07 Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  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 letting 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.”

  “And how did they affect him?” asked Ernest, polishing the nails of one hand against the palm of the other.

  “They amused him, I think. Like yourself, he has difficulty in appreciating the new poetry. Still, he thinks I have good stuff in me.”

  “I wish you could have gone to Oxford.”

  “I wish I could. And so I might if Renny could have been brought to see reason. Of course, he feels now that the education he has given me has been wasted, since I refuse to go on with the study of law. But I can’t, and that’s all there is to it. I’m awfully fond of Renny, but I wish he weren’t so frightfully materialistic. The first thing he asked about my book was whether I could make much money out of it. As though one ever made much out of a first book.”

  “And poetry at that,” amended Ernest.

  “He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m the first one of the family who has done anything to make our name known to the world—” The armour of his egotism was pierced by a hurt glance from Ernest and he hastened to add, “Of course, Uncle, there’s your work on Shakespeare. That will get a lot of attention when it comes out. But Renny won’t see anything in either achievement to be proud of. I think he’s rather ashamed for us. He thinks a Whiteoak should be a gentleman farmer or a soldier. His life’s been rather cramped, after all.”

  “He was through the War,” commented Ernest. “That was a great experience.”

  “And what impressions did he bring back from it?” demanded Eden. “Almost the first questions he asked when he returned were about the price of hay and steers, and he spent most of his first afternoon leaning over a sty, watching a litter of squirming young pigs.”

  “I sympathize with you very greatly, my dear boy. And so does Meggie. She thinks you’re a genius.”

  “Good old Meg. I wish she could convince the rest of the clan of that. Piers is a young beast.”

  “You mustn’t mind Piers. He gibes at everything connected with learning. After all, he’s very young. Now tell me, Eden, what shall you do? Shall you take up literature as a profession?” Eager to be sympathetic, he peered into the boy’s face. He wanted very much to hold him, to keep his confidence.

  “Oh, I’ll look about me. I’ll go on writing. I may join an expedition into the North this summer. I’ve an idea for a cycle of poems about the Northland. Not wild, rugged stuff, but something delicate, austere. One thing is certain—I’m not going to mix up law and poetry. It wouldn’t do for me at all. Let’s see what sort of reviews I get, Uncle Ernie.”

  They discussed the hazards of literature as a means of livelihood. Ernest spoke as a man of experience, though in all his seventy years he had never earned a dollar by his pen. Where would he be now, Eden wondered, if it were not for the shelter of Renny’s roof. He supposed Gran would have had to come across with enough to support him, though to get money from her was to draw blood from a stone.

  When Eden had gone, Ernest remained motionless in his chair by the window, looking out over the green meadows, and thinking also of his mother’s fortune. It was the cause of much disturbing thought to him. Not that it was what one could call a great fortune, but a comfortable sum it certainly was. And there it was lying, accumulating for no one knew whom. In moments of the closest intimacy and affection with her, she never could be ever so gently led to disclose in whose favour her will was made. She knew that much of her power lay in keeping that tantalizing secret. He felt sure, by the mirthful gleam he had discovered in her eyes when the subject of money or wills was approached, that in secret she hugged the joy of baffling them all.

  Ernest loved his family. He would feel no deep bitterness should any one of them inherit the money. He greatly longed, nevertheless, to be the next heir himself, to be in his turn the holder of power at Jalna, to experience the thrill of independence. And if he had it, he would do such nice things for them all, from brother Nicholas down to little Wake! By means of that power he would guide their lives into the channels that would be best for them. Whereas, if Nicholas inherited it—it had been divulged by Mrs. Whiteoak that the money was to be left solidly to one person—well, Ernest could not quite think dispassionately of Nicholas as his mother’s heir. He might do something reckless. Nicholas frequently made very reckless
jokes about what he would do when he got it—he seemed to take it for granted that, as the eldest, he would get it—jokes which Ernest was far too generous to repeat to his mother, but it made him positively tremble to think where the family might end if Nicholas had a fling with it. In himself he was aware of well-knit faculties, cool judgment, a capacity for power. Nicholas was headstrong, arbitrary, ill balanced.

  As for Renny, he was a good fellow, but he was letting the place run down. It had deteriorated while he was away at the War, and his return had not stayed the downward progression. The younger nephews could scarcely be looked on as rivals. Still, one never could be certain where the whim of an aged woman was in question.

  Ernest sighed and looked toward the bed. He thought he should take a little nap after such a substantial dinner. With a last look at the pretty green meadows, he drew down the blind and laid his slender body along the coverlet. Sasha leaped up after him, snuggling her head close to his on the pillow. They gazed into each other’s eyes, his blue and drowsy, hers vivid green in the shadowed room, speculative, mocking.

  She stretched out a round paw and laid it on his cheek, then, lest he should rest too secure in her love, she put out her claws just a little way and let him feel their sharpness.

  “Sasha, dear, you’re hurting me,” he breathed.

  She withdrew her claws, patted him, and uttered short throaty purrs.

  “Pretty puss,” sighed Ernest, closing his eyes. “Gentle puss!”

  She was sleepy, too, so they slept.

  IV

  NICHOLAS AND NIP

  AS NEPHEW Eden had sought out uncle Ernest that he might discuss his future with him, so that same afternoon nephew Renny sought out uncle Nicholas that they too might discuss Eden’s prospects.

  Both rooms, the scenes of these conversations, would appear to an outside observer overfurnished. The two elderly men had collected there all the things which they particularly fancied or to which they thought they had a claim, but while Ernest’s taste ran to pale watercolours, china figures, and chintz-covered chairs, Nicholas had the walls of his room almost concealed by hunting prints and pictures of pretty women. His furniture was leather covered. An old square piano, the top of which was littered with pipes, several decanters and a mixer, medicine bottles—he was always dosing himself for gout—and music, stood by the window.