Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
After a while she cautiously came near.
He crumpled the paper in his hand. “It’s no good. I hate it. I’ll write another.”
“But don’t destroy it! Let me see it.”
There was a small struggle between them for the paper. He exclaimed:
“Why, how fierce you look! I didn’t know you
could
look like that.”
At once she relinquished the paper, at the same moment smoothing out her face. He tore up the drawing and threw it into the wastepaper basket. An hour later he left, with sufficient money in his pocket to buy the canoe.
She took the torn paper from the basket and pieced it together. She sat staring at the result. She felt angry at him, not only for deceiving her but for being such a boy. If only he were even five years older!
She delayed lunch an hour, waiting for him, then ate hers alone and without appetite. She hated the sight of the dishes she must wash and put away. She felt like smashing them. Unexpectedly, Dayborn returned to his house. He began to hammer loudly. What on earth was he doing? Something deliberately to annoy her, she felt sure of that. He was moving things about. She heard a small crash. She strolled to her gate, staring at the house, wishing he would come out so that she might tell him to leave the next day. Then she saw that he had broken a pane of glass in one of the windows. It seemed the last straw. She could hardly restrain herself.
She saw Eden coming along the road, walking fast. Dayborn would be sure to see him. She opened the gate and almost ran down the road to meet him. He held out both arms to her.
“I’ve got it!” he cried. “I’ve got it!”
“Are you insane?” she gasped, avoiding his arms.
“Absolutely. With joy! It’s the loveliest thing you ever saw. Graceful and beautifully shaped. We must go out in her now. I persuaded them to take fifty-five dollars. Here’s your change.”
He thrust a ten dollar bill into her hand. “Let’s take some food with us. I’ve had nothing but a milkshake. How I hate milk!” he beamed at her.
But she would not let him return to the house with her. It was arranged that he should wait at the nearest crossroad.
She flew up the stairs to her bedroom, feeling like a girl having a secret love affair. She changed into a white flannel skirt, shorter than any she had yet worn, and white shoes. She had pretty feet and felt that the new style became her. She put on a striped shirt, knotting the tie carefully, and a white linen hat. She covered herself with an apron while she made the sandwiches. She was excited and happy when she met Eden at the crossroad.
He strode quickly along the dusty road, talking the while of the hard bargain he had driven, never noticing how difficult it was for her, in her high heels, to keep up with him. She had never walked much and had little liking for the exercise. But, when they reached the boathouse where the canoe lay, she forgot her weariness and felt only pleasure when she saw awaiting her the fragile boat that moved gently on the ripples. Did she really own such a thing! For an instant her mind flew backward and she pictured her dead husband’s dismay at the thought of such a purchase. She smiled recklessly up at Eden as he helped her into the canoe and placed the cushions for her.
She had a moment’s trepidation as the shallow craft, like a living thing, skimmed forward into the deep water. She felt that the slightest movement on her part would overturn it. She sat very still, resigning herself to Eden’s care. He had been on canoeing trips and could paddle well. He had rolled up his sleeves, his shirt was open at the throat. He had never looked more attractive to her.
“Don’t go too far out,” she begged. “I can’t help being a little nervous.”
“You’ll soon get over that. We’ll go out almost every day. I’ll teach you to paddle. Isn’t the air glorious?”
It was fresh and sweet in contrast to the air on shore, dimmed by dust, carrying the weight of pollen, the chaff from harvests. The shore looked mysterious and beautiful. Here and there a reddening maple burned against the blue of the sky. In the distance they could see a freighter, dark and purposeful, with its banner of smoke. Quite near there were two yachts becalmed in the still air. But the lake was faintly ruffled. Tiny wavelets gurgled beneath the canoe.
She had got a coat of sunburn when she reached home. She felt happy and reckless. Her qualms at Eden’s deceiving his family had vanished. Let him do what he liked! They would drift as they had drifted in the canoe.
A week passed and they had had three such outings, one of them in the evening. He had spent the day with her, he had written the best poem he had yet done, or so she thought, and at sunset they had walked to the lake to where the canoe was kept. She had bought heelless rubber-soled shoes and now enjoyed the walk. She was learning to paddle. She told herself that she had never been so happy in her life, then thought grimly that she had never been happy at all, until this summer. She was conscious, too, that her intensified emotions were reaching out for something more passionate than the affair with this boy which could never develop and which might, at any time, be ruthlessly ended by his family. She felt something ruthless in them, else how could Ernest have dropped her as he had? That had been a blow to her pride, for she had felt in herself the power to fascinate him. Still, she did not regret him, for nothing Ernest could have given her would have equalled the delight of those romantic driftings on the lake with Eden.
Three weeks had passed since Renny’s visit to her. She had a secret desire to force him to intervene once more on Dayborn’s behalf. She desired the pleasure of refusing him. Although their meeting had been amicable she felt something antagonistic in him toward herself, something that had nothing to do with Eden. She could not forget his presence in the room, how it had obliterated all that had gone before.
Deception, she told herself, was wearing her out, yet she had been so enmeshed by it in the past months that she wondered how she would ever exist without its stimulus. She had a leaning toward the belief of reincarnation and imagined that, in some earlier life, she had moved in the intrigues of a royal court.
The morning after her evening paddle, with Eden, the weather changed. She woke half frozen in her bed, for she had fallen asleep with only the sheet over her. She could scarcely believe her eyes when she looked out of the window. It had been raining, and now a cold wind blew. Trees bent, if they were slender; waved their branches, if they were stalwart. The garden path was strewn with drenched leaves. She looked mournfully at the purple clouds and knew that fall had come.
She ate her breakfast in this mood but a flicker of sunlight on the floor cheered her. After all, there was Indian summer still to come. She would look no farther ahead than that. She lighted a cigarette and settled down with the morning paper.
She heard voices outside and glanced out of the window. She saw Renny Whiteoak at the gate. With him were the two children, Pheasant and Finch. He left them there and came toward the house. Her heart began to beat heavily. She folded the paper neatly, looked at her reflection in the glass and went to the door.
Her first thought on opening it was how impervious to weather he looked. It seemed that weather had done its worst to him, that its worst had no more than toughened him, whipped his skin to a high colour, his frame to endurance, and given his eyes a look of wary pleasure in its companionship. This morning became him, she thought, seeing his bare head, the russet of his leather leggings. She invited him to come in. Then she called out:
“Good morning, Pheasant! Why do you never come to see me any more?”
“I don’t know,” the little girl answered slowly, but there was reproach in her eyes. Mrs. Stroud was embarrassed. They both knew that her visits had been discouraged.
“Won’t you come in now? And Finch too?”
“I think they had better wait outside till we have talked business for a little,” said Renny. In the dining room he said warmly:
“I want to thank you for letting Dayborn stay on. It’s been most awfully kind of you, because I know you don’t like him.”
“That is putting it mildly. I detest him. I’ve good reason to.”
“I know — I know. But he’s been pretty good lately, hasn’t he?” He looked anxiously into her eyes.
“Not so objectionable as formerly. But they can’t stay on.”
“Of course not,” he agreed.
“I’ve been wanting to see you about that.”
“And I’ve wanted to see you.” His brown eyes still had that warm gleam in them. “As a matter of fact, I’ve heard of a place that will suit them, but they can’t get into it for a few weeks. About three.” He looked at her almost pleadingly.
It was beginning to rain again, a fierce squally shower.
“Do say yes,” he urged. “This would be awful weather to move in — especially with a baby.”
She looked out of the window.
“How long do you think it will last?”
“About three weeks.”
No canoeing, she thought, for three weeks! She said:
“Very well, I’ll try, but, if I send for you in the meantime, you mustn’t be surprised.”
“You’ll not be forced to send for me, I promise you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I should have come to see you about them before this, but I’ve been working hard and playing polo a good deal.” His face fell. “Did you see that the American team beat us on Wednesday?”
“Yes,” she lied, for she had no interest in sporting news. “I was so sorry. But you put up a splendid game, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we gave them a run for their money. But we were up against superior ponies. I’m breeding some now which I hope will make a difference. I’ve got one grand pony. You could pull his head through his chest and he’d never lose it!”
“I wish I could see a polo match.”
He looked at her commiseratingly.
“What a pity! We’ve finished for the season but you must see one next year.” He knit his brow and then asked, — “Have you been to the Horse Show?”
“No, but I’d love to go.”
“You must come to our box. The Show’s in November.” He gave a start, exclaiming:
“Those kids! They’re out in the rain! I must go.” Before she could speak he was at the door.
She pressed ahead of him and threw open the door.
“Children!” she called gaily. “Come right in! You must be wet through.”
Renny grinned approvingly as the two children, who had been sheltering under a small inadequate maple tree, scampered along the path and into the house. They were bareheaded. The wet had made Pheasant’s hair wave over the top of her head but Finch’s was plastered down almost into his eyes. He smiled shyly at Mrs. Stroud but Pheasant retained her air of gravity. The two made as though to sit side by side on the sofa but Renny stopped them.
“You’re too wet,” he said. “Sit on the floor by the fire.”
There was a coal fire in the small grate. Mrs. Stroud was glad she had lighted it. It gave the room a homelike, cheerful look. The children sat on either side of the fire, their innocent profiles giving them an air of aloofness.
Renny looked down at them indulgently. He looked, Mrs. Stroud thought, as though he were so used to children that he felt their presence only as an agreeable addition to the atmosphere. She herself felt some resentment at their coming yet, in a curious way, she felt a new familiarity with Renny.
There was a scratching on the outer door. Finch said:
“It’s Fan. She was at the back when we came in. Shall I open the door?”
“Yes, do,” said Mrs. Stroud.
“She was my father’s dog,” explained Renny. “Now she’s attached herself to me. She’s almost always with me. I hope you don’t mind.”
The spaniel entered with an air of assurance, her fringed legs and long ears dripping from the wet grass.
“Fan’s back is just like your head, Pheasant,” laughed Renny.
The little girl gave him an adoring look. She stretched out a thin hand and laid it on his knee.
“Look what Fan’s got!” cried Finch.
It was the yellow claw of a fowl. With attention drawn to it, Fan laid it on the rug and raised her eyes to her master’s. Renny sprang up, gave the spaniel a gentle cuff and laid the fowl’s leg on the fire.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.
“Isn’t it lovely the way it sizzles.”
“Wait a minute and you’ll smell it,” said Finch. He gazed rapturously into the grate.
The spaniel seated herself and resignedly watched the destruction of her treasure.
Silence fell in the room. Then Mrs. Stroud said:
“I’m trying to see a resemblance between any of you brothers. I can’t find it. It’s extraordinary that no two should be alike.”
Renny answered, with the vivacity that a discussion of his family always produced in him:
“Well, it’s not so extraordinary. I’m the spit of my grandmother, as they say. Eden looks like his mother. Piers resembles our father. Meg is like him too. Wakefield is very like a picture of Uncle Nick at that age. Finch is just himself.”
“He looks as though he might be musical.” She did not dare quote Eden as saying this. She wished, too, to appear discerning.
“That’s clever of you, to see that,” answered Renny. “There’s quite a lot of musical talent in my family. My sister can sing and both my uncles play the piano. Uncle Ernest has taught this fellow to play the ‘Blue Danube.’ Play the ‘Blue Danube’ for Mrs. Stroud, Finch. Would you like to hear him play the ‘Blue Danube’?”
“I’d love to.” She smiled encouragingly at the little boy.
Colour suffused his face. He began to tremble. “I can’t,” he muttered, hanging his head.
“Go ahead,” urged Renny. “Don’t be a duffer!”
“I can’t.”
Mrs. Stroud leant toward him, her eyes compelling. “Just to please me!”
“Go on, Finch,” said Pheasant, poking him with her elbow.
He shook his head, staring down at his hands.
Renny stretched out a long arm and drew Finch to him. “Play it, and I’ll give you a quarter,” he whispered.
Finch tried to draw away, his breath came quickly. “I can’t,” he repeated.
“Play it or you’ll get a good hiding,” Renny whispered in Finch’s ear. Across the boy he smiled amicably at Mrs. Stroud. He pushed Finch toward the piano.