Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (142 page)

Read Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Online

Authors: Mazo de la Roche

Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas

He looked unbelieving, sure of the endurance of his love. She kissed him on each cheek and he got into the trap beside Hodge.

“Goodbye, Gran, goodbye!” He waved his hand to her and to Mary and Eden, whose faces were at the window. He heard Eden’s shrill voice calling to him. He saw Peep’s bright form flashing to and fro. The trap bowled along the drive, its wheels and the well-groomed flanks of the bays glimmering behind the evergreens.

Adeline stood looking after them, leaning on her stick. A fine boy, bone of her bone, a perfect Court! Strange it would be now, women alone in the house together, no man about. Strange to think winter was coming on … no man about … strange how quickly the summer had passed … like a dream … now the cold weather was coming on … a long, long spell of it.

A chill sunlight flickered out between the indigo clouds and fell on her, on the frozen grass and bare trees. “Those clouds mean snow,” she said aloud, looking up at them. A poem of Moore’s she had used to like, but had not thought of for years, came into her mind. She stood, leaning on her stick, looking straight ahead of her, and began to repeat it: —

“I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining.
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.”

She trudged along the drive to the small wooden gate and laid her hand on it almost caressingly. She had always liked this gate. Her husband and she had often stood at it together. But how cold the wood was to her hand! Still, it was more sheltered here. With an almost rapt look in her eyes she repeated the next verse: —

“And such is the fate of our life’s early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we dance on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.”

“A good poem,” she thought. “My Philip used to like to hear me say it. Queer how I can remember every word of it this morning. I feel very clear-headed and strong this morning.” She turned, facing the wind, and marched back toward the porch.

The cloud had indeed held snow. Now it came, hard and white, dancing on the wind, stinging her cheeks. The air was full of it. Its falling did not ease the bite of the wind as it sometimes does, but made it all the more bitter. She had to put her head down and struggle against it. It filled her cape, so that her body looked huge, and smote her sides. She was out of breath when she gained the porch. But she was proud of herself. She said, aloud: —

“Not many women care to be out on a morning like this — let alone a woman of my age!”

She stood in the shelter of the porch gazing out at the snowstorm. Some flakes hung in her shaggy eyebrows, her shoulders were white with them. She smiled a little, a smile in which there was poignant regret, but no bitterness. Still out of breath, and in a much lower tone, she continued the poem: —

“Ne’er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night: —”

Her memory failed her. She groped in her mind for the next words, while the wind, veering vindictively as though in quest of her, rushed in on her where she stood, scattering the dead leaves and carrying its weight of whiteness. She faced it, as though at bay, and the next lines returned to her. But she said them haltingly: —

“Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening’s best light.”

A gleam of sunlight flickered into the porch. She gave a triumphant nod of her head, but she realized that she was bitterly cold. She put her hand on the door knob and turned it. The wind, as though coming to her aid, pressed its savage weight upon the door and threw it open, pressed her into the hall.

Try as she would she could not shut the door behind her. The terrier came snuffling from the hot stove and stood beside her. She rapped peremptorily with her stick.

“Eliza! Eliza!” she called. “Come and shut the door!”

Eliza hastened to her aid, crisp in her clean print dress. Her strong bony arms mastered the wind. The door shut with a bang.

The warmth in the hall felt delicious. Adeline gave a proud grin at Eliza.

“I’ve had a walk, Eliza,” she said. “A walk in that wind. Not many women — of my age — would do that, eh?”

“No, indeed, ma’am! It hardly seems safe.”

Adeline took off her lace cap and shook the snow from it. “Don’t worry, Eliza,” she said. “I’m not going to do it again. I’m stuck here in the warmth — for the winter — ha!”

THE END

First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1935.

This 2009 edition of
Young Renny
is published in a new trade paperback format.

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Design: Jennifer Scott
Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

Cataloguing and Publication Information Available from Library and Archives Canada

De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961
Morning at Jalna / Mazo de la Roche.

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Ontario Arts Council
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