The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (365 page)

A feeling of anger ran through Finch’s nerves. He did not
want this boy to fall in love with Pauline. He drew away from Wakefield as they reached the sagging tennis net and they passed it on opposite sides. He said bitterly: “I suppose you have kissed her.”

His words jarred on Wakefield. He answered in a muffled voice:

“No… we haven’t got that far.”

A relief that did not lift his heaviness of soul came to Finch at this admission. They were going toward the rustic bridge, and could already hear the secret August whisper of the stream. Each wished now to be rid of the other, but it was as though Pauline had, with one of her swift gestures, bound them together.

They strained to opposite sides of the bridge. Already the sun touched the topmost boughs, and an earth-scented coolness rose from under every tree and plant. This earthy coolness spread inexorably, silencing the birdsong, except that which came from the exuberant throats of the birds in the highest treetops. They still poured out their song to the sunlit arch of the sky, unconscious of the change taking place below.

“It is hard to believe,” said Finch, “that I have been home for only two weeks. I feel sometimes as though I had never been away.” He must definitely change the subject, he thought, or give himself away.

“Yes. But you’ve really changed a good deal.”

“Have I? Well—of course, I’m older.”

“Yes, but… Pauline was saying this morning that you seem an outsider. An onlooker, I think she said.”

“Did she say that?”

Wake crossed to Finch’s side of the bridge.

“Yes. Do you mind?”

Finch answered, in the confusion of sudden hurt:

“Yes. I do mind. I think it was beastly cruel.”

“She didn’t mean to be cruel… How do you feel about it yourself?”

“I suppose it’s true. That’s why I mind. But look here”— his voice broke—“there is not one of you who feels himself more terribly bound up in Jalna than I do!”

“I’m not going to argue,” said Wakefield. “But I think you’re wrong.”

“You always think I’m wrong! All of you do!”

“Eden thinks you’re the best of the bunch.”

“He says that only because we have certain things in common.”

“But, Finch, I—” He laid his hand on Finch’s arm. Finch’s lank body swayed like the stem of a strange plant.

“Don’t,” he said, and pushed his brother’s hand away.

“Finch, I’d like to tell you something. You said once that we might be friends.”

“Yes, yes, I know I did… but… don’t tell me just now, Wake. I’m in the hell of a mood. Just let me get over it first.”

“I should say you are! Very well—but perhaps I shan’t tell you after all.” He turned away and ran lightly, with an air of escape, up the path.

He was halfway to the top when Finch called:

“I know what you were going to tell me.”

“Do you? What then?”

“I can’t shout it.”

Wakefield stood irresolute a moment, then, turning, leaped the rest of the way up the path and disappeared.

“You’re in love with Pauline,” muttered Finch, and, leaning against the rail of the bridge, buried his face in his hands.

M
ONEY
had never been so tight at Jalna. It was not only tight. It simply was not there. It was like a river that had sometimes trickled slowly, sometimes rushed in spat, but had now—and without apparent reason—become little more than a moisture in the mud. Even though there were national crises, there must be people who would want horses—if only they could be found! Fruit and grain and stock must still be necessary, but why were the buyers so diffident? Conditions like this might be inevitable in Europe. If the United States were in a mess—well, they had only themselves to blame. But Canada had done nothing to deserve this. She had been good; she had been loyal; she had spilt her blood when there was fighting to be done; and had minded her own business afterwards. Especially the family at Jalna did not deserve it. They had upheld the old traditions in the Province. They had stuck by Jalna and stuck by each other. So they reasoned, and looked at one another baffled.

Alayne lost all patience with them. She tried to talk world politics with them, but they could not see what world politics had to do with Piers not being able to pay his rent.

In July, Renny, by reason of the unexpected sale of a stallion, had been able to pay Piers the full amount of his feed bill. Piers had seemed glad of this, but not excessively glad. He had been tranquil, as was usual with him when things were going smoothly. Then, when September came, he had calmly told Renny that he could not pay his quarter’s rent. He had paid the farm labourers and, after that, there was nothing left.

As was the custom with the Whiteoaks, Renny broke this bad news to the family at the dinner table. Alayne was shocked at his doing this. It seemed such a dreadfully embarrassing moment for Piers, but she need not have worried. Piers sat stolidly upright, wearing the rather smug expression of one who has developed one of the minor contagious diseases, and is in the act of transmitting it to all those near him. He looked from one to another of them as though to say—“Well, what are you going to do about it?” And what could they do about it? They could not go to their rooms and open a strongbox and take out sufficient money for current expenses and hand it over to Renny. There were no strongboxes, and what bank accounts there were were becoming more and more debilitated.

Renny formed the habit of taking out his pass-book and examining his balance at least once every hour in the ingenuous hope that he might have been mistaken in the figures or that by some miracle they might have changed. He would look down at the floor thinking what it would be like to find a pocketbook stuffed with notes. Or he would look at the ceiling imagining a cheque for a thousand dollars plastered on it.

Alayne’s heart ached for him when she saw lines of anxiety coming in his face. The lines already there were those of temper, endurance, and pride. She said to him:

“Why don’t we dismiss the Wragges? We might easily get less expensive servants. And I know she is extravagant.”

“I’d never part with Rags,” he said doggedly. “And even if Mrs. Wragge is a bit wasteful we’d never get another such cook.” And he added grimly—“Besides they haven’t had any wages for six months. How should I pay them off?”

The thought of owing wages to anyone working for her was abhorrent to Alayne. She had always been contemptuous of the Wragges. Now she wondered how she would face them. Rags’s impudent little nose, hard jutting chin, and pale eyes that saw everything, rose before her. And so did his wife’s ruddy moon face and slow derisive smile.

Well, they must not go unpaid. She could not endure that. She would pay them out of her own income. What her aunt had left her had brought her two thousand dollars a year, but with the cutting of dividends she had no more than a paltry thousand. Out of this she dressed herself and her child and had more than once paid the butcher’s bill.

“I will pay their wages,” she said, in rather a dead voice, for she did not want him to be grateful yet she wanted him to realise what was forced on her.

He gave her a look of gratitude. “Will you? You are a good girl! That will take a load off my mind.”

“How much will it come to?” She knew, but she wanted him to realise the importance of the amount.

“Three hundred dollars,” he answered quickly.

It would leave her penniless until her next dividends came in. She said:

“What a pity you bought all that Nickel! I suppose it’s bringing you almost nothing.”

“My distillery stocks are not so bad,” he replied, trying to think of pleasant things.

“I had rather
you
paid the Wragges,” she said. “I will write you a cheque.”

She fetched her cheque book and wrote a cheque payable to Renny Whiteoak and signed it Alayne Whiteoak. He watched her write their two names there and observed:

“I will give it back to you as soon as I can.”

She gave a little weary shrug. Sometimes she felt almost hopeless.

As he put the cheque in his notebook he said suddenly:

“I can’t think what Eden’s going to do. He simply can’t get anything. The poor fellow is at his wits’ end.”

The slow blood rose to her face and head, pricking her cheeks, making her eyes hot. How could he so callously bring up the subject of Eden between them? And call him
poor fellow
in that affectionate tone!

They were in her room. She took the pins from her hair and let it fall about her face. She took up her brush and began brushing the long golden strands which rose with electric energy after each stroke, following the receding bristles.

“I suppose he can go on staying at the Vaughans’,” she said coldly.

He frowned. “They’re frightfully hard up. Eden says that Maurice seems to think he could get something if only he tried. I’m going in to town today to see a man about him. Eden says he will do anything.”

She turned and faced him with her hair about her face.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking?” she said. “I’ve been thinking about Sarah Leigh. She attracts me and I know Finch is attracted by her. I am sure that she did not love Arthur Leigh and I am wondering if she and Finch were thrown together—just when she is so lonely—if something would not come of it.”

He caught a flying strand of her hair and held it against the arch of his nostril. “How sweet your hair smells… I believe that’s a clever thought. We’ll invite the girl out to visit us. But perhaps it would be better if it were she and Eden—”

Alayne interrupted impatiently—“We have no reason for thinking she is interested in Eden or he in her. I wish you would not always be dragging Eden into the conversation!”

He threw the strand of hair he was holding back at her. “It’s surprising how heartless women are,” he said. “You cannot forgive Eden because he was unfaithful to you. And yet if he hadn’t been unfaithful, you and I could never have come together.”

“I do forgive him,” she said, coiling up her hair, “but I do not wish to talk about him.”

“No! And you won’t let me talk of him! I can tell you he’s not at all strong. Even though he’s looking so well.”

“And yet you’d marry that poor girl to him!”

“Lord, how unreasonable you are!”

“Can’t we discuss anything without disagreeing!”

He made a grimace of chagrin. Then, remembering the Wragges’ wages, covered the lower part of his face with his hand and appeared to twist it into an expression of amiability. He said:

“You’ve certainly taken a load off my mind.”

She thrust in the last hairpin and gave him a puzzled look in the glass. “A load off your mind… oh, that! Well, I’m glad I could do it.”

He stood by rather stiffly while she powdered her face, then, as she moistened her finger on her lips and drew it across her eyebrows, he slid his fingers under her collar.

“My rich little wife,” he murmured in an embarrassed tone.

“Oh, how I wish I were!” she cried.

He looked interested. “What would you do?”

“So many things!” She looked up at him out of her clear blue eyes. “If you knew how I hate to see you so worried! All this household hanging on your neck…”

He gazed down at her contemplatively.

“What have you left now,” he asked, “out of your aunt’s legacy?”

Her mind scuttled about like a frightened rabbit. She did not want to tell him. It would seem so much to him in his present hard-up condition. The day might come when they would badly need that money. She hedged:

“Oh, I’m not sure.”

“Not sure!” he exclaimed incredulously. “With your precise mind!”

“My mind isn’t precise,” she said irritably. “It is a perfect jumble nowadays.”

That did not interest him.

He sat down and took her on his knee. He laughed rather self-consciously. She looked into his weather-beaten face with suspicion.

“I am not Adeline,” she said. “I have no laughing complex.”

“Go on,” he said coaxingly. “Tell me what you’ve got left.”

“I have nothing left,” she returned doggedly, “until my next dividends are paid.”

“I’m not talking about dividends. I mean the principal.”

She answered in a tight voice, out of the side of her mouth:

“About thirty thousand dollars.”

He gave a little whistle and his eyebrows went up. “That’s quite a lot. Now I’ll tell you what you could do,
darling! You could take ten thousand of it and buy that piece of land from Maurice. I’m sure we could get it for that. There would be an end to this subdivision of his. The land would be added to Jalna, and you would own that much of Jalna. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He looked at her with his most ingratiating smile.

“No,” she returned stonily. “I won’t do it, Renny. What good would the land be to us? What is Piers able to make from the land? I feel that it is my duty to keep my money intact to safeguard the future of our child.”

“If our child could speak she’d tell you to do it.”

“How do you know?”

“I know she would! She would know that you couldn’t do a better thing with your money.”

“There’s no use in talking! I refuse to do it.”

He put her from his knee, got up, and with his characteristic glance at his wristwatch, and his—“Well, I’ve got to see a man about that mare,” he left her.

There was a good deal of discussion over Alayne’s proposal to invite Sarah to visit Jalna. She confided to the three elderly members of the family what she had in her mind regarding Sarah and Finch. They fell in with the idea with enthusiasm, though neither Nicholas nor Ernest admired the girl. But Piers and Pheasant and, strangely enough, Finch objected to the invitation. It would be an extra expense, Piers and Pheasant declared, and they would be obliged to put on a style for her, accustomed as she was to the Leighs’ way of living, which would be a great nuisance. Finch agreed with them.

However, Alayne had her way and, on a glowing September day, Sarah appeared, arriving in her own handsome car with what seemed to the family an extraordinary
amount of luggage. From being repressed, having nothing literally to call her own, she had easily acquired the carelessly grand habits of the rich. But she was as simple as ever in her manner—if her low, secretive way of speaking and her rigid movements could be called simple. There was no doubt that with her coming a feeling of strain entered the household.