Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“You aren’t changed!” he exclaimed. “You aren’t changed at all! My sweet one. My own girl.”
He pressed his lips to hers.
The sun was just high enough to send a splash of colour through the stained-glass window. It was purple and it fell on her head. But, when he carried her into the library and sat down with her on his knees, he saw the white in her hair.
“I told you,” she exclaimed. “I told you in a letter. Don’t look like that or I shall think it makes a difference.”
He took one of her plaits and kissed it. “It makes no difference,” he said, “but — I didn’t want it to change.”
She sat up and examined his weather-beaten features, the aquiline nose, the mouth, hard but with such felicity in the expressions of love, the changeful brown eyes. His hair — why, there was not a single grey streak in it! It scarcely seemed fair that hers should change and his retain its stubborn dark red. He looked younger than she! And he was years and years older.
“The war,” she said, almost coolly, “seems to have treated you well.”
He gave the arch grin, so like his grandmother’s. “Oh, I wear well,” he said.
“But that awful time at Dunkirk — that accident in the jeep.”
“I’m over all that. But not fit for service. Feel that.” He placed her fingers on the ridge of a scar on his crown.
“Oh, your poor dear head!” she cried, and drew it down and kissed it.
She had so many questions to ask, and he the same.
“Shall we ever find time for all the things we want to say!” she exclaimed.
He looked at his watch. “A quarter to six! I think I’ll go to see the uncles and the children.”
“Not the children — not yet! Please. But go to the uncles if you think it isn’t too early.” She wanted to dress and, more particularly, to do something to her face.
“They want to be waked. They can sleep all the afternoon.”
He caught her to his breast and kissed her again. They clung together motionless in the joy of reunion. Then, “Lead me up the stairs with my eyes shut,” he cried. “Let me open them and find myself in your room.”
He closed his eyes tightly and she led him out of the room and up the stairs. In her room she said:
“Open them quickly! It was horrible — as though you were blind.”
He laughed, his eyes flew open. “My God!” he exclaimed, “it’s like a miracle. I’ve dreamed this sort of thing. Oh, Alayne, we’re together again! Yes — together.” He moved about the room looking at her belongings — her toilet things on the dressing table. “I’m glad you haven’t changed anything.”
“I’ve nothing new!”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll go to Uncle Ernest first.”
“You know that Adeline sleeps in your room.”
“Yes. I shall tiptoe past.”
“I’ll have her moved from there today.”
He creaked cautiously in his heavy boots down the passage to Ernest’s door. Softly, he opened it and went into the room.
The old man lay on his back, his delicate profile with the high-bridged nose upturned, his hands folded on the coverlet.
“Uncle Ernest,” said Renny, bending over him.
Ernest opened his eyes. He put up his hands as though to ward off his nephew. He gasped, in a hoarse voice, “You are his ghost! You have come to tell me — that he —”
It was almost like Hamlet. An observer might have thought that Ernest did it too well, that he must assuredly have heard Renny’s laugh in the next room, have been prepared with this bit of play-acting.
“Don’t be frightened, Uncle Ernest. I’m solid enough.” He sat down on the side of the bed, took the old gentleman in his arms and kissed him.
“Dear boy. What a start you gave me! And how splendid you look!”
“You look pretty well yourself.”
“Ah, many a time I wondered if I would last till you came home! Thank God, I have.”
“Uncle Ernie, you couldn’t have treated me like that — not been here to welcome me. It wouldn’t have been home without you.”
“No, no, I couldn’t have done that.” Ernest’s voice quavered but he hung on to himself. “Oh, how glad I am that you’re home! We’ve needed you.”
A thumping came on the floor of the adjoining room.
“There’s Nicholas!” exclaimed Ernest. “He hears us. You’ll have to go to him or he’ll have the whole family awake. I wish I might have had you to myself for a bit. I shall ring for my breakfast early this morning.”
Renny hurried to Nicholas. He was sitting up in bed very dishevelled. He held both arms wide and clasped Renny to him. Tears ran down his deeply lined cheeks. He could not speak.
Renny straightened himself, then sat down beside the bed. He said, “Well, Uncle Nick, I’m home again. It feels wonderful.”
“It is wonderful. It’s a miracle. First Piers — now you. All we need now is Wakefield. But how thankful I am! My knee is pretty bad or I should be prancing about the room for joy.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Of course, you’ve seen Alayne. How thankful she must be! Poor Piers has lost a leg. It’s very sad. Now tell me how you managed to get here so early. I heard you laugh in Ernest’s room. I was already half-awake. I thought, — ‘No one but Renny laughs like that. He’s here!’ And I thumped with my stick. Give me your hand. Let me hold your hand.”
Ernest came in, wearing his dressing gown.
“You must be very hungry, dear boy,” he said. “My own stomach is literally caving in from excitement. Yet Wragge would resent it bitterly if I were to ring for any breakfast at this hour.”
“Bad to eat when you’re excited,” said his brother.
“But very weakening to go empty. I think I shall get a biscuit from my room.” He left and returned nibbling a biscuit. “The biscuits have got very flabby,” he said. “Most unappetizing. I don’t suppose you have breakfasted, Renny.”
“No. But I’m not hungry.”
“Now, tell us all about your journey,” said Nicholas.
They plied him with questions.
At half-past six he said, “I think I shall go and see Adeline.”
“I shall go with you,” said Ernest.
They went to Renny’s bedroom where she slept. He opened the door softly and stole to the side of the bed. She lay in the abandon of healthy sleep, her arms thrown wide. He bent and kissed her. Her eyes flew open. She looked up at him, dazed. Then a joyous smile curved her lips.
“Daddy!” she cried, and was out of bed in one leap and on him.
Finch, Roma, and Archer had been woken by the unusual sounds. They came running down the stairs full of excitement. All trooped into Nicholas’ room from where he had been loudly calling them to come. Alayne, joining them, thought, “Already he is surrounded by family. It will be a wonder if I can have him to myself once more today.”
Rags appeared in the doorway and all but fainted. “The last time I laid eyes on you, sir,” he said, while they gripped hands, “was at Dunkirk and you ’ad a bloody bandage on your ’ead. Seems as though it’s always your ’ead that gets ’urt, sir.”
“A good thing it’s tough,” said Renny.
Nicholas asked, “Have you had any ill effects from this last injury?”
“Well, Uncle, my memory was bad for a time, and now and again I still feel a bit dazed for a moment. But that’s wearing off.”
“Poor head,” said Adeline, stroking it with a possessive air. Her eyes devoured him.
“We thought,” Archer said, “that you’d likely get killed. We were pretty sure you’d get killed.”
There was a storm of denial.
“I wonder, Wragge,” put in Ernest, “if I could have my breakfast tray now. All this excitement on an empty stomach is very bad for me.”
Wragge didn’t look pleased with the thought of a breakfast tray.
“Tell your wife,” said Renny, “that I shall come down in a few minutes to see her. After that you and I can have a chat.”
“I think, Wragge,” said Ernest, “that I’d better have an egg — in addition to my porridge.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Children,” said Alayne, “you must go and dress.”
“what a lovely early start we have,” said Adeline. “what a day of celebration! Daddy, don’t you think I’ve grown enormously?”
“It’s disgraceful,” he said, and drew her to his side.
Down in the basement he shook hands with fat Mrs. Wragge. She beamed at him and promised herself a morning of cooking his favourite dishes. Suddenly he exclaimed, “where are the dogs?”
Rags had just descended the stairs. He gave a deprecating shrug. “Ow, sir,” he said, “you’ll find a great difference where the dogs is concerned.”
Renny frowned. “I know. Dear old Merlin’s gone.”
“Yes. ’E’s gone. And very sad it was. I knew it would be a blow to you.”
“But where are the others?”
Rags opened the door leading into a small room that was sometimes used for an extra maid. An English sheepdog, like a mountain of animated hair, came trotting out, his eyes hidden in his hair, his bobtail lost in his hair, yet the whole somehow abounding in expression. After him came a broad-chested wrinkle-nosed bulldog and, in and out between their bulk, a little Cairn terrier.
“Hullo, dogs!” shouted Renny. “Hullo, dogs! Do you know me? Of course, you do! Look at them, cook! By George, it’s grand to see them!” He squatted on his heels, the Cairn in his arms nibbling his chin, licking his cheek. The other two shouldered each other to sniff him, to wag their welcome.
“Ain’t it wonderful how they remember ’im?” Rags asked of his wife.
“It ain’t so much they remember him as they know he loves them. They know by the way you touch them.”
“why were they sleeping in there?” asked Renny. The Wragges looked at each other.
“They’re mostly kept out of the upstairs now, sir,” said Rags, with portentous solemnity.
“But why?”
“Ow, we’re getting too grand to ’ave dawgs up there. They bring in too much dirt. Didn’t you notice the ’all, sir? It’s been done over in cream colour!”
“
Cream colour!
what do you mean?”
“Didn’t you notice the wallpiper was tore off and the woodwork and all was in
ivory
paint?”
“Good God, no! I — went upstairs with my eyes shut and came down — well, I must be blind!”
He left them abruptly and mounted the basement stairs, the dogs pressing forward with him. Alayne had just arrived in the hall.
He looked about him, with a disapproving grin. “Well,” he said. “You’ve made quite a change here.” Her lips felt stiff but she tried to smile naturally.
“I had to have it done. The old wallpaper was disgraceful.”
She had used a provocative word.
“That wallpaper,” he said, “was bought by my grandmother, nearly a hundred years ago. It came from France. You couldn’t buy its like today.”
“I know,” she said, a little impatiently, “but a hundred years is a long time. It had got very soiled.”
“It could have been cleaned.”
“Indeed it could not. Renny, just think of the children who have gone up and down those stairs putting their grubby little hands on the wall.”
“
Your
children —” he placed a devastating accent on the
your
—”may have put their grubby paws on the wall. Certainly we never were allowed to. We’d have got them smacked if we’d tried it. Did you ever feel the gold leaves and scrolls on that paper? They felt solid. I’ll bet the men had a time to get it off.”
“Yes. They did. But surely you must acknowledge that the hall looks larger, airier, more cheerful.”
“Not to me.”
“The ivory colour seems to bring out the beauty of the rugs. I hadn’t realized before what fine ones they are.”
“I had.”
“Everyone remarks how the beauty of the banister, the carving of the newel post, stands out as never before.”
“Hmph.” His eye caught a strange new ivory-coloured something against the wall. “what’s that?” he demanded.
“A radiator!” She faced him, half-defiant, half-proud. “Renny, I have had an oil heater put in! I paid for it out of my own money. What a joy it has been! An even temperature, real warmth, all over the house — for the first time.”
“
We
were never cold.”
“It has done away with the awful old stove that used to be put up in the hall every winter.”
He looked aghast. “The stove, Alayne! The stove! You haven’t the
stove
any more?”
“Everyone says what an improvement I’ve made and, as I have said before, I did it out of my own money.”
“Well — I could have shown you better ways of spending your money. And let me tell you this, I never came into the hall out of the cold and saw the old stove almost red-hot, with the dogs curled up about it, but I thought it one of the coziest sights I’d ever seen.” He turned to Finch, just coming down the stairs. “Look here, Finch, I’ve heard of soldiers who came home and found themselves not wanted. By Judas, I begin to think that’s the way it is with me! Everything I like best has been changed.” He spoke with half a laugh but there was temper in his tone. “The dogs are shut in the basement. The paper torn from the walls. A cold-blooded heating system installed. The old stove turned into junk.” He gave a flourish of his hand toward his grandmother’s room behind the stairs. “I’ll bet Gran’s room has been brought up to date. I’ll bet there’s a streamlined bedstead in it and a dressing table with three mirrors.”
Alayne would not let herself get upset. She put her arm about him and said, “Darling, nothing is changed in that room. Would you like to look in?”
“No. No.”
The old woman with her caustic tongue, her mordant vigour, had given him all the maternal tenderness he had known — she and his aunt, Lady Buckley, whose dignity and restraint had seldom unbent and whose attitude toward him had been critical. He would not look into that room.
He let himself be drawn by Alayne and by the onward rush of the children into the dining room where breakfast, unusually early, was laid. Rags was so excited that he forgot first the butter, then the marmalade. He hurried down to the kitchen for each of these, execrating his bad memory as he went. He was well aware of Renny’s chagrin over the changes at Jalna and he placed first the butter, then the marmalade before him, with an air of doing what he could to soften the blows that had been dealt him.
Alayne had been prepared for a certain amount of discontent over the innovations. Her idea was to make him forget these things in the general pleasure of homecoming. Finch ably came to her help and few could have felt disgruntled in the presence of the children, they were so bubbling with happy talk.