“Don’t you dare to curse at me!” She thrust her face toward Eden. “Nicholas, order him to stop cursing at me.”
“Stop cursing at her,” growled Nicholas, in his rich, deep voice. “More tart, Meggie, please.”
Grandmother nodded and grinned, subsiding into her tart, which she ate with a spoon, making little guttural noises of enjoyment.
“Just the same,” said Renny, carrying on the conversation, “I don’t altogether like it. None of us have ever done anything like that.”
“You seemed to think it was all right for me to write poetry when I only had it published in the varsity magazine. Now when I’ve got a publisher to bring it out—”
Grandmother was aroused. “Bring it out! Will he bring it today? If he does, I shall wear my white cap with mauve—”
“Mamma, have some more tart,” interrupted Nicholas. “Just a little more tart.”
Old Mrs. Whiteoak’s attention was easily diverted by an appeal to her palate. She eagerly held out her plate, tilting the juice from it to the cloth, where it formed a pinkish puddle.
Eden, after sulkily waiting for her to be helped to some tart, went on, a frown indenting his forehead: “You simply have no idea, Renny, how difficult it is to get a book of poems published. And by a New York house, too! I wish you could hear my friends talk about it. They’d give a good deal to have accomplished what I have at my age.”
“It would have been more to the point,” returned Renny, testily, “to have passed your exams. When I think of the money that’s been wasted on your education—”
“Wasted! Could I have done this if I hadn’t had my education?”
“You’ve always been scribbling verses. The question is, can you make a living by it?”
“Give me time! Good Lord, my book isn’t in the printer’s hands yet. I can’t tell what it may lead to. If you—any of you—only appreciated what I’ve really done—”
“I do, dear!” exclaimed his sister. “I think it’s wonderfully clever of you, and, as you say, it may lead to—to anywhere.”
“It may lead to my being obliged to go to New York to live, if I’m going to go in for writing,” said Eden. “One should be near one’s publishers.”
Piers, the brother next to him, put in: “Well, it’s getting late. One must go back to one’s spreading of manure. One’s job may be lowly—one regrets that one’s job is not writing poetry.”
Eden pocketed the insult of his tone, but retorted: “You certainly smell of your job.”
Wakefield tilted back in his chair, leaning toward Piers. “Oh, I smell him!” he cried. “I think the smell of stable is very appetizing.”
“Then I wish,” said Eden, “that you’d change places with me. It takes away my appetite.”
Wakefield began to scramble down, eager to change, but his sister restrained him. “Stay where you are, Wake. You know how Piers would torment you if you were next him. As for you going to New York, Eden—you know how I should feel about that.” Tears filled her eyes.
The family rose from the table and moved in groups toward the three doorways. In the first group Grandmother dragged her feet heavily, supported by a son on either side, Nicholas having his terrier tucked under one arm and Ernest his cat perched on his shoulder. Like some strange menagerie on parade, they slowly traversed the faded medallions of the carpet toward the door that was opposite Grandmother’s room. Renny, Piers, and Wakefield went through the door that led into a back passage, the little boy trying to swarm up the back of Piers, who was lighting a cigarette. Meg and Eden disappeared through the double doors that led into the library.
Immediately the manservant, John Wragge, known as “Rags,” began to clear the table, piling the dishes precariously on an immense black tray decorated with faded red roses, preparatory to carrying it down the long steep stairs to the basement kitchen. He and his wife inhabited the regions below, she doing the cooking, he carrying, besides innumerable trays up the steep stairs, all the coal and water, cleaning brasses and windows, and waiting on his wife in season and out. Yet she complained that he put the burden of the work on her, while he declared that he did his own and hers too. The basement was the scene of continuous quarrels. Through its subterranean ways they pursued each other with bitter recriminations, and occasionally through its brick-floored passages a boot hurtled or a cabbage flew like a bomb. Jalna was so well built that none of these altercations were audible upstairs. In complete isolation the two lived their stormy life together, usually effecting a reconciliation late at night, with a pot of strong tea on the table between them.
Rags was a drab-faced, voluble little Cockney, with a pert nose and a mouth that seemed to have been formed for a cigarette holder. He was at the head of the back stairs as Renny, Piers, and Wakefield came along the passage. Wakefield waited till his brothers had passed, and then leaped on Rags’s back, scrambling up him as though he were a tree, and nearly precipitating themselves and the loaded tray down the stairs.
“Ow!” screamed Rags. “’E’s done it again! ‘E’s always at it! This time ‘e nearly ‘ad me down. There goes the sugar bison! There goes the grivy boat! Tike ‘im orf me, for pity’s sike, Mr. W’iteoak!”
Piers, who was nearest, dragged Wakefield from Rags’s back, laughing hilariously as he did so. But Renny came back frowning. “He ought to be thrashed,” he said, sternly. “It’s just as Rags says—he’s always after him.” He peered down the dim stairway at the Whiteoak butler gathering up the debris.
“I’ll stand him on his head,” said Piers.
“No—don’t do that. It’s bad for his heart”
But Piers had already done it, and the packet of gum had fallen from Wakefield’s pocket.
“Put him on his feet,” ordered Renny. “Here, what’s this?” And he picked up the pink packet.
Wake hung a bewildered, buzzing head. “It’s g-gum,” he said faintly. “Mrs. Brawn gave it to me. I didn’t like to offend her by saying I wasn’t allowed to chew it. I thought it was better not to offend her, seeing that I owe her a little bill. But you’ll notice, Renny”—he raised his large eyes pathetically to his brother’s face—“you’ll notice it’s never been opened.”
“Well, I’ll let you off this time.” Renny threw the packet down the stairs after Rags. “Here, Rags, throw this out!”
Rags examined it, then his voice came unctuously up the stairway: “Ow, naow, Mr. W’iteoak, I’ll give it to the missus. I see it’s flivoured with vaniller. ‘Er fivourite flivour. It’ll do ‘er a world of good to chew this when one of ‘er spells comes on.”
Renny turned to Wakefield. “How much do you owe Mrs. Brawn?”
“I think it’s eighteen cents, Renny. Unless you think I ought to pay for the gum. In that case it would be twentythree.”
Renny took out a handful of silver and picked out a quarter. “Now take this and pay Mrs. Brawn, and don’t run into debt again.”
Grandmother had by this time reached the door of her room, but, hearing sounds that seemed to contain the germ of a row, which she loved only second to her meals, she ordered her sons to steer her in the direction of the back stairs. The three bore down, clasped closely together, presenting a solid, overwhelming front, awe-inspiring to Wakefield as a Juggernaut. The sun, beaming through a stained-glass window behind them, splashed bright patches of colour over their bodies. Grandmother’s taste ran to gaudy hues. It was she who had installed the bright window there to light the dim passage. Now, clad in a red velvet dressing gown, clasping her gold-headed ebony stick, she advanced toward the grandsons, long-beaked, brilliant as a parrot.
“What’s this going on?” she demanded. “What’s the child been doing, Piers?”
“Climbing up Rags’s back, Gran. He nearly threw him downstairs. Renny promised him a licking next time he did it, and now he’s letting him off.”
Her face turned crimson with excitement. She looked more like a parrot than ever. “Let him off, indeed!” she cried. “There’s too much let
ting off here. That’s what’s the matter. I say flog him. Do you hear, Renny? Flog him well. I want to see it done. Get a cane and flog him.”
With a terrified scream, Wakefield threw his arms about Renny’s waist and hid his face against him. “Don’t whip me, Renny!” he implored.
“I’ll do it myself,” she cried. “I’ve flogged boys before now. I’ve flogged Nicholas. I’ve flogged Ernest. I’ll flog this spoiled little rascal. Let me have him!” She shuffled toward him, eager with lust of power.
“Come, come, Mamma,” interposed Ernest, “this excitement’s bad for you. Come and have a nice peppermint pâté or a glass of sherry.” Gently he began to wheel her around.
“No, no, no!” she screamed, struggling, and Nip and Sasha began to bark and mew.
Renny settled it by picking up the little boy under his arm and hurrying along the passage to the side entrance. He set him down on the flagged path outside and shut the door behind them with a loud bang. Wakefield stood staring up at him like a ruffled young robin that has just been tossed from its nest by a storm, very much surprised, but tremendously interested in the world in which it finds itself.
“Well,” observed Renny, lighting a cigarette, “that’s that.”
Wakefield, watching him, was filled with a passion of admiration for Renny—his all-powerful brown hands, his red head, his long, sharp-featured face. He loved him. He wanted Renny’s love and Renny’s pity more than anything else in the world. He must make Renny notice him, be kind to him, before he strode off to the stable after Piers.
Closing his eyes, he repeated the potent words that never failed to bring tears to his eyes. “This is terrible! Oh, it is terrible!” Something warm swelled within him. Something gushed upward, tremulous, through his being. He felt slightly dizzy, then tears welled sweetly into his eyes. He opened them and saw Renny through their iridescent brilliance, staring at him with amused concern.
“What!” he demanded. “Did Gran frighten you?”
“N-no. A little.”
“Poor old fellow!” He put his arm around Wakefield and pressed him against his side. “But look here. You mustn’t cry so easily. That’s twice today I’ve seen you. You won’t have the life of a dog when you go to school if you keep on like this.”
Wake twisted a button on Renny’s coat.
“May I have my marbles—and—ten cents?” he breathed. “You see, it will take the quarter to pay Mrs. Brawn, and I would like just one little drink of lemon sour.”
Renny handed over ten cents and the marbles.
Wake threw himself on the grass, flat on his back, staring up at the friendly blue of the sky. A sense of joyous peace possessed him. The afternoon was before him. He had nothing to do but enjoy himself. Lovingly he rattled the marbles in one pocket and the thirty-five cents in the other. Life was rich, full of infinite possibilities.
Presently a hot sweet smell assailed his sensitive nostrils. It was rising from the window of the basement kitchen near him. He rolled over and sniffed again. Surely he smelled cheese cakes. Delicious, crusty, lovely cheese cakes. He crept briskly on his hands and knees to the window and peered down into the kitchen. Mrs. Wragge had just taken a pan of them out of the oven. Rags was washing the dishes and already chewing the gum. Mrs. Wragge’s face was crimson with heat. Looking up, she saw Wakefield.
“Have a cake?” she asked, and handed one up to him.
“Oh, thanks. And—and—Mrs. Wragge, please may I have one for my friend?”
“You ain’t got no friend with yer,” said Rags, vindictively champing the gum.
Wakefield did not deign to answer him. He only held out one thin little brown hand for the other cake. Mrs. Wragge laid it on his palm. “Look out it don’t burn ye,” she advised.
Blissfully he lay on the shaggy grass of the lawn, munching one cake and gazing quietly at the other recumbent on the grass before him. But when he came to it he really had not room for the second cake. If Finch had been there, he could have given it to him and Finch would have asked no uncomfortable questions. But Finch was at school. Was his whole glorious afternoon to be spoiled by the responsibility of owning a cake too many?
What did dogs do when they had a bone they didn’t need at the moment? They buried it.
He walked round and round the perennial border, looking for a nice place. At last, near the root of a healthy-looking bleeding-heart he dug a little hole and placed the cake therein. It looked so pretty there he felt like calling Meg out to see it. But no—better not. Quickly he covered it with the moist warm earth and patted it smooth. Perhaps one day he would come and dig it up.
III
ERNEST AND SASHA
ERNEST WHITEOAK was at this time seventy years old. He had reached the age when after a hearty dinner a man likes repose of body and spirit. Such scenes as the one his mother had just staged inclined to upset his digestion, and it was with as petulant a look as ever shadowed his gentle face that he steered her at last to her padded chair by her own fire and ensconced her there. He stood looking down at her with a singular mixture of disgust and adoration. She was a deplorable old vixen, but he loved her more than anyone else in the world.
“Comfortable, Mamma?” he asked.
“Yes. Bring me a peppermint. A Scotch mint—not a humbug.”
He selected one from a little tin box on the dresser and brought it to her in his long pale fingers that seemed almost unnaturally smooth.
“Put it in my mouth, boy.” She opened it, pushing forward her lips till she looked like a hungry old bird.
He popped in the peppermint, withdrawing his fingers quickly as though he were afraid she would bite him.
She sucked the sweet noisily, staring into the dancing firelight from under shaggy red brows. On the high back of her chair her brilliantly coloured parrot, Boney, perched, vindictively pecking at the ribbons on her cap. She had brought a parrot with her from India, named Boney in derision of Bonaparte. She had had several since the first one, but the time was long past when she was able to differentiate between them. They were all “Boney,” and she frequently would tell a visitor of the time she had had fetching this one across the ocean seventy-five years ago. He had been almost as much trouble as the baby, Augusta. Grandmother and her two sons had each a pet, which gave no love to anyone but its owner. The three with their pets kept to their own apartments like superior boarders, seldom emerging except for meals and to pay calls on each other, or to sit in the drawingroom at whist in the evening.
Grandmother’s room was thickly carpeted and curtained. It smelled of sandalwood, camphor, and hair oil. The windows were opened only once a week, when Mrs. Wragge “turned it out” and threw the old lady into a temper for the day.
Her bed was an old painted leather one. The head blazed with oriental fruit, clustered about the gorgeous plumage of a parrot and the grinning faces of two monkeys. On this Boney perched all night, only at daylight flapping down to torment his mistress with pecks and Hindu curses which she herself had taught him.
He began to swear now at Sasha, who, standing on her hind legs, was trying to reach his tail with a curving grey paw.
“Kutni! Kutni! Kutni !” he rapped out. “Paji! Paji! Shaitan ka katla!” He rent the air with a metallic scream.
“Pick up your horrid cat, Ernest,” ordered his mother. “She’s making Boney swear. Poor Boney! Pretty Boney! Peck her eyes out, Boney!”
Ernest lifted Sasha to his shoulder, where she humped furiously, spitting out in her turn curses less coherent but equally vindictive.
“Comfortable now, Mamma?” Ernest repeated, fondling the ribbon on her cap.
“M-m. When’s this man coming?”
“What man, Mamma?”
“The man that’s going to bring out Eden’s book. When’s he coming? I want to have on my ecru cap with the mauve ribbons.”
“I’ll let you know in time, Mamma.”
“M-m... More wood. Put more wood on the fire. I like to be warm as well as anyone.”
/>
Ernest laid a heavy piece of oak log on the fire and stood looking down at it till slender flames began to caress it; then he turned to look at his mother. She was fast asleep, her chin buried in her breast. The Scotch mint had slipped out of her mouth and Boney had snatched it up and carried it to a corner of the room, where he was striking it on the floor to crack it, imagining it was some rare sort of nut. Ernest smiled and retreated, gently closing the door after him.
He slowly mounted the stairs, Sasha swaying on his shoulder, and sought his own room. The door of his brother’s room stood open, and as he passed he had a glimpse of Nicholas sprawling in an armchair, his gouty leg supported on a beaded ottoman, his untidy head enveloped in cigar smoke. In his own room he was surprised and pleased to find his nephew, Eden. The young men did not often call on him; they favoured Nicholas, who had ribald jokes to tell.
Nevertheless, he liked their company, and was always ready to lay aside his work—the annotating of Shakespeare—for the sake of it.
Eden was sitting on the edge of a book-littered table, swinging his leg. He looked self-conscious and flustered.
“I hope I’m not troubling you, Uncle,” he said. “Just say the word if you don’t want me and I’ll clear out.”
Ernest sat down in the chair farthest from his desk, to show that he had no thought of study. “I’m glad to have you, Eden. You know that. I’m very pleased about this success of yours—this book, and all the more so because you’ve read a good many of the poems to me in this very room. I take a great interest in it.”
“You’re the only one that really understands,” answered Eden. “Understands the difference the publishing of this book will make in my life, I mean. Of course Uncle Nick has been very nice about praising my poems—”
“Oh,” interrupted Ernest, with a hurt feeling, “you read them to Nicholas in his room, also, eh?”
“Just a few. The ones I thought would interest him. Some of the love poems. I wanted to see how they affected him. After all, he’s a man of the world. He’s experienced a good deal in his time.”
Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 61
