The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (379 page)

“Who’s that? Why don’t you come in if you’re coming?”

Finch went in hesitatingly, the glass of eggnog in his hand.

“Meggie sent you this,” he managed to get out in a trembling voice.

“She’s half an hour late with it,” observed Eden. He took the glass and began to drink, avoiding Finch’s eyes.

Finch had been prepared for a change in him but he was not prepared to see him so etherealised, so transparent, with such hollow, shining eyes and feverish cheeks. He wore a light-blue dressing gown and was sitting by the table with writing things in front of him.

When he had finished the eggnog he turned and looked at Finch, as though it had given him strength.

“Good old Meggie,” he said. “She’s put lots of brandy in it.”

Finch looked at him, filled with an immense pity. He longed to give out strength to him.

Eden said—“Sit down and tell me how you got on.”

In a voice he could not recognise as his own Finch recalled what he could. Eden listened eagerly. “You’re doing well,” he said, and added significantly—“Stick to it. Don’t let yourself worry. Don’t be too sympathetic. That’s the only way for an artist.”

“Have you been doing anything? Any writing, I mean?”

Eden frowned. “Well—I do what I can. I’m trying to finish that long poem. I’ve been at it for months but I don’t seem to get much forrarder.”

“May I read what you’ve written—some day?”

“Yes.” Eden spoke in a businesslike tone. “Now I’ll tell you what I have in mind to do.” He began to talk very practically of the publishing of his poems, those he wanted to include and the form he desired. He ended—“I should like to have it brought out by the 1st of March. I think I’ll last till then.”

Finch reached out and grasped his hand.

“Don’t give up hope, old fellow. You’ve been through a hard time. But rest and care will put you on your feet again.” Before he had finished speaking his voice became flat and toneless from the effort of uttering the futile words.

Eden answered—“I was done for when I came home.” He looked at Finch with wide-open eyes but he had the appearance of one who does not see. His fingers played with the collar of his dressing gown, drawing it close about his throat.

After a little he said—“I hear that Sarah is coming to Jalna for Christmas.”

“I have not been told. Why should they ask her?”

“Why not?

“You are ill. We don’t want company.” Finch spoke fiercely. The thought of Sarah was repellent to him.

“I am becoming a shadow. And Sarah is as real as the sun and wind. God—how I’ve loved the sun and wind!”

“Eden, will you promise me to try to live?”

“Yes, yes, of course! But don’t bother me. It’s irritating. Now, put yourself in my place. You’d hate that sort of talk.”

“But, Eden—you want to live, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! That’s just why the things you say irritate me… I’m standing on a lonely shore. A great wave has just broken at my feet. I’m looking into its depths. And you come along and begin to throw little sharp pebbles at me to divert my attention.”

Augusta came into the room.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked Eden.

“This fellow,” he answered, “is boring me. He’s not nearly such good company as Renny or Wake.”

“Should you like to lie down?” she asked.

“Mm…” He looked at her petulantly, not knowing what he wanted.

She laid his head against her and stroked his hair. He began to cough. Finch had never heard such coughing. When it was over and they had got him into his bed, Finch slipped out of the house and went back across the snowy fields to Jalna.

He went in at the side door. He could not face the others, answer their questions about Eden. He must escape to his own room. He was tired out for he had been travelling most of the night, eager to be home, eager for the Christmas festivities at Jalna, from which he had been absent for two years.

The smell of the Christmas tree followed him all the way up the stairs. Even to his own room its resinous smell had penetrated. It must be locked in the sitting room now, for
four days to be guarded from prying young eyes. In the passage he had seen a mound of club moss to be used for wreathing. He had no place here! No place but his own room where he could shut himself in—refuse to give himself to this farce of merrymaking.

There was ice on the pane. Inside it had melted, trickled down and formed a puddle on the sill and frozen again. The tooting of a toy horn came from the nursery.

“Little brutes,” he said savagely. “Let them do without their Christmas this year! If I had my way there’d be no Christmas in this house.” He strode up and down the worn carpet. He looked wildly at his boyhood’s belongings.

“I’ve prayed in this room,” he thought. “I’ve prayed and not been answered. But no more prayer for me! I’ll tear prayer out of my heart by the roots. It’s no use. It’s like the smell of that tree. It drugs you. It’s religion, and it’s no use in this world… Oh, God—no, I won’t! I’m a fool! Who would be such a fool as to pray for Eden—after what I saw this morning.” He fell on his knees beside the bed, gripping the coverlet. “Oh, God, save him—save him—make him well.”

A
FRESH FALL OF SNOW
was spread across the land on Christmas Eve—an immaculate cloth for the altar of the world. The air was very clear, so that the stars, faint as candles, lingered into the morning. The vigorous green of the evergreens was the only colour in the pallid landscape. The only sound was the distant roaring of the lake, still troubled by a gale now fallen.

The first person to awake in the house was young Maurice, whose heart, the moment he opened his eyes, began to beat quickly in anticipation of the day. He sat up in his cot and looked across the room to where his cousin Patience was fast asleep. He could see her round face framed in her hair like a closed flower bud in curling leaves. He gave an excited laugh. Where was Santa Claus now, he wondered, and pictured him speeding back across snowy wastes to the north. The swift reindeer, they needed no urging. Faster than any horse in the stables they flew through the frosty air, and Santa Claus’s white beard flapped on his great chest.

The tree! The tree! How could he wait to see the tree! Not until late afternoon would its splendours be visible.
Unless (the thought made him dive under the covers in fear and ecstasy), unless he stole down and peeped through the keyhole at it!

His legs, clad in a flannel sleeping-suit, dangled over the side of the cot. He found the floor and put on his slippers and dressing gown. Should he wake Patience and enjoy the pride and power of escorting her through the twilit stairways to the forbidden sight of the tree? He decided that he would not. At any moment she would be likely to give one of her sudden peals of laughter and they would be discovered.

He had one eye pressed to the keyhole of the library door, trying to distinguish the pale shapes on the dark mass in the corner, feeling a little frightened, for the way had been long and the growling, rumbling noises that had come from Uncle Nick’s room rather terrible, when Rags had crept up behind him and caught him by the seat of the pyjamas with:

“’Ello, naow, Master Mooey, and w’at do you think you’ll get for spying on Father Christmas? He’ll tike aw’y yer toys and leave you a bundle of birches, see!”

Mooey began to cry bitterly, and Rags, not wishing to have the household disturbed, carried him down to the basement where Mrs. Wragge gave him a breakfast of sausages and fried potatoes from a corner of the kitchen table.

She had the kitchen in that delicious state of flurry which she always achieved on a special occasion. She could not keep her head, yet her dishes almost always turned out well and she got more work out of her husband and Bessie than could any other human being. She showed Mooey the mince pies, the enormous plum pudding, and the colossal turkey. She showed him the moulds of cranberry jelly and the plum cake covered with marzipan to be cut for tea. The thought of Santa Claus and the tree was for the time being driven from his mind.

“And w’at would you s’y,” she asked, cuddling him, “to ‘aving a nice noo little brother along o’ springtime?”

“I have a little brother,” answered Mooey without enthusiasm. “He’s enough.”

“A baby sister, then? With big blue eyes.”

“No. Don’t want no more babies.”

“Bless yer ’eart,” and Mrs. Wragge kissed him on the mouth. “You’ll love ’er all right w’en the time comes!”

Rags addressed his wife. “There’ll be some cursin’ upstairs this morning. The snow’s too deep for the car and they’ve got to walk to early communion. And a bitter walk it’ll be!”

Bessie lifted her face from a saucer of tea.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t call that Christian, anyhow.”

Mrs. Wragge observed—“If the boss would give less to the Church and more to me for pots and pans it would be Christianer. As for the misses—she’s gettin’ more penoori-ous every day. Thank goodness, I’ve got her pretty well broke of comin’ down here to interfere.”

“Which of them are going?” asked Bessie.

“The master and the three young fellers,” answered Rags. “I could hear Mr. Wake complaining how tired he is and how cold it is, and w’en the master called up to Mr. Finch I’eard ’im call back that ’e wasn’t goin’, that ’e didn’t feel like it, some’ow. ’Feel like it or no,’ says the master, ’you’ll come to early communion on Christmas morning. You were brought up to it and you’ll do it.’ And you’ll see that ’e will!”

There was a sharp crunching on the snow outside the window. Four pairs of legs strode past, one pair well in advance of the others. Mrs. Wragge regarded this pair with disapproval. She said:

“I don’t think it looks respectful goin’ off to service in them plush-fours.”

“Early communion ain’t real church,” said Rags. “Mr. Finch ’as got a thin pair of shanks. And it ain’t because ’e daon’t eat.” He added with satisfaction—“There’s not many ’ouses that can send out four fine-lookin’ young men to the hearly service and two ’andsome old ones to the late.”

“Lor’, w’at a pity it is about Mr. Eden,” sighed Mrs. Wragge. A gloom fell over the kitchen. With a shadowed face Rags carried a tray laden with breakfast things up the stairs.

When he returned he said:

“Madam’s down. She wants ’er coffee and a soft-boiled egg. She seemed surprised that there weren’t no gripe fruit.”

“I should think,” said his wife, “that she’d ’ave got over surprises. W’y couldn’t she ’ave stopped in bed till the menfolk came back?”

Alma Patch appeared at the door which led into the yard. She was late and divested herself of her outer garments as she entered.

“You’d better tike this young man up with you,” said Mrs. Wragge to the girl, “and dress ’im. ’E’s ’ad ’is breakfast.”

Alma looked at them blankly and took Mooey by the hand.

Rags came hurrying down the stairs. “She says she’s cold,” he announced. “Do go along, Bessie, and open up the draughts of the furnace. You can clean out the ashes, but just put two small shovels of coal on. This last lot must do us to the New Year.”

“I don’t see why I should do the furnace,” grumbled the girl.

“There’s some in the Ouse,” said Rags meaningly, “as don’t see w’y you should be ’ere at all. Economise we must, and I’ve ’eard more than one ’int that you may be the next item dropped from the list of luxuries.”

Bessie began to blubber and hurried toward the furnace room. Mrs. Wragge looked smug. Alma trailed up the stairs leading Mooey. Before long she reappeared and said:

“Mrs. Piers asked me would I take her up a tray with a little toast and tea. She’s not feeling too bright this morning. She looks as white as a sheet.”

“Pore little thing,” said the cook. “I’ll make ’er a nice breakfast and you carry it up without slopping, mind you.”

Again Rags appeared from above. “Both old gentlemen are down,” he said, “an’ look a little cheerier than they ’ave lately.”

Mrs. Wragge said to him out of the side of her mouth:

“Any Christmas presents yet?”

Rags grinned and tapped his breast pocket. “Sime as usual. They’ll not let
me
daown!”

While the dishes from the first breakfast were being washed, four pairs of snowy legs again passed the basement windows and soon there was a steady march of feet into the dining room. The brothers had knelt in a row on the step before the altar. They had held up four strong hands for the Bread. They had bent four heads, emptied of thought, above the Goblet. Now, with clamorous stomachs, they sought to break their fast.

Sarah had shivered upstairs in her room till she heard them return. Her entry into the dining room was timed with theirs.

“I could not wake,” she said in her honey-sweet voice, “or I should have gone to church with you.” She slid into a chair beside Finch.

He thought—“Now I must talk to her instead of eating in peace! Damn her, why didn’t she have breakfast with the others?”

Renny gave her an arch look.

“You may come with us at eleven. We go again then.”

“Leave me out,” said Piers.

Finch said nothing, but he intended spending the morning with Eden.

“There is a collection,” Renny proceeded, “for church expenses. Mr. Fennel was in favour of one for the Eastern Missions, but I stood out for home charities and I got my way. I hope you’ll contribute generously, Sarah.”

Sarah smiled enigmatically. She did not want to go to church. She hated church.

“Are you going again?” she whispered to Finch, under cover of Renny’s going to the top of the basement stairs and shouting for Rags.

“I’m going to see Eden,” he answered.

“Of course, you must! I’ll go too. I’ll send my contribution by Wakefield.”

Renny returned to the table. Mooey came in at his heels. He went to his father and, standing on the rung of his chair, whispered in his ear:

“Daddy, when are we going to have the tree?”

Piers stared at him, with eyes prominent.

“What tree?”

“Why, you know—the Christmas tree!”

Piers looked stupid.

“I have heard nothing about a tree.”