The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (614 page)

Renny, who found the book on the desk in his office in the stables, where it had been brought by Wright from the post, examined it with pride, the lines about his lips and eyes intent. Through the open door he saw Wright passing and called out to him.

“Wright — come in here for a minute.”

Wright entered. “Yes, sir.” He looked at the book in Renny’s hands. Very fancy, he thought, for a book about horses.

“Wright,” said Renny, “this is the collected poems of my brother Eden. You remember how he was always writing verses.”

“I do indeed, sir. Well ... that’s wonderful ... and so long after ... I’ll not touch it, as my hands aren’t very clean. But — thanks for showing me.”

“Look.” Renny opened the book at the portrait. “A good likeness, eh?”

Here was something Wright could appreciate. “Gosh, sir,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a better likeness. It’s as though he was in the room with us.” Both men bent to examine the portrait.

“I used to think,” Wright said, “it would have been better for him if he’d written less poetry and done more riding. He was a first-rate rider. Good hands and a good seat.”

“Yes. I thought so many a time when he was ill.”

“But — in that case — you’d never have had the book, sir.”

“True.”

“There’s compensations, I always try to think.”

Six copies of the book had been sent from the publisher. Renny went over in his mind the names of those to whom he would give them. It did not enter his mind that other copies might be bought. One for himself and his family. One for Meg and hers. One for Piers and his. One for Finch. One for Wakefield. One for Roma. She, of course, would have the royalties. These, he guessed, remembering Eden’s other books of poetry, would not be large. He gave a grimace, half pride, half ruefulness, when he considered what a family of artists they were growing to be. Eden, Finch, Wake, Nook, and now here was Humphrey with his novel.

He walked across the squelchy fields, with crows flying overhead, to carry Meg’s copy of Eden’s poems to her.

She took it in her hands with an exclamation of delight, but when she opened it and saw Eden’s picture she burst into tears.

“Oh, the poor dear boy,” she sobbed. “To think that he had to die! And to suffer so long! My one consolation is that I did everything in my power to comfort him.”

“You did indeed, Meggie.... Now, cheer up. Your wedding is coming soon. You have lots of pleasant things to think of.”

She dried her eyes. “Already the presents are beginning to come. And the Bishop is to perform the ceremony. Rupert is so pleased.”

“Splendid.” He patted her plump back. Then he asked, “Meggie, why don’t you dye your hair before the wedding?”

“Me dye my hair! why, I’ve been grey for years and years. Why on earth should I dye my hair now?”

“Well, Rupert has shaved off his beard. Am I to call him Rupert, by the way?”

“It scarcely sounds respectful, but — I think he’d like it. I am sure he’d not like to see me with different hair. In fact he has more than once admired my hair. He says it sets off my fresh complexion.”

“But how much better would red hair set it off. I say, Meg, I’ve read the advertisements for hair tinting. I do wish you’d try red.”

“Me with red hair! You’re joking.”

“No — I’m in dead earnest. I can just picture you and Rupert marching along the aisle to the strains of the Wedding March — he smooth-shaven, you red-haired.”

“I’d break off the engagement first.”

“Aunt Augusta dyed her hair, didn’t she?”

“She did. A purplish black.”

“Ah, but the new shades are different. How about blue?”

“I loathe blue hair. No, Renny — I refuse. You’re wasting your breath.”

At this moment Humphrey came into the room in a panic.

“whatever is wrong, dear?” Meg asked him, as one would speak to a frightened child.

“A reporter,” he said, breathing hard. “Come to interview me about my book.”

“That just proves,” she said soothingly, “how successful it is.’’

“But he’s a reporter for an
American
magazine!”

“Better still. Humphrey, dear, it’s splendid.”

“But he will probably call me the undersized, thirty-three-year-old albino author. I won’t see him ... I won’t ... I won’t. Tell him I’m having an attack of amnesia. Tell him I’m dead!”

“I’ll see him for you,” said Renny.

“Oh, thank you. Could you possibly pretend you’re me?”

“Well ... I’ll think about it.”

“Those fellows give you no time to think,” said Humphrey Bell.

In Meg’s pretty drawing-room Renny found the personable young reporter, who asked with unconcealed surprise, “Mr. Bell?”

Renny shyly bowed and offered him a limp hand.

“You have written a very unusual novel, Mr. Bell.”

“We think so,” said Renny, looking at the young man’s shoes.

“We?”

“My wife and I.”

“I see.” He was writing in a notebook. “Been married long?”

“Since last December. If you look out of that window you’ll see my wife coming in at the gate.”

“She looks very young.”

“She is, but I don’t mind.”

“Mr. Bell, would you tell me what influenced your choice of the theme of the story?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

“I see.” He was writing in his notebook. “It’s very fine, I think, the way you have turned the struggles of pride and envy and passion into life in this book.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

“You see, I’ve read the book.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The reporter grinned, then asked, “Have you read it, Colonel Whiteoak?”

Renny stared at him in amazement. “why — I’ve tried to,” he said, then demanded, “who the devil do you think ...”

The young man answered with a laugh, “I saw you ride in Madison Square Gardens several years ago. I recognized you as soon as you came into the room.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“That was a lovely horse and a grand performance you gave on it.”

“Thanks. You like horses, eh? Now let me take you to my stables and I’ll show you some very promising colts....”

“I’d like very much to see them, but my job is to interview Mr. Bell. Is he here?”

“He is, but he just can’t stand interviews. He’s a very nice fellow but shy, and he has a strange sort of idea that his manner of living is his own business. Well — that’s not the way to show horses — to be sensitive and reserved and all that, is it?”

“Then you think Mr. Bell won’t see me? I’d ask no more than a quarter of an hour.”

“There’s not a chance of it. Better come straight to the stables with me.”

Soon they were standing before the loose-box where East Wind was being groomed. He stood regarding them with good-humoured unconcern.

“He’s lately come home,” exclaimed Renny. “He was in training all the winter on a straw track, under cover, but he’s soon to go into the open.”

It all ended by the young journalist’s writing an article about the stables at Jalna. In Renny’s office, over a drink, material for a lively interview was garnered.

With great speed the weeks flew to the time of Meg’s marriage. The day came, in springtime warmth. The church bell rang out. Small birds winged their way, in mighty purpose, with straws in their beaks. Noah Binns was able to get as far as the church and sit on a bench directing young Chalk in the bell-ringing. Meg had carried spring flowers that morning and laid them on the graves of the departed Whiteoaks. The prettiest she laid on the graves of Eden and Nicholas.

The wedding was an impressive ceremony, for there was the Bishop, and there was Mr. Fennel, looking like another bishop. There was Finch at the organ, for Miss Pink was down with ’flu — providentially, it seemed to Meg. There was Meg herself, in a lovely lavender silk dress and a tiny French hat. There was Renny, giving her away, and there was Rupert, taking her — to have and to hold till death did them part. There was the church packed with people, there was Jalna packed with people. Finally there were the happy couple setting out to fly to Victoria, where the Rector had a brother, an aunt aged ninety, three cousins, a niece, and five nephews.

Roma regretted, she said, that because of a press of work she could not come to the wedding. She sent Meg a pretty handbag, the replica of the one she had sent Patience.

There was general rejoicing when Wakefield was able to be present. He was so attractive, so gay. These high spirits he took with him to Vaughanlands on the morning after the wedding. He had already inspected the house, found it admirable, sighed to think he never was long enough in one place to have a proper home. Yet soon he was cheerful again.

Finch, seated at the piano, sheets of music sprinkled with cigarette ash scattered over the floor, his jacket in a heap on the floor also, his hair on end, said, with a touch of his old manner toward a cocky younger brother, “Well, you look nice and sunshiny.”

“And you look the perfect picture of genius at work. I’ll not disturb you. I just dropped in to see how you are after the party.”

Finch got to his feet and stretched. “Not feeling like work. I’m going to take a day off. Too much champagne.”

Wakefield gave a sympathetic grunt, then said:

“I met Dennis outside with your Great Dane. What a picture they made! I envy you that little boy, Finch. I shall never have a son.”

A shadow fell on his face. The darkness of his hair, his eyes, his olive complexion, made the shadow more palpable.

“why do you say that?” asked Finch, wondering if Wake were being melodramatic.

“Because I’m ... living in a way....” He put his hand to his forehead.

Finch perceived something in Wakefield’s face that made him ask, in eager sympathy, “what are you trying to tell me, Wake?”

“It’s quite simply this. Molly Griffith and I have come to an understanding — made a decision that has changed everything for us.... We are living together as man and wife.”

“But ...” stammered Finch, “I thought....”

“You thought we had given each other up — forever. And so we had ... till this happened.”

Finch dropped into a chair, sprawling there, with legs outstretched, his face a picture of astonishment. “I’m flabbergasted,” he said. “I looked on you two as adamant in your renunciation. I admired you for it, but — I wondered how you could do it. I guessed what it had cost you.”

Wakefield halted in his nervous pacing of the room. “No one could imagine ... not unless they had gone through it. There we were, in the same company, acting together, sometimes passionate love scenes, and ... all the while subduing our own feelings ... crushing them under. Sometimes we joined other companies. Then it was even worse ... the longing to be together.”

“But always you resisted?”

“Together or apart we always resisted.”

“You know, Wake, you deserve wings and a halo.”

“I have something better. I have Molly.”

“Tell me how it happened — if you don’t mind.”

“That’s what I came for. I wanted you to know and for a special reason.” He sat down close to Finch. Finch waited, with a quiver of the nerves. He felt that Wakefield was aiming some disclosure directly at him, but Wakefield went on, as though completely self-absorbed. “One day I met Fitzturgis face to face. I stopped to look at some hyacinths they set out in Rockefeller Centre, and there was he, looking at them too. We chatted for a bit. I like him, you know, and found myself glad to meet him. I was feeling sort of down. I asked him to have lunch with me and he seemed pleased.”

“what is he doing?”

“Well, he didn’t last long in the advertising business. I never expected he would. Now he’s got a job in the British Consulate — much more in his line.”

“And you like him?”

“Very much.”

“Did he ... speak of his sister?”

“He did indeed. I’m coming to that later. Well, the upshot of this meeting was that he came to see the play, and backstage afterwards. I invited him to my lodgings. We had a long talk. I can’t think of another man I’ve been so drawn to.”

“That’s interesting because I don’t like him very much.”

“I know. But you would if you knew him better. It ended,” Wakefield went on, “by my telling him about Molly and me.”

“Good Lord, I don’t see how you could!”

“I wanted to. I had not talked of us before ... to any outsider, and it was a relief and ... he was so sympathetic. I repeat that I like him very much and I’m sorry that Adeline is not going to marry him.”

“I’m not,” Finch said stubbornly, then asked, “what reason did you give him for a marriage between you and Molly not being legal?”

“I told him that we are connected — not closely — no closer to my mind than first cousins — but that legal marriage is not possible. I told him that during all the years we’d loved each other neither of us had any attachment to anyone else. We’d been faithful — like a loyal married couple. We’d been virtuous. We’d never lived together. Well, Finch, he gave me a sombre look — a penetrating look — and he asked, ‘Has this virtue made you happy? Has it been its own reward?’ And I had to answer that we’d been wretchedly unhappy. Then he asked, ‘why can’t you make a complete break — have done with the ordeal?’ And I said we’d never give up our love. That set him off. He was eloquent. Somehow he convinced me that we were fools to throw away our chances of a happy life because of a legal quibble or some worn-out rule of the Church. ‘Think of the legal marriages,’ he said, ‘think of the divorces! Don’t tell me that you and your girl couldn’t do better than that.’ He’s some years younger than I, but he is more worldly. Perhaps you’d call him hedonistic. Anyhow, I took his advice. Molly was eager to take it.”

“Yet once she was as ready as you to abide by the rules.”

“She was. But now” — Wakefield gave a little laugh — “our rule is — love and be happy. We’ve got a nice little apartment near the Park. Will you come and see us before we go back to London?”

Finch reached out to grasp Wake’s hand. “I will indeed.”

“I haven’t told Renny yet, but I shall today.”

“Gosh, I wonder how he’ll take it.”

“I can’t imagine. Anyhow — it’s done, and we’re happy. Completely basking in the sunshine of our new life.”