Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  “Been sketching?” he asked.

  She inclined her head.

  “She’s been doing the loveliest trees,” said Gemmel, “but you may be sure she won’t show you. If I had a talent I’d love to show off.”

  “You have a talent,” said Wakefield. “I remember how splendidly you recited in Wales. I thought then you’d make an actress if —”

  “If!” she cried, with an expressive gesture of her flexible hands. “It’s always if with me. And always will be. Oh, if I could lead the life Molly does!”

  “How is Molly?” asked Wakefield.

  “Flying between New York and Hollywood. She hasn’t had a big success yet. For one thing, she’s too thin to photograph well.” She poured out the tale of the plays Molly had been in and what parts she had had. Althea marvelled at her, for she could say nothing. Wakefield hungrily drank in all this news of the stage, wondering if ever he would act again.

  Garda brought in the tea tray, bent double under its weight for she had loaded it with all the cakes and scones she could find, to say nothing of buttered toast and fruit loaf. Wakefield sprang to help her. They gathered about the table, all but Althea talking. She kept thinking of things to say and how she would say them, coolly or laughingly, as her sisters might speak, but before she could bring herself to utter them, the conversation had turned to another subject, the chance was gone. Finch’s hands fascinated her and the way he used them but she never let her eyes meet his.

  Tea was not half over when another knock sounded on the door and Sidney Swift and Maurice came in. It was not the first time they had visited the Griffiths. Indeed, Swift settled himself beside Garda with an air of familiarity. Gemmel was so exhilarated by the presence of the four young men that she talked almost wildly and her greenish-blue eyes glittered with excitement. Swift was a fluent talker. He spoke with authority of painting, Althea never daring to contradict him; of music, Finch laughingly disagreeing with most of his dictums and being glibly talked down; but it was Wakefield who, when Swift laid down the law about the theatre, turned his own remarks on him and brought a laugh against him. When it came to literature, young Maurice was the only one whose reading in any way compared with Swift’s. As Swift’s pupil he was respectful but already he had discovered his tutor’s limitations. On Swift’s part he found Maurice indolent and fully convinced that no tuition he could have in Canada would equal that of his old tutor in Ireland.

  On the way home Wakefield remarked to Finch, “If Swift is all he makes himself out to be, why isn’t he doing something more important than being secretary to that old gaffer, Clapperton, and tutoring Mooey?”

  “Meg says she believes he is clinging to Mr. Clapperton in the hope of inheriting his money. He’s some sort of relation.”

  “I believe he’s gone on Garda.”

  “No. He just has that snuggly manner with girls.”

  “what do you think of the other two? Aren’t they an amazing contrast?”

  “It would be a strange experience,” said Finch musingly, “to love a girl like Althea. You’d always be pursuing — and she eluding.”

  “Damned strange,” answered Wakefield and thought to himself, “especially after a hussy like Sarah.”

  “But Gemmel is the one who interests me most.”

  Wake opened his eyes in surprise. “Really! Well, of course, her being a cripple is a tragedy. You can see that she’s mad for experience — and she’s chained. I guess she lives in the experiences of her sisters.”

  “She wouldn’t find much there. She’s so different.”

  “They’re all three different. All four — counting Molly.”

  “We are not very lucky, you and I … in love, I mean. Are we, Wake?”

  Wakefield’s face grew sombre. “No more of that for me,” he said. “We’ll settle down at Jalna, when we’re old men — like Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernest.”

  Finch gave a grim assent. Then suddenly one of his boyish fits of hilarity came upon him. He began to chase and wrestle with Wakefield as they descended into the ravine. The moon cast their active shadows on the snow. The stream uttered its gurglings before it turned to ice. A frightened mouse ran across the bridge. Finch found himself no match for Wakefield, whose body was hardened by military training. By the time they had mounted the other side of the ravine, his heart was thumping. He would not cry out for mercy but surrendered himself dumbly to Wakefield’s iron grasp, as in the old days he had surrendered to Piers.

  The lights of the house streamed out across the snow. The three dogs waiting in the porch rushed out, in a fury of barking, at the two dark figures rising from the ravine. Then, as they recognized members of the family, circled in joy about them. Finch exclaimed:

  “I wish to God that I could live a country life — never step inside a town from one year’s end to another — never play in front of an audience — never be sick of the sight of people — belong utterly to myself!”

  “You’d tire of it. You’d soon be panting for the excitement and the applause.”

  “Never! Excitement is mostly apprehension for me. Applause just means — thank God I haven’t failed! It would suit me to work in one of the arts where you needn’t see your public — to be a writer, a painter, a sculptor.”

  “Tame! Tame!” exclaimed Wakefield. “Give me my visible public — even if it throws rotten eggs at me!”

  They were at the door. “You always were a showy-off little beast,” Finch retorted, and was inside the house before Wake could lay hands on him.

  Their companionship was precious to them in these days. They were inseparable. Neither said what was in his mind. But Finch looked with ever increasing foreboding toward the day of Wakefield’s departure. His eyes followed Wakefield’s tall lithe figure, rested on the dark beauty of his face and wondered if this would be their last time together. They spent many hours at Meg’s, helping her and Patience to settle in the small house. Meg clung to Wakefield as the little brother to whom she had been a mother and, when the hour of parting came, she was swept by a storm of weeping. She made no pretence of being brave. But, when he was gone the ranks of the family, depleted though they were, closed behind him and life went on as before.

  Now the December days marched coldly on toward Christmas. There were five children to consider. There had always been a Christmas Tree and a Santa Claus. Piers had marvellously well played the part and, since his departure, Nicholas. What he lacked in rosiness of countenance, Pheasant applied from a rouge pot. The sonorous jollity of his Santa Claus voice was contagious. But this year he declared that he no longer could do it. Something had gone out of him, he said. He was too old. He could not read the labels on the packages. Ernest or Finch must be Father Christmas.

  But no one could, by any stretch of imagination, picture Ernest or Finch as Santa Claus. Nicholas must hold the Christmas fort till Piers came home. “Hmph, well,” growled Nicholas, “he’d better hurry. I’m ninety-one.”

  “why, Uncle Nick,” chided Meg, “think of Granny! She lived to be a hundred and one.”

  “She was a woman,” said Nicholas, “and she hadn’t gout. She was sound, you might say, to the last.”

  “And so are you!” cried Meg, kissing him. “You’re just as sound as a dear old nut.”

  He was won over. He would do it, he declared, just this one time more.

  The cloak of family custom hung heavy, too, on Finch’s shoulders. From the time when the church was built, a Whiteoak had always read the Lessons at Morning Service. After Renny had gone to the War, Ernest had capably and with much more elegance filled this office but, for the past year, it had obviously been too much for him to undertake. There were Sundays when the weather was not fit for him to venture out. So Mr. Fennel had himself read the Lessons. Now he and Meg and the two uncles had put their heads together and decided that Finch was next in order. He was to be home for some months and it would be good for him to fill the niche in the ordered sequence of things. Family custom must not be allowed to flag
but must be kept firm and upright by Whiteoak mettle.

  To Finch the idea of standing up behind the lectern and reading from the Bible was more intimidating than playing the piano in a concert hall. Yet he was pleased and even flattered by being chosen. He was thankful that neither Renny nor Piers would be there to see him. He could not have faced their amused gaze from the family pew.

  The morning dawned cold and cloudy, with much snow in the sky but little on the ground. As he descended the stairs to breakfast, the resinous scent of the tree filled the hall. Alayne and Pheasant had decorated it the day before and it was safely locked inside the library. On how many Christmas mornings had he come down those stairs, made dizzy by the wonder, the mysterious strangeness of that scent? He stood a moment alone in the hall. He was indeed alone, for Sarah had gone out of his life. He felt oddly young and untouched at this moment.

  Alayne and the children were at the breakfast table. She was having a time of it to persuade Archer to eat anything. He desired only something that was not on the table. Finch looked at him severely.

  “I can tell you this, young man,” he said, “if I had demanded things like you do, I’d have been taken by the scruff and put out of the room.”

  “what’s the scruff?” asked Archer.

  “This.” Finch laid a heavy hand on his neck. Archer wriggled away. “who would have done it to you?” he asked.

  “Your father.”

  “Mother wouldn’t let him do it to me. She’d —”

  “Archer,” interrupted Alayne, “I want to hear nothing more from you.”

  Wragge entered the room with a portentous air. “Mrs. Whiteoak, please, my wife would like to see you in the kitchen as soon as convenient.”

  Alayne rose. “I have finished,” she said, and went with him to the basement.

  “I’m not going to church,” said Archer, “and I am going to see the Tree. I’m going right now to get my presents off it.”

  Finch sprang up and lifted the small boy from his chair. He strode with him into the hall. Archer lay, stiff as a poker, in his arms.

  “what are you going to do with him?” asked Roma.

  “Open the door,” ordered Finch.

  Adeline opened the front door and Finch stepped into the porch. All three dogs came into the house. Finch carried Archer to the steps and held him head downward over a snowdrift.

  “Want to be dropped into that and left there?” he asked.

  “I don’t mind,” answered Archer impassively.

  “All right. Here goes!” He lowered Archer till his tow hair touched the snow. He lowered him till his head was buried. The little girls shrieked. Alayne could be heard talking, on her way up the basement stairs. The bell of Ernest’s room was loudly ringing below. The two old men were having breakfast in bed, in preparation for a tiring day. Now Ernest wanted his. Two short rings meant that he wanted porridge, toast and tea. One prolonged ring indicated that he wanted an egg. This was a prolonged ring. It went on and on.

  Finch reversed Archer and stood him on his feet. His lofty white brow was surmounted by snowy locks.

  “Now are you going to behave yourself?” asked Finch, grinning.

  “I still don’t want my breakfast,” answered Archer. “And I still want to see the Tree.”

  “wherever is that terrible draught coming from?” cried Alayne. “And who let the dogs in?”

  Finch leaped up the stairs.

  Oh, if Renny and Piers and Wake were home, how happy he would be! He pictured them, one after the other, at their various pursuits. What a Christmas it would be when they all were at Jalna once again! He knocked at Ernest’s door and went in.

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Ernest!” He went to the bed and kissed him.

  “Merry Christmas, my boy! Will you just prop those pillows behind me a little more firmly. How cold it is! Please don’t touch me again with your hands. They’re icy.”

  Finch tucked the eiderdown about him. “Is that better?”

  The old gentleman looked nice indeed, with his lean pink face, his forget-me-not blue eyes and his silvery hair brushed smooth. Nicholas, when Finch visited him, was a contrast. His hair, his eyebrows, his moustache, still iron-grey, were ruffled. His bed was untidy and on the table at his side lay his pipe and tobacco pouch, with burnt matches strewn about.

  After the season’s greetings, Finch asked, “Have you rung for your breakfast yet, Uncle Nick?”

  “No, no. I never ring till I’ve heard Rags bring your Uncle Ernest’s. No matter how early I wake he always gets ahead of me. So now I just smoke a pipe and resign myself to waiting. How many times did he ring?”

  “One long one.”

  “Means he wants an egg. Doesn’t need an egg when he’s going to eat a heavy dinner. Tomorrow he’ll be taking indigestion tablets, you’ll see.”

  Nicholas stretched out an unsteady handsome old hand, found his pipe and a pigeon’s feather with which he proceeded to clean it. What did it feel like to be ninety? Finch wondered. Very comfortable, to judge by the way Uncle Nick pulled contentedly at his pipe.

  “So you’re going to read the Lessons, eh?” the old man asked.

  “Yes, and I’m scared stiff.”

  Nicholas stared. “You nervous — after all you’ve done!”

  “This is different.”

  “I should think it is. A little country church, as familiar to you as your own home. Your own family there to support you.”

  “That’s just it. When I see you all facing me while I read out of the Bible, it will seem preposterous. And I haven’t had any practice. I don’t know how to read out of the Bible.”

  “Good heavens, you’ve been often enough to church!”

  “It’s not the same.”

  Nicholas thought a minute, then he said, “I’ll tell you what. You get my prayer book out of the wardrobe, then you can let me hear you read. I’ll tell you how it sounds.”

  Finch went with alacrity to the towering walnut wardrobe that always had worn an air of mystery to him.

  “Door to the left,” directed his uncle. “Hatbox where I keep my good hat.”

  Finch opened the door. A smell which was a mixture of tobacco, old tweed, and broadcloth, came out. He took the lid from the large leather hatbox. There inside was his uncle’s top hat and in its crown lay his prayer book, the gilt cross on its cover worn dim by the years.

  “I remember,” said Finch, “when you wore that silk hat every Sunday.”

  “Ah, there was dignity in those days! On this continent we shall sink before long to shirt-sleeves and not getting to our feet when a woman comes into the room — to judge by what I see in the papers. Well, you boys weren’t brought up that way. Now, let’s hear you read.”

  Nicholas had in his younger days played the piano quite well. He was convinced that Finch had inherited his talent from him. Though his fingers had long been too stiff for playing, he still kept his old square piano in his room and sometimes when he was alone fumbled over the few stray bars he remembered. Now Finch sat down before the keyboard and placed the open book on the rack. He read the Epistle through. He looked enquiringly at his uncle.

  “Too loud,” said Nicholas.

  “Not for the church, Uncle.”

  “You must learn to control your voice. It’s a good one but it’s erratic.”

  “I expect I’ll make a mess of the whole thing.”

  “Nonsense. You read far better than old Fennel.” The jingling of dishes on Ernest’s tray could be heard.

  “There he is!” exclaimed Nicholas. He searched the top of his bedside table and found two envelopes. Wragge appeared at the door.

  “Merry Christmas, sir!” His small grey face, with its jutting nose and chin, took on an expectant beam.

  Nicholas handed him the envelopes.

  “One for you — one for your wife. Merry Christmas to you both. Bring me porridge — thick toast, gooseberry jam.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s very nice to be remember
ed. Mr. Ernest did the sime for us. Mrs. Wragge will thank you later, sir.”

  When he had gone, Finch groaned. “Gosh, I completely forgot to give them anything! No wonder he gave me a chilly look. How much was in the envelopes, Uncle Nick?”

  “Five in each. Ernest gives them the same. Well — it keeps ’em good-humoured. They have a lot of trays to cope with.”

  Finch walked alone across the fields to church. A slight fall of snow had made them freshly white. There showed no human footprint but the winding path was clearly defined among the tall dead grasses, the stalks of Michaelmas daisy and goldenrod. In and about ran the footprints of pheasants. Rabbits had been there too, leaving their Y-shaped prints, and field mice their tiny scratchings. From a twisted old thorn tree, a chickadee piped his last recollection of spring.

  Now Finch could see the church tower rising from its knoll and in the graveyard two figures. They were Meg and Patience. As he drew near he saw that they were standing by the plot where the Vaughans were laid. It was the second Christmas that Meg’s husband, Maurice Vaughan, had been gone from her. Yet Finch felt that it would scarcely be seemly to call out “Merry Christmas” to Meg and Patience, mourning by his grave.

  But Meg saved Finch embarrassment by at once seeing him and coming toward him with arms outstretched. She still wore black but today she had brightened it by pinning a little nosegay of pink artificial daisies on the breast of her black lamb coat which had seen twelve seasons’ wear.

  “Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed, folding Finch to her bosom, “and many, many of them!”

  Finch hugged them both, then, after an appreciative glance at the wreath on the grave, said:

  “Hadn’t you better come into the church? You’ll get cold standing here.”

  “Yes, we’ll go at once. How do you like the wreath? I think it’s marvellous the way they make these wreaths of bronze leaves. They look so natural. But they’re terribly expensive.”

  “It’s very nice, Meggie.”

  “I was saying to Patience, just as you came up, how strange it is to think that when I die I shall have to lie here among the Vaughans, instead of with the Whiteoaks, where I’d feel so much more at home.”