Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
He stood there immobile, silhouetted against the window of the library, which had been, at that moment, lighted behind him. Then his voice came as though from a long way off.
“What is it? You are disturbed about something.”
“No, no. I am all right.”
“Are you? I thought you had come out here to tell me something.”
“No, I had nothing to tell you. I came because—I cannot explain—but you and that man made a strange sort of picture out here, and I moved out into it unconsciously.” She realized with an aching relief that he had not guessed the trick her senses had played her. He had only seen her standing rigid at the top of the windswept steps.
A long-legged figure came bounding along the driveway, leaped on to the steps, and almost ran against her. It was Finch back from school. He was drenched. He threw a startled look at them and moved toward the door.
“Oh, Finch, you
are
wet,” said Alayne, touching his sleeve.
“That’s nothing,” he returned gruffly.
“You’re late,” remarked Renny.
“I couldn’t get the earlier train. A bunch of us were kept in.”
The boy hesitated, peering at them as though they were strangers whose features he wished to distinguish and remember.
“H-m,” muttered Renny. “Well, you had better change into dry things and do some practising before tea.”
His tone, abstracted and curt, was unlike his usual air of indolent authority. Finch knew that he was expected to move instantly, but he could not force his legs to carry him into the house. There was something in the porch, some presence, something between those two, that mesmerized him. His soul seemed to melt within him, to go out through his chest gropingly toward theirs. His body a helpless shell, propped there on two legs, while his soul crept out toward them, fawning about them like one of the spaniels, one of the spaniels on the scent of something strange and beautiful.
“You’re so wet, Finch,” came distantly in Alayne’s voice.
And then in Renny’s: “Will you do what I tell you? Get upstairs and change.”
Finch peered at them, dazed. Then, slowly, his soul skulked back into his body like a dog into its kennel. Once more his legs had life in them.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and half stumbled into the house.
Meg was coming down the stairway, and Rags had just turned on the light in the hall.
“How late you are!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a muddy floor! Finch, is it possible you brought all that mud in? One would think you were an elephant. Will you please take it up, Wragge, at once, before it gets tramped in? How many
times have I told you to wipe your boots on the mat outside, Finch?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, really, this rug is getting to be a disgrace. You’re late, dear. Are you starving?”
She was at the foot of the stairs now. She kissed him, and he rubbed his cheek, moist with rain, against hers, warm and velvety.
“M-m,” they breathed, rocking together. Flossie, the spaniel, was scratching at the already much bescratched front door.
“What does Flossie want?” asked Meg.
“I dunno.”
“Why, she wants to get out. Merlin must be out there. Was he there when you came in?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Let Flossie out, Rags. She wants Merlin.”
“No, don’t let her out,” bawled Finch. “She’ll only bring more mud in. Put her in the kitchen.”
“Yes, I believe that would be better. Put her in the kitchen, Rags.”
Finch said: “I’ve got to do some practising.”
“No, dear,” replied his sister, firmly. “It’s tea time. You can’t practise now. It’s time for tea.”
“But, look here,” cried Finch. “I shan’t get any practising tonight, then. I’ve a lot of lessons to do.”
“You shouldn’t be so late coming home. That’s one reason I didn’t want you to have such an expensive teacher. It’s so worrying when there’s no opportunity for practising. But, of course, Alayne would have it.”
“Darn it all!” bawled Finch. “Why can’t I practise in peace?”
“Finch, go upstairs this instant and change into dry things.”
The door of Gran’s room opened and Uncle Nick put his head out.
“What’s this row about?” he asked. “Mamma is sleeping.”
“It’s Finch. He is being very unruly.” Meg turned her round sweet face toward Nicholas.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And all the money which is being spent on your music! Get upstairs with you. You deserve to have your ears cuffed.”
Finch, with his ears as red as though they had already had the cuffing, slunk up the stairs. Piers and Pheasant, still on the window seat, had drawn the curtains tightly across, so that they were effectually concealed, except for the outline of their knees, and their feet which projected under the edge. Finch, after a glance at the feet, was reasonably sure of their owners. What a lot of fun everyone had, but himself! Snug and dry before warm fires, or petting in corners.
He found Wakefield in his room, sprawled on the bed, reading
Huckleberry Finn.
“Hullo,” said the little boy politely. “I hope you don’t mind me being here. I wanted to lie down a bit as I aren’t very well, and yours is the only bed I can tumble up without Meggie minding.”
“Why don’t you tell her you’re not well?” asked Finch, pulling off his soaked jacket.
“Oh, she’d fuss over me, keep me on the sofa where she could watch me. I like a little privacy as well as anyone.”
He was eating marshmallows and he offered Finch one.
“Thanks,” said Finch, who was ravenous. “You seem always to have marshmallows lately.” He looked at him with
sudden severity. “Does Meggie know you’ve always got them?”
Wake calmly bit into another. “Oh, I don’t suppose so. Any more than she knows you’ve always got cigarettes about you.” His eyes were on his book; one cheek was distended. He looked innocent, and yet, the little devil, it had sounded like a threat.
“You mind your own affairs,” broke out Finch, “or I’ll chuck you into the hall.”
Wakefield’s bright eyes were on him. “Don’t be cross, Finch. I was only thinking how yellow your second finger looked when you took that marshmallow. You’d better scrub it with pumice stone before tea or someone may notice. You see, your hands are so large and bony that people notice them, and anyone knows that it takes more than one cigarette to give that orangey color.”
“You see too damned much,” growled Finch. “When you get to school you’ll have some of the smugness knocked out of you.”
“I dare say,” agreed Wake, sadly. “I hope you won’t let the other boys bully me, Finch.”
“Why, look here, there are five hundred fellows in the school. Do you suppose I can keep an eye on you? I’ll never even see you. You’ll have to just shift for yourself.”
“Oh, I’ll manage somehow,” said Wake.
Finch thought that Wake would probably be happier at school than he was. He hoped so, for he was very fond of this dark-skinned debonair little brother, so different from himself. In silence he took off his sodden socks, gave his feet a perfunctory rub with a frayed bath towel and threw it into a corner. His brain was going round like a squirrel in a cage. Finding Renny and Alayne alone in the dark, rain-drenched
porch had brought something to his mind, reminding him curiously of something. He could not think at first what it was, then he remembered. It was the time he had come upon Renny and the unknown woman in the pine wood.
It was not only finding Renny alone with a woman in a dim and sheltered spot, it was something in his attitude—an air of detached attentiveness, as though he were listening, waiting for something that the woman was to do. Some sort of signal.
Finch could not understand why it had affected him so deeply to discover Renny and Alayne in the porch together, unless it was that it had reminded him of that other time. He had been determined that Meg should not know that they were there. But why? There was nothing wrong in their being there together. It was simply that he himself had the kind of mind that—oh Lord, he seemed to find possibilities of mystery, of evil, where no one else would see anything of import. He had a disturbed and beastly mind, there was no doubt about it. He deserved all the knocks that came his way. He had a horrible mind, he thought.
He did wish Meggie would let him practise his music lesson. Meggie was antagonistic toward the music lessons. No doubt about that. But if he had been taking from Miss Pink it would have been all right. God, women were strange beings!
He went to the drawer where his underclothes were kept, and fumbled hopelessly for a pair of socks that matched.
A V
ARIETY OF
S
CENES
T
HE BOOKS
from New York were held at the custom-house in the city. The day when the official card arrived informing Alayne of this, the country was so submerged in cold November rain that a trip into town to get them seemed impossible. Alayne, with the despair of a disappointed child, wandered about the house, looking out of first one window and then another, gazing in helpless nostalgia at dripping hemlocks like funeral plumes, then at the meadows where the sheep huddled, next at the blurred wood that dipped to the wet ravine, and last, from a window in the back hall, on to the old brick oven and the clothes drier and a flock of draggled, rowdy ducks. She thought of New York and her life there, of her little apartment, of the publishing house of Cory and Parsons, the reception room, the offices, the packing rooms. It all seemed like a dream. The streets with their cosmopolitan throngs, faces seen and instantly lost, faces seen more closely and remembered for a few hours, the splendid and terrible onward sweep of it. The image of every face here was bitten into her memory, even the faces of the farm labourers, of Rags, of the grocer’s boy, and the fishmonger.
How quiet Jalna could be! It lay under a spell of silence, sometimes for hours. Now, in the hall, the only sound was the steady licking of a sore paw by the old sheep dog, and the faraway rattle of coals in the basement below. What did the Wragges do down there in the dim half light? Quarrel, recriminate, make it up? Alayne had seen Wragge, a moment ago, glide through the hall and up the stairs with a tray to Meg’s room. Oh, that endless procession of little lunches! Why could not the woman eat a decent meal at the table? Why this air of stale mystery? Why this turgid storing up behind all these closed doors? Grandmother: Boney—India—crinolines—scandal—Captain Whiteoak. Nicholas: Nip—London—whisky— Millicent—gout. Ernest: Sasha—Shakespeare—old days at Oxford—debts. Meggie: broken hearts—bastards—little lunches—cosy plumpness.
And all the rest of them, getting their rooms ready for their old age—stuffy nests where they would sit and sit under the leaky roof of Jalna till at last it would crash in on them and obliterate them.
She must get Eden away from here before the sinister spell of the house caught them and held them forever. She would buy a house with her own money and still have enough left to keep them for a year or two, until he could make a living from his pen. She would not have him tortured by uncongenial work. Above all, she must not be in the house with Renny Whiteoak. She no longer concealed from herself the fact that she loved him. She loved him as she had never loved Eden—as she had not known that she was capable of loving anyone. A glimpse of him on his bony grey mare would make her forget whatever she was doing. His presence in the dining room or drawing-room was so disturbing to her that she began to think of her feelings as dangerously unmanageable.
The clock struck two. The day was only half gone, and already it seemed as long as any day should be. The rain was now descending tumultuously. How such a rain would bounce again from the pavement in New York! Here it drove in unbroken shining strands like the quivering strings of an instrument. A stableman with a rubber cape thrown over his head came running across the yard, frightening the ducks, and clattered down the steps into the basement. A moment later Mrs. Wragge laboriously climbed the stairs from her domain and appeared in the hall.
“Please, Mrs. Whiteoak,” she said, “Mr. Renny ‘as sent word from the stables as ‘e’s goin’ into town by motor this afternoon and if you’ll send the card from the customs back by Wright, he says, he’ll get them books from the States. Or was it boots? Bless me, I’ve gone and forgot. And there’s nothink throws ‘im into a stew like a herror in a message.”
“It was books,” said Alayne. “I will run up to my room and find the notice. Just come to the foot of the stairs and I’ll throw it down to you.”
The thought of having the books that evening exhilarated her. She flew up the stairs.
Eden was not writing as she expected but emptying the books out of the secretary and piling them on the bed.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “See what a mess I’m in. I’m turning out all these old books. There are dozens and dozens I never look at. Taking up room. Old novels. Old
Arabian Nights.
Even old schoolbooks. And
Boys’ Own.
Wake may have those.”
What a state the bed was in!
“Eden, are you sure they are not dusty?”
“Dusty! I’ll bet they haven’t been dusted for five years. Look at my hands.”
“Oh, dear! Well, never mind. Renny’s motoring into town and he will get the books from the customs. Oh, wherever
is
that card? I know I left it on the desk, and you have heaped books all over it. Really, Eden, you are the most untidy being I have ever known.”
They argued, searching for the card, which was at last unearthed in the wastepaper basket. In the meantime the car had arrived at the door, and Mrs. Wragge was panting up the stairs with another message.
“‘E says ‘e’s late already, ‘m, and will you please send the card. He says it’s not half bad out, if you’d like a ride to town. But indeed, ‘m, I shouldn’t go if I was you, for Mr. Renny, he drives like all possessed, and the ‘ighway will be like treacle.”
“Great idea,” cried Eden. “We’ll both go. Eh, Alayne? It’ll do us good. I’ve been working like the devil. I can stir up Evans about the job, and you can do a little shopping. We’ll have tea at The George and be home in time for supper. Will you do it, Alayne?”