Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Look here,” said Renny, “give me time to wash my hands. I’ll just be a moment!”
He sprang up the stairs and went to his old room.
“You’ll find hot water waiting there,” called Meg after him.
“And do make haste,” added his Uncle Ernest. “My mother is faint for food.”
“I’ll be down in a jiffy,” returned Renny.
“How wonderful it is to see him running up the stairs again,” said Meg. “Oh, I shall be so glad to have him home; there’ll be someone to lean on.”
“More likely someone to order you about,” said Eden.
“I heard him say,” put in Piers, “that he had only a roll and coffee on the train. He’ll be hungry.”
“Rolls and coffee,” exclaimed the old lady. “What a Frenchified breakfast! But it’s well if he is hungry. We have plenty for him to eat.”
“I think we had better seat ourselves,” observed Lady Buckley. “It will save time when he comes down.”
But when they reached the dining room where the spring sunlight poured between the yellow velour curtains on to the table, shining on silver and smooth damask, a surprise made them halt, almost in consternation. Eliza, when laying the table, had placed Renny at its head.
On the death of Philip Whiteoak, early during the War, Nicholas and Ernest had returned to Jalna from England. To the household of women and young boys left behind, their coming had been a bulwark against the world and a restrengthening of family solidarity. There was their old mother bereft of her youngest son, eager to have one of his older brothers on either side of her. There was Meg who had lost a tender and indulgent father, whose favourite brother was in constant danger of his life in France, ready to throw both arms about her uncles’ necks and absorb the comfort of their nearness. There was Mary, Philip’s widow, soon to give her life for her child, tremulously welcoming their strong masculine presence. Their return had been a success both from the point of view of the family and their own finances. In these last years the income of each had been sorely depleted from earlier extravagance and bad investments. Life at Jalna cost them next to nothing.
Nicolas had become so used to sitting at the head of the table, facing Meg at the other end, his mother on his right hand, that the thought of relinquishing this place to Renny, who, by his father’s death, had become owner of the house, never entered his head. Neither did it enter the head of his ancient mother, peering at the joint or roasted fowls he carved so skilfully. The tender slices went to her and to Ernest and Meg, while the tough, smothered in gravy, were given to the three strong-toothed boys. Ernest, on old Adeline’s other side, thought the arrangement admirable, he taking the place of Nicholas when an attack of gout kept him in his room.
“Boys, put out the dogs,” ordered Nicholas.
There was a skirmish while Piers and Finch tugged several terriers and the spaniel by their collars from the room.
“Don’t shut the door,” said Lady Buckley. “Stand on guard so that the animals shall not re-enter. It will be more polite to Renny.”
It was in this moment of confusion that the elders discovered the new order in which they were placed at the table. Nicholas was the first to notice it. He saw that his massive silver table napkin ring which represented a classically draped female figure reclining against a heavily chased cylinder, had been removed to the first place on the right of the carver.
His hand went up to his grey moustache and he gave it a tug of chagrin. His voice, a deep one, expressed his feelings in a sonorous “Ha!” His brother’s expression was a mingling of annoyance that Nicholas was displaced and a Puckish pleasure in his discomfiture. Meg stood imperturbably by her chair.
Lady Buckley, looking her straight in the eyes, asked —
“Was it you, Margaret, who ordered my brother’s napkin ring to be displaced?”
The stilted expression brought a chuckle from Eden. Lady Buckley turned to him with some severity.
“There is nothing to laugh at,” she said. “Your uncle has filled your father’s place with dignity for almost four years. I see no reason why he should be put out of it the moment Renny returns.”
Old Adeline now became conscious that something was wrong. She peered excitedly from one face to another.
“Who’s put you out of where?” she demanded, supporting herself by the table when halfway into the chair.
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Nicholas. “Now then, old lady,” — he took his mother by the arm — “you must move along one place. You’re to sit between Ernest and me now.”
But she would not budge. “Who’s being put out of where?” she reiterated. “Not me, I hope. I won’t have it.”
“It is evidently considered,” said Ernest, “that Renny is the master of the house.”
The old lady was making a gallant effort to retain her former place at the table but Nicholas urged her toward the next chair. Eliza moved forward from the serving table. She said, addressing Adeline:
“I placed Mr. Renny at the head of the table of my own accord, ma’am. I thought that as it is him that owns the house it was natural he would like to carve.”
“Well! Well!” said Ernest. He eyed the pair of juicy roast chickens almost accusingly, as though they had in some way been disloyal to the established order of things. Although he and Nicholas had had their fair share of their father’s money, they could not help the inward twinge of mortification at their younger brother’s inheriting of Jalna. But he had been dead for four years and the sting of it had subsided. Renny’s return, his inheritance through his father and this pointed reminder of it, made them uncomfortably aware of the change in family relations.
“You should not have done such a thing without an express order,” said Lady Buckley.
“Certainly not, certainly not,” agreed Ernest.
“It doesn’t matter,” growled Nicholas.
“An order from me!” exclaimed old Adeline. “Nothing’s to be changed without an order from me. But it’s right for Renny to be at the head of the table. He’s his father’s eldest son. Jalna is his … Well, now, where do you want me to sit? I begin to feel very weak. I need food.” She peered eagerly at the full-breasted birds on the platter.
Nicholas got her into her chair. She unfolded her napkin and tucked it deftly beneath her chin.
“Don’t let those dogs in, boys,” she commanded.
Eliza stood rigid, her lips puckered, on the defensive against criticism of her act. All eyes were fixed expectantly on the stairway which could be glimpsed through the open door. Ernest kept repeating under his breath — “Well, well!” Nicholas drummed on the table with his fingers. Eden looked slyly at Meg, urging her to laughter, but she kept her countenance. The dogs made a concerted effort at return but was repulsed by the boys. The shadows of their waving tails were thrown against the pale woodwork of the staircase.
Renny’s feelings as he went up to his old room were a strange mixture of the familiar and the dreamlike. He had so often imagined it in his years of absence that now in its reality it was dwarfed and pressed in on itself. His own reflection in the mirror stared out at him like a stranger. The shiny lithographs of famous horses that adorned the wall seemed ready to rear in astonishment at his claim to be flesh and blood.
But he must not keep the family waiting. He went to the washstand and poured warm water from the can into the basin. He had a sudden feeling of childhood, of being sent from the table to wash his hands. But these hands that he now lathered were the weather-hardened hands of a soldier. They had to take into their grasp the reins of a new life.
As he inadequately rubbed a towel between his palms, his eyes fixed on the fields that spread beyond his windows, he suddenly felt that he was being watched. He wheeled and discovered a tiny figure standing in the doorway. It was a little boy of less than four years, dressed in a white knitted suit, his mass of brown curls and his bright dark eyes contrasting in their vitality to the fragility of his body, his small pale face and his thin little legs. For an instant he could not think who the child was, then it rushed upon him that it was the brother he had never seen, his father’s posthumous child.
“Hello!” he got out. “And what’s your name?”
The mite stared at him, his eyes becoming larger, his mouth smaller and rounder in his astonishment.
“Hello!” repeated Renny, with what he imagined was a friendly grin. “I’ll get you!”
He dived at him and tossed him up. Well, that was what he did to little boys. But this little boy was evidently different. Instead of squealing in delight and crying “Do it again! Do it again!” he gave a scream of fright and then burst into tears. Renny did not know whether to set him down and leave him or carry him downstairs. He decided to do that last. Tucking him under his arm he ran quickly down the stairs. Wakefield had apparently stopped crying but he was only holding his breath. They reached the dining room.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Renny began, then the screams broke out afresh. The little boy kicked and struggled. The dogs followed them into the room. The spaniel, fearful that Wakefield was being hurt, stood on her hind legs and pawed at the intruder. Her nails scratched Wake-field’s bare leg. He kicked and screamed more loudly than ever. The dogs barked.
Meg rose from her chair and flew to her darling’s rescue.
“Come to Meggie then! Meggie’s pet!” She took him to her breast.
“Why, his leg is bleeding!” exclaimed Ernest. “Whatever have you done to him?”
“Good God!” said Nicholas. “It’s enough to give him a fit.”
Eliza was examining the scratch.
“I’ll get Vaseline and a bandage,” she said. “Come with Eliza, my pet.”
“No, no!” he shrieked. “Won’t go! Send the bad man away!”
“Give him to me,” commanded Lady Buckley. “I can quiet him when no one else can.”
It was true. On her ample lap, her clean handkerchief bound about his leg, he became tranquil and beamed at the faces about him. His grandmother was only half sympathetic. She did not like the delay. She wanted her dinner. She looked critically at Renny as he prepared to take his place. He himself was concerned at the unfortunate introduction to the last-born of the family. He dropped into his chair with an apologetic air.
“Put the dogs out,” said Ernest. “They are irritating Sasha.” The cat was indeed arching her back and swinging her tail on his shoulder.
“Must they go out?” asked Renny. “They used to stop in. Do you remember how Dad used to pull burrs out of them and hide the burrs under his chair?”
This sudden unexpected reference to the dead Philip fell almost brutally on the ears of those about him. The tremor of laughter in his voice shocked the elders and made the three boys grin in response. In truth Renny had not yet come to believe in his father’s death. Jalna was so bound up in his thoughts of Philip that to return to the one was to bring the living presence of the other to his mind.
But how he felt that he had said something unseemly. His already high-coloured face took on a deeper tinge. He picked up the carving knife and said nervously — “So I am to do this job! Well, I’m afraid I shall make a hash of it.” He talked excitedly of his journey while he carved.
His uncles, his aunt, and Eliza standing by, thought he showed no proper appreciation of the honour done him. They were not consoled by the fact that he showed little discrimination in his apportioning of the birds. It was disconcerting to see eleven-year-old Finch stuffing his greedy young mouth with the tenderest breast. It was annoying to see heedless Piers devouring those juicy ovals of flesh dug out of the back which the knife’s tip, just north of the Pope’s nose.
But his sister and his grandmother were satisfied. To Meg the sight of him opposite her, his red head bent above his task, his eyes, under their dark lashes, giving her quick glances of affection, filled her with bliss. She could not eat.
“You’re eating nothing, Meggie!” he exclaimed.
“I’m too happy,” she answered. “Besides I never eat much. And I’ve Baby to feed.” She was offering morsels to the little boy, who refused them, turning his face against his great-aunt’s breast with petulance.
“I hope you are not spoiling him,” said Renny.
A derisive laugh came from Piers. “Spoiling him!” he exclaimed. “He’s the most spoilt kid in the world.”
“No, no,” said Lady Buckley. “His delicacy makes a certain amount of humouring necessary.”
“It is not well to cross him,” agreed Ernest. “He needs encouragement. I was a delicate child and I know how such a one can suffer at the hands of people of coarser grain.”
“I should like to know who caused you suffering,” rumbled Nicholas. “I seem to remember how you always had the best of everything because you were ailing.”
Their mother spoke in a tone of surprising energy. “I took great care of my children. I wrapped ’em up against the cold. I kept ’em out of the heat of the sun. I dosed ’em with sulphur in the spring and senna in the fall. I never lost a child. My mother lost five out of sixteen…. Hm, well, I don’t know what this is you’ve given me but I can’t eat it at all. You don’t carve the way your uncle did.”
“Sorry,” said Renny. “I know I’m damned awkward but I shall get used to it.”
“There’s a nice bit of breast,” said Nicholas, pointing with his fork. “Cut that off for her.”
Renny complied.
“Renny,” said Finch, “when can I see your wounds?”
Meg turned horrified eyes on Finch.
“How
can
you say such things? It was bad enough to know that Renny was wounded without speaking of it the moment he arrived.”
“I always say,” declared Lady Buckley, “that delicacy of mind cannot be instilled too early. I don’t see much of it in these boys.”
“What we want,” said Piers, “is to hear Renny talk about the War. We want to hear how he carved up the Germans. Tell us about when you won the DSO, Renny.”
“Time enough for that later,” answered Renny gruffly.
“You must come to my room,” said Eden, “and tell everything.”
Meg interrupted — “Isn’t Wakefield pretty, Renny?”
“Pretty as a picture. Are you going to make friends with me, you young scamp?”
“Whom do you think he is like?”