Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (135 page)

“Hell with Malahide! Hell with Malahide! Hell — hell — hell!
Iflatoon! Chore!
”

“Filthy bird,” sneered Malahide, drawing a step closer.
“Nimak Haram! Nimak Halol! Sakth Dil!”

“Byman! Sala! Dagal!
To hell with Malahide!”

“Piakur! Subakhis! Jab kute!”

In a paroxysm of rage Boney rocked and cursed. It seemed that he would choke with the hate that was in him. And the louder he screamed his imprecations the more his listeners abandoned themselves to laughter — all but Adeline and Malahide.

Renny exclaimed, in Meg’s ear — “This is all too much! I shall die of joy.”

Her lips formed the words — “Me too!”

Adeline sat, with one heavily ringed hand shading her face, of which it could be seen that the colour was steadily deepening.

Squatting on his perch, with drooped wings, while waves of fury shook his brilliant plumage, Boney confronted Malahide. Their two mouths upcurving beneath their drooping beaks gave them a curious resemblance.

As Malahide delivered himself of a litter of black curses and shook a long forefinger in the parrot’s face, Boney thrust out his head and caught the finger in his beak. Malahide doubled up in pain.

Before he could retaliate Boney leaped the length of his chain and settled on Adeline’s shoulder. He began to peck wickedly at the ribbons on her cap.

“Too bad, too bad, Malahide,” said Philip, ordering his face to calmness.

Malahide turned on him. “Don’t you sympathize with me! You have insulted me.”

“No, no — but the bird was so damn funny.”

Mary said — “I hope you’re not hurt.”

Malahide almost screamed — “No, you don’t! You hope very much that I
am
hurt. And I am! Look at that!” He shook his finger at her, from which the crimson drops sprang.

“Have another whiskey and soda,” advised Nicholas.

“I want nothing from this house! I leave tonight.”

“Come,” said Philip. “We’ve not treated you badly.”

“Badly! Your young ruffian has made life here a hell for me.”

At the word Boney swayed on Adeline’s shoulder and rasped “Hell — hell — hell with Malahide!”

Adeline snatched the antimacassar from the back of her chair and threw it over his head.

Malahide continued — “Yes, it was he who taught the parrot that insult.”

Adeline said — “He shall apologize.”

Philip turned to his son. “I agree. You must apologize to Malahide.”

“I’m damned if I will.”

“What — what —” said Philip, glaring at him, but with laughter in his eyes. “You refuse?”

“I apologize,” said Renny, grinning. “I apologize for teaching Boney to say ‘To hell with Cousin Malahide!’”

Boney raved under the antimacassar: —

“Hell — hell — hell!”

Malahide bowed elaborately to Renny. He said, in concentrated passion: —

“We will have this out — when the night of the Show comes. Then you — and your bucking bronco — shall bite the dust.”

“Well said, Malahide!” declared Adeline. “Now come and let me bind your poor finger.”

With something of childlike docility he went to her, while keeping a watchful eye on the parrot. She took her own handkerchief and deftly tied up the wound.

Philip, with a long look into Nicholas’s eyes, pushed the decanter toward him. Molly began softly strumming on the piano, while Renny and Meg disappeared behind the long window curtains in a pretended search for the new moon.

T
ENTING
T
ONIGHT

I
T WAS WITH DIFFICULTY
that Adeline had restrained her amusement at the duet between her parrot and her kinsman. It had been a scene after her own heart, and when she and Boney were in the seclusion of her room, she gave him not a little praise for the manner in which he had performed his part in it. Yet she was troubled about Malahide. If, as it seemed, he was to nurse his anger too fiercely, it might have an ill effect on his nerves. He and Harpie must win at the Show. Robert Vaughan had set his heart on it. Her championing of Malahide must be justified, her desire to triumph over Philip and Renny gratified. In the days intervening between now and the event, Malahide must be protected, humoured, praised.

But when he appeared next morning at her door he brought with him a gloom that her archest smile could not disperse. He seemed already sick with the taste of defeat. An impersonal blackness seemed engendered at his very core. Her smile wavered as she looked into his face.

“This is the end,” he said. “I shall go.”

“Go!” she repeated, frowning. “But where?”

“God knows! Anywhere away from here!”

She took the lapel of his coat and drew him into the room. “You’re flurried,” she said, “and no wonder. But let me tell you how much I admired the challenge you flung at that young rascal.”

“That,” he said, “was in the heat of the moment. This morning I have no more bowels than a jellyfish.”

“Now, I’ll tell you what,” she said, “you shall spend the time between now and the Show at Vaughanlands. The change will do you good. The congenial company — everyone on your side — will put new life into you.”

If it were possible to look blacker, he now did.

“Well,” she said, impatiently, “what have you against the Vaughans?”

He dropped into a chair and took his head in his hands. “It is no use, Cousin Adeline,” he said. “I could not endure the atmosphere of that house. Robert Vaughan and his wife bore me, crush me, take away what energy I have left. I shall send a cable to my mother and tell her that she must receive me. I must go home.” And he added, bitterly — “If one can call it a home.”

Adeline’s shaggy red brows went up to her cap. She pulled her bell cord and asked Eliza to bring Mr. Court a glass of gin and bitters. He was far from well. Eliza had a great contempt for Malahide. She obeyed grimly.

As he sipped the drink he sank still lower in his chair, but his eyes brightened.

“How is your finger?” Adeline asked with solicitude.

“It kept me awake most of the night. Parrot bites have been known to be fatal.” He examined his finger, still dressed in her handkerchief, with an expression as gloomy as though it were already carrion.

“My goodness, Mally!” exclaimed Adeline, “I’ve never seen anyone so down as you are! What am I to do with you?” There was genuine exasperation in her tone.

“Nothing,” he said. “Even you. I’ll have to go home to my mother.”

“You can’t, and that’s flat,” she returned. “Listen now, I have an idea. There’s a very good tent about somewhere which is used for hunting trips. I’ll have it put up for you in a quiet spot at the river’s edge. You shall camp out for a bit. It will do you a world of good. I only wish I were young enough for it. I’ve tented in my day.”

Malahide reluctantly allowed himself to be led under the harebell-blue arch of the October sky. But when he saw the pretty spot, on a secluded curve of the stream, his gloom lightened. The gin and bitters had also had an effect. He agreed that it would be pleasant to camp here and, under Adeline’s fostering, his determination to ride Harpie to triumph was again roused.

Philip and Renny were busied with the schooling of polo ponies. Nicholas was spending the day with friends in town. Meg and Molly had gone on an excursion with the Laceys. It was not till evening that Adeline disclosed to them the erection of the tent by the river and Malahide’s migration there. He had taken only one or two travelling bags with him. The rest of his luggage was piled in his room as though for departure. In truth, Adeline felt that the time was not distant when she would be willing to see him set sail for Ireland. The long winter was drawing near and she looked forward to a comfortable and secluded period with her family.

The news was received with amusement and relief. The family could scarcely believe that Malahide was actually out of the house. One after another they went to the door of his room and looked at the mound of luggage which rose with something of the mysterious appearance of the earth thrown up by a burrowing animal. And how he had burrowed into their life at Jalna! Nicholas expressed skepticism as to his leaving. When Malahide found it too cold in the tent, he said, he would come back to the house. Nothing could keep him out.

As, singly, they had inspected his room, they went in a body to overlook his new retreat. It was on the opposite side of the stream, the riverbank there being much lower. So, from the shelter of a group of sumacs and alders they looked down on the white tent set among pines and half hidden by bushes. Before it the stream moved swift and darkling and the setting sun left it in cool remote shadow. There was not a sign of life about.

“I’d give a good deal to see inside that tent,” said Mary.

Meg said — “You would discover Malahide stretched at full length on his cot, a bottle of poison in one hand and a picture of Gran in the other.”

“Let’s hope he’ll take the poison,” said Renny.

Mary laughed. “He would thrive on it.”

“How vindictive you all are,” said Philip. “For my part, I feel sorry for poor old Malahide.”

“There he is!” exclaimed Nicholas. “Don’t let him see us.”

They drew back and, from the shelter of the reddening leaves, watched him appear from his tent carrying a kettle. He came to the water’s edge, knelt, and allowed it to fill. Every movement he made was regarded with curiosity by the watchers. He collected some brushwood and lighted a small fire in front of the tent, and hung the kettle there on a support evidently made by more experienced hands than his. A blue spiral of smoke rose above the pines and dissolved into the tender azure of the sky. He then disappeared into his tent.

As they returned along the river’s edge they had a feeling of unease as though Malahide, leading his singular existence, were capable of exercising a charm, enervating and evil, against them and against their horses.

This feeling was perhaps fostered by an intense glow, of a colour approaching saffron, which now pervaded the atmosphere. The very grass and leaves took on this tone, and their own faces were transformed by its radiance. An extraordinary hush prevailed. Even the murmur of the river was muted as though a finger had been laid upon its lips. Bright-coloured tendrils of poison ivy stretched toward their path. Two old farm horses, now past work but kept as pensioners by Philip, were allowed to roam here. They had grown wild in their ways and at sight of the approaching group were suddenly affrighted. They stood staring a space from under their forelocks, which were clotted with burrs, then neighed loudly and galloped up and down, squealing and kicking. Renny, who had gathered a handful of acorns, began to pepper the beasts with these.

Philip laid a restraining hand on his arm. He asked: —

“How did the colt behave this morning?”

The boy gave him a tragic look. “Like the devil. Scotchmere is in the depths. Says we had better not show him.”

“Don’t be worried by Scotchmere. Perhaps you’ve worked Gallant too hard. Give him a rest. Feed him up a bit. What about the ponies?”

“They were splendid.”

“If that fellow,” said Nicholas, “gets the best of us, I’ll never hold up my head again. You must not let him, Renny.”

Renny threw up his last acorn and caught it. “Its easy to talk,” he said. “I wish you had seen Gallant this morning — rocking about like a drunken sailor.”

“I think you excite him,” declared Meg. “Why don’t you try to be calm like I am?”

“Yes,” agreed Mary. “I think we should all try to be calmer about this affair, not let it take such a hold on us. For my part, I can think of little else.”

Philip hooked his arm into hers. “Think of me, Molly,” he whispered, “for a change.”

They did indeed try to regard the approaching contest with more detachment in the days that followed. Gallant was kept quiet for several days, and when his schooling began again, the family disposed themselves about the paddock in attitudes of exaggerated nonchalance. Molly even brought her knitting and affected to count stitches at moments of tension.

The absence of Malahide from the house was indeed a source of tranquility, though Adeline did not allow it to be forgotten how he had been driven out, and it became the habit of Boney, in the most peaceful moments, to ejaculate the mischievous words taught him by Renny.

The weather continued to be perfect, and each morning Adeline called at the tent for Malahide and they proceeded together to Vaughanlands. Each morning she carried some special dainty to him. By her direction his more substantial wants were supplied from the kitchen. Mary was so thankful to have him out of the house that she herself saw that his needs were plentifully provided for.

Malahide’s moods were a problem to Adeline in these days. They varied between deep dejection and a boastful hilarity that was unusual in him. She suspected that he was drinking too much. The strain of her guardianship began to tell on her and she did not sleep as she was accustomed to. Her temper was short.

The event in which Gallant and Harpie were entered was the most important high jumping contest of the Show and was set for the third night. Renny was riding on both earlier nights and the family attended in force, with the exception of Adeline, who was storing her strength for the great event.

On the first night Malahide bore her company. But by his alternate fidgeting and gloom he tired her. With his long wrists dangling he sat talking to her, now of his variable past, now of his lacklustre future. He hinted boldly for money to raise his spirits, and at last Adeline went to her room, unlocked the drawer of her small bureau, and brought him no mean sum. She dared not let Boney see his face, and Malahide still wore a stall on his finger.

The next morning Adeline suggested to Admiral Lacey by a three-cornered note that he should invite her and her kinsman to dinner that night. By this means she would know where Malahide was and yet not have the responsibility of his entertainment.

The invitation was warmly extended.

Philip, his brother, and his family were at a dinner in town. In good time Malahide appeared at Jalna and got his evening things from his trunk and in his old room dressed for dinner. Hodge had driven the family to town and Malahide himself was to drive the bays to the Laceys’. Adeline, sitting at his side, declared that he handled them beautifully. There was just light enough to make the drive without the aid of carriage lamps. There was a nip of frost in the air.