“She must,” said Adeline. “Have some tea, Philip.” She began to fill the cups with tea. Ernest rose and, with Quo Vadis in one hand and a plate of scones in the other, circled the room. Soon they were all eating, drinking the heartening beverage which they felt they badly needed, for they had had a severe shock to their pride and their long-cherished plan had been all but wrecked.
“What I can’t tolerate,” said Adeline, “is the thought that Robert Vaughan and his wife, with never any but this one chick to look after, should not have known what he was up to. I call them a weak-kneed, spineless, milk-and-water doddering old pair of half-wits!”
“They have spoilt the boy,” said Ernest.
“They were always talking about how clever and how good he was,” added Nicholas.
“I think,” agreed Augusta, “that they were very boring on the subject of their son’s perfections. I am convinced that they thought him superior to our young man.”
Philip chuckled. “Yes. When ours was suspended last term Vaughan made no pretense of hiding his gratitude for the high-minded qualities of his son.”
“Well, he’ll do no crowing after this,” said Nicholas. “Young Renny deserved to be suspended, it’s true, but his scrape had nothing to do with girls.”
Renny’s grandmother looked at him fiercely from under her heavy brows. She began to speak, but found that she had taken such a mouthful of scone that it was impossible. Her family regarded her politely and with a little concern as she grew red and tried in vain to swallow.
“Take a mouthful of tea, Mamma,” urged Ernest. “It’s dangerous to fill your mouth so full of dry scone.”
Her fierce glance became furious as she directed it from Renny’s face to Ernest’s, but she took his advice and swallowed half a cupful of tea. With it she got rid of the scone and turned to her grandson.
“If you,” she said thickly, “ever dare to lay a bad hand on a village girl, I pity you!”
A rumble of agreement came from the lips of her sons.
The subject of Adeline’s threat stood in the arch of the doorway, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile. His bright gaze travelled from one face to another.
Eden was sure that they were scolding Renny again. He slipped down from his aunt’s lap and went to him and pulled at his sleeve.
“Let’s go for a walk, Renny, shall we?” he whispered.
Renny laid his hand on Eden’s round, soft neck.
“Take your hand off the child’s neck,” commanded their grandmother. “You’ll make him humpbacked walking with him so. You’re always at it.”
Renny grinned, but did not remove his hand.
“You defy me!” cried Adeline!
“Now that you remark it, Mamma,” said Ernest, “I am conscious that Renny never comes near the child without putting his hand on his nape. It is very bad for Eden, as you say. Have you noticed the habit, Philip?”
Philip stared at his sons.
“I’ve noticed,” he said, “that Renny is very fond of the child. Stand out here, Eden, and let us see if your neck is straight.”
Mary said, with a resentful tone in her voice: —
“I am often worried by the way Renny is always handling Eden. I think it’s bad for him. And Eden expects it. He runs to Renny the instant he sees him.”
“And why not?” exclaimed Adeline. “That’s perfectly natural. What isn’t natural is that Renny should put the weight of his hand on the child’s neck.”
“You won’t want me to put my hand on anyone, eh, Gran?” He gave her one of his odd, slanting looks.
“No cheek, young man!”
Sir Edwin put in — “The spine of a young child is very tender. A curvature might easily result.”
“Stand out here, Eden,” said Philip sternly. “Let us have a look
at you.”
Renny gave his brother a gentle push and the little boy advanced into the middle of the room, his cheeks flushed, his head drooping.
“What did I tell you!” cried Adeline. “The child’s neck is bent!”
“Hold up your head, sir,” ordered Philip.
Eden raised his head a little. He was half-frightened, half-pleased at being the centre of this discussion.
“Higher!” There was anxiety in Philip’s voice.
“He can’t!” cried Molly.
Augusta said — “Eden is admirably, nay, perfectly proportioned. If Renny has induced a curvature —”
“Of course he has,” interrupted her mother. “There’s no if about it! I’ve seen it coming.”
“Then it was cruel,” cried Molly, “not to warn me!”
“You never give heed to what I say.”
Ernest said — “I remember a dwarf I once saw in Algiers —”
“Oh, I remember him,” said Nicholas. “They said he’d been brought up in a cage.”
Sir Edwin observed — “No need to go to foreign countries to see strange examples of contorted humans.”
“My God,” interrupted Philip, “give the child a chance! He’s frightened.” He stretched out his arm and drew Eden between his knees.
By this time Eden was enjoying the situation. When his father put a hand on each side of his head and endeavoured to straighten his neck he held himself tense, with knit forehead and lips drawn back as though in pain. Philip looked about blankly.
“It’s true!” he said. “The child can’t straighten! How was it we didn’t notice it before?”
“Oh, my little darling!” sobbed Molly.
Adeline set down her cup of tea and rose. She caught Eden by the head and raised him off his feet. The little boy screamed. When she freed him he stood glaring, straight as a rush.
“There now,” she said triumphantly. “I have uncrooked it!”
“I don’t believe there was anything wrong with him,” said Philip. “Run off and play, Eden.”
Molly drew him toward her and kissed him passionately, but he escaped and ran after Renny. When he overtook him in the porch Renny’s hand mechanically moved to rest on the child’s nape. With a snuggling movement Eden pressed close to it.
“Where shall we go?” he asked, with an adoring look upward.
“Where do you want to go?”
“To the river.”
“All right.”
“Am I humpbacked?”
“You’re straight as an arrow!”
“Why do they say I am?”
“Just to be after me.”
“Why? Don’t they like you?”
“Of course they do. You can’t understand.”
“I love you, Renny. When I grow up I’m going to be just like you. We’ll have fun together, shan’t we?” He strode eagerly at Renny’s side.
“Loads of fun. See that kingfisher!”
A flash of wings, of the same shade as the horizon beyond the wheat fields, moved from the broad branches of an oak on the riverbank and dropped to the sunlit water below. Ripples circled from the spot where beak and scale met, the bird rose leisurely, the young trout gleaming in his bill. The sun poured down its benign fire. It was the first really hot day.
Renny ran down the steep path to the water’s edge, grasping Eden firmly by the hand. Sometimes the little boy lost his footing completely and dangled helpless, but he was not afraid with that strong hand holding him. He laughed as he knelt on a broad stone and saw his reflection peering up at him.
The stream still flowed in its springtime strength, urging its way with agreeable gurgling sounds into the most secret grassy nooks and slaty crevices. In midstream it was dazzling to the eyes, but in the shadow it held a cool olive tone. It seemed to delight in itself and all its movements, flowing either swift or slow with equal careless assurance.
Eden raised troubled eyes to Renny’s.
“Where do you suppose the trout is now, Renny?”
“In the kingfisher’s tummy.”
Eden reflected. “I don’t like to think of that.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because the bird was hungry.”
“Don’t you mind the little fish being eaten?”
“Not a bit.”
“Then neither do I.”
Renny took his arm and pointed. “See the swans!”
The pair came sailing round a sedgy curve side by side, their breasts, full and white, seeming to caress the water. The movements of their feet could just be seen.
They approached the boys with an air of haughty indifference, but when they were opposite the male turned and, with an angry gleam in his eyes, raised both wings and spread them, opening his beak wide. For a moment he remained poised in this fine attitude of menace, then calmly he lowered his wings, arched his neck pridefully, and, with an air almost benign, sailed after his mate.
“Keep away from him,” warned Renny; “they have a nest somewhere.”
Eden watched the pair disappear behind an overhanging willow with a rapt look on his face. His ears were filled with the gentle murmurings of the river. The stone beneath him was warmed by the sun. Beside him knelt his fearless, his indomitable hero, his brother. His heart swelled with pride and a troubling joy he could not understand.
X
RETIREMENT
PHILIP, AS HE was knocking out his pipe into a flowerpot in which a rakish cactus was producing its puny flower, found Eliza’s eyes on him. She brought an ashtray and set it invitingly on the table beside the pot. But Philip doggedly continued in his own way, though he was somewhat embarrassed. To distract her attending from himself he asked: —
“Has Miss Meggie eaten her tea?”
Eliza, fully informed of the happenings of the day, answered: —
“No, sir. Not a bite. Nor dinner neither. I set nice tempting trays outside her door, as you ordered, but she made no answer when I rapped, and the trays had not a morsel taken off them.”
Philip stared, disconcerted. “Why, this is awful, Eliza! The child hasn’t had a bite all day! She’ll be ill!”
“That’s what I’m expecting, sir. I knew of a young lady once who went very queer after a disappointment in love. She wouldn’t comb her hair and it grew in a great clump on the side of her head like a crow’s nest.”
“Tch! Well — we must make her eat. Is there anything special you can have made to tempt her? A nice omelette?”
Eliza considered a moment. “Miss Meggie likes dumplings with jam better than anything. Perhaps, if Cook made her some for her supper and you would carry them up to her yourself, she might give way.”
“She must! See to it that there’s plenty of jam on the dumplings.”
Eliza did not at the moment answer. With a corner of her duster she was gathering up the ashes from the flowerpot. Then, with another corner, she wiped from the leaves of the cactus any possible contamination, while Philip looked on unabashed. Then she said: —
“Strawberry jam will be best.”
But all their plans to tempt Meg were unsuccessful. Though Philip creaked up the stairs bearing the temping supper tray cautiously, and begged her to open her door, there was no answer. Really frightened, he exclaimed: —
“Meg! Are you all right?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Her voice came muffled.
“Then do open the door and let me bring you this nice supper. It’s a surprise. Something you like very much.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat.”
“But, my dear, you must! You’ll be ill. Come now, I command it.”
There was no answer.
“Do you want me to break the lock?”
“Please, Daddy, let me be! That’s all I ask!”
It seemed cruel to harass her. He said soothingly — “Look here, Meggie, I shall set the tray here and, when I have gone, just open your door and peep out at it. Will you promise me?”
“M’m — yes.”
He creaked down again.
“She’s as stubborn as a mule,” he said to his mother.
“You have only yourself to blame,” she returned.
“Do you mean I have spoilt her?”
“I mean you begot her.”
When they went to bed there still sat the tray, the jam congealed on the dumpling, the tea and cream untouched. But Keno had eaten the chicken, the gnawed wing bone lying not far off.
Adeline waited at the foot of the stairs. Philip leant across the banister and whispered hoarsely: —
“She’s not touched it!”
“God bless me, that’s a long time to go empty!”
“Over twenty-four hours.”
Adeline gave a little grunt. “Well, we must give her time, poor child. She’ll get over it. By morning she’ll be ready for breakfast. Get to your bed, Philip. You need your rest after such a day.”
She turned into her own room on the ground floor behind the drawing room. It was her favourite room in the house. It was enriched by memories beautiful, voluptuous, painful, passionate, heart-rending. For over fifty years she had lain down to sleep in this room, on this very painted bedstead on which she had lain in far-off India. Its glowing birds and flowers looked as fresh today as then. But her body had changed from that of a young woman to an old. In this bed she had lain in the arms of Philip, her husband. In this bed she had borne his children. Here Philip had died — a man well past sixty but looking, in his fresh colouring and vigour, not more than fifty, she would swear. He had been carried into the hall from his stables, for he had been kicked by a horse. She had run frantically down the stairs to him. He had raised his head and exclaimed in his deep tones: —
“Just look, Adeline, what that brute has done to me!”
She had looked and had restrained her cry of horror. They had carried him into this room, laid him on this bed, and in less than an hour he was no longer her Philip, but a dead man whom she held close in her arms, passionately trying to force some spark of her agonized vitality into his breast.
For an instant the scene came back to her now. Her heart halted in its beat as she painfully bent her metal gaze on all its details. But she put it from her as she had for years forced herself to do. She would not waste her strength in mourning. She drew a deep breath and went to the window and opened it. “Must have more air in here,” she said aloud. The night air entered neither warm nor cool, touching her flesh with a strange intimate caress.
Her new teeth hurt her gums. Not once since she had got them had her family seen her toothless. But now she was alone. She took them out and put them in a glass of water that awaited them. Her reflection in the glass drew her attention. That strong, sunk-lipped reflection bore a vivid likeness to her old father. “Old Renny Court,” she murmured with a whimsical grimace.
Oh, the exquisite relief of having the plates out! It gave her a rested feeling. She no longer wanted to go to bed. She had a mind to call one of her sons to come and sit with her. Still, they had had a hard day, poor fellows. Nicholas would be glum if he were routed out. Ernest would be too talkative and Philip would probably fall asleep under her nose. On the whole she had better put up with her own company.
She went to her parrot which, with head tucked under wing, perched on the foot of her bed. She put out her shapely wrinkled hand and stroked his hunched green back. A quiver of recognition passed through him, but he did not unsheathe his head. He made a guttural protesting sound low in his throat.
“Poor old bird,” she said. “Poor old Boney! He needs his rest too.”
Reluctantly she unpinned her brooch and stuck it in the red satin beaded cushion on her dressing table. Her fingers began to fumble with the long, closely packed row of buttons down her front. Still the thought of going to bed was repugnant to her.
An old lilac tree grew outside her window. It pressed too close, cutting off the air, and she often threatened to have it removed, but she could not find it in her heart to give the order. She had watched it grow from a tiny slip, when it was only a wand-like thing, had often given it a drink from her ewer. Now its heavy white plumes claimed the air before it entered her r
oom. Between its leaves she could see the glimmer of the waning moon as it drooped into the ravine.
Suddenly she had a desire to go out into the night alone. It had been a very long time since she had done this. Always there had been Nicholas or Ernest or Philip to give her his arm. Surely she must be getting very old when her family guarded her so. She did not want to be guarded. She wanted to come and go as she willed, under sun or stars. She raised her long, strong arms and stretched. She felt tired, worried, yet somehow exhilarated by the happenings of the day. She could not settle down into her bed. She must have air.
She must be very cautious in unlocking the heavy front door. How beautifully, how smoothly it opened! No tawdry building in Jalna such as was done nowadays! But she must be careful not to let it clang. She crossed the gravel sweep and stepped on to the cool freshness of the lawn. She could see the glimmering of the moon low down behind the trees. A silver birch stood out in front of the evergreens as though advancing to meet her. All its little leaves had caught the moonlight. Far below she could hear the rustling of the stream.
She had on thin shoes and she could feel a delicious response to the life of the deep earth in the soles of her feet. They seemed to be full of eager nerves pressing toward the earth. She savoured each step. Her quick eye saw the shapes of rabbits moving about in the shadows.
She went to the silver birch and laid her hands on its silky bole. Her palms were conscious of the life of the tree pulsing beneath them. She thought of the layer upon layer of thin bark binding the birch. She remembered how her Philip, on their fifth wedding anniversary, had cut in this very tree two hearts pierced by an arrow from the bow of rather a gross-looking cupid. Her fingers sought the scar of this wound and tenderly pressed it. A constriction came in her throat. After all these years she could still feel sentimental about it!
Near by she saw the bulk of an old latticework shelter for a well that was seldom used now. But it was good cold water. She knew that. She would have a drink of it, out here in the night alone. She would feel the cold iron of the pump handle in her palm.
Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny Page 101