Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
At the thought of Piers, a well of thanksgiving rose in his breast. It had been a week today that the letter had come — that letter which had changed Jalna from a house of mourning to one of thanksgiving. The sight of his handwriting on the envelope had been a shock. It had been Nicholas himself who had carried it to Pheasant. “A letter for you, my dear. I’m afraid it has been held up all these months.” A letter from the dead, that’s what he had thought it was. With a frozen look on her little face she had torn it open, stared at it unbelievingly a space, then cried out, “Piers is alive, Uncle Nick!” and fainted. Alive he was, in a prison camp somewhere in Austria. The letter had been brief, merely stating that he was well but a prisoner and sending his love to all at home. Of course he hadn’t been allowed to write any more. It had made Nicholas and Ernest feel ten years younger. Now they were better able to bear the anxiety over Renny and Wakefield. Renny was recovered from his wound and back with his regiment again. Little Wake had brought down God only knew how many German planes. It was a good thing that Finch had been sent home. He had done his share in rescuing air-raid victims in London, seen sights that had almost been more than he could bear. He’d never quite recovered from that terrible time at Dunkirk. Well, he would regain his strength at home and it was grand to have him come in every day for a talk. He and that wife of his seemed more normal in their relations — if you could call it normal to show an increasing indifference toward each other. Sarah was indifferent to everyone but her baby. And how she was spoiling the little beggar. Already, at ten months, he was a tyrant. And he was the image of Sarah’s father.
There was Finch now — coming toward the kitchen garden, looking more natural, too — not so gaunt and nervy. Nicholas waved his stick.
“Hi, Finch! Come and see me!”
Finch came up, grinning. “Hullo, Uncle Nick. How are you this morning?”
“Pretty fair. Pretty fair. Oh, I’ve much to be thankful for. I’ve a new lease of life since Piers’s letter came.” He took Finch’s arm gladly and they walked on down the garden.
“You look nice, Uncle Nick,” said Finch. “I like that checked coat on you. Your tie’s smart too.”
Nicholas laughed. “This coat is as old as the hills. But the tie is new. Alayne always buys me one on my birthday. Eighty-eight, Finch! Getting to be a pretty old fellow.”
“You don’t look it. Not since the letter.”
“Ha, that made a difference!”
“Gosh, yes … Pheasant is so happy that it hurts me to see her. Yet she knows she may never —”
“Just look at the asparagus bed! Isn’t it a pretty sight?” Nicholas deliberately interrupted Finch. He cherished the present good and could not face the thought of future evil.
The plumes of the asparagus crowded tall and feathery, still veiled in the silver net of the dew. Little field mice ran in and out of the brown grass.
Pheasant appeared on the path, one of her sons by either hand. The boys were growing fast. They were in happy Saturday spirits and very conscious of their mother’s exquisite relief. Pheasant raised her face to the tranquil blue of the Indian-summer sky, smiling and holding fast the little hands.
“Just see the asparagus bed,” said Nicholas. “I’ve never known it prettier. And by Jove, it’s an old one! It’s been there as long as I can remember.”
“That was one crop that was good this year,” said Pheasant.
“Look, there’s a monarch butterfly over it!” cried Nook.
“I wish I could catch him,” said Philip.
“No.” Pheasant spoke sharply. “Nothing that is happy shall be harmed.”
“I’d not hurt him. I’d keep him in a little box.”
“He’d be a prisoner,” said Nook.
“Like Daddy!”
“Don’t,” cried Pheasant. “Don’t say that!
“That asparagus bed,” said Nicholas, “makes me think of what life was when I was a young fellow. I don’t know why — but it does.”
“I think I know,” said Pheasant. “There’s a kind of radiance about it. When you look at it you feel a goodness in the earth and air.”
“In those days,” said Nicholas, seating himself on his bench, “nothing seemed too good to be possible.”
“It’s different today,” said Finch. “Nothing seems to be too bad to be possible.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Pheasant. “I do so want to believe in good! And I do. I feel that I am helping Piers when I believe that. I should think you’d believe it too, Finch, after what happened at Dunkirk. I’ve heard you say it was like a miracle.”
Finch’s mind flew back to the agonizing struggle, the ultimate achievement of those days. The scene came before his eyes, blotting out the garden, the blazing maple trees, the old man on the bench with the little boy on either side of him. He saw Wakefield, himself, the girl, striving together in a kind of trance. He saw the thronging soldiers wading through the shallows, the blazing town, the dying. He remembered how, when they had reached England, they had steered the almost sinking yacht to her moorings and had half-staggered up the hill toward Val’s sister’s house. They had not been able to find it in the rubble that had been made of the little seaside resort in their absence. The sister had been killed. Finch had not seen Val after that but he knew Wakefield had.
After a little he left the others and went down into the ravine. He crossed the bridge and saw how the watercress fairly impeded the progress of the stream, it had grown so thick. Its glossy leaves had a rich greenness in this, its second crop. But the bullrushes had burst open and their bright down floated on the quiet air. He had a sensuous pleasure in shuffling through the dead leaves up the path toward the fox farm. The leaves were scarlet and gold and mahogany. They were crisp, not damp and sodden as autumn leaves are in milder climates, and a strange sweet scent rose from them.
At the top he saw Althea Griffith walking ahead of him. She was carrying a basket full of watercress she had gathered from the stream. He noticed the way she walked. It was a contrast to Sarah’s odd gliding. Althea moved with a kind of delicate vigour, as though walking were her delight.
They had now reached a point in friendship where he could count on a swift glance from her and even a half-smile, but he took care not to thrust himself on her. He stepped on a dry branch and its breaking made her start and look round. Her body swayed, as though in indecision. She took two steps forward, then stopped. Finch walked slowly toward her. He called out “Good-morning” in a matter-of-fact tone.
Now she turned and faced him. He thought: —
“How lovely she is! And what a handicap she’s under!” He liked the straight fair fringe of her hair that almost touched her eyebrows. But he would have liked to lift the fringe and uncover the high white forehead beneath. As he came up to her he asked: —
“Have you heard from Molly lately?”
She answered, as though she had been running: — “We had a letter this morning.”
“Oh. She’s still working hard on the picture, I suppose.”
“Yes. Molly works very hard.” She looked at him appealingly, as though begging leave to go.
“It’s splendid that she’s getting on so well.”
“Yes. She loves the work.”
“And how are you others getting on?”
“We’re very happy.” She appeared to gather all her strength for the question that followed. “And you? Are you getting better?”
“Oh yes. I’m pretty fit now, though my eyes still trouble me. When they’re recovered I’m going on a tour. I want to make money for the air-raid sufferers. I saw for myself what they go through, you know.”
“Yes?” But he perceived that he had brought no picture of suffering to her. Her eyes were on his face with an odd questioning look.
“Will you sit down here a little while?” he asked, indicating a fallen maple. It had been blown over in a gale more than a month ago but still it had drawn on the store of sap that was in it and hid its misfortune from its leaves. Now, prone as it was, it was gorgeous in its scarlet and gold and had kept its foliage longer than any of the other trees, being sheltered in its lowly position. The nest of a small bird still nestled on one of its boughs, and a faint essence of bird song seemed to enliven it.
Without a word Althea put down the basket of watercress and sat herself on the trunk of the tree beside him.
“Why, your feet are wet!” he exclaimed.
“Yes. I was so eager to get the cress I walked right into the stream without thinking.”
“I believe you are very impulsive,” he said.
“Yes. I have to guard against it.”
He thought this over, wondering what she meant. Then he said — “I think it might be better for you to let yourself go.”
“Oh, no. I must never do that!” She twisted her long slender fingers together. “It would never do. It’s Gemmel, you see, who tortures us — first me and now even Garda…. She can’t do things herself and she’s always talking — talking about them…. She tries to drive us to do things we oughtn’t to. She’s always wondering and guessing and, now that Molly’s away and Garda is growing up, it’s worse. I can’t tell you what it’s like.”
Finch listened to this outburst with a strange throbbing in his pulses. He had always been struck by a sense of mystery in the three sisters, particularly in Gemmel. But what did it mean? He had a sense of shame that this disclosure of Althea’s should stir him in this particular way. Perhaps he was too vulnerable to emotion, now that Sarah’s spell had been removed. Suddenly, and scarcely conscious of what he did, he dropped to his knees beside Althea and laid his head in her lap.
He did not know what he expected her to do. She was like a frozen stream whose character he could only guess. He felt dizzy from the throbbing of his pulses. He would not be surprised if she cast his head from her lap with the same swiftness with which she might cast aside undesired fruit which had fallen there.
He felt a secret joy when, instead of a rebuff, she laid her hands on his head. They fluttered over it as though in fear, then rested there, caressing his hair, stroking his cheek.
“Oh, Althea,” he whispered. “You’re not afraid of me any longer!”
“No. I’m not afraid.”
He raised his face to hers and she bent over him, but she did not kiss him. Nor did he desire her to. What had happened was enough. They did not belong to each other nor could they ever. But it was joy enough for the time that the icy barrier of her shyness had melted and they could be friends.
They heard Garda’s voice.
“Althea!” she called. “Are you there?”
Althea stood up. Finch slid on to the fallen tree.
“Althea, I’ve something to tell you!”
“I’m coming.”
Garda ran toward them, her face glowing with excitement and happiness. The change had done wonders for her. She was becoming a lovely young girl. As she came up her eyes were bright with curiosity. There was a glint of malice in them too, as though she were treasuring something she had seen, to repeat it to Gemmel.
“What do you suppose?” she said. “Mrs. Whiteoak has been to see us and brought us a basket of purple grapes and a huge bunch of chrysanthemums! Do come and see! She was so sweet and kind! You can see her through the trees, if you look, going down the path.” She pointed to where Alayne’s lonely figure was visible, descending by another path into the ravine.
Alayne had drawn on an old cardigan of Renny’s for warmth. It clung warmly about her, emanating the scent of his tobacco and a certain essence of his vitality. She thrust her hands into the pockets and walked back toward Jalna. She had enjoyed her walk. It was an exercise she had never much cared for but now she made up her mind to do more of it. Tomorrow she would go to the stables — and every day after — so that she might send Renny firsthand news of his horses. She would find out things for herself and send them on to him. Perhaps, if she wore this cardigan of his, the horses would feel friendly to her — even feel some connection between her and him. She would begin riding again — go out riding with Adeline. That would be great news for him. In a strange, subtle way she felt that, in doing these things to please him, she was protecting him.
She found Nicholas and Ernest in the sitting room, trying to get the news on the radio. Their two grey heads were close together in front of it while strange, unwanted cries, grunts and squawkings, came from its interior.
Nicholas heaved himself closer. “Let me try! You seem always to think I can’t get anything.”
“Well, Nick, you can’t do anything that I’m not doing.”
“Get out of the way and I’ll show you.”
“What are you trying to get?” asked Alayne.
“The news from England,” answered Ernest. He looked at his watch.
“It’s quite time for it.”
“One would think,” rumbled Nicholas, as a persuasive male voice came from the radio, “that the entire population lived with its hands in the laundry tub. Soap flakes — super-suds — by Jove, there’s little else!”
He persisted, however, while snatches of serials full of heart throbs filled the room with their woe. At last he gave an exclamation of triumph. “Ha, here we are! Your watch must have been fast, Ernie.”
Pheasant slipped into the room. The four listened to the calm recital of air raids and air battles. Their minds were on young Wakefield, who, such a short while ago, had been a mischievous small boy, a sensitive adolescent, in this room. Now, somewhere over there he was sailing in the skies, in daily hazard of his life. Suddenly, startlingly, his name came to them out of the radio. They were frozen to attention. What was the voice saying?
“It is announced that Flying Officer Wakefield Whiteoak —”
“Don’t! Don’t!” cried their hearts. “Don’t tell us that he has been killed!”
Nicholas’s large eyes were fixed in apprehension on the radio. Ernest gripped the arms of his chair. Pheasant closed her eyes and her lips moved. The colour fled from Alayne’s face. All this in a breath! Then the cool buoyant voice continued —
“— Wakefield Whiteoak, a young Canadian flier, has been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for gallantly flying a badly damaged plane back to England after taking part in a raid over Germany. The King personally presented the Cross.”
The news went on but no one heard it. This was enough. This terror — this relief! An electric thrill of pride and relief went through the room. They looked at each other, making incoherent sounds to express their emotions. Ernest’s eyes were full of tears.