If he chose, he thought, he could stand where he was for a few moments, then go out without having seen Eden. No one would know. He stood hesitating.
But he was spurred by a sudden curiosity. He advanced steadily to the coffin and looked down on to his brother’s face… All else in the room dissolved as in a mist. Only Eden was real, holding Piers’s gaze with a terrible fascination. But—was this Eden? Was this man Eden? Was it possible that this was Eden? Why, he said to himself, looking at all that was real in the room, this is Eden! I can’t believe it… But this is Eden. This is the one I played with as a boy… This is the one I grew up with… Who seduced my wife… But was it possible that the cold, aloof, bitterly smiling lips had ever softened in desire for a woman? Gran had looked peaceful in her coffin. Haughty—but at peace. There was no peace here—only cold, aloof rigidity. The personification of disdainful suffering. If the salt of the sea had chosen to solidify itself into the semblance of a man surely it would have stretched itself on the rock in just such bitter composure… And those hands… Piers stretched out his own strong warm hand and touched them timidly. Those hands had gripped him in play when they were boys. Those hands had done Eden’s bidding all his life long. Those hands had—Piers set his teeth and turned away… The scent of the flowers was stifling.
Meg’s cat, which was accustomed to take her ease in this room, leaped to the windowsill. Piers saw her eyes staring anxiously at him through the open crack. He put up the blind a little and she reared herself on her hind legs, pawing on the frosty pane, showing her furry white belly. She opened her mouth slightly and uttered an imploring mew.
The door opened and Renny came in again. He went to the window, put it down sharply. He struck the glass with his knuckles, frightening the cat away. He drew down the blind. He kept his eyes turned from Piers’s face. He asked:
“Does he look at all natural to you?”
“No,” answered Piers. “I should not have known him.”
Renny went to the coffin. “Did you see this?” he asked.
Piers followed him. “No. What?”
“This.” Renny pointed where, secure between Eden’s arm and side, was the volume of Last Poems.
“Finch did that,” Renny said. “He’s a strange fellow.”
“Yes,” agreed Piers, “it was a queer thing to do.”
They stood looking down at Eden together.
At length Renny asked—“Well—will you do what I want?”
“Yes,” said Piers. “I don’t think I shall mind doing it, after all.”
XX
NO MORE SEEN
RENNY stood in the drawing-room at Jalna waiting for his brothers. He stood as though listening intently. In truth he was listening to what the house had to say to him, for it spoke to him as to no other. Now it spoke to him in a low but distinct murmur of sorrow. It craved something that it had not got, something that forever it would mourn—the body of Eden who had been born here, who should have lain dead here for a little before he went to his place beside the other dead. The roof bent desolate above the living.
Renny’s eyes were fixed on the spot where Eden should now be lying. He pictured himself and Piers and Finch and Wakefield raising him to their shoulders and bearing him forth. Though shortly they would be doing that very service for him, no reality could be as vivid as the picture he now saw.
Wakefield was beside him before he was aware of his approach. The boy looked tall and strangely handsome in his black clothes. Renny gave him an abstracted look and then said:
“It was a great disappointment to me not to bring Eden’s body home.”
Wakefield was startled. “Home? Here? Oh yes—I hadn’t thought of that. But it would have been the right thing, I suppose.”
Renny continued—“I could not do it because of—well, I suppose you understand.”
“Of course. It would have been rather hard on Pheasant and Piers. And on Alayne, too.” His young mind hovered over the situation like an inquisitive bird.
Renny looked at the clock.
“What is keeping the others? We’ll be late.”
“They’re coming now. I think they’ve had to help the uncles dress. They seem sort of confused. Uncle Ernest tried to tell me something three times this morning but he never really got it out. Alayne says she doesn’t think he’s fit to go to the churchyard on such a day.”
“It won’t hurt him. He has a good warm coat.” He turned to the four who now entered. “Well, there’s no time to spare. We should be at the house now.”
“Dear me,” said Ernest, “I’m afraid it is my fault we’re late. I don’t know how 1 should have dressed if Piers had not helped me. I mislaid one thing after another. First it was my studs and then it was my—what was it I mislaid next, Piers?”
“Gloves,” replied Piers briefly, and took his arm. Ernest seemed unsteady on his legs. The smell of brandy was on his breath.
Renny said in an undertone to Piers:
“You’ve done this!”
“You don’t want him to take his death of cold, do you?” answered Piers hotly.
Fresh snow had fallen and they must drive slowly. The Vaughans’ house seemed full of people when they arrived. Meg was excited, deeply touched by a wreath of roses, orchids, and lilies from the women’s club for which Eden had given his Thursdays. It lay in sumptuous beauty at the foot of the coffin, making the other floral offerings appear almost insignificant.
Wakefield was proud of the flowers. He hung over them, reading the cards attached. On a cross of white roses and lilies of the valley he read: “To our dear boy, from his ever-loving Aunt and Uncles,” in Augusta’s long, slanting hand. But what pleased him most was the wreath of spring flowers bearing a card with the words: “In abiding gratitude from Wakefield and Pauline.”
He could see her across the room, her dark serious face in contrast to her mother’s blonde bold one. He dared not give her more than a glance for fear that his lips would part in a smile. Her mere presence in that sorrowful room lightened his heart.
A sombre pride made his heart swell as he took his part in carrying the heavy coffin out of the house. He stood tall and straight among his brothers beside the hearse while the coffin was established in its place and the flowers arranged about it. There had been no prayers in the house because Mr. Fennel had gone on an urgent call to a sickbed. He would be waiting at the church.
Though the house had seemed full, the funeral was a very small one as compared to old Adeline’s. That cortege had swept its imposing length in fitting tribute to her great age and her position in the countryside. Her sudden death had come as a shock and as the dramatic obliterating of a landmark. During Eden’s long illness the family had drawn into themselves and only friends of long standing had been notified of the hour of burial.
On the incline toward the church the snow lay deep and scarcely broken. The motors made the ascent with difficulty. The heavy hearse scarcely moved, and it seemed grotesque that this cumbersome vehicle should be taxed to its utmost to carry the fragile body which a single man might have borne without pain.
But at last it lay within the church, where the air smelt of the freshly lighted fire. It lay at the chancel steps and the mourners gathered in the nearby pews. The bearers breathed quickly, for the ascent to the church door was both steep and slippery. Clots of snow had been carried in by the feet of those who entered, and these lay scattered on the aisle like trampled petals of flowers.
There had been surprise when Mr. Fennel had not met them at the gate. The surprise deepened to anxiety when the sexton tiptoed to Renny’s side and whispered that the rector had been delayed, probably because of the condition of the roads, and that Mrs. Fennel was much worried.
The long minutes dragged by, while Renny’s face grew dark. Nicholas and Ernest whispered together, and the rest of the family tried to hear what they were saying. Augusta and Meg had come also, the first sallow and composed, the second pale and silently weeping.
Little
Miss Pink, the organist, came to Renny.
“Do you think we had better sing a hymn?” she whispered, looking up into his face.
“Very well,” he agreed, frowning.
“Have you a preference?” she asked timidly.
“‘Day of Wrath,’” he answered.
She hesitated. “But we are having that at the service.” “Well, then, ’When our heads are bowed with woe.’” This hymn had been sung at his grandmother’s funeral.
She tiptoed back into the chancel.
The organ sounded the preliminary notes. The voices rose:
“When our heads are bowed with woe,
When our bitter tears o’erflow,
When we mourn the lost, the dear,
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear.
“When the solemn death-bell tolls
For our own departed souls,
When our final doom is near,
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear.”
Nicholas had sung through the first verse but now his voice failed him. He stood, looking on the same hymn book with Ernest, painfully aware of Meg’s weeping and his brother’s trembling hand.
After the hymn another time of waiting elapsed which seemed only emphasised by nervous fragments played on the organ.
Renny said to Finch—“I’m going to find out what is wrong.”
“Let me go.”
“No, no. Stay where you are.” He left the church by the side door and crossed the churchyard to the Rectory.
The snow had ceased, and out of the hard blue sky the sun, brilliant, but without warmth, searched out every smallest object, a twig, the dead body of a mouse, and cast its shadow with relentless exactitude on the snow. An icy wind blew without wavering from the north, sometimes bearing on it snowy particles that shone with a cold fire.
Renny’s eyes were drawn by his own family plot, its whiteness disfigured by the thrown-up earth from the freshly dug grave. The yellowish brown of the frozen earth was hideous, the cavity discovered an abomination for the body of a loved one.
He stood looking into it with horror. A feeling of panic rose in him. He had a wild wish to escape from all that was to follow—to escape and leave the others to bury Eden. He raised his face to the north wind, welcoming its sting. He longed to struggle in the wind, to free himself from all that held him.
A feeble singing from inside the church penetrated his mind and he was now filled with anger against the rector for causing one of his family to wait so long for burial. He hurried on, almost running along the slippery walk that led to the house.
Just as he reached the steps before the porch, he slipped and fell heavily, striking his head against the top step. He rose quickly and stood dazed a moment, then sprang up the steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened by George Fennel. He looked frightened and exclaimed:
“Why, Renny, what’s the matter?”
“Where is your father? What the hell is he keeping us waiting for?”
“I thought you knew. Mother is in the church. She told the sexton to explain, didn’t she? His car broke down. He telephoned us. But he’s on his way. He’ll be here any minute. I’m waiting for him. But—I’m worried about you—you’ve hurt yourself—you’re bleeding.”
Renny put his hand to his head and felt the blood trickling warmly from a cut above the brow.
“I fell,” he explained. “But it’s nothing.” He took out his handkerchief and held it to his forehead. “What is important is that your father went off this morning knowing—yes, knowing—the condition of the roads and left us with no one to conduct the service.”
“But the woman was dying!”
“My brother is dead. He’s waiting in the church there. We have waited an hour—an hour—”
“I know,” said George Fennel. “I’m frightfully sorry…”
“By God!” interrupted Renny, “if your father is not here soon I’ll read the Burial Service myself and we’ll have Eden in his grave without help from anyone.”
George Fennel regarded him with something of the same anger and compassion which he had evoked from Piers the morning before. He also felt his formidable power and menace. He said quietly, though:
“I wish you’d come and let me put some plaster on your head.”
“No, no, I won’t let anyone touch my head.”
But he went with George into the house.
They were scarcely in when they heard the sound of the Rector’s car. Soon he came hurriedly into the room where they were.
“This has been most unfortunate,” he said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
Renny stared at him in savage silence. He held his handkerchief pressed against his head. His eyes, wide open, were dark and opaque.
George gave his father a meaning glance. He said:
“Here is your surplice, Dad. It will save time to put it on here.” He helped his father to remove his coat and put on his cassock and surplice.
Mr. Fennel passed his hand over his hair and stroked his beard into order. He moved quickly but without undignified haste. He bent his head and murmured a few words of prayer.
“Now,” he said composedly, “we are ready.”
The three proceeded along the snowy walk to the church, Mr. Fennel’s surplice, bellying about him like a sail, threw a volatile moving shadow on the snow.
His voice echoed through the church:
“‘I held my tongue, and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me… Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days: that I may be certified how long I have to live… For man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain… When Thou with rebukes dost chasten man for sin, Thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment.’”
Finch crouched, with bent head, his fingers pressed against his eyeballs, between Renny and Piers. He was conscious of their bodies pressed close to him, of their statuesque immobility that could be so easily transformed into movement. He was above all conscious of Eden’s static pose that would at last be fretted away. But though his body was conscious of his living brothers, his spirit crouched in the coffin with Eden. His own voice rang in his ears—“Turn Thee again, O Lord, at the last!’”
When it was time to rise and again shoulder the burden, he did not move until Piers had grasped his shoulder and pushed him toward the aisle. As they moved to the chancel steps his face looked ravished, ugly. Still he felt himself in Eden’s place. He heard his faint voice call— “O spare me a little that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen!”
Down the slippery steps, through the snow, the four brothers strove under their burden to the family plot, followed by Maurice and Meg, and their aunt and uncles. They grouped themselves about the grave, the bitter wind ruffling the uncovered heads of the men, and fluttering the scarves of the women. Ernest stood with closed eyes. Nicholas stared bleakly at the granite plinth bearing the name Whiteoak. But Augusta looked steadfastly into the grave.
The wind separated Mr. Fennel’s beard into two parts, resolutely blowing a half over each shoulder. From his mouth came the words:
“‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’”
Finch, for the first time, saw the blood trickling down Renny’s forehead, which he continuously wiped with a reddened handkerchief. Finch turned dizzy and caught Piers’s arm to steady himself.
The Rector’s voice went on—“‘Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground…’” Frozen earth had been cast upon the body.
Finch whispered to Piers—“Let me hold on to you. I’m dizzy.”
“All right,” answered Piers. “It will soon be over.”
The prayer continued—‘�
��I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead… for they have rested from their labours.’”
Renny’s mind was on his grandmother. He could fancy her saying, if she knew that Eden’s body was being laid beside hers:
“What! One of the whelps come to join me! Well, well, I’m glad of that. I like the young folk about me.”
XXI
SPRING AT LAST
THE SPRING that Eden did not live to see, refused itself only till he was in his grave, then gave forth its sun and its running sap without stint. The snowdrifts sank and were transferred to lively runnels of water. The air cast off its cold impersonal purity and smelled of wet earth. Black wings of crows beat across the pale-blue sky.
The effect on the family at Jalna of Eden’s death was revealed as more depressing than the death of old Adeline had been. She had died in late summer when all the windows of the house were open, when all the activities of stable and farm were manifest. Waggons loaded with oats or wheat lumbered from Piers’s fields to the barn. The harvest apples were being picked when she, ripe in years, was garnered in. But Eden died at the end of a long winter, when the elderly people were enervated by confinement. In other winters they had absorbed vitality from their nephews, but, in this winter, Renny and Finch had none to spare for them and Piers was often silent and even morose. Alayne too was preoccupied with her own thoughts, and it was with a visible effort that she roused herself to cheer Nicholas and Ernest. Wakefield spent more and more time at the fox farm.
After Adeline’s sudden death (in which no hearts were wrung by the sight of suffering) excitement was maintained by the reading of her will and the fierce discussion following it. But Eden had nothing to bequeath but the memory of his cruel decline, which, at this time, blotted out remembrance of his happy youth.
It was appalling to Nicholas to think of this young life being cut off, while his own, almost fifty years in excess of it, lingered on. He became possessed by this thought, brooding on it by day, and pressing it against his aching heart when he lay awake at night. He lay awake so often that his haggard eyes told their own tale though he made no complaint. He and Ernest took to reviewing their own lives, recalling the mistakes, the false moves they had made, and speculating on what they might have made of them if they had done differently; deriving sometimes a forlorn exhilaration in the triumphs thus imagined. They would raise their peevish voices, each eager to give his own version of the bygone tale, talking each other down until they were tired out and the fire was low. Then Nicholas would stump off to his own room, Nip trotting at his heels, and stand in the middle of it with a dazed expression. Once, thus alone, he broke down and, raising his arms in a gesture of appeal, sobbed out—’Oh, God, give me another chance! Make me a boy again!”
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 65
