The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  Augusta handed him a cup of tea. “Take this to my mother,” she said, “and then come back for the crumpets and honey.”

  Crumpets and honey! Finch’s mouth watered. He wondered if he should ever get over this feeling of being ravenous And yet he was so thin! He felt discouraged about himself. He wished his aunt would not send him about with tea. He invariably slopped it.

  Old Adeline watched him with pursed mouth as he drew an occasional table to her side and set her tea on it. Her greed equalled his own. Her hands, trembling a little, poured what tea had slopped into the saucer back into the cup, raised the cup to her lips, and drank gustily. The rings flashed on her shapely hands. Mr. Fennel marked them with disapproval.

  His voice came muffled through his curly brown beard. “Well, Finch, and how goes the practising?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” mumbled Finch.

  “The other night I was in my garden quite late. About eleven o’clock. I was surprised to hear the organ. You are quite welcome to use it in the daytime, you know.” Gentle reproof was in his tone.

  “I rather like the practising at night, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  His eyes moved from Mr. Fennel’s beard to his grandmother’s face. They exchanged a look of deep complicity like two conspirators. Her gaze was clear. The tea had revived her.

  She said, setting down the empty cup: “I like the boy to practise at night. Night’s the time for music—for love… Afternoon’s the time for tea—sociability… Morning’s the time for—er—tea. Another cup, Finch. Is there nothing to eat?”

  Pheasant appeared with tea for Mr. Fennel, and Piers with the crumpets and honey He was in white flannels.

  “Ah,” observed the rector, “it is nice to see you looking cool, Piers! You looked pretty hot the last time I saw you.”

  “Yes, that was a hot spell. Things are easing off now. Late August, you know. The crops are in. Small fruit over. Apples not begun.”

  “But there is always the stock, eh?”

  “Yes, always the stock. I don’t get much time for loafing. But this is Pheasant’s birthday, and I’m celebrating it by a day off and a clean suit!’

  “Her birthday, is it?” said Mr. Fennel. “I wish I had known! I would have brought some offering, if only a nosegay”

  Grandmother blinked rapidly; she smacked the honey on her lips “Pheasant’s birthday, eh? Why wasn’t I told? Why was it kept from me? I like birthdays. I’d have given her a present.” She turned toward Meg, Maurice, and Renny, who had just come into the room. “Did you know, my dears, that we’re having a birthday party? It’s Pheasant’s birthday, and we’re all dressed up for it. Look at the rector! Look at Piers! Look at me! Aren’t we trig?” She was all alive. She grinned at them, with the malicious and flashing grin for which the Courts had been famous.

  Meg approached her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I had heard nothing of any birthday,” she said, coldly.

  “Maurice,” exclaimed Grandmother, “haven’t you brought a birthday present for your daughter? Are you going to neglect old Baby just because new Baby’s on the scene?”

  Maurice slouched forward somewhat sheepishly. “I must do something about it,” he said.

  Pheasant’s little face was scarlet with embarrassment. She surveyed the family with the startled, timid gaze of a young wild thing.

  “She’s blessed,” said Piers glumly, “for she expects nothing.”

  Grandmother absorbed this saying. “H’m,” she said. She swallowed a piece of crumpet, and then added: “It’s the unexpected that happens. She’s going to get a present. And from me!”

  A chill of apprehension fell on the company.

  Mr. Fennel, feeling it, observed: “There’s nothing so pleasant, I think, as an unexpected present.” But even to himself his words sounded lame. He could utter no ghostly comfort that would calm these troubled waters.

  Old Adeline finished her crumpet with dispatch, drank another cup of tea. Then she demanded: “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.” Despite Renny’s encouraging look, the word came in a whisper.

  “Twenty, eh? Sweet and twenty! I was twenty once—ha! ‘Come and kiss me, sweet and twenty! Youth’s a stuff will not’—what was it? My old memory’s gone. Come here, my dear!”

  Pheasant went to her, trembling.

  Adeline spread out her hands, palms down, and examined her rings. Meg, with unaccustomed agility, sprang to her side. “Granny, Granny,” she breathed, “don’t do anything rash! A bit of lace. A little money to buy herself something pretty. But not—not—” She caught her grandmother’s hands in hers and drew the jewelled fingers against her own plump breast.

  “Mama,” said Ernest, “this excitement is very bad for you.”

  “Bring the backgammon board,” said Nicholas. “She likes a game of backgammon after tea.”

  “I’ve not finished my tea,” rapped out his mother. “I want cake. Not that white wishy-washy cake. Fruit cake.”

  Never was fruit cake so swiftly so passionately produced. She selected a piece, laid it on her plate, and, as though there had been no interruption, again spread out her hands, palms downward.

  She shot a glance at Meg, kneeling by her side.

  “Get up, Meggie,” she said, brusquely but not unkindly “You’ve nothing to be humble about.” But Meg still knelt, her hands to her breast, her eyes jealously guarding the rings.

  With a decisive movement, Adeline removed from the third finger of her right hand the ring of glowing rubies. She took the girl’s thin brown hand in hers and put it on her middle finger. She looked up into her face, smiling. “Give you colour, my dear. Give you heart. Nothing like a ruby… I’ll try some of that pale cake now.”

  Pheasant stood transfixed, reverently holding the brilliantly decorated hand in the hand that wore only her wedding ring. Her eyes were starry.

  “Oh,” she half-whispered, “how lovely! What beauties! Oh, you darling Gran!”

  Piers was at her side, sturdy, defiant, all aglow.

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Renny. “Let me see how it looks on your little paw!”

  But Wakefield intervened, took her hand, and fluttered his long lashes, examining the stones. He said, judicially: “You’ve got a fine ring there, my girl. I hope you take care of it.”

  Meg still knelt, her eyes damp, her hands clenched. “It’s unjust,” she gasped. “Its unfair to me and my child!”

  Renny put his hands under her arms and heaved her to her feet. He whispered vehemently into her ear: “Don’t make a show of yourself, Meggie! Remember, Mr. Fennel’s here.” Inwardly he thanked God for the presence of Mr. Fennel. It had certainly saved them from a terrible scene. She relapsed against his shoulder.

  The rector himself was wishing that the tea party had been more placid. He observed, pulling at his beard: “I always think that an unexpected present is the most delightful.” He could not resist adding: “And jewels are so beautiful on young hands.”

  Adeline appeared not to have heard. She finished her cake, eating the moist crumbs from her saucer with a spoon. But after a little she extended her bereft right hand toward him, with a flourish, and said: “You don’t think they suit my old hands, eh?”

  He knew how to mollify her.

  “I have never seen hands,” he said, “better shaped for the wearing of rings.”

  She clasped them on her stomach and surveyed the scene before her. There was trouble in the air, and she had brewed it. She had, directly or indirectly, made almost every being in the room. The pattern of the room was centrifugal, and she was the arch designer, the absolute centre. She felt complacent, firm, and strong. She fixed her eyes on Renny, and gave him a waggish nod. She knew he did not mind young Pheasant’s having the ruby. He grinned back at her. He had Wakefield on his knee.

  Adeline kept on wagging her head at Renny, but now with reproof. “Too old to be nursed,” she said.

  “I know,” replied Renny, “but he will clamber over me.” He p
ushed Wakefield from his knee.

  “Poor darling! He looks like a young robin pushed from the nest! Tell me, did you pray for me last night?”

  “Yes, my grandmother.”

  She looked triumphantly about her. “He never misses a night! And what did you pray?”

  Wakefield drew up his eyebrows. “I prayed—let’s see—I prayed”—his eyes lit on Pheasant’s hand—“that you would give a present today, and—get one!”

  She struck the arm of her chair with her palm. “Ha! Listen to that! A present! Now who would give me a present? No, no, I must do all the giving. Till the last. Then you can make me a present of a fine funeral Ha!”

  Nicholas growled to Ernest: “I shall have to cuff that young rascal before he’ll stop this mischief of praying.”

  “It’s very depressing for Mama,” said Ernest, gloomily. “It must be stopped.”

  “A game of backgammon will divert her.”

  Ernest looked dubious. “The last time I played with her she wasn’t very clear about it.”

  “Never mind. She must be diverted. She’s in the mood to give presents all round. I don’t know what has come over her.”

  He found the backgammon board, and the velvet bag containing the dice and dice boxes. He said to Wakefield, hovering near: “Ask your Grandmama and the parson if they will play backgammon. Place the small table between them. I shall cuff you if you persist in this praying business.”

  “Yes, Uncle Nick.”

  The little boy flew away, held whispered conversations, flew back.

  “Uncle Nick!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve placed the table, and the parson, and Gran. They said they were nothing loath.”

  Finch said: “He made that last up. They didn’t put it in those fool words.”

  “You are odious, Finch,” retorted Wake. He adored his Aunt Augusta’s vocabulary and had no self-consciousness in employing it.

  The opponents faced each other. Bearded, untidy Mr. Fennel; gorgeous, ancient Adeline.

  “I’m black,” she said.

  Very well, he was white. The men were placed on the tables. The dice were thrown.

  “Deuce!” from the parson.

  “Trey!” from Grandmother.

  They made their moves. The dice rattled. The emeralds on her left hand winked.

  “Doublets!”

  “Quatre!” She pronounced it “cater.”

  The dice were shaken; the players pondered; the men were moved.

  “Deuce!”

  “Trey!”

  “Cinq!”

  “Ace!”

  The game proceeded. Her head was as clear as ever it had been. Her eyes were bright. She fascinated Finch. He stood behind Mr. Fennel’s chair watching her. Sometimes their eyes met, and always there was that flash between them, that complicity of conspirators. “Afraid of life!” her eyes said. “A Court afraid? Watch me!”

  He watched her. He could not look away. Across the chasm of more than eighty years their souls met, touched fingers, touched lips.

  One by one she got her men home. One by one she took them from the board. She had won the first game!

  “A hit!” she cried, striking her hands together. “A hit!” Two groups had formed in the room, away from the players and Finch, who stood behind the rector, and Wakefield perched on the arm of his grandmother’s chair. One of these groups consisted of Meg, Nicholas, Ernest, and Augusta, who in under-tones discussed what portent the gift of the ring might have. The other group was composed of Piers, Pheasant, Maurice, and Renny, who talked rather loudly, in an effort to appear unconscious that there was trouble in the air. As Grandmother cried, “A hit!” the faces of the members of both groups turned toward her, and they clapped their hands, applauding her.

  “Well played, my grandmother!” cried Wakefield, patting her on the back.

  Finch’s eyes sought hers, found them, held them. She felt suddenly tired. She was very tired, but very happy.

  “You have me badly beaten,” said Mr. Fennel, stroking his beard.

  “Ah, yes. I’m in good form today,” she mumbled. “Very good form—tonight.”

  Boney shuffled on his perch, shook himself, gaped. Two bright feathers were loosened, and sank slowly to the floor.

  Mr. Fennel stared at him.

  “He doesn’t talk now, eh?”

  “No,” she answered, craning her neck so as to see the bird. “He doesn’t talk at all. Poor Boney! Poor old Boney! Doesn’t talk at all. Doesn’t say curse words. Doesn’t say love words. Silent as the grave, hey, Boney?”

  “Shall we have another game?” asked Mr. Fennel.

  The two groups had resumed their preoccupations. Kenny’s laugh broke out sharply.

  “Another game? Yes, I’d like another game. I’m white!”

  Mr. Fennel and Wakefield exchanged glances.

  “But, Gran,” cried Wakefield, “you were black before!”

  “Black! Not a bit of it, I’m white.”

  Mr. Fennel changed the men, giving her the white ones.

  The men were placed. The dice shaken. The game proceeded.

  “Deuce!”

  “Cinq!”

  “The Doublet!”

  But her head was no longer clear. She fumbled for her men, and could not have got through the game had not Wakefield, leaning on her shoulder, helped her with the play.

  She was beaten, but she did not know it.

  “A double game!” she said, triumphantly. “A double game! Gammon!”

  The rector smiled indulgently.

  Finch felt himself sinking beneath a cloud.

  “But, my grandmother,” cried Wakefield, “you’re beaten! Don’t you know when you’re beaten?”

  “Me beaten? Not a bit of it. I won’t have it! I’ve won.” She was staring straight ahead of her into Finch’s eyes. “Gammon!”

  Mr. Fennel began gathering up the men.

  “Another game?” he asked. “You may make it backgammon, this time.”

  She did not answer.

  Wakefield nudged her shoulder. “Another game, Gran?”

  “I’m afraid she’s a little tired,” said Mr. Fennel.

  But she was still smiling, looking straight into Finch’s eyes. Her eyes were saying to him: “A Court afraid? A Court afraid of death? Gammon!”

  Again Boney shook himself, and another feather fluttered to the floor.

  Nicholas had risen to his feet, and was looking across the room. Suddenly he shouted: “Mother!”

  They were all on their feet, except Wakefield, who still hung on her shoulder, realizing nothing.

  Her head sank.

  Finch watched them as they gathered about her, raising her head, holding smelling salts to her long nose, forcing brandy between her blanched lips, wringing their hands, being frightened, half-demented. He had seen her spirit, staunch and stubborn, leave the body. He knew it was futile to try to recall it.

  Boney watched the scene with one detached yellow eye, apparently unmoved, but when they carried her to the sofa and laid her on it, he left his perch with a distracted tumble of wings and fluttered on to her prostrate body, screaming: “Nick! Nick! Nick!” It was the first time he had ever been known to utter a word of English.

  He was with difficulty captured and taken to her bedroom, where he took his position on the head of the bed and relapsed into stoical silence.

  Piers telephoned for the doctor. Meg was sobbing in Augusta’s arms. Ernest sat beside the table, his head buried in his arms across the backgammon board. Pheasant had flown upstairs to her bedroom to bedew the ruby ring with tears. Nicholas drew a chair to his mother’s side and sat with his shoulders bent, staring blankly into her face. The rector dropped his chin into his beard and murmured a short prayer over the body, stretched out so straight that the feet, in black slippers, projected over the end of the sofa. Again she looked a tall woman.

  Mr. Fennel was about to close the eyes. The heavy lids resisted. Renny caught his arm.
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  “Don’t close her eyes! I won’t believe she’s dead! She can’t have died like that!”

  He put his hand inside her tea gown and felt her heart. It was still. He brought a mirror and held it before her nostrils. It bright surface was undimmed. But he would not have her eyes closed.

  Soon Dr. Drummond came and pronounced her dead, and himself closed her eyelids. He was an old man, and had brought all the younger Whiteoaks, from Meg down, into the world.

  Ernest rose then and came to her, trembling. He stroked her face, and kissed it, sobbing: “Mama… Mama.”… But Nicholas sat motionless as a statue.

  Renny could not stay in that house. He would go to Fiddler’s Hut and tell Eden and Alayne what had happened. He flung out through the side door into the grassy yard where the old brick oven stood. A waddling procession of ducks cocked their roguish eyes at him; Mrs. Wragge and the kitchenmaid peered after him with curiosity from a basement window. Galloping colts in the paddock came whimpering to the fence as he hurried past. Red and white cows in the pasture, heavy-uddered, turned their tolerant gaze after him. He entered the orchard. The days were already shortening. The red sun showed between the black trunks of the trees. He noticed that all colours were intensified into a sombre brightness. Little rosy mushrooms were resetted here and there in the lush grass. The orchard fence was smothered in goldenrod.

  Between the orchard and the “old orchard” lay a field of potatoes. Old Binns was digging them and laying them in shallow ridges on the black loam. In that long day he had done perhaps a half-day’s work. He leaned on his spade and shouted: “Hi! Mr. Whiteoak! Hi!”

  Renny stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you s’pose be here now?”

  “’What?”

  “Blight. Blight be here.”

  Renny threw up his hand.

  “Put down that spade!” he shouted. “No more work here today!” He strode on.

  No spade should stir the surface of the land she had loved. That land must lie quiet, mourning for her today, and tomorrow, and the next day.