Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
That afternoon he passed the little girl with the flaxen pigtails, jogging back from the Hunt on her stout pony. She leaned from the saddle toward him displaying a smear of red across her face.
“I’ve been blooded!” she cried triumphantly.
“And so have I,” he returned.
H
IS
O
WN
P
LACE
H
E WAS
in his own room. It was unbelievable. He had passed through terrific things and was home again. Back in the very room where he had dressed for his birthday party a year ago. He had landed at St. John from a steamer armoured in ice, he had rumbled through days and nights on the train, Piers had met him at the station in style, driving the new car. When they had turned into the side road at Weddles, what drifts, what ruts of snow there had been. All the trees along the drive drooped their branches under the weight of snow. On each side of the porch rough mounds of it had been shovelled from the steps but on the lawn it lay virgin white and unbroken.
The first greetings were over and he had run up to see his room before dinner. It was all ready for him, clean counterpane and pillowcases—why, the curtains were freshly laundered and a new rug had been laid on the worn spot before the chest of drawers! He could scarcely believe in his room or in himself. The room seemed to turn about—and he turn in it—as the snowflakes floated and turned outside the window. There
was the very chair he had sat in, wrapped in his quilt, waiting for the moment of his birthday dinner! There was the table, ink-stained and shabby, at which he had swotted for his exams! There were the shelves with his books! Lord, there was the stain’on the ceiling where the roof leaked, and there was the basin on the floor waiting for the next drops!
He opened the door of the clothes cupboard and looked in. There were the clothes that had been too old to take away with him! They would come in very well now that he was home again. Why, there was the brand new sweater that Uncle Ernest had not allowed him to take because it was too loud for England! He had forgotten all about it. How he wished that he had bought a new supply of clothes in London! What a dud he was! The fellows would be sure to ask him what new clothes he had got.
He pictured himself going in to dinner, just a little late, wearing a new suit, perfectly tailored by one of the best taiors in the West End, imparting to him an air of negligent elegance. And above the suit his face rising, world-worn and disillusioned, showing new lines of suffering. He went to the mirror and examined his face to see whether or not there were any lines on it. He could discover neither new lines nor old. It was hollow-cheeked, to be sure, but looked as fresh and youthful as it had when last reflected in that mirror. He drew a deep sigh. Strange that one should go through hell, as he had done, and show no sign of it...
The gong sounded for dinner. He felt so natural descending the attic stairs that all the past year seemed suddenly a dream. Yet he realised that it was no dream when Mooey appeared outside his mother’s door grown almost half a head taller. And there was Pheasant—he had only seen her for a moment—how terribly different she looked! Her little face had looked tired and white and her body so heavy that
movement seemed painful. Poor young Pheasant! She had looked like a boy in her tweed coat and cropped head the day she had come to see him off.
“Hello,” he said to Mooey “do you remember me? I’m Uncle Finch.”
“What did you b’ing me? Mummy says Unca Finch will b’ing p’esents.”
Finch almost staggered in his dismay. He had been in such a hurry to get home that the thought of presents had never once crossed his mind. What a blasted fool he was! The first day he had been in London he had stared in shop windows choosing imaginary presents for each one, and then, when the time came for buying them, he had forgot! He gave a sickly smile at Mooey.
Mooey took a threatening step forward. “I want my p’esent,” he demanded.
“Why, look here,” stuttered Finch, “look here, the presents aren’t unpacked yet.”
“Unpack them, then,” commanded Mooey.
“Mooey,” called Pheasant’s voice from within the room.
“You must not ask for your present till after dinner!”
Finch skulked down the next flight of stairs to the hall. The family were already in the dining room. He stood hesitating, knitting his brow, as he tried to think what to do about presents... He would just have to say that the bag they were packed in had gone astray. At the first opportunity he would go into town, ostensibly to inquire about it, and buy presents all round. He must make sure that each was marked with the name of an English firm. It would be terrible to be caught in so callous a deception.
He stood for a moment in the hall, absorbing the feeling of home. Old Benny and the two spaniels lay beside the
round stove which glowed, almost red hot. He thought of the cellar-like atmosphere of the hall at Lyming. And not a dog in the house—not even a cat! He remembered the dining room—he and his aunt facing each other across the not too well-laden board. It needed long absence and experience abroad to make one appreciate home.
The Vaughans had come to dinner. Ten people were ranged about the table. Pheasant was having hers in her room. Finch sat between Piers and Wakefield. On his left, Wake’s narrow, olive-tinted hands. On his right, those of Piers, whitened by the long winter, broad, strong, the sight of them bringing recollections of rough handling, of hearty
Ι
humps. How often he had felt helpless in the grasp of those hands!
Across the table was Meggie smiling at him, looking oven plumper than before but rather pale.
“Just the tiniest bit of beef, Renny! No—not a scrap of he fat! Perhaps—when spring comes—I shall get my appetite back!”
Renny scowled as he watched her help herself to a morsel of cauliflower from the dish Wragge held. He said:
“You are not eating enough for a baby. You will never get your strength back at this rate. Does she go on like this at home, Maurice?”
“Just the same,” returned Maurice stolidly.
“Well, you should force her to eat.”
Alayne gave an impatient movement and began to talk to Ernest on her left.
Meg said—“The doctor insists that what I need is a change. He suggests a month in Florida. Fancy suggesting Florida to me, when he knows it has almost ruined us to pay for my operation.”
“Oh, no! Not quite,” objected Maurice, somewhat embarrassed. “But certainly a trip to Florida is out of the question.”
Wragge ostentatiously proffered a dish of buttered turnips to the convalescent.
“No, no, Rags! But how nice they look! I only wish I could!”
Renny asked Maurice in an undertone:
“Does she have many little lunches at home?”
But Meg overheard. She replied for her husband.
“I have nothing else. I have never had a real meal since...” She did not need to finish the sentence. She put her elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand. She smiled, but her smile was pensive.
Alayne asked crisply—“Have you tried a good tonic?”
Instinct told Maurice that he was expected to answer Alayne’s question. He said:
“She has taken five bottles of the tonic her own doctor gave her, and two from a prescription that Mrs. Lebraux let her have.”
“But—do you think it is sensible to take other people’s prescriptions?”
This time Meg answered. “Not anyone’s, of course. But Clara Lebraux is such a darling! And she told me that Renny asked her to let me have it.”
Renny shot a glance of annoyance at his sister. “It was a tonic that was given her after Tony’s death. She was badly run down. It helped her.” Why should Meggie have dragged in Clara’s name?
Finch observed—“Mrs. Court had a great opinion of cod liver oil. She insisted on dosing Leigh with it.”
Meg leaned toward him. “Do tell us about Mrs. Court and Sarah! What did you think of the girl?”
The sudden introduction of Sarah into the conversation startled Finch. For a second the faces about him were blotted out by a vision of her, standing on a Cornish cliff, facing the wind. “Over there is Ireland.” Her beautiful pale face alight with a sudden wild joy.
Ernest put in—“I don’t think Finch was attracted by her. She is a strange, uncomfortable girl. Not a girl to please the modern young man.”
“Let him speak for himself,” said Nicholas, remembering :he day he had come upon them making music when they had believed the others to be out.
Finch tried to speak nonchalantly. “Well, she is a curious sort of girl. Awfully self-centred. Not at all sympathetic.” He felt the peculiar weight on the chest that the thought of Sarah always brought. “As a matter of fact, I feel rather sorry for Leigh.”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Meg. “Arthur Leigh is such a sweet young man. It is too bad that he should have a hard, ansympathetic wife. Still, it is rather nice to have our cousin married to him. It will make an interesting connection. Is she pretty, Finch?”
“Not at all. She’s a rigid pale creature with something witchlike about her.”
“Heavens! Whatever did young Leigh see in her?”
“I can’t imagine.” What lies he was telling. He wished that the conversation might change to another subject... He remembered a letter in his pocket, and said—“Oh, Meggie, I have a letter for you from Aunt Augusta!” He pushed it across the table to her.
It had the desired effect. Meg must peep into the letter to see what Augusta had written.
Finch said—“Look here, I’ve just discovered that a suitcase is missing. The worst of it is, that it was the one
that had the presents in it. I must go to town and see about it.”
“Are you sure you’re not bluffing?” asked Piers.
Finch flushed angrily. “Of course I’m not!”
“What did you bring me?” demanded Wakefield.
“Wait and see.”
“May I guess?
“Why not?”
“I see that you’re as great a nuisance as ever.”
“Tell him what you have brought him,” said Renny. “He’ll like to be thinking about it.”
“Very well... I brought you a camera!”
Wake shouted—“One of the sort you can take moving pictures with?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Good! Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you, Finch!”
The family was genuinely impressed. Each speculated pleasurably on what Finch had brought him.
Finch was the last to leave the dining room. Wragge said, with an ingratiating smile, as he passed him:
“I do ’ope as ’ow the little purse you were kind enough to accept on your birthday ’as been of use, sir.”
Finch muttered that he did not know how he should have got along without the purse. Outside he thought—“Lord, he expects something, too!”
Renny and Piers were standing by the stove in the hall. They were smoking, and Renny was pulling the ears of his spaniels, which had reared themselves against him. His brothers turned toward him, their faces expressing amused friendliness. Here he was, young Finch, back in their midst with the varied experiences of a year behind him. They wondered what he had been up to during that year. At that
moment he felt very much the man of the world, almost patronising toward these stay-at-home brothers. Piers offered him a cigarette and looked him over.
“I can’t say that you’ve improved,” he said. “You look half starved as always. Haven’t you any new clothes? That’s the suit you went away in.”
“I bought a few things. But I haven’t unpacked them yet.”
“Perhaps they’re in the suitcase with the presents.”
Finch coloured. What a shrewd devil Piers was! It was plain that he suspected something.
“Just what did you buy in the way of clothes?” asked Renny. “They’re so much cheaper over there that I hope you got a good supply.”
“Not as many as I should, I’m afraid. You see, I was in the country almost all the time.”
His brothers stared.
“How long were you in London?”
“A fortnight,” he answered heavily
They could scarcely believe him.
“And Paris. How long were you there?”
“I didn’t get across to Paris.”
Good God! He hadn’t got across to Paris!
Had he seen the Derby? Had he been to Newmarket? Any boat races? Polo? What shows had he seen?
As they questioned and he answered, he felt that his stock had irrevocably gone down, so far as they were concerned. He thought what either of them would have done with a year in England. He could not tell them all his real experiences. He mumbled his negations, avoiding their eyes.
“By Judas!” exclaimed Renny. “You are the limit! I send you off when you are twenty-one to see the world. You take two aged uncles with you and spend ten months in the house
with an aged aunt! You’ve seen nothing—done nothing so far as I can see but mope about a village green, passing the time of day with the village idiot. Did you keep up your music?”
A shiver ran across Finch’s nerves. He began to feel that this questioning was too much for him. He was relieved to see Maurice emerge at that moment from the coat room behind the stairs where he had been in search of his pipe. He came up to them, filling it from the pouch which he held in his disabled hand.
“Come and join the wonder-struck circle,” said Piers. “Hear what this bright young man is telling us poor yokels about his trip abroad.”
Maurice grinned expectantly. “Well, the girls are out of the way. Let’s have the dregs! I haven’t been shocked for a dog’s age.”
“Well, I am shocked,” said Renny. “What do you suppose Finch has just told us? He spent a fortnight in London—that was with the uncles when he first arrived—and the rest of the year he never left his auntie’s side! What do you make of it, Maurice?”
“He’s telling you just what is good for you to know, aren’t you, Finch? Meg and I have said all along that you must be having a devil of a time since you never put pen to paper.” He lighted his pipe, with a sly look at Finch.
Renny said—“No, Maurice. You’re wrong. He hasn’t been having a devil of a time. I’ve never known anyone so absolutely incapable of enjoying himself. Set him down in the middle of a harem, and he’d have all the houris and himself in tears inside of the hour.”