Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“For God’s sake,” said Wakefield, “don’t try to talk about it here! They’ll hear you.”
“But it’s your expression that drives me to it. If only you’d let me do this normally and naturally.”
“There’s nothing normal or natural about it.” Wakefield shouldered past him into the clean whitewashed stable.
The boy with the bandaged head led the way to a loose box at the far end.
“Here’s himself,” he said, “waitin’ to greet ye! Look pretty for the gentlemen, Johnny the Bird!”
The horse regarded the approaching group with curiosity but his expression was not friendly. He was big-boned and grey, with head and ears that were iron in their stark decisive outline.
“Now isn’t he a darlin’?” asked Mr. Madigan.
Nobody answered. All were gazing in acute concentration at the tall, unfriendly, beautiful animal who now nonchalantly turned from them and helped himself to a mouthful of hay. With hay bristling from his lips he looked contemptuously over his steel-grey shoulder at the weak humans gathered there.
Mr. Madigan began to extol his value. From point to point, from ears to rump, he loosed fiery words in his praise, while Malahide stood pulling at his flexible underlip, Paris stretched his mouth in a grin of delight and the two Whiteoaks mentally collected all they knew of horses and trained it on Johnny the Bird. The stableboy kept fingering the sore spot under his bandage.
Then, hidden by Mr. Madigan, he led the horse to a very poor track behind the stables and the owner himself mounted him. Just as he started, a scatter of mud flying from his hoofs, an old man mounted on a sober bay gelding rode into the yard. Two others rode with him.
Malahide gave a start of obvious anger.
“It’s that old rascal, Dermot Court.” he said to Paris. “What in hell is he doing here?”
But he went to meet him with a smile.
“Cousin Dermot,” he said, “what an unexpected pleasure!”
Mr. Madigan drew in the horse and trotted back to the starting point.
Dermot Court leaned from the saddle to shake hands testily with his kinsman.
“How d’ do,” he said. “Here, some of you, help me down.”
Paris and Wakefield were at his side. What an arresting face he had, Wakefield thought. He was the Dermot Court he had heard his grandmother talk of as a “dashing young fellow.” Renny too had told of visiting him and his old father at their home in County Meath, after the War. Dermot would know all about horses, he had been prominent in the racing world in his day. Surely he had been sent here by Providence to help them in their decision.
“I’m Wakefield Whiteoak, sir,” he said, flushing. “My brother Renny has talked of you, and my grandmother too.”
“Yes, yes,” broke in Malahide, “these two youngsters are our dear Cousin Adeline’s grandsons. They’re here to look at a horse — a perfect wonder — with a view to buying him. I’m delighted you’ve come, for now we can have your invaluable opinion.”
“Aye, that’s why I came,” answered old Dermot, in his harsh voice. “I’m staying with Colonel McCarthy, him yonder with the eyeglass, and I heard you were trying to sell these lads a
race
horse. I thought too much of their grandmother and liked their brother too well to want them to be fleeced. So I came over.”
“I’m
so
glad,” said Malahide. “There is no one whose opinion I value more. You have met my wife, haven’t you? And Sarah?”
“I have and admire them both.” He bowed over Mrs. Court’s hand and gave Sarah a pat on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you and your husband were separated.”
“No longer, and never again,” answered Sarah, with her small, secret smile.
“I don’t believe in these marital reunions. I’ve tried ’em myself and I say that, if a husband and wife once come to the point of parting, they were never meant for each other. Now which of you young fellows is the husband?”
Finch gave a boyish and rather tremulous smile. The smile, Wakefield thought, showed Finch’s weakness, for in repose his face was distinguished and bore a look of experience. Dermot shook him by the hand.
“Well, well, any girl ought to get on with you. I hear that you were your grandmother’s favourite.”
“Oh, no,” answered Finch hurriedly. “No. Not at all. That is —” He flushed painfully.
Malahide said suavely — “Women are unaccountable in their decisions, and our dear Adeline was no exception. But, Dermot, Mr. Madigan is anxious to show you the horse. I do hope you and your friends will come to my place afterward. Then we can talk.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Dermot Court amiably. “But first let me shake hands with this lad.” He took Wakefield’s hand in his strong clasp.
Wakefield thought — “Why, it’s as though Gran held my hand!” He smiled and said: —
“You are like my grandmother, sir.”
Dermot was delighted. “You could not pay me a higher compliment. As for you — you certainly bear a resemblance to her. In fact both you lads have the Court nose. How beautiful she still was when first I saw her! She was fifty and I fifteen. I followed her about like a dog.” He made a wry face. “Well, she’s been long in her grave and was a centenarian when she went there. Sure, I have no business to be on the face of the earth. Come, let’s see the horse. I must tell you that I saw him in his last race and that’s why I asked Colonel McCarthy to bring me over.”
All the while he inspected the horse, all the while he held the stop watch in his hand, he never ceased talking, but when they were in the Madigans’ best room, with a decanter of whiskey and a syphon of soda before them, he was silent.
“What had we better do?” Finch whispered to Wakefield.
“Just what he says,” answered Wakefield stiffly.
Colonel McCarthy was holding the floor, in a very wheezy voice.
“If there’s a man in Ireland,” he said, “whose opinion you can depend on, it is Dermot Court. It’s in his blood. And what a man old Renny Court was! That would be your great-grandfather. He spent everything he could get his hands on in steeplechasing. I expect he lost money but he had a lot of fun. Steeplechasing wasn’t too respectable then. It was nobody’s child. But he and his father-in-law, the Marquis of Killiekeggan, and of course the famous Marquis of Waterford — they put it on its feet. Made it fashionable.”
He ran on about the old days, Finch feeling that he could listen forever, feeling his grandmother in the room with him, as he heard the exploits of her father and grandfather; Wakefield impatient to hear Dermot’s verdict on Johnny the Bird. At last he moved to a chair behind him and leaning forward whispered: —
”What shall I write to Renny, sir?”
Dermot spoke out of the side of his mouth but almost inaudibly. “Don’t let that horse get away from you. That horse dealer and Malahide don’t realize how good he is. Nobody does but me. I’d buy him in a minute if I weren’t so old. However, I’d like to do your brother a good turn. I like him. Malahide is getting a commission on this sale. That’s why he’s so keen. But urge Renny to buy the horse. He can be trained in my stable. You cable Renny to come and see the horse himself, if he’s skeptical.”
THE TRIO IN GAYFERE
T
HE PASSAGE TO
Ireland had been rough but the return calm and tranquil. Wakefield and Paris kept somewhat to themselves. Wakefield because of his anger and disappointment toward Finch, Paris because he could see that the married pair wished to be alone. Finch had asked Wakefield if he would object to his bringing Sarah to Gayfere Street. Wakefield had answered that he did not mind but he promised himself that, if he found her presence as unbearable as he expected to find it, he would get another lodging.
It was surprising how Sarah, who always travelled with much luggage and who seemed incapable of doing anything for herself, was ready to leave Ireland with so little preparation. It seemed to Wakefield that she had held herself ready to follow Finch wherever he went, at a moment’s notice. She was conciliatory towards both Paris and Wakefield, she used the charm of her voice and her smile on them as though she would force them to speak well of her to Finch.
In London they had parted from Paris and stood waiting on the doorstep of the house in Gayfere Street, the rain falling steadily, driven slantwise by an east wind. Henriette opened the door but the smile faded from her large yellow face when she saw Sarah. She half closed it again as though they were peddlers. Finch had prepared himself for this moment but the words went out of his head and he stammered helplessly. Sarah stood smiling, waiting to be taken care of. Wakefield said, in a matter-of-fact voice: —
“Hullo, Henriette, aren’t you going to let us in? I hope you have some of your good soup waiting for us. This lady is my brother’s wife, who has come back with him from Ireland.” As he said the words he had a complete disbelief in the reality of their import. Surely this thing had not happened! Surely they were not to have Sarah like a millstone about their necks from now on! They had been so happy in this little house. He had been so happy at getting a part in a play, at making a friend of Molly Griffith. Now there was this still, closed-in pale face between him and Finch, a barrier against their candid intercourse.
“I didn’t know as the gentleman were married,” said Henriette. “I ’ope the lady doesn’t intend to stop ’ere. There’s scarcely room.”
“I may not be staying,” answered Wakefield.
Henriette looked more doleful than ever. “I’d be sorry to see
you
go, sir.”
Finch spoke with exasperation. “We’ll settle all this for ourselves. Please get us something hot to eat.”
Henriette retired groaning to the basement. Wakefield thought — “There he goes — either too shy to speak at all or speaking aggressively! Now he’s hurt the poor old thing’s feelings.”
“What a lovely little house!” exclaimed Sarah. “I’ve never seen another like it. It must be terribly old. Did you hear the boats on the river while we waited at the door? Which is our room, Finch?”
They went up the stairs.
In his own room Wakefield set down his suitcase, contemplated it bitterly, then gave it a kick that sent it right across the floor. “Hell!” he said. Then added, “God forgive me for using bad language but I just can’t help it. This thing is all wrong!”
He felt tired and disgruntled and he told himself that it was because Sarah’s coming had spoilt his privacy. It was just as much a selfish resentment of that as a generous defence of Finch’s integrity. Then he denied this, almost fiercely, and said out loud, “No, I do not mind for myself! It’s for Finch that it’s all wrong.”
He had time for a hot bath before the meal. He got into his dressing gown and ran up the steep stairs to their single bathroom. The water was running and he heard Sarah softly humming. He sharply turned the door handle to express incredulity at her presence there. She sang out: — “Is that you, darling?”
“No,” growled Wakefield, “it’s me.”
“I shall be finished soon.”
“It’s all right.”
He retreated to his own room and poured cold water from a ewer into the basin. He took off his dressing gown and began, in an angry Spartan spirit, to sponge his upper half.
Finch came into the room. “Look here. Wake,” he said, “I think you might at least
try
to understand.”
“I understand only too well.”
“But you can’t understand how long I’ve been troubled and what a strain I’ve been under. Sarah has brought me tranquillity. Just for an example — I was terribly worried about my recital, you know. I felt exhausted after a few hours’ practising. Now I’m quite different.”
Wakefield faced him, sponge in hand. “You must think I’m blind not to know what you were like before we left London. But you’re always like that before a recital. I’ll bet anything that if you had met Sarah after it was over and you were elated by your success, this would never have happened. She’s having an hypnotic effect on you. But it won’t last, and it seems hard to give up all your freedom in exchange for an hypnotic sexual content to carry you through a recital.”
“God, what a smug little beast you are!” Finch exclaimed, hotly. “You’ve always been the same — damned pleased with yourself and your glibness!”
Wakefield had a moment’s desire to throw the wet sponge in Finch’s face but he turned back to the washing stand without answering. He was shivering with cold.
They could hear Henriette coming heavily up the stairs. Finch wheeled and went out of the room. Henriette regarded Wakefield with a lugubrious motherliness.
“You’ll ’ave your death of cold,” she said. “If you must wash, why don’t you ’ave a ’ot bath?”
“Oh, I’m hardening my body, Henriette. It’s good for the soul.”
“You ’ave a lovely shape,” said Henriette. “You’d ought to take care of yourself. Do come now and have some hot soup.”
Finch and Sarah were waiting for him when he went into the dining room. The daffodils he had bought were on the table. They were a little droopy. He bent to sniff them and Molly Griffith’s face came before him, with that daring tilt to her profile and the golden freckles on her nose. “Everything was going to be so nice,” he thought, “but Sarah has spoilt it all.”
Sarah had evidently made up her mind to become an acceptable third. She smiled at Wakefield and touched his hand with hers.
“How cold you are!” she said. “We must arrange the baths so we shall not interfere with each other. I’ll have mine when you boys are out.”
Wakefield was surprised at the shrinking he had from her hand. Involuntarily he put his under the table and rubbed it with his table napkin. He said rather precisely: —
“It’s quite all right, Sarah. I’m not really cold.”
“Henriette might have put a fire here,” said Finch, eagerness to make it up with Wakefield trembling in his voice. “I’ll build one myself after dinner.”
“What delicious soup!” exclaimed Sarah. “Not much like the watery broth at Cousin Malahide’s. This Henriette is an excellent cook.”
The sole that followed the soup was indeed perfectly cooked. Finch produced a bottle of wine from the sideboard. Suddenly excited and passionately eager to make things go well, he would not wait till the end of the meal for the fire. He found a bundle of lightings and some coals in the bottom of the hall cupboard and laid them in the grate. A bright blaze sprang up.