Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Finch wandered among the flower beds, discovered the tennis court, the rosery, and walked down the drive, which sloped steeply, to the gate. There was a small gabled lodge half hidden in roses, so much like a picture of a little English house that Finch had to grin with delight as he looked at it. He turned away when he saw a woman in the door and cut across a corner of the park to where he could see the stable.
In the stable he found only a pony which had just been given its evening meal by a boy a couple of years younger than himself. He put his knuckle to his forehead when he saw Finch. He had sombre black eyes and a rich tan on his cheeks.
“Good evening,” said Finch. “I came in to see the horses.”
“There’s only this one, zir,” answered the boy. “Her ladyship just keeps him for the lawn-mower and garden work.
Her hasn’t kept more than this ‘un since I’ve worked ‘ere. His name’s Bobby.”
Finch patted Bobby’s fat flank. “I suppose he’s all she needs. But aren’t there any dogs about?”
“No, zir; we had one, but he was took bad one day and died.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Two years, zir. I help Ash, the gardener.”
What a nice-looking boy he was, Finch thought. He said—“I should think you’d like a dog about.”
“Yes, zir.”
Finch wished he wouldn’t call him “sir” quite so often. It made him feel silly. The men about the stables at home did not treat him with great respect. He scarcely seemed grown up to them.
“An old English sheepdog is a nice dog,” he remarked. “We have one at home.”
“Yes, zir. An old English is a very nice kind of dog.”
“And Irish terriers are first-rate companions. We have one of them too.”
“Yes, zir. An Irish terrier is a nice kind of dog to have.”
Finch remembered Nip. “My uncle has a Yorkshire terrier. Clever little fellow, too.”
“Yes, zir. A Yorkshire terrier is a very nice kind of dog.” His dark eyes looked earnestly into Finch’s. He seemed satisfied that he was carrying on an animated conversation.
“There are spaniels too,” went on Finch.
“Yes, zir. A spannel is a nice kind of dog.”
Finch looked at him excitedly, trying to bridge the gulf that separated them. “My brother has two Clumber spaniels,” he said.
“Yes, zir. Two Clummer spannels must be very nice to have.”
They smiled at each other. Finch turned to go. Then he stopped. “I say, what kind of dog was the dog you had here?”
“He was a spannel, zir.”
“Oh... was he a good dog?”
“Yes, he was a spannel, zir.”
“Well, I think I’ll be off. What’s your name?”
“Ralph Hart, zir.”
Finch repeated the name to himself as he prowled among the shrubbery, thinking how well it suited the dark interesting-looking boy. But what a conversation! He should like to go back and do it all over again and see if it would turn out the same way. He’d wager it would.
He found the kitchen garden. He found strawberries under netting, and gooseberries like eggs. He came upon a door in a wall, almost hidden in ivy, and pushed it open. He found himself in a walled flower garden.
He went up and down the box-bordered paths, a lanky figure filled with the joy of being alive in that warm sweetscented enclosure. He squatted to look into Canterbury bells. He held moss-roses in his hand. He put his long nose to the very earth to smell the mignonette. The pear trees, trained against the wall, were beautiful to him. At that moment the orchard of pear trees at Jalna, that carelessly covered the ground with golden fruit every fall, seemed a poor thing. He could not decide which roses were the most beautiful—the newly opened ones, their inner petals still resisting the fingers of the sun, or those at that mysterious moment of perfection, just before they fade and fall, when they seem to be offering their essence in a final surrender so complete as to have something of delicate vehemence in it. He thought he should like to carry his breakfast to this garden one morning, and eat it with no one about but the birds and Ralph Hart.
When Ellen showed him his room, he was glad to find that its windows overlooked the walled garden. There was a can of hot water and his clothes were laid out ready for him on the bed. He felt very happy. He had had no idea it would be so nice at Aunt Augusta’s. He wished that Mrs. Court and her niece were not there so they might have been just a family party... Still, after all, Sarah Court was his cousin. But how strange and unapproachable she was! And she had a baffling charm for him. As he stood looking out of the window his thoughts, like curious birds, hovered about her.
He was still looking down into the garden, where a violaceous shadow had tempered all the brightness, when a light tap sounded on the door. Augusta’s voice asked:
“Are you dressed, dear? May I come in?”
He threw open the door and stood guiltily before her.
“I say, Aunt, I’m awfully sorry! I haven’t begun to dress; I’ve just been staring into the garden. You shouldn’t have given me a room with a window overlooking it.”
She sailed with kindly majesty into the room.
“I am glad you enjoy your view. It is not as pretty a room as I should have liked for you. But you see how it was. There were four others to be considered before you.”
“Look here,” cried Finch, with a violent wave of the arm, “I’d rather have this garden under my window than a Turkish rug and a Louis Seize bed and a Turner landscape in the room!”
“I am so glad you like it,” said Augusta; but she spoke abstractedly. She went back to the door, closed it, then sat down on the settee at the foot of the bed. She had on a black dinner dress and wore her old-fashioned jewellery that was beginning to be fashionable again. She raised her large eyes to Finch’s face and said, in a tone almost tragic:
“Finch, I am in great trouble.” Her voice sounded a baritone depth.
The thought of anyone’s being in trouble terrified him. He was used to trouble, Heaven knew, but his hair seemed to rise at the mere mention of it. “Oh—what’s up, Aunt?”
“Eden,” she boomed, “is sitting on the doorstep.”
He had an instant mental picture of Eden, rather down-at-heel but debonair, with that insolent, veiled smile of his, lounging on the door-sill. He could only make incoherent sounds expressing a state of being staggered.
“That girl,” proceeded Augusta, “is with him.”
So Eden and Minny were both sitting on the doorstep! He could only get out—“Well, well.”
But his look of consternation was sufficient to satisfy his Aunt of his sympathy.
“They are,” she said, “living in the lodge.”
The lodge! And he had walked down to it not an hour before! Perhaps the woman he had seen in the doorway was Minny.
“But how did they get there?” he asked.
“By effrontery. As they get everywhere. You know I am attached to Eden. I cannot help being attached to Eden. But to have him come and sit on my doorstep, when I have Mrs. Court and Sarah in the house, is too much.”
“But how did they come there? And when?” Life seemed one long surprise for him. Now he asked himself, as he had asked himself about so many things, can this be true?
Augusta said—“They have been there a week. Eden turned up a month ago alone. She was somewhere in the offing, awaiting her chance to creep onto my doorstep. He told me that he was completely out of funds, and he asked me if he might not come and live at the lodge. 1 told him that the
widow of the late lodge-keeper lived there alone. She paid me no rent, but he had been very faithful, and after his death I let her live on there. She often came and helped about the house. Now what do you suppose Eden’s remark was after I had told him all this? His remark was—’Can’t you turn the widow out?’Did you ever hear of anything more coldblooded?”
“It was terrible,” agreed Finch.
“It was barbarous; not only the words, but the way he uttered them. Just a casual—’Can’t you turn the widow out?’As though it were the turning of a hen out of a coop. I spoke impressively to him. I said—’Eden, I never thought that I should live to see the day that a Whiteoak and a Court should suggest that a widow be turned out of doors. Whatever our faults may have been, we have been benevolent.’ ” She pressed her middle finger where her eyebrows all but met.
“What did he say to that?”
“He said nothing. He just gave that rather tired smile of his and began to talk about his poetry. He does write really beautiful poetry, you know.”
“And what then?”
“After he’d had tea he went away. What was my astonishment, in less than a fortnight, when the widow’s daughter, who lives in Plymouth, wrote to her mother asking her to come there to live. She is going to have another child, and takes in lodgers, so it was altogether too much for her.”
“And did the widow go?”
“She went. And she had only been gone two days when Eden sauntered into the garden, where I was cutting roses, and said ‘Well, we’ve settled in.’ ‘Settled in!’I almost shouted it. ‘Who has settled in? ‘ ‘Me and Minny,’he said.
Just like that, without grammar or consideration. Then he said—’We heard the widow had got out, so we’ve moved in.’I shouted—
’You’ve moved into the lodge! You?’
And he said—’Yes, Minny and me.’And there they’ve remained.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I thought perhaps you could help me. I’m afraid that, if I tell your uncles, they may be too severe with him. He is such a sweet boy. Clever, like you— only so much more—” She hesitated.
“Yes, I know,” said Finch.
“I shouldn’t mind their occupying the lodge for a time, in :he least, if only they were married, though Minny does look very odd since she’s taken to painting her ears.”
“Painting her
earsl”
“Yes. She puts a dab of paint on the lobe of each ear. I suppose it’s living in France.”
“Well, well,” said Finch again. He felt as though life were really crowding too furiously on him. He asked—“Do the people about here know that they are not married?”
“No one knows but Mrs. Court. We have, so far, kept the fact of their existence from Sarah. Her aunt is very particular about Sarah’s acquaintances.”
“She is rather a strange girl, Aunt Augusta.”
“You will not think her so strange when you are used to her...”
But her strangeness was even more pronounced at dinner. When she spoke to him, asking him a question or two about his home, he could only feel a sensuous pleasure in the beauty of her voice. Her words, he was sure, revealed nothing of her. She seemed scarcely conscious that she uttered them. Not once did she turn to look him in the face. He could
study, as often as he chose, that pale profile with the drooping, sensitive mouth encamped between the conspicuous nose and chin. He noticed how the candlelight lay on her breast and touched her arms as though it loved her.
He heard Mrs. Court’s voice across the table as she talked with gusto to Uncle Nicholas. “Fred thought he would be better off if he took the other church as well. But it just meant that he had to get a curate; and what with the curate, and the glebe lands being worth so much less, I think he’s worse off. He rents his fields for half what he used to, and his hearing grows worse every year.”
He longed to hear his cousin play the violin, but he could not make up his mind to ask her. However, the evening was not far advanced when Augusta said to Mrs. Court:
“I am hoping that you and Sarah will play for us. My brothers are too tired for whist, but they would delight in some music. Wouldn’t you, Ernest and Nicholas?”
They would, and said they would, both addressing Mrs. Court, as though she were to be the sole performer. She got up at once in a businesslike manner, and hurried, with her effect of being wound up, to the piano.
“Come, Sarah,” she commanded, “and get out your fiddle.”
Her niece rose impassively and followed her. On a window seat near the piano lay her violin case. She took out the instrument and began to tune it. Mrs. Court had seated herself and removed several bangle bracelets.
Finch did not know what he expected, but his curiosity had in it the quality of pain. There was a subtle sense of distress in the thought of these two women, so antagonistic in spirit as he was sure they were, attempting to produce the exaltation or gaiety of music. He could not tell which he
despaired of most—the self-assured little marionette at the piano or the resolute, ice-cold girl with the violin... That chin of hers... God, she seemed fairly to dig it into the violin! He glanced nervously at his aunt and uncles to see if misgiving might be evident in their faces, but there was none. Augusta sat upright, wearing an expression of almost overwhelming benevolence. Nicholas was frankly sprawling in the deep chair he had chosen, his handsome hands dangling over its padded arms. Yet, in spite of his attitude of indolence, he was very much alive. A vivid interest was bright in his deep-set eyes. Ernest looked suddenly wan and tired.
They played one of Handel’s sonatas. The slow, gracious music rose from the violin and piano in harmonious accord. Aunt and niece were not only skilled performers, but they were in complete understanding.
Yet Finch’s sense of pain did not diminish, but rather increased. On Mrs. Court’s side he felt too much cold energy; on his cousin’s a too docile perfection. Mrs. Court was, he felt, not playing Sarah’s accompaniment; she was dragging her by the hair of the head through the starry realms of sound.
As they went from one piece to another (Mrs. Court never seemed to tire) Finch became convinced that Sarah could play the violin very differently if she had a different accompanist. Now the door of her senses was shut fast. She was only going through certain tricks she had been taught. If only the door were opened and her spirit set free to rejoice and to suffer in the music of her violin! He had a scarcely controllable longing to lift Mrs. Court bodily from the piano-seat and himself take her place. He pictured himself as cutting Sarah’s bonds, and the two of them free, soaring together.
But it grew late and he was not even asked to play.
A D
EVON
D
AY
F
INCH
was woken the next morning by the sound of a man’s voice shouting orders to a dog, by the dog’s barking, in his turn, orders to a flock of sheep, by the troubled baaing of the sheep themselves, and by a gust of wind blowing in at the window and flinging on his face the gathered sweetness of the garden and the fields.
His eyes flew open and he saw the bright chintz of the bed curtains, the wallpaper with its prim birds pecking prim cherries, the white mantelpiece with the china figure of a little lady riding a pink horse, and two framed photographs so dim that he could not tell what they represented.
He was in Devon, he realised, in the very depths of its deep, rich, luxuriant roundness that lay on the earth like a nest on a bough. He was in Devon. He was in England. He must make himself believe it, though it seemed impossible to believe. Here he was, Finch Whiteoak,
in the middle of one of Aunt Augusta’s beds, in the middle of one of her bedrooms, in the middle of Lyming Hall, in the heart of Devon. He had travelled by train the six hundred miles from Jalna to the New York pier. He had crossed the ocean on a liner. He had stopped a fortnight in London. He had travelled the nearly two hundred miles into Devon. And he had not only done that but he had brought his two old uncles with him, paid all their expenses out of his own money that Gran had left him, and had set them down, safe and sound, beside Aunt Augusta. He lay still, feeling flabbergasted at his own achievement. He wondered if other fellows felt so surprised at the happenings of their lives. There was Piers—he had got married, got a kid, gone through a good deal, yet he never seemed surprised. He might look in a rage at things but not surprised. George Fennel never seemed surprised, nor Arthur Leigh. Still, he supposed, they kept it to themselves if they were. Just finding himself alive was often a rather fightening surprise to him. He wondered when he would outgrow it and rather hoped he would not, for there was something he liked in it.
Suddenly he jumped out of bed and went to the window. It was framed in a yellow climbing rose, the buds clinging there as thick as bees on a honeycomb. Down in the garden, where sunlight and shadow had the sharp distinctness of early morning, he saw Ralph Hart trimming a box border. He wore corduroys and leggings, and his black head was glossy in the sun. The stone wall had a peculiar golden bloom on it except where there were patches of greyish lichen. Ivy lay thick along its top and clumps of yellow stonecrop.
The fields beyond the wall were let to a farmer. Finch saw him now, astride of a stout brown cob, wearing a clean linen Norfolk jacket and breeches, a pink wild rose in his buttonhole. He was so short and stout that his legs stuck out on
either side of the horse. Beneath his hat, set at a jaunty angle, showed his round earnest face, red as a peony. In gruff hearty tones he gave directions to two men who were trying to keep several bullocks separated from the sheep which the dog was endeavouring to herd through the open gate into the next field. The men ran here and there waving their arms, the bullocks blundered, with unexpected agility, among the buttercups, the dog barked, half beside himself with importance, and the sheep, uttering the same cry in a variety of tones, bundled themselves here and there, but always managed to evade the gate. It was a vivacious scene, of which all the participants, from farmer to buttercups, looked shining, well nourished, and in good humour.
“Devonshire cream,” murmured Finch, lolling on the sill. “Devonshire cream, that just expresses it. Gosh, if only the others were here to see this!”
One of the others was, he remembered, just down the drive at the lodge. If he walked down that way now he might get a sight of him, before Minny was about, for Eden loved the early morning. He had not seen him for more than a year and a half. Eden would be quite a cosmopolitan after all that time in Europe. Would he be changed, he wondered. Rather embarrassing to meet Minny under the conditions. Hot stuff, Minny; no doubt about that.
He slid into his clothes and went downstairs. No one was about but Ellen, industriously dusting. The door stood open and warm sunlight had already taken the chill from the hall.
The gardener was mowing the terraced lawn. Finch stood for a moment to watch the little white heads of the daisies leap from their stems and fall like spray before the knives of the mowing-machine. He went to the gardener and spoke to him, just for the pleasure of hearing the singsong of his
Devon speech. He was a thin, youngish man with very blue eyes, a fair skin, and not a tooth in his head. He stopped the pony and let his eyes wander over the sweep of fields, woods, and mist-wreathed tors that Finch had admired.
“Ay, it’s a lovely voo,” he said. “It’s a lovely voo in all seasons. But ‘tidden quite so pretty now as ‘twere an hour agone when that highest tor had just put un’s head out o’mist.”
“What is the name of that tor?” asked Finch, to draw him out.
“Ah,” his eyes moved slowly to Finch’s face, “I couldn’t tell ‘ee that. He’s got a name. They’m all named; but I’ve never seen un close by, and I’ve never heerd tell.”
Finch stared. “Have you never been on the moor, then?”
“No, zur. My work has alius been about here. Us sticks pretty close to own parts hereabouts.”
A heavy cart, drawn by three horses harnessed head to tail, and carrying a forest tree, rumbled along the road below. The gardener watched it till it was out of sight, then he said:
“Him’s one of Squire Varley’s trees. They’m cuttin’down a fine lot there. Six souls are hard at it, day in, day out. Cuttin’ trees.”
Finch felt that if he stayed longer talking to the gardener he would not have the strength to walk to the lodge. That rich singsong voice, those meditative eyes, produced in him an exquisite weakness. Soon he would have to lie down among the daisy heads...
The whirr of the mower began again as he went down the drive. The rumble of the cart faded in the distance. The grey trunks of the beeches on either side of him were dappled with sunshine, and, here and there along the hedge, a tall foxglove shook out its bells. The ground fell away so abruptly that he looked down on the lodge. Someone was
astir within, for a blue spiral of smoke rose from the chimney. He followed the curve of the drive to the gates and stood looking timidly at the house. He felt very shy of meeting Minny. At last he got the courage to go up the flagged walk, between borders of petunias and pinks, and peer in at the window.
He saw a table inside set for a simple breakfast, the sunlight falling on a half loaf of bread and a glass pot of raspberry jam. He saw a small room with beamed ceiling and a large fireplace. A figure he recognised as Eden was bent over something in a frying pan. He was almost inside the fireplace.
Finch entered without knocking, his canvas shoes making no sound on the stone floor. He went and stood almost behind Eden. The room was filled with the smell of frying bacon. A pot in which tea was brewing stood on the warm hearth. Eden wore loose grey flannel trousers, a shirt open at the throat, and rolled-up sleeves. Finch could see the gleam of short golden hairs on his rounded forearms. His face looked full and healthy but retained a certain delicate sensitiveness of expression that prevented its acquiring an aspect of well-being. His brows were drawn upward, as he blinked against the smoke, and the inherent melancholy of his mouth was perhaps accentuated by the cigarette that drooped from its corner. His hair was, as always, well brushed, with the gleam of a metal casque.
Finch had time to take in these details, over-emphasised by the glow of the fire, before he was discovered.
Eden, with difficulty, kept himself from overturning the bacon. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed, “if it isn’t Brother Finch! So you’ve come to breakfast with me!” He stood smiling at Finch. The frying pan tilted in his left hand, he extended the right.
’Oh, no,” protested Finch, shaking hands limply. “I really mustn’t! Aunt Augusta will be expecting me. I shouldn’t have come in on you like this, so early—I think I’d better not stay.” He felt flustered under Eden’s eyes.
“Sit down,” said Eden, pushing him onto a chair. “You’re just in the nick of time. I’m getting my own breakfast, as you see. We’ll start on what bacon I’ve cooked, and I’ll put on some more to fry while we eat.”
He carefully divided the bacon and made his other preparations in a businesslike manner. Finch cut thick slices of the sweet crusty bread, and felt ferocious hunger rage within him. He saw that Eden had dumped all the bacon from the paper packet into the pan, and he thought—“Lord, he hasn’t forgotten what a pig I am!”
So they sat facing each other across the breakfast table— another marvellous happening to Finch. He watched a bee drift in through the open diamond-paned casement and settle on the rim of the jam-pot. He said:
“I say, Eden, isn’t it funny that you and I should be eating breakfast here together? To think that we’d both cross the ocean, and you’d go to France and then come to England, and then I’d come to England and we’d sit down at a break-fast table here in this lodge, just like we’ve had breakfast together many a time at home!” He took a large mouthful of bread, and his young face was so thin that it made his cheek jut out ridiculously. His eyes were bright with excitement.
“I don’t see anything funny in it, except you,” said Eden. ‘Certainly you are Finch, wherever you go.”
“Don’t you think I’ve changed?” Shyly he hoped that Eden would say that he had improved in appearance. Eden had never seen him in such good clothes as he wore this morning.
Eden looked him over critically. “No, you’ve not changed, except for a better haircut and a few glad rags. You’re the same callow youth. But”—he added quickly as he saw Finch’s face fall—“believe me, you’re the flower of the flock, Finch.”
“I don’t see why you must pull my leg the moment we meet.”
“I’m not pulling your leg. And I don’t know exactly why I say it. It’s not because of your music. Perhaps it’s because it seems to me that you have the faults and virtues of the rest of us sublimated in you. You’re more of the coward, more of the hero, more of the genius, more of the poet—”
“The poet!”
“Oh, I don’t suppose you’ll ever get it down on paper. And, unless I miss my guess, more of the lover—when your time comes.”
Finch drowned his embarrassment in a cup of blazing hot tea. Yet he liked to hear himself described, especially in such extraordinary terms as these.
“You’re the peculiar flower of our peculiar flock,” continued Eden. “It looks to me as though our forebears had rampaged down the centuries for the sole purpose of producing you, as their final flourish. Their justification, perhaps.”
There was no doubt about it now, Eden was talking to hear himself talk. Finch glared at him. “What about you?” he demanded.
Eden smiled faintly. “Well, perhaps me too. Let’s hope so.”
“We’re not half the men Renny and Piers are!” burst out Finch.
“No? Very well, I don’t suppose we’ll produce so many young. Breed so many foals. Jump so many hurdles.”
“I’d a thousand times sooner be like them!”
“Of course you would. And they’d a thousand times sooner be like themselves. The world might have reached a state of civilisation ages ago if that weren’t always the case. People without imagination are always cocksure, and they’ve been given the power of intimidating and exhausting those who have. The man with imagination is frightened at what he sees in himself. The thought of trying to govern others is abhorrent to him.”
Eden emptied the remainder of the milk from the jug into his teacup and drank it. “Ever since I had that beastly lung trouble,” he said, “I drink whatever milk comes my way.”
Finch had finished the bacon. He remembered Minny. “Why, look here,” he cried, “what’s Minny going to have?”
“She eats scarcely any breakfast. She’s getting fat, poor soul!”
“I hope she’s well,” said Finch timidly.
“Absolutely fit. Sleeps like a log—sings like an angel— and talks like a fool,” answered Eden, turning the loaf crumb-side down to keep it fresh for her. “Let’s go for a walk, and not waste the best time of the morning indoors. I’ll show you my favourite nook. Only mind you keep out of it unless I’m with you.”
They went through the gate into the road, two tall bareiaeaded figures. Finch angular, rather slouching; Eden moving with the grace that made people turn to look at him.
The road curved frequently, so that they seldom saw more than a short distance ahead of them, and the height of the hedges combined to produce in them the feeling that they were traversing one of the very veins of summer through which flowed the energy that produced her efflorescence.
They met no soul on the road, after they had passed a man sitting sideways on a white horse, with a basket on the crook of his arm. The tangle of holly and ivy in the hedges glittered as though lacquered, and against this background a thousand spring and early summer flowers were fluttering their bright petals: pink and waxen white hedge roses, the cuckoo flower, bird’s eye, the bee-shaken bells of the foxglove, and, clustering beneath them, the tender spears of ferns. The road was a changeful dusky red, paling on the rise of a hill, darkening on its fall. Above it, the sky changed without rest, white cloud and translucent blue moving, arching, giving at one moment the impression of tranquil nearness, at the next the aching pallor of unbounded space. A flock of starlings cast a shadow on the road, and the beat of their wings as they passed was like the break of a summer wave.
They had to stand close to the hedge to let a herd of red Devon cows go by. The sweet warm smell of newly milked udders came from them, and their humid eyes turned in indolent curiosity toward the brothers.
Eden opened a gate into a meadow across which a footpath wavered among buttercups and clover. In a boggy corner rose the yellow spears of the iris, and a great oak tree made a shade already sought by sheep pink from the dipping.
They followed the path through a spinney where some young rabbits at play paused, staring and startled for a space, before scampering to cover. They crossed a stream by stepping-stones, and then the path joined a lane so narrow that the trees, almost meeting overhead, turned it into a green moist tunnel where the colours of flowers and fern were intensified into an unreal and dreamy brilliance.