Return to Jalna. Mazo de la Roche
like to see you in the kitchen as soon as convenient.”
Alayne rose. “I have finished,” she said, and went with him to the basement.
“I’m not going to church,” said Archer, “and I am going to see the Tree. I’m going right now to get my presents off it.”
Finch sprang up and lifted the small boy from his chair. He strode with him into the hall. Archer lay, stiff as a poker, in his arms.
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Roma.
“Open the door,” ordered Finch.
Adeline opened the front door and Finch stepped into the porch. All three dogs came into the house. Finch carried Archer to the steps and held him head downward over a snowdrift.
“Want to be dropped into that and left there?” he asked.
“I don’t mind,” answered Archer impassively.
“All right. Here goes!” He lowered Archer till his tow hair touched the snow. He lowered him till his head was buried. The little girls shrieked. Alayne could be heard talking, on her way up the basement stairs. The bell of Ernest’s room was loudly ringing below. The two old men were having breakfast in bed, in preparation for a tiring day. Now Ernest wanted his. Two short rings meant that he wanted porridge, toast and tea. One prolonged ring indicated that he wanted an egg. This was a prolonged ring. It went on and on.
Finch reversed Archer and stood him on his feet. His lofty white brow was surmounted by snowy locks.
“Now are you going to behave yourself?” asked Finch, grinning.
“I still don’t want my breakfast,” answered Archer. “And I still want to see the Tree.”
“Wherever is that terrible draught coming from?” cried Alayne. “And who let the dogs in?”
Finch leaped up the stairs.
Oh, if Renny and Piers and Wake were home, how happy he would be! He pictured them, one after the other, at their various pursuits. What a Christmas it would be when they all were at Jalna once again! He knocked at Ernest’s door and went in.
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Ernest!” He went to the bed and kissed him.
“Merry Christmas, my boy! Will you just prop those pillows behind me a little more firmly. How cold it is! Please don’t touch me again with your hands. They’re icy.”
Finch tucked the eiderdown about him. “Is that better?”
The old gentleman looked nice indeed, with his lean pink face, his forget-me-not blue eyes and his silvery hair brushed smooth. Nicholas, when Finch visited him, was a contrast. His hair, his eyebrows, his moustache, still iron-grey, were ruffled. His bed was untidy and on the table at his side lay his pipe and tobacco pouch, with burnt matches strewn about.
After the season’s greetings, Finch asked, “Have you rung for your breakfast yet, Uncle Nick?”
“No, no. I never ring till I’ve heard Rags bring your Uncle Ernest’s. No matter how early I wake he always gets ahead of me. So now I just smoke a pipe and resign myself to waiting. How many times did he ring?”
“One long one.”
“Means he wants an egg. Doesn’t need an egg when he’s going to eat a heavy dinner. Tomorrow he’ll be taking indigestion tablets, you’ll see.”
Nicholas stretched out an unsteady handsome old hand, found his pipe and a pigeon’s feather with which he proceeded to clean it. What did it feel like to be ninety? Finch wondered. Very comfortable, to judge by the way Uncle Nick pulled contentedly at his pipe.
“So you’re going to read the Lessons, eh?” the old man asked.
“Yes, and I’m scared stiff.”
Nicholas stared. “You nervous — after all you’ve done!”
“This is different.”
“I should think it is. A little country church, as familiar to you as your own home. Your own family there to support you.”
“That’s just it. When I see you all facing me while I read out of the Bible, it will seem preposterous. And I haven’t had any practice. I don’t know how to read out of the Bible.”
“Good heavens, you’ve been often enough to church!”
“It’s not the same.”
Nicholas thought a minute, then he said, “I’ll tell you what. You get my prayer book out of the wardrobe, then you can let me hear you read. I’ll tell you how it sounds.”
Finch went with alacrity to the towering walnut wardrobe that always had worn an air of mystery to him.
“Door to the left,” directed his uncle. “Hatbox where I keep my good hat.”
Finch opened the door. A smell which was a mixture of tobacco, old tweed, and broadcloth, came out. He took the lid from the large leather hatbox. There inside was his uncle’s top hat and in its crown lay his prayer book, the gilt cross on its cover worn dim by the years.
“I remember,” said Finch, “when you wore that silk hat every Sunday.”
“Ah, there was dignity in those days! On this continent we shall sink before long to shirt-sleeves and not getting to our feet when a woman comes into the room — to judge by what I see in the papers. Well, you boys weren’t brought up that way. Now, let’s hear you read.”
Nicholas had in his younger days played the piano quite well. He was convinced that Finch had inherited his talent from him. Though his fingers had long been too stiff for playing, he still kept his old square piano in his room and sometimes when he was alone fumbled over the few stray bars he remembered. Now Finch sat down before the keyboard and placed the open book on the rack. He read the Epistle through. He looked enquiringly at his uncle.
“Too loud,” said Nicholas.
“Not for the church, Uncle.”
“You must learn to control your voice. It’s a good one but it’s erratic.”
“I expect I’ll make a mess of the whole thing.”
“Nonsense. You read far better than old Fennel.” The jingling of dishes on Ernest’s tray could be heard.
“There he is!” exclaimed Nicholas. He searched the top of his bedside table and found two envelopes. Wragge appeared at the door.
“Merry Christmas, sir!” His small grey face, with its jutting nose and chin, took on an expectant beam.
Nicholas handed him the envelopes.
“One for you — one for your wife. Merry Christmas to you both. Bring me porridge — thick toast, gooseberry jam.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s very nice to be remembered. Mr. Ernest did the sime for us. Mrs. Wragge will thank you later, sir.”
When he had gone, Finch groaned. “Gosh, I completely forgot to give them anything! No wonder he gave me a chilly look. How much was in the envelopes, Uncle Nick?”
“Five in each. Ernest gives them the same. Well — it keeps ’em good-humoured. They have a lot of trays to cope with.”
Finch walked alone across the fields to church. A slight fall of snow had made them freshly white. There showed no human footprint but the winding path was clearly defined among the tall dead grasses, the stalks of Michaelmas daisy and goldenrod. In and about ran the footprints of pheasants. Rabbits had been there too, leaving their Y-shaped prints, and field mice their tiny scratchings. From a twisted old thorn tree, a chickadee piped his last recollection of spring.
Now Finch could see the church tower rising from its knoll and in the graveyard two figures. They were Meg and Patience. As he drew near he saw that they were standing by the plot where