Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Wakefield, meanwhile, had espied an old wicker fishing basket pushed under the lowest of a tier of shelves. He dragged it forth and saw in the candlelight three dark squatty bottles, cobwebbed, leaning toward each other as though in
elfin conspiracy. A liquid clucking sound came from them as they were disturbed, and, as he cautiously drew one out, a lambent bronze light played beneath its dusty surface.
“Oh, I say Renny,” he exclaimed, in awed tones, “here is something stimulative!”
Renny had made his selection, but he now set the bottles on a shelf and, snatching Wakefield’s treasure from him, restored it to its fellows and pushed the basket hastily out of sight.
“If you had dropped that, you young devil’s spawn,” he observed, “I should have put an end to you on the spot,” And he added, grinning at his henchman: “A man must have a secret in his life, eh, Rags?”
A secret in his life! The little boy was filled with ecstasy at the thought. What magic potion had his splendid brother hidden in this subterranean place? What stealthy visits did he perhaps make here, what charms, what wizardry? Oh, if Renny would only make a partner of him in his secret doings!
He was told to hold the candle while Rags locked the door. He saw Renny’s eyes fixed shrewdly on the servant’s greyish-white hands. He saw the eyes narrow; then Renny transferred one of the two bottles he carried to his armpit and, with the hand thus freed, gave a sharp tug to the padlock. It slipped off into his palm, “Try again, Rags,” he said, and his carven face with the long Court nose looked uncannily like his grandmother’s.
Rags remarked, this time successfully securing the door: “I never did know ’ow to manage them blinkin’ padlocks, sir.” He was unabashed.
“Not with me looking on, Rags. There, take the candle from the youngster. He’s got it tilted sidewise.”
“Yes, sir. But just before I do, let me remove that cobweb from your ’ead, sir,”
Renny bent his head and Rags unctuously lifted off the cobweb.
They formed an odd procession, with something of the quality of a strange religious rite. Rags, in advance, might have been some elfish acolyte, the full light from the candle showing sharply the bony structure of his face, the shallow nose, the jutting chin, the impudent line of the jaw; Wakefield, in his wistful absorption, a young altar boy; Renny, carrying a bottle in either hand, the officiating priest. The narrow brick passage along which they passed had a chill that might well have been associated with the crypt of some ruined cathedral, and from the kitchen, where Mrs. Wragge was, as usual, burning something on the range, drifted a thin blue veil of smoke, like incense.
At the foot of the stairway Rags stood aside, holding the candle aloft to light the others as they mounted upward. “A pleasant evening to you, sir,” he said, “and good luck to the Jalna ’orses. We’ll be drinkin’ yer ’ealth down ’ere—in
tea,
sir,”
“Keep it weak, Rags. Better for your nerves,” adjured his master, callously, as he pushed the door at the top of the stairs shut with his heavy boot.
In the dining room Nicholas sat waiting, his large shapely hand, adorned by a heavy seal ring, stroking his drooping moustache, an expression of humorous satisfaction in his eyes. Ernest’s expression was already one of regret, for he knew that he would drink and he knew only too well that his digestion would suffer for it. Still, a kind of tonic gaiety was in the air. He could not help smiling rather whimsically at the faces about him, and at the foreshadowing of his own lapse!
Augusta sat admirably upright, her cameo brooch and long gold chain rising and falling on her breast, which was neither large nor small, but corseted in perfect accordance with the model of her young-womanhood. She drew back her head and regarded her nephew expectantly. He dusted the bottle of port and set it down before her.
“There, Aunt. The corkscrew, Wake… Uncle Nick— Burke’s Jamaica… That rascal, Rags, was for leaving the cellar, door unlocked, so he could sneak in and swipe something for himself. But I caught him, thank goodness,”
“He’s an incorrigible rascal,” said Nicholas.
“He deserves to be flayed alive,” agreed Ernest, pleasantly.
“I’d have done the same myself,” laughed Piers.
Pheasant had come downstairs and had drawn up a chair beside his. She was eating a bowl of bread and milk, and the sight of her brown cropped head and childish nape bent over it brought an amused yet tender smile to Piers’s lips. He stroked her neck with his strong sunburnt hand, and said: “How you can like that pap beats me.”
“I was brought up on it. Besides, it’s frightfully good for Mooey.”
“Put a little rum in it,” advised Nicholas. “You need something to warm you up after that long cold drive. Incidentally it would be good for young Maurice, too. Help to make a Whiteoak and a gentleman of him.”
“He’s both, already,” said Pheasant, sturdily, “and I’ll not encourage my offspring in a taste for spirits even at second hand.”
Augusta looked upon the redness of the wine in her glass and remarked: “Our old nurse used to put a little wine in the bottom of our shoes when we went out in the wet to prevent
our taking a chill. We did not know what it was to wear rubbers, and we never had colds.”
“You forget, Augusta,” interposed her brother Ernest. “I had severe colds.”
Nicholas said: “That was because you were always kept in when it was wet.”
“I can remember,” went on Ernest, “looking down from the nursery window when I had one of my colds and watching you two—and, of course, Philip—romping on the lawn with the little pet lamb we had. By and by Papa would come along. He would pick up little Phil and ride him on his shoulder. I can see him. He looked so magnificent to me. I can remember how the wood pigeons were always calling then… I used to shout to him and throw kisses down from my window.”
He had had only one glass of rum and water, but it took only that to imbue his gentle spirit with sentimental melancholy.
“Yes, I remember,” said his brother. “Poor little beggar that you were, you would have a red flannel bandage about your throat, and, likely as not, your ears stuffed with cotton wool, smelling of camphor.”
“Good Lord!” said Renny. “If only the wood pigeons were thick as that now! What shooting! Eh, Floss? Eh, Merlin?”
His tone, the word “shooting,” which they perfectly understood, aroused the two clumber spaniels sleeping on either side of his chair. They sprang up with joyous barks.
Above the barking of the dogs Finch raised his voice: “I think I might have something. A fellow going on nineteen can stand a drink or two, I guess.”
Renny gently cuffed his dogs. “Down, Merlin. Down, Floss, old pet. What’s that Finch?”
There was silence now and Finch’s voice boomed loudly but with an ominous break in it. “I say I’m eighteen and I don’t see why I can’t have a drink.”
Piers said: “Give him a sip of your wine, quickly, Aunt Augusta—he’s going to cry.”
Finch with difficulty controlled his temper, gazing down at the remnant of apple tart that had been saved for him from the family dinner.
“Give the boy a glass of rum,” said Nicholas. “Do him good.”
Renny put out a long arm and pushed the decanter, which he had filled with port, across to Finch. “Help yourself, Finch,” he said, with a suddenly protective air.
Finch selected a glass and took up the decanter. He was afraid that his hand was going to shake. He set his teeth. He would not let it shake… Not with the eyes of all the family on him. All the family hoping he would do some fool nervous thing… Piers’s white teeth showing already between his lips, all too ready for a jeering laugh… He would not let it shake. Oh, God, he was saying to himself, keep my hand from shaking! He knew that he no longer believed in or feared God, yet the less he believed in and feared Him, the more often he flung out these silent invocations for His support.
His hand was steady enough until the glass was almost filled; then it began to shake. He barely escaped slopping the wine on to the table. By the time he had set the decanter down he was trembling from head to foot. He quickly tweaked his cuff over his thin wrist and threw a furtive glance at the faces of those about him.
Everyone at the table had begun to talk at once. Not noisily or confusedly, but pleasantly in accord. Smiles flickered over their faces as visible signs of the geniality emanating from
within. Aunt Augusta began to tell of the old days at Jalna, when Papa and Mama had entertained in lavish fashion, had even entertained a Governor General and his lady. Then, of course, she drifted to social life in England in the eighties and nineties, when, she now liked to imagine, she had held an important social position. Nicholas, too, talked of London, but of a different London, where he and his wife, Millicent, had enjoyed themselves in the racing set till his funds gave out, and she left him, and he was obliged to return to the shelter of Jalna.
After two glasses, the mind of Ernest was centred on one thing only—what he should wear to the horse show the next day. He had a new fall overcoat of expensive English melton, made by the best tailor in town, such an extravagance as he had not indulged in for years. It had been bought with an eye on the horse show, yet the weather was so cold and wet that Ernest, with his dread of afflicting his delicate chest, was in a quandary. The tailor had told him that he had never seen a man of his age with such a slender, upright figure. Not much like poor old Nick, Ernest thought, who had grown so heavy and who generally had to lean on a stick because of his gouty knee… Yet what about the delicate chest? A severe cold at that time of year might lead to anything. “Now, Renny,” he was saying, “what about the atmosphere in the Coliseum? Was there a noticeable chill there today?”
“Chill!” ejaculated Renny, interrupted in a rhapsody on the powers of the high jumper he was to ride the next day. “Why, there was no chill at all! It was like a conservatory. A flapper might have gone there in a chiffon shift, and felt none the worse for it.”
He hugged Wake against his side, and gave him a sip from his glass. The little boy, anxious to be in the very heart of the party, had asked: “Renny, may I sit on your knee?”
And his elder had demanded: “How old are you?”
“Eleven, Renny. Not so awfully old.”
“Too old to be nursed. I mustn’t coddle you. But you may sit on the arm of my chair.”
Piers exclaimed, as Renny hugged the child: “Well, if that isn’t coddling!”
“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Renny. “It’s cuddling. There’s all the difference in the world, isn’t there, Wake? Ask any girl.”
Piers no longer sat. He stood by the side of the table smiling at everyone. He looked remarkably well standing thus, with his stocky figure, his blue eyes softly shining. He talked of the land and the crops, and of a Jersey heifer he was going to trade for an exquisite bull calf.
Pheasant thought: “How darling he looks standing there! His eyes are as bright as Mooey’s. Dear me, that huge bottle is almost empty! Strange that I should have come from a father who is far too fond of his glass to a husband who is inclined that way, too, when I am naturally prohibitionist in my sentiments! I’m never going to encourage my little baby in taking spirits when he gets big.”
Aunt Augusta whispered to Finch: “You must go to your studies, my dear. You should learn a great deal tonight, after those two nice glasses of wine.”
“Huh-huh,” muttered Finch, rising from the table obediently. He took up his books from a side table where he had laid them, sighing at the thought of leaving this genial, relaxed atmosphere for the grind of mathematics. As he turned away, the lottery ticket fell from between the leaves of his Euclid to the floor.
Wakefield sprang from the arm of Renny’s chair and picked it up. Finch was already in the hall. “He’s dropped
something,” and the little boy peered at it inquisitively. “It’s a ticket—look, number thirty-one! Hello, Finch, you dropped something, my boy!”
Finch turned back angrily. Patronizing little beast, with his cheeky “My boy!”
“Let’s see,” said Piers, taking the ticket from Wakefield and examining it. “Well, I’ll be shot if it isn’t a lottery ticket! What are you going in for, young Finch? You’re a deep one. Out to make a fortune, eh, unknown to your family? You’re still a schoolboy, you know”—this taunt because of his failure to matriculate — “and you’re not supposed to gamble.”
“What’s this?” demanded Renny, suspiciously. “Fetch it here.”
Piers returned the ticket to its owner. “Take it to your big brother,” he advised, “and then run upstairs for his shaving strop.”
Finch, glaring, thrust the ticket in his pocket and lunged toward the hall.
“Come back here!” ordered Renny. “Now,” he continued, as the boy reappeared, “just say what that lottery ticket is for.”
“Good Lord!” bawled the goaded Finch. “Can’t I buy a lottery ticket if I want to? You’d think I was an infant in arms!”
“You may buy a dozen if you wish, but I don’t like the way you are acting about this one. What is it for?”
“It’s for a canary, that’s what it’s for!” His voice was hoarse with anger. “If I can’t buy a lottery ticket for a goddam canary it’s a funny thing!”
The outburst of merriment that leaped from the lungs of his brothers and uncles could have been equalled in volume and vitality by few families. After the roar had subsided, Renny gave another of his metallic shouts. “A canary!” he
repeated. “Next thing he’ll be wanting a goldfish and a rubber plant!” But, though he laughed, in his heart he was deeply ashamed for Finch. He was fond of the boy. It was humiliating that he should be such a sissy—wanting to own a canary, of all things!
A vigorous thumping came from the bedroom across the hall.
“There, now,” cried Ernest, irritated concern clouding his features, “what did I tell you! You’ve wakened her. I knew you would. It’s very bad for her to be disturbed like this at her age.”
Augusta said, without flurry: “Wakefield, go to my mother’s room. Open the door quietly and say: There is nothing wrong, Grandmama. Please compose yourself.’”
The picture thus conjured of this scene between his small brother and his ancient grandmother caused Piers to emit a snort of laughter. His aunt and uncle Ernest looked at him with disapproval.