Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“what’s the matter with Archer?” she asked. “He looks funny.”
“Somebody else’s suit.”
“I thought so,” she chuckled. “Mummy thinks he’s lost weight — poor little fellow!”
Archer passed, carrying a perfectly balanced cup of tea.
“I’ve always wondered,” said Nook, “what Archer will be. Now I know. He’s a born waiter. Give him a tray. Put a napkin over his arm. He’s perfect. He’s got the wooden expression and his hand would be always out for the tip.”
“Oh, Nooky, I think he’s a born professor. Look at the armful of prizes he gets every term. And he’s always near the head of his form.”
“True. I guess I’ll be the waiter … Will you write to me, Adeline?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me all about everything. Promise.”
“I promise.”
“Don’t go falling in love with some Irishman.”
“Catch me falling in love!”
“I wish I could,” he said teasingly, “with me.”
THREE ON A JOURNEY
Ernest’s ninety-fifth birthday was celebrated with more flourish than usual. What was the reason for this no one could have told you, but excitement was in the air. Ernest himself felt it and referred to the day, as it approached, as a milestone to be noted. “Not that I ever shall attain the great age Mama did,” he would say, a little wistfully. He was not particularly afraid of death but he had a great love of life and, in his own small corner of the world, felt that he had much to live for — a strongly individual family over whom he felt he had great influence, not realizing how much of that was affectionate tolerance.
A dinner party was given for him, to which all the family and a few old friends were invited. The dinner was really a spread, with Alayne arranging a quite elaborate menu to please him, and Nicholas providing the champagne. Candlelight shone on bare white shoulders and white shirtfronts. Adeline took Nicholas’ hair in hand and actually made it lie down, but before the first course was over, he had run his hand through it and again roused it into a plume. Nicholas was in a wicked mood and sought to bring a blush to his brother’s cheek by recalling early escapades in London and Paris, but Ernest was only pleased by this, for he felt it put him in a gallant light in front of the younger members of the family.
Renny proposed his health. “Let’s drink the health,” he said, “of the gentleman — and gentle man he is, if ever there was one — who was the first baby to be born at Jalna. He drew his first breath under this roof. We’re all proud of that. We’re all proud of having him still with us, and hope, with all our hearts, that he’ll live as long or longer than his magnificent Irish mother.
The health was drunk with gusto. But Alayne, smiling at Finch, saw there were tears in his eyes.
In the days that followed, Renny almost regretted that he had made up his mind not to go to Ireland. Adeline’s joy in the prospect was so palpable, it so shone out of her eyes and so echoed in her laugh that he would have been glad to see its fulfilment. That there would be fulfilment he did not doubt. Ireland would suit Adeline, as it suited him. On his own part he would have liked a change. Since the war he had been almost nowhere, apart from trips to the New York Horse Show. His horses, shown there and in Canada, had taken prizes and some of them had been sold very well. The farm prospered. He could not complain. Yet, in some insidious way, the presence of Eugene Clapperton as a neighbour had poisoned the air for him. The plans for building, which Clapperton had seemed to abandon after his marriage, once more menaced Jalna. All about the countryside ugly little houses, hideous service stations, were springing up, but Jalna and Vaughanlands remained untouched, except for the few bungalows Clapperton had already built.
Alayne had bought sensible but pretty clothes for Adeline. To Renny they were not fine enough. He would have liked to see his daughter elegantly turned out. He had to satisfy himself by buying her several pairs of expensive shoes. “She’s got Gran’s feet, you know, Alayne, and they must be shod to advantage.” A week before the departure he gave Adeline extra money for her expenses. Having handled so little in her young life the amount seemed very large to her — more than she needed. She pressed back some of it into his hand. “No, no, Daddy. I couldn’t take so much! I don’t need it.” Her face was flushed by excitement and the evidence of his generosity.
He refused to take back the banknotes.
“You have your travellers’ cheques,” he said. “They are for the necessities. This cash is to enjoy yourself with — to buy things you fancy.”
“But Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernest have both given me money,” she objected.
“Don’t worry. You’ll find how fast it will go.”
She threw both arms about him. “You are generous, Daddy. Thank you, thank you.”
When three days had passed he insisted on adding another banknote to her store. “I’ve been thinking over your needs,” he said, “and I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself short of funds, so I’m giving you this.”
“No, no,” she said, “you can’t afford it! I won’t take it.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to,” he said sternly, but his eyes were laughing. He held her two hands in one of his and pushed the banknote inside her collar.
She raised his hand, which smelled of Windsor soap, to her lips. “All right, Daddy,” she said, as though humbly. “If you say so.”
And that was not the end. When they were saying goodbye he opened her handbag and thrust several rather crumpled notes inside, then snapped it shut.
“They’re American bills,” he said. “Buy yourself something in New York.”
By this time Adeline was too much excited to make any objection to the gift. She took it in a dazed way. Ernest took her in his arms and, a little brokenly, said his goodbye. “God bless you, dear child. How I wish I were going with you! But I am afraid my travelling days are over.”
“I wish you were coming, Uncle Ernest,” she returned, scarcely knowing what she said. “Take good care of yourself while I’m away.” She turned to Nicholas. “Both of you, take care of yourselves. I shall have so much to tell you when I come back.”
Alayne, Pheasant, little Mary, Dennis, the old uncles, and the Wragges stood about the car. To Pheasant s mind came the remembrance of the terrible day when Maurice had left for Ireland as a young boy. The pain of that parting had foreshadowed this final break. Never would he be hers again. But she smiled at him with fortitude.
“I’ll be coming across to visit you,” she said.
“You should be coming now,” he answered, half-angrily, for it had been his dream to take his mother back with him.
“who would look after Piers and the baby, and the boys when they come from school?”
Piers said, — “We’ve been over all this before. If you were set on going we could have managed.”
“But I was not set on going,” she smiled. “It’s just fun to think about.”
Piers looked at his watch. “There’s no time to spare. Everybody set to go?” He laid his hands on the wheel.
Finch began to scramble wildly out of the car.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I’ve left my wallet upstairs!” Dennis ran after him.
“I’ll fetch it for you, sir!” cried Rags, and a little bent, not very agile, he began to hasten up the steps.
“I couldn’t tell you where it is,” cried Finch, already in the hall. He ran upstairs, two steps at a time. Up the two flights to his room he sped and, in the disorder there, looked wildly about. It was not on the top of the dressing table. It was not in either of the top drawers. He could hear Rags panting up the final flight.
“This is an awful thing to ’appen, sir,” said Rags. “It seems too bad you should mislay something so important at the very last.” He began to pull out the contents of the chest of drawers and scatter them over the floor.
Wherever Finch was searching Dennis was there too, his small neat hands scrabbling among ties, handkerchiefs, notebooks, concert programmes, the mass of odds and ends that Finch invariably collected. Finch shouted at him:
“Go away! I can’t search with you here!”
“’E’s always interferin’, sir, “ said Rags. “’Is hands is into everythink.”
Dennis moved to the doorway and stood there watching. Renny’s voice, with a vibration from the chest, came up the staircase. “Finch!”
Finch, brushing Dennis aside, came on to the landing. “Yes?” he called back.
“If you can’t find that damned wallet come without it! You’re going to miss your train.”
“I can’t go without it. All my money is in it and my tickets!”
“when did you last see it?”
“This morning … last night … I forget.”
“Well — of all the duffers!”
Finch shouted, — “If you keep me here talking how can I search for it?”
“There’s no time to search!”
“Tell them to go without me.” He turned back into his room.
Maurice and Adeline came running up the stairs and into the littered room. They began systematically to turn over, shake, and still further disarrange every object in it. Their faces were pale, desperate. Outdoors Piers began to sound the horn insistently.
“Look here,” cried Finch. “It’s no use. You’ll have to go without me.”
Dennis spoke in his cool little voice. “Here is the wallet,” he said, taking it from between two books on the bookshelves.
With something between a groan and a cry of joy Finch snatched it from him and tore down the stairs. Maurice and Adeline leaped after him. Dennis had expected a chorus of thanks but instead found himself alone with Rags. For a moment they stared blankly at each other, then hastened after the others.
When Rags, very much out of breath, reached the porch the car was already speeding down the road, the dogs were looking dejected as they always did after a departure, and the uncles, with resigned smiles, were turning back into the house.
“what a pity you could not have gone with Mooey,” Alayne said to Pheasant.
Pheasant could not answer. Her voice was stifled by tears. Alayne would have liked to comfort her but could think of nothing to say. Her innate reserve kept her from putting her arm about Pheasant. It seemed stupid to say, — “Perhaps before long you will go.” Pheasant’s tears were for the permanent loss of her son to another country. In truth she knew that in the last five years, when he had been at home, a part of him had remained in Ireland.
The travellers, with the aid of Renny and Piers, had barely installed their hand luggage on the racks when the train began to move. There was no time for goodbyes, but Piers delivered a parting shot.
“Hard luck on you, Adeline,” he said, “to have these two crackpots on your hands. Don’t trust them with your valuables.”
He hurried after Renny. The train was moving. Renny took him by the arm and helped him off, anxious because of Piers’ artificial leg.
Finch put his hat on the rack, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He was humiliated by the mislaying of the wallet, he was angry with himself for his absent-mindedness. He was angry with Piers for the stony silence he had preserved during the drive in, though he had to acknowledge that Piers’ handling of the car at such speed had been rdly. They were lucky not to have been stopped for breaking traffic laws. Finch felt exhausted nervously. He hated the vibration of the train. He felt that he had spent too much time on trains, rattling from one city to another, from one crowd of strangers to another. If Piers led the life he did, perhaps he wouldn’t always be so cocksure of where he had put things. And what was it that Renny had said? “I might have known you’d bungle things!” Well, a remark like that was enough to make anyone laugh. He who led an infinitely more complicated life than Renny! Good Lord — the simplicity of Renny’s life! The saddle — in place of the piano seat! The reins — in place of the keyboard! And what a contrast their marriages! Of course, Renny and Alayne had had their difficulties but they really were devoted to each other. A man was lucky to have Alayne for a wife … so steadfast … so sympathetic … with a kind of nobility in her that was rare.… He could hear Maurice and Adeline talking together in subdued tones, as though not to disturb him. He heard Adeline give an excited schoolgirl giggle. Through a slit of his eyelids he looked at her. She too had taken off her hat, and her brown hair, with its overtone of auburn, lay tumbled a little on her forehead. Her lips were parted in a carefree, expectant smile. Maurice was looking at her with a possessive air, as though having got her away from Jalna a new relationship between them had come into being. In some inexplicable way the boy looked older, more assured. Finch closed his eyes again and felt for his wallet to make certain it was safe. He relaxed his long limbs, let his body sink into the chair. After a while the roadbed of the train became smoother, the sound of the wheels less irritating and by degrees grew into a soothing hum. After all he was not at the beginning of a tour but was setting out on a journey of pure pleasure. He would see Ireland and England again. He would be once more with Wakefield.
They were a gay trio in the restaurant car. They went early to bed, and next morning breakfasted in New York. Not once had Adeline or Maurice made any reference to the mislaying of the wallet, but Finch could not put it out of his mind. Every so often would his hand steal to his pocket. He would recall to himself how many times he had gone to a concert hall leaving his music, his watch, his handkerchief in the hotel; how often he had left his gloves or his galoshes in the concert hall.
New York was glittering in springtime brightness. Adeline must buy herself a new necklace of costume jewellery out of Renny’s parting gift. Finch bought her a scarf and Maurice a box of chocolates and a basket of fruit from a superb Fifth Avenue shop. The price of those so alarmed her that she was subdued for some time. “If that is the way you are going to throw your money about, young man,” she said to Maurice, “it won’t last long.”
Finch’s agent had lunch with them at their hotel. Maurice and Adeline were quite impressed by the conversation between the two men. It seemed strange to them that Finch’s doings should be of such consequence to someone in New York and they were even more impressed when they went aboard the ship to find that reporters, on the lookout for celebrities, were eager to ask Finch questions about his plans and to photograph him. These manifestations in a foreign country were more significant to them than all they had previously heard or read of Finch’s reputation.
Finch’s desire was to escape from these gentlemen. If the ship had been one of the great liners, with movie stars aboard, he was sure they would not have troubled about interviewing him. He and Maurice shared a cabin. It had been possible to secure a small one for Adeline, not to be shared by a stranger. Setting this little place in order, placing her belongings to the best advantage, enthralled her for a short while, then shoutings and the throbbing of the engines told her that the ship was about to sail. She hurried to the deck, through the confusion of people, to the confusion of moving lights against the blackness. It was midnight.
Finch found her and tucked his hand in her arm.