08 Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  Augusta saved the moment from tragedy by declaring, sonorously: “They’re mad! They must be mad.”

  The meal proceeded. With decisive movements of his thin muscular hands Renny cut from the joint portions to the taste of each member of the circle—for Nicholas, it must be very rare, with a rim of fat; for Ernest, well done, not a vestige of fat; for Augusta, well done and fat. For all, generous pieces of Yorkshire pudding. For Wake alone fat, when he hated fat! “See that he eats it, Aunt!” And— “Wakefield, you must or you won’t grow strong!” Then the usual slumping on his spine until Meg transferred the despised morsel from his plate to hers.

  To a family of weaker fibre such a scene as the one just passed in the sitting room might have ended all appetite for dinner. It was not so with the family at Jalna. The extravagant and wasteful energy of their emotions now required fresh fuel. They ate swiftly and with relish, only in an unusual silence, for they were still oppressed by that empty chair between Nicholas and Ernest, and into their silence was flung, every now and again, the sharp memory of the harsh old voice, crying: “Gravy! I want more gravy! Dish gravy, please, on this bit of bread!”

  Ah, how her shadow hung on them! How the yellow light, sifting through the blinds, threw a sort of halo about her chair! Once Ernest’s cat crept from his knee to the empty chair, but no sooner was she seated there than Nicholas’s terrier leaped to drag her down, as though he knew that empty seat was sacred.

  Renny fed his spaniels with scraps from his plate. He shot swift glances at the plates of his aunt and uncles. He urged their replenishment, but they steadfastly refused. He set his teeth. They were remembering, he was sure, what Piers had said; out of hurt pride they were refusing second helpings.

  When a steamed blackberry pudding came, with its syrupy purple sauce, deep melancholy settled on them. It was the first pudding of this kind they had had since her death. How she would have loved it! How her nose and chin and cap would have pressed forward to meet it as it advanced toward her! How she would have mashed the pudding into its sauce, and dribbled the sauce on her chin! Ernest almost found himself saying aloud: “Mama, must you do that?”

  They ate the pudding in heavy silence. Finch and Pheasant were barely able to restrain their insane laughter. Wakefield’s eyes were bright with admiration as they rested on the tall silver fruit dish in the middle of the table. From its base sprung a massive silver grapevine, beneath the shelter of which stood a silver doe and her fawn. It was heaped with glowing peaches and ripe pears. Aunt Augusta had had it brought out on the day of the funeral, and it had remained. Wakefield wished it might remain forever. He wished he might have been placed opposite it instead of at the far end, so that the nearness of the darling little fawn might take his mind off the terrible silence. He knew now quite definitely that he had not inherited Grandmother’s money, and he did not so very much mind. He had had a nice morning pretending that he was the heir, and he did not see why the others could not accept their disappointment as he did… Funny to think of Finch… Would Finch take Gran’s room now and sleep in the painted bed? He pictured Finch propped on the pillows with Boney perching at the head. Finch, in a nightcap and teeth like Grandmother’s! Wake was rather frightened by this picture. He put his head to one side and reassured himself by the sight of Finch looking wretched, beyond the fruit dish. A queer greyish colour over Finch’s face made him remember something. He puckered his forehead, winked fast, and then broke the silence.

  “Renny,” he questioned, with great distinctness, “was Finch born with a caul?”

  The steaming cup of tea halfway to the lips of the master of Jalna was suspended; his eyebrows shot upward in astonishment.

  “A caul!” he snapped. “A caul! What the devil—what put that into your head?”

  Meg broke in. “I think it is too bad of you, Renny, to swear at Wake! He was only asking a natural question!”

  “A natural question! Well, if you call cauls natural, I’ll be—”

  “There you go again!”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Only because I stopped you! Really, you can’t speak without swearing!”

  Piers asked: “But was he?”

  “Was who?”

  “Finch. Born with a caul.”

  “Yes, he was,” answered Meg, stroking Wakefield’s hair.

  “Extraordinary!” said Nicholas, wiping his moustache and staring at Finch. “I had never heard of one in the family.”

  Meg said: “His mother kept it in a little box, but after she died it disappeared.”

  Ernest observed: “It is supposed to be a good omen. To bring luck.”

  Piers laughed. “Aha! Now we’ve hit it! Good luck! It’s the caul that did it!” He laughed into Finch’s face. “Why didn’t you let us know about it before? We might have been on our guard. Gosh, you’re a dirty dog, Finch, to go sneaking around with a caul on your head, rounding up all the ducats in the family!”

  Finch pushed back his chair and rose, shaking with rage. “Come outside with me!” he said, chokingly. “Only come outside with me! I’ll show you who’s a dirty dog—I’ll—”

  “Sit down!” ordered Renny.

  Nicholas thundered: “Have you no sense of decency, you young ruffian?”

  Everyone began to talk at once. Wakefield listened, astonished yet not ill-pleased, as one who had sown the seed of a daisy and raised a fierce, thorny cactus. A caul. To think that one little word like that should raise this storm.

  Finch sat down and rested his head on his hand.

  Ernest looked across at him not unkindly “You need never be afraid of the water,” he said. “One who is born with a caul is never drowned,”

  Augusta asked of Wakefield: “But, my dear, however did you hear of such a thing?”

  “Finch told me himself I wish I’d got one!”

  “So do I!” said Piers. “It seems a shame that Finch should have all the luck.”

  Pheasant could remain in doubt no longer. “But what are they?”

  “One doesn’t explain them,” replied Augusta, looking down her nose.

  Renny regarded Finch with no good eye. “I don’t like your telling the youngster about such things. I don’t like it at all. I’ll have a word with you about this. Another cup of tea, Aunt, please.”

  Good appetite had attended all the Whiteoaks at dinner, but Finch had eaten as though famished. In spite of the fact that he was in acute disfavour, looked upon with suspicion and reproach, something inside him was ravening for food. He felt that if he could appease that something he might not feel so light-headed. But he rose from the table unsatisfied… If only he could escape and hide himself in the woods! Press his hot forehead against the cool earth and his breast upon the pine needles! He made a stumbling effort to go into the hall instead of returning to the sitting room with the others, but Nicholas laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t go away boy. I should like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ernest, on his other side, “I should like to find out something of the inside of this affair, if possible.”

  Finch returned, as between jailers, to the torture room. He heard the clock on the landing strike two, and this was echoed in a silvery tone by the French clock in the drawing-room, and in an abrupt metallic voice by the clock on the mantelpiece of the sitting room. Nicholas took out his large hunting-case watch and looked at it… Ernest looked at his nails… Meg hung over her baby… Maurice dropped into a comfortable chair and began to fill his pipe with his active hand, the disabled one lying, unmoved and smooth, on the leather arm of the chair. Finch, seeing it, felt a sudden morbid envy of it. It was hopelessly injured, neglected, let alone… Renny took the muzzle of one of his spaniels in his lean brown hands, opened it, and examined the healthy white teeth… Piers, in a corner, laughed at Pheasant… Augusta produced a piece of crochet work from a bag, and a long, stabbing crochet-hook… Finch saw them all as torturers.

  There was Rags, closing the foldin
g doors upon them, seeming to say: “There naow, I leave you to your own devices! Whatever you may gaow through, it’s all the sime to me!”

  But not yet were they to settle down. A voice came from Grandmother’s room, crying: “Nick! Nick! Nick!”

  Ernest clapped his hands on his ears.

  “Boney!” ejaculated Nicholas, hoarsely. “God, what has come over the bird?”

  “He has made up his mind,” said Augusta, “to torture us.”

  Ernest cautiously removed his hands from his ears. “It is unbearable! I don’t know what we are going to do about it.”

  Maurice suggested: “Perhaps it would be better to put him away, as he seems to be out of sorts and all that.”

  Every blazing glance in the room branded him as an outsider.

  “He will be all right,” said Renny, “as soon as he’s done moulting. He ought to have a few drops of brandy in his drinking water. I remember Gran used to give him that for a tonic. Fetch him in here, Wake. He needs company.”

  The parrot was brought, squatting glumly on his perch, and placed in the middle of the room beside the ottoman on which Finch had uncomfortably disposed his lanky form. Boney ruffled himself, shook his wings, and three feathers drifted to the floor.

  “It’s uncanny,” muttered Nicholas, “that he should have forgotten his Hindu, and should say only my name.”

  “It’s dreadful,” said Ernest.

  “I think,” declared Augusta, “there’s something portentous about it. It’s as though he were trying to tell us something.”

  “He looks strangely agitated,” said Ernest.

  Everyone looked at Boney, who returned melancholy stare for stare out of cold yellow eyes.

  After a silence, Nicholas heaved himself in his chair and turned to Finch. “Did my mother ever give you reason to believe that she was going to leave her money to you?”

  “No, Uncle Nick.” Finch’s voice was scarcely audible. “Did she ever speak to you of the disposal of her property?”

  “No, Uncle Nick.”

  “Did she ever speak to you of having made a new will?” “No—she never spoke of any will to me.”

  “You had no faintest idea that her will was in your favour?”

  “No.”

  “Then you would have us believe that you were as much surprised as we were this morning when Patton read the will?”

  Finch flushed deeply. “I—I was terribly surprised.” “Come, come,” put in Piers, “don’t expect us to believe that! You never turned a hair when Patton read the will. I was looking at you. You knew damn well what was coming.”

  “I didn’t!” shouted Finch. “I didn’t know a thing about it!”

  “Stay!” said Nicholas. “Don’t get blustery, Piers. I want to untwist this tangle, if possible.” His eyes, under his shaggy brows, pierced Finch. “You say you were as astonished as the rest of us by the will. Just tell us, please, what in your opinion was my mother’s reason for making you her heir.”

  Finch twisted his hands between his knees. He wished some tidal wave might rise and sweep him from their sight.

  “Yes,” urged Ernest, “tell us why you think she did such a thing. We are not angry at you. We only want to find out whether there was any reason for such an extraordinary act.”

  “I don’t know of any reason,” stammered Finch. “I—I wish she hadn’t!”

  He did himself no good by this admission. The words coming from his mouth, drawn in misery, made him the more contemptible.

  Nicholas turned to Augusta. “ What was that about Mama’s talking to herself? Something about a Chinese goddess.”

  Augusta laid down her crochet work. “I couldn’t make itout. Just some mumbled words about Finch and the goddess Kuan Yin. It was then she said that he had more—you know what. I prefer not to repeat it.”

  “Now, what about this Chinese goddess, Finch? Do you know what my mother meant by coupling your name with such a strange one?”

  “I don’t see why she should have,” he hedged, weakly. “Did she at any time mention a Chinese goddess to you?”

  “Yes.” He was floundering desperately. “She said I might learn—she—that is, she said I might get to understand something of life from her.”

  “From her?”

  “Yes. Kuan Yin.”

  “This is worth following up,” said Vaughan.

  “It sounds as though Gran and Finch were both a little mad at the time,” said his wife.

  “At the time,” repeated Nicholas. “Just how long ago did this conversation take place?”

  “Oh, quite a bit ago. At the beginning of summer.” Nicholas said, pointing at Finch with his pipe: “Now, tell us exactly what led up to this conversation.”

  Ernest interrupted him, nervously: “The little Chinese goddess Mama brought from India! Of course. I have not seen the little figure for some time. Strange I didn’t miss it! Have you noticed it lately, Augusta?”

  Augusta tapped the bridge of her nose sharply with her crochet-hook, as though to stimulate her faculty of nosing out secrets. “No—I have not. It is gone! It is gone from Mama’s room! It has been stolen!”

  Finch burned his bridges. “No, it hasn’t. She gave it to me.” “Where is it?” demanded Nicholas.

  “In my room.”

  “I was in your room this morning,” said Augusta. “I thought I smelled something strange. The goddess was not there! I should have noticed instantly!”

  Finch cared for nothing now but to have this cross-questioning done with. He said, with weary contempt for the consequences: “You did not see her because she is hidden. I keep her hidden. The stuff you smelled was incense. I was burning it before her at sunrise. I forgot to shut my door when I came down.”

  If Finch had suddenly produced horns on his young brow, or hoofs instead of worn brown shoes, he could scarcely have appeared as a greater monstrosity to his family. The monotonous pressure of their various personalities upon his bruised spirit was violently withdrawn. The recoil was so palpable that he raised his head and drew a deep breath, as though inhaling a draught of fresh air.

  They drew back shocked from a Whiteoak who had risen at sunrise to burn incense before a heathen goddess. What sort of abortion had the English governess—young Philip’s second wife—produced? That they, Courts and Whiteoaks— gentlemen, soldiers, “goddamming” country squires— should come to this! A white-faced, wincing boy who did fantastic things in his attic room while his family slept! And to this one had old Adeline, toughest-fibred of them all, left her money!

  Their invincible repugnance toward such a deviation from their traditions caused a tremor of bewilderment to shake their tenacity. Finch, slumping on his ottoman, seemed a creature apart.

  But this spurious advantage was soon past. The circle tightened again.

  Nicholas, his chin gripped in his hand, said: “When I was at Oxford there were fellows who did that sort of thing. I never thought to see a nephew of mine…”

  “He’ll be turning Papist next,” said Piers. “Look at those candles he set up around poor old Gran!”

  “Yes, and you allowed him to do it!” exclaimed Augusta, accusingly to Nicholas.

  Nicholas ignored this. He continued: “You expect us to believe that you hoped to gain nothing by my mother’s will, when in secret she was giving you valuable presents?”

  “I didn’t know it was valuable.”

  Meg cried: “You must have thought it was very strange that she should be giving away things she had treasured all these years! The goddess—the ruby ring!”

  “What motive had you in hiding the present?” probed Nicholas.

  “I dunno.”

  “Yes. You do know. Don’t lie. We’re going to get to the bottom of this!”

  “Well, it was hers, I thought. I didn’t think—I knew she wouldn’t want it mentioned.”

  “And what else?”

  “I thought I’d get into a row.”

  “Just for having a present given you? Come
, now!” Ernest interjected: “But why should she have given him anything? I can’t make it out!”

  Piers grinned sarcastically. “Look at him, and you’ll understand. He’s such an intriguing young devil. I am always longing to give him something.”

  Renny spoke, from where he sat on the window seat. “Cut that out, Piers.”

  Nicholas continued: “Were you often alone with my mother? I don’t remember ever finding you together!

  Finch writhed; his chin sank to his breast. He set his teeth.

  Renny said: “Make a clean breast of it, Finch! Hold your head up.”

  He was intolerably miserable. He could not bear it. Yet he must bear it. They would give him no peace till they had everything out of him.

  “Buck up!” said Renny. “You didn’t steal the goddess, or the money either. Don’t act as though you had!”

  Finch raised his head. He fixed his eyes on Augusta’s crochet work, which lay on her lap, and said in a husky voice:

  “I’ve been going to the church to practise on the organ at night. Once, when I came in very late, Gran called me. I went into her room and we talked together. That was the night she gave me the goddess. After that I went often—almost every night.” He stopped with a jerk.

  There was a sultry silence while they waited for him to go on.

  Nicholas nudged him, almost gently. “Yes? You went every night to my mother’s room. You talked. Would you mind telling me what about?”

  “I talked about music, but not much. She did most of the talking. The old days here—her life in India, and about when she was a young girl in the Old Country.”

  Ernest cried: “No wonder she was drowsy in the daytime! Awake half the night talking!”

  Finch was reckless now. They might as well have some-thing to rage about. “I used,” he said, “to go to the dining room and get biscuits and glasses of sherry and that made her enjoy it more. It helped keep her awake.”

  “No wonder she was drowsy! No wonder she was absent-minded!” cried Ernest, almost in tears.