Читать книгу Master of Jalna - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 8

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It was true that the small Adeline was a bone of contention between Alayne and Renny. Again and again Alayne determined that this should not be so, yet, in her own mind, she felt herself powerless to prevent it. The child was almost two, strong on her legs, intelligent, sly, already seeming to know and relish the fact that she was an unsolvable problem to her mother. Already she would look shrewdly from one face to another, when her parents exchanged a sharp word. If Renny reprimanded her or gave her a slap, as he sometimes did, she would fly into a tantrum, stiffen herself, pull his hair or bite him. This violence of hers charmed him. He would hug her to him, covering her distorted face with kisses, and, when the storm subsided, dandle her as though she were a model of infant propriety.

Sometimes Alayne was in despair over her arrogance and lack of consideration for the other children. Nooky was hopelessly afraid of her. He dropped whatever he had when he saw her blazing brown eyes fixed on it. Even six-years-old Mooey thought twice before he crossed her. And Piers encouraged her in her predatory habits, as did Renny.

She had odd ways with her too. She liked the dark, and, being a poor sleeper, would lie awake talking and laughing to herself. At first, when Alayne rose from her own bed and went to her, she would become quiet and, being turned over and tucked in, would settle down and fall asleep. But, as months went on, she took more and more pleasure apparently in the perversion of night into day. She would sleep for five or six hours, then wake refreshed just as Alayne was settling into unconsciousness.

A sudden chuckle would startle the darkness. This would be followed by a loud laugh. Nothing Alayne could do would stop the wild laughing. Sometimes she would roar like a bear, moo like a cow, or chatter unintelligibly. Unless Alayne took her up and carried her about the room, or took her into her own bed, she would not be quiet. Now the nights were growing cool and it was a hardship to be up. Neither could one rest with a kicking little body beside one. Alayne grew wan and irritable from loss of sleep.

Adeline disturbed Nicholas and Ernest too, but Renny, once he was asleep, was almost impervious to noise. Yet he did sometimes hear her and advised Alayne to slap her or dash cold water on her.

One night he came into the room and found mother and daughter facing each other, the one pale and almost in tears, the other flushed and wearing an unchildlike grin. It was almost three o’clock.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Alayne answered tragically—“She has been awake for two solid hours, laughing and talking. I am positively unnerved. I don’t know what to do with her.” She looked at the child, almost hating her; at the man, almost hating him for having given the child to her.

Renny, lithe and striped in his pyjamas, advanced toward Adeline.

“Why were you laughing?” he asked.

She only stared at him, sitting upright in her cot, her dark red hair massed above her forehead.

“Why do you laugh?” he repeated sternly.

“I must,” she answered, in her baby accents.

“Why?”

“I must.”

He sat down on Alayne’s bed and took the child on his knee.

“What do you see?”

She smiled and pointed in front of her.

“Do you see funny things?”

She nodded and put half her hand into her mouth.

“Look here,” he said to Alayne, “this won’t do! You’re tired out. Now I’ve got an idea.... The old-fashioned way was to give kids a good hiding when they persisted in anything they were told not to do. But now it’s different. You’re supposed to study them. Find out what they need and give it to them.”

“Yes.” Alayne looked at the two of them, feeling hypnotised.

“Now I think,” he went on, dandling the child, “that Adeline has a laughing complex. Just because you are always so serious with her, d’you see?”

“Yes.” Alayne leaned against the dressing-table, tired through and through.

“What she needs is someone to laugh with her.”

“She has the other children to laugh with her all day. Why should she want to laugh at night?”

“At night she wakes and she is lonely and she thinks life is strange and—well, you know, Gran was a sardonic old bird, and Adeline takes after her.”

“It seems hard that Pheasant’s children should both be so gentle, and mine——”

“Now, look here, you get right into bed and forget everything. I’ll take the kid.”

“Where?”

“To my room. I’m going to laugh with her.”

“Renny—it’s too ridiculous.”

“No. It’s modern psychology.”

“Will you bring her back?”

“Yes, as soon as she is asleep. I’ll tuck her in and never wake you.”

With the child on his arm he led Alayne to her bed and drew the eiderdown over her. She caught his hand and kissed it, half sobbing.

“I’m a perfect baby myself. I don’t know what has come over me.”

“Sweet girl.” He patted her cheek.

She lay, still as an animal in its burrow, listening as he crossed the passage, opened and shut the door of his room. His presence had comforted her, but the touch of his hand had set her pulses throbbing, filled her with a terrible unease. She drew deep breaths, drinking in the stormy sweetness of the night.... Oh, why had he left her? Why did the passionate tears flow at the thought of him? Once they had lain in this house, separated by the walls of her marriage with Eden, suffering their anguish of desire.... Now, they belonged, each to each—and still they were separated, still her spirit called to him and beat against its walls.

She had heard the child give a crow of delight at being carried into his room. Then there was silence, and she hoped it had quietened, perhaps fallen asleep. But before long her strained ears caught the sound of its laughter. Then came an answering muffled roar from Renny.... She dragged the bedclothes over her head. But curiosity, a sudden amusement, overcame her. She threw them back and listened.

Adeline’s laughter grew louder and so did her father’s. She screamed in fantastic mirth and his muffled roars became shouts.

“As though anyone could sleep in such a maddening noise! They’ll have the whole house up!”

She lay listening. After a little a heavenly silence fell and she hoped the child had succumbed. But no—the laughter broke out again, shout upon shout. They took turns in a wild duet. Alayne heard other voices in the passage, opening and shutting of doors. “Oh, those poor old people! Uncle Ernest will get his death! And Aunt Augusta, at her age!”

Renny should be ashamed. From loving him her heart swung to hate. Dishevelled, she scrambled out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown and slippers, and hurried to his room. She found the whole family crowded into it: Augusta, with her hair in curlers and a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand; Nicholas looking like an old lion with his crest of iron-grey hair; Ernest, sleek-headed, and in a handsome robe; Piers and Pheasant like two figures from a stage bedroom scene; Finch looking about sixteen, with his hysterical boy’s grin; and Wakefield, sitting up in bed, with the bored expression of an elderly man.

Alayne took them all in, in one furious glance. Her glance also took in Renny, seated in the one chair, his daughter on his knee, while, for the moment, they desisted from their unbecoming mirth.

Nicholas turned to Alayne. “What do you think of this new psychology?” he asked.

Ernest put in—“I don’t like it. It’s too noisy. I’ll lie awake for hours after this.”

“Well,” said Piers, “I’m for the rod. If one of mine carried on that way....”

Pheasant interrupted—“It’s a very good thing for you to see how other fathers do. For my part, I think Renny is perfectly right. Even an infant has frustrations.”

“No one worries about mine,” said Ernest.

“Yours are the best part of you,” returned his brother.

Ernest looked offended.

Augusta smelled her salts but did not utter a word. A mosquito buzzing about the room became fascinated by her curlers, noisily investigating first one and then another of them.

Renny and his daughter were staring at each other. A flicker, as of pain, crossed her face, her eyes darkened. She opened her mouth and laughed. In a moment they were laughing in unison. Even his man’s laughter did not drown her shouts. Her voice had become hoarse in her efforts to outdo him.

It was dreadful, Alayne thought. The pair of them looked half mad. Adeline flashed her eyes over her audience and laughed louder than ever. Her hair clung damply to her head.

An audience! thought Alayne. That’s what they want. Nothing is too fantastic for them to do, if only they have an audience.... She must interfere, but she dreaded interfering with him in front of the family. One never knew—or, more precisely, she never knew—what he would do. His family had a more profound knowledge of him.

Without warning, Augusta swooped down and took Adeline from his arms.

“Enough of such foolhardiness!” she exclaimed in her deepest tones. “You will make a persistent and incorrigible rogue of her!” She took up the child who went to her, not only without protest but with open arms, clutching Augusta’s neck and rolling her eyes accusingly at Renny.

“Naughty Dada!” she said, and repeated the words to her audience.

Alayne looked gratefully at Augusta.

“Say what you like!” exclaimed Renny. “It’s done her good. She’ll never want to laugh at night again.”

“Nor in the daytime either, I should think,” said Wakefield. “In effect, I feel tired out.”

Renny’s face softened. “We’ll all go to bed now,” he said.

“I shall take the child with me,” announced Augusta.

“Good for you, Gussie!” said Nicholas. “You have more courage than I have.”

Already little Adeline was relaxed against her great-aunt’s shoulder, her mouth drooping in a baby pout.

When Alayne left Augusta’s room and the strange spectacle of her and little Adeline bedded together, she returned to her own room to find Renny there, standing by the window, brightly outlined in the moonlight.

The moon had been hidden behind the tree-tops but now it swam clear of them and poured its silver down the sky. The room was full of it; the angles of the furniture sharpened by it. A candle that Alayne had lighted for the sake of the child had sunk into itself, like a dancer into her skirt. Through the open window the provocative scent of late summer drifted in. The house was silent.

She stood in the doorway watching him, herself unseen. He was over by the window, the space of the room was between them, yet it was as though she held him in her arms. He was a part of her, even though their oneness tortured her at times. He was as much a part of her as though she were a tree and he one of her branches thrown out against the moonlight. Yet he was remote. She could not subdue him. All she could do was to hold him in the inexorable bond of her love.

She came into the room, throwing off her dressing-gown that fell with a silken hiss to the floor. It lay in a patch of moonlight, shimmering like the sloughed skin of a snake. He turned and saw her.

“Is she asleep?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, and, with a gesture, pushed the shadow of the child from between them.

He gave a little laugh. He held out a hand and drew her to the window. They looked down into the garden where the moonlight shone on dewy cobwebs. The locusts had not paused all night in their thin, sweet chorus. Now, in the light of the waning moon, they increased the volume of their song until the pale cobwebs vibrated, shaking dewdrops to the grass, and sleeping birds stirred uneasily and touched wings upon the bough.

She laid her hand against his breast. He bent his head and she looked up into his face from that angle, saw the look in his eyes, his fine carven nostrils, his adroit lips.

He laid his lips on hers.