Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“A clever fellow, that young Bell,” agreed Nicholas.
Renny said, — “Bell likes Clapperton just about as well as we do. He’s a shy fellow, you know, and whenever Clapperton meets him on the road he stops him and pours out a lot of unwanted advice. Some day Bell will be roused to the point of telling him to mind his own business. I wish I might be there.”
The small chapped hand of Dennis was creeping across the tablecloth toward the chipmunk.
“Clapperton,” declared Nicholas sententiously, “is a horrid old humbug. He fancies himself as a lover of the countryside and doesn’t know one sort of tree from another.”
“He fancies himself as a lover of art,” sneered Ernest, “and you should see his pictures.”
“He’s gone into breeding pigs,” said Adeline, “and an entire litter has died. Raikes told me so. Raikes says he’s always interfering with the feeding.”
Alayne said, — “Mrs. Clapperton tells me that this new man is the best they’ve ever had. He has given them a feeling of security. I’m so glad, for they’ve had very bad luck.”
“Their D.P. is quite good,” put in Adeline, “though she hasn’t half a dozen words of English. She says ‘please’ and ‘can’t do,’ and ‘want to go home.’”
“Poor thing,” said Alayne.
The small hand reached the chipmunk. Dennis drew it to him in an ecstasy of pleasure and snuggled it beneath his chin.
“Now, sir,” said Ernest, with his clear blue eyes fixed on Dennis.
Dennis wriggled in the joy of possessing the chipmunk. He defied Adeline, clutching it tightly.
“Drop it,” she said, and uncurled his fingers. She set the chipmunk back in its place.
“Very annoying habit children have,” observed Nicholas, picking up the little animal, “of always wanting to handle things.”
“They should be taught better when they’re very small,” said Ernest.
“I have never known a child,” Alayne spoke in a detached tone, “so given to handling as Dennis.”
The little boy bent his head, turning his gaze inward, considering himself.
“I had a letter today,” said Renny, “from Finch.”
Dennis was alert to the name of his father.
“He’ll be coming home soon. Says he needs a rest. I expect that concert work takes a lot out of him. But then he’s the sort of chap that any sort of work takes a lot out of. He is not like the rest of us.”
“Favours his poor mother,” said Nicholas, mumbling on a bit of gristle.
“Do I favour my poor mother?” asked Dennis.
“You do and you don’t,” answered Ernest.
“If I gave you that answer would you call it straightforward?” asked Dennis.
Renny chuckled. “He’s got you cornered, Uncle Ernest.”
Unperturbed Ernest replied, — “The obligation to be straightforward ends at seventy, Dennis.”
“It will be nice to see Finch,” said Alayne.
“why do people always come home when they’re tired?” asked Dennis.
Ernest eyed him repressively. “You finish your pudding, my boy, and stop asking questions.”
“How can I learn if I don’t ask questions?”
The eyes of the two great-uncles were on him. He subsided but his hand stole toward the chipmunk.
“It’s a curious thing,” said Renny, “how all my younger brothers but Piers had a bent for the artistic. There was Eden — a poet.”
“Poor dear boy.” Ernest drew a sigh remembering Eden.
Dennis asked, — “Was he poor because he was a poet or a poet because he was poor?”
Both great-uncles stared at him.
To make things better he asked, — “Was he a poor poet?”
“Certainly not,” answered Nicholas. “He wrote very fine poetry. If he’d lived he’d have made a great name for himself.”
Alayne sat silent, turning her wedding ring on her finger.
“Then there’s Finch,” Renny went on, “a musician. Has never cared much for anything but music.”
Ernest nodded assent. “If Finch were separated from his music I do not think he could live.”
“He was separated from his wife,” said Dennis, “and he lived.”
Nicholas gave one of his subterranean laughs. “Marriage is the least of the arts,” he said.
“But if they hadn’t married,” reflected Dennis, “I’d be nowhere.”
“And a very good thing.” Nicholas looked at him with severity.
Renny continued, — “Then there’s Wakefield — an actor.”
Dennis put in, — “Rags says that Uncle Wake was a bad actor when he was a little boy.”
“Dennis,” said Alayne, “you have finished your pudding. You may go to your room and get ready for bed.”
“May I take the chipmunk with me for a treat, Adeline?” he asked.
“Oh, bother! Can’t I have anything in peace?” she exclaimed. “Very well. Take it.”
Holding the chipmunk close he ran up the two flights of stairs to his room. It was dark and cold but he was not afraid. He drew back the window curtains and let in the moonlight. He sat down in its light on the side of the bed. He held the little animal to his mouth. “Oh, you dear little sweet thing,” he murmured. It was warmed by his hands. It seemed almost alive. He liked it better than if it were alive, for he could do what he wished with it.
Downstairs, the two old brothers, having enjoyed their food, felt better than they had all the day. They walked strongly back to the drawing-room where a bright fire was blazing. Adeline went into the library and turned on the radio. For a wonder there was music not objectionable to Alayne. In the dim hall she looked up into Renny’s face. His face was softened into gentleness as he looked at her, into remorse for ever having hurt her, yet there was chagrin that she should be so easily hurt — so often hurt by him. He bent and kissed her forehead and then her lips. “Smile at me,” he said, and she brought herself to smile.
“SOBER AND INDUSTRIOUS”
Raikes moved quietly though the ravine, the gun drooping in his hand. At the far end he went to the clump of hushes where he had hidden the cock pheasant. He took it by the feet and drew it out. Its plumage glistened in the moonlight, its proud crested head, its proud neck, with the clearly marked collar of dark blue and dazzling white, hung limp. The feathers of its tail floated gently as he carried it.
He went to the farthest of Mr. Clapperton’s bungalows and tapped at the back door. It was opened by a stout woman and behind her stood a stout crimson-faced man in his shirt sleeves.
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Raikes,” she said. “Come right in. And what have you there, I’d like to know? A pheasant! Well, I declare!”
“It’s for you, Mrs. Barker,” Raikes said, in his soft Southern-Ireland voice, and he put the pheasant into her hand. Her fingers closed gladly about the claws. “Goodness, isn’t he pretty!”
“Indeed and he is.” Raikes gently stroked the bird’s bright plumage. “I’d roast him if I was you.”
“I’ll stuff him and roast him and have cranberry sauce with him. Look, Jack.”
“Fine,” said her husband, in a drink-wheezy voice. “Just fine.”
“Come in, won’t you, Mr. Raikes?” she urged.
“Thank you, I will for a bit. It’s cold for you with the door open.” He entered, with his air of grave politeness, taking off his battered hat and showing his thick black hair.
The two men stood close together looking at each other. Barker’s lips formed the words — “Have a drink?” His wife’s back was turned but she knew.
“No drinking here,” she said loudly, while she well knew that her bullying tone would have no effect whatever. She went about the work of plucking the pheasant, grumbling all the while about the drink.
Barker went to a cupboard and took out a bottle half full of rye whisky. He sang softly in a husky voice, — “Have a wee drop and Dorcas, afore ye gang awa’.”
“That’s wrong,” said his wife.
“what’s wrong?” he asked belligerently.
“The words. They don’t make sense the way you’ve got them.”
“The words don’t matter. It’s the tune that counts
and
the sentiment. I’ve got the sentiment all right, haven’t I, Tom?”
“You have the sentiment fine,” answered Raikes, “but Mrs. Barker is right about the words.” He gave her a little smile as he took the glass of whisky and water from Barker. He asked:
“Wouldn’t you like me to pluck that bird for you, Mrs. Barker? Sure you’ll spoil your hands.”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’ll manage fine.” But she threw him a grateful, an almost tender look, as she sat down with the pheasant between her thighs and began to tear the bright plumage from his breast.
The two men sat on either side of the table covered by a red cloth on which was a pack of soiled playing cards and, in the centre, a pink vase holding a pink artificial rose. Barker smacked his lips loudly at each mouthful, as though to affirm his enjoyment and defiance, but Raikes gazed pensively into the liquor remaining in the bottle and sipped without sound.
“My, it’s a nice fat bird,” exclaimed Mrs. Barker. “where did you say you shot it?”
“I didn’t say,” replied Raikes, “and I wouldn’t say, and, if I was you, I wouldn’t ask. There are some that are very fussy about their pheasants.”
“Colonel Whiteoak,” said Barker, “did a funny thing last fall when the open season for pheasants began. He sprinkled corn over the floor of his barn and left the doors wide open. The pheasants smelled it out and they went for it — about sixty of them — and he locked the doors and kept them shut up there till the three days was over.”
“I guess he wanted them all for himself,” said Mrs. Barker. She began pulling out the pheasant’s tail feathers. “Look, ain’t they pretty? I’m going to have them in a hat.” She held them against the side of her head and smiled coquettishly at Raikes.
“Women never learn,” said Barker, pouring himself another glass, “when they’re too old for dolling up.”
“Mrs. Barker certainly isn’t too old,” said Raikes gallantly. Her eyes were on him and, when Barker offered him another drink, he refused. “I have to go into the house and see the boss. I mustn’t be smelling of liquor.”
“I’ll give you a pinch of coffee to chew,” said Barker. “That deadens the smell.”
His wife burst into derisive laughter. “I can smell a whisky breath a mile away — coffee or no coffee.”
“You know it all, don’t you?” said Barker sulkily, then asked, — “How’s the old codger, Tom?”
“Just the same. Ah, he might be worse. I’m quite content with my job. The young ladies are very kind.”
“That Althea is a bit touched here.” Mrs. Barker put her fingers to her forehead. “I saw her sitting in front of a tree the other day, painting as if it was summer.”
“I know,” laughed Raikes. “She’ll come in after a walk, tired out, and her skirts clogged with snow. But she don’t mind about anything, so long as her pets are warm and fed. She’s an odd one all right.”
“Tom,” asked Barker in an undertone, “will you be able to get the car tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll be here for you about nine.”
“I do wish you two would stay at home!” Mrs. Barker glared at them, down from under the pheasant’s feathers clinging to her hair and even on one eyebrow. “You think of nothing but getting out with the car and drinking and gambling. One of these times Mr. Clapperton will find out and then where’ll you be?”
“Just where I am, mark my words,” laughed Raikes. “Come now, Mrs. Barker, don’t you be cross and will you give me that pinch of coffee you recommended?” He gave her his gentle rather sad smile. She could not resist his nice ways, so in contrast, she thought, to her husband’s gruffness.
“You get it for him, Jack, I’m stuck all over with feathers.” She began to gather the glistening metallic plumage into a newspaper. She picked up the naked bird by his legs and viewed him at arm’s length. “We’ll have him roasted tomorrow night,” she said, “and you must come and help eat him.”
“Thank you kindly. I hope he’s tender.”
“Sure he is. I can tell by the feel of his breastbone. We’ll have him for supper and, mind you, there’s to be no running away afterwards.”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Barker,” said Raikes, munching coffee. “We won’t run away.”
He went off through the snow, carrying his gun. He crossed the narrow road lined with maple saplings, threw his leg over a low fence and was in one of Eugene Clapperton’s fields. A path made by himself led to the barn. It was a large barn built a hundred years before, but so far the present owner had gone but cautiously into farming. Raikes entered the barn, took a lantern from a hook and lighted it. He climbed the ladder into the hayloft. A great mound of hay confronted him like a dry sweet-smelling mountain. He skirted its base and behind it cast the light of the lantern on a small pen in which nine piglets slept curled close together for warmth. Disturbed by the light they moved and snuffled, twitching their plump pink legs. A grin, half tender, half-mischievous, lighted Raikes’ face.
“Are ye warm enough, ye rascals?” he whispered. “Well, here’s some nice fresh straw.” He fetched an armful of straw and strewed it about the little pigs. He bent over them and patted a plump side. “Well,” he said, “I must soon be getting you out of here — you’re too noisy. Now mind what I say and be good and quiet.” They snuggled closer together with comfortable grunts and he descended the ladder and went to see that all was well in the stable.
The Polish woman was in the kitchen as he passed through. She was doing her last job of the evening, leaving things ready for breakfast. She gave him a look askance to see if he had brought in snow on his boots. He smiled ingratiatingly at her. He said:
“Divil a bit of snow have I on me. I’m a good boy, isn’t that so?”
She gave him her puzzled, yet aggressive look. “Please,” she said. “I can’t do.”
“Nobody asked you to, old dear. All you have to do is to mind your own business and lave me to mind mine.” He went along a narrow passage and into his own little room, his haven. It had nice clean curtains, a yellow pine chest of drawers with a small looking glass, a patchwork quilt on the bed, and under the bed his tin trunk, on which he still preserved the torn steamship label, for it seemed a kind of link with the old land — not that he ever wanted to go back there.
He bent to look in the mirror, took a comb from his pocket and combed his black gypsy locks. From a hook on the door he took a decent black overcoat and Homburg hat. With them on his arm he returned to the kitchen. The woman was gone to her own room. At the sink he washed his hands in the running water and even splashed it once across his mouth and chin. He dried himself on the roller towel that hung on the door. Then putting on his overcoat and carrying his hat in his hand, he tiptoed along the passage to the hall and tapped on the door of the living room.
Eugene Clapperton’s voice, reading aloud, ceased and he called out, — “Come in.”
Raikes opened the door just wide enough to enter and stepped inside. In appearance he was transformed into a man making an evening call but his manner was deferential. He said:
“Excuse me, sir, but would you be wanting me to go to the vet’s at Stead for the medicine?”
“How is the cow?” Eugene Clapperton asked irritably. “Animals seem to always be getting something wrong with them. First it was the young pigs dying and now this cow sick. I wish I hadn’t a cold. I’d like to go out and see her.”
“The stable would be a bad place for you, sir. The cow is no better. The creatures are like us. They have their ills. But the medicine I was telling you of will fix her up. I think it would be well for her to have it tonight. Had I better be taking the car to Stead, sir?”
“Yes, certainly. And let me know in the morning how she is.”
“I will indeed, sir.” As he stood smiling a gentle comforting smile at Mr. Clapperton, Gemmel, playing a game of Patience beside a rose-shaded floor lamp, contrasted the two men, to the cruel disadvantage of her husband. His grizzled head that she always thought of as a mean shape, his dry skin, his bluish lips and dark teeth, she contrasted with Raikes’ black locks, his skin tinted warmly by the good blood beneath, the rim of his gleaming white teeth, just visible. Eugene was too consciously straight like someone who was determined never to die. Raikes drooped a little glancing sideways. A man, she thought, who would go anywhere over the world and not consider either life or death.
When he had gone Eugene said, — “In the time we have lived here I have had four men. Yes, this is the fourth. It’s a terrible reflection on conditions today, that it’s next to impossible to hire a decent respectable man. This man gives me a sense of security I haven’t had since I came here. Not till now. You will remember that I advertised for a man that was
sober and industrious
. Those were my words.” He savoured the words as though he had invented them. “Yes,
sober and industrious
. And when this man appeared and I talked to him I realized that here at last was a man I could trust. He gives you that feeling too, doesn’t he, girlie?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered vaguely, then she added, — “That reminds me I must ask him to get some cough mixture for Tania. Her cold gets no better.”
“The druggist won’t be open at this hour.”
“Perhaps not but I’ll ask Tom to try.”
“Tom?”
“Yes. Tom Raikes.”
“Let him get her a dose at the vet’s. That’ll do her. Just the thing for her.”
Gem went through to the kitchen. Raikes was standing with his hand on the doorknob ready to turn it. He had his hat on, the brim casting a dark shadow over his eyes, but he took it off, with a polite little inclination of the head as she entered.
“Oh, Tom,” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Clapperton?”
“Could you get some cough mixture for Tania?”
“I’m afraid the drugstore won’t be open. But Tania wouldn’t take it anyway. I offered her a dose of mine and she wouldn’t have it. She’s like that.”
“Then we can’t do anything about it.”
“I’m afraid not. She’s a quare woman.” He smiled good-humouredly.
She noticed the length of his eyelashes and how they cast a shadow on his cheek. Yet strangely they did not take from his look of careless masculinity. He stood with his hand on the doorknob waiting to go, waiting politely for her permission to go.
“Well,” she said and hesitated.
He raised his black brows enquiringly.
For a moment she could think of nothing to say, then, — “My husband was just remarking how pleasant it is for us to have a man we can trust about the place. I hope you’re quite satisfied, Tom.”
His face lighted happily. “I’m well satisfied, ma’am. I hope to work for you and Mr. Clapperton many years.”
“I’m glad of that. Goodnight, Tom.”
“Goodnight, ma’am, and thank you.”
A rush of icy air entered the kitchen, then the door closed behind him. She heard his feet crunch in the snow, then the opening of the garage door and the engine of the car throbbing…. Since early childhood she had been a cripple, unable to walk because of a fall, until she met Eugene Clapperton, and his generosity had made possible the operation on her spine. He had made it possible for her to walk strongly and quickly, to be like other girls. He had made her his wife. No matter how long he lived she never could do enough to repay him. She went back into the living room and saw him sitting there. He looked up at her with his amorous smile.
“Come, girlie,” he said, patting his thigh, “come and sit on my knee.”
Behind her clenched teeth, under her breath, she told herself, — “Like hell, I will! I’ve done too much for you already.” But she said, in her sweet Welsh voice that honeyed all her words, — “Oh, you silly Tiddledy-winks, you’re always wanting attention.” And she went and sat on his knee.
It was after midnight when Raikes and Barker returned over the snowy ruts in the road toward Vaughanlands. They talked loudly, sometimes in argument, sometimes in boasting of the clever things they had said and done in the barroom of the club they belonged to. They had made themselves rather a nuisance there that night and their argument was about whether or not they should have heeded the bartender’s urging of them to depart. Up and down over the snowy ruts of the road they bounced, recking nothing of the springs of the car. Sometimes Raikes waved one hand in the air to emphasize his boasting. Sometimes he waved both hands. And still the faithful car rocked on. It seemed a miracle that they reached the garage in safety, where it stood secluded, its roof grotesquely deep in snow. It seemed a miracle that Raikes was able to guide the car through the doorway, but he did.