Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“Yes, indeed,” cried Meg, not to be outdone. Then she asked, “Is Alayne pleased by his bequest to her? But probably she will scarcely notice it. She already has such ample means.”
“Alayne ample means! why, my dear girl, Alayne has not very much left of her aunt’s money.”
“Really! Well, that does seem strange.”
“There is nothing strange about it. She has spent a good deal on this house at various times. And on her children.”
“Me?” put in Archer. “I don’t remember anything spent on me.”
“Your mother,” said Renny, “intends paying for your university education and for several years abroad.”
“I shall take scholarships,” said the boy without gratitude. Roma could be seen pirouetting up and down the hall.
“Tickled pink, isn’t she?” remarked Archer.
Renny called her.
She came into the drawing-room bright-eyed.
“I hope you understand, dear,” said Meg, “that this lovely legacy comes to you because of your dear father.”
“It’s the first thing he ever did for you, isn’t it, Roma?” said Piers.
“Piers, how can you say such things!” exclaimed Meg. “Eden died too young to have time for doing all he would have liked to do.”
“A new edition of his poems is to be published,” said Roma with pride.
“I know,” said Renny. “Naturally, as I am his executor and your guardian.”
“Executor,” repeated Piers thoughtfully.
Roma wanted to hear the good news again. She was stirred and exhilarated by the double good-fortune, but her face remained almost expressionless.
Renny fixed his eyes on Piers, as though to command his appreciation. “Eden’s publishers,” he said, “wrote to me from New York, saying they would like to bring out a volume containing all of Eden’s poems. You remember he had three thin little books published. This will be a quite respectable size.”
Meg continued, with tears in her eyes, “The publishers asked if he left any unpublished poems that they might include. So I gathered up all his papers and took them to Finch. He will know.”
Piers said jocularly to Renny and Roma, “She didn’t trust you, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Roma.
“I might lend Finch a hand with choosing some poems,” said Renny.
“As though you could!” Meg exclaimed, not with scorn but as one affectionately aware of his limitations.
“I may understand poetry better than you think.”
“Well,” said Piers, “it’s to be hoped the book sells — for Roma’s sake.”
“You’re quite an important little person, aren’t you, dear?” Meg put an affectionate arm about the girl.
Roma drew away — but she was pleased. She went out on to the lawn, where she saw Adeline and Fitzturgis sitting on the hammock beneath the mulberry tree. There was an air of unrest everywhere at Jalna. Even among the labourers on the farm and the men who worked in the stables there was a stirring of change in the fortunes of all. Even those who had inherited nothing felt that more money would be in circulation. Among them the amounts left by Nicholas were greatly exaggerated. They wanted to feel that the family had inherited great wealth, and they reflected its glory. The Wragges were mysterious concerning the bequests to them, but they talked largely of a future of leisure. On the whole estate work was at a standstill. The days were just pleasantly warm, and at night the genial harvest moon enfolded all on which it shone in gold, and enriched the shadows to a benign mystery.
Adeline greeted Roma with “Congratulations on a wonderful wedding present.”
Roma dropped to the grass beside the hammock. “After all,” she said, “it was my right.”
“So that’s the way you look at it.”
“I’m grateful to Uncle Nick — if that’s what you’re thinking of — but, after all, my father’s share is coming to me.” She picked up a mulberry from the grass and sniffed it, her eyes on Fitzturgis.
He returned her look, rather as an opponent might measure his strength against hers. He remarked in an impersonal tone to Adeline, “Your cousin is a young lady who takes things as they come, without fuss or flurry.”
“Oh, she’ll take things,” said Adeline, laughing.
“You sit on the hammock,” Fitzturgis said to Roma. “Those berries will stain your frock.”
“Frock!”
she scoffed. “You do sound Victorian.”
“what should you call it?” he asked, considering the faded blue dress.
“An old rag,” she answered. But she accepted the seat he offered beside Adeline and he now sat on the grass. The two girls looked down on his closely curling hair as though they would like to do something to it.
“Roma and I,” said Adeline, after a pause, “have all our good clothes put away in our trousseaux.”
“If we go on the way we’re going,” said Roma, “we can use them on our golden-wedding anniversary.”
“The anniversary of what might have been,” said Fitzturgis. He was contemplating the feet of the two girls — Adeline’s, long, narrow, shapely, in white canvas sandals — Roma’s, shorter, wider, bare in her sandals, the toenails enamelled red.
Adeline said, “We can soon get on with our weddings now. I’ve asked Mummy and she thinks in a couple of weeks. Of course, they’ll have to be very quiet.”
Roma tossed up two mulberries and caught them.
“I may as well tell you,” she said, “that I have broken off my engagement to Norman.”
The affianced pair stared at her bewildered. Roma gave a little laugh of amusement. “You look as though something important had happened,” she said.
“I’ll bet it’s important to Norman,” said Adeline.
“He did take it rather hard.” Again she threw up the mulberries and caught them.
Adeline tried to think of something nice to say about Norman…. “His hair,” she said. “He always keeps it so beautifully groomed.”
“He will be no groom,” said Fitzturgis, “but still is perfectly groomed.”
“I don’t think this is a case for puns,” said Adeline. Looking very like her father, she demanded, “Roma, I want you to tell me this — did you break off your engagement before or after the legacy?”
Roma replied with simple, childlike sincerity, “Norman doesn’t interest me any longer.”
“That is not answering my question.”
Still sincerely Roma went on, “I’ve felt differently about him for some time. He seems shallow. He seems dull. He hardly ever smiles any more.”
“Answer my question,” repeated Adeline.
“I don’t think you ought to ask her that,” said Fitzturgis.
“I don’t mind telling,” said Roma. “I broke it off before. But I knew that Uncle Nicholas was leaving me money.”
“How could you know?”
“He told me, a few days before he died. I was alone with him for a few minutes and he told me.”
“So it’s all over between you and Norman,” said Fitzturgis.
“Yes. It’s all over.”
“I congratulate you,” said Fitzturgis.
“Now,” exclaimed Adeline, “it won’t be a double wedding after all!”
“No,” said Roma. “You can go right ahead without me.”
Dennis came from the direction of Vaughanlands and joined them. He squatted on his heels and said, “My father is going to order furniture for my bedroom right away. Then I shall go and live with him. He wants me there with him.” His greenish eyes shone beneath the blonde fringe of his hair.
“That will be fine,” said Fitzturgis.
“Yes,” agreed Dennis. “And I’m to inherit a lot of money, too, when I’m twenty-one.”
“Sez you,” observed Roma.
“But it’s true. He is,” said Adeline. “It comes from his mother.”
“what luck!” Roma sighed in envy. “How long have you known this, Dennis?”
“I heard my father and Uncle Renny talking of it this morning. I shall be able to do anything I want. I’ll buy a steam yacht, a racing car, and an island, and give them all to my father.”
Fitzturgis asked, “where is your father?” Certainly Finch had made himself scarce since their last interview. And Sylvia, poor girl, had seldom left her room, even was talking of returning to New York before the wedding.
“He has gone to Humphrey Bell’s. He told me to meet him there.” Now Dennis left them as swiftly and quietly as he had joined them. He passed through the little gate which led to the path into the ravine and stood a moment looking back at the group on the lawn, wondering what they were saying. Well, he had given them a surprise, shown them how important he was and what a lot his father thought of him. He trotted down the path, crossed the bridge, and mounted the opposite steep, with an air of bravado. His lips were compressed, his eyes coldly steady. He felt that he could look any man in the face.
But when he had passed through the bit of woodland and reached Humphrey Bell’s house a change came over him. There was no sign of life about the small house, but an empty packing-case stood on the verandah with some pieces of rather shabby luggage. Dennis stole up and examined these. On one trunk was a label with the name — Inigo Chase. Another, rather battered trunk, had C. Lebraux painted on it.
The door opened and Humphrey Bell appeared.
“Oh, hullo,” he said. “Do you want to see me?”
“No, thanks. I’m looking for my father. He asked me to meet him here.”
“Good. Come right in.” Humphrey Bell led him into his living room, and Finch was discovered, smoking a pipe by the open window. He said:
“I saw you coming, Dennis. Why did you follow me here?”
Suddenly deflated, left without an idea in his head, Dennis murmured, “I don’t know.”
Finch remarked in a complaining tone to Bell, “I don’t know what to make of him. He has the most extraordinary way of popping up at odd times — of looking as though he’d something important to say, and — having nothing to say.”
Bell asked Dennis, on a jocular note, “Come now. What important thing have you to say? Out with it.”
Dennis hung his head. “Nothing,” he murmured. He looked at the two men, beings of a world mysterious to him, of whose language he felt himself ignorant.
Finch’s pipe had gone out. Now, lighting it, he said between puffs, “My younger brother Wakefield was a precocious kid — always pushing in and trying to make himself appear impressive. But he was clever. This one …” Finch did not finish the sentence. He regarded his son with a puzzled frown. Dennis sat on a stool, his hands clasped between his knees.
From above came the sounds of furniture being moved about, voices loudly talking.
“I hope,” said Finch, “they’re not going to be noisy up there. That would be a nuisance for you.”
“They assure me they go early to bed. I do my writing late at night. Anyhow, I was forced to take someone into my house, and these people seem to be rather pleasant. I think I shall like them.”
“I used to know Mrs. Chase and her daughter,” said Finch.
“So she told me. The daughter is a nun. Mrs. Chase thinks a lot of your family.”
“She does, eh?”
“She says your family were mighty good to her.”
“It seems very strange to have her as a neighbour again,” said Finch.
“Think of me,” said Bell, “in a horsy atmosphere. I don’t know one end of a horse from the other.”
“You can count on her to mind her own business. She’s had a lot of trouble, but she inflicts her troubles on no one.”
Mrs. Chase now appeared at the door. She was a strongly made woman just past sixty. She was wearing slacks and a grey pullover. Her short hair, once fair, was mixed with white in such an odd fashion that in some lights it appeared as quite white, while in others it seemed blonde. Her face was in keeping with the oddity of her hair, for at times it looked tired and a little battered, but at others it showed a zest for life that time could not vanquish. It was the older face which she now presented.
“Oh, God,” she said, leaning against the frame of the door, “why did I come back to this house! Never stir up old memories, Mr. Bell. Let them lie mouldering where they belong.” Then she saw Finch and came to him with outstretched hand. “Finch Whiteoak!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you again! And what a distinguished man you’ve become. I have two of your piano records. I like to listen to them because it makes me proud to recall how I knew you when you were a boy.”
“Thanks.” Finch gripped her hand in his strong nervous fingers. “You haven’t changed at all. Excepting your name. You’ve got married. I remember Mr. Chase. Is he as keen as ever about horses?”
“He thinks of nothing else.”
“Evidently he thought about you.”
“A little.” She now saw Dennis. “who is the little boy?” she asked.
“That’s Dennis,” said Finch, as though surprised to find him still there.
“And whose boy are you?” she asked, with her friendly smile.
“His,” answered Dennis, indicating Finch, with a possessive nod of the head. “We live together, in a new house.”
“He has a way,” said Finch, “of following me about.”
“And quite rightly,” she returned. “I’d follow you about if you were my father. Isn’t it wonderful, Dennis, to have such a brilliant father?”
“Is he?” asked Dennis. “I thought he just played on the piano.”
Clara was looking absently through the window into the trees. She seemed to be making up her mind as to what she would say next. But it was Finch who spoke.
“We have lately lost my Uncle Nicholas,” he said, as though imparting a piece of heavy news.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “what a distinguished-looking old gentleman! I always admired him.”
Dennis said, in his clear treble, “He left Uncle Renny a great deal of money. No one else got nearly as much.”
Finch strode across the room and took him by the collar. “Out you go,” he said, and put Dennis out through the door. When he returned he said, “That youngster has a disgusting habit of boasting — I can’t imagine why.”
“I think it’s quite natural at that age,” said Bell.
Mrs. Chase’s face was alight with interest. “I can’t think of any better news,” she exclaimed. “Your brother has always been so generous to others — it’s time he had a break.” She turned to her husband, who had come downstairs and now joined them. He was a sallow-faced thin man, with an habitually disgruntled expression. But it also was an intelligent face, and he could tell a humorous story with good effect. He was not sorry that he had married, but he was greatly surprised at himself and continued to be surprised by this woman’s presence in his life, while she now was as accustomed to him as to an old shoe. He remembered Finch and they shook hands.