses were acute, her sense of smell particularly so. This appeared to be the only trait which her daughter had inherited from her. Alayne and Adeline passed their days conscious of every odour, good or not so good, which came their way. They wrinkled their noses, curled their lips, over the unpleasant. They bumbled like intoxicated bees in the scent of flowers, of new-mown grass.

  Now, as Renny came into the room that was full of scentless, snow-washed air, and leaned over her, she drew back into her pillows with a distraught wrinkling of the nose. “Your soap,” she moaned. “what is it? It has a horrid smell.”

  “It’s something new in detergents,” he said, bending closer that she might better sniff it — “guaranteed to kill all odours — even the smell of the stable.”

  “I’ve become used to the smell of Windsor soap,” she said. “I quite like it — but this is something new.”

  “It is,” he agreed cheerfully, as though it were eight o’clock in the morning and an hour when one could speak of something new. “Surely you have heard the singing commercials about it on the radio.” And he began to sing, in an unmusical voice, the refrain which she had heard but once and instantly turned off.

  His singing was the last straw to her load of misery.

  Beneath the bedclothes she kicked like a small child in a tantrum and said, with whining intonation, “Go away — please!”

  “I’m going — in just a minute.” He patted the bedclothes to quiet her. “But first, tell me — have you girls settled who’s to take the baby?”

  Alayne now gave herself up to a night of insomnia. “It’s settled,” she said.

  “And he’s to come to Jalna?”

  She replied, in a clear, definite tone: “Pheasant is to take him in for the present.”

  “Pheasant! Good God!” he ejaculated. “Surely she’s the last to undertake that job!”

  “why?”

  “She does her own work — has three men and a little girl on her hands.”

  Alayne sat up in bed. “We are expecting Maurice and Pat Crawshay very soon. We have a wedding in prospect. Wragge suffers from lumbago, the cook from varicose veins. I will not speak of my own affliction.”

  “Affliction,” he repeated bewildered. “what affliction?”

  “Most people would call insomnia quite an affliction. I’ve been suffering from it for months.”

  “Now, Alayne,” he said, “just let me mix you a good stiff drink before you go to bed and I’ll guarantee you will sleep.”

  “It would have the very opposite effect. You ought to know that.”

  “Well — well,” he soothed; then said, returning to the subject that stirred his emotions at the moment, “Adeline says she will look after the baby.”

  “Adeline is completely ignorant of such things. If the baby is forced on us it will have to bring a trained nurse with it.”

  “Well — well,” he said again, and then added, “These matters always settle themselves in the end.”

  He had left the door open behind him and now a new odour assailed Alayne’s sensitive nostrils. She scrambled out of bed, managing, in spite of haste and pink woolen bed socks, to look graceful and even dignified.

  “I smell something burning,” she declared. “It comes from the kitchen. I must go right down. Oh, dear, whatever can it be?”

  For answer he picked her up and returned her to her bed. He left her there and ran down the two flights of stairs to the basement. Shortly after, he returned to find her waiting in the passage.

  He gave her a cheerful grin. “It was only a saucepan that cook had left on the range. Giblets, by the look of it. Scorching. Stuck to the saucepan. I took it off and le
ft a window wide open. It’ll be nice and cold in the kitchen when she gets up. That’ll larn her.”

  Renny’s dogs, hearing his voice, had come to the door of his bedroom, to which they had retired some time ago, and scratched on it and whined — the bulldog on a deep, authoritative note, the spaniel ready to break into a bark, and the little cairn terrier in apparent anguish. Renny opened the door and the three came tumbling out.

  “Oh, how rested they are,” exclaimed Alayne. “why can I never feel rested like that?”

  “Because you don’t go about it the right way, my darling,” he said. “They lead an outdoor life — ”

  “when they’re not sleeping beside the fire,” she interrupted.

  He continued, “They lick their dishes clean at every meal.”

  “And frequently bring up what they’ve eaten,” she added sarcastically.

  He paid no attention to this but went on: “when they go to bed they haven’t a thought in their heads but what fun tomorrow is going to be. You would feel rested too, if you behaved as they do.”

  Now from the hall below, into which Adeline’s room opened, came her voice, raised in excitement: “Daddy — Daddy — whatever is wrong? I smell something horrible.”

  “Giblets. In the kitchen,” he said. “Go back to bed.”

  Alayne leaned over the banister. “Isn’t it horrible, darling?” she called down to Adeline. Mother and daughter sniffed together in congenial disgust.

  Now the talking had disturbed Dennis, tucked up in Renny’s bed. He woke from the nightmare that for the past nights had been haunting him.

  “Save me — save me!” he screamed, and struggled wild-eyed to get from under the quilts.

  The cairn terrier rushed at the bed, in a mood to bite the child, for he resented his being there. The spaniel sat down in the middle of the room and howled, while the bulldog bundled himself down the stairs and scratched at the front door to be let out.

  Wakefield appeared from his bedroom, only half-awake. He had smelled nothing, but was thoroughly frightened by the confusion. He saw Alayne and Adeline in their nightdresses, Renny with the sobbing child in his arms.

  “wh — what’s the matter?” stammered Wakefield.

  “Stop staring,” ordered Renny, “and go downstairs and let that dog out.” He added, “By Judas — did ever another man have such a temperamental family?”

  But there was no doubt about it that the eldest Whiteoak took a great deal of pleasure in his family and in his position as head of it.

  XXVII

  Winter Moves On

  Roma and Fitzturgis were to leave for New York that night, but now, in the hard bright light of day, they had come to Jalna, in the Rector’s old car, to make their goodbyes. Roma’s face, except for the seriousness of its expression, showed no trace of the emotions of recent days. Even though she had felt no deep emotion, she had seen those nearest her deeply affected, and she had experienced fatigue and loss of sleep. The face of Fitzturgis was, on the contrary, ravaged by grief. His brows were drawn together in a knot of melancholy concentration; dark shadows gathered beneath his eyes; deep lines marked the sombre bend of his lips; his skin was sallow; and even though he was fresh- shaven, he had the look of needing a shave. His dark grey suit would have been the better for pressing. But his strong, upright figure, of no more than middle height, showed no drooping of despondency, and his mouse-coloured, curly hair stood upright.

  “Well, it’s good flying weather,” said Renny, looking out of the window.

  “I do hope you’ll have a comfortable flight,” said Alayne.

  Roma gave a little yawn. “I expect to sleep all the way,” she said.

  “Have you been to Piers’s to say goodbye?” asked Renny.

  “I have,” said Roma.

  “Did you see the baby?”

  “Yes. He’s sweet. Auntie Meg thinks it would be nice to call him Ernest. Uncle Ernest was — I forget just what — but she thinks it would be nice.”

  “I agree,” said Renny. “We couldn’t choose a better name for him than Ernest or one with happier recollections. What does Finch say?”

  “He hasn’t said. I don’t think he cares.”

  “Very well,” said Renny. “We’ll name him Ernest Nicholas or Nicholas Ernest.”

  Alayne said, in a low voice, “I think Sylvia might well have wished to name her child for her brother.”

  “No, no,” Fitzturgis said hastily. “Not after me. Give him a Whiteoak name.”

  “Anyhow,” observed Roma, “what’s in a name?”

  “I think,” said Renny agreeably, “we shall stick to Ernest.”

  “Surely,” Alayne said, with some tartness, “we are not in a position to name him. That must be done by his father.”

  “He couldn’t care less,” said Roma.

  Adeline had stood silent during this conversation, wondering where and how she was to say goodbye to Fitzturgis. She stood by the window, looking out at the snowy silence of the scene, remembering their long walk at night, the agitation that had so stirred their hearts. There must be no emotion in their goodbye. She could not bear the pain of it — not because of her own suffering but because of his.

  Roma was speaking in her low, matter-of-fact but pleasant-toned voice. “Mait and I,” she was saying, “must say goodbye to Uncle Finch.” She turned to Adeline. “Should you like to come with us?” she asked, on an almost pleading note.

  Adeline thought, Roma wants to show off, in front of me. She wants to show how much Mait is hers now.… But Roma wanted Adeline’s company for a quite different reason. She had, in truth, such an invincible shrinking from emotional scenes that she reached out toward Adeline for support in this meeting between Finch and Fitzturgis. She did not expect the two men to break into weeping. She did not know what she expected, and, like a child, she shrank from the unknown. The thought, scarcely formed in her mind, was, why can’t people be let to die, without all this fuss? She looked pleased when Adeline said, “All right. I’ll go.”

  The three got into the motor car, Fitzturgis and Roma in the front seat, Adeline in the rear. She had on a shabby fur jacket which she kept in the little room at the end of the hall and in the pocket of which her straying hand discovered three chestnuts and half a chocolate bar. She sat silent fingering the nuts and gazing thoughtfully at the two in the seat in front. They did not speak either, except that Roma, driving, remarked on the bad state of the road.

  Finch’s house looked new, yet pleasantly secluded among its trees. Strangely the sound of the piano came from within, broken chords and arpeggios. Standing by the front door, as though on guard, was Dennis, looking even smaller and paler than usual. He had blue shadows beneath his eyes.

  “I’m not sure that my father will want visitors,” he said. “He’s composing a piano concerto and he doesn’t like interruptions. That’s why I’m here.”

  “He’ll want to see us,” said Roma. “We’ve come to say goodbye.” She said to Adeline, “You go in first.”

  “Coming?” Adeline asked of Dennis.

  He shook his head. “Three will be enough in the room at a time,” he said.

  Adeline led the way. They entered the room, where a manuscript of music lay scattered on piano and floor; where Finch, in cold concentration, bent over the keyboard.

  When he was conscious of their presence he took his hands from the keys and clasped them together. He rose and stood, gaunt and formal, to greet them.

  “Oh, hullo, Uncle Finch,” said Roma. “Mait and I are off tonight. We’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” said Finch, rather too promptly; then, as though realizing this, he added, “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thanks, but we’ve no time. We’ve a thousand things to do.” Roma was eager to have this leave-taking done with.

  For something to say, Adeline remarked, “We saw Dennis outside.”

  “Really,” said Finch and then spoke to Fitzturgis, as though just conscious of his presence. “It�
��s good flying weather. You should have a pleasant flight to New York.”

  “A pleasant flight.…” Fitzturgis inaudibly repeated the words, as though savouring them without relish. He said aloud, “Yes, it should be all right.”

  “The roads are awful here,” remarked Roma.

  “I suppose they are,” said Finch.

  “Drifts,” she said, “bumping along. But I don’t mind. If you can’t cure it, you can endure it.” She gave a little shiver. “It’s awfully cold too.”

  “I’m not cold,” said Adeline, for the sake of contradicting Roma.

  “You have on a fur coat.”

  “This old thing,” said Adeline.

  “You have another — a good one — at home,” Roma said enviously. “I have none, and no prospect of one.” She gave a sidelong glance at Fitzturgis, who received it imperturbably.

  “We have no time to spare,” he said. “We should be getting along.”

  “Then you can’t sit down?” said Finch.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Uncle Finch, what are you composing?” asked Adeline, her eyes on the scattered manuscript, as though from it she might discover an answer to the mysteries of life and death that troubled her.

  “Just something I was working on before.…” he said curtly.

  Roma hugged herself and shivered. “I’m so cold,” she said. “I can’t get warm. Even in here.”

  Finch looked at her contemplatively, then said, “Sylvia had a new fur coat. If you would like to have it, you may. I think it would fit you well enough.”

  Roma beamed. “That would be nice,” she said. “Might I have it soon?”

  “You may have it now. Come and try it on.” He led the way to Sylvia’s room, taking long quiet steps, his head forward.

  The other two were left together in the chill disorder of the music room. Fitzturgis said, “Let’s get out of here. I can’t breathe in this house.… God — what callousness.”

  His expression was one of such poignant pain that Adeline hastened with him outdoors. He took her hand and they moved, as though for shelter, under a massive pine, a few of whose cones lay, sticky with resinous juice, on the snow.