Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Ernest was at this time just under seventy and Nicholas just over it, fine-looking men with an elegance quite unusual in these days, though Nicholas was tending more and more toward allowing his thick black hair, that was streaked with grey, to grow too long, and to being a bit careless about his cigar ashes. But Ernest was immaculate, looking, as his nephews said, always ready to go anywhere. He thought of himself as intellectual and spent a large part of his time in reading Shakespeare and books about Shakespeare, though he had a tendency to forget what he had read. Nicholas could play the piano quite well and, if he had not been too much preoccupied with other matters in his youth, might have become a very good musician. Now he had an old square piano upstairs in his bedroom and played on it almost every evening. He did not like the tone of the piano in the drawing-room so well, he said. In fact his fingers were getting somewhat stiff from arthritis and a gouty knee caused him to limp a little. But he enjoyed his food. All the Whiteoak family enjoyed their food, with the apparent exception of Meg, though even she could make a clean sweep of a tempting tray when she had it alone in her own room.
Finch helped himself from the bowl of hot porridge and poured milk over it, closely observed by Wakefield.
“What are you staring at?” demanded Finch.
“You’re greedy.”
Meg interposed — “Eat your porridge, darling.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Aren’t you well?” At once her voice had an anxious tone. She scrutinized his pointed, rather sallow face.
“What he needs,” said Nicholas, “is a little wholesome neglect.”
“Oh, Uncle Nicholas, you know very well that Wake could never have lived if I had not watched over him so carefully.”
“Very true indeed,” agreed Ernest.
The little boy looked languidly from one face to the other, savouring his delicacy.
A quick step sounded in the hall and the master of Jalna came into the room, followed by three dogs, two Clumber spaniels and the English sheepdog.
“The dogs!” cried Meg. “They must be dripping!”
“Not they,” returned their master. “They know that this weather isn’t fit for a dog. It’s a filthy day and no mistake.” He laid his fingers against his sister’s warm white neck for a moment, then, with a good morning to his uncles, went to his place at the head of the table, the dogs majestically ranging themselves on either side of him.
Ernest Whiteoak was of a fastidious nature. He was conscious not only of a pleasant clean smell of Windsor soap from his eldest nephew but also of a slight smell of the stables, and from the coats of the dogs their characteristic odour. He took out his handkerchief and sniffed the pure scent of Vapex from it.
Renny gave him a quick look. “A cold Uncle Ernest?”
“No, no. I just use a little Vapex on my handkerchief. As a protection. Nothing more.”
“Good.” Renny helped himself to porridge and added — “It’s a bad time for colds and, as I said, this is a filthy day.” He turned to Finch. “I guess you’re glad you don’t have to go to school. It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
Finch longed to shout — “It’s my birthday, that’s what it is! And nobody has the decency to remember it.” But he looked glumly at his plate with a muttered assent.
His Uncle Ernest eyed him with mild disapproval.
“It is a good thing,” he said, “to form the habit in youth of getting up cheerful in the morning. I formed that habit many years ago and I have found it beneficial to my own health and to the comfort of those about me.”
“Yes, indeed, Uncle Ernest,” agreed Meg, “you are an example to everyone.”
“I’m cheerful,” piped Wakefield. “But I can’t eat this porridge. Would you like to have it, Finch?”
Finch gave him a quelling look and applied himself morosely to his own.
Nicholas wiped his drooping iron-grey moustache on an enormous linen table-napkin. “I’m glad,” he said, “that we’re on the way to spring.”
“This rain,” said Ernest, “will take away the last of the snow.”
“But if it freezes,” added Renny, “we shall have the devil of a mess.” He turned to Wakefield. “There are twin lambs in the barn this morning.”
“Oo — may I go back with you and see them?”
“Yes.” He looked fondly at his small brother. “If you eat up your breakfast.”
“Renny, do you think I might have a pony for my birthday?”
Now, thought Finch, that will remind them! Now they’ll remember that it’s
my
birthday.
But it didn’t. Everyone began to discuss the question of a pony for Wakefield, as though it were a matter of profound importance. Wragge, the houseman, who had been Renny’s batman in the war, had returned with him in 1919, and established himself as a permanent fixture at Jalna by marrying the cook, now brought in another dish of bacon and eggs. He was a small wiry man who imparted an air of jaunty good humour to his domestic activities. He had a pronounced cockney accent and cherished an unaffected devotion to Renny. He was familiarly called Rags.
Renny Whiteoak was at this time thirty-seven years old, tall and thin, with an elegantly sculptured head covered by dark-red wiry hair. His complexion was somewhat weather-beaten and his brown eyes had a wary look, as though thus far in his life he had encountered a fair amount of trouble and was prepared for more. His eyebrows were a salient feature of his face, quickly expressing by their contractions or upraisings, their sudden movements, as though independent of each other, his moods of anger, dismay, or jocularity. He raised them now as Eden and Piers came into the room, and glanced at his wristwatch.
“Sorry,” said Eden, bending to kiss his sister.
“But you’re not really late, dear, only your porridge will be cold.”
“Preserve me from it hot or cold. Morning, everybody.” He smiled at the faces about the table and seated himself at the left of his eldest brother, who said, while helping him to bacon and eggs —
“What I was remarking is his clothes.”
It was obvious that Eden wore jacket and trousers over his pyjamas.
“If I had appeared at table in such undress when I was a young fella,” observed Nicholas, “my father would have ordered me to leave.” He glanced with reminiscent pride at the portrait of the handsome officer in Hussar’s uniform which hung above the sideboard beside that of his wife. The dominating presence of this portrait, painted in London seventy years ago, had influenced even the second generation of Whiteoaks to be born in Canada. In their earliest years the splendour of the uniform had attracted them, and as they grew this grandfather was often pointed out to them as the model of what a British officer should be, firm in discipline, quick in decision, inexorable in justice. His gallantry had been equalled only by his strength of character. No one told them of his weaknesses which were charming.
Eden shrugged his shoulders in a new and irritating way he had, and said — “Well, he was a martinet, wasn’t he? He’d not have done for these days.”
“It is a good thing for you,” said his Uncle Ernest, “that my mother did not hear that remark.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, Uncle Ernie, but things have changed, you know. Especially since the war.”
“For the worse,” put in Nicholas. “Where the young are concerned.”
Eden laid down his knife and fork and laughed. His blue eyes regarded his uncle across the table with ironic amusement. “Come now, Uncle Nick, were you always well-behaved?”
“I was human.”
“And so am I — very.”
“That has nothing to do with coming to breakfast in pyjamas and uncombed hair.”
“You have just remarked how things have changed.”
“Not that much.”
Renny now spoke. “Say the word, Uncle Nicholas, and I’ll see to it that he goes upstairs and dresses.”
“No, no. Let Meg decide. If she doesn’t mind …”
Eden leaned back in his chair smiling from one face to the other.
“It doesn’t matter in the least to me,” cried Meg. “Eden looks so nice no matter what he has on.”
“Thank you, Meggie darling. I should have hated to be sent upstairs to tidy myself like a little boy.” He attacked his bacon and eggs with appetite.
Finch was thinking — “How does Eden get that way? Doesn’t he mind what’s said? Or is he just so darned proud?” Yet Finch had seen Eden look blacker than he had ever seen one of his other brothers. But when Eden looked black you didn’t know what it was about. Last year, he had remained cool in the storm which had raged about him, yet Finch had heard him walking about his room in the middle of the night. Perhaps he felt things more than he showed.
Nicholas must have been thinking about that time too, for he remarked to Eden — “Of course, you’ve heard that I was sent down from Oxford.”
“Oh, yes, and you have no idea how that endears you to me.”
“Grandfather,” said Renny, his eyes full on Eden’s face, “had more money to waste than I have.”
The upbringing and education of his young half-brothers was his responsibility and a father he was to them. The smile faded on Eden’s lips. His smile always had the shadow of pain in it and now that shadow deepened before it faded. Ernest gave him a sympathetic look and began to talk of the weather, which had greatly worsened. The rain now slashed furiously on the windowpanes, making a wall between those in the room and the desolate world beyond. No one who was not forced to would venture out on this day.
More thickly buttered toast with marmalade was eaten, the huge silver teapot was replenished and emptied, while the windows trembled in their frames and down the roof poured the rain, washing away the last of the snow that lay in little ridges on the northward side. Wragge, with an air of ceremony, as though he were performing a juggling trick and showing the family something they had never before seen, opened the folding doors that led to the sitting room, grandly called the library though there was no more than a hundred books on its shelves. Nicholas, Ernest, and Eden kept their own books in their rooms. One of the shelves in this room was filled by books on the breeding of show horses, care of the horse in health and disease, a history of the Grand National, books on the judging of show horses and their training. These were only a portion of the books and magazines on the same subject which were perused by the master of the house, and many of which were in his office in the stable or littered the shelves of his clothes cupboard.
“It is cold in here,” remarked Ernest with a glance at the fireplace.
“There is an east wind.”
“If there’s an east wind,” said his brother, “the chimney would smoke.”
“The wind is from the south,” Meg declared, “right off the lake.”
“I’m positive it’s from the east,” persisted Ernest.
“If it’s from the east, the chimney will smoke like the devil,” said Renny.
“It’s from the south,” said Meg. “Finch, just go out to the porch and see if it isn’t from the south.”
Everybody looked at Finch, as though quite suddenly he had become interesting. He stared back truculently.
Why should he be chosen to go out into the wet and cold to discover which way the wind blew? And on his birthday. “It’s from the east,” he muttered. He did not want a fire lighted, for he would probably be sent to fetch wood for it. Always it was he who was sent to do unpleasant things.
“Get a move on,” ordered Renny, raising an eyebrow at him. Glumly he went to the hall and opened the front door against the blast. He stepped out into the porch and shut the door with a bang behind him.... Here was an icy cold dripping world, filled with the thunder of rain and wind. The heavy branches of the evergreen trees swayed senselessly, the bare branches of maple and birch, but dimly visible against the rain, were without meaning, as though never would life run through them again. Their sap was sunk into their roots, and their roots clung to the wet clay in fear of being torn up. Where had the birds hidden themselves? Were there perhaps, deep down in the sodden ground, flat-faced worms which knew that spring was coming? The first day of March — and his birthday and no one had thought it worth noticing! He did not care which way the wind blew. Let it blow. Let it blow the chimneys down.
The door opened, and closed. Renny was standing beside him. “What’s the matter with you, Finch?” he demanded. “How long does it take you to discover which way the wind blows?”
“It’s blowing every way,” growled Finch, standing where the rain beat full on him.
“This is a pretty way to behave — and on your birthday too.”
At last the words were out. At last the day had been mentioned. But how? In what a way? Flung at him — in rebuke. Renny too drew back, as though he wished he had not mentioned it. Doubtless he was sorry he had mentioned it, as he had no present for him. Now Renny was saying — “The wind is blowing the rain into the porch, so it’s from the south. We can have a fire. Come in.”
He took Finch by the arm, in a jocular way, and propelled him back to the library.
“The wind,” he announced, “is straight from the south. Get some logs, Finch.” He himself knelt in front of the fireplace, crumpled a newspaper and took a handful of kindling from a small battered oak chest.
Finch brought logs from the basement, labouring up the stairs with them, as though they were made of lead. Outside his grandmother’s bedroom, which was opposite the dining room, he hesitated, wondering whether or not she would remember his birthday. Well, she made a great fuss over her own. Surely she might give a thought to other people’s. As his eyes rested speculatively on the door, the rappings of her stick sounded on the bedroom floor, and she called out — “Come in!”
He could not very well go to her with his arms full of logs, yet there was that peremptory note in her voice which took for granted that you would run at her bidding. He stood still, wondering what to do.
Again she called out, and this time more sharply — “Come in!”
Holding the six logs to his breast with his left arm, the sweetness of the pine filling his nostrils, he gingerly opened the door and put his face in the opening. In the room was a different world, the world of the very old. The heavy maroon curtains were drawn across the windows, and the still air was laden with the scent of sandalwood, camphor, and hair oil. In the dimness the pale shape of the bed was visible and a night-capped head on the pillow.