Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Renny turned to Sarah who was leaning against the wall. He asked — “What’s the matter with him?”
“Wakefield has been turning him against me,” she moaned. “He won’t let me touch him.”
“It’s maddening!” shouted Finch. “I tell you, she gives me no peace. She’s been fiddling on the stairway — right to my door — and she knows how it hurts my head! I tell you — I can’t bear any more!” He broke into hysterical crying, clinging desperately to the banister.
At the sound of his crying Sarah began to cry too, with a wailing sound like keening at a wake. Ernest who had been busy at his needlework in the drawing room, came into the hall carrying it. Anxious, in the midst of his excitement, not to lose a stitch, he tried to set his needle in the canvas but instead thrust it into his thumb. He doubled over with pain. Merlin continued his angry barking. Nicholas, confined to his bed with gout — the first attack since his return to Jalna — beat on the floor with his stick and shouted:
“What’s going on out there? I say, what’s going on?”
Renny bounded up the stairs and put his arms about Finch. He led him into his own room and set him on the bed. Then he returned to the passage and shut the door behind him. Merlin was grinning at his side, snuffling at the door, but Floss stayed below with Ernest. Renny called down:
“Uncle Ernest, take Sarah down with you. Give her a glass of something. Make her shut up!”
“I’m all right,” said Sarah. She went slowly down the stairs to Ernest who led her into the drawing room.
All was quiet now but for the thumping from Nicholas’s room. Renny opened his door and looked in. Nicholas was sitting on the side of his bed, his face contorted as he tried to put his bandaged foot to the floor.
“Get back to bed, Uncle Nick,” said Renny. “It’s all over.”
“But what was it?” asked Nicholas almost piteously. Gladly he heaved up his leg and got under the covers again. Merlin went to him, nosed for his face, found and licked it.
“Down, you old fool,” said Nicholas, cuffing him.
“It was a row,” said Renny, “between Sarah and Finch. They’ve got on each other’s nerves, I guess, and no wonder, with the way he carries on with his head and all. It’s enough to drive the girl crazy. Still — she’s no right to go fiddling at him when she knows how it hurts.”
“Fiddling at him!” groaned Nicholas. “Fiddling at him!”
“Yes. Who does she think she is? Nero? I tell you, she’ll find her Rome burning one of these days if she doesn’t look out. Finch is in no condition to cope with a high-strung wife.”
“I call her a harlot,” said Nicholas.
“Well,” Renny’s forehead was knit. “I’m going back to the poor young devil to see what I can do with him. If he keeps on like this he’ll be in a sanatorium. This house is enough to drive a man to drink. Come, Merlin —” He went out, followed by the spaniel.
H
IS
O
WN
R
OOM
N
ICHOLAS WAS PROPPED
up in bed reading when Renny returned. He laid down his paper and looked expectantly into his nephew’s face. Renny said:
“He’s quiet now. But he’s in a bad way. I wonder if I ought to send for the doctor.”
“What is it all about?” asked Nicholas irritably.
Renny sat down on a chair by the side of the bed, folded his arms and drew down his mouth at the corners.
“Are you going to tell me, or aren’t you?” demanded Nicholas.
“He’s turned against Sarah, Uncle Nick. He can’t bear to have her near him. Do you think he may be going out of his mind? They say it’s a sign, when you turn against those you love.”
Nicholas returned his look with one still more sombre. Then he said, emphatically:
“No, no, I don’t believe any such thing. She’s just got on his nerves. He’s been under a strain … all those recitals … he’s tired out. Then — she’s a queer girl — I never could make her out.”
“She’s damned passionate — behind that cold face of hers.”
Nicholas growled — “Hmph, well, my wife was damned cold, under an alluring exterior.”
“You turned against her, didn’t you?”
“Absolutely. But in a normal way — no hysterics on either side.”
“He says he can’t stay in the house with her. He looks awful. I believe he’ll go nutty if she starts her fiddling again.”
“Send him away for a change.”
“When I suggested that, he said he wouldn’t leave his old room. He said he never wanted to leave it again.”
Nicholas ran his hand distractedly through his tumbled grey hair. He said:
“Bring me a whiskey and soda. I want to think.”
“Remember your gout.”
Nicholas groaned back to his pillow.
“Lord, yes! Give me a little plain soda, then. I’m thirsty. Just put a spot in the soda, enough to flavour it. I’ll cut out meat today.”
While he was sipping Ernest came into the room his thumb bound in a handkerchief.
“It was a strange coincidence,” he complained, “that I should have had my needle in my hand when Sarah screamed. The result is that I gave myself a disagreeable wound. I’m wondering if there might be a possibility of lockjaw.”
“Not a chance,” growled his brother.
“Well, I am relieved to hear you say that, but really it is very painful,” He turned to Renny. “How is that young man behaving now?”
In brief sentences Renny told him.
“They must be separated for a time,” said Ernest. “My idea is this — let Sarah go to the fox farm. She can make it quite nice with the things Finch and you bought and some of the furniture from our attic. She won’t have much to buy. I’ve suggested it to her and she falls in with the idea. She does not want to be far from Finch yet she realizes that he must be humoured.”
Nicholas looked admiringly at his brother, then deprecatingly at Renny.
“Trust old Ernie,” he said, “to find the solution. I think it’s the best plan possible. That house is standing empty. Let Sarah live in it. Let her pay a good rent for it.”
“No, no,” said Renny. “I couldn’t ask her to pay rent.”
“It would be in very bad taste,” agreed Ernest. “Especially as she holds the mortgage on Jalna.”
“All the more reason,” said Nicholas. “Get out of her all you can.”
Renny shook his head. “Impossible. But Uncle Ernest’s idea is a good one! We’ll shoot Sarah over there as soon as possible. I shan’t be sorry to have her out of Jalna. I don’t wonder that she gets on young Finch’s nerves.”
“It will be nice to have another house in the family to visit,” said Ernest.
That very day two scrubbing women were sent to prepare the house for Sarah. Noah Binns was sent to cut the grass and tidy the flower borders. The next morning a farm wagon conveyed two loads of furniture and Meg went to town with Sarah to buy curtains and kitchen utensils. A cousin of Alma Patch was discovered who could both cook and wait at table. At evening Sarah and her French maid glided through the ravine to the fox farm. Sarah was excited as a child.
Before she left she wrote a note to Finch and slipped it under his door, running down the attic stairs afterward with a tapping of high heels. She did not resent that he refused to see her. She would not have had things other than as they were. It was all a part of the wonderful game of marriage with Finch whose every mood, every gesture, fascinated her. She pictured him behind the door watching her note appear, going fearfully to fetch it, reading its passionate fearless phrases with a quickening heart, struggling feverishly against the physical longing for her. Soon, soon, he would cry out that longing!
Finch listened to the tapping of her retreat, saw the note appear under the door. He saw it appear, and disappear under the edge of the worn carpet. He left it so hidden. He turned his head on his pillow, looking peacefully at the dim flowers of the wallpaper. He wanted nothing but to remain where he was. In this room he could come breast to breast with the soul of his boyhood. The walls spoke to him. The leaning roof bent like a wing above him. The faded patchwork was a shield between him and the world. Sometimes the pain was with him; sometimes he lay weak and calm, free from it.
He refused to let the servant come in to make his bed but got up when it became too tumbled and put it in order himself. He went to the linen cupboard along the passage and got clean sheets when there was no one about. He loved his room so, he wanted no one but himself to enter it.
He lay listening to the noises of the house. Adeline’s laughter and rages, the boom of Nicholas’s voice, the barking or growls of dogs, the shuffle of Bessie’s carpet sweeper. Sometimes he heard the thud of horses’ hoofs beneath his window and once a stableboy’s shrill whistle sounded like the notes of a violin. He sprang up in bed, starting with sweat, and was only reassured when the whistle ended in a guffaw. When Renny or his uncles came in to see him he pretended to be asleep or that the pain made talk impossible. He was ravenous for his breakfast but the other meals were carried away almost untouched.
At the end of ten days Piers, without warning, appeared at his bedside. In all this time Finch had scarcely given him a thought except to remember him as the grand and tormenting companion of his boyhood. Now he looked up at him in wonder, at his fine shoulders, at his face enriched by a long summer of outdoor work, his hands strong and firm from the handling of horses.
Piers said, with his derisive grin, but not feeling as sure of himself as he looked — “Taking a rest cure, eh? How do you feel?”
“A bit better, I think,” mumbled Finch, the old sheepish look flickering into his face. “I was pretty tired.”
“Well, you’ve had time to rest and, if you stay here much longer, you’re going to make yourself into an invalid. What you need now is some exercise.”
Finch turned his face away. “I’m not up to it yet.” he muttered.
“And never will be — if you don’t make the effort. I’ve come to take you out — anywhere you like. I’ll leave that to you — but you’ve got to get out of this bed and out of this house.”
“Look here — I simply can’t — when I move, the pain — you don’t understand, Piers.”
“I think I understand you — about as well as anyone can. And I know that, if you’re let alone, you’ll never get up.”
“Rot!”
“It isn’t rot. You know it’s the truth. You have a long stretch of life ahead of you and a lot of work to do. Come now” — Piers’s tone changed to one of almost entreaty — “let me help you on with your clothes. I have the car at the door. I’ll take you for a nice run along the lakeshore. There is a glorious breeze. The leaves are beginning to turn.”
For answer Finch rolled over and drew the bedclothes over his head.
In an instant Piers was on him. Grasping the coverings he stripped them from the bed and gave Finch a sounding smack on the buttocks.
“Come now, up with you!” he said.
Finch suddenly discovered that he wanted to surrender himself to Piers. He wanted his strong hands to master him. He let Piers help him on with his clothes, half laughing, feeling very shaky in the legs.
Piers held his arm as they went down the stairs. “Does he know,” thought Finch, “that I am dizzy, or is he just bullying me?”
Not a soul was about. Had Piers warned them out of the way? The car, bright after a hosing, stood on the drive. Piers put Finch into the seat beside him.
Softly the car rolled beneath the arching trees. A change had taken place since Finch had last looked about him. The leaves of the birch trees were turning to gold, the oak to russet, the maple to blazing red. The stubble fields lay swarthy in the sun and goldenrod and Michaelmas daisies rose, bright-headed and tough-stemmed, by the fences. Fragile flowers were gone and red mountain ash berries told of frosts to come. Finch leant back in the seat, absorbing the scene, not speaking.
They passed along the shore of the lake that lay ruffled under the harebell-blue arch of the sky. A fringe of foam crept up the sandy shore, subsided and again frothed up. I must forget, thought Finch, how I once tried to drown myself in it. It was too beautiful, the way I sank into its brightness. I was stronger when I was drowning than I am now. Why did Eden save me?
Piers let the car slow down and lighted a cigarette. Everything he did with his hands was right, Finch thought. Not a hair’s-breadth of indecision, just strong, easy, capable movements.
Piers slid his blue eyes to Finch’s face and away again. There was something benevolent in the glance. He said carelessly:
“You’ve always taken things too seriously.”
“I know,” muttered Finch.
“Even as a young boy, you were the same.”
“No need to tell me that.”
“I was a callous cub.”
“Don’t let’s talk, Piers.”
“I’m not going to. But I do want to get you out of the rut you’re in. I know that I’m not artistic — no imagination, or that sort of thing. But I know when horse or man is headed for a fall. I knew that Eden was. But he was never any good. You are. I knew that spoiling Wake was bad for him but no one else could see that. I always felt that Renny’s marriage to Alayne would turn out badly for them both. But nothing could stop them. I’d like to see you make a good job of your life. You started out so well. You got all Gran’s money. You have a talent that ought to make you famous — according to what the critics say. You’ve married a rich wife. But — you took your legacy too seriously. I know that we made it hard for you but shouldn’t have let a little criticism drive you to —”
“Don’t,” interrupted Finch twisting his fingers together.
“I’m not going to…. Then you took your music too seriously. You let it be your master, instead of mastering it…. Now you are taking your marriage too seriously.”
“My God!” broke out Finch, “you took your own marriage seriously enough — when you found out —”
Piers’s face darkened. “I did take it seriously. But not too seriously. I kept my head. No one can deny that. I wasn’t going to have my marriage wrecked.”
“You
loved
Pheasant!”
Piers stared. “And don’t you —”
“I hate her! No … not hate … It’s more like fear —”
“There you go — Fear!”
“I tell you, she stifles me…. She takes the life out of me…. I can’t live with her, Piers!” His voice rose. He looked so wild that Piers let out the speed and growled: