The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (149 page)

“I’d like to see your house. To judge by the outside you must have made a good job of it.”

“Tod must come too,” cried Mrs. Stroud, but the child’s mother picked him up.

“It’s his bedtime,” she said.

“Well, I shall be back to tuck him up,” said Mrs. Stroud. “Are you coming, Jim?”

“I think I’ll stay and wash up.”

“I’ll see you both tomorrow morning,” said Renny.

Mrs. Stroud and Maurice had gone on. Renny and Chris Cummings exchanged a look. On his part it was a look of warm interest, calculating appraisement of her possible gifts as a breaker-in of colts. On hers, an effort to appear tough-fibred and capable, softened by the feminine thought that here was a man one could lean on.

Renny followed Mrs. Stroud and Maurice. He heard Maurice saying:

“I used to come here as a child and old Mr. Pink used to make baskets out of peach stones for me. He played the organ too.”

“And so does his daughter. She’s such a sweet woman but so timid.

She teaches your little girl, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“How delighted the child must be to have you home! What a reunion!”

“Yes. It is nice!”

Good God, thought Renny, the woman knows everything about everyone!

All three went into the house.

From the small square hall opened the living room. It was furnished in a definite colour scheme of blue and brown. It looked pleasantly homelike, a woman’s room, after the disorder of the house next door. It glittered with order and cleanliness. The only disorder was the deep settee strewn with blue and brown damask cushions. On these young Eden Whiteoak was lounging. He sat up, his hair dishevelled, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Hullo!” he said, staring at his older brother.

“Hullo.” Renny in his turn was astonished. Eden looked suddenly grown-up. But what was he doing in this room? Smoking too. The cigarette was between his fingers. His lips were fixed in a defensive and nervous smile. He got up and turned to Mrs. Stroud.

“I’ve brought back the book,” he said. “I came right in. I thought you’d be back.”

“Oh — did you like it?” asked Mrs. Stroud, her eyes resting for an instant on the only book that was not in the bookshelves.

“Very much.” Eden picked up the book. Its title was clear — a popular work on the building of small houses. He flushed and laid it down. “This isn’t it,” he said. He looked about vaguely. “I don’t know where I’ve put it!”

Mrs. Stroud looked into Renny’s eyes. “Perhaps you didn’t know that Eden and I are friends. We got friendly over books.”

There was an ironic gleam in Renny’s eyes. Their glances crossed like fencing foils.

“It is so nice to find a young man who appreciates poetry,” she said. “We’ve been reading Rupert Brooke’s poems, and Flecker’s. Don’t you love them?”

“I don’t
love
any poetry,” he returned. “But” — his glance added — “I understand women like you.”

Maurice said — “I think you’ve done a very good job in making this place over.”

The incident of the book was buried. Mrs. Stroud led them from room to room. Eden came last, his eyes on his elder brother’s back.

When he and Mrs. Stroud were alone he ran his hands through his hair and gave her a distraught look.

“I’m afraid I’m going to be a bad liar,” he said.

“Why on earth
shouldn’t
you be sitting on my settee? Why were you embarrassed?”

“Why were
you
?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Well — it was just because I could see that you and he were.” They sat down side by side on the settee. “Tell me about him. He isn’t a bit like I thought he’d be.”

Eden caught her hand and laid it against his cheek. “Save me from all soldiers!” he exclaimed.

“Darling,” said Mrs. Stroud, “the only one you need saving from is yourself.”

T
HE
R
EINS

T
HE GRANDMOTHER’S CHAIR
had been placed out in the sun for the first time that year. She was ensconced in it, with a footstool at her feet and a rug about her knees. She wore a fur-lined cape and a crocheted wool “fascinator” was wrapped about her head. She actually felt too warm but, on the other hand, she was afraid of taking cold. It had been a long hard winter and she was tender from sitting by the fire. Her sons and daughter had insisted on her being well wrapped and her objections had been affected. She had her role of hardy pioneer to live up to. Now the sun beat down on her with affectionate warmth, for she had been the object of his solicitude for well past ninety years. She felt the benign warmth and she swelled her old body to open its pores. She had survived the winter. Now there was the long summer and autumn ahead.

The sunlight was too much for her eyes and she kept them fixed on the soft green of the grass. She examined it critically, thinking how well she knew it in its comings and goings, its eager burgeoning in the spring, its browning in the fierce heat, its second greenness in September, how it was furred by frost in the fall; drooped, withered, and died in December.

Now it was very pretty with its sharp spears bristling thick and green, tiny clover leaves dotted among it, the insect and worm life again active. It must be fun for the earthworms when they first slid their rears up into the sun, began to eat the earth, pass it through their bodies into neat little piles. But they spoiled the looks of the grass. There was one now, just beside her footstool! She carefully took her foot from the stool and planted it on the tiny mound, flattening it. That was better. The feel of the earth under her foot was good. She took a long look at her foot before replacing it on the stool. She turned it this way and that, marvelling how foot and ankle had kept their contours, as though still ready to run or dance. This was the same foot that had sped across the daisied grass in County Meath, supple and swift.

She peered down at it, wriggling her toes. They felt stiff, a little rheumatic inside the soft shoe. As she looked, a small curly head appeared from under her chair, bent inquisitively to see what she was looking at. It was the head of her youngest grandson and she remembered with a pang that she had promised Meg to keep an eye on him. Why, he might have got into all sorts of mischief while she sat contemplating the contours of her foot! She peered down at him.

On the supple pivot of his neck he turned his face up to hers. His mouth was open and she could see right into the moist rosy cavern. She noticed the young animal brightness of his eyes, the shadow of delicacy beneath them, the inquisitive nostrils.

“Stay just as you are,” she commanded, “and I’ll give you something.”

She opened a small velvet bag, extracted a peppermint lozenge and popped it into his mouth. His eyes beamed his thanks.

She was unprepared for what followed — the beam in his eyes turning to a goggling stare. He began to choke. The peppermint had stuck in his throat. She caught him by the shoulder and began to beat him on the back. His face grew scarlet. His eyes rolled at her in distress. She grasped him and tried to stand him on his head. Her chair toppled. She all but fell on him.

“Help!” she shouted in her vigorous voice. “Help!”

Meg heard her and came running across the grass.

“The baby’s choking! Put him upside-down!” In an instant Meg had reversed him. The peppermint lay on the grass. Wakefield screamed against her shoulder.

“There, there,” she soothed him. “Oh, Gran, how dangerous to give him a small hard sweet! I never do! If I hadn’t heard you — but I can’t bear to think of it!”

“Bless me, I was all but overturned! You don’t speak of what might have happened to me!”

“If I ever leave him — he’s always in some danger. Poor darling!”

“Want the candy,” said Wakefield, blinking down at it through his tears. “Want the peppymint.”

“No, no, darling! Meggie’ll get you something nice and soft.”

Old Adeline did not like this ignoring of her own narrow escape.

“Almost on my head,” she muttered, “and nobody cares.”

“But Granny, you should have called before — not after.”

The old lady peered truculently up at Meg from under the edge of the “fascinator.”

“Before
what
?”

“Before you tried to put him on his head.”

“He’d have choked to death if I’d hesitated. I saved his life.”

“But the peppermint didn’t come up till I arrived.”

“Perhaps not. But it was me that brought it up.”

“Why, Granny, when I picked him up he was choking.”

“Nothing of the sort. By the time you got here the peppermint was on the grass.”

“It was not.”

“It was.”

They glared at each other. It was not the first time they had had words over Wakefield.

Adeline was silent for a moment, then said:

“I’m going to have some sort of spell.”

Instantly Meg was alarmed for her. She set the child on his feet and bent over her.

“Are you feeling ill? Shall I fetch Uncle Ernest?”

“No, no, don’t leave me. There’s that man — Wragge — what’s his name? Tell him to bring me a glass of sherry.” She leant back breathing heavily. The strong hairs on her chin quivered.

“Will you please bring a glass of sherry quickly,” Meg called to the man. He wheeled as though he had been waiting for the order and ran into the house. He was wearing an old morning coat of Ernest’s and the tails of it flapped behind his knees.

“Some biscuits too,” called Adeline after him. “I feel faint.”

She watched Wragge’s hurrying figure as though she were drowning and he in quest of a life-belt. Wakefield picked up the peppermint and put it into his mouth.

All three waited for Wragge’s return. He brought two glasses of sherry on a small silver tray and a plate of arrowroot biscuits. He was only thirty-five but his face was wizened and cynical. He produced a harmless, benign expression on it, as though it were another biscuit. He was determined to make himself indispensible in this house.

Old Adeline stretched out a handsome wrinkled hand toward the sherry. She also took a biscuit.

Wragge addressed Meg. “I thought,” he said “as ’ow you might like a little somefink too, miss, seeing as you took almost no breakfast.”

Meg was pleased that her delicate appetite had been noted but she was puzzled. He explained.

“I was ’elping Eliza to clear away the breakfast things. I worried when I saw your plite.”

Adeline stretched out her hand for another biscuit. “I was just shaping for a bout of something,” she said, “but it’s passed.” She beamed at Wragge. “You were just in time. I may be old and weak but I saved this child’s life. It was a terrible effort.” Again she put the sherry to her lips.

“It fairly took me breath away, ma’am. It was wonderful.” Then he caught Meg’s look of irritation and hastened to give her one of understanding.

“Baby have a biscuit,” said Meg, offering him one.

“No, Baby has the peppymint.”

“Look out!” cried his grandmother. “He will choke again! Reverse him!”

Meg, in trepidation, caught him up. Her wineglass was upset. “Spit it out this instant!” she commanded.

Wakefield began to choke.

“What did I tell you!”

“Put it out, darling!”

“Perhaps I could ’elp,” said Wragge.

Meg surrendered the little one and closed her eyes against the sight of Wragge’s joggling him by the ankles.

“Stop!” cried Adeline. “It’s up!”

Sitting on Wragge’s arm Wakefield shrieked joyfully — “Do it again!

Do it again!”

“Put him here,” said Adeline, spreading her lap. “I will give him a biscuit soaked in sherry.”

In the kitchen Wragge said to Maggie, the cook — “That there old lidy is making a spoilt kid of that there, if ever there was one.”

“They all are,” she returned. “Him being posthumourous and knowing as a monkey.”

“Some cooks won’t stay where there’s spoilt children and old folk to be waited on. Some won’t stay where there’s a basement kitchen.”

She was preparing the vegetables. Now she deeply dug out the eyes of a potato and said:

“No — and some won’t stay where there’s a useless man hanging about.”

He grinned, his jutting chin giving him an impudent look that was not displeasing to her. He watched her plump red hands that looked so clean in the murky water. “I’m going to be a lot of ’elp to
you
,” he said.”

She glared at him. “Well, I’d like to know
how
.”

“Wait and see.”

“I’ll bet I wait a long time.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

Masterfully he took the knife from her hand and set about peeling the potatoes. “I can’t ’ave you doing dirty work like this,” he said.

She wiped her hands on her apron and watched him skeptically. “If you keep on like that you’ll pare it all away.”

They compared the wet brown parings.

Eliza came down the stairs from above, carrying a tray. She gave them a look of hate. Maggie had been a year in the house and Eliza had liked her less every day, even though she had to admit that she was an excellent cook. Now the addition of this cheeky Cockney to the kitchen made her feel that she was being forcibly pushed out. She had been going anyway but hers was still the will that ruled the housework. She was teaching Wragge how to wait at table, trying to make him understand that his nails should not be broken and dirty, brushing the dandruff from his shoulders before he carried in the tea. She looked down from the height of her long ears of perfect service at this worm, pushing himself in — pushing her out. She was going anyway, worn out in the service of this family, she repeated to herself, but she hated the sight of Wragge.

His very politeness was an insult. Now he sprang forward and took the tray from her hands.

“Allow me,” he said, at the same time giving Maggie a wink. “I can’t bear to see you carrying that there load. You ain’t fit for it.”

Eliza surrendered it without thanks and stalked to a window level with the grassy verge above. She rested her knuckles on the table that stood below the window and stared out into the sunny yard. There were clotheslines there and Ernest Whiteoak had hung his spring overcoat on one and was refreshing it with a good brushing on preparation for the season’s wear. What did he mean, Eliza thought, by brushing his own coat? That had always been her job. Probably he thought she was too weak. Probably he thought she would fall down if she wielded a brush. A chill rage welled up inside her. Her knuckles grew white on the table.