The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (497 page)

Roma was constantly helpful in those days. Perched on the side of Archer’s bed she played Halma or Parcheesi with him and, when he was able to be up, set out his lead soldiers and engineered campaigns. Whatever went wrong he blamed her for it. She ran endless messages to the basement, carried up glasses of milk and fruit juice. She hastened home from school to be on hand to help. Alayne was grateful for this, but it drew them no nearer together. Alayne’s eyes often rested on Roma’s face, sometimes seeing on the childish lips the resemblance to dead Eden’s smile, sometimes in her slanting eyes the very look of Minnie Ware. It was curious that Alayne seldom spoke to Roma as to a child. She might reprove her but it was as a grown-up, in a superior position, might reprove another grown-up. Roma in return spoke to Alayne in a cool self-possessed tone.

Meg and Patience had removed from Vaughanlands to the small house. Fortunately Mr. Clapperton had been glad to purchase some of the large furniture that for three generations had stood in the Vaughans’ home. Meg was able to make the small house look very attractive indeed. Patience was clever with window curtains and cushions. They were very happy and quite reconciled to the change in their situation. In truth Meg found herself with less responsibility and more means for the pleasures of life than she had enjoyed for many a year. She liked Mr. Clapperton and looked forward to the day when his affluence might be added to the support of the church built by her grandfather. Mr. Clapperton was at present a Christian Scientist but Meg looked on this as only a phase in his life. He had been born a Presbyterian but had joined the Christian Science denomination soon after his marriage. If he had changed once he might change again. Already Meg had introduced him to Mr. Fennel, the rector, and the two men had got on well together.

One day Mr. Clapperton accompanied her to tea at Jalna. It was a dark wet day toward the end of November. As they alighted from the car he paused to look up at the old house, and the old house seemed to gather itself together to look at him. There was open admiration in his eyes as he raised them to the walls which were of a peculiarly rose-red brick closely interlaced by the tendrils of the stout Virginia Creeper, now bereft of its leaves save for a few bright scarlet ones in the shelter of the eaves. Spirals of smoke rose from several of the five chimneys and mingled with the gently falling rain. Firelight could be seen reflected on the ceiling of the drawing-room. Inside the deep stone porch, the heavy door was scarred by the pawings of many generations of dogs. On Mr. Clapperton the house seemed to reserve judgment. It appeared to draw itself together as though saying, “You’re a bird of a new feather. I’ll not say what I think of you — not yet.”

The door was ceremoniously opened by Rags who that morning had had a very close hair cut and in consequence looked a hardened little criminal.

“Good afternoon, Rags,” said Meg. “I think my uncles are expecting us. I hope they are well.”

“They are indeed expecting you, ma’am, and as well as can be looked for in this weather. Mr. Nicholas’ knee is pretty bad.”

He escorted them to the drawing-room which seemed to Mr. Clapperton quite full of people. All fixed their eyes enquiringly and critically on him. “Can this old gentleman be ninety?” thought Mr. Clapperton. “He certainly doesn’t look it.” He said, “Your niece, Mrs. Vaughan, has talked a lot about you to me, sir.”

They shook hands. Ernest was favourably impressed. He saw a man a little past middle age and middle height, fresh-coloured, with light enquiring eyes and thin grey hair carefully brushed. He wore spats, a pale grey suit and an air of businesslike friendliness.

“Excuse me. Can’t very well get up,” mumbled Nicholas. “Gout. Had it for years.”

“Too bad, too bad,” sympathized Mr. Clapperton. “I gathered from your niece that your health is not very good.”

“Perfectly good otherwise,” growled Nicholas.

Ernest put in, “Have you met my niece, Mrs. Piers Whiteoak? Pheasant —”

She interrupted, “Oh, yes, we’ve met. Long ago.”

Meg brought forward Finch and Wakefield. They were almost of a height but Wakefield appeared the taller, with the straightness of his training on him and the proud carriage of his head. There was a look about his mouth that showed he had known great fatigue, and a look in his eyes of one used to risking his life. The air force blue of his uniform made his skin a little sallow. Meg was proud of them both and, with that air, introduced them to the visitor, explaining the fact that Finch was not in uniform by saying:

“Finch is a concert pianist. He has made a tour right across the continent.”

“Isn’t that fine?” said Mr. Clapperton.

“Troops too much entertained. Too little trained,” growled Nicholas.

“This is my youngest brother, Wakefield,” said Meg.

“He has lately arrived on a short leave, on his way to England.”

“You’ve been an actor in London, I hear,” said Mr. Clapperton as he shook hands with him.

“Bad actor, from the first,” added Nicholas.

“We are very proud of him,” said Ernest. “He has been given the Distinguished Flying Cross by the King, for gallantry.”

“Too many decorations in this war,” said Nicholas, winking at Wakefield.

“And here,” cried Meg, “is your own young man, Mr. Swift, and our nephew, Mooey, whom he’s tutoring.”

Mr. Clapperton was not entirely pleased to find his secretary already at Jalna. He was a good-natured man but he had a firm idea of his own importance. He gave Sidney Swift a frosty smile. Then his face lighted as he looked about the room. He exclaimed:

“May I remark on the beauty of your furniture? I thought I had some nice pieces! But
these
!” After an admiring contemplation of the well-polished Chippendale, he added, on a deeper note, “And to think that just such pieces as these are being bombed!”

“Yes, isn’t it terrible?” said Meg.

“Too much old stuff in the world,” growled Nicholas. “World cluttered up with antiques — material and human. Isn’t that so, Mr. Swift?”

“I quite agree,” cried the young man. “I often say —” but, after a glance from Mr. Clapperton, he did not say what he often said.

At this moment Alayne entered the room with the air of elegance that always distinguished her. The party was now complete and, after welcoming Mr. Clapperton, she sat down behind the tea tray which Rags had just carried in. The new neighbour sat near her while the four young men busied themselves in carrying about teacups and plates of thin bread and butter and cakes. Mr. Clapperton remarked sympathetically to Alayne:

“I hear you have had two very ill children.”

“Yes. My little son had his tonsils taken out. It was an unusually bad case but he is better now, I’m thankful to say.”

“Tonsils,” said Nicholas, “just disappear naturally if you leave ’em alone. Mine did.”

Ernest said, “I sometimes think my health would be better if I’d had mine out.”

“It’s not too late. Have ’em out next week.”

“And your little girl,” said Mr. Clapperton to Alayne, “is she better?”

“Thank you, she has quite recovered. She is a very strong child.”

Nicholas heaved himself in his chair, so that he faced Mr. Clapperton. “Now I want to know,” he said, “why you should choose to live in the country. You strike me as a man absolutely of the town.”

“Not at all, sir,” Mr. Clapperton spoke a little huffily. “I’ve always had the ambition to end my days on a country estate where I could play at being farmer.”

“Life in the country isn’t what it used to be, you know. Help question’s terrible.”

Mr. Clapperton smiled. “I plan to use modern business methods. Everything up to date. Wages to tempt the most experienced men. Oh, I have many plans!” He gave a silent chuckle. “I’ll surprise you by what I’ll do.”

“My father,” said Ernest, “used to employ twenty men at Jalna. Farmhands, gardeners; we had our own carpenter’s shop — our own smithy.”

“And cheap labour, I’ll bet,” returned Mr. Clapperton. “Those were the days!”

“Certainly,” said Meg, “we now have to scrabble along as best we can. I’m thankful to see Vaughanlands in the hands of someone who has the money to run it properly. I’ve had enough of making shift.”

There was a silence in which Nicholas noisily supped his tea. Mr. Clapperton gave him a quick look, then turned to Maurice. “So you are the young gentleman my secretary is teaching.”

“Well, he’s trying to, sir. I’m afraid he finds it pretty heavy going at times.”

Pupil and tutor exchanged smiles. “This lad,” said Swift, “has been mentally submerged by the classics. I’m doing what I can to bring him to the surface.”

“And a mighty unpleasant surface it is,” said Finch gloomily.

“Just wait till we get the rubbish cleared away.”

“Meaning our kind,” said Nicholas, putting a small muffin whole into his mouth.

“Oh, no, Mr. Whiteoak. I mean the accumulation of outworn tradition.”

“Description answers perfectly,” growled Nicholas, through the muffin.

“People like you,” put in Mr. Clapperton, “have been the backbone of this country.”

“Very handsome of you to say so.”

“Development and change are necessary,” said Ernest, “and I always like to feel myself in the forefront of such.”

“Good man!” said his brother.

Meg now brought the conversation to personal affairs, from where it led quite naturally to the financial difficulties of the church. Mr. Clapperton was sympathetic but showed no disposition to offer financial aid. Before he left he expressed a wish to see the other rooms on the ground floor. A group progressed into the library and dining room. Mr. Clapperton might have been a connoisseur of old furniture, to judge by the profound expression with which he stood before each piece. But the truth was he knew little and gave his rapt attention to things of no value, such as the ugly and ornate whatnot which stood in a corner of the library, its shelves covered by photographs, papier mâché boxes and Victorian china ornaments. But, when in the dining room, he stood before the portraits of Captain Philip Whiteoak and his wife, Adeline, his enthusiasm increased, if that were possible.

“There,” he exclaimed, “is what I call a perfect example of a gallant English officer!”

Captain Whiteoak, blond and bold in his Hussar’s uniform, looked unconcernedly over their heads.

Meg said, “My brother Piers, the one who is a prisoner in Germany, is the image of Grandpapa.”

“And you should see my little boy, Philip!” cried Pheasant. “The likeness is remarkable.”

“As an officer,” said Nicholas, “my father was overbearing to his inferiors, insubordinate toward his superiors and was never so happy as when he got out of the army.”

“And what a striking woman your mother was!” exclaimed Mr. Clapperton, rapt before the other portrait.

“Right you are,” agreed Nicholas. “She’d hit any one of us over the head as lief as look at us.”

When the guests had gone, Meg asked, “Now what do you think of my Mr. Clapperton?”

“I think,” said Nicholas, “that he’s a horrid old fellow.”

“Do you indeed? Then what is your feeling about that good-looking secretary of his?”

“I think,” returned Nicholas, filling his pipe, “that he’s a horrid
young
fellow.”

THE WANING OF THE YEAR

A
LAYNE HAD MET
with much criticism from Meg and the uncles because of her dismissal of Wright. He had been at Jalna for more than twenty years. He had been Renny’s right-hand man in the care of the horses. He had ridden beside him in many a show. He could be depended on. To be sure he was no farmer, nor did he pretend to be. To grow sufficient hay and oats for the horses satisfied him. Where the stables were concerned he was extravagant and nothing could change him. Alayne had had little to do with him before the war. Since Renny’s departure there had been a constant tug-of-war between them. He was, in her opinion, demanding, headstrong and inflexible; she, in his, close-fisted and interfering. Now they stood facing each other. She had in her hand a cheque for the amount of his wages.

“You know what I think, ma’am,” he said. “I was hired by Colonel Whiteoak and I don’t feel like taking notice from anyone but him. In fact, I ain’t going to.”

Alayne felt her anger rising. “This is ridiculous, Wright,” she said, “and you know it is. I am in complete authority here. I have given you notice. Now I intend to pay you your wages. So let us have no more arguing about it.”

He thrust his hands behind his back. “Listen here, ma’am. The farmhand has given me notice. What are you going to do when he’s left?”

“Given
you
notice!” she exclaimed. “If he wishes to give notice let him give it to me.”

“He’ll do that fast enough. He wants to leave at the end of a fortnight.”

“Well, let him leave. There are others. In fact, we can get along quite well with one good man at this time of year.”

Wright smiled grimly. “Perhaps you can find one,” he said.

Alayne proffered him the cheque, but he kept his hands behind his back.

“Please take this,” she said sharply, her colour rising.

“No, Mrs. Whiteoak, I ain’t going.”

“Do you like the idea of staying on without wages?” she asked.

“No. I don’t, but I’ll do it sooner than let the boss down.”

“Your flat over the garage will be needed for the new man.”

“You can’t put me out of there for three months, ma’am.”

“Then he can live in the cottage. You are doing yourself no good, Wright, by behaving like this.”

“I ain’t out to do myself good, ma’am.”

Alayne turned sharply away and left him.

Finch was her comfort in these days. Now he went to the town and at the office of the Selective Service interviewed several men. He engaged one who had been discharged from the army, and he was installed in the one cottage which remained of those built for farmhands in the early days at Jalna. He was a clean, bright-looking young man and Alayne felt that Finch had done well in acquiring him. Wright would not let him do anything more for the show horses than to clean their stalls but put the farm horses in his care, with many injunctions as to feeding.