She gave a shudder, in spite of the heat.
“We all have to die,” he said. “Some one way. Some another.”
“Yes.” A strange light of excitement swept the weariness from her face. The musical tone of her voice came out strongly. “I want to live,” she said, “to be very old. I haven’t lived yet.”
A smile came into his eves, rippled across his face, not touching his lips which remained serious. “Now you’ve the chance to live,” he said. “You’re free.”
“Don’t.…” Yet she did not turn away.
The families from the three burned bungalows had been disposed of. Two families had gone to relations. The third had been given shelter at the Rectory. The noise of the radios, the cries of children had ceased. The poultry which Raikes had driven from the burning poultry-house were, with much confusion, with flying up and falling off and flying up again, finding perches among the trees. The parked cars of those who had come to see the ruin of one of the landmarks of the district were moving away.
But another car had just arrived and from it alighted Ernest and Renny, Ernest leaning heavily on his nephew’s arm. He had said he could not rest till he had visited the scene of the fire. It was on his nerves, he said. Nothing of reality, he said, could be half so dreadful as what he pictured. Nicholas, on the other hand, wanted to remember Vaughanlands as it was. “I’ll take that remembrance of it” he said, “to my grave. I’m too old to see familiar things shattered. I’ve seen enough changes, and most of them horrid.”
Now Ernest stopped stock still on the drive, almost overcome by the spectacle of the roofless walls, the gaping apertures where windows had been, the charred front door hanging on its hinges. At first he could not speak. He just stood and stared. Then a sob broke from him and tears ran down his cheeks.
“I told you not to come.” Renny’s voice was harsh with concern. “I should not have let you come.”
With a great effort Ernest controlled himself. He took out his pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I shan’t give way again. But — of all sights I’ve ever seen — this is the most desolate.”
“It is indeed,” Renny agreed grimly.
Ernest moved close to the ruin. His light-blue eyes widened to take in every detail of the destruction. He pointed with his stick. “In that room to the left, my parents slept while Jalna was being built. I remember hearing my father tell how he would put his head out of the window to smoke his last cigar because Mrs. Vaughan could not bear smoking in the house. But what kind people they were! True gentlefolk. Very different from that Mr. Clapperton — even though he had so heroic an end, poor man. And there, in the room on the right, our Eden died. Bless me, there’s little left standing on that side of the house. Why — there on the poor wrecked door is the brass knocker they brought with them from England. It’s a lion’s head with the mouth open roaring. Bless me, it’s no wonder he roars.”
Right round the house Ernest insisted on going, through rubble, over fallen masonry, and all the way he reconstructed the house, lifted it up again out of the ruins, filled it with the people who had been dear to him. Near the back door they came on an oil painting in an ornate gilt frame, leaning in drunken fashion against a scorched tree.
“It’s a shipwreck,” exclaimed Ernest. “God bless me, they shouldn’t have left it out in the weather. Why, it was Eugene Clapperton’s favourite picture. Really, Renny, I think we should put it in safety somewhere.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Renny.
Ernest took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“what heat!” he said. “what a day! when I took my rest this afternoon I could not sleep. I tossed about the bed till I could endure it no more and got up. I shall sleep tonight, I can tell you. I’ll go to bed as soon as we reach home.”
“You’re too tired, Uncle Ernest.”
“No. Not too tired. Just — a little wrought up. No matter how long one lives, there are always unexpected things — things that can stir one to the depths — I suppose that’s what makes life so interesting. You know, Renny, old age has not made me self-centred … I thank God for that.” He paused, gathered himself together and added, — “Renny, I was conceived under that roof … of beautiful young parents … young.” He turned away weeping.
XXI
ERNEST SLEEPS
That night there was another electric storm, this one accompanied by a wild wind. At Jalna the shutters rattled and banged. At Vaughanlands ashes were whipped into glowing red eyes. The air was full of disorder and fresh green leaves were blown from the trees and whirled like messages between the two houses.
Renny was roused by the gale. The air that blew across him was suddenly cold. He drew it into his lungs, breathing deeply. The heat wave was over, he thought. Then he remembered Ernest’s susceptibility to draughts. He must go and close his windows. As he went along the passage the events of the day before crowded in on him. The clock struck four. That had been the hour when the fire had started the night before.
He met Alayne in her nightdress. He could see her by the pale moonlight.
“why are you up?” he asked.
“I’ve been to Archer’s room. He was almost blown out of the bed, and not a stitch on him. Where are you going?”
“To shut Uncle Ernest’s windows.”
“Oh.” She stood in the passage waiting while he went into the bedroom. She heard the windows gently closed. Then there was silence. Then the light was turned on. Still silence. The old man had not woken. He had been very tired.
Now Renny came from the room, all the light at his back. He put his hand across his eyes, then drew it down over his face and gripped his mouth.
“what has happened?” she gasped.
“He is dead,” came through the gripping hand that all but smothered the words.
“Oh, no — surely not!”
“Sh — you’ll wake Uncle Nick. Oh, Alayne …”
“You’re mistaken,” she said, though she knew he was not. “He’s just sleeping heavily.”
“Do I know a dead man when I see one? Come and look.”
He drew her into the room.
It was neat as was always Ernest’s room, his clothes carefully folded or hung up, the bed smooth. Ernest himself lay on his side, one arm out on the sheet, the other curved, its palm cradling his cheek, the light from the bedside lamp full on his face.
“Am I mistaken?” Renny asked, his voice coming hoarsely from his throat.
“No … How serene he looks!”
“I’ve felt his pulse — his heart … Oh, Alayne, I never should have taken him to see that sight. It was terrible to him … He was quite broken up.”
She spoke calmly. “It’s been the strain and excitement of yesterday. It never stopped. He was very wrought up. I could see that. But — he’s gone so peacefully.”
Renny laid his hand on Ernest’s shoulder, as though he comforted him in his aloneness. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I’ve been coming into this room to talk with him — as long as I can remember and — in all that time — I never had a harsh word from him.”
“And to me he was always so sweet.” Her calm deserted her and she began to cry. “To think this would happen … poor Uncle Ernest … poor Uncle Nicholas.”
“You’re cold,” he said. “You must go back to bed.”
“No, no — I can’t. Look—it’s daylight. I’ll go and dress … However can you tell Uncle Nicholas?”
“It will kill him … his only brother … seldom in all their lives were they separated.”
She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his pyjamas. She said, — “It won’t kill him. Only the other day he said to me that they must soon be separated and that that separation must be faced … If you like, I’ll tell him.”
“Will you? Do you think we should have the doctor here?”
“Yes … I’m getting so chilled. What a change!”
“Go
and dress, Alayne. I want to be alone with him for a bit.” He touched Ernest’s face. “It must have happened just a little while ago … I can’t believe it … no, I can’t believe it.”
After a while he followed her to her room. She was nearly dressed. The house was deeply silent but the lively singing of birds came through the open windows. “You say you are cold,” he remarked, “yet you leave your windows open.”
“I wanted the air.”
He noticed that she had put on a black and white cotton dress with a narrow red belt. “Haven’t you a black belt?” he asked.
“Oh, Renny — as though it mattered!”
“It matters to me.”
She took off the belt and found a black one.
“Is that better?” she asked, with a faint smile.
“Yes … I have telephoned Piers.”
“At this hour!”
“I have sent a cable to Finch.” She knew it comforted him to do these things.
“They must come home,” he said.
“They? who?”
“Finch and Adeline.”
She turned on him aghast, even angry.
“Renny — how could you?”
“They must be here.”
“It is so unnecessary. To cross the ocean — in the middle of a holiday — at a moment’s notice — for a great-uncle’s funeral! It’s madness. Besides, they could not reach Jalna in time for the funeral.”
“I told them to fly.”
She sat down on the side of her bed, feeling weak from shock and nervous exasperation.
“Uncle Ernest is no ordinary great-uncle,” he added. “He’s lived at Jalna as long as they can remember.”
“Renny, he would not ask it of them, if he were here.”
“He is here — till he’s taken to the churchyard.”
She saw that Renny was not to be moved. The line between nostril and lip was sharply cut. He would have his own way. He said:
“I shall go down to the kitchen and tell the Wragges. Uncle Nicholas must have his breakfast before you break the news to him.”
Alayne drew down his head and kissed him between the brows. “I know how badly you feel about this,” she said.
“I do indeed.”
“But it was bound to happen soon.”
He turned away and went to the basement. He knocked on the Wragges’ bedroom door. The snoring ceased and the little grey man appeared. His thin hair stood on end. His sharp-featured face was an interrogation mark.
“It’s bad news,” Renny said. “My uncle has died in the night.”
Rags opened and shut his mouth without uttering a sound.
His wife called from the bed, — “which uncle, sir?”
“My Uncle Ernest.”
She gave a groan, clutched the sheet and rolled over.
Rags got out, through shaking jaws, — “This will be ’ard on Mr. Nicholas, sir. They was that attached to one another, you can’t think of them separated.”
“I’m going to get you a drink, Rags,” said Renny.
“Thank you, sir. My nerves ain’t wot they used to be.”
He had got into his clothes when Renny came back to him, with whisky in a glass. “Bring a pot of tea for me and coffee for Mrs. Whiteoak to the dining room,” he said. “when Mr. Nicholas rings take him his breakfast as though nothing had happened.”
“I’ll try to look natural, sir, but it’ll be ’ard.”
Renny went out through the kitchen door, as he heard Piers’ car on the drive. Piers was alighting from it. He came toward Renny saying:
“Just one thing on top of another, eh?”
“Yes. It’s hard to believe on a morning like this.” His eyes swept the blueness above, the rain-freshened greenness of the earth.
“Has Uncle Nick been told?”
“No. Alayne has promised to do that.”
Archer stuck his head out of his high-up bedroom window. He called out:
“Hullo! why are you up so early?”
“Don’t make a noise. When you’re dressed, come straight to me.”
“Has something happened?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down,” he cried, as though his presence would smooth all difficulties.
When he was told the news his first remark was, — “I’d better break it to Uncle Nicholas.”
“Go near his room,” said Renny, “and I’ll skin you alive.”
“Then may I see Uncle Ernest? I didn’t see Mr. Clapperton. Philip did and he said —”
Renny took him by the collar. “You will not,” he said, “go up those stairs without my leave.”
Alayne joined them, walking swiftly across the grass. Her son ran to meet her. His arms tightly clasped about her waist, he raised his eyes to hers with an expression of exaggerated sympathy.
“I want to help,” he pleaded.
She laid her hand on his forehead. “Nothing will help us so much as —” she hesitated, anxious not to hurt his feelings.
“Making yourself scarce,” supplied Piers.
“Yes,” agreed Renny. “Go to Mrs. Wragge and ask her to give you breakfast. We want ours in peace.”
Reluctantly Archer moved away. He went beneath Ernest’s window and gazed up at it, as though expecting some ghostly apparition there.
Seated at the breakfast table, the three discussed what must be done. An ironic smile flickered across Piers’ face when Renny told him that he had sent for Finch and Adeline. Piers said:
“From what I’m told, they’ve just arrived in London.”
“That can’t be helped.” Renny turned sombre dark eyes on him. “They must be here for the funeral.”
“A good thing,” said Piers, “it’s turned so cool.”
Renny sat, elbow on table, the tips of his fingers pressed to his forehead. There was silence. Alayne could see Archer peering in at them through the window. How bad for him all this excitement was!
“To think,” exclaimed Renny, “that we shall never again see Uncle Ernest sitting in his place at this table!” He made a tragic gesture toward Ernest’s chair.
“It’s hard to believe,” said Piers. “But he had a good life.”
“He wanted to live to be a hundred like Gran. He’d have done it too, if it hadn’t been for the fire. Now the shock of his death will be the end of Uncle Nick.”
“You must not look on the black side of things,” said Alayne. “Uncle Nicholas will be brave.”
“Today,” put in Piers, “is the day of Eugene Clapperton’s funeral.”
Renny sprang up. “My God, I’d forgotten,” he exclaimed. “That brave man. Why, I have a thousand things to see to.” He walked in a circle round the room.
Archer came into the room from the hall. He held in his hand a rather faded white geranium blossom which he presented to Alayne. “I thought this would cheer you up,” he said. “It was one of Uncle Ernest’s favourite flowers.”
Nicholas rang for his breakfast early that morning, for he was conscious of disturbance in the house. An over-solicitous Rags brought it to him, his hands shaking as he placed the tray.
“Has my brother rung yet?” asked Nicholas.
“No, sir, ’e ’asn’t rung,” quavered Rags.
“Good. He’s having a long sleep and he needs it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me know when he rings.”
“I will, sir.” His nerves unable to bear any more, Rags hastened out.
XXII
OFF TO LONDON
For a month Finch and Adeline drifted in desultory fashion about Ireland. If, when they went to a place for a day, they liked it, a week might well pass before they moved on. They were congenial companions. The same sort of things elated or moved them to mirth. Both disliked crowds. Finch had not known such relaxation in years. He threw aside all plans for his future and gave himself up to the pleasure of living, as he thought Adeline did, in the moment. He could not believe that behind her happy youthful face there w
as a mind linked by thoughts of Fitzturgis to longing and sometimes almost despair. He asked her nothing and she kept these thoughts to herself. When Finch had been her age no effort of will had been strong enough to keep his emotions from showing in his sensitive face, but Adeline’s firmly modelled features, her clear-cut lips and brows, did her will and masked her when she chose.
The truth was that Fitzturgis was seldom out of her thoughts. When she was at her happiest, she pictured him standing beside her making her pleasure entire. When she felt helpless and cut off from him forever, as she sometimes did, she drew on her strength and showed a front no less than composed. Never a mail but she looked for a letter from him. None came. When at last they turned southward she burned to be at Glengorman again with the chance of seeing him.
Maurice greeted her with affection but still with distrust. He hoped with all his heart that she had got over her infatuation, as he called it. He took the first opportunity of finding himself alone with Finch to ask:
“Is Adeline normal again, do you think?”
“That’s a funny way of putting it,” laughed Finch.
“It’s just what I mean.”
“Is anyone ever normal?”
“Adeline certainly was normal till she met that fellow.”
Suddenly Finch felt defensive for Adeline. “Remember,” he said, “how much we both liked him at the first.”
“Not for long. There’s something wrong in him. I feel that. I’m not the only one. Pat feels it too.”
“Perhaps because you and Pat are both in love with Adeline.”
Maurice stared. “Not Pat. He’s as heart-whole as a gannet.”
“I daresay they are lovers in their season.”
“Pat has only one idea in his head at the moment — his new sailing boat — and he’s often said to me his mother is sweetheart enough for him.”
“How nice!” exclaimed Finch enviously. Always he had hungered for the love and companionship of a mother.
Maurice went on, — “People who know the Fitzturgis family say there’s a taint in them. The grandfather died half mad. At the last he tried to give away all his possessions. His son drank himself to death after losing everything he’d inherited. Sylvia, Mait’s sister, is unbalanced.”
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 464