Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.
“As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou knowest not the works of God who maketh all.”
The family stared at their chief as he read.
Old Mrs. Whiteoak thought: “A perfect Court! Look at that head, will you? My nose—my eyes. I wish Philip could see him. Ha, where’s my peppermint? Must have swallowed it. How far away the lad looks. He’s in his nightshirt—going to bed—time for bed—”
She slept.
Nicholas thought: “Renny’s wasted here. Ought to be having a gay time in London. Let’s see; he’s thirty-eight. When I was that age—God, I was just beginning to hate Millicent! What a life!”
He heaved himself in his seat and eased his gouty knee.
Ernest thought: “Dear boy, how badly he reads! Still, his voice is arresting. I always enjoy old Ecclesiastes. I do hope there will not be plum tart for dinner—I shall be sure to eat it and sure to suffer. Mamma is dropping her peppermint—”
He whispered to her: “Mamma, you are losing your peppermint.”
Meg thought: “I wish Renny would not get such a close haircut. How splendid he looks. Really, what strange things the Bible says. But very true, of course. How sweet Wake looks! So interested. He has the loveliest eyelashes. He’s getting ready to kick Finch on the ankle—”
She bent over Wakefield, and laid a restraining hand on his leg.
Renny’s voice read on:
“Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.”
Eden thought: “He was a poet, the old chap who wrote that. ‘Truly the light is sweet—and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold—’ Strange I never noticed before how lovely Pheasant is. Her profile—”
He shifted his position a little, so that he might the better see it.
Piers thought: “I wonder if that piece of land needs potash. I believe I’ll try it. Don’t see what the dickens can be wrong with the sick ewe. Walking in a circle, like a fool animal in a roundabout. Perhaps she’s got gid or sturdy. Must have the vet to her. Let’s see—fourteen and twenty-one is thirty-five, and seven is forty-two—owe Baxter forty-two. Pheasant daren’t look at me—little rogue—darling little kid—”
He pressed his knee against hers, and looked at her under his lashes.
Pheasant thought: “How big and brown Piers’s hands always look on Sunday! Regular fists. I like them that way, too. I wish Eden wouldn’t stare. I know perfectly well he’s thinking how dowdy I am beside Alayne. Oh, dear, how hard this seat gets! I shall never get used to church-going—I wasn’t caught young enough. My whole character was completely formed when I married. Neither Maurice nor I have any religion. How nice it was to see him yesterday in the orchard—quite friendly he was, too. Now religion—take Renny: there he stands in his surplice, reading out of the Bible, and yesterday I heard him swearing like a trooper just
because a pig ran under his horse. To be sure, it nearly threw him, but then, what good is religion if it doesn’t teach forbearance? I don’t think he is a bit better than Piers. I wish Piers wouldn’t try to make me smile.”
She bit her lip and turned her head away.
Wakefield thought: “I do hope there’ll be plum tart for dinner—if there isn’t plum tart, I hope there’ll be lemon tart... But Mrs. Wragge was in a terrible temper this morning. How glad I am I was in the coal cellar when she and Rags had their row! Why, he called her a—hold on, no, I’d better not think of bad things in church. I might be struck dead—dead as a doornail, the very deadest thing. How pretty the lectern is—how beautifully Renny reads. Some day I shall read the Lessons just like that—only louder—that is, of course, if I live to grow up. By stretching my legs very far under the seat in front, I can kick Finch’s ankle. Now—oh, bother Meggie, bother Meggie, always interfering—bother her, I say!”
He looked up innocently into his sister’s face.
Finch thought: “Tomorrow is the algebra exam, and I shall fail—I shall fail... If only my head did not get confused! If only I were more like Renny! Nothing in the world will ever tempt me to stand up behind the lectern and read the Lessons. What a beastly mess I’d make of it—”
He became conscious of the words his brother was reading.
“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.”
Finch twisted unhappily in his seat. Why these eternal threats? Life seemed compact of commands and threats—and the magic of the words in which these old, old threats
were clothed. The dark, heavy foreboding. Magic—that was it: their magic held and terrified him... If he could but escape from the cruel magic of words. If he could only have sat by Alayne, that he might have touched her dress as they knelt!
He closed his eyes, and clenched his bony hands tightly on his thighs.
Alayne thought: “How strange his brogues look under his surplice! I noticed this morning how worn and how polished they are—good-looking brogues... How can I think of brogues when my mind is in torment? Am I growing to love him? What shall I do in that case? Eden and I would have to leave Jalna. No, I do not love him. I will not let myself. He fascinates me—that is all. I do not even like him. Rather, I dislike him. Standing there before that brass thing, in his brogues—his red hair—the Court nose—that foxlike look—he is repellent to me.”
She too closed her eyes, and pressed her fingers against them.
“Here endeth the First Lesson.”
Then, with Miss Pink and the organ tremulously leading the way and the choir fatuously fancying themselves masters of the situation, the
Te Deum
burst forth from every Whiteoak chest save Grandmother’s, and she was gustily blowing in a doze. From the deep baritone of Nicholas to the silver pipe of Wake, they informed the heavens and the earth that they praised the Lord and called Him Holy.
That night, after the nine o’clock supper of cold beef and bread and tea, with oatmeal scones and milk for Grandmother and Ernest (who, alas, had partaken of plum tart at dinner as he feared), Meg said to Alayne: “Is it true,
Alayne, that Unitarians do not believe in the divinity of Christ?”
“What’s that?” interrupted Grandmother. “What’s that?”
“The divinity of Christ, Gran. Mrs. Fennel was telling me yesterday that Unitarians do not believe in the divinity of Christ.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “Rubbish. I won’t have it. More milk, Meggie.”
“I suppose you do not believe in the Virgin Birth, either,” continued Meg, pouring out the milk. “In that case, you will not find the Church of England congenial.”
“I like the service of your church very much,” said Alayne, guardedly. There had been something that savoured of an attack in this sudden question.
“Of course she does,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, heartily. “She’s a good girl. Believes what she ought to believe. And no nonsense. She’s not a heathen. She’s not a Jew. Not believe in the Virgin Birth? Never heard of such a thing in decent society. It’s not respectable.”
“Why talk of religion?” said Nicholas. “Tell us a story, Mamma. One of your stories, you know.”
His mother cocked an eyebrow at him. Then, looking down her nose, she tried to remember a risquè story. She had had quite a store of these, but one by one they were slipping her memory.
“The one about the curate on his holiday,” suggested Nicholas, like a dutiful son.
“Nick!” remonstrated Ernest.
“Yes, yes,” said the old lady. “This curate had worked for years and years without a holiday. And—and—oh, dear, what comes next?”
“Another curate,” prompted Nicholas, “who was also overworked.”
“I think the boys should go to bed,” said Meg, nervously.
“She’ll never remember it,” replied Renny, with calm.
“Oh, Wakefield is playing with the Indian curios!” cried Meg. “Do stop him, Renny!”
Renny took the child forcibly from the cabinet, gave him a gentle cuff, and turned him toward the door. “Now, to bed,” he ordered.
“Let him say good night, first!” shouted Grandmother. “Poor little darling, he wants to kiss his Gran good night.”
Boney, disturbed from slumber, rocked on his perch and screamed in far-away nasal tones:
“Ka butcha! Ka butcha! Haramzada!”
Wakefield made the rounds, distributing kisses and hugs with a nice gauging of the character of the recipient. They ranged in all varieties, from a bearlike hug and smack to Gran, to a courteous caress to Alayne, a perfunctory offering of his olive cheek to his brothers, except Finch, to whom he administered a punch in the stomach which was returned by a sly but wicked dig in the short rib.
The Whiteoaks had a vocation for kissing. Alayne thought of that as she watched the youngest Whiteoak saluting the family. They kissed upon the slightest provocation. Indeed, the grandmother would frequently, on awakening from a doze, cry out pathetically:
“Kiss me, somebody, quick!”
Ah, perhaps Renny had regarded the kissing of her in the orchard as a light thing!
A sudden impulse drew her to him where he stood before the cabinet of curios, a little ivory ape in his hand.
“I want to speak to you about Finch,” she said, steadily.
The light was dim in that corner. Renny scanned her face furtively.
“Yes?”
“I like him very much. He is an unusual boy. And he is at a difficult age. There is something I should like you to do for him.”
He regarded her suspiciously. What was the girl up to?
“Yes?” His tone was mildly questioning.
“I want you to give him music lessons. Music would be splendid for him. He is a very interesting boy, and he needs some outlet besides geometry and things like that. I am sure you will not be sorry if you do it. Finch is worth taking a great deal of trouble for.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Really? I always thought him rather a dull young whelp. And no good at athletics, either. That would be some excuse for being at the bottom of his form most of the time. None of us think of him as ‘interesting.’”
“That is just the trouble. Every one of you thinks the same about Finch, and in consequence he feels himself inferior—the ugly duckling. You are like a flock of sheep, all jumping the one way.”
Her enthusiasm for Finch made her forget her usual dignified reticence, and with it her embarrassment. She looked at him squarely and accusingly.
“And you look on me as the bellwether, eh? If you turn my woolly wooden head in another direction, the others will follow. I am to believe that Finch will turn out to be the swan then?”
“I should not be surprised.”
“And you think his soul needs scales and finger exercises?”
“Please do not make fun of me.”
“I shall have the family in my wool, you know. They’ll hate the strumming.”
“They will get used to it. Finch is important, though none of you may think so.”
“What makes you sure he has musical talent?”
“I am not sure. But I know he appreciates music, and I think he is worth the experiment. Did you ever watch his face when your uncle Nicholas is playing?”
“No.”
“Well, he is playing now. From here you can see Finch quite clearly. Isn’t his expression beautiful, revealing?”
Renny stared across the room at his young brother.
“He looks rather idiotic to me,” he said, “with his jaw dropped and his head stuck forward.”
“Oh, you are hopeless!” she said, angrily.
“No, I’m not. He’s going to have his music and I am going to endure the curses of the family. But for my life and soul I can’t see anything of promise in him at this moment. Now Uncle Nick, with the lamplight falling on that grey lion’s head of his, looks rather splendid.”
“But Finch—don’t you see the look in his eyes? If only you could understand him—be a friend to him—” Her eyes were pleading.
“What a troubled little thing you are! I believe you do a lot of worrying. Perhaps you are even worrying about me?” He turned his intense gaze into her eyes.
Deep chords from the piano, Grandmother and Boney making love to each other in Hindu. The yellow lamplight, which left the corners of the room in mysterious shadow, isolated them, giving the low tones of their voices a significance that their words did not express.
A passionate unrest seized upon her. The walls of the room seemed to be pressing in on her; the group of people yonder, stolid, inflexible, full-blooded, arrogant, seemed to be crushing her individuality. She wanted to snatch the ivory ape from Renny’s hands and hurl it into their midst, frightening them, making the parrot scream and squawk.
Yet she had just been granted a favour that lay near her heart: music for poor young Finch.
The contradictions of her temperament puzzled and amused the eldest Whiteoak. He discovered that he liked to startle her. Her unworldliness, as he knew the world, her reticence, her honesty, her academic ardours, her priggishness, the palpable passion that lay beneath all these, made her an object of calculated sexual interest to him. At the same time he felt an almost tender solicitude for her. He did not want to see her hurt, and he wondered how long it would be before Eden would most certainly hurt her.
“I have forgotten yesterday, as I promised. Have you forgiven?”
“Yes,” she returned, and her heart began to beat heavily.
“But giving Finch those music lessons will never make up for cutting down the tree, I’m afraid. You’ve made me very tender-hearted.”
“Are you sorry for that?”
“Yes. I have especial need of hardness just now.”
The parrot screamed: “Chore! Chore! Haramzada! Chore!”
“What are you two talking about?” shouted Grandmother.
“Eastern lore,” replied her grandson.
“Did you say the War? I like to hear about the War as well as anyone. Do you know the Buffs, Alayne? That was Renny’s regiment. Did your country go to war, Alayne?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whiteoak.”
“Yes,
Gran,
please!”
“Yes, Gran.”