Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
A few days after his coming the weather turned bitterly cold. The new man gave ice-cold water to the horses to drink and one of them, a handsome Clydesdale mare, took a chill. All that Wright and the veterinary could do to save her failed and the next day she lay, a mountain of solid flesh, dead in her stall. Wright did not bring the bad news to Alayne but entrusted it to Wragge who told it with the air of one bringing tidings of a national disaster. She was greatly distressed and felt in this misfortune some sinister negligence on the part of Wright — a cruel desire to get even with her.
Now Wragge stood before her, his hands clasped on his stomach, an almost clerical look on his face. He was saying:
“I think we shall just ’ave to put our pride in our pocket, ma’am, and let Wright stay on. ’E understands the ’orses and the ’orses understand ’im. These ’ere fellers you engage ’ap’azard, they’re no good.”
She stood silent, twisting her fingers together.
Wragge went on, “Dear knows what disaster will come next, if this feller stays on.”
Adeline entered the hall from the side door. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She said, in a choking voice:
“How can I tell Daddy! whatever will he say!”
“You had better go up to your room, dear,” said Alayne.
“Ow,” put in Wragge, “she’s ’eartbroken — just like I am!”
Alayne said, “You may tell Wright to come and I will see him here.”
She did see him and, in a controlled voice, revoked her decision to discharge him. The new man was sent away. But all this did not bring back the grand Clydesdale and Alayne’s heart was heavy.
But the house was far from gloomy. Finch and Wakefield were happy in being once again at Jalna (even though Wakefield’s time there would be short). Since Sarah’s marriage, Finch felt a new freedom. He was done with that phase of his life — done with it! Never again would those slender arms wind themselves about his neck as though to suffocate him, never again those narrow eyes, set like jewels in the head, discharge their cold passion into his soul. He had seen the last of Sarah, the very last. If ever again he loved a woman, and he doubted that, it would be a woman, normal — yes, absolutely normal — equable, one who knew neither ecstasies nor despairs but mild temperatures, like settled May weather.
He and Wakefield had had their disappointments, he in his marriage, Wakefield in his broken engagement. He had been engaged to Molly Griffith whose stepsisters now lived at the fox farm but it had been necessary, because of a tragic circumstance, to forego the marriage. That had been four years ago. In the bitter months at the first, Wakefield had hardened into manhood. He had an imperious way with him which took the place of his former air of a spoilt boy. He was animated; he was gay but he had within him the memory of the bliss that had borne no fruit. In their attitude toward money, the brothers were a complete contrast. When Finch had been possessed of a fortune, he had lent or given it away with scarcely a thought. He had seen Sarah’s wealth depart with her, with only relief. Now that he had little money it did not at all trouble him. He liked old clothes, he liked old possessions. He had given much of what he had made in his concert tours to war charities.
Wakefield, on the other hand, had inherited the extravagant tastes of both Courts and Whiteoaks. He liked spending money for the sheer exhilaration of spending it. He enjoyed acquiring anything new, from a thoroughbred to a pair of shoes. Old possessions depressed him, with the strong exception of Jalna and its furnishings. To him these retained their lustre unimpaired. During his short leave he constantly caused concern to Finch, vexed Alayne, delighted the children, half-worried, half-gratified the uncles, by the manner in which he threw money about — when he could lay hands on it. He reminded Nicholas and Ernest pleasurably of their own spendthrift youth, though his expenditures were insignificant compared to theirs. Now he seldom was with them for long without getting money out of them on one pretext or another. He was able even to get something from Meg. Poor boy, she would think, he may never come back to us again! The things he thought he needed were amazing, and he would store these away in his room against the time of his return. In a curious way it made him more sure that he would return, to have all these possessions awaiting him.
Finch several times had urged Wakefield to go with him to see the Griffith girls at the fox farm. Wakefield had refused because of his last painful meeting there with Molly, but now, on this dark afternoon in early winter, he consented.
There was light snow on the ground as the brothers crossed the ravine. Through it showed the brown leaves and the rough brown grass.
The brown stream hurried past tiny snow-mounded islands and, stalking by himself in lonely masculine grandeur, was a cock pheasant, his wide blue collar bright as though burnished.
The three sisters were sitting by the fire in the living room when the knock sounded on the door. Althea swiftly gathered up the sketch she was making; Gemmel closed the book she was reading aloud; Garda suspended her knitting needles. So apart was their life that a knock at the door was enough to send them into confusion.
“For heaven’s sake, see who it is!” whispered Althea to Garda who flew to peep between curtains.
“It’s Finch and Wakefield Whiteoak!” she exclaimed, getting scarlet.
“Sh!” hissed Gemmel. “Fetch my lipstick — quick!” She had lately taken to using lipstick which neither of the others did. She took a small comb from her pocket and began to comb her dense dark hair. In spite of the affliction that cut her off from the pursuits of other young people, she thought more of her personal appearance than either of her sisters.
Garda flew noiselessly upstairs and brought back the lipstick which Gemmel lavishly applied. The knock sounded again. Althea was gliding from the room. Gemmel caught her by the skirt.
“Let me go!” Althea whispered fiercely.
“No! You mustn’t. They’ll think it strange if you don’t show up.”
“Tell them I’m ill.” Her beautiful wan face was flushed by colour. “Let me go, Gemmel!” But Garda had already opened the door. She greeted Wakefield as an old friend, for he had visited them in Wales. But Althea’s lips barely moved in a soundless greeting.
Garda ran to put the kettle on. Finch seated himself where he could look at Althea.
“Been sketching?” he asked.
She inclined her head.
“She’s been doing the loveliest trees,” said Gemmel, “but you may be sure she won’t show you. If I had a talent I’d love to show off.”
“You have a talent,” said Wakefield. “I remember how splendidly you recited in Wales. I thought then you’d make an actress if —”
“If!” she cried, with an expressive gesture of her flexible hands. “It’s always
if
with me. And always will be. Oh, if I could lead the life Molly does!”
“How is Molly?” asked Wakefield.
“Flying between New York and Hollywood. She hasn’t had a big success yet. For one thing, she’s too thin to photograph well.” She poured out the tale of the plays Molly had been in and what parts she had had. Althea marvelled at her, for she could say nothing. Wakefield hungrily drank in all this news of the stage, wondering if ever he would act again.
Garda brought in the tea tray, bent double under its weight for she had loaded it with all the cakes and scones she could find, to say nothing of buttered toast and fruit loaf. Wakefield sprang to help her. They gathered about the table, all but Althea talking. She kept thinking of things to say and how she would say them, coolly or laughingly, as her sisters might speak, but before she could bring herself to utter them, the conversation had turned to another subject, the chance was gone. Finch’s hands fascinated her and the way he used them but she never let her eyes meet his.
Tea was not half over when another knock sounded on the door and Sidney Swift and Maurice came in. It was not the first time they had visited the Griffiths. Indeed, Swift settled himself beside Garda with an air of familiarity. Gemmel was so exhilarated by the presence of the four young men that she talked almost wildly and her greenish-blue eyes glittered with excitement. Swift was a fluent talker. He spoke with authority of painting, Althea never daring to contradict him; of music, Finch laughingly disagreeing with most of his dictums and being glibly talked down; but it was Wakefield who, when Swift laid down the law about the theatre, turned his own remarks on him and brought a laugh against him. When it came to literature, young Maurice was the only one whose reading in any way compared with Swift’s. As Swift’s pupil he was respectful but already he had discovered his tutor’s limitations. On Swift’s part he found Maurice indolent and fully convinced that no tuition he could have in Canada would equal that of his old tutor in Ireland.
On the way home Wakefield remarked to Finch, “If Swift is all he makes himself out to be, why isn’t he doing something more important than being secretary to that old gaffer, Clapperton, and tutoring Mooey?”
“Meg says she believes he is clinging to Mr. Clapperton in the hope of inheriting his money. He’s some sort of relation.”
“I believe he’s gone on Garda.”
“No. He just has that snuggly manner with girls.”
“what do you think of the other two? Aren’t they an amazing contrast?”
“It would be a strange experience,” said Finch musingly, “to love a girl like Althea. You’d always be pursuing — and she eluding.”
“Damned strange,” answered Wakefield and thought to himself, “especially after a hussy like Sarah.”
“But Gemmel is the one who interests me most.”
Wake opened his eyes in surprise. “Really! Well, of course, her being a cripple is a tragedy. You can see that she’s mad for experience — and she’s chained. I guess she lives in the experiences of her sisters.”
“She wouldn’t find much there. She’s so different.”
“They’re all three different. All four — counting Molly.”
“We are not very lucky, you and I … in love, I mean. Are we, Wake?”
Wakefield’s face grew sombre. “No more of that for me,” he said. “We’ll settle down at Jalna, when we’re old men — like Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernest.”
Finch gave a grim assent. Then suddenly one of his boyish fits of hilarity came upon him. He began to chase and wrestle with Wakefield as they descended into the ravine. The moon cast their active shadows on the snow. The stream uttered its gurglings before it turned to ice. A frightened mouse ran across the bridge. Finch found himself no match for Wakefield, whose body was hardened by military training. By the time they had mounted the other side of the ravine, his heart was thumping. He would not cry out for mercy but surrendered himself dumbly to Wakefield’s iron grasp, as in the old days he had surrendered to Piers.
The lights of the house streamed out across the snow. The three dogs waiting in the porch rushed out, in a fury of barking, at the two dark figures rising from the ravine. Then, as they recognized members of the family, circled in joy about them. Finch exclaimed:
“I wish to God that I could live a country life — never step inside a town from one year’s end to another — never play in front of an audience — never be sick of the sight of people — belong utterly to myself!”
“You’d tire of it. You’d soon be panting for the excitement and the applause.”
“Never! Excitement is mostly apprehension for me. Applause just means — thank God I haven’t failed! It would suit me to work in one of the arts where you needn’t see your public — to be a writer, a painter, a sculptor.”
“Tame! Tame!” exclaimed Wakefield. “Give me my visible public — even if it throws rotten eggs at me!”
They were at the door. “You always were a showy-off little beast,” Finch retorted, and was inside the house before Wake could lay hands on him.
Their companionship was precious to them in these days. They were inseparable. Neither said what was in his mind. But Finch looked with ever increasing foreboding toward the day of Wakefield’s departure. His eyes followed Wakefield’s tall lithe figure, rested on the dark beauty of his face and wondered if this would be their last time together. They spent many hours at Meg’s, helping her and Patience to settle in the small house. Meg clung to Wakefield as the little brother to whom she had been a mother and, when the hour of parting came, she was swept by a storm of weeping. She made no pretence of being brave. But, when he was gone the ranks of the family, depleted though they were, closed behind him and life went on as before.
Now the December days marched coldly on toward Christmas. There were five children to consider. There had always been a Christmas Tree and a Santa Claus. Piers had marvellously well played the part and, since his departure, Nicholas. What he lacked in rosiness of countenance, Pheasant applied from a rouge pot. The sonorous jollity of his Santa Claus voice was contagious. But this year he declared that he no longer could do it. Something had gone out of him, he said. He was too old. He could not read the labels on the packages. Ernest or Finch must be Father Christmas.
But no one could, by any stretch of imagination, picture Ernest or Finch as Santa Claus. Nicholas must hold the Christmas fort till Piers came home. “Hmph, well,” growled Nicholas, “he’d better hurry. I’m ninety-one.”
“why, Uncle Nick,” chided Meg, “think of Granny! She lived to be a hundred and one.”
“She was a woman,” said Nicholas, “and she hadn’t gout. She was sound, you might say, to the last.”
“And so are you!” cried Meg, kissing him. “You’re just as sound as a dear old nut.”
He was won over. He would do it, he declared, just this one time more.
The cloak of family custom hung heavy, too, on Finch’s shoulders. From the time when the church was built, a Whiteoak had always read the Lessons at Morning Service. After Renny had gone to the War, Ernest had capably and with much more elegance filled this office but, for the past year, it had obviously been too much for him to undertake. There were Sundays when the weather was not fit for him to venture out. So Mr. Fennel had himself read the Lessons. Now he and Meg and the two uncles had put their heads together and decided that Finch was next in order. He was to be home for some months and it would be good for him to fill the niche in the ordered sequence of things. Family custom must not be allowed to flag but must be kept firm and upright by Whiteoak mettle.