Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
The flap of the tent was drawn back and Malahide came out carrying a teakettle. He wore a black jersey and white trousers, and his hair, which Renny had always seen in ebony sleekness, rose in two pointed locks like horns. With the effortless yet cautious movements of a cat he approached the stream, knelt there, and plunged his arms into the icy water. He splashed his face and head with it as though to cool a fever, then, still kneeling, rubbed them with a towel that lay crumpled on the brink.
Unseen by him the family of swans appeared round the bend of the stream. Of the four cygnets one only now survived. How the others had met their end no one knew. But the successive calamities had left the parent birds in a state of unease. They moved in watchful protective strength on either side of the cygnet, who arched his fluffy grey neck and uttered wistful cooing sounds. The female suddenly dived, turning up her snow-white stern, while her mate, throwing her a glance of haughty interest, sailed smoothly round the bend, his cygnet at his side. At that moment Malahide shook out his towel and the swan, fearing some danger to his young, raised his great wings and sped toward Malahide in fury.
Stepping backward, like a matador before an enraged bull, Malahide flicked the towel in the bird’s face. He had not anticipated the rage he excited, for the swan, beating his wings upon the water, came close to him, even on to the land. Malahide darted back and disappeared into his tent, while the swan returned to his cygnet, raising his breast feathers in triumph, one dark leg curved above the water ready, if necessary, to strike in its defence. The three then moved together down the stream.
Renny had watched this scene with the most intense interest. He still brooded on it while Malahide returned and filled his kettle. While the graceful smoke rose from his fire and the smell of his frying bacon came across the stream, Renny lay, his head pillowed on his arm, watching as though half asleep, but in truth the most vivid thoughts and pictures were illuminating his mind.
He remained there for more than an hour until he had seen Malahide, dressed in dark tweeds, fasten the flap of his tent and disappear in the direction of Vaughanlands.
Renny then rose and, not without pain, retraced the path to the bridge and crossed to the other side of the river. He went to the spot where Malahide had thrown down his towel and crouched there beside it, half hidden in the bushes. All about was the deep quiet of autumn. The frost of the night before had given way to warm yellow sunlight. The soft tongue of the stream licked at the stones, making them ever smoother.
He had not long to wait. The two swans and the cygnet were returning to the sequestered nook where they spent the heat of the day.
As they were abreast of him Renny appeared abruptly before them and shook the towel savagely almost in the male’s face. For a second the bird was overcome by astonishment, holding himself rigid like a piece of sculpture. Then, the very personification of fury, he beat the water with his wings, churning it into a sheet above his head, and rushed to the attack.
But Renny was prepared for this, He darted backward, again and again flicking the swan with the towel while, in clumsy grandeur, it laboured after him.
He was breathless and hot pains stabbed his ankle as he escaped up the path and out of the ravine. He stood motionless for a time, holding his chin in his hand, then slowly limped through a small oak wood and across a field to the road. One of his father’s men was passing in an empty wagon with which he had been delivering a load of apples at the railway station. Renny called out to him: —
“Look here, I want you to take me to the Moorings. I’ve hurt my ankle.”
He climbed to the seat and the man, avoiding the painful subject of Gallant, observed: —
“I hear you did something wonderful with the polo ponies at the Show last night, sir.”
“Oh, well enough.”
“But we heard that you won all before you — rode something grand, Scotchmere says.”
“Well, that’s decent of Scotchmere. But I didn’t win on Gallant and it wasn’t his fault.”
“Those things will happen, sir, and better luck next time, perhaps.” He looked sympathetically into the youth’s tired face. “That colt, they say, is the devil born again.”
Renny did not answer. He sat, with folded arms and chin sunken on breast, bumping along the rough country road, moved now by only one idea, the necessity for seeing Vera. She alone could soothe his bad mood, drive away his devils.
She was cutting dahlias in the garden when he descended painfully from the wagon seat. She came to the gate to meet him.
He stood silent, till the wagon rattled away and the man’s inquisitive eyes were off him. Then he limped eagerly to the gate and held out his hand.
“Oh,” said Vera, “you have hurt yourself!”
“Yes,” he answered, with a rueful smile, “inside, as well as out.”
“Do you mean your disappointment last night?”
“Partly. Only partly. I’m in a beastly mood.” He cut at the dahlia stocks with his stick. “Could you help me out of it?”
“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “You’re hurting the flowers.”
“They’ve been frosted,” he answered sulkily.
“But I’m cutting the best ones. Look!” And she held up the gayly coloured bunch.
He stared at them. “The way their petals curl up is like your hair — all those little close curls.”
She looked at him suddenly in the eyes, her own suffused by tears. “Do you know what?”
“No. Something bad?”
“Rather. I’ve had a letter from home. I’m to go back at once. Aunt Violet is going and I must go with her. In a fortnight!”
“Good Lord!” He stared at her blankly. “But why?”
“My daddy isn’t well. He wants me with him. I think they worry about my being so far away.”
“Vera, you don’t want to go, do you?”
“How could I — when you and I are just — getting to be such friends?”
“Let’s go into the summerhouse and talk.”
They sat down in the little vine-covered shelter and beneath the cold leaves of the dahlias their hands met.
“It’s strange,” he said, “how one thing after another happens to a fellow. First — I am suspended from college. Second — well, I’ll not tell you what that was. Third — I’ve had a man I loathe in the house with me for months. Fourth — he beat me at the Show. And now — the first girl I’ve really cared for is being snatched away from me.” His mouth went down at the corners. His fingers tightened tremulously on hers.
She felt weak under their pressure. She said, in a small voice: —
“It’s been wonderful to me — having you for a friend, Renny.”
“And now we must part! What
rotten
luck! Why, I’ve been planning already what we’d do in the Christmas holidays!”
“I know — I know — isn’t it heartbreaking?”
“Awful!”
“But we’ll write!”
“I’m no good at letter writing.”
“Oh, but you
must
write to me! I couldn’t
live
if you didn’t!”
“I’ll write. But it’s small consolation. What I want is you, yourself, to talk to, to have for a — friend…. Vera, you have no idea what you are to me.”
“And you can’t imagine what you are to me. You’re so strong — so courageous — so splendid. My heart nearly jumped out of my mouth — I was so excited last night…. I was afraid you might get hurt…. Is your ankle strained?”
“It’s nothing. Look here, Vera …” He hesitated, poking at a rotten board in the floor of the summerhouse. His mouth grew hard. “Look here, if you discovered something about me — like Meg did about Maurice — what would you feel about it?”
She went a deep pink, but she answered steadily: —
“It wouldn’t make any difference — if that was all over — and — I knew you loved me…. But, of course, it’s quite different. We’re not engaged.”
A warm tide of desire for her rose in him. He raised his head proudly and looked deep into her eyes.
“But we shall be!” he exclaimed. “We must be! It’s the only way. We’ll be engaged and marry, too — before they can take you away from me!”
“Oh, do you think we could?”
“Of course, we can — if you want me as much as I want you!”
“Oh, Renny, I can’t pretend that I don’t. I’m simply dying for you!”
“Somehow,” he said, “I must get you an engagement ring.”
S
WAN
S
ONG
A
FEW DAYS LATER
Philip was standing in front of his house filling his deep chest with draughts of pure morning air. There was a southerly wind and it carried with it a distinct smell of the lake, which, to a keen ear, could be heard rolling in long waves on to the beach. He said: —
“It looks to me as if that fellow is going to stay till the crack of doom. In any case he must give up the tent, because Nick and I want it for our duck shooting trip.”
“The nights are getting so cold,” said Mary hopefully, “that he will not be able to bear it much longer. But then, I suppose, he will come back to the house. Your mother insinuated as much last night.”
“Did she? Oh, I dare say we shall have him for the winter. Poor devil, I expect he has nowhere else to go! But certainly Nick and I must have the tent. I want my tent, and that’s flat.” He set his round full jaw and looked stubborn.
“Well, Philip, you must remember that when you come back from your shooting you have promised to take me to New York.”
“If I take my horses to the New York Show I shall certainly take my wife too.”
“And I want at least three new dresses and some American shoes. They fit so perfectly. It’s a misfortune to have such slender feet as I have.” She turned one foot on its side and looked down at it with pretended disparagement.
“Don’t pretend you’re not proud of them, Molly. I know I am.”
Adeline had come into the porch and overheard some of the conversation. She demanded: —
“What’s this about new clothes?”
“I’m going to New York with Philip,” answered her daughter-in-law with a somewhat challenging air, “and I may as well buy a few clothes there.”
“Nonsense! I’ve never heard such nonsense. You buy far too many clothes for a quiet place like this, Mary. Why don’t you make your dresses last as I do mine?”
“There is a good deal of difference in our ages, Mamma.”
“H’m — well, when you are as old as I am you’ll think less of falderals and more of keeping your family in order. Eden is getting thoroughly spoiled.”
The little boy came running out of the house. He put his arms about his father’s legs. “Are you going away, Daddy? May I go too? Do take me to New York!”
Philip looked down at him with the good-humoured air of a mastiff at a puppy. “You are a little beggar,” he said. “You’re always wanting something.”
Eden saw Renny passing through the little gate toward the ravine, followed by Keno. “Please, may I go with Renny?” He danced up and down in his excitement.
“What a flibbertigibbet scamp it is!” exclaimed Adeline. “Just like you, Molly.”
“Run along after Renny and tell him not to walk about too much on that lame ankle,” said Philip.
Renny was not well pleased when Eden overtook him. He said, when he had heard the child’s message — “You’d better not come with me. I’m in a dangerous mood. I’m quite likely to chuck you into the stream.”
“I don’t mind,” answered Eden, and pressed his small hand into Renny’s. “Where are we going?”
“To have a look at Cousin Malahide.”
He wanted to be alone, but he could not bear to send the child away. He liked the feel of his clinging hands and dependence on him.
They went along the path till they came to the bank overlooking Malahide’s tent. It was the hour when he usually made his first appearance. A brilliant change had come over the landscape in the past few days. The quiet tones of autumn had been transformed to scarlet and gold. Against these splendid hues of the maples and birches, the green of pine and spruce was richly intensified, the wild creepers that draped themselves along the very fence being like a vivid tapestry. The river appeared to move more quickly, and there on its surface was spread the proud reflection of a crimson branch. The swan, his mate, and the cygnet were floating in a tiny cove at the end of Malahide’s path. Now and again the male arched his neck and looked expectantly toward the tent. It was from this point that he had for days been harried.
Renny, Eden, and the spaniel settled themselves on the short grass that clothed the sandy soil. Eden amused himself by attacking a densely populated ant hill with the heel of his sturdy brown shoe. Keno buried his nose in a small burrow, snuffling in complete absorption. Renny took from his pocket a snapshot of Vera Lacey and gazed at it intently. Yet, while so occupied, each was alert for the most delicate sounds in the world about him.
They all turned at the faint clink of Malahide’s kettle, as it struck against a stone of the improvised stove. Three pairs of eyes bent their clear gaze full on him as he came languidly down the path: Eden’s blue, wondering; Renny’s brown and lighted by a malicious hope; Keno’s, above his earth-covered muzzle, showing a feckless curiosity in their hazel depths.
Malahide was not aware of the presence of the swans till he had sunk his kettle to the brim. Then he saw the male, with upraised wings and gaping beak, poised for attack. As Malahide scrambled to his feet on the slippery stone, he flung his kettle at the swan, which rushed at him, churning the water with powerful strokes of his wings and uttering a trumpet call to battle. His sudden change from pale immobility to dread commotion was comparable to the breaking of a spell.
Possibly because of the slime on the stones, Malahide lost his foothold and was plunged into the stream. In a second the swan was on top of him, and such a confusion of beating wings, contorted neck, and threshing legs and arms ensued that, for a space, nothing could be distinguished through the sheet of upthrown water.
The immobility of the swan’s mate was in striking contrast to his convulsive energy. She sat the water at a little distance, watching the struggle with a sidelong, haughty glance, while the cygnet, with tilted head, regarded the scene in roguish detachment.