The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (427 page)

She seemed almost girlishly inconsequent. At the table next theirs, in a restaurant where they dined, a young man sat alone. He could not keep his eyes off Alayne. Every now and again one of the three women caught him in an admiring glance. To feel that she could attract the eyes of a man, of a young man used to the company of girls who thought of little else but their appearance, made Alayne feel almost recklessly exhilarated. She ordered wine and wondered a dozen times what Renny would think if he discovered her there. But this was the last sort of place he was likely to come. He had his own peculiar haunts among men of his own sort. What was he doing now? Was he nervous before the Show? At the thought of him a contraction, as of fear or hate, she did not know which, caused her heart to miss its beat. She lifted the glass of wine in a trembling hand, but forced her lips to smile back at Rosamond Trent. She resolutely put the thought of him, as a man, out of her mind and bent it toward the thought of him as a rider. She experienced a feeling of pride in the thought that Aunt Harriet and Rosamond would see tonight what sort of horseman he was.

She stood silent between the other women as they waited in front of the restaurant for a taxi. A cold, blustering wind raced between the tall buildings. In the taxi she was still silent. Everything about seemed suddenly unreal. She wondered where she was going and why. She could not take in what Rosamond Trent was saying. Her mind became concentrated on the vital stirring of the child within her. Marvellous, inexorable being, that unseen fourth in the taxi…. It’s imagined face flashed before her, smooth, white as an egg, with fine white hair like Roma’s. Why should she always think of Roma in connection with it? But she thought of it with aloofness, with coldness. There was no tenderness in her heart toward it.

Miss Archer looked at her anxiously as Rosamond was buying the tickets. Alayne had slipped the money into Rosamond’s hand.

“Aren’t you feeling well, dear? You are so quiet.”

Alayne forced herself to smile. “I’m all right. It is just the crowd. I have got out of the way of mixing with such hordes of people.”

Miss Archer squeezed her arm excitedly. “Isn’t it amazing? I never imagined … and such an interesting crowd … all sorts of people!”

They had good seats. Rosamond had seen to that. All about them there rose the vast tiers of faces. Below spread the course with its white gates and oxers. An event was already in progress. As they took their seats a storm of clapping broke forth. The band began to play. There was an animal vitality in the air that was almost frightening to Miss Archer. But the people about looked respectable.

Alayne held the bulky catalogue. She had herself in hand now. She looked competently through the pages for what she wanted. “Isn’t it amusing to see her, Miss Archer? She knows all about Horse Shows now,” said Rosamond.

She saw his name again and again on various days. She knew the horses he was riding. The knowledge of all she had absorbed about horses, without being conscious of it, made a gulf between her and Rosamond and her aunt. This was the fifth night. She found his name.

Champion Sweepstake — Value one thousand dollars guaranteed. No. 56 … Mrs. Spindles … ch. M. 15, 8, 5 years…. R.C. Whiteoak …

It was so strange to see his name there. So strange … so strange … and the thought that she would soon see him in the flesh…. It seemed to her an unthinkably long time since she had seen him…. She felt that everyone in the Garden must know that she had come to see him.

They watched foreign Army teams competing … French, Italian, South American officers. They watched an exhibition by Troopers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, in their red tunics, broad-brimmed hats and black breeches. There was a glamour about them, a precision, a fineness. Miss Archer joined almost wildly in the applause.

Alayne sat rigid, her hands tightly clasped. All that passed was a dream to her, a fantasy, a nothingness till he came on. She picked him out at once among the other riders, sitting the tall, lean chestnut easily, with that accustomed droop of the shoulders. She saw the dark coat — she knew just where it hung in his wardrobe — the riding boots — she could see the row of them on their wooden trees. She was filled with wonder that he could sit there so easily, the mare sidling into her place, and be unconscious of the look that pierced him from where she sat.

The mare had been shown in other classes during the week. It was evident that she was known by some, looked on with amusement. But she had a lovely shoulder, a smooth sweep to her flanks, an iron neck and a little, clever head. Her eyes beamed, as though with a candid return of the crowd’s amusement. There were performances ahead of her that were difficult to beat. She swung in an easy canter over the tan-bark and cleared the first gate with a space to spare. But, almost as soon as she had landed, as though in an access of perversity, she reared and walked on her hind legs toward the next obstacle. A gasp of surprise followed by laughter came from the tiers of seats. Surely she could not clear the next gate But they had heard strange things of her and they held their breath to see what would happen. Her rider had evidently been prepared for this performance for, though the colour flamed into his face, he appeared calm and headed her toward the next gate.

Almost at the take off the mare lowered herself, looked closely at the gate, dropped her head, reared and again jumped clear with many inches to spare.

There was a thunder of applause which the mare accepted with an air between the mischievous and the vixenish and the man with an embarrassed yet triumphant grin.

Again she was on her hind legs! Again she minced coyly along the course. Again she lowered herself and cleared the gate like a thunderbolt. The applause thundered to the roof. The crowd loved the mare because she was strange, perverse, and triumphant.

Alayne’s hands separated, each seeking a hand of those on either side. She gripped their fingers. Hers seemed made of iron they held so fiercely. She laughed outright as the mare, on hind legs, stalked from the course and out of sight. She could imagine the hilarious stream of curses fired off above her head when those two were alone.

“Will they give him the prize?”

“Oh, but they should!”

“But how can they, when the horse behaved so?”

“She’s a devil!”

“How that man can ride!”

“There’ll have to be a tryout with the best of the others.”

Alayne’s ears drank in these ejaculations. She looked eagerly into the faces about her. She talked eagerly to Miss Archer and Rosamond Trent. They were mystified by her. She seemed beside herself with excitement. A brilliant spot burned in either cheek. She wanted the people about to know that that man was, or had been, hers.

Suddenly, at a distance, standing with some other men, she saw Piers looking unbelievably natural, laughing and talking.

In the tryout all the others had faults but the mare never ticked a bar though again and again she approached the obstacle in her own peculiar fashion. The crowd was jocular and joyful when she was awarded the prize. Now she stood immobile, beautiful, aloof, her rider scanning the faces of the audience as though for one he knew.

But that face, white and tense, was lost as a drop in the sea.

The journey home seemed very long. Snow began to fall. There had already been a few flurries but this was the first time it had come down in earnest. The flakes stuck to the windows of the taxi, which was not a very good one, and an icy draught moved the dead air in it. Miss Archer kept talking rather nervously about the show. She was very much afraid that she would take a chill and her mind was in a state of confusion after the strange evening. She was glad when they had boarded the electric train and she could snuggle into a corner of the seat and close her eyes. She thought — “There is no use in making conversation. Alayne is tired out, poor girl. How lovely she looked at dinner! And at the show! I like that narrow fur collar on her! What strange pictures come before my eyes … all sorts of coloured lights … horses bounding and caracoling —
is
there such a word?
And
that
man
! My first thought was he hardly seems human!… Later on I had a feeling of something very human in him … that was when he was sitting motionless on his horse … but not the sort of humanity I am used to, and the last man I should choose as a husband — if I were choosing one … I
do
admire his back … there’s something about it … and the way he rode that impossible horse…. I never cared for the word mare…. It is strange how in some cases the male name of animals is best and in others the female…. I rather wish Alayne had been willing to go back to Rosamond’s apartment to supper. It would have been nice … but Alayne has always liked her own way…. I do wonder if perhaps …”

The very inmost chamber of Alayne’s mind was drained of thought. She sat sunk in her seat staring straight ahead of her, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but the weight of her body, her spiritual exhaustion. She planted her feet on the floor of the train, and through them its vibrations hummed to the very core of her.

The snow flickered past the steamy pane. The platform of the little station was white with it. The taxi they had ordered was waiting for them and, at last, they found themselves in their own living room.

“Are you glad you went?” asked Miss Archer over their hot coffee.

“Yes. I’m very glad.”

“Are you pleased that he won the prize?”

“Very…. What do you think of him, Aunt Harriet?”

“My dear, I think he is a violent-looking man. I could understand your loving Eden but …
this
man …”

“This man,” repeated Alayne. “No, I suppose you couldn’t understand that.”

In her own room she carefully put away the new hat and coat. Then, as though her body were of much less importance, she threw it passionately on the bed and cried far into the night.

T
HE
C
OMING OF
W
INTER

M
EG AND
M
AURICE
were effacing as well as they could the ravages that a summer of paying guests had made in their living room. Though they hoped to get other guests as agreeable next summer it was very pleasant to be alone again, to let oneself go, without regard to the opinion of outsiders.

Patience was at this moment practising on the piano with the loud pedal down: Meg was cleaning the spot on the wallpaper above the couch where a gentleman with oiled hair had been accustomed to rest his head; while Maurice, in an old shooting jacket, was putting a fresh covering on the seat of an old-fashioned, much-carved walnut chair. The noise of his hammering did not at all perturb Patience, only causing her to press the loud pedal more firmly. A canary, struck by the last pale shaft of sunlight, was singing himself hoarse in his cage.

Meg beamed.

“Well, that looks better, doesn’t it? Really, I was almost hopeless of getting it clean. Look, Maurice … Maurice, look! Are you deaf?”

Maurice, sitting on his heels, obligingly admired her work. “You’ve certainly made a good job of it. I hope the old blighter won’t want to come back next year. He made that spot on the wall and burnt the seat of this chair with his cigarette. He seemed only half awake.”

“But he was very nice and so well-informed.”

“If only he had been satisfied to keep his information to himself!”

“Maurice, you mustn’t be ungrateful! Think of the money we got out of him. And his digestion being so bad he brought most of his food in packages.”

“Look what he did to the wallpaper and the chair.”

“That’s childish. Remember that we got over a hundred dollars from him.”

“I don’t see how you make that out,” He hammered noisily.

“Why, six weeks at —”

“He wasn’t here six weeks.”

“Of course, he was! Don’t you remember how the very day he arrived —?”

“I can’t hear a word you say.”

“Why do you go on hammering when I’m talking?”

“Must get this chair covered sometime. He’s weakened the springs, too.”

“What?”

“He’s weakened the springs, too. My father sat in this chair for seventy years —”

“What utter nonsense! You don’t suppose he sat in it as a baby.”

“Why not?” Maurice stared at her truculently.

“What would be his weight then? In any case your father was never a heavy man. As compared with my father and my grandfather —”

“Good Lord! I don’t suppose they ever sat in this chair.”

“What has that to do with it, I’d like to know.”

“Then why did you bring them into the discussion?”

“I didn’t. I was just comparing.”

“Why compare?”

“What did you say? Why are you muttering?”

“Muttering! If you’d choke off that canary you might hear me!”

“You said only yesterday that he’d scarcely uttered a peep for weeks!”

“What?”

“Patience, darling, could you put down the soft pedal?”

Patience wheeled on the antiquated stool. The door bell rang. She ran and looked out of the window.

“It is Uncle Piers!”

“Whew!” said Piers. “It’s turned cold, I can tell you. We’re in for a real snowstorm.”

“Yes,” said Meg. “I was just noticing that great purple cloud above the sunset. I was just comparing it in my mind to the way the sun shines out in one’s life, in spite of clouds.”

Maurice looked at her stupidly.

“I see that your morale is good,” said Piers. He sat down and took Patience on his knee. She rubbed her cheek against his firm cold one.

“Oh,” she said, “how nice and frosty you feel!”

“He always has a good colour,” said Meg. “I was like that as a young girl. But I had a terrible shock and an illness and I was always pale after that.”

Maurice stared stupidly at her.

Piers asked of Patience — “How are you getting on with your lessons?”

She smiled without answering. Meg did it for her. “Oh, she’s practising very well now that the P.G.s are gone. I couldn’t insist on it when they were here. Now Maurice begins to realize that it was worth going to the expense of a good teacher for her. He begins to appreciate her talent.”