Nicholas had protested that he did not want to go to one of those institutions, and Renny upheld him in this, though no member of the family abhorred the sight of those uniformed women in the house as did he. He looked on them with mingled abhorrence and fear. His concern, his grief, over his uncle were written on his weather-beaten face. He could scarcely bear to stay in the room with him. He could scarcely bear to remain away. At mealtimes, during the days that followed, he would eat in brooding silence, except possibly to exclaim, “Can’t anybody think of something cheerful to say?” Yet when Alayne, Adeline, or Fitzturgis essayed to be animated, he would look at them in melancholy surprise, as though he wondered how they could bring themselves to do it. He persuaded Meg to come to Jalna and to remain till either Nicholas had recovered or the worst had happened. He urged Piers and Finch to be constantly at hand. He ordered Archer to be ready to run at top speed to summon him from his office in the stables if necessary.
“Good God!” exclaimed Fitzturgis to Sylvia when they were sitting in the cobweb-hung summer house. “How long does he expect the old gentleman to live? He is ninety-eight. He has had his day, and a long one too.”
“I look on Renny Whiteoak as a romantic,” said Sylvia. “I think he is dedicated to the romantic past of the family. And I think the dear old uncle somehow typifies it for him.”
“Is Uncle Nicholas going to recover?”
“Alayne Whiteoak thinks not. She thinks it is only a matter of days. The doctors are not hopeful.”
“But he’s better — so Adeline tells me.”
“Yes. A little better. But — think of his age.”
Fitzturgis said gloomily, “what a time to choose for dying! It’s upset everything.”
“when can the wedding take place?”
He returned irritably, “How can I tell? Adeline won’t even discuss it. The poor girl is like the rest of us — weighed down by her father’s mood. On my part, I like him less and less.”
“I realize that.”
“I hope,” he said anxiously, “that I haven’t shown it.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve been beautifully behaved. To tell the truth, I don’t think that any of the family notices our behaviour. They are too occupied by this calamity. It’s as though the foundations of their life shook.”
“Imagine getting worked up because a man of nearly a hundred is dying!”
“He is an old pet,” said Sylvia, with sudden tears in her eyes, “and I know just how they feel.”
“It’s just that they can’t see themselves without him.”
On one of his better days Nicholas said to Renny, who was sitting close beside him, his head bent to hear that voice which so lately had been strong and sonorous:
“what I have saved will be yours, Renny. I wish it were more. You’ve been so good to me.”
“No, no, Uncle Nick — you mustn’t talk like this. You’re getting better.” Renny patted him gently on the breast, as though he would impart some of his own vitality into the failing parts beneath.
Nicholas gave a smile of great sadness but with a touch of his old sardonic humour. He said, “It’s time I went, Renny. I don’t think Mama would have liked me to rival her in age.”
Renny patted him the harder. “But you’re not tired of life, Uncle Nick.”
“No … not tired of life … I’ve had a good life but very … very tired …” He closed his eyes. He longed for rest.
Two days later he died. All were aware the end was coming. He was no longer suffering but was quiet and peaceful. Renny and Alayne were in the room with him. He was conscious, though dimly so. As they moved about, for they were restless, tense from waiting, he did not notice. The nurse was in the kitchen eating her lunch.
A golden sunshine enveloped the house. There was no slightest breeze. The leaves of the Virginia creeper grew so thick that they overlapped. There had been a shower and all were washed clean. The pigeons sat motionless on the roof. Above Renny’s consciousness that Nicholas was about to die was the vivid consciousness that old Adeline was present in the house. He could feel her strong presence in the room.
Nicholas spoke in a small voice, not opening his eyes. “Mama ... Papa …” he said, “hold my hands.”
They knelt on either side of the bed, holding his hands…. Now he was gone.
* * *
Wakefield Whiteoak was in New York when news of the illness of Nicholas reached him. He was acting in a play — a translation from the French — that had had a success in London. It ran for only three performances in New York. This great disappointment to the company and financial loss to the backers of the play was regarded by Renny as a fitting coincidence, since it made it possible for Wakefield to come to Jalna. He had arrived the night before, in time to see Nicholas alive — to be kissed and welcomed by him.
“How did the play go?” Nicholas had whispered.
“Fine,” Wake had answered. “A great success.”
“Splendid.”
Wakefield was thankful that he had given Nicholas that tiny offering of pleasure.
He had hoped to visit Jalna after a real success of the play in New York, but he had instead come home at the death of a member of the family very dear to him. From his boyhood Wakefield had felt pride when his resemblance to Nicholas was remarked. His was a much more slender frame. He had, in proportion, smaller hands and feet. He always would lack the massive look of Nicholas. But his thick waving hair, his luminous dark eyes, his nose — a distinguishing mark of his grandmother’s family — these he had in common with Nicholas. He had inherited, too, his uncle’s love of spending money and a spirit that could be mocking but was more often warmly affectionate.
On the morning of the funeral there was a gentle rain, but after lunch it had cleared and bright sunlight shone on the flower-covered coffin as it was carried from the house. In it lay the gaunt old man who had first been carried into that house in his mother’s arms — a lusty crowing baby — who thousands of times had run up and down its stairs, in and out through its doors. Through its rooms he had moved slowly, leaning on his stick, an old man, suffering from gout. From his life abroad he had always returned there and the house had beamed its welcome.
Now to Renny, along with his three brothers and his two eldest nephews, shouldering the weight of the coffin, the house appeared to wear a look of shock, of surprise. Not again would it hear the joyous infant shout of Nicholas, or his slow step as an old man.
The entire family went to the service at the church, even to little Mary. She who so often retired into a quiet corner by herself to shed a few tears, now sat in dry-eyed wonder among the grown-ups, some of whom she perceived were crying. Pheasant could scarcely restrain her sobs as she remembered how Nicholas had once given her a lovely doll when she was a little girl.
Lying in his coffin at the chancel steps there was no doubt about it, Nicholas was as distinguished-looking a man as you might see in a year’s travel. All marks of suffering had left his face, which wore the look of a wilful and individualistic Victorian gentleman. Renny had been tempted to leave the ring with the large green stone which he always wore on his hand, but Nicholas had wanted Renny to have it.
When they came out of the church into the churchyard, rain was once more falling, but it was a gentle rain and Mr. Fennel looked unperturbed as his head and his surplice grew wet at the graveside. Little Mary, holding tightly to her father’s hand, leant forward to peep down into the grave.
XIV
The Bequests
THOUGH NICHOLAS, IN the flesh, had departed, and his body lay in the churchyard, his presence was still evident in the house. That is to say, he had left his mark, the flavour of his strongly masculine individuality, in the rooms he had frequented. There, in the drawing-room, was the chair, close to the tea table, that deep, comfortable chair, so snug to sink into but difficult to heave yourself out of when you were a heavy old man with gout. The arms of the chair were broadened and flattened by the pressure of his hands. Ther
e was the recollection of him seated at the piano, playing from his favourite Mendelssohn, the firelight luminous on his face. When he had played he had taken those who listened back into another day, made them feel a part of that day.
There, in the library, was his chair by the fireplace, his pipe, rather strong-smelling, and the tin canister where he kept his tobacco. There he had read his newspaper, listened to the radio. There was his place at the dining table, marked by his heavy silver napkin-ring against which reclined the silver figure of a lady in Grecian costume. How many a good meal he had eaten at that table while his voice, which to the last retained its sonorous and vital quality, gave forth his views. He had never been afraid to waste time. He was sure he would have plenty of it. He never had been swept along by the tide.
Above all, there was his own room, filled with his own belongings — his piano, on which always stood a decanter with some Scotch whisky in it and a siphon of soda, and in later years a bottle or two of medicine. It often was the receptacle, too, of books and magazines — the books, old favourites, often reread — Vanity Fair, Esmond, Harry Lorrequer, Somerville and Ross — catalogues of horse shows brought to him by his nephews, copies of Punch and Country Life, a box of cigars. On the walls pictures that had hung there for seventy years and more — a framed photograph of the Oxford Eight when he was one of the oarsmen — a tinted photograph of Lily Langtry carrying a muff and a demure expression. Scattered about were photographs of nieces, nephews, and babies which might be either. It was a room very full of things and a real trial to dust. In the wardrobe were the clothes he had worn so well; in its English leather case his silk hat which he had last worn at his brother’s funeral two years ago. And there was the bed!
Renny stood looking at it, Nicholas’s watch in his hand. He had just wound it, and now it ticked in almost distracted haste, it seemed, as though to make up for the days when it had been silent. Piers had been given Uncle Ernest’s handsome wristwatch. Renny himself carried his father’s watch. Nicholas had, some days before his death, told Renny that he wanted him to have this watch which had belonged to Captain Whiteoak. Renny stood, his eyes fixed on the bed; the watch, its finely chased gold case warmed by his hand. He had an idea which had come to him because of a boy’s merry whistle that rose from the lawn below. He knew the whistling as young Philip’s, and he now went to the window and called him in his peculiarly peremptory way.
“Come up here, Philip,” he said, “to Uncle Nick’s room.”
Philip thought, “Now what the dickens have I done?” Yet he was not really apprehensive, for in these past weeks he had been leading an exemplary life and his relations with his uncle were almost always affectionate. He leaped up the stairs, but when he reached the top he walked decorously to the doorway where Renny now stood, watch in hand.
He said, “Come in here, Philip,” and led him into the room and closed the door behind them. Philip gave a quick look about him, then raised his blue eyes to Renny’s face.
“It all looks so natural,” said Renny, “you’d expect to see him here, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” agreed Philip a little uncomfortably.
“This room,” said Renny, “will be kept — just as he left it. You may come in here sometimes and sit down and remember him.”
“Oh — thanks.”
“Uncle Ernest’s room has been given to Fitzturgis,” Renny continued with a frown. “I should like to have kept it as it was, but as he and his sister both are here …”
“Of course,” agreed Philip, then added, “Dad doesn’t think Mait will ever be much help with horses.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Runny curtly.
He still held the watch in his hand. “You recognize this watch?” he asked, while the watch lay on his palm, bright, eagerly ticking as though looking for an owner.
“It belonged to your great-grandfather, who left it to his eldest son, Uncle Nicholas.”
“About the first thing I remember when I was a tiny kid,” said Philip, “was Uncle Nicholas showing me his watch — letting me listen to its ticking. I badly wanted to hold it in my own hands, and once, on my birthday, I think it was, he let me.”
“You remember that!” exclaimed Renny, touched. “Well — it is now to be yours. I have a feeling that you more than any of the other boys will appreciate it.” He put the watch into Philip’s hand. “You’re too young yet to carry this sort of watch, but I want you to wind it carefully every night. Never forget.”
“I’ll not forget.” Philip proudly looked down at the watch.
“Every night,” said Renny, “before I go to bed I wind my father’s watch and my own three.”
“Three!” echoed Philip.
“Yes, three. My stopwatch, my wristwatch, and one I got on a wager.”
“And you wind them all?”
“I do.”
“Well, I certainly will never forget to wind this. Thanks ever so much, Uncle Renny.” Philip, deeply impressed, stretched out his muscular hand to grasp his uncle’s. They looked into each other’s eyes with affection.
Archer put his head in at the door to tell Renny that he was wanted on the telephone.
“I’ll be back,” Renny said to Philip as he followed his son. Archer had a remarkable curiosity toward telephone conversations, usually listening to them from a convenient doorway, ready to drift away when the receiver was hung up.
Now he heard his father say, “Hullo! Hullo, old man…. It’s some time since you’ve been to see me…. What is this I hear about you…? You’re the last man I’d have expected…. Ha! Well — it comes to us all…. Yes, I remember her very well — give her my respects….. Tell her I’m looking forward to having her as a neighbor…. Yes — Bell is a very nice fellow…. You couldn’t do better.”
There was a silence as Renny listened to a lengthy recital at the other end of the line. Archer stood outside the door, his high white forehead laid against the wall.
Upstairs, in Nicholas’s bedroom, Philip passed the time by examining some of the old gentleman’s belongings. He peeped into a papier mâché box where there was a collection of cravat pins, cufflinks and studs, a tiny gold pencil, and a woman’s ring. Philip tried this on his little finger, wondering whose it had been. He then looked into the wardrobe, saw the leather hat-box, opened it and took out the silk hat which he had always admired on the leonine head of his great-uncle. He ran his cuff round it to smooth the silken nap. He then placed it on his own fair head and went and stood in front of the pier glass in an attitude the most elegant he could command. He had seen a walking stick with an ivory handle in the wardrobe and he now added it to his costume.
Now he straightened his shoulders and stood in military fashion. Now he lackadaisically drooped, with the ivory top of the walking stick in his lips. Now he removed the hat and bowed low over the hand of an imaginary lady. Now he put the walking stick under his arm and tilted the hat at a rakish angle. He took a skipping step.
This last was too much for the watcher who had, unnoticed, appeared in the doorway. Renny exclaimed:
“You young rascal! I’ve a mind to take that stick to your back.” But somehow his expression was not so tern as his words. His eyes were bright with amusement. His left eyebrow was cocked — a good sign.
Philip drooped in front of him. “I didn’t mean …” he got out “I mean I didn’t know …”
“You’re trying to tell me you didn’t know you were prancing about with Uncle Nick’s hat on your silly young head?”
“Oh — not prancing, Uncle Renny! Just trying to see how I looked in it.”
“Well, let me tell you that you look a young ass. Put it away — in its box.”
Philip meekly returned the hat to the wardrobe, while glancing guardedly over his shoulder, for he feared punishment from the rear. In the same meek spirit he was about to leave the room, forgetting to take the watch with him.
“So,” exclaimed Renny, “you think so little of the watch that you are l
eaving it behind!”
Philip wheeled, scarlet-cheeked, to retrieve it. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “Everything is so confused these days.”
Renny put an arm about him and gave him a hug. “It’s all right,” he said. “Now get along with you. I’ve a thousand things to do.”
Downstairs Philip displayed the watch to Archer. He showed no envy. “I’m glad,” he said, “that it wasn’t given to me. It’s responsibility without pleasure. You can’t carry the watch, yet you’ve got to wind it. Now if it was an electric clock that wouldn’t need winding …”
“I shall enjoy keeping it going,” said Philip.
Archer sighed. “I’m long past the age,” he said, “when I thought tick-tock had a meaning.”
That same day, in the afternoon, Nicholas’s will was read. Meg, Renny and Alayne, Piers and Pheasant, Finch and Wakefield gathered in the library. Mr. Patton, the family lawyer, had read old Mrs. Whiteoak’s will to the assembled family twenty-three years ago. By it she had bequeathed her fortune to the boy Finch. During those years Mr. Patton had changed surprisingly little. He had looked tall, spare and middle-aged then. He still looked spare and middle-aged, though perhaps not quite so tall.
This was a very different affair, for the bulk of what had supplied Nicholas with his income came from the estate of his sister, Lady Buckley, who had died in Devon in 1931. She had left the income from all she possessed to her two brothers, the principal to be divided at their death equally among her nephews and her niece. This principal had been firmly invested, and now, after all the vicissitudes of the years, gave a legacy of somewhat over sixteen thousand dollars to each of the five heirs.
But Nicholas had lived economically in his later years, a contrast to the extravagances of his earlier. From his income he had saved a quite substantial sum, enough for several bequests which it had pleased him to reflect on, in his quiet hours, bequests which he hoped would come as pleasant surprises, as indeed they did. To the Wragges, man and wife, he had left five hundred dollars each, “In appreciation of their years of faithful service.” To his nieces by marriage, Alayne and Pheasant, two thousand dollars each. To Patience and Adeline an equal amount. To Roma, who had not benefited by Lady Buckley’s will, since at the time of Lady Buckley’s death she had not known of Roma’s existence, he had bequeathed five thousand dollars. Nicholas knew how tenderly his sister had loved Eden and that she would have desired that Eden’s daughter should inherit something from her estate. The remainder of what Nicholas had saved was to go to Renny. This amounted to more than ten thousand dollars.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 494