The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (634 page)

“Are you sure,” he had said, “that you don’t mind my going off like this?”

“It’s what I want. It will give me leisure to do things. Have a good time, darling. Don’t worry about me.”

He was gone and she was alone in that golden woodland that now had become a prison to her, a prison whose walls were falling, leaf by leaf, a prison from which the birds were escaping, not one by one, but in flocks. She gathered up the bedclothes from the cot where Wake had slept, and neatly folded them. She was washing the breakfast dishes when suddenly, in the doorway, little Mary appeared. She advanced, shyly but steadily with a few sprays of chicory and Queen Anne’s lace in her hand.

“I brought these for you,” she said.

“How kind of you!” said Molly. “This blue flower is just the colour of your eyes.”

Mary looked on with satisfaction while Molly placed the flowers in water. Then Molly asked:

“why have you come all this way alone? Are you allowed?”

“I heard Daddy say Uncle Wake has gone on a picnic. I thought you might be lonely — so I came.”

“You came and you brought me flowers — that was sweet,” said Molly. “Now will you sit down in this little chair while I finish my work?”

“where there are men,” said Mary, “there’s always work to do.”

“True,” said Molly, “but it’s sometimes nice to have them about.”

Mary looked steadily at her. “I think it’s better,” she said, “when they go away.”

Molly could not help laughing, so quaint the little girl looked, sitting there, with her fine fair hair falling about her face, and uttering such words. “But you’d not want your daddy to go away, would you?”

“One man is useful,” said Mary. “He can hammer. He can sharpen the carving knife. Too many men make a noise going up and down the stairs. They’re always wanting something to eat.”

“I know, I know,” Molly said sympathetically. “Men are like that.”

“I’d rather,” said Mary, “dry the dishes for you than sit here.”

“Good.” Molly put a tea towel into the deft little hands.

When Mary had dried the dishes she stood on a chair to put them into the cupboard. This done, she asked:

“Are you going to live here alone?”

“For a little while.”

“It’s better to live alone.” Mary gave a smile, almost mischievous. “Then you can hear all the nice things and not the noise.”

“what sort of things, Mary?”

“The secret things.” And the little girl laughed, with the air of a conspirator.

Now they both were conscious of the sound of steps scuffing the dead leaves on the path. Startled, they turned, to see Piers’s fox terrier looking in the door at them, then Piers himself. He was as sound, as well-coloured as an apple that might take a prize at a country fall fair. He nodded, in his offhand way, to Molly and gave her his offhand smile.

“Deserted, eh?” he said.

“For a short while.” She smiled nervously, wondering what he had in his mind.

Nothing, apparently, but the quest for his daughter. “You oughtn’t, you know, run off by yourself like this,” he said to her with a show of sternness.

“She’s been drying dishes for me,” said Molly.

“That’s the way with young’uns,” said Piers. “when her mother wants her to do something, she runs off.”

Mary went to him and slipped her tiny hand into his large warm one that closed on it with tender paternal possessiveness.

“Shall you mind being alone?” he asked Molly.

“I have lots to do.” She spoke defensively.

“But not what you’d like to be doing, I’ll wager.”

Still with that offhand smile he added, “what a little fool you are.”

“what do you mean?” She spoke scarcely above a whisper.

“Wasting your life here.
And
your talent. I don’t know how good an actress you are but you’re a very pretty woman, and I tell you there’s no future for you as Wake’s mistress.” Suddenly he looked serious. “Don’t be angry, or hurt,” he said. “I mean to be kind. I like you, Molly, and now that you have Wakefield nursed back to health I think it’s time for you to think of yourself.…

“Come, Mary.” With his daughter, and his fox terrier, he disappeared along the path looking, it seemed to Molly, all the more resolute because he had an artificial leg.

She was left alone in the silence, where there was only the beating of her own heart. She wished Piers had not come, for her mind had already been made up. Through the open doorway she could see the falling leaves, some dun-coloured, some still green, but mostly varied in scarlet and gold. They were, she thought, as the minutes in the hour, the hours in the day, the days in the year, the years in a lifetime.

Seven by a Lake

Wakefield was tired when Finch’s car turned into the drive, behind the high cedar hedge of the house that was built of stucco and stone, with a green roof, and two massive stone chimneys. The lake was hidden by trees. Finch, Sylvia, Wakefield, and Adeline were in this car. Already the other car stood at the door, empty, and its occupants — Christian, Maurice, and Patrick Crawshay — were exploring the house.

“Tired?” Finch asked of Wakefield with solicitude, for he had a responsible feeling for him.

“Not in the least.” Wakefield straightened his shoulders. “Just excited. It’s such an adventure — after all those months of resting — and being bored.”

“You must choose your room,” said Sylvia, “and lie down for a bit. I’ll bring you some milk.”

“Milk be damned!” shouted Wakefield. “I hate it.” And he ran into the house and out the other side.

“If he’s going to behave like that,” said Adeline, “we shall wish we hadn’t brought him.” She looked after his agile figure with severity.

“Don’t worry,” said Finch. “I’ll attend to him. Fetch his milk, Adeline, and I’ll see that he takes it.”

Finch stared about him at the expensively furnished summer residence and remembered his boyhood pal, George Fennel, tousle-headed George who seldom had two coins to rub together in his pocket. He had married a rich widow and was growing bald, but still was just as tranquil.

Along a grass path, bordered by frost-nipped flowers, down steep wooden steps to the lake’s sandy edge Finch followed Wakefield. The lake spread itself before them — a small lake, as compared to the great lake to which they were accustomed; on a clear day its opposite shore might easily be seen. It was not blue beneath the blue sky but rather of a changeful greenish colour. It had islands on which tall trees rose stately from the rocks and cast their shadows on the lake. To Wakefield, long confined to the woodland about Fiddler’s Hut, it appeared gloriously free. His first thought was, “Oh, that Molly were here!” but he was too proud to give voice to it. Instead, he remarked in a matter-of-fact tone:

“If this weather holds, we shall have a week to remember. You can’t imagine what it is to me. It’s like a new lease of life.”

“I can well imagine,” said Finch, whose too active imagination found little impossible. “But you must come indoors and choose your room and rest awhile.”

When they went in, the girls already had chosen a room for Wakefield, a single room that overlooked the lake. Stripped of his outer clothes and wrapped in a dressing gown he tumbled into bed, drank a glass of milk, exclaimed at the luxurious comfort of the mattress, and slept like a log for two hours, in spite of the only half-muffled noises of the others settling in.

Of these other six, Finch and Sylvia took possession of the “rd bedroom,” as George Fennel called it, which he and his wife occupied when in residence. Adeline took for herself a pretty single room that, like Wakefield’s, overlooked the lake. Maurice and Christian shared a room; while Patrick Crawshay was given one that opened on to a vine-embowered veranda. All were on the ground floor, which gave a carefree familiarity to the party. All seven were eager to make the most of this Indian summer outing — expense-free in another man’s house.

Two discoveries brought added pleasure. One was that, moored a short distance from the shore, was a large sailboat. Finch had known there were canoes but this was a delightful surprise. The other discovery was a piano in the living room. Finch recalled, with amusement and some tenderness the George Fennel of their youth, when George could make shift to play on any sort of instrument, when he and Finch had got together a small orchestra, in the hope of making a little money.

“How splendid,” said Adeline. “Now we shall have music in the evenings.”

But in the evenings they were mostly content to sit about the fire and talk. When the sun sank it was fall indeed; but during the sun-drenched days it was summer. They wore thin clothes, and taking their lunch with them, explored the lake in the sailboat. The lake that throughout the summer was the playground for small craft of all sorts but principally the noisy outboard motors, was now deserted. It appeared as remote as when Champlain discovered it.

Wakefield, Finch, and Sylvia left the handling of the boat to the others. Although a dreamy Indian summer haze hung over the lake there was usually enough breeze to fill the sails. Once they were for several hours becalmed, and twice the wind strengthened till they fairly flew across the wavelets. Maurice, who had felt in command of himself and that his love for Adeline was something to be remembered with resignation and even detachment, found that when they two sat in the bow together, the breeze blowing back the hair from her face, her eager forward-looking profile turned toward him, he wished with passionate longing that they might be the only occupants of the lively craft. He no longer sought to draw her and Pat Crawshay into dangerous intimacy.

Yet effortlessly those two came together, first in the mere physical pleasure of sailing the boat, then in long walks along the deserted beach or on the quiet country road. It made them happy to be together. They delighted in the same things, needing no more than an exclamation or a look exchanged to express their pleasure. A rhythm marched in unison through their bodies, coming miraculously to rest in their faces or even their hands, so that, for a brief while their hands seemed to be the real home of the spirit. They felt themselves to be part of the dreamy Indian summer landscape even as were the trees. Adeline, in these days, gave no more than a passing thought to her coming marriage. Since Philip’s return to college she had had no letter from him, nothing but a bright-coloured postcard of a steamer on which he had spent a weekend on the St. Lawrence. He did not even say — “I wish you were here.” Neither had she written to him. She accepted their engagement as something seemly, worthwhile, to which they were willingly bound, but her friendship with Patrick Crawshay came to her as an excursion into real and mysterious regions.

In these days the others of the party found something oddly magnetic in Adeline. They liked, for one reason or another, to touch her. And in its simplicity and vitality her nature responded. When Finch would play the piano in the evening she would sit with folded hands listening, in complete uncritical absorption. She did not tan or sunburn, as the others, but retained a healthy flower-like pallor, against which her dark eyes were luminous. Though she greatly enjoyed Finch’s playing, she still more enjoyed the times when they sang in chorus to his accompaniment. It was impossible for her unaided to keep on the tune, but singing in chorus she was safe, and let out her voice in pure enjoyment. Of all the seven, the best voice belonged to Pat Crawshay, and she would listen with delight when sometimes he sang old Irish songs.

Their constant cry was, “Oh, if only this weather will hold!” — and, day after day, the beauty of Indian summer was repeated, as though the earth had learned one song and was bent on its repetition. The air became even warmer. The sun was almost hidden in a lustrous mist. On the air there came a faint smell of distant wood smoke from forest fires in the north. All along the shore the colours became more startling. Vivid scarlet predominated and was reflected in the lake with the rich green of cedars.

Sometimes out of the misty radiance that enveloped the water, a sudden breeze would spring and send their boat scudding across the small bright waves. Then the crew of seven would shout and sing for joy. The lake seemed to be their playfellow; but, on the last morning but one it showed itself in a different mood. They had extended their stay by two days and this was the eighth day.

That morning the mist had cleared away and a steady wind blew from the northwest. It was a glorious day for a sail, they agreed. The girls made a larger lunch than usual and they prepared to make a day of it. The wind, growing stronger, swelled the sails. Patrick, who knew how to handle a boat, was at the tiller. There seemed no limit for the excursion but the farthest shore of the lake. They ate their lunch in the calm of a little bay, in the shelter of an island. It was on the way back that they encountered the squall.

Suddenly the wind took on a new note, screaming against the sails, blowing foam from the long curling waves that hurled themselves on the boat, that leaped over the gunwale, as she came about, and drenched those aboard. The lake turned to grey. The sun was gone and rain came down in a torrent. The distance they had covered, flying before the light wind, in two hours, was a struggle of four hours in the squall and its aftermath of uncertain gusts and choppy waves. Only Adeline, who had before stayed by this lake, was aware of its possibilities of fury. The straining and rattling of the rigging tranquillized rather than excited her. On her, it had the effect of riding a difficult horse at a show. But Sylvia felt alarmed and could not conceal it. She gripped Finch’s hand and looked into his face for assurance. Because of her condition he was afraid for her; he found a small bucket and began to bail out the cockpit. Once when they came about and scrambled to the other side of the boat Sylvia fell. Wakefield shouted, “We’re over!” and laughed in sheer wild excitement. He was soaked to the skin. Even in his excitement he wondered what Molly would think if she saw him now. What a lot he would have to tell her!

For a time the rain had ceased, but now the sky was blackening for another deluge. They were thankful when their own little bay came in sight. They had gone up the lake before the wind. Now coming back they had to tack and luff continually. Suddenly as they were bringing the boat about the boom swung over violently and, before she could crouch down, Sylvia was knocked off her feet and into the lake. She was not hurt but screamed in terror. Finch sprang in after her, and when they had been helped into the boat, she clung to him weeping. Maurice and Patrick were vigorously quarreling as to whose carelessness was the cause of the accident. Rain fell in torrents.