Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Yes, indeed,” said Ernest. “Poor Meggie!”
Poor Meggie? Finch’s heart contracted with fear for her. And there his uncles and aunt had sat discussing this and that as calmly as though all were well at home! How callous, how self-absorbed they were! And they had no secret trouble such as he had. He had had no peace of mind since the scene on the downs. He had suffered shame, wild desire which there was no hope of assuaging, and an unreasoning, bitter anger against both Sarah and Arthur. He had not gone with them on any of their excursions that last week. His strained ankle was excuse enough. He had kept to himself, longing for the day of departure but not having the initiative to return to Lyming without them. He had sat by the hour brooding on what had passed between himself and Sarah, trying to recall their very words in the conversations in the garden. In tacit understanding they had avoided each other, but one look into that face, mysterious as a closed flower, was enough to set his nerves on fire. Feverishly he would recall the moment when the flower had opened to him. And not only opened but pressed backward its petals, as though to absorb the extreme measure of his passion.
And now there was this worry over Meggie! No love could make him unheedful of Meggie, so tender, so unselfish, so kind. Did Eden, he wondered, know of it? He did not ask the others whether they had told him, but set out at once toward the lodge, moving slowly with the aid of a stick.
As he limped down the drive he noticed how things were beginning to take on the appearance of late summer. The berries of the thorns were becoming a light red. Hips shone
like coral in the wild rose bushes along the fence. The swarthy harvest fields drew the last glance of the sun. He noticed its light on the smooth grey trunks of the double row of beeches, and how each beech had its own delicate embroidery of ivy on the side exposed to the sun. The climbing roses that half hid the lodge had attained their full growth of the season.
He stood listening at the door. There was no sound inside, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he entered without knocking. He would like to see Eden alone. In some mysterious way he felt that he was nearer Eden than he had been when he last saw him. Yet nothing would have induced him to tell his brother of his experience.
He found him alone, stretched at full length on the floor, writing hastily on a pad by the light of the fire. He had been disturbed by the sound of Finch’s stick and threw him a furious look over his shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” stammered Finch, backing, “I’d no idea you’d be writing.”
“Why in hell shouldn’t I be writing?” snarled Eden, his gaze returning to the suspended point of his pencil.
“Why, of course, I’m glad you are! I’ll take myself off. I do hope I haven’t made a mess of your poem.”
“You blasted young swine, you’ve ruined it! Minny’s in the garden. Go and find her. I wish you’d do each other in and that would be an end of you both.”
Finch limped, as hastily as he could, through the back door into the garden. He found Minny swaying indolently in a hammock hung between two apple trees. The lichencovered trees were so old and bent that they tottered under the weight of Minny’s fresh, exuberant form. She looked up at Finch smiling, mirth in her oddly coloured slanting eyes.
“Did he drive you out, too?” she whispered. “I think he must be doing something awfully good because he’s been like this all day—scarcely able to bear the sight of me. But he’s quite capable of tearing it up tomorrow”
“I’m sorry I came at such a bad time, but I just wanted to see how you were getting on.”
“Oh, we’re getting on well enough. But we missed you.” A mocking light came into her eyes. “Did you enjoy yourselves? Was it a nice honeymoon?”
Finch answered seriously.
“Yes, I enjoyed it very much. The sea bathing was glorious.”
“You didn’t find yourself
de trop?”
Finch gave a little laugh and began gently to swing the hammock. “You’d better ask them that.”
“Even Eden,” said Minny, “thought you were an unconventional lot.”
“I suppose we are, but Arthur and I are such pals. He’s a curious fellow. Very sensitive and easily upset.”
Minny burst out laughing, then pressed her hand to her mouth, glancing fearfully at the lodge.
“Minny,” asked Finch, rocking her a little harder, “what do you think of my cousin? Do you like her?”
“Very much. I think she’s the most striking girl I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think they’re suited to each other. I don’t think she’ll make him happy.”
Finch turned away his face. He watched a flock of rooks wheeling above the park.
Minny continued—“You and she would have been much better suited in my opinion. I know I shouldn’t say that, but I’m hopelessly candid.” She looked curiously into his face, but for once it revealed nothing.
“I strained my ankle,” he said, tapping his boot with his stick, as though forcibly to attract her mind from the dangerous subject of Sarah.
“Oh, what a pity!”
“It’s nothing. What is worrying me is some bad news about my sister. She’s not well. She’s got to have an operation.”
“I have heard of that already. You mustn’t worry. I’m sure she will be quite all right. She complained when I was with her, but I don’t think it was anything serious.”
She was made for the comforting of men, Finch thought. Her very tone gave him reassurance. The relaxed curves of her body gave him a feeling of tranquillity.
“How kind you are, Minny!” His hand dropped to hers. She clung to it, swinging herself by it, smiling up at him.
Before he returned to the house he thought he would walk through the walled garden where he and Sarah had been used to sit in the evenings. He opened the door in the wall and looked about cautiously before entering. If she were here he would not go in, would not risk the danger of meeting her there. But the garden was empty except for the figure of Ralph Hart, the gardener’s boy, trundling a barrow along a walk. Finch was surprised to see him at work at this hour, for it was the time when he and his girl walked out together.
“Hello, Ralph,” he said, strolling over to him, “you’re working late tonight.”
Ralph touched his cap, “Gardening, zir. I thought I might as well finish this job up. It’ll be raining tomorrow by the look of the sun. He’s gone down in a proper stormy sky.”
Finch inhaled a deep breath of the garden scents. “But it’s a lovely evening. You should be having a stroll with your girl.”
“Her’s had to go to nurse her mother. Her folk live down Clapwithy way, near Beddelcoombe. ’Tis a long way, zir.”
“I expect you miss her.”
The boy gave a dreamy smile. “I feel fair mazed without her, zir. ’Tis the first time her’s gone off with hersen since we have been keepin’ company.”
The interest with which Ralph’s love for the stolid little maid had invested him in Finch’s mind was now greatly intensified by his new feeling for Sarah. He wanted to say to Ralph—“How much better off you are than I! You love a girl that you may one day marry, while I love one who is already possessed by another.” Instead, he asked:
“Have you ever been to Cornwall, Ralph? I remember that you told me your mother came from there.”
“No, zir. I’ve never been to Cornwall. Yet ’tis a nice place, my mother says, with the sea and all.”
“But you’ve seen the sea!”
“No, zir. I’ve never been to the sea. And the sea is very nice, so they tell.”
“But it’s only a short distance away!”
“Yes, zir. I’ve been told that tidden far.” He raised his eyes to the purple tors that bounded his world for him.
Finch became excited. “Look here, Ralph, I’ll tell you what you must do! You must take your girl to the sea for your honeymoon, and I’ll pay for the trip.”
“Thank you, zir. Her ’ud like that.”
“But I suppose your marriage is a long way off. We can’t wait for that! You must take her the first fine Sunday. I’ll hire the car for you.” He wished he might go with them, watch Ralph’s face when his eyes first saw the might of the sea and the granite cliffs. Yet Ralph would probably say—“It’s very nice, zir,” and the girl stare stolidly without a word.
He no longer talked to Sarah of the pair. He avoided her, when it was possible, enwrapping himself in isolation. He had no desire to experience again the passionate emotions she had aroused in him.
When, after a few days, Arthur persuaded her to go on a motor trip and they left for London to buy a car, Finch said goodbye to her almost apathetically. Between him and Leigh an inexplicable coolness had arisen, in which each felt that the other was the withholder of confidence. Two days after their departure Mrs. Court returned to Ireland. She already had in her mind another niece to take Sarah’s place.
One night Finch found Ralph stretched on his face on the long orchard grass through which ivy pushed its way in its search for new trees to climb. It was almost dark, an hour when the boy, if he were not walking out with the maid, had always returned to his mother’s cottage in the village. He lifted a tear-stained face.
“Why, look here,” exclaimed Finch, “wh-what’s the matter?”
“I’ve had a master stroke of ill-luck, zir,” he answered, in a husky voice. “Her’s written that her won’t walk out with I no more.” He lay looking up at Finch in his young bewilderment like a wounded animal.
“But what is wrong? Have you had a quarrel?”
“No, zir. There was naught wrong when her left. I went to station with she, and her kept sayin’ what a fine do we’d have together when her came back, with so much to tell me and all.”
“What do you think has happened?”
“I don’t know, zir. I feel mazed in the yead. But perhaps her’s found another lad.”
“She’ll never get another like you, Ralph! And see here, you mustn’t take her too seriously. Just wait till she comes back and have it out with her. She’ll come round, I’m sure.”
Ralph hid his face on his arm. Finch saw that he wanted to be left alone. He left him, but he could not get the thought of him out of his mind. The dark, pale face, so different from the ruddy faces of the other village youths, came between him and those in the house. Ralph and he were linked together, tormented by their longing and despair.
For several days he saw Ralph only when working in the garden. He asked his aunt when the girl was to return. The next day, Augusta said. He told her of the trouble between the two, and she said that she wished Ralph would get over his attachment for the girl, as she was not good enough for him.
The next morning Finch found him in the vegetable garden sowing the seed of winter spinach. He was squatting on the dark loam dropping the seeds with an expression of almost tender melancholy on his young face. Autumn sunshine gilded to a still beauty every object that it touched. In the shadows there was a peculiar hush as of waiting.
“It’s a lovely morning, Ralph,” said Finch, with forced cheerfulness.
“Yes, zir. It’s a lovely morning.”
“It’s as hot as July. I like a day like this.”
“It’s your luck you can enjoy it, zir.”
“I wish I might see you as you were when I came here, Ralph.”
“There’s only one thing that’ll make me like that again, zir.”
“Well, she’s coming home tonight. It isn’t much longer to wait.”
“No, zir, ’tidden long.”
“Tomorrow you’ll be a different man.”
“Ay, perhaps.” He sat on his heels and looked up at Finch with something of his former serenity. “I know where I can get you a very nice spannel, zir, if you’d like one. Her’s just gone three months and comes of a rare good stock.”
“I’ll ask my aunt. She ought to have a dog here.”
“You don’t think you’ll take it home with you then?” His tone was wistful.
“It’s a long way to take a dog.”
“I suppose it is, zir. But this yere’s a spannel.”
“Yes, of course, that makes a difference,” said Finch gently. “A spaniel is a very nice dog to have. If you can get her for me, I’ll take her home.” He could not resist the look of entreaty in those eyes. It seemed to him that Ralph thought to get a little happiness through making him happy.
That evening he saw him standing just outside the kitchen door talking to the girl. His back was turned, but the girl’s face showed white in the dusk. Finch lingered near for a few minutes hoping to see them walk towards the lane as before, but they stood very still talking in low tones. Finch could just hear the rise and fall of the Devon tongue.
He lay awake that night thinking about Ralph and the girl. It was the first night since his return from the sea that he had been able to lie awake without the torment of Sarah’s lace before him.
When he had had his breakfast next morning, he went to the garden to find Ralph. He was not there, and Finch was walking along the flagged path towards the tennis court when he met the gardener running towards him. Ash’s fresh-coloured face was pallid, his mouth was wide open, showing his smooth, toothless gums. He was gasping as though he had run a long distance.
“Oh, zir,” he managed to get out, “whatever shall us do? Ralph Hart’s lying over in the shed there poisoned! He’s killed hissen!”
“He’s not dead, is he?”
“I’m not sure; I think so. Will you come with me, zir?”
They ran together to the shed. Ralph was lying, curled up, in an attitude of agony. They bent over him. Finch, shaking from head to foot, peered into his face. It was a greenish colour, the mouth contorted and stained with something. Beside him was a tin half filled with a liquid, some of which had been spilled on the floor. This was the place where garden implements were kept and where Arthur had told Finch of his love for Sarah.
The gardener knelt down and felt the boy’s heart. “Tidden beating! He’s dead as can be!” Tears began to run down his face.
“We must tell my aunt,” said Finch, with a feeling of numbness in his limbs and throat. Could he move? Could he run to the house? He found that he could, but he moved lurchingly. Ash, either because he was eager to tell the news or because he was afraid to stay with the dead boy, ran after him. They stood before Augusta, while behind her stood the cook and the parlourmaid, who had followed her out to the drive. She had been giving them their orders when, looking out of the window, they had seen the two white-faced running figures approaching the house.