Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
But the days passed and still Eden refused to come downstairs. He ate next to nothing. Finally Renny came to his room. The rain had stopped but the air was heavy and grey. All colour seemed washed from the landscape except the watery green of the cedar tree.
“How are you feeling?” asked Renny, sitting on the foot of the bed.
“Rotten.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Where do you feel the worst?”
“I don’t know. I just feel rotten.”
“Want me to send for the doctor?”
“No. I’ll be all right.”
“You’re wasting a lot of time, you know. I think you’d feel better if you got up.”
“I can’t.” Eden’s voice broke.
“I’ve a letter for you. It just came. I have an idea it’s from Mrs. Stroud.” He handed Eden the letter.
Eden glanced at it, then thrust it under his pillow. “Just leave me alone,” he said petulantly. “I’ll get up tomorrow.”
Renny gave him a penetrating glance. “Would you like me to return that letter to her, unopened?”
“Lord, no! I couldn’t do that.”
“But you’ll not know what to say to her. You can be sure that she’s begging you to come and see her. You know damned well I’ll not stand any more of that.”
“I don’t want any more of it,” said Eden hoarsely. “I wish to God I could go away somewhere for a while!”
“Look here, I’ve an idea! How would you like to go into residence in the University? That would settle things. I’ll write her a letter. You need not have any responsibility. Will you do that?” There was an unexpected warmth and understanding in his tone.
Eden rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. He got out “Yes,” in a strangled voice. His hand touched the letter. He thrust it blindly toward Renny.
“Take the letter,” he said. “Write to her for me. I can’t see her.”
Renny’s gesture of comfort toward anyone in bed was to draw the covers close over him. He did so now, almost covering Eden’s head.
“You just leave the lady to me,” he said. He stuffed the letter into his pocket and went to his office in the stables.
Seated in his swivel chair, he considered the situation. He was not ill-pleased with what he had done. He had found a roof for Chris and her child. One of his farm wagons had brought the scant load of furniture to the flat above the garage. It was installed there. The curtains were up. The place looked habitable though not fit for a girl of Chris’s breeding. But she was happy to be away from Mrs. Stroud and — to be so much nearer him. The thought of her slim body, with its reckless vitality, stirred him. He felt between her and himself a curious resemblance. Perhaps it was only that she was more straightforward and sincere than other women. She understood him and he understood her. Perhaps, because of the way they had worked together with horses, their conception of each other was unclouded and direct. They needed few words for explaining it. Sometimes a glance across the stark heads of the galloping horses, a word above the thunder of hooves, would set their hearts thumping.
Dayborn and Tod were still under the weather. The little family was thought much of at Jalna. His grandmother had taken a fancy to Chris. Jim was making himself agreeable to Meg. Everyone loved Tod at sight. Wakefield and he played happily together. Now it seemed that the problem of Eden was to be settled. Renny had a moment’s pride in the thought of how he had handled the boy. He’d been firm but not harsh. He’d considered the nature he had to deal with. He’d won the day. Now let the witch stew in her own juice! He took her letter from his pocket.
He held it to his bony nose and sniffed the scent of verbena. It was pretty strong to overcome the smell of Jeyes’ fluid in the office. He looked at the writing, large and firm, on light-blue paper, the flap of the envelope caught by sealing wax of a darker blue stamped with her monogram. He wondered what was inside. With a sigh he laid it down.
Slowly he took a sheet of notepaper from a drawer. He hesitated a moment to admire the business heading. Then he wrote, in his small crotchety hand:
MY DEAR MRS. STROUD —
I do not think I need explain to you why I am returning your letter. If Eden read it, it might make things worse than they are and I can’t risk that. He is anxious that his acquaintance with you should come to an end and has agreed that your letter should be sent back to you. He is going away for a time.
Yours faithfully,
R.C.WHITEOAK
Without rereading the letter he put it in its envelope and gave it to Scotchmere to post.
Meanwhile Amy Stroud was in a state of excitement that made her days tense and her nights restless. She could not understand why she had had no message from Eden. She had expected him to appear at any moment and kept herself in readiness to receive him. Every time she passed a mirror she touched her hair, arranged her collar or threw back her head in the gesture of gallant recklessness with which she meant to greet him. She powdered her face so often that it began to look as though covered by a mask. Her feet ached because she would do her housework wearing her becoming high-heeled shoes.
The emptiness of the house next door now actually preyed on her nerves more than the noise of her former neighbours. Every few hours she was drawn to go through it. Yet each time she was filled with rage by the state of windows and floors, the marks on the wallpaper. Her hate for Dayborn became so intensified that it was like a livid aura about him. Even the faces of Chris and Tod were hatefully illumined by it. If only they had never come into her life how different everything might have been!
Her one consolation in these days, her one calming thought, was the thought of the extreme discomfort in which Dayborn and his family must now be living. She had found out, from the men who had moved the furniture, that it was going to an unfinished flat above the garage at Jalna. She looked on the lashing rain and wild wind as her allies in Dayborn’s punishment.
By the third day she began to wonder if Eden were ill. She made up her mind that he was. How could he be otherwise — treated as he had been and soaked to the skin! She pictured him tossing on his bed in a fever, calling for her. She endured a day of this new anxiety, then set out to call on Miss Pink and find out from her what was happening. She knew that Miss Pink was intimate with the family at Jalna.
As she plodded along the muddy road the landscape looked more dismal to her than, a week ago, she would have thought possible. The leaves were falling fast. The fields were sodden and the cattle grazing there watched her pass with melancholy gaze. She felt out of breath when she had climbed the hill beyond the church and stood in front of the cottage where Miss Pink now lived. The door was opened by a neat young maid.
“Is Miss Pink at home?”
“Yes’m. She’s busy teaching but if you’ll come in I’ll tell her.”
The little parlour was overcrowded with the furniture Miss Pink had brought from her former home. She herself came in, looking nervous and somehow not friendly.
Amy Stroud forced a smile to her lips and gave her low musical laugh. She said:
“I hope I don’t look as awful as I feel. What weather! How do you manage to pass the time?”
Miss Pink appeared not to see the extended hand. She answered stiffly:
“I find plenty to do. There’s the church organ. And giving music lessons. I teach little Pheasant Vaughan, too. She is with me now. I am afraid I can’t ask you to stay.”
Her small pink face was blank as she regarded Amy Stroud.
“Well, then, I must be off.” She managed to control her hurt and anger. “I hope dear old Mrs. Whiteoak is well. This weather must be trying for a woman of her age.”
Still with that blank look, Miss Pink returned, — “She is very well. I had tea there yesterday. I have never seen her better. She is having great pleasure in her visitors.” The look of blankness left her face and was replaced by one of cool dislike.
“Her visitors?”
“Yes. The people who lived in your house. The ones you turned out. They are staying at Jalna.”
“At Jalna! In the flat above the garage, you mean.”
“Oh, the family would not allow that in such weather. They are staying in the house. They are very welcome, I can assure you.”
“How nice! And Eden,” — she must find out about Eden no matter at what cost to her pride, — “is he better?”
“I didn’t know he’d been ill. I believe he’s going away for a time. Really you must excuse me.” She moved toward the door.
Out on the road again, Mrs. Stroud ground her teeth at the thought of the indignity she had just experienced. All else for the moment fled her mind. She pictured herself slapping Miss Pink’s fresh-coloured face, leaving purple fingermarks on it.
But, as she trudged on, this anger was swept aside by the bitter chagrin of knowing that Dayborn and his family were snugly ensconced at Jalna, in the house where she had twice been as a welcome guest, and where probably she would go no more. What tales he would tell of her! He would make fun of her as she had heard him make fun of other people, caricaturing their little oddities. The circle about the fire would laugh. She was settled here for the rest of her days and this affair of Dayborn might cut her off from the social intercourse she most desired. She must try to retrieve her position. She must see Eden. Above all things she must see Eden. She did not believe he was away.
When she reached home she found Renny’s letter awaiting her with the groceries in the kitchen. She opened and read it.
She read it carefully, twice over, then sat with it crumpled in her hand staring straight in front of her. Its effect on her was the reverse of what might have been expected. It calmed and steadied her. She considered what her next move should be, as though she were engaged in a momentous game of chess. She pressed her fingers against her forehead and gazed broodingly at some mental image. Rain was dripping from the eaves in musical repetition of three treble notes. The bass was provided by the low gurgling of water through a small gulley at the edge of the garden.
Her own letter, returned to her, caught her eye. She took it up and sniffed its scent. She then tore it into small pieces and threw them into a wastepaper basket. Renny’s letter she put in the pocket of her jacket. She stood a moment, savouring the contact of this letter with her person, as though it were some sort of talisman that would keep her from wasting her energy in futile anger and, at the same time, intensify her bitter resentment.
She thought she heard a noise in the next house. She often thought that. Sometimes she could have sworn that she heard Dayborn’s laugh. Once in the night she had been woken by the sound of Tod’s crying. She had been so sure of it that she had risen and dressed and gone into the house to investigate. Now, again, she went there.
It was empty, cold and desolate. Certainly she must get a tenant for it. It was a dead loss, standing vacant. What a comfort it would be to have nice companionable people living there! How was she going to face the winter in this place, with everyone against her — Eden snatched away — Ernest’s friendship withdrawn — the neighbourhood prejudiced against her! And all because of Dayborn! She pictured him as, at this very moment, entertaining old Mrs. Whiteoak and her sons with stories about her. She would get even with him, if it took her the rest of her life to do it.
Now she wished that she had accepted the rent owing, which Renny had offered to pay. Then she would not have been able to turn Dayborn out so peremptorily. He would not now be installed at Jalna. She would not be in the position of a persecutor — and after all she had done for that trio! She saw a heretofore unnoticed stain on the wallpaper, behind where the lumpy sofa had stood. There, Dayborn must have rested his head, greasy with sweat from his hard riding. Dirty brute! Mrs. Stroud clenched her hand and struck the spot a blow. It must have been a hard one, for she doubled up with the pain of it. She seemed to hear Dayborn’s jeering laugh.
As she turned to leave the house she saw that there was something in the letter box. She opened it and found an old country newspaper and a letter. That was just like the boy from the shop, to have left the post in an empty house. But he probably had not known they were gone. She took newspaper and letter and went back to her own house.
She was still wearing her outdoor things. She now took off her hat and jacket. She took Renny’s letter from the pocket and placed it inside her blouse. She sat down by the kitchen range and put her feet, which felt very cold, against it. With a ruthless gesture she cut the string that so tightly bound the newspaper and unfolded it. Without knowing what she read she ran her eye over the headlines. She knew that this paper was sent once a week to Dayborn by an aunt. He always spoke of her as “dear Aunt Katie.” Two pansies had been pressed in the folds of the newspaper and they now fell on to her lap. They lay there, fragile and faded but with their petals still perfect in outline, staring up at her like tiny malicious faces. She crushed them in her hand then, lifting the lid from the stove, she sprinkled them over the hot coals. She saw that the kettle was boiling. She took the letter and held its flap over the steam. After several cautious experiments she was able to open it without marring it. It was just what she had expected, the quarterly cheque from Dayborn’s benefactress. It was for twenty-five pounds. A small enough amount, Amy Stroud thought, but how precious to him! She would put an end to all that! As she had read the headlines of the newspaper without comprehending them, she now read the letter accompanying the cheque. All she wanted was the name and address. She went to her desk in the living room and wrote:
Mrs. Gardiner,
DEAR MADAM —
I know that you are interested in James Dayborn and his welfare. I know that you send him a cheque every three months on the understanding that he keeps steady and does not marry. His wife told me this. She too is English and they have been married for some time. They seem to think it a joke to obtain money from you under false pretences but I take a different view of the matter. They are known here as brother and sister. I once heard Dayborn say (I happened to be in the same house at the time), when he received one of your cheques, — “Thank God, the old girl has ponied up again!” I think you are an honourable woman and I consider it my duty to inform you of this deception and ingratitude. As I don’t like anonymous letters I am signing my name to this. I shall give you the name of a nearby solicitor, in case you should want to make investigations. I am also sending you the name of a detective agency.