Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
To Finch the idea of standing up behind the lectern and reading from the Bible was more intimidating than playing the piano in a concert hall. Yet he was pleased and even flattered by being chosen. He was thankful that neither Renny nor Piers would be there to see him. He could not have faced their amused gaze from the family pew.
The morning dawned cold and cloudy, with much snow in the sky but little on the ground. As he descended the stairs to breakfast, the resinous scent of the tree filled the hall. Alayne and Pheasant had decorated it the day before and it was safely locked inside the library. On how many Christmas mornings had he come down those stairs, made dizzy by the wonder, the mysterious strangeness of that scent? He stood a moment alone in the hall. He was indeed alone, for Sarah had gone out of his life. He felt oddly young and untouched at this moment.
Alayne and the children were at the breakfast table. She was having a time of it to persuade Archer to eat anything. He desired only something that was not on the table. Finch looked at him severely.
“I can tell you this, young man,” he said, “if I had demanded things like you do, I’d have been taken by the scruff and put out of the room.”
“what’s the scruff?” asked Archer.
“This.” Finch laid a heavy hand on his neck. Archer wriggled away. “who would have done it to you?” he asked.
“Your father.”
“Mother wouldn’t let him do it to me. She’d —”
“Archer,” interrupted Alayne, “I want to hear nothing more from you.”
Wragge entered the room with a portentous air. “Mrs. Whiteoak, please, my wife would like to see you in the kitchen as soon as convenient.”
Alayne rose. “I have finished,” she said, and went with him to the basement.
“I’m
not
going to church,” said Archer, “and I
am
going to see the Tree. I’m going right now to get my presents off it.”
Finch sprang up and lifted the small boy from his chair. He strode with him into the hall. Archer lay, stiff as a poker, in his arms.
“what are you going to do with him?” asked Roma.
“Open the door,” ordered Finch.
Adeline opened the front door and Finch stepped into the porch. All three dogs came into the house. Finch carried Archer to the steps and held him head downward over a snowdrift.
“Want to be dropped into that and left there?” he asked.
“I don’t mind,” answered Archer impassively.
“All right. Here goes!” He lowered Archer till his tow hair touched the snow. He lowered him till his head was buried. The little girls shrieked. Alayne could be heard talking, on her way up the basement stairs. The bell of Ernest’s room was loudly ringing below. The two old men were having breakfast in bed, in preparation for a tiring day. Now Ernest wanted his. Two short rings meant that he wanted porridge, toast and tea. One prolonged ring indicated that he wanted an egg. This was a prolonged ring. It went on and on.
Finch reversed Archer and stood him on his feet. His lofty white brow was surmounted by snowy locks.
“Now are you going to behave yourself?” asked Finch, grinning.
“I still don’t want my breakfast,” answered Archer. “And I still want to see the Tree.”
“wherever is that terrible draught coming from?” cried Alayne. “And who let the dogs in?”
Finch leaped up the stairs.
Oh, if Renny and Piers and Wake were home, how happy he would be! He pictured them, one after the other, at their various pursuits. What a Christmas it would be when they all were at Jalna once again! He knocked at Ernest’s door and went in.
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Ernest!” He went to the bed and kissed him.
“Merry Christmas, my boy! Will you just prop those pillows behind me a little more firmly. How cold it is! Please don’t touch me again with your hands. They’re icy.”
Finch tucked the eiderdown about him. “Is that better?”
The old gentleman looked nice indeed, with his lean pink face, his forget-me-not blue eyes and his silvery hair brushed smooth. Nicholas, when Finch visited him, was a contrast. His hair, his eyebrows, his moustache, still iron-grey, were ruffled. His bed was untidy and on the table at his side lay his pipe and tobacco pouch, with burnt matches strewn about.
After the season’s greetings, Finch asked, “Have you rung for your breakfast yet, Uncle Nick?”
“No, no. I never ring till I’ve heard Rags bring your Uncle Ernest’s. No matter how early I wake he always gets ahead of me. So now I just smoke a pipe and resign myself to waiting. How many times did he ring?”
“One long one.”
“Means he wants an egg. Doesn’t need an egg when he’s going to eat a heavy dinner. Tomorrow he’ll be taking indigestion tablets, you’ll see.”
Nicholas stretched out an unsteady handsome old hand, found his pipe and a pigeon’s feather with which he proceeded to clean it. What did it feel like to be ninety? Finch wondered. Very comfortable, to judge by the way Uncle Nick pulled contentedly at his pipe.
“So you’re going to read the Lessons, eh?” the old man asked.
“Yes, and I’m scared stiff.”
Nicholas stared. “You nervous — after all you’ve done!”
“This is different.”
“I should think it is. A little country church, as familiar to you as your own home. Your own family there to support you.”
“That’s just it. When I see you all facing me while I read out of the Bible, it will seem preposterous. And I haven’t had any practice. I don’t know how to read out of the Bible.”
“Good heavens, you’ve been often enough to church!”
“It’s not the same.”
Nicholas thought a minute, then he said, “I’ll tell you what. You get my prayer book out of the wardrobe, then you can let me hear you read. I’ll tell you how it sounds.”
Finch went with alacrity to the towering walnut wardrobe that always had worn an air of mystery to him.
“Door to the left,” directed his uncle. “Hatbox where I keep my good hat.”
Finch opened the door. A smell which was a mixture of tobacco, old tweed, and broadcloth, came out. He took the lid from the large leather hatbox. There inside was his uncle’s top hat and in its crown lay his prayer book, the gilt cross on its cover worn dim by the years.
“I remember,” said Finch, “when you wore that silk hat every Sunday.”
“Ah, there was dignity in those days! On this continent we shall sink before long to shirt-sleeves and not getting to our feet when a woman comes into the room — to judge by what I see in the papers. Well, you boys weren’t brought up that way. Now, let’s hear you read.”
Nicholas had in his younger days played the piano quite well. He was convinced that Finch had inherited his talent from him. Though his fingers had long been too stiff for playing, he still kept his old square piano in his room and sometimes when he was alone fumbled over the few stray bars he remembered. Now Finch sat down before the keyboard and placed the open book on the rack. He read the Epistle through. He looked enquiringly at his uncle.
“Too loud,” said Nicholas.
“Not for the church, Uncle.”
“You must learn to control your voice. It’s a good one but it’s erratic.”
“I expect I’ll make a mess of the whole thing.”
“Nonsense. You read far better than old Fennel.” The jingling of dishes on Ernest’s tray could be heard.
“There he is!” exclaimed Nicholas. He searched the top of his bedside table and found two envelopes. Wragge appeared at the door.
“Merry Christmas, sir!” His small grey face, with its jutting nose and chin, took on an expectant beam.
Nicholas handed him the envelopes.
“One for you — one for your wife. Merry Christmas to you both. Bring me porridge — thick toast, gooseberry jam.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s very nice to be remembered. Mr. Ernest did the sime for us. Mrs. Wragge will thank you later, sir.”
When he had gone, Finch groaned. “Gosh, I completely forgot to give them anything! No wonder he gave me a chilly look. How much was in the envelopes, Uncle Nick?”
“Five in each. Ernest gives them the same. Well — it keeps ’em good-humoured. They have a lot of trays to cope with.”
Finch walked alone across the fields to church. A slight fall of snow had made them freshly white. There showed no human footprint but the winding path was clearly defined among the tall dead grasses, the stalks of Michaelmas daisy and goldenrod. In and about ran the footprints of pheasants. Rabbits had been there too, leaving their Y-shaped prints, and field mice their tiny scratchings. From a twisted old thorn tree, a chickadee piped his last recollection of spring.
Now Finch could see the church tower rising from its knoll and in the graveyard two figures. They were Meg and Patience. As he drew near he saw that they were standing by the plot where the Vaughans were laid. It was the second Christmas that Meg’s husband, Maurice Vaughan, had been gone from her. Yet Finch felt that it would scarcely be seemly to call out “Merry Christmas” to Meg and Patience, mourning by his grave.
But Meg saved Finch embarrassment by at once seeing him and coming toward him with arms outstretched. She still wore black but today she had brightened it by pinning a little nosegay of pink artificial daisies on the breast of her black lamb coat which had seen twelve seasons’ wear.
“Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed, folding Finch to her bosom, “and many, many of them!”
Finch hugged them both, then, after an appreciative glance at the wreath on the grave, said:
“Hadn’t you better come into the church? You’ll get cold standing here.”
“Yes, we’ll go at once. How do you like the wreath? I think it’s marvellous the way they make these wreaths of bronze leaves. They look so natural. But they’re terribly expensive.”
“It’s very nice, Meggie.”
“I was saying to Patience, just as you came up, how strange it is to think that when I die I shall have to lie here among the Vaughans, instead of with the Whiteoaks, where I’d feel so much more at home.”
“It seems strange.”
“Do you think it might possibly be arranged that I should be buried among my own family?”
“Don’t talk about it, Meggie.”
Finch could not remember the time when death had not seemed real and terrible to him. The loss of both parents, when he was seven, had made an indelible impression on him. But Patience had the feeling that she could never die. Her mother too must live and live. She took Meg’s hand and drew her toward the church. The last bell began to ring. People were mounting the icy steps — figures symbolic of the arduous Christian way. Finch hastened to the vestry. Patience called after him:
“You’ll find the surplices nice and clean, Uncle Finch. Mother and I washed and ironed them all.”
“Good for you!”
As he passed the door he had a glimpse of Noah Binns ringing the bell, bending almost double to impart additional Christmas fervour into the act. Bellringer, gravedigger, farm-worker he had been for many a year, putting energy into only the first two of these callings. Now that he was in his seventies he spared himself still more in farm work, yet demanded higher wages — and got them. He had a patronizing and resentful attitude toward the Whiteoak family. He firmly believed that they would like to put him out of his job of bellringer and he had made up his mind to hang on to it as long as he could hang on to the bell rope.
Now his ferret eyes and Finch’s large grey ones exchanged a look of mutual challenge.
“Hurry up,” said Binns’ eyes, “or I’ll stop ringing before you get your danged surplice on.”
Finch’s eyes said, “If you let me down it will be the worse for you.”
The church was filled with the scent of greenery that was twined about pulpit, font and choir stalls. From his own body there came to Finch the clean smell of his freshly laundered surplice. Now he was in his seat near the steps of the chancel. There was no escape. He was in for reading the Lessons. Miss Pink, the organist, bent all her powers to the playing of the opening hymn. Finch stole a sly look at the congregation. For a brief moment his eyes rested on the family pews. There were the dear old uncles, with Archer fenced in between them and Adeline and Roma on the far side of Ernest. Alayne had not come. In the pew behind were Pheasant and her three sons. Across the aisle, in the Vaughan pew, Meg and Patience. All, down to Archer, knew the Christmas hymn by heart, so they were able to rivet their full attention on Finch. He began to feel horribly nervous. His mouth felt dry. He was sure his voice would come with a croak.
The calm tones of the Rector led the congregation through the intricacies of the service. Finch watched him standing or kneeling there, his brown beard streaked with silver, and thought of his simple acceptance of the Christian faith and his unostentatious adherence to it in his daily life. Finch felt calmed. After the singing of the
Venite
Exultemus Domino
he moved with a kind of awkward dignity to his place behind the brass eagle. In a low voice he read:
“Here beginneth the First Chapter of the Hebrews.”
Meg’s whisper, fierce in its intensity, came distinctly to him.
“
Louder!
”
No one regarded this admonishment of Meg’s as out of place. Those of the congregation who were near enough to hear her, thought it well that she should make an effort to keep Finch up to the family’s standard of reading the Lessons. As for Finch, he coloured deeply, then really let his voice out. It was a strong and moving voice. It had power in it. No one could complain now that what he read was not audible.
“‘Here beginneth the First Chapter of St. Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews … God, who at sundry times and divers manners spake in times past, unto the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by his Son.’” And so proceeded till he came to the question: “‘For unto which of the angels said he at any time, Thou art my Son, this day have I begotten thee?’” Then his eyes rested for a moment on the congregation and he gathered the breast of his surplice in his hand and pulled at it as though he would rend it. He read on:
“‘... Thou, Lord, in the beginning hast laid the foundations of the earth; and the heavens are the works of thine hands; they shall perish, but thou remainest, and they all shall wax old as doth a garment; and as a vesture shalt thou fold them up, and they shall be changed, but thou art the same and thy years shall not fail.’”