Nicholas winked at Miss Lacey, who had once wanted very badly to marry him and even now had a warm spot in her heart for him.
It seemed that the little procession would never reach the door of the church, so slow was its progress behind the shuffling leadership of old Mrs. Whiteoak. It was a relief to their ears when the clanging of the bell ceased. In the vestibule she said to Todd, the bell-ringer — “It’s high time you stopped that clamour. Didn’t you see me coming?”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Whiteoak, ma’am,” he said respectfully, his hands still clinging to the big rope, “but I thought you’d like a little music on the way.”
That tickled her fancy and she gave him a gracious grin, inclining her head, massive in its window’s weeds. Along the aisle she progressed and those already in the pews turned their heads to see her. The oldest of them could not remember the time when she was not there or picture the time when she would be no more seen.
Now the new cushions for the pews which she had donated, in the first glow of her successful investing, caught and held her attention. In those pews that still were empty they were stretched invitingly, soft yet firm, and in a lovely shade of red. Those seated on them had a relaxed, armchair sort of look. Even those of the congregation whom nature had comfortably padded look gratified, while relief was strongly mingled with gratitude on the faces of the thin ones.
Adeline Whiteoak saw that it was now too late to take back the cushions. Willy-nilly the expense of them must be borne by the remnant of her fortune. Never very good at figures, she now varied between looking on herself as impoverished or completely forgetting her loss.
Wakefield was in such haste to test the new cushions that he almost ran up the aisle to be first to reach the family pews. There were two of these. Into the foremost one went Piers, Eden, Dilly, and Ernest. Into the pew behind, Grandmother and Meg, with Wakefield between them, and Nicholas next the aisle. With an audible grunt the old lady sank on to her cushion. Its comfort was nothing to her, because a cushion was always brought by Meg to put under her and another for her back. Now all the family, with that luxury beneath them, bent their heads in prayer, or the semblance of it. Miss Pink was softly playing the organ, her new winter hat an object of interest to the congregation. As the Whiteoaks straightened their backs Wakefield was bouncing on his seat. He was exhilarated by the resilience of the cushion till Nicholas, observing his unseemly conduct, reached behind Meg and gave him a fillip on the head. The little boy subsided against his grandmother and stroked the silky fur of her new coat.
“Do you think,” Meg whispered to Nicholas, “that she should have the coat off?”
“Too much effort,” he whispered back. “We should never get it on her again.”
“Who?” demanded the grandmother.
“Who what, Granny?”
“I bought it to be seen. I’ll keep it on, thanks.”
Even more than Miss Pink’s hat, it was indeed noticed. What with the hat, the coat, the new cushions in the pews, few of the congregation had eyes for the Rector and the lay reader when they took their places. But above all there was Miss Warkworth. Ever since she had come to Jalna Miss Warkworth had been the object of the most intense interest to the neighbourhood. She was often the object of disapproval also. The redness of her lips was almost scandalous, and she had been seen, more than once, to intensify their colour in public. She wore her hair short, in the new fashion, and curled all over her pretty head. She had an air of cool audacity, vastly different from the sweet expression of Miss Whiteoak whom everyone admired. It was said that she went out, tooth and claw, to capture Renny Whiteoak. It was also said that she would meet her match in him. Now she stood between Eden and Ernest joining her sweet English voice to the lusty voices of the Whiteoaks in the processional hymn.
Renny Whiteoak was the lay reader, as had been his father and grandfather before him. He had hastened to the vestry and donned his surplice under the urgent eye of Mr. Fennel. As soon as he was in his place he cast a glance at the family to see if Finch had arrived. Finch was missing, but there was Dilly blooming like a rose beside Uncle Ernest.
Mr. Fennel was reading, in his Sunday voice:
“‘To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgiveness though we have rebelled against him: neither have we obeyed the voice of the Lord our God, to walk in his laws which he set before us.’” The service proceeded.
Dilly was looking extraordinarily pretty, thought Renny. But, try as she would, she could not look devout, while Eden, without effort, looked rather like a young saint, with that face like his lovely mother. And there was young Wake, again steadily bouncing on the cushion, in spite of the fillip Uncle Nick had given him. And there was Gran, looking mountainous, getting red in the face from the bulk of the new coat. Strange that Meg would not have taken it from her. Strange that Meg would allow the child to go on bouncing. Well — he’d get something to bounce for, if he didn’t behave himself.... Renny noticed that his surplice was a little crumpled. It would be freshly laundered for Christmas. He must see that plenty of greenery was cut for decorating the church, and holly ordered. A sudden recollection came to him of a Christmas when he was a very small boy. It had been the first Christmas after the death of his own mother. He and Meg had been sitting down there in that pew, with their grandmother and their father — the old widow and the young widower, all in black. Renny remembered his own little grey suit and the black band of crêpe on his left arm. He was proud of its blackness because it made him seem more grown-up and like his father. Often he would bend his head to look at it. But all the while he was thinking of the beautiful little iron train, with the windup engine, that he had glimpsed standing beneath the Christmas tree in the library when he and Meg had peeped through the keyhole. How he had quivered with longing to hold that key in his hand and wind up the locomotive!
It was the time of the Second Lesson. Renny stood behind the brass eagle of the lectern and read:
“‘And there shall be signs in the sun and in the moon and in the stars ... ”
Meg thought — “Now those sunspots we’ve been hearing of — they’re bound to mean something — drought and a poor season for strawberries, or floods and seeds washed out of the ground ... ”
Renny read on — “‘And upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth.’”
To pass the time Eden played a game with Dilly. He had a pencil but no paper, so they used a blank page in the back of a hymn book. First he wrote:
“The congregation sag and snooze —”
He then handed the book to Dilly, who after a moment’s consideration added:
“There are red cushions on the pews —”
She returned the hymn book to him and he instantly wrote:
“The reader reads so badly—”
This time Dilly nibbled the end of the pencil in perplexity but could think of nothing but to repeat the first line. She wrote, however:
“The congregation sags and snoozes —”
He nudged her. “Go on.”
She then added: “There are red cushions on the pewses —”
With a scowl he wrote: “I’m dying to kiss you madly.”
Piers’s strong hand reached in front of Eden, trying to get possession of the book. Dilly was clutching it delightedly. There was an incipient struggle, not lost on the Rector, the lay reader, or those in the nearby pews.
But now the organ pealed forth. The congregation rose and sang:
O be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands: serve the Lord with
gladness and come before His presence with a song.
All had risen but Grandmother, who too had seen the little scuffle. Muttering, “Young whelps, misbehaving in church,” she took her stick and gave Eden a sharp poke in the back with it. This was so unexpected that the excellent note he had just struck turned to an astonished grunt. He glared over his sho
ulder at his grandmother. “Behave yourself,” she adjured, in a voice not drowned by the Jubilate Deo.
He turned and hissed at her — “Why should I be singled out?”
“Because you’re the one I can reach,” she hissed back, but this time her voice was lost in the singing.
She enjoyed the little skirmish and settled back into the comfort of her fur coat like an old she-bear gone into hibernation for the winter. But she kept herself awake till Mr. Fennel had mounted the pulpit. Then he would, she knew, thank her for the cushions. He did indeed. Before beginning his sermon he said:
“We are enjoying on this Sunday morning still another benefit conferred on us by a member of that family which has been so generous with its gifts in the past — right from the time when Captain Whiteoak gave the land and built on it this church. Now the lady who was his beloved wife, and who, I am happy to say, is with us this morning, has donated cushions for all the pews in the church. This is a really splendid gift and one that I am sure you all deeply appreciate. The cushions are handsome and will add greatly to the physical comfort of our members. I can only hope that in this bodily comfort none of us will forget that we are in God’s house.... And now, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost....”
Dilly’s cheeks were flaming. Eden folded his arms and looked straight up into Mr. Fennel’s face. Piers hung his head. But the grandmother’s eyes were heavy with tears at mention of Captain Whiteoak. The tears hung in her eyes till she blinked, then they trickled down either side of her strongly modelled, handsome old nose which defied the shapeless onslaught of time. Meg clasped her hand and squeezed it. Her family turned their heads to smile at her. All the congregation craned to have a glimpse of her, to make their offering of gratitude. Wakefield made no attempt to conceal his self-importance. If he had himself donated the cushions he could not have felt more the Triton among the minnows.
The wintry sunshine pencilled the shadows of bare twigs on the windows. Its thin light was not flattering but picked out warm spots, wrinkles, and grey hairs, showed how Farmer Tomkins had cut himself shaving, how young Fred Miller was getting a boil, how the brasses needed cleaning, and where there was a bit of plaster loose. But the splashes of colour from the stained-glass window, in memory of Captain Whiteoak, were clear and serene. In truth there was a serenity and confidence about the whole scene, as though the actors, in pews, choir, and pulpit, were playing parts they well understood, uttering lines well suited to them, feeling emotions for which their forefathers had prepared them. Mr. Fennel’s sermon was not long. It was without rhetoric and rather dull, but his voice was pleasant; he preached of goodness rather than sin, and no aspect of fear or doubt entered into it.
As all rose at the end Piers managed to get possession of the hymn-book and to tear out the page where the verse was written.
The voices of the Whiteoaks, soprano, tenor, and baritone, led in the singing of the last hymn, the little choir being quite helpless against them.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The heavens are not too high,
His praise my thither fly;
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The church with psalms must shout,
No door can keep them out;
But above all the heart
Must bear the largest part.
Let all the world in every corner sing,
My God and King!
And such confirmed royalists were the Whiteoaks that the hymn’s reference to their King might well have been understood by a listener to refer to their allegiance to George V.
Like an ancient battleship moving massively among lesser craft the grandmother made her way toward the door. The cushions in the now empty pews lay like quiet ripples on either side of her.
“Dear Mrs. Whiteoak,” exclaimed the younger Miss Lacey, “never have I known such cushions! They’re a perfect dream!”
“Never have I been so comfortable in church,” added her sister. “I positively luxuriated.”
Everybody wanted to speak to her, to give her a word of thanks. She was in great good humour. In the vestibule she encountered Noah Binns. He had a piece of news to give her. It was that he had been appointed assistant gravedigger.
“That’s what I am, from now on,” he said with a leer. “Assistant gravedigger. Would you remember my father, ma’am? Eli Binns? We don’t expect him to last more than a few days more. I’ll be diggin’ fer him pretty soon. That’ll be my first. Quite an enigma fer me.”
“Ah, that’s sad,” she answered.
Noah looked pious. He said — “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Nothing could be fairer than that.”
Wakefield seemed to have heard those last words before. He pondered over them as he moved decorously through the vestibule. His eyes and Noah’s met. All the way home, with the jingling of the bells as an accompaniment, he chanted — “Nothing could be fairer than that.”
Lady Buckley met Renny in the hall. She was feeling much better but was looking quite sallow. These two were for the moment alone. He put his arm about her and asked:
“Better, Aunty?”
“Better of the migraine, but —” she compressed her lips.
He looked her over anxiously. “Something else — somewhere?”
“It is Finch,” she answered with a deep sigh.
“Finch? Is his tooth worse?”
“I only wish it were his tooth.”
“Whatever is wrong?”
She took him by the lapel of his coat and said into his ear — “Finch was — and probably still is — drunk.”
Renny drew back, as though from a woman demented.
She saw this and repeated with great firmness — “Drunk — to the point of frenzy.”
“Is he? Where?” he shot out.
“In there.”
Renny threw open the door and the boy sprawled under the afghan was discovered.
Renny gave Augusta an anxious look. “Are you all right, Aunty?” he asked.
She drew herself up, offended. “Am I or am I not capable,” she demanded, “to judge whether a person is in a frenzy?”
“He looks quiet enough now,” said Renny.
“He is now dead drunk.”
Renny strode into the room and bent over Finch. “Hm,” he said, and straightened himself and scratched his chin. He wondered whether or not to wake the boy.
Lady Buckley continued — “The first manifestation was an outrageous uproar on the piano. Loud pedal down. A pounding that must surely have broken some strings. The din was horrible. Ill as I was, I tottered downstairs, and there was Finch raging up and down the keyboard and all four dogs howling.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I must say,” she added, “in justice to him, that he suffered himself to be led to the couch without any further disturbance.”
“I wish I’d been here,” said Renny.
“Oh, he did need a man!”
Renny patted her shoulder. “Just leave us for a bit, Aunty.”
She hesitated, saying — “Don’t be too ...”
“No, no, I won’t.”
Her voice trailed away, as did her long dressing gown.
He took the afghan off Finch. He then administered half a dozen hard slaps and thumps over the boy’s bony person and ended by raising him to a sitting position by the ear.
With difficulty Finch opened his glazed eyes. He blubbered: “Ow — my ear! Whash amatter? Whatafidone?”
“You know damned well.”
Finch put his fist to his face. “It was my tooth. It ached.” He gave a dazed smile. “It’sh better now. I took whisky for it.” He appeared not to have noticed the whacking he had got. Renny, observing this, gave it to him all o
ver again.
Augusta had gone into the drawing-room, closing the door after her, for she felt she could bear no more. In from outdoors now appeared grandmother, a son on her either side.
“I’m ready to drop,” she declared, in her strong old voice, “with the weight of the coat. Take it off me as fast as you can.”
Divested of it she stood leaning on her stick, her eyes caught by the sight of Finch on the couch and Renny standing over him. As the second chastisement was taking place, she shuffled with all the haste that was in her, to their side.
“What’s this?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”
“This young fool,” Renny said, “has been drinking”
“Him!” she cried. “And scarcely off his mother’s milk! Flog him well for it, Renny. Of what use is your hand? My father always took a stick to his boys.”
“I won’t do it again,” Finch got out. “I promish.”
The room was now full of others, asking questions, rebuking, laughing, according to their natures. Wakefield came last, chanting in his shrill treble:
“An enigma! That’s what he is. An enigma!” With the image of Noah Binns looming in his mind, he chanted — “Room for scope! That’s what he wanted. Nothing could be fairer than that!”
Meg took him by the hand and led him from the room.
Nicholas came from the drawing-room with news that three strings of the piano were broken.
“Finch must pay for them out of his pocket money,” Renny decreed.
“I’ll pay,” said Nicholas. “But he’s not again to touch the piano. Augusta says the uproar was appalling.”
Ernest added — “And if there is one thing above another that Augusta craves, it is peace.”
“Don’t we all?” grinned his mother, who enjoyed nothing better than conflict.
Wragge now appeared carrying a small tray on which there were glasses of sherry.
“We’ll have that in the drawing-room, Rags,” Renny said, and then asked in a lower tone — “Have you seen anything of this young man this morning?”
06 The Whiteoak Brothers Page 24