The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (395 page)

It swung clear and hung above them. The breeze lisped through the trees, not moving their branches but causing their leaves to vibrate. He came toward her, frowning. She felt only desire to surrender herself to him. She put a hand on each side of his head and drew his face down to hers. Their lips met.

“This will be our bed,” he said, indicating the pine needles.

He drew her dress from her white shoulders and kissed them.

I
F
love was making a man of Wakefield, it was making a child of Finch. To Wakefield it was the opening of a window, letting in light and the stir of life. To Finch it was the closing of a door, shutting out the tumult and pain of living, making him an ecstatic prisoner. He could not bear to be away from Sarah, for then his happiness became shadowed by doubt. There came a fire in his head and an ache in his breast—and he longed wildly for the time when he would be able to work again. But when he was with her his spirit pressed, as it were, into her breast and abode there.

Sarah was as ununderstandable to the family at Jalna as ever, but they could not see her without being aware of an incandescence from within that lighted her every gesture. On the days when Finch did not go to her house she came to Jalna, her car gliding along the drive between the evergreens, while her pug gazed with tip-tilted nose through the window.

She brought little presents to Ernest and Nicholas, who roused themselves from their brooding to receive her. But, even while they were playfully gracious over their gifts, they
looked on her with distrust, remembering bitterly her claim on Jalna. They were more than ever anxious that her marriage to Finch should take place as quickly as possible.

Between her and Alayne there existed an intimacy that could not be called friendship, yet was a source of acute interest to both. Alayne had known Finch since he was a schoolboy, and Sarah listened with avid interest to every incident of his boyhood which Alayne could recall. Any of these that related to suffering, she drank in with a strange triumphant smile. “We both had an unhappy adolescence!” she would exclaim.

Alayne, in her turn, sought in Sarah’s mind some understanding of Renny which, she felt, Sarah possessed. It was as though Renny and Sarah had some quality in common which they wilfully concealed, and Alayne, if she could not discover it in him, might find it lurking in Sarah. No such definite thought was in Alayne’s mind, but she faintly discovered in both the adumbrations of a calculated passion so alien to herself as to repel her. Around this passion Sarah’s outer being irradiated palely like the faint nimbus of a star. Sometimes Alayne almost feared her and she wondered if perhaps she had not done wrong in throwing her and Finch together.

To Wakefield and Pauline, Sarah was a bright and lovely being. Her Paris gowns, her white, exquisite skin, the glossy convolutions of her black braids, filled them with wonder and admiration. Her voice, her smile, fascinated them. Pauline would say of her—“If I were a man, there is the sort of woman I should love!” And Wakefield would return— “And if I didn’t adore you, I should fall for Sarah!”

Renny watched his young brothers in love with tolerant amusement. He was leading his own mature, secret life, and
their loves were no more to him than the leapings and gam-bollings of young hares.

His attitude toward Alayne was at once taciturn and apologetic. He was taciturn because he wished to keep himself withdrawn from her, and apologetic because of the heaped-up faults which he was conscious she had accumulated against him.

One night, when it was close to twelve o’clock, he returned across the ravine and took, not the steep path that led to the lawn, but one scarcely perceptible which wavered alongside the stream and was lost at last in a pasture behind the stables. At the end of the path he came suddenly on a figure lurking darkly behind low-growing shrubs. He stopped, struck by suspicion. Was he being watched?

The figure came forward and in the pale light of the moon rising in her last quarter, he made out the face of Rags.

“I’ve been waiting for you, sir.”

“Well, and what do you want?” His tone was surly.

Rags held out a yellowish envelope.

“It’s a cablegram, sir. I thought I ought to deliver it myself as it might be important.”

How had the fellow known that he would come this way? He hesitated, with the envelope in his hand.

Rags went on—“Perhaps it’s about that ’orse you was talking of himporting from ’ome, sir.”

Renny grunted. “That was just talk. I’m not importing horses. Wish to God I were! But I don’t like this. I’m afraid Lady Buckley may be ill.”

“That was my first thought, sir. And to tell the truth, that’s w’y I thought I should bring it to you ’ere, because of the old gentlemen and the dynger of a shock to them in their present styte of ’ealth.”

“How did you know I’d be coming this way?”

Rags bowed his head. “I’m one with you, sir, in all your doings.”

“Hm. Have you a match?”

Rags ostentatiously produced a box and struck one. Renny tore open the envelope and bent his head over the writing. He read—

“Regret to tell you Lady Buckley suffered stroke last night proved fatal.

H
OLLINGS
vicar.”

In the flare of the match Rags saw Renny’s face turn not pale but, it seemed, almost green. The match burned Wragge’s fingers and he dropped it with an exclamation of pain. He asked, in a trembling voice:

“Is she very ill, sir?”

“She’s dead. Light me another match. I want to read this again.”

Rags struck another and two more after that, while Renny stared with horrified eyes at the cablegram.

“It’ll be the end of the old gentlemen, sir.”

“I’m afraid so. Thank God, you didn’t let them see it! Of course, I’ll not tell them tonight. I’ll go—I’ll see—why, I don’t know what I should do first…” He looked at Rags in bewilderment. Rags said:

“This is terrible news, sir. I had a great respect for her Ladyship and so had my missus. Her visits will be a great loss to Jalner.”

Renny began to walk quickly, half dazed, across the pasture. At first he turned his steps in the direction of the house, then wheeled and went toward the road.

“I must tell my brother,” he said.

At Piers’s they found the lights out. During the walk Renny had talked incoherently, more to himself than to Rags, of the shock this would be to his uncles and of what must be done to ease the blow for them. A keen pain was in his heart at the same time for the loss of Augusta.

He rang the doorbell but there was no answer. Then he knocked loudly with his knuckles. There was a movement at a window above and Piers’s voice demanded:

“Who’s there? What’s the matter?”

“It’s me—Renny. I’ve just had a cable from England.”

“Oh!” There was a moment’s silence, then—“Anything wrong?”

“Aunt Augusta has had a stroke. She’s dead.”

“My God! I’ll come right down. Are you alone?”

“No. Rags is here.”

Piers appeared at the door in his pyjamas. He had switched on the light and Renny stepped into the hall.

“Have you told Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernie?”

“No. Not till morning.” He looked almost pathetically at Piers. “I’m afraid this will kill Uncle Ernest, Piers!”

Piers’s face was troubled but he said:

“Perhaps he will bear it better than you expect.”

Pheasant appeared on the landing wrapped in a kimono. She was sobbing.

“Oh, how terrible it is! Tell me all about it, Renny. I did love Aunt Augusta and she was always so sweet to Mooey!”

Renny handed her the cablegram. He said to Piers:

“First thing in the morning you must get the doctor. Fetch him over to Jalna. I’ll not break the news to them till you arrive.”

Piers nodded. He looked shrewdly into Renny’s face.

“I wonder,” he said, “what brought this on.”

Renny scowled and bit his lip. “I can’t imagine. She seemed perfectly well when she left.”

“I expected her to live to be a hundred—like Gran.”

“She had not Gran’s constitution or her love of life. My God, Piers, this is a blow to me! I can’t help wondering…” He could not continue.

“Wondering what?”

He turned his head away.

“Well,” Piers said, “I’ll be around with the doctor directly after breakfast. Let me give you a spot. You look all in.”

“No, thanks.” He hesitated, then asked—“Perhaps you had better break it to them, Piers. Perhaps you could do it better than I.”

“No, no, I think it’s your place to do it. Just tell them quietly that you’ve had word that she’s very ill and they’ll understand. But I’ll tell Meggie before I go to the doctor’s.”

“All right. I’ll be off, then. Good night. Good night, Pheasant! Get to bed, child!”

Pheasant ran down the stairway and clasped his arm in her hands. She looked up into his face out of wet brown eyes. “Poor Renny,” she faltered.

He bent and kissed her, making an effort to control his lips that trembled. “Good night,” he repeated, and returned to Rags.

After he was gone Piers asked her—“Why did you say ’poor Renny’? I feel just as badly as he does.”

“I know,” she returned gently, “but there was something in his face that made me say it. And then, I never can forget that time when he was so sympathetic and sweet to me when I had that frightful cough and you lay…”

Piers grunted and put out the light.

When Renny and Rags parted in the hall, Rags asked: “Is there anything I can do, sir?”

“No, no. Don’t speak of this to anyone.”

“Not a word, sir… It’s a very sad ending, if you’ll excuse my saying so, sir, to a pleasant evening.”

Renny looked at him sharply. “Good night,” he said, and went up the stairs.

A deep rumbling snore came from Nicholas’s room. Renny paused outside Ernest’s door and heard him moving restlessly in his bed, sighing, muttering to himself. Poor old boy! What might his condition be tomorrow! This blow might well finish him.

He moved on to Alayne’s door and softly turned the handle. Her voice asked:

“Is that you?”

It was the first time he had come to her room since their quarrel.

She sat up in bed. In the feeble light of the waning moon his face looked strange. There was a hungry light in his eyes, as for love. He came and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. She noticed for the hundredth time how beautifully his head was set on his shoulders. It was set there elegantly, warily, like the head of a thoroughbred. A rage of love for him mounted to her brain and, when he said, in a husky voice— “I must tell you something,” she thought—“It does not matter. It does not matter what he confesses. I can forgive him anything!”

“Yes, yes,” she whispered eagerly. “What are you going to tell me?”

He took her hand and held it tightly, as though to steady himself.

“You must be brave,” he said.

She drew his hand between her breasts. Her heart asked for his love. She thought—“Never again will I let anything come between us!”

She whispered—“I’ll be brave.”

“I have just had a cablegram. From the vicar at Nymet Crews. It is about Auntie. She’s had a stroke… I’m afraid we shall not see her again.”

A shudder of revulsion ran through her. For a moment his words were nothing to her but a dreadful disappointment. She bowed her head over his hand and could not speak.

Then the significance of what he said pierced her consciousness and she gasped:

“How terrible! Oh, poor Aunt Augusta! When did you get the cable?”

“Rags was waiting up for me with it. I’ve been over to tell Piers.” He went on to repeat the arrangements for the breaking of the news to his uncles.

“I think,” he said, “that I had better wake Finch and tell him.”

“Oh no! That would be cruel!”

“I think he ought to know. She was very good to him.”

“But wait till morning! Surely you can see that he should have his night’s rest!” Already irritation toward him chilled her voice.

“Very well.” He rose and moved restlessly about the room. He asked:

“Shouldn’t you like to dress and come downstairs? We might as well be up since we can’t sleep.”

“It is so cold,” she answered, and somewhat petulantly pulled the blanket over her shoulders. “And it is so foolish and unnecessary to stay up. If you go to bed, I’m sure you will sleep.”

He left her and went to his room but he could not stay there. He went downstairs to his grandmother’s room.

He groped his way into it and lighted the night light which stood by the bed. The air was heavy and the smell of old stuffs lingered on it. A film of dust dimmed the bright colours she had loved, and the maroon bedspread was rumpled by the sheepdog who, when opportunity offered, snatched a nap there. Boney slept on his accustomed perch on the headboard. He was sufficiently disturbed to uncover one eye from the shelter of his wing and with its cold brightness scanned the unwelcome visitor.

Renny gazed at the bed, seeing with startling clearness the form of old Adeline resting there, her deep-lined, predatory profile, her handsome hands spotted with liver-marks and bright with jewels clasped on her stomach, her long limbs outlined beneath the bedclothes. Might not her eyes open at his coming and in their burning brown depths might he not see a mother’s grief over her firstborn? But—mingled with the grief there would be a faint contempt, for she had always been contemptuous of Augusta. How often he had seen his aunt issue from that room with chin drawn back in deep affront! How that wicked tongue had scored her! “Lady Bilgely! Lady Bunkum!”—she never could remember the title she so resented! What a terrifying mother-in-law she must have been to little Sir Edwin!

Well—out of that staunch womb had issued Aunt Augusta and three sons, all big, well-shaped, fine-looking people… He picked up a photograph framed in faded plush, the corners bound in silver, of a young family group. Adeline, in billowing skirts, holding a large-eyed infant Ernest on her knee, while at her side lounged Nicholas wearing a braided velvet jacket and a Thames tunnel on his forehead,
represented today by his crest of grey hair. Philip, in cravat and tight trousers, held his daughter, her abundant dark curls confined by a circular comb, her white-stockinged legs dangling. The third son was not yet born.