Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Mr. Fennel sat down with the unruffled air of a man who had just as lief make a speech as not.
Finch crouched between Ada Leigh and his sister-in-law Alayne with the air of a man to whom the making of a speech would be a task of appalling torture. The heads of those about him swam toward him goggle-eyed like goldfish in a round glass bowl. There was clapping of hands, glasses clinked. The glass of the bowl shivered into splinters, and Finch was left gasping, looking piteously like a stranded goldfish himself, trying to rise to his feet.
Ada Leigh smiled soft encouragement. She said—“It will be all right... just anything that comes into your head... now!” She touched his arm with an impelling gesture.
Renny’s voice came down the table, metallic and commanding. “Up you get, Finch!” and others added jovially— “Speech, speech!”
But it was Alayne who got him to his feet. Her father and her grandfathers had been New England professors, monitors of the young. Out of the background of their authority, her blue-grey eyes looked dominantly into his, saying— “Rise and give tongue!” Her fingers clutched his under the tablecloth so tightly that it hurt. He twisted his own about them as he spoke.
How different this was from doing a part in a play! Then, in velvet cloak or in vagabond tatters, he could abandon himself to the portrayal of another’s moods. But now he was simply his naked self, and a dozen words were harder to get out than a torrent of talk on the stage. He heard his voice with a curious kind of croak in it.
“It’s frightfully good of you—all. I never had such nice things said about me before... in all my life... and I don’t quite know what to do about it. Mr. Fennel and Mrs. Fennel couldn’t possibly have been kinder to me if I’d been their own son... and, of course, everyone present... has been the same...”
“Hear, hear,” said Piers, without moving his lips.
“I can’t tell you how much I am enjoying... this occasion,” he continued, looking the picture of despair. “If I should live to be as old as my grandmother—”
“You’ll never do it,” interrupted Piers, without any appearance of having spoken.
Renny threw Piers a fiery look down the table.
“I’d never forget this dinner... and... I do most heartily”— here his voice broke—“thank you. I hope no one here will ever be sorry that... sorry that...” Good Lord, what was he about to say? Sorry that what? Oh, yes, sorry that Gran had left him her money—but he couldn’t say that—it would be horrible—but what could he say?—“Hope no one here will ever live to be sorry—” he stammered, and sought the ruddy sunrise of Piers’s face for inspiration—“be sorry—”
“That we let you live till you were twenty-one,” supplied Piers without seeming to utter a word.
There was a burst of hilarious applause. The hero of the occasion sat down.
He took a gulp of champagne.
“You did splendidly,” whispered Ada Leigh, and Alayne squeezed his fingers before she uncurled hers from them. He was flushed, and happily conscious that he might have done worse. He had been delighted at the burst of applause and laughter, though he could not quite recall what he had said that was so witty.
After the speeches, voices rose to a babble. The faces about the table were changed to a noticeable degree. Those which were ordinarily vivacious became dreamy, those which were usually somewhat stolid were transfigured into liveliness. The two maids stood together motionless now, like black-and-white drawings of maids, unbelievably trig. Rags drifted ceaselessly around the table refilling glasses, the creator, it seemed, of this animation, these changes of expression, this babble. Ernest had got to the point of telling Mrs. Leigh of his life in old London, the times he and Nicholas had had. Nicholas had reached the point of intimating to Miss Lacey, by look rather than by word, that he wished he and she might have been joined together in wedlock, rather than he and that other from whom he was divorced. Renny and Mrs. Lebraux were engaged in a low, earnest conversation which excluded the existence of all others. Piers had picked up Miss Pink’s gauze scarf from the floor where it had fallen and laid it about his own shoulders. He, only, did not talk, but his lips were curved in that same enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile.
The rugs had been taken up in the drawing-room and hall and the floor waxed, but it was late before anyone suggested that they dance. It was George Fennel who sat down at the piano, very square, very upright, his hands drawing insidious sweetness from the keys. The latest dances from the world of jazz were tossed by George as invitation to this mixed company, some of whom still danced in the style of forty years ago. And how gallantly they responded to the invitation! They thought it “queer stuff—very modern, you know—and not at all easy to keep step with.” But somehow they contrived to do it, the couples moving in small circles, conversing lightly and gaily all the while. Nicholas and
Ernest with the two Miss Laceys, with whom they had danced the quadrille, the polka, and the schottische on this very floor when they were young men and girls. Mr. Fennel had Pheasant tightly clasped to him, his beard, now and again, tickling her bare shoulder. Like a captive bird she cast wistful glances at her mate, wishing she might fly down the room with him, in long graceful strides, their bodies as one. And there he was dancing with Miss Pink, who was quite old enough to be his mother!
The younger men had no flowers of speech to offer to their partners. Up and down the drawing-room, in and out of the hall, they moved, their faces as void of expression as a clean slate, their very souls set in the mould of jazz.
Miss Pink had been afraid she could not do it. But when once Piers had got hold of her she found that she could, and not only that, but she wished she might go on doing it forever. As for Piers, he scarcely knew whom he was dancing with—old or young, skilful or amateurish, it did not signify. She had been at hand when his forceful body had responded to the inexorable call of the dance.
Alayne was dancing with graceful Arthur Leigh. Wakefield had almost more than he could cope with in Meggie’s solid frame. Meg had an eye on Maurice and Mrs. Leigh, who seemed to her to be dancing altogether too well.
Finch had been going to ask Ada Leigh to dance, but had turned away as he saw Tom Fennel loping towards her. He must not be selfish at his own party With whom would he dance then? He looked rather vaguely about the room. There was Mrs. Fennel in a comfortable chair near the fire, with a dish of crystallised fruit beside her. And, in the farthest corner, on the settee, was Mrs. Lebraux in her black dress, with Renny keeping her company, his back half turned to the
dancers. And staring into the cabinet of curios from India was the Lebraux child, her skirt too short, her legs too long, and the back of her head looking as though it needed combing. Her hair stuck out in thick black tufts, giving her an odd, elfin look. He went to her and said:
“Would you like to dance, Pauline?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and shook her head. “Can you dance?” He felt a stirring of curiosity about her.
Her gaze had returned to the cabinet again, but she answered in a low voice:
“Yes. But I don’t think I should. Mother isn’t.”
“I see. But you’re such a kid I don’t think she’d mind. Shall I ask her?”
She turned and looked at him searchingly, as though wondering whether or no she should like to dance with him. Then she went sedately to her mother and bent over her.
She came back smiling and put her hand into Finch’s.
“It’s all right. Both Mother and Mr. Whiteoak say to dance.” Her face lit up and she moved her shoulders as though eager to begin.
She was so thin that she felt nothing more than a wand in Finch’s arms, yet there was a wild strength in her movements. He thought she was like a little breeze-blown boat tugging at its anchor. The music was swift, even feverish, for this second dance, but not swift enough for her. He bent to look into her face. He had scarcely seen her, yet he had the impression of beauty. He saw the thick hair above the low forehead, with its pencilled brows, the eyelids that had a foreign look, the half-closed eyes, of which he could not make out the colour, the childish nose, the wide, rather thin-lipped mouth with its upward curve at the corners, the little white chin,
the long, graceful neck. He could not tell where the beauty was, but he was satisfied that it was there or would be there.
“Who taught you to dance?” he asked.
“Oh, I had lessons in Quebec. Daddy and I used to dance a lot together. I can dance alone too. Solo dances, you know.”
“How splendid! I wish you’d dance one tonight.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t!”
“Not to please me? It’s my birthday, you know.”
“I couldn’t
possibly! ”
There was a note of hurt in her voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But perhaps some other time you will. You’re going to stay on here, aren’t you?”
“Yes—if we can make it pay.”
“The fox-farming, you mean?”
“Yes. And we may go into poultry, too.”
“Aren’t you afraid the foxes will eat the poultry?”
“That shows how much you know about it! They’re kept absolutely separate.”
“It will mean a lot of work.”
“We don’t mind that, if only we can make it pay.” Her slender body seemed to tighten with resolve. She swayed and dipped and turned like a bird, he thought. And she had a hard time before her, he was afraid. He would like to help them if he only knew how to go about it. This having of so much money opened up new channels to one, gave one a troubling sense of responsibility toward one’s fellows.
“Mother and I do all the housework,” she was saying— “dish-washing, sweeping, and everything. She does outdoor work too. She’s awfully strong.”
“Do you really?” He was astonished, for he had never seen his sister do anything but take care of herself; and Alayne and
Pheasant were very much the same, except that Pheasant looked after Mooey, and that none too well, he thought.
He saw Ada Leigh watching them, and he wondered what she thought of the child. When, at last, they danced together, and he had reproached her, as he had a feeling she wanted him to do, for having eluded him, he asked her.
“I could not help being amused by the pair of you,” she answered; “you looked so odd together.”
“Did we?” He was a little nettled. “Well, I suppose I look odd at any time.”
She gave him one of her challenging looks. “Not at all! You don’t look odd dancing with me, I’m very sure. But that girl is almost ridiculous, with her hair and her terrifically long, thin legs. And that sort of do-or-die look.”
“Well, she may look queer dancing, but it’s like heaven to dance with her!”
“I’m so glad, because one gets so little of heaven here on earth, doesn’t one?”
Finch observed solemnly—“I’m afraid she’s going to be one of those women that other women don’t like.”
“Oh, I don’t think you need worry about that.”
“I’m not worrying. Why should I worry about it?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“All I feel is a great pity for her and her mother. They’ve had a hard time, and, I’m afraid, they’ll have a harder.”
“What a
strange-looking
woman Mrs. Lebraux is!”
“Yes, rather. Piers calls her ‘Dirty-locks—’Lord, I shouldn’t have told you that! But her hair is rather queer, and he has a brutal way of putting things. I notice that women don’t like her either.”
“I do,” said Ada. “I love her.”
“For heaven’s sake! Why?”
“Because she lets you alone and devotes herself to your brother.”
“But she’s years and years older than I am.”
“How clever of you to have found that out! I should have expected you to insist that she was younger, you’re so chivalrous.”
“And you’re so detestable!
They stopped dancing. They were in the dark end of the hall, alone. They clung to each other a moment, motionless. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her again and again on the mouth. She lay there acquiescent, the perfume of her going through all his nerves as the champagne had. She was like champagne, cool, softly stinging, potent to the senses.
They began to dance again as smoothly as though they had never lost a beat, when Renny, with the Little Lebraux, glided into the hall. It seemed to Finch that Renny cast a sharp look at Ada, as though he suspected her of something, and he had a curious feeling that Ada had rather have been kissed by Renny than by him, even though she had been more than acquiescent, had kissed him back. Pauline’s lips were parted in a joyful smile, showing her very white teeth; she clutched Renny’s sleeve in one thin white hand. Her expression was that of a young creature that has been unhappy far too long, and snatches at some sudden pleasure with almost fierce desire.
She and her mother left early. Then the Leighs, with a long motor ride before them. Somehow or other the Fennels packed the Miss Laceys and Miss Pink into their car. The Vaughans were the last to go.
“And I really don’t care very much about trusting myself to him in a car, the way he is,” Meg said.
Renny looked his brother-in-law over.
“He’ll be all right after a breath of fresh air,” he assured her. “I’ll open the windows on him.”
Maurice watched this move for his revivification with interest. As soon as the window was opened he started the car, and it sped across the lawn, scraping the end of an ice-covered garden seat, and on three wheels gained the drive.
Nicholas was declaiming in the drawing-room.
“I might never have had gout in my life, I was so free from it tonight. As lively as a three-year-old.”
“And I,” said Ernest, “never thought of my dinner again. And I ate everything!”
“It’s remarkable what exhilaration does.”
“If only there is no evil reaction!”
“Mrs. Leigh,” declared Nicholas, “is the prettiest woman of her age I have seen in years.”
“But that daughter of hers!” cried Pheasant. “I can’t stand her. She takes care to let you know that her gown comes from Paris.”
“Yes,” agreed Alayne; and she referred to London as ‘my London!’”
“Such swank!”