Return to Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

could do so much with it right now.”

      “Yes, I suppose I could,” he agreed, still more confused.

      “Isn’t it a strange thing —” Meg turned to Pheasant — “that Granny’s fortune was inherited by Finch, a boy of nineteen, and Cousin Dermot’s by Mooey, a boy of seventeen! It doesn’t seem fair.”

      “I hope Mooey’s money lasts longer than Finch’s did,” said Pheasant. “It was shameful the way Finch’s money disappeared.”

      “Shameful!” Meg’s eyes became prominent. “What do you mean, shameful? I certainly never had ...” Suddenly she remembered that Finch had paid off the mortgage on Vaughanlands. It had been only a loan but the interest had been paid more and more irregularly, till at last it was quite forgotten. Meg concluded: “Anything Finch did for us he did because he wanted to.”

      “Of course,” said Pheasant. “I always thought Finch acted as though he wanted to get rid of everything Gran left him.”

      “And now,” put in Patience, “he has got rid of his wife.”

      “With all her wealth!” mourned Meg.

      “I’m afraid,” said Pheasant, “that Mooey will think we are very cynical.”

      “You may be cynical,” retorted Meg, “but I have only the welfare of the family at heart and always have had and always shall.”

      As she stood planted firmly, in front of the rich foliage of late summer, she looked the very spirit of benevolence and there was no one there to contradict her. Patience regarded her with amused devotion; Pheasant, in controlled irritation; Maurice, in admiration; Nooky, in wonder; Philip, speculating as to whether she would give him anything. She gave him a kiss and exclaimed:

      “He grows more like Piers every day! He’s the one perfect Whiteoak among all the children. Poor Alayne, I feel sorry for her, with that boy of hers!”

      Pheasant gave a sigh. “Well,” she said, “we must be off. The uncles will be anxious to see Mooey.”

      “Give them my love — the old dears! You’ll see a great change in them, Mooey. I doubt if they’ll survive till all my brothers are home again.”

      “I don’t think they’ve changed much,” said Pheasant stoutly. “I think it is remarkable how little they’ve changed.”

      “Remarkable — for ninety — yes. Quite remarkable for ninety.”

      “Gran lived to be a hundred.”

      “Men don’t endure like women. Heavens, if a man had gone through what I have! Well, he just couldn’t do it.”

      Again no one contradicted her.

      On the way to Jalna, Pheasant exclaimed, “She may have gone through a lot but — what care she takes of herself! And Patience is just the same. They do nothing to help, though we’re at our wits’ end at Jalna.”

      “Patience is a lazy lump,” said Philip.

      The car was entering the driveway of Jalna. The spruces and hemlocks stood close and dark. To Maurice it seemed not so much an entrance as a defence. The trees reared themselves to conceal the house, to protect the family. Not only the evergreen trees, but the great weeping birch on the lawn, and the oaks and the maples. The Virginia Creeper, nearing its hundredth year, now had difficulty in finding fresh space for its growth. Long tendrils were festooned from the eaves and dangled from the porch, swayed by every breeze, seeming in their avidity to reach for support down to the very humans who passed under. But, at one corner of the house, the vine had been cut away in order to make some repairs, and in that place the rosy red of the old bricks was prominent and bathed, as it were consciously, in the sunshine. Two old gentlemen were seated on chairs near to the birch tree. These were the two great-uncles, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak. Nicholas had a plaid travelling rug over his knees. He was somewhat sunk in his chair, his massive head well-thatched by iron-grey hair looking a little large for the body which, in the last four years, that is the years of the war, had considerably shrunk. But his shoulders still were broad though bent, his face because of its strong and handsome bony structure was still impressive, and his hands, which were his one remaining vanity and which he had inherited from his mother, looked the hands of a much younger man. His voice too had power, as he now called out:

      “Hullo, hullo, hullo, Mooey! Come and kiss your old uncle! Come and kiss him quick!”

      Now this was the expression which his mother, Adeline Whiteoak, had often used in her very old age and it annoyed his brother to hear it on Nicholas’ lips. Did Nick imagine that, by repeating expressions so peculiarly hers, he could live to be a hundred, as she had? Ernest could not help feeling annoyed but he smiled eagerly, as he held out both hands to Maurice, and murmured:

      “Dear boy, how you’ve grown! And how like your mother you are, though you have blue eyes.”

      Nicholas was rumbling on, still uttering expressions used by old Adeline, “Bring all the boys here, Pheasant. I like the young folk about me.”

      His great-uncles had many questions to ask about Dermot Court and more especially about his last illness. Maurice could not recall those days without a feeling of great sadness. He wished he need not talk about them. The three boys had dropped to the grass but Pheasant still stood. Now she looked at her wrist watch, exclaiming:

      “How the day is going! And I have about fifty baskets of early apples to grade and pack. You two small boys must come and help. Mooey, when the uncles have finished their talk with you, you must go into the house and see Auntie Alayne and Adeline.”

      “This lawn,” observed Ernest, “badly needs mowing. I have never before seen it in such a state. The south lawn is no better than hay. It will take a scythe to prepare for the mower. I wonder if you would undertake to mow this front lawn, Mooey?”

      “Oh, yes,” agreed Maurice, doubtfully.

      Pheasant supplied the heartiness. “Of course, he will — he’ll love to. Come along, boys!”

      Nook and Philip dragged themselves to their feet and limply followed her. A quarter hour had scarcely passed when Philip rejoined the group on the lawn.

      “I thought you were helping your mother,” said Nicholas sternly.

      “I couldn’t do it properly,” he returned, and lay down. The front door of the house now opened and Adeline Whiteoak came out to the porch. She wore riding breeches and a white shirt. For a moment she hesitated, looking at Maurice, then ran down the steps and came to him.

      “Hullo!” she said. “So you’re back.”

      Maurice took the hand she held out.

      “Dear boy, kiss your cousin!” urged Ernest. The two young faces bumped softly together. “How firm her cheek is!” thought Maurice. “And as smooth as satin.”

      Nicholas and Ernest looked at each other as though to say, “What a pretty pair!”

      “Mummy had to take Archie to the doctor,” Adeline said. “It’s his tonsils. Roma went too because she needs new shoes. But they’ll not be long. Are you glad to be home again?”

      “Yes, indeed,” he answered politely.

      Ernest said to Nicholas, “He has true Irish politeness. He speaks like Dermot.”

      “How long are you staying?” asked Adeline. “Always?”

      “Till I’m twenty-one.”

      “Are you glad?”

      “Yes, indeed.”

      He was a puzzling boy, she thought. You could not tell whether or not he meant what he said.

      “Rags has homemade grape wine for us,” she went on. “Will you come in and have some?”

      “Thank you. I’d like to,” he answered, with a little bow.