Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Yes, I understand.”
They followed Finch who held out a few prickly berries. They each took one as though it were some sort of rite. The fruit was sour on their lips and the prickles stung them.
After a little they returned to the house and Pauline and Clara shut themselves up in a small, empty room, sitting on two boxes to wait the end of the sale.
When the auctioneer reached the dining room the bidding slackened. The bedroom furniture had gone well, but the furniture of the dining room was almost given away. Finch bought the china box and Renny the brass coffee table across which Clara and he had so often discussed their plans.
He became more and more depressed. The things were going for nothing. He towered above the group straggling about the dining room. He had a picture in his mind of himself and Clara, Wakefield and Pauline, dancing through these rooms. The gramophone to which they had danced was almost given away. Now a walnut cabinet was being offered.
He nudged Finch in the ribs. “Buy it,” he urged, “buy it for yourself! You’ll be needing some furniture.”
Finch flew into a panic.
“B-b-but what should I do with it?”
“I’ll keep it for you. As long as you like. Hurry up! Don’t let it get away from you!”
Finch, scarlet, nodded to the auctioneer. New life was put into the bidding. He got the cabinet, two chairs, and a chesterfield.
“You’ll be needing just such things one day,” urged Renny. “You’ll never have another chance like this.”
“But Sarah will hate these things.”
“No she won’t. She can’t. They’d look well if they were re-upholstered. You’ll never have another chance like this.”
Renny bought a large watercolour of the rocky shore of the Saguenay, a bookcase full of books, and a little cabinet with a fragile tea set in it. By the time this was done he was in a state of exhilarated good humour and Finch in one of resigned depression.
What had he done? What would he do with these things he had acquired? The close atmosphere of the house made him sick. The hands of the village women pawing the curtains and clutching feather pillows made him sick. He had a mad desire to run after Pauline, to hammer on the door of the room and shout to her that she must come away with him and find peace somewhere. Renny stood beside him, leading that charmed secure life of his. Finch thought — “He is as tough as steel. If only I had a face like his I could look into other faces without flinching. It’s strange to think how all these people packed in here have no pain in the head.”
Renny said — “Let’s go and speak to Clara before we go.”
Finch followed him to the door of the unfurnished room and Clara answered their knock. She had a piece of bread and butter in her hand and there was a smudge on her cheek. Pauline sat on an upturned box, her back to the door.
“It’s nearly over,” said Renny. “It’s gone very well. This young man bought quite a lot.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” answered Clara.
Finch could see Pauline’s hands clasped on her lap.
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farm wagons drawn by two bay geldings brought to Jalna the things Renny and Finch had bought at the sale. Not to the house itself but to an empty cottage on the estate known as Fiddler’s Hut. Piers lounged by the door as the furniture was carried in, smiling sardonically. Renny stood filling his pipe and trying to look unembarrassed.
Piers remarked — “You say young Finch bought all this stuff of his own accord?”
“Why not? He will be needing furniture.”
“Not this sort.”
“How the hell do you know what he’ll need!”
“No use in being irritable. I just marvel at him.”
“Don’t speak of it to Sarah — not yet.”
“So, it’s to be a surprise for her? Birthday, or something?”
“Well — he should be allowed to tell her of it himself.”
“Didn’t you buy anything?”
“That black cabinet. And the bookcase and picture.”
Piers bent his knees in front of the bookcase and ran his eyes over the titles of the books. His silence expressed tolerant amusement.
The couch refused to go in at the door.
“Could you keep it for Finch?” asked Renny, almost pleadingly.
“Not possibly. Our rooms are full.” Still squatting he raised his eyes to Renny’s face and said — “Finch doesn’t imagine surely that he can hide this junk —”
“It isn’t junk!”
“It’s junk as far as Finch is concerned. Maurice was at the sale. I saw him look in just as the chairs were knocked down to Finch. I saw him afterward talking to Uncle Ernest in the yard. You and Finch are pretty sanguine.”
“I’m not concealing anything. The things I bought are going to my room.”
Piers said thoughtfully — “You’re taking a good deal of trouble, aren’t you, to make things worse between you and Alayne?”
Renny returned sombrely — “Nothing I can do matters one way or the other.”
Piers took a book from the case, rose, and opened it. Then he muttered — “Everything matters — when two people are trying to live together.”
“We’re not,” Renny answered harshly.
He had the furniture reloaded on the wagon and taken to the house. What Finch had bought was carried to an already overcrowded box-room in the attic and the cabinet, tea set, and bookcase set up in his own room. By the time this was accomplished, every member of the family knew what was going on. Ernest and Nicholas added their bulk to the room. Sarah and Alayne stood in the passage looking in. Renny affected not to notice their presence. He placed the anemic-looking tea set in the cabinet with hands more accustomed to the handling of horses.
After a little Alayne turned away and went into her own room. Sarah followed her and asked, in her sweet impersonal voice:
“Why did they do it?”
Alayne answered abruptly, out of set lips:
“Don’t ask me! Just be thankful, Sarah, that those two women are out of the way before your marriage is wrecked.”
“Was the daughter after Finch?” asked Sarah.
“They’re utterly unscrupulous!”
“Was it the mother, perhaps?”
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“I say only this — be thankful they’re going.”
Alayne was losing control of herself. Her outrage would not be kept in durance. It raged and sickened her. To see him handling those cheap, fragile cups … those books, now to be kept by his bedside!
She went to her desk and bent over an unfinished letter to her aunt. She said:
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I must finish this letter for the post.” She bent close to the writing as though she were short-sighted.
Sarah thought — “If only I could get out of her what all this is about! How fascinating Finch is with his strange moods! How wonderful life is!” She glanced at herself in the mirror, patting the convolutions of her sleek braids.
As she went out, Adeline passed her coming in. She was carrying a box of small lead toys and when she reached the middle of the room she emptied them to the floor with a clatter. Alayne had not seen her come in. She sprang from her desk, terrified.
“Oh,” she gasped, “what are you doing? You can’t have those in here.”
“I can,” said Adeline. “I’ve just bought them at a sale. I want them in my room.”
“Adeline, pick them up at once and take them out!”
“I won’t!”
“You shall!”
Adeline began to kick the toys in all directions. Alayne caught her by both arms and held her rigid. Adeline began to dance with rage. Alayne pressed her fingers into the child’s flesh. Adeline struck at her face and kicked her. Her screams were piercing.
Nicholas stood in the doorway.
“My, my, my,” he said, “this is awful. What has angered her so, Alayne?”
“Take her,” said Alayne. “Take her away. I can’t stand any more.”
Nicholas took the child in his large calm hands and laid her against his shoulder. Her screams became sobs and she clasped her arms about his neck.
He carried her to his room and Renny now appeared in the doorway. Alayne thought — “It is like a play…. They come one after another to the door…. All bringing more suffering to me…. I can’t bear any more.”
Renny said — “It seems strange that you can’t get on with your own child for five minutes at a time. Why should you make her suffer for your anger against me?”
“Her suffer! Her suffer!” repeated Alayne. “And I was just thinking — no one cares about my suffering — please go away and leave me.”
He said, trying to calm her — “Now look here, Alayne, there’s no sense in your getting upset about my buying those few things at the sale. As a matter of fact, they’re things I always liked and I didn’t want to see them just given away.”
She turned her tortured face on him.
“No — you didn’t want anyone else to have them! You wanted them near you. You wanted them in your own room by your bed. When have you bought anything new for the house? Tell me that. When have I bought anything new that you didn’t object? Tell me that. You’ve always said that the house was overcrowded already. Yes — it is overcrowded! And I am the one too many!”
He had come inside and closed the door behind him to shut in the rising of her voice. They faced each other above the scattered toys.
“Alayne, you don’t know what you are saying!”
“I do! And I tell you I refuse to stay in this house with those things you have bought from your mistress. I won’t stay in the house with them — or with you!”
He stared at her, turning pale.
“What shall you do?” he asked.
“I will go to my aunt. I am writing to say that I will go to her.” She made a tragic gesture toward the letter on the desk.
“Very well,” he returned coldly. “I think it’s probably the best thing that you can do. We certainly can’t go on like this. It’s too — too awful.” He added quickly — “Don’t imagine that I will let you take the child.”
“You may keep the child.” She sat down by the desk and when the door had shut behind him buried her face in her arms. She looked wonderingly at her tears absorbed by the blotting paper. “I could write a letter in tears,” she thought, and wondered at herself for crying so much because she was not by nature that sort of woman.
Absolute silence fell on the house. From the farm came at intervals the persistent lowing of a cow for her calf. The land was heavy with thick midsummer sunshine. The old house was warmed through and through. The mellow sunshine was kind to it. The faded curtains and threadbare spots in rugs were enriched and glossed over by its radiance. The house looked its best but no one noticed it. It sat like a drowsy old cat absorbing warmth in its every fibre. Only Alayne gave it a thought and that was — “I shall soon leave it forever and I have made no impression on it, even though I have given it another Whiteoak to shelter.”
She took her pen and wrote at the end of the letter, in which she had not mentioned the possibility of visiting her aunt: “Expect me some day this week. I find that I cannot endure life here any longer. I have tried and failed. It just can’t be borne. Please don’t feel upset. I think I am doing what is best for us all. I am sure you will want me. You will hear from me again before I leave.” As she signed her name she thought:
“I will give up his name and become Alayne Archer again.”
She had a fugitive feeling as though she were being pursued, even though her departure from Jalna had been so arranged as to give the semblance of a visit to an aunt who was pining to see her, also a journey for the benefit of her own health. Both she and Renny were anxious to keep up the appearance of naturalness. Neither had felt that they could bear curious glances, sympathy, blame, family discussion of their affairs, attempts to draw them together again. They had in truth been drawn nearer together than for a long while in their desire for secrecy, their nervous determination to hide their wounds.
They had made their arrangements with dignity, looking calmly into each other’s eyes, noticing calmly the ravages the past weeks had made on the faces of each. Adeline was to remain at Jalna but she was to visit her mother when Alayne wished. Later Renny was to tell the family that Alayne was not coming back. Then he would take down the pictures from her room and send them to her. When Adeline was older she would have this room for her own.
Renny had taken Alayne to the train. He had gone into the railway carriage with her, arranged her smaller pieces of luggage in a neat pile on the seat opposite. He had sat down on the arm of the seat and made jerky attempts at conversation. He had gone out and returned with
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fugitive feeling as though she were being pursued, even though her departure from Jalna had been so arranged as to give the semblance of a visit to an aunt who was pining to see her, also a journey for the benefit of her own health. Both she and Renny were anxious to keep up the appearance of naturalness. Neither had felt that they could bear curious glances, sympathy, blame, family discussion of their affairs, attempts to draw them together again. They had in truth been drawn nearer together than for a long while in their desire for secrecy, their nervous determination to hide their wounds.
They had made their arrangements with dignity, looking calmly into each other’s eyes, noticing calmly the ravages the past weeks had made on the faces of each. Adeline was to remain at Jalna but she was to visit her mother when Alayne wished. Later Renny was to tell the family that Alayne was not coming back. Then he would take down the pictures from her room and send them to her. When Adeline was older she would have this room for her own.
Renny had taken Alayne to the train. He had gone into the railway carriage with her, arranged her smaller pieces of luggage in a neat pile on the seat opposite. He had sat down on the arm of the seat and made jerky attempts at conversation. He had gone out and returned with magazines and newspapers for her. The worst moment had been when it was necessary to say goodbye. He had stood up rigid, his nose looking prominent and bleak. She had stood up, her legs trembling. A grating jar had passed through the train.