Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Oh, how I wish Mooey and Nook were here!” cried Adeline. There was a spirit of generosity in her that could not wholly enjoy without sharing with those she loved. “And, of course, Archie and Roma and Mummie and the uncles!”
Wakefield cursed himself for his unease of spirit. “I have no cause for it,” he thought. “She’s just as free and gay as the scarf she wears. But, because Renny’s in the boat, I can’t be happy. What has come over me?”
In a wooded reach of the river they drew in to shore and a tea basket was produced. Renny and Mrs. Blake set out the tea things. With a solicitous air, Adeline waited on the helmsman, her inner eye always on the guiding of the launch downstream. She sat munching a sandwich, watchful lest he should lack anything.
Mrs. Blake talked to Renny, of things the others knew nothing about. But now and again she gave them a flashing smile and an invitation to partake of more cake.
When tea was over a group of swans came alongside, arching their necks and pouting their snowy bosoms on the river. Renny moved from his place by Mrs. Blake and began to feed the swans with scraps.
“We used to have swans,” he said, “on our stream at home. But they flew away and didn’t come back.”
Molly wanted to feed them too. She held a piece of bread in her hand and looked at Wakefield.
“Go on,” he said testily, “for heaven’s sake go and feed them!”
She cast him a reproachful look. “Is thy servant a dog?” she asked.
He caught her hand and squeezed it. “What a beast I am, Molly! I don’t know what’s the matter with me today.”
She went to Renny’s side and they leaned together over the gunwale. She glanced back at Wakefield. He was smiling at her. “Why should he smile and at the same moment be so jealous?” she wondered. She had no jealousy in her nature. She could not understand. She saw Renny hold the bread within reach of the male swan, then, just as he was about to snatch it, jerk it away. The female swans were each possessed of a scrap and in elegant greed were devouring it. The male, greatly agitated, wheeled, bowed, and returned to the side of the launch with open beak. Renny offered him the bread. Gracefully his head shot out to snatch it but it was gone. Again he described a circle in the water, his great wings trembling.
“There’s something cruel in them,” thought Molly, “something teasing and cruel.” She said — “Please give it to him! He’s getting
so
upset.”
“It’s good for him to worry a little,” he returned. “Life’s been too easy. See how plump and sleek he is.” Again he held out the bread.
The swan fairly lifted himself out of the water. He trod it as though it were a marble floor and reared his white wings in fury. Renny was laughing.
“Come on! Come on!” he urged. “Why, you’re the weakling of the flock — come on!”
Molly snatched the bread from his hand and threw it to the bird who sailed majestically away, leaving a silken wake in the green water.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I had to do it. I couldn’t bear to see the swan so furious.”
He stared at her surprised. “Couldn’t you? But they’re really bad-tempered things. One of ours attacked a cousin of mine and might have killed him if I hadn’t arrived in time.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“It’s all right.” Then abruptly he asked: — “How old are you?”
“Going on nineteen.”
“I wonder at your father — allowing you to live alone in London.”
“I’m quite able to look after myself.”
His brows went up incredulously.
“If you were
my
daughter I’d not let you. The stage too — that’s a precarious life for a girl, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Can you ride?”
“No.”
“Never been on a horse?”
“Never.”
“What a pity! Come to Jalna and I’ll teach you.”
“I’d love to. Perhaps, if our play is a success, we’ll go to America.”
Wakefield strained his ears to hear what they were saying, while he made an attempt at conversation with Mrs. Blake. The launch was moving down the river now. The sun was lower and the shallows golden.
Adeline had got her wish and was steering the launch. Her hands grasping the helm, her hair blowing back from her face, that face bold and confident as an infant figurehead for a Norse ship, she kept the boat in midstream through all its windings.
Wakefield went back with Renny to his hotel. He had a desire to be with him, not to let him out of his sight, as though continued watchfulness might clear the situation. He stared so hard at Renny during dinner that the latter exclaimed: — “What the dickens are you staring at?”
Wakefield coloured. “Was I staring? Well, you’re leaving soon and I guess I wanted to impress your image on my mind.”
That would have been unconvincing to anyone but Renny. He beamed at his junior.
“God, I wish you were coming home with me,” he said.
Wakefield’s heart melted. This was his old Renny, his protector, his wall against the world. Renny could not have it in his heart to hurt him. If he did hurt him, it was unknowingly. It was his instinct. Perhaps not even that but just something in him that drew women to him. Wakefield knew every inch of the face smiling at him, the sharp curve of the nostrils, the arch of the brows, the lines of arrogance and anxiety. But what a mystery he truly was! For a moment he had it in his mind to tell Renny of his jealousy, then the fear of being laughed at, the fear that his jealousy had a just cause, kept him silent. But it was hard luck, he thought, that Renny’s visit should be marked by such feelings, for the first time in their lives. “They’re all on
my
side,” he thought. “Renny is as natural as Johnny the Bird.”
But he made a good dinner. He had a feeling of chagrin when Renny exclaimed: —
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with you! You’ve an appetite like a horse.”
“I had no lunch,” answered Wakefield glumly.
“You used to be such a finicking little chap about food. Do you remember when Meggie had to take all the fat from your plate to hers? Finch was the boy with the appetite. I wish he were here with us. But there’s always Sarah. If only I’d got here in time I’d have put the lid on that reunion!”
“I shall be glad when his recital is over. I’m sick to death of the sound of the piano. He’ll be off on his tour then and I’ll have the house to myself. Henriette and I.”
“Will Sarah go with him?”
“Will she ever let him out of her sight? She follows him up and down the stairs, in and out of the rooms. He can’t have a bath in peace! The one good thing is that she lies in bed all morning — reading magazine stories and eating sweets. She eats tons of crême-de-menthe jellies.”
A boy came with a cablegram for Renny. He looked startled, then concerned. He stared with suspicion at it. “I wonder if anything has happened at Jalna,” he said.
Half-a-dozen dire possibilities shot through Wakefield’s mind. Renny opened the cablegram with a frown. Then his brow cleared. He read aloud: —
M
UCH PERTURBED BY
E
UROPEAN SITUATION FEAR WAR
IMMINENT FEEL YOU SHOULD RETURN AT ONCE
A
LAYNE
.
“I wonder why she’s got the wind up,” said Renny. “People here aren’t worrying about war.”
“Sometimes I think we don’t worry enough,” said Wakefield. “If it comes, I shall join the Air Force.”
Renny regarded him proudly. “Good man! And I shall rejoin my regiment here.”
Wake’s emotional life paled into the background. He talked easily and naturally to Renny now. He felt strangely exhilarated. He wished they could part at this moment so he might keep this evening’s impression of his brother.
Renny cabled to Alayne that he and Adeline would sail in ten days. He was far from ready to go home. He would have enjoyed another month in London. He thought of Finch and Wakefield as his boys and he wanted to be with them as much as possible. Then too he was deluged with invitations from army and racing friends. Another month! He would have relished a six-month. Still, Alayne must not be worried. She might even be right about war coming. It was remarkable how often she was right about international affairs. He was proud of her powers of penetration and he loved her so dearly that the thought of returning to her sent a heart-warming glow through him. He set out to enjoy his last ten days to the full. He kept late hours and rose early in the morning. Yet he never felt tired.
With the Victorian simplicity in which he had been reared, he did not consider the addition of Adeline to the house in Gayfere Street as something to be reckoned with every hour of the day. He temporarily washed his hands of her. He was giving Henriette a tidy sum each week for helping with her and he thought that, with Henriette’s help, Sarah and the boys ought to be able to look after her. She’d been little or no trouble to him.
As he contributed, more generously than he could afford, to the upkeep of the house, his brothers felt that they were bound to take a bit of trouble for his child. Finch’s share was to take her on long walks and they both looked back on these as one of the pleasantest parts of the visit. Finch was proud to take her to the parks. In a city of beautiful children, people turned to look at Adeline. Perhaps her hair first attracted them but something in her face held them. And when she had passed, her eager prideful walk drew many a glance. Once Finch hired horses and they rode in the Row. Adeline could have shouted with joy to feel a horse under her again. She gave an exhibition of riding that was almost too good. A crowd gathered. When this was told to Renny he forbade her riding again.
She was so disappointed that Finch was sorry for her. To ease the blow he told her that, in any case, he could not have afforded a second such treat. Adeline had been good for him. He looked forward to his recital with less apprehension than usual. That was, until the last two days. Then the accustomed tremor in his stomach began and he could eat nothing. He envied Wake his temerity over the first night of his play. Sarah was deeply concerned for him and showed it at every turn. The way she looked at him made him feel like a sick man. When he dressed to go to the concert hall she looked at him in horror. He had had a fresh haircut and looked gaunt and flattened.
“You look horrible!” she cried. “Oh, how could you!” She ran at him to rumple what hair he bad left.
He backed away. “Sarah,” he said loudly, “if you do anything to my hair I’ll do the same to yours, so look out!”
Wakefield had a rehearsal that night. Renny took Sarah to the Concert hall. There was a good audience. Seated side by side, marooned on an island as it were by the sea of unknown faces about them, linked by their memories of mutual hate and distrust, made one by their desire for Finch’s success, their fears for his failure, they sat shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the door where he would enter.
“He is feeling terrible,” whispered Sarah, as Finch crossed the platform. “I can tell by the way he holds his hands.”
“He’ll be all right,” reassured Renny.
Finch bowed with gravity and that look he had, somewhere between distinction and awkwardness. He sat down and began to play. The first half of his programme was classical. In the Bach “Prelude” his nervousness was evident. They could see him trembling as he rose and bowed. But he overcame this. His playing was fluent and firm. It was hard to believe in his suffering before the concert. Renny and Sarah strained their ears to hear the comments of approval about them. It was his playing of Chopin that brought most of these.
Renny faintly remembered some of these pieces. One of them was played by Nicholas, though somehow his playing made it seem different. Two others he had often heard Finch play at Jalna in the old days. They were the best, he thought. Some of the others made him feel pretty restive. He was glad he had been firm and refused to bring Adeline. She would never have sat still. Strange, this ear for music — that is, difficult music. Martial music he himself liked, and church music — in the right place. Passionate Spanish music, gypsy dances, were not without their effect on him. His eyes slid toward Sarah’s profile. Nothing there. Face of a statue. And not a nice statue, either. And Finch, poor devil, would have to go home and sleep with her!
She turned to him smiling, clapping her hands with all her might.
“Clap!” she urged. “The first half is over.”
He made sharp, explosive clappings. People turned their heads toward him. He felt chagrin, folded his arms, and tried to look like a musical critic.
The second half of the programme was modern music. Finch was no longer nervous but he faltered strangely. He seemed strangely moved by his own playing. Once in a Ravel number he stopped and stared straight ahead of him. Sarah clasped her hands against her heart to still its thudding. Was he going to break down? No — he was going on, and with such swiftness and passion that a ripple as of wind across a field of grain passed over the audience. That brought his best applause of the evening. On the whole the recital was a success.
He joined Renny and Sarah outside his dressing room. Two newspaper reporters and some girls with autograph albums had been with him. As they got into the taxi a hilarious grin spread across Finch’s face. He threw his arms about Renny and Sarah.
“Thank God, that’s over!” he exclaimed. “How did I do?”
“You’re the greatest living pianist!” cried Sarah.
That was nonsense, he knew, but he was in the mood to accept all praise. Indeed he had at one moment believed in his own greatness and the flush of that moment still burned on his brow.
“I’m glad it’s over, too,” said Renny. “I find that sort of thing quite a strain. Shall we go and have something to eat?
“I was never hungrier in my life,” said Finch.
Their cousin, Paris Court, overtook them. He had been sitting in the gallery and had heard there what Finch thought of as true criticism. It had been almost entirely favorable. Paris was enthusiastic.
“I wish you could have heard them! One said, ‘His technique is far from perfect but he more than makes up for it by his feeling. He makes you see pictures. We shall hear a great deal more from him.’ Wasn’t I proud? I put my head over his shoulder and whispered — ‘I’m his cousin.’ And he answered, ‘Well, tell him from me that I had rather hear him play than any pianist I know — except the French fellow.’”