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

  “Look,” exclaimed Renny. “Adeline’s light! Good God, that child shouldn’t be sleeping down here alone.”

  “Adeline’s a brave kid,” muttered Finch.

  Renny tapped on the door. There was no answer. He gently opened it. Adeline’s clothes had been cast off in confusion over chairs and floor. She lay, in her white nightdress, without other covering, her white feet close together, one arm shielding her eyes.

  “why, she’s grown !” exclaimed Renny. “How tall she is!” She uncovered her eyes and looked at them without surprise.

  “You shouldn’t be here alone,” said Renny. “You should have gone to the spare room.”

  “I wanted my own room. Mummy said to go with her but I said I’d stay here.”

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “I’ll shtay with her,” said Finch. “Lie on the floor outshide her door.”

  “No. She shall go upstairs.” Renny put a hand beneath her head and raised her to a sitting position.

  She looked up into his face. “Daddy, I want to see Uncle Ernest. Now. I can’t sleep till I do.”

  “Very well, you shall.”

  “No, Adeline, don’t do that,” Finch said hoarsely. “Don’t let her, Renny. It will be upsetting to her.”

  Without answering, Renny set her on her feet. She stood white-draped, large-eyed, a symbol of youthful sorrow. Renny, with Finch following, led her along the hall to the door of the room where Ernest lay. He opened it.

  At first Adeline could see only the flowers, wreath upon wreath, cross after cross, lying on the tables, lying on the casket, roses and lilies sending out their amorous scent, weighted with a cloying sweetness. Renny, with his arm close about her, led her to the casket. Finch stood a little behind. Her first thought was, why had they made Uncle Ernest so tidy? To be sure, his hair always was smooth, his clothes in order, but this terrible sleekness, this iron immaculateness, was unreal. And he who always had a pink complexion was now a strange waxen white. He wore a faint secretive smile, unlike any smile she had ever seen on Uncle Ernest’s face.

  She looked at him quite calmly. This was not the dear old man over whose body she had romped as a child, who had been so eager for her to marry Maurice. This was a stranger. He was as unreal as the unreal flowers about him.

  “It’s extraordinary how natural he looks, isn’t it?” said Renny.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and added after a moment, — “I’d like to go now.”

  “It’s a beautiful old face,” said Finch, and bent and kissed Ernest on the forehead.

  “It is,” agreed Renny, “and he had a beautiful nature. There never was another Whiteoak with such a gentle disposition.”

  They went into the dim hall, closing the door behind them.

  “Now do you feel more natural?” Renny asked.

  “Yes. I’ll go to whatever room you say.”

  He led her up the stairs to the spare room, while Finch, with a muttered good-night, mounted, rather unsteadily, the second flight of stairs.

  Alayne, in a dressing-gown, appeared from her room.

  “This child,” said Renny, “has decided to sleep in the spare room after all.”

  “That is what I begged her to do but she refused.” Alayne spoke in the impersonal tone of extreme weariness.

  “Well — she sees now that you were right.”

  Adeline stood between them, docile, in her long white nightdress. She looked on while they turned down the covers, plumped the pillow, and prepared a nest for her. When she was in it she looked up at them trustingly, lovingly, as when she was a child.

  XXVI

  THE BELL TOLLS FOR ERNEST

  Although Noah Binns was now a man of seventy-eight, he insisted that he should not only toll the bell for Ernest but dig his grave for him also. From the moment when he learned of Ernest’s death, these two acts loomed large in his mind, with himself as the central figure. A sparkling breeze tossed the leaves and it was pleasantly cool. He had made a good start with the grave on the day before, so this morning it was just a matter of digging it a little deeper and shaping it.

  As he stood in the cool earth-smelling cavity he thought how remarkable it was that, in spite of all modern inventions, nothing better than a grave had been invented for the finish of a man. Noah made this remark to young Elmer Chalk who had succeeded him as sexton.

  “There ain’t nothing better,” he said, “than a grave. It beats cremation hollow.”

  “Give me cremation every time,” said Chalk.

  “Every time!” repeated Noah, in derision. “There’s only one time. Why do you want to be cremated?”

  “It’s cleaner.”

  “I call ashes dirty. Who wants to be a handful of ashes? Let me keep my shape as long as it will last.”

  “How long do you say it will last?”

  Noah indicated, with a jerk of his earthy thumb, the graves enclosed in this plot. “If you was to open these up,” he said, “you’d be surprised. You’d find Captain Whiteoak; the old lady, his wife; their son Philip and his two wives; Philip’s son Eden, and them three babies — all with their clothes on.”

  In spite of himself young Chalk was impressed.

  “Just the same,” he said, “give me cremation. What about being buried alive?”

  “I seen every one of these, except the babies, and, if ever folks was dead, they was.” With an air of finality he drove the spade into the rich earth.

  “My grandfather, the blacksmith, knew them all.”

  “And I dug his grave and it was a cheap coffin his folks gave him.”

  “They gave him the best they could afford.”

  “Hmph … Well, I have the money saved up in the bank to pay fer as fine a funeral for me as fer any danged Whiteoak.”

  Still nettled, the young man returned, — “There won’t be so many to mourn for you, Mr. Binns.”

  “I don’t want no mourning for me. But I’ve lived a danged sight better life than some of them that rests in this plot. That young feller, Eden, he was no good but you’d ha’ thought he was a saint, the way they buried him.”

  “what did you expect them to do?”

  “There’s ways and ways. Folks like them are gettin’ rare. Before long they’ll be distinct.”

  “Extinct,” corrected Chalk.

  “Have it your own way. That’s what young folks is like. They think they know it all. When I feel like givin’ a young feller a kick in the pants, I remember I hadn’t no sense when I was his age.”

  It was seldom that Noah Binns was so talkative, but grave-digging always exhilarated him. It had been hard indeed for him because of advancing years to give up this profitable pleasure.

  Now the job was done and he leant on his spade tired out. Young Chalk had gone and the churchyard was silent except for the flutter of birds’ wings as they hastened with food for their young, and the occasional passing of a motor car along the road below. Like some ancient robin, Noah drew an earthworm out from the side of the grave, examined it critically, then dropped it on the ground and drove the spade through it. He watched the agitation of the two halves for a moment, then planted his heavy boot on them.

  There was now little enough time in which to go home, have some food, wash himself, and return to toll the bell for the service. He tossed out his spade, laid his hands on the sides of the grave, and prepared to heave himself out. But he could not. The grave was too deep and his arms were too tired. Again and again he heaved himself but each time his body seemed to grow heavier and his arms weaker. He began to feel exhausted, trapped. His voice, when he opened his mouth and called for young Chalk, came hollowly. His mouth hung open disclosing his one black tooth. He began desperately but weakly to call for help. At first the birds were frightened but they became used to the calling and a hen robin even dropped to the mound of earth beside the grave and began pecking in it for worms.

  Noah felt ready to drop. In a panic he uttered a loud hoarse yell. “Help! Help!”

  He
heard steps, first on the gravel, then on the grass. He looked up, in mingled relief and chagrin, into the face of Renny Whiteoak. He had rather have been rescued by anyone else.

  “Huh,” he grunted, with a truculent look upward, as though he would deny his predicament.

  “what’s the matter?” demanded Renny.

  “I’ve dug this here grave too deep. There ain’t no call fer any grave to be this deep. I can’t get out.”

  “The digging’s too hard for you. You should have let Elmer do it.”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” Noah stretched his mouth in a malevolent grin. “I’ll dig many a grave yet.”

  “why, you were retired at our last churchwardens’ meeting.”

  “I still dig for them as is over ninety. And I’d like to see anyone stop me!”

  “My God,” exclaimed Renny, “I’ve a mind to leave you down there.”

  “Then what’ll you do with your uncle? There ain’t room fer two?” Noah’s grin became jocular.

  Renny frowned. “Come now,” he said, grasping Noah’s arms, “out with you!”

  Profoundly relieved, Noah sprawled a moment on the grass, then gathered up his spade and earth-stained coat. Without a thank you he clumped down the steep path to the gate and along the roadside toward home. All the way there he grumbled over his ill-luck in being forced to call for help from a grave. Such a thing had never happened to him before.

  By an odd coincidence the black coat which he wore to the funeral was an old one given to him by Ernest Whiteoak. He greatly fancied himself in it and, when he had washed, eaten, and donned it, he had a good look at himself in the little looking glass in his kitchen. The weather was turning hot again. His coat was tight. He was as thankful as it was possible for him to be when he got a lift right from his own door to the church. He felt quite fresh as he climbed the steps. He took off his black hat and laid it on a bench in the vestibule. In there it was quiet and cool. He examined the bell rope with great exactness, as though he feared it might not be strong enough to withstand the fervour of his pulling. High up in the steeple he could see the brazen bell hanging in slumber, waiting for his summons to toll.

  The relations between Noah Binns and this bell were peculiar. He looked on it as having a proud, aloof, and stubborn nature which only he could control. He could, as he thought, make it talk, be jubilant, or strike its iron bosom in mourning. There was no doubt that the bell, on its part, was moody. For several years it had had a tendency to ring a flat and toneless note for a wedding and a cheerful flippant one for early Communion or a funeral. As Noah gazed up into the dimness where it hung he wore a look of grim command. As he dropped the bell rope from his hand a quiver ran along it, up to the brooding bell.

  “Ninety-five strokes I’ll give the old gentleman. Ninety-five — if it kills me — one hundred and one I gave his old mother and had lumbago fer a week. Thirty-one to his nephew Eden. And so it goes — right back to a single ding fer a baby. A good thing it was that not all of them lived. There’s a danged sight too many of ’em.”

  He straightened himself, spat on both palms, and grasped the rope. He pulled hard but, though the bell rocked in its high place, only a toneless grunt came from it. Noah bared his tooth in anger, put all the strength in him on to the rope. “Come now, get goin’, you rascal. Get goin’.”

  He must have pulled too hard, for the bell now walloped in the steeple, its tongue, as though in its cheek, defying him. But, at last, he was able to bring forth the slow sonorous notes of the tolling, each one dying away over the summer fields before the next one struck. Noah counted them aloud, though his voice was inaudible, even to himself. So slow was the tolling that small birds, affrighted by a note, would fly from the roof of the church, circle, and alight again before the next one struck.

  Young Chalk appeared in the vestibule, dressed in his Sunday clothes. “How’re you getting on?” he shouted.

  “Fine.”

  “Shall I take ahold too?”

  “Shut up. Ye’re makin’ me lose count.”

  Chalk stepped into the church. It was peaceful and cool in there but the air coming in at the windows was hot.

  Before half the number of strokes had been counted, people began to appear, pass through the door and take seats quietly in the body of the church. Quite a number were already gathered when the hearse and the cars bearing the mourners appeared. Renny, Piers, Finch, and Nooky shouldered the coffin and carried it up the steep path. Slowly they approached the church, the bell knelling their progress.

  In the vestibule, Renny turned his head to look at Noah who, straining on the bell-rope, increased the velocity of the strokes, in an exhausting attempt to achieve the ninety-fifth. His jaw dropped in dismay at Renny’s peremptory nod to desist. A final clang broke from the bell as the procession entered the church.

  It passed the font which had been built for Ernest’s christening. Almost a century ago his weak infant body had lain in the arms of the Rector while water was sprinkled upon his face, he having already, through his godparents, renounced the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and the carnal lusts of the flesh. Now, meekly he lay in his coffin before the chancel steps.

  Mr. Fennel looked old and fragile, but his voice rang out clear and strong, saying:

  “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!’”

  Nicholas had walked very slowly along the aisle, leaning on the strong arm of Piers’ son Philip. He had let himself down into the pew cautiously, then rested his grey head on his hand, the light touching the heavy signet ring which he always wore. Alayne, sitting beside him, laid her hand on his arm, and, after a little, he took her hand in his.

  Ernest lay, among his flowers, unable to hear the words that were spoken, or to smell the summer scents that filled the air. His favourite hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light,” did not penetrate his fastness. By ones and twos the people came forward to look in his face. Nicholas had taken his last look before they had left the house but now he strained upward in his seat to glimpse his brother’s profile once again.

  The pallbearers raised the heavy coffin and the service proceeded by the grave.

  Scarcely had the last of the congregation left the churchyard when young Chalk threw off his jacket and began to fill in the unsightly cavity with earth. As that mound diminished so the grave was filled, the grave was made and well shaped, it was covered by flowers. Chalk was joined by Noah Binns and the two looked down admiringly at their work.

  XXVII

  IN THE KITCHEN ONCE MORE

  The summer was over and had been, as Noah Binns prophesied, a hot one. Now the ground was dry and the grass harsh for lack of moisture. The pasture was so poor that cattle must be given a deal of extra feed to supplement it. The kernels of the grain were small, the apples were smaller than usual, but, on the whole, crops were good and because of the warmth and sunshine the young creatures of the farm flourished. Wright, having tea in the kitchen with the Wragges, was well pleased by the growth of the foals which had been produced that year.

  “I’ve never seen a likelier bunch than the four of them,” he said. “It’ll be a surprise to me if the boss don’t get the highest prices for them.”

  “They sure look promising,” said Mrs. Wragge.

  His cup half-way to his mouth, he stared at her in surprise.

  “You been over to see them?” he asked.

  “why not? I can walk, can’t I?”

  “Well, you don’t often leave the house.”

  “Miss Adeline dragged her over,” put in Wragge, “or she’d never ’ave went.”

  “I wish I’d been there,” said Wright. “I’d like to have shown you about. Did you see our lovely two-year-old?”

  “Sure.”

  “She’s to be trained for the King’s Plate.”

  “That’s the way the money goes.”


  “Nothing venture — nothing win.”

  Mrs. Wragge looked skeptical. “If the boss wants to breed show horses, let him,” she said. “If he wants to breed high jumpers, it’s O.K. by me. But — racehorses — never! That’s for men of means.”

  “D’you mean to say,” demanded Wright, “that you wouldn’t call him a man of means?”

  “Not the way money’s counted nowadays.”

  “Look at the hired help he keeps!”

  “Yes. Look at us. That’s what I say to my husband. We could get higher wages elsewhere. So could you.”

  “I’m satisfied,” said Wright staunchly.

  Wragge spoke, as from a high intellectual level. “We are creatures of ’abit,” he declared. “My wife wouldn’t know what to do with herself in a modern kitchen. Could I get along without the inconveniences I’m used to? No. ’Abit is everything.” He winked at Wright. “Wot should I do if I found myself in possession of a slim wife? Nothing. I’d be dumbfounded.”

  The cook laughed across her double chin. “And serve you right,” she said.

  A knock came on the outer door. At the same moment it opened and the gargoyle head of Noah Binns appeared. Hospitable Mrs. Wragge called out to him to enter, which he did, clumping down the steps with ostentatious effort.

  “Stairs — stairs — everywhere,” he grumbled. “They say there’s golden stairs leadin’ up to Heaven. Why don’t they have an escalator that’d take a feller up without no trouble?” He dropped creaking into the nearest chair.

  “That’s the way they go to the other place,” said Rags. “Smooth and slippery. You just sit down on the seat of your pants and you’re there.”

  “That’s supposed to be wit,” Mrs. Wragge remarked to Wright. She poured a cup of tea for Noah. “This is the first time I’ve saw you since the funeral,” she said.

  Reaching for a slice of thick bread and butter he answered, — “I ain’t the man I was. Forty-nine times I tugged on that rope and every time the bell acted contrary, like it had spite in it.”