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    The Master of Jalna
    The Master of Jalna
    The Master of Jalna
    Ebook419 pages6 hours

    The Master of Jalna

    By Mazo de la Roche

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Renny attempts to carry on the family tradition after the death of his grandfather. He faces a financial crisis in the effort to keep the estate intact.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherClassica Libris
    Release dateMar 24, 2018
    ISBN9788827593806
    The Master of Jalna
    Author

    Mazo de la Roche

    Mazo de la Roche (Newmarket, 1879-Toronto, 1961) fue una escritora canadiense mundialmente famosa por su saga de los Whiteoak, dieciséis volúmenes que narran la vida de una familia de terratenientes de Ontario entre 1854 y 1954. La serie vendió más de once millones de ejemplares, se tradujo a decenas de idiomas y fue llevada al cine y a la televisión. Con la publicación de Jalna (1927), su autora se convirtió en la primera mujer en recibir el sustancioso premio otorgado por la revista estadounidense The Atlantic Monthly, que la consagraría en adelante como una verdadera celebridad literaria.

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      Book preview

      The Master of Jalna - Mazo de la Roche

      JALNA

      Dedication

      To Hugh Walpole

      1

      ELDEST AND YOUNGEST

      Renny Whiteoak stood with his brows drawn together but a smile softening his lips while a wire-haired terrier belonging to his brother Piers strove with controlled energy to dig her way into the burrow of some small animal. The digging was not easy because a root of a silver birch tree made a barrier across the entrance. The terrier’s white coat was covered with earth, and Renny was remembering how Piers had spent an hour that day in washing from her the stains of some foul encounter. He had titivated her as though for a show. And already she had come to this!

      Still it was clean dirt, good honest earth that, when it dried, would fall from the stiff white coat. The terrier lay on her side now, throwing the brown soil against her pink belly. She tore at the root with her teeth. She tore so hard that the splinters she spat out were bloodstained. Renny remembered that it was spring, that there was probably a terrified little mother with young down there. He picked up the terrier by the scruff and, tucking her under his arm, strolled away. The little dog knew that it was useless to struggle. She turned up a beseeching muzzle, caked with earth, and seeing a face that promised no relenting, wagged her tail and panted toward the next excitement.

      Renny walked on through the still radiance of the June day. Earth and sky were of an ineffable brightness, and the smooth path beneath his feet was his own. He thought of this as he followed its turnings through the birch wood. There was something odd and personal about the possession of a path. It was unlike the fields that surrendered themselves to cultivation or the woods that held themselves apart. The path gave itself — stretched itself supine for you to walk on — but it did not surrender. It led you where it willed, and, if you would not follow it, if you turned aside among the bushes or the tree trunks, it ran on without you in the appointed way marked by the footprints of your fathers.

      He liked the thought of that. It heartened him to think that this path — that all the paths of Jalna — had been made by his own people or those who worked for them. It had been nothing more than a forest when his grandfather, Captain Philip Whiteoak, had come here from England. Uncle Nicholas, Uncle Ernest had run over these as little boys. He, himself… well, if these paths could speak, they could tell a lot about him… forty-five he was now.

      The smile that had been lurking about his mouth became a grin. He tossed the terrier on to the path in front of him, and it sped like an arrow after something that moved among the bracken. A little devil, Biddy. You couldn’t keep her down. Her joyous acceptance of life made him happier. That was the way to take it. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, go at top speed after something else.

      What had been worrying him? Oh yes, that account from Piers for the winter’s feed. He let the farmlands to Piers. Then he bought the fodder off him. Piers was always ready with the rent, but of late he often had to ask Piers for time. It was humiliating because Piers was younger than he and had a way of staring at one as though he were holding himself in, keeping back some unpleasant truths which he would have taken pleasure in uttering. Well… if anyone could make anything out of horse breeding with conditions as they had been for two years… getting worse and worse… he’d like to see how it was done. The smile faded on his lips and the frown groping across his forehead settled between the reddish brows.

      The terrier reappeared on the path leaping about the legs of a slender youth of seventeen who came toward his eldest brother with an air at once petulant and ingratiating.

      Oh, there you are, Renny! I’ve been all over the place after you. Are you on your way to the fox farm?

      Well, I might drop in there.

      I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.

      All right.

      Renny shot an inquisitive look at him. Wakefield seemed to be always ready to go to the fox farm. Was it possible that he was a bit gone on Pauline Lebraux? It was ridiculous to think of his being gone on anyone. He was little more than a kid. Yet — looking at him as an outsider you’d say — Here’s a tall fellow, handsome as the devil. The girls will be after him. But an outsider wouldn’t know what a kid he was, how dependent and nervy, though he had almost outgrown his delicacy.

      They had come to an open grassy space where the white-boled silver birches cast their lacy shadows. Renny suddenly grasped Wakefield’s arm and stopped.

      Do you remember? he asked.

      Wakefield looked blank. Remember what?

      The day you read me a poem you’d written. It was on this very spot. It must be almost two years ago.

      Wakefield was gratified. You remember? Well, I had completely forgotten it. I’ve even forgotten the poem.

      Thank God for that! I was afraid you were going to turn out like Eden. You showed all the symptoms.

      It was only a phase. I have quite outgrown it.

      Approval shone out of the elder’s eyes. Wakefield saw it and thought the moment propitious.

      The school is giving a dinner to Professor Ralston, he said, and a presentation. I have to subscribe to both. And I think I should have a dress suit. I am one of the tallest fellows in the school, and I shall feel very awkward in ordinary things. I felt awkward at the last dance, and I expect that I looked as I felt.

      It was impossible to think of his looking or feeling awkward, seeing him standing there in the sunshine, as straight and slender as one of the young birches. Renny said:

      There is a suit of Eden’s in the attic cupboard. A dinner jacket. I guess that it would fit you. You are just about the size he was then.

      Wakefield looked horrified. That old suit! I should look like the devil in it. Why, even Finch refused to wear that.

      Finch couldn’t wear it. He is too long in the arm. But I believe it would fit you. It could be altered if necessary.

      Wakefield turned away. Very well, Renny, he spoke with sad dignity, I’ll give up going. I don’t mind so very much, but I do mind making myself into a figure of fun.

      Renny followed him along the path grinning in appreciation of his methods of getting what he wanted, at the old-fashioned turn of speech which he cultivated. How different he was from what the others had been at his age! In a similar position Finch would have backed down at once, agreed to wear anything rather than be insistent. A good boy but rather spiritless. Piers would have sulked. Eden argued excitedly… Well, it was a great thing that Wake had grown up to want a dress suit. It had often seemed doubtful if he would. He was an extravagant youngster too. Money spilt through his fingers like water. It was a pity he had come along when it was so scarce. He was formed for easy living and extravagance. Renny said, in a grudging tone:

      I suppose I can do it. But money is terribly tight. Well — I shouldn’t say tight — I simply haven’t got it.

      Wakefield threw over his shoulder:

      Let Piers wait.

      He is waiting.

      Let him keep on waiting. He really should not charge you anything for the feed.

      What would he live on?

      You — like everyone else does!

      Renny broke into loud laughter, then suddenly sobered.

      Look here, Wake, he said rather sternly, you’re growing up too fast.

      Just the same, persisted the boy, I don’t like to see Piers so high and mighty about managing his farm profitably when he and his wife and two kids get their living at Jalna for absolutely nothing.

      You don’t understand, returned his elder, rather stiffly. Piers helps me in a lot of ways. How could Wakefield understand his clannish desire to have his family under the same roof with him, his pride in keeping the old house full!

      Well, I’m glad to hear that. Wakefield’s tone was grandfatherly. And thanks very much for the evening things. You can always get credit at Fowler’s, can’t you?

      Fowler’s! The most expensive tailoring place in town. This lad hated himself!

      I suppose it’s possible.

      And you’ll remember about my subscription to the dinner and present?

      Hm-hm.

      They had crossed a field, passed through a gate, and emerged into the public road. It was deserted, and not far off they could see the white picket fence that enclosed the fox farm.

      Clara Lebraux had had a hard fight to keep it afloat in the two and a half years since her husband’s death. But somehow — and with help from Renny Whiteoak that both kept secret — she had escaped failure. She had done well with the poultry that got her up so early every morning.

      She and her daughter Pauline were standing together at a window in the kitchen as the brothers appeared at the gate. Pauline said hurriedly:

      Oh, don’t let us be caught in the kitchen! They’ll think we live in it. Last time Renny came we were washing dishes.

      Clara Lebraux laughed curtly. It’s a late hour for me to begin prinking for him. He has seen me looking my worst for over three years now. There was a curious note of satisfaction in her voice as she said this. She added — And married men aren’t supposed to look at anyone but their wives.

      I wonder why they don’t ring the bell.

      They’ve gone round to look at the foxes.

      Mummie, shall I run upstairs and change my dress? This is so abominably short.

      Yes, do… I like you to look nice.

      Pauline hesitated at the door. It’s hard to think of him as married, isn’t it? We see so little of her.

      Oh, he’s very much married! Clara Lebraux spoke abruptly. She went quickly to the oven, drew out a pan of scones she was baking, looked at them suspiciously and thrust them back, banging the oven door.

      Pauline disappeared up the stairs as the bell sounded. Clara wiped her hands on a scorched oven-cloth and went to the door. She glanced in the mirror in the hall in passing, saw that her hair that had been tow-coloured and was now turning dark in streaks, was dishevelled, and that there was flour on her cheek, but she marched straight to the door and opened it.

      She and Renny greeted each other familiarly, but Wakefield stood somewhat aloof. He was conscious of his new height and his imminent manhood.

      Where is Pauline? asked Renny, when they were in the living room that had an air of comfort in spite of its extreme shabbiness.

      Upstairs. She’ll be down directly.

      How is the injured fox?

      Quite recovered. But we had a time with him. The others had torn a foot almost off. They are devils when they’re roused. But Pauline never loses patience with them. I do. Sometimes I’d like to turn all the foxes in together. Then throw the poultry to them. Have a general massacre.

      Wakefield’s eyes brightened. If ever that climax arrives, please let me know. I’d love to see it.

      She asked with sudden gravity, Have you — but, of course, you have — heard of the proposed massacre of the trees?

      Renny, turning his head sharply toward her, demanded, Whose trees?

      Everyone’s. The road is to be widened. The curve just beyond Jalna straightened out. I thought, of course, you’d have heard, as your property is the most affected.

      He stared at her, stupefied. He could not take it in. Wakefield looked uncomfortable. He had heard something of this before. Piers also. But they had kept it to themselves. Renny would make a row and the old people would be upset.

      She repeated, They’re widening the road, you see. Those huge old oaks are in the way. They want to make it a better road for motorists. The curve is supposed to be dangerous. It’s the Government, so I suppose we must put up with it. Pauline is mourning over our nice cedar hedge. We shall lose that.

      He understood now.

      How long have you known this? he asked.

      Just since yesterday.

      He turned to Wakefield:

      And you?

      The boy answered in a muffled voice:

      For two days.

      And Piers knew of it?

      Wakefield nodded.

      Renny gave a bitter laugh. By God, I like this! It’s splendid! The road is going to be widened — the front of my property disfigured — and everyone knows of it but me!

      Wakefield said, We knew you’d find out soon enough.

      Well, I have… I won’t allow it. There has been no meeting of the ratepayers.

      Yes. There was. When you were in Montreal.

      Renny grinned savagely. Oh, they waited till I was out of the way — the curs! Well — it can’t be done! I won’t allow it. Why, those trees have stood there — He stopped, swallowed, and got to his feet as he saw Pauline coming down the stairs.

      Her eyes were fixed on his as she came into the room.

      He said, They’ve just told me about the trees, Pauline.

      Oh, I knew you’d be sorry! Can’t you please do something about it?

      Do something! Well, I should like to see them touch my trees!

      Wakefield spoke, in a high judicial tone:

      After all, we must always consider the good of the many. There is no doubt that the road is narrow for motors.

      Let them keep off it, then.

      And the curve is dangerous. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Renny, how you knocked over Noah Binns just there with your own car.

      He wasn’t hurt.

      He might have been killed.

      So much the better.

      Oh, well, there’s no convincing you.

      Look here, interrupted Renny savagely, do you want the trees cut down?

      No — but if the majority of taxpayers do, we’re helpless, aren’t we?

      Clara Lebraux added, I suppose what has really happened is that the Minister of Highways, or some such person, has been influenced by someone with a pull.

      Renny broke in, He’ll have me to reckon with. Why, those trees were old when Gran first came here. She and Grandfather always protected them. There are few enough beauty spots left in this country. No stranger ever comes to Jalna without admiring those trees.

      I know, agreed Wakefield, but we have hundreds like them — almost as fine.

      Yes! You’d better put in that ‘almost.’ We’ve nothing else to equal them.

      They’re paying compensation.

      As though I’d accept their filthy money!

      Clara Lebraux and Wakefield exchanged a look.

      Pauline went to Renny and touched his sleeve with her hand. I knew you’d feel as I do about it, she said.

      He pressed her hand against his arm. We’ll throw their compensation in their teeth, he said. His face cleared as he looked down into her eyes. He could never quite make out their colour, but he knew they were deep and beautiful and that the lids had a foreign look.

      She wanted to be near him. But yet she could not bear the nearness. It was as though she, being cold, could not bear the heat of the fire. She had loved her father with all the force of her sensitive child nature. Her father had loved Renny Whiteoak. She told herself that her feeling for Renny was a sacred heritage from her father. She moved away and went to Wakefield’s side.

      The fire of his presence was a softly burning fire. She could comfort her spirit there. Yet there was something in him too that frightened her. There was something watchful about him. He watched but he did not let himself be seen…

      As the brothers returned along the path they had come, Renny talked of the trees, of the beauty of the road as it stood, of the outrage of suggesting that the boundary of Jalna should be moved back from the road so much as a foot. He talked of the winding roads of old England. He would not enter the house without first going to the edge of the meadow beyond the lawn to see that the ancient oaks were still intact. He took off his hat as though to salute them. He stood beneath the summer spread of their green leaves, the serene strength of their branches, with head thrown back, his fiery brown eyes penetrating their sunlit heights with an expression of passionate protectiveness.

      2

      FAMILY TREE

      The first real heat of summer had come that day, and it was delicious. The new leaves, bright and smooth as though waxed, sunned themselves in it. Each spear of grass stood up, full of life, as though declaring, I am the lawn. The flower blossoms that hitherto had opened with discretion, now cast caution aside and threw wide their petals like welcoming arms. The earth that till now had only been warmed on its surface, absorbed the fire of the sun deeper and deeper into its fibre. Jock, the bobtailed sheepdog, left the porch where he had been sunning himself, and stretched his shaggy body in the shade of a balsam.

      But it was the old house itself that most greedily drank in the heat. Its walls, which had cracked in frost, shivered in bitter winds, now turned a mellow rosy red in the bright radiance. Pigeons strutted and slid up and down its warmed roof. Its windows — those windows through which old Adeline, for seventy-five years the centre of its activities, had so often stared — beamed tranquilly. A blue smoke-wreath from the kitchen chimney settled above it like a rakish halo.

      Ernest Whiteoak sat in an armchair with cushions piled behind him, on the gravelled sweep in front of the house, where his long, thin body received the full force of the sun. He had been seriously ill of influenza two months before and he still clung to the pleasant ways of convalescence.

      It was so nice to stand in the doorway, watch Wragge, the Cockney manservant, who had been Renny’s batman in the War, carry out the weighty chair, one of the womenfolk follow with the cushions, his brother Nicholas seek out the most sheltered spot, then himself follow, leaning on the ebony stick that had been his mother’s.

      He had been sitting there an hour and twenty minutes. In another twenty minutes it would be one o’clock — time for dinner. His appetite was good, his digestion better than for some time. He looked forward to the hot meal and the long nap afterward on his own soft bed. He was already drowsy because of the heat, and the sun gleaming on the bright hair of Renny’s wife sitting close beside him actually made him wink. She was trimming his nails for him, an office she had undertaken when his hands had been shaky after the fever. He was quite able to do it himself now, but one day when Nicholas had suggested it he had become very peevish and exclaimed, I suppose you don’t mind if I cut off the ends of my fingers!

      Alayne was thorough in all she did. Each nail was trimmed to correspond with the curve at its base. They were well-shaped nails. She had brought out her own polisher and was now rubbing them briskly. Ernest’s eyes were on his fingers in bland concentrated interest. He was barely conscious of the brightness of Alayne’s hair in the sun and the pretty curve of her wrist.

      Nicholas slouching in a deep wicker chair watched the two of them, a mocking light in his eyes beneath the heavily marked brows. Spoiled old boy Ernest was. And this illness had made his comfort all too precious to him. If Mamma were living she would take the kink out of him. In fancy Nicholas could hear her say, Don’t act like a ninny, boy! She would still call him boy though he would be seventy-eight this summer. Well… it was splendid to see him about again, after the scare he’d given them, with his cough and his fever and all his aches and pains. He looked good for a score or more of years yet.

      Alayne, he thought, looked considerably older since her baby was born. She was something more than a charming girl now. She was a woman of experience, the character of her face making one wonder what lay behind. Well, she loved Renny, that was evident, and it must be no joke for a woman of Alayne’s sort — for there would be always something straitlaced about her — to love a man like Renny. She had had a deal of tough experience since she had first come to Jalna as Eden’s wife.

      There, said Alayne, returning Ernest his hand, you’re all fixed up for another few days.

      Next time he’ll be able to do it for himself, observed Nicholas.

      I am mending slowly, Ernest returned mildly.

      You’re getting a look of positive brute strength, said his brother.

      Did you have your eggnog? asked Alayne.

      Yes, thank you.

      Nicholas scoffed, And now going in to devour a hot dinner!

      Alayne gave him a look of affectionate reproval. He must be built up, she said, and nourishing food is better than medicine.

      A contralto voice asked from the porch:

      Is Renny hereabout? Someone wants to speak to him over the telephone.

      All three looked around. They saw Lady Buckley, sister of Nicholas and Ernest, tall and distinguished-looking, still holding herself upright, though she had passed her eighty-first birthday, her Queen Alexandra fringe still of a strange magenta black. In spite of the warmth of the day she wore a dress of woollen material, a very dark brown with wide velvet hem, a shade not at all kind to her speckled sallow skin. She still held her head high, her chin drawn in, the full eyes wide open with an air of startled offence, but her cheeks had grown hollow, thus giving greater prominence to the mouth with its curve of tolerance. She had had an anxious time over her brother Ernest and it had told on her. She had come from England to be with him in March, enduring a stormy voyage and an exhausting journey by rail. She felt happy at sight of the little group in the sun, with Ernest, flushed a delicate pink, as its centre.

      I have not seen him since breakfast, answered Alayne. I’ll go to the telephone, Aunt Augusta. She went swiftly into the house and Lady Buckley joined her brothers.

      Whatever, she demanded of them, in her deep voice, "should we do without Alayne? I quite lean on her."

      And so do I, said Ernest. She is so sensible and so thoughtful for one’s comfort!

      Nicholas said, I suppose Renny is at the fox farm. He gave a humorous glance at his brother.

      I suppose so. That friendship persists, though Alayne shows so plainly that she dislikes Mrs. Lebraux.

      I dislike her too, declared Augusta. I disliked her from the first moment I saw her. She struck me as unfeminine.

      Perhaps that is what attracts Renny, said Nicholas.

      Never! An excessively masculine man like Renny cares only for the truly feminine in woman. Look at Alayne. She is all feminine.

      I spoke of attraction, not love, returned Nicholas testily.

      He is very fond of the child — Pauline — put in Ernest, and she has clung to him since her father’s death.

      Well, growled his brother, here comes Redhead himself. Let us ask him what is in his heart.

      Renny, followed by Wakefield and the terrier, was striding along the drive, his every movement vibrant with temper. As soon as he was within speaking distance he said loudly:

      I suppose you have all heard of it!

      The three old people looked at him startled, and, even in his anger, he noticed the family resemblance among them, a resemblance deeper than and beyond feature and colouring. They answered simultaneously:

      Heard of what?

      Why, the trees! The fool Council, or Public Works or something, is out to butcher them! I thought everyone but me knew about it.

      Augusta looked warningly at him. This excitement was not good for Ernest. He gave no heed to the look but went on, in his rather metallic voice:

      "They’re widening the road and they propose to take a few feet off Jalna — you know what that would mean — the oaks — and they’re straightening the dangerous curve — my God, I’d put a curve on their sterns if I had them here!"

      Alayne emerged from the house just as he shouted these words. A shadow darkened her eyes, her lips tightened. He was in a mood she hated, one of noisy rage. That had been bad enough in his grandmother, an old woman of violent temper, but in a man, and that man her husband… For the hundredth time since their marriage she compared him unfavourably with her father. She realised that it was stupid of her to compare them, for one had been a gentle New England professor and the other was a horse-breeder — a country gentleman — but still a breeder of horses, a companion of grooms and horsy, rough-talking men. She had loved and revered her father, who would have referred to Renny’s remark as indelicate. She loved Renny with all the passion that was in her but she moved toward him with disapproval hardening her face. He saw it and his eyes, which had eagerly sought hers, turned quickly away. He callously repeated what he would like to do to the Council.

      "But they dare not touch our trees," said Augusta, on a deep note.

      Why — why — stammered Ernest, it would be too horrible. Why — they must be mad!

      It would be the last straw, muttered Nicholas heavily. I shall interview the Minister myself.

      We’ll all go, said Renny. You, too, Auntie! You ought to have a say in it. We’ll all go. He looked proudly at his elders, confident of the weight of their personalities. He was suddenly cheerful and gave a laugh. He ran his fingers through the hair on the top of his head, making it rise in a crest.

      I pity them if they interfere with us, he said confidently.

      His uncles and aunt began a vigorous discussion of the case. They recalled former instances, some of them sixty years ago, when attempts had been made to impose the will of the community on the Whiteoaks, always without success. Yet no family in the neighbourhood, probably not one in the Province, was held in such affectionate regard.

      This discussion inflamed their pride so that they appeared younger. Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair and strode up and down before the house, now and again casting enquiring looks at it, as though seeking its commendation. He flung out his gouty leg with scarcely an effort.

      Ernest stretched himself in his chair, displaying his full length. He folded his arms and stared truculently up at the others, with nostrils dilated. Thank heaven, he said, that I am sufficiently recovered to go with you. We’ll give these coarse-grained vandals something to think about.

      More than ever Augusta looked affronted. She drew in her chin, on which a few grey hairs curled, her eyes brightening with emotion. Mamma and Papa, she said, walked under those trees, a stately young couple, when I was a babe in arms. It was on that very curve that their carriage collided with old Mr. Pink’s and he had a thigh bone fractured.

      I should think, said Alayne, who had come down the steps, that that proves the curve to be dangerous.

      Not at all, returned Augusta. Mr. Pink was a man of the poorest judgment. He could not dance a quadrille without collisions.

      As an infant, said Wakefield sententiously, I was wheeled in my baby carriage around that curve, under those oaks. My first feeble speculations were concerned with their girth. My earliest —

      A look from Renny cut him short.

      Even Wakefield, remarked Augusta, is deeply affected.

      Yes, agreed Ernest, and no wonder, for the day he was born and his mother lay dying, a gale tore one of the finest up by the roots and laid it across the road.

      Well, said Renny, we’ll not worry any more about the trees. We will go to headquarters and put stop to it.

      The dinner-gong sounded from within. Wakefield hastened to help Ernest to rise. Nicholas took his sister by the arm and Renny and Alayne followed last. She took a pinch of his sleeve in her fingers and delayed him in the hall. She looked up into his face half provocatively, half accusingly.

      You have not kissed me today.

      I have not seen you.

      Whose fault is that?

      Not mine. I knew that the kid had disturbed you last night, so I kept away this morning. Right after breakfast I had business at the stables.

      That was something new, wasn’t it?

      He was quick to notice the sarcasm in her voice and to take offence where his horses were concerned. He answered hotly:

      I should like to know where we should be if it weren’t for the horses!

      In pocket, I sometimes think, she answered.

      Oh, well, I can’t expect any sympathy from you. He jerked himself away and moved toward the door of the dining room. From there came the appetising smell of chicken pot pie, and the animated mingling of voices.

      She caught his arm and held it. Renny! You’re unjust, and you know it. I do sympathise in everything you do. But I think it hard that I should have to ask for kisses.

      He turned to her and gave her a kiss that had no more tenderness in it than a bite. She pushed him toward the dining room with a little laugh. Please go and have your dinner. Don’t think about me. Her cheeks were flushed angrily.

      He drew out her chair, pushed it under her with more force than politeness, then took his place at the head of the table. Wragge regarded them out of his shrewd grey face with pessimistic understanding. Alayne resented his watchful attitude, resented still more his leaning over Renny and whispering something in a tone of commiseration. She caught the words grand old trees and knew as ‘ow upset you’d be, sir.

      Renny was serving the stewed chicken and dumplings with speed and discrimination. Breast and a wing for each of the women, breast alone for Ernest, breast and the little oyster-shaped pieces from the back for Wakefield, the upper part of a leg to Nicholas, who preferred dark meat, a drumstick to his small nephew, Maurice, and what was left to Piers and himself, well flanked by dumplings. Every eye was on him. If he had faltered in his serving of the dinner, his hard-won prestige would have suffered, the solidarity of table tradition been shattered.

      On one side of the table Augusta sat between her two brothers. On the other Piers, his wife, Pheasant, and Wakefield. Between Piers and Renny, six-years-old Maurice industriously scooped up his gravy with a spoon.

      Piers gave Renny curious side glances out of his full blue eyes. He wondered where his feelings of outrage for the trees would carry him; how far he would go if his efforts to bring the authorities to his way of thinking were futile. He himself was sorry about the trees, about the picturesque curve in the road, but — one must move with the times, and the times moved with motor cars. He asked casually:

      What shall you do if — well, if they won’t listen to reason?

      Renny thrust a piece of hot dumpling into his mouth and stared at Piers. Alayne took the opportunity to speak. She said in a tone of restrained calm, which was obviously intended to be an example to her husband:

      What could he do, Piers, but submit as any gentleman must?

      Piers grunted, without taking his eyes from Renny’s face.

      Wragge gave a sneering grin which he hid behind his sallow fingers and a cough.

      Renny bolted the dumpling.

      Do, he repeated, do — why, I will take my gun down to the road and put a shot into the first man who lays an axe to one of my trees!

      Such an abrupt silence — made more intense by the suspension of even mastication — followed this outburst, that little Maurice laid down his spoon and looked from face to face, astonished.

      Then Nicholas broke into subterranean laughter, followed by a high-pitched giggle from Pheasant. Ernest turned

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