The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  Piers looked at him standing there bare-headed, unprotected from the weather. He remembered all he had been through, the harassment, the loss of sleep, the agonising sights of which he must have been the witness. He recognised in him a formidable power, almost a menace. He drew from Piers a kind of angry compassion.

  Piers said—“I’ll go into the house with you. You’ll get a chill out here. But I won’t promise anything.”

  “Good boy” said Renny, and gave his arm a squeeze.

  Piers pushed out his lips. He said:

  “Isn’t it time you had a shave? And you need sleep, too, by the look of your eyes. Can’t Maurice and Finch attend to things?”

  They found Finch in the dining room drinking a glass of whiskey and soda. The glass shook against his teeth. The remains of a meal lay on the table.

  Renny gave him a sharp look.

  “Another!” he exclaimed. “Let that be the last.”

  “I know when I’ve had enough,” said Finch truculently, “without being told by anyone. I can’t eat, and I’ve got to keep up, haven’t I?”

  Renny took the glass from his hand and set it on the sideboard. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said.

  Meg came into the room. She had on a new black dress which accentuated the pallor of her round face and the blue-ness of her eyes. The strands of grey hair springing from either temple gave her a maternal dignity. She carried a wreath of red and white roses. When she saw Piers her eyes, which she had just dried, again filled with tears.

  He went to her and kissed her.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, and there was reproach in her voice. “But better late than never, Piers.”

  Renny asked—“Have those people gone?”

  “Yes. It was Mrs. Page and her son. These flowers just came from the Miss Laceys. What do you think of the red roses? Red seems rather strange in a wreath, doesn’t it?”

  “Red is beautiful in a wreath,” said Finch heavily. “Red is a beautiful colour. A beautiful and terrible colour. It’s a tragic colour. Why—” he looked wildly at his sister and brothers— “I’d cover his coffin with red roses.”

  “Sh,” said Meg. “Don’t speak so loudly.”

  “Why not? We won’t disturb Eden.”

  Renny said in an undertone to Meg:

  “Finch has been drinking.”

  “But how disgraceful! Oh, Finch, how could you?”

  “Don’t talk to me,” he returned. “I’ve done my part. I’ve been here through the thick of it! I’m not like that cold-eyed brute”—he raised his hand toward Piers—“that cold-eyed brute—”

  Piers turned white. “Now I’ve seen you, Meg, I’ll go.”

  Renny led Finch to the door and pushed him through it.

  Meg cried—“Go, Piers? Go? And not see our poor darling? Oh, Piers, you couldn’t be so cruel!”

  “Why should I see him?” he demanded. “What good can it do? I wish to God I’d never come here!”

  She clasped Piers’s arm in her hands.

  “No, no, don’t say that! I say that a Will stronger than yours led you here. There is Someone, you know, Piers, Who watches all our doings…”

  Piers stared at the floor.

  Renny stood, with his back to the door, watching them. Then he saw that there was danger of the flowers being crushed, and came and took the wreath from Meg’s arms and laid it on the table. He replaced one of the roses which had been disarranged, He did not speak but waited to see what Piers would do.

  Meg rested her pale cheek against Piers’s shoulder. Her fingers held his tightly. He felt trapped. He ceased to think clearly, and stood looking stupidly at the carpet. After a little he drew a deep breath and said:

  “Very well, I’ll go.”

  Meg turned to Renny. “Will you go with him?”

  He nodded. He picked up the wreath. “We may as well take this with us,” he said.

  In the parlour the blinds were drawn but a shaft of flickering wintry sunlight fell across the room. Renny laid the flowers on the foot of the coffin. He turned away then, and Piers heard the door close behind him.

  He stood alone looking at the shaft of sunlight. He thought how cold the room was and noticed that one of the windows was raised a little and that snow had sifted beneath it and lay in a slender ridge along the sill.

  If he chose, he thought, he could stand where he was for a few moments, then go out without having seen Eden. No one would know. He stood hesitating.

  But he was spurred by a sudden curiosity. He advanced steadily to the coffin and looked down on to his brother’s face… All else in the room dissolved as in a mist. Only Eden was real, holding Piers’s gaze with a terrible fascination. But—was this Eden? Was this man Eden? Was it possible that this was Eden? Why, he said to himself, looking at all that was real in the room, this is Eden! I can’t believe it… But this is Eden. This is the one I played with as a boy… This is the one I grew up with… Who seduced my wife… But was it possible that the cold, aloof, bitterly smiling lips had ever softened in desire for a woman? Gran had looked peaceful in her coffin. Haughty—but at peace. There was no peace here—only cold, aloof rigidity. The personification of disdainful suffering. If the salt of the sea had chosen to solidify itself into the semblance of a man surely it would have stretched itself on the rock in just such bitter composure… And those hands… Piers stretched out his own strong warm hand and touched them timidly. Those hands had gripped him in play when they were boys. Those hands had done Eden’s bidding all his life long. Those hands had—Piers set his teeth and turned away… The scent of the flowers was stifling.

  Meg’s cat, which was accustomed to take her ease in this room, leaped to the windowsill. Piers saw her eyes staring anxiously at him through the open crack. He put up the blind a little and she reared herself on her hind legs, pawing on the frosty pane, showing her furry white belly. She opened her mouth slightly and uttered an imploring mew.

  The door opened and Renny came in again. He went to the window, put it down sharply. He struck the glass with his knuckles, frightening the cat away. He drew down the blind. He kept his eyes turned from Piers’s face. He asked:

  “Does he look at all natural to you?”

  “No,” answered Piers. “I should not have known him.”

  Renny went to the coffin. “Did you see this?” he asked.

  Piers followed him. “No. What?”

  “This.” Renny pointed where, secure between Eden’s arm and side, was the volume of Last Poems.

  “Finch did that,” Renny said. “He’s a strange fellow.”

  “Yes,” agreed Piers, “it was a queer thing to do.”

  They stood looking down at Eden together.

  At length Renny asked—“Well—will you do what I want?”

  “Yes,” said Piers. “I don’t think I shall mind doing it, after all.”

  XX

  NO MORE SEEN

  RENNY stood in the drawing-room at Jalna waiting for his brothers. He stood as though listening intently. In truth he was listening to what the house had to say to him, for it spoke to him as to no other. Now it spoke to him in a low but distinct murmur of sorrow. It craved something that it had not got, something that forever it would mourn—the body of Eden who had been born here, who should have lain dead here for a little before he went to his place beside the other dead. The roof bent desolate above the living.

  Renny’s eyes were fixed on the spot where Eden should now be lying. He pictured himself and Piers and Finch and Wakefield raising him to their shoulders and bearing him forth. Though shortly they would be doing that very service for him, no reality could be as vivid as the picture he now saw.

  Wakefield was beside him before he was aware of his approach. The boy looked tall and strangely handsome in his black clothes. Renny gave him an abstracted look and then said:

  “It was a great disappointment to me not to bring Eden’s body home.”

  Wakefield was startled. “Home?
Here? Oh yes—I hadn’t thought of that. But it would have been the right thing, I suppose.”

  Renny continued—“I could not do it because of—well, I suppose you understand.”

  “Of course. It would have been rather hard on Pheasant and Piers. And on Alayne, too.” His young mind hovered over the situation like an inquisitive bird.

  Renny looked at the clock.

  “What is keeping the others? We’ll be late.”

  “They’re coming now. I think they’ve had to help the uncles dress. They seem sort of confused. Uncle Ernest tried to tell me something three times this morning but he never really got it out. Alayne says she doesn’t think he’s fit to go to the churchyard on such a day.”

  “It won’t hurt him. He has a good warm coat.” He turned to the four who now entered. “Well, there’s no time to spare. We should be at the house now.”

  “Dear me,” said Ernest, “I’m afraid it is my fault we’re late. I don’t know how 1 should have dressed if Piers had not helped me. I mislaid one thing after another. First it was my studs and then it was my—what was it I mislaid next, Piers?”

  “Gloves,” replied Piers briefly, and took his arm. Ernest seemed unsteady on his legs. The smell of brandy was on his breath.

  Renny said in an undertone to Piers:

  “You’ve done this!”

  “You don’t want him to take his death of cold, do you?” answered Piers hotly.

  Fresh snow had fallen and they must drive slowly. The Vaughans’ house seemed full of people when they arrived. Meg was excited, deeply touched by a wreath of roses, orchids, and lilies from the women’s club for which Eden had given his Thursdays. It lay in sumptuous beauty at the foot of the coffin, making the other floral offerings appear almost insignificant.

  Wakefield was proud of the flowers. He hung over them, reading the cards attached. On a cross of white roses and lilies of the valley he read: “To our dear boy, from his ever-loving Aunt and Uncles,” in Augusta’s long, slanting hand. But what pleased him most was the wreath of spring flowers bearing a card with the words: “In abiding gratitude from Wakefield and Pauline.”

  He could see her across the room, her dark serious face in contrast to her mother’s blonde bold one. He dared not give her more than a glance for fear that his lips would part in a smile. Her mere presence in that sorrowful room lightened his heart.

  A sombre pride made his heart swell as he took his part in carrying the heavy coffin out of the house. He stood tall and straight among his brothers beside the hearse while the coffin was established in its place and the flowers arranged about it. There had been no prayers in the house because Mr. Fennel had gone on an urgent call to a sickbed. He would be waiting at the church.

  Though the house had seemed full, the funeral was a very small one as compared to old Adeline’s. That cortege had swept its imposing length in fitting tribute to her great age and her position in the countryside. Her sudden death had come as a shock and as the dramatic obliterating of a landmark. During Eden’s long illness the family had drawn into themselves and only friends of long standing had been notified of the hour of burial.

  On the incline toward the church the snow lay deep and scarcely broken. The motors made the ascent with difficulty. The heavy hearse scarcely moved, and it seemed grotesque that this cumbersome vehicle should be taxed to its utmost to carry the fragile body which a single man might have borne without pain.

  But at last it lay within the church, where the air smelt of the freshly lighted fire. It lay at the chancel steps and the mourners gathered in the nearby pews. The bearers breathed quickly, for the ascent to the church door was both steep and slippery. Clots of snow had been carried in by the feet of those who entered, and these lay scattered on the aisle like trampled petals of flowers.

  There had been surprise when Mr. Fennel had not met them at the gate. The surprise deepened to anxiety when the sexton tiptoed to Renny’s side and whispered that the rector had been delayed, probably because of the condition of the roads, and that Mrs. Fennel was much worried.

  The long minutes dragged by, while Renny’s face grew dark. Nicholas and Ernest whispered together, and the rest of the family tried to hear what they were saying. Augusta and Meg had come also, the first sallow and composed, the second pale and silently weeping.

  Little Miss Pink, the organist, came to Renny.

  “Do you think we had better sing a hymn?” she whispered, looking up into his face.

  “Very well,” he agreed, frowning.

  “Have you a preference?” she asked timidly.

  “‘Day of Wrath,’” he answered.

  She hesitated. “But we are having that at the service.” “Well, then, ’When our heads are bowed with woe.’” This hymn had been sung at his grandmother’s funeral.

  She tiptoed back into the chancel.

  The organ sounded the preliminary notes. The voices rose:

  “When our heads are bowed with woe,

  When our bitter tears o’erflow,

  When we mourn the lost, the dear,

  Jesu, Son of Mary, hear.

  “When the solemn death-bell tolls

  For our own departed souls,

  When our final doom is near,

  Jesu, Son of Mary, hear.”

  Nicholas had sung through the first verse but now his voice failed him. He stood, looking on the same hymn book with Ernest, painfully aware of Meg’s weeping and his brother’s trembling hand.

  After the hymn another time of waiting elapsed which seemed only emphasised by nervous fragments played on the organ.

  Renny said to Finch—“I’m going to find out what is wrong.”

  “Let me go.”

  “No, no. Stay where you are.” He left the church by the side door and crossed the churchyard to the Rectory.

  The snow had ceased, and out of the hard blue sky the sun, brilliant, but without warmth, searched out every smallest object, a twig, the dead body of a mouse, and cast its shadow with relentless exactitude on the snow. An icy wind blew without wavering from the north, sometimes bearing on it snowy particles that shone with a cold fire.

  Renny’s eyes were drawn by his own family plot, its whiteness disfigured by the thrown-up earth from the freshly dug grave. The yellowish brown of the frozen earth was hideous, the cavity discovered an abomination for the body of a loved one.

  He stood looking into it with horror. A feeling of panic rose in him. He had a wild wish to escape from all that was to follow—to escape and leave the others to bury Eden. He raised his face to the north wind, welcoming its sting. He longed to struggle in the wind, to free himself from all that held him.

  A feeble singing from inside the church penetrated his mind and he was now filled with anger against the rector for causing one of his family to wait so long for burial. He hurried on, almost running along the slippery walk that led to the house.

  Just as he reached the steps before the porch, he slipped and fell heavily, striking his head against the top step. He rose quickly and stood dazed a moment, then sprang up the steps and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by George Fennel. He looked frightened and exclaimed:

  “Why, Renny, what’s the matter?”

  “Where is your father? What the hell is he keeping us waiting for?”

  “I thought you knew. Mother is in the church. She told the sexton to explain, didn’t she? His car broke down. He telephoned us. But he’s on his way. He’ll be here any minute. I’m waiting for him. But—I’m worried about you—you’ve hurt yourself—you’re bleeding.”

  Renny put his hand to his head and felt the blood trickling warmly from a cut above the brow.

  “I fell,” he explained. “But it’s nothing.” He took out his handkerchief and held it to his forehead. “What is important is that your father went off this morning knowing—yes, knowing—the condition of the roads and left us with no one to conduct the service.”

  “But the woman was dying!”

&n
bsp; “My brother is dead. He’s waiting in the church there. We have waited an hour—an hour—”

  “I know,” said George Fennel. “I’m frightfully sorry…”

  “By God!” interrupted Renny, “if your father is not here soon I’ll read the Burial Service myself and we’ll have Eden in his grave without help from anyone.”

  George Fennel regarded him with something of the same anger and compassion which he had evoked from Piers the morning before. He also felt his formidable power and menace. He said quietly, though:

  “I wish you’d come and let me put some plaster on your head.”

  “No, no, I won’t let anyone touch my head.”

  But he went with George into the house.

  They were scarcely in when they heard the sound of the Rector’s car. Soon he came hurriedly into the room where they were.

  “This has been most unfortunate,” he said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  Renny stared at him in savage silence. He held his handkerchief pressed against his head. His eyes, wide open, were dark and opaque.

  George gave his father a meaning glance. He said:

  “Here is your surplice, Dad. It will save time to put it on here.” He helped his father to remove his coat and put on his cassock and surplice.

  Mr. Fennel passed his hand over his hair and stroked his beard into order. He moved quickly but without undignified haste. He bent his head and murmured a few words of prayer.

  “Now,” he said composedly, “we are ready.”

  The three proceeded along the snowy walk to the church, Mr. Fennel’s surplice, bellying about him like a sail, threw a volatile moving shadow on the snow.

  His voice echoed through the church:

  “‘I held my tongue, and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me… Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days: that I may be certified how long I have to live… For man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain… When Thou with rebukes dost chasten man for sin, Thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment.’”