The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (332 page)

The rain entered the house at two points, the attic and the basement. Through rotted shingles it dripped into Finch’s vacant room. Soon after Finch had gone abroad, Wragge had placed a basin on the floor during a heavy rain, to catch the drip. He had not been in the room since, so he had not observed that the basin was full. Now the drops falling from the ceiling struck the water with a clear musical note, sending tiny ripples to the brim that overflowed silently on to the worn carpet. The daylight would show this room with a
bereft air. Its furniture, most of which needed repairing, had been the ramparts of Finch’s world. In the cupboard hung his worn clothes, still showing the impress of his body.

The rain came into the basement through a crack beneath a window, outside which it collected from the soaking ground above. From the window ledge it dropped with a smart rapping sound to the brick floor beneath. This sound, entering Wragge’s consciousness, caused him to dream that he was back in the trenches and that the Germans were bombarding the British position. His sleep became more and more troubled. His snores turned to gaspings, and Mrs. Wragge, woken by his distress, put out her hand to quiet him. The result was the opposite of what she intended. The instant the large heavy hand was placed on his head he imagined that a fat German had captured him and he uttered a yell of fright.

Old Benny, the bob-tailed sheepdog, who slept on a mat in the hall above, heard in his sleep the echo of the yell. He had been dreaming of a strange creature, half-tramp and half-sheep, that had been prowling about the shrubbery. He had been stalking it through illimitable spaces of time without its having perceived him. Suddenly it turned, peered at him with the face of a man, uttering at the same time the metallic bleat of a sheep. His hackle rose and, with a sonorous growl, he leaped and caught it by the throat.

Upstairs Nip slept in Nicholas’s armchair. He refused to sleep anywhere but in his master’s bedroom. He always had one ear cocked for the sound of the deep voice he loved. Now he was in his first sleep of the night and the sound of Ben’s growl came up to him. It came as the voice of his master saying—“Nip, Nip, catch a spider, Nip!” He stood on the seat of the chair, quivering. He gave tremulous whines, part pleasure
and part fear. His eyes were fixed on the door though the darkness hid it from him.

Wakefield, snuggled against Renny’s side, was the only one of the family who heard Nip’s whining. He opened his eyes, saw that it was black night, heard the little quivering sound again, and shivered all over.

“Renny,” he whispered tugging at his brother’s sleeve. “What’s that noise?”

Renny grunted drowsily. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

“But I heard something strange. Like someone crying.”

“Mooey. Having a bad dream.”

Wakefield sat upright, listening. Nip, at that moment, jumped from the chair to the floor and scratched at the door. “There! Listen to that! There’s something very queer going on.”

Renny, to satisfy him, got up and went into the passage. He listened but heard nothing. Nip had gone back to bed. Then the growl came again, from below. Renny remembered a loutish stable boy he had dismissed that day for kicking a horse. He had pitched him bodily out of the gate and the fellow had gone off shaking his fist. It might be as well to see that everything was all right downstairs. He lighted a candle and made the round of the principal rooms. All was quiet, Benny curled up again on his mat wagging his stub of a tail to show that he was quite capable of handling the situation.

The light from Renny’s candle fell across Piers’s face as he passed his door. Piers’s eyelids slowly raised and he looked sleepily about wondering what had waked him. He was deli-ciously comfortable. An earthy tenderness was diffused through all his being. Pheasant’s breathing came quick and soft beside him like that of a sleeping fawn. He drew her to him, his lips touching her bare shoulder.

It might be considered then that the falling rain which opened new flowers in the garden that night was also responsible for the conception of a new Whiteoak.

I
T HAD BEEN
many a long year since the family at Jalna numbered as few as six. It took those who remained some time to get used to the empty places at table. The vacancy left by the heavy figure of Nicholas was especially hard to get used to. Renny did not like it at all. It was like losing his grandmother over again to have her sons, whom he had always at his side, go off like this. Alayne suggested that they take the leaves from the table so that they might draw closer together about it, but the idea was abhorrent to him. So he and she continued to sit facing each other across the long stretch of tablecloth on which stood the ponderous silver that made even breakfast seem a weighty meal. On one side of the table sat Pheasant and Piers, on the other Wakefield, looking very small and self-important.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” ejaculated Renny one morning. “We’ll have Mooey take his meals with us. He’s plenty old enough. Have a place set for him at dinner, Alayne. He can sit beside Wake.”

The thought of a child of barely three sharing the family meals was distasteful to Alayne. She pictured a crumby face
and a baby voice reiterating demands for helpings of the grown-up food. She tried to keep her voice even and her expression unruffled but both failed her. Her voice had a little rasp of irritation in it, and a pucker appeared on her forehead as she answered:

“Don’t you think Mooey is too small? I’m sure Pheasant does.”

Pheasant’s first thought had been—“Oh, how sweet to have the little darling at the table!” But, when she found that Alayne did not want him, she turned doubtfully to Piers and asked:

“What do you think? Is he too small?”

Piers, with a swift glance at Alayne’s face, answered:

“Wake sat up at table when he was smaller.”

Renny broke into laughter at the recollection, “Of course he did! I can just see him. All eyes. And Gran used to dip bits of biscuit in her wine and feed him.”

Alayne could imagine the scene. The old woman, even then past ninety, popping wet morsels into the mouth of the baby boy. She said sharply:

“Perhaps that is the reason why Wakefield’s digestion is not stronger today.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Renny. “Gran often said that she saved his life! He’d no appetite. It was only she who could tempt him.”

“I remember! I remember!” cried Wakefield. “I’d be sitting between Meggie and my Grandmother, and I’d have no appetite at all. Meggie would be holding a spoon in front of me and I’d turn my face away and say—‘No, no’—and then Gran would lean over me, and she’d look simply enormous with her cap and a shawl, and she’d say—Open your mouth, Bantling’ —and I’d open it wide, and she’d put the most
delicious
little blob of biscuit into it and the wine would run down my chin on to my bib!”

Rags had been an interested listener to the conversation. He was cognisant of every slightest change of inflection or expression. He now said, in his nasal voice:

“I hope you’ll pardon me speaking, Madam. But I ’ad just arrived at Jalnar at that time. And it was always my opinion that the little boy might ‘ave pined away an’ died if ’e ’adn’t got the attentions ’e did from ’is Grandmother. Coming right after the sights I’d seen in the War, madam, I thought it was the prettiest picture I’d ever be’eld.”

Alayne regarded him with icy disapproval. But Renny grinned up at him showing every tooth, resembling his grandmother to a degree very irritating to Alayne, though in this he was blameless.

Piers said—“Well, of course, there would be one advantage in having the kid take his meals with us. As it is, the kitchenmaid has either to look after him just when she’s needed in the kitchen, or he has to be down there during mealtime.”

“And always the dynger of getting scalded!” put in Rags.

Alayne looked into the marmalade jar. “Please take this to the kitchen and have it filled,” she said sternly. “It’s been put on the table almost empty, and you can see what the edge is like.”

Rags gave her an astonished look as he took the jar, as though he would say—“Well, who comes ’ere ordering me abaht!”

Since her return to Jalna as mistress Alayne had been diffident about giving orders to him. It was easy enough to give orders to the cook or the kitchenmaid. They were respectful and friendly. But she felt a cold antagonism in Rags, a
resentment, and a desire to thwart her at every turn. He was aware, she felt sure, of her dislike of his intruding into the conversation of the family, and consequently he intruded the more often. He was aware that she was sensitive to draughts, and it seemed to her that there was one in every room. In old Adeline’s time she had felt stifled often for lack of air, but it seemed not to matter to the Whiteoaks whether the air they breathed was vitiated or a veritable whirlwind. Sometimes the presence of the little Cockney in the house was almost more than she could bear.

When he had gone she said:

“I think Bessie can easily be spared at mealtime to look after Mooey. She gets the vegetables ready for cook, brings in the fuel, and, after Pheasant goes to him, Bessie is ready to wash up. I can’t see that she is needed in the kitchen at mealtime.”

“That’s quite beside the point,” said Renny. “It’s the servants’ business to get their work done whether or no. I was talking about the look of the table. Too damned lonely.”

Wakefield, responsive to Renny’s mood, exclaimed:

“I think the table looks awfully lonely!”

“Well,” said Alayne, “I think you’re the most sentimental people I’ve ever known. For my part I think we could be very cosy, if only you would take the leaves out, as I suggested, Renny, and make the table smaller.” She had longed to speak sharply to Wakefield, but had managed to restrain herself.

A chill breeze from the shady side of the house blew in on her off the wet lawn. Without a word she rose and went to the window and tried to close it. It was swollen by the damp and she could not move it. For an instant Renny watched her struggles, then he sprang up and came to her side.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted the window shut?” he asked, bringing it down with a bang.

She gave a little shrug and returned to her chair. Piers and Pheasant exchanged a look. Wakefield saw the look and stared inquisitively at Alayne.

Piers said—“Where is the marmalade? It was here a moment ago.”

“I gave the jar to Wragge to have it filled,” said Alayne. Piers could not have failed to see her do it. He was doing his part to irritate her evidently.

Piers looked at his wristwatch. “Well, I must be off. I can’t wait for it.”

“Oh, don’t go without your marmalade, Piers!” said Pheasant, holding him by the sleeve. “You’re so fond of it. Do ring the bell, Wake, and hurry Rags along!”

Wakefield ran to the bell-cord and pulled it violently. It was seldom used now, and had become frayed and unable to bear strain. At the second tug it broke in his hand.

“Now, there,” exclaimed Renny, “what are you trying to do?”

“There was no need to be so rough,” said Pheasant. “Alayne, I do wish you had not sent the marmalade pot away before Piers had got some. There was plenty in it for him.”

“Go to the top of the stairs and shout to Rags,” said Piers.

Wakefield, waving the end of bell-cord, ran to the stairs, crying—“Rags! Hurry up!” Before he returned to the table, he ran twice round it waving the cord.

“Sit down!” growled the master of Jalna, and he gave an apologetic grin towards Alayne’s end of the table. His eyes avoided hers.

Wragge came panting into the room.

“Where
is the marmalade?” demanded Pheasant.

Wragge looked injured.

“W’y, I was just fetching it, I’m, when first came the ring of the bell, and right on top of that a shout. It gave me such a turn that I dropped it. I thought there must be something hurgent, ’m.”

“It is urgent. Did you break the jar?”

“Well, ’m, I ’ope not. I know I was a bit long, but Mrs. W’iteoak”—he made a bow, half cringing, half impudent, to Alayne—“she complained of the way the jar was washed, so I ’ad to find Mrs. Wragge to get ’er to wash it—the maid being upstairs minding the little boy, ’m—and I was just fetching it when the ring and the shout came.”

“Please bring some more, and hurry. Mr. Piers is waiting.”

Alayne sat silent, sipping her tea, trying to control her irritation, to conceal her hatred of the little Cockney. She said to herself—“It is nothing. I must not be easily upset. This is my life.”... A mental picture was presented to her of breakfast at her father’s table. The little embroidered mats on the round polished table, the slender silver vase holding perhaps three roses, the fragile china, the grapefruit, loosened from its rind, sweetened and decorated with Maraschino cherries by her mother the night before, the delicious coffee. Her father reading an editorial from the
New York Times
in his slow, precise New England voice. Her mother exquisitely neat, with her special digestive bread and her dish of stewed figs before her. Before she was aware of it her eyes filled with tears.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of Mooey’s voice at the door. Wragge was standing in the hall with the little boy on his sloping shoulder.

“Oh, what a nish brekkus!” Mooey was saying. “Hello, Mummy! I’ve got a nish ’orsie to wide!”

Pheasant cried—“Hello, darling!” Then—“Why did you bring him down, Rags?” But she was obviously pleased.

Wragge answered—“? was crying’ ’is little eyes out, ’m, being left alone by Bessie for a bit while she went to answer the door, I being in the kitchen at the time, along o’ the marmalade jar.”

“He deserves a licking for crying for that,” observed Piers, eating marmalade as though it were a delicacy he had never tasted before.

“Don’t be such a harsh parent, Father,” said Pheasant.

“Don’t Father me!”

Pheasant continued—“But it is rather inconvenient taking Bessie from the kitchen to mind him when he’d be quite all right here, isn’t it?” She cast a propitiatory glance at Alayne.

Wakefield exclaimed, through a mouthful of toast—“Come to your old uncle, Mooey!”