Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (106 page)

She said to Nicholas, “I admire the candelabra you gave them. Ernest’s present was equally nice. But this —” She held, on her supple palm, a solid silver fern-pot, “this is a penurious present. What do they want with a fern-pot?”

“They might, at any time, decide to keep a fern,” said Nicholas.

“What! Go to the woods and dig up a fern and bring it into the house?”

“Why not? They own a fern-pot. They must have something to put in it.”

“Oh, I do call it a miserable present. What did they give Philip on his first marriage?”

“I forget.”

“Ask him.”

“Mamma, this is no time for such reminiscences.”

“Ernest, come here!”

He came, and she asked, “What did Edwin and Augusta give Philip and Margaret for a wedding present?”

“A fern-pot,” he answered, without hesitation.

“Where is it now?”

“In Nick’s room. He keeps his pipes in it.”

“Is that what that is?” said Nicholas. “I forgot.”

Sir Edwin, seeing them gathered about the fern-pot, strolled over to them.

“Edwin,” said Adeline, “Ernest tells me that you and Augusta gave Philip a silver fern-pot on his first marriage. Surely that is not possible?”

Her son-in-law wavered for an instant and then said, “We did indeed. We wanted Philip to know that our feelings were equally benevolent to both marriages.”

Violet Lacey came running up. “They are ready to leave,” she said. “And, oh, how lovely Mary looks in her going-away things!”

She did indeed. Adeline took her in her arms and held her close. “Good-bye, my dear,” she said, “and I hope you will be very, very happy.”

Their breasts together, they stood embraced, their eyes mysterious. Strangely, in that moment, Mary remembered the scene in her bedroom, her triumph over Adeline that had brought her so many tears. “I had the best of her,” she thought, “but never shall again.”

“Thank you, dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” she murmured.

Philip came, hat in hand, and was embraced.

The children pushed their way to his either side. He bent and kissed them.

“Shall you bring me something from New York?” asked Renny.

“I will indeed. Be a good boy while I’m away.”

Mary kissed the cool cheek Meg half-turned to her, then Renny’s small pursed mouth.

“Good-bye, Miss Wakefield,” he said, in his clear treble.

Everyone laughed, “Mrs. Whiteoak,” corrected his aunt.

“Not Mrs. Whiteoak — but Mamma!” cried Violet.

He hung his head in embarrassment.

“Hurry,” exclaimed Nicholas, “or you’ll miss your train.” He poked Philip in the ribs. “Like you did the last time. Remember?”

Philip would never forget. He caught Mary by the arm and they ran the short distance to the gate, in a shower of rice. They leaned from the carriage waving.

“Good-bye! Good-bye!” called everyone.

Renny ran to the road and stood there waving, listening to the beat of hoofs growing fainter, watching the carriage till it was out of sight. Suddenly the world seemed larger, echoing to the sounds of departure, and he smaller.

He went back into the house where the others had returned. Doctor Ramsey put out an arm and drew Renny to his side. “Poor wee laddie,” he said.

The wedding over, movements of a different nature stirred Jalna. Nicholas and Ernest, Edwin and Augusta bent themselves to their preparations for travel. The Buckleys made theirs with the least fuss, confining their operations as much as possible to their own room. But Nicholas and Ernest were here, there and everywhere. Their luggage strewed the hallways. Their strong voices shouted from room to room. Nicholas was happy at returning to his agreeable life in London. Ernest was exhilarated by the thought of new investments. The hearts of Edwin and Augusta yearned towards the peace of their home in Devon.

But Adeline was glad to be where she was. Canada was her country and at Jalna she had spent the happiest years of her life. She looked forward with complacency to the coming winter. Mary
was an amenable girl, if something of an enigma. She herself could generally manage Philip. She would retain the reins. Opportunely a small school was being started by two capable women in the district and to it the children could be sent for a time. They had run wild long enough.

At last, after an upheaval greater than garden party and wedding combined, the travellers to England had departed. Adeline was left alone with the children. There had been snow, the snow was gone and Indian Summer warmed the November air, cleared the sky to a stainless blue, clouded the horizon with smoky grey. The light wind bore no heavier freight than the silver savings of the milkwood pod. The stream, broadened by rains, moved tranquilly past its banks.

“All it lacks are swans,” Mary had said, on the day of the garden party.

“And swans it shall have,” he had promised.

She had only to express a wish and he was eager to fulfill it.

Now Renny had a wish and, after a good deal of persuasion, Adeline had yielded to it. Not that she did not want to humour him or did not herself enjoy the prospect of what he urged, but she had got a bit slack. To get up at sunrise had become something of an effort, especially to put on a riding habit and mount a horse and ride to the lake shore on an empty stomach, for who could eat a substantial breakfast at that hour? But the little boy begged so hard. It was nice to think how much he wanted her. She could not refuse.

It saddened her to think how she and her Philip had once, with light hearts and little effort, risen at sunrise, and ridden over the estate and galloped over the sandy country roads. Ah, the country had been grand in the fifties and sixties and even the seventies! She wondered what it would be in another fifty years. She had heard that there were Chinese laundrymen in the cities and she herself had seen an Italian pushing a barrow of red and yellow bananas along a street. Well, Philip, her husband, wouldn’t have liked it. He wanted to keep the province British. On her own part she rather liked mixtures.

As the mellow brick of the house was gilded by the early sunlight and the windows set ablaze, Hodge led Captain Whiteoak’s old mare, saddled and bridled, to the door. Renny followed on his pony. Adeline came into the porch wearing her riding habit, with its long skirt, and a bowler hat sitting jauntily on her head. The sun touching her brought out the red that still remained in her hair. She looked a fine figure. Hodge’s eyes were full of admiration, but Renny saw only his grandmother coming to ride with him at last.

Hodge assisted her to the saddle; Laura was skittish and sent the gravel flying with her dancing.

“Laura, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” exclaimed Adeline, “at your age!” She stroked the mare’s shining neck. “But you’re no more unseemly than I am. We just don’t know how to get old, do we, pet?”

Under the evergreens, splashed with light and shade, jogged the mare and the pony, the elderly woman and the little boy. They passed through the gate on to the deserted road.

Adeline smiled down at Renny. “So you’ve routed me out early at last,” she said.

He laughed up at her. “Yes. Aren’t you glad?”

“I am that.” She snuffed the air. “Why, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. It’s glorious.”

“We’ll do it often, shan’t we? Every day?”

“Well, perhaps not every day.”

“Every other day then?”

“Take the pleasure of the moment and don’t be looking ahead.”

They cantered down the road. They did not speak again except to point out some small wild creature or comment on a new barn or admire an especially fine strawstack, till they reached the lake. Here they took the winding road by its shore. The air had changed. Now it smelt of the lake and had a coolness and a stir. Two gulls winged their way above its blueness, making haste as though to show their power. Adeline and Renny drew up to enjoy the view which, in truth, consisted of no more than the blue floor of the
lake and the blue arch of the sky where no sail, no cloud, appeared. Nothing but blueness and a hazy horizon.

“It’s a fine sight,” said Adeline.

“Yes, it’s a fine sight,” he agreed.

“I’ve always admired this world,” Adeline went on. “We’re lucky to have such a splendid world to live in. When I was a girl in Ireland I used to look at the wild sea and the headlands and the grey mountains, and think how grand they were. When I married your grandfather in India, I thought how beautiful Kashmir was, with its flowers and its temples. When I go to Devon to visit your aunt and look out over the moors, with their heather and the rushing streams and the herds of moor ponies running wild, I think how splendid.”

“But this is best,” said Renny.

“Yes. It’s best. And I hope there’s a happy life ahead of you. Now your father will always tell you you’re a Whiteoak and the Whiteoaks are English, but you must remember you’re part Irish too. And the Irish blood is your best. My grandfather was a marquis.”

“I’m part Scotch too,” he said, nodding his head. “And my Scotch grandfather is a doctor and he’s going to bring me a little brother.”

“Ay, perhaps,” she returned, a little grimly. “But Scotch or no, you’re the one that takes after me and my family. You have my hair. You have my eyes. Later on you’ll have my nose and mouth.”

He laughed at the thought of it. “Shall we ride on, Granny? Let’s ride on.”

“Very well. But not too far. I have only a cup of tea inside me and I’m getting hungry.”

“I had an apple! Come on, Granny. Let’s ride fast.” She gave Renny’s shoulder a tap with her riding crop.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll ride fast. Lead on.”

Copyright © 2009 The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited

First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1949.

This 2009 edition of Mary Wakefield is published in a new trade paperback format.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Michael Carroll
Copy-Editors: Shannon Whibbs and Jason Karp
Design: Jennifer Scott
Epub Design: Laura Boyle
Printer: Marquis

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961
      Mary Wakefield / by Mazo de la Roche.

(Jalna)
Originally publ.: Toronto : Macmillan, 1949.
ISBN 978-1-55002-877-5

       I. Title. II. Series: De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961. Jalna.

PS8507.E43M37 2009           C813’.52           C2008-906253-1

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