Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
All three elders watched her go — Pheasant, loving yet critical; Piers, tender yet stern; Maurice, detached and a little impatient.
Mary went out through the kitchen door and across the yard to the studio. She could see Christian there, scraping paint from a palette. The room looked very large, Christian very forbidding in his smock; the smell of the paint was sinister. She stood looking in through the crack of the door and a tear ran down her cheek. The world so large, so full of strange scents and sounds! So many men — and another one come. She could hear Philip’s piercing sweet whistle as he crossed the yard. He strode past her without seeing her and went into the studio.
“Do you know what?” he said, in his new man’s voice. “Maurice is here. In the house with Mother and Dad. I saw him through the window.”
Christian gave an exclamation of surprise, began to pull off his smock, decided to leave it on, and the two passed Mary on their way back to the house. She had not given Christian the message. She had not done as she was told. Tears ran down her cheeks and she scratched a mosquito bite on the back of her neck.
Indoors the three brothers stared at each other, trying to recapture the old familiarity. The two younger always had been together. Maurice was the outsider. They felt that he now considered himself superior to them — in experience of life, in travel, in his position as a young man of means. Philip frankly looked up to him, even while he was inclined to show off in front of him, as a citizen of a young, uninhibited, flagrantly rich country.
“And how is poor ould Ireland?” he asked.
“Fine,” smiled Maurice. He was in good spirits now. He looked Philip over admiringly.
“I hope you’re not homesick for the ould sod,” Philip said, eyeing Maurice’s clothes with envy.
Christian put in, “Don’t mind Philip. It’s just his idea of wit.”
Pheasant said, “It’s wonderful having Mooey home with us, isn’t it, boys?”
“Splendid,” agreed Piers, wanting to be included. “where is that little Mary?” he added.
The boys said they had not seen her.
“I’d better find her.” Piers rose and went with his slight limp toward the door. “Sometimes she has a little cry all by herself.”
“He just dotes on her,” Pheasant said to her sons when they were alone.
“It used to be me,” said Philip, “till she came.”
In the two years that had passed since Maurice had last seen his brothers Christian had developed mentally more than had Philip. Those two had been the comrades, whispering and laughing together. But now Christian no longer found Philip adequate but reached out toward Maurice. In an odd way he felt himself to be richer in experience than his elder because of his dedication to art. He looked on Maurice as a dilettante in life and himself as an ardent worker. Yet he envied Maurice his experience in travel. They had had a few talks in Maurice’s last visit from Ireland which he could not forget. He wanted to place himself again on that footing with his brother — yes, and to leave the lighthearted scatterbrained Philip outside.
At the first opportunity when, in the cool of the evening, they were alone together in the studio Christian brought the talk round to Adeline and her lover. Maurice had been very nice about the pictures, had wanted to buy one, which immediately Christian had given him. Maurice sat on a bench, with it on his knee, as though he would not risk being parted from it. Christian admired his air of detachment that was tempered by a gentle authority.
In colouring the brothers were a curious contrast. The mild, moist air of Ireland had preserved the rich gloss of childhood in Maurice’s dark hair. His face, untanned by hot sun, showed a warm flush in the cheeks. But Christian’s fair hair was bleached to straw colour and his skin tanned to mahogany.
“I remember your telling me,” said Christian, “and I was proud of your confidence, that you loved Adeline. However, I suppose that’s all over now.”
He saw a bitter smile bend Maurice’s lips. “It was always a one-sided affair. Adeline never cared for me. But I’m damned if I can discover what she finds in Fitzturgis. He has always seemed to me a surly brute.”
“I think he’s very much in love.”
“Do Adeline’s parents like him?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I think that Aunt Alayne likes him very much and that Uncle Renny has a few doubts. But you know what Uncle Renny is.”
“Indeed I don’t. I really don’t know what any of you are. I’m an outsider, Nooky.”
“You’ll not be for long. You’ll be very much an insider … with me, anyway. I want to be your friend … if you’ll let me.”
Christian was frank and a little detached, even when he spoke warmly. Maurice was impulsive — eager to be loved — all too ready to be hurt. Now he exclaimed:
“There’s nothing I want so much.”
Christian laughed. “Nothing?”
“Nothing that I can attain.”
They had lighted cigarettes and they smoked in silence for a space. Outside the wide, open doorway (wide enough to have admitted a carriage in former days) a pair of bats, darker than the night, padded the languid air with silent wings.
“How different this is,” said Maurice. “The very smell of the air is different.”
“I should like to see Ireland.”
“You must come and stay with me. You must come when I go back this time. Could you do that?” There was a sudden eagerness in Maurice’s voice. Heretofore he had considered only a visit from his parents, though it was his mother he really wanted. But the flowering into manhood of Christian, the newborn thought — “Here is a brother who may be a friend” — made Maurice reach out toward Christian. There was something in him one could trust, one could lean on, thought Maurice. He did not realize that he wanted someone to lean on, to cling to — but there was the longing. As a child he had been swept away from all that was familiar to him into a strange country, into a strange house, not like a boy sent to boarding school among other boys, but into a great lonely house, with an old man. The gentleness, the affection, he had found there had never quite effaced his feeling of insecurity. All of his childhood he had felt insecure in his father’s affection. Now, in manhood, he had a feeling of resentment, of wariness, toward Piers. But in this tranquil nighttime his heart warmed to Christian.
“You must come and stay with me,” he repeated.
“I’d love to,” said Christian, and added, “It must be nice to have a place of one’s own at your age, to invite whoever you like to come and stay with you.”
“I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought about it.”
Christian was curious about the life of this little-known brother. “Do you often have friends to stay?” he asked.
“I’ve never had anyone — not yet. Except, of course, Adeline and Uncle Finch.”
“But what do you
do
? I mean you’re not like a chap who paints or writes.”
“I find plenty to do. You know I have cottages and land to look after. I have a congenial neighbour — Pat Crawshay. We go fishing and sailing together.”
“what a life! And you really want me to go and visit you?”
“I most certainly do.”
“Nothing shall stop me,” Christian exclaimed. “I’ll paint Irish scenery — fall in love with an Irish girl and settle down at your gate. It’s just what I’ve been waiting for.”
“And on my part I’d like nothing better…. I say, Nook, have you anything to drink in the studio? I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight, but I’m dry as hell. Do you think we might have a drink?”
Christian gave him a puzzled look. “But —” he began, then got to his feet. “I don’t keep anything to drink here,” he said. “I’ll fetch something from the house.”
“Never mind, never mind,” Maurice hastened to say. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only that I have this damned thirst.” But he objected no more as his brother left the studio and went into the darkness.
The lights in the house were out, but a rising moon gleamed against one window in the room where little Mary slept. Christian heard a step and made out the figure of Philip in the hall. He had left off the jacket of his pyjamas and his naked torso showed palely against the dark staircase.
“Gosh, isn’t it hot!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice. “I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. What are you and Maurice doing?”
Christian sensed envy in the boy’s voice. Here was the younger brother left out of things. To reassure him he said, “We shall be coming up soon. Maurice is tired, but he’s sort of restless. He wants a drink.”
“Oh … I guess I’ll come out too. I feel restless and shouldn’t mind a drink.”
“I’m not having any,” Christian said curtly. “Nor you either.”
Philip stroked his smooth diaphragm. “I don’t really want anything,” he said. He followed Christian into the dining room and the light was turned on. “Dad will notice if you take more than a little.”
Christian held up the decanter. “Not a great deal in it,” he said. “Maurice is used to having as much as he wants when he wants it. He’s his own rd.”
Philip came close and watched with absorption the doling out of half a glass of whisky.
“I guess it will look pretty mean to Maurice not to take out the decanter,” he said.
“This is enough,” said Christian curtly.
“But we don’t want to look mean, do we?” insisted Philip.
“Damn.” Christian poured back the whisky from the glass, returned the stopper to the decanter and grasped it by the neck. “You’re right,” he said. “We mustn’t look mean, but — it strikes me …”
“what strikes you”
“Nothing.”
“But you were going to say something.”
“Only that you’d better go to bed.”
“I was going to the studio with you.”
“No, no, Philip. Maurice is tired. He will be coming to bed directly.”
There was an elder-brotherly tone in Christian’s voice that offended Philip. They had been pals. Was Maurice coming between them?
“OK,” he said gruffly, and went back into the hall and up the stairs, two steps at a time, in silent barefoot strides.
Maurice was holding the picture Chritian had given him where the light fell on it when Christian re-entered with the decanter.
“I do like this,” Maurice exclaimed. “It is mighty good of you to give it to me. I shall be proud to take it back to Ireland.”
“Oh, it’s not bad.”
“The cloud and the shadow of the cloud on the meadow! I like it immensely.” He appeared rapt by the picture, and when Christian set the decanter in front of him gave it a look of faint surprise. “Oh yes,” he said. “Something more to drink, eh? A good idea.”
He poured himself a drink. A breeze, with the promise of freshness in it, blew through the door. The bats, in their furtive flitting, drew nearer.
“I can’t tell you,” Maurice said, “how strange it is to me to picture Fitzturgis at Jalna, under the same roof with Adeline.”
“I suppose it does seem strange.”
“Strange — and utterly hateful.”
The last word was startling to Christian. He asked, a little embarrassed, “Do you dislike him so much?”
“Not in his own place. He’s all right — possibly — where he belongs. But it’s not here…. You know, Nook —” He sipped his whisky and water and exclaimed, “Aren’t you having any? Lord, I don’t want to be a pig.”
“Thanks, I don’t want any.” Christian’s eyes were on what remained in the bottle, hoping that Piers would not notice how much had been drunk.
“I’m afraid I drink a good deal,” Maurice said seriously. “But I intend to cut it out — now.”
“We don’t have much of it about. Dad is the only one who takes anything stronger than coffee….”
“Uncle Nicholas and Uncle Renny used to like good wine.”
“They still do. Brandy helps to keep Uncle Nick alive.”
“I’m sure it does,” Maurice agreed heartily. “I’ve been thinking, Nook, that I might buy a little supply of spirits that we could keep in the studio here. It would be convenient if one wanted a drink at the odd time. What about that cupboard? Does it lock? Have you a key?”
“Yes, it locks. We could do that, Maurice.”
Christian had a feeling of relief. If Maurice wanted an occasional drink, how much better to have a supply here in the studio than to be dependent on what their father so carefully guarded. He said, “I’ll see to it tomorrow. What would you like? A bottle of Scotch?”
Maurice gave a little carefree laugh. “Don’t let us be stingy with ourselves,” he said. “Get three bottles of Scotch, one of vermouth, and one of gin. We might like an occasional cocktail.”
“why, yes,” Christian said doubtfully. “The only thing is, I shall have to borrow Dad’s permit. In this country it’s necessary, you know. He might think it rather a lot.”
“I’ll get a permit for myself. That will settle it. We’ll keep our little secret to ourselves, Nook.”
Steps were heard outside, then low voices. The brothers turned towards the doorway to see Adeline and Fitzturgis emerge from the night. She was in a pale yellow dress. She brought the radiance of her content into the studio. Her world was going well with her.
“I couldn’t wait till tomorrow to see you, Mooey,” she cried. “I made Mait come across the fields. It’s a divine night.” She ran to Maurice and kissed him on the cheek.
“I did not need any persuasion,” said Fitzturgis. He spoke as though with calculated warmth and shook Maurice by the hand.
They gave each other appraising looks, while Christian regarded them both with a detached interest in his clear hazel eyes. He saw Fitzturgis glance at the decanter and offered him a drink. It was accepted. He brought a glass from the cupboard.
“Say when,” he said as he poured the spirits.
“Just a little,” said Fitzturgis, noting the amount in the decanter.
Maurice remarked to him jocularly, “That’s not the way we do things in Ireland, is it?”
“And it’s not the way we do things here,” cried Adeline. She turned to Christian. “Can’t you get something from the house?” she asked, her eyes commanding him.
“Nothing more for me,” said Fitzturgis.
“Nor me either,” added Maurice cheerfully. He strolled to the door, glass in hand, and looked out into the darkness.
“It’s getting a bit cooler,” he said, then, turning to Fitzturgis, asked, “How do you think you’ll endure this climate?”