Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“why not?”
Adeline, out of the teaching of recent confirmation classes, asked, “Was all this done to try your faith, do you think?”
“God knows … I certainly was tried.”
“Daddy, I hate Roma.”
“No, no, don’t say that.”
“For once, Mummy and I agree about feelings.”
He was startled. “That’s an odd remark for a child.”
“I’m not just a child any more.”
“That’s true.”
“Daddy, I don’t believe there was a miracle. I believe you found Roma, just by chance. She’s a little beast and enjoys being powerful.”
“Adeline, do you hear the rain?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? That’s the way I feel. Peaceful.”
“I’m so glad. I feel that way too. I’ll not be angry at Roma — if you’re not.”
“Good.” Again he kissed her. “Now go to sleep.”
She kissed his hand. “I like the smell of you,” she said.
A sudden, dark possessiveness of fatherhood came over him. He would never willingly give her to any man. Not for years and years. He ran his hand along the outline of her body. She was breathing deeply. Soon she slept. The breath from her youthful lungs mingled with the air of the room that for so long had been the stronghold, the snug retreat, of a very old woman.
He tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He could not bring himself to go to bed. He wandered from one room to another, in each one thinking the same thought: no more searching here — no more unexpected finding of another twenty-dollar bill, with the horrid start, the deeper conviction of his own strangeness that had accompanied each finding. Suddenly he remembered the little notebook in which he had recorded the dates of the days when he had recovered the bills. He took it out, sat down at the desk in the library and made the final entry. “Remainder of notes found in old teakettle, hidden by Roma,” and the date. He sat gazing at the entry, satisfaction smoothing his features, till an observer might have thought he intended to spend the rest of the night so. But at last he rose and went into the drawing-room where a handful of coals made a dusky glow on the hearth. He laid the notebook on these and, resting his arm on the mantelshelf, waited for it to burn. The coals were reluctant to destroy it. The neat black book lay on their glowing surface intact for some time. Then, abruptly its leather cover curled at the edge, a flame thumbed the pages, over which he so often had pored. Soon it was burning, then was no more. He gave a little laugh, wheeled, and went out into the porch.
The rain had ceased but still fell from the leaves of the Virginia Creeper. It had brought down a lot of them, he noticed. The clouds were breaking and the moon, dwindling towards its last quarter, showed through the watery shafts. The evergreens looked solid with their weight of moisture. A silence had come on all living things of the countryside. No more song of locust or note of cricket, no more rustling of small birds hidden in the creeper, no hoot of owl or sound of scurrying to burrow. Winter was coming. To Renny the old house seemed to say, “I don’t mind the winter, now that you’re all right, my boy. In fact, I like the winter, with the fires going and the family gathered about the fires.” The house seemed to draw closer into itself, press closer to the earth, resisting all but what passed beneath its roof.
He struck a match and looked at his watch. Tomorrow would be Sunday. No — today was Sunday. He would go to church with very different feelings from last Sunday. It had been hard to go in these last months, but there was the firm habit of churchgoing, handed down by his grandmother, and he would stick to it. His grandmother! what would she have said about this affair and Roma’s part in it? He had thought less often of her in recent months than at any time since her death. Much less often than when he had been at the War. Now vividly he felt her presence, saw her in her formidable Victorian clothes, her full skirts supported by petticoats, her bodice made firm by boned stays, her caps with intricate trimmings, her cashmere stockings and her shoes, always made to order. He missed her — yes, he still missed her. The tender recollections another man would give to a mother’s memory, he gave to hers. Not that she had been tender to him. Many a time hot words had been exchanged between them, but they had loved each other, each had been proud of the other.
He came into the house, not locking the door behind him. He seldom locked doors, feeling always ready to defend what was his, without barricading. In the dining room he stood before the portrait of old Adeline as a beautiful young woman, and smiled up at her.
“Gran,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve been through the hell of a time, but it’s all right now. I’ve a mind to get tight to celebrate. What do you say?”
The brown eyes smiled down at him. It was certain that whatever he did that night she would approve. But suddenly he yawned, a relaxed, beneficent yawn such as had not stretched his jaws in months. His eyes watered. He was sleepy.
In spite of the activities of the house he did not wake till ten. There was barely time to shave, to dress, to eat his breakfast and go to the morning service at eleven. In truth an hour was not enough for all that had to be done. Nicholas had decided to go to church that morning. Ernest, in spite of his ninety years, never missed a Sunday even when the weather was inclement. He still stood through the longest Psalms but he no longer knelt on the worn red hassock. His sense of reverence must be satisfied by sitting with his forehead bent to the pew in front of him.
His gouty leg was the greatest obstacle to Nicholas’ churchgoing, but there were other obstacles. He could no longer see to read the service. He knew it by heart certainly but he had a way of getting muddled in the responses and producing the wrong one, in his still resonant voice, sometimes timing the uttering of it wrongly. Sometimes he dozed and snored. It tired Ernest to have Nicholas sitting beside him doing these things. Some time ago he had reached the point where he encouraged Nicholas to stay at home. Nicholas, on his part, found it very pleasant to relax in his comfortable chair or to stump about with only Alayne and himself in the house.
But this morning he made up his mind to go. It was no ordinary Sunday and he must take his part in the celebration. Wakefield, with great patience, helped him to dress. When this was accomplished he made an impressive figure. His head was indeed magnificent. Wakefield helped him down the stairs and into the car. Ernest was already there, immaculate, nervous, looking at his watch. The children had taken the way across the fields with Finch.
“Five minutes to eleven,” Ernest said, frowning “whatever is keeping Renny?”
“He slept late, and no wonder,” returned Nicholas.
Wakefield said, “He’ll be here in a jiffy.”
“I need not have hurried so,” growled Nicholas. “I’m quite out of breath.” He panted ostentatiously.
“You were a solid hour dressing.” Ernest tried to restrain his impatience but again he looked at his watch. “I remember,” he said, “how my mother disliked being late for church.”
“Run in, Wake, like a good boy,” said Nicholas, “and see what is keeping him.”
“Urge him to make haste,” added Ernest.
Wakefield darted up the steps. It was five minutes past eleven when Renny slid into the driver’s seat. “Sorry,” he said, grinning over his shoulder at his uncles, “but I couldn’t find my collection.”
The words “couldn’t find” sent a chill to the hearts of Ernest and Nicholas. Was it possible that Renny was again beginning to lose money? But he looked so cheerful they could not feel anxious. They even continued to feel a little annoyed with him.
The first hymn was over and Mr. Fennel was already reading the service when they entered. Every head turned to look at them as they progressed slowly down the aisle, Nicholas leaning heavily on Renny’s arm. Renny established them in the family pew beside Adeline and Archer, then knelt at the end next to the aisle. In the pew in front knelt Piers, Pheasant, and their three sons. Going to church was an irritation to Maurice. In Ireland he had gone or not as he pleased and usually he did not please. Now he wore the sulky expression he usually wore at church. But he was conscious of Adeline sitting directly behind him. He was sure she was looking at him. He wished he might have been sitting beside her. Nooky and Philip always looked so angelic during the service, it was hard to believe they could ever do wrong. Pheasant, casting a contemplative look at them, thought, “I wonder which of them the new baby will be like? I do hope it is a girl. I should so love to have a daughter. But it is said they are a greater problem to bring up than boys. Goodness knows, boys are problem enough. All but Nooky. He’s always so sweet and loving. How marvellous it is to think that Piers is home safe — that I am going to have another baby — that Mooey is back from Ireland — that Renny and Wake are back from the War — that the horrible mystery about the stealing of the money is cleared up. Surely no other person in the church has as much to be thankful for as I. I really ought to be pouring out my gratitude in prayer but it’s so difficult for me to concentrate on prayer and always has been. How very strange it seems to see Roma in the pew with Meg and Patience! That child looks perfectly imperturbable. I do hope my little girl won’t have a circuitous, baffling nature. How beautifully Piers’ hair grows about his temples! I do hope she will have hair like Piers. It would be lovely on a girl. Goodness, Uncle Nick has dropped his prayer book!”
Nicholas had, indeed. Now Renny was recovering it for him and Ernest was giving him a reproving look. As the service progressed, Nicholas gave his brother still more cause for feeling ruffled. He found the pew narrow and heavily shifted his bulk in it. He loudly tooted his nose. When, after the reciting of the Lord’s Prayer, Mr. Fennel said, “O Lord, show thy mercy upon us,” Nicholas, instead of joining with the rest of the congregation in saying, “And grant us thy salvation,” took the next words from Mr. Fennel’s mouth and loudly declaimed, “O Lord, save the Queen.” He did not even say the
King
but most emphatically the
Queen
, as was printed in his prayer book of Victoria’s time.
Nooky and Philip began to giggle, which set off Archer. Piers quieted his two with a look but Archer could not stop despite a pinch on the leg from Adeline and a rap on the head from Ernest’s prayer book. Renny signalled to Archer to come and sit by him. As the little boy clambered in front of the knees of his great-uncles, Nicholas demanded, “what’s up? what has he done?” He took off his glasses and frowned down on the tow head. Renny laid a calming hand on Archer’s shoulder and the giggles ceased.
Finch, standing in his surplice, behind the brass eagle of the lectern, read the Lessons with such a feeling of content as he had not known for a long while. There, sitting in the pew before him was Renny, himself again. That red head, fitting symbol of the family pride, erect, confident, seeming to shed the light of leadership on the tribe. This was one of the occasions on which Finch read too well — but this morning Mr. Fennel was not embarrassed by it.
Mr. Fennel’s sermon was on “miracles in our time.” His remarks were so heartfelt, so pointed, that every member of the small congregation felt something of the situation of the Whiteoaks in it, for by some means word had got about that the lost money had been found, that the eldest Whiteoak was no longer under a cloud. He himself looked self-conscious. Throughout the sermon he never took his eyes from the Rector’s face.
When Piers collected the offertory, Renny watched with alert interest as the contributions from his family fell on to the plate. Nicholas had a time of it to find his. “Can’t find it,” he mumbled, then did find it and the two heavy fifty-cent pieces were dropped with a clatter. Now Piers, ruddy and solid, held the plate under Renny’s nose. With an air of cool detachment he took from his pocket five clean but musty-smelling twenty-dollar bank notes and deposited them on the modest pile of silver. A shock vibrated through the three pews occupied by the Whiteoaks. A small smile flickered across Piers’ lips. Then he moved stolidly along the aisle. Pew after pew was permitted one spellbound look at Renny’s contribution. Then Piers and Peter Chalk who kept the motor repair and gasoline station and who had this year been returned from the scene of war, minus his right hand, marched side by side to the steps of the chancel where the Rector awaited them. Miss Pink, though unaware of what had happened, drew jubilant strains from the still sweet-sounding old organ. The bulk of Piers Whiteoak and Peter Chalk was impassive.
As Mr. Fennel accepted the alms a benign expression lighted his bearded face. He turned sharply, his surplice swinging, and moved toward the altar.
Nicholas, tugging the end of his moustache, muttered, not inaudibly, “Too much. Too much.”
Meg felt faint. She would be glad when the service was over and the family could meet in the churchyard.
FROM CHURCHYARD TO VAUGHANLANDS
M
EG, WITH HER
daughter on one side of her and her niece on the other, moved with as great rapidity as was decorous, out of the church and toward the family plot where she could see other members of the family already drawn together. A sumach tree had sprung up just inside the hedge which surrounded the churchyard and had reached medium size, scarcely noticed, till its leaves had turned blood red and, by the last squally rain, been swept onto the Whiteoak plot. There they lay like a gorgeous carpet. Meg looked at them astonished and then at the naked tree, its thin black limbs wet with rain.
“However did that get in here?” she asked Piers who was leaning against one of the iron supports of the fence surrounding the plot. His leg that had suffered amputation always pained after the fixed postures of church service. His brow was contracted as he turned to look at the tree.
“I’ve no idea,” he said. “The leaves are pretty though.”
“I always dislike sumachs. They’re so untidy. I must tell Noah Binns to cut it down.”
“Be here to see him do it or he’ll get the wrong tree.”
“It’s lovely,” said Roma.
Meg took Piers by the arm. “Is your leg hurting, dear?”