“What is that?” asked Ernest distrustfully.
“Salmon trout. It looks very nice, too.”
Ernest shook his head.
“I couldn’t think of it,” he said. “Not after the night I had. I’m sorry there wasn’t a bit of bacon for me this morning. I could have relished that.”
“We’ll have some cooked. Rags, get some bacon. Uncle Nick, you’ll have salmon, won’t you?”
Nicholas had hidden himself behind the London Times, just arrived and twelve days old. From this shelter he growled:
“Bad for my gout. I’ll take bacon too.”
Renny was chagrined, for he had ordered the fish specially to tempt them on this morning. Silence fell while they waited for the bacon. Ernest looked disapprovingly at his nephew’s unshaven chin. He observed:
“You’d have a really ugly red beard if you were to let it grow.”
Renny passed a lean hand over his face. “Yes. I know. I’d look like the devil.”
“How often do you shave?”
“Every day.”
“Hmph.”
“It’s a fact. I didn’t this morning. I—” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m off colour myself this morning.”
Nicholas looked at him round the edge of his paper, then returned to it with relief.
An advancing tide of gloom crept into the room. Speech was impossible. Renny gave a noticeable start as the front door opened and closed. Low voices were heard in the hall.
“Oh,” said Alayne to herself, “why cannot they do things simply, like other modern people! Why must they create this overpowering atmosphere!”
She heard Renny say—“I must telephone Piers. I’ve a message from Crowdy for him.” She saw him go into the library and close the door behind him. She knew he could endure the strain no longer. Her eyes met Wakefield’s, and a tense look passed between them, intercepted by a sympathetic gleam from Rags’s eager eye.
Renny sat down beside the telephone and buried his face in his hands. How was he going to break the news? Lead up to it carefully or simply blurt it out? His uncles seemed even more depressed than usual this morning.
Without taking down the receiver he loudly gave the telephone number and then said—“Is that you, Pheasant? I have a message for Piers from Crowdy…” Then, in a mumbling tone he continued an imaginary conversation. The door leading into the hall opened and Piers came into the library. He said:
“We’re here. Meg and the doctor have gone into the drawing-room. Is breakfast over?”
“Almost. I’m pretending to talk to Pheasant. I had to get away. Said I had a message for you from Crowdy. I’ll tell them you’ve just happened in. God, I hear them getting up from the table now! They’re coming in here! Don’t go, Piers! I wonder if perhaps you had better tell them. Or Meggie! It might come easier from a woman. Has the doctor brought a restorative, do you think?”
Nicholas and Ernest, followed by Wakefield and Alayne, now entered from the dining room. Nicholas was already filling his after-breakfast pipe. Renny said excitedly:
“Piers has just come in. I was telephoning him when he walked in at the door. Sit down here, Uncle Ernie. I’ve something to tell you. I think perhaps Piers had better tell it.”
“No,” muttered Piers.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ernest, looking from one face to another. Meg, drawn by curiosity, appeared in the doorway.
Nicholas went on stolidly cramming his pipe.
Renny turned to Meg. “Wh-what was it you were going to say, Meggie?”
She stared back at him, speechless.
“What is all this mystery?” demanded Ernest with dignity.
“Do you feel a draught?” asked Renny. “Shall I close the windows?”
“Thank you… But why are you all here? Do I see Dr. Fairchild’s car?”
“Yes, yes. He came in to see Adeline’s rash. It’s nothing to worry about, he says. Isn’t that what he says, Alayne?”
Alayne returned his look of appeal, stiff-lipped, frozen. Save in his passion she could not respond to him.
From upstairs, from the very attic, came the sound of loud crying.
“What’s that?” cried Ernest, shocked.
“It’s Finch,” answered Renny.
“What have you been doing to him?”
“He’s crying about Auntie.”
Nicholas hit the table beside him with the flat of his hand.
“Explain!”
Ernest cried—“About whom? Auntie! Augusta! Has anything happened my sister?”
“Oh, Uncle Ernie!” wailed Meg, and ran in and threw herself on his breast.
Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair and stood tall and commanding.
“Tell me,” he said, in a hollow voice, “is Augusta dead?”
“A stroke,” answered Piers.
“And did not survive it?”
“I’d a cable,” said Renny, “last night. From the Vicar. She’s gone.”
Ernest began to weep, clinging to Meg, who patted his back as though he were a child.
Nicholas ejaculated incoherently—“My sister dead! Gussie dead! Poor—poor Gussie! Why—I can’t believe it!” He looked about him bewildered. “Why, she was here such a little time ago! A cablegram, you say, Renny? May I see it, please?”
Renny took it from his pocket and handed it to him. Nicholas, with a shaking hand, adjusted his glasses on his nose and read.
“Let me see it too!” quavered Ernest.
Nicholas handed it to him. Ernest peered at it through his fast-flowing tears. He could not make out the words and handed it back to his brother mournfully shaking his head. He said:
“To think of it! And I was going to write to her today! Poor, dear Augusta! Thank God, she did not suffer long!”
“I suppose,” said Nicholas, “that you have all known of this since last night.”
“All but Finch and Wakefield,” answered Renny. “I told them before breakfast.”
“And Finch broke down! Poor lad. Go upstairs, Wake, and bring him down! He must not be left up there alone.”
“Yes, yes,” echoed Ernest, “bring Finch down! He was very fond of his aunt and he will miss her sorely. Poor dear Augusta! I should not feel so badly if I had got my letter off to her.”
“She’d not have been there to read it,” objected his brother.
“I know, I know, but I’d have felt happier in my mind, just the same.” He wiped his eyes on his large silk handkerchief.
“That’s very foolish of you, Ernest. You were a very good brother to Augusta, and this is no time for futile regrets.” Nicholas took out his own handkerchief and blew his nose.
Wakefield had gone upstairs to Finch. The doctor advanced cautiously across the hall to the door of the library Renny met him with mingled relief and bewilderment.
“Do you need my help?” asked the doctor.
“Not yet! And I don’t believe we shall! They’re splendid. They’re wonderful. They’re thinking of others more than themselves. They’re wanting Finch brought down. He has rotten nerves, that boy!”
Ernest and Nicholas came forward to greet the old doctor. He shook hands with them and murmured his sympathy.
“I had a great admiration for Lady Buckley,” and he recalled an incident of her kindness to him.
Her brothers were pleased and joined in extolling her virtues.
Piers said to Alayne—“This is just what I expected. But Renny is always looking for scenes.”
“Well, I suppose he has good reason to.”
“I knew they would feel it terribly. But they’ve lots of character. They’re not weaklings—like Finch.”
“You’re not fair to Finch! You never have been!”
“Perhaps. I don’t understand him. But I think I do understand my uncles, and I expected them to show a certain amount of self-control. Thank God, they’re showing it!”
Nicholas and Ernest were indeed controlled though their faces were white and drawn. They escorte
d the doctor to the door and, when they returned to the library, Piers had brought a small glass of brandy for each of them. They took it gratefully. After a few sips, Ernest remarked:
“She seemed so bright before she left Jalna! I can’t think what can have brought this on. In her last letter she spoke of walking to the village and back.”
Renny asked hesitatingly—“Was her last letter—written after—she had heard about the mortgage?”
“No—she had not heard about it then. But she must have had Nick’s letter telling of it in a day or two.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“No, not since. It would be a blow to her.” He exchanged a look with Nicholas.
“I wonder—” Renny began but could not go on.
Nicholas said—“If you’re worrying, Renny, because you think that news brought a stroke on Augusta, you’re quite wrong. No—she was too well-balanced for that. As a matter of fact, she complained to me, in an earlier letter, of sensations. I was more than a little anxious about her.”
“Yes,” agreed Ernest, “it would be wrong to blame yourself for that. Augusta’s time had come and it is not for us to harrow ourselves with speculations.” He laid a kind hand on Renny’s shoulder.
Alayne looked at them wonderingly. One never knew what storm would sweep them apart or drive them together!
Wakefield returned to the room.
“Finch would not come down,” he said. “He’s quiet now. He’s sitting by his window.”
Nicholas refilled his glass. Colour returned to his lips. He said:
“There will be a lot of things to attend to. Someone will have to go to England at once.”
“Oh, I wish I could go,” cried Wakefield eagerly. “I’ve never been anywhere in all my life, and this would be a wonderful opportunity for me.”
“Your turn will come later,” said Nicholas.
“I could go,” offered Piers.
“I don’t think,” said Ernest, “that you would know enough of my sister’s affairs to be of any use whatever.”
“The idea!” chimed in Meg. “As though you knew the very first thing about closing an estate! I am the only niece. Maurice and I will go.”
“I like that,” said Piers. “What the devil do you or Maurice know of such a thing?”
“Come, children,” interrupted Ernest reprovingly, “this is no time for quarrelling. As for your Uncle Nicholas and myself, we should not consider shirking our responsibility for a moment.”
“Do you mean to say,” cried Meg, “that you will go.”
“Certainly we shall,” said Nicholas.
“But who will go to look after you? You are ill and Uncle Nick’s leg is so bad.”
“We shall manage. I’ll look after Ernie and he’ll look after me.”
“What about the expense?” Piers asked, but no one heard him. They were all talking at once.
It was a strange day. Mourning had returned to Jalna, not in pomp and mournful pride as in the passing of a century-old life, not in anguish as in cutting off a young life, but in ghostly bewilderment, in uncertain certainty. For, while they knew Augusta to be dead, they knew nothing of her suffering, or whether or not she had experienced a moment of conscious pain. Her figure rose before them, as they had last seen her, upright, firm in her complicated clothing, her expression composed, no shrinking from death distorting her dignity. But she was gone, her spirit lost in the mist, while they (her brothers) were safe in the dear light of common life. The shock of her sudden departure had shaken them to their depths, but it had freed them from the creeping depression of the last months. It had turned their thoughts outward instead of inward. Through their tears they saw things the clearer. They had lost Augusta. They pressed closer to the breathing kin about them. Maurice and Meg remained for the day. All day, Alayne thought, they seemed to be eating, and drinking tea, and recalling the past and discussing the impending journey to England. Renny and Nicholas sat close beside each other. Ernest climbed the two flights of stairs to the attic and brought down Finch and made him eat. Piers and Wakefield did not work. Adeline and Patience, hilarious, ran up and down the house, calling to each other.
Boney, troubled by a growth of new feathers, scratched himself constantly.
XXXII
PRELUDE TO FLITTINGS
TWO DAYS after the news of Augusta’s death the post was handed to Renny and he discovered among the letters one addressed to Nicholas in Augusta’s handwriting. He was alone in his office and he laid it on the desk in front of him with a feeling of dismay. This was the first letter she had written to Jalna since hearing of the mortgage. What might there not be in its pages to distress his uncles, to harden their hearts against him? The writing was so natural, in its long spidery slant, that he had a moment’s disbelief in her death. Surely she must be there, at Nymet Crews, thinking perhaps—“Today my letter arrives at Jalna. Today Renny will hear what I think of his actions.”
He took the letter in his hand and turned it over, examining the sealing wax with which it was stuck. He could not give it to Nicholas, and yet—how cruel to deny him the last words of his sister! He hesitated, then, making his decision, took up a paper-knife and slit the envelope. Inside there were twelve closely written pages. He looked at them but would not allow himself to read them. He turned to the last page and read at the bottom—“Love and kisses to all from your— Ever affectionate sister—AUGUSTA,” and beneath the signature, in clinging, childish habit, she had made a row of crosses to represent the kisses. Doubtless her lips had pressed those wavering marks. Renny raised the paper to his lips and so alone garnered them.
He went then to the small stove where the fire had not yet been lighted, and, removing the lid, thrust in the letter, and touched a match to it. It flared brightly, made the sound of a hurrying wind and its char flew up the chimney.
He sat down again and lighted a cigarette. His mind went back over the preceding day when their lawyer had brought Augusta’s will to Jalna and read it in the presence of the family. It had been a just will, he thought. Augusta had left her income, amounting to twelve hundred pounds a year, equally between her brothers. Lyming Hall was also to be theirs. At their death the house was to be sold and the estate divided in equal portions among her nephews and her niece. Her personal belongings had been bequeathed, in a manner showing real understanding of the tastes of each, to Meg, Alayne, and Pheasant. Yes, it had been a just will, and no one could complain of it.
If Nicholas and Ernest had harboured any fear that the income might not be wholly theirs, they had been relieved of that, and if they had had hopes that the principal might be left to them direct, their disappointment was quickly lost in the thought that they were now independent men, free to do as they liked for the rest of their days without thanks to anyone. The effect on them of this knowledge was remarkable. No grief could quite beat down the wings of their exhilaration. They could not rest. They could not stop talking. They roamed from room to room examining things they had not looked at for years. They turned out unused drawers and from the contents made presents of no value to their nephews. Today Wakefield was in town procuring tickets from the steamship office for them. They were to sail within the week.
Sarah Leigh had arrived at Jalna. It was arranged that she and Finch, Wakefield and Pauline, should take a motor trip to Quebec. Pauline would visit her grandparents there and Wakefield experience, for the first time, the adventure of travel. They were to set out the day after the departure of Ernest and Nicholas. All was confusion and excitement at Jalna.
Finch put his head in at the door of the office. He said:
“They’re having lemonade and cake on the lawn. They sent me over to find you and Piers. It’s awfully hot, isn’t it?” He held Sarah’s pug, which had followed him, under his arm. Renny gave an amused grin at the contrast in the two visages facing him.
“You needn’t grin at him,” said Finch, rather huffily. “He is one of the most intelligent dogs I have eve
r known.”
“Lap dog,” sneered Renny.
“Not a bit of it. I’m carrying him because I’m afraid one of the horses might kick him.”
When they were outside he set down the pug, which at once importantly led the way. Piers had preceded them.
It was Indian summer and thick yellow sunshine lay sultry on trees and grass. The grass was brown and the trees blazed, bronze and scarlet. The Virginia creeper was in a crimson cloak about the house. Zinnias and nasturtiums and fiery salvia challenged each other in the borders. Chairs and tables had been carried on to the lawn and there the family was established for the afternoon. The Vaughans were there and Pheasant had brought her three children. Mooey sat on the knee of Nicholas, drinking lemonade from a green glass in which bobbed a bright red cherry. He was growing into a charming boy, thoughtful and sweet-tempered. His younger brother lay on his back staring up at the sky, his fair hair spread in a halo against the grass, while the six-months-old Philip snuggled on Ernest’s arm, their eyes vying with each other in forget-me-not blue. Patience had ridden over on the pony which had once been Wake’s. There was a tear in the seat of her riding-breeches and her hair was tumbled. As she ate her cake she rhythmically struck her leg with her riding-crop, the picture of carefree childhood.
Against this highly coloured background the black suits of Nicholas and Ernest, Meg’s black dress, struck a sombre tone, but the faces of the wearers, though pensive, were not unhappy. A mellow undercurrent of affection buoyed up all the clan.
When Renny and Finch appeared, Wakefield advanced to meet them, one arm embracing Sarah, the other Pauline. The two girls were now definitely a part of the family circle.
Finch left Renny and joined the trio, drawn by Sarah’s smile. Pauline, too, was smiling at him, avoiding Renny’s eyes.
Renny sat down beside Nicholas and began to talk, but his bright glance moved from one to another of the engaged couples. Wakefield—his boy, growing into a splendid fellow, tall, free-moving, brown as a hazelnut… Finch—returned to health, his cheeks filled out, his future assured… Sarah— well, she was a strange girl but he thought he understood her… Pauline—his eyes clouded as they rested on her, for he was not sure of her happiness, and between him and her rose the firm figure of Clara and the thought of her compassion and her surrender.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 324
