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

  The room was radiant. The shapes of ferns and butterflies on the thickly furred windowpane were outlined by ruddy sunlight. The air that came in was as though it swept straight from the North Pole. The snow powdering the sill was dry as down. An excitement, a sensitive quivering thrill as of childhood, stirred through Finch’s being. It was Christmas morning!

  For a moment the remembrance of the past months was obliterated, he gave himself up to the pure joy of the moment. He listened with ecstasy to the sound of the church bells ringing across the snow. He welcomed the chill of his body. It had been snug and slack too long. He turned flat on his back and drew in the crystal air, cherished its sting in his nostrils.

  He remembered Christmases when he was a small boy, those mysterious and beautiful early wakings when Jesus, the church bells, the Christmas tree almost blinded his eyes with their glory! He remembered his fear of Santa Claus, even when he knew that he was really Uncle Nick. Dimly he remembered another Santa Claus whom he had accepted implicitly, his own father. Finch wished he might have remembered him better, known him as a father, though he was sure no father could have been kinder to him than Renny had been.

  He heard the sharp crunch of footsteps on the snow. He heard Renny’s voice ordering the dogs to go back. He was off to early service alone Finch felt a sudden pang of pity for him, going off alone. He wished he might have been well enough to go with him. He pictured himself striding with Renny across the fields, stretching their legs as they heard the last notes of the bell. He pictured Noah Binns, the bell-rope in his hands, his arms moving rhythmically up and down, his face raised toward the bell. He remembered the first Christmas morning when he had gone to Early Communion, how he had knelt trembling on the Altar steps between his grandmother and Eden. She had been ninety-six then. It must have been one of the very last times she had gone to an early service. She had kept the little thirteen-year-old lad by her side. He remembered the protecting bulk of her in her black velvet cape and heavy widow’s veil thrown back from her face, rising on his right, and on his left Eden’s youthful figure with bent head and crossed palms. In his inmost soul he had been conscious of the Christ-child, naked in the cold, of the Christ giving His Body and His Blood to the family kneeling there. Out of the sides of his eyes he had watched Grandmother’s hands — the ruby on one of the fingers catching the light as the stained glass of the windows did — stretched eagerly toward the goblet. He saw her bonnet bend, her strongly marked features impassive and noble. He saw her under lip project below the rim of the goblet. Into his own thin hands he took it, placed his mouth where hers had been and felt the beautiful, the terrible liquid pass his lips and enter his body. He covered his face with his hands. Still, while his soul was wrapt, he could not forget those at his side. Between his fingers his glance slid toward Eden, saw him steadily raise the goblet to his lips and his blue eyes beseechingly to Mr. Fennel’s face, saw him droop when the Rector passed, as the others did, like blighted flowers….

  He lay unconscious of his body and did not hear Rags knock on the door. He came in softly, carrying Finch’s breakfast tray, and when he saw that he was awake said with a heartiness that tried to ignore Finch’s illness:

  “Merry Christmas to you, sir!”

  Finch turned his long grey eyes toward him. “Thank you, Rags. The same to you.”

  Rags set down the tray and hastened to close the window “Why, you’re like a refrigerator in ’ere, sir! It’s a Harctic Christmas, and noaw mistake. I’ve never felt a colder. The pipes in the kitchen were froze solid. The scullery pump was froze. The milk was froze. Everythink was froze but my missus’ temper and it was all of a boiling stew, believe me! But it is pretty outside — wot you can see of it.” With his finger ends he increased the size of a clear spot on the pane, then peered out through it admiringly. “It’s like a Christmas card — the kind that looks just impossible. You ought to get up and see it, Mr. Finch.” He looked speculatively toward the bed.

  “Yes, I shall, later on.”

  “Just now it’s at its prettiest.”

  Finch raised himself on his elbow and looked at the tray.

  “Scrambled heggs, sir! I knaow you were always fond of them.”

  “Thanks, Rags. They look nice.”

  “Do you think you’ll perhaps be coming down to dinner, sir? It wouldn’t seem right without you.”

  Finch looked at him suspiciously. “Have you heard anything about my going down?”

  “I believe it was mentioned, sir.”

  “Who mentioned it?”

  “Well — I really can’t remember.”

  “I — I’m not going down, Rags. I — couldn’t face that tableful of people.”

  “I suppose not, sir. But it’s a pity.” He still lingered in the room and Finch realized that he was hoping for a Christmas present. But he had nothing for him — nothing for anybody. But Rags — all those trays — up three flights of stairs! He said, excitedly:

  “Look here, Rags, I want to give you something! Open the small left-hand drawer in my bureau. Do you see a pocketbook? Why — it’s the one you gave me when I was twenty-one! It had belonged to a German officer, hadn’t it? No, no, don’t bring it to me! Open it. Take five dollars, Rags! By George, you’ve earned it — all these blasted trays! Don’t thank me…. Just go … I say — go! I want to be left alone….” When the door was closed on Rags he sank back and shut his eyes. He felt exhausted.

  He lay there shivering. Even with the window closed the room was very cold. He wished he had asked Rags to find him an extra quilt. Anyway, he had a hot drink…. He sat up and poured himself a cup of tea. The thought that downstairs they were perhaps planning for him to join them at dinner troubled him. He could not eat the scrambled eggs. Yet he could not bear to send them back to the kitchen untouched — not this morning! What should he do with them?

  He heard Merlin’s deep bark outside his window. That would solve it! He would give the eggs to Merlin! He got out of bed and almost ran to the window, opened it and called — “Merlin! Merlin!”

  The spaniel was digging something from under the hard crust of snow. At the sound of his name he raised his kind face toward Finch, waved his plumed tail and opened his mouth wide in a grin. He bowed as though in salutation. Finch tipped the scrambled eggs on to the hard china-whiteness of the snow. Merlin scrambled after them, snuffling. He devoured them in a few gulps, as though he were starving, though he had already had a good breakfast, and licked the snow where they had lain.

  “Good boy!” said Finch, relieved.

  He stood looking at the glittering world, the silver-dusted trees, the sparkling white brightness flushed pink by the sun, the shadows thrown by the trees a crystal blue. The stableboy, Wilf, was leaving the kitchen door carrying a heavy bucket. A puff of frozen breath hung before his face. He had a plaid scarf round his neck and his ears looked large and beetroot-red. His steps crunched sharply. The air was so clear that it seemed it might shatter. A crackling sound came from the roof above Finch’s head. He hastened back to his bed and lay there shivering.

  He heard Adeline and Roma joyous in the nursery. They came to his door and thumped on it softly calling “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” His uncles came up together, as though for mutual support, and brought him their good wishes, standing under the sloping ceiling, talking about the coldness of the day. Ernest, pleased to do something for him, went down to his own room and brought back his eiderdown and covered Finch with it. But they were glad to leave him and he was glad to have them go. No one knew what to say to him except, perhaps, Wakefield. He was expected in time for dinner. Renny had written urging this.

  Downstairs the house was gay with Christmas wreathing, holly, and a bowl of crimson roses sent by Sarah to Nicholas and Ernest. The Christmas tree stood in the library. Renny and the uncles had decorated it the night before. The trimmings were kept in a huge old bandbox in the attic and brought down year after year. They were of better and more lasting materials than are made today.
How many times the gay cornucopias, decorated with gilt paper lace, had been refilled and hung on scented branches! There was a fat pink wax cherub which Renny remembered since early childhood. It always hung at the top of the tree.

  The three men and Adeline went to the Christmas Service, she stamping in pride of new overshoes, clutching her first prayer book, one with coloured pictures, which Ernest had given her.

  All the family returned to Jalna after Service and were scarcely in the house when Wake arrived looking full-chested and warm-hued in his black cassock.

  He was in the highest spirits, delighted to be in the midst of his family again, eager to show them how happy he was, how well he had chosen. The room rang with the laughter of the six children as he romped with them. They tugged at his gown as if they would tear it from his back. He went down on his hands and knees, a steed for Roma.

  Piers took Renny aside. “Well,” he said, “what are we going to do about Finch? Are we going to bring him down?”

  Renny returned his steady look uneasily. “He’ll never do it. He’ll never consent. I think it’s a mistake to urge him. He’ll be all right. All he needs is time.”

  “Time!” repeated Piers scornfully. “Time to go blue-mouldy! Time to go nutty! I tell you, it’s now or never! If you won’t help, Wake will. Come along, Wake — if he won’t come of his own will, we must force him!”

  “I agree,” said Wakefield. “But I’m sure we can persuade him. And this is the day for it!”

  They moved toward the door but Renny stood in their way. “I won’t allow it,” he said.

  “It’s now or never,” retorted Piers.

  “He is not fit to come down.”

  “He can go back to bed as soon as he is tired.”

  “He’ll never agree.”

  Wake put in eagerly — “Leave him to me! I’ll persuade him.”

  “Later in the day, then. The dinner would be too much for him.”

  Piers had been calculating. “Do you want us to sit thirteen at table?”

  “Well — h’m, should we really be? That would upset Meg. For myself I don’t mind.”

  “Superstition is abhorrent to me,” said Wakefield. “Still — thirteen is not a happy number.” He laid his hand on Renny’s arm and spoke in the pleading tone of his childhood. “Do let us go! I promise you we shall not bully Finch into anything that will hurt him.”

  Renny moved aside. “Very well,” he said sombrely, “but if this turns out badly you will hear from me.”

  Piers and Wakefield ran up the stairs like schoolboys, Wake’s gown flapping about his knees. They went into Finch’s room without knocking and stood on either side of the bed. He lay flat on his back looking up at them with a timid smile.

  “Merry Christmas!” said Piers heartily.

  “Merry Christmas!” Wakefield bent and kissed him.

  “Thanks,” said Finch. “Same to you.”

  Piers considered what he should say next. He half looked forward to, half dreaded Finch’s opposition.

  Wakefield sat down on the side of the bed and took one of Finch’s thin hands in his. He said, in a voice of persuasive sweetness:

  “You know, it isn’t at all the thing for me to be here today. I ought to be spending a very different sort of day in the monastery. But I wanted so badly to spend my last Christmas — before my final vows — at home, with all of you.”

  “I’m glad you came,” said Finch.

  “I couldn’t have managed it, if they hadn’t known of your illness.”

  “He’s not ill,” interrupted Piers. “He only thinks he is.”

  Wakefield flashed him a look. “He has been in a pretty bad way, I think. But it’s almost over. He has an entirely different look in his eyes, hasn’t he?”

  “He looks all right. Or rather, he will when he gets out of this room.”

  Wakefield looked steadily into Finch’s eyes and said, smiling — “He’s coming down to dinner, aren’t you, old man?”

  “No, no,” said Finch, “I can’t do that! I’m not up to it.’’

  “Yes, you are,” said Piers. “We’re here to help you.”

  Finch gave them a startled look and drew the covers up to his chin.

  His limbs gave a convulsive twitch.

  “You’ve got to come down.” said Piers.

  “I can’t, I tell you!”

  “You must. What will be your end, do you think, if you go on like this?”

  “Give me time!”

  “You have had time. You have had too much time. That’s the trouble. You’ve got into an unreasoning rut and it’s up to us to get you out of it.”

  “Did you two come up here to torment me? I have been ill, I tell you! If you only knew what I have suffered…. I just wish you had had my head for these past months, Piers.”

  Piers spoke quietly, almost soothingly. “No need to tell me that you’ve been ill. I’ve only to look at you but —”

  Finch interrupted violently — “You said only a moment ago that I looked all right!”

  “What I meant was that you looked able to get up out of that bed.”

  “I can’t!” He glared up at them like an animal at bay.

  Wakefield held his hand close. “Finch, just to please me! Let us help you into some clothes. Let us help you downstairs. Everyone wants you. You shall be as quiet as you please and come upstairs when you like. Don’t spoil my Christmas by refusing me this, please, Finch.”

  “We’ll not ask you to dress,” said Piers. “Just a dressing gown and slippers. And then a nice little toddle downstairs. You’ve got to do it, Finch! You may as well make up your mind to it. It’s your Christmas present to the family!” He opened a drawer in the bureau. “Socks! Lots of them! And what socks! Not like you used to have, eh? You always had holes in them, didn’t you? Now then, Wake, heave back the bedclothes…. God — what legs!”

  Finch gave himself up to them, his heart pounding heavily, his eyes defensive. He let himself be put into his dressing gown. He leant on Piers’s arm and suffered himself to be led to the top of the stairs. The shouts of the children came up from below. He drew back, exclaiming:

  “No, no, I can’t do it! I must go back!”

  “I’ll soon stop that row,” said Wakefield. He ran down the stairs and stopped in the doorway of the drawing room and held up his hand.

  “Finch is coming,” he said, in a low peremptory voice. “The kids must be kept quiet. He’s awfully weak and shaky. Meggie — Pheasant — will you tell the children to be quiet?”

  The children were quieted. They demanded, in hushed tones — “Is Santa Claus coming?”

  “No. It’s Uncle Finch. He’s been very ill.”

  “Bless the boy!” said Ernest, going to meet him.

  “Oh, Finch!” said Pheasant, full of sympathy.

  “Dear heart alive, how glad I am!” said Meg and folded him to her bosom.

  Finch stood among them half laughing, half crying. It was all so strange, so unexpected. The room seemed new to him. The very house seemed new. And all the faces about him….

  Piers steered him toward the fire. Wakefield pulled forward old Adeline’s chair. “He shall sit in Gran’s chair! A great honour. He’s a most important guest. Say Merry Christmas to Uncle Finch, children!”

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Finch,” they murmured shyly. All but Adeline, who ran and laid her head on his knees. Really, he could hardly bear it … all this love … this welcome …

  Renny was standing by his chair looking down at him with an odd smile.

  “Glad you came?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m awfully glad.”

  Nicholas looked at his large, old-fashioned watch. He said:

  “Are we having something soon?”

  Rags came in bringing sherry and biscuits.

  “Good!” said Piers. “Just what this fellow needs.” He brought a glass of sherry and a biscuit to Finch.

  Finch sipped the sherry and felt himself warmed and strengthened by
the presence of the warm living people about him. He felt that every one of them gave him something — even baby Philip. The very dogs seemed glad to see him. Jock, the bob-tailed sheepdog, came and laid his muzzle on Finch’s foot. The spaniels sat shoulder to shoulder, giving soft looks at him. The Cairn puppy scrambled to his knee. They brought Boney on his perch and set him near the chair. He never spoke now but he curved his beak and made chuckling sounds as though in senile mirth. Finch settled himself luxuriously in the depths of grandmother’s chair.

  The family talked, but rather quietly, not giving him too much attention — allowing him rather to look on as an outsider, till the first excitement of the reunion was over. Nicholas came and sat close to him and laid his large hand on Finch’s knee. Meg talked of the sermon and of how the anthem would have failed utterly had not the Whiteoaks saved it. The children collected in the hall, taking turns at peeping through the keyhole of the library.

  Before dinner was announced a savoury odour stole through the room, mingling with the scent of the spruce and balsam boughs that arched the doorways and festooned the pictures. The dogs rose, stretched, yawned, sat down on alert haunches with eyes on the door through which Rags would enter. It was all too lovely, Finch thought, too lovely to be believed in. He was glad he had come down.

  At last Rags appeared. There was a shout of joy from the children. Piers came and heaved Finch from his chair. “Now for a dinner as is a dinner!” he exclaimed. “Lord, what an appetite you used to have!”

  Finch, feeling weak in his legs but strong in his heart, moved with the others to the dining room. They were like a solid wall around him.

  When he was in his chair Meg came and ran her hands over his hair. “You might have tidied it, Piers, before you brought him down!”

  “I wanted him to look picturesque. The artist, fresh from the throes of composition.”

  “But his hair is so lank! Not at all like Wake’s which always looks charming when it’s dishevelled.”

  “Hm, well, Wake’s hair won’t look charming much longer.”