The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (285 page)

One night in August, she startled him by asking abruptly: “Well, boy, whom shall I leave my money to?”

“Oh, don’t ask me that, Gran! That’s for you to say.”

“I know. But, just supposing you were in my place, whom would you leave it to? Remember, it’s going in one lump sum to somebody. I won’t have my bit of money cut up like a cake! Right or wrong, my mind’s fixed on that. Now then, Finch, who’s to get it, eh?”

“I say—I can’t possibly—”

“Nonsense! Do as I tell you. Name the one you think is most deserving. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. I won’t have it.”

“Well,” he answered with sudden determination and even a look of severity on his lips, “I should say, since you ask me, that there’s only one person who really deserves to have it!”

“Yes? Which one?”

“Renny!”

“Renny, eh? That’s because he’s your favourite.”

“Not at all. I was putting myself in your place, as you told me to.”

“Then because he’s head of the house?”

“No, not that. If you can’t see, I can’t tell you.”

“Of course you can. Why?”

“Very well. You’ll be annoyed with me, though.”

“No, I shan’t. Out with it!”

“Well, Kenny’s always hard up. He’s brought up the lot of us. He’s had Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernie living here for years. Ever since I can remember. You’ve always made your home with him. He likes having you. It wouldn’t be like home to him if you weren’t here. And he likes having the uncles and Aunt Augusta. But, just the same, he’s at his wits’ end sometimes to know where to dig up money enough to pay wages, and butcher bills, and the vet, and all that.”

She was regarding him steadfastly. “You can be plainspoken,” she said, “when you like. You’ve got a good forthright way with you, too. I can’t see eye to eye with you on every point, but I’m glad to know what you think. And I’m not angry with you.” She began to talk of something else.

She did not bring up the subject again, but talked to him of her past, recalling the days when she and her Philip were young together, and even went back to the days of her girlhood in County Meath. Finch learned to pour out to her his thoughts, as he had never done to anyone before, and probably never would again with such unrestraint. When at last he would steal up to his room, something of her would be still with him in the figure of Kuan Yin, standing on his desk.

D
EATH OF A
C
ENTENARIAN

O
LD
Adeline was being dressed for tea by Augusta. That is, she was having her hair tidied, her best cap with the purple ribbon rosettes put on, and her box of rings displayed before her. She had felt a little tired when she waked from her afternoon nap, so she had had Augusta put a peppermint drop into her mouth, and she mumbled this as she looked over her rings. She chose them with special care, selecting those of brilliant contrasting stones, for the rector was to be present, and she knew that he disapproved of such a show of jewels on such ancient hands, or indeed on any hands.

Augusta stood patiently holding the box, looking down her long nose at her mother’s still longer one curved in pleasurable speculation. Adeline chose a ring—a fine ruby, set round with smaller ones. She was a long time finding the finger on which she wore it, and putting it on. The box trembled slightly in Augusta’s hand. Her mother bent forward, fumbled, discovered her emerald ring, and put it on. Again she bent forward, dribbling a little from the peppermint on to the velvet lining of the box.

“Mama,” said Augusta, “must you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Dribble on the velvet.”

“I’m not dribbling. Let me be.” But she fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped her lips.

She put on six rings, a cameo bracelet, and a brooch containing her Philip’s hair. She turned then to the mirror, adjusted her cap, and scrutinized her face with one eyebrow cocked.

“You look nice and bright this afternoon, Mama,” said Augusta.

The old lady shot an upward glance at her. “I wish I could say the same for you,” she returned.

Augusta drew back her head with an offended air and surveyed her own reflection. Really, Mama was very short with one! It took a lot of patience…

Adeline stretched out her ringed hand and took the velvet-framed photograph of her Philip from the dresser. She looked at it for some moments, kissed it, and set it in its place.

“What a handsome man Papa was!” said Augusta, and surreptitiously wiped the picture with her handkerchief.

“He was. Put the picture down.”

“Indeed, all our men are good-looking!”

“Aye, we’re a shapely lot. I’m ready. Fetch Nick and Ernest.”

Her sons were soon at her side, Nicholas walking less heavily than usual because his gout was not troubling him. They almost lifted her from her chair. She took an arm of each and said over her shoulder to Augusta, “Bring the bird along! Poor Boney, he’s dull today.”

The little procession moved along the hall so slowly that it seemed to Augusta, carrying the bird on his perch, that
they were only marking time. But they were really moving, and at last had shuffled their way to where the light fell full upon them through the coloured glass window.

“Rest here a bit,” said their mother. “I’m tired,” She was tall, but looked a short woman between her sons, she was so bent.

She glanced up at the window. “I like to see the light coming through there,” she observed. “It’s very pretty.”

They were in the drawing-room, and she was established in her own chair, with Boney on his perch beside her. Mr. Fennel rose, but he gave her time to recover her breath before coming forward to take her hand and inquire after her health.

“I’m quite well,” she said. “Don’t know what it is to have any pain, except a little wind on the stomach. But Boney’s dull. He hasn’t spoken a word for weeks. D’ye think he’s getting old?”

Mr. Fennel replied, guardedly: “Well, he may be getting a little old.”

Nicholas said: “He’s moulting. He drops his feathers all over the place.”

She asked Mr. Fennel about a number of his parishioners, but she had difficulty in remembering their names. Augusta, who had begun to pour tea, said in an undertone to Ernest: “I seem to notice a difference in Mama. Her memory… and what a long time she was coming down the hall! Do you notice anything?”

Ernest looked toward his mother anxiously. “She did seem to lean heavily. Perhaps a little more than usual. But she ate a very good dinner. A very good dinner indeed.”

Finch had come up behind them. He overheard the words, and thought he knew the reason why his grandmother
showed a certain languor in the daytime. It would be strange if she did not, he thought, remembering her vigour, her clear-headedness of the night before. He had a guilty feeling that he was perhaps sapping her vitality by his midnight visits… He came to his aunt’s side.

Augusta handed him a cup of tea. “Take this to my mother,” she said, “and then come back for the crumpets and honey.”

Crumpets and honey! Finch’s mouth watered. He wondered if he should ever get over this feeling of being ravenous And yet he was so thin! He felt discouraged about himself. He wished his aunt would not send him about with tea. He invariably slopped it.

Old Adeline watched him with pursed mouth as he drew an occasional table to her side and set her tea on it. Her greed equalled his own. Her hands, trembling a little, poured what tea had slopped into the saucer back into the cup, raised the cup to her lips, and drank gustily. The rings flashed on her shapely hands. Mr. Fennel marked them with disapproval.

His voice came muffled through his curly brown beard. “Well, Finch, and how goes the practising?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” mumbled Finch.

“The other night I was in my garden quite late. About eleven o’clock. I was surprised to hear the organ. You are quite welcome to use it in the daytime, you know.” Gentle reproof was in his tone.

“I rather like the practising at night, sir, if you don’t mind.”

His eyes moved from Mr. Fennel’s beard to his grandmother’s face. They exchanged a look of deep complicity like two conspirators. Her gaze was clear. The tea had revived her.

She said, setting down the empty cup: “I like the boy to practise at night. Night’s the time for music—for love… Afternoon’s the time for tea—sociability… Morning’s the time for—er—tea. Another cup, Finch. Is there nothing to eat?”

Pheasant appeared with tea for Mr. Fennel, and Piers with the crumpets and honey He was in white flannels.

“Ah,” observed the rector, “it is nice to see you looking cool, Piers! You looked pretty hot the last time I saw you.”

“Yes, that was a hot spell. Things are easing off now. Late August, you know. The crops are in. Small fruit over. Apples not begun.”

“But there is always the stock, eh?”

“Yes, always the stock. I don’t get much time for loafing. But this is Pheasant’s birthday, and I’m celebrating it by a day off and a clean suit!’

“Her birthday, is it?” said Mr. Fennel. “I wish I had known! I would have brought some offering, if only a nosegay”

Grandmother blinked rapidly; she smacked the honey on her lips “Pheasant’s birthday, eh? Why wasn’t I told? Why was it kept from me? I like birthdays. I’d have given her a present.” She turned toward Meg, Maurice, and Renny, who had just come into the room. “Did you know, my dears, that we’re having a birthday party? It’s Pheasant’s birthday, and we’re all dressed up for it. Look at the rector! Look at Piers! Look at me! Aren’t we trig?” She was all alive. She grinned at them, with the malicious and flashing grin for which the Courts had been famous.

Meg approached her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I had heard nothing of any birthday,” she said, coldly.

“Maurice,” exclaimed Grandmother, “haven’t you brought a birthday present for your daughter? Are you going to neglect old Baby just because new Baby’s on the scene?”

Maurice slouched forward somewhat sheepishly. “I must do something about it,” he said.

Pheasant’s little face was scarlet with embarrassment. She surveyed the family with the startled, timid gaze of a young wild thing.

“She’s blessed,” said Piers glumly, “for she expects nothing.”

Grandmother absorbed this saying. “H’m,” she said. She swallowed a piece of crumpet, and then added: “It’s the unexpected that happens. She’s going to get a present. And from me!”

A chill of apprehension fell on the company.

Mr. Fennel, feeling it, observed: “There’s nothing so pleasant, I think, as an unexpected present.” But even to himself his words sounded lame. He could utter no ghostly comfort that would calm these troubled waters.

Old Adeline finished her crumpet with dispatch, drank another cup of tea. Then she demanded: “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” Despite Renny’s encouraging look, the word came in a whisper.

“Twenty, eh? Sweet and twenty! I was twenty once—ha! ‘Come and kiss me, sweet and twenty! Youth’s a stuff will not’—what was it? My old memory’s gone. Come here, my dear!”

Pheasant went to her, trembling.

Adeline spread out her hands, palms down, and examined her rings. Meg, with unaccustomed agility, sprang to her side. “Granny, Granny,” she breathed, “don’t do anything rash! A bit of lace. A little money to buy herself something pretty. But not—not—” She caught her grandmother’s hands in hers and drew the jewelled fingers against her own plump breast.

“Mama,” said Ernest, “this excitement is very bad for you.”

“Bring the backgammon board,” said Nicholas. “She likes a game of backgammon after tea.”

“I’ve not finished my tea,” rapped out his mother. “I want cake. Not that white wishy-washy cake. Fruit cake.”

Never was fruit cake so swiftly so passionately produced. She selected a piece, laid it on her plate, and, as though there had been no interruption, again spread out her hands, palms downward.

She shot a glance at Meg, kneeling by her side.

“Get up, Meggie,” she said, brusquely but not unkindly “You’ve nothing to be humble about.” But Meg still knelt, her hands to her breast, her eyes jealously guarding the rings.

With a decisive movement, Adeline removed from the third finger of her right hand the ring of glowing rubies. She took the girl’s thin brown hand in hers and put it on her middle finger. She looked up into her face, smiling. “Give you colour, my dear. Give you heart. Nothing like a ruby… I’ll try some of that pale cake now.”

Pheasant stood transfixed, reverently holding the brilliantly decorated hand in the hand that wore only her wedding ring. Her eyes were starry.

“Oh,” she half-whispered, “how lovely! What beauties! Oh, you darling Gran!”

Piers was at her side, sturdy, defiant, all aglow.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Renny. “Let me see how it looks on your little paw!”

But Wakefield intervened, took her hand, and fluttered his long lashes, examining the stones. He said, judicially: “You’ve got a fine ring there, my girl. I hope you take care of it.”

Meg still knelt, her eyes damp, her hands clenched. “It’s unjust,” she gasped. “Its unfair to me and my child!”

Renny put his hands under her arms and heaved her to her feet. He whispered vehemently into her ear: “Don’t make a show of yourself, Meggie! Remember, Mr. Fennel’s here.” Inwardly he thanked God for the presence of Mr. Fennel. It had certainly saved them from a terrible scene. She relapsed against his shoulder.

The rector himself was wishing that the tea party had been more placid. He observed, pulling at his beard: “I always think that an unexpected present is the most delightful.” He could not resist adding: “And jewels are so beautiful on young hands.”

Adeline appeared not to have heard. She finished her cake, eating the moist crumbs from her saucer with a spoon. But after a little she extended her bereft right hand toward him, with a flourish, and said: “You don’t think they suit my old hands, eh?”

He knew how to mollify her.

“I have never seen hands,” he said, “better shaped for the wearing of rings.”

She clasped them on her stomach and surveyed the scene before her. There was trouble in the air, and she had brewed it. She had, directly or indirectly, made almost every being in the room. The pattern of the room was centrifugal, and she was the arch designer, the absolute centre. She felt complacent, firm, and strong. She fixed her eyes on Renny, and gave him a waggish nod. She knew he did not mind young Pheasant’s having the ruby. He grinned back at her. He had Wakefield on his knee.