XXII
THE REGAINING OF EQUILIBRIUM
Mr. Patton’s visit was very depressing to Adeline Whiteoak. He proved to her, in cold figures, how mistaken she had been to entrust the investing of a fairly large sum of money to an inexperienced youth like Eden, and a scoundrel such as Kronk. He read aloud to her newspaper articles telling of the man’s machinations in Canada and the United States. He told her just how much the poorer she was because of her recklessness, and though the figures went in at one of her ears and out the other, the hard fact remained. He reduced her to a state of submission to his judgement which was to endure for the rest of her life, so far as investments were concerned.
When Mr. Patton had gone she collected what cash she had on hand, which was a little more than eleven dollars, and hid it in the bottom of the box where she kept her caps. She then experienced a feeling of relief, fed Boney a special titbit, put on her second-best cap, and sent for Eden.
“You scallywag,” she said, as soon as he was inside the door.
He said, under his breath — “Good God, have I got to go through this again!”
“Speak louder, you rascal,” she said.
“Gran,” he replied clearly, “I am in the same boat as you.”
“What did you do with the money I gave you?” she demanded.
“Mr. Kronk took it, Gran. And he took mine and Meg’s and Uncle Nick’s and Uncle Ernest’s. Everybody’s but Renny’s.”
“Ha, he didn’t take Renny’s, eh? Why?”
“Renny wouldn’t invest, Gran.”
She chuckled. “He’s close, he is. Like his Scotch grandfather, Dr. Ramsay. What do you say you have lost?”
“Practically everything, Gran.”
“Everything, eh? Well, well — we’re in the same boat then. But you’ll not be able to say your old grandmother is close. Hand me that box. The one where I keep my caps.”
She leaned forward, breathing hard, fumbling beneath the crisp lace and rosette ribbon bows of the caps. She produced a five-dollar bill and thrust it into Eden’s hand. She looked up at him, her face bright with the smile of her young womanhood that had enchanted those who knew her.
“Money is always handy,” she said, “to a young man.”
Eden bent down to hug her. He was forgiven. That was the thing. She too embraced him. She asked:
“What day is it?”
“Saturday. Going to church tomorrow, Gran, in your new fur coat and all?”
She groaned at remembrance of the coat. But when the morning came she was ready to go, long before the time. An impressive collection of petticoats, underdrawers, overdrawers, vests, and spencers were put on before she could be got into her black cashmere dress, with the heavily beaded bodice and the lace ruching at throat and wrists. There were stockings and overstockings, shoes and overshoes, gloves and a muff. There was her widow’s bonnet, with its voluminous veil. By the time she struggled into the new fur coat she was red in the face and panting. At last she was seated by that window in the drawing-room which was nearest to the spot where Hodge would draw up the pair of bays and the old sleigh. He arrived promptly at half-past ten, and for a quarter of an hour she regarded him complacently through the window. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed her black silhouette, set his hat at a more Sundayish angle. Hodge was proud of the bays and the old phaeton they drew for the greater part of the year and the capacious red sleigh that emerged when there was snow on the ground. There were few such equipages about nowadays. Strangers turned to stare at the glossy pair, with their polished, nickel-mounted harness and flowing manes and tails. For threescore years and ten, horses had been impatiently pawing the ground as they awaited the coming of Adeline Whiteoak.
Seated by the window she could tell by the way the tails and manes of the horses were blown that there was a high wind. She made up her mind that, if she felt the cold, this would be her last outing till spring — new fur coat or no. However, she was at this moment so very warm that she was overcome and fell asleep. She dreamed that it was sixty years back and she was waiting for her husband to come to church with her. She dreamed that it was a hot summer’s day. She was dreadfully warm and Philip was late. Unusual for him. She felt herself becoming annoyed, then really angry. Whatever could he be doing? If anyone were kept waiting, it should not be she! Then she heard a step, felt a hand on her shoulder. The step was quick — a running step — the hand was small.... Philip had sent one of the children with a message from him. She turned her head, raised her heavy eyelids, and looked into the face of her youngest grandson.
“Wake up, my grandmother,” he said with his most dignified air.
“The church bells will soon be ringing.”
“Ha, where am I?” She was dazed, her long crêpe veil had fallen over her face.
“On your way to church, my grandmother. In your new fur coat.”
“Fur coat! In summer!”
“It’s winter, Granny. Almost Christmas.”
Renny and Piers came into the room.... Still a bit dazed, she was lifted to her feet. On her either side they supported her descent over the icy front steps to the sleigh. With a heave they got her into it and she sank, a great bundle of fur, into the comfort of the seat. The great black bearskin rug was drawn up about her. She had not, since waking, felt able to utter more than a mumbled word or two, but now the ice-cold air revived her. She smiled into Renny’s face and said:
“I was ready too soon. Who’s coming with me?”
He stood bareheaded, the snow falling on his red hair.
“Where’s your hat?” she demanded. “I won’t have my grandson going to church bareheaded.”
“It’s in the car, Gran.”
“Who’s coming in the sleigh with me?”
Her two sons appeared, wearing topcoats with large fur collars. They climbed in and seated themselves beside her. Hodge eased the reins, but, before the horses dashed off, Wakefield clambered to the seat beside him. The many silver bells, those that were strung right round the bellies of the horses, and the large deep-toned ones that hung above their shoulders, set up a mellow jingling. Over the polished bright-red back of the sleigh a second bearskin rug adorned by tails was placed. This was to rest one’s body against and also to make a fine show as it streamed out behind. Above it floated old Adeline’s voluminous veil.
The muscles rippled beneath the glittering flanks of the horses. The scarlet tassel on Wakefield’s cap bobbed. Nicholas and Ernest waved a goodbye to those on the steps. Down the drive and out of sight they went, the horses’ hooves sending clots of clean snow over the rug that wrapped the knees of Hodge and Wakefield.
The motor-car, in its blackness, was a melancholy sight after the sleigh. Its grunting, as it started, was an offence to the ear after the music of the bells. Behind the wheel was Renny. Meg quickly secured the seat beside him. Dilly, Eden, and Piers sat together in the back. Lady Buckley, suffering from a migraine, had remained in her room. Last of the family to appear was Finch. He ran out of the house, dressed for church, but with a distraught expression, one hand held to his cheek.
Meg said — “No room in the car, dear. You’ll just run across the fields, like a good boy.”
“I don’t wanna go,” he mumbled. “My tooth aches.”
His sister looked her compassion. “What a shame! But, if you will look on the top shelf of my bedroom cupboard, you’ll find a bottle with toothache drops. They’ll soon make it better.”
“It aches,” he muttered. “I can’t go.”
Renny said — “I know all about these headaches and toothaches that appear just at church time.”
“But this is real. It aches like the dickens.”
“You didn’t speak of it yesterday.”
“It only began ten minutes ago.”
“Don’t let me hear any more about it.”
Piers said — “We shall be late.”
Off they went, leaving Finch on the snowy steps, the cold wind causing the tooth to jump fairl
y out of his head. He staggered into the hall, kicking the door shut after him. He said loudly — “I won’t go. I won’t! I’m damned if I will.”
“Wot’s the trouble?” enquired Wragge.
“Nobody cares how I suffer!” shouted Finch.
“Toothache, is it?”
“Raging. I wish they had it.”
“You can’t tell me nothing about a toothache. Every tooth in me ’ead ’ad a bout of it — one time or another. There’s no peace till you ’ave them all out.”
“Oh, gosh, I don’t want to do that.”
“It’s the only cure. But for relief a big mouthful of whisky, ’eld in the mouth, is pretty good.”
“Oh, oh,” moaned Finch. “It’s jumping.”
Wragge brought him, from the dining room, whisky in a glass. “Try this,” he said.
Finch took a large mouthful; tilted his head to allow the aching tooth the full benefit of it; swallowed it; took another, while Wragge watched him solicitously. He fixed his eyes, in which hope lightened the misery, on Wragge. After a little he solemnly nodded.
Wragge said — “Swallow. Then tike another mouthful. ’Old it. Swallow. I never knew it to fail. On the tooth or in the stomach whisky ’as a beneficial effect.” As Finch followed his directions he added — “Of course, you’ll never ’ave any real comfort till you ’as them all out. That’s what I’ve found.”
Finch violently shook his head at this suggestion — choked — swallowed — took more whisky. A look of benign relief came into his eyes. As he swallowed the last mouthful he executed a few steps of a jig with great agility.
“Did the trick, eh?” grinned Wragge.
“You bet. Why, it’s practically stopped. I believe if I took the least little drop more it would stop.”
“Right you are,” said Wragge, and brought him more.
A glowing warmth ran through all Finch’s being — a warm, grateful relief. Yet he felt at the same time a rebellious anger toward his eldest brother. Tyrant. Unfeeling tyrant who had a mouthful of teeth that never gave any trouble, yet would goad a sufferer like himself to go to church.
“Feel pretty good now?” Wragge asked. “Able for the windy walk across the fields?”
“Not on your life,” said Finch.
“Well, I can’t say I blime you.”
“I’ll show him,” Finch added, in a loud, aggressive voice, “whether he can order me about as though I was a dog. I’ve no intention of going to church. I never did intend to. I don’t think much of churchgoing anyhow. What good does it do you?”
“None that I’ve discovered.” Wragge was still grinning. “That is, for me. With your family it’s different. Your grandfather built the church.
His descendants’as got to keep it going.”
“Not me,” snarled Finch. “I’ll be damned if I go ... bloody damned if I go!”
In a mysterious way Wragge seemed to be floating round and round him, and always with that mischievous grin on his face, his eyes laughing.
“I don’t blime you,” Wragge.
“I’ve stood about enough,” yelled Finch. “From this time forward I’m going to go my own way and I’m sorry for anyone who interferes with me.”
Out of a face large as a pumpkin that floated somewhere near the ceiling Wragge reiterated — “Don’t blime ... don’t blime you.”
Finch watched this pumpkin face as it floated, at first with curiosity, then with a certain distaste. He found he was holding a glass in his hand. He tossed it up and caught it. He found this amusing, tossed it higher and higher. The last time it almost hit the ceiling and would have fallen to the floor had not Wragge caught it.
As he caught the glass he said, with an abrupt change from his friendly manner to an air of fault-finding — “’Ere — that’s enough from you. Better lie down for a bit till you get over it.”
“I am over it. D’you mean the pain?”
“I mean the cure. You need to lie down.”
“I know what I need and I don’t like to be told. I’m not going to stand any more telling — see?”
“No offence meant,” said Wragge, friendly again.
Finch put an arm about Wragge’s shoulders. “None taken. And I chertainly am grateful for the way you stopped that pain. By the way — where just was that pain?”
“In your fice. Toothache.”
“Ah, yesh. Terrible toothache. Believe I’ll go to the library and lie down. Feel funny.”
But he turned in the wrong direction and found himself in the drawing-room. He was surprised to discover the piano there and stood dazedly regarding it for some minutes.... Then a clearness descended on his brain like a mystic hand. His brain was so clear that he felt himself capable of anything — even capable of playing the piano. He always had wanted to play the piano and now he discovered that he could.
He had some difficulty in making his way to the piano. A footstool was directly in his path and the detour he made in order to pass it brought him directly in front of the fireplace. The piano was not to be seen. But he saw his own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. His face appeared flushed to him and rather splendid. He took a long pleasurable look at it before he again set out in search of the piano.
When he found it he discovered that the stool was too high. He twirled it till it became too low. However, it was fun twirling it, he laid his hands on the keyboard. He drooped there for a space blinking at the keys, which were strangely blurred. He waited, watching himself, as an outsider might have watched him, with a cool impersonal interest.
Then he heard himself beginning to play. Softly at first, with an exquisite singing tone, as of the first rippling of the frozen streams in springtime. Then the music grew stronger, as other streams added the power of their waters. Gradually the volume increased till all the rivers, set free, were shouting in their exaltation. His body swayed, his hands were raised high and brought down with a crash, as the flood waters, heaving with broken ice, crashed in ferocious surrender into the sea.... He realized now that he was not alone but that a great crowd in a magnificent concert hall were applauding him. Lights reflected in a thousand prisms in the chandeliers dazzled him. He knew that he should rise and bow, but he had not the strength in his legs. All his power was in hands and arms. With the loud pedal down he played with greater volume, more splendid ferocity than ever.
The door of the drawing-room was thrown open. Lady Buckley, her hands pressed to her ears, staggered toward him. She called his name, but he was so rapt in his music that he did not hear her. He did not hear the four dogs in the hall. This canine quartette were, in the torture of their sensitive ears, rending the air with their howls.
Lady Buckley staggered forward, a bandage about her aching head adding to the classic cast of her features, her long dressing gown threatening to trip her at every step, and laid her hands heavily on Finch’s shoulders.
“Stop!” she commanded in a stentorian voice.
His hands fell from the keys.
Silence that was almost palpable flooded the room. For a moment it lasted; then the quartette in the hall raised their voices in one last howl — high, shrill, and soprano from the Yorkshire terrier, quavering mournful baritones with all the misery of radio singers from the spaniels, heart-rending bass from the bob-tailed sheepdog.
“How dare you cause such a riot?” demanded Augusta.
Speechless, Finch raised a dazed face to hers.
“Have you lost your reason?” she demanded.
He could not speak.
What he thought was the blaze of chandeliers was the glare of sunlight from a cloudless sky. His aunt’s face hung above him. He smelled the camphor with which she had wet the cloth about her head. Behind his own head he felt the fullness of her breast and burrowed against it.
“Aunty,” he breathed, and his breath went through her with a terrible shock.
“Finch,” she mourned, “you have been drinking.”
“Just whisky,” he mumbled, “for my t
ooth.”
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“Thash’s what made me able to play,” he giggled.
“I was never more shocked,” she said, and looked it. Indeed her shock was so great that, for the moment, she forgot her migraine. She took him firmly by the arm and drew him to his feet.
An odd picture they made as they moved, clasped in a dizzy embrace, through the hall, and into the library. There she laid him on the old leather couch and went to the trouble of covering him with a woollen afghan which she herself had knitted many years ago. But she said, before she left him:
“I shall be obliged to speak to your brother about this.”
That did not worry him. Nothing worried him. He fell into a heavy sleep.
Meantime the two parties arrived at the church.
The merry jangle of the sleigh bells mingled with the sonorous ringing of the church bell. Close behind the sleigh came the motor-car, chugging, bumping over the ruts, honking its urgency to the sleigh. Grandmother was half-lifted out and, with Renny and Piers on either side, slowly, slowly she mounted the steep steps that led to the church. The frosty air made her wheeze. Nicholas, Dilly, Ernest, Meg, Eden, and Wakefield followed. Always she felt that she was being hurried, though everyone was suiting his pace to hers. She wanted the other churchgoers to have plenty of time on this morning to admire the beauty of her new fur coat. She espied the Misses Lacey, daughters of a retired English admiral, whom she had known all their lives. They were now aged sixty-three and sixty-four but had retained their fresh complexions and happy zest for life in this quiet spot.
“Dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” they cried simultaneously, “what a beautiful new fur coat!”
At this moment it seemed a burden to her, but when she heard it admired she preened herself and stepped out more strongly. “It’s a good coat,” she said. “’Twill do me the rest of my life.”
“But,” said Miss Lydia, “your other fur coat is so handsome still.”
“Aye, ’twill do for a ‘knockabout’.”
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 23