Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Finch never forgot the lines of his part. The director of the Little Theatre told him that if the stage were not in such
a bad way he would advise him to make acting his profession. He could not feel any great elation over Mr. Brett’s praise because he was at the moment greatly harassed by the necessity of spending the last fortnight before the play in town. More and more rehearsals were demanded. At last he agreed that his friend should come with him to Jalna to see what his influence could do toward softening the heart of the eldest Whiteoak on the subject of play-acting. He had put off the visit several times when Leigh had suggested it, but at last, in desperation, he threw himself on Leigh’s protection and resource.
It was a Saturday afternoon in the New Year. The January thaw had come and gone. The weather had become cold again, but there was no snow It was an iron day. An iron sky and iron earth, a wind, the metallic iciness of which might well take the heart out of even a strong man. Arthur Leigh was not strong, and, as he and Finch strode northward along the road toward Jalna, it took all his courage to keep up the pace without complaint. He cast a sidelong glance at Finch. He saw his tall figure bent against the blast, the end of his long nose getting pink, a drop of moisture like a tear trickling from his eye. He had a dogged look as though he had faced such a wind along this road many a time.
Leigh gasped out, the words whistling between his teeth: “I say, Finch, do you do this walk every day—-in all kinds of weather? Deep snow—and sleet—and all that?”
“Of course I do. Are you cold, Arthur?”
“I’ve been warmer. Don’t they ever send a car for you?”
“Good Lord, no. Sometimes I get a lift. We’ll soon be there now.”
They strode on.
A little later Leigh exclaimed petulantly: “I was never made for such a climate. As soon as I get through college, I’ll cut these winters out.”
“Atlantic City, eh?”
“Oh, my dear, no! The south of France. The Lido. You and I’ll go together, Finch.”
Finch grinned at him lovingly. He did not see where he would ever get money for travelling, but the thought of being in Europe with Arthur was beautiful. Leigh never called him “my dear,” or “darling Finch” without his heart beating a little more quickly as in glad response. He had never been able to call his friend by any term of endearment, though in secret he had used them many a time. Often the last words that came into his head before he dropped asleep were “Darling Arthur” or “My dearest Arthur.” Once, in a whim, he had toyed instead with the words “Darling Ada,” but it did not do at all. It made him ashamed. She was not his darling, and never would be. She was just a strange and disturbing girl who had a way of haunting his dreams. But he could say “Darling Arthur” in his mind with a caressing inflection, just as Arthur said “Darling Finch” aloud without any embarrassment.
Leigh was looking so chilled that Finch was glad when he was able to steer him at last up the driveway behind the shelter of the spruces and hemlocks. “Here we are!” he announced, rather boisterously, because he felt nervous about introducing his friend to his family. It was the first time he had ever brought a friend home with him from town.
Leigh paused to look at the old house. It stood solidly before him, its facade, crisscrossed by the bare stalks of the Virginia creeper, dark red like some ruddy old weather-beaten face, seamed by wrinkles, yet expressing great power
and endurance. The upper windows were veiled by a coating of frost, but through the lower ones he could see the dancing brightness of firelight. The wind shrieked about him. Every shutter on the house seemed to be rattling. He thought: “So this is where Finch was bred.”
A great round stove in the hall sent forth a blasting heat. They hung their coats and caps on an old-fashioned hat rack, ornamented on the top by a carved fox’s head. An old bob-tailed sheepdog lay by the stove. He did not rise when Finch bent and patted him, but rolled over on his back and waved shaggy deprecating paws.
“Is he old?” asked Leigh.
“Just four years younger than I am.”
“Likes the heat, eh?” Leigh held his hands, rigid with cold, toward the stove.
From the drawing-room came the crackle of flames and the sound of a strong old voice talking steadily.
“Now I’ve got you. Cornered, eh? Ha, no you don’t! No getting away from me… Bang, there goes your man! Checkmate!”
A clear treble replied, with a petulant note: “You’re not playing chess, my grandmother; this is backgammon.”
“Of course it’s backgammon.”
“Then why do you use the terms of chess, Gran?” Silence for a moment, then the old voice, with the tremor of a chuckle in it: “Because I like to fuss up my opponent.”
“I’m not fussed up.”
“Yes, you are. Don’t contradict me. I won’t have it.”
“Anyhow, there goes one of your men. Bang!”
“And here goes one of yours! Bang! Bang!”
“Why, Granny, you’re on one of the prong points!”
“Very well. I took the trick, didn’t I?”
“Now you’re talking as though it were a card game.”
“Now I’ve got you fussed up!”
“But don’t you honestly forget when you use those wrong terms?”
“Of course I don’t forget… Your play now.”
“But,” persisted the treble, “you forgot when you moved on to the white point.”
“Bosh! I’ve made people believe black was white before this.”
Overcome by curiosity Leigh moved to the doorway and stared into the room. He saw a large, high-ceilinged parlour, the walls of which were covered by an ornate gilded paper and hung with oil paintings. Dark red curtains cherished it against the January daylight. A fresh fire of birch logs gave it light and heat from within. Leigh wondered if the furniture with which the room was crowded could be real Chippendale. If it were, he was sure it would be worth a fortune. With greater intensity he wondered if the figure before the fire could be real, that old, old woman in the purple velvet tea gown, the large lace cap with gay rosettes of ribbon, the carven, sardonic face. The effect of the little boy sitting opposite her was one of bright fragility. And yet he bore a strange resemblance to her, as a little running brook might bear the reflection of an ancient tree.
Leigh, amazed and delighted, turned to look at Finch. Finch was grinning deprecatingly at him. “My grandmother and my young brother,” he whispered, and he took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose, as though to hide his embarrassed face behind it.
He had tooted his long nose so loudly that the faces of the players turned toward the door, not so much in inquiry as in resentment at the interruption.
“Ha, Finch.” said his grandmother, “I’m beating Wakefield. Got him all fussed up.”
“That’s right, Gran.”
“Come and kiss me. Who’s the nice-looking boy?”
He kissed her on the cheek. “My friend, Arthur Leigh. Arthur, my grandmother.”
Old Mrs. Whiteoak held out her hand, a shapely hand, though the fingers now had a clawlike curve to them. Leigh was astonished by the number of rings she wore, the brilliance of her rubies and diamonds, astonished too by the grip of her fingers, for he saw now that she was very old indeed.
“How old do you suppose?” she asked, as though guessing his thoughts.
“Old enough to look very wonderful and wise,” he answered.
She showed all her teeth in a pleased grin. “A good speech. Very good. Not many young men are so apt today… Well, I’m past one hundred. A hundred and one. And I can beat this young man at backgammon. And I can walk to the gate out there with the help of my two sons. Not bad, eh? But I don’t venture out in this weather. Oh no, no. I stick by the fire. My next walk will be in April—three months off. You must come and see me do it.”
The parrot, which had been perched in his wooden ring at a short distance behind her chair, now took his head from under his wing and, after blinking for a moment, as though dazed by the firelight, flew heavily to her shoulder and pressed his head against her cheek. Their two old beaks were turned with preposterous solemnity on Leigh. He felt as though he were in some strange dream.
“My parrot,” she said. “Boney. I fetched him from India over seventy years ago. He’s had two or three different
bodies, but the soul’s the same. Moves from one body to another. Transmigration of souls. Ever hear of that? We learned all about that sort of thing in the East… He can speak Hindu, too, can’t you, Boney?”
The parrot cried, in a nasal voice: “Dilkhoosa! Dilkhoosa!”
“He’s making love to me! Ah, you old rascal, Boney! Again—again—say it again!
Dilkhoosa
—Heart’s delight!”
“Dilkhoosa!” cried the parrot, pecking at the hairs on her chin. “Nur Mahal!”
“Hear him! Light of the Palace, he’s calling me. Nur Mahal. Say it again, Boney!”
“Nur Mahal!” rapped out the parrot. “Mera lal!”
Finch, very much pleased by Leigh’s evident delight in the scene, observed: “I’ve never seen him in such a good humour. He’s usually swearing or sulking or screaming for food.”
“Life’s a game,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, sententiously. She peered up into Leigh’s face with a quizzical, mocking light in her eyes. Her hand hovered above the board as though she were about to make a move, a steady red beam settling on one of her rubies. Wakefield watched her eagerly. Boney made little guttural noises and thrust forward his green breast.
But the play was not made. Slowly her chin sank, her lace cap drooped toward the board, and a gusty breath whistled between her lips.
“She’s asleep,” said Finch.
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed the little boy. “Just when I was going to beat her!”
Finch looked at his watch. “A quarter to four. If we’re going to see Renny before tea,” he said, hesitatingly, “we had better look him up. Is he at the stables, Wake?”
“Yes. May I come too?”
“It’s too cold for you, and you know it. Don’t act like a six-year-old.”
Wakefield raised his large dark eyes to Leigh’s face. “It’s sad, isn’t it, always to be taking care of oneself? I’m always being told to stick by the fire and not be silly wanting to do things like other boys.”
“There’s nothing you like better than taking care of yourself,” interrupted Finch, gruffly. He heard the sound of his uncles’ voices upstairs. In a moment they would be descending. From the dining room came the nasal flow of cockney excuses for some misdemeanour pouring from Rags’s lips into Lady Buckley’s unreceptive ear. Far off Mooey began angrily to cry. In the hall the old sheepdog rose, shook him-self, and uttered a deep-toned bark. All the house was stirring as the time for tea approached. Grandmother rubbed her long nose and peered out hazily into her firelit world.
“Life’s a game,” she announced, as though imparting a morsel of rare wisdom.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Finch.
He snatched their caps from the rack and handed Leigh his.
“What about our coats?” gasped Leigh, as they faced the blast at the opening of the side door.
“We’ll sprint to the stables. It’s warm enough there.”
Running together, they passed a young fellow in leggings with a fine colour in his cheeks. He picked up a frozen winter pear from the ground and sent it after Finch’s legs.
“That is my brother Piers,” said Finch, as they entered the stables.
They found Renny in a loose box, arranging the forelock of a coy-looking mare with great exactness. Finch made the
introduction without enthusiasm. He hoped little from this meeting.
“How do you do?” said the eldest Whiteoak, with a sharp glance at the visitor.
He was indeed formidable, thought young Leigh. He did not blame Finch for being afraid of him. His face, under its peaked tweed cap, looked as though wind and weather, strong passions, and a high temper had hammered into it a kind of fierce immobility… God, thought Leigh, he will be like the old lady when he is her age, if he doesn’t break his neck while riding before he reaches it!
The youths discussed the mare together, her master— rather ostentatiously, Leigh fancied—turning his back on them, and continuing his caressing arrangement of her mane and forelock. No admiring comment or carefully provocative question from Leigh drew more than a monosyllable from him. Still they persisted. He could not spend the entire afternoon over the mare’s toilette…
No, apparently he was satisfied. He looked her over; then, taking her head quickly between his hands, he pressed a kiss on her nose. “My pretty one,” Leigh heard him say. The mare’s eyes were two beaming orbs of contentment, her forehead the very throne of love. She uttered a deep sigh.
Renny came out of the loose box.
“What is her name?” asked Leigh.
“Cora.”
A stableman was carrying buckets of water along the passage to the various stalls. He placed one before the occupant of the stall nearest them, and a long grey head was thrust forward, yearning lips were plunged into the cold drink. Renny pushed past the boys and went around into the stall.
“How is the leg, Wright?”
“Fine, sir. Couldn’t be mendin’ better.”
They bent over a bandaged hind leg.
“It was wonderful, sir, you getting him the way you did. He’s going to make his mark, I’m sure of it. And, for my part, I don’t believe he’s spoiled for flat racing, say what they will.”
Renny and the stableman stared with concentration at the bandage. The water in the bucket was lowered three parts of the way down. Coaxing whinnies, the indolent jangle of buckles, the petulant stamp of a hoof, were the only sounds.
“How did he get hurt?” asked Leigh, in an attempt to draw nearer to the master of Jalna through the horses which were so plainly his absorbing interest.
“Kicked himself.” He was pressing a practised thumb along the dappled grey flank.
“Really! How did he happen to do that?”
“Shied.” He straightened himself and turned to Wright. “How is Darkie’s indigestion?”
“Better, sir, but he’ll have those attacks just as long as he bolts his oats the way he does. He’s more like a ravening wolf than a horse with his feed.”
A shadow fell across Renny’s face. “Has he had his oats?” “Yes, sir. I divided them into two lots, like you said to. After he’d had the first lot, I made him wait ten minutes. I’ve just give him the last half now”