Catching Adeline by the hand, Archer whispered, — “Want to go round to the front and see the long black streamer on the door?” He dragged on her hand, urging her.
“I saw it.”
Renny opened the door, with calculated caution. In the hall there was dimness because of drawn blinds but it was almost brutally broken by splashes of crimson and purple from the stained-glass windows. There was a heavy scent of flowers.
Piers came from the drawing-room to meet them, moving with the decorous air with which he carried the alms dish along the aisle on a Sunday. He looked fresh and pink-skinned and so natural that the two neCentenaryomers let their eyes rest on him in relief.
He took their hands. “You made it, eh?” he said. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Fine,” answered Finch. “There was no trouble.”
“who is in there?” Renny asked, nodding toward a murmur of voices from the drawing-room.
Piers gave the name of some old friends of Ernest’s.
“Lord,” exclaimed Renny, in a whisper, “I haven’t heard of them in years.”
“I didn’t know them, they’d aged so,” said Piers.
“Don’t take them up to Uncle Nick.”
“Oh, no. They haven’t suggested it. Alayne is with them.”
Finch asked, — “May Adeline and I go upstairs?” Renny nodded and they tiptoed up the stairs.
In the passage they were met by Roma. “Oh, hello,” she said, looking Adeline up and down, and holding a flower-pale cheek toward Finch. He bent and kissed it, then, in long silent strides, mounted to his own room. He closed the door after him and stood motionless in the safety of the room. How often, in his boyhood, had he come to its shelter, how often, in his manhood, returned to find it unchanged, waiting for him. The bed whose mattress knew every bone in his body, the washing stand at which he had gone through the perfunctory ablutions of youth, the dressing table with the mottled mirror into which he had peered in anxiety to tie his first evening tie, the window through which he had looked out at the night sky.
Still moving softly, as though he feared to wake someone, he went to the window and leant his forehead against the frame. Beyond the trees he could see the roofs of the stables and the last sunray touching the weathervane. He could see the orchard and the fields heavy with growing grain. Over all there was a look of finality, as though all movement, all effort had come to an end with the passing of Ernest. Not that Ernest had made much effort in his life, except to enjoy it, in a pleasant and amiable way. Forty years ago he had begun his book on Shakespeare. He had written some chapters, born of books he had read on the subject. There were reminiscences of actors he had seen in the famous parts, and these were the only original bits in the manuscript. Ernest had cherished it, even to the last year, and promised himself that he would yet finish it, even though, a quarter of a century ago, his mother had twitted him for his inability to get on with it. Now the manuscript of his life had the final words added to it. His had been the first birth under this roof and he had spent the greater part of his life here.
“I did not want him to die,” Finch said aloud. “I wanted him to be always here when I came home.”
A sudden fear that he would be asked to look at Ernest swept through him. If he were forced to do that, he would not sleep tonight. He closed his eyes, seeing Ernest’s face, disturbed by the fear of death. He could not, would not, go into that room!
A soft drumming came on the panel of the door. He knew at once to whom those small capable fingers belonged. A vision of Sarah, drumming on his door, came to him. He stood motionless, staring defensively at the door. The small fingers increased the tempo of their beat. A treble voice asked, — “May I come in?”
“Not now,” answered Finch. “I’ll be down.”
“Soon?”
“Yes, soon.”
“I’ll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Good.”
But there was no sound of footsteps leaving. Just silence. Finch listened for a little, then flung open the door. Dennis was standing there, pale, fair, with his hands clasped in front of him, as though to restrain them from drumming. Finch demanded:
“why didn’t you go when I told you to?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How did you say it?”
“You told me you were going and I said ‘Good.’”
“Do I do any harm just waiting?”
“Well, not exactly. But when you say you’re going to do a thing, you should do it.” Finch heard the dictatorial tone in his own voice and was embarrassed. He patted the little boy on the shoulder. “what I mean is,” he went on, “it’s not proper to listen outside people’s doors.”
Dennis gave his small secret smile. “But I like to. I like to imagine what they’re doing. Did you bring me a present from Ireland?”
“No. I’m sorry, Dennis.”
“From England?”
“I left too suddenly. I intended to.”
“what would it have been if you’d got it?”
“Will you go!” Finch exclaimed loudly. “This is no time to talk of presents.”
Dennis turned away. Two steps down the stairs he looked over his shoulder. “We’re supposed not to talk loudly,” he said.
Trembling with emotion and fatigue Finch poured water into the basin and washed his face and hands. He brushed his hair. He cleaned his nails, and the sharp point of the knife penetrated the quick beneath the nail and it bled. With an exclamation of pain he thrust the finger into his mouth and sucked it. The pain seemed to go right up his arm into his breast.
Now he felt more calm and went slowly down the stairs into the library. Everyone was gathered there before the evening meal. The sun was set but it was still light. The room seemed full of people — Renny and Alayne, Piers and Pheasant, Meg and her daughter Patience, Adeline, Roma, and Dennis. And there, yes, there he was, in an armchair in a corner, his thick grey hair long to his collar, his hand clasping his chin — Nicholas. Looking into his face, Finch thought that there were traced all the experiences through which he had passed in his long life — the bold, carefree youth of a boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the storms and passions of middle life, the rugged serenity of later years. Now indeed he had had a great shock. The brother, so closely bound to him in affection, if not in tastes, had closed his eyes on this world. Nicholas had often regarded Ernest with amusement, but always had been tolerant toward him. Though Ernest had been of delicate physique, Nicholas had, for some reason, expected him to be the longer-lived. In truth Nicholas had not brooded on death. Now it had come so close to him that he felt the chill air of eternity on his forehead. His crest of grey hair rose as though in protest.
Finch put his hands on his shoulders, leant down, and kissed him. “Uncle Nick,” was all he could say.
Nicholas’ voice came shaky but still deep-toned.
“Good of you — very good of you — to come. Ernest would be pleased. Very pleased.”
Now Finch was enfolded in his sister’s arms. “Oh, Finch, dear, what a frightful time we have been through! It’s been hard for everyone, but — for me! Just imagine what it’s been for me. I went to Vaughanlands as a bride and now it’s burned down!”
“You got a good price for it,” put in Piers.
She threw him a reproachful look. “If that isn’t like you, Piers, to think of money at such a time!”
“I’m always thinking of it,” he rejoined. “I’m forced to.”
The folding doors into the dining room were opened at that moment by Wragge, immensely important in a greenish black suit and large old-fashioned cravat. He announced the evening meal in a whisper.
“where is Wakefield?” demanded Nicholas.
“He couldn’t get away, Uncle Nick. He hopes to come before long.”
Renny heaved the heavy old man to his feet and balanced him there. He stood, thus balanced, yet slightly moving, like an old oak,
well-rooted still but rocked by the gale, and looked into the solicitous faces about him.
“I’m all right,” he said, and holding to Renny’s arm, stumped into the dining room.
It was the first time he had entered it since Ernest’s death. He stopped behind Ernest’s chair. Renny said:
“Uncle Nick, we have set a place for Finch there, but if you’d rather the chair should be left vacant …”
“No, no, no,” growled Nicholas. “Close in. Fill up the spaces.”
“Quick march!” came in Dennis’ high treble.
Renny turned on him, with a frown. “For that,” he said, “you go straight upstairs to bed.”
Astonishment on Dennis’ face turned to concern.
“And go without my supper?”
“You may take some bread.”
“I don’t want it!” He ran from the room.
Finch thought, — “why was I chosen to sit in this chair? I can’t eat sitting here. It is still Uncle Ernest’s place. Piers would not have minded.” He saw Piers’ eyes on him. He straightened himself and looked at the food on his plate. Suddenly he realized that he was hungry. Emotional strain always made him hungry.
He heard Renny say, — “Have some horseradish sauce with your beef Uncle Nick.”
“Thanks, I will. I always like horseradish but Ernest liked mustard best.”
“He liked both. Both at once,” said Renny, glad to hear Nicholas speak so naturally of Ernest.
“And yet,” went on Nicholas, “he would have been better without either. He always had that weak digestion. I remember …” He forgot what he remembered and put a morsel of beef in his mouth.
When the meal was finished he decided he would go to bed. Renny helped him up the stairs, helped him to undress, sat by his bed till he fell asleep, under the soothing influence of a glass of whisky and water. He bent over him as he slept, watching how the puffed-out breath set the shaggy grey moustache aquiver, fearful, because of the way of Ernest’s passing, that at any moment the breath might cease. But no — it went resolutely on, increasing in volume to a comfortable snore, and Renny tiptoed from the room.
In the passage he met Adeline. “I want you,” he said, “to go into Uncle Nick’s room every little while and see that he’s all right. I have things to do.”
She went and sat on the window seat on the landing. The dark curtains were drawn there but she parted them, making a crack through which she could look out into the night. The new moon, clean-cut as a poised dagger, hung above the hooded trees. Adeline felt an exhaustion she never before had experienced. She had had no sleep on the plane and her eyelids were as though weighted. An unutterable sadness pressed on her heart. She felt that she would never see Fitzturgis again. She recalled the astonishment, the incredulity, on his face at the idea of flying across the ocean for the funeral of an uncle. She recalled Finch’s brusque suggestion that they should say goodbye, there, on the spot. They had complied without protest. He had taken her in his arms, pressed his lips to hers, murmured a few words she could not hear, and left.
He was gone out of her life. Like Uncle Ernest’s, her life was over. It was done with.… The grandfather clock on the landing gathered itself together to strike the hour. It seemed to hum and haw over the striking, as though reluctant. But from Ernest’s bedroom the hour came, clear and sweet, from his little glass travelling clock whose visible works had always charmed her. Who would wind it now, she wondered. She knew where the key was kept, in the little drawer in the yew-tree desk in Ernest’s room … With a start, she remembered her father’s injunction to look in on Nicholas. She hastened to his room, only remembering to move quietly after she had reached the door. It stood open and through it, like a persistent call to life, sounded the old man’s snoring. It rumbled in his throat and shook his lips. Gentle moonlight just touched the articles on the dressing table. The rest of the room was very dark. The light glimmered on the tumbler in which had been the whisky and water. It touched the yellowish ivory of the toilet articles, bottles with silver stoppers, the glass of a framed photograph.
In the passage Alayne, coming up the stairs, met Adeline. How quietly everyone moved! It was Adeline’s first experience of death. She had a sudden desire to go to her mother and hide herself in her for protection. The heavy scent of flowers came up the stairway.
“We’ve had more people in,” said Alayne, with an exhausted smile. “I think that is the last of them.”
“I wish I could help.”
Alayne gave her a curious look. “what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Daddy told me to keep an eye on Uncle Nicholas.”
“Really, there is no need for that. Your father is over careful. In any case, I shall be quite near in my own room. You must go to bed, Adeline. You look terribly tired.”
“All right,” Adeline answered in a choking voice. “I’ll go.” She put her arms about Alayne and they clung together, in the most loving embrace they ever had known.
“You must not feel so badly, darling,” Alayne said, conscious of Adeline’s tears. “Let us be thankful that Uncle Ernest had no suffering.”
Adeline could not tell her that it was Fitzturgis for whom the tears came …
When the last of the visitors were gone Renny and Piers stood outdoors in the cool of the night. The moon had long since disappeared. It was very dark. Piers took out his cigarette lighter, the one Pheasant had given him on his last birthday, and held it to Renny’s cigarette. The flame illumined the aquiline features, the long flat cheeks, the brown eyes, in which there were greenish lights.
Piers thought, — “Old Redhead wears well. No matter how much worry he has, he is able to take it.”
The light from a window touched the leaves on the nearest trees. These few leaves stood out wetly bright, the rest were a dark mass. Finch came through the door and joined his brothers. It was characteristic of him that, on occasions of stress, he could look more grievously afflicted than anyone else. Now Renny and Piers regarded him with mingled tolerance and cynicism. Renny said:
“You’d better go to bed.”
“I’m not going to bed.”
“Then how would you like,” asked Renny, “to stay in the room with Uncle Ernest?”
“I couldn’t.” Finch’s voice came loudly. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Piers spoke soothingly. “Of course not. You’re tired out. We’re all tired out.” And he added, — “I was just saying I’ll be glad when all this is over.”
“He can’t forget his haying,” said Renny.
“It’s strange,” Finch’s voice was now low and husky, “how the crops are gathered in and, in our turn, we’re gathered in.”
“Sort of jolly merry-go-round, isn’t it?” said Piers.
Renny said, — “This is the first funeral at Jalna since Gran’s.”
“I’ll never forget that day,” said Piers. “The weather was perfect. The whole countryside turned out. There’ll be no such crowd tomorrow!”
“I’m afraid not,” agreed Renny. “Uncle Ernest had a retiring nature. He made no such impression. He didn’t live to be a hundred.”
Piers yawned. “I’m going home, fellows.”
“Be here in good time tomorrow,” adjured Renny.
Piers went to where his car was parked. In a moment he passed the others with a wave of the hand. The headlights of the car fell on a syringa bush in full bloom. The movement of air brought the sweet scent to the two standing in the darkness.
“You say you’re not going to bed?” asked Renny.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Come in and we’ll have a drink.”
Standing in the dining room by the sideboard they raised their glasses in silence. The portrait of their grandmother, in her yellow satin gown, smiled down on them, that of their grandfather, in his Hussar’s uniform, wore a look of unquestioned and unquestioning wellbeing, not reflected on the faces of his descendants.
“They lived in better days,” s
aid Renny.
Finch nodded, feeling the glow of the spirits through all his nerves.
“It’s a funny thing,” continued Renny. “I’ve been through two wars. I’ve seen a lot of death. But …” He reached for the decanter and poured another drink. “But — I never grow …” he sought for a word, then added, — “less afraid. I have a horror of death. To tell you the truth, and you must never repeat this to Piers, I should like to hide in the woods till all this is over. It’s a sort of instinctive animal feeling that I can’t explain.
“Yet you are the one who attends to everything — insists that everything shall be properly done.”
“Naturally.”
Finch raised his voice a little. “And you are the one who suggested I should stay in that room tonight.”
“Yes,” he grinned.
Finch had swallowed his second drink far too quickly. His thoughts became confused, there was the roaring of a distant sea in his ears, Renny’s face appeared to him hawklike, the eyes gleaming, the grin cruel.
“It was a damn cruel thing to suggest,” he muttered.
“I wanted to find out about you.”
“Well, I didn’t do it and I wouldn’t do it for any man … Don’t think I didn’t love Uncle Ernest. I thought more of him than any of you did.” He spoke incoherently.
“That’s possible.”
“what I mean is, Uncle Ernest understood me better than anyone else did.”
“Ah, he had a kind heart.”
“He had an understanding heart.” Finch spoke angrily now, as though someone had denied this.
“True. Very true.”
Finch took another drink, this time in stormy silence, his hand shaking, his heart beating heavily.
“If you go to bed now,” said Renny, “you’ll sleep like a log.” He took Finch by the arm. “Come along,” he urged.
“No!” But he allowed himself to be propelled toward the door.
In the hall Renny halted abruptly, his eyes caught by a thin line of light beneath the door of Adeline’s room. This room had once been her grandmother’s.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 470
