01 The Building of Jalna Read online

  THE BUILDING OF JALNA

  THE BUILDING OF JALNA

  MAZO DE LA ROCHE

  Copyright © 2009 The Estate of Mazo de la Roche and Dundurn Press Limited

  First published in Canada by Macmillan Company of Canada in 1944.

  This 2009 edition of The Building of Jalna is published in a new trade paperback format.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Michael Carroll

  Copy Editors: Jason Karp

  Design: Courtney Horner

  Printer: Marquis

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961

  The building of Jalna / Mazo de la Roche.

  (Jalna)

  ISBN 978-1-55002-878-2

  I. Title. II. Series: De la Roche, Mazo, 1879-1961. Jalna.

  PS8507.E43B85 2009 C813’.52 C2008-906254-X

  1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

  www.dundurn.com

  To St. John and Leonora Ervine

  and Rache Lovat Dickson

  in friendship

  and remembering their inscription

  in my copy of Sophia

  CONTENTS

  I

  IN ENGLAND

  II

  IN IRELAND

  III

  THE FIRST VOYAGE

  IV

  REPAIRS

  V

  THE SECOND VOYAGE

  VI

  THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. LOUIS

  VII

  VAUGHANLANDS

  VIII

  THE LAND

  IX

  THE FOUNDATION

  X

  THE WALLS

  XI

  THE ROOF

  XII

  HENRIETTA

  XIII

  AUTUMN RAIN

  XIV

  WINTER SPORT

  XV

  IN WILMOTT’S HOUSE

  XVI

  PROGRESS OF THE SEASON

  XVII

  SPRINGTIME AT JALNA

  XVIII

  VISITORS FROM IRELAND

  XIX

  THE BATHING PARTY

  XX

  THE GALLOP IN THE FOREST

  XXI

  THE REWARD

  XXII

  THE CHURCH

  XXIII

  A VARIETY OF SCENES

  I

  IN ENGLAND

  ADELINE THOUGHT THAT never, never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful as The Bohemian Girl. The romance of it transfigured her mind, as moonlight a stained-glass window. And the music! Words and tune possessed her, making her feel like one in a dream. As she hung on Philip’s arm on the way out of Drury Lane the ground seemed unsubstantial beneath her feet, the crowd about her to be floating like herself.

  She looked into his face to discover what was its expression. She had glimpsed her own, in one of the great gilt-framed mirrors, and had been well-pleased by its rapt expression. She half-expected to see Philip wearing the same look. But in truth he looked just as he had when they had entered the opera house. Pleased to be there, well-satisfied with himself and with her, glad to be back in London once more. She pressed his arm and his lips parted in a smile. Surely no man in all that throng had so fine, so manly a profile as Philip! Surely there was no other man with such well-set shoulders, such a flat back! He turned his head and looked at her. As he looked, his bright blue eyes widened a little in pride. He glanced about to see if others were noticing her beauty. They were, no doubt about that. Two gentlemen on her other side were noticing it more than was compatible with good taste. They were openly staring at her. She was aware of this, as was shown by her heightened colour and the daring half-glance she bestowed on them, but she continued to smile at Philip. They were now near the outer door and it took all his skill to pilot her successfully through it, billowing as she was in a flounced taffeta crinoline. Small wonder those fellows stared, thought Philip. It was not often one saw a face so arresting as Adeline’s. Was there another anywhere to equal it, he wondered. Her colouring alone made people turn their heads to look after her: the hair thick and waving, of the deepest auburn that could, in sunlight, flame to red; the skin of marble and roses, the changeful brown eyes with black lashes. But, if her colouring had been undistinguished, her proud and daring features, her arched brows, aquiline nose and mobile, laughing mouth would have warranted his fine favour.

  There was a clatter of horses’ hoofs on the cobbles. Private carriages were drawn up in a glittering row. Adeline looked longingly at these but she and Philip must wait for a cab. They pressed forward to the curb, his mind still occupied in guarding her crinoline. A street musician rose, as out of the gutter. He was gaunt and in rags but he could play. He humped his shoulder against the fiddle and his arm that wielded the bow moved violently, as though in desperation. No one but Adeline noticed him. Yet he was playing in desperation.

  “Look, Philip!” she said, eagerly. “The poor man!” He looked and, frowning a little at the waste of time, resumed his scanning of the vehicles. She stiffened herself.

  “Give him something!” she demanded.

  Philip had found a four-wheeler. Now he determinedly pushed Adeline toward it. The driver scrambled down from his perch and threw open the door. Between the pushing of the crowd and the urging of Philip’s hand she found herself forced inside. But the beggar had seen her look of compassion and now his gaunt figure appeared at the door. His eyes were imploring. Philip put his hand in his pocket and produced a shilling.

  “God bless you, sir! God bless you, my lady!” The man kept reiterating his thanks. His face was ghastly in the light of the gas lamps.

  The horses’ feet clattered on the wet cobbles. Philip and Adeline turned to look triumphantly at each other. Both thought they had had their own way.

  The crowded streets, the bright lights, were intoxicating to them after their years in India. She indeed had never known London, for County Meath had been her home and Dublin the great city of her girlhood. She had danced her way through several seasons there but, in spite of her grace and beauty, she had not made the match her parents had hoped for. Her admirers had been well-born and all too attractive, but without sufficient means to set up an establishment. She had wasted good time in flirtations with them. Then her sister Judith, married to an officer stationed at Jalna, a garrison town in India, had invited Adeline to visit her and Adeline had gladly gone. She felt cramped in Ireland and she had quarreled with her father, who was even more high-tempered and domineering than herself. The cause of their quarrel was a legacy left her by a great-aunt. Her father had always been a favourite of this aunt and he had confidently looked forward
to inheriting her fortune. It was not large, but in his present circumstances seemed munificent. Now he bitterly regretted that he had named a daughter after his aunt. That had been the mischief! That, and Adeline’s blandishments!

  In Judith’s house she met Philip Whiteoak, an officer in the Hussars. He came of a family long established in Warwickshire. Indeed the Whiteoaks had lived on their estate for several centuries. They had looked up to no man, being of the opinion that they were as good as any and of more ancient lineage than most of the peers of the country. At one time they had possessed considerable fortune which had been handed down intact from father to son. They had been a family of few children but those of fine physique. Their affairs had prospered till the time of Philip’s grandfather, who had become addicted to the vice of gambling, so prevalent in his day. He had heavily mortgaged the family estate and had at last been obliged to sell it. It was owing to the sound sense of Philip’s father, his sober life as an unpretentious country gentleman, that Philip had been able to enter the Army and to have sufficient means for maintaining his position as an officer.

  Philip and Adeline were fascinated by each other. After a few meetings they were passionately in love. Yet, beyond the fire and passion of their love, there was true metal. In the not infrequent dissensions of their married life they always knew they were made for each other, that no one else could possibly fill the other’s place — or even approach that place. To Philip other women seemed simple, even shallow, as compared to Adeline. For him there was significance in her every gesture. The intimacy of their companionship never failed to exhilarate him. There was excitement in the thought that he could eventually control her, no matter what her defiance.

  Adeline delighted in Philip’s stalwart good looks, the clear freshness of his complexion which years in India had not succeeded in damaging, the ardent expression of his daring blue eyes, the boyish curve of his lips. Was there ever a better figure than his, she often wondered, so broad in the shoulders, yet hips narrow! She disliked hair on a man’s face and allowed him no more than a finger’s breadth of golden whisker in front of each ear. If he had more, she would refuse to kiss him. But, far above his looks, she rejoiced in his power over her, his English reliability, the mystery of his silences, when she in her Celtic suppleness must reach out and draw him back to her.

  Their wedding had never been equaled in the Indian military station. She had been twenty-two, he ten years older. He got along well with his men, who would do anything for him, but often there was a feeling of tension between him and his colonel. Philip was not the man to knuckle under with a good grace. He had an indestructible feeling that he was always in the right, and the fact that he generally was only made matters worse. When he opposed others Adeline was always on his side. When he opposed her she could see how wrong-headed and stubborn he could be.

  Her sister Judith, two years older than herself, had advised her to order as magnificent a trousseau as possible from Dublin because, as she said, it would certainly be the last thing she would ever get out of her father. So the two had spent happy days in preparing lists for the guidance of Adeline’s mother in shopping. The good-natured lady never had been able to deny her children anything and now she, in her turn, had spent happy weeks creating a bustle in the Dublin shops. What her daughter had not thought of, she did, and it took a formidable array of boxes to contain the trousseau. That trousseau created a sensation in Jalna. Dresses, with voluminous flounced skirts and wide pagoda sleeves, came billowing out of the boxes; a green velvet cape with bonnet and muff to match, all embroidered with a creamy foam of lace; a Scottish tartan cloak, lined with blue silk; ball dresses cut very low with tiny waists and trains ruffling like the wake of a ship; shawls with long golden fringe and lace mittens decorated in the same fashion. Adeline floated to the altar in a wedding gown like a silver cloud. Tissue paper strewed the bedrooms of Judith’s bungalow when the boxes were opened and the treasures disclosed. For the time even Philip was unimportant.

  The young pair settled down to lead as glittering an existence as the military station afforded. No entertainment was complete without them. They were so gay; their wine was the best; their horses and their clothes the handsomest in the station.

  It had been a shock to them when they discovered that Adeline was going to have a child. They did not want children. They were sufficient to themselves, and not only that — children born in India were often so delicate and always had to be sent home for their education. These partings with children were a melancholy side to Anglo-Indian life. Adeline was horrified at what she would have to go through. She felt as though she were the first woman in the world to face that ordeal. And it had been a great ordeal — a difficult birth and an aftermath of weakness and dejection. The infant did not thrive and filled the house with its wailing. What a change from their happy, carefree years!

  A stay in the hills had done Adeline little good. It had seemed that she would sink into invalidism. All this anxiety affected Philip’s temper. He had a violent quarrel with his colonel. He began to feel that the hand of fate was against him. He began also to fell a longing for a more open, less restricted life. His thoughts turned toward the New World. He began to be irked by the conventionalities of Army life. If he stayed in India he must get a transfer to another regiment, for the quarrel with his colonel was not of the sort to be patched up. He had an uncle, an officer stationed in Quebec who had written him letters overflowing with praise of the life there. Philip wondered if the Canadian climate would suit Adeline. He asked the opinion of the doctor, who declared that nowhere on earth would she find more bracing air or a climate better suited to her condition. When Philip spoke of this to Adeline he quite expected her to be repelled by the thought of such a change. To leave a life so full of colour for the simplicity of the New World would surely be more than she could face. But Adeline surprised him by delighting in the prospect of the adventure. She threw her bare arms above her head (she was wearing one of the silk peignoirs she almost always wore now) and declared there was nothing on earth she would so much love to do as to go to Canada. She was tired of everything connected with India — tired of the gossip of the station, tired of the heat and the dust, tired of swarming natives and, most of all, tired of having less than her accustomed eager strength.

  Even with Adeline’s consent Philip hesitated to make the plunge. But while he hesitated his uncle died in Quebec, leaving him a considerable property there.

  “Now it’s all settled!” Adeline had cried. “Nothing can hinder us!”

  So Philip sold his commission, his horses and polo ponies, and Adeline sold the furniture of the bungalow, keeping only certain things precious to her to remind her of India — the beautiful painted leather furniture of her bedroom, a brass-bound cabinet and chest, some silken embroidery, carved jade and ivory ornaments. With these she would make a show in Quebec. They set sail from Bombay with their infant daughter Augusta and the ayah who had cared for her since her birth. The ayah was terrified at the thought of crossing the great seas to the other side of the world but she so loved little Augusta that she was willing to go anywhere with her. The most important of the party, in his own opinion, was Adeline’s parrot, an intelligent and healthy young bird, a fluent talker and brilliant of plumage. He was a contradiction to the belief that grey parrots are the best talkers for he enunciated clearly and had an ample though sometimes profane vocabulary. He loved only Adeline and permitted only her to caress him. She had named him Bonaparte. She had a sly admiration for the Little Corporal. She had an admiration for the French and was married for many years to Philip before, under his influence, she became really loyal to the English Crown. Philip had nothing but scorn and dislike for Napoleon. His own father had been killed in the Battle of Waterloo and he himself born a few months later. He had no respect and little liking for the French. He called the parrot Boney for short and that in a tone of good-humoured derision.

  The journey from India to England had seemed endless. Ye
t on the whole it was not unpleasant. They were setting out toward a new life. There were a number of congenial people on board and among these the Whiteoaks were the most sought after. The weather was fair and Adeline’s health improved during the voyage. But by the time they reached the Bay of Biscay, which was grey and wild, they yearned toward the shores of England. They had landed in Liverpool the week before Christmas.

  With their child, the ayah, and the mountain of luggage they had made the long journey by stagecoach from Liverpool to the cathedral town of Penchester, in a southwestern county where Philip’s only sister, Augusta, was anxiously awaiting them. For her the baby had been named. She was married to the Dean of the Cathedral, a man considerably older than herself, a bookworm and hater of change and confusion. They were a happy couple for Augusta spent her days in devotion to him and he gave her her own way in everything. She looked like Philip but was softer and less handsome. She had a happy nature and her one sorrow was her childlessness. She had looked forward eagerly to the coming of her little namesake but disappointment lay in store for her. Baby Augusta was so shy that she could hardly bear to go beyond her ayah’s arms. And the ayah selfishly encouraged her in this. She wanted her charge to love no one but her. And she clung to the child with a fierce possessive love.

  This was bitterly disappointing to Philip’s sister. Still she hoped to overcome the little one’s shrinking as the days went on. What she really had in mind was to keep the child with her when its parents went on to Quebec. She knew that she could persuade the Dean to let her do this. She had always wanted a little girl to love. To her, the baby’s black hair and eyes, her sallow skin, were romantic and alluring.