“They’d hate it,” muttered Nicholas. “’Twould make ’em feel dead.”
“Nonsense,” said his brother.
“The chaps would be pleased,” said Finch.
“They’d feel dead,” persisted Nicholas.
Tears began to run down Pheasant’s cheeks.
Alayne rose and took the pictures from the table. She carried them from the room with dignity, then with an impassive face returned to her place at the table. Nicholas emptied his wineglass. He felt better now. He joined in the lively talk. He drank a good deal and at last, when Finch and Meggie dressed him in his Santa Claus costume, they declared they had never seen it more becomingly worn. He forgot all about his gout. He was a noble, magnificent Father Christmas. Everyone said so. At the last Adeline threw her arms about him and drew his head down to whisper:
“You were splendid, Uncle Nick. Archer and Philip absolutely believed in you. Christmas is being almost as good as though Daddy were here.”
So the year drew to its close. It was a mild winter. Yet there was enough snow to make it difficult for the birds to find food. Beneath Ernest’s bedroom window there was a feeding table for birds on which Mrs. Wragge, three times a day, placed large bowlfuls of cut-up fresh bread. On it clustered the sparrows, getting more than their share of the food. But there were sleek, slate-coloured little juncos too, and many a time the lively flash of a blue jay. The two old men watched them with never-failing interest. There was great excitement on the morning when a cardinal and his mate appeared. Shy at first, they soon grew bolder, till their coral-coloured beaks pecked as intrepidly on the table as any sparrows. But when the pheasants trailed up out of the ravine the little birds gave way to them. Sparrows and juncos perched in the old hawthorn in which the table was built, to watch the great birds devour their bread, but a flash of blue and a flash of scarlet showed which way the blue jays and the cardinals had flown.
VIII
PIERS’ RETURN
THE WINTER MONTHS were mild enough but when the time for spring came and there was no sign of spring it was a drag on the spirits of all save the youngest. In March and for part of April the countryside was covered by a shining layer of ice. People slipped and slithered as they walked. Fat Mrs. Wragge, carrying bread to the birds’ table, fell and broke a bone in her leg which laid her up completely for a fortnight and sadly hampered her for another. To see her hobbling about the kitchen with her huge leg in a cast seemed the last straw to Alayne. Rags suffered from a continuous cold in the head. They were a pernicious pair, Alayne thought, yet she thanked God that they were there to get through the work somehow.
The ice was so smooth that even the dogs walked gingerly. As for the pheasants, they slipped and fell, sometimes on their breasts and sometimes on their tails, in a most droll and unbirdlike manner. This glassy monotony went on and on, week after week. It did not snow; it did not rain; it did not thaw. Winds blew down branches and blew them across the ice. The fringe of icicles, hanging from the eave outside Ernest’s bedroom window, separated the colours in the sunrays as prisms.
In these spring months the two old men deteriorated so greatly that the others of the family began to doubt whether they would live to see Renny and Piers again. They lost appetite. They lost heart. They talked longingly of faraway days when they used to go to the South of France in the winter. They greatly missed Adeline’s presence from the house. Alayne at last had had her way and Adeline had been sent as a boarder to a girls’ school. Even the war news ceased to interest Nicholas and Ernest. When Adeline came home for the Easter holidays, she brought new life to them. She was so joyful to be at Jalna again, so full of stories of her escapades at school (exaggerated to make them laugh) such a sight for sore eyes as she galloped by on her sturdy bay cob, Timothy! But soon the holidays were over and again the brothers sank back in melancholy.
Then one day came news which electrified the family. There had been an exchange of prisoners of war and Piers was among those expected to arrive in Canada early in May. Pheasant, who bore the news, was almost beside herself with excitement. What she had hoped for, prayed for, at times despaired of, was going to happen! The relief was almost more than she could bear. But she had not much time for thinking. There was so much to be done. The house must be shining from end to end. She must have new clothes. Everything must be beautiful for the welcome of her mate. It was more than four years since she had seen him. He had been taken prisoner so soon after going to the front. What would those years have done to him? She did not let herself think. There was no time for thought. Polishing furniture, cleaning silver, making herself a new blouse, buying herself a new suit and hat, buying new clothes for the children. She kept her feet on the ground by making the money fly.
Sometimes she felt inundated by the flood of memories, anticipations and apprehensions, that swept over her. Sometimes her mind was a blank while she polished and sewed. Then came the day when she went to the hairdresser and when she bought a box of French facepowder and a bottle of nail enamel, which last she never brought herself to the point of using. Then, on top of that, the day when his train arrived, eight hours late.
Finch and Maurice had persuaded her not to go to the railway station. Better welcome him in their own house with a good meal waiting. But they took the two small boys with them, wearing their Sunday suits and carrying a packet of sandwiches, in case the train should be delayed. Pheasant was thankful to have them off her hands. How she put in the day she did not know. By evening she felt exhausted by waiting. Her legs ached from walking the floor. Yet, when she heard the car coming through the mild May twilight, she ran swiftly to open the door. Then panic possessed her. She could not open it. Her throat was so dry she could not have uttered a sound. Nooky threw the door wide open.
She saw Piers carefully descend from the car, the golden light from the afterglow full on his face.
“We had a terribly long wait,” cried Nooky. “We thought he’d never come. But he’s here!”
This was her own Piers, limping swiftly toward her. His face was tanned by the sea voyage, his blue eyes were shining into hers. He crushed her against his breast.
“Home again — home again — little Pheasant!”
If she had gone to the station she could have hung on to herself but here, in their own home, hearing his familiar voice in the familiar surroundings, she broke down and sobbed in an anguish of relief — relief, and regret for the years of their life which they had lost.
She had forgotten how stalwart he was. In these years she had lived among boys and old men or seen Finch’s lanky figure. But what a chest Piers had! what shoulders! what a strong column of a neck!
“By God,” he again exclaimed, staring about him, “it’s just the same! I can’t believe in it.”
“And me,” she got out, through her tears, “what about me? Am I very changed?”
He held her off and looked at her. “Changed! You look just like you did the day I married you.”
“We’re changed!” cried Philip. “Daddy didn’t know us.”
“what do you think of Mooey?” asked Pheasant.
Piers looked speculatively at the youth. “He’s just what I expected. He hasn’t changed — except to grow tall.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Finch. “Your part of the family is united again. Piers from the war. Mooey from Ireland. It’s what you’ve been longing for, all these years, Pheasant. I’ll bet you are happy, aren’t you?”
“Happy!” The word was too much for her. She broke into sobs.
“None of that,” said Piers, in a gruff voice. “That’s no way to welcome a fellow. All right … all right … we’ll go away again, won’t we, Mooey?”
“You shall stay just where you are!” cried Pheasant, laughing through her sobs. She threw her arms around both of them and clasped them fiercely to her. “You’ll never, never get away from me again.”
Piers, a little shaken on his artificial leg, clasped Pheasant and Mooey to him, while Mooey, with
eyes shining, clasped both parents. The sight was more than Nook and Philip could stand. They hurled themselves against the interlaced trio with the impetus of players in a Rugby match. There was a moment when it seemed that all five would go to the floor. Finch watched them, his face set in a happy grin, his eyes wet with tears.
They righted themselves, released each other, Piers went upstairs to wash and Pheasant went to the kitchen to prepare the supper. Finch followed her, while Maurice kept the two small boys in the sitting room. Finch said:
“Doesn’t he look fine? Even though he’s a good deal thinner, he still looks pretty solid and handsome. I never expected to see him so solid and handsome. Did you?”
“No, I didn’t. And I never expected to feel like this.” Again she fell to weeping.
Finch put his arms about her and patted her on the back. “It’s natural, I guess. I feel like crying myself.”
In a few moments she was calm and set about making an omelette. Finch beat the eggs. He beat them so hard that flecks of egg fluff flew in all directions but Pheasant did not notice. Now her whole being was concentrated on the omelette. If it did not rise properly, or if it rose and fell, she could not bear it. She could not bear it. She would cry again! She heard him moving about in the room upstairs. Is he really there? Oh, it can’t be true! He can’t be home again! And all the while she concentrated on the omelette.
Piers sluiced the soapy water over hands and face. The soap was fine and scented. The towel was fine and damask. There were pink bath salts in a jar. There was the shining white enamel bath. The luxury of it was unbelievable. His mind flew back to the crowded room in the prison camp, the harshness, the only half-washed-away grime, the complete lack of privacy, the smells. He held the clean towel to his nostrils and drew a deep breath. Those at home would never understand. No words could make them understand.
He limped back to the bedroom. He looked down at the inviting whiteness of the bed, the bed coverings turned back in a neat triangle, ready for the night. From it rose the scent of lavender. The window of the room stood open. The cool night air, freighted with the smell of lilac, came in. It had been a mild winter but it had been cruelly persistent. All through March and April the weather had been that of a mild winter. No blade of grass had pushed its way through the ice that still sheathed the land. The ice had no longer glittered in the sun but had been grey under a cloudy sky. But, when May came, there had been scarcely any time for spring. Scarcely had the newly opened leaves of the lilac showed their shape when the flower buds threw open the tiny petals and formed themselves into white plumes that clustered, one above another, in great clumps. This lilac tree had grown from a cutting taken from the old white lilac that grew outside the window of the grandmother’s room at Jalna.
As Piers had buried his face in the damask towel, so now he put out his hand, drew in a plume of the lilac and hid his face in it. He closed his eyes. He would have liked to obliterate in the lilac’s fragrant freshness all he had seen and endured since he had left home. He would have liked to become again the same man he had then been. But he could not be the same. He felt that he could have remained with his face buried in the white blossoms till they faded and died. A twitter of nesting birds came from the eave.
“Daddy! Daddy!” called out Philip from below.
Daddy! To be called by that name! It went to his heart. The little voice made him feel soft-hearted. He limped quickly to the stairs, then descended them with care. Philip, waiting below, kept his eyes averted from his father’s leg as he had been told. He had had other warnings about Piers’ return. Try as she would, Pheasant had not been able to refrain from sometimes saying in exasperation, “I don’t know what Daddy will say to your behaviour!” Many a time Maurice had ejaculated, “If Daddy doesn’t skin you alive, when he comes home, I shall be surprised.” Even his great-uncles had declared that his father would warm his seat for him when he came home. So Philip had looked forward to his sire’s return with mingled delight and foreboding. To Piers, descending the stair, he looked the very best sort of little boy, with his straight back, his waving fair hair and fine blue eyes. Piers smiled at him, took his hand and led him into the dining room.
The omelette was on the table. It had risen to an amazing height and of an unbelievable lightness. It stood poised there, as though intimating that it could endure such height and such lightness for two minutes and no more. Piers stared at it and at the parsley wreathing it.
“what’s that green stuff?” he demanded.
“Parsley, Daddy,” laughed Philip. “Don’t you know parsley when you see it?”
Piers picked up a spray, sniffed it and thrust it into his mouth.
“Do you like it?” asked Nooky.
“I may get used to such things by and by.”
The omelette was swiftly disposed of. Maurice and Nooky carried out the plates and returned with a plump, cold roast chicken on a platter. Piers stared unbelievingly.
“what’s that?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s a chicken!”
“And that funny mixture in the bowl?”
“Salad!”
“Hot-house tomatoes, if you please,” added Pheasant.
“Gosh, do you live this way all the time?”
“Heavens, no! Fetch the wine, Mooey, dear.”
Maurice brought the bottle of Chianti. Even the children had half a glassful each. Piers’ health was drunk and it was only by superhuman effort that Pheasant kept herself from crying again. After the chicken came a trifle, well soaked in sherry and, after the table was cleared, coffee.
Piers asked innumerable questions about the family, about the farmhands, the orchards, the stock, the show horses. His curiosity was boundless but he disappointed the two small boys by having little to say about himself and his experiences. Soon they were sent to bed and presently Finch left. A soft spring rain was falling. The scent of lilacs was heavy.
Maurice went outside and stood in the porch. He inhaled the damp air. His mind detached itself from this scene of his father’s homecoming and returned to the mossy dampness of the air of Glengorman. What had that stay in Ireland done to him? How was it that old Dermot Court seemed more near to him than his own father? Three years would pass before he might journey back and see that loved spot. His mother must go with him. She gave the reality of childhood to every scene. But she would not stay there with him. His life had been torn in half while it was yet tender. He heard Piers’ low laugh. He felt shy of re-entering the room. He went softly up the stairs.
It was past midnight before Piers and Pheasant followed him. They crept up the stairs softly, like lovers, holding hands. She went to the bathroom and prepared a hot bath for him. He lay soaking in it, half-dazed in an ecstasy of relaxation. On the old mahogany towel-horse that was always so ready to topple over, hung brand-new silk pyjamas, striped blue and white. Certainly Pheasant had made the money fly. And in the pocket of the jacket a linen handkerchief with scent on it!
He thought of how he had lain for a day and a night in a ditch with his foot blown off by a piece of shrapnel. He turned his mind fiercely away from all that had followed. Now one leg of the pyjamas dangled loose.
When Pheasant came back after closing the children’s windows against the rain which now slanted on a fresh wind, she found Piers in bed, lying on his back, his hair brushed smooth and wearing the sweet expression of a good boy after his bath. He smiled up at her.
“Come here,” he said.
She came and knelt down by the bed. He took her hands in his and his eyes lost themselves in the twilight depths of hers. “Little Pheasant,” he kept murmuring, stroking her hands.
She could not speak.
His expression changed. His lips stiffened into a look of pain. He placed her right hand on the stump of his right leg.
“Is it going to make you feel different toward me?” he whispered.
“Oh, Piers, how can you?” Her voice was hoarse from emotion. “How can you have su
ch a horrible thought? The only difference it can make is that I’ll love you more!” She bent and pressed her trembling lips against the maimed limb. “My precious love!”
He said sternly, “I don’t mean because of any hero stuff. I mean because of my value — as a man.”
“That’s what I mean too!” she cried, eagerly. “I mean as a man. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You’re home again — safe! You’re yourself! Oh, if you knew the things I’ve imagined! I’ve imagined you as a shrunken shadow of yourself. And here you are — solid and healthy and beautiful as ever! what does a leg matter? Nothing!”
He lay watching her preparations for the night — the careful hanging up of her new dress, the brushing of her dark hair, the slipping of her white arms into the sleeves of her nightgown, her brief prayers which were just a wordless upsurge of thanksgiving, her turning out of the light which somehow brought the sound of the rain into the room. But the sound of the rain was benignant. Its voice was the voice of renewal. Lilacs were not enough, all the richer pageantry of nature was to follow. The movement of Pheasant in his arms, the movement of the branches outside his window, swept Piers’ mind clean. The night was long and toward its close he sank down, deeper and deeper, stilled by the benign sound of the rain, covered by the wings of sleep.
IX
DAYS OF SPRING
HE SAT THE next morning in an old grey flannel suit, on the little flagged terrace, basking in the warm May sunshine. Bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade and three cups of tea were inside him. His pipe was in his mouth, the smoke from it resting in blue oases on the quiet air. Only one thing was lacking to him — his wire-haired terrier, Biddy. She had been killed by a car the summer before. When Piers had looked forward to his homecoming, he had always pictured himself as encircled by a rapturous Biddy who had never forgotten him. He had been told of her death in a letter but this morning he missed her afresh. In his long years of imprisonment he had felt the lack of a dog’s companionship as one of the hardest to bear. Now, in the May sunshine, he puffed pensively at his pipe.
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