Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“But why?” Finch, who so hated being under discussion at home, yearned for the analytical interest of the Leighs. “I think I’m a chap who will never be noticed.”
“Don’t deceive yourself,” said Leigh. “People are always going to stare at you.”
“I know I’m ill-favoured, but please don’t rub it in.” For the first time in his life he was feeling conceited. It was delicious.
Ada said: “When we heard that your grandmother had left you her money, we said at once: ’How natural! He’s bound to have spectacular things happen to him!’”
“You’re ragging me!”
“I never could do that. I should be afraid. You’re so sensitive.”
“It’s a pity my people don’t feel that way about me.”
“I suppose it came rather as a surprise to them—your getting all the money,” said Leigh.
“A tremendous surprise.”
“I hope they took it well,” Leigh tried to keep curiosity out of his voice. That family! He could imagine their being pretty formidable, especially the peppery fox-faced fellow from whom he had bought a horse he didn’t want.
“Oh, they were very decent about it!” How easy to lie— to picture Jalna as running on oiled wheels—in this rose-and-ivory drawing-room! He expanded more and more in the warmth of their interest. They drew him on to talk of his music, what he had been practising that summer, his experiences in New York, plans for his future. Arthur’s interest in Finch was generous and affectionate, but Ada’s was mingled with chagrin at the feeling which his presence aroused in her. His awkwardness repelled her to the point of dislike, yet the sadness of his face in repose, the lank fair lock on his forehead, his shapely hands, in contrast to his bony wrists, had a disturbing fascination for her. She knew that he was mystified and attracted by her. It amused her to think that she could play on his sensibilities, yet she had a subtle suspicion that to do so was to risk her own detachment.
Mrs. Leigh joined them, still more like a sister to Ada than a mother, after the exhilaration of their European trip. With her desire to please, she had almost the effect of being younger, or, at any rate, more ingenuous. They talked of Europe. Arthur said: “As soon as you come into your money, Finch, we’ll go to Europe together!”
“I shall go, too,” said Ada.
“Never! This is to be a vagabond journey. Little girls”— he included his mother in his glance—“will be safer at home. Finch, do you remember, when I talked of our going to Europe last spring, you scoffed at the idea? You said you’d never have the money to go abroad. Now look at you!”
“Yes,” agreed Finch serenely, “there’s quite a difference,” Mrs. Leigh said: “We didn’t know of your grandmother’s death until we heard of the legacy. I’m afraid that when Arthur wrote to you he was excited and perhaps forgot to say how sorry we are to hear of your loss.”
“I’m afraid I did forget,” said Leigh.
“You must miss her. She was extraordinarily vigorous for her age, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”… The strong old face came before him—blotted out the pretty room, the pretty women. He saw the rust-red eyebrows raised in humorous disdain of such. He saw the toothy grin with which she would have dismissed them. His face lost the animation that had made it attractive and became blank.
“I wish I might have seen her. We must get to know your family, Finch.”
“Y-yes. Thanks. I’m sure they’d like it.”
“Do you really? Then I shall motor out to Jalna one day and call on your aunt, Lady Buckley!”
Finch hastened to say: “She’s going home to England. She is just here on a visit.”
“Does she like England better?”
“Oh yes, she hates the Colonies.”
Leigh exclaimed: “Colony! I like that! We’re an independent part of the Empire.”
“Of course. But I’m used to hearing us called a colony at home.”
“I should think you younger ones would object,” demurred Leigh.
“I don’t see why. If you’re a part of anything, how can it matter what you’re called?”
Mrs. Leigh said: “It doesn’t matter. We all love England; that is what matters.”
“I don’t,” said Ada. “I love Russia. I have a Russian soul.’” “But how can you tell?” asked Finch, wondering if possibly he had one.
“Because it’s never satisfied.”
He sighed. “In that case, I’m afraid it’s my stomach that’s Russian!”
Mrs. Leigh noticed that he looked as though he had been ill and asked him about his health.
“I’m awfully fit,” he insisted. “I’ve never been better. I’m just naturally cadaverous.”
“Perhaps. But more probably you have been growing very fast.” Her mind flew back to his family. “You have sisters-in-law at home, haven’t you? And one of them—the wife of a poet brother—is an American?”
“Yes… that is—they live in another house—just a little place. He’s been ill.”
“We were
so
intrigued when we were crossing! A young man from Philadelphia was enthusiastic over both books of your brother’s poems. The lyrics, and—” She could not recall the other.
“The Golden Sturgeon.
It’s a narrative poem. I’ll tell Eden. He’d like that.”
Mrs. Leigh said eagerly: “Let me tell him myself! I shall go out and call on him and his wife.”
“They are leaving, too,” said Finch, desperately. “I’m sorry… You see, he has recovered, but he has to go to a warm climate.”
Her pretty face fell. “I’m doomed not to meet your family! Still—there’s another sister-in-law.”
“Young Pheasant. She is scarcely grown up. My uncles would be frightfully pleased if you were to call on them. There’s nothing they like better than calls. It would be better
to let them know which day you’re coming. They’d make you very welcome/’ But his tone was a little anxious.
She leaned forward, smiling, her lips drawn back from her teeth. “Do you think I might just
rush
out for a very few minutes and entreat your brother to autograph his books for me? I bought them both yesterday. Do you think that would be too much to ask him?”
Leigh intervened. “I’ll take them out for you, if Finch thinks he would do it.”
Finch wished that Mrs. Leigh were not so interested. He began to feel that a somewhat ruthless interest was the keynote of her character. He assured her rather glumly that Eden would sign as many of his books as she desired. It was probably the first time he had been asked to autograph his poems, he added, and instantly wished he had not given his brother away.
When he had been two days at the Leighs’ he reached the point of moral courage when he could ask Leigh for a loan. It was not so easy to frame the words as he had thought. He was hot all over, and Leigh was not so casual as he had expected.
His bright glance dived into the turbid pool of Finch’s soul.
He asked: “Are you sure that you want this for yourself, old fellow? It’s quite a lot of money, you know.”
Finch nodded.
Leigh smiled. “I’m afraid you’re lying, and I love you for it. But it makes me sick to think that someone has perhaps been working on your sympathies. Perhaps trying to get money out of you that he’ll never pay back. Upon my soul, I’m afraid to lend it to you for fear you’ve got some quixotic idea in your head about helping someone who isn’t worth it.”
“But he is!” burst out Finch.
“There, you admit it! It is for someone else.”
“I’m borrowing it to please myself, but I admit I’m going to help someone—with some of it.”
“Not all of it?”
Finch said hotly: “Very well, don’t lend it to me!” “Finch, you’re angry with me. But I’m not going to get angry with you. It would be too unreal.” Leigh’s voice shook. “I’ll lend you the money. For heaven’s sake get some security, if you can, from this friend of yours!”
“I can’t take it when you feel like this about it, Arthur.” “But you must. You know that all that’s troubling me is the fear that you’ll lose it.”
“You don’t give me credit for any common sense, then!” “I know that your generosity is greater than your common sense. I’m terribly afraid that if you start off like this— lending your money before you’re in possession of it—you’re going to be an easy mark for unscrupulous people.”
It was easy to lie in the rose-and-ivory drawing-room, but how difficult up in Leigh’s study, among his intimate things, and with his clear eyes full of trouble for one’s sake.
“Arthur,” he said, “I can’t take it without telling you who it’s for, now that you’ve put things as you have. It’s for Eden.”
“Aha, one of the family!”
“Yes, but he didn’t ask me for it! I offered it. He’s been ill, you know, and he wants to go to the South of France for the winter for his health. And it isn’t only that. He has it in his mind to write something perfectly splendid. He’s got to have a year for it. It’s not like the other things he’s written— it will be a tremendous piece of work. I wish I could tell you
all about it. Renny’s willing to send him to California for the winter, but that won’t do at all. There’s a special reason why he must go to France and not be bothered by a job or anything for at least a year. Look here, Arthur, you know that Eden’s poetry is good. He’s had splendid reviews. Alayne gave up her job to come and nurse him because she’s so keen about his poetry. She’s not very keen about him now, you know. They’d been separated. I think it would be beastly selfish of me if I wouldn’t put out my hand to help my own brother when he’s so clever, and his wife did, and there’s no one else!”
Leigh sprang up and came and took him by the shoulder. “Of course I see it! But why didn’t you tell me all this at first? It’s splendid of you. And look here, I won’t take a cent of interest. I want to help, too. Darling Finch, I want every-thing to be as clear as crystal between us!”
Even while Finch’s soul drew strength and happiness from Arthur’s love, it shrank within him at the thought of what Renny and Piers would have said if they could have heard that “darling Finch.” But it was all right. Arthur was exquisite, and could use exquisite words; Renny and Piers were vigorous, and used vigorous words. And somewhere in between he floundered.
A note went to Eden that day:
DEAR EDEN—
Everything is arranged, so don’t worry. Shall be home Wednesday and will bring a cheque for the amount mentioned. My friend Leigh is coming out with me. He’s anxious to meet you. He knows a great deal more about poetry than I do, so I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind reading some of your new poems to us both. We’d be
pretty safe from interruption on the bridge. Leigh is bringing out your books for you to autograph. They belong to his mother, so perhaps you might think up something clever to write in them as well as your name. I guess you’ll be pleased about the money. Some financier, eh ?
Yours,
F
INCH
.
Now that the strain of borrowing the money was over, his promissory note carefully made out and handed to Leigh, Finch began to be almost happy. He began to realize the new amplitude which the possession of money would give to his life. He not only realized, but greatly magnified its possibilities. He had seen so little money; he had seen Renny and Piers jubilant over a small unexpected gain. Piers would be in a gale of good spirits if he got more than he had hoped for from a consignment of apples, or if one of his jerseys had healthy twin calves. Renny would raise his voice and shout his winnings at the races. From the time Finch had been in sailor suits he had known that his grandmother’s money was the subject of jealous conjecture. He had seen the rivalry for first place in her affections from the point of view of an outsider, never in any flight of fancy picturing himself as her heir. Her decision to leave all her money to one person had always seemed to him cruel and unjust. He secretly believed that she had expressed such an intention with the direct purpose of keeping the family interest in her always at high tide, their nerves at concert pitch. She had succeeded. But now tide had ebbed into darkness, suspense no longer tightened the nerves, and Finch, looking about him, inexperienced and hungry-eyed, believed there was no limit to his power.
It was sweet to help Eden. They were travellers in a region which the rest of the family did not enter, and even though neither could fully understand the experiences of the other in that mysterious region, they knew each other as palmers to the shrine of beauty.
Finch found himself able to play the piano in front of the Leighs. His paralyzing shyness under Ada’s eyes was gone. Sitting before the keyboard, more erect than at any other time, with motionless head and flying hands, he looked and felt sure of himself. He seemed, to Leigh’s ardent eyes, capable of glorious things.
As Ada sat curled in the corner of a sofa while he played, Finch exulted in the fact that in these moments he was fascinating to her. He could tell that by the look in her eyes as they gazed at him through a veil of cigarette smoke. Yet no matter how balanced, how firm he felt, he could not recapture the amorous energy that had made it possible for him to embrace and kiss her on the evening of the play.
It was not until the night before he left that he had the courage again to approach such intimacy. They had been at a dance. She had been kind to him, dancing with him repeatedly because he was shy of other girls, and now and then throwing him an encouraging look from the arms of another partner while he stood glumly in a doorway. It was a night of sudden, intense chill; the white fur collar of Ada’s cloak was turned up against her cheeks during the ride home. Seeing her thus muffled, with only her hair, her white forehead and eyes, exposed, made Finch feel suddenly inexpressibly tender toward her. She seemed like some flower-bud wrapped in a protective sheath from which he longed tenderly to disengage her.
Arthur took the car to the garage, and as the two ran up the steps Finch put his arm about her and pressed her to his
side. He put his face against her hair and murmured: “Darling Ada! You were so good to me tonight.”
“It isn’t hard for me to be good to you, Finch/’
“And I used to think you didn’t like me!”
“I like you far too well.”
“Ada, will you kiss me?”
She shook her head.
“Then will you let me kiss you?”
“No.”
“But you let me kiss you once.”